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#(the secret is that writers and editors try too hard to make him dark and edgy)
sparrowsabre7 · 1 year
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Arrow 10th Anniversary Rewatch 2 of 10: S02E15 The Promise
So, I love this episode. I think pretty much any episode of any show where there’s two enemies who hate each others guts or know secrets about each other that the other doesn’t know having to play nice for the sake of appearances is great, and this episode is no exception. The entire episode is laced with double entendres and veiled threats and both Manu Bennett and Stephen Amell sell the hell out of it. 
Brief aside to talk about the intro as this is the first episode in my rewatch which has had one: I love it. I love the S1 and 2 ones specifically as Amell’s delivery of “My name is Oliver Queen” gets unnecessarily upbeat in later seasons, but the monologue narration works so well and has become iconic. I especially love the low thrum of the strings as the intro starts. 
Back to the episode, the present day narrative is actually my favourite part of the episode, even though the flashback gets more action. Slade playing games with Oliver, the tired but good cliché of the toast to friendship between enemies, bringing the same rum they drank on the island, so many little digs at Oliver that only he would pick up on. (Side note: Is Australian Rum any good? I feel like rum rarely gets talked about vis a vis countries the same way that whiskey and wine do). Amell is often characterised as a wooden actor, but he does a lot of subtle work here.
In the flashback we have a fun training course montage, with the proto-salmon ladder and some nice archery action. We then have Sara and Oliver discussing what to do with the remaining Mirakuru. It’s interesting to note at this point that - though we don’t learn it til later - Slade has already betrayed their trust by keeping the Mirakuru instead of burning it. While he may not have known Oliver was involved in Shado’s death, he’s already been corrupted by the Mirakuru and not just in rage.  
I enjoy the scene between Oliver and Sara telling each other what they want their families to be told, the idea that the island has forged Oliver into a better man while Sara has been damaged by her time on the Amazo, it’s a nice touch, but also hints at Oliver’s later, much darker trajectory during his time in Hong Kong. We also get a Shado hallucination, indicating his hauntings began as far back as the island before they became an almost annual tradition.
We get one step closer to Deathstroke and Green Arrow in this episode too, with Oliver wearing the hood over a brown shirt, reminiscent of some of his classic costumes in the comics while Slade dons his ASIS mask for the first time in the series, another indicator that he’s gone dark; wearing the same mask as the man who tortured Oliver. This makes for a fun visual, only thing missing is Sara having some kind of proto-Canary outfit, but wouldn’t really make sense in context.
We learn Ivo’s motivation is to cure his wife’s illness, presumably some form of dementia, but it’s a bit late in the day to try and make him seem in any way empathetic or understandable, he’s hardly Victor Fries. 
Although it’s a little on the nose, Slade commenting about them first trying to leave the island as strangers and now as brothers does feel earned and to see their friendship shatter this episode is hard to watch. 
Back in the present Slade for some reason lies about having two children, though this could well be an editor oversight or a retcon. He mentioned Joe Wilson briefly in S1 I think, and then even the writers seemed to forget about Joe until season 6, especially given that the son of Deathstroke we see in “Legends of Tomorrow” is Grant Wilson. It’s also pretty fortuitous that Slade comes at a weak moment in Moira and Oliver’s relationship, allowing him to more easily insert himself into the middle of their family drama and have Moira be unwilling to listen to Oliver. 
It’s also entirely in character for the second Moira’s out of the room for Oliver to go for Slade with the ice pick in a really nice piece of camera work that has him close the distance in the brief seconds he’s offscreen. Naturally Slade overpowers Oliver immediately but it’s the thought that counts and cements the idea that it’s not a given Oliver will spare Slade’s life despite his new no-kill rule.
It’s interesting that Oliver deliberately calls Felicity and not Diggle, given that surely he’d want the fastest option and actively swipes to show off the brand new product placement for the episode. If Felicity was known to be at the bunker and Dig not it would make sense but they are both right next to each other. Helps build in the idea that Oliver has a special connection with Felcity even this early on. Sara reacting to Slade’s voice is a great moment and immediately she kicks into gear: grabs a knife, gets Dig to grab the biggest gun, A+ character work. 
In the flashbacks Hendrick’s a real dick. I don’t really have anything more to say than I hate him. The missionary Flynn is a nice dude though, even though it’s all a bit Green Mile with the mouse. Not quite sure why the boat is exploding constantly, I went back to check if they mention Slade putting charges in the engine room or something but given the freighter was meant to be for escaping that would make no sense even if they indicated that was the plan. I assume it’s prisoners causing chaos and stray bullets but honestly there’s no reason for the boat to be exploding as much as it is. 
Slade yanking Oliver back onto the boat is a great “He can DO that!?” moment and is a bit of an unexpected development, it means we’re able to get a lot of moments between Slade and Oliver for the next few episodes though so it’s a smart move. 
Back in the present we have Dig lining up his shot, with green scope no less, ho ho! Putting those Green Lantern seeds early on or just a neat coincidence/because he’s using the Green Arrow’s armoury? 
I really like this action shot of Roy walking into the mansion like it’s a heist or break-in movie. The Queen mansion is a character in itself and it’s a shame it’s basically gone from s3 onwards. 
Slade is visibly disarmed by Sara’s appearance in more “people reacting subtly to things” that I love in this episode. Oliver’s delivery of “What would you like to do now” is great. It’s not super corny and threatening like it could have been, but has just enough bite to hit right.
Someone hits Diggle before he can take his shot and having paused it I am pretty sure it’s Ravager (Isabel Rochev). It’s a pretty neat thing to add in especially given that they could have just had Diggle clocked by a gloved hand and shown no more given how brief it is, but it hints at Slade having a wider influence than just Brother Blood. We also get the epomumous promise which becomes Slade’s arc catchphrase for several seasons going forward: That Oliver will not die until he suffers as Slade suffered. As bad guy promises go, it’s pretty good and also gives carte blanche for the “why won’t you kill me” thing, because arguably there’s always room for a little more suffering. 
The episode caps off with a classic piece “I’m having a go at you because I don’t know why you’re being all weird due to your secret identity” drama and the reveal that Slade’s goal was to put a bunch of cameras in the Queen mansion, which, on principle, classic bad guy stuff, but given that Oliver does most of his Arrowing out of the Arrowcave, seems a bit pointless in the grand scheme of things beyond Slade’s own obsession. I suppose it’s more to watch his downward spiral. Nonetheless, this episode cements Slade as a very real threat in the present and after 6 episodes since his reveal as being alive in the present, it was a welcome treat to see them finally meet again. 
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missabnormal · 2 years
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Despite being one of the most popular Gotham Rogue, it’s so hilarious to me that Riddler is one of the most inconsistent written villains out there. Today he’s a domestic terrorist, but two months later he’s an insecure silly riddle man, and then four months later he’s Joker but with riddles, and then a year later he’s an trashy influencer, and between all of that he’s either a relatively polite man or a perverted creep that is a bit too close to being the writer’s self-insert. Does he have black, brown or red hair? Does he have tattoos and/or scars partly or all over his body? Is he being possessed by a demon or is he just like that? Who knows! Literally no character has been such a true embodiment, in and out of comics, of their gimmick. 
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yoon-kooks · 4 years
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The Devil Writes Romance | myg
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Pairing: Yoongi x Reader
Genre: fluff, angst, college!AU, fuckboy!AU, fanficwriter!Yoongi
Summary: When you’re assigned to work with Min Yoongi on a final project for your Writing Fiction course, you stumble upon the fuck boy’s secret identity as a sappy fanfic writer. With the heart and soul of an aspiring editor, you’re somehow convinced by the boy himself to help make his fictional romance more realistic and heartfelt. Before you know it, you’ve made a not-so-innocent pinky promise with the devil.
Word Count: 3.2k
Warnings: mentions of sex :-)
A/N: this is basically a pilot that sets up a lot of plot for a potential series so lmk if you like the idea and would continue reading it as a series! also special shoutout to @chewymoustachio​ for the love & support 💖
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As spring semester comes to a close, your only goal is to make it through finals week unscathed. Like many of your fellow English majors, most of your finals are extensive papers rather than traditional exams. Normally this would not stress you out, but your Writing Fiction course has thrown a curveball your way: half of your grade is dependent on your partner, Min Yoongi.
Personally, you’ve never been a fan of partner or group projects because you always somehow end up with incompetent teammates who either do a half-assed job or ghost you until the day before it’s due. Either way, you’ve learned and become accustomed to relying only on yourself.
However, as your Writing Fiction class has taught you, a writer’s world is not built upon independence. Rather, it’s built upon the opposite. Writers depend on others for support, feedback, and revision. That’s where your final project comes on.
For your final project, everyone in your class signed up for the role of either a writer or editor, and you’ve been randomly paired up with someone who chose the opposite. It’s no secret to anyone that you dream of becoming an editor in the industry. You love the idea of reviewing other writers’ works and providing them with as much feedback and constructive criticism as possible. Naturally, you signed up to be an editor.
As fate would have it, you find yourself paired with the boy who’s pretty much slept with the entire class, including the TA, and allegedly the professor. The only person left unchecked on his list is you. Somehow, you’ve heard more gossip about his sex life than his skills as a writer, which is why you believe you’re fucked for this final.
“Hey, Partner,” Yoongi catches up with you in the hall after class. His signature cedarwood cologne is too heavy to ignore as he strides beside you. “Are you free tonight?”
“To brainstorm some story ideas?” You tilt your head and add an innocent tone to mask the skepticism. Truthfully, you know what he really wants. It’s not your first rodeo.
“I actually already have a story in mind,” he says. “But I was thinking you and I could-”
“What’s the story about?” Because you’d much rather hear about that than one of Yoongi’s many excuses to get in your pants.
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he shrugs as the two of you walk out of the building and into the beaming afternoon sun. You lift an arm to block the light out of your face, only to realize the boy’s shadow blocks it for you. Apparently, there are perks to walking with a buddy after class. “I’ll send you the draft tonight.”
“The professor literally just assigned the project and it’s not due for another week,” you raise an eyebrow. Weird, you’ve never seen a college kid so proactive and eager to get a head start on their final project. Something tells you the boy is just spouting bullshit and telling you what you want to hear. “You don’t have to rush and write all ten thousand words in a single night…”
“Well I don’t have any other plans tonight,” he says. “Unless you want to-”
“Nice try, Yoongi.” You start walking further ahead of the boy. You’re forced to squint as to not be blinded by the sun. “I guess you can have fun writing your story, then.”
“You really know how to play hard to get, Y/N…” Yoongi whines in that raspy voice of his, eliciting the tiniest smirk on your face. You might not approve of his fuck boy tendencies, but you’re also not opposed to teasing him a bit.
“If you really want to impress me, keep your word and send the draft tonight.” You spin around and wave farewell as you battle the sun. “Your editor will be waiting.”
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As soon as you arrive home, you realize Yoongi isn’t the only one without any Friday night plans. With nothing to do, a large part of you hopes your partner keeps his promise so you can at least try to be productive over the weekend. But ten thousand words is a lot to write in one night. It’s more than likely that he won’t be able to pull it off.
In an attempt to wind down, you scroll through the blog feeds of your favorite writers. Many of them, such as @suga-fix and @jk-seagull, are college students like you, so you can appreciate all the time and effort they put into their craft on top of their school work. While the fan in you loves to shower them with sweet and supportive messages, the editor in you hopes to one day be able to also provide feedback on a professional level.
At the very top of your feed is a short post from @suga-fix, a romance fanfic writer whom you recently found while scouring the #jiminscenarios tag for something free of smut.
“Does anyone else struggle to ask their crush out or is it just me? Asking for a friend.”
You giggle at the innocent question. In addition to writing the sappiest Jimin fanfics, Suga is known to post snippets of his own nonexistent love life on his blog. From what you understand, he’s a boy who’s never experienced true love firsthand. Recently, however, he’s been gushing over his pretty classmate. You’re waiting for the day when he builds up enough courage and finally lands a date.
Until then, you’re satisfied with reading his ongoing fictional love story featuring the popular idol, Park Jimin, as a struggling romance novelist who finds inspiration in a skeptical wedding photographer. You absolutely adore the story, the characters, and the underlying narrative, but the editor in you can point out an area for improvement: his romance game. 
You notice the two main characters lack a certain level of chemistry to get the readers quaking and itching for more. Most of the time, the intimate scenes end with poor Jimin getting friendzoned, which certainly has its charm and humor. But truthfully, you expect a little more love from a romance fic.
You suspect that, to some extent, this is intentional as the characters are the type to dance around intimacy and have pessimistic views on romance overall. However, you also wouldn’t be surprised if Suga’s own personal inexperience with romantic scenarios is what holds him back the most.
After catching up on your socials, eating dinner, and hopping out of the shower, you sit in the darkness of your room and check one more thing before calling it a night. No email, no text, no draft from your partner. Not that you were actually expecting anything, but it would’ve been nice for the fuck boy to prove you wrong.
To be fair, you know how long and painful ten thousand words can be. If Yoongi is in fact sprinting through those ten thousand words and gets them to you by the time you wake up, you’ll consider him a man of his word.
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[4:56AM] Yoongi💋 “I emailed you the thing”
[7:24AM] Y/N “Ooh, I’ll take a look 👁👁”
[7:25AM] Y/N “Btw I don’t appreciate you adding an emoji to your contact info on my phone”
After changing Yoongi’s contact name to something more appropriate, you go into your email and find the story draft that the boy had sent at exactly 4:55AM. The word count on the document says 10,382. Not too shabby, Min Yoongi.
You grab your morning caffeine and crack open your laptop to read your partner’s story on the big screen. Right away, you notice the document is titled “Untitled1” which is never a great sign, but you’re willing to forgive him if its content is stellar.
The first thing that puts a smile on your face is the main character, Jimothy. His name reminds you of your favorite idol, Jimin, with a playful touch. He’s the romance novelist who attends his friend’s wedding where he has a chance encounter with a pretty wedding photographer-
Wait. You’re pretty sure you’ve heard this story before. In fact, you know exactly where it came from. You pull up Suga’s Jimin fic and put it side-by-side against Yoongi’s version. While it’s not exactly a copy-and-paste situation, the romance novelist x wedding photographer premise is too similar for it to be a mere coincidence.
At first glance, you find it funny that Yoongi took the time to reword everything to not be caught by the plagiarism police. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume he did a quick search of Jimin fanfiction and picked one that was moderately popular but not viral enough for anyone to notice. Jimin fanfic just so happens to be your guilty pleasure, so there’s absolutely no way you’d let a plagiarist slip one past you.
But upon further review, after digesting the entirety of the fic, you find that Yoongi’s flow and choice of words are eerily similar to Suga’s style without recycling a single line. Likewise, you notice the same lack of chemistry in both versions of the story. You suppose this can only mean one thing, and you need to confront him about it in person. Because the last thing you want is for him to ghost you like everyone else you’ve ever worked with.
[8:42AM] Y/N “I just finished looking it over”
[8:43AM] Y/N “Wanna get coffee & discuss? ☕️📖”
[8:45AM] Yoongi🐍 “Oh? I thought you weren’t interested in a date with me 🥺”
[8:46AM] Y/N “Let’s meet in about an hour at the coffeehouse on campus?”
[8:46AM] Yoongi🐍 “See ya there, my editor”
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As you stir the oat milk into your second dose of caffeine for the morning, you wonder how you can bring up your suspicions in an appropriate and professional way. Should you confront him about it immediately, gently coax him in that direction, or take a more passive approach to see if he’ll mention it on his own? Because if you’re going to be this boy’s editor, you want to do it right.
“Thoughts?” Yoongi enters the chat with slightly damp hair and an iced Americano in hand. Your only thought in that moment is about how fucking good he smells, even in the presence of the rich aromas of your favorite roasted coffee beans. But you’ll leave those thoughts to yourself.
“My first thought was that you sent me a document titled Untitled1,” you say.
“I have a working title,” he assures you. “But I’m curious to hear what clever titles my editor has come up with after reading through the whole thing.”
“Pink Cheek Syndrome sounds appropriate.” Because that’s the title of Suga’s original fic. It’s also the term coined by Jimothy to describe couples who aren’t as in love as they’d like to believe. It’s a facade to fool everyone, including themselves.
“Great minds think alike after all.” Yoongi leans in to give you a high-five, but you just throw a balled up napkin at his palm. Confess. Just confess already.
“Can I ask what inspired the concept?” You bite your lip. “You don’t strike me as the romantic type.”
“Don’t you ever feel like people get into relationships just for the sake of being in a relationship?”
“Yeah.” All the time, in fact.
“It’s pretty shallow if you ask me,” he says with a nonchalant chuckle, as if he’s not the shallowest person on campus when it comes to established relationships. “PCS is just a commentary on people like that vs people like you and me.”
You and him? You’re not sure you have anything in common with someone who breaks hearts and sleeps around so casually.
“Sounds like something a fanfic writer would come up with.” Because it is.
“Sounds like something a fanfic reader would say,” he throws back at you.
“In fact, there’s a Jimin fanfic I read once called Pink Cheek Syndrome,” you say. The dose of coffee moving up Yoongi’s straw suddenly freezes. “You’re the original writer, right?”
He swallows hard and raises an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
“The writing style matches even though you didn’t copy and paste,” you scroll back through Yoongi’s version for reference. “And besides, scrambling to write ten thousand words in one night is typical fanfic writer behavior. A true plagiarist doesn’t know what it means to put those hours in.”
“Nothing gets past your sharp eyes, huh, Y/N…” Yoongi sighs, failing to hide behind his Americano. “I’m equally impressed as I am scared.”
“Wait, so you’re really Suga?” Your eyes widen. Suddenly you’re overcome by a wave of emotions. Excited, nervous, star-struck. But most of all? Confused. “How?”
“Just don’t tell anyone.” He picks up his phone and starts typing away at something.
“I won’t,” you say, also pulling out your phone to check up on the @suga-fix blog. Sure enough, there’s a stream of several new posts from a few seconds ago.
“fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK”
“I feel so exposed 😔”
“Quick, everyone act like this isn’t a fanfic blog.”
“We can pretend to be like a porn blog or smth”
“I can read everything you’re posting, you know.” You show your blog feed to Yoongi, who’s still busy keysmashing. When he finally glances up from his screen to yours, the look on his face is both flattered and distressed.
“You follow me, too?” The boy takes a long sip of his Americano, shifting his beady little eyes and plotting his next move. “What’s your URL?”
“You’re totally going to block me,” you frown. “I already told you, I’m not going to tell anyone…”
As you continue to scroll through Yoongi’s blog, you notice his post is gone from the day before. Perhaps that’s what the boy is desperately trying to hide.
“By the way, is it true that Min Yoongi, resident fuck boy, has a crush on someone?” You get excited because that’s not something you hear everyday. In regards to Yoongi, it’s always been sex, sex, and more sex. He’s notorious around campus for having one-night stands and breaking hearts the morning after. You’d never imagine a boy like him having an innocent crush on anyone.
“Where’d you hear that?” The boy across from you gradually sinks deeper and deeper into his seat every time you open your mouth to expose him further.
“You made a post yesterday about not being able to talk to your crush properly,” you giggle. “It was kind of cute.”
“I was talking about my friend.”
“You can’t fool me, Yoongi. I’m not that oblivious.” You take a sassy sip of your coffee and lean forward. “So who’s your crush? Is it someone in our class?”
“Don’t worry about it, Y/N,” he shoos you away and slides a hard copy of his draft in your direction. “Let’s not get distracted from why we’re really here.”
“Hold it, I’m not just being nosy for the gossip, you know,” you say. “From an editor’s perspective, I think the romance in your story could benefit from you interacting more with your crush.”
For a moment, Yoongi just gives you a look. You can see the wheels spinning in his head. “Well, that person doesn’t seem very interested in me, so…”
“Unrequited love?” you gasp. The plot thickens.
“Yeah,” he chuckles at your enthusiasm. “But you did give me an idea just now.”
You examine his handsome face for a hint of what’s to come. His signature Fuck Boy Smirk tells you he’s up to no good again. “I’m listening.”
“You’re my editor, right?” he asks. You nod. “And your main critique is that I should up my romance game, right?”
You nod again.
“What if you help me make the romance scenes more believable and realistic?” The boy watches as you blink your wide eyes, stunned at his suggestion. You know he doesn’t just mean that from an editorial standpoint. Surely there’s an ulterior motive here. “And before you jump to any conclusions, no, this does not include sex.”
Oh.
You’re reminded that Yoongi doesn’t write smut, despite how much of a fuck boy he is in real life. Because you’re sure he has the capability and personal experience to write some steamy and wild sex scenes. And yet, he chooses to focus on hardcore romance instead, something he himself is much less familiar with. It’s mind-blowing to think that a boy as experienced in bed as Yoongi could be so inexperienced elsewhere.
Why does he write the opposite of how he lives?
“I don’t think that’s how editors work,” you finally respond to Yoongi’s proposal, flipping through his draft and writing in the margins. You have to admit, the boy has a gift. His stories would no doubt skyrocket in popularity if the lovey-dovey scenes could draw out true, raw emotions as though you were there living in those moments. As a reader, you want him to pull at your heartstrings, smash your heart into a million pieces, and slowly put it back together. All of that can be achieved if the writer gets some hands-on experience in the love department. “But I get what you’re saying.”
“So is that a yes or a no?” He sips down the rest of his Americano as you continue to think your decision through.
Given what you know about Yoongi’s track record as a fuck boy, you’re hesitant. But at the same time, the ambitious editor in you knows what you want.
“It’s a yes,” you sigh. “But only if you promise me a few things.”
“Go on.”
“One, you’ll come to me if you’re struggling and need suggestions, advice, or someone to talk to.”
“Easy. You can be my editor-in-chief.”
“Two, if anyone asks, we aren’t dating.”
“Got it.”
“Three, help me study and prepare for the rest of my finals.”
“We can have study dates.”
“And lastly, please don’t sleep with anyone else while we’re doing this thing. Because that would be awkward.”
“Oh? I didn’t realize you were the possessive type, Y/N,” he smirks.
“Not trying to be That Controlling Bitch who forbids you from sleeping around, but I think it would defeat the purpose of what we’re trying to accomplish.”
“But what if this goes on for a while?” Yoongi strokes his imaginary Santa beard. “You expect me to practice abstinence forever?”
“It won’t go on forever, Yoongi,” you giggle at the boy’s silly remark. “Because eventually, you’ll find someone who can bring out those romantic feelings better than our faux intimacy ever will.”
“But you’ll still be my editor-in-chief?”
“If everything works out, then I don’t see why not.” You want to be optimistic about a long-term deal, but you can’t seem to rid yourself of the doubt stuck in the back of your mind. Because humans, not just fuck boys like Yoongi, seem to have a hard time keeping their promises. “I only ask that you don’t break my trust.”
Before responding, the boy meets his eyes with yours. You suppose tender eye contact is a skill he acquired from his flirty lifestyle. You, on the other hand, blink away. Eye contact longer than a glance has always made you feel vulnerable.
“I won’t, Y/N,” he says, coating his raspy voice with a layer of honey. It’s almost as intoxicating as his cedarwood cologne, but that’s another thought you’ll keep to yourself.
You watch as he slides his pinky into view, over the draft and coffees to make it official. After cracking a smile at his childish gesture, you wrap your pinky around his, thus marking the beginning of your deal with the devil.
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holycow99 · 3 years
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石田お寿司 12/9/21 stream translation Part 13
This is not the full translation of the stream. I only translated the parts I could understand & interpret or parts I found interesting/important. I’m still a beginner in Japanese, so the translations may not be accurate. If you want to repost, please repost at your own risk.
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(t/n: ** means translation may not be accurate.)
C: Is Tonari no Young Jump an app?
I: It’s a website. It’s like Jump Plus. It’s not well-known. Choujin X is being serialised there. It’s in Tonari Young Jump. I wanna change the name… Why is it Tonari (neighbour)? Even though I’m doing this with so much pride for Tonari no Young Jump. Even though I’m prepared to work for Tonari Young Jump for the rest of my life. It’s just a neighbour?! It’s not even Young Jump. Young Jump is like a younger version of Jump. It’s still a Jump. It’s Jump’s neighbour. Is Tonari no Young Jump the neighbour of the neighbour of Jump, then? So, I wanna change the name into something cooler! Something like Crazy Jump. Hahaha! Doesn’t that sound marvellous? Crazy Jump. Miracle Crazy Jump.
C: CraJump.
I: Isn’t CraJump sounds nice? Hahaha!
C: In the end, it’s still Jump’s neighbour.
I: That’s true. If we remove Jump, it’ll only be crazy. Tonari no Crazy. That sounds a bit lame. Crazy Jump is better. Haha. Seriously, doesn’t it sounds good? I like that name. Crazy Jump. Hahaha! I wanna serialise my work in Crazy Jump! It’ll only have stories that are banned. It’s for the crazy people who have nowhere else to publish their works. Haha. There is such magazine. Do you know Garo magazine? But Garo isn’t one maybe. We do have Garo magazine, where the writers are kinda like nonconformists. This one’s gonna be like a revival of Garo. Crazy Jump! Where lunatics, and not mangaka, gather. The concept is ‘Welcome to the end of the world’. It’s not ‘Friendship, Effort, Victory’, but ‘Slaughter, Irrationality, Futility’. That’s the motto for Crazy Jump. I wanna think about this thoroughly. It’ll be about fear instead of dream. Slaughter will be the theme.
C: I really wanna read it.
I: I know right! Not a manga like this, instead, you wanna read that kind of magazine. “Welcome to the end of the world. This is the place for people who have given up on all kinds of entertainment.” This isn’t an entertainment anymore. It’s a harassment. Creative Harassment: Crazy Jump.
