#i might make a full-render version of this one cause i think i could have a lot of fun with lighting here | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

legionofpotatoes · 3 years

Note

I love your art, it is very detailed in a neat way. Was wondering how you got started making it as a source of income? How did you get your first paid work, I'd love some advice on how to get started, if that's ok

Thank you. Of course it's okay, although I doubt I have enough work experience in art to really delve into this. I only went full freelance this year, and had been juggling art as a side hobby until then. If you're still interested in my somewhat narrow perspective, and are okay with my long-winded rambles, I'll give it a shot:

So to answer your question fully, I'll describe how I started and move into personal advice and learnings later on. As a disclaimer, I am a white cishet dude in my late twenties with a moderate cocktail of mental illnesses, but overall I can pass for a functioning adult so a lot I have to say may come laced with privilege I cannot fully identify.

So uhh I began drawing in around 2012? I think? Maybe halfway through 2011? And I mostly made fanart for things I enjoyed and tried to branch out in communities that felt nourishing to my style and interests (I caught a bug for alt posters and enjoyed mainstream movies so I spent a long time on posterspy early on). There were a handful of opportunities that came from there but I could only accept a couple because of primary workplace commitments. Still, it showed that networking in a focused community was definitely a good place to start; I myself have huge trouble committing to social networks and really staying socially active, but I knew it was an essential ingredient in succeeding so I tried to make myself be involved in challenges and art support trains etc. as much as I could.

In parallel to all that I also ran a few third party online stores (redbubble, teepublic) for disposable income and would sometimes, if rarely, hit around $100-150 a month from those sources combined. It is a sort of thing that requires helper accounts on other social media sites to promote it on, because the stores themselves have a huge volume of content that translates into low organic discoverability. Obviously it was never gonna be the way towards financial independence through art, and with community projects being few and far between, I opened private commissions in around uhhh 2017 I think, focusing on offering a few styles I knew I could do well, and sometimes operating in individual fandoms (it was mostly a bioware thing to be frank). But I had to close them back down after a year or so, again because of work-life conflict and how badly it was burning me out. The reason I kept trying to monetize this hobby is because I honestly hated what I did for my main job and wanted to see a way out in some shape or form in the future.

And then in 2020 I had to quit my main job altogether because of *gestures at pandemic* and deal with a mental breakdown from all the wonderful things it did to us and me specifically. I took a short break and decided to give art a shot full-time, and that was around May this year. I was planning on opening up commissions again (and I still am), but a few sudden opportunities that fell in my lap moved that timetable down and now I'm grateful to even be doing something I am getting adequately paid for.

So, with that somewhat limited perspective, here's what I've learned that I'd tell myself if I was just starting out:

1. Being a fan of something can be a shortcut towards effective networking kickoffs. Which are important evidently. If you love something and enjoy making content for it, join communities, settle into a combination of social media websites that feel right for those interests + your body of work + your inner rhythm, and try to play to content discovery as much as your mental health allows you to. Like I said, I know that I myself am incredibly bad at self-motivating to talk to people, so I found that synergizing common interests into fanart - which I enjoyed making anyway - could be a way to give myself a gentle nudge forward and build those bridges leading to community activities, which then net experience and coverage. Sometimes even freelance projects from official avenues. Again; picking the right spaces for what you're after is key. Companies roam twitter, concept art recruiters scour artstation or linkedin etc, instagram can land you private commissions and collab opportunities, so on and so forth. Find your niche and try to kick up dust. However...

2. I do not believe that any social profile can replace a good portfolio. The thing that made an immediate difference to me this year was building a coherent, simple website with my best work front and center and a contact form on top. Every single opportunity I got came from that form (maybe via twitter or instagram initially, but always sealing the decision after going through the website), so I firmly believe that showcasing your skills and portfolio in a visually arresting and user-friendly way is a big priority. I had some reservations about tackling that task but fortunately I had help from a savvy life partner and we slapped it together via wordpress in less than a day. Twitter/whatever social media is prevalent in your target groups is definitely important to get the right eyes on your shit, yes, but those eyes will then look for a second stop where your work and rates are more clear and concise. Simplicity is key imo, I cannot overstate this. So make a cute, simple portfolio!

3. Your skills and rates will grow and change as you do. Let them. Over the years I built several lasting professional relationships from my obsession over mass effect and kept getting opportunities both from bioware and their partner companies, some small and some a bit bigger. A one-off job earlier this year opened an unexpected door to another much larger commitment, and then the work I did there brought some attention from small businesses looking for commercial commissions. These were all incredibly different projects in terms of scope and budget, and I've been tackling them all on a case-by-case basis and slowly coming into my own irt my needs, rates, and SOW thresholds. It is still a work in progress (and a LOT of literal work as well), and very much a thing I struggle with in publicly marketing, which is why I felt a tad underqualified to answer your question in the first place (obviously I did not let that stop me). But what it means for me now is that I am rapidly developing into whatever my "version" of a functioning freelance artist is, and when the conditions for that guy are met, I need to be able to confidently plant myself and operate from that space despite past precedents. Do not let anyone bully you into downpricing what you yourself perceive as legitimate products of personal growth and development. Speaking of which...

