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sailorbellewrites · 3 years

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Jawbreaker

characters — taehyung x reader (aka kiddo) (ft. members of bts)

summary — taehyung thinks dating you is easy and it is, until it isn’t. then he doesn’t know what to do.

wordcount — 8.3k

information — one shot. fluff. femme reader. character inspired by megan thee stallion, cardi b, and lil’ kim. direct sequel to more than you can chew. makes references to no limit. part of the baking news au.

warnings — strong language. mean & aggressive characters. casual mentions of sex and sexual behavior (but no smut because i’m shy). light angst. excessive mentions of the color pink. vague mentions of other celebrities and influencers.

author’s note — i meant to post this months ago, but it just didn’t want to get written. it was actually meant to be attached to more than you can chew, but it just would have been a beast of a story. i actually rewrote this part roughly three times and i am sure there are still some editing mistakes. i’m so sorry for the long wait. i’m not very happy with the final product. i promise the next story will be better.

jawbreaker —

Taehyung really likes you.

It’s not a secret. Everyone knows it. He would shout it from the rooftops if you let him—though you would never let him do such a thing. You were certainly the cooler head when it came to relationship intensity, knowing that if Taehyung had his way, you would be married already. “Oh my god, it’s only been five months,” you once told him in response to a picture of an engagement ring he had saved on his phone. It was a typical Tuesday night date, taking place in your studio as you fiddled with the hook of a track technically meant for Hoseok. “Calm down, lover boy.”

“It’s been almost six months and I just asked if you liked it,” he had replied with a small pout, pulling your chair away from your monitor and closer to where he was sitting on the loveseat. “Isn’t it good for me to know what you like?”

“We’re not there yet,” you replied simply, shaking your head at the way he rolled his eyes at you, as though you were the one being ridiculous.

“I might as well know everything now, so I don’t mess up later. Right?” He questioned, grabbing your left hand in his and fiddling with your ring finger.

“If we make it that far,” you muttered, laughing lightly when he pinches you for your words.

“Answer the question. Do you like it?”

“Hmm…” you hum out, a small smirk settling on your face. “I think you can do better.”

Taehyung thinks he’s in love with you.

That is a secret. No one knows it. He would shout it from the rooftops if he were sure about it—sure that you would reciprocate his feelings, sure that you loved him back; but he’s not too sure. You were almost too cool when it came to the relationship, never going above and beyond the most basic of expectations. You answered every text, showed up to every date on time, and referred to him as “the boyfriend” on a few of your Instagram posts not related to music, but that was about it. And yes, his boss Seokjin had told him that you were putting in more than enough effort for a relatively new relationship, but Taehyung still found himself craving for more.

“But what more could she give you?” Seokjin asks during closing one night, his own soon-to-be fianceé (if everything went according to plan) mopping up the front of the bakery. Seokjin flips chairs on the top of tables, while Taehyung wipes down the now empty display racks. It’s a team effort that allows Taehyung to leave earlier, something he is always grateful for because he can spend more time with you. “Like do you want her to write a song about you?”

“I mean, yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“Just something, you know? Something more than studio dates and donuts. I feel like that’s all we ever do. What do you think, Noona? Am I asking for too much?” Taehyung questions, directing his words to the older woman up front.

She stops her mopping and shrugs, leaning against a wall as she mulls over her answer. Her eyes go towards Seokjin as finally states, “I’d have to agree with Jin. But we have half of our dates in the kitchen after hours, so maybe we’re the wrong people to ask.” Taehyung sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “If you’re not feeling satisfied, though, you should just talk to her about it. You know what they say, communication is key.”

“I don’t know how she would feel about that,” he replies, imagining just how easy it would be for you to misunderstand him or write him off as needy—though he didn’t exactly think being needy for you was a problem.

“Aww, don’t be like that. You never know what she might say. She could surprise you.”

At this time, Seokjin flips the last chair on top of its table and moves toward his girlfriend with a cheesy grin. “Wow, what is this mess? You call this mopping? Have you ever mopped before? Have you ever held a mop before? If you needed help from a master cleaner like me, you could have just asked sweetheart,” he teases, grabbing the mop from her hand and pressing a sloppy kiss to her forehead.

His girlfriend cringes away from the kiss for a moment, but ends up leaning into the man nonetheless as she whispers, “You get what you pay for.”

He scoffs. “I don’t pay you.”

“Exactly,” she replies smugly, hand going up to pick dried frosting off of her boyfriend’s collar. Seokjin lets out a choked laugh, arm slipping around her shoulders and pressing her into a too tight hug. She pretends to struggle against him for a bit, before eventually wrapping both her arms around his waist and squeezing just as tightly.

Taehyung watches the silly display of affection with wide eyes, warmth flooding into his heart. The two people in front of him were so clearly in love that he couldn’t help but feel it too. It was plain as day. This behavior wasn’t something he was often able to do with you though. Taehyung understands well that no matter what he did or said to you, your responses would always be carefully calculated. He respects how methodical you are in the way you carry yourself, as though you are afraid something could go wrong at any moment. He knows it’s not easy, which is why his admiration for your handling of relationships in a notoriously cut throat industry grew almost everyday.

Yes, Taehyung knows he loves you.

Yet, as he watches the way Seokjin and his girlfriend begin to playfully fight over the mop, an intense love in their eyes, Taehyung finds himself wishing that you would let go and love him too.

People don’t always believe that you’re a rapper. They tend to assume that you’re Hoseok’s girlfriend or a groupie when they meet you, failing to make the connection that you’re the infamous Kiddo until they see you on stage. You know why, of course. You’re the only woman in your crew, you’re nowhere near as popular as the other guys, and you don’t dress like a rapper. Or at least, that’s what Yoongi told you one night as you shared a cigarette behind the bar after a performance.

“It’s the biggest thing holding you back,” he mumbled, the cigarette between his lips looking like it would slip out at any moment. You knew it wouldn’t, but you still eyed it carefully just in case. Attempting to quit had made you hyperaware of its presence, but you knew Yoongi wouldn’t let it drop. He was always so in control—one of many things about him that you envied. “You look like you’re ready to fuck at the drop of a dime.”

“Maybe I am,” you had grumbled back, eyes still on the cigarette. His words were trying your patience, though you didn’t know if your irritation was caused by their truthfulness or your desire to smoke. “Do you have a problem? Cause I can solve it for you.”

“I don’t care if you dress like a whore,” he snapped at you. “Goddamn, you’re being a bitch tonight. Here, take this!” He snatched his half smoked cigarette out of his own mouth in annoyance, shoving it at you. You accepted it happily, choosing to ignore his insults in favor of savoring in your relapse.

You had long ago realized that most of the men around you would never understand how you dressed. The clothes you wore for performances and photoshoots were provocative to say the least. Vibrantly colored lingerie, leather, lace, and heels most others would deem too tall for comfort littered your closet. Your hair was always meticulously styled and your nails were always done in extravagant fashion. You made sure that your outfits highlighted as much of your body as possible, keeping all eyes on you. It was a far cry from the hoodies and occasional leather jackets sported by your friends, but you didn’t care. Your clothes made you feel powerful. The image you had constructed and thoroughly maintained worked to push your career further, making you stand out in the sea of sameness that had become common for the rappers around you. But those in your circle never see it that way.

Taehyung does, though. Taehyung watches with rapt attention as you show him the new pieces you buy, listening carefully as you explain why certain tops have to be paired with certain bottoms for maximum effect. He wordlessly takes pictures of you with various filters and backgrounds, never complaining when you ask him to take more because you don’t think they are good enough. He doesn’t tease you when you get cold from the lack of fabric, nor does he yell at you when you have unfortunate wardrobe malfunctions like the guys. Instead, he offers you his sweaters or quickly adjusts your clothes before you can even notice the problems. Taehyung knows just how important your image is to you.

Or at least, you thought he did.

“What?” You question, tone edging on impatient as his reflection continues to stare you down in the mirror. You refuse to turn around and face him physically, trying to keep your focus on the highlight you’re attempting to apply in the inner corner of your eye without poking yourself. The tension in your small bathroom is suffocating, but you don’t want to act on it. An argument is the last thing you need.

“I always watch you do your makeup,” Taehyung answers robotically, eyes still on you.

“Yeah, but—”

“But?” He cuts you off, making you pause your motions in shock. He’s angry and you don’t know why. It puts you both in unfamiliar territory. While Taehyung has seen you angry a million and one times over small things relating to music, venues, promoters, and fans, you cannot say the same for him. The angriest he had ever gotten in front of you came when he suddenly had to pick up extra shifts at the bakery because a coworker had caused a car accident and that moment was nothing like this.

“Can you just stop fucking looking at me like that? I’m trying to concentrate.”

He lets out a tense laugh of disbelief at your words before exiting your bathroom and moving to sit on the small couch in your living room. He’s not surprised to find you following him less than a minute later—you were never one to back down from a fight and you both were in the beginning stages of one. When you position yourself directly in front of him, he drops his head to hands and averts his eyes to the floor in a desperate attempt to calm himself down.

“What crawled up your ass and died tonight?” You ask.

“Go finish your makeup,” he requests quietly, words stilted as he refuses to look up at you.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothi—”

“It’s not nothing. Don’t lie to me. You can’t even look at me right now.”

Taehyung’s head shoots up at your words, jaw clenching as he realizes his efforts to stay calm were futile because he can’t look at you without feeling another wave of anger crash over him. “Your outfit,” he bites out.

“My outfit?” You parrot back to him in sarcastic disbelief. “You’re staring at me like I fucked your best friend and murdered your mom over… an outfit?”

“You might as well have,” he mumbles under his breath, before stating a bit louder, “It’s lingerie.”

He says it as though it’s obvious, but it’s not to you. “I-I… a-are you serious?” You stutter out, mind still trying to process his words. Taehyung doesn’t verbally respond, choosing to move his eyes back to the floor instead. You wrack your brain for the right thing to say, because what you actually want to say would likely lead to a breakup and you absolutely don’t want that to happen. You feel as though you’ve been transported into a particularly cruel episode of The Twilight Zone, where you watch your perfect boyfriend turn into one of your evil exes right before your eyes. “I… I wear lingerie for shows all the time. You’ve never had a problem before this. Hell, this covers more of me than what I was wearing earlier today. You didn’t seem to mind then.”

“It’s different.”

“How?” You shout out, frustration evident in your tone.

“You wore that for me a month ago,” he replies, looking up at you incredulously. His blood began to boil the moment you opened your apartment door, immediately realizing that you had planned to perform in the black lace set. You were even wearing the same black and gold heels with it. He knew for a fact that you bought the lingerie for him, a slightly belated birthday present given to him in your studio. You made him cum as many times as it took to get tears running down his face, then took him to your place and cooked him his favorite food for dinner. He almost told you he loved you then, but decided against it lest you believed he was exaggerating his appreciation for your actions. It was the single most sentimental thing you had done for him in your relationship thus far and you knew just how sentimental Taehyung could get. In his mind, you should have known better than to think that he would want to share any part of that night with the world.

You look down at your clothes, eyes acknowledging that it was indeed the set you purchased with his birthday in mind. It took you hours to find, trudging through the bitter cold to four different lingerie stores before you settled on it. However, you still didn’t see the problem. “So what? It’s not like it has your cum stains on it or anything.”

“God, do you always have to be—don’t be crude right now. I’m being serious,” he grits out, feeling intensely out of control.

“Well what would you prefer I say?” You ask, exasperation heavy in your tone. You feel tired and annoyed, knowing this argument might affect your performance later in the night.

“I want you to say that you’ll change.”

“No,” you reply after a beat, a dark laugh surrounding the word, though it lacks any humor. “No fucking way. I’m not changing.” You couldn’t believe that he was asking you to do such a thing. It wasn’t the first time that a person you were dating had made such a request—in fact, your ex had made the request often and it was equally as often ignored. However, it was the first time Taehyung had asked you to change and all you could feel was hurt. You couldn’t believe he fell so easily into the simple trap of insecurity that had tainted your previous relationships. “Look, unless you have a real reason for me to change, you’re just gonna have to get over yourself.”

“I just gave you a real reason,” he stresses bitterly. “And if you cared about me at all—”

“It’s not about caring for you, Tae! They are just clothes. They don’t do anything, but sit on my body and make me feel good. You, of all people, know that. It’s stupid to as—”

“It’s not stupid to ask you to keep some things private!” He yells, up on his feet with a fire raging in his eyes. You can feel your heart beating hard in your chest, nerves getting the better of you because you aren’t used to this level of rage from him. It’s a feeling both too familiar and too uncomfortable at the same time. It was everything you didn’t want in another relationship and everything Taehyung had promised not to be through his sweet words and actions—and yet you found yourself back there again. “You’re not wearing regular clothes or basic lingerie you buy just to perform in. You bought that specifically for me! You had sex with me in that. So now everyone at your show and everyone who follows you online is going to know exactly what you look like when you fuck me. I didn’t sign up to share that part of my life with the whole goddamn world!”

His rant finishes in a roar, the last sentence screamed so loudly that the final words come out hoarse and broken. His eyes are rimmed red, but he continues to stand tall, bracing himself as he expects you to respond in kind.

You don’t.

Rather, he watches you take a large step back and whisper, “Get out.”

“What?” He responds dumbly, unable to fully comprehend your words. It wasn’t in your nature to extinguish fights so completely, preferring to keep going until disagreements had naturally run their course or threats of violence had been made. You never walked away and you certainly never let others walk away. This was different. This hurt.

“You don’t get to yell at me over clothes. You don’t get to yell at me, period. So get out.”

You watch as Taehyung takes in the full meaning of your words, opening his mouth briefly as though he wants to argue more, but closing it again. Giving you a rough nod, you can do nothing but watch as he grabs his jacket, slips on his shoes, and exits your apartment, slamming the door in his wake.

Eight days. Eight long days. Eight miserable days. Eight long, miserable days of Taehyung slowly losing his mind. You had not spoken to him or seen him in eight days. Every single attempt he made to contact you was ignored. If it weren’t for read receipts and the fact that you had kept all the pictures of him up on your Instagram, he would have assumed that you were broken up. Although, at this point, he would have preferred a break up. At least, he could have made moves to win you back. This current situation left him stuck with nowhere to go.

“What do I do?”

“Well you can start,” Namjoon states, setting a pastel pink mug engraved with his wedding date down in front of his friend, “by drinking that.” Taehyung stares at the clear liquid inside of the cup curiously before shrugging his shoulders and taking a swig. His tongue instantly curls back into his mouth as his taste buds are assaulted by a strong, bitter flavor. He slams the mug back down on the coffee table with a gag. Namjoon lets out a chuckle at his reaction, sitting down beside him with a matching mug of his own. “Drink slow.”

“Is this vodka?”

“A strong drink for strong business,” Namjoon responds, taking a sip of whatever he has poured into his own cup. Namjoon had invited him over at the end of his shift, taking note of how much Taehyung had been moping around the shop. His mood was bad for business, apparently, and Namjoon was the ultimate fixer when it came to those sorts of things. “Now I think I know what happened, but can you tell me your side of things again?”

Taehyung throws his head back, staring at the ceiling as he recounts the argument once more. It’s all he’s been able to think about, hyper focusing on every sour facial expression and negative word you said. It makes his heart hurt; he misses you. “And then she told me to get out, so I did. I haven’t spoken to her since.”

“Ouch. How long has it been?”

“Eight long days and counting.”

“Damn, I guess she knows how to hold a grudge. Good for her,” Namjoon comments with a light laugh, as though he was impressed by your actions. Taehyung wants to scream, but he settles for a deep scowl. “But I really don’t think you have anything to worry about Tae. She still claims that she is very much taken. You aren’t broken up or anything.”

“I just want her to talk to me,” Taehyung whines, hands running through his hair in distress. “Ugh, I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed and just fought it out.” Namjoon laughs at his words, but Taehyung continues, “I keep listening to her songs just to hear her voice, but it’s not enough. I don’t want Kiddo saying she’ll fuck me to sleep, I only want her.”

Namjoon snorts, nudging his younger friend with his shoulder. “That’s so stupid, Tae. You know you can’t have one without the other. They are the same person. If you keep separating her into different parts in your head, the two of you are gonna keep having these problems.”

Taehyung hums out a confused note. “What do you mean?”

“Your girlfriend is kind of like a jawbreaker.”

Taehyung grunts, reaching for his mug again. “Listen, if you’re about to describe all the ways she’s going to keep hurting me, don’t bother. Jungkook already did that—twice. And it was worse the second time around.”

“I mean the candy,” Namjoon starts, pausing to take another sip of his drink as he contemplates the best way to continue. Taehyung thinks Namjoon is the only other person in the world whose way with words rivals your own. He speaks with a certain amount of care and consideration that make Taehyung jealous. Perhaps, if he were more like Namjoon, he wouldn’t be in this mess. “A jawbreaker is this candy ball that’s really popular abroad,” he continues. “They are huge, big, and sweet—but hard. You can’t bite through them like normal candy. You’ll break your teeth or dislocate your jaw if you try, thus the name jawbreaker. If you want to eat it and enjoy it, you have to suck it down.”

“If this turns into some sex thing, I swear to god—”

“It’s a metaphor, you pervert. Keep up.” Namjoon chastises.

“You’re the pervert,” Taehyung mutters gruffly under his breath, taking a long swig of the vodka in his cup. “Fine. Continue.”

“Jawbreakers have different layers and flavors. The more you suck on it, the more layers you’ll get to experience; but at the end of the day, it’s still all the same candy.”

“I hate this metaphor.”

“You hate it because you don’t understand it,” the older man says sagely, giving his friend a slow head tilt. “It’s really quite simple if you think about it.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Just spit it out, Joon!”

“She’s a sweet girl, Tae. You and I both know that. You approached her because you were attracted to her, but you stayed because she’s obviously more than a pretty face. She’s just not always going to be that easy to digest though—at least not all the time. Sometimes you might get the layer that cooked you dinner for your birthday and other times you might get the layer that thinks nearly nude bar fights are appropriate. It’s still the same candy, just like it’s still the same girl. You have to take your time with her like you would a jawbreaker.”

Taehyung’s ears perk up at Namjoon’s words, panic shooting through him as he questions, “Did she get into a naked fight?”

“Last year. It didn’t start nak—don’t worry about it.”

Taehyung places his cup back on the table, dropping his head forward with a deep sigh. “So you’re saying I just… have to wait this out until she’s ready to be with me again?”

“Well she hasn’t technically left you yet.”

“And you’re sure there is nothing else I can do? There’s nothing here that I’m missing? I don’t want to wait anymore. I just want to be with her.”

“I know that, but if you want to be with her, you just have to accept who she is. Don’t think she’ll change or come running back to you just because you do something extravagant. She’s not gonna suddenly see your point of view or be rescued from her own bad judgement. You’re not actually her hero, Tae. That’s not how life works.”

“Things are fine when she’s not wrapped up in her whole Kiddo persona—”

Namjoon cut him off with an annoyed groan, shaking his head roughly. “You’re not getting it. You say you want to be with her, right? That means you want to be with all of her, including all the shitty ‘Kiddo’ flavors and colors that go along with it.”

“But—”

“Kiddo isn’t just a persona. It’s her. And if you don’t like it, maybe you don’t need to be with her.”

Taehyung wants to argue back, but can’t find the resolve to do so as guilt and shame begin to settle in his chest. He never consciously thought that his favorite parts of you were separate from your rap identity, but he couldn’t fight Namjoon’s words. While he respected the more sexually aggressive side that came with your career, he clearly adored the soft and sweet side of you more. He wonders, glumly, if he’s treated you differently because of his preference, only to be crushed by the realization that the argument proved he had been.

“I’m in love with her,” Taehyung murmurs quietly, making Namjoon sit up. Everyone knew Taehyung’s feelings for you were strong, but no one expected love to be in the cards. Sure, it had been closing in on a year in terms of a relationship, but on the outside looking in, things still appeared fairly casual between the two of you. Your behavior from day one hadn’t changed at all.

“Is that right? Are you sure?”

Taehyung nods, words coming out like a stream of conscious thoughts. “I love her. I’ve known for months. It’s just sometimes… I feel like I get more Kiddo than I do—I mean you’re right, they’re the same person, she’s just one person. I just wanted something that didn’t have to be a part of her image for once. I was never trying to control her or separate her, but I just…” He stops when he can no longer think of what to say, leaning back into the couch with his eyes going up to the ceiling.

“I know,” Namjoon states suddenly, “and she knows too. She’s not innocent in all of this. I told her as much when I saw her.”

This information shocks Taehyung. “You spoke to her?” The older man hums an affirmative sound and nods. “When?”

“A few days ago. She came into the bakery.”

“She came in?” Taehyung asks, voice increasing in pitch as he turns to fully face Namjoon. “Where was I? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Calm down, Tae. You were off. She just wanted donuts, but didn’t want to see you,” he answers with a mild shrug. “It’s probably better that you weren’t there. Jungkook refused to serve her and then Hoseok started arguing with him and threats started flying—it was a mess.” Taehyung groans, knowing that if anything, Jungkook’s actions only made you more angry at him. “But Jin and I were able to calm things down.”

“Do I even want to know what she said?”

“To Jungkook? A lot. Your girl has a hell of a mouth on her. I haven’t heard some of the words she used in years. Seokjin was blushing.” Taehyung lets out a sad laugh, thoughts racing with all the possible things you could have said. Part of him wished he was able to hear all the things you had uttered and seen the shocked look on people’s faces, but he supposed it was better that he wasn’t around. “But to me?” Namjoon continued, “Not much. Things involving your sex life should be private. It’s just going to cause problems in the future if she keeps trying to bring it to the stage. She knows better.”

“So you told her I was right?”

“You were both wrong,” Namjoon replies smoothly. “You shouldn’t have tried to force her hand and she shouldn't have crossed that line. Neither of you were thinking of each other. You can’t be selfish in a relationship.” There is a beat of silence, Namjoon’s statement lingering in the air for a moment. “I know how some people feel about her, but I actually like you two together. In all the years that I’ve known her, I don’t think she’s ever been with someone who cares about her like you do.” Taehyung can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips, nodding slowly at Namjoon’s words. “Just give her a little bit more time. Things will work out.”

He looks at you like he’s seen a ghost. He feels like he’s seen a ghost. It’s been ten days.

“Hi,” you say quietly. You come off as shy, eyes bouncing around the displays, but never settling directly on Taehyung even though he’s right across from you. It feels odd, not at all like how your relationship normally functions. Any other day would have found you leaning the entire upper half of your body on the counter, throwing out suggestive quips as you ordered in an attempt to make Taehyung stutter. Your current lack of confidence is startling, causing Taehyung to stare at you for a few seconds longer than normal as he searches for any changes in your face, hair, and shape. It’s only been ten days, but he knows just how much can change in ten days. Relief floods through his system when comes to find that—physically—you look just as he expects you to.

Finally, he breathes out an equally gentle, “Hi, stranger.”

The tease hits you harder than he intended it to, with your back straightening out and eyes narrowing. “I’m a stranger now?”

“Well, I haven’t seen you in ten days…” he trails off, the sarcastic lilt to his tone making you visibly bristle with discontent.

You should have expected the cold shoulder, given how long you had gone without speaking to him. You needed more time to process than you realized and going to your friends didn’t help. To say opinions were divided on the matter was an understatement. Some people were disgusted by what you wore, while others were furious with Taehyung’s behavior. You were most surprised by Hoseok, who normally sided with you when it came to relationship troubles. This time, however, he turned his nose up at your outfit choice and referred to the various ways Taehyung had attempted to reach out to you as “pathetic and underserved.” Yoongi had no strong opinions one way or the other, but his fianceé had plenty to say (which only served to rile you up again). She couldn’t believe how serious his demands were and how easily he left your house. She wondered, quite loudly, where the sweet and perfect Taehyung had gone.

But it was actually Namjoon’s words that dealt a huge blow to your ego. He dressed you down in a way that only he could, never raising his voice or calling you names, but calmly explaining all of your missteps to you until you felt smaller than a coffee cup. His final words had been running around your head for days: “I know it’s not what you’re used to, but sometimes it pays to be soft. You can’t have a successful relationship if you’re going to be so hard all the time.”

Thinking of his words once again, you inhale slowly to calm the little fires building in your heart. “I’m sorry for that,” you start, taking another deep breath before continuing by saying, “I shouldn’t have ignored you. It was wrong.”

Taehyung takes in a shocked breath of his own at your apology. He had expected a bit more pushback or an apology without actually saying the words. You were never one to easily admit when you were wrong, your pride being too strong for such casual admittances of guilt. Your repentance most often came in the form of covering drink tabs or ordering food. This sort of softness was new to him and all he could feel was thankful.

Leaning over the counter, he grabs your hand in his own and presses a gentle kiss to the back of it, smiling widely when you don’t pull away. “I’m really sorry too. I mean it. I know I must have told you a hundred times already, but I cr—”

“It’s okay,” you stop him, squeezing his hand gently so that he knows you are serious. “Namjoon said that we’re both idiots. We’ve said our sorries and I want to just leave it at that.”

Taehyung lets out a short chuckle at your words, pressing another kiss to the back of your hand because he finally gets to hold it again. “ Well, I would never call you an idiot. I’m more than ready to leave things be if you are. I really, really missed you.”

“I—”

“Hey Tae, can you help out in the bac—oh!” You let go of Taehyung’s hands quickly as he turns to find Jungkook standing in the kitchen doorway, a tray of bread in his hands and his eyes locked on your in a fierce glare. “You really came back here? What? Was there nobody to free off of at the Krispy Kreme?” He questions, audacity laced through his words. It was clear that there was no love lost between the two of you.

You roll your eyes dramatically, spitting out, “Bite me, bread bitch.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows raise at your insult, visibly tensing up. He opens his mouth to retaliate, Taehyung sharply states, “Don’t start!” Jungkook’s jaw locks in frustration, eyes shooting to his coworker in anger, but Taehyung keeps going. “Not right here and not right now. Seokjin will kill us. Bite each other’s heads off later, outside of the shop. Please!” Although there were very few people in the bakery, it was beginning to gain a small reputation amongst the older crowd for being a place for “rough housers;” Seokjin and Namjoon would crawl into individual balls and die if another incident occurred.

Jungkook clicks his tongue in annoyance, but otherwise relents, quickly placing the tray on the counter. “Hurry up and finish whatever this is. There’s a big takeout order of macarons that we need to get finished before five.” Taehyung nods in affirmation, a pleading look in his eyes that appeases Jungkook enough to send him back into the kitchen.

“I fucking hate him,” you grumble as soon as the younger man disappears through the door.

Taehyung turns to face you, reaching for your hand again only to find that you have shoved both of them in the pockets of your coat. “He’s just over protective, that’s all. You should have seen him when he found out who his sister was dating. Once you get to know him, you’ll se—”

“I don’t want to get to know him,” you state matter-of-factly. “He’s an idiot who thinks I’m using you for fucking donuts. Honestly, who would risk falling in love for donuts? They’re good, but they’re not that good. You can buy donuts anywhere.”