C: Are you gonna publish Choujin X there?
I: I wanna do it in Crazy Jump not Tonari no Young Jump. I wanna go against OPM. Which one is stronger? Tonari Jump’s OPM vs Crazy Jump’s Choujin X. Crazy Jump is definitely stronger. But Choujin X probably doesn’t fit the criterion for crazy Jump. It’s hard to publish it there. I want the Great Master, Egawa Tatsuya sensei to publish his work in Crazy Jump. I want One sensei in Crazy Jump too. OPM will stay in Tonari Jump, but I want One sensei to publish another work in Crazy Jump. I’ll be the chief editor. I’ll look for people and I have them publish their works there. As long as you’re crazy, you’re in. I’ll hire any nutcases who’re good at drawing.
(Egawa Tatsuya is a mangaka & film director. His known for his work ‘Golden Boy’.)
I: You guys are mistaken. I’m gonna do it for real. I’m seriously doing it. The characteristics that Crazy Jump’s looking for in a writer is firstly, someone who definitely won’t follow the deadlines, but upload a bunch in the spur of the moment. I want the magazine to be random. No one knows what stories are gonna be in the issue. There might be times where there are no stories at all. I want to make it a thrilling magazine. The drawings for the all the stories will be done outside the frame. Hahaha. I wanna create it!
C: Have Togashi sensei publish his work there.
I: That’s absolutely. Togashi sensei has high common sense, so I wanna take that away from him. Crazy Jump is only for lunatics. It’s for people with no common sense and those who doesn’t even realise they don’t have one. Do you understand what I’m saying?
C: The editors must be crazy too?
I: Hmm…It feels like the stupid vibe will be overused. Still, let’s make the figurehead editor wears only brief. Make Mr. Matsuo wears brief.
C: Even the readers are crazy.
I: Probably, only good-for-nothing people will read the magazine, so no. The writers probably hate their own readers. They’d say something like “I don’t wanna draw for this kind of people!”, “I only have cuckoos as my readers!”, etc. “A chain of hatred, welcome to Crazy Jump. That’s why fighting will never stop”. This is the concept.
C: This magazine will make somebody’s happy.
I: Hmm…Maybe it’s better to just gather people who’re good at drawing. Then, I’ll give them welfare payment since the magazine won’t sell. I’ll take care of them. They’re free to draw as they like and money will be given too as long as they make Crazy Jump crazy.
*Nobody’s gonna vote for the survey.
I: You have to vote for 3 series, right? What survey should I do? Pick 3 series that you wanna cancel and they’re gonna be cancelled for real.
C: Yomu Dokuyaku. (t/n: Op was referring to a book called Yomu Mayaku which literally translates as Read Drug. There’s no eng title for the book so I kept it in Japanese.)
I: Hahaha. Not Mayaku, but Dokuyaku (poison). That’s a good one. Yomu Dokuyaku. A poisonous disease. That’s Crazy Jump. I really wanna make Crazy Jump. I wanna read it. I’m gonna drag writers to the darkness. They’d be like “I wanna quit.”, “I started drawing because I wanna write manga like One piece!”, “I liked watching anime at first, I wanted to create a manga that’d become an anime one day. I thought I was able to achieve that.” This is how Crazy Jump’s gonna be. Let’s make a Crazy channel. We’ll broadcast the anime version there.
*Someone commented that Crazy Jump is the going to the opposite side of the classic approach in magazine.
I: It’s not even the opposite. It’s going nowhere. It’s not heading or moving towards anywhere. It’s not heading forward or backward. It sees and hears nothing. I want this kind of magazine to exist…The stories must be crazy. If they’re too crazy, the stories will be discontinued.  
C: Animal Rap can easily be serialised there.
I: Why? Animal Rap isn’t crazy at all. It’s totally NHK vibe. It’s even watchable for kids. Animal Rap has wholesome contents, you know? Everyone can watch it.
C: If I won a prize, I’ll report to you. (t/n: OP possibly referring to them winning manga award as they’re aiming to submit their work to Young Jump.)
I: You mean Crazy Jump’s Award? Crazy Jump has no award.
I: Now for the scouting part, I’d scout them like this, “Do you know about Crazy Jump? How about it? Do you have the courage to be crazy?”, “Would you like to serialised your work in Crazy Jump?”. All of these would be conversed through private message. It’d be a secret deal.
I: It’s time for me to scout people now. I wanna do that kind of business too, scouting business. I’ll gather any reckless youngsters, middle-aged men, and old men as well to work in Crazy Jump.
I: I wanna scout housewives too. I’ll make them write crazy mangas. Isn’t that a totally good idea? A housewife writing a crazy manga. In between taking care of children and doing chores, they write such manga. It’ll be a profound work. We need to unseal the hidden craziness lies within housewives.
I: Don’t you feel intrigued by it? You’d be shocked if people who are close to you or someone who you sympathises with create something crazy. The smiling old man that you often see is actually writing such insane manga. What’d your reaction be? You might think he’s lunatic.
I: Crazy Jump will even scout the readers since there’s always be a shortage in human resources.
C: Will I get scouted if I sent an eccentric letter to Crazy Jump’s editor?
I: No, you can’t. Insane people don’t realise that they’re insane. Those who can judge that they’re crazy can be external employees. It’s time for geniuses to step aside. This magazine will only be for madmen. Every writer is a lunatic.
*He’s taking about what if it’s Criminal Jump instead of Crazy Jump?
I: Aren’t you interested to know what kind of stories the magazine would have if all the writers were criminals. They might write heartwarming or fantasy genres. If they did that, you’d have some sort of love-hate relationship with the authors.
I: If Criminal Jump was issued, people would start commit crimes just to have their work serialised in the magazine. That’d be another problem. Suddenly, people would start killing others because they wanted to be like the authors in Criminal Jump. This is definitely a bad idea. Crime is a big no-no. Crazy Jump is the coolest, after all.
C: The heroine definitely dies in Crazy Jump.
I: I wonder… She’ll die when it’s time. Let’s make clams as heroines. Ms. Clam. There’s no explanation for that. This way, the heroines won’t die. (t/n: He really did say clam as in the food clam.)
I: But to create a true mad story, it has to be natural. The story for every heroine will be about reincarnation every time. Ultimately, the stories will be about reincarnation. The story will start off normally, but it’ll end with the protagonist getting reincarnated.
*He continued expanding the reincarnation ideas.
I: If every ending will have a reincarnation setting, then it’s gonna be a common concept and not abnormal anymore. Everyone will expect the same ending. But I wanna try writing that kind of story as a mangaka. I wanna try write it once. On the other hand, when there’s no reincarnation happened in the stories, people would start wondering.
*Ishida mentioned TG.
I: I realised TG was a bit crazy when I reread it. I conceitedly told few people that they had few loose screws in the head. Seemed like I was the same too.  It was fun reading it after a long time. It kinda had a crazy vibe.
C: How about making the stories use coined/new words, but they never explain what the words mean till the end?
I: Hmm… That’s considered as crazy in a way. Final fantasy 13 did that kind of stuffs, with the term ‘falcie’ and all. It was quite a rumour. I didn’t play it though.
C: The Falcie’s Lacie purge Cocoon. (referring to FF13.)
I: You’d maybe understand what they mean if you played the game. Rather than crazy, the game was just being not user friendly. It’d be better if they slowly explained what the words meant throughout the game.
I: Everyone must be tired already. Should we stop talking about Crazy Jump now?
C: Has your work progressed?
I: I don’t know. Is it?
*Reading comments.
C: Aren’t you gonna sleep?
I: I woke up at wrong hours. So, I’m still not sleepy.
I: Should we end the stream? I’m already satisfied. Let’s end it.
C: In the end, what are we gonna do for 30,000 subscribers’ commemoration?
I: The most likely one would be a ‘Thank you’ video. I’ll just scream “Thank you!’.
C: Are you satisfied now?
I: Yeah.
I: It’s been a long time since I streamed, so I got carried away. Okay then. Thank you. Who just joined in, please watch it in the archive. I’m gonna upload Animal Rap. Thank you.
Part 1
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victorusolano · 3 years
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FYD Series
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It was one evening of summer. Anyone's skin can be steamed when exposed to the open air of the night. There, perched like a bird on his writing desk, contemplating seriously in a small dimly lit room was - Xenon. His family was all disturbed by the climate condition, so they went out of town to some nearby beach resorts. Xenon on his volition stayed alone, in which he likely enjoyed making love with the old typewriter resting in a great silence. He thought that this is what he needs to write a story tonight and the deadline of his paper is tomorrow before the sunset.
Two weeks ago, the writing task was assigned to him, by the chief editor of the literary magazine he is working with; and till this night it had remained untouched, and unmarked, though the time left was enough to say generously to finish one short story. However, catching up the race between him, and the ongoing moments is now useless. Words and meanings ran away and went to a place nowhere to be found. I should eat a dictionary, He murmured to himself. He took a glance at the old wall clock and looked away at the open window, stared blankly across the survey of height and to the dark space outside.
When he reconciled his thoughts; he gave a sweeping look at the old pictures of the family photos and old framed certificates of academic achievements of writing contests. He nailed his attention to a class picture of his college.
It was before the day of graduation; like a dreamy shot, his recollections swirled in a throwback changing a milieu; a trance to a memory. He can even smell the old odor of the room where he was in the picture: the blackboard with the doodle half-erased drawings of impish boyhood, girls prepping up in a rush as the bell rang when the class was announced dismissed. “Wait for me at the powder room, just need to fix this” the president of the class pointed at the board trying so hard to erase the drawings. “Come on here now Xenon!” The tall pale boy invited him to take his place for picture taking along the corridor. The boys, in a disorganized choreography, set themselves like a tableau; rowdy as they were. They were teasing, joking, thumping in harsh horseplay. “It's the last day!” Declared joyfully of one of the boys.
His consciousness lurched back into reality like a warp of time; he put his palm on his face. Now, he began carelessly to at least write something. The editor will kill him flat tomorrow; I need to finish at least one tonight.
He took a glance at the old wall clock which struck exactly twelve-thirty midnight. He returned to his writing desk, wiped out apple cores and peels, and decided to transcribe anything that comes first into his mind, a short story must be short and should have a story, he said to himself. But what story should I write? desperate he was, hope suddenly became absent; tomorrow I'm dead! Misfortune has taken its form now: all he accomplished about writing have flown away, he began to think that all structures of narratives are bogus, workshops and seminars he attended are all hoaxes. No formula could teach someone how to write. He then remembered a book called Under The…  What? It’s something ahm… He tried it with difficulty to remember. Suddenly, he remembered Tree - then he told himself, all writing may be divided into two groups, good writing, and bad writing; good books come out of good writing while bad writing produces failures, again and again, he scanned the line like an X-ray of that passage from a book which was a foreword by RK. A failure He exclaimed silently; not even of Montes’ Of Fish… and etcetera, What would I be writing about dogs or flies? Then he recalled Peter's Touch Move. I am no longer a kid! That conviction made him more worried there, he is now sure that a block along the streamlines of thoughts is hampering him to be productive and creative. No is now a strong resistance, to be Noel’s Games is something, and to finish a writing task today is a different thing. He remembered it all well; call me Tina or Fanny – No one calls me! He snorted.
It was almost three in the morning and no matter how hard he tried to have an idea and flood an ink in the paper, it just equated to frustration. A scrap of papers had been spilling off the bin and onto the floor, so he decided to take a walk outside for a while and jog. The objective of his motivation was like a plan, he thought that maybe he needed to activate an endorphin from his brain, in a matter of two minutes he got changed his clothes, he wore that unlaundered navy blue jersey shorts, he wore the other day; he paired it with a billowy old white cotton shirt, and put on his ash-colored rubber shoes which was a birthday gift, and went to the plaza.
He went on jogging around the track field. Quickly, it made him asphyxiated on the sixth round, but he decided to run two more and two rounds of walk to complete the set; good enough for an hour jog today he thought. Thirsty as he was, he wanted to look for water, so he went to an all-day convenience store to quench his dried throat. “Good morning!” a sweet greeting of the store staff, he smiled back and padded to the panel doors of chillers; grabbed a bottle of water, he opened it right away and in a spur-of-the-moment, he drank it all without thinking that he hadn't paid it yet; he remembered, so he went to the counter, and scanned the bottle, he grabbed some chips, and instant coffee, pay the total, and left.
At the park, He again tried to process what was going on with him. The situation of being a writer seemed to change from what he has believed for the past years; beginning from his aspiration to be a writer someday which now has been achieved. Now is a challenge against himself, am I just being lazy? He rebuked the thought hastily, laziness is a big word, he would like to think that he is more of a selective participant rather than being the word lazy… these thoughts wire loomed in his mind. He walked toward a wooden bench at the park but at that moment, an answer did not come; he decided to sit for a moment while looking at the cadastral and being engulfed by the tranquility. When suddenly an old man spoke, “What are you looking at?” the old man asked, breaking the silence. Astounded Xenon was; as he did not realize the presence of the old man sitting next to him at all before. Xenon tried to find a complete grasp of how it could happen?
“Nothing sir” he answered back at an instant without an inch of hesitation.
“Thinking?”
“No, sir”
“What exactly do you have in your mind and how would you like to describe it, before you sit here beside me?” The old man asked. “Well I am thinking of so many things, I am thinking of my article, a short story of some sort, it’s my deadline today, and I need to submit it this afternoon” Xenon responded as if caught in a corner with the question.
“Excuse me, sir - you've been here all the while?”
“Yes”
“I… did not see you’re here, I am sure of that!”
“Well I am exactly”
“Exactly? like how? I’m sorry sir!”
The old man gave him an artificial laugh before he uttered another word. “There so many things we trouble so much in this life – we don’t see now details of why we’re here or how did we get there, time runs too fast, we don’t see that - I like this place,” An eminent pause before Xenon was able to respond, “I'm sorry for the intrusion, sir!” What he wanted to mean in that is like a stop.
“Are you alone or waiting for someone? I'll just then look at another bench around.”
“No,” the old man said.
Without a second the old man said, “You can sit here, I don't own it anyway - I am the same, like you…” he turned a look to Xenon “I as well wanted to take a walk and free the mind of so many things.”  
Xenon did not believe the words, like the same he tried to process the thought, it cannot be possible for two people to do something the same or thinking completely parallel at the same point of time at exactitude, and meet. He’d like to dismiss the idea with a general conviction. “Yes, I am thinking if this is appropriate to have your autograph?” The old man said, Xenon wondered very oddly. The old man was very well informed, he thought as if he was under surveillance. “Hold on a second, sir - How did you know that...? I am… ahm” He can’t find the words again. “Writer?” The old man responded so very quickly to help him grasp the words. “Yes! You've already told me, I think no less than a minute before the whole sentence that I have calculated.” - “What?” He was surprised by the old man’s precision of thoughts. “You see now my friend, It seems that you're not paying much attention to the details, you’ve just told me that; this day is your deadline of a narrative to some sort that you needed to submit later this afternoon.” He repeated it like a backmasked vinyl recording to him.
He did not answer back and noticed something which he cannot sham his feeling. he thought it was talking to some kind of a prophet; an oracle, the old man gave him a creep but it was never of fear he felt that time, when the old man said, you're not paying much attention to the details: and it provided him a connection, an impulse releasing the secret of his lingering dilemma. It seemed that the old man had known him before and was reading his mind in silence. And before he could say another word, the old man got on to his feet and walked slowly in the distance. “Where are you going, sir? I thought you wanted my autograph?” He replied instantly. “I was about to do that” he slipped his hand on the pocket of his shirt and brought out a pen. The man moved close to him and said, “maybe after you finish the story you are about to submit today – I want surprises, I love that. It sounded more of a challenge to him. “I'll just wait for it once it’s out,” the old man continued, “I'm expecting that one will be good too, like the others.” Xenon felt being seized. Then in no time delay, he asked, “Sir, may I know your name please” The old man looked away and replied with a serious note. “I never had one.”
“I grew up in a home,” the old man continued, Xenon did not understand what he meant by the word home.
“I never knew who my parents are”
“You mean you're an orphan, sir?”
He sounded that question as an inquiry, not a statement or a report; he could not completely believe when the old man said, never had one. He assumed, while the slightest of what he can accept, that someone in his infancy had given him any name at least any among the common names, like Peter or Jeff.  
“Yes, may I?” The old man was demonstrating to take a seat, he snatched the opportunity, and released a deep sigh before Xenon could make his reply.
“Yes! Surely, sir”
“I would like to tell you a story – may I?” Without averseness he agreed — this is what precisely he doesn’t have at this very moment — He felt a pity to himself that the old man at least has something to tell a story. He thought resentfully. “Now, what is your nearest happy memory? – something that may be a remarkable one?” The old man asked. “Well, I can still remember my days when I was in college, you know a scholar of some sort, a nerdy bookworm student and sometimes nasty. I enjoyed the friends and their all varieties of personal attitude, the mentorship and all; that experience gave me a feeling of a second home too,” he ended his recollection with a ruminating smile.
The old man started after his last word and said, “home Oh yes! I grew up in a home too, you know. But it was different, — there are all sorts of people from all diversities you know? minor age killers, thieves, abandoned children, and those who escape from their hostile relatives and parents — there is one thing that is common among all of us resident mates. We are all looking for someone who could give us genuine love; so to every opportunity of adoption; though we don’t want to go away from home, we grab it in hope for a foster parent. On the contrary, after a week or so; most of us go back and never want to go out. The result rather turned worse, trust became more absent.”
“That must be interesting – go on please” Xenon eagerly butt in. “We didn’t have a good foundation of education there.” Xenon in his skeptics let the old man claim his privilege of a good start of his story, “though a mother staff is there to attend the everyday needs of the operation of a foster home, there is always a lacking that only a real parent could provide the never-ending emptiness lingers every day. When you were being born and grew up in a home you’ll never find a name in your birth identity, the space in the paper reads either baby boy or baby girl, or at least a consolation part is you have your last name written on your birth certificate, then at your legal age, you will then be advised and go on a series of counseling to condition your mind that you are now ready to be set free and join the outside world. On the other meaning, you will now look for your own. All years of staying there, all favors of your daily needs are all in the form of a plea and request, it’s like a nauseated chick being asked to walk or run.” Xenon, unconsciously now conceded and pondering deep to the part brimming inside him, the visual in his mind provided a still picture that speaks a thousand and more ideas to write.
He felt like hanging on a cliff and wanting more. “Go on, please!” He said. “Very well,” the old man continued. “Overwhelmed you are now huh? - There was an incident that night when everybody was all sleeping in our respective quarters; the boy’s place was on the east of a pavilion near the high walls while the girls’ was just near the lobby entrance. I never got an interest of why is that because I never asked, I am always like that timid among other orphans, I was very young then, not even that I know what an introvert means but I enjoyed my solitude; they often think that I am weird, but I have my way of covering, a defense mechanism, mostly I pretend; which always sets me in a situation turned more difficult at the end. It was an unforgettable experience that everybody there will never forget. A fire, a huge one that killed one group of orphans in quarter D at the corner pavilion, maybe fifteen or twenty souls in there burnt alive.” Xenon’s shoulders twitched at the mention of being burnt alive! But he remained silent, leaving the old man to continue.
“How did it all happen, sir?” he went on curiously. “I expected that would be your most obvious next question” As the old man continued - “The mother staff on duty that night left the door locked and she brought the keys with her and stride past for a moment to meet someone outside, but she never calculated it right that a kettle in the kitchen was also left on a stove, she enjoyed the romantic rendezvous with the guy she has been seeing for the past weeks, the next series of event happened so fast as the fire spread all the rest of the quarters, I happened to escape quickly and help the young ones to get out, well I would like to say thank you for my insomniac.” The old man paused there for a while. “Investigations went on afterward but of course, the subject of the incident died just like that; an isolated one. But the tremor lives like a resurrection and even to this moment whenever I recall the experience I can still feel the trauma.”
His feelings were automatically snatched. “Pitiful souls,” Xenon added, “true, indeed!” The old man replied. “Well just like other closed call stories, the ending was still unknown and then life just went on, I finally said goodbye to the orphanage and faced a life of my own.” The old man got up on his feet and walked away slowly. “Where are you going, sir?” xenon asked. “Home,” the word gave him a sensation like a blank white paper inked with lots of things and images of a scene scribbled in no exact direction; he imagined an abstract picture that was difficult to understand from that story.
Unexpectedly, it gave him a feeling of freedom. A unit of work that he is required to finish a story from that conversation. And the task is waiting for him now at home. “Sir, could I just at least have your name?” The sun had shone its glimpse in the sky. The illumination gave a picture of cucoloris lighting patterns of shadows of the old man’s face, like a mirror from afar. “Could you please tell me your name?” Xenon asked garishly. The old man stopped, and said, “You should fix the ending.” He tried to catch the sounds from afar. “Will you?” The picture of him was already filtered out of the blinding lights.
THE END
This is a work of FICTION. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
Copyright Statement This work is the intellectual property of the author. Permission is granted for this material to be shared for non-commercial, educational purposes, provided that this copyright statement appears on the reproduced material. To disseminate otherwise or to republish requires written from the author.
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rosecorcoranwrites · 3 years
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September Reading Roundup
It's time for this month's reading roundup, but first, a little announcement that no one but me will care about: I'm staying off the internet until the election. Well, mostly. I'll still post to Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram when the mood strikes me or when I have a writing update. I'll still post Rant Rave Reviews on here and Youtube (the theme this month is spooky stories, of course). But I won't be interacting much (ie, I won't be spending hours reading through Twitter and Tumblr and watching random Youtube videos I've already seen). If you @ me or retweet or reblog a post, I'll probably respond in a day or two, but other than that, I'm becoming a recluse.
The reason for this is twofold. First, I'm offering it up. For those of you who aren't Catholic, "offering it up" is sort of like giving up something for Lent. You discipline yourself by enduring some deprivation (either natural, like pain, or of your own choosing, like not watching hours of Youtube). At the same time, you offer up your (albeit, in this case, slight) suffering as a sacrifice for some good. I'm offering it up for America. Not the election, America. Because, not to get political or anything, but no matter who wins the garbage fire that is the 2020 election, America is doomed unless our culture changes. As I said to a friend recently, if this was the 90s, we could weather whatever storm Trump or Biden brings, but people hate each other so much right now that our country is pretty much over. Unless...
I don't know what I'm praying for, but I'm praying, praying that come what may, God in his Providence will drag something good out of all of it, kicking and screaming if need be. I will also be doing a rosary novena with my diocese October 14th through October 22, and then another one with the USCCB October 26th to November 3rd. Join me if you would like.
On a lighter note, I'm a volunteer writer-in-residence again at my hometown library, so I'm obligated to focus on writing this month, and need write, research, and workshop without distraction. I have two Forensics and Fiction books all tabbed and ready to read, plus a book about army nurses in the Vietnam War. The plot of book one in the alternate-history/fantasy/mystery trilogy is fast congealing, and I want to strike while the iron is hot. I need to focus! My ultimate goal is to be ready to write a little each day in November, returning to my heretical NaNoWriMo ways.
I'll let you know how it all turns out in my first Novemebr post, which will be a reading roundup of October. Until then, let's take a look at what I read this month:
Two Six Shooters Beat Four Aces: Stories of a Young Arizona by Barbara Marriott Ph.D
Genre: History - Anecdotes
Why I read it: Arizona book club pic
What I thought of it: While it's clear that Marriott is an excellent researcher, she is either a bad writer or in serious need of an editor. Individual paragraphs proved internally repetitive, and the overall structure of each chapter was slapdash. It needed smoother transitions from anecdote to anecdote or more section breaks and section headers.
Would I recommend it: No, everyone in my book club, including myself, hated it.
7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton
Genre: Supernatural Mystery
Why I read it: I'd been wanting to for a while; the premise caught my eye
What I thought of it: The body-hopping time-loop stuff was brilliant, the characters likable, and the story delightfully twisty. The last twist and conclusion were unsatisfying, though.
Would I recommend it: Yes!! Despite it's flaws, it was an exciting, fun, and original book. I will definitely be reading Turton's next book (which involves a closed circle of suspects and, possibly, demons!?).
The Exorcist by William Blatty
Genre: Horror
Why I read it: I'd been meaning to for a while, and writing research gave me an excuse to do so
What I thought of it: I like that it doesn't pull it's punches; I'm kind of shocked that it's only been censored a couple times, actually. It presents demons as they are: hateful, grotesque jerks who get off on picking on humans. I also liked that there was a murder mystery subplot. I'm not sure I approve 100% of the ending, theologically speaking, but that's a pretty minor quibble.
Would I recommend it: Yes, but it is not for the feint of heart. Trigger warnings for child sexual abuse, adult sexual abuse, language, violence, the works.
How to Destroy America in Three Easy Steps by Ben Shapiro
Genre: Nonfiction - politics
Why I read it: It's a long story that I shall tell about in my memoir of library life, but not here. Also the cover is 10/10
What I thought of it: It was ok. I already knew most of what he said. I disagreed with some of it, like seeing the constant moving of people from town to town in 1950s as a positive thing; in actuality, "company men" in the 50s were moved around so they wouldn't have community ties but instead ties to the company, which is anti-human to the extreme. I did think it was interesting that he combatted the idea of America's greatness being built off the backs of slaves by pointing out that slavery was actually terrible for the south, as reliance on slavery retarded their economic system well after the Civil War.
Would I recommend it: If you're into political books, sure.