4. The shitty challenge of turning envy into inspiration, and paddling outside your comfort zones in full riot gear. it is hard, but realizing that being a miserable, self-hating artist in my early days got me nothing but more misery back was the first real step I took and what truly blew the hinges off. I was just not pleasant to be around, I would badmouth my work all the time, and it all somehow made sense in my broken mind because the validation I sought was purely external and the way I sought it was through eliciting sympathy via self-victimization (even when I made something objectively nice). It all led fucking nowhere. Except perhaps to my own narcissism that I one day managed to identify and start managing. So I started looking at things that made me seethe with envy and calmly deconstruct and figure out their inner workings instead, do studies, and find nuggets of inspiration or discover new ways to approach rendering or building up specific elements. It was an application of analytical diligence to what I wanted to be a purely emotional, esoteric workflow, but that I deep down knew wasn't. Art is a discipline and a skill, and maybe it isn't a straight line, but you gotta find some line to thread nevertheless. Being self-hating was almost an identity I had to break out of, and despite it still being like, 4-5% there? I realize its cause and effect on me, my work, and those around me, so it is with a conscious choice that I gently set it aside when I work and especially when I learn. It won't always stay quiet, but the effort is the difference. Your doors towards accepting true growth and venturing into uncharted territories, art styles, and networking will really open from there. But there's a huge caveat...

5. Toolsets, accessibility, privilege, and all the good things that enable artistic expression and profitability are not given equal to all. you might do all the mental work I mentioned to be ready to rock and roll and learn and draw your way out of anything, but digital art is a fucking money pit that asks almost too much at times. I don't got a good case study here but identifying and ensuring accessibility to the tools you need to do your best work is, like, super important. The ergonomics can improve as you make money and settle into the job, but the basics have to be made available to you. And some of that might not even be under your direct control. That can be anything from pen tablets to software subscriptions to opportunities in hiring sullied by sexism or what have you. You gotta navigate all that through careful networking and money/time management. I don't do a good job of devoting specific slices of time to work/study, and my primary clutch is iPad software which went from a good deal to a nightmare scenario over the years. So all I can say here is do what I didn't; network, invest in a PC/tablet, and pick a software you'll learn that won't burn a hole in your pocket.

6. Be nice to work with? This one is hard to articulate and has landed my own ass in hot water in my early years because of how socially inept I am, but nothing is more worthwhile than being.. like. a good person to work with. That can be anything like meeting deadlines, or sometimes missing them but eloquently articulating why, being generous in early stages, being communicable and not too wordy in your emails, having a good grasp on abstract artistic concepts and how to describe them in simple terms, having a clear, laid out framework of your working rates in commercial and non-commercial projects and sticking to those guns with grace, understanding when you need to say no and saying it well, the works. Just being nice. Sometimes that might mean going headstrong with something you believe in, or simmering down and sucking up to the big man, all relative and adaptive. Part and parcel of the service provision dance that we all have to do in order to make bank. Know your lines here, obviously, and don't like. work for nazis. or uh.. *shudders* exposure. but be nice and empathetic and communicable and word will travel eventually. Skill may be in abundance these days, but good people are most certainly not, and capitalism has a way of bubbling up scarcity. Grim, but uh, them's the breaks.

I know I'm ultimately telling you to like. Have a body of work, make a portfolio, grow, and network. But that's really how I see it for now. And being nice can be a cherry on top that sets you apart, along with the inherent irreplaceable voice of your artwork. I think I rambled on enough, but if there is something specific you need my help with, even if you want to come off anon and talk in private, please feel free.

#anon #asks #long post #sorry I cant actually condense ideas better :(

17 notes · View notes

scripttorture · 3 years

Note

Not sure if this would really be relevant, but you're the best resource I can think of for prison systems. In a secluded supermax prison with all male staff & all male prisoners, they suddenly get a single (like 19 or 20 y/o) female prisoner who "can't go anywhere else & needs to be kept heavily restrained." What's the warden's best option for making sure she's safe & treated with respect for the first few days/weeks till they can get female guards? Modern setting, mostly American style prison.

I feel like I know enough about this to be helpful but I’ve never claimed to be an expert on prisons and I think you should try to double check what I say. Partly because I think that the ‘best option’ in a case like this would be heavily biased by opinion and what you consider the best outcome to be. I don’t want you to mistake my opinion for fact or discount the idea that you might think differently presented with the same evidence.

I also think this is the kind of case where there’s a big difference between what should happen and what would likely happen.

It’s also worth stating at the outset that, in my opinion, the American prison system is set up in a way which inherently makes abuse more likely. And that makes a difference. When the system itself is already set up in a way which makes torture more likely the efforts of individuals within those systems are… less likely to be effective.