Taehyung stiffens, mouth dropping open in shock as he takes in the full implication of your words. Did you love him too? You had never said anything even mildly similar to him. You didn’t talk about your feelings for him unless pressed and even then your answers were short. Confessions of desire and attraction were saved for intimate moments in your studio or his apartment, where no one but Taehyung could hear them. Even then, they were often cushioned between jokes that led to him scolding you, telling to stop pretending that you didn’t like him. You never seemed close to confessing love, but your words made it appear as though you had been in love with him all along.

“Did you just… say you love me?” He questions quickly, mind still reeling.

“Huh” You question, the confusion that washes across your features slowly melting away as you come to realize the implication of your words. It doesn’t surprise Taehyung when you mutter, “I didn’t say that,” but his heart drops to the bottom of his stomach anyway. The small flame of hope he carried in his heart extinguished momentarily, as he mentally kicked himself for getting his hopes up. He was lucky you were even talking to him again—a declaration of love was just ridiculous. Life wasn’t a hallmark movie. He didn’t know what he was thinking.

Biting back his disappointment, Taehyung swallows before replying, “I misunderstood. That’s not even what you were talking about.” You blink slowly at his words, eyes shining as though you have something to say; however, you just end up biting your lip and casting your gaze down. “Just… please don’t even think about Kook, okay?” Taehyung pleads, wanting nothing more than to grab you in a hug or kiss your cheek to get the physical reassurance that things were completely okay between the two of you. Instead, he settles on asking, “Can I see you after work tonight? I get off at six and I can bring you some takeout.”

You break into a small smile, nodding your head once. “Bring a donut and some hot chocolate and you have a deal.”

You really like Taehyung.

It’s not a secret. Everyone knows it. You would write about him in all of your songs if you could—though, of course, you could never do such a thing. You didn’t want to subject Taehyung to that type of scrutiny, knowing all too well how many problems came along with dating a rapper when they weren’t waxing poetic about their relationships on tracks. People ate up those types of songs, only to place severe judgements on the rapper’s partner as though they were an expert. “You never talk about me in your songs,” he once told you, referencing a song called “Fiancé” that had been released by one of your friends. It was a typical Tuesday night date, taking place during closing time in Baking News as Taehyung mopped the floor around your feet. He taps your legs lightly with the edge of his shoe. “Isn’t that kind of weird?”

“It’s too much work,” you had replied, kicking your feet up so he could mop underneath them. He thanks you quietly, quickly getting to work so that you can lower your feet once more. “People are gonna read too much into it and make all of our lives a living hell. Just as Yoongi.”

“So you’re never gonna write about me?” He questioned jokingly, setting the mop to the side to hover over your seated form.

“I write about you,” you quickly retorted, craning your head up to look at him. He leans down and places a small peck on your lips, going in for a second with a small hum. “It’s just for my eyes and ears only.”

“Don’t you think I deserve to see?” He said, standing again to resume his task. From the kitchen, you hear the telltale sign of metal pans dropping. It’s followed by a loud, yet muffled “fuck” from Seokjin and the laughter is his girlfriend.

“I don’t think you’ll like all the things I have to say about you, lover boy.”

“Hmm…” he hums in a mocking way, facing away from you as he works on a particular sticky patch on the floor. “I’m going to disagree with you there. I like everything about you, even the cheesy love songs you write about me.”

“Who said the songs I write about you are love songs?” You quip, making him turn to you quickly and point the edge of the mop at you accusingly.

“Stop pretending that you don’t like me!”

You think you love Taehyung.

That is a secret. No one knows it. You would write about it in all of your songs if you were sure about it—sure that he would reciprocate your feelings, sure that he wouldn’t leave you high and dry when the going got tough and things had to happen that he didn’t like. But you weren’t sure; relationships were always a gamble and you knew the stressors would only grow when your career really took off. One wrong outfit choice had Taehyung turning into your exes right before your eyes. It made you wonder what would happen if you did the wrong collaboration or wrote the wrong lyrics. You tried your best to make it clear to Taehyung that you didn’t want to be in yet another awful relationship filled with fights and arguments, but it seemed like a real possibility regardless of your efforts. It was a tough pill to swallow.

And yet, as you stared at the lanky man seated on your couch, watching as he tried to sneak yet another picture of you wearing the custom, pink bunny ear headphones he got you for Christmas, you knew that you didn’t want to let him go.

“Put the phone away!”

“Just smile for me one time.”

“Stop.”

“I haven’t taken a picture of you in almost two weeks. My Instagram story is dying without. Let me take a picture.” He leans closer, laughing when you move to smack his phone on the floor, but miss.

You groan deeply, shaking your head at his antics. “It was not two weeks. You’re so goddamn dramatic.” You find yourself smiling for him nonetheless, legitimately laughing at him as he moves his phone around to catch you at different angles. After about 10 clicks of the camera shutter, you move to knock the phone away again. “Cut it out, Tae.”

“I’m not finished,” he whines out, though he still continues clicking away.

“Who died and made you paparazzi?”

“I’m better than the paparazzi. I’m your number one fan,” he murmurs, pushing your arms away from his phone. “You gotta get used to this, especially if you’re gonna be the number one rhyme killer in Korea.” He explains, bringing up a potential new tag Hoseok had come up with a few weeks ago.

“That’s more than enough for your Instagram story.”

He huffs in faux annoyance, leaning back on the love seat to scroll through all the pictures he took. “These aren’t even for my Instagram,” he reveals, tone still playful. “It’s for me only. I’m the only one who deserves to see you this cute. I gotta at least have that to myself.” You scoff loudly at this, anger filling your chest instantly. You know that he only means it as a joke, not realizing exactly what he was insinuating with his words—but it still stings, the wound from your previous fight not completely healed. “What’s wrong?” He questions, only to panic when you let out an annoyed grunt and turn around in your chair. It takes it a moment to click in his head, and then he’s sitting up, dropping his phone and pulling at your chair to try and turn you back around. “Baby, it was a joke. I promise, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just saying that I wasn’t going to put them on social media. Nothing more.”

“I didn’t know studio time had to be kept private too,” you reply sarcastically, planting your feet firmly on the floor to resist Taehyung’s actions.

“I didn’t mean that. Come here,” he says, pulling you with more strength until you’re facing him again. “Don’t be mad at me. You know how I feel about you. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

You shake your head, trying to remember Namjoon’s words and not start another argument. You fight to keep your voice level as you say, “Sometimes I think I know how you feel, but then you say things like that and I start to question your intentions.”

Taehyung is silent for a moment, eyes busily searching your face for something, though you cannot tell if he finds it. He reaches for both of your hands, cradling them in his gently as though they will break in any moment. “Don’t say things like that. You know my intentions and you know exactly how I feel.”

“I don—”

“I’m in love with you,” he interrupts you, squeezing your hands in his when he realizes what he’s confessed. You’re mildly shocked by his words, eyes widening like saucers. He takes your silence as rejection and starts to ramble. “If you don’t love me back, it’s okay. I’m not… you know I’ve been attracted to you for a long time, so of course I’d fall faster than you. But I can wait for you to fall in love with me too. I waited for months for you to even accept going on a date with me, so you know I’m patient. Just don’t question my intentions, I only want the be—”

“If you love me, then why do you want to have me all to yourself?” You question, voice meek.

He furrows his brows, irritation painting his features before they soften once more. “That’s not… I don’t want to keep you all to myself. That’s not even possible. You’re Kiddo,” he teases lightly, “Loved by everyone and belonging to no one.”

“But, obviously you want to keep certain parts of under wraps. For your eyes only, you know? And I just don’t get how you can say that you love me, but you want to control me like this.”

He sighs deeply, head falling forward as he admits, “It’s just… we don’t have anything, you know? We don’t have a single thing that we do that’s just our thing. Dates in the studio, hanging out in the bakery, watching old movies on my couch, even sex now—it’s all things we do other people too. And I know, I really know that your career comes first right now. I just sometimes want… more.”

You bite your lip, Namjoon’s words once again becoming prominent in your head. Removing your hands from Taehyung’s, you spin around in your chair to face your desk. Taehyung tries to stop you once more, his argument falling on deaf ears as you quickly grab the pink notebook sitting and hand it to him. “Look through it,” you order.

He stares at the book in his hand, knowing exactly what it is, but still unsure as to why you gave it to him. “Baby, what’s in here?”

“You said you want more. There is it,” you answer, before turning back around to face your monitor. The sound of pages turning makes you anxious, so you slip your headphones on and load up a messy track that you had been having trouble with. Time passes by slowly and your heart can’t stop fluttering as you think about all of the pages he has to look through and all of the words he has to read. Taehyung is thorough. He’ll give each page the time it deserves, regardless of how nervous you feel. Time ticks on. You turn up the volume on your headphones.

You do not know for certain how many minutes have passed when your headphones are suddenly knocked off of your ears; all that you know is when you turn around to berate him for his act, his lips are covering yours in a harsh kiss. You only briefly return the kiss, pushing against his chest to get him off of you, though he only moves an inch away from your face. “You’re in love with me,” he accuses wryly, a big smile on his face. His hands settle on your waist, squeezing gently in delight.

“If you tell anyone I let you read that, I’ll kill you,” you respond, though you can’t get the tone of your voice to reflect your words. His happiness is contagious and you can feel yourself soften in his embrace. “I’m serious, Tae. No one is allowed to read that notebook.” Your lyric notebook was something you kept to yourself, only sharing a select few pages with those around you when you were going to lay down vocals. For your eyes and ears only. Sharing it in its entirety with Taehyung was already a big step, never mind what you actually had written in there.

“But, wait. What are the numbers for?”

“What numbers?” You feign confusion.

“The numbers on the last page of the book.” You roll your eyes at his words and he nudges his nose against yours. “No time for lies now, I already know that you’re in love with me.”

“Days without cigarettes,” you mumble. His smile somehow becomes even wider, so large that you think his face might split in two. “I swear to god, Taehyung, if you tell any of the guys about this, I’m gonna beat the shit out of you myself.”

“I love you and you love me and you write love songs about me,” he teases. He hoists you up to your feet, pulling you into his body and wrapping his arms around you. You follow his lead, burying your face in his chest. “You’re even quitting smoking for me. How did I get so lucky to have a woman who loves me so much?”

“Stop it,” you whine, face flushing with embarrassment.

“Stop pretending that you don’t love me,” he whispers, hands moving up to cup your face gently. The way he looks at you reminds you of your first date. It leaves you completely vulnerable. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Donuts and hot chocolate and lyric notebooks. That’s our thing. Nobody else can share those with you or me. Deal?”

“Deal!” He agrees quickly, leaning down as though he’s about to kiss you, but stopping short just before his lips press against yours. “I knew you were a softy,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your lips before you can reply. You allow yourself to enjoy it.

#taehyung scenarios #taehyung fluff #taehyung x reader #v scenarios #v fluff #bts scenarios #bts fluff #v x reader #au: baking news #sailor belle writes

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thefoxwhodraws · 3 years

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The Pencil Bag Project: From Start to Finish

I apologize that this is a week or so late, by the time I posted the finished bag, I had to get ready to go out of town for a week. Nevertheless, here is how I went about making the Jyushimatsu pencil bag from start to finish. This will be broken down into two parts, the first part is going to be about the back while the second part is going to be about the front of the bag. Strap in and grab a snack because this is going to be a long post.

Part 1: The Back

Day 1: 07/29/21

I recently got this pencil bag from an Asian market a week prior and just intended on leaving it blank, since it was going to get scuffed up by either my art supplies or the elements from the outside, but after looking at some Osomatsu-San merchandise and the line of stationery products that they have released over the years, I got the desire to make my own custom bag. Given the bag’s color, I thought that it would be fitting to make the bag Jyushimatsu-themed with things associated with him.

Later that day, I got to work on creating the design for the back of the bag. I took some rough measurements and made some very rough designs on the bag digitally in Clip Studio Paint. Originally, I was going to just write Jyushimatsu’s name in English, but opted to do his full name in Japanese, last and first name. Along with that, I intended on coloring Jyushimatsu with a very limited color palette that was limited to my Posca markers, but after realizing that I would have to buy more posca markers to get certain colors, like for his skin, shading colors, and eye colors, I decided to bust out the acrylic paints that I had on me and mix my own colors. This worked out for me in the end because I just happened to have the exact color of yellow that I needed for Jyushimatsu’s sweatshirt.

Day 2: 08/02/2021

After finalizing the design for the back, I printed it out and made a stencil for it. I didn’t have any decent tracing paper on hand, so I opted for the second-best thing and used some large calligraphy paper which did the job pretty well. However, after laying the design down on the bag, the stencil fell apart. Another thing that I learned from this is to have a flipped version of the design to get it on the side that you want it on. To prevent the paint from bleeding through, I placed a piece of cardboard in the bag.

Once that was done I got to work on making the swatch chart as well as a rough plan on how I was going to approach painting this bag. All the mixed paints were placed in glass jars for future use. I also opted to paint Jyushi’s hair with his natural hair color instead of blue.

Day 3: 08/03/21

Finally got started on painting the back of the bag. I started with applying a few layers of white and green on Jyushimatsu with Posca markers. This is when I realized that I needed to wait until the paint is dry to apply more coats because I accidentally smudged the white with the pine logo on Jyushi’s sweatshirt.

While those sections were drying, I began applying the first layers of paint for his sweatshirt. After letting that section dry, I began painting the face, mouth, hair, and eyes. I also painted the pine logo with the dark green that was intended for the line art on the pine design and paint it over with the lighter green for the pine logo. I added a few more layers to his face and neck and once that was dry, I did the shading on the right of Jyushi and then did added the blue line art.

I apologize for the lighting on this one.

This is where I messed up.

While the marker didn’t bleed through the places that had layers of paint, it bled through the polyester around the edges of Jyushi, especially on his cowlick, cheek, and ear. I figured that I may need some lacquer to prevent that, but I wasn’t sure what at that moment.

Day 4: 08/04/21

I went back and touched up his eyes and hair highlights, as well as his undershirt and shading it as well as applying a thin line of dark purple over the line art for the shirt and hoodie. I also filled in the blue line art for his left arm (or sleeve). It did not bleed too much because I drew over the pencil that was already covered by the paint, but out of fear of making the same mistake again, I painted over it so I can get a cleaner look for the line art, which worked in my favor later. While that was drying, I got to work on painting the shaded areas for the hood of the sweatshirt and then applying some dark purple paint to some of the line art on those areas, like on the right side of his hood and under his right arm. I also went back and filled in more of his hair and touched upon his pupils and hair highlights. Once that was done, I began to work on covering up the bleed marks starting on his cowlick and then onward with his ear and cheek area. I did this by applying a few layers of watered-down cool yellow paint that matches the bag perfectly to the affected areas. It didn’t cover them up that well at first, but it showed that it is possible to hide them once they dry. While those areas were drying, I took the time to do an outline with the thinned-out yellow paint around Jyushi to create a barrier for when I go back and touch upon the blue line art. Speaking of line art, I went back and touched upon his eyebrows.

It’s a little hard to see, but you can see it around the right side of Jyushi.

Day 5: 08/06/21

I took a day off from working on the bag to focus on other stuff. I started by filling in the baseballs with a few thin layers of the white Posca marker as the foundation and filled in the first layer of line art for the left sleeve. The paint over along with the yellow barrier around Jyushi did me a favor of locking in the paint. I would have to go back and do a few more layers for a more quality finish later.

While that part was drying, I went back and touched upon the line art for Jyushi from his whole body to his facial features and his cowlick. A little bleeding occurred around the top of his hair, but it was easily covered up with a few thin layers of the cool yellow paint, I also added another layer to the yellow outline to cover up the bleed spots from the previous day.

Once that was done, I painted the shading for his neck area, then the shading in his ear. It took a bit to get it to blend with the color of his skin, but it worked out and I corrected the line art once dry.

After an hour, I went back and painted the baseballs white, which covered the pencil art. Once they were dry, I added the watered-down yellow paint to make an outline and barrier for the blue Posca marker for the outline of the baseballs. There was some bleeding, but nothing too noticeable. Finally, I used two red Posca markers to draw the stitching of the baseballs. A regular 1.3mm for the outline of the stitching and a 0.7 mm for the finer stitching. And thus, the back of the pencil is completed.

I hope you enjoy the first part to this post! One of the things I was I originally going to add to the back of the bag was a white gradient to add a slight contrast, but I had to scrap it due to both time restraints and not knowing how make a soft looking gradient with paint.

Part 2 will probably be slightly shorter since the process is slightly similar to part 1, but there will be some techniques that I employed that made working on the front slightly easier.

Until then, thank you for reading.

#my art #Fanart #osomatsu san #おそ松さん #jyushimatsu #十四松 #pencil bag project #project reflection #art logs #traditional media #behind the scenes

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 3 years

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Michael in the Mainstream: The Dark Knight Trilogy & Its Negative Impact on the Superhero Genre

Superhero movies have come a very long way in the past couple of decades, cementing themselves as a genre unto themselves rather than the odd action movie here or there. Almost every year a few new ones of varying quality pop up that incite equal parts excitement and derision. It’s definitely a genre people feel very strongly about, but even people who tend to not love superhero films will admit that Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy is fantastic.

From 2005 until 2012, Nolan reinvisioned Batman in a way that grounded the character in reality. There’s no fantastical elements, there’s no insane science, there’s no superpowers… Everything in these films could happen in the real world. In a post-Batman & Robin world, this was seen as a breath of fresh air, and the critics loved it. In particular, The Dark Knight helped to usher in the modern age of superhero films, releasing the same year the MCU kicked off and widely being hailed as one of the greatest films of all time. That’s right, not even superhero films, films period. These films were impressive, groundbreaking, and… they fundamentally ruined superhero movies for quite a while.

Look, I don’t particularly hate these films. I think all of them are pretty good, in their own ways. But they have a lot of glaring issues that really hamper them a fair bit and yet, somehow, they became the blueprint that studios decided to look at for what they thought a successful superhero movie should be. Nolan’s films are serious, brooding, dark, and lack the whimsy and creative insanity that makes comics such a fun and engaging medium, and I think this right here is what has hurt comic book movies the most over the past decade. These are films that feel absolutely ashamed to be comic book movies, and they desperately want to seem like they’re “mature” and for “adults.” And, unfortunately for the rest of us, this shame translated over into a lot of other films, something we’re only just now recovering from.

Looking at the greatest strength of the trilogy shows this issue pretty well, that being the villains. Nolan’s films gave us truly iconic portrayals of characters like Bane, Joker, and Scarecrow, and you’re not gonna hear me say much bad about them. Cillian Murphy, Liam Neeson, Tom Hardy, Anne Hathaway, Aaron Eckhart, and Heath Ledger all do fantastic jobs as the insidious rogues of Batman. But the issue I have is that by grounding these characters in a realistic setting like this, it kind of misses the point. Joker isn’t using exploding cakes and laughing gas, Ra’s al Ghul isn’t an immortal warrior, Bane isn’t a drugged-up super soldier… They’re all just Guys. They’re Guys With Gimmicks, yes, but at the end of the day they aren’t what should be looked at as the be-all, end-all of the character’s portrayals.

And yet everyone acts like no one should ever play Joker again, because Heath Ledger’s Joker was just so good, guys! And he was good, but I don’t think Ledger’s Joker should be the absolute final Joker ever. Quite frankly, I prefer Phoenix’s Joker, because even if that version is also in a rather grounded film missing the overt weirdness of comics for the most part, he still dresses in a colorful costume, acts weird, tells jokes, and is in general more Jokery. Out of all of these villains, I think Bane and Scarecrow at least come within the ballpark of being close to how they should be, but Scarecrow is horribly underutilized and Bane is given a rather undignified sendoff.

Then there are the bigger issues. Batman himself is really downplayed throughout the trilogy, getting fairly little screentime compared to villains and side characters. This was a huge point of contention when The Dark Knight Rises came out, with most of the film featuring Bruce Wayne, and in hindsight it highlights how unwilling Nolan was to engage with the comic book trappings of what he was adapting. I like Christian Bale a lot, he’s a great actor, but I don’t think he really carries any of the films; in fact, it’s usually the villains carrying the movies. Bale is certainly not as bad as Val Kilmer in the role of Wayne/Batman, but he’s no Keaton, he’s no Clooney, he’s not even an Affleck. A lot of the time, he also just feels like… a Guy. And Batman should not ever, ever just be a Guy.

But perhaps the most egregious fault of the films is what it did to Gotham City itself. In Burton’s films, you really get a feel for the Gothic atmosphere of the city with how it’s designed, and this goes for Batman: The Animated Series too. And even the more cartoonish, colorful Gotham of Schumacher’s films pops and leaves an impact. But Nolan’s Gotham? It’s very much just a City. There is nothing distinct about Nolan’s Gotham, it’s literally just a generic city, and if you even have the faintest knowledge of Batman you will know that Gotham is not just a city. Gotham is pretty much a character itself, a dark, imposing landscape in which Batman does battle with his costumed foes. Every other adaptation I can think of knows to make Gotham feel unique and distinct, but this one just absolutely drops the ball. You might as well just have the city be New York if you’re going to put no effort into giving it personality.

And that all brings me to this: every reviled superhero movie of the past decade, from F4ntastic to The Amazing Spider-Man to Dawn of Justice, all have their genesis in Nolan’s trilogy. He laid the groundwork for these films to exist, and a large majority of the blame needs to be put on Nolan for sapping the fun out of comic book movies. Now, to be totally fair to Nolan, he’s not entirely responsible for what happened to the comic book film landscape; prior to him, the X-Men film series was giving all of the heroes dark costumes and being a bit more serious. But despite those films playing a bit of a part, there’s one major reason I don’t fault them nearly as much: The X-Men films never once felt ashamed to be comic book movies.

You have to understand, people loved grit and edginess in the 90s and had just violently rejected Batman & Robin a few years prior to the original X-Men film, so it’s hard to really fault it for wanting to avoid being too campy. But much like Blade, the films never tried to act like they weren’t still crazy comic book films. Scott still has eye lasers, Mystique is still blue, Nightcrawler looks like a demon, there are Sentinels and Apocalypse and even Dazzler shows up at one point! The X-Men franchise wasn’t always good, but it managed to balance between being silly and taking itself seriously pretty well for the most part. Magneto is still a Holocaust survivor, his relationship with Xavier still has impact, there are still emotional moments here and there, but then you also have Deadpool movies and the multiple comic book style retcons to the timeline that leave the continuity a mess, and something about that just feels right. And all that makes Logan less egregious despite being the sort of brooding, angsty superhero drama Nolan would make, because even if it is those things, it still centers around a dude with metal claws coming out of his hands trying to stop his best friend from wiping out everyone with psychic seizures. Nolan could never make this superhero film.

Nolan’s films, on the other hand, did. These films did not feel like they wanted to be comic book movies, they felt like they wanted to be serious crime films but Nolan was stuck with Batman so he just mashed the two together. And honestly, I’d probably be more forgiving if it weren’t for the hugely negative impact these films and their critical success had on the superhero genre even until this day. The first decade of superhero films as a major contender in cinema were colored by these films. People outright balked at silliness in superhero movies for quite some time, with a lot of criticism levied at the early phases of the MCU for being too goofy; in fact, at times it seemed as if the MCU was going a bit too far in the goofy direction without striking the proper balance, with films like Age of Ultron having most of its tension defused by constant wisecracks. And on the DC side, Nolan’s grounded approach lead to Zack Snyder’s flaccid filmmaking with dark coloration, moody atmosphere, and not a shred of joy to be found. Nolan is essentially the peak of dark, grounded superhero films, and Snyder is the nadir, but Snyder’s awful DC films wouldn’t exist if not for Nolan.

It was a slow crawl getting to what superhero movies should be. Guardians of the Galaxy and Ant-Man were films tossed out only when Marvel was certain they could take risks, because absurd concepts like those would just not have been able to survive if not for years of good will beforehand. That’s not even getting into some of the more bonkers elements of later films, such as Ego the Living Planet and basically everything about Doctor Strange. In fact, Doctor Strange, for all its issues, is still a massive step forward for a genre that outright rejected magic for a long time, instead for a time turning Thor and his costars into a cast of hyper-advanced aliens, with later films having to clarify that there is magic and zombies and so on. The recent WandaVision was able to further clarify this by making Wanda unambiguously magic and not an evil Nazi science experiment.

Superhero animation didn’t suffer quite so much, but that’s mostly because, much like comics, animation is still seen as “kid’s stuff” by way too many people. And even then, they didn’t escape the shadow of Nolan totally unscathed; one need only look into the infamous Bat Embargo, which limited Batman villains so there could only be one given incarnation of said character in media. For instance, the Scarecrow being in Batman Begins meant he could not appear in the animated series The Batman. This lead to such things as no Batman characters appearing in Justice League Unlimited. It was truly a stupidly frustrating time to be a Batman fan when some of his most iconic foes were relegated to only certain appearances because it “might confuse kids.”

Let me again clarify this: I mostly like the Nolan films. I usually like Nolan, though he has become unbearably, obnoxiously pretentious these days. I think a lot of elements of them are great, I feel like they mostly have strong villains, and I don’t disagree that The Dark Knight is a fantastic film. But the thing is these are only good as AU stories, as their own thing; they should not be the template every superhero movie should follow, or any superhero movie for that matter, because they lack the ability to engage with the things that make people love comics in the first place. People love wacky, off-the-wall concepts, superpowered aliens, magic, talking animals, evil living planets, alcoholic ducks, and all that fun stuff.

People desperately want the fun, camp, and wacky stuff back in comic book films, as the success of the goofier DC films like Aquaman, Shazam, and Birds of Prey as well as the success of shows like Doom Patrol in comparison to the critical and audience revulsion of Snyder’s films, with Shazam in particular giving us such bonkers concepts as an entire family of superpowered children and Mr. Mind, the evil alien caterpillar. Thor: Ragnarok and the Guardians of the Galaxy films have become some of the most beloved MCU movies despite being weird, wacky, and wholly embracing the joy of comics to the point the latter films feature Howard the Duck and the aforementioned Ego alongside bizarre characters like Rocket Raccoon, Groot, and Taserface. And the thing with all of these films is that they’re able to balance the weirdness and wackiness of comics without losing sight of human emotion, moving storytelling, and drama. They’re both fun and deep, goofy and yet meaningful. This is what comics are, and what they should be, and anyone who thinks comics should be grim and gritty really needs to think about why they think an entire genre needs to be colored in with only the dullest colors.

I think what I’m trying to say here is this: Make a Detective Chimp movie, you cowards.

#Michael in the Mainstream #mitm #review #movie review #the dark knight trilog #the dark knight #batman begin #the dark knight rises #superhero movie #christopher nolan #DC

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booksandgalore · 4 years

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A Day Late, A Dollar Short

Your old life ends on the day you accidentally notice the white paint on Taehyung's face—and those red lips of his colored into a mischievous, all-consuming grin.

PSYCHOLOGICAL, HORROR, inspired by the JOKER

Yandere!BTS preview with a female reader

SPECIAL THANKS to @cakebite for the header. This upcoming one-shot is a gift for you (estimated date: before the end of summer—end of July or early August)! You’ve always been cheering me on.

PREVIEW OF FINAL ONE-SHOT

Grades were still important despite the college acceptance letter in your hand, so, like you told your mother, you really did go to the library to study, even if your studying just happened to last for five minutes before you stumbled upon the yellow brick road to Jeongyeon’s house, where it was conveniently—no, coincidentally—shy of a minute’s walk from the library in the first place.