American Sherlock: Murder, Forensics, and the Birth of American CSI by Kate Winkler Dawson
Genre: True Crime - forensic history
Why I read it: I love historical true crime
What I thought of it: It was ok, but kind of didn't make the case for him being "The American Sherlock Holmes" (even though people really did call him that back in the day), in that a lot of his conclusions ended up being a little dubious. Still, from a research perspective, it did establish when various forensic practices started being used in the USA.
Would I recommend it: Maybe? I personally liked Father of Forensics more. I'd say this book is, like, 3/5 stars, just because it could have been tightened up a bit.
Coraline by Neil Gaiman
Genre: Horror
Why I read it: It's spooky season!
What I thought of it: Having already seen the movie, I knew pretty much what was going to happen, but I love Gaiman's turn of phrase.
Would I recommend it: Yes, especially for children who are too young for scarier fair but still want a creepy story.
The Horror at Red Hook by H.P. Lovecraft
Genre: Horror
Why I read it: It's still spooky season!
What I thought of it: I honestly liked this a lot more than the Cthulhu mythos stuff. Rather than vague demoniac blasphemies or black cyclopean gulfs, there's a real tangible cult that sacrifices (reanimated?) corpses to a pale, dancing, snickering Thing on a golden pedestal. I dig it.
Would I recommend it: Yes. Just... ignore the racism. That goes for all of Lovecraft's stuff, by the by.
Herbert West: Reanimator by H.P. Lovecraft
Genre: Horror
Why I read it: Turns out I like HP Lovecraft. Who knew?
What I thought of it: You gotta love mad scientists who try to reanimate the dead, right? I think this one would make an excellent mini-series.
Would I recommend it: Yes.
Solutions and Other Problems by Allie Brosh
Genre: Essay - illustration/comics
Why I read it: I loved Hyperbole and a Half, and was excited when I saw Brosh was coming out with another book.
What I thought of it: It was okay. Not as good as her first book, but for an understandable reason: medical complications and her sister's suicide (that's not a spoiler, as the book is dedicated to her sister). Thus, the book had a heaviness to it that the first one didn't. Still there were some parts that made me laugh so hard I cried.
Would I recommend it: Maybe? I'd say borrow it from the library, but don't buy it, unless you are also suffering a loss. It might be really relatable and cathartic in that case.
The Rats in the Walls by H.P. Lovecraft
Genre: Horror
Why I read it: I like HP Lovecraft
What I thought of it: Not as scary as I had been led to believe by my brother, but still a good story. I plan on reading Lovecraft Country at some point, which supposedly flips Lovecraft's racism on it's head, and so help me, if it doesn't make reference to this story and chattel slavery, I'll throw a fit.
Would I recommend it: Yes. I like that the cat didn't die. :)
The Shadow Over Innsmouth by H.P. Lovecraft
Genre: Horror
Why I read it: I just... I just really like Lovecraft, okay?
What I thought of it: I find the sea inherently creepy, so when you have a decrepit backwater filled with a fishy stench and secrets, it's gotta be good.
Would I recommend it: Yes, especially if you liked the Fishing Hamlet part of the Bloodborne DLC (which I could not help but think of the whole time reading this novella).
The Thing on the Doorstep by H.P. Lovecraft
Genre: Horror
Why I read it: You know why.
What I thought of it: So if you've read enough Lovecraft, especially Dunwich Horror and Shadow Over Innsmouth, you already know what's coming... or do you? Right away, HP establishes that there is a special knock the guy uses with his friend, so I assumed the twist end would involve the Thing appearing in the guy's body but not using the knock, thus revealing itself to be (redacted for slight spoilers). I was wrong. That's not how it played out, and the way it played out was so much creepier!!!
Would I recommend it: Yeah! I really liked this one!
Haunter of the Dark by H.P. Lovecraft
Genre: Horror
Why I read it: Yup
What I thought of it: Same ol', same ol, but what I thought was cool in this one was that the supposedly superstitious Italian Catholic immigrants totally know what's up and spend their stormy nights keeping the Haunter at bay with nothing but candles and flashlights. What a neat detail!
Would I recommend it: Yup. :)
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thecozywhaleshark · 5 years
Text
King of Hearts (pt. 4)
Word Count: 6,344
Warnings: Smut. Angst. Some fluff. Swearing. Oral (male and female receiving). Denial. Overstimulation. Bondage. Begging. Masturbation. Unprotected sex (they forgot this time sorry, please be safe my beans). A little thigh riding. Little face riding. Basically the kinkiest shit I have written so far. I’ll go retreat back to my hell cell now.
Summary: He was hired to teach her things... and so that is what he’ll do.
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“Bye everyone! It was nice to meet you and see some of you again!” Jin yells, waving as you walk out of the door of another publishing event.
You were so glad it had gone well. It had come up last minute and you had frantically texted Jin: “I have a meeting and Marsha (another one of my editors) is asking about you… H E L P” and thankfully, he had come through.
It had been a long dinner, office casual, and you almost drooled when you saw Jin enter the restaurant in a simple pair of slacks and a buttondown shirt, looking delectable as always.
“Thank you for saving me… again,” you sigh, cheerfully linking your arm through his as you walked to your car.
“You’re just lucky it landed on our date night.” Jin replies, giving you a wink.
You roll your eyes. Boys. “Date night, huh? So that’s what we’re calling it?”
He leans in and brushes his lips against your ear. “That’s what we’re calling it until we’re out of earshot of some of your co-workers.”
You glance behind you and see that there were, in fact, two of your team walking a couple feet behind you on their way across the parking lot.
“Good catch,” you whisper, “Now pretend to laugh at something I said.”
Jin lets out a jolly laugh and unlinks your arms so he can throw it around your shoulders.
“I can’t believe you said that!” he says, raising his voice slightly so the people behind you are sure to hear.
“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first,” you fire back, raising your own voice slightly and elbowing him in the gut before ducking out from under his arm and striding out of his reach. “Race you to the car!”
You are thankful you decided to wear flats to this dinner instead of your heels and take off, more to get away from your co-workers than actually play with Jin.
Jin catches up to you easily and could have outrun you, but you slam your hand against the back of your car.
“I win!” you crow gleefully.
“That’s not fair, I don’t know what your car looks like!” he complains, while you search in your bag for your car keys.
You grin. “I just thought we should put some space between us and our followers,” you state, nodding your head in their direction.
He glances back and sees them a good ways off and grins. “Smart tactic…” he mumbles, then leans across the hood as he waits for you to unlock the door. “… or were you just warming up for later?”
You smirk and give him a heavy wink. “Maybe I was warming you up,” you reply, unlocking the door and sliding into your seat before he has a chance to reply, and therefore missing the way his face changes.
Jin slides into the passenger side and buckles, waiting until you start the car and are backing out before speaking.
“So I read some of your works…”
You blush hard. Well this has to be a nightmare... 
“Oh god.”
“I read that Elaina is tied up in Chapter 57… and so is Ariel in Chapter 8, and Sydney in Chapter 32, and Morgan in Chapter 23…” he counts off his fingers then looks up at you with a smirk.
You can feel your face turning so red it hurts and you’re thankful for the darkness of the car, though you’re sure he can see flashes of it in the strobing passes of the streetlights.
“Did you read everything I’ve written in a week?”
He rests his head on the back of his seat and shrugs. “You write interesting things. And I travel a lot. Reading passes the time.”
You nod and there is a moment of silence before his voice leeches out from the dark.
“Tell me, y/n, have you ever tied up a man?”
You choke and swerve the car, and a car honks at you.
“WATCH IT!” Jin shouts, grabbing the steering wheel and getting you to the side of the road.
He pats your back while you fan yourself with your hand. “What –“
He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, let’s try that again. You seem to be quite fascinated with tying up other women y/n… have you enjoyed that in past experiences?”
You blush before mumbling a soft yes and he makes a humming sound in the back of his throat. “Okay. Things to keep in mind.”
The car ride is silent until Jin suddenly yells, “THERE!” and points violently to a store on the corner.
“What?! What is it?!” You yell, straining to see if there was something in the road ahead of you.
“That store – do you see the neon red sign?”
You squint. “Momma Thot’s Sex and Secrets?”
He nods. “Yes! Pull into that parking lot.”
“Why?” you ask as you cross lanes and turn into the lot of the gas station on the other side of the street.
“I have something I need to buy there… for us.”
You park the car and turn to him. “Us?”
“Yes, us.”He smirks and unlocks his door, climbing out before ducking his head back in. “You hired me to teach you things, darling. And this item is part of the lesson. Plus, this shop is the only place I can get it.”
You climb out of the driver’s side and slam your door, double-checking to make sure you locked it.
“This place is sketchy.” You say, quickly walking to Jin’s side.
He scoffs. “Don’t judge it just because it has a red sign. Kristy is very nice.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Kristy?”
“The owner of the shop.”
You look at him and he holds out an arm in front of you to stop you from walking into traffic.
“So I take it you’ve been to this place many times before then.”
He smirks and gestures to you when the traffic is cleared enough so you can cross. “I know this place like the back of my hand…”
You thought you heard him say “and the woman who runs it too,” but you couldn’t be sure, as a loud truck drowned out the last part of his sentence.
You tried to ignore it but you couldn’t help hearing it over and over in your mind. And the woman who runs it too and the woman who runs it too and the woman…
Jin opens the door for you and you enter the store under the ding of the bell.
Yup, definitely a sex shop, you think as you take in the racks of nude magazines by the door and the locked case of whips and harnesses against the back wall.
“Can I help you?” a woman purrs and you turn to meet the striking blue eyes of the cashier. Jin offers her an easy smile.
“Hey, Kristy. Just need some of that lovely Japanese silk rope you introduced me to…” he leans against the counter and gives her a heavy wink.
She smirks back. “Back for more?” she asks, slowly trailing her hand up his arm.
He covers her hand with his own. “As much as I would love a little more of you… I have a date tonight.” He nods in your direction.
You offer a shy smile and little wave of your fingers. Kristy chuckles and gives a little finger wave back making you blush and look away.
I’m just gonna go over here and um… admire this wall of dildos… yup.
“Do you think she’ll be able to handle it?” you hear Kristy whisper and Jin laughs.
“The rope please, princess. You know my favorite one.”
She chuckles and pulls a sky blue rope off the back wall.
He smirks. “Perfect. Just like the eyes of my favorite girl.”
You roll your eyes and try to ignore the twinge of jealousy that pings inside you and turn your focus to a shelf of ball gags. Maybe if I shove one down my throat far enough I’ll die…
No. Snap out of it.
You’re gagging enough having to listen to this.
Not that you’re jealous.
Why are you suddenly jealous of an escort?
Stop it. This wasn’t the plan.
“Ready to go?” You start and turn around, seeing Jin holding a plastic bag and staring at you curiously.
“Um, yeah. I’m fine. Let’s… yup. We go.” You quickly spin on your heel and head out the door, Jin chuckling after you.
I am not jealous of the sex store cashier. Am not. Not jealous. Not.
“You’re flighty tonight, little bird.” He hums, catching up with you easily in just a few long strides.
You laugh and hate how it comes out sounding higher than you intended. “This is how I normally walk.”
He snorts. “No you don’t. You drag your feet. Right now, you seem to be running away.”
He grabs your arm and pulls you to a stop. “Y/n… are you scared? Because we don’t have to do this tonight, I just thought that maybe…”
You shake your head furiously. “No! Oh no. I’m not scared.”
He lets go of your arm and shoves his hands in his pockets, the bag dangling at his hip. “Then what is it?”
You tuck your hair behind your ear and look away, letting out a huffy breath. “Sex stores just make me uncomfortable.”
He smirks. “Says the erotica writer.”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, says the erotica write who hired an escort-“ you turn and poke him in the chest. “-that’s you, to teach her things.”
He smirks and holds up the bag. “And that’s exactly what I’m doing.” He leans down close and breathes hot on your ear. “But to teach you things… dearie… we have to do a little… shopping.” He kisses your cheek and straightens, walking over to your car.
“Now where are we going? Which hotel?”
You fidget with the straps of your purse and blush, trying to keep your voice steady. “The nearest hotel is half an hour away from here… so I was thinking…”
Just spit it out already, y/n
He turns around and raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Um… I was thinking, we could maybe, if it’s okay with you, to um, go to my place?”
He seems to miss a step for a second before shaking his head and letting out a little laugh.
“If that’s what you want.”
You shrug and follow him. “It’s just closer, that’s all.”
“Well, in that case…” he walks to the passenger side and tugs violently on the handle with his free hand. “Let me in!” he hollers, making the handle of the door thump faster and you laugh, pulling your keys out of your purse.
“You’re a child.”
He smirks as you unlock the car and folds his arms on the top of your car.
“You won’t be thinking that soon, love.” He winks and slides in your car, leaving you cursing him silently and fumbling to find the right key for the ignition.
You make it back home in relative silence… well as silent as it can be as Jin reaches into the bag and begins to untie the rope ends, practicing knots as you drive through the dark.
“This is me,” you say, pulling up to your apartment building and parking.
“You live in an apartment?” Jin asks, stepping out of the car and beginning to swing his bag again. “Why don’t you have a house?”
You shrug. “I don’t like the idea of living alone in a big house. I don’t need it. An apartment is fine.”
He nods as you head up the stairs in silence and lead him to your door at the end of the hall.
“Okay, so this is my place…” you state, awkwardly holding the door open for him.
Of course it is stupid, why would you let him into a random place? Why would you have the key to some random building?
Oh, shut up.
He looks around and unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling them up. “Cozy.”
You roll your eyes and follow him in. “What were you expecting, a mansion?”
“Nah,” he grins and sets the bag on the kitchen table. “Just for it to be a little messier. Like my place.”
“Oo so the popular escort Jin is a mess?” you tease, setting your purse down next to the bag.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, his eyes going dark for a moment before he gives a brief shake of his head and gives you that flirtatious grin again.
“So,” he kicks off his shoes and reaches for the bag again, shaking it. “Where should we set up?” He wiggles his eyebrows and you laugh, shoving him with your shoulder on your way past him.
“This way.”
You lead him into your bedroom and turn on the lights, gesturing towards your bed. “I assume you’ll want to do this there.”
He laughs and heads over to it, sitting on the end of the bed and bouncing a few times. “This would be preferred, yes.”  
He beings to unbutton his shirt and you yelp.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you doing?!”
He looks at you curiously. “… getting naked?”
You blush furiously and look away. Of course he is.
He smirks. “What’s the matter, doll? Getting nervous?” he chuckles and shrugs his shirt off this shoulders, folding it in his lap. “You’ve seen me naked before.”
“Yes, but…” Never in my bedroom…“Never mind. Let’s do this.”
You pick up the bag from the end of the bed next to him and pull out the rope. “How do you want to be tied?”
His eyes darken and he takes a deep breath. “You have no idea how hard you just made me,” he groans and your eyes widen.
“Better finish getting yourself undressed then I guess,” you smirk back, loving the little rush of power that you got when you saw how that comment affected him so quickly.
He quickly obeys and reaches for the rope. “The easiest way is this knot,” he explains, showing you how to do it. “It will hold me in so I can’t get away while at the same time make it easy for you to untie me when we’re done, see?” he pulls a string and the knot unravels. You nod.
“Okay, here.” He hands it to you and skootches back on the bed, towards your metal headboard. “Do you want me laying down, or sitting up? Or something else?” he asks and you fumble.
“um… I, I don’t know. Um, whatever is the most comfortable for you? What do you usually do?”
You fiddle with the rope and he smiles at you. “That’s okay. How about this? I’ll prop myself up on these pillows, and you can make the rope just loose enough so that it’ll be fine if you decide later that you want me laying down, you can just remove the pillows?” He arranges while he explains and you watch carefully while he does until he settles.
“I think I’m comfortable here. You okay with this?”
You step back and look him over, nodding your approval. “I think that’ll work.”
“Super. Now tie me.” He grins and holds out his wrists.
“So eager to be bound,” you smirk, wrapping the rope around one of his wrists and bringing his arm up to the headboard and he licks his lips, watching you darkly.
You finish tying him up and stand back. “Is that okay?”
He gives the ropes a test try, and gives you an easy smile. “Perfect.”
You stare at each other for a minute before you blush and look away.
“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, standing awkwardly at the end of the bed.
He gives you an encouraging smile. “Do whatever you want to do to me, love. That’s how this works. Have your way with me.”
You take a breath and step towards him. Be brave, y/n. You can do this. You smirk and lower your voice as you begin to pull your blouse out of your skirt. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
He watches as you pull it over your head and reach for the zip on your skirt.
“More than anything,” he breathes, his eyes locked on your body.
You feel a rush of heat head towards your core and you quicken your efforts to get out of your clothes. You shimmy out of your skirt and kick off your flats, leaving them where they lie.
“Goddamn, you’re beautiful,” he praises, and you blush again.
You still have more clothes to remove, and in a rushed and slightly flustered effort to get out of your tights quickly, you trip and bang your knee against the hard edge of your bed frame.
“Oh, fuck me.” You curse, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling off your tights the correct, not-standing-up way.
“I would, but you see, I’m a little tied up here.” Jin grins and gives his hands a tug at the ropes. “So I guess you’re just going to have to do all the work.”
You pull off your tights and straddle him quickly, his eyes widening.
“Is that what you want, baby?” You coo, stroking your finger down his cheek and beginning to grind on his lap, giving him a smirk of satisfaction when his breath hitches.
“See, I told you that you would be good at this…” he groans, then gasps as you grind a little harder and you feel the first shoots of pleasure begin to warm your body.
You feel him hardening beneath you all the way, and you smile, reaching back to unclasp your bra, exposing your breasts to his face, but not moving close enough so he can touch them.
He licks his lips and groans, staring at your chest as you continue to move your hips.
“What is it Jinnie?” you ask, taking your hands off his shoulders and moving them to your chest to begin to play with your nipples. “Did you want to touch?”
He swallows hard and flicks his eyes to yours before nodding hard and letting out an enthusiastic, “Fuck. Yes! Yes. Please. Yes please.”
You tap your chin and pretend to consider it, moving your chest closer to his face. “I mean… I guess you can…”
You slide your hand in his hair and use your other to brace yourself on his shoulder as he immediately latches onto your chest and groans around your nipple, sucking hard.
You moan as he works you, switching between your breasts and moaning at how good you feel in his mouth. You’re getting swept away in the feeling before a trickling thought flows into your mind-
Make him beg for it.
It takes effort, but you push him off you and smirk, moving back so he can’t touch you with his mouth anymore.
He whines in protest, trying to sit up more but being yanked back by the ropes holding him down and at your mercy.
You quirk an eyebrow at him and cluck your tongue, making him quiet immediately and look at you with big eyes and his mouth slightly open, panting.
You trail your fingers lightly down his chest, relishing in the way he shudders beneath you as your hand lowers and you gently stroke up his length.
You continue this soft stroking until he is whining and desperate under your hand, gnawing at his lips and clenching his fists, trying to buck his hips. His efforts are in vain though, as your body is holding his legs down and he can’t force you to go faster or grip him harder.
Soon enough he can’t take it anymore and begins to try to reason with you.
“You’re so good at this baby,” he groans, his voice shaking as he tries to keep himself from falling apart. “But I want to be inside you,” he states, moving one of his legs so his thigh is pressing to your core and you moan, unable to stop yourself from grinding a little against it.
“Do you now,” you smirk, leaning forward until your lips are a hairsbreadth away from his.
“Oh, I do,” he smirks back, though his is brief. “And I know you want me to be inside you too.”
You tsk and ghost your mouth over his, pressing faint brushes against his jawline.
“Mmm.. do you now.” You respond, pressing your mouth lower on his neck.
He tilts his head so you can have better access and continues his reasoning. 
“I do. You see, I know how much you love feeling me deep inside you. Imagine it. Me, stretching you so sweetly, filling you up so good. I know how much you like that pretty little cunt stretched. Especially by me. You love how I fill you and make you feel.” His voice lowers and you shiver, tightening your grip on him before you nip at his neck and suck.
You hear his sharp intake of breath as you flick your thumb over his tip once before pulling away from his neck, leaving a purple bruise in your wake.
You take your hand off his length and brush the pad of your thumb over the little mark you just made on his pretty skin, satisfied. “I wish you could see how pretty this is,” you coo, pulling your hand away. “But I guess you’ll just have to admire it later.”
You let your hand trail down again and move your body until you’re sitting between his legs. You cock your head to the side and trail your fingers lightly over the inside of his thighs, smiling when you see the muscles in his legs clench.
“So tense, baby.” You soothe, rubbing little circles into the tops of his thighs with your fingers before tripping them down again.
“Can you relax for me?”
He takes a deep breath and shudders, trying to do as you ask as you lower your head and place your mouth around the tip of his cock for just an instant, flicking your tongue over him briefly before moving away.
“Y/n…” he groans, bucking his hips, and you’re delighted. This is the first time he’s resorted to using your name instead of a pet name, and you want to milk it for all it’s worth.
You shift where you sit a little uncomfortably, the pressure inside you building up a little too much for your liking. As much as you loved teasing Jin, you wanted some relief too.
Lifting your hips you slip off your underwear and let it fall off the side of the bed, settling yourself down by Jin’s knees.
You use your feet to spread Jin’s legs until you find a comfortable position, hooking your legs over his and settling yourself back on one of your hands.
From where you sat, you had a perfect view of him tied up and looking down at you, and from the way you were spread, he also had a perfect view of you.
You smirk at him as you slowly begin to trail the hand not holding you up across your body, swirling your fingertip around your nipple before pinching it yourself and letting out a moan.
He groans and strains against his ties. “Baby, that’s not fair.” He whines and you see his dick twitch. “Let me touch you. I can make you feel so good.”
You hum and trailed your hand over your stomach, sliding down into your own heat.
“But why would I need you when I can just do it myself?” You croon, rubbing circles around your clit before slipping two of your fingers between your folds. “I’m an independent woman.”
Jin groans again and tugs harder at his ties, shaking the bedframe. “My hands feel better than yours do… and you know it.”
You let out a moan as you increase the pressure on your clit, working yourself harder and feel your juices begin to drip down your thighs.
“That’s… debatable, baby.” You whimper, sliding a finger inside yourself to gather more wetness and bringing it back up to your clit.
You stop talking then, letting your moans speak for themselves as you bring yourself to orgasm by your hand and the sound of Jin’s begging.
He groans so loud when he watches you climax, and whimpers as he watches you smear your own cum around yourself, playing with your body where he wishes he could be instead.
“Did you want to taste?” You ask, sitting up and crawling back over to him, letting your tongue flick out against the angry red tip of him to taste his pre-come before you sit up and brush your slicked fingers against his lips.
He opens his mouth and sucks your fingers into his mouth, moaning at your taste.
“Please…” he whimpers and you pull your fingers out. “Please… I want to come.”
You re-position yourself over his cock and rub yourself against him, letting him pass between your slick folds but not letting him go any further.
“Wanna come… please…” he whines, bucking his hips. You grind onto him a little more, before immediately stopping what you’re doing and sliding down his thighs to grab the base of his cock in your hand and give it a hard squeeze, denying his orgasm and making him cry out.
“Oh, but you’re doing so well baby,” you coo, stroking his damp hair off his forehead.
“Please,” he whispers, bucking his hips beneath you.
“Oh, no no no... baby... see, what’s gonna happen… is you’re going to let me use you to get off.. but you better not come... or else things are only going to get worse.”
You lean up on your knees, pressing a kiss to one of his rope rubbed wrists before sinking down onto him.
He cries out and you lean forward, catching his lower lip between your teeth.
“Don’t come.” You whisper, smirking as you pull away.
You begin to grind your hips on him, relieved to finally feel some friction inside you. You keep an eye on him as you begin to lower yourself up and down his length, smirking when you see his head fall back against the headboard.
“Oh no baby,” you coo, reaching out and grabbing the back of his neck, pulling his forehead to yours. “I want you to watch.”
He lets out a strangled sound and bites his lip so hard to keep himself from coming as you sit back up and brace yourself against his chest, beginning to ride him harder.
“That’s it, baby, so hard for me…” you whimper as you hit him harder, chasing your release.
He’s concentrating so hard there are tears pricking in the corners of his eyes as he tries to breathe through it and not come.
You’re close to your second orgasm and unthinkingly clench around Jin, making him give a startled cry and buck up into you.
“That’s… that’s not playing fair,” he gasps, a tear falling down his face as he struggles to stop his hips… and fails.
You tsk and force yourself off him, moving yourself down his thighs before sliding off onto the sheets next to him.
“Baby, god, please, no” he whimpers as you leave him, and you lean over to kiss him, trailing your hand up his chest, stopping at his jaw to rub the pad of your thumb over his bottom lip.
“You got close there, didn’t you love?” you whisper, leaning over him to press a kiss to his cheek.
“Please,” he whimpers as you move your thumb from his lip to his cheek, brushing away the tears, “Please, y/n, baby, sweetheart, y/n, please…”
You hum softly and bring your thumb wet with his tears to your lips and suck. “Please… what?”
He groans out loud. “Please… suck my cock… let me come, please I’d be so good to you I promise…”
“Please suck my cock baby… I’ll be so good to you baby…’” you murmur and move up the bed, feeling bold and ready to try more new things while you’re in the mood.
You straddle his shoulders and position yourself over his face. “I think I want you to be good to me first.”
His head comes off the bed and he latches his mouth onto your heat eagerly, flattening his tongue to stroke you as you grab the headrest and move your hips over him.
He’s eating you faster than he ever has before, letting you use him to get yourself off, his hands straining at the ropes.
You reach down and grab both of his hands at their tied positions and twine your fingers through his as you work your hips harder.