We’re talking about a system where solitary confinement is the first rather then the last resort. Use of solitary confinement over the safe period (1 week) is routine, with prisoners in maximum security facilities often being kept in isolation for months or years.

Which causes mental health problems to a disabling degree and drastically increases the chances of suicide or self mutilation.

Rape is still common and while it’s often discussed in terms of attacks by fellow prisoners, a lot of attacks are by guards. Especially when you’re talking about women prisoners and juvenile prisoners. Incidentally it was only in 2012 that the US started recommending against cross-gender searches of women prisoners.

And a lot of guards in American women’s prisons are men. I found figures of 40% based on data from 2007 and up to 70% for federal facilities from 2011. Both of these were cited figures from books I don’t have full access to. I can’t confidently say how accurate these figures are or how the authors came by them. I can confidently say that there are male guards in female prisons and that this has been linked to abuse (based on the testimony of rape survivors in American prisons).

While we’re on the subject the kind of restraint use I think you’re referring to is torture. You can find descriptions of its use in Chinese prisons over here.

Essentially humans are not designed to withstand long periods with little to no movement, or holding the same position for a long time. It is unhealthy. It causes a significant amount of damage to the body. Sometimes it’s lethal.

Now if you didn’t know this that is OK.

I’m here because I know a lot of this kind of information isn’t common knowledge and that it’s hard to find. There’s nothing wrong with not knowing something, we all learn sometime.

We’ll circle back to restraint tortures and alternatives in a moment. For now let’s focus on prisons

I think that the most likely thing to happen in an American prison is that this character would be thrown in solitary confinement and kept there.

You can read about how harmful that would be here.

I also think that it’s unlikely an American prison, having decided to house a woman in a male prison, would hire female guards specifically to accommodate one prisoner. And I think a woman in this environment would be especially vulnerable to physical and sexual abuse.

You can read about that here.

There’s an in-depth Reuters investigation on the deaths of women in American jails that you can find here. It contains a graphic description of a dead baby, born in a jail, as well as descriptions of systemic racism towards black women and abuse of the mentally ill. (Seriously if you’re a black woman and pregnant or a mother of a young child don’t read it.)

If you want to write a female character being put into an institution designed for men in America… that’s what it looks like. Higher rates of preventable deaths.

Here’s the thing though: You do not have to make the situations in your story as bad as they are in real life.

There is nothing wrong with deciding that the characters in your fiction get treated with more care and respect then is the norm in real life. It might not be realistic but we are writing fiction.

And there is a difference between a story which is unrealistic in favour of the torturer and one which is unrealistic in favour of the victim.

Having said that: If you want to create a fictional, less abusive prison system for this story it will not look anything like an American prison.

I have… some rather complicated feelings about the idea of setting the story in America and then presenting the prison system as better then it is. Remember that I am a pacifist and I was raised in Saudi Arabia. I say this because I feel as though the abuses in the American prison system are whitewashed in the media America exports.

If I was writing a story set in Saudi which involved imagining a better, less abusive prison system I’d feel confident my readers would know this didn’t reflect the reality. I feel like they would understand without being told that I was trying to imagine a better version of my home rather then trying to accurately show the prisons there.

I do not think that would be the case if you did the same thing in an American setting.

I’ve talked enough about the negatives. Let’s move on to how we can make this idea work.

The way I see it the big choice here is whether you want to keep the setting and the abusive use of restraints or whether you want the character to be safe and treated with respect while incarcerated.

If you’re picturing the character being held in a way that renders her more or less completely immobile (like a restraint chair or a bed) then there’s a pretty decent chance she’d die within the first couple of weeks regardless of any other abuse. There’s a reason restraints aren’t commonly used in hospitals and mental health facilities any more: they increase the chances of sudden death. Even in young healthy people.

There’s a case you can read about here that’s a decent example. Young, 27 year old man, partially restrained for ten days after a mental health episode. Dead from a heart attack in ten days.

Obviously not everyone who is completely restrained for weeks dies of a heart attack. But bed sores exist. So do bladder infections caused by catheters and muscle wastage and a host of other ailments that are cured by simply letting someone move around.

Honestly combined with solitary and the high chance of sexual abuse I think that full body restraint is probably throwing too many tortures into the story. Because all of these individually are complex issues and the harm each of them does is routinely downplayed. Handling all of them in the same narrative would be really tough and the restraints are the easiest one to get rid of.

If you’re picturing something more like the restraint torture (constantly wearing hand and leg cuffs) described in the Chinese case I linked to above, survival is a lot more likely. That’s to do with the degree of movement victims are capable of.

A person who is immobile with their muscles under strain is in a stress position. The death rates for those rise sharply after 48 hours. A person who is immobile when their muscles aren’t under strain (eg restrained to a bed with six point restraints) is not in a stress position. But they’re at greater risk of a heart attack or stroke and after weeks they’ll start to develop bed sores (assuming they’re not lying in a pool of their own waste.)

A person who’s restrained in a way that lets them walk, but slowly, lets them stand, but not straight, is experiencing a restraint torture. They probably won’t get kidney failure (the cause of death in stress positions) and they’re less likely to get a heart attack or a stroke.