Now, now, details didn’t need to be disclosed.

Minuscule effort had to count for something in your senior year, especially when your days should be simple, mundane, free of worry, merely existing to count down graduation. You did study against the finer essence of things, did you not?

Similarly, senior year perpetuated the same beliefs in Taeyong. Always pushing the limits of when he would start his Calculus homework, your classmate preferred Animal Crossing over graphs and lines that seemed to bend one way more than the other, but was it such a bad thing, pray tell, for him to do what he wanted to do at his own pace? And for you to do whatever you felt like doing because it was your God-given right?

You scratched the sole of your left foot with your right and scrolled through the random slime videos recommended on your feed. Somehow, you became addicted to watching these dessert items being smushed by hands, disrupting the illusions of the cakes and cookies to reveal that the items were, in fact, slime, much to your surprise.

From the corner of your eye, however, you noticed Jeongyeon’s chest rising and falling to every deep breath, her shoulders slouching and her fingers curling tightly around the electric fly swatter she had been waving around for a good ten minutes.

You sank deeper underneath her blankets, the thick weight relaxing the tension in your muscles.

“Did you get it yet?” you asked, accidentally double-tapping a random advertisement from scrolling too fast.

“As you can see,” Jeongyeon swung at the air, “no.”

“Hurry up and kill it.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” Aggravating her was always a fun pastime.

But maybe it wasn't as fun when your legs were suddenly being crushed by the weight of Jeongyeon’s body and, GOD, was she heavy. When she wiggled around, the pressure amplified.

“I need water,” she demanded, soft brown locks clinging to the sweat on the sides of her face. “I need snacks.”

The epiphany struck you late, but you realized how some words were never meant to be spoken when Jeongyeon leered down at you with her petty, little eyes.

“This is your house,” you emphasized, and you reluctantly adjusted yourself out of these blankets to shove Jeongyeon away from her own bed. ”Guests should be treated like kings.”

“You raid the fridge every time you come. It’s time you return the favor, you freeloader.”

That was not true. You raided her cupboards as well.

“Oh, yeah?” You huffed, straightening your shoulders and puffing out your chest. “Would a freeloader do this?”

Releasing a wistful sigh, you smoothed the crinkles on her pillow before dropping your head dramatically on it, her one-hundred-percent-cotton fluff being put into good use.

Jeongyeon loomed over your body. “Go and do what I ask. . .” she brandished the swatter close to the tip of your nose, ”or else.”

You raised your hands. You were just messing around, but she didn’t have to go that far. The circular light on the handle was still green, and with one wrong move, one wrong step, she could fry off your skin.

Jeongyeon continued staring at you, and for a second you thought she would bring it closer—out of pure curiosity to observe what it was like for flesh to burn—until you blinked and the racket was nowhere near your vicinity.

Unconsciously, you started laughing. “Good one!” you said, the repressed stammer lodged in your throat doing you a favor.

As Jeongyeon stood back, the evening sun filtered through the seeps of her blinds, ironically highlighting the shadows of her face instead of the soft planes of her lips, or the curve of her long lashes. Gone was the girl you viewed her as moments before, her cheeks now sharp, strong, and. . .gaunt, if you were allowed to confess this.

When she smiled, it felt a bit lopsided. “You’ll be a good friend, right?"

You thought her teeth seemed sharper for a moment.

“You’ll get me what I ask for, won’t you?” Her eyes were a little too wide for your liking.

But then you blinked again, and this funny interpretation of her vanished.

Jeongyeon puffed out her cheeks and placed her index fingers on top of them. “Jeongyeon”—she whined—“wants some snacks and some water!”

Oh, a horrible sight!

You threw a pillow at her. “Don’t ever act cute.”

Begrudgingly, you made your way out of the comfort of her bed as she applauded you for your efforts, each slow and calculated smack of her palms against one another lingering in the air mockingly, matching the pace of your own beating heart. You wrenched the door open and navigated yourself down the stairs, nothing but the creak in the wooden floor boards accompanying you now with each step, before you arrived into her kitchen.

There, on the table, laid an unopened bag of salt-and-vinegar chips, but your tongue already shriveled up at the taste. Nevertheless, you grabbed what Jeongyeon requested, snatched an extra water bottle for yourself, and were about to hightail it back to her and her room and her oh-so-comfortable bed when a sharp noise reverberating from the hallway ceased your movements.

You turned your head around curiously, retracting your foot from the first step of the stairs to listen, but the sound never returned.

Deeming it to be nothing, you brought one foot on top of the steps again when it resumed, louder this time, and you recognized that it was some sort of rough laughter, vaguely manic, oddly bitter in nature.

Jeongyeon did have a twin, but it wasn't any of your business to disturb him.

With that in mind, you craned your neck back to the stairs in front of you, yet the same rough laughter ricocheting off the walls had shifted into that of a faint, sorrowful tone, hardly distinguishable to the human ear, the change so slight it was a miracle you had picked up on it just barely.

Was it encroaching on his privacy if you checked up on him?

Conflicted, you let out a breath. It didn’t help how Jeongyeon had confessed, very vulnerably, might you add, that she felt disgusted when her friends would talk to her brother. You couldn’t blame her—not when she gave you detailed stories about her classmates back in Korea, who befriended her for the sake of getting closer to him.

“And if you can understand me,” Jeongyeon had told you after school one day, her voice hoarse and lips downturned, “can I trust that you will do this for me?”

And you did comply to her request like the good friend you were—for four years now and counting.

But when another rumble of laughter, tinged on the edge of what seemed like despair, echoed mindlessly, it tugged at your heart, dragged its teeth for good measure, and reminded you of a memory you worked so hard to suppress—of your father and the hollows underneath his eyes and his desolate gaze.

Perhaps Jeongyeon could make an exception this time. You weren’t like them.

Quietly, you ambled down the hall, stopping short when you noticed the generous slit of the bathroom door, revealing Taehyung who. . .

You felt your breath hitch as your heart leapt in your throat.

A question, colored in red, was written on the mirror:

WHY SO SERIOUS?

You traced the edge of each letter, but it became increasingly difficult to breathe.

“AH HA HA!”

Taehyung covered both of his eyes with his hands momentarily. Then, he peered at his reflection again through the gaps of his fingers, as if unable to do nothing but stare and stare forevermore. His entire face was smeared with some sort of white paint chipping along the edges of his jaw, the flakes dropping to the odd, purple suit he adorned as a green tie rested around his neck.

“AH HA HA!” He leaned in closer to the mirror. “AH HA HA!” he repeated, each forced laugh willing his shoulders to heave up and down with every breath.

Taehyung’s lips extended unnaturally from cheek to cheek, a thin red line, wavering slightly at the ends, drawn on to resemble an everlasting mischievous grin.

You had to go back to Jeongyeon. This. . .this wasn’t right. This wasn’t normal.

You stepped back, but you should have known better when the floor creaked and Taehyung’s gaze pierced into your very being through the mirror.

You expected him to speak, to part his mouth to sputter out a few rushed words, but he didn't. Instead, he simply stared at you with that crazed, inhuman glint in his eyes, and with those curved lips of his that just would not stop smiling. Slowly, he dragged his tongue across the expanse of his skin, never once breaking his transfixed stare, as a sneer escaped through the clench of his teeth.

You were unable to distinguish if his smile was truly painted on, or if it was replaced by something else entirely, a viscous liquid in its stead, the crimson color plastered across his face switching to a shade darker, a shade sinister against its nature.

Much to your relief, however, the light fixture in the bathroom had flickered off. For a moment the darkness binding your vision provided you with a small sense of comfort, while the sound of your labored breathing, shallow and quick, reverberated throughout the halls.

But just as suddenly, the light flickered on again, and Taehyung’s smile stretched impossibly wider through the mirror this time.

“You ever get tired of life?” Taehyung smacked his lips, speaking to you with his reflection. “When the razzle-dazzle isn’t cutting it out anymore? Hmm?”

It was hard for you to see past his paint.

#yandere bts

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dinosaurtsukki · 4 years

Text

across the sea | a bokuaka fanfic (act. II)

inspired by the movie ‘portrait of a lady on fire’ by celine sciamma which is sad and lesbian

pairing: bokuto koutarou x akaashi keiji

word count: 21.8k words

contains: historical setting (actually the setting is vague bec if i tried to describe it more it would take 5 extra pages), heavy angst, slight fluff, greek mythology references, implied smut

summary: when Bokuto accepted a portrait commission for the young, engaged Akaashi Keiji, he never expected him to be so beautiful. he knows it's a mistake to be attached, a mistake for them to fall in love in a time when they know it's impossible for them to be together.

a/n: i’m a sad gay who loves sad lesbian movies and portait of a lady on fire is peak film. a lot of the things here are based on the film so i suggest you check out this beautiful movie, but i added a few tweaks here and there to make it my own.

chapters: act. I, act. II., act. III

The next day, Bokuto found Akaashi in the kitchen, of all places, kneading what appeared to be a bread dough next to a distressed looking Kageyama. Bokuto paused for a while, standing by the kitchen door with his arms crossed and a smile on his face, as he watched the young master, who was probably forbidden from working in the kitchen, and the house butler, who was probably worried there were repercussions for allowing Akaashi to do what he was doing.

“Akaashi-san, please allow me to take over from here,” Kageyama pressed.

“Nonsense,” Akaashi chuckled. “I never knew bread-making was this fun. And the dough texture isn’t even near what you described.” Just then, Kageyama had discovered Bokuto was already there.

“Bokuto-san! Please tell Akaashi-san that I can handle preparing breakfast myself!” he demanded. Akaashi lifted his head slightly to greet him.

“Good morning, Bokuto-san. I hope I’ll be able to make you a good enough breakfast with my limited cooking skills.”

“I’ll be making breakfast!”

Bokuto chuckled and approached the wooden table where they were walking. “Kageyama’s right you know. You shouldn’t be the only one making breakfast.”

“Right,” Kageyama nodded. A look of slight annoyance crossed Akaashi’s features. Up close, Bokuto see that a corner of his cheek and a bit of his brow was streaked with flour.

“In fact, I should be helping Akaashi out!” Bokuto grinned cheekily at an even more flustered Kageyama. “Come on Kageyama. Sit this one out just this once. We won’t burn down anything. Promise.”

“And as owner of the estate, I demand that I get to cook breakfast in my own kitchen,” Akaashi backed him up.

“Alright, I guess I’ll sweep every inch of the manor,” Kageyama huffed.

“Nope, not even that,” Akaashi shook his head. “Don’t you have some kind of hobby?”

“Well… I,” Kageyama cleared his throat and looked away with a slight flush in his cheeks. “I suppose I can work on my embroidery.”

“That’s the spirit,” Bokuto grinned. Akaashi had finished kneading the dough and was now shaping it into a bowl on a wooden board. “I’ll scrounge up something to fry,” he said, heading into the larder. A moment later, he came up with some unsliced bacon and a basket of eggs.

“That should go well with the bread,” Akaashi remarked as he slid the unbaked dough into the oven before dusting off his floury hands on his apron. Seeing him without his usual jacket and scarf with the sleeves on his shirt rolled up had a certain charm that stopped Bokuto from looking away as much as he should.

“Would you like to do the frying?” he asked, plucking a knife from where the kitchen utensils were to slice the bacon into thick strips.

“You’ll have to show me how first,” Akaashi said. After slicing the bacon, Bokuto ignited the stove and instructed Akaashi to place a pan over it. As it turns out, Akaashi was a quick learner, even with Bokuto as a mediocre cook and instructor, and in a short while, all the bacon had been fried perfectly and all he had left to do was to crack eggs one by one into the pan.

“You’re not that bad of a cook yourself, Akaashi,” Bokuto commented. The two of them were standing next to each other by the stove, barely inches apart.

“If I’d have known I should have told my mother earlier,” Akaashi smiled wryly. “I feel guilty for saying this but I’m glad she isn’t around. I wouldn’t be here cooking bacon and eggs if she was.”

“Well, not be an instigator but…” Bokuto shot a sidelong glance at him. “Would you want to… do some things you wouldn’t be able to do?” Akaashi raised his eyebrows at him.

“I’m surprised you didn’t think I was already planning to do such things.”

After the bread finished baking and the eggs finished frying, they lay their breakfast out on the kitchen table and brought out plates and forks for everyone. Kageyama, who seemed to have finished a good amount of his embroidery and was no longer distressed, thanked them for the breakfast. Bokuto couldn’t help but watch Akaashi eat with his hands: picking up bacon with his fingers and mopping up egg yolk with bread. His master told him that hands were the hardest things to sketch so Bokuto spent an entire year on hands until sketching them became second-nature to him.

After finishing breakfast, Akaashi met Bokuto again in the dining room to continue the portrait. This time, Bokuto decided to paint more slowly, taking the opportunity to perfect mixing his colors. He hadn’t foreseen needing to paint a second portrait so he noticed that he was running low on oil. ‘I could ask Kageyama to buy some for me from the town nearby,�� he thought, before glancing up at Akaashi. ‘Unless…’

“What are you thinking about Bokuto-san?” Akaashi spoke up, as if reading Bokuto’s thoughts.

“I, uh…” Bokuto stammered. Akaashi cocked his head.

“You had that look on your face again,” he said.

“What look?”

“The one where you’re deep in thought and you raise your left hand to your chin,” Akaasi smirked as Bokuto realized that he was in fact holding that pose. “I do have an excellent view of how you work from here and while I’m not adept at painting, a lot of your habits have been noted down in my mind.”

“Most subjects wouldn’t even pay any mind to the painter,” Bokuto raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not just a painter,” Akaashi said simply. “Back to my question, what are you thinking about?”

“Well, since I didn’t prepare for painting two portraits during my stay here, I seem to have run out of oil,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his hair, no doubt leaving streaks of paint there, not that he particularly cared. “I was thinking about asking Kageyama to pick some up for me at the town tomorrow, but I’m also curious about the town here.”

“So am I, I’ve never been,” Akaashi said. Bokuto felt a smile play on his lips.

“Your tone suggests that you know exactly what I’m planning.”

“Kageyama would forbid it.”

“As if that’s going to stop you, Akaashi.”

“You know me well,” Akaashi chuckled. It sounded like music to Bokuto’s ears. “Are you always this chatty with the people you paint?”

“I do try to get into some casual conversation to put the model at ease,” Bokuto said, dipping his paintbrush in a lighter color to highlight the edges around the portrait. “And I can’t imagine how boring it must be for them to have to sit completely still for hours.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Akaashi cleared his throat. “Have you ever had to paint nude models?”

Bokuto chuckled. “Almost everyone asks that. And yes, I did. My master sent me to classes on nude painting with live models in front of us. Though, it’s not as erotic as most people think. At one point, while painting a woman, I found myself sobbing because it had been more than an hour and I couldn’t get the shadows right and I had run out of paint.” Akaashi laughed again.

“That certainly clears up a lot of mystery,” he said. “Although, I can’t imagine you a sobbing mess.”

“Oh, I was very moody growing up,” Bokuto grinned. “I’d easily feel down when I couldn’t do something right. And that was often.”

“How did you readjust your mindset?”

“Well, I took a step back to look at how far I’ve come. Once I remembered that years ago, I couldn’t even sketch an apple but had reached a point when I can paint one in less than 10 minutes, I knew I could do so much more with practice. And now, I’m here.”

“Now, you’re here,” Akaashi smiled. And Bokuto knew there wasn’t any place he’d rather be.

That night, they convinced Kageyama to let them go to town the next day and that Bokuto would know doubt watch over him and that they wouldn’t let Mikoto-san know. Kageyama agreed, and the next day, after breakfast that was once again cooked by Akaashi and Bokuto, the three of them headed out to town. Something about the day and occasion made Bokuto bring out his nicest shirt which was powder blue in color, with pristine, white buttons. Akaashi looked more casual in his appearance than usual dressed in suspenders and a light, cotton shirt that he had left unbuttoned from his chin to the top part of his chest.

The town near the estate was quite different from the ones Bokuto visited in the city. For one, it was much cleaner, less-populated, and less noisy. Most of the houses and buildings were low, at most three floors in height, and the pathways around town were in cobblestone. The townspeople however, were busy and hard at work preparing for what seemed to be a summer festival. ‘It is the first of May,’ Bokuto remembered and paused during their walk to watch a group of men erect a tall, twelve-foot maypole that had colored ribbons tied around it. Bokuto took a mental image in his head of the scene, eager to recreate it.

“It’s a May Day Eve festival,” Akaashi said, standing beside Bokuto. “Right, Kageyama?”

“Yes sir,” he nodded.

“Have you ever been to one?”

“My hometown celebrates it,” he said, a faint smile crossing his face. “We have a similar way of celebrating as the people here, actually. There will be stands serving blackberry wine and cold drinks. Special stew and fried food made with fresh, summer vegetables. The flower sellers would be weaving flower crowns and selling them for people to wear. And at night, the dances will begin.”

“Is it true that the young girls dance around the maypole?” Akaashi asked.

“Yes. It is a sight to see,” Kageyama nodded.

“If that is so, maybe we should stick around to witness it,” he said. Bokuto raised an eyebrow and smiled at the suggestion.

“But—”

“Come on, Kageyama. Even you want to stick around,” Akaashi nudged him, smiling playfully. “My mother is a boat ride away. The worst thing that can happen is that I get the flu again.”

“We’ll return home before midnight,” Bokuto added. A conflicted look came upon Kageyama’s face.

“Eleven o’ clock,” he finally said.

“Deal!” Akaashi said quickly before turning to Bokuto. “Now, where to?”

The festival was still hours away from starting so after Bokuto purchased his oil, the three of them roamed around town, being dragged off to wherever Akaashi pleased. But neither Bokuto nor Kageyama minded much, seeing as how happy Akaashi was to finally get a glimpse of the outside world. They visited dress shops, groceries, a woodworker’s studio, and florist’s shops where people had already begun making flower crowns. They lingered in a shop selling fabrics and yarns where Kageyama had perused and bought different threads for his embroidery before passing by a bakery to buy bread for lunch.

By the time the sun was close to setting, the town had come to life as the May Day Eve festival began. The town was lit with lanterns everywhere and a bonfire in the town square. “Well, it has started. Anything you want to do first?” Bokuto asked Akaashi.

“Well, the blackberry wine seems interesting,” Akaashi said, looking at one of the stalls.

“Have you ever drunk alcohol before?” Bokuto asked.

“I have the occasional glass of wine when my mother lets me.”

“Just, make sure not to get too drunk,” Kageyama muttered. But Bokuto was feeling mischievous and he was curious as to how a tipsy Akaashi looked like.

“You heard him, Akaashi. Let’s drink to our heart’s content!” he cheered, slinging an arm around Akaashi’s shoulder as they made their way to the stall with Kageyama following behind them. Bokuto had never tried blackberry wine but it was much cheaper than usual wine and sold by the bottle. He bought all of them one each. The wine was sweet, much sweeter than grape wine, but packed more of a punch. Kageyama only finished half of his bottle before retiring to one of the benches to sit down and most likely take a nap, leaving Bokuto and Akaashi to roam around the different stalls by themselves. They passed the rest of Kageyama’s wine between them and Bokuto was highly conscious of the fact that their lips were touching the same bottle. Bokuto knew that at some point, he’d have to stop drinking if he wanted to make it home with Akaashi and Kageyama, but it was a summer night and summer nights were dangerous and recklessness hummed through the air and Akaashi’s smile was dangerous and his hands were warm, and both of them ended up visiting the blackberry wine stall a few times.

By their third bottle, Bokuto found himself standing to the side and watching Akaashi peruse the flower crowns being sold by a vendor. Both of them were sweating from the summer heat and Bokuto could see that Akaashi’s cheeks were especially flushed by the alcohol. “Bokuto-san, how does this look?” Akaashi asked, looking up at him with a daisy crown on his head. Bokuto chuckled, noting that Akaashi seemed to be a bold, impulsive kind of drunk.

“This suits you better,” he said, gently removing the daisy crown and placing one of golden chrysanthemums on Akaashi’s head. “The gold brings out the green in your eyes.”

“You sure seem to like looking at them,” Akaashi scoffed. Bokuto could tell he was teasing him. The blackberry wine made him bold too, and two could play at that game.

“I’m supposed to. I’m your painter, aren’t I?” he raised an eyebrow, nearing closer to Akaashi’s face. By the way his eyes darted, he was caught off-guard for a second, but quickly regained his footing. Just as he was about to respond, a loud call echoed throughout the square.

“The maypole dance is beginning now. If you would like to join, come up front,” a young man yelled. Almost immediately after, people began skipping over to the maypole to claim one of its long, colored ribbons, most of them being young girls. But there were a couple of men as well.

“You should join,” Bokuto blurted out, nudging Akaashi with his shoulder. “To make the most of your May Day Eve festival experience.”

“You think so? What if I get the dance wrong?” Akaashi asked.

“You won’t,” Bokuto grinned.

“Alright,” Akaashi agreed, stepping forward, and turning around to say “But your eyes better be only on me,” he said, fixing Bokuto once again with that piercing stare of his. ‘Dangerous, dangerous,’ the insides of Bokuto hummed but he could only nod and watch Akaashi walk over to the maypole to claim a ribbon. He held it in his hand, taking position with the rest of the dancers. When the music began, Akaashi keenly observed the dancers’ movements, moving slowly at first to copy them, before slowly gaining confidence to not have to look at the others around him. As he danced close to the maypole before spinning outwards, Akaashi caught Bokuto in his gaze once again for one second, before smirking and turning around. Again and again, their eyes would meet, almost as if Akaashi was making sure Bokuto was looking at only him. ‘No, he’s definitely doing that on purpose,’ he said to himself. But with the way Akaashi looked tonight, he shouldn’t have even been worried about Bokuto looking at other people in the first place. His movements were graceful and elegant, especially for someone who had just learned the dance a few minutes ago, and the light from the lanterns and bonfire nearby made his tanned skin appear to glow.

Finally, the dance ended and Akaashi rejoined Bokuto. He was flushed, breathless, and his clothes were in disarray, but he looked more alive than Bokuto had ever seen him. “How was I?” he asked.

“It was as if you were on fire,” Bokuto answered.

They rejoined Kageyama by one of the benches and headed home, occasionally laughing and jostling each other like the young men on the way to serenade a woman. Only, Bokuto had never in his life been interested in women. Not even the most beautiful models that he had encountered during his apprenticeship. Rather, he found himself more drawn to men: those in famous paintings recreating Greek myths and stories from the Bible. His first time had been with a male model he had been working with. It was no secret among painters that homosexual relationships do occur, but it was scandalous enough to be kept secret and away from prying eyes.

Except now, Bokuto could tell that something was different about his feelings for Akaashi, the same way he knew to destroy his first portrait of him and delay the wedding. As a painter, Bokuto was only ever concerned about whether his paintings captured every lifelike detail of the model. But as he progressed through the portrait, he found himself constantly wondering whether Akaashi would accept the final product as a reproduction of himself. Bokuto found himself hating Mikoto-san and Akaashi’s arranged suitor, wherever in the world she was. How could they expect Akaashi to be married to someone who only saw a portrait of him? Especially one created by someone who had actual feelings for Akaashi.

“Akaashi-san, please be careful,” Kageyama said, helping up his master who had tripped once again inside the house. The alcohol seemed to have taken full effect as Akaashi could barely stand and his eyelids kept drooping. Kageyama put an arm around him and attempted to help him to the stairs.

“I can do that,” Bokuto volunteered, quickly lifting Akaashi in his arms. He weighed very little, most likely because of how sickly he was, and he groaned a reply before leaning his head against Bokuto’s chest. “It’s alright, Kageyama. I’ll put him to bed.”

“Alright, you can definitely handle him,” Kageyama nodded. “Well, good night, Bokuto-san,” he bowed, before leaving for his own quarters.

“Mmm… tired…” Akaashi mumbled.

“I know, I know. I’m getting you to bed now,” Bokuto said gently before going up the stairs. He struggled a bit with getting the bedroom door open with one hand before finally making it inside. Gently, he lay Akaashi down on his bed and lit the oil lamp on his bedside table to prevent himself from bumping into anything. Akaashi was still wearing the flower crown and Bokuto plucked it from his head and lay it gently on the table when Akaashi stirred awake.

“Bokuto-san,” he blinked, sitting up.

“You’re in your room now,” Bokuto smiled, lifting the blankets to tuck Akaashi in. “I’m guessing this is the first time you’ve gotten drunk.”

“How could you tell?” Akaashi raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t believe you’re still like this even though you’re drunk,” Bokuto chuckled and shook his head.

“This was the best day I’ve ever had,” Akaashi sighed happily, looking up at Bokuto with sleepy eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” And, without him thinking, Bokuto found himself bending closer to Akaashi and gently stroking the side of his face. To his surprise, Akaashi didn’t pull away, rather, he raised a hand to press Bokuto’s against his cheek. It felt as if there was something he should say at this point, and so he said “You were an amazing dancer.” His voice was surprisingly hoarse and deep, even in his own ears.

“And you kept your eyes on only me,” Akaashi whispered in return, he was sitting up on his elbows and their faces were even closer.

“How could I not? You were the most beautiful one there.”

Bokuto had always read that summer evenings were wonderful, magical, and passionate. A time when the impossible crosses into the realm of the possible But, they were also dangerous. As dangerous as the look in Akaashi’s eyes, as dangerous as the heat that radiated outside and inside Bokuto. Not only were summer evenings dangerous because of the air of recklessness and impulse, but because anything good that happened lasted dangerously short. ‘I’m going to regret this someday,’ Bokuto knew. He could tell Akaashi knew. But that still didn’t stop them from closing the distance between their lips, for Bokuto to instinctively wraps his arms around Akaashi to pull him closer, for Akaashi to, in turn, wrap his arms around Bokuto’s neck. It was a kiss as passionate and dangerous as a summer evening, but nowhere near as short. When they emerged, both of them were as breathless as the maypole dancers.

Bokuto sucked in a breath and stood up, swallowing hard. Akaashi was wide-eyed, seemingly snapped out of the drunken state he was in. “I…” Bokuto stammered. “Should I…?”

“I think, it’s time we said good night now, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi nodded, sounding back to his rational self. Bokuto couldn’t agree more, muttering a hasty ‘good night’ before leaving the room, the summer evening’s kiss still on his lips.

…

Both of them were quiet the next day, even during breakfast that Kageyama woke up, earlier than both of them because he wasn’t hungover, to make. Bokuto couldn’t help but glance up sat Akaashi as he nursed his cup of strong, black coffee, only to find the young man distractedly looking out the window. ‘He couldn’t have forgotten about last night, could he?’ Bokuto wondered. He wouldn’t help but feel disappointed if Akaashi had. It couldn’t just have been the wine doing the talking, or rather, kissing.

Finally, it came the time for them to work on the portrait. Akaashi came into the dining room dressed once again in the same expensive suit with his hair fixed and yet, Bokuto couldn’t help but remember the wild-eyed, breathless Akaashi from last night. Wordlessly, the Akaashi in front of him sat down, got into his pose, and waited for Bokuto to start. Only, he was only able to get a few strokes of paint in before putting his brush down and confronting Akaashi.

“Are we not going to talk about last night?”

Akaashi’s eyes widened a fraction at the sudden gesture. “I…” he began and trailed off.