He begins sucking at your clit and you let go of one of his hands so you can brace yourself against the headboard again, clenching your thighs around his head as you come in a wave of dizzying heat.
He lets out a loud moan between your legs, and you look down, making eye contact with him as you watch him continue to clean and eat you slowly.
It takes you a minute to get out of your post-orgasm haze and still your rocking hips so you can shakily climb off him and maneuver yourself back down his body.
His lips are swollen and covered with your juices, and his eyes so big as they watch you slide your fingers down his chest and over the tops of his thighs as you settle between his legs.
“You did so good for me, handsome,” you praise, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his hip. “I think you deserve a reward for that, yeah?”
He whimpers as you grab the base of him and lick a stripe up his length, swirling your tongue at his leaking, throbbing tip. He bucks his hips and you press a tender kiss to the top.
“I know baby, I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry.” You coo, stroking him gently with your fingers as his legs tremble, before latching your mouth to his tip and sucking hard.
He comes immediately with a cry, so worked up he can’t hold back any longer, bucking his hips to get deeper into your mouth. You help him through it, and eventually, his head falls back against the pillow and he lets out a loud sigh of relief.
You watch his chest heave from your position, his cock still in your mouth as you soothe his shaking legs with your hands.
“Thank you,” he whispers, a little breathless, and you smile around him.
Oh baby, you’re not done.
You continue to work him in his mouth and he whimpers, trying to pull away.
“T-too much,” he stutters, and you smirk, flicking your eyes to his face and shooting him a wink.
He’s gone soft in your mouth but you continue to work him with your tongue and suck, and soon he’s starting to harden all over again.
“Fuck baby, how –” he whines and you suck a little harder until he’s coming again on your tongue with a shout.
You swallow everything he gives you and let him fall out of your mouth, pressing tender kisses to his pelvic bone as you kiss your way back up his chest and meet his mouth, praising him as you go.
“That was so good baby, you did so well…” you murmur, reaching up to untie his left hand, pressing a kiss to the rubbed skin and placing it on the bed before untying the right.
“Where… did you learn… to do that?” he asks, sinking down into the bed and rubbing his wrists.
You press a kiss to his forehead, seeing his eyes start to close.
“I told you, I’m an erotica writer… I just became one of my characters.”
“I thought you were… more of an innocent… in bed,” he yawns, closing his eyes.
You brush your fingers through his hair and smile as his body fully relaxes against the sheets and he begins to snore softly.
“Only sometimes,” you whisper, crawling into bed beside him and pulling the comforter over you both.
~
It’s only been a couple of hours when you climb out of bed as carefully as you can, trying to avoid waking Jin as you head over to your laptop on the other side of the room.
You were too wired to sleep anymore. Too many things had happened tonight, and you were feeling the urge to write… now.
You lowered the brightness on your screen and picked up your glasses case, looking over your shoulder as you carefully opened it and tried to close the case as gently as possible.
You fix your glasses and reach for a scrunchie to tie up your hair, opening up the document that held your current work in progress…
“Tell me, Katherine, have you ever tied up a man?” you type, and quickly fall into your written world.
~
Jin wakes up in a panic, blinking blearily in the dark. Something had lured him awake, a furious tapping of sorts. Stretching out his arm, he finds your figure gone and looks around the room.
Shit. I just broke Rule #2. Never fall asleep.
He sits up, his heart pounding as he criticizes himself and his professionalism, and stifles a groan, his body sore from earlier. He smirks as he stretches his arms and rolls his neck, looking around for where you when. He catches a glimpse of your glowing screen on the other side of the room and his gaze softens.
He can barely see your dim outline against the glow, hair pulled up messily, body wrapped in a blanket, but he feels the intense urge to go to you.
Softly, he gets out of bed, dragging the comforter with him, and pads over to your form. You’re concentrating so much you don’t notice until you hear his gravelly voice in your ear.
“Harder, fuck, harder Ryan,” he moans and you yelp, slamming your laptop shut.
“JIN!” you yell, throwing off your glasses and burying your face in your hands. “You scared me!”
He chuckles and wraps his comforter around your shoulders, hugging you as he leans over your body. “Open up, I want to read more.”
You snort and lean back against your chair, your head hitting his shoulder. “In your dreams.”
He pouts against your hair. “But aren’t I the inspiration for this?”
You roll your eyes and sigh. “I mean… yeah… maybe… but you weren’t supposed to read that! At least, not yet.”
“Ooo, not yet? So I will get to read it.”
“Maybe. If you’re good.”
His breath is hot on your ear as he leans his head down and begins pressing kisses to your jawline. “If I’m good…” he murmurs, “Was I not good enough tonight?”
You close your eyes and lean into his touch. “You were very, very good… so good for me Jin.”
He moans softly at your compliment and catches the bottom of your ear in his teeth.
“And since I was very, very good… I think I should get to read this early.”
He pulls away from you lightning-fast and snatches your laptop, letting the comforter fall to the ground.
That motherfucker-
“JIN!” you yell again and run after him as he laughs and bounces onto the bed.
You’re quick to follow, climbing over him and using your entire body to try to wrestle it back. “Give it.” You grit, straddling his lap.
“No,” he smirks and clutches it tight to his chest, pulling you closer to him.
“Why…” you complain. “Jin, I need this for work. It’s my job. I promise you can be the first one to read it when it’s done.”
He hums and tugs it closer, refusing to let go. “Okay… but I wanna read it now…” he whines and you giggle, digging your fingers into the edge and trying to pry his hands from it.
“No.” You say sternly and he pouts, finally letting go.
“Good man,” you smirk and go to climb off him to put it back, but he grabs you and holds you in place.
“No.” he states and reaches to press your laptop down onto the bed. “You have to stay.”
You laugh and wrap your arms around his neck. “Aww… is someone feeling cuddly?”
“Yes.” He whispers, and pulls you to him, resting his cheek against your head.
You’re breaking Rule #3 his mind whispers, and he closes his eyes trying to drown it out. Never stay the full night with a client…
“Shut up,” he mumbles to himself and you stir against his chest.
“Excuse me?”
“Not you,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head. “Just talking to myself.”
You hum sleepily and nuzzle into him and he swears you can feel his heart skip a beat. He holds you until your breathing deepens, and tucks you both into the sheets.
But now that he has you here, even though the night has been long, he finds that he can’t sleep anymore.
Jin watches as the clock on the dresser blinks to 3am, and he knows he’ll have to leave in a few hours, where he’ll have to start another day.
Slowly, he unwraps his body from yours and reaches for the dropped comforter on the floor, laying it over your body and tucking you in, the rules racing through his mind.
#1. Never catch feelings for a client.
#2. Never fall asleep.
#3. Never stay the full night with a client. Give them what they paid for and leave.
Breaking the rules will get you in trouble.
Jin’s not one to break the rules, but as he dresses himself and leaves you a note - a simple explanation saying he had to go early and to text him when you can… he considers it... stopping to blow a soft kiss to your sleeping form before he walks out the door.
Part 5
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aion-rsa · 3 years
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“God God – Whose Hand Was I Holding?”: the Scariest Sentences Ever Written, Selected by Top Horror Authors
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Many people have a very intimate relationship with books. And horror books can get under your skin like no other medium, whether you’re peering at a scary novel under the covers as a youngster or devouring new or classic horror as a grown up. Good horror writing sticks with you. 
For Halloween we’ve attempted to round up some of the scariest sentences ever written – and who better to ask for their recommendations than some of the finest horror writers and editors around? We asked some of our favourite experts to tell us the line that scared them most and why. Any suggestions of your own? Let us know in the comments.
To Serve Man by Damon Knight
Scariest sentence: “It’s a cookbook,” he said.
Is there a better whammy of an end line than this? Ten to one you’ll know the story that precedes it: Seemingly benevolent aliens, the Kanamit, arrive on earth, promising peace and prosperity. The aliens are as good as their word, and start whisking “lucky” humans off to their planet for a “ten year exchange programme”. A U.N translator, who (rightly) thinks this is all too good to be true, sets about translating the aliens’ favourite book, which, from its title, “To Serve Man,” is assumed to be an innocent handbook. It ain’t (see the last line). The story and its funny/bleak ending has haunted me since I first read it as a ten-year-old, way too young to consider that it could be read as an allegory about the horrors of colonialism. Back then all I could think about were the people the Kanamit had lured aboard their ships, unaware that they were destined for the table (or the Kanamit version of Masterchef). It still gives me chills. – Sarah Lotz author of Missing Person out now from Hodder. 
I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream by Harlan Ellison
Scariest sentence: “I have no mouth. And I must scream.”
If I tell you the name of this Harlan Ellison story, it’ll give away the last line… “I have no mouth. And I must scream.” I remember when I first read that ending, only to find myself caught in a loop where those two sentences kept echoing through my head. Reading it again right now, it’s still hard not to pinch my lips as tightly together as possible and try giving the ol’ lungs a good bellow. Still sends shivers down my spine. – Clay McLeod Chapman, author of The Remaking, out now from Quirk Books
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Movies
How Hulu’s Books of Blood Movie Taps The Mind of Clive Barker
By Don Kaye
Cabal by Clive Barker
Scariest Sentence: “She knew what men afraid, and afraid of their fear, were capable of.“
According to some criminologists, the root cause of many violent acts isn’t anger but fear. Fear of rejection, of failure, of abandonment, of loss. In this early novel by Barker, the link between fear and violence is only subtly hinted at–which makes it all the more frightening. He alludes to the heroine’s personal history with violent men, leaving the reader to fill in the blanks. – Andrew Schaffer, author of Secret Santa, out 10 November from Quirk Books 
The Sibling by Adam Hall
Scariest sentence: “He’s put the clown in her room,” Lorraine said quietly.
As a species, our goal is to keep clowns out of our bedrooms and living spaces and yet here’s some monster deliberately inserting a clown into someone’s room, ignoring the fact that since at least the dawn of time clowns have been mankind’s natural predator. The resigned tone of that “quietly” really drives home the horror because clearly this is not the first time. – Grady Hendrix.
Squelch, John Halkn
Scariest sentence: “It still doesn’t make sense to me. Moths attack sweaters and fly around light bulbs. They don’t devour humans.”
It doesn’t make sense to me, either, but if moths have stopped attacking our clothing and started attacking our bodies then count me out. I’m done. – Grady Hendrix.
Night of the Crabs by Guy N. Smith
Scariest sentence:“What a beautiful night,” Pat remarked, as they passed alongside the barbed-wire fence which enclosed War Department property. “If only we didn’t have to worry about giant crabs.”
Sometimes you just wish you lived in a simpler world. – Grady Hendrix.
The Farm by Richard Haigh
Scariest sentence: “The pigs,” then her control snapped. “Look, they’re coming out,” she shrieked. “Oh, sweet Christ. The pigs!!”
Every time I leave the safety of New York City I fully expect this to be the last sentence I hear as I am devoured by angry livestock. – Grady Hendrix, author of The Final Girl Support Group out July 2021 from Titan Books
The Girl Next Door by Jack Ketchum
Scariest sentence: “I’m not going to tell you about this. I refuse to.”
That’s half of chapter 42 from Jack Ketchum’s The Girl Next Door. And The Girl Next Door is a novel that, just as Joe R. Lansdale says at the head of his story “The Night They Missed the Horror Show,” doesn’t flinch. So, if the narrator is looking back to having seen something that even he can’t put on the page, then . . . how bad must it be, right? I’ve talked to other readers of this novel and they’ve told me about chapter 42 as if the narrator actually fleshes it all out for us, and they (myself as well) all flinch as if traumatized from having had to read those words. Except they never did read the words of what actually happened. But that’s Jack Ketchum, for you. He doesn’t need to actually say it on the page to get it into our head. Worse, this is a chapter that never leaves you, either. Worse than that, you kind of become complicit just for reading it. – Stephen Graham Jones author of The Only Good Indians, out now.
In the Hills, the Cities by Clive Barker
Scariest sentence: “In Popolac a kind of peace reigned. Instead of a frenzy of panic there was a numbness, a sheep-like acceptance of the world as it was. Locked in their positions, strapped, roped and harnessed to each other in a living system that allowed for no single voice to be louder than any other, nor any back to labour less than its neighbour’s, they let an insane consensus replace the tranquil voice of reason.” 
As a much younger person, reading this story for the first time, I was overtaken by awe at the imagery; not unlike Mick who chooses to hitch a ride on the impossible doomed giant made of city denizens. Re-reading it now decades later, the story and these lines fill me with bone-deep dread. Like the referee/car thief and Mick’s lover Judd, I cannot bear to view the inevitable fall. – Paul Tremblay, author of Survivor Song, out now from Titan Books. 
Home Burial by Robert Frost
Scariest sentences: ”Don’t – don’t go.  Don’t carry it to someone else this time. Tell me about it if it’s something human.”
The line here that I consider scary is ‘Tell me about it if it’s something human.’ Because of the implication that people may carry within them things that are not human. In this case, I imagine the ‘it’ that may not be human to be something so deeply felt and instinctive that it is pre-language – and so pre-human, almost. Something primordial that requires translation or mediation – and perhaps in that, change or diminishment – in order to be sensible to another sentient being. It is the suggestion that maybe our most fundamental aspects or thoughts – our most important feelings – cannot be properly communicated that is terrifying, to me. It makes me think of each person as a dark pool, with their lived experience and true feelings becoming manifest at the bottom, and the communication of these things to others being only what is visible through the surface of the water, from above.
As much as I do believe that all communication is imperfect, and that it is difficult for people to know each other truly, I take comfort from two things – one is love, which is, I think, a kind of deep, fundamental knowing and acceptance of each other. The other is fiction, which (in my opinion) is often an attempt at translating ideas and feelings that, coming from our deepest places, we don’t otherwise have the language for. – Tom Fletcher, author The Witch Bottle, out 12 November from Jo Fletcher Books.
The Talisman by Stephen King and Peter Straub
Scariest sentence: “You’re the herd now, Jacky.” 
I read King & Straub’s The Talisman when I was 15, at a time in my life when I’d said goodbye to one bunch of friends and hello to another, and the friendship between Jack Sawyer and his werewolf friend Wolf resonated strongly with me. In Wolf’s culture werewolves are farmers and fiercely protective of their herds who they protect by locking themselves away every month. The problem is that Jack and Wolf are on the run and Wolf’s change is coming upon him, and there’s nowhere to shut Wolf away. So when Wolf turns to Jack with blazing eyes and says this, it’s simultaneously a promise of protection (‘I will die for you’) but also a warning (‘I will tear you to pieces’). The chill with which Jack realises that his best friend loves him but will probably kill him anyway has stayed with me ever since. – James Brogden, author of Bone Harvest, out now from Titan Books
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Movies
I Am Legend: Why Can’t Matheson’s Masterpiece be Done Justice on Film?
By Dan Hajducky
I Am Legend by Richard Matheson
Scariest sentence: “The watch had stopped”
I think a lot of us can relate to the feeling of getting caught up in our work and letting the hours pass us by without much thought. In the case of Robert Neville, the central figure in Richard Matheson’s seminal I Am Legend, getting lost in the hours is the most horrific thing he could possibly do. The simple four-word-sentence that has scared me more than any other in all my days of reading is “The watch had stopped.” If you’ve read the story, I’m sure you remember how those words burned into you. – Rachel Autumn Deering, editor of Hex Life, out in paperback from Titan Books on November 10 2020
One for the Road by Stephen King
Scariest sentence: “And I think she’s still waiting for her good-night kiss.”
I’m not easily scared, but occasionally I get a real chill up my spine. Shirley Jackson did that with the last line of The Haunting of Hill House. But if we’re talking about one line that lingers, that still makes me remember the way it felt the very first time I read it, I have to go with the last line in Stephen King’s short story “One for the Road,” from his collection Night Shift. It’s a vampire story, a sequel to ’Salem’s Lot, about a family whose car is trapped in a blizzard on the outskirts of a town plagued by vampires. That last line is “And I think she’s still waiting for her good-night kiss.” There, I just felt it again. That shiver. All these years later, it still works on me. – Christopher Golden, editor of Hex Life, out in paperback from Titan Books on November 10 2020
The New Mother by Lucy Clifford
Scariest sentence: “Now and then, when the darkness has fallen and the night is still, hand in hand Blue-Eyes and the Turkey creep up near to the home in which they once were so happy, and with beating hearts they watch and listen; sometimes a blinding flash comes through the window, and they know it is the light from the new mother’s glass eyes, or they hear a strange muffled noise, and they know it is the sound of her wooden tail as she drags it along the floor.”
The scariest sentence ever is from The New Mother by Lucy Clifford. The strange tone of the writing, the situation in the story and the fact that the new mother is not in any way human… – David Quantick, author of Night Train, out now from Titan Books 
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson 
Scariest sentence: “God God! Whose hand was I holding?” 
This scene perfectly conjures the feeling of being afraid in the night. Distance, time, sound – all the natural laws of the daylight world grow slippery and loosen. It’s a unique sensation – no other fear has the visceral, unhinged quality of cold terror in the dark. Shirley Jackson puts all of this on the page – she takes Eleanor and the reader into that same heightened, accelerated state, she makes our hearts race, she makes us feel alone, disoriented, lost in the night with only a friend’s hand to cling to. And then she saves us – the lights come on, our heart rate slows, and the rational world seems to settle into its proper channel again. And at last Eleanor sees: the friend whose comforting hand she held in the dark has been on the other side of the room all along. – Catriona Ward is the author of The Last House on Needless Street out 18th March 2021 from Viper Books 
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TV
The Haunting Of Hill House: How the Extraordinary Episode 6 was Made
By Louisa Mellor
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
Scariest sentence: “God god – whose hand was I holding?”
It’s from a scene about two-thirds of the way through the novel. Eleanor and Theodora go to sleep in their adjacent beds in one of the many bedrooms in Hill House. They sleep with the lights on because of previous frightening incidents. But Eleanor wakes in the night to find the room plunged in darkness, and hears an eerie voice muttering from the next room. The darkness and the frightening sounds go on endlessly, and Eleanor is filled with a mounting sense of dread. She reaches out blindly for Theodora’s hand and holds on tight.
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But when the lights finally come back on, Theodora is several feet away, sitting up in her own bed, too far away for Eleanor to have touched her. So the hand she was holding belonged to someone or something else. It’s a brilliantly oblique bit of horror – the realisation that the monster was right alongside you, inside your guard – and every adaptation of the novel references it in some form or other. But I don’t think you can beat Jackson’s chilling, deadpan prose. – Mike Carey author of The Trials of Koli, out now from Orbit Books
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Books
Who Was The Haunting of Hill House Author Shirley Jackson?
By Don Kaye
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson 
Scariest sentence: “No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.” 
I’ll be surprised if no one else has picked these sentences, although maybe not, because I’m blatantly cheating for choosing the entire first paragraph of The Haunting of Hill House. It is a classic of looming dread, and it’s probably generated more commentary and criticism than any other first paragraph in a horror novel. I love it. – Ellen Datlow, editor of the Best Horror of the Year annual series.
A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay
Scariest sentence: “It was so dark it was like nothing was there in the room but us. Only the nothing was actually something because it filled my eyes and lungs and it sat on my shoulders.”
Paul Tremblay perfectly captures our universal fear of the dark in these two lines from A Head Full of Ghosts. That made the flesh on my skull crawl when I read it. The wording is simple but so effective: in one, two, three increasingly creepy instances Paul transforms what’s simply darkness into the tangible, the intimately dangerous… as darkness tends to do. – Thomas Olde Heuvalt, author Hex and Echo, forthcoming from Nightfire in 2021
Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs
Scariest sentence: The Black Meat is like a tainted cheese, overpoweringly delicious and nauseating so that the eaters eat and vomit and eat again until they fall exhausted.
I read Naked Lunch in high school and it was a mind-destroyer. Thankfully, it is also a mind rebuilder. You can turn to any page and find sentences that bewildered, disoriented, horrified, and excited me. So that’s exactly what I just did: I opened the book randomly to page 55 and found one. Disgusting, delightful decadence! – Daniel Kraus, coauthor with George A. Romero of The Living Dead, out now from Tor Books.
The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe
Scariest sentence: “And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.“
It’s ‘illimitable’ that does it for me, though the capitalisations and the against-the-advice-of-grammarians superfluous first and second usages of ‘and’ add quite a bit.  That first ‘And’ – the one your teacher told you not to start a sentence with – is a pointed touch and does a lot of work, indicating that all the bad stuff in the rest of the sentence is a consequence of what’s gone before in the story … which, this season, seems like the most pointed tale of mystery and imagination ever written. – Kim Newman author Anno Dracula 1999 Daikaiju out now from Titan Books.
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
Scariest sentence: “In the unending, crashing second before the car hurled into the tree she thought clearly, Why am I doing this?  Why am I doing this?  Why don’t they stop me?” 
Discussions of the prose of Shirley Jackson’s monumental The Haunting of Hill House tend to focus on its famous opening paragraph.  Certainly the beginnings of both the novel’s first and second chapters offer a wealth of riches for scholarly consideration, rhetorical analysis.  Yet it’s this long sentence from the novel’s second-to-last paragraph that comes to mind if I’m asked to name the most frightening line in the book.  Indeed, it seems to me one of the most frightening sentences of any novel or story I’ve read.  Obviously, there are lines whose immediate impact is greater, which have a more substantial visceral effect (Clive Barker’s fiction is rife with these).  But I’m not sure any echo in quite the same way.  At this moment in Jackson’s narrative, Eleanor Vance is being made to leave Hill House, the dwelling with whose structure her personality has become entangled and confused.  Seemingly unwilling to be separated from the place, she steers her car straight toward an enormous tree at a curve in the driveway and steps on the gas.  “I am really doing it,” she thinks, “I am doing this all by myself, now, at last.”  This would be an awful enough end for Jackson’s protagonist, but with the sentence that follows and finishes the paragraph, she gives the screw a final, diabolical turn.  Eleanor experiences a moment of clarity, which tells us that her thoughts of just a line before were not clear.  She is not accelerating toward the tree of her own volition—or, not only of her own volition.  Something else is at play here, some other factor.  Is it the “whatever” Jackson has described walking in Hill House, the unspecified, (possibly) supernatural force (which might be any one of a number of ghosts, or an aggregate of those ghosts, or the house itself, brought to occult life by the peculiarities of its design)?  Or is it some submerged part of Eleanor—guilt at her role in her mother’s death, or anger at her expulsion from the group brought to Hill House to study it?  She doesn’t know, and she is trapped in her unknowing, as the final instant of her life stretches on and on, “unending.”  Her ultimate motivation obscure to her, all she can do is wonder why no one is stopping her.  With hideous irony, the power, the control Eleanor was celebrating a moment prior turns on her, her freedom becoming the freedom of death.  The line passes as quickly as the crash it describes, and in its speed, it’s easy to miss everything going on it.  To say it’s another example of Jackson’s skill as a writer feels somehow inadequate, as it doesn’t get at the way the sentence braids claustrophobia, terror, and confusion.  It’s the kind of writing that haunts you in quiet moments, long after flashier, louder lines have faded into silence.  It’s the kind of writing that reminds you of the horror story’s particular power, its reach and its resonance. – John Langan, author of The Fisherman, out now.
Pet Sematary by Stephen King
Scariest sentence: “Sometimes dead is better.”
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Nobody says this line better than that guy in the first Pet Sematary movie who used to play Herman Munster. Although John Lithgow did his best. King struck on an age-old wisdom when he showed us the folly of trying to bring people back once they’re gone. Just as WW. Jacobs did in The Monkey’s Paw and Shelley demonstrated (albeit piecemeal) in Frankenstein. You’ve got to be careful what you wish for. Sometimes, dead really is better, and far less likely to come back and stab you to death with a scalpel. C.S. O’Cinneide is the author of Petra’s Ghost, out now from Titan Books.
Pet Sematary by Stephen King
Scariest sentence: “Darling,” it said
This line has to be read in the context of an entire, brilliant novel that went before. It’s really not something I want to give away, because of spoilers, but if you’ve read this one, even hearing the final line again should send a shiver through you. The writer was at the top of his game – and that’s saying something – and it remains his most terrifying novel.  Here’s the line: “Darling,” it said. – Tim Lebbon, author of Eden, out now from Titan Books 
The post “God God – Whose Hand Was I Holding?”: the Scariest Sentences Ever Written, Selected by Top Horror Authors appeared first on Den of Geek.
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shyvioletcat · 5 years
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Kingdom of Ash Tour Sydney
Oh my gosh, I’m sorry this took so long. My notes were much more extensive than I thought and then just a lot of poor time management. Anyway, here it is.
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A few choice bits of information/quotes:
“Being a dork pays off you guys. Who knew?”
Says Melbourne like a local
Loves our coffee. Says she’s moving here because of it.
Advice to aspiring writers: find someone to share your work with. Giving and getting feedback teaches you so much. Gives you a form of community.
Got into writing because it’s what she loves and it makes her come alive like nothing else does.
Music plays a Huge part in her creative process
Daily writing schedule. Plays with Taran then about 930/10 she starts. Gets admin stuff done first 9-8 job.
Nothing compares to sitting down and writing a scene she’s wanted to write for years and years. Describes it as time stopping and the closest thing to magic, at least for her.
Had a question about her creative circle for bouncing ideas around and talking about her stories. Sarah didn’t talk to her family about her stories at all when she was younger. Doesn’t like her parents reading her books. She referred back to writing ACOTAR and she asked the audience “do you know what it’s like to write an on the page sex scene knowing my father was going to read this?” Said it took her about three glasses of wine to deal with it.