There are still serious health effects. Muscle wastage and weakness afterwards is very common. Survivors of this particular torture tend to report chronic pain and joint problems. I’m not entirely sure what causes this but since it’s very consistent I’d guess it’s a physical effect of long term restraint use.

Survivors also tend to report some mobility problems afterwards. There’s a loss of fine motor control and often some difficulty performing day to day tasks that require raising and lowering the arms. Like putting on a jacket unaided or hanging washing on a line or taking things down from a cupboard above the head. This could be due to nerve damage, damage to muscles or ligaments at the joints or both.

These sorts of restraints don’t leave victims in a stress position; which is why they can survive for months or more rarely years while restrained (stress positions are only consistently survivable up to 48 hours.) But nonetheless they do leave victims in a constant state of pain. The restraints dig in. The position and inability to straighten is painful, especially for the joints. A lot of victims report being unable to sleep because of the restraints.

And sleep deprivation causes it’s own problems which you can read about here.

I might be on the wrong track here but generally no one has to be restrained. So the inclusion of that in the ask made me think this story might have elements of fantasy, sci fi or super hero genres: a character with a special ability that can only be used under certain circumstances.

I had a problem with something like that in one of my stories recently. The character in question can manipulate how people think and feel using her voice. And I racked my brains trying to think of a way the police in the story could keep her imprisoned once they caught her. I looked up all sorts of sedatives, thought about solitary and all kinds of over the top abusive stuff that fiction teaches us is a go-to practical solution.

I didn’t want to use them. I didn’t want her to be tortured.

And then it hit me: her guards could just wear noise cancelling headphones.

Sometimes the answer really is that simple.

Think about this character’s power set, if that’s part of the problem here. Really consider what she can do and how she does it. Have you got an underlying chemical process going on? If it’s magic what’s the cause and effect for it? What are her limits? What is her range?

Use that to think about when the power breaks down and why. And if you’re writing fanfiction based on a canon with poorly defined magical abilities…. Make something up to define how she does what she does.

Focus and concentration is a commonly used way of doing this. I saw a brilliant program a while back where the main character actually had no idea how his powers worked and was as surprised and elated as everyone else when they did. I try to come up with strict, simple definitions of a character’s powers/abilities. Then I work to try and find inventive ways of applying that. Find a method that works for you and don’t be afraid to try a few different approaches.

Unless you’ve written yourself into a corner, chances are this character (like mine) doesn’t need to be restrained or isolated.

And if you have written yourself into a corner, you can write yourself out of it again. Either with the choices you make now or by going back and editing what you already have.

On a similar note if you want this character to be in a better, less abusive system does she have to be in a male prison and does she really, absolutely have to be in America?

Because if you want the lowest possible rates of violence and abuse today that means the Scandinavian prison system. You can find out more about it here and here for Norway.

You can read more about global prison systems here.

The gist of it is that there are huge systematic differences. Prison guards in Norway are trained for 2-3 years on specially designed course and the ratio of staff to prisoners is almost 1:1. (For contrast in the UK, which is closer to the US system training takes 12 weeks and the ratio is 1:4.) Prison guards in Norway are well paid, facilities are well staffed and guards are allowed generous breaks and holidays.

This creates a system where staff are not overly stressed, sleep deprived or pressured to achieve unreasonable ‘results’. Training focuses on conflict resolution, this along with a less pressurised working environment this creates a better overall environment for staff and prisoners. Force is really considered a last resort and staff are provided with the tools, training and support necessary to make that a reality.

There’s also effort put into the physical construction of these facilities: cells aren’t cramped, overcrowded or unsuitable for human habitation.

I’m not trying to claim these prisons are perfect. There is still a big trend of prolonged solitary confinement use in Norway and other Scandinavian countries. There is still abuse in prisons.

But- Well I can’t compare directly with US prisons because I didn’t find statistics using similar measures for violent attacks. However I can compare with the UK. With a prison population of about 3,200 Norway had 181 attacks on staff. The UK, with a prison population of 83,300, had a little over 10,000 attacks.

I think if you really want to write something with the least potential for abuse then you’re better off imagining an international (or explicitly Scandinavian) institution built more along the lines of the Norwegian system.

If you’ve got your heart set on an American, male prison being the only place this character can be then I think the ‘best’ thing a well intentioned warden in that position could do is throw her in solitary and have her kept on suicide watch.

The safe period for solitary confinement is about a week.

After that she’d start to show signs of mental health problems which would get worse the longer she was held. By about the 1-2 month point these problems are probably going to be permanent. Beyond that the chances of self harm and suicide attempts starts to rise. So does the chance she’ll have a psychotic break and start hallucinating. After a year you’re looking at multiple suicide attempts and chances of self mutilation. By which I mean things like trying to destroy your own hands, legs, face etc.

The decision about what’s right for your story is always yours. You know these characters, the setting and the kind of narrative you’re telling best.