“Was it just… the wine?” Bokuto asked, feeling the wave of disappointment begin to wash over. “Because if you think that’s the case—”

“I was scared that you’d think that,” Akaashi suddenly interrupted him. There was a conflicted look on his face. This time, Bokuto waited for his full response. “I may have been drunk but, kissing you, that was fully intentional. I think, I think I wanted to do it for some time.”

“Y-you have?”

“I was just unsure if you felt the same way,” he continued. “That night, when you told me about you being a painter, I wanted to see if you befriended me because you saw me as someone worth being with. And when you said that you did it just to get the job done, I was disappointed.”

“I’m sorry, I lied,” Bokuto sighed. “I was, I didn’t want to finish the painting at that point. I thought it would be better if you hated me and I moved on from this whole thing.”

“But you didn’t finish the painting,” Akaashi said, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t you I painted. It was so different from the you I know and it didn’t feel right for me to turn that portrait in,” Bokuto answered, stepping forward. “Why did you finally choose to pose?” he asked, walking to Akaashi. Although, at that point, the answers were falling into place.

“Because I didn’t want you to leave. I wasn’t ready for you to leave,” Akaashi said, his smile growing until Bokuto stopped in front of him.

“I’m here now.”

“I know.”

“Can I kiss you again?”

“You know the answer to that.”

And Bokuto did. Bending down, he cupped Akaashi’s face in his hands and kissed him. Gentler this time, gentler than their summer evening kiss last night. He felt Akaashi’s hands on the sides of his waist, clutching at his shirt as if he was scared of him letting go. Bokuto gently circled his thumb on Akaashi’s cheek, as if to say ‘don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,’ and the grip on his shirt relaxed. It didn’t matter that what they were doing was taboo or that Akaashi was engaged. In this estate, one that villagers didn’t visit and was bordered by the sea, no eyes were on them. They were in a world of their own.

“Where have you been all my life, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi murmured once they parted, their foreheads pressed against each other. “It’s strange. One of the reasons why I’ve never run away from this place despite the engagement and the constraining feeling is because it felt as if I would get a moment of liberty if I just waited. And it has come, in the form of you.”

“I don’t know about that. All I know is you’re the most beautiful and hardest thing I’ve ever had to paint,” Bokuto whispered.

“That beautiful?” Akaashi laughed, his breath tickling Bokuto’s nose.

“They say you’re more beautiful than your suitor.”

“Who’s they?”

“The ferryman of the boat I came here in,” Bokuto chuckled and stood up.

“Is it true?” Akaashi raised an eyebrow.

“You are a self-indulgent man, did you know that?”

“And you are the one who indulges me,” Akaashi grinned. “I don’t feel like posing for the portrait today,” he sighed. “Can’t we do something else.”

“We did something else yesterday,” Bokuto said. “But I think an extra day can’t hurt,” he smiled.

“Can we go to the beach again?” Akaashi brightened.

“Of course,” Bokuto chuckled.

This time, when they walked to the beach, they walked hand in hand, laughing and talking, stopping once or twice to kiss again. Years later, Bokuto would find himself unable to recall what it is they were talking about and instead, remembering only sights and sensations, which was more than enough for him. By the time they reached the beach, instead of Akaashi exploring the tide pools and wading in the water with Bokuto sketching in secret, they both sat down in the sand and spread their jackets out to lie on. Akaashi rest his head on Bokuto’s lap and handed him the volume of Greek Mythology book that he had snuck out.

“Read it to me again,” he said.

“Demanding, are we?” Bokuto raised an eyebrow but opened the book nonetheless.

“Of course,” Akaashi smiled and closed his eyes.

“Any particular story you have in mind?” he asked, thumbing through the pages.

“Look for what interests you,” Akaashi waved. Bokuto shrugged and went through the book until he came across a beautifully illustrated picture of a man staring at his reflection.

“The Myth of Narcissus,” he read aloud. “Am I saying the name right?”

“Yes,” Akaashi nodded. “Read on.”

And so Bokuto read aloud, feeling much more confident now than when he first read to Akaashi. Maybe its because he knew that the young man lying on his lap enjoyed the sound of his voice, something Bokuto never thought he’d bring. After a good half hour of reading, Bokuto himself felt tired and lay back in the sand. “Your turn,” he nudged Akaashi’s shoulder gently.

“Me?” he sat up, smiling sleepily at him before laying down on his chest with the top of his hair tickling Bokuto’s chin. It was a welcome, warm, weight on his chest and Bokuto circled an arm around Akaashi’s shoulder, pulling him close.

“Tell me a story.”

“Another Greek myth?” Akaashi asked. “Which one do you want to hear? I don’t even need to read aloud from this book.”

“Hmm well then. I’ve never really understood that epic poem. The one about Troy with Achilles and Hector,” Bokuto said. “I tried to read it once to study on Greek myths since they were so popular with painting commissions but it gave me a headache.”

“Ah, the Iliad,” Akaashi said. “Well, I’ve read about a million times. You’ve come to the right person.” Bokuto planted a kiss on his forehead. “There are many ways to start the story, but I like to take it back to when the goddesses Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite appeared in front of a poor boy named Paris.” And so, Akaashi told the story of the Iliad. His voice was nice and calming, enough to make Bokuto’s eyelids grow heavy, but engaging enough to keep him awake. Akaashi colored the tale with his own inserts and opinions, sometimes going to into detail about a particular hero’s story. And then, they came across the part of the story when Achilles had heard of Patroclus’ death.

“According to the story, he mourned for days and days on end for his dead lover,” Akaashi told.

“Wait, his lover?” Bokuto jerked his head up in surprise. “No one told me that his lover was Patroclus.”

“Well, in most translated versions of the text they describe Patroclus as a companion and a close friend. In the original text however—”

“Wait, you know Greek?” Bokuto sat up, disturbing Akaashi from his resting place. Akaashi raised an eyebrow at him.

“I can speak quite a few languages, Bokuto-san. I didn’t just twiddle my thumbs right here.”

“I should have known then,” Bokuto chuckled. “Anyway, you were saying…”

“Right. In the original Greek text, or as much was restored of it anyway, Patroclus is described as Achilles’ lover. And in fact, homosexuality was quite normal in Greece. There was a special troop of soldiers who fought in pairs with their beloved. They say they were won of the best fighters out there, because they always fought for their beloved. Additionally, it was believed that unions of the same sex were the only true kind of romantic love since it is not based on procreation unlike that of a man and a woman. And let’s not forget Sappho’s poetry and the Island of Lesbos,” Akaashi enumerated.

“Wow. So, why have I never heard of it before?” Bokuto said.

“The usual. The Christianized, civilized societies frown upon the practice so they conceal it in the translations,” Akaashi shrugged. “But I’ve always liked Achilles and Patroclus.”

“It’s all the more tragic then,” Bokuto sighed.

“Yes, but upon Patroclus’ death, Achilles wished for his ashes, when he died, to be buried with Patroclus’. So that they’d meet in the Underworld even after he died,” Akaashi smiled wistfully.

“So, that was after Achilles got shot in the heel, right?”

“You’re skipping ahead,” Akaashi nudged him.

“Tell me the rest of the story then,” Bokuto nudged him back.

“It’s getting dark,” Akaashi shook his head. And true enough, Bokuto looked up to find that the sun was just about to set. He always loved watching for sunsets and yet, he didn’t notice it.

“Tomorrow then,” Bokuto pouted slightly and stood up, dusting the sand off his trousers before picking up his and Akaashi’s jackets.

“Unless… you would be content with reading by the fireside in my room.” Akaashi had said it almost nonchalantly but even in the dim light, Bokuto could catch the hopefulness in his gaze. And who was he to refuse?

“Alright. But let’s have dinner first. I think we’ve worried Kageyama to death staying outside this long.”

Although, it seemed that Kageyama wasn’t worried one bit as he was doing his embroidery by the small fireplace in the kitchen when they came in. Bokuto wondered if Kageyama was doubtful of how much time Akaashia and Bokuto had spent together that day that wasn’t related to the portrait. Either he wasn’t that perceptive or he just didn’t care. Akaashi and Bokuto finished dinner quickly and locked themselves in Akaashi’s room. Instead of going to bed, he stretched out on the carpet by the fireplace and patted the spot next to him. ‘Just like the beach,’ Bokuto thought with a smile and stretched out across the carpet with his head tucked on Akaashi’s lap. He closed his eyes and felt a hand gently run through his hair.

“Aren’t you going to continue the story?” Bokuto mumbled.

“I may have decided to preoccupy myself with,” Akaashi hummed and Bokuto felt fingers lightly skim over his cheeks and forehead and down his nose. “I wish I had your eye and skill to capture a subject through a painting.”

“How do you know I have skills with painting? The first portrait was a ruined one and you haven’t even looked at the one I’m painting now.”

“I just know,” he felt Akaashi shrug. “What goes on in your head when you paint me?”

“Well,” Bokuto opened his eyes to look up at him. “First, I sketch a basic outline on the canvas, just so I know where everything is in relation to each other. And then, I pencil in your features. You have really delicate features so I try to keep a light hand,” he said, raising his hand to brush against Akaashi’s cheek. “And I spend as much time as I want to on your hands.”

“And then?”

“Then I start mixing my colors. That was always my favorite part when it came to learning how to paint. It’s how my master trained me too. I would sit for hours scrutinizing something and mixing the right shade,” Bokuto chuckled at the memory. “I take my time too when I mix the color of your skin. Browns and yellows and a bit of red. And then I make different shades from that color with white or mixing in a bit more brown for shadows, and a bit more red for that healthy flush on your cheeks.”

“At least I look healthy in my portrait,” Akaashi said dryly.

“You look absolutely stunning in your portrait,” Bokuto laughed as Akaashi playfully swatted at him.

“Once I have your healthy complexion, I move on to other bits. Like mixing the perfect color and shades to match your green robe. The dark brown for your hair. And then I paint it all in, adding colors and blending in shades so that it looks as realistic as possible. And by far,” Bokuto ran the crook of his finger near Akaashi’s temple. “Your eyes are my favorite thing to paint. Actually, I could spend hours just looking at you and sketching you.”

“Haven’t you already?” Akaashi smiled.

“Eveything I’m doing now feels slightly different though. I guess it’s quite task having to paint someone you love.”

The word left Bokuto’s mouth before he even knew what he was saying. He could feel Akaashi tense slightly under him and he sat up quickly. “I—I didn’t mean, I mean I did but—I’m sorry, let’s pretend that never happened,” he stammered, seeing the shocked expression on Akaashi’s face.

“There’s no need for you to apologize,” he shook his head with a slight laugh. “Actually, I thought I was the crazy one for thinking that.”

“Wait, you mean…?”

“Would it be crazy for me to say that I think I’ve loved you ever since the day we first met?” Akaashi asked. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve always had the feeling that you were someone I’ve always known would come into my life.”

‘What a naïve thing to think,’ was what Bokuto knew he and Akaashi were thinking of. But Bokuto had also witnessed it happening. There were friends he knew back at the studio or met in bars who would talk about the ease they felt when falling in love. ‘I’ve been with many women before, but this one felt coming home after a long journey,’ one friend had told him.

“When you think about it, what were the chances of me being chosen to paint you, out of all other painters? What were the chances of me having to paint you, out of all other subjects? What were the chances of me arriving here safely out of all the accidents that occur at sea? What were the chances of the days we’ve spent here happening smoothly in perfect succession out of all other outcomes?” Bokuto said. He saw his questions answered in the look on Akaashi’s faces. “Maybe we were meant to meet each other.”

With that, Akaashi leaned in close to kiss him again, and again, and again. It was no longer that summer night kiss but one of longing and elation of having met and knowing that they were both on the same page. Bokuto could feel Akaashi’s hands cupping his face and sliding down his torso, thumbs hesitating near the buttons of his shirt until Bokuto permitted them to undo each one. Meanwhile, his kisses trailed down from Akaashi’s mouth to the side of his jaw, down to his neck, and in the center of his collarbone, just under his throat, lingering like a question mark. Akaashi adjusted his position, lying back onto the carpet, and slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, baring his chest.

“I’m yours… Koutarou,” Akaashi whispered, beckoning him closer. Bokuto ran a finger tip down from Akaashi’s throat and down to his sternum. For once, he couldn’t imagine sketching nor painting this scene because there was no way it would be complete without the warmth and heat in their stares and beneath their fingertips. Sometime after Bokuto leaned down to kiss Akaashi and before they fell asleep in each other’s arms with only a thin blanket pulled from the bed to cover them, the image of the ghostly figure of Akaashi that Bokuto saw a few nights ago flashed in his mind.

…

The next few days were spent like so: Akaashi would pose and Bokuto would work on the portrait for a few hours each day before they’d go to the beach, or walk through the fields, or stroll through the town. At night, after dinner, they’d retire to Akaashi’s room with the door locked and their clothes ending up on the floor on more than a few occasions. Bokuto had never been happier waking up feeling Akaashi buries his face in the crook of his neck or waking up in the same position they had fallen asleep in when morning came. He’d always wake up before Akaashi did and held him tightly in his arms, praying that the sun would rise a bit more slowly or that Kageyama would wake up a bit later each day.

And the portrait was almost finished. Bokuto could feel himself subconsciously painting less each day or tweaking things like changing the color or painting over a finger again. He remembered one of the stories that Akaashi told him about Odysseus’ wife, Penelope, who had been left in their home island when he went to fight in the Trojan war. She was courted by many suitors and in order to delay having to marry someone until her husband came back, she excused herself by weaving her bridal train and unraveling the works she made each night. In the end, it felt pointless because delaying the portrait wasn’t going to do anything. Akaashi’s mother would return in a few days and leaving the portrait unfinished would just leave Bokuto without a job and having to cross the sea to go back home.

Bokuto took a small brush with a bit of the dark brown color he used to draw in details and scanned the canvas for anything left that he could possibly fix only to find nothing else. He was done. Bokuto stepped back and put down his paintbrush and palette.

“Do you need to take a break, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asked.

“It’s…finished,” Bokuto shook his head. The look of concern on Akaashi’s face dissolved into his usual stoic expression. “Would you, uh, like to have look?”

“Alright,” he nodded, standing up from his chair and walking over to look at the canvas. Bokuto knew that it was a lot better than the previous portrait that he made and destroyed. While looking at it, he couldn’t help but feel that everything about the portrait was truly his because only he could look at it and know that he captured more than Akaashi’s likeness, but everything he had come to know about the young man over the past weeks.

“Is that really how you see me?” Akaashi asked.

“Yes.”

“I look beautiful.”

“You do.”

“Do you think my fiancée would be pleased?” he asked. Bokuto felt a lead weight in his stomach.

“She should be. I could imagine this hanging over your mantle in the parlor.”

“I heard she lives in Kyushu, the place where my Mother is visiting now. It’s quite far from here,” Akaashi kept talking, his voice sounding dead in Bokuto’s ears.

“I’ve never been to Kyushu but my master has. He says its beautiful during the springtime with all the cherry blossoms in bloom. There are wonderful art museums to visit and there’s a local theater nearby that places traditional music ensembles,” Bokuto trailed off when he saw Akaashi looking out of the window where the sea was.

“I know you’re saying all these things to comfort me Bokuto-san, but to me it all just sounds like you’re trying to console me. Like how mothers would talk to their toddlers about giving them a treat to stop them from crying,” Akaashi said.

“What else am I supposed to say, Akaashi?” Bokuto sighed. “You know as well as I do that this can’t last. The hate and the scorn we’ll have to experience. I could lose my credibility. Your family would disown you.”

“Then let’s run away! Can’t we? We could just pack our things and leave on a boat and get out of here,” Akaashi exclaimed. Bokuto saw so much hope in his eyes and was loathe to crush it. The world that he wanted to live in existed in the pages of a book.

“They’re going to do everything to find us. Do you really want us to live our lives on the run? And what will we do when they do? I don’t know if your parents would still force you into an engagement but they’ll throw me in jail for kidnapping you,” Bokuto argued. He didn’t notice that his hands were balled into fists.

“Why does it sound like you’re just willing to let this pass?!” Akaashi suddenly raised his voice, shocking Bokuto. “After all this you’ll still find someone to love and warm your bed, maybe in secret but you’ll still have that chance. Once you hand over that portrait to my mother, there’s nothing more for me!”

Bokuto stepped back. In front of him was the Akaashi who had grown up in a lonely manor surrounded by books, who had seen himself in the love that Achilles and Patroclus shared but knew that it was frowned upon in the world outside, who had purposely delayed his inevitable engagement by putting off any painters who came. “I’m—”

“I need to be alone,” Akaashi cut him off, walking around and past him to leave the dining room. With nothing left to do, Bokuto sat back in his stool and stared at the painting of Akaashi as if it would give him answers. He received no answers, only the knowledge that this may be the best painting he had ever created.

…

Akaashi had locked himself in his room for the rest of the day, and the day after that, so it came as a surprise when Bokuto saw him in the kitchen with Kageyama. The two of them were seated at the table, sifting through grains of rice to find tiny insects, rice weevils, that hid themselves among the grains. Kageyama looked up to greet him first.

“Bokuto-san. Dinner won’t be ready until an hour from now. Do you need anything?” he asked.

“No, it’s alright,” Bokuto shook his head, eyes unable to help themselves from glancing at Akaashi whose head was bent over in his task, before sitting down at the table. “Actually, I’ll give you guys a hand.”

“It’s not an immediate task. Although, I find it quite relaxing to do so,” Kageyama explained.

“I could use some relaxing,” Bokuto nodded, looking down at the bed of rice grains that had been spread out on a large platter made from woven leaves. He spotted a weevil, as small as a rice grain but standing out due to its black color, and picked it out quickly before crushing it in between his fingernails. Akaashi still said nothing.

“The madam is coming back in two days,” Kageyama said. “She didn’t entrust me to check on the portrait but personally I do wonder about how it’s doing.”

“It’s already finished. I think she’ll be happy with it,” Bokuto answered.

“I’ll definitely miss this place,” Kageyama hummed to himself as he sifted absentmindedly through the grains with his fingers. They were long and elegant too, but not as fine or delicate as Akaashi’s was.

“Where will you once we leave?” Akaashi asked, looking sideways at Kageyama. “If ever you need a job, I’m sure I can lend a hand.”

“Thank you, Akaashi-san. Actually, my family comes from Kyushu. My grandfather and older sister run a small bakery and I was thinking of working there from now on until I get bored,” he said.

“That sounds wonderful,” Akaashi gave a small smile. “I’ll be nearby then.”

“I was also thinking of working at a library.”

“A library?”

“Yes,” Kageyama nodded. Bokuto smiled slightly to himself at how chatty Kageyama was being today. Maybe it was all that time they spent talking to him and trying to make breakfast in the kitchen. “My sister works as a governess and she made the effort to teach me how to read and write. Sometimes I…” he glanced at Akaashi and blushed slightly. “Forgive me but, sometimes I borrow a few books from the library to read at night.”

“You don’t need to be ashamed about that,” Akaashi chuckled. “That makes me happy, actually, knowing that I’m not alone reading all those books.”

“I also browsed through your favorite book once. The Greek mythology one…” he added shyly.

“What was your favorite story?”

“The one about Hercules because it sounds so amazing,” Kageyama smiled. “What about you, Akaashi-san?”

“I have a lot of favorites,” Akaashi smiled wryly, picking out a weevil and crushing it between his fingers. “But the one that resounds quite a bit with me now is the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.”

“I don’t think I’ve read that one.”

“It’s quite the tragic love story, actually,” Akaashi said. This time, when Bokuto looked up, he caught his eye and held his gaze for a few moments. “I could tell it to you if you like.” It was directed not only to Kageyama but to Bokuto as well, so he nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

“Once upon a time, there was a man named Orpheus. He wasn’t a man though, not really, because his father was Apollo, the god of the sun and music and medicine, and his mother was a Muse. Because of that, he was gifted with the art of music. He traveled with a lyre and his voice was so high and sweet that anyone who heard it couldn’t help but stop and look for where the sound was coming from.

“Now, Orpheus fell in love with a woman named Eurydice. But their love didn’t last long for Eurydice died from being bitten by a snake. Orpheus was distraught with the loss of his wife that he resolved to save her. So, he took his lyre, and plucking it with his fingers, he sang a song so beautiful that the ground underneath him opened and he could walk all the way down to the Underworld. He kept singing on the way down and his voice lulled Cerberus to sleep and kept the monsters guarding from attacking him, all the way until he came upon Hades, the God of the Dead and Ruler of the Underworld, and his wife Persephone. And Orpheus sang a song about them that was so beautiful, they both bowed their heads and let him pass to greet the ghost of his dead wife, Eurydice.”

“That sounds beautiful,” Kageyama said.

“But it doesn’t end there,” Akaashi shook his head. “Hades allowed Orpheus to travel to the surface with his wife and for her to come alive once they returned to Earth. But he gave one condition: Orpheus wasn’t allowed to turn around once during their walk on the way up because if he did, Eurydice would return to the Underworld.

“Orpheus agreed to these conditions and set off with Eurydice following behind him. As he neared the surface, his heart was overcome with fear that he was walking alone and longing to see his wife again. And in a single, tragic moment of weakness, he couldn’t help but to turn around to see his wife tumbling back into the darkness.”

Everything was silent for a moment, except for the shifting of fingers through the rice grains. And then, Kageyema spoke up: “That’s pretty foolish of Orpheus to do.”

“Maybe,” Akaashi chuckled. “But there are different versions to the tale. In some, they say that Hades tricked the both of them, not intending for Eurydice to be let go, and so designed an impossible task for them to fulfill. In another, Orpheus instead chooses the memory of Eurydice and so turns around to have one last look at her. And in another, Eurydice knew that the test was impossible in the first place and whispered ‘Turn around’ to see her lover one last time.”

“It’s a tragic story,” Kageyama said. Bokuto silently drew swirling patterns in the rice when Akaashi said,

“All the real ones are.”

…

This time, it was Akaashi who knocked on Bokuto’s bedroom door. It was nighttime, almost an hour until midnight, and they were both far from the shores of sleep. Bokuto wordlessly stepped aside and let Akaashi in. He scanned the surroundings of the room curiously before choosing to sit at the edge of the bed where Bokuto joined him. “I… wanted to apologize,” Akaashi spoke up. His head hung down and he played with his hands on his lap. “It was unfair of me to ask unreasonable things of you when both of us knew where this was eventually going to head. I knew it even before I kissed you. I just… wanted to hope, that’s all.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. I wanted to hope too,” Bokuto reached over and took Akaashi’s hands in his. “I knew a fellow painter, we both attended classes together, who was caught sleeping with one of our male models. Both of them were kicked out of their respective guilds and blacklisted from ever being able to take commissions or enter another guild. I saw him in the street once with slurs being hurled at him while he begged around for alms.”

“That’s terrible,” Akaashi shook his head. Even recounting that memory left an acidic feeling in Bokuto’s stomach. He felt Akaashi clutch his hand gently with both of his, as if he was cradling a bird, and press it to his chest. Akaashi hung his head down and from the shake of his shoulders and the dampness on Bokuto’s hand, he knew he was crying.

“I don’t see what’s so wrong with us being like this,” he sobbed, his words coming out in hiccupped breaths. “I’ve had to deal with knowing this all my life and the one time I’ve found someone to love, it’s all going to be taken away again.” Bokuto wrapped both of his arms around Akaashi and pulled him close. Akaashi clutched at his arms and buried his teary face on Bokuto’s shoulder.

“I just want you to know that I regret nothing from these last weeks. Nothing at all,” Bokuto felt his own voice breaking.

“I regret locking myself in my room for so long. Who knew that an entire day could be wasted so, so much?” Akaashi hiccupped. Bokuto pulled away and brushed the hair that stuck to Akaashi’s forehead, cupping his face in his hands.

“Let’s make the most of the time we have left then,” he said, leaning in to kiss him. Akaashi’s mouth was soft and warm and wanting as they both fell down into the bed. They rushed through nothing, taking their time memorizing as much as they could of each other’s bodies and as much as they tried to fight it off, sleep came eventually.

…

“You know, you’re probably the only person who’ll ever get to touch me like this,” Akaashi said, breaking the silence of the muggy, summer morning air. It was the day of Mikoto-san’s return and they hadn’t left the bed yet. Bokuto wasn’t sure if he had really slept that night, only that Akaashi was continuously stroking his hair and their breathing fell into the same pace.

“I’m probably the only one who knows how to touch you,” Bokuto rolled over to press his face against Akaashi’s bare chest.

“Yeah, that too,” Akaashi said sarcastically. “If only we could stop time and let things just pass like this.”

“If only, if only,” Bokuto sang, propping himself up by his elbows on the bed to look down at Akaashi. His hair messier than usual, mostly due to Bokuto’s wandering hands, and there were a few marks on his collar bone, also due to Bokuto. He liked seeing him like this and knew he would keep this image in his head to save for his future mornings.

“I could draw you like this,” he mumbled, dragging his fingertip lightly across Akaashi’s cheekbone.

“Then draw me like this,” he smiled.

“Alright. So, I have something to remember you by.” He got out of the bed and walked over to where he kept his sketchbook and drawing charcoals before coming back.

“How do you want me to pose?” Akaashi asked.

“Just like that,” Bokuto smiled up at him as he flipped to a fresh page and started sketching an outline. Akaashi held his position: head propped up with his hand with an elbow on the bed, the curves of his body just barely covered by the thin blanket. Bokuto made sure to capture everything, going in with a heavier hand to make Akaashi’s facial features as stark as possible. He prayed that termites or insects wouldn’t eat at his sketchbook, that the charcoal lines would never fade, that the paper would never tear. Finally, he finished and showed it to Akaashi.

“It’s beautiful,” he smiled, running his fingers on the paper around the sketch, careful not to smudge anything. “Make one for me too. Something to remember you by.”

Bokuto unhooked the small mirror that hung on the wall above where he kept a basin of water for washing his face. Akaashi took it from him and held it steady in front of his chest while Bokuto peered at his reflection in between sketching. He had opened his sketchbook to a fresh page when Akaashi stopped him.

“Wait, can you sketch it here?” he asked, handing over his book of Greek Mythology that had somehow made its way to Bokuto’s nightstand.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure.”

Bokuto thumbed through the pages until he landed on one with a good amount of free space. He had been trained to create self-portraits and could do passable ones. This time, he took extra care in capturing the details of his features. It was the only thing Akaashi would have left of him, so Bokuto wanted to capture himself as accurately as possible. ‘Remember this, and everything that happened here,’ he whispered into his sketch. Finally, he passed the book back to Akaashi.

“Page 57. I’ll remember it,” he smiled, sitting up to kiss Bokuto on the lips. It was sweet and wonderful and made them both long for more, but they knew it was there last. “I’ll always love you. No matter what happens,” Akaashi whispered, taking Bokuto’s hand and pressing his lips against the knuckles. “My beautiful painter.”

After dressing up and going downstairs for breakfast, they passed the time playing chess in the library, barely speaking except for when Akaashi was teaching him how the game was played. Finally, they both heard a knock at the door, the sound of Mikoto and other people coming in, and knew that their time had come.