About her dad reading said scenes: He said “I just skip those scenes.” Sarah’s reply “I’ll do you one better. I’ll just rip those pages out.” Then she talked how it was much worse when ACOMAF came out the next year.
Josh has become her creative sounding board over the last few years. He reads the early drafts of Crescent City and lets Sarah ramble to him for hours. She thinks it’s really cute they get to do that.
He thinks he’s every love interest in all her books. At events people ask if he’s what Rhys was modelled from. Josh will say yes. Sarah was very adamantly said it was a no.
Fellow writers help her from looking like a complete idiot. In particular Lynette Noni. Calls her a secret Disney Princess. Has become her can’t live without critique partner.
She said don’t listen to the people who say writing is a dumb dream. But said it’s a long long road to getting published but not impossible. “Don’t ever listen to the haters man.”
Her parents were always incredibly supportive. Her mum would leave snacks outside her door so she wouldn’t disturb her while she wrote
When her parents told her that she needed a job to support herself Sarah didn’t want to listen. But she said they were ultimately right because there are no guarantees in publishing. One of her favourite moments is when she became a New York Times best seller and she got to call and tell her parents. The first thing her mum said was she regretted telling Sarah to be realistic about the expectations of yourself. But Sarah was adamant they were right.
She thanked us and got quite emotional. Thanked us for supporting her books, she was walking around Sydney harbour and thought to herself how lucky I am to do this for a living.
Someone from the audience screamed “I love you” she said “I love you too, I love you all so much” (insert my hysterical tears). She couldn’t express how much she appreciates everything we all have done for her and her family, the fact we have allowed her to live out her dreams. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart for this being the loveliest group of people I’ve ever had the honour to meet”. SHE LOVES US.
Crescent city
Doesn’t think her parents can read a single page of crescent city. Joking, it’s every other page. Started as excess creative energy, a real passion project. 
Describes it as taking the ToG/ACOTAR worlds and jumping ahead over 3000 years to where they have modern technologies and comforts. Magical creatures living together in complex hierarchies. Feels different because of the modern setting but has familiar aspects, e.g. snarky sassy heroines and brooding sexy muscled men. Says there are so many. So many.
Josh: “why are there so many attractive men in this book?” Sarah “because it’s a fantasy. FAN-TA-SY.”
No real defined plot yet.
Knew it was the story she wanted to tell because of an experience on a plane. Sarah was listening to a piece of music and saw a scene play out and she burst into tears. She didn’t know the characters or how they got there. The scene will be in the first book and is like THE MAJOR BIG SCENE. Kept thinking of that moment of creation and how much it overwhelmed her and that was the deciding factor that that was the next story she needed to tell.
World of Throne of Glass
World of Throne of Glass. Started off as an encyclopaedia. It will be a chronicle that exists in world and Sarah describes it like going into the library of Orynth and pulling it off the shelf. The premise of the book is that Aelin has hired this cranky old scholar to travel around all the kingdoms/continents and includes the travel logs, transcripts from interviews with the characters, insight into how they felt, letters between characters. The book itself is like the the Terrasen courts private copy so it has letters between characters. Glimpses into the future.
BUT THIS MEANS IT WILL COME OUT LATER
ALSO SAID THERE ARE POCKETS OF HISTORY SHE REALLY WANTS TO FILL IN AND THERE’S ALSO LOTS OF STORIES THAT MAYBE ONE DAY SHE MIGHT WANT TO TELL SHE JUST NEEDS TIME TO THINK ABOUT IT. SORRY I’M JUST REALLY EXCITED ABOUT THIS.
Throne of Glass/ACOTAR
The idea of Throne of Glass came to her when she was 15/16 years old. Gripped her like no other story had. Throne of glass has a special place in her heart because it’s what started her on this journey.
Sarah was changing Kingdom of Ash right up the very last minute.
Mystery questions from the lobby:
What would happen if all your villains met?
The thought of Maeve and Amarantha gave her chills to think about. Would they rip each other to shreds or form and unholy alliance? Undecided.
Did you cry during the writing of the final book? If so which moments?
Number one scene. The Thirteen. 
Gave lots of details about when Manon first appeared, a piece of music from the Fright Night remake was playing and she saw the cottage scene play out. She saw Manon disembowel the farmers and how her teeth and claws came out and just thought “I love you”.
Loved witches since she was little because she realised witches were often women with power when women weren’t allowed to have power.
Sarah went to the mat for Manon. She hadn’t sold the rest of the books, only up to Heir of Fire. Writing about Manon gave Sarah her courage and came into her life when she needed her attitude. She said “Over my dead effing body” when editor said to cut Manon.
Sarah listened to a song from the original star wars and that was when she saw the sacrifice of the Thirteen. She needed to have Manon start where she did in Heir of Fire so when we all got to the scene in Kingdom of Ash is would really hit us strongly as it had hit Sarah for the first time. Sarah was sobbing at her desk when she saw them making their final run. She saw then Manon screaming and begging them to to stop because she realised she had a heart and loved them.
Sarah said she needed to lie down afterwards, she considered a happy ending for a moment, but then she thought about how the ladies never get to make the big heroic sacrifice and she really wanted the Thirteen to make the badass sacrifice and she wanted to make that moment when their exploding with light and not darkness absolutely destroyed Sarah.
Happier scene is the last goodbye between the main three, sobbing so hard. Really ugly crying not Frodo crying nicely at the end of The Return of the King, but bodily fluids spraying everywhere. So many tears.
Sarah would also get super amped up. Example: When Elide saves Lorcan she got so amped up she literally straddled her chair like she was riding a horse. (She re-enacted it on stage too). Then it was just more ladies were doing their badass thing like:
as Aelin flies down on the bird and explodes and destroys the wave and then Rowan is like that steam is going to boil every one like lobsters, got to get rid of that.
When Aelin makes her run and Lorcan sees her and he’s crying, you know if Lorcan’s crying some intense shit is going down
Then when Aelin is trying to get the mask off. That hit Sarah hit her so hard, didn’t expect it. Felt physically ill writing it. It was one of the few times Aelin was unhinged and in a panic. Seeing Aelin in a panic out Sarah in a panic.
Aelin has been like a person to Sarah and has carried Sarah through a lot of hard stuff. Sarah has said to herself “my name is Sarah J Maas and I will not be afraid”
Would say “What would Aelin do?” to give herself that swagger. Any time Aelin is in pain Sarah was in pain and would be like “My baby my baby! Let me help you”. 
Such a joy to write. Aelin was telling her and showing Sarah where to go.
ABOUT THE ENDING OF KINGDOM OF ASH: Travelling in Costa Rico to a rainforest exists at cloud level. (Side note from Sarah: Vote for the environment! Do it for the golden toad). One of the most beautiful places she has ever been. Sitting in the backseat listening to music from John Carter of Mars. Sun broke through the clouds and lit up the mountains and Sarah heard the last line of Kingdom of Ash about the kingsflame blooming and she knew what the last line was and that’s what she wanted to get to. She starting crying (surprise surprise) didn’t want to tell her travelling companions so she lied and said she was crying because the view was so beautiful. Writing with Aelin at the helm guaranteed her nothing. Aelin did it though, she stuck to Sarah’s plans and Sarah got the ending she wanted.
Call out from the audience about Gavriel. Uproar from the audience. “Why did you do that!?” “Why would I do that? Because I’m a horrible person.” Any time a hot guy full of muscles dies it’s a sad day. Poor Aedion. “It would have been so hot! Not in a weird way! The two of them hanging out, the lion and the wolf and oh my heart... you mean I have no heart, that’s what you’re thinking.” Evil cackle.
Who of all your characters do you see sitting in a rocking chair and knitting and telling their grandchildren the wildest stories in their old age?
Throne of Glass. Dorian. Don’t know why.
ACOTAR world would 1000% be Cassian. Nessian book will come out after Crescent City. She started it just for fun, hadn’t planned to write last ACOWAR. Sarah was out to lunch with her editor and got a little drunk and pitched her other books, but then forgot. Agent called a few weeks later telling her the editor wants to buy these books.
She literally doesn’t have the time to get all the stories she wants out of her. Wishes she had Hermione’s time turner.
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So that’s it. Again, sorry it took me so long. Sarah was so lovely and I still can’t believe I got to see her in person. There’s a lot I took away from her talk for myself, mainly just how adamant she was about being yourself is the way to go. We’re better off when we’re true to ourselves and love the tings we love without feeling bad for it. 
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bs-dogs · 4 years
Text
Reason Living
Summary
Nakahara Chuuya. Bold. Confident. Dramatic, with just the right amount of flare.
Behind the mask, there’s little Chuuya can do to keep the tremors, the lassitude—  the void that threatens to consume his entire being—  at bay.
And then suddenly he’s switching bodies and falling for a stranger who has dead eyes, a familiar face and a name that tastes like hope and regret on his tongue. There’s a shift in Chuuya’s chest that feels like it should’ve been there all this time, and breathing comes easily to him now.
So what do you think would happen if Chuuya stopped switching bodies? Find out why, of course!
(or the Kimi no Na Wa AU nobody asked for, but here it is. Complete with idiots!Skk pining for each other, fluff, angst, time travel and 2 people trying to find their place in this world.)
CH 1
As Melos lay with arms and legs flung out on the ground, sleep began to overcome him. But then, suddenly, a murmuring sound reached his ears. Raising his head slightly, he held his breath and listened. The sound came to somewhere nearby. Rising falteringly to his—
A knock on the door interrupts Chuuya’s stream of thought, cutting off the vivid imagery that was building up inside his mind. He jumps slightly at the sound, not even noticing how his hand is tired after gripping the pen too tightly, and that the playlist he had the mind to play before working has already stopped. Now, he sits disgruntled on his swivel chair, alone and surrounded by silence with a short manuscript in front of him.
Whiplash. That’s the word to describe what he’s feeling right now. There’s a sense of nausea after being pulled back with enough force to startle him, and then there’s the familiar feeling of apprehension that quickly reestablishes itself into the groves of his weary body.
He takes a few deep breaths, trying to anchor his mind back to the real world. Reaching out, he grabs the small Sheep plushy besides his pen holder, grounding himself with the texture. It works, and he sets it down before looking out of the window. It’s dark out, something that doesn’t really shock him since he has the tendency to forget the passage of time whenever he’s focused on something.
Shooting a glance at the clock to his right, the hands point to ‘7:48’. He isn’t given the chance to think about who might be visiting him, of all people, this late into the evening for another knock makes itself known this time with a little bit more force behind it.
“Yes, wait up,” Chuuya says, voice lighter than he feels, and stands tiredly after pushing himself away from his desk. His feet gently pad across the room to reach his front door, not even bothering to look through the peephole to check who it is. Pausing before opening the door, Chuuya takes a couple of breaths to mentally ready and compose himself before opening the door. 
‘It’s showtime.’
With his best smile in place, Chuuya greets the visitor, a close friend of his— really, his only friend at this point. 
Opening the door wider, it takes a moment for Chuuya to get over his initial shock, “Poe! What brings you here?” He asks and gestures for the shy man to enter. The man ducks slightly under the doorframe, his impossibly tall build making it difficult for him to enter— his hand protecting the raccoon on his shoulder, Karl, from knocking into the frame. Being a smaller person than the foreigner, Chuuya can’t help but be a tad jealous of the man’s height. It’s an ugly feeling which he tries his best to dismiss.
“Oh, I just thought to check on you and stuff…” His voice is almost a whisper, trailing off at the end as if unsure. 
They sit down on Chuuya’s couch, one of the few things of luxury in his apartment, and let a moment pass in silent as Karl titters downward and on his guest’s lap. Once Poe has situated the two of them comfortably, the man takes note of the singular light source and the disheveled desk before opening his mouth, “Did you get too engrossed in your work again that you forgot, Chuuya?” He asks in his soft voice, aware of how much of a workaholic Chuuya is.
All the man in question can do is laugh awkwardly, swiftly flicking the lights on, “Well, you know me…” Chuuya is a little bit blinded by the sudden brightness and laughs lightly to try and mask it, “Would you like some tea? Coffee?” He offers, already halfway to his small kitchen when Poe politely refuses, “No, I’m good. I already ate something.”
“Oh, okay then.” He sits down again, his brain scrambling to think about why Poe would visit him so late.
‘He already passed me his draft, and we had lunch the other day so…’
As if hearing his thoughts, Poe heaves a sigh and chuckles, “We were supposed to meet by the café, remember?” The brunet chuckles, “I invited you…”
Then it suddenly clicks for Chuuya and his chest tightens, “Oh!” He exclaims “The date with the cute guy! I’m so sorry I forgot.” He looks down, voice taking an apologetic tone, “I swear I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s fine. It looks like you have a lot of work to do, so I understand.” Poe kindly says, pausing his petting of Karl to pat Chuuya’s shoulder in reassurance before retreating to Karl’s fur once more. The smaller man smiles at his effort, appreciative especially since he knows of the author’s shyness and aversion to physical contact, “So, how’d it go?”
Poe’s face reddens at an alarming rate, sputtering as Chuuya leans forward and teasingly grins at him, “It was, uh, nice. We just talked and ate and…”
“And?”
It doesn’t take long before he caves in, “We agreed to meet again next week,” He pauses, biting his lips, but it’s obvious to Chuuya that he’s happy with the way the corners of his lips lift up, “Ah… And he… I think he flirted with me?”
“Hot damn, our precious boy bags himself a second date!” Chuuya laughs. At the sudden loud sound, Karl skittishly stands up in alertness before trying to sleep again. The next time Chuuya talks, it’s comparably quieter, “It’s a good thing I didn’t third-wheel, eh?”
“You wouldn’t be bothering us though, he likes debates.” 
“Are you saying I like to argue?” Chuuya can’t help but tease, drawing in his eyebrows and pretending to frown. Poe doesn’t buy it though, choosing to simply smile at him, “Chuuya! I could never!”
They both share a laugh, a nice ambience settling around them. Talking to Poe really calms him down. It really is nice to have a friend or two, Chuuya supposes. He grew up as a very quiet child, rarely letting anyone in— his cold and closed off demeanor only intensifying after that incident a few years back. Over time, he did shake off the hard exterior and began to try the whole “friendship” thing again. Chuuya ponders that it paid off quite well, if his nice chat with Poe is anything to go by.
They met each other almost a year ago, when the man was looking for a new editor for his novel after his previous one, Lovecraft, suddenly disappeared from the face of the Earth. Luckily for him, Chuuya saw his online ad and the rest is history. The writer is quite skilled, his works mostly science fiction and mystery, and Chuuya admires his passion for literature and writing.
“It’s one of his works, isn’t it?” Poe’s voice cuts through the comfortable silence between them, eyes resting on the manuscript on Chuuya’s desk, “The one you’re working on right now?”
Speaking of skilled authors…
“Yeah,” He starts, “The style, the aura, the feel…” Chuuya struggles to find the correct word to explain how he just knows that it’s his work— the mysterious author Chuuya’s been handling for all of 4 months now. He uses different pseudonyms, affirmed by his boss when he once thought to ask, but the distinctive tone and presence of his writing stays the same. Something about the way the author uses word and symbolism is striking, almost alluring, and the literature-geek inside him just melts every time Mori hands him another manuscript.
It doesn’t help that he doesn’t even really need to proofread anything; the grammar is absolutely impeccable, so he spends his time just absorbing the story, Chuuya doesn’t understand why his boss still sends them to him if everything is flawless already, but he’s not really one to complain.
“Well, what name is he using right now? What’s the manuscript about?” His guest’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. 
“Kuroki Shunpei. It’s a retelling of one of Schiller’s, about friendship and trials.” He starts, “It’s amazingly short, the shortest I’ve ever handled of our mystery person— but I’m sure it’s him.” There’s conviction in his tone, certainty clear in his eyes. Maybe it’s only a gut feeling, but Chuuya’s instinct and intuition have never failed him before.
Poe hums, “That’s new. Isn’t he more of a darkly personal introspection kind of person? Maybe it was, um, written experimentally?”
“Maybe,” Chuuya considers this, “But I haven’t really finished reading yet. I was actually hoping on doing everything today since it’s not as long.”
“So that’s why you were so invested, you were pining away at your mystery guy.” Poe says, tone flat and eyes twinkling. Chuuya thinks he sees smugness in there somewhere.
“Pining? I was just reading, you moron.” To which Poe replies, “Oh, I know you. If anyone had to court you, they’d make sure to send you disgustingly purple prose because of your disease.”
“Say that one more time, I dare you.” Chuuya says, trying to exact the respect he deserved because he is the host here, damn it!
Poe just languidly stares at him, “Chuu-nii, think about it. Maybe he’s your, uh, soulmate or something? Why would Mori even give you the manuscripts if they’re already perfect as is? Maybe there’s a hidden message or a code…”
“First of all, you are older than me, and I don’t have some stupid high schooler disease. Second, there are no hidden messages. And what if he’s an old guy?” Chuuya almost shrieks at Poe, words starting to jumble together the faster he speaks, “And, you know, you’re a mystery writer, not a romance writer for fuck’s sake!”
“So, you checked for secret messages, huh?” Poe raises an eyebrow questioningly, his amusement radiating off him in waves. Chuuya ratters on, sharp sounds and indignant noises as he tries to save himself from the slip-up, “That’s not it at all! I was just— How— What?” His brain short circuits, regretting all of his past choices that’s led to this bout of teasing.
Karl skitters off of Poe’s lap and onto the floor before being scooped back up again, this time being settled against Poe’s chest, “Relax,” He says, lips twisting up, “I was joking anyway. But I do hope we find out who it is.” 
‘We’, Chuuya thinks. It’s the first time someone he’s only known for so long used that word in conjunction with him, and it’s a nice feeling— like someone is on your side for once. He warms at the thought and inwardly promises to himself to make it up to the man.
“Yeah, I do too.” 
-
He closes the door behind him, slowly making his way to the kitchen and grabbing himself a glass of water. The cool liquid is a welcome feeling as it slides down his parched throat, drinking greedily after talking for a long while. He glances at the clock again, idly wondering how he survived interacting with a human for 2 hours straight. Chuuya sets the now empty glass on the counter with a loud clunk, the harsh sound cutting through the heavy air like a butter knife, and contemplates whether he’s hungry enough to want to eat. It takes him a few minutes before ultimately deciding that no, he’d rather sleep because talking really does take a lot more energy out of him than most people. Besides, it’s not really the first time he’s skipping so he’s quite sure that his stomach wouldn’t protest that much after all this time. 
Sighing, he closes the lights and feels the tension from his shoulder lift slightly. The cover the shadows provide him is a much needed comfort— Chuuya’s always preferred the dark over brightly lit rooms. There’s something about people not seeing him and feeling invisible enough to let the cracks through that makes him feel more human than when he stands under the spotlight. Or maybe because it’s the familiarity of having your environment match how you feel that puts his mind at ease? Whatever it is, all Chuuya knows is that he feels safer now.
It doesn’t take long for his eyes to acclimate to the dark; his body already accustomed to the way his apartment is laid out to the point where he could live comfortably even with his eyes closed. He doesn’t trip over wires or stray papers or the books haphazardly strewn about, doesn’t bump into the corners of his desk and bookcase as he goes into his room. Chuuya hasn’t cleaned in a while because of work, but even then he still knows where everything should be in the organized chaos.
He doesn’t change clothes since he didn’t really go out earlier today, and barely goes through his nighttime skincare routine. Chuuya doesn’t really see the point of taking care of himself if no one is going to see him on a daily basis anyway, but he was brought up to at least maintain his cleanliness and appearance.
His adoptive mother— Kouyou, or Ane-san as he likes to call her— beat the need to look presentable into him the moment he stepped foot in her teahouse. And even after years of moving out, he still can’t shake the need to stay clean and hygienic as much as possible. He supposes that he should thank her for that, since he would be akin to a hobo by now if she didn’t raise him to be so prim and proper.
He pats his face dry and looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes trail after the dark bags and tired expression and thinks he looks miserable. He does feel miserable, so he gives himself that, and proceeds to brush his hair. The split ends are troublesome, but he makes it through with only a few red strands sticking to the brush before his arm tires and the giant need to just lay down and rest consumes him. Sluggishly, he drags himself to bed and just stares at the ceiling.
Despite the fatigue that uncomfortably settles in his body, he can’t sleep— and Chuuya’s just so tired of everything but of course he can’t sleep. He thinks about what’s wrong, as if he can list down all the things that’s wrong with him before the sun rises up in a few hours, before he finally gets up and turns the fan on. The sound of the machine whirring does little to calm him down, but it’s better than wallowing in silence. He never could sleep in the quiet, the static blaring in his ears somehow louder than the occasional loud shouts coming from the unit next to him, so he does his best to get comfortable. Chuuya readies himself for another night of terrors, already anticipating the way smoke clogs up his nose and the way heat tickles his skin.
He hopes the empty feeling that continues to persist inside is gone the next day before he surrenders himself to unconsciousness.
-
The next time he meets Poe again, it’s in their favourite café. It’s two days after they last saw each other, but Chuuya can’t really remember what happened yesterday. Maybe he got drunk. Remembering how tired he felt the other day, he wouldn’t put it past himself to try and drown himself with wine. The fact that he woke up with an unsettling feeling in his stomach just cements his theory. Must be a weird hangover.
Poe is waiting for him at their corner, a milkshake already in front of him, “Chuuya! Are you really sure you’re okay enough to go out? We could always reschedule.” The concern is palpable in the man’s tone, his soft voice hurried and fretful. 
Chuuya thinks it’s because Poe caught him blacked-out drunk.
“I’m fine,” he says, “And I wanted to make it up to you anyway.”
“For what?” Poe asks, hands stilling from scratching behind Karl’s ears, his head tilting slightly in question.
After sneaking a glance at the counter and noting that the line is, in fact, longer than usual, he answers, “For ditching you the other day?” Maybe Chuuya should wait until the queue is shorter? 
“But you already did?”
This makes Chuuya halt, confusion tearing its way through his mouth, “What?”. The question slips from his tongue, his mind automatically forcing himself to Think, damn it! What did you do yesterday?
Poe stares at him, trying to find a hint of whatever it is he’s looking for before carefully responding, “You did— yesterday, remember?” He says, “You suddenly called me and we ate in your apartment and talked about your mystery author.”
It takes a few minutes for Chuuya to recover from his brain short-circuiting. Distantly, he notices how his breath is getting a little bit labored and shallow and how he’s shaking. He doesn’t feel like himself right now— doesn’t feel like it’s his body and feels more like an outsider privy to his thoughts.
“Oh… Maybe I got too drunk to remember.” He tries to laugh it off, sounding like he’s convincing himself rather than Poe, “I don’t really remember much. Did I do anything stupid?”
The man takes another sip from his milkshake, already halfway through and it reminds Chuuya that he still needs to order, “You did say a lot of, uh, dark things…”
Warning bells sound through his mind.
“Like, you know— Chuuya, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I know how it feels like and I care about you, okay?” Poe continues to worry, eyes strong and vulnerable. His hands fidget, like he wants to reach out and touch Chuuya and reassure that he’s okay, “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything…”
Chuuya now knows it’s not because Poe caught him blacked-out drunk.
Thoughts of hot chocolates and banana bread fly out of his mind. Faintly, he feels the back of his eyes warm and thinks that there’s a slight possibility that he might cry. He takes a deep breath in, counts from ten just like his therapist told him and tries to relax. It’s hard— harder than usual, like he’s sinking deeper and deeper into the ground and right now he feels like he doesn’t want to breathe anymore.
He tries anyway.
“Thank you,” He finally murmurs, “ I— Fuck…” The words are like broken glass, slicing at his lips the moment they try to break free from his mouths and it stings, “I’m not…”
Chuuya came here today with a slight bounce in his steps because he missed feeling okay when talking with Poe, so he surely didn’t expect to be talking about this. It’s like a slap to the face— like a cold bucket of water being dumped on him because he sure as hell wasn’t ready for his only friend to learn about this.
It’s like a breach of privacy. He was trying so hard to seem fine and okay— he should be fine and okay, damn it— so the fact that Poe thinks he’s not is throwing Chuuya off right now. In retrospect, it was a bit outlandish to think he could take this dirty, dark little secret with him to grave. Soon, preferably. But now the cat’s out of the bag, and he really wishes he didn’t wake up today.
How funny and coincidental is it that someone probably borrowed his body for a day and they’re just as, if not more so, miserable as Chuuya? Because if it were Chuuya, he’d keep up the façade as the workaholic, the outgoing and headstrong and stubborn person until the day he finally died. But he wasn’t Chuuya. He wasn’t Chuuya yesterday, and he slipped and now the first friend he’s had the pleasure to have in years knows how ugly and pitiful he is. 
Something warm presses against his shoulder and he looks and sees Poe looking at him with his arm outstretched. There’s no pity, no disgust, just resolve and worry and a promise. 
“It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s okay.”
Oh fuck, Poe is going to realize that meeting Chuuya was a mistake sooner or later. He’s going to finally figure out that Chuuya isn’t really who Poe thinks he is and that he’s a fake. Oh fu—
“It’s okay to not be fine.”
Chuuya tries to remember if anyone ever told him that. He’s not sure.
-
The man— Poe, his name is Poe— stares at him worriedly. It finally occurs to him, in order, that:
a.) He probably shouldn’t have said that.
b.) He’s not himself right now.
“Chuuya, are you okay?”
c.) He definitely shouldn’t have said that.
He laughs it off, waving his hands. The lower-pitched tone scratches against his voice box and he feels like a stranger and an intruder and that he shouldn’t be here. He feels like this is a fever dream, like something from a movie or a novel. He thinks, ‘If this is a fever dream then why couldn’t I have just dreamed about Odasaku?’ and promptly shuts that thought down because does he really want to wake up crying and shaking inconsolably again?