Pick the options that best fit with what you want from the story and the characters. Because that’s the best decision for the story.

But if you’re writing about an abusive system don’t gloss over the abuse. If you’re writing about a torturous practice in prisons (like solitary confinement) don’t ignore the life long damage it causes.

I hope that helps. :)

Disclaimer

Available on Wordpress.

42 notes · View notes

moved-to-void-kissed · 3 years

Text

..In attempting to answer asks, I have had a thought. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning, so it’s not a particularly coherent thought, but it’s a thought nonetheless. Possibly multiple, in fact.

It also, in typical me fashion, ended up being comprised of a lot of rambling, so it’s gone under the readmore.

TLDR: trying to sort out the problem of Pavo being invisible, plus my attempts to explain how bits of DQIX work for those who don’t know the game

DQIX establishes that Celestrians (who are essentially your stereotypical “guardian angels”) cannot be seen by living humans - only by monsters, animals, and ghosts who have yet to pass on. However, it specifically seems to be their halos that give them this property, since when Corvus is recovering from his injuries in Wormwood Creek, he still has his wings and most of his powers (unlike the player, who loses pretty much everything Celestrian about them other than the ability to see ghosts), but is very much visible to the people of the town despite that. The only thing that’s not there is his halo (it’s there in the scene where Serena first finds him, but not in any of the ones after that, so it being there for that very first moment was probably an oversight).

Now, Pavo and Ardea are both Celestrians, but Ardea lost her wings and halo in the process of falling through the sky down to the world below after the Observatory was attacked. In the game, Pavo always resides in the Quester’s Rest, where she opens the Rapportal from - but, in my version of events (because canon can be whatever I make of it), she joins Ardea on an adventure across the Protectorate instead, in order to locate Aquila. There is perhaps a slightly-obvious problem in this, namely that - as a Celestrian - nobody other than Ardea would actually be able to see Pavo unless she had also lost her halo.

..The first solution that came to mind for how to somehow get Pavo to lose her halo is that her halo is the Rapportal. I think that might be a bit too silly though. My other thought is that Pavo loses her halo, or at least its ability to keep her hidden from mortal perception, because she has spent so long down in the Protectorate without returning to the Observatory, so it’s like her proper full powers and Celestrian aspects have waned or something?

Though, to my knowledge, it’s never actually made clear why Pavo remains in the Protectorate from a story perspective (the actual reason is just “so that you can always access multiplayer”), so.. it could even be that she’s a “fallen” Celestrian for some reason, just in a much lesser capacity than your typical evil fallen angel. She does talk about being the only one of the Celestrians to “dare to defy fate” or something by opening the Rapportal; maybe that act is why she is deemed as being “fallen”, therefore losing her halo (or at least some of its powers) and being rendered visible to mortals, and why she never returns or ascends to become a star.

(I’m also still not 100% sure whether I do actually want Ardea to lose her wings, because hello having wings is very very cool and would also suit the fact that she’s supposed to have very high agility. However, from a reasonable perspective of blending in with humans, it would definitely make more sense for her to lose them, especially since - unlike with Pavo, whose wings are viewed by mortals as a cape thanks to her own magic - Ardea can’t actually cast spells due to losing some of her powers.)

Anyway, I’m very tired and I spent a lot longer writing this out than I should have. ..I didn’t really end up getting to a particular point with it, either, but maybe if anyone figured out what I was trying to say (’cause I sure can’t .w.) then they’re welcome to comment on what they think.

Thank you to anyone who’s read all this, though, and hopefully it makes at least some semblance of sense!

#a call from the void #selfship #selfshipping #love: winged watcher (pavo)#I *really* wish I could come up with a good tag for her but nothing is coming to mind and I hate that that's the case #especially since the tag for the selfship is - if I do say so myself - amazing #selfship: a celestial rapport (pavo/ardea)#self‑inserts #self‑insert: clawed heron (ardea)#mmm that tag is a bit clunky I will probably try and change it soon #i'm just still not 100% established about how I want ardea to be #this took like a solid hour to write out wow. I should really get some sleep.#and hope to anything that I can actually get through some of the stuff in the inbox for once..#i'm so sorry I haven't answered stuff for a while

9 notes · View notes

pearlplusau · 3 years

Text

Chapter 6, Part 4 Finale

A monstrous scree roared from below, shaking the entire arena.

The sounds of giant wings flapping came from all over the place as the gem monster rose from below. Its eye seemed bizarre and in complete fury, but it seemed like it could locate the pearls just fine as it swooped down, aiming at Pearl, wide eyed and stiffer than a statue.

“Pearl!” Coral was too far to help her, she had to think fast, she can’t throw her lance at the monster, it's moving too fast and she might end up hurting Pearl; She can’t try to run and push her away, there’s not enough time!

Coral sprinted towards the two, using her lance as a pole, and struck it to the ground with its force to catapult herself towards the monster, drop kicked in its midsection, interrupting the attack, and smacked against a giant pillar, falling victim of a massive pile of debris and rubble. However, it didn’t poof.