The rest of the events that happened were a blur for Bokuto. He nodded and smiled as Mikoto gushed over the portrait and praised his skill before sealing the canvas away in a wooden box, much like the one Bokuto traveled with. The sound of nails pounding into the wood to seal it shut made Bokuto think of coffins. Mikoto called Akaashi to his bedroom upstairs to present him with a gift. After making sure the portrait was safe and taken care of, he headed to Akaashi’s room to bid his goodbyes.

Before that though, he clearly remembered Kageyama approaching him to say goodbye. He had said something along the lines of ‘Thank you for coming here. Akaashi-san was happy these past weeks,’ to which he nodded and smiled, giving him a hug before saying his goodbye to him. Bokuto threw his things into his suitcase before finally going to Akaashi’s room.

What happened upstairs wasn’t a blur in his memory either. Bokuto remembered, knocking politely on the door, hearing Mikoto inviting him to come in, going inside to receive his payment from her. He was aware of Akaashi standing in the middle of the room but couldn’t raise his head to meet his eyes. ‘Aren’t you going to say goodbye to me?’ Akaashi had said out loud, calling to him. Bokuto could hear the slight crack in his voice. As much as he knew it would be more painful for him to do so, Bokuto walked forward, his eyes still downcast, to wrap his arms around the man he loved with all his heart. He closed his eyes to remember this last feeling of warmth before quickly disentangling himself and heading out the door.

His own footsteps thundered loudly in his ears, especially because of how little he could see in the dark interior of the manor. Bokuto almost slipped on the carpet but caught himself using the stairway railing. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was suddenly aware of another set of footsteps but it was only when he opened the manor’s door that he heard Akaashi speak:

“Turn around.”

He didn’t even need to be told twice. Bokuto turned around to find Akaashi standing in the middle of the parlor, illuminated by the single shaft of light spilling into the slightly ajar doorway, wearing a new, navy blue suit that his mother bought. The suit he was going to wear for his wedding. Akaashi’s eyes betrayed the words ‘Keep this memory.’

Bokuto let out a single, choked sob before leaving the manor, shutting the door, and losing Akaashi to the darkness.

#across the sea #bokuaka #bokuto koutarou #akaashi keiji #bokuaka fanfic #haikyuu!!#haikyuu!! fanfic #portrait of a lady on fire!au #across the sea: act. II

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phoenotopia · 4 years

Text

2020 March Update

Happy New Year! Well, I guess it's a bit late for that...

Much of what transpired in the past few months will fall under polish and bug-fixing. Will and I have a mutual friend who got married, so I had the occasion to visit Will to attend the wedding as well as have Will playtest the game in its most complete form yet. He logged 24 hours of playtime and just reached the entrance of the final dungeon. Then we had to call in for the night since it was 5 AM, and I had a flight to catch in the morning.

His completion rate where we stopped was 42% of Heart Pieces, 33% of Energy Gems, and 44% of Moonstones. So... I think we have a pretty lengthy game!

This will take a while to playtest & polish... Will's daytime profession is QA Engineer so he's pretty great at catching bugs. From his playtest, we jotted down 200+ items to fix/adjust. Some as small as a simple misspelling, and some more significant (like Gail being unable to jump when standing at the edge of a steep slope). I'm about half-way through fixing that list...

(Will’s living room where much playtesting was done)

Here are some other things we've accomplished in the past few months. A lot of it falls under polish and bug-fixing, which won't sound outwardly impressive, so I'll dive in a bit under the hood.

-------------------------- Item Balancing --------------------------

There are over 200 items in the game. Of which, 90+ are healing items. While much of their flavor text was already written, their stats weren't yet finally decided. So a large effort was spent to balance them as well as possible. Initially, I balanced items by observation (ex: "The player is relying on this item a lot, so I will nerf it...") Now, I've moved to a more systematic way of doing things. I made an equation that takes in all of an item's parameters, and spits out a score. The higher an item heals, the higher the score. The longer an item takes to consume, the lower the score. And so forth.

As usual, I used google spreadsheets, since they support equations. I could tweak the values of a healing item, and immediately see how its final score was affected. I also made use of automatic color formatting, so a field becomes highlighted red, if it's particularly bad, or green, if it's particularly good. Of course, the sheet is just a guideline. The aim wasn't to make all items have the same final score, but that they made sense for what they were and when you could get them. Late-game items tend to have higher overall scores versus early-game items. Some items, like doggy biscuits, have notoriously low scores across the board - as a joke!

-------------------------- Cooking Systems --------------------------

Another thing that had to be done with the healing items was finally determine their cooking sequences. 38 healing items could be cooked and will transform into something else. The way I specified that an item could be cooked was to add a a little snippet to an item's "meta data". An example would look something like, "COOK,57,62,ABXY,10,1.5,1".

In order, this specified the item_ID that would result on success (57), the item_ID that would result on failure (62), the button sequence (ABXY), the time you had to complete the sequence (10 seconds), how quickly the cursor should move (1.5x speed), and if the item multiplied on success (1). The system appears simple enough - but it was actually extremely inefficient!

For one, this system didn't allow random button sequences - all "berry fruits", when cooked would have the same button prompts and in the same order every time (ABXY). Initially, I thought having set button sequences would be a feature, but in practice, it was less fun.

Two, this system wasn't human-readable at all. I'd see a sequence of numbers, forget what they were, and have to look them up over and over.

But the biggest problem was that you couldn't evaluate an item's cooking difficulty from these numbers without manual testing. At 1.5 cursor speed, how many times does the cursor pass the center panel in 10 seconds? Maybe that's 15 times... for a 4 button sequence, the player has 11 opportunities to miss - that's too wide a berth for failure. The system also had variable penalties - if you misspressed a button prompt you loss time on the cooking meter. If you didn't press anything, you missed the opportunity, but not the time - but the clock was still ticking, so you did lose time, just not as much. In the end, the difficulty of cooking each item was all over the place. It was also possible to create "unwinnable" scenarios if I made the button sequence too long, the time too short, or the cursor speed too slow. Testing each item manually to ensure doability was too tedious and unreliable - it was a mess!

Which is why, the underlying cooking system was revamped. The new meta data looks like : "COOK,57,62,seq_length,5,spd,1.5,ease_add,2". This is a lot more readable. Beyond the first 3 entries, the arguments could be specified in any order. And their meanings were easy to understand.

"seq_length,5" means a random button sequence of 5 will be generated (no need for me to personally generate it)

"spd,1.5" means the cursor moves at 1.5x speed. I could also leave this field out to get a default value of 1x cursor speed.

"ease_add,2" - the biggest improvement to the system is how we now approach difficulty. We streamlined a miss-press and a missed opportunity as the same level of "mistake", and difficulty is framed as, "how many mistakes is the player allowed to make and still have a successful result?" By default, the player is afforded the ability to make 2 mistakes, and "ease_add,2" bumps the number of allowable mistakes to 4. We then automatically calculate how much "time" the player should have to cook something based on its cursor speed, how long the button sequence is, and how many mistakes the player is allowed to make. This was a more sensible and efficient system that let me knock out all 38 healing item cook sequences in one sitting!

-------------------------- Badges Nearly Done --------------------------

As you may recall from the last update, I was working on implementing the badges.

Thinking up the badge and having its graphic drawn is just the first half. Underneath, the code also needs to be made to track all the relevant player stats - how many times the player fished, ate, got money, used a certain move, etc. Some badges require extra guards, because they can be spoofed. For instance, the "Treasure Hunter" badge is obtained when the player has collected XXXX RIN through the course of your journey. However, there is something like a "gold exchange" in the game, where you could circularly trade gold and RIN to boost this number artificially. It's important to guard against cases like those.

So far, 30 of 33 badges are implemented. The last three have to do with late-game things that have inter-dependencies that we're still figuring out. The Speed running badge for instance is still dependent on two things. One, I need to speed run the game a few times to see how fast it's possible to beat the game and decide finally what's a reasonable time-limit. Two, there's actually a time-keeping bug which can inflate the game time if the system is left in sleep mode. I don't expect either things will be too hard to figure out - just gotta find the time for it.

-------------------------- Script Extra Polished --------------------------

We continued to polish the script, which I thought was basically done before. We added some extra NPCs here and there, and fleshed out the world with lore text where it seemed appropriate. In the end, the game's script ballooned to over 100,000 words! Hah... It's definitely DONE now however!

Some interesting things I noted as I was polishing old text - there were quite a few instances where Gail talks. I began the game's development with the idea that Gail should definitely talk since I wanted her to be a more active participant in what she chose to do. But I discovered later that if Gail talks, but only talked a little, she comes off as a very reticent person. There's no middle lane here - you're either all in or all out.

If Gail was a silent protagonist, she still talked symbolically. She is understood to be talking based on how people react to her - kinda like Link. So that's the direction I went with in the end (again). When Gail has occasion to talk, it comes in the form of a player dialogue choice. She also has an inner voice when she needs to remind the player to do something.

Another reason I went with this direction, is for brevity. Take this exchange for instance: QUEST GIVER : Can you help me find this super rare ingredient? GAIL : Maybe. I can't make any promises...

If Gail is silent, I can reduce those 2 lines to 1. QUEST GIVER : Can you help me find this super rare ingredient? GAIL : ...

-------------------------- Business Taxes --------------------------

Not too exciting, but new year means I gotta do taxes for the business. They're a lot more complicated than personal taxes, and more expensive! Since the game hasn't sold anything, you would think there'd be nothing to file. Hah! If only... The business is there so we can act as a legal entity and record expenses for when we do start selling. I really want to focus on making games, but there’s a small percentage of it that is sometimes boring and dreadful (-_-) ... still it needs to be done.

------------- Why no Public Beta Testing? -------------

As you may have noticed, I haven't put out any public calls for testing help despite being at that stage. Some have offered to help, which I appreciate! But sadly, I cannot accept. Here's the story for that.

Two and a half years ago, I got my hands on a console dev kit - that's very exciting, so I hurriedly took the steps to convert my dev station to be console-capable. After about two weeks, I had the console version working and integrated into my workflow, so all appeared good...

4 Months later, an artist needed an updated PC build to test some new art assets, so I went to build a new PC version. We use Unity, so generally you just need to click your desired build target, and hit "build". However, I now discovered that by attaching the console "hooks" into my work environment, I could no longer build to PC... It was possible, from my end, to test the game from the dev station in dev mode, which was why it went undiscovered for so long.

I did try to excise the hooks, but proved unsuccessful after a day of work. I decided to take this as an opportunity to focus exclusively on the console version first, which afforded me some niceties. Knowing that there's a standardized control scheme meant I could make full use of the control stick for the fishing mini-game. I also didn't need to create a rebindable keys menu - which is a MUST for PC versions... Most importantly, it lets me focus on making the one version as good as possible before moving onto the next. I have NO idea how those other guys release on all platforms at once...

Chalk it up to inexperience. In my defense, this will be my first commercial release, so bear with me. Don't worry, I still plan to make the PC version! It's a bit unconventional, but we're just going to go in the reverse direction of the usual. Console first, then PC, then other consoles. Wherever it makes financial sense, there we will be. (Sorry Ouya!)

Back to the original question - that's why I haven't sent out any public calls for playtesting. Current playable builds of the game are locked to my console dev kit. So actual playtesting unfolds in a very closed setting. Like what I did with Will, I literally sit behind the playtester, breathe down their neck, and watch them play, taking notes all the while.

But since I'm observing the player directly, even just one playthrough nets me a TON of bugs and adjustment tasks. So it evens out I think.

-------------------------- Trailers, Release Dates, etc. --------------------------

Alright, get your frowns ready...

We finished two trailers, and they're raring to go. BUT! We can't show them yet... We're sort of at an awkward spot where we're waiting on some conversational threads to conclude. Say we win a slot in a show - that'd be a HUGE plus for us - but that may also be contingent on us having NOT shown anything substantial yet. The game in its unrevealed state is a negotiating chip. So we're trying to leverage that... and you can only do the reveal once...

We also want to have some "actionable" items in the trailer - a launch date you could mark on your calendar, a wishlist, a website you can visit, etc. So since those things aren't entirely lined up yet, we can't let the trailers rip just yet...

Right now, I can only say we're *aiming* for a late Q2/early Q3 launch. But I can't commit to anything concrete yet. As soon as we know, we'll happily sing it from the rooftops. I hope I can update this blog sooner with good news, but if things move slowly again, I'll send out the next "we're alive" update 2 months from now (end of April).

I know it's frustrating to have nothing major after so long still, so I captured some gameplay footage... May it sate your hungers!

-------------------------- Footage 1 : Fishing --------------------------

You've seen pictures of the fishing, but never video of it in action. Well, here it is!

youtube

(And right after I uploaded the video, I noticed there actually was a video of fishing before. D’oh)

The idea is simple. First, get the lure in front of a fish, and assuming the fish isn't scared, it will soon bite. Then begins a fight sequence, where your energy meter is pitted against the fish's energy meter. Whoever's energy outlasts the other's wins.

The fish's resistance is represented by a red moving circular subsection. You fight the fish by pushing the control stick and keeping it on the subsection, which will dart around and try to escape you. Bigger and tougher variants of fish will do a "shake" which will reverse the wheel. When the wheel is reversed, so too are the controls, so it gets extra tricky!

While fishing, your energy meter doesn't recover, so one of the ways you level up your fishing ability is by finding energy gems to increase your max energy. There's another way - but we'll keep that a secret.

-------------- Footage 2 : Kobold Boss Fight --------------

You can actually skip the next section if you'd prefer to be surprised and you find your hunger for info sated. That's how I prefer to consume the games that I know I'm going to get. If you're still hungering for info, and you don't mind the slight spoilers, then feel free to proceed!

The next video shows the new Kobold Boss fight. Let's take a moment to reflect on the old game's visuals and how far it's come...

(we've come a long way since the time of the flash game)

youtube

You'll notice the Kobold boss has a name now - Katash! He's a significant enough character that he's earned it. The second thing you'll notice is that he looks better!

Some people have humorously pointed out that the old boss looks like Wolf O'Donnel from Star Fox. There's a funny story behind that. Basically I asked an artist to draw me a space wolf. And the artist, whom I'm assuming wasn't familiar with Wolf O'Donnel, drew that - all of it - all the animations and everything. The first time I laid eyes on it, it was already done, so it was too late to ask for edits. So I just ran with it.

That was seven years ago. Nowadays, I know to involve myself more in the process. I ask for just the design first, and we don't move forward with animations until we're happy with the design. Life lessons!

By the way, if you like Katash’s personal boss theme, give it a lesson on Will's Sound cloud (LINK)

-------------------------- Fan Arts -------------------------- Lots of fan art came in over the past 3 months!

This one is a pixel animation made by Pimez, and shows Gail singing a Christmas carol in various parts of the game. So cute! Years ago, I too was making little animated gifs for my favorite games, so it really brings me back!

This one was made by cARTographer (twitter link) after a request by Deli_mage, so thank you both. Gail rocking stylish boots with a pose that shows confidence in her batting skills. Very anime - Love it!

Another submission of laptekosz of the Last Song of Earth area. Whereas the last picture depicted the night sky, now the orange trees are lit by a rising sun. Artfully done! Kinda makes me want to eat eggs. I hope you'll like the new Last Song of Earth area just as much :D

A new artist to the scene, Not_Quin, submitted two pictures, one of Gail and one of the Sand Drake re-imagined as a centipede. I'm always a fan of these re-imaginings! I like how it's spiky all over and appears to be wearing a skull mask. The Sand Drake is often pointed out to be too similar to Zelda's Dodongos, so maybe a long slithery body would have indeed served better. Fun fact, long ago, when we were working on Phoenotopia 2 in earnest, we actually had a giant man-eating worm planned - WIP animation depicted below. One day... one day...

Negativus Core made two cool new arts! I'm really impressed by their use of unique perspective! Having characters run towards the screen or reaching close to the screen from afar is tricky since the proportions get all distorted - but not an issue for Negativus Core! Love the blur on Gail to show speed, with 66 in focus - really skillfully done! And the cube. Amazing!

--------------------------

I'm really honored by the huge fan art community. Thank you all!

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duhragonball · 4 years

Text

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (128/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation. This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

[6 August 233 Before Age. Interstellar Space]

Immediately after the battle on Zenj I, Luffa underwent another round of mycotherapy treatment. It was a radical application of synthetic fungal DNA, which Dr. Topsas had devised as a way to heal all of Luffa's injuries as quickly as possible. Luffa's very first session lasted three days, but he had managed to refine the process since then, and this time Luffa only had to stay immersed in the stasis fluid for two.

Zatte counted down the hours and minutes until she could see her wife again. In recent days, she had comforted Luffa while she rested after a battle. It had been a very spiritual experience for her, and even if Luffa didn't share in that aspect of it, the lovemaking was great too. This time there would be a delay, but Zatte didn't see why anything else needed to change. And yet, when Zatte went to find her on the third day, Luffa had already left the sickbay, and had gone to the ship's gymnasium.

The entire star-yacht belonged to Luffa, a "gift" from a wealthy deathmatch promoter who desperately wanted her to go away. But Luffa usually slept in the gym, rather than any of the ship's luxurious cabins. She would spend time in Zatte's quarters, especially after they were married, but the gym was where she went to be alone, and Luffa generally preferred to sleep alone.

As Zatte entered the gym, she ignored the toppled exercise machines and torn mats. The place had been a mess for years, as Luffa used this space to let off steam. Now, she was lying on the pile of mats and towels she used for her bed, staring pensively at the ceiling.

"There you are," Zatte said. "I thought you'd head straight for my room, but I guess you wanted me to find you..."

She knelt down on the deck beside Luffa, who slowly rose to a sitting position.

"Hey," Luffa said, kissing Zatte on the cheek.

"What's wrong?" Zatte asked. What she really wanted to ask was: "Is that all? We're apart for three days and all I get is a lousy kiss on the cheek?"

"Nothing, I'm just... I'm tired, and I needed to think."

"I thought you'd want to... discuss what I did on Planet Zenj," Zatte said.

Luffa took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, you saved that kid," she said. "Hell of a job. I'm proud of you."

"It was nothing," Zatte said. "I... I meant what I said back there. I can't die without you. I'm sure of it. And when I'm around you, I feel like I can do anything."

Zatte was sure that Luffa would jump up and push her against the wall. Not too rough, but not too gently either. And Luffa would have some stern words for her about being more careful, and Zatte would fire back with some stern words about picking up the pace, and this would go on until they were too busy kissing to talk. Instead, Luffa just made a weary smile and squeezed Zatte's hand.

"Sorry, I'm just not in the mood, right now, Zattie," Luffa said.

"Oh. No problem. I figured you'd want to spar later on, but we can skip straight to that if you want."

"I can't spar with you for a while," Luffa said. "That mycotherapy junk worked pretty well, but Doc wants me to heal up from the last beating I took."

"Well, I won't tell him if you don't," Zatte offered with a smile.

"Sorry," Luffa said. "I'm playing it his way this time. It's been working out pretty well so far. I'm starting to think these medical types had the right idea all along."

"Okay, but you only use a tiny fraction of your strength when you spar with me," Zatte said. "What's the harm?"

"Probably none, but he told me to rest and that's what I'm doing. Dotz thinks the next attack will be a few days from now, and I need to be ready."

"Come on," Zatte said. She gestured toward her legs, which were clad in form-fitting black fabric adorned with neon purple highlights. "I wore your favorite training gear."

"Hey, if you want to train on your own for a while, that's fine by me," Luffa said. She rose to her feet and walked slowly to the door. "But I think I'm gonna soak in the hot tub for a while, so drop by if you need me."

She walked around Zatte to proceed on her way, but Zatte grabbed her by the arm to stop her. Luffa was somewhat surprised by how forcefully she pulled.

"I do need you," Zatte said. "For sparring."

"Zattie, I can't right now--"

"Don't give me that 'doctor's orders' bull. You'd do it if you wanted to."

Luffa raised an eyebrow. "What is this?" she asked. "I thought you only put up with the sparring sessions before. Now you're demanding it?"

"I'm part of this war too," Zatte said. "I'm here to support you, and I can't do that properly if I'm not at my best--"

"And the only way you can improve is by sparring with me personally?" Luffa asked. "That's crap, and you know it. There's other ways to train."

"Physically, but not spiritually," Zatte insisted.

"Spiritually?!" Luffa asked.

"The work you make me do," Zatte said. "Sensing your ki up close. It's a purifying experience that helps me--"

"You mean on top of the incense in the bedroom? And the litanies you recite before and after we... well... you know."

"When we have sex," Zatte finished for her. "Just say it. We have sex. Honestly, you can be such a child sometimes."

"Me? You're the one who keeps turning our whole marriage into a shrine! What's the matter? You don't trust Providence to make sure I'm doing their work right?"

"It's me I'm trying to improve!" Zatte said. "I have to consecrate myself as much as I can for the next time we go into action. I thought you understood that."

"I thought I did too, but lately you've been taking it to a whole other level. Frankly it's gotten pretty ridiculous. Are you going to follow me into the head and sing hymns every time I flush?"

"Very funny," Zatte said. "I'm just a joke to you now."

"What do you expect from someone as childish as I am?" Luffa snorted.

"Are you going to spar with me or not?" Zatte asked.

"No," Luffa said, "I'm not." And then she walked out the door.

Left alone in the gym, surrounded by broken machines, Zatte considered taking out some frustrations of her own.

*******

[7 August, 233 Before Age. Nagaoka.]

Guwar was finally happy. He had everything he ever wanted, and more. Once, he had been a below-average warrior, but thanks to the wonders of Jindan, he had become one of the strongest Saiyans alive.

He wasn't the strongest, by any means. The Legendary Super Saiyan still held that rank, though Luffa was an enemy to the cult, and its leaders preached that she was a heretic and an impostor. Guwar wasn't entirely sure how Luffa could be both of those things at one, or why exactly she was evil incarnate, but Luffa was a threat to everything he had achieved in the cult, and that was enough for him.

After Luffa, there was Trismegistus, the founder and leader of the cult, and the inventor of the Jindan technique. One of the advanced rituals for cult members was the Trial of Revelation, where Trismegistus would meet with initiates and reveal that he was actually the Rehval III, the Saiyan monarch who evacuated his throneworld and vanished without a trace. Perhaps for some of the cultists, this was a bitter pill to swallow, but Guwar had found the whole thing anticlimactic. He had always tried to steer clear of the Saiyan Kingdom in the past, but that was mostly because he didn't think they had anything to offer him. If he had known the king was an alchemist with the power to make Guwar stronger, he would have thrown in with Rehval a long time ago.

After Luffa and Rehval, there were other mighty Saiyans, all of them enhanced by Rehval's magic potions. Many of the Jindan Priesthood were immensely strong, though not all of them.

Then there were the Executants, a group of elite Jindan warriors charged with special missions for Trismegistus. Guwar had been promoted to this level. He wasn't the strongest of the Executants, but he wasn't the weakest either, and simply holding the position was enough to satisfy him. Before the cult, Guwar had been a nobody. Now, he was one of their heroes. He was their champion.

Having returned from a recent assignment, Guwar strode confidently through the underground halls of the Jindan Sanctuary, their sacred base of operations. His brothers and sisters in the alchemical faith nodded reverently to him as he passed. He took his meals in the Holy Refectory, along with the others who had earned the privilege, and he was permitted to eat meat and drink wine, a special dispensation for those who demonstrated exceptional loyalty.

Then there were the women. Trismegistus forbade monogamous pairings within the cult. Instead, he had devised communal breeding pits, and arranged for certain groups of participants to make use of them. Guwar didn't understand most of it. Rehval claimed that he had the means to determine which Saiyans would produce the most powerful offspring, but he never shared his methods with Guwar. All Guwar knew was that he had been sorted into Eugenic Group Red, and he was authorized to procreate with anyone else in Groups Red, Purple, and White. The other colors were off-limits to him, but this only meant that he couldn't sire children with them. As an Executant, Guwar had special permission to help himself to any lower-ranking cultists he found pleasing. It had bothered him at first. Saiyans were a notoriously prudish species, and even the mere mention of intimacy was enough to make them uneasy, but somehow Rehval had made it all seem quite normal. You had your assigned breeding duties, you went where you were sent, and you did what was asked of you, for the good of the cult. Guwar rather enjoyed it this way. It took a lot of the awkwardness out of sex.

There were, of course, some things denied to him. Guwar had never thought of himself as greedy, but somehow his thoughts always drifted to what he couldn't have. It was as though having more only inspired him to want more. As he entered the corridor leading to the Executants' quarters, he passed his own cabin and knocked on the door of another, the irony of his desires seemed especially poignant.

"You're back already?" asked the woman who answered the door.

"It was an easy assignment," Guwar said. "The man I was supposed to kill had lousy security. I'd have finished even sooner, but Trismegistus wanted me to keep a low profile."

"Mm-hmm," she said as she put her hands on his arms. "And now I suppose you've come to collect your reward for a job well done, is that it?"

"You're not my first choice," Guwar said, but you're a fine woman, Zhidarr. "And you seemed to enjoy it well enough the last few times..."

"Well, you're not my first choice either," she said, but you smell nicer than most of the ones I end up with, so that's something at least." She led him inside and began removing parts of her uniform. "Let's make it quick, though. I have my own missions, you know. I'm leaving for Dubois III in a few hours."

"Dubois?" Guwar sat on the side of her bed and started pulling off his boots. "What the hell's in the Dubois system?"

"Beats me," Zhidarr said. "I haven't been briefed yet. Hopefully it's full of Federation soldiers. I'm itching to get into the war."

"No one's come back from Federation territory since the fighting started," Guwar said. "I wouldn't be so eager to volunteer."

"And that's why you're sharing a cot with me instead of Endive," Zhidarr scolded him. "Come on, don't deny it. You'd be knocking on her door right now if you could. But she outranks you, which means you have no right to request her for procreation privileges."

"So what?" Guwar asked. "For her I should go to the front and get killed by Luffa?"

"You should go to the front and get promoted," Zhidarr said. "Think about it: the first one to fight in Federation space and return alive. You'd be hailed as a miracle. Let's face it, it's the only way you'll ever outshine Endive. She's so far above the rest of us it's ridiculous."

"Well, thanks for the advice," Guwar said, "but I can't have sex with her if I'm dead."

Zhidarr tossed her body armor to the floor and approached the bed. "Well, you won't be spending so much time with me once I get sent to the Federation," she said. "I've decided. As soon as I'm promoted ahead of you, I'm cutting you off. No offense, but I've got better things to do with my time than keep you warm."

"Too bad," Guwar said with a smirk. "Of course, if you die on the front, Trismegistus will have to promote someone else to replace you. Maybe she'll enjoy my company a little more."

"The others died because they were weak," Zhidarr insisted as she climbed onto the bed and mounted him. "Their bodies were too flawed to make full use of the Jindan power. That's why the master sends them to their deaths, you know."

"'The Federation is a crucible,'" Guwar said, repeating the sermon he had heard from the priests when the first reports from the war came in. "'Many are sent, but only the worthy will return.'"

"You say that as if you don't believe it," Zhidarr said.

"I believe Trismegistus knows what he's doing," Guwar said. "Our power comes from him, so it's his right to use us as he sees fit. If he wants to purge the rolls, so be it. I just don't understand it from a strategic sense. How do we win a war if all our soldiers die?"