He smiles, “I’m fine.”
Hi everyone! I’m vvv late but here’s my work  for the bigbang! I’ll be queueing my work over the next few hours. Thanks for reading and see y’all in the next one!
Links will be provided at the last post, thanks!
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mahkaria · 5 years
Text
Of novelists and stray dogs - CHAPTER 4
Inferno 
In a dark alleyway, not too far away from the shopping district, a crowd had started to form. Most of them were men in their twenties. Dark tattoos covered their arms and their neck, as if they took pleasure in looking like stereotypical villains. They didn’t say anything.
Finally, a woman taller than the other arrived. A deep, unpleasant smirk almost cut her face in two and as she moved forward, her subordinates parted to let her pass.
No respect could be seen on their face. Only fear and regret. This woman : Katou Misao, but she was more often called The Puppeteer ; the leader of The Black Warriors .
“Boss, one of our men managed to find the list.”
“Well? Don’t make me wait and give it to me.”  She ordered.
A small book was given to her. On it, the list of all the businesses under Port Mafia’s protection.
“Perfect.” She purred. “Hana, I believe you can take care of it?” She asked to one her lieutenants.
“Of course, boss.”
“Then get to it.”
The teenager took it. Who would have thought she would use her ability this way?
His whole body hurt. He could feel his muscles contract and relax at regular intervals as they pressured his bones.
Atsushi groaned.
The mornings after a transformation were never a pleasant experience. Never.
Good thing he had finally sent his most recent short story. He didn’t want to move even a finger away from his futon..
His phone rang.
A new groan from Atsushi.
He stood up as slowly as he could his whole body cursing him for this decision. He picked up.
“Hello, Atsushi-kun. How are you?”
“Good morning, Tanaka-san. I’m fine and you?”
“I wanted to talk about your new work.” He explained.
“It’s not good enough, is it ?”
“Of course it is. I told you not to worry about it. Just, my superior read it and wanted me to pass a message.”
It’s never good when a sentence starts like that.
“He finds your style extremely dynamic and thinks it would be better for you if you were to - how do I put it? - write about different themes.”
“What? But -”
“It would sell better and be more attractive to new readers, don’t you think?”
Atsushi didn’t know what to answer.
It was thanks to the said editor in chief he had been able to find this apartment. A friend of his had agreed to lend him the place as long as he kept working for them. He was a nice forty-nine years old who had greatly encouraged Atsushi. He owed him more than he could ever pay back.
If that’s what he wants I can’t go against him but -
“I’m sorry I -”
“Atsushi-kun, you do want to keep having a job, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then, you should do what I say. Stories about mythology and historical events are fine but they get boring with time. You won’t keep earning a lot if you only focus on this.”
“Yes but-”
“I’m your editor, don’t you trust me?” Tanaka asked.
“Of course I do !”
“Then do as I say. Write about more modern subjects. I know you’re a kid and can’t totally understand it but I’m only here to advise you. Listen to me or you could really regret it.”
“I see, thank you very much.”
“Glad we understand each other. I’ll wait for you next story then. I’m sure you’ll do great, it won’t be too hard for you to change, right?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Cool, have a nice day.”
“Good bye.” Atsushi stuttered.
A soft bip and the young boy was alone with his thoughts. All hopes of a peaceful morning had vanished with one conversation.
What does writing about more modern subject even mean? He wondered.
Until now, Kunikida, his grandmother and Sensei had always praised his writings. Did they only do it by mere politeness? No, they weren’t this kind of people. Kunikida was as blunt as an uppercut; a trait he shared with his caretaker.
Sensei firmly valued honesty and had never hesitated at criticizing Atsushi when it was needed. He wouldn’t lie.
He trusted them more than anyone but at the same time…
Maybe he should go to a bookshop see which were the best sellers?
He fell on his futon once again.
I’ll do it later.
As his eyes were about to close once again, another ringing disturbed him. From his door this time.
He didn’t expect anyone. It would either be publicity or one of his neighbours. They could wait. Atsushi threw his pillow over his head. Only a hurricane would prevent him from resting.
After a moment, no sound came.
One minute
Two minutes
Three minutes
They had probably left.
“At - su - shi - kun ~” A giggling voice whispered next to his ear.
A deep shriek shook the whole building.
“Wow, so energetic when you just woke up? I’m envious !”
“Da- Dazai-san?”
“Yo! Atsushi-kun ! How are you in this fine day?”
The said boy looked left and right. Then left and right once more. No, there was no mistake on his part. It was indeed still his apartment. So it only meant one thing.
“Dazai-san, please stop picking my lock !” He screamed.
“But you weren’t answering.”
“I could have been absent.” Atsushi protested.
“You only go out in the afternoon. In the morning, you just work.”
“How do you know that?”
“That’s a secret!”
I haven’t seen him in three days and I already can’t deal with him anymore.  Atsushi sighed.
“Ca- Can I help you?”
“Odasaku and I are going to explore the city.”
“Have fun, then.”
“Want to come with us?”
“My apologies but I really can’t come with you right now.”
“Do you have something to do?”
“No, but -”
“Then, there is no problem. Come on!”
A hand sneaked inside his warm bed covers.  Its temperature could compare to an iceberg’s. Not something pleasant to come upon when you wanted to relax.
Before he could screech in outrage, he felt it pull him away from the comfort of his futon. Atsushi clawed at his futon in the hope to stay protected but in vain. For such a thin person, Dazai had more strength than it first appeared. Stubbornness too since no matter how hard Atsushi’s other foot kicked him, he refused to let go.
“Good fighting spirit but I won’t lose !” Dazai proclaimed.
And with one final push Atsushi’s face met the hard floor.
“Now, get ready, Atsushi-kun, for we are going on a great adventure !”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“No, you don’t.”
Dazai’s smile had widened so much he could have passed for the Cheshire Cat. He patted Atsushi’s hair softly and with one more smile he went out of the room but added before :
“Get dressed, Atsushi-kun. Stimulating your mind from time to time is a good thing.”
Once fully clothed, he found Oda outside. The older man sent him a sorry smile as Dazai complained about how long he had taken to get ready.
“I’m sorry if it sounds rude but shouldn’t you be at work?” Atsushi wondered.
“He is working.” Dazai said while pointing at the cast around his arm. “Odasaku is my bodyguard for the day.”
Once again, he felt shivers run through his body. Few jobs necessitated to have this kind of protection.
Without wanting to, he had fallen into quite a troublesome situation.
“Now, gentlemen, let’s go.” Dazai cheerfully said.
“Are you sure it is safe to bring him here?” Odasaku whispered as they walked toward the shopping district.
“It will be fine, nothing should happen.”
His friend nodded as the worry in his eyes faded.
You shouldn’t trust me this much, Odasaku. I’ll end up disappointing you.
A hand caught his arm. His head rose up and met an intense stare from his friend.
“I know you’re planning something.” He said. “But I also know you’re not actively trying to hurt Nakajima. Don’t worry, Dazai.”
“I’m the epitome of calmness, Odasaku.”
Nakajima Atsushi was a strange kid, Dazai quickly realized (again).
As they travelled through the city, he would often stop and write in his notebook as he stared with wonder at whatever was in front of him. When he had looked over his shoulder, he had seen nothing but gibberish which didn’t make any sense.
It didn’t seem to faze Odasaku. When Atsushi had done it for the first time he had merely watched and hadn’t said anything as if it was perfectly normal.
Was it some weird habit of writers he couldn’t understand?
Another strange habit was how he had tried to escape when Odasaku had proposed to buy him a drink. Why would someone react so violently because of a bottle of green tea?
This, associated to what he had discovered at the orphanage told him enough about the kid than he needed. Only one last information and he would have enough datas.
As they entered a bookshop he saw Atsushi stiffen.
“Is there anything wrong, Nakajima?”
“No, not at all. Do you mind if I take a look around?”
“Of course not, we have time.”
Odasaku followed him. Protectiveness or curiosity about his favorite author? Good question.
Dazai looked at his best friend as he talked with the kid about literature. It had been a while since he had looked so happy.
Romance. Thriller. Pseudo Psychology.
Nothing which went well with his style or which really interested him. Great.
Atsushi forced himself to read the summary of the best seller of the week, a book titled : A mysterious Girl . He had read a few books of this particular writer. They always followed the same pattern which after a while destroyed the novelist’s style. Solid writing was important but remained superficial if the plot didn’t follow.
I’ll never be able to write something like that.
He liked thriller, even loved it sometimes but he didn’t want to write them. Romance by itself was often boring (apart from a few exceptions) and psychology, well…
At twelve years old, how was he supposed to give life advice? He didn’t know enough to really help this way.
“I didn’t know you liked this kind of story.” Oda commented behind him.
“They are not my cup of tea.” He admitted. “But it’s never too late to broaden your horizon, right?”
The uncertain look he got perfectly mirrored his own thoughts.
He didn’t like those books or even worse, he was indifferent toward them. Yet, Tanaka wanted him to write something like those?
“You don’t seem well.” Oda said.
“I feel-”
As he was about to keep talking, a smell interrupted him. It reminded him of a dying fire, when the last sparks of red faded away in the dark. A mix of smoke and burnt wood.
He turned around. Where did it come from?
A few meters away, a young woman was busy reading a poetry collection. Tears came down her face as she closed it and put it away.
For a moment, their eyes met. She -
“Nakajima?”
“Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts.”
“That’s okay. Are you going to buy it?”
“Y- Yes, I am.”
They came out after this. Oda had bought a book from Robert Louis Stevenson. Atsushi wasn’t drooling over it. Not at all.
“I’ll lend it to you once I am done.” The older said.
“Thank you.”
Outside, an unexpected awaited them. Dazai kept jumping from right to left as a red haired young man kept trying to kick him.
“Will you remain still, you damn bastard?”
“Chuuya is getting slower. Must be old age.” Dazai singsonged as he avoided a nasty strike which would have robbed him from his front teeth.
“I’m going to show you “old age”, you fucking jerk.”
Passerbys watched them with a mix of amusement and displeasure as the two young men kept wreaking havoc in the street.
“Is Dazai-san okay?”
“Don’t worry, they’re always like that.”
It didn’t really make him feel better.
The newcomer jumped forward and barely missed Dazai. HIs fist met a wall. When he took it away : a hole as big as a football.
“He didn’t forget to hold back this time.” Oda commented.
That’s holding back?
“I said stop moving !”
“Oda-san, why is he so angry?”
“I don’t know. Probably because of something Dazai said.”
“You’re my dog ! You shouldn’t be trying to hit me every time.” The young executive whined.
“I’d rather die.” Another wall fell victim to his fury.
Some people had started to film the whole fight. Did they not see it wasn’t a joke?
Dazai burst into laughter.
Okay, he understood why no one was taking the situation seriously.
“They’re attracting a lot of attention.” Oda noticed.
“Is it bad?”
“It’s not something Dazai would do without a plan.” He conceded.
Instinctively, his body moved toward Atsushi so the boy would be closer. If something was to happen, he would need protection.
After a moment, the two teenagers calmed down and came toward them. A deep flush of exasperation could still be seen on Chuuya’s face.
“Nakahara.” He saluted.
“Oda. Still dealing with the mackerel’s bullshit?”.
“Well, someone has to.” He said lightly.
No teasing could have sounded fonder. It was another proof of how much Dazai and Oda shared a strong bond. As Dazai’s fake hurt exploded, Chuuya and Oda exchanged a silent conversation. Atsushi would have been unable to interpret it.
That’s when the new boy noticed him. Scrutinizing azure eyes fixed him. If seeing him fight was terrifying, it was nothing in comparaison of having his whole attention.
“Who are you?”
“Na-Nakajima Atsushi. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Nakahara Chuuya. You took another charity case?” He grumbled to his partner.
You would have had to be deaf in order not to hear Dazai’s laughters.  
“Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“Soon, you’ll regret your words and I’m waiting for this moment.”
“You make even less sense than usual. Congrats, I guess.”
However, discomfort and suspicion had appeared. Dazai often liked to provoc him without any reason. Seeing Chuuya worry about nothing had some kind of interest he could quite fathom. But, it seemed different right now.
Suddenly, his conversation with Prof Specs came back to his mind.
"for such a young kid to be a writer"
“Please, tell me I’m wrong.”
“You know I’ll never lie to you, Chuu-ya ~”
“I hate you so fucking damn much.”
The two last days, the two of them had had to deal with a rival gang. It would have been easy had they not put their hands on high level weapons. A dozen of their subordinates had been killed. Dazai got a broken arm and Chuuya a very strong need to hit the wall with his head.
He had collapsed and had been woken up by an annoying buzz from his phone. The text received was the following :
Hello, little hatrack ! How is the weather down there?
Have you faded out of existence yet? If you haven’t, go to this address [position] as soon as possible !!! You’ll see something interesting. No I’m not talking about poor quality hats. Get your mind out of the gutter. Something really interesting !!!
If you have indeed faded out of existence well… see you in hell! I’ll be allowed to annoy you for the rest of eternity. Can’t wait (ᗒᗨᗕ)(^▽^)(◕⍸ ◕✿)
In his exhaustion, Chuuya had written a very eloquent answer :
Fuck you. Seriously how can you be so fucking annoying?
Dazai, always the same, had replied :
(∩^o^)⊃━☆゚.*・。゚
Killing him would be too nice of a punishment. Chuuya had a ten pages long list of things he would do to him before achieving him.
Despite his foul mood, he had exited his room and went to the place indicated. They were partners but didn’t communicate more than needed. If Dazai had written to him, it was important.
Right now, as he stared at a too thin and scared kid, he wondered if he hadn’t done it just for this to happen. If he hadn’t woken up so early he would have never been so rough and Dazai knew it. The jerk.
Words refused to get out of his mouth.
“Chuuya looks like a fish.” Dazai snickered.
“I don’t want to hear that from you.”
Oda and Atsushi were still watching them. The older had a small almost invisible amused light in his eyes. Of course he would find the situation funny, he wasn’t friend with the bastard for nothing.
“Listen…” God, those scared purple eyes. Hello, guilt, nice to see you again. “Hum…”
“Wow, you’re terrible at it.” Dazai commented as Oda nodded.
“You, shut the trash hole you call a mouth !” Chuuya tsked.
“Rude. What is Atsushi-kun going to think?”
At this moment, Chuuya realized two things :
Firstly, he’d never be able to have a real conversation with the author if Dazai was still here.
Secondly, he had always been more focused on action rather than thoughts. He wouldn’t change today. Brawn instead of brain.
He put Atsushi on his shoulder and ran.
Mad cackles shook Dazai’s whole body. Oda waited for his friend to calm down and then asked:
“You knew this would happen?”
“Well, of course ! Chibi’s actions aren’t exactly hard to anticipate. When in a strenuous situation he’ll either attack or run away. Since Atsushi-kun was here he couldn’t allow himself to traumatize him even more since he respects him.”
“You wanted Nakahara to meet him.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s nice of you.”
“Why?”
“Well, thanks to you he met someone he admires.”
“Do I look like such a kind person?” He wondered aloud.
“You do, why?”
Warmth invaded his face but he managed to hide it.
Seriously Odasaku, don’t say this kind of thing…
“Because what just happened is only a part of my plan.”
Chuuya ran until they reached the central place. In its middle, a fountain stood surrounded by multi coloured flowers. It would have calming had he not been on someone he barely knew’s shoulder.
Why is it my life?
He was put down carefully which allowed him to have a better view of his kidnapper (?). His azure eyes didn’t look at him, his embarrassment obvious.
“Sorry for that.”
“T-That’s alright.”
“Stop looking as if I’m going to murder you. I just wanted to talk.” He ordered before sighing. “God, this stupid mackerel is right I’m terrible at this.” Then : “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“I won’t.”
A moment of silence. This whole situation couldn’t have been more awkward. Chuuya had never lived worse and he had once gotten his hair dyed by Dazai. Having almost rainbow hair for two months had been a nightmare. No enemy took you seriously when you looked like a cartoon character.
“So, you’re Tsukishiro Ren?” He asked after a moment of hesitation.
Now, that wasn’t a question he expected.
“Yes.”
“Didn’t think you would be a kid.”
“I know it is disappointing.”
“That’s not what I said. It’s just surprising, I guess. The subjects of your books made me think you were older.”
Atsushi thought about the scars adorning his back and his ribs. Decorations which wouldn’t leave him until his death.
“Experience and age aren’t as related as people like to think.”
“I won’t argue with you on that one. Can I buy you something to drink? It’ll be an apology for dragging you here.”
“There is no need to.”
“ ‘Should have known you’d say this. You look like the kind of person who won’t accept anything because they think they’ll be a burden. That’s stupid. Follow me.”
Nakahara Chuuya, Atsushi understood quickly, was like fire. He could both warm and burn but what he did he always did it with a passion no one could relate to.
As he talked to the young writer about his stories, about small details even he had started to forget, he felt joy blossoming inside of him.
Maybe I’m worth being read.
After a moment, the feared awaited question came :
“What are you currently working on?”
“Nothing for the moment. I’m still looking for ideas.”
“No inspiration?”
“My editor wants me to change what I write about.” Atsushi confessed.
“But why? Doesn’t it sell well? I checked how many of your short stories collection you sold. It’s good enough, right ?”
“For me it is, but he doesn’t seem satisfied.”
Chuuya stared at him for a moment. He bore the same bewildered expression that Atsushi had carried sooner. But more than this, pain could be read on his face. He didn’t want this to happen.
Considering his line of work, I didn’t expect him to be as affected as he is by this.
Yet, Atsushi couldn’t deny a part of him liked this turn of event. Sensei, Kunikida and his grandmother  then Oda and Chuuya.
Having people who cared was nice.
“It’ll be fine. I’ll manage somehow.”
“No way, I’m not letting you deal with it by yourselves. Don’t worry, I’ll-”
Before Chuuya could finish, a deep unpleasant smell came to his attention. Something was burning.
“Nakahara-san, we should-”
He didn’t manage to finish his warning.
The world burst into flames.
Red and oranges tongues were eating away at one of the closest building. From what remained of the front windows he could see it used to be an antiquity shop. Now, it only served as combustible for a fire which had no intention to stop.
“So interesting things are finally starting to happen.” Someone commented.
“Did you follow us?” Chuuya snarled.
“As if it was complicated. You can hardly be called discrete, chibi.” Dazai mocked.
“Is that what you wanted to see?” Oda asked as he pointed to the fire who was starting to spread to other shops.
“The boss wanted me to investigate. Some of our “associates” have found themselves in troublesome position. Most of them live around this street.”
“They should still be around. Let’s find them.”
“Is the hatrack giving orders now? How bold for someone who isn’t an executive.”
“Want me to punch you again?”
“O please, you didn’t even manage to-”
“They are going to get away if you keep fighting.” Oda commented.
“Shit, you’re right. Atsushi, you should stay here. Or maybe go- Wait, what are you doing?”
In front of them, a little girl stood. She looked lost and kept walking backward and forward.
“Are you alright?” Atsushi asked her softly. Her face was covered in tears.
“Daddy is still inside.”
Insi- O no !
It had been a few minutes since everything had started. Soon, the building would collapse, his foundations too damaged to maintain it. If he wanted to do something it had to be now.
I can’t do it. It’s impossible.
Someone like you can’t do anything.
The tiger growled.
“Mister?”
“Yes?”
“Is he gonna be okay?” She had to be around three or four years old. Maybe a little bit older.
Someone like you can’t do anything , the headmaster’s voice repeated. We’ll only know that if I try , he retorted.
Atsushi knew he didn’t have the confidence to do it but…
Many people had believed in him and in his capacities. He knew he would survive this. The tiger and he didn’t get along but the beast was still protective of him no matter what.
He could do it.
“Yes, he is.” Atsushi said to the child.
“Nakaji-”
Atsushi ran.
It felt like being inside the strange mix between a volcano and a nightmare. Everything was searing and suffocating. Around him he could see the remnants of objects which could have been beautiful before but which just looked downright terrifying at the moment. Stuffed animals and porcelain dolls didn’t look better when fire was devouring them.
Walking had never been this hard. Each step was painful. Most of the time, he didn’t even know where to put his feet in order not to get burnt.
Another problem was to find the man. Fortunately, his eyes had never betrayed him. When he opened them once again, white had turned into yellow and his human pupils became cat-like.
He is in the back shop.
His skin burnt and his lungs hated him. Smoke filled them and no matter how much he healed, it hurt. Tears fell down his face and with each of them it felt like a part of his life was leaving him.
Opening the door turned out to be a trial. When he finally managed it, his skin had taken a dark red colour. He brushed it away. He had endured worse.
“I have nothing against you, sir, but I have orders.” A soft voice whispered as he entered the back shop.
How could she be so calm at an instant like this?
Big brown eyes stared at him when she finally noticed him. It was the girl from the bookshop.
“What are you doing here?” She panicked.
He didn’t have the strength to answer back. He bent down and caught the man in front of him. Consciousness had almost left him.
“And he’s just a kid ! I can’t kill a kid ! I’m in trouble, so much trouble.” She was so lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t budge when he left.
He had better things to do than listen to a pyromaniac.
Carrying him would be an almost herculean task but he could manage. Slowly, he brought him to the exit.
No air in his lungs, no real path to follow which wasn’t covered by burning ruins and a heat so violent it was as if he was being cooked.
Each part of his body had been strengthened by his ability. Thanks to it, he was able to reach his goal. Relief flooded in his body. That was until he heard it.
The building will not hold for much longer.
He only had a few meters left. Only a few meters and he could see the sunlight again. Real warmth instead of this inferno. Atsushi tried to move quicker.
It wasn’t enough.
He perceived with extreme clarity the moment when the place gave up. Cracks turned into snaps and that was it.
Stones were raining on them. Had he been alone, he might have a chance to avoid it but right now?
Would his healing even work if he was crushed like an ant? It was something he was probably about to find out.
Closer and closer. Nothing could stop them. He could already feel his bones break under the stones’ weight.
Closer and closer. He still remembered the little girl’s words.
Closer and closer. Maybe it would end quickly and not be painful..
“After all, she only asked me to destroy this place. It’s not my fault if you don’t die.”
A tornado of flames went over their head and projected the debris away from them. He turned back.
The young woman was watching them. Her brown hair flew behind like an imitation of the fire she had caused.
“Leave, now or I won’t be able to protect you this time.”
“T-Thank you.” He whispered. Talking was close to impossible.
“It’s my fault if this is happening. Don’t thank me, please, and leave.”
He tried to answer but his throat refused and he decided to nod toward her instead.
The smile she gave him was one of the saddest he had ever seen.
When he finally exited and joined a cooler, less painful world, someone was waiting for them. Oda’s hair was going in all sort of different directions and a strong agitation had invaded his eyes. He went as far away as possible from the former shop, delicately put the man down and once he had checked the man was still breathing, he walked toward Oda.
“Are you alright?” Atsushi inquired.
The man opened his mouth as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You- you…”
“Maybe you should sit. You’re really pale, Oda-sa-”
A pair of arms engulfed him and stuck to a muscled chest. It didn’t feel uncomfortable. Quite the contrary but Atsushi couldn’t understand why he was doing it.
“Is something wrong?”
“You’re probably the stupidest, bravest kid I have ever met. Don’t you ever do that again.” Oda ordered.
“I can’t apologize for what I did.”
“I knew you were going to say that.” Oda chuckled.
The same strong hands were holding him as if he was an anchor. As if he didn’t want him to disappear. Fingers ran through his hair. They were shorter now, the fire had latched onto them and if the tiger hadn’t helped he probably would have faced far worse consequences.
“We need to bring you to an hospital.”
“It’s not necessary. I’m fine.”
For sole answer, Oda moved away, took Atsushi’s arm and brought it in front of his eyes. His skin had taken an almost crayfish shade. Most of his hairs had darkened and he could see a rather nasty burnt on his leg now that he paid a real attention. His lungs were also tightening painfully in his chest which didn’t predict anything good.
“Adrenaline?” He wondered.
“It’s going to start hurting soon. Someone called an ambulance. It should take too long to arrive so stay as still as you can.” Oda acquiesced.
As Atsushi was about to protest - he was fine , in a few minutes most of his wounds would have disappeared - Chuuya and Dazai joined them.
“She ran away, the bitch.” Chuuya complained.
“That’s because you were too slow, chibi.” Dazai explained. “At least now we know what she looks like.”
“Say that again, you damn bas-”
“You’re still alive, Atsushi-kun, I thought for a moment we’d have to find you a nice green spot to bury you. That’s surprising.”
“Shut up, mackerel. You alright here?”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s quite the stunt you pulled here.”
“I had the ability to help.” Atsushi said, his voice oddly resolved. “So I did.”
A moment of silence and then his interlocutor’s face contorted with distaste.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Chuuya kept cursing. “You managed to find the only person more suicidal than the mackerel.”
“I am offended.” Dazai smiled as his hand started messing with Atsushi’s hair. “He behaved like the perfect suicidal maniac without any of my influence.”
Coughs climbed up and Atsushi’s whole body started protesting as he felt his whole blood boil.
It hurt. Why have I stopped healing?
The tiger was no longer present in his head. He had disappeared like flowers during winter. Only fear and panic remained. The taste of copper invaded his mouth and his mind blurred. Without the strength of the beast, he couldn’t manage to stand any longer.
“Nakajima, are you al-”
His legs gave out as his mind disconnected from reality. Falling into the dark didn’t take more than a second.