She huffed and smiled at her little accomplishment, but her smile melted when she saw Pearl still stuck in motion. She grabbed her shoulders and furiously shook the core out of the pearl while demanding info, ANY info that can help them in their current situation!

“Pearl! Snap out of it! What do we do? How do we beat it?!” Coral screamed and screamed, but it doesn’t look like she’s snapping out of it anytime soon as she mutters loudly under her breath, “We couldn’t identify what gem it was, and now it’s so huge there’s no telling, IT DIDN’T HAVE WINGS! IT WASN’T SUPPOSED TO HAVE WINGS! GAHHHHH!”

The pink gem needed to take matters into her own hands, by being physical.

SMACK!

A pinkish mark, the size of a palm appeared on the side of Pearl’s cheek. The gem shook her head, waking up from a nightmare, but the current reality is far worse than the nightmares.

“I…I’m awake, thank you, I really needed that.” Pearl thanked and took a quick look at their current issue. “It’s trapped, that means we still have time before it can tunnel, or…fly.”

Coral echoed, “Tunnel? Is that the gem monster you and Garnet fought yesterday?” which led Pearl to realize she hasn’t really explained much.

“Ok, to make things quick, the monster Garnet and I fought was part of the monster we see before our eyes. That thing. The difference between yesterday and now is that it has gigantic bat wings, and it's three times bigger than it was previously. So, I would say the two same type gems fused with another type of a gem monster, which is why it went from two worm-like creatures, to a giant, deadly, hairy worm with bat wings. Individually, the worm spits acid, and it had these horns on its head. If you get even slightly scratched by them, it’ll be worse than the deadly acid! But now? There’s no telling what it can do!”

The look on Coral’s face says “ohboy…”, and Pearl did not like that look on her.

The pink gem spoke, “H-How do we stop it? And why is it so angry?”

For some reason, Pearl looked, guilty, as if the attack was her doing. “I…may have chipped its horn as an ambush, I didn’t know it would get so enraged. Garnet and I barely took it down before it tunneled away!”

The monster was struggling, trying to break free from the wreckage. It tries to flap its wings, but the body couldn’t break free. It tried to tunnel, but it looks like it has no idea how to tunnel with giant bat wings behind its back. But its struggle was leading it to a solution, and it figured out a way to tuck its wings and tunnel down the ruins.

Pearl grabbed the pink gem and they ran towards the warp pad. “Keep an eye out! It could show up anywhere!”

Beneath them, the surface cracked and rumbled as the monster coursed through the solid ground, surpassed them in speed as it sprung up while they were merely halfway to the doorway. The monster screeched and roared, the debris from its tunneling flew into the sky, and landed right on top of the two pearls, nearly crushing them. The beast widened its maw, dripping poisonous green acid, exposing its sharp fangs as well as the back of its poisonous spikes. The two pearls, still stuck under the wreckage, can only hope for a painless death.

As the monster approached, Pearl said something that really took Coral by surprise. “Coral, I’m sorry I dragged you into all this! You don’t deserve this, and if I get shattered from the monster, I want you to keep Rose happy, even if I won’t be there to see her being happy!"

Suddenly, a giant pink shield frisbeed into the monster and smacked it far to the edge of the arena! The two pearls looked back where the shield was thrown, and at the doorway...was Rose Quartz herself, panting from all the running and the usage of energy in throwing the weapon strong enough to make that distance.

“Coral! Pearl! You’re alright!” Rose exclaimed as tears of relief rolled down her cheeks. She crouched and was getting ready to leap towards them. Unfortunately, the blow from Rose’s shield wasn’t enough to knock down the fusion monster, as dark spikes swooped towards the fluffy pink gem and pinned her dress to the wall, deeming her immovable.

“Rose!!” Both pearls cried, still stuck under the piles of debris, unable to help their leader.

The monster slithered and reached up to the fallen, unconscious gem. Opening its massive maw, getting ready to strike once more!

“No!” Both Pearl and Coral screamed! Coral couldn’t bear to see something like this happened, so she turned to the last thing she would do. She grabbed Pearl’s hand and insisted on an idea for them to save their leader!

“We need to go and save her!” Coral looked into the panicking eyes of her and firmly said, “Pearl! We gotta fight fire with fire! It’s our only hope!”

Pearl showcased a complex set of emotions, but at the end, she knew what needed to be done. “Alright, let’s do it.” The two pearls joined hands, having a common goal, they felt in sync almost immediately. Both pearls engulfed in a white light, as their figures shifted and merged into one, it grew out from the debris, and the giant pearl with orange pigtails took their stance.

In her primal form of a pink leotard and white silk at the waist where to tutu should be, it was Pastel Pearl, ready for anything.

Just before the monster could get closer to the fallen pink gem, Pastel jabbed a spear at the neck of the monster, perfectly gaining its attention as it turned around and roared in incredible pain. The beast arched its back, showing its fully grown spikes, and launched them full speed towards the fusion!