"You talk like an outsider sometimes, Guwar," Zhidarr said. She kissed him and patted him on the cheek. "Trismegistus has a plan for us all. None can understand his ways, not even his loyal servants. If it made perfect sense to me, then I'd be scared. If I could figure it out, so could our enemies. All we can do is trust, and place our faith in his wisdom."

Guwar couldn't argue with this. Rehval's military plans were bewildering to him, but so far he had done right by Guwar. Others may have been killed, perhaps needlessly, but Guwar was still alive, still powerful, still successful and admired among his peers. As long as Guwar prospered, it didn't really matter to him how Trismegistus prosecuted the war.

Or did it?

*******

"Ah, Guwar, there you are."

Guwar had only visited Trismegistus' inner sanctum a few times. Most of his orders had come down through official channels, or Trismegistus had come to him. The first time he had visited this room was when the Thrice-Blessed chose to reveal his true identity to him. Guwar shrugged and wondered why it mattered. Of course King Rehval would want to hide from Luffa. It only made sense for him to create a new identity, a new secret base, and a process to carefully vet his followers. The only real surprise was that their shadowy leader was a Saiyan himself, since Saiyans weren't known to dabble in alchemy, but Guwar was a mathematician himself, and never so he never paid much heed to stereotypes.

"Reporting as ordered, Master," Guwar said as he lowered himself to one knee.

"I have something new for you," Rehval said. "And I thought I should brief you on this personally."

"A new mission?" Guwar asked. This is it, he thought to himself, he's sending me to the front.

"Relax, Guwar, I'm not sending you back into the field already," Rehval said with a chuckle. "You just returned from Thoall, after all. I take it you've already helped yourself to your rewards?"

"Um, yes sir," Guwar said, awkwardly thinking back to Zhidar's cabin.

"Good man," Rehval said. "Zhidar or Potei?"

"Uh, Zhidar, sir."

"I thought so. Always one or the other. You should really broaden your horizons, Guwar." Rehval rose from his dais and gestured for Guwar to stand. As he did, Rehval approached him and clapped his hand on Guwar's back. "There are some excellent women in the technician section that I think you'd enjoy."

It had been easier for Guwar to discuss this sort of thing when he hadn't known that Trismegistus was a fellow Saiyan. Abasing himself was one thing, and talking openly about sex was another, but what was truly disturbing how easily it came to King Rehval. Guwar had often heard talk of the king wanting to force the Saiyan culture to be more like the rest of the galaxy, and now he was finally beginning to see just how cosmopolitan he really was.

"I, uh, well... once I've found something that works, I like to stick with it, sir," Guwar said. "Less disappointment that way. Uh, you mentioned an assignment?"

"Right," Rehval said with a grin. "You pull this one off for me, Guwar, and you can have anyone you want, whenever you want. I know you've had your eye on Endive since before you joined us. She's always been out of your league, right? Well, not for much longer, I think. Here."

He picked up a portable data drive and handed it to Guwar. "I've ordered one of the ships to be prepared for your personal use," he explained. "Not that you'll be going anywhere for this job, but I think you'll need its computer core. And I've assigned some acolytes to assist you while you work."

"I don't understand," Guwar said. He held the drive in his hand and stared at it closely, as though expecting its plastic surface to offer some clue about its contents.

"Of course not," Rehval said. "The war doesn't make any sense, Guwar, not to anyone but myself. I send my followers into Federation space, and they all die, one by one. The only reason Luffa hasn't gone on the offensive is because she doesn't know where to find me, and she can't conduct a search without leaving her territory undefended." He walked idly across the room, pausing to wipe the dust off of a shelf full of old scrolls. It was strange to see him without the heavy crimson robes he normally wore. His simple red shirt and linen shorts seemed unworthy of his stature. Guwar supposed that this was a sign of how much Rehval trusted him.

"The answers," Rehval continued, "are contained in that drive you're holding. This isn't a war for territory, or something that can be measured in casualties or starships. This is a holy war, Guwar. You do understand that much, don't you?"

"Of course, Master," Guwar said.

"You used galactic ley lines to find this planet," Rehval said. "That's why I hid my world from the universe. Not out of cowardice, but to challenge my followers to find me. Only the resourceful could discover my truth. For instance, you used your mathematics background to devise an algorithm for interpreting geomantic signals. That's why I needed you for this work, Guwar. You're the only one I can count on to check my calculations."

"Calculations?"

"You'll find it all in that drive," Rehval said. "Our goal is not just to empower ourselves with Jindan, Guwar. We aren't just trying to win the war, either. You are all the essence of the divine reagent, which I will use to transmute the entire universe. That is why my body remains here, on Nagaoka, while my earthen avatars fight Luffa in my place. The true victory lies here. This is where the blessed reaction will begin. If Luffa were to destroy this planet, it would upset my plans. That's the other reason I've worked so hard to keep its location secret."

"This has something to do with the galactic ley lines," Guwar said. "I never understood what they were or how they worked, but I got the impression that they were like a network of pipes running through every star and planet, and there was some sort of power coursing through them."

"That's not too far off," Rehval said. "Except the lines don't exactly channel power in the conventional sense. More like... possibility. Things are possible on Nagaoka that can't be done anywhere else. The lines that converge here give this planet immense alchemical potential, and if we can direct more lines towards Nagaoka, there may be no limit to what we can accomplish."

Guwar liked the sound of that. If Rehval could become even more powerful than he already was, then there would be nothing that could stand in their way. Not even the Super Saiyan would be a threat. And as Rehval's power increased, how much more generously would he reward his servants...

"My work is based on an algorithm designed by the original Trismegistus," Rehval said. "I named myself after that ancient master to honor him, and to claim his legacy. He had found ways to manipulate ley lines, but he lacked the raw power to attempt anything on a large scale. That is why I need you to go over his work, and build a more robust mathematical model."

"I'll get started right away," Guwar said.

"I knew I could count on you, Guwar," Rehval said. "As much as I prize Endive's service, this task will be more important than anything she's ever done for me. Consider this your path to becoming the First Executant."

Guwar liked the sound of that even more. He could have Endive whenever he wanted. Not to mention a few other high-ranking Executants he wouldn't mind socializing with. They would all adore him for his great service to the cause. And all he would have to do is ply his trade for a few hours. A day at most. He had drawn up mathematical models in his spare time for fun. How hard could this be?

*******

[7 August, 233 Before Age. Interstellar Space.]

Zatte stewed in her frustrations for a full day, and when she was ready to face Luffa again, she found her in the star-yacht's hot tub. Dr. Topsas had restricted Luffa from so many activities, it was just about the only thing left for her to do. Luffa didn't look up at her, and she didn't know how to begin, so she just started talking.

"I wanted to apologize for yesterday," Zatte said.

Luffa glanced up at her. "I shouldn't have mocked your faith," she said. "It defines you as a warrior."

"No, you were right," Zatte said. "I have been going overboard lately. Receiving training from you is... well, it's important to me. It makes me feel like I'm actively doing something to prove my support."

"Sometimes, you have to do nothing," Luffa said. "I'm not soaking in this thing because it's fun, you know. I wanted worthy opponents to fight, and now I've got more than I can handle. I have to play this carefully or I'll let them win."

"You're right," Zatte said.

"Doc doesn't even want me cooking for a few days," Luffa said. "I hate that."

"We've got enough leftovers to last a while," Zatte said. "And there's always the backup rations."

"You guys deserve better than rations," Luffa said. "But I have to play this smart. I learned that from you."

You learned it from Keda, Zatte thought to herself. The Dorlun child was much more sensible than either of them, but the pain of her death was still sorely felt, and so the two of them had a tendency to avoid speaking of her.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Zatte asked. "Anything at all?"

Luffa shrugged. "I don't think so," she said. "You're welcome to stick around, but I think what you really want is a place to channel all that pent up energy. I don't think I can help you there. Not for a while, anyway."

"Sounds like we both have the same problem," Zatte said. "We might as well be miserable together."

She sat down at the edge of the tub and took off her boots, then dipped her ankles into the bubbling water. "Is this what it's like to be you?" Zatte asked after a few minutes. "I mean, being so riled up and not being able to cut loose?"

"I was going to ask you the same question," Luffa said. "For the first time in years, I'm having to conserve my strength and wait for the right moment. And there's no clear path to victory. Best I can hope for is to go from one battle to the next."

"Huh. I guess we've got a lot more in common than I thought," Zatte said.

*******

[15 August, 233 Before Age. Nagaoka.]

Blusser didn't know what Guwar's assignment was, but she was deeply honored to assist him while he carried it out. All she really knew was that he had boarded a scientific research vessel which the Jindan Cult had captured several months ago. At first, she assumed they would be flying the craft to some distant star system, but instead the ship went nowhere, and Blusser and her fellow acolytes were tasked with standing guard on the tarmac to make sure he wasn't disturbed. On occasion, they went inside to serve him meals. She had done this herself yesterday afternoon, and she was impressed with his charming disposition. Executants like Guwar represented the finest warriors the cult had to offer, and everyone spoke so highly of Guwar. On top of that, he was a scholar too. Blusser never had much interest in math, but somehow he was able to explain complex ideas in a way that made them easy to follow, even if she didn't remember most of it. He was a fascinating man.

Her relief arrived at the shipyard, carrying a crate containing his dinner. Blusser took the crate and went inside the ship to deliver the meal before leaving. She had to perform some rituals with the priests, and then she would turn in and report to the shipyard the next morning to do it all over again. But the priests weren't expecting her for another hour, so she hoped to spend some more time enjoying Guwar's company.

The ship was designed for a crew of three, but it had a rather spacious common area. There, Blusser found a large triangular table with papers scattered across the surface. Three computer terminals were located at each corner of the table, although one of them had been torn off of its mounting and was now embedded in the wall. Guwar was nowhere to be found. Blusser guessed that he was in the head, or perhaps taking a nap in one of the cabins on the deck above. She laid the crate down on the deck and started arranging the dishes on the table for him. When she finished, and he still didn't show himself, she began to worry, and so she searching the rest of the ship.

At last, she found him in the engine room, seated at its single workstation, his face buried in his folded arms. There were papers here as well, some of them crumpled up into little balls.

"Uh, Executant Guwar?" she said, unsure how to proceed. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, but I wanted to let you know that your dinner is ready."

He looked up at her, his expression weary and frustrated. He seemed to be a completely different man than the one she had spoke with yesterday.

"What?" he asked. Then: "Oh, yes. Fine. Whatever."

"Is everything all right, sir?" Blusser asked.

"Everything's fine," he said, not even trying to hide his insincerity. "You can go now."

She put her hands together and looked away from him awkwardly. "Well, I was just thinking, if you had the time, I'd like to hear more about that theorem you were telling me about yesterday. I--"

"I said you can go now," Guwar snarled. "Can't you see that I'm busy?!"

He grabbed a tool from the desk and threw it at her. Blusser dodged it easily enough, but decided to leave before he could try again.

As she hurried out of the ship, she passed by her relief, standing guard outside.

"Better give him plenty of space," she warned her. "That job he's working on must be a lot tougher than we thought!"

NEXT: Proof by contradiction.

#dragon ball #fanfiction #super saiyan #luffa #lssjluffafic #zatte #guwar #trismegistus #nagaoka

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histoireettralala · 4 years

Text

How the (Quarantined) Murats broke the Internet (and Lannes).

Hello friends! I know we already have several ongoing projects with @joachimnapoleon, but we couldn’t resist unleashing this one.

It’s set in the Quarantine!AU which is itself a spin off of the Roadtrip!AU, Trifecta Universe, name it as you will :^)

Inspired by real world situation, unfortunately. Hoping this will bring to those of you who are in lockdown (same here!) some much needed levity.

****************************************************************************************

Caroline is cursing the day Napoléon enrolled her in Mme Campan's Institute; no, scrap that/rewind, she is cursing the day he met Joséphine, and consequently, Hortense, bane of her life, goody-two-shoes of the century who has inspired Napoleon with the truly visionary idea of trying to copy and paste Hortense's behaviour onto Caroline's whole self.

Now, Caroline is mature enough to admit some slight controlling tendencies. And maybe a contrarian streak - but try being the youngest sister in the Bonaparte family - you have to fight twice as hard to make yourself a place and get some respect.

Her point is, she hasn't taken to the Institute. For excellent reasons. If Hortense has made it a point of honor to excel in some subject, Caroline has systematically hated it. No use fighting for scraps after the star pupil has received the old hag's whole quota of praise, after all. Now Caroline wholeheartedly embraces whatever makes Madame Campan pinch her lips, shake her head, or sigh (as much as the snobby old lady allows herself to), treasuring every sign of disappointment the way Hortense collects gold stars. (Not to brag, but Caroline is now a master at it).

Even her marriage is a testament to that superhuman ability of hers.

Not that she didn't love Joachim anyway - she's been ridiculously besotted with the man since she was fifteen, and nothing has yet managed to abate her feelings towards the maddening, adorable goofball. But honestly, the way Mme Campan's face had fallen (oh, ever so slightly, but Caroline knows how to look) in disapproval had been the cherry on top of the delightful, curly-haired, long-legged cake.

She has relished every single one of their subsequent media appearances, and she would lie if she says she hasn't occasionally baited the press with their nationwide famous PDA. For now, Caroline admits, in spite of the "scandals" and all the choices she has made, the old witch is still standing and tutting in disapproval - like that would work. But someday, yes, oh someday she would break, and it would be all thanks to Caroline.

So - she is cursing. Because, of course, Hortense has always been committed to arts and crafts, and Caroline, therefore, has pointedly ignored them.

And now she can't sew to save her life.

Literally.

Because masks are mandatory now.

And she has four kids to protect.

And, well, she may suck as a student, but she does NOT suck as a mother. So, taking a deep breath, she watches videos, buys fabric, filters, and elastic bands, and sets herself to the task.

Two hours later, her eyes are red, her voice hoarse, her fingers raw and pricked, and she is irreparably breaking her ties with the sewing machine.

She vaguely considers calling Pauline - even if she can't sew herself (can she ?) Pauline will surely know someone who can, and at least she is kind enough not to let anyone know of Caroline's embarrassing problem.

She is still scowling fiercely when the shrieking chorus begins (the kids' usual reaction to Joachim's arrival), promptly followed by the sound of bags hitting ground and little feet running, three, two, one, impact. And Joachim's laugh.

God but that sound can still bring a smile to her face.

She wipes her eyes and straightens herself up before opening the door to the entry hall where the kids are now swarming around their father and drowning him in cuddles and kisses, stuffing their drawings under his nose and chattering excitedly. ** Beneath the squealing, adoring, warm little pile of his children's wriggling bodies, Joachim soaks up the innocent love and its side dish of kicking little feet and shrieks in the ear. As Louise's sticky little fingers pat his cheek, he sees from the corner of his eye the door open on his wife.

His sunshine.

His glorious little dynamo.

But there's a problem, Joachim thinks frantically (what has he done now ??? nothing comes up!!), because she doesn't spark her usual energy - oh my God, she's disappointed, that's it, disappointed and SAD (WHAT I HAVE DONE ???), her walk is nothing like her usual triumphant gait (it's the COUCH), even her hair looks listless (Lannes may still let me crash, where is my sleeping bag ??). Joachim takes a deep breath and centers himself before looking at her again, and - oh. She's not angry at him.

Oh.

Then whatever has her so bothered is going to die a fiery death and if she wants, Joachim will stomp it to death (with his hooves, Achille's voice adds in his mind).

** Famous last words, Joachim muses, hesitantly fingering the white cotton.

He has watched the video. Three times, to make sure.

He has cut the necessary length and width for six masks (his ambition for tonight is moderate).

The machine looks back at him, reminding him of a crouched feline, poised to pounce. He eyes it warily. Caroline's explanations, though thorough, had been... fast paced. Joachim has caught the general idea and in what order the different steps of the process are supposed to happen. He has minded every fold of the fabric and set aside the elastic bands.

It's... daunting. If he messes that up his family will be stuck inside forever and the house will probably catch fire spontaneously from the sheer frustration burning inside them. Murats need to be OUTSIDE (Bonapartes don't deal much better with being locked up).

He carefully selects the stitch and folds the fabric by instinct - patterns are as useless as maps, anyway - he'll go with his guts and God bless the bold.

He takes a deep breath and lines up the three layers of material - with the elastic bands properly tucked inside- under the needle, lowers the presser foot, and gently pushes on the pedal.

Oh my God.

Oh my God it's happening.

Joachim marvels at the speed the machine uses to execute its task, remembering to steer the fabric only if needed, and being careful with it ("To be honest, sweetie, I'm not even sure if it's working well, " Caroline had admitted. "I think Mama gave it to me, ugh, when I went to the Institute. " Joachim hadn't pushed because he wasn't that insane, some things were taboo in this house).

When the first side is done, he takes a moment to inspect his work before switching to the other side.

Wow.

It's... Pretty okay ?

The mask all done, Joachim holds it to his face, and stands up to find a mirror (they're everywhere in this house, and see, it's useful).

He tries it on.

It's very... white.

Time for some color, he decides.

Heh. If anyone had told him before tonight that he was going to sew a mask and like it, he would have sent them to a psychiatrist. Because, even though he'd been quick to assure Caroline he totally could do this (I've repaired my suits several times! ), his skills were limited to a temporary little tweak and quick repair when he didn't have the time to go to the tailor.

In front of the mirror, Joachim smiles beneath the mask.

This is going swimmingly. ** Caroline grumbles when a weight hollows the mattress out.

"It's late," she mutters.

"Shhhh, " says the voice. Then, with a giddy sort of energy Caroline can only wonder at (who the hell is so alive at such an ungodly hour -oh yeah, that's right, only Joachim). "Love."

A pause.

"Sweetheart ?"

Caroline groans.

"Yeah", she forces out.

"We have seven masks!"

The proclamation wakes Caroline completely and her hand is already searching for the light switch.

"What?"

She pushes the switch and looks at Joachim's face. Blinking under the sudden flood of light, he looks …

Surprised and happy. A little bit like a dog who has just learned a new trick. The smile on his face is infectious.

"You want to see them ?"

Caroline is already up.

In her office, the old machine sleeps and seven masks wait in a wicker basket. They're real. They look like the models Caroline vainly tried to follow. She touches them, putting one over her face. It fits. The elastics do not hurt.

They have masks.

Joachim watches her, waiting anxiously for her verdict. Her eyes shine in the mirror, and then she turns towards him, takes off the mask and sets it aside.

A purring Caroline leaps into his arms.

So much for sleep.

** At the usual hour, Lannes, bottle and glass at the ready, flicks on Skype. He has so much to tell Murat (to be honest, he never knew before quarantine how much of a gossip he'd turn out to be, but what can you do) and even without any grand news (which is the case most of the time) it's always a highlight of his day.

The kids are lovely but sometimes you need an adult conversation, okay ?

An adult male conversation.

A bro discussion, yeah, okay.

"Murat ?" he calls.

Weird. Usually Joachim leaps onto any greeting, if he's not the first one to call.

"Yo ? Murat ?"

Nothing.

"JOACHIM MURAT" he bellows.

Finally, a harried face appears. The black curls are everywhere and the eyes seem inhabited by some unholy light.

Has Joachim started to drink without him ?

Or worse, with someone else ?

Lannes feels oddly cheated at the idea.

"Ah, yeah, okay, hello, Lannes!" says Murat, blinking. "Is it already time ?"

Already ? The day had dragged on.

"What the hell is happening," he blurts out. "Have you started drinking ?"

Murat looks weirdly offended, scrunching up his nose.

"Drink- what ? No!"

He straightens up and clears his throat.

"No, Lannes, I didn't cheat on our Skype cocktail hour with some random booze harlot, I respect you too much for that. I was just, " he lowers his voice and Lannes instinctively leans towards his screen, intrigued.

"I was busy.

- Are the kids okay ?

- Yeah, they're fine! Excellent! The spirit is undaunted, yeah!

- Joachim," Lannes slowly articulates.

Artless blue eyes look up at him.

"I was making masks, and I forgot the time, that's all!"

- Masks, " Lannes repeats in a bland tone.

- Masks," Joachim nods.

- Masks ?" What the hell, Lannes wonders, masks, like, actual masks against Coronavirus ? Masks, as in, paper masks or clown masks for the kids, right ?

- Masks, as in, mandatory masks, yeah, I'm making them, " and Lannes has stepped into an alternate dimension.

- You're making masks.

- I am.

- Masks.

- Masks, " Joachim patiently assures him.

- Making ? As in, as in SEWING them ?"

The black curls fly as Murat vehemently nods.

Holy shit.

Lannes almost busts a gut laughing.

" I could show you", Murat says with a hint of disapproval in his voice (it was weird) "but if this is the way you react I might not bother."

The laughter stops short. Murat's headmasterly tones are frankly weirding Lannes out.

Is this a prank ?

Lannes knows it's not. It's all over Murat's face. He's actually serious.

Holy shit.

"Why are you the one sewing the masks ?" he finally asks.

"Because," Murat shrugs. "I volunteered."

Lannes blinks.

"Plus, " he adds, with a smile, " Turns out I'm great at it!"

That is still to be seen, Lannes thinks, remembering, oh, way too many boasts.

"You'll see", Murat nods sagely.

"Right", Lannes croaks.

The evening goes on.

** He made the haberdashery's day, Joachim thinks, fabric piled up in his arms.

Good for them, and good for his family.

Today, he is going to let the kids choose the fabric for their masks. Just because they are young doesn't mean they have to settle for their parents' choice, right ? He carefully picked anything that could interest or amuse the little ones.

He has turtles, an armada of kittens, various birds, flowers, geometric patterns, dots and stripes of all sorts.

"What are you doing, Papa ?"

Joachim turns to face Letitia.

"I just bought some fabric to make some masks for you all, sweetheart. Do you want to choose yours ?"

The little girl nods eagerly.

"Can I stay with you ?" she says, leaning into him.

Joachim can't resist such a request.

** Caroline climbs up the stairs to Joachim's office where he finally set camp with the sewing machine two days ago.

She is still mesmerized by his mastery over the beast.

He has adopted a routine, and tonight, she needs proof that Joachim sewing actually happened (Pauline had laughed, and Joséphine had asked for receipts), so she's carrying her camera. She scowls inwardly, why can't anyone ever believe them ? Joachim told her about Lannes the other day - well, what is so extraordinary about it ? Being male doesn't make you genetically unable to sew, you know. Men!

Hushed voices wash over her, Letitia's flute-like voice overlapping with Joachim's warm tones.

"And then I put the fabric here," their little girl is saying.

"Uh huh," her man agrees, with the softness he saves for his children (and herself). " Perfect!"

Letitia giggles.

Caroline, readying her camera, silently enters the room. Both father and daughter are so absorbed by their task and by each other that they don't notice her presence.

Letitia sits on her father's knee, her little hands holding the fabric - a giraffe pattern - and Joachim is entirely focused on her.

Caroline starts filming.

When the giraffe-adorned mask is ready, Letitia snuggles into her father's chest and he offers her the next selection, apparently a swarm of tropical fishes.

"Your turn, Papa", says the little girl.

"Oh, you're right, princess", Joachim smiles, mock chastened. "Shall I ?"

Letitia nods determinedly. “Go on good Sir".

Joachim sews the next mask.

It's very sweet, Caroline thinks, beaming behind her camera. This is the perfect proof that she was right, not only about his sewing ability, but about her own choice years ago. I'm so going to upload this as soon as I'm out of here, she rejoices.

** New video uploaded, by @carolinemurat, 7.54

@pauline-borghese, 8.01: oh my god it's so cute!

@pauline-borghese, 8.01: and he's doing great!! how many has joachim already sewn ?

@pauline-borghese, 8.08: sorry, just had to watch it again. (<3) This is an adorable duo and you were totally right, I should never have doubted you.

@joséphine-malmaison, 8.14: wow

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.14: I'm speechless.

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.14: In a very good way!! Congratulations to Joachim.

@joséphine-malmaison, 8.17: very sweet and actually educational! Congratulations!

@aimée-davout, 8.26: I wish Louis would do that with our little one!

@joséphine-malmaison, 8.34: Can I share this on other social medias , Caroline ?

@pauline-borghese, 8.36: was about to suggest the same! I can boost it up with my contacts. Up for it sister ?

The phone rings.

"Mama ?"

"Uh huh, he did that. He's... Yes, Mama, he actually offered, and.. Mama. Mama! Listen to me please ? Yes, I promise. Uh huh. Yes. Yes, really. Did you watch the video ? You really should, your namesake is on it too. "

Ten minutes later.

"Yes, Mama ? Is everything - oh. Oh. Well, yes, he's still sewing. Wha- yes, Mama, I won't disturb him. Of course, Mama. You.. what ? His favorite dessert ? Why... Mama we're in lockdown, he can't go to Corsica. You.. Ah, yes, of course, I'll ask him. And yes, of course, I'm feeding him! Mama!"

@aglaéauguiéney, 8.47: mind boggling.

@eleonoredenuelle, 8.49: how talented can a man be ?

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.53: It's actually a better tutorial than the official ones ? And so much cuter.

@hortense-beauharnais-bonaparte, 8.55: I wish I had a little girl.

@carolinemurat, to @joséphine-malmaison, @pauline-borghese, 8.58: Yes.

TBF...

#fanfiction #QuarantineAU #How the Murats broke the Internet (and Lannes)#part1 #joachim murat #caroline bonaparte murat #jean lannes #and many others

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nitewrighter · 4 years

Note

Final Exams widowtracer or gency if you don't do widowtracer

No Widowtracer. This is a Spiderbyte/Tracily House. So It’s gonna be College AU Gency. Good luck to everyone still dealing with finals this coming week!

----

Genji leaned back in his seat and rubbed at his temples, his vision swimming at the peripheries before he squeezed his eyes shut. He could still feel the last few milligrams of caffeine flickering in his system as he raised his eyes to his laptop screen once more. “Okay--get it together,” he slapped his hands slightly on his cheeks to wake himself up a bit more, the cold of his prosthetic hand helped in this regard, “Thesis. Thesis. Pass, or Dad cuts you off,” he huffed out an exhalation and continued typing, though at this point, after six hours of reading and re-reading and re-writing and re-reading his own words and the pile of other books on his table, he wasn’t sure if he was just writing himself in circles.

“May I have your attention please, the library will be closing in 30 minutes,” a soothing voice sounded over the speakers, and it felt like a siren call into shutting down completely but the time limit was enough to eke the last bits of energy back into Genji’s mind. He just had to finish off his conclusion, then he could spend tomorrow actually cleaning up with his own editing. That was fine. That was good. The thesis was due in 48 hours. He was maybe 70% done with it. He had this.

He heard the winter rain slap against the window next to him, the droplets and rivulets of water catching the orange light of the streetlights just outside of the library, sending it blurring and swimming like his own text-strained eyes. He sighed. He did not want to walk back to his dorm with the weather like this and a part of him mused on hiding out somewhere and then napping on one of the library couches, but then quickly recognized that was his own sleep-deprived lack of logic and he would, eventually, he would have to go home, and if his own brain was suggesting crap like that to him, there probably wasn’t much good it could do his thesis at this point. A few hours of sleep. That was all he needed.