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mentalmimosa · 5 years
Text
reading for pleasure
Prompt: I’m an artist who was at shit creek until I met you, so please be my muse, no, I’m not asking you out. 
Being a romance novelist isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Yeah, Tony can work in his pajamas if he wants to, or not at all--technically he’s already rich--but purple prose or not, writing is hard, much harder than running a business, and his editor’s kind of a prick. Plus, no matter how well his books sell, no matter how quick they zip off the dimestore shelves, there’s the small problem of his damn pseudonym; a tool of necessity, sure, but fuck if it doesn’t eat him up some days that nobody knows Rosamund de Bloom is him. Other days, though, like when he spots Steve at the lunch counter, nose deep in His Fevered Dream, he’s so very, very grateful.
Because Steve Rogers, All-American classic, war hero with blue eyes and arms that could dead-lift a tank, is not only his best friend in the whole sordid world, he’s also (unbeknownst) Tony’s muse. And the object of his never-ending and carefully closeted desire, but that’s a different circle of embarrassment hell than seeing Steve actually read one of the damn things.
“Hey,” Tony says, playing it nine kinds of cool. “Sorry I’m late.”
Steve looks up and gives him that sunlight bright grin. “‘S ok. Got a few pages in, anyway.”
“I didn’t know you read stuff like that.”
“Every now and then,” Steve says with a shrug, a tinge of pink on his cheek. “You know me. I’m not picky.”
Tony grabs the menu he has memorized and pretends to ponder pimento. “No, sure,” he says, “when it comes to words, Rogers, everybody knows that you’re easy.”
They’re Steve’s job, words. He’s a master of clear, clever copy. Sometimes he draws the ads, too; the military’s loss has been Madison Avenue’s gain. But still, in all the years Tony’s known him, he’s never seen a romance novel in Steve’s hand--much less one that Tony wrote, one that may or may not feature a hero with a barrel chest and big hands and a sweet touch in the bedroom that reduces the heroine to happy tears. And said hero may have dark hair and green eyes but in Tony’s mind as he was typing he may have been transcribing from Steve, from what he imagines Steve’s body looks like under his starched shirt and his slim ties, the way he uses his body in bed; not as a battering ram or a bully but as a patient, giving lover, the kind of man who’ll gladly ignore his own dick if it means melting the girl with his mouth until she’s soft cream and butter and feeling so goddamn good she coos when he sticks it in.
It isn’t always like that, when Tony writes for him, closes his eyes and lays his hands on the typewriter and lets Steve breathe through every page. Sometimes, like in His Secret Treasure, Steve is a bully, the sort of brute who kisses the heroine first and asks permission later, who takes her hard the first time and gentler after, who falls in love with her with every impassioned encounter even though it wasn’t part of his plan. By the end, in stories like that, the hero is putty in the girl’s hands and he’s the one who sighs when she touches him, when he’s naked and she’s not and he comes with a wild, aching cry down her throat.
And sometimes, as in His Endless Love, the Steve that Tony conjures on the page is much too close to the real one: a writer with a gorgeous smile, friendly and generous and kind to what for most men would be a fault. He’s funny and prone to bouts of drinking wine and he gets quiet when the war comes up, when he’s reminded of it, and lifts a glass to long-lost friends. He’s an open book, this hero; says what he’s thinking and thinks what he says even at two in the morning when Tony’s got insomnia and calls for solace or to see if Steve wants to come uptown for a drink.
“You have one,” Steve will say, yawning. “Just tell me what you’re pouring and I’ll live vicariously.”
Which will make Tony laugh because, hey, that’s what he does professionally, but even at two AM he’s got enough sense not to say that.
“You know what’s funny,” Steve says when his egg salad sandwich is gone, when Tony is crunching the last of his chips.
“Hmmm?”
Steve tugs His Fevered Dream from his pocket and sets it on the counter, the lurid cover beaming up from Formica. “This, what I was reading before? It’s surprisingly good. Well-written, I mean.”
“Huh,” Tony says, ducking behind his cold as stone coffee. “That’s--really?”
“I know, I know. Surprised me, too. One of the secretaries was reading it and she recommended it.”
“She recommended--?”
“Yeah.” Steve chuckles. “I think she was trying to shock me or something. You know how the new girls can be.”
Swooning at your feet? Tony thinks. His head feels a little green. Hopeful? Throwing themselves at you nine ways to Sunday in hopes you’ll remember their name and/or propose marriage?
There’d been one a couple years before who’d succeeded at both; she and Steve had been three months from the altar. But then the girl, Peggy, had reconnected with some childhood friend in Old Blighty, a long-lost love such and such, and one day she’d left the solitaire on Steve’s desk while he was in a meeting and taken a cab to the airport. It’d taken Tony months and way too much whiskey to pull Steve’s head out of his sorry ass. He had no desire to watch Steve go through that shit again. Even if His Shattered Heart had been his biggest best-seller; people ate up that tragic hero-healed-by-love shit.
“I mean,” Steve says, counting quarters on the counter, “it’s a little bluer than I expected. A little heavier on the, uh, romance.”
“You mean the sex.”
That gets him a grin. “That’s what I meant, yes.”
“It’s a romance novel,” Tony says, tossing a fiver at the bill and pushing Steve’s money back at him. “What’d you expect?”
“I don’t know. It’s the first one I’ve ever read. But if they’re all like this de Bloom woman’s, it might not be the last.”
Having Steve declare his love might be a thing that Tony’s thought about forever. But he’d never considered what it might be like to have Steve say nice things about his words, his writing. Jesus, that’s hot. He coughs. Resists the urge to tug at his collar.
“They’re not,” Tony says quickly. “Like hers. She, ah, she’s got something different. An alternative perspective, or something. That’s what, um--that’s what I’ve heard.”
He has Steve’s full attention now, those blue eyes wide and curious. “You read this stuff, Tone?”
“Once or twice I have, yeah. Pepper does. She likes them. She, you know. She keeps me informed.”
“ Pepper reads these? Oh, come on. Your Pepper. Pepper Potts.”
“Yes, she does.” Only when I beg her to copyedit. “Why is that so surprising?”
Steve gives him a look, laughs. “Because she’s a lady of the take-no-crap variety. I have a hard time imagining her doing anything so frivolous, even if you paid her.”
“Yes, well,” Tony bluffs, “maybe you don’t know her as well as you think.”
“Maybe,” Steve says as they slide off the stools and head out into the hot summer sun, “I should call her up and ask her which one of these I should read next.”
“No!” Tony says a little too loudly, gratefully suddenly for the sounds of the street. “I wouldn’t. She’s working on logistics for the shareholders’ meeting next week. She doesn’t like to be interrupted. You know how she gets.”
Steve blinks at him. “Tony, I was kidding.”
“You were?” Shit. “Of course you were. I was humoring you, Rogers. That was me playing along. Geez.”
Steve claps him on the shoulder, his big hand hot through blended seersucker. “I’ll keep her secret safe, don’t worry. Scout’s honor. I won’t tell anyone she condones reading for pleasure.”
File under words Tony needs to hear Steve say again, pronto, and in stereo: pleasure. “Uh,” he says. “Wise choice on your part.”
“You’re still up for drinks tomorrow, yeah? My place. The game’s on.”
“The game?” Steve’s still holding his shoulder. It’s hard to think.
“Hello, Tony. The Dodgers?” And now Steve’s smiling. Not helping. “The Cubs? Remember those guys?"
Oh, baseball. Right. Professional balls and sticks. “Yep," Tony says, remembering how to nod. "I’ll be there. With bells on.”
“Ok. First pitch is at four.” Steve gives him a shake, a quick wave. “Four o’clock, Tony. You get there at five after and I might not let you in.”
His Teasing Promise, Tony thinks as Steve walks away, weaves his way through the thinning afternoon crowd. Or His Loving Threat. Huh. That wasn’t bad.
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rassilon-imprimatur · 5 years
Text
A Guide to “A Bloody (and Public) Domaine,” my contribution to Faction Paradox: The Book of the Enemy
Faction Paradox: The Book of the Enemy was released by Obverse Books in January 2018 (already over a year ago, sheesh), and it included my first published short story, A Bloody (and Public) Domaine. Last March, Andrew Hickey published  a list of all the references to other stories (Faction, Doctor Who, or otherwise) in his Book of the Enemy story on his blog. Fellow Book of the Enemy contributor and good egg Nate Bumber followed suit with a rundown of references in his wonderful story, and the powerhouse that is Niki Haringsma has done the same with The Book of the Peace. 
I’ve had a fairly rough year beside really struggling to find any merit in my Book of the Enemy and Book of the Peace stories (a writer really is his own worst critic), but finally felt the gumption to dive in! This is a mix of some (not all) of the references in my story, as well as just some general commentary. I’ll be making a similar post for my Book of the Peace and connecting Dossier material next! 
Obviously, spoilers ahead. You should probably have read the story first. If you haven’t and still read through this, please purchase the book, available on the Obverse site! I’m not going through everything, just giving a little bit of commentary.
But first let me say, I will be forever grateful to the book’s editor Simon Bucher-Jones (@thebrakespearevoyage-blog), for taking such a big chance on me with this story, dealing with a rookie like me, and letting me play in his sandbox. An absolute gem of a human being. 
Enjoy!
“The black lessens, crumbles, an Empire sky of temporal red focuses.” A nod to the Eleven-Day Empire and my own assertion of the typical “look” of a Faction alter-time realm, the sky color taken from the Empire’s appearance in the Faction Paradox comic. 
“EXT: THE SHADOW SPIRE... (very Dr. Caligari meets Trying Too Hard).” I’m going to save most of what Auteur and his home Shadow Spire are references to for my Book of the Peace post, but, as a hint, basically picture a crumbling lighthouse as pencilled by the Doctor Who Magazine comic strip legend John Ridgeway... nudge nudge, wink wink. 
Gideon exists as little more than the audience of Auteur’s madness (and to die at the end), but I had fun sketching out this character. He’s a member of the Faction who doesn’t care that he is, a renegade Homeworlder that just had nowhere else to go. I think of all the possible characterizations of various Faction members, the idea of a member of the Houses rushing into the ideology they don’t believe in, embracing the aesthetic because they have no choice, is my favorite. Gideon has more recently received something of a second life in White Canvas by James Wylder. 
This story is set definitively before the Eleven-Day Empire’s destruction in The Faction Paradox Protocols. I felt this was the safer choice given the scope of the full anthology. I went the “definitely after the Eleven-Day Empire’s death” route in my Book of the Peace story.  
“A few Loa, smears of age as twisted as the Spire, swarm the peak like vultures.” Key to Faction Paradox lore and a rather damning example of the Faction’s appropriation of Haitian voodoo, the term “loa” (spirits) refer to the alter-time structures and temporal processes the Faction claim to worship. I have always interpreted them as the familiar gobbledygook we’d hear as “time orbits” or “temporal loops” from the Doct-AHEM-a certain time traveler, but from the Faction’s POV, very much alive. Which POV is accurate? That’s up to you. 
“A phonograph, straight out of Hammer, operating diligently on a shard of glittering sapphire.” Hammer Film Productions’ “Hammer Horror,” naturally. 
“Godfather Morlock’s Personal Record, kept on Phonograph.” Morlock is a major character in Faction lore, appearing in The Book of the War and the BBV Faction Paradox Protocols. He comes across as something of a creepy Victorian taxidermist and scientist, with unknown plans for the Faction and the War. Recording his musings on a phonograph is a reference to Dr. Jack Seward from Bram Stoker’s Dracula. 
Morlock’s account of Vlad the Impaler and the Celestis is all from The Book of the War, an earlier Faction Paradox use of the historic figure that rather interestingly asserts he can’t be Dracula. Believe it or not based on this story, I actually hate when modern Dracula adaptations or remakes try to make him Vlad directly. 
Mention of the Impaler’s “history tangling with the Incremental Effect,” is a reference to the Iris Wildthyme novella The Found World, published in Iris Wildthyme and Friends Investigate, one of my favorite Iris collections. You’ll actually see a lot of crossing with Miss Wildthyme in my stories. I’ve always felt the two series shared a fascinating relationship and rather love what wonderful recontextualization can happen when you view them as partners in crime as opposed to rivals or strangers. 
The “woman in a black dress and porcelain skin” is Lilith, and is, perhaps obviously, Lolita, the true villain of the series. More on her later. 
The timeline Morlock describes, a “What If Dracula Won?” scenario, starts as a soft reference to Kim Newman’s Anno Dracula novels before literally launching into space to become a reference to Hideyuki Kikuchi’s Vampire Hunter D series. 
“They embraced the flesh and blood and were proudly organic, with none of the clinical and pristine mathematics of the Ships of the Great Houses.” A lot of detail is often given to how the Great Houses despise their organic nature, and we know that the enemy have timeships of some fashion if we take Lolita’s word in Lawrence Miles’ Interference-interlude Toy Story as gospel. 
The stuttered “Ghost Point” is the period in the early 21st century where mankind’s limitless potential ground to a halt, effectively killing the advanced civilization humanity should have been. An interestingly important part of the series lore.
“Plus, Morlock can baise lui-même on a candlelit evening.” He can fuck himself. My dear friend Liria has very happily and comfortably let me know that my French is absolutely atrocious. I merely look to The Adventuress of Henrietta Street and hold my head high for maintaining a Faction Paradox tradition. 
I don’t know why the VHS tapes are “crumbling like mouldering Metsovone” because I swear I wrote that they were “crumbling like mortar” when sending my draft in. Either a) Simon has hidden a secret message throughout the entire book, b) I’m losing my mind, changed it and forgot it, or c) I’ve been infected by the either the enemy or the Houses in an attempt to replace my account of things with Grecian dairy. It is a more creative metaphor. 
The “Homeworlder Observer Effect” is just a term given to the Faction Paradox assertion in The Book of the War and The Cosmology of the Spiral Politic that the Great Houses literally force potential into reality by merely observing (while I’m taking cues and terminology from the loose concept scattered throughout the works of Lance Parkin, Kate Orman, and Jon Blum, most notably the unwritten novel Mentor, where an insane Time Lord could literally observe his own will and madness into reality). This plays a major part in my Book of the Peace story as well, so I’ll talk a bit about it there. 
I was a very late addition to the Book of the Enemy’s team, so literally any perceived intelligence and coalescence with my story’s metafictional take on Dracula and the rest of the book’s metafictional take on nearly every example of global literature and imagination is all Simon’s brilliance and the genius of the other contributors. I’ve probably shared a total of three words with anyone else in the book other than Nate. Simon turned all of this into a wonderful, organic unit, and it makes me absolutely proud to be a part, even if I’m still rather embarrassed by my contribution. Give them all the credit! 
“Mina Harker,” the inarguable and objective hero of Stoker’s Dracula. Van Helsing who?
“Brides of Dracula.” Hammer made exactly three good Dracula movies, and this is one of them, despite not actually having Dracula in it. It’s pretty much a feature length “Look How Badass Peter Cushing Is As Van Helsing, Guys.” 
“God’s gaze was nowhere near Bedfordshire that night.” As seen in The Book of the War’s superb take on Dronid (an element of the infamous serial Shada), things that remain unobserved by the Great Houses, either by choice or design, tend to become rather unhappy and miserable places (to put it lightly).
“Not quite the discrete puncture marks of legend” is a line said by Alan Moore’s take on Mina in The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. I then realized her crimson scarf could be seen as a reference to the comic as well, but I was actually intending to give a nod to the definitive Edward Gorey illustration. 
“Something cruel, built by invaders of metal and spite, digging too deeply and too greedily into Earth’s crust.” An absolutely subtle and completely obscure reference to another Peter Cushing film. 
“A History wrapped tightly into a coil of absence, locked in the rock and dark of the planet.” No comment other than a friendly reminder that the caldera, the lodestone of the structure of History, is described as an “absence” in The Book of the War, later clarified to be a “singularity” in Lawrence Burton’s Against Nature, invoking familiar thoughts of the mythic Eye of Harmony... 
“The aliens were rejected by that History, blown to smithereens, left to die in the streets and in their echoing control rooms.”
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“Because he’s fucking Dracula. He’s not some evil god, or conquering demon. He’s a parasite, torn between trying to leech off society’s elite and building a goddamn harem.” Dracula is absolutely one of the greatest villains in all English literature but he is also absolutely abhorrent and literally every attempt to romanticize or “Badass” him into anything other than a diseased and rotting rapist need to show themselves out. 
“Lilith” again. A terrifying revelation in the Faction Paradox series is that the War between the enemy and the Great Houses is a distraction from the real threat to the universe. Her. This has, naturally, spurred theorizing and discussion over the years about whether or not Lolita created the enemy. That’s naturally what this story is implying, but this story is also a stapled together mess crafted by a mad Homeworlder. Lolita seemed very concerned about the enemy in her first appearance in Toy Story...
My interpretation of my story (and The Book of the Enemy as a whole) is that the enemy has so many identities and timelines and possibilities and metafictional infections that it has nonsense like this written around it as a sort of defense mechanism. Auteur’s bizarre narrative is an identity and story to be used as a drifting shield, a history the Houses could nuke to nothing and still leave the enemy happy and safe to continue Warring.
The “Very Fabric” is a cheeky nod to the “Very Fabric of Time and Space” from the Iris Wildthyme side of the universe, first seen in Paul Magrs’ Mad Dogs and Englishmen. 
“’Yssgaroth,’ she hissed, her tongue sliding through her razor teeth behind her mask, ‘the Taint which boils within you.’” The Yssgaroth first appeared in The Pit and were always meant to be a retcon and redefinition of the vague history and lore of the Vampires seen in 1980′s State of Decay. This approach was massively improved by Interference and The Book of the War (though I still assert Philip Purser-Hallard’s Predating the Predators is probably the definitive take on the bastards). 
“Queen Charlotte” was Lolita’s disguise and historical role in the Faction Paradox Protocols. The audios and other stories such as Hickey’s Head of State (and, I suppose, this one right here) show that Lolita takes on these “acting roles” throughout history. “Lady Waki” at first glance may, understandably, be seen as a misspelling of her role of Lady Wakai from The Book of the War, but “Waki” is actually the term for the antagonist/villain performance in Japanese “Noh” musical theatre. 
The blood of the Earth is the same “green pus” from Inferno, later implied to be the Yssgaroth taint in Interference’s assertion that Earth is built around an Yssgaroth bolthole. So what, is the Earth somehow a link to the centre of History, or an Yssgaroth bolthole? Can it possibly be both? 
Yes. 
“A new kind of History.” The literal definition of the enemy in The Book of the War and Lolita in BBV Faction audios. 
“Not like he has a copyright.” Hence the “Public Domaine” of the title. You are reading the work of a comedic genius. Though, the spelling of “Domaine” was Simon’s idea and I like it much better. 
Biodata looking like silver threads pops up a lot in what I write and I completely blame Kate Orman and Jon Blum’s seminal Unnatural History. That book changes a man. 
And there you have it! I’m still convinced that Simon Bucher-Jones is a wizard, as The Book of the Enemy somehow becoming centered on the idea of the enemy as a meta-fictional infection with dozens upon dozens of cobbled together narratives of myth and fact improves this mess of a story rather drastically, I think. 
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holycow99 · 3 years
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石田お寿司 12/9/21 stream translation Part 12
This is not the full translation of the stream. I only translated the parts I could understand & interpret or parts I found interesting/important. I’m still a beginner in Japanese, so the translations may not be accurate. If you want to repost, please repost at your own risk.
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(t/n: ** means translation may not be accurate.)
C: From your perspective, are editors someone who nurture (mangakas)? Are they gonna continue to be a presence who shape a part of you?
I: Nurturing? I don’t even aware of it at all. I think that applies to each other. I think both shape a part of each other as the relationship deepens. The editor gives feedback and the writer fixes the story based on the feedback. That’s how a work is created. I think both are shaping a part of one another. The writer and the editor becomes that kind of existence to each other and that’s how they both grow and change on their own accord. I don’t think they help writers grow though. To me, helping a human to grow is presumptuous/stupid.
(t/n: The word ‘okagamashii’ means both presumptuous and stupid. I’m not sure which one of them was he referring to in this context. You can interpret it as you like.)
I: Is the next Choujin X gonna be release soon?
I: Yeah. I forgot how to draw it in the middle of drawing the draft, so it took me some time.
*Ishida mentioned that he’s finding time to do both choujin x and animal rap, as well as drawing JJ’s illustrations.
C: I’m happy there’s a lot of streaming videos lately.
I: There’s not a lot lately, since I went away for a while. Maybe the duration was actually shorter than I thought it was.
C: Let’s stream until noon.
I: Well…it depends on the situation. I do think of that. I can’t help but do my work during streaming. Just like what I’m doing currently. If I play games, I’ll just play and then when it’s over, I can just end the stream. But when I’m doing my work, I don’t know when I should end it. I’ve no choice but to finish my work. In other words, I’ll be streaming until I’m done with my manuscript. For me, doing that is good because my work can progress. It’s like I’m being monitored. For a period of time, OPM’s artist, Murata sensei did that before but he quit for few reasons. I think it’s good to feel like you’re being monitored. Hamada Yoshikasu sensei did that as well. He pretty much streamed him working everyday. I’m not sure whether he’s still doing it.
C: Do stream every night.
I: That’s a bit…This is also difficult for me to do. I like making plans on what I should do. For example, “what I should do for this and that day?” or “what if I do this with this pace?”, but to actually follow the plan is hard. You’d feel lazy on the very day you had a plan. People who thoroughly follow their plans are admirable, aren’t they? It’s not like I have the need to follow it. But then, I wish to be able to do that.
C: If you get bored drawing the background, I want you to stream while you’re working on it even if it’s on irregular basis.
I: For the background, I must finish doing them all at once, if not it’ll take a few days. There’s a limit to what kind of work I can stream. I don’t want really wanna show me working on the latest chapter. It’s the latest chapter, after all. I’ll show the chapter after I’ve drawn it properly. This one is basically me fixing the chapter 2, so it’s fine.
C: It’ll be nice if there’s a notice before the stream on the day itself.
I: I see. It’ll be easier to watch if there’s a notice. You can arrange your time. But then, it depends on my mood. I‘d feel sorry if I suddenly don’t wanna stream, but you guys are already excitedly waiting for it. So, I’ll just do it randomly.
C: I can prepare some sweets if there’s a notice beforehand.
I: Well…Maybe I’ll at least give notice on that very day. If I really wanna stream, then I might let you guys know beforehand.
I: The 30,000 commemoration. I might not do anything for it. But I’ll keep that as a memory. Even someone like me can have that amount of subscribers with this kind of content. I’m thankful for that.
C: I turn on my notification, so it doesn’t matter if you tell us beforehand or not.
I: Oh, really? Then, I’ll do it as I like. It’s better If there’s a notice. Well, I’ll do it if I feel like it.
C: This is random, but I only turned on your tweet notification.  
I: Sometimes, I forgot to update on my twitter though. I update it when I’m streaming.
C: 30,000 subscribers is amazing! It’s more than the number of people in my home town.
I: That’s true. If you think about it that way, then 30,000 is amazing.
*Someone wanted Ishida to stream the drawing of the Choujin X’s volume’s cover, but he said it’ll be hard to do that.
C: For me, I like for the cover to be a surprise.
I: Hm…I probably think so too.
I: For me, regarding choujin x, I want everything about it, such as the drafts, to be a secret. If I got to do another manga, then I might…ah, but that probably wouldn’t be possible due to my personality. I do kinda want to be monitored when I’m drawing difficult stuffs. It seems to be efficient for me that way. It could make me feel motivated if you guys watching me draw them.
*The adult comment came back.
I: Can I do something about it? It’s probably just random comments. Report or timeout? What’s timeout for? Should I try time it out this time? Did it time out?
*The comment finally gone. It’s troublesome though. I have to do something about the comment every single time. I should leave it to the dark moderator.
I: It did!
*Ishida mentioned that he’d timeout this one fan if they commented something unpleasant.
C: That could be a reward itself.
I: What? Me banning that person? That’s already a stalker attitude. You mean it’s because I noticed them, right? There must be such people. But what a pitiful person if that’s the only way for them to be noticed by others. Doing what the other party dislikes, then seeing their unpleasant reaction. Being happy just by the fact that the other party reacted to them is already a lost cause. Don’t wanna be that kind of person, right?
C: It’s amazing how you can have a phone call with someone everyday.
I: It depends on the occasion. Like when you really feel the need to talk or when you’re having a tough time. I too had times when I randomly just called someone because I couldn’t concentrate working. When I thought it’d be good for me to work while conversing, then I’d call someone. But the other person also has their own life, if this happens continuously, even if they say okay, they must be actually enduring it. I mostly speak to my work-related friend.
C: Being a mangaka is a lonely job, isn’t it?
I: Yeah, you’re right. This is also another difficult issue. It might get harder to confront my work if I spend more time with others. So, especially, recently, I tried to get myself more motivated. I’ve isolated myself around until the end of summer, but as I thought, working with people is easier for me, mentally speaking. I have somebody to listen to me and I feel less pressured, that is, they give me some kind of advice and I can apply them.
C: Do you consult with the editor in charge when you’re at loss?
I: I think I do. I did consult with Mr. Matsuo at the beginning. But then, I think it’s important to resolve your problems on your own. I do think I have a lot of people I can consult with, and that’s totally fine, but I don’t want to do that. I want to find the answers that I’m completely satisfied with by myself. So, I hold myself back from seeking others’ advice. I did ask Ms. Towada about stuffs on JJ when I had some questions since she gave good answers.