As the spikes gained altitude, Pastel summoned another spear, extended it and did rapid twirls as a shield against the raining spikes, effectively defending from the attack.

The monster screed and tunnelled underneath, preparing for another surprise attack. This time however, Pastel summoned a lance and aimed it, and stabbed it through the ground, directly jabbing the monster back. Forced to rise up from tunnelling, it spread its giant bat wings and flew up the air, higher than the furthest cloud, rendering it unobservable from Pastel’s perspective.

The pearl fusion returned the two weapons from hand and retrieved an orb from each gem. The two orbs were met and shaped into a shorter version of a staff. It’s a pink ribbon wand wrapped in a bow, gifted from a certain powerful gem. Some said a ribbon wand won’t do any good in a battlefield, but today, she’ll prove them wrong!

The giant pearl leaped to the darkening sky, finishing what needs to be done.

The two fusions floated face to face, while the monster was still in awe of its opponent’s speed and flight, Pastel wasted no time and attacked it with her wand. She unleashed the bow tie and flung the ribbon with all her might.

The monster was vicious, its flying component dominated the wings compartment and shifted in its space, dodging the ribbon left and right. It was confused and perplexed on how a ribbon could hurt, but it's not taking any chances.

Pastel and the corrupted gem fusion were gaining high in altitude, and on the fourth dodge, the two figures reached the end of the darken clouds. As the afternoon sun shone bright, the ribbon’s texture gained a glimmer effect, showcasing more than just the colour pink and white, shining so bright, it became the most glistering, dazzling piece of silk the monster has ever seen!

As the monster was bedazzled by the weapon’s beauty, the ribbon took its aim and wrapped around the bat wings, rendering it unable to fly.

The beast struggled and attempting to not plunge into its death, Pastel took this as an advantage. While carefully avoiding its spikes and horn, she went straight into its face, confronted, and apologized.

“Pearl says she’s sorry for the pain and agony she caused you, she didn’t realize how a chipped horn can lead you to such catastrophe, being fused with another corrupted gem. Please forgive her, she wasn’t trying to hurt you, she was trying to put you out of your corrupted misery.” Pastel sincerely apologized as she summoned a lance, gripping its point at the monster neck..

“And I’m so sorry...for this.”

Back at the arena, the rubbles and ruins were still in place as Pastel slowly descended from the sky, landing gracefully to the centre of the arena. In her hands were the two gems of the fusion monster, with both hands, pinkish-white bubbles formed separately around the two gems. And with one tap each, they went to a safer, better place.

Pastel stood her ground, but finally relaxed and said, “Finally, it’s all ove-”

At the doorway to the warp pad, came a familiar sound.

It was the sound of their leader in pain! Still flat on her side, the unconscious Rose was struggling in her wake, but it doesn’t sound good.

“Ohno, ROse!” Pastel realized there was a chance she might be poisoned, or worse…

She rushed to her side, reached for Pearl’s gem and retrieved a small bottle of healing tears from the fountain. She carefully dripped the essence onto the scratched surfaces, and immediately, the wounds began to heal up, leaving small but unnoticeable scars on her figure.

The fusion gentle shook the leader, “Rose, are you alright?”

Rose turned and laid on her back, head against the wall. She sluggishly opened her eyes, and greeted, “Nice to see you too Pastel.”

Pastel sighed, obviously relieved, but she’s also not ready to leave yet.

“Rose, while I still have you,” Pastel kneed as the pink gem sat upright, “I need to ask something of you.”

“Is it about the forgetting that I can summon more than one shield? I think I’ve already paid for that crime.” Rose chuckled, while Pastel gave no more than a giggle.

“Nono, it’s not that. It’s about…them. I have a question, and…they’re not exactly here right now. Can…can you tell me, something that they would both want to know?”

Rose was rather surprised by the question, but she provided an answer regardless.

“Well, there is something I have been keeping in, it was so suppressed that I had to be reminded. Before Pearl came in, I had this prophecy from a sapphire that, if nothing changes, someone I deeply cared for would suffer eternal pain, and I never wanted that.”

Pastel stayed silent, doing the part of listening until further notice...

“I guess, it's right after the idea of losing Coral. After I was told that she would be taken away if I don’t handle…certain issues, I had to…grow up and take matters into my own hands. Make decisions that don't usually feel right.”

“And well, I understand that my recent behaviour has been rather...selfish to some, and technically, that monster attack IS my fault for not dealing with it yesterday. I should’ve told Pearl what I was doing instead of leaving her and Garnet in the dark. I get how it can be worrisome, and…I’ll try to change for the better. You know, be more aware of my actions.”

Upon hearing that, the pearl gem on Pastel’s forehead glowed, but Rose proceeded regardless.

“And, while I was…meditating in my room, I realized for a fact...that I’m not…the greatest gem, in the moral perspective that is. I’m really sorry that changing Coral’s old name hurt her feelings and left her out of the events Pearl and i made, but from now on, we’ll do things together.”