He stood up and stretched, exhaustion feeling like a slowly stacking column within his spine, and he gathered up the three empty coffee cups around his laptop, threw them away, tucked his laptop away into his bag, and picked up his books from the table. He walked over to one of the re-shelving carts to see it was already choked with books, some stacked on top and even falling off onto the floor, then he sighed again and headed over to an elevator to go up to the stacks. Just beyond the tall shelves was a wall pocked with cubby-like shelves that had series of call numbers by groups of 50. Genji moved through a narrow passage between shelves to reach this back wall, his books neatly piled in his arms. He loaded his books back into their designated-by-number shelves in a near blissfully hypnotized state, his brain elated to find a simple task where things fit where they were supposed to. Rolling his shoulders, he yawned before turning around and moving to walk out of the stacks. He was headed down between another two rows of shelves when he tripped. In his fall, he initially thought he had tripped on a pile of duffel bags but the pile he tripped on grunted and flinched hard away from him as he stumbled forward, flailing his arms to regain his balance but to no avail. He grunted as he hit the floor.

“Sorry!” the pile of a person flinched back into a human shape, revealign themselves to be a girl pretty much drowning in the bagginess of her hoodie and sweats, “Sorry! Are you okay?” her eyes were obscured by a fringe of pale blonde hair.

“Yeah--yeah, I’m sorry-- I wasn’t looking--” said Genji, pushing himself back up to his feet. He looked back at her to see she had pulled her hood back and was rubbing the back of her neck.

“No, it’s my fault, I really didn’t mean to fall asleep here--ow...” that last sound left her as an exhaled regret.

“Yeah that didn’t look like a position someone should fall asleep in,” said Genji, extending a hand to her to help her up. She blinked at his prosthetic and he withdrew slightly. “Oh--Yeah, sometimes people get caught off guard by it--”

“Oh so it’s real!” said Mercy, taking his prosthetic and getting up to her feet, “I mean it’s--y’know I was just... wondering if I was seeing things for a second.”

“Seeing things?” said Genji.

“Well, last year I didn’t sleep for 48 hours and when I finally managed to stumble out of the library, I was convinced for... I don’t know, 8 minutes that everyone in the corners of my vision was mannequins. I mean, obviously they weren’t, and they wouldn’t be mannequins when I turned to look at them, but---I have been trying to sleep more, this quarter--I mean I wasn’t trying to sleep here, but---” she caught herself, “I’m sorry I have no idea who you are and that all sounded very crazy, didn’t it?”

“Let me guess... Pre-med?” said Genji glancing down at the open books and the notebook that had apparently been assaulted with several different-colored highlighters at their feet.

She gave a helpless nod. “Angela,” she glanced down, saw she was still holding his hand, and gave it a shake before withdrawing her own hand and clearing her throat and pushing back her bangs from her face. Her eyes were grayish blue, bloodshot and a little distant with her own exhaustion but beautiful.

“Genji,” said Genji.

Her eyes widened, “Oh, on the Kendo team!” she said, her eyes lighting up. She gave another glance to his hand, “I should have remembered---” she gestured at his head, “And the hair, of course.”

Genji just chuckled and ran his prosthetic hand through his green-dyed hair. “You follow the kendo team?”

“I mean, not obsessively,” said Angela, with a nervous chuckle, “But I’ve caught a practice or two, and there was that whole article about you in the campus newspaper.”

“Ah yes, the ’Prosthetic Prodigy,’” said Genji with a slight eye-roll, “I’m not even a prodigy, I just had a chance to study it longer.”

“It’s still impressive,” said Angela, with a smile.

“Well tragically, Kendo isn’t football or basketball, so I actually have to study,” said Genji, shouldering his bag a bit.

“Let me guess: Literature,” said Angela.

“With a history minor. How’d you know?” said Genji.

“Lit majors will take any excuse to use the word ‘Tragically,’” said Angela.

“Unlike those clever and far-superior STEM-majors, falling asleep in the stacks and hallucinating mannequins,” said Genji, with a wry grin.

She snickered and elbowed him. “Rude,” she said, smiling, “I’m kidding. It was in the article.”

“Ah,” said Genji, “’Not obsessively,’ she says--”

“Hey--” Angela started.

“May I have your attention please, the library will be closing in 15 minutes,” the voice chimed over the speakers again.

“We should probably let them clean up, shouldn’t we?” said Angela, dropping down to one knee to pick up her mess of books and notebooks.

“Here, let me--” Genji bent down and moved to help her. Their hands brushed over each other on one of the books and Angela glanced up and made eye contact with him. Neither was sure if it was the mental exhaustion or sleep deprivation that seemed to make those few seconds of contact feel longer and softer, but Genji muttered a “Sorry” and both glanced off and moved to pick up the other books, Angela clearly reddening. She brought herself up to her full height, holding her books tight to herself as she brushed some of her blonde hair back and he adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

“Guess we’re... heading out the same way then, huh?” said Genji, as they both headed out of the stacks.

“Or we could hide and sleep on the couches when all the staff heads home,” said Mercy as they stepped into the elevator together.

Genji looked at her and a short laugh escaped him.

“That’s sleep deprivation talking, isn’t it?” said Angela as they reached their floor.

“I was thinking the same thing earlier, actually,” said Genji, as they headed out of the elevator and towards the exit, “Stress-unhinged minds think alike, it seems.”

They both fell quiet as they opened the exit door watched rain slapping against the pavement in front of the library.

“Ugh...” Genji huffed and then glanced over at Angela. He moved to take off his jacket, holding it over them both “Here, we can--”

“Oh--you don’t have to--” Angela started.

“You don’t want to get sick right before exams--” said Genji, extending the jacket over her.

“Genji,” she pulled an umbrella out of her bag.

“...Oh,” said Genji, pulling his jacket back on as she unfurled it. She brought it over both their heads.

“You don’t have to--” Genji started.

“You don’t want to get sick right before exams,” said Angela, smiling, her voice a little hard to hear over the patter of rain on umbrella canvas.

“Doctor’s orders, huh?” said Genji as they both walked off towards the dorms.

“If we get through these exams, someday, hopefully,” said Angela, smiling.

#gency

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kireon · 4 years

Text

Store Bought Hero

x-posted from my writing account as well as my author blog.

If natural heroes didn't work, store bought was fine too.

At least, that's what you keep telling yourself. It becomes a mantra as you peruse the discount racks at your favorite clothing store that definitely does not start with 'K'. Setting aside the whole ‘escaped from the lab you were created in’ thing, you haven’t noticed any serious differences between natural heroes and the lab created ones ('store bought', as they say) except for the whole income disparity thing.

Oh, and the sponsors.

Everyone knows natural heroes shopped at Gucci and their sidekicks at Macy's, bare minimum, they simply must be outfitted with the best at all times if they are to be known in the world. You can hear the professor from the labs’ rant clear as day even fifteen years later. While you definitely like a select group of brand name items? You have bills to pay, mouths to feed, and a gigantic fucking load of student loans on your back.

No rich parents, tragic enough backstory, or sponsors for you: a 'store bought'.

With a sigh, you eye a sequined leotard and run your hand up and down the rough fabric. There is something satisfying about the way the colors shift from a too shiny silver to a lurid cherry red. You like shiny. You like shiny an awful lot, as a matter of fact, and that's how you got yourself into this entire mess in the first place.

"How was I supposed to know the stupid anklet was his downfall?" You grumble as you tear yourself away from the sequined nightmare. Restraint isn’t something that comes easily but you’ve had years to practice. A half-hearted paw through the racks of clothing marked at sixty-percent off or more reveals a pair of dark red pleather pants that might just make a good costume base.

"It's not like I walk around with my weakness in plain sight."

It wasn't even a decent anklet either; not even sterling silver or real diamonds or brand name. It was a cheap nickel plated piece of flash and the rash it gave you still itched even a week later. Some sort of curse for the unwary, or so the hero had claimed when you'd given it back to him a day later.

You neglected to inform him of your nickel allergy during the confrontation.

Well, maybe not wisely. You might have been able to get some sort of financial compensation outta him for the damage done to your skin. The rash and blisters did look really awful when he’d caught up with you and he looked horrified when he saw the results.

Heroes had that whole ‘do innocents no harm’ thing, after all.

You'd rather die than admit to anything so common as a nickel allergy, so you accused him of having a curse put on it. He ate up the accusation and used it to his advantage, as they all do. In exchange for falling for the good old fashioned sob story that was your life-- lightly embellished, of course--you had to become his sidekick as penance for your (petty) crimes. Also to completely remove the effects of this nonexistent curse.

After all, you were in ‘dire need’ of a good role model, yadda yadda yadda. You’d stopped listening to his moral prattling about the same time he tried to invoke the ‘daddy issues’ card. The last time someone had pulled that shit on you, they woke up woozy, confused, and completely unaware of the clown makeup as they walked out (pantsless) into the busiest part of the city. Waterproof makeup at that.

Just as a little extra “fuck you” to prove a point; you don’t like doing more than petty retaliation if you can help it.

You can be quite nasty, after all.

In the end, Hero McDadguy puffed up in his usual self-importance and gave you an entire fifty bucks towards a ‘basic’ costume and sent you on your way with a time limit. He was currently busy getting some frothy concoction at that one coffee shop just around the block. Far enough away that it’s a test of trust and boundaries but close enough he can close the gap and probably haul your ass in if he needs to.

The added caveat that you weren’t to embarrass him with your costume choice makes you want to do it even more. The only thing holding you back is the fact that you do have to wear the costume. In public.

Petty and spite take a backseat to pride and self-preservation.

Not like he was one to talk. He had that whole ‘90s cyberpunk meets Dad-on-Tropical-Vacation’ theme going on. Fanny pack, socks with sandals... the works. You’d rather go to jail than try to figure out how to replicate, keep in theme with, or otherwise find something to compliment that mess.

You mutter that very thing under your breath while you snag a few promising pieces-- and the leotard because fuck self-control you deserve something nice-- off the rack and head for the dressing room to start trying things on. Twenty minutes of posing in the mirror in varying outfit combinations later and you ignore the request for 'photo evidence' of you behaving and call your oldest child instead.

“Hey, what’s the name of that one bird that steals shit?” You ask as you shimmy into a pair of leather shorts with sequins on the ass. You’re definitely about ten pounds shy of ‘Juicy’, as the flashy hot pink word on your butt says, but this could very well be the start of something amazing.

“Maybe you wanna be more specific unless you want me to read descriptions for the next ten years?”

Nat is much like you; level-headed, brilliant in school but woefully under challenged, and has the same smart-mouth that had gotten you slapped through a wall once or fifteen times in your early life. You would never lay a hand on your kids regardless of how mouthy they get with you and so have to find other methods of curbing their attitudes when they get too out of line.

There’s a lot of yelling and someone sounds like they’re on the verge of tears in the background. A muffled Nat’s voice tells them to ‘calm the hell down, it’s fine’ before they come back on the line.

“What’s all that about?” You ask as you sift through the tops for something that would go with it. This opportunity might be a wash with how little luck you’re having. Might be time for Plan B- especially if there’s a problem with the kids. Your hand lands on a peacock blue-and-green number that doesn’t look bad but isn’t quite what you’re looking for. Ugh.

It’d clash with that highlighter orange from Mr. I Sweat Burberry Cologne.

Your middle child’s voice is loud and clear on the line now. “If you buy those shorts I am putting myself into the Child Relocation Program and you’ll never see me again.”

You consider it for a moment. Mortal embarrassment of your thirteen year old or being a slightly less fashion disaster than you feel. Tough decision, really. You feel yourself smile after letting Morgan sweat it out just long enough.

“Clean the kitchen and I’ll consider it.”

The quintessential teenage shriek of fury and angst comes loud and clear through the phone. “I knew you were going to say that! You’re the worst!”

Some parents prayed against having a child born with precognitive powers. While annoying to deal with, it’s also a lot of fun to use against them. It makes parenting interesting and more of a game to see just which future the kiddo wants to avoid- or get away with. “

You feel your smile widen at the range of futures said kiddo has likely foreseen. You’ll have so much fun with this particular set of visions and using it like baby photos against them. “So did you clean the kitchen?”

“Duh!” A most indignant tone.

You laugh. You can’t help it. “Put Nat back on the phone.”

“Promise me you’re not buying those first.” Stubborn and firm. A bit of desperation there too. Not quite ready to beg but not all that far off either.

The way they say ‘those’ makes you laugh all over again. “I’m not buyin’ ‘em, don’t worry.”

“And that weird guy isn’t buying them either?”

Damn it. “Nope. He won’t buy them either.” So much for that idea. Maybe you could-

“No stealing them either!”

Double damn it. “Fine, fine; the shorts stay in the store.”

“Thank you.”

The phone goes back to your oldest. “So, about that bird?”

“Jackdaw, Magpie, Corvids.” You hear scratching of pencil on paper. Homework? At, you check your phone, two-seventeen in the afternoon on a Saturday? Your eyes narrow suspiciously.

Who is it you’re talking to and what have they done with your child?

“Corvids? Like crows and shit?”

“Yup. And no, I’m not a body snatcher.”

A grin. “Sounds like something a body snatcher would say.”

Jackdaw didn’t have that something you were looking for. Didn’t roll off the tongue the way it needed to in your head when you imagined some Big Bad Villain spotting you mid-villainous speech. Corvid didn’t either. Crow wasn’t hitting any notes either.

Raven was absolutely taken by no less than eighty-three variations in your city alone.

Rook had some fun possibilities if you had actually bothered playing and learning chess. (You can’t; you can’t sit still or pay enough attention for that shit and you own that.)

Your eyes fall on the silver-and-red sequined leotard again.

You hear your prophecy cursed child screech in despair in the background and the younger two who have gathered to watch the show tell them to shut up.

Nat, ever patient and ever your child, smiles on the other end of the phone. “I think that’s the one, Magpie.”

Magpie... yeah, you like the sound of that one. Magpie it is. “It’ll make a good base; is Morgan--”

“McFreakin’ Losing It? Yep.” You can hear the sounds of pencil scratching against paper again. Curiosity overrules any possible ‘do not need to know’ that you and Nat sometimes stumble into.

“Okay, I’ll bite; what are you doing?”

“Fulfilling the prophecy as foretold by the ancients long ago.” if Nat’s voice were any drier, they’d be dust in a forgotten tomb. “I’m designing the rest of your costume so you’re not a total train wreck and Morgan can die quietly.”

“You’re my favorite.” You say as you gleefully stuff the leotard-- you’ve tried it on twice and know it fits like a dream-- back on its hanger and wiggle out of the shorts. A wiggle that almost ends badly for you, at that, and you can hear the brats laughing at you in the background as Morgan probably mimics how you just about bit it in the dressing room.

“Remember that when I inevitably try your patience in all of forty-five seconds.” Nat hangs up on you and you feel nothing but pride in the way these sassy children have grown up under your less than skilled thumb. You’ve not been the best parent or even the best role model. It’s funny what unresolved childhood issues and bad habits will do, but damn it you have given it everything you have up to and including your favorite line of ‘do as I say not as I do’.

That is your right as a parent, goddamn it, to use that line and they can pry that right from your cold dead fingers.

They’re all good kids. They’re going to end up heroes in their own right with or without superpowers. That, above all else, is all you want for them so that they’re twice as capable as you’ve ever been in your life. Lab created and thus ‘store bought’ or natural born; it doesn’t matter and it never mattered to begin with.

Heroes are heroes in the end and the world could always use another helping hand as it spins through another chaotic cycle.

Your phone beeps and you glance at the text message.

Black thigh high socks. Get two pair. Amazon sucks for deals rn.\

U r not my fave >:(

You scowl and wish the walls would burn as you unfold the crumpled bills at the register. You don’t need Morgan’s gift of prophecy to know what that text message says and yet, like a fool, you look down at it anyway.

There’s a photo of all five of your grinning children holding up score cards. All of them holding 10s.

All of them dressed in Hawaiian shirts.

You have never felt so betrayed in your whole life.

#my writing #store bought heroes #original fic

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laufire · 4 years

Text

Roswell NM 2x05

My thoughts of this episode could basically be summed up on “Extremely Mixed Feelings” lmfao.

Let’s start with Rosa, obviously. Gosh, I adore her. ADORE her. She feels so lively and real and colourful among... well, everything and everyone else xD. She did even in death. She makes this show better by being the point of contention in the narrative. The mixed feelings come when she interacts with anyone else, because though she remains her incredible self, (almost) everyone else isn’t and I keep chaffing against the dominant narrative :P. She’s also hilarious lmao. I love every one of her zings xD. The “bitch-ass aliens” was obviously the winner, but her calling Max & Isobel’s nonsense “psychic twincest weirdness” was close LOL.

Like, I don’t know how I feel about the show even JOKING about Rosa possibly forgiving Max & Co. The scene itself with Rosa DEMANDING her own room was perfect, but. Yeah. Don’t even joke about that xD. To add that, I actually really love her scenes with Max, both in previous episodes and this one, when he briefly convinced her of stopping his resurrection (I kind of love that the episode was so close to Easter, btw, it’s so on the nose xDD). The energy between the actors works REALLY well and I find myself suddenly paying attention to Max, which hadn’t happened so far xDD. However, I’d enjoy those scenes even more if I could be reasurred that Rosa is always going to have mixed feelings at best about him, and will never be reduced to prop him or Liz/Max (like in the moment where Rosa almost has to comfort Liz about Max loving her. Leave my kid out of this pls). But. Yeah. I also have some guesses as to where the Rosa vs. Max storyline will go now that a.) she has more control of her new powers, and b.) his resurrection is the one that’ll follow the Came Back Wrong pattern, but they’re half-formed/half-wishful thinking so far lol.

I love love love the physicality of Rosa’s scenes with Liz too, even if sometimes I’m bothered by other elements. I’m just amazed by how the actresses manage to make it come across that despite the obvious visuals, despite how ~youthful and reckless Rosa feels... she’s the older sister, still. That’s how she feels, and Liz gets ~swayed by this. Like how she bundles herself agaisnt Rosa’s chest for comfort (and in the second one, the transition to that after Liz holds Rosa’s face in her hands), or how Rosa talks about her “sweet little sister”, etc. It also helps making the relationship feel less proppy than it would otherwise --younger sisters doing something for their older ones feels different than the reverse, idk. I have Thoughts about this but they’re all tangled up with myself projecting stuff on them, so idk what I’m trying to convey here xDD

I’m less conflicted about Rosa/Isobel. STAY AWAY FROM HER ISOBEL. Seriously, I full on despise her now. Fuck her. At the beginning of the season it looked like I might start finding her interesting, but nah. That’s over. And in particular I want her as far away as possible from Rosa. I’m even surprised by the strength of my reaction lol, but I wanted to yell at her to take her dirty paws off Rosa xD (seriously, the scene where she puts her hand on Rosa’s chest felt so so creepy? Was that just me? Add that in Isobel’s comment about having a “threeway” and deugh. GO AWAY ISOBEL). And frankly, it’s hard to miss how Isobel is always at her worst with women of color (I’m wary of her attitude to men of color, after the blatant sexualization/mind control thing with Kyle or all her bullshit with Arturo, too). Her comments on Rosa’s addiction (let alone assaulting her or locking her body in a closet ofc) didn’t help her case. I really, really wish Rosa had chocked a bitch xD. BTW, I’ve seen people attribute Isobel’s shittiness to her connection to Max and his darkness when a.) we saw NO SIGNS of this, and b.) she’s been terrible from day one, okay xD. If the show goes there to absolve her of responsibility like it did in s1... ugh.

My connection was crappy af last week and I somehow missed Michael’s “help me move a body” scene until I saw the parallel done with the one this week and... did this bitch really joke about desecrating Rosa’s body in front of Liz’s face?? (who said nothing because she’s now completely on pod-people’s POV land, ofc. I had flashbacks to Delena joking about Caroline’s rape right there, too). Seriously, the pod-people, ALL of them, have an enourmous debt with Rosa (EVEN MORE NOW), and I really, really wish she collected.

I wish we’d seen Arturo & Arturo-Rosa stuff this episode. It’ll still be tainted by the circumstances (*hates Isobel even more*), but I’m very curious about them. And about how Rosa’s bio-father ties to this stuff --that side of Rosa’s family is being left out of things so far and I don’t like it, tbh. It seems to be simply because it’s too far from the pod-siblings circle of influence ¬¬. Or about how Arturo is processing all this (he still thinks Rosa drove and killed the two other girls and that Max is A Very Nice Boy *barfs*. I seriously resent the very real posibility that Rosa’s story will never be untangled, to her father and to the town).

Not-Rosa-centric stuff under the cut, I guess, because this is getting long xD

I also have mixed feelings about Maria’s scenes with Alex (and Maria’s scenes in general). OTOH, she looked amazing (this is important, js. It’s such a shame we didn’t see Michael’s reaction to that last outfit of hers *-*); I love the actor’s easy chemistry, too; and I think it’s very, very interesting, that Alex basically nudged Maria towards Michael and Miluca. OTOH, I dislike how the conversation immediately turned to supporting him, and especially the false equivalences between Maria falling for Michael and Alex contributing to the lies to her (though I don’t find him as responsibly for that as Michael and especially Liz --since it was Michael’s secret and he planned and struggled to tell her, while Liz was pretty comfortable keeping her in the dark except for her own emotional needs, and knew too well why those secrets could cost), or between looking at your mother’s search history and forgiving someone for keeping you in the dark and endangering your life, js. That he guilted her into forgiving Liz (and so fullfilling Maria’s prophecy about how Liz only struggled to tell her because she wanted support, and my own about how little her anger was allowed to last) made it worse.

I feel terrible for Kyle. You could feel the toll he’s taken smh. My heart broke a little when he told Liz “you called, I broke the speed limit”, too :/. His relationship with his mother is hanging on the balance after all his lies too, which doesn’t bode to well for him either. I liked the scene between him and Alex, at least, though I still don’t think I could ever ship them, given Kyle’s romantic history with someone that ALSO was hung up on another person, js.

Other people have talked about how Alex’s scenes with Michael often highlight his classism and how little it’s talked about in this fandom, but yeah. His comments about Michael’s “wasting” his life... I Felt that.

Related to that, Max’s comment about how someone “has to clean up [Michael’s] messes” is part of why the pod-siblinghood thing is never ever ever going to work for me, sns xDD. Sure, it’s mostly because I don’t like Max or Isobel at all, or Michael 40-50% of the time, but yeah, things like that, or Isobel assuring him of the BLATANT lie that Michael means as much to her and Max as each other... they make it harder to get into the ~spirit lol. Another issue is how TERRIBLE the editing to make them appear younger looks xDD

I had to, HAD TO, roll my eyes at Max’s martyrdom. Ooooh, he’s not doing this for HIMSELF, he would NEVER care about being in PAIN, he’s doing this for US. And the narrative conveniently doesn’t take him at his word and saves him, ofc, because’s he’s a lead and that’s what’s up. It was interesting seeing the other characters coming to acceptance at first, however --I hope it’s a Sign. There are other Signs (of Max’s narrative maaaaaaybe weak spots) that really *pop* in this episode. Like the fact that there’s doubt over who is more important to him, Liz or Isobel. In a show with a really strong male lead, the answer would unquestionably be Liz: she’d know it, Isobel would know it, we’d all know it. And sure, I know a lot of people would say that it’s “better” (?) for a show to acknowledge the ~importance of familial and platonic bonds~ and what not, but c’mon. I don’t doubt that if Liz had been white things would be different. But that’s not the case here. And there are strong arguments for Isobel being number one... like the fact that this amnesia plot in the promo seems to ONLY involve Liz? I mean, he seems to remember Isobel just fine. A male lead forgetting the love of his life is very, very tricky. OTOH this is good in the sense that I’m all for anything that makes Max take a fall... but his & Liz’s stories are too tangled up and I’d fear she’d surely go down with him :/

#roswell: new mexico #rosa ortecho #maria deluca #ortecho sisters #roswell thoughts #roswell spoilers #my thoughts #talking to the void #antimaxevans for ts #antimalex for ts #except not but i Say Something Negative so *sighs*#antiisobelevans for ts #kyle valenti #liz ortecho #antilizmax for ts #antimichaelguerin for ts #antipodsiblings for ts #bitter lau tag #favourites: soul siblings

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royal-shawn · 5 years

Text

The Guitarist || nerd!shawn

anon said: your writing is so good !!! I’m absolutely obsessed, you should really start posting on wattpad too if you aren’t already haha. Also can you please do a nerd/innocent Shawn imagine? That’s my weakness honestly🤤

The show was coming up and my role as Eliza Hamilton would be fulfilled to the greatest degree. To accomplish this, the music teacher and I had been having frequent meetings in her room.

Today is different though when I walk into the corridor towards Ms. Kate’s room, there’s piano music along with an angelic voice.

I creep to the noise and push open the heavy door to the music room.

A boy I recognize from my English class is sitting at the piano, playing and singing. It’s a song from the musical, so my first response is to sing along.

He realizes right away and stops, looking over at me. “E-Eliza!”

“It’s Y/N.” I smile. “I’ve never seen you around before?”

“Shawn.” He looks down at the piano. “You’re very talented.”

“So are you, Do you have a role?” I ask.

“I was going to audition for Lafayette, but I got anxious and backed out last minute.” He says, looking over at me, a red tint on his cheeks. “I play the guitar in the band though.”

“I thought I recognized you from somewhere.” I smile.

“We have English together.” He smiles. “If it’s anywhere, it’s there.”

Thus began Shawn and I’s friendship, every Wednesday, I would go over to his studio apartment off-campus to study for English and practice for the musical.

Slowly, Shawn opened up and he was actually really sweet, he always insisted on paying for Chinese, but I always paid my own.

Today was different, Shawn wasn’t home, but the door was unlocked and it was December in Toronto so I wasn’t just going to wait outside.

The apartment was empty, the sound of silence eerie in a place I'd associated with music and laughter.

I sat on the couch, looking at the things on his coffee table. A picture of his mom, dad, and sister, who I'd heard so much about, his trigonometry book, and a plant.

I realize how odd it is that I'm sitting on the couch of a friend's, who's not even home, and get up to leave.

On my way to the door, it opens, revealing Shawn, with flushed cheeks and a bag.

"Oh, um, Shawn." I smile tightly. "I should've just left earlier, this is an invasion of privacy."

"Oh, no it's fine, rather you be here than walking back home alone in this weather." He grins. "I'm sorry, I forgot to text you and I had to go back to Pickering today."

"Why?" I tilt my head.

"I had an appointment and I forgot to tell you, I'm here now." He smiles, unwrapping the scarf from his neck.

I smile. "Should I put on some tea?"

"No, it's okay." Shawn murmurs. "I've gotta go to the bathroom."

I furrow my brows but take a seat on his couch, waiting for him to come back.

In a few moments, he comes back with his guitar, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes on his face. "Ready to start?"

I nod, smiling softly.

Halfway into Helpless, Shawn starts quivering, his usually still fingers fidgeting across the strings, playing flats and sharps in the incorrect places.

I stop singing to ask. "Are you okay?"

He stops strumming and looks up. "Um, yeah of course."

I shake my head. "You aren't."

He bites his lip. "No, I am."

"Shawn, we're friends right?" I ask. He nods hesitantly. "If you want to be friends, you have to be honest with me."

"Okay.” Shawn takes a deep breath before speaking. “I went to my therapist today, usually they’re only once a week but I really needed an extra appointment and this was the only time that was open. She prescribed me with more medicine and I guess it makes me shake, which isn’t good so I’ll have to talk to her on Sunday when I go back.”