I: Well, I wanna work on this manga randomly. And by ‘random’, I don’t mean sloppily. I wanna work on this manga in a way that’s appropriate for both the work and I. So, I thought it’d be better for me to seek less advice or opinions from others. I’ll do differently if this way isn’t working.
C: You’re a wise person.
I: Obviously. Hahaha. Of course. It’s because I keep thinking about things like this. I hope you find my words useful.
*He then mentioned that he preferred the way of doing things randomly, but it might not be suitable for certain people. However, it’s okay to seek advice.
*Ishida recalling the conversation he had with Ms. Towada regarding Hoshi Sandek.
I: “Hoshi and Arima look similar, right?”.
T: “Have you seen how Arima Kishou looks like?”.
I: “Yes, I have… They look similar, right?”
T: “You mean their characters’ overlapped?”
I: “Not that.”
T: “Hmm….”
I: Hahaha. What do you guys think? Do Sandek and Arima look similar?
C: Are you a TG bandwagon fan?
I: Hahaha. I might’ve never read it properly. But I legit did read TG recently. I’m not kidding. I took a look at it again. I’m thinking of accepting TG. It’s not that I don’t. I wanna accept it more. All said and done, I’m really glad I wrote TG. It’s good that I have something to leave behind. It’s definitely a good thing.
C: Have you ever played Red Dead Redemption 2? (comment in eng.)
I: Like I said, short time. Short time? Little time. (Speaking in eng) I wanna play it though. I wanna play more, but I’ve no time. Too busy.
C: I think Hoshi is actually what Sui looks like. (comment in eng.)
I: She’s saying Hoshi looks similar to me. Are you kidding me?
*Ishida looking for another page to draw.
I: Please take a look at this version of the chapter in the magazine. This will be in the comic as well, probably. They’re both the same.
C: Sensei, are you gonna sleep after this?
I: Nope. I’ll probably check whether Hitman’s already downloaded after I end the stream. After that, I’ll eat and then finish up my upcoming work. I need to add colour for the pages. And I kinda wanna draw an illustration. Have you guys seen Itaewon Class on Netflix? It’s from a Korean webtoon. It’s been made into a drama and I was super addicted to it.
C: Park Saeroyi? (The name of the drama’s mc)
I: Yes. That one. He’s really cool. That hairstyle. I wanna draw Park Saeroyi, if can. There’s this sassy kinda girl in the story, right? That girl is a total beauty. Yi Seo. (t/n: Yi Seo is the FL’s name.)
I: I wanna draw real humans. I’ve been drawing them lately, not that it’s a problem, since I’ve been drawing manga only.
C: She is pretty!!
I: I know right. She’s gorgeous.
I: I read a little bit of the original work, and it pretty much the same as the drama, so I thought the original work was amazing. But then, the Japanese version changed it into Roppongi Class. It’s a different vibe… Does it really matter if it’s in Itaewon? They changed it to suit Japanese readers. Was it the Line Manga or was it not? I don’t remember, but they did that. Just let it be in Itaewon or Korea. I was like “Don’t f*** with me!”.
C: Marunouchi Class.
I: Haha. I’m drawing that. Marunouchi Class. (t/n: Marunouchi is a commercial district in Tokyo.)
I: Itaewon is better. There’s no such place in Roppongi. I’m not familiar with Roppongi though. It may have places like this, but it’s better to showcase the vibes of Korea. Itaewon is a place packed with foreigner. It’s a miscellaneous street. It’s close to Roppongi now that I’ve put it that way. But still…Those who subscribe to Netflix, I recommend you to watch Itaewon Class. They only shot scenes that were important, so it’s really easy to follow the story. Such a beautiful drama. There were quite a lot of cliché moments, but there were also some unexpected twists in those moments, so it pulled you in. Korean entertainment is far ahead.
*The assistant guy finally went to sleep.
I: Oh, you’re gonna sleep now? You definitely can’t oversleep. Don’t mention my name as well. Haha. Do your best as an assistant. Okay, after he left, everyone takes a screenshot. I’m gonna send it to his boss.
C: Sensei, do you read the manga “This is Good”?
I: I don’t. Is it an ecchi manga? Is it the one in Tonari Young Jump? Is it the one with beautiful drawing probably? I wanna try reading it. I need to cultivate (?) and boost the popularity of Tonari Young Jump. I’d like to take on that mission.
I: Has Mr. assistant slept already?
C: I won’t sleep then.
I: It’s okay 2x. Please sleep. Don’t worry 2x. Nothing’s gonna happen. If you’re worried, you can watch it later.
I: I just thought of the number 1 prank he shouldn’t do. I wanted to ask him to draw shit on the manuscript. I wanted him to leave my mark on the background. But that’s definitely a no-no. It’ll be a problem. However, that kind of assistants do exist. Not a lot, but there are assistants that play around.
Part 13
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tmntreasures · 5 years
Text
Prom Night (Michelangelo)
Author/Editor Comments:  Obligatory “We’re not dead comment.” ;P Purple speaking! I just wanna give my compliments to the writer! Orange has been working on this for a while now, when she really didn’t have to. Both of our lives have changed a lot (more hers than mine), and she’s constantly busy; but she managed to finish this and I’m proud and thankful for her! So yeah! Love you Orange!
Now on to the story~
Prompt: A boy at your high school, named George, has asked you out; not because he likes you, but because you were his last option. Obviously, you turn him down since you have a turtle boyfriend who was going to meet with you behind the school. On the night of prom, you go outside to wait for your secret love. But the boy who had asked you out corners you outside. He acts very aggressive and clearly had brought in some alcohol to the school…
“Okay so, what did this guy look like?” Big blue eyes stared at you from across the table.
The moment you had gotten out of school you went straight for the lair. A boy had been harassing you to be his date to prom all day, and after each denial he became more aggressive. Even telling the pursuer that you were taken did not work. It had gotten to the point where you felt on edge just by walking down the hall.
You knew you would find solace in the lair and in the arms of your mutant boyfriend. Of course, as soon as you mentioned that you were being pursued, Michelangelo wanted to know all the details about him rather than how you were.
“Fine, I guess.” You shrugged, poking at an abandoned paper plate covered in old pizza grease. You thought that if you looked as disinterested as possible that he would take the hint. Then you remembered it was Michelangelo; and if other boys were mentioned, he needed to reassure his own ego.
“Wait. By 'fine' do you mean like, 'maybe I'd like him after a few drinks' fine? Or like, 'oooh, damn, he fine' fine?” He raised a brow at you, clearly reading for any sign of dishonesty on your face.
You couldn't help but smack the table rather harshly, “Be serious Mikey! The guy really creeped me out!” You scoffed a little as you recalled the events of the day. “I am serious!” He nodded fervently before giving you a sly smile. “I gotta make sure he's not as cute as me.”
You knew he was trying to cheer you up, but you were also quite sure he did not understand just how upsetting the situation was for you. “Michelangelo,” you saw him tense up when you used his full name and it just fueled the anxiety in your stomach. “He scared me.”
Something in your eyes made his expression soften and his body leaned forward to embrace you. “Woah, babe calm down. I was just messing with you.” As much as you wanted to pull away out of spite, you allowed him to wrap his large, warm arms around your smaller frame and gave in to his comfort. He squeezed you lightly and you could feel your racing heart start to calm down and your body relax. You had no idea you had been so tense until now and thanked him for the hug by wrapping your arms as much as you could around him and returned the wonderful squeeze.
“So this means I have to come to your prom right?” He said after a while. Although your head was buried against his chest, you could hear the cheeky smile growing on his face. “You know, for your own safety.”
You sighed obnoxiously, feeling your own cheeks ache from the smile that was suddenly coming from you. “Yeah. I guess you have to show up now,” you pulled away enough to give him a reassuring look. “I know you had other things to do tonight, but I got to have a bodyguard.”
He snapped his fingers and pointed at you with finger-guns. “I gotchu babe. I've even got the perfect disguise in mind!”
You let out a pained groan and winced. “It's not that trench coat and fedora again is it? That one is actually kinda creepy...” Flashbacks of the last time Michelangelo wore the coat flooded your mind and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge. You shivered and pushed the thought out of your head and returned your attention back to him.
He put a hand on his chest and his jaw dropped in shock. “Excuse me! I would never wear something so casual to your prom night!” He gave you his signature grin, “I'm wearing a suit and tie for you~.”
“Aww, Mikey.” You leaned forward and gave him a sweet kiss on the cheek. Though you wondered where he would find a suit big enough to fit over his shell, the question did not linger long in your head. “Okay, I better start getting ready then. I'll meet you behind the school at nine-thirty. Got it?”
He nodded his head and began to wave you away. “Yeah, yeah I'll remember. I promise I'll be there in time. Now hurry up before we have our own prom night here.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively at you, causing your cheeks to blush a precious pink color.
“Alright I'm going,” you got up quickly and left the lair to prepare for the night ahead. It was, after all, going to be the best night of your life.
---
For Michelangelo, this was the worst night of his life. He had spent the majority of his time trying to find a tuxedo that would fit him in the junkyard, but he was unsuccessful. However, he did find one of those tuxedo t-shirts that was his size, but it was covered in dirt. So he had to run back to the lair to wash it. Then he had to dry it off which took a while too, so he went ahead to the school early to get his surprise set up for you; after all, his shirt should be done drying by the time he got back. Which it was, but once he had it on it was already nine-twenty. Without a moment's hesitation, he threw the t-shirt on and ran as fast as he could without being seen. He did his best not to think about how mad you would be once he finally showed up. Now he was very thankful he went ahead and set up your surprise; at least something would go right. At least, he hoped it would go right, assuming you wouldn't be too angry with him.
The upside to all of this though: he was pretty sure he made it to the school in record time. Unfortunately, after he perched himself on a nearby tree branch, he saw you outside with another kid; a teenage boy to be specific. Dread hardly had any time to cloud his thoughts once the strange boy snatched your wrist aggressively. Instinctively, his hands went to his sides where his nunchucks would be sheathed, but when his fingers gripped nothing but air he cursed under his breath. 
Of course this would be the one night he forgot his weapons during his mad-dash to get ready. He had to think of something quickly before the boy escalated things further.
Oddly enough an idea came to him fairly quick, but only because the situation had reminded him of a movie the two of you had watched recently. He would just need to borrow something from the school's cafeteria first before he could truly help.
Without a moment to lose, the mutant turtle entered the school through an unlocked window and did his best to not get distracted by the high school environment.
“Let go,” you yanked your hand quickly out of his grasp. You could feel your eyes bulging out of their sockets as you stared wide-eyed in disbelief at your fellow classmate. It was still difficult for you to process what was going on but luckily your body seemed to be reacting on its own. Maybe it was just because you were mimicking the turtles after having watched them train on occasion, or maybe it was from all those old kung-fu movies Michelangelo made you watch with him; either way, your limbs were acting on their own and you were thankful for it.
The boy seemed to wince when you pulled away but it was hard to tell. “I just don't get it,” Despite his cracking voice, anger still swimmed in his eyes. “Why not me? What's wrong with me huh?”
He took a step forward and you took two back. If you weren't careful, this could turn ugly very quickly. Your heart began to race and somehow constrict in your chest all at once . Breathing felt like a difficult chore, making you take short, quick breaths. Why now? Why did all of this have to happen now and to you of all people? You don't know this kid. You've had a few classes with him sure, but you had never once said 'hi' to him and he had certainly never made his presence known to you before, let alone show any interest. Where was all of this coming from?
Something dashed through the darkness and your attention was taken away from the situation. It couldn't have been a fellow student; no one you knew could ever move that fast. Could it have been--?
Before you could even finish the thought, something warm grabbed your arm and yanked you back. Branches and leaves scratched and flicked against your skin and dress as you struggled against whatever had you. With all that was going on you started to let out a scream, hoping someone, anyone would hear you and help.
A large hand covered your mouth immediately. Strangely enough, the action did not panic you more but it did not calm you down either. Your eyes finally adjusted enough to the darkness for you to see a familiar orange mask and the baby blue eyes that peered through its holes. There was a brief wave of relief that calmed your racing mind; unfortunately for the mutant turtle in front of you, that meant your frustration with him showed itself.
“Hey, calm down,” Michelangelo whispered. Whether he said it because he saw an angry flicker in your eye or not, you could not tell.
Of course that did not stop you from letting your frustration out on him. You grabbed his wrist and yanked it off of your mouth before hissing in a whisper. “'Calm down?' You are late! That weird kid found me and started acting crazy. You pull into some bushes without warning, and you want me to calm down!?”
He seemed unfazed by your outburst; perhaps it was because you were still whispering, making it not as effective than if you had been yelling instead. “I know, I know. I'm sorry,” he grabbed your shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly. “I'll make it up to you, I promise,” he smiled at you and you could feel your anger dissipating. It was quickly replaced with disbelief and questions when he suddenly revealed a ketchup bottle. “But first, we gotta get rid of this goon,” he grinned as he twisted the lid off, clearly doing everything he could to contain himself.
“H-hey...where'd you go?” the boy's voice quivered as he called out for you. Cautious footsteps walked closer and closer to your hiding place. You could not help but peer through the breaks in the bush to see where he was. The boy was close. A few more steps and he could start parting branches. Although you trusted Michelangelo to have a plan, you could not help but feel anxious. If he saw the giant mutant turtle, who knows what would happen?
After a few more steps, the boy suddenly stopped in response to Michelangelo snapping some branches underneath his feet.  Finally, he threw the contents of the bottle outward, making sure to keep a firm hold of the container itself. Ketchup splattered on the asphalt in front of the boy, some of it even getting on his shoes and pants. You could see him tense up as his eye widened in absolute horror; with the help of the night sky, even you admitted to yourself that the ketchup looked like blood.
The combination of the snapping noise and “blood” sprawled out in front of the boy had his mind racing. His mouth hung open in a silent scream and he grabbed both sides of his head as he tried to process what just happened. Your stifled laugh was turned to panic when you saw Michelangelo start to move toward the boy. You reached out to try and stop him but it was too late. There was no way the boy would not see him.
What in the hell was he thinking!?
Your question was quickly answered when you watched the two. The boy's eyes seemed ready to pop out of his skull when he saw Michelangelo. Luckily, he could not utter a peep, let alone a scream. His joints shook beneath his suit in fear as the mutant turtle reached down to swipe a thick finger into the puddle of ketchup. Michelangelo brought the finger to his own lips and licked the condiment off, never breaking eye contact with the shivering boy in front of him. You gagged a little at the gesture, especially since the liquid had been on the rough ground. But it was what happened next that made you gawk in shock and glee.
“No one will believe you,” the orange-clad turtle said ominously to your classmate before slowly returning to your hiding place. You did your best to contain yourself when he kneeled next to you. Both of you had big, cheek-burning grins on your faces.
You both watched through the branches as the boy stared at the puddle below. His face had become white as a sheet and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and nose. He took a few steps back before finally running off into the safety of the school building.
The moment he was gone, you both let out big sighs of relief. You did not even realize you were so tense until you allowed your body to relax. “I can't believe you just did that,” you said through a chuckle.
“What? Eat that ketchup off the ground? That's nothin'.” The blue-eyed turtle grinned.
A giggle shook your shoulders. “Well that too. But I mean I can't believe you showed yourself to him.” You looked at him and shrugged, “You're not afraid he'll tell someone?”
He waved your concern away. “Nah. Like I said,” he leaned forward and tried his best to impersonate a horror-movie narrator. “'No one will believe youuuu'!... And even if he does, everyone’s gonna think he drank waaay too much punch when you show up to graduation unscathed.” He chuckled lightly. 
“I guess that’s true...” You giggled again, but you still had some unspoken frustration toward him that you had to get out. “You know you were super late right?”
“Actually,” He held up a finger to interject. “I came early to set up. Buuut then I had to go back home to get my clothes.”
“Wait, what?” you furrowed your brows in confusion. Despite the mutant turtle's goofball attitude, he actually did put effort into your relationship and would even impress you with what he could come up with with his limited resources. But actually showing up early to get something set up to surprise you? That was unexpected.
He smiled at the look of disbelief on your face and crossed his arms smugly. “I know, I know. I'm an amazing boyfriend and you love very much and are lucky to have someone like me.” He batted his eyes and gave you a big, toothy smile. You shook your head and could not stop the smile that crept on your face. As tempting as it was to give him a hug, you still needed proof. “Woah, you're not off the hook yet,” you wiggled a finger at him. “I still need to see what you got planned. Then I'll decide if you're off the hook.”
Michelangelo followed as you stood up to wipe the dirt and leaves off your orange dress. “Sooo, me saving you from that guy doesn't count?”
“You wouldn't have had to save me if you were here on time though,” you argued light-heartedly. “That's why I gotta see if your set-up was worth it,” you gave him a playful wink before stepping out of the bushes.
“Alright, alright,” he held his hands up in defense and followed you out. Once you were both relatively dirt-free, he gestured toward the school. “So, we're gonna have to go up. Can you maneuver in that?” He nodded at your dress.
You looked down, forgetting that you were even wearing the nice garment and lifted your legs to test your range of motion. “I should be fine as long as we're using a ladder.” You looked up at him in concern, “There is a ladder right?” As cool as it was that he could, literally, jump off walls and climb them with little assistance, it was difficult when you had to follow suit.
A little scoff came out of him and he nodded. “Of course there is! Though...I'll have to give you a boost.” He pointed at the wall, showing you where this ladder was.
It was old but made from sturdy steel; there were only a few blotches of rust from the years of its installment and lead to the roof of the building. Clearly it was meant as an emergency escape route, for the start of the ladder was six feet above the ground to prevent any small children from climbing up and hurting themselves during recess.
You sighed a little, feeling the exhaustion start to overtake the subsiding adrenaline. “Alright. Let's get it over with,” you both started to walk to the ladder and a thought suddenly crossed your mind. You quickly spun around and pointed a finger at his snout. “Don't do anything funny when I'm climbing up. I don't want to slip because you're trying to look up my skirt.”
He laughed nervously as if you had just caught him doing something wrong. “Okay, okay. I promise. I'll at least wait until you're on the roof before doing any funny-business.”
You smiled and prepared yourself for the trek upwards. Before you had met the turtles, heights were on your top ten list of worst fears. After being carried from rooftop-to-rooftop so many times, participating in a mission here-and-there, and even having a close-call after a high fall has hardened your resolve with climbing. Granted you had never climbed anything in a dress before, but you figured as long as you did not look down you would be fine.
Michelangelo knelt down and cupped his hands. Luckily for him, you were wearing flats, making it easier for him to push you upward once you stepped into his palm. You gripped the rough rungs and took a deep breath before making your ascent. After a few feet, you heard Michelangelo mount the ladder to follow after you. Luckily, he was true to his word and did not try to do anything to antagonize you as you climbed.
When you a mere three feet away from the top, you heard the giant turtle leave the ladder and use the windowsills to finish his climb. You paused only for a moment until he had finished his climb before resuming. The last thing you had wanted to do was lose your footing while he was moving around so suddenly. You could only assume he had gone ahead so abruptly to get the rest of his mystery set-up ready. As you neared the top, the sound of slow music reached your ears and a smile began to creep along your face.
When you reached the end, Michelangelo was there to offer you a hand over the ledge. You gladly accepted and you stepped onto the gravel-covered rooftop to see quite the spectacle.
There were tiny lights that one would find in a college freshman's dorm room decorating the emergency door. A few bulbs were missing, but it was hardly noticeable. A large, clean blanket covered the ground with a pizza box and one of Donatello's speakers resting on top of it, still leaving plenty of room for the two of you to sit. You rolled your eyes playfully at the sight of the pizza box, but your warm smile was more than enough to show just how pleased you were.
When you turned to look at him you finally noticed just what he was wearing. Somehow, he had found a tuxedo shirt big enough to fit over his large shell. It was amazing that he had gone through so much effort, but the shirt did look rather silly on him; silly enough for you to snort and giggle at the sight of it. “What? What!?” He asked, thinking he had done something wrong.
“Nuh-nothing,” you said in between giggles, wiping away some stray tears from the corners of your eyes. “It's just...you actually found a shirt big enough for you.” Once the words were out of your mouth you finally started to calm down and stopped laughing.
He blinked in surprise at your answer but was quickly replaced with a sigh of relief. “Oh! Oh good.” He fiddled with his fingers and stared at you with a big grin. “Sooo...you like it?” His grin somehow got wider when he asked.
Any ounce of frustration, annoyance, or anger you had with him faded away. Your heart swelled when you looked at the setup one more time before turning to him. “Mikey, I love it.”
“So, it totally makes up for being late?” He asked.
“Definitely.” You stood on your tiptoes and gave him a kiss on his lips. When you parted, a more upbeat song came on and the mutant turtle seemed to perk up a bit. “Oooh, I love this song!” He took one step forward but stopped himself. “You wanna dance?” He flashed you a charming smile as his hand took hold of yours.
“I thought you'd never ask,” you replied teasingly.
The two of you danced the rest of the night away, ending it with pizza and snuggling together to look at what little stars you could find in the city sky.
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ildannatorp-blog · 5 years
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“The worst part about anything that’s self destructive is that it’s so intimate. You become so close with your addictions and illnesses that leaving them behind is like killing the part of yourself that taught you how to survive.” 
N A M E - Dorian Ruogang A G E - 35 C A R E E R - Editor-In-Chief of the New York Times A F F I L I A T I O N - Unaffiliated
- TEN YEARS FROM NOW, MAKE SURE YOU CAN SAY THAT YOU CHOSE YOUR LIFE, YOU DIDN’T SETTLE FOR IT. -
 Born in New York, to a strict, religious and rich family, Dorian Ruogang was the kind who seemed to have been born with a golden spoon in his mouth. His father was one of the most successful defense attorneys in the city and his mother was an actress. To everyone looking in, it seemed like Ruogang had everything anyone could ever want. But he lived in a world of illusions and his parents made him worth for everything he wanted or needed, all while his parents lived the glamorous life their status granted them. A hard working boy, always studying and trying to do better in everything and to earn what was his. That was something no one saw, living a carefully crafted life, a polished image, albeit false one, that his parents built for him.
Nothing in Ruogang was real, or so it felt like, not his family nor his friends. Everything was deception and lies and from a young age, Ruogang learned that there was only one person he could trust, himself. Living a lonely childhood, he found comfort in words and writing, finding that he was able to express himself freely, as if he was talking to friends. Writing short stories and reading novels became his escape, a way to pass the time between his intense studies. But these weren’t his only hobbits. Finding himself often alone, with parents with didn’t bother about him, Ruogang was able to leave the house without being seen and alcohol became of his best friend at an early age. While others attended parties, daydreamed about homecoming or any other so-called normal teenage activities, he was drinking alone in the dark of the night.
Everything Ruogang wanted, he had to earn it, to work his way from the bottom, as if no one believed he was destined for greatness. Nothing ever seemed to please them, not the good grades, not the special projects or the recognition he got from his peer. It took a while and a lot of heartbreak, but he eventually gave up on his family, on making his parents happy, and started to live for himself. Leaving their house was one of his goal, something he did once he completed his degree. They were too happy to leave him in the dirt, to cast him out, without any financial help. That was the last time he spoke to his parents, neither tried reaching out to the other since then.
Wanting to peruse a career in writing, Ruogang tried his best to write a book, only to discover that he didn’t possess the mind to create captivating work of fiction. He considered running a blog but continue to live off alcohol and petty money wasn’t doable and so he gave up on that idea. Only when he saw an ad for an a position as an assistant for the New York Times did he finally found his path. What started as a mean rather than anything else, an opportunity he took without thinking about it much, evolved quickly into a career. Ruogang rose through the ranks quickly, becoming one of the finest writer for the New York Times, he was able to publish bold and important pieces.
Years of hard work at the newspaper paid off and he was eventually promoted to Editor in-Chief, a convoyed position in such a prestigious paper. It gave him direct access to all the glamorous life New York had to offer. Celebrities, politicians and influential people from all aspect of life wanted to meet him, to be seen with him. He was now someone that could either make you a star or leave you in ashes. While Ruogang loved his work, it came with a price and his mental health took a shoot. Alcohol never left him, a true addict in nature, drugs added to the mix of unhealthy habits he had. It was the price to pay, a mean to an end for him, a way to handle the pressure of his work. Always searching for the biggest story to captivate the public, Ruogang has set his eyes on the Aureum family and their business, the Dannato club knowing that if the rumors of their sinister upbringing were true, they were exactly what he needed to make his career reach a high no one has before. He hired a private detective, someone who would help him uncover all the dirty secrets the family hid, they already exposed the death of the Aureum Matriarch, something that was kept secret until he put it in prints. And that was only the beginning.
- C O N N E C T I O N S -
- Nina Genest -
Ruogang saw Nina’s story on the news and still managed to find her despite her attempt to disappear, he knew she was the one that could help him fight against the Aurerum and promised her money and her name of out the story. Together they already uncovered things that nobody else knew, it was unlikely alliance that was far from perfect and their quest was coming more and more dangerous.
- Abel Delaney -
It wasn’t something Ruogang had planned, falling in love with the man who professionally dedicated his life to bring down the bad guy. Yet, he still manages to keep secrets from Abel, like his own personal quest of bringing down the Dannato club hoping the only time the police will get involved are when it’s time to make an arrest, other than that, he doesn’t want Abel anywhere near that club.
- Celeste Chopra -
Whenever his parents did speak with Ruogang, it was always about Celeste. Both their families tried to pushed them together when in reality they had no romantic feelings for one another. Over the years the two have become very close friends, even treating each other like family. Celeste has found his drugs, but she has no idea what she’s talking about. He’s fine, he can handle himself.
Dorian Ruogang (Lewis Tan) is played by Nicole (she/her, gmt)
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