“Why do you go all the way back to Pickering for therapy?” I ask

He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t get it.”

I decide not to press and we go back to rehearsal.

Two weeks until the performance and things are getting real, costumes are being fitted, makeup is being practiced and rehearsals are every other day.

My time with Shawn is getting limited to English Class and an hour after school on Tuesdays, since Wednesday is a rehearsal day.

During Rehearsal, I notice Shawn’s hands have stopped shaking, and he’s more outgoing, he talks a little bit more, and shows off his expertise on guitar.

One day, during practice, Shawn is nowhere to be seen, but his guitar is leaning against his chair.

The absence of guitar makes Ms. Kate growl in frustration.

“Where’s Shawn?” She says, waving her hands at the actors of Hamilton, Lafayette, Burr, Laurens, and Mulligan, making them stop their performance.

The pianist shrugs. “He left a little while ago.”

“Well, where did he go?”

The band shrugs.

I pop out of the curtain. “Can I go look for him?”

Ms. Kate pinches the bridge of her nose. “Yes, be quick.”

I run out of the theater, blue Eliza dress flickering after me. The first place I check is Ms. Kate’s room, which is absent of his presence. I run the the men’s room and push open the door.

Shawn stands in front of the sink, knuckles white gripping on the fake granite counter tops, his head ducked.

“Shawn?”

He looks up at me through the mirror. “This is the men’s bathroom.”

I can help but notice the flushed cheeks and the teary eyes. “I don’t care.”

He took a deep, shaky, breath.

I move to him, my hand finding the midpoint between his shoulder blades. “Shawn, what’s wrong?”

“I - uh - nothing.” He shrugs off my touch. “Let’s just get back out there.”

I shake my head. “Shawn, you aren’t okay.”

“We’re friends, right?”

I nod.

“Then leave it.” He spits, leaving me alone in the men’s room.

Avoiding Shawn was harder than I thought, especially at this time.

Ms. Kate was getting snarkier and snarkier as it went on. The pressure on the performers was surely not healthy, but we were just as nervous as she was.

The big day rolled around and I was all dressed up in costume, looking oh-so Elizabeth Schuyler.

Shawn knocks on the dressing room door, and I turn to look. He was holding a bouquet of roses along with a little bear.

“Come in.” I say, shutting the door behind him.

He sets the gifts on the vanity before turning to look at you. “I came to apologize.”

I watch him wring his hands nervously.

“I can’t perform knowing you hate me, I’ll mess up.” He chuckles, his cheeks turning that pretty light pink color. “But this is both an apology, and a good luck.”

I smile softly, looking at the red roses. “Thanks Shawn.”

“I really didn’t know what to get you, but Brian said girls like roses and since you’re a girl you must like roses, right?”

“I love them.” I smile. “And I like the bear too.”

“I saw him and he reminded me of you, I think it might be the sweater.” He says, pressing the bears sweater. “You always wear striped sweaters.”

“I’ve worn a striped sweater to yours, like, twice.” I smile. “But, regardless, I love it.”

He grins. “I already named him.”

“Oh?” I ask.

“Edgar Allen Pooh, because you really like Poe and Pooh’s the honey bear from that one show.” Shawn rambles, his pink cheeks heating up.

I stand up, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “I’m sorry for shunning you.”

“It’s my fault, I was rude.” He smiles. “I would’ve shunned you, too.”

I laugh, and Shawn’s arms tighten around my torso.

“I wish that we never had to perform.” Shawn says, before quickly explaining. “Not like we aren’t ready but you had a reason to come see me and I had a reason to look forward to Wednesdays.”

“You liked my visits?” I ask, pulling away to look him in the eyes.

He nods. “You were the highlight of my week.”

“We can still hang out.” I say, cupping his cheek. “But now we can do it more than just Wednesday.”

He blushes a deep red at the hand on his face. “You want to hang out with me?”

I laugh. “Of course I do.”

“I want to hang out with you too.” He smiles. “How about Saturday? We can go to that Thai place in campus, and then to the movies.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” I smirk.

“Uh, no- I mean, unless you want it to be.” Shawn sputters out.

I smile. “Yes, Shawn, I would like to go on a date with you.”

“R-really?” He grins. “That’s great!”

There’s a soft knock on the door and Ms. Kate peeks her head in. “Show time, I hope you’re ready.”

“I am.” I say, peeling away from Shawn and toward the door. “Good luck Shawn.”

“Good luck, y/n.”

Saturday rolls around, and I’m getting ready, A mid-length dress adorning my body, I pull on a grey cardigan over the blue dress, before waiting for Shawn.

A few moments later, Shawn knocks on the door, wearing a sweater and nice jeans.

“Am I overdressed?” I ask, looking down at my flats.

“You look gorgeous.” He smiles. “Shall we go?”

I nod, grabbing Shawn’s hand letting him lead me.

The night was brisk, but wasn’t awful. It was the perfect temperature to walk too close to Shawn, warming up off his heat.

It takes 15 minutes to get to the Thai Restaurant, and 15 minutes to get seated.

The place was busy on a Saturday evening, which I guess I understand.

“What are you ordering?” Shawn asks, looking at the menu.

I pause, and look up at him. “I have no clue.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, taking a look at the menu. “There’s a lot of good options like...”

“Did you pay for reservations?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “It’s mostly a walk in.”

“I would have a lot more fun if we just got pizza instead, I’m not really up for trying new things today.”

Shawn smiles. “Well, thanks for the honestly and I agree, we could just go back to mine and watch a movie and eat pizza.”

“That sounds perfect.” I grin. “I’ll call an uber.”

Shawn dialed the number of the pizza place while I changed into his Harry Potter shirt and a pair of his boxers.

I walk into the living area from the bathroom, the TV switched to Netflix, Shawn changed into pajamas himself.

He turns to look at me, a blush settling over his cheeks. “You look gorgeous, even more so in my clothes.”

“Are you flirting with me, Mendes?” I smile, crossing the room to stand in front of him.

“Well, I think, unless you don’t want me too, I can stop.” He blushes.

“No, I like it.” I grin, standing on my tip-toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“You missed.” He smiles, ducking down to kiss my lips.

I bury my hands in his hair, wondering where he got the confidence.

His hand is flat on my back the other wrapped around my shoulder.

After a few moments of kissing, he pulls away, looking down at me. “Wow.”

I find myself blushing, looking down.

“I’m sorry, w-was that too much?” He nervously asks, his hands finding their way to my shoulders.

“No, Shawn, it was great.” I smile. “You were great.”

He blushes once again.

The rest of the night is spent engrossed in pizza and Dr. Strange, but it’s the perfect first date, for me and this nerd.

#Shawn Mendes Imagine #shawn mendes #shawn mendes oneshot #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes angst #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes x reader #nerd!shawn #hamilton #nerd!shawn mendes #nerd #writeblr #royal-shawn

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daemonmatthias · 4 years

Text

ok, so, first of all, I was already anxious about the faculty meeting today because A. the only other one we’ve had since the closure was sensory overload hell B. this was about end of year procedures, which is stressful enough at a new school without all the changes to the procedures due to Covid-19

And here is what I learned during today’s faculty meeting:

each department is assigned a time and date to come complete check out procedures in order to limit the number of people in the building (good- in theory, but see below)

my department’s assigned time overlaps with the New TEKS training I’m supposed to attend (stressful- not sure what I will do... probably take my laptop to my checkout time and try to multitask?)

everyone is required to wear masks and encouraged to wear gloves while in the building, and adhere to 6ft distance (very good- i was planning on this anyway and now I don’t have to be anxious that all the small town people I work will judge me for “overreacting”)

we can still have guests come help us pack up our rooms- max of 2, they must also wear masks and they have to stay in their person’s classroom (neutral- Robert probably can’t help me anyway, but I am a little surprised; I think requiring them to stay in the person’s classroom is reasonable)

every person must check in and out when they arrive and leave, and they’ll be sanitizing the building after each group leaves (good and expected- I’d be worried if they weren’t)

they want us to pack up EVERYTHING so that they can deep clean over the summer (understandable, but stressful- my room is a mess and I have a TON of books and we have such a limited amount of time)

they are NOT requiring teachers to attend the graduation ceremony at the drive-in movie theater, but they are asking for volunteers (good- I didn’t really want to go, even with protections, since I don’t know a single senior at all)

they changed a clause of the grading policy that said 6 weeks 6 would not be counted if it was lower than six weeks 4. (very bad- just confirmed for a parent last night that her child would be in that category and his grade would be fine; had to email her again and undo everything I said last night)

these TEA label requirements are a hot mess and clearly poorly communicated to the districts (VERY ANNOYING AND HEADACHEY- they kept talking about “if you have names that are highlighted” which made no sense because it turns out our department chair hadn’t emailed us the spreadsheet yet that they were referring to in the meeting but idek why they relied on the department chairs to send out the spreadsheets since it contained the info for the ENTIRE DISTRICT and so other than tabs at the bottom for each school it’s all just on there and color coded with no color key so I have no idea what I’m looking at at all)

#teacher life under covid19

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lexiseigneur · 4 years

Text

Part 2 Chapter 2: Out of the light, into the unknown

Lexi showered to rid herself of the stench of the city. Then she read, cozily tucked in her blankets. At some point, she fell asleep, her book forming a tent above her chest.

The slamming of a car door woke her. She frowned because this was not Quinlan. Whoever this was entered the house, and she jumped out of the bed and listened. Then because she did not want to meet that person in the confines of her bedroom, she flew toward the stairs and collided with him. Her brain was overwhelmed by dissonance.

This was clearly Quinlan. But it was not. She was screaming his name in her mind and the words sounded flat. They were not going anywhere. He could not hear her. The Bond was gone. His expression exacerbated her anxiety. Quinlan was as lost as she was.

“How?” she whispered.

She sighed when he touched her and his skin was rough and familiar. His arms around her were almost crushing.

“Are...are you hurt?” he asked.

“No. You?”

Lexi did not feel better that he was already looking for a solution. It only highlighted how clueless they both were. What good were two thousand years of experience in such a situation? He knew as much about the Bond as she did. And she knew very little.

“I am unharmed.”

“There...there must be a reason this is happening.”

Quinlan buried his face in her neck.

“We will fix this.”

His words were a little muffled and she wanted to cry because in the Bond, they always rang clear.

“There are only so many reasons the Bond can be disrupted,” she said. It was just another problem to solve. And together they had solved the impossible. They could do this. They had to.

“There is distance...” he said.

“Dense metals...”

He stood straight and alert.

“The jamming devices.”

“What? They don't work like that.”

“You deducted that we function on another plane...another frequency than the Strigoi. We could even perceive the original devices. Is it such a stretch someone might have modified them to produce this effect?”

“I really don't see how or why.”

Quinlan let go of her and drew his sword.

“With such interference, we are distracted… weaker. Perhaps whoever did this was not expecting my return to occur quite so early.”

It made sense. Lexi strained to listen to the sounds around the house. Mice, deer, birds, a few squirrels fighting nearby. No humans.

“I don't hear...”

“It does not mean they were not here. The range of the devices is limited, but they could be lying in wait on the edge of our perception.”

And with those words, he rushed outside and lifted his face to the breeze. Lexi imitated him and picked up irrelevant traces near the cars. Quinlan disappeared between the trees and she followed, hopeful. Had he detected something she had not? In those matters, he still had the advantage of his considerable experience.

Then he veered, one time then two then three and her hope died. He was not following a trail, his changes of direction appeared random.

After almost one hour, he stopped. His sword fell on dry leaves and his shoulders slumped. She could not feel him, but she was not completely blind.

“I don't know what to do,” he said.

His voice was hoarse and suddenly the possibility that the Bond might never be restored hit her.

“Quinlan…If we don’t find it...”

He winced. She took his hand and faced him. His eyes were fixated on a point on the ground, unseeing. Lexi knew that expression. He was looking for the silver place. If he unleashed his soul to surround her, its warmth didn’t reach her.

“I’m sorry, I failed. Please, try to find it,” he said still looking at the ground.

Lexi couldn’t bear his looking away. She reached for his face, caressed it, begging. Quinlan arms snapped around her. His hand dug into her hair, pressed her face against his chest.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

His heartbeat was familiar. Calming. Anchored by his familiar music, she plunged into herself.

Lexi opened her mind’s eyes, intact in that realm. She stood in the house that was her psyche. On her right, the plain wall used to be the entrance to a dark basement.

She faced the front door and ran to it. It was locked. So she pulled and kicked and even pleaded, but the door remained locked. Then she ran to the nearest window and pulled the curtains open.

There was no window, only another wall. She checked another curtain and met the same light green tapestry.

Lexi was the problem. The silver place was out of her reach, not Quinlan’s.

She opened her real eyes.

“I can't find it. I mean...it's blocking me. The door there is locked. I'm the one who changed. What did I do wrong?”

“You cannot be sure it's anything that you did. This is not something that ever existed before. We are wholly ignorant of its inner mechanisms.”

She mumbled how scared she was, but she wasn’t sure he could hear her.

“Lexi…I loved you without the Bond, and I will continue no matter what happens.”

She believed him but his absence in her head left a crippling abyss. For just a moment, she needed that pain to go away.

So she kissed him. In between those desperate kisses, she whispered words of love that now needed to be passed from lips to lips.

When they fell on the damp and uneven forest ground, she didn’t care. It only mattered that when he pressed himself inside her, the ache in her soul was forgotten.

After that moment, they continued kissing until her lips felt bruised, because that also dulled the emptiness.

They stayed on the rotting leaves, tucked inside Quinlan’s coat, until rain forced them back inside the house. Lexi wanted to drag him to bed and sleep. But Quinlan had other ideas.

He stood in the middle of the living room, dripping on the hardwood floors from the rain, seemingly lost in thought. Lexi knew better than to interrupt.

“The book might have answers,” he said and started toward the stairs.

She followed closely.

“What?”

“The Occido Lumen.”

She had not thought about it in years. Quinlan yanked open the metal trunk sitting in a corner of their bedroom and took out a wooden box. Inside the box, the pages of the Occido Lumen were bound together by string.

“I thought it was just a bunch of allegories and stories about Strigoi hunters.”

“When I translated it with the Professor and by myself, I focused on mentions of the Master and the Ancients. I only glazed over those that were not useful. But this would be the only place containing knowledge about our kind.”

The velum was yellowed by time but the illuminations still brightly colored. She recalled a conversation on their first encounter.

“There were others before you? You think they are mentioned in there?”

“I recall explanations about the silent voice of the Master. Perhaps we can find similar texts about the silent voice of the half-breeds.”

“They could have shared the Bond, if they met.”

“Indeed.”

He shed his harness and coat, dried himself and unbound the pages. Lexi did not have the desire to smile but it was close. If there were any clues to be found, Quinlan would have them sooner or later.

“Let's get to work,” he said.

Lexi assisted where she could. Mostly by waiting until the sun shone bright and high to take pictures of the hidden scriptures. As he studied the texts, she associated the pictures with their translations. She made three piles, one for the useless ones, another for the ambiguous ones and one for those whose content was unknown and possibly useful.

This took four days. When he was not working, she listened to his retelling of the contents he had just translated. That night they drank their lab-grown blood in front of a roaring fire.

“In the 9th century, a village on the coast of France became deserted in the span of three days. The author describes how strangers came with weapons and dug out the villagers from a nearby beach before killing them and burning their bodies. Those strangers never showed their faces as they wore hoods and masks.”

“Sun Hunters? Cleaning up the Master's mess?”

“So it seems.”

This story would join the pile of useless anecdotes.

“It highlights a particular point that has been nagging me,” said Quinlan. “The book is supposed to be a translation from Sumerian, from tablets found in Mesopotamia in the 16th century.”

“Yeah...unless whoever made the tablets was a time traveler, there is a problem there.”

“The author added much more than what the original texts contained. However, if I learned anything from my travels is that much is lost in translation.”

“You want the tablets?”

“I do. A primary source of information is always most valuable.”

“Where are they?”

“Destroyed by a French king when the author showed him those heretic writings.”

Lexi scowled. What was the point then?

“The Occido Lumen was also ordered destroyed,” he said and had a small grin. “One can surmise that whoever saved the book might also have saved the tablets.”

He seemed so convinced, she could not tarnish his excitement with her pessimism. Lexi could not afford to base her hopes on mere speculations.

“Where would we even begin to start looking for those things?”

“Where they should have been destroyed. In Paris.”

Her stomach dropped a little. She had not been back in that city since she had been human.

“Professor Morecci's connections could open doors in that milieu,” he said, finished his glass of blood and picked up the phone from the wall.

Lexi glanced at the time. It would be ten in the evening where she lived. Calling at this time might seem a little rude. But Morecci picked up after only two rings.

“Mr. Quinlan? How unexpected!”

This was followed by small talk that Quinlan generously indulged. Then he cut to the chase.

“I need help tracking a Mesopotamian tablet. It surfaced around 1667 in Paris and ordered destroyed.”

“That’s vague.”

“It might have last belonged to Madame de Montespan.”

“Now that’s better.”

“I’m sorry to say this but it is a matter of great urgency.”

“We are historians, for us there is no such thing as urgency.”

“Ciara, please.”

“Do you remember what we discussed last year?”

Quinlan rolled his eyes. This strange behavior would have amused Lexi in less problematic circumstances.

“Fine. I’ll do it. You drive a hard bargain.”

“Not really, you’re just unusually stubborn about very small things.”

“When would that be then?”

“I will let you know. Maybe Reykjavik.”

Quinlan sighed, wished her a good evening then hung up.

“What was that about?” asked Lexi as soon as he put the phone down.

“The professor has attempted to obtain my services as a speaker for those gatherings with her colleagues.”

“A conference, you mean? Why did you say no?”

“I am not a zoo animal.”

“They would come to hear you speak not to throw peanuts at you.”

Quinlan grunted and this time she could not help but laugh. It also dulled the emptiness.

***

The next day, they received a call from the curator of the Louvre Museum informing them they were welcome to examine their collection of Mesopotamian tablets. It was fortunate, since they were about to embark a plane bound for Paris. Quinlan had not considered the possibility of a refusal.

Inquisitive eyes followed them everywhere from the moment they entered the airport, until they sat in their first class chairs. They were blessed with a professional flight attendant who did not even flinch at their appearance. The other passengers ogled and whispered.

“Beverages?” she asked and leaned forward.

“No, thank you,” said Lexi.

Quinlan shook his head and the attendant walked on.

“You usually have a coffee at this point,” he remarked.

“I don't feel like it today.”

Several hours into the flight, two boys seating ahead of them still observed. Their heads poked from the sides of their seats and fascinated eyes followed Quinlan and Lexi's every move. Quinlan ignored them and focused on a troublesome passage of the Occido Lumen.

Signs of the author's madness were becoming more numerous. When he looked up, the boys still stared but much more quietly. A long and thing object protruded from the side of the seat in front of Lexi. It was an amalgam of straws, taped together into a lengthy stick. Its tip poked Lexi’s knee. She slept and didn’t notice. Quinlan sighed, and hailed the flight attendant. Intervening himself would likely involve the children screaming and crying. No need for this raucous.

The attendant confiscated the stick with stern warnings, and apologized quietly. Quinlan only wished for Lexi to rest. He hadn’t even notice when she had finally fell asleep.

Her hands twitched and her eyes moved rapidly, but he could not hear her dreams. It was tempting to lean back in his seat and let himself be submerged by their loss. Quinlan sat straighter and resumed his work. Self-pity did not solve problems.

Le Louvre had once been a royal palace built over the span of eight centuries. Quinlan had not visited Paris often across the centuries, merely a dozen times. But with each visit, he had witnessed the erection of yet another luxurious addition to the monumental palace.

Had this been travel for pleasure, Quinlan would have loved describing this remarkable endeavor to Lexi. At night, the city of light had not yet found itself. The streets were deserted, and it took lengthy negotiations for a taxi driver to take them to the museum. They stopped in front of the eastmost façade of the palace, an entrance exquisitely sculpted and divided by thirty-four columns. In the center, the large wooden doors opened and a tall black man ushered them inside.

“I am Jean-Pierre Abenon. Welcome to Paris.”

His accent was very thick. Quinlan shook his hand, much larger than his. When Lexi did the same, her tiny fingers were engulfed within his grip. When he spoke again, she had a vague smile. The historian took them to the secret and unseen parts of the buildings. There, beauty was replaced by the practical, with concrete and innumerable shelves. Under the Richelieu wing were stored the antique treasures not currently shown to the public.

“I took the liberty to start a little,” said Jean-Pierre as he rolled up his sleeves. “Here is a list of artifacts that could have belonged to Madame de Montespan.”

He gave them a binder containing a hundred pages. Each sheet represented one tablet and a summary of its history. Quinlan lifted a brow and exchanged a look with Lexi. She mouthed a quiet “wow”.

“Do you know Rabbi Avigdor Levy? He was a scholar executed by Louis XIV.”

“I’m afraid I don’t. How is he involved?”

“The tablets would have belonged to him beforehand. It doesn’t matter, your initial research is of tremendous help. Thank you.”

“Initial being the operative word. Please check what I gave you, and I will continue looking,” he said. He directed them to a desk with several uncomfortable chairs. Jean-Pierre trotted from shelf to shelf before returning to his computer. He repeated this dance over and over again with no sign of slowing. From time to time, he smiled to himself and printed another page.

Quinlan and Lexi poured over the considerable list. Those that were accompanied by a brief translation were easy to discard. None of them spoke of bloodsucking creatures. Most were bills, or simple letters. The desk was soon covered in neat piles arranged by Lexi.

“Here are the ones that are a definite no. Those are a maybe and those are really interesting.”

The first two nights they spent trimming away the tablets that were certainly useless. When they returned the third night, Jean-Pierre waved them in and positively ran toward the stairs leading to the basement. He babbled the entire way.

“I have found something that might be very useful to you! I’ve been sitting on that all day.”

“Jean-Pierre…when do you sleep?” asked Lexi.

“I had a few hours today. I don’t need much, never have. That’s why I work nights.”

“What have you found?” asked Quinlan.

“Trash. I found trash.”

“Excuse me?” said Quinlan.

Intrigued, they approached the desk on which a metallic chest rested. It was the size of a shoe box. Quinlan’s heart lept.

“Is that…?” asked Quinlan.

“It must certainly is.”

“Why did you call it trash?” asked Lexi.

“Well…”

Jean-Pierre put on gloves and carefully opened the chest. Lexi made a pathetic sound, and Quinlan wanted to scream in frustration. The chest was divided into six compartments filled with sand and loose stones. On closer inspection, letters that he now recognized as Sumerian were engraved on the largest fragments.

“Oh…I guess you wanted them intact…”

Jean-Pierre scratched the back of his head. There was a page tucked in the lid of the chest and Quinlan took it. The historian seemed to want to protest, then thought better of it. The paper stated the king had ordered the destruction of the Occido Lumen and six clay tablets.

Quinlan stared at the remnants, as though his gaze could reverse time and bring the pieces back together. He had been so convinced that the answer was there. That something in those strange etchings would bring back their home.

“That’s bad luck but you still have the seventh to work with.”

Both Dhampir turned to him as one, and Jean-Pierre startled.

“After you gave me the name of the person who possessed them before their destruction, I found proof he bought the tablets in 1606. It mentions seven tablets.”

“Where…”

Quinlan could not finish that sentence. Was it lost as well?

“The six tablets have peculiar compositions unique to the region where the clay was extracted. And there is only one other with the same composition…”

Jean-Pierre took a page still waiting in the tray of the printer.

“It’s in Cairo but it’s…weird.”

Under the picture of the tablet, there was a paragraph which included the word “gibberish”. The tablet was written in what appeared like Sumerian but besides the first line, nothing made sense.

“I don’t want to be touting my own horn but technically, I am the foremost specialist in the Sumerian language and this…”

He pointed at the page clutched in Quinlan’s hand.

“…is not it.”

“How is that possible?” asked Lexi.

“I’m not sure...Sumerian is not written like English or French, it’s closer to Japanese kanas. The symbols represent syllables. I see a pattern. It’s not random. But it doesn’t fit anything found in that region at that time, or even right now.”

His large smile was back.

“I like a challenge so…just give me time.”

“We don’t have time,” whispered Lexi.

“The tablet is 3000 years old, hardly news…” he said with a shrug.

Those historians. Quinlan closed his eyes and stopped himself from punching him. The man did not know, and he was helping.

“How long do you think this would take?” asked Quinlan.

Jean-Pierre’s gaze shifted from Lexi’s gloomy expression to Quinlan’s closed fists.

“It took decades to decipher Sumerian last time but…I have tools my predecessors didn’t have. If you hoped for an answer during your stay here huh…I’m sorry but that’s not realistic.”

***

During the flight back, Quinlan finished studying the Occido Lumen and found nothing of value. He did not tell Lexi. She rolled onto herself, staring at the carpeted floors. There was nothing else to do.

Lexi was sound asleep as Quinlan drove them to Greystone. When they arrived, she did not wake. Quinlan kissed her brow, where her stripes split toward her cheeks. Then he carried her inside and tucking her in bed. Exhausted, he hugged her, breathing in her loose hair then authorized himself to sleep.

He stood in a Parisian street, and carriages pulled by horses passed by him. When he looked down he did not wear the suit he expected but the rough cloth that had been his first garment. The sun did not burn. Another dream. Across the full street, Ancharia smiled.

“Mother?”

“One of them.”

She smiled and walked away. Quinlan’s mouth fell open and he forced himself to wake up. With a jerk, he opened his eyes and reached for Lexi’s shoulders.

He wanted to kick himself for being so unfathomably dense.

“Lexi…wake up.”

She grunted and buried her face in her pillow.

“II know what is happening. Why the Bond is gone.”

She turned to him.

“What?”

“We were wrong…we thought only three situations could cut off the Bond.”

“We know only three. What else?”

“How was I born, Lexi?”

She squinted, wiped her eyes and growled.

“I…Your mother was infected.”

“By the Master.”

“Yes? So?”

“Why would she flee? Why would she stay away from him? How did he not find her as she gave birth to me?”

“She was cut off from him,” Lexi murmured.

She shook her head.

“That can’t apply to us.”

Now Quinlan wished she would remain quiet for a moment, so he could listen.

“Quinlan? That doesn’t apply to us. We’re half-breeds. Hybrids are sterile. You never had children.”

“I never had a child with a human.”

“It doesn’t matter…the chromosomes they…they…”

Then she stuttered, unable to complete another sentence. Her heart knocked violently against her ribs.

“Lexi.”

She stopped mumbling and looked back at him. Her eyes were filling with tears. He had to control his own breathing as his heart felt too big for his chest. Quinlan pulled her close and waited until she quieted down. He had never wished for silence harder in his life.

“Lexi, listen.”

Together, they held their breath and focused. Quinlan cursed the house with its creaking bones, the wildlife scurrying about, and that damn wind.

…Oh.

Quinlan half choked. He held Lexi tighter and nuzzled her neck. She gasped because she had found it as well. It was tiny, less than a whisper, quieter than a mouse. A third heartbeat.

#Mr. Quinlan #Mister Quinlan #the strain fx #the strain #quintus sertorius #the strain fanfiction #The Strain fanfic #part 2

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