The pearl gem on Pastel’s navy glowed as well.

Rose noticed the two glow, and gestured to Pastel to sit with her.

Rose taunted, “Is there…anything you would like to say to me? You know, before you go?”

Pastel got out her ribbon wand, fidgeting with the handle, slightly conflicted, but gave in. “Let me put it in the words they’re willing to face, just this once.”

Pastel spoke, “New pearl never knew the old pink, the pink she met was someone that was trying her best, trying to be a better diamond. To gain the praise and betterment of the other diamonds, and just, doing her best in every way.”

“Old pearl saw you as the same old diamond, never expecting someone would change, even until now. She never knew changing a person got so…drastic, like how she herself changed without her even noticing.”

“Though, neither of them had the whole picture, that is. But now that I’m here, there doesn’t have to be one sided stories anymore, now I get to understand everything, and that they finally get to know…each other.”

The glow from the two gems spread out, indulging Pastel in a wondrous sense of-

“Thank you, Rose.”

Acceptance.

Shiiiinnggg

Pastel Pearl unfused, she returned to the two pearls we know and love.

Pearl.

And Coral.

After a while, Pearl placed her hand on Coral’s shoulder. She had the most apologetic look Coral has ever seen in her gem life.

“Coral, I’m sorry things got out of hand between us, is it possible that we...forget this ever happened?” Pearl asked, sounding more like a suggestion than a plea.

The pink gem held Pearl’s hand and said, “Well, I am having trouble remembering things lately. Hows about, we remember this, together?”

Pearl gave an acknowledging smile, agreed.

End of chapter 6

(A/N: I just did one last read of this chapter and, i don't know about you guys, but it had me teared up even though i was the one writing and finished writing it weeks ago. Also i think this is the longest chapter written in a post.

We got to the part of Coral’s relationship with Pearl, how it all happened, and how it will likely proceed. I modified what Mega Pearl said at the episode “Volleyball”, but instead of talking to Steven, she was directly talking to Rose herself.

Lastly, I just wanna say thank you for reading, it's been more than a year writing for this blog, writing what i love, and to a pretty cool community. Most of you guys have showcased your gratitude by liking or even reblogging my work, and whether you followed me for a long time or have just decided to follow after reading, i want you guys to know you guys were the reason i was able to push myself in writing, you guys were the motivation i had to keep the plot going, you guys were the motivation i have to keep the blog running.

Even though most of you guys came just because of Tripixle’s artwork, im really hoping these stories fit well in your system, or at least filled the voids of “End of stevenuniverse” or “Hiatuses on Amphibia/The Owl House”, i know mines been filled, and more stories to come!

And last, but not least, Thank you for reading and have a great day! Byee!)

#stevenuniverse #pearlplsuau #Pearl #Pearlsu #rosequartz #Pinkpearl #Coral #pastelpearl #megapearl #pearlfusion

44 notes · View notes

bnhaven · 4 years

Text

Big Three KamiShinDeku

Because fuck yeah, that’s why.

(Warning: I came up with this back in July, so it’s kind of all over the place.)

Okay so all three of these lovely boys have dealt with backlash (social and physical for ⅔, all of them if you consider Shinsou’s exhaustion to be partially caused by his Quirk being a mental one).

-Izuku was mocked for not having one, hence the nickname ‘Deku’, and now he has one but it breaks his bones and is hard to use.

-Denki is made fun of for how he short-circuits, which isn’t???? Funny??? That must be terrifying, to be quite honest. (Maybe Denki copes with his fears + trauma by using humor to laugh it off? Imagine being told that you have a Quirk that could potentially render you brain dead if you lose control of it- because Denki probably has been facing this truth since four years old.)

-Shinsou was dubbed a villain due to his Quirk.

So with that information stored in our heads...let’s make an AU where all three were put in the same testing center!

At some point in the beginning, Izuku manages to get Hitoshi out of the way of a robot, which leads to Hitoshi saving a few others, including Denki. Because Hitoshi saved those people, he ends up getting enough Rescue Points to get into 1-A!

The three end up recognizing each other from the testing grounds, and make friends with one another fairly quickly. Somehow, the talk of Quirk-related trauma comes up.

Boom, just like that, the Trauma SquadTM forms.

(Sorry to Iida and Uraraka, they’re wonderful but they’re being cast aside.)

Anyways, I feel like the Trauma Squad boys would boost each other up so fucking well???

-Izuku helps them get the most out of their Quirks, analyzing them to help mitigate weaknesses and figure out support items.

-Denki boosts their confidence and reminds them that it’s okay to laugh once in a while.

-Hitoshi is there to make sure the boys rest, even if ‘rest’ is just staring at cat pics for twenty minutes.

The Trauma SquadTM slowly begins to grow more powerful as time goes on. No one really keeps too much of an eye on them, mainly because they’ve grouped together and tend to stick to one another at all times- or are, more likely, so wrapped up in overcoming their weaknesses that they’ve ended up ignoring their peers, oops.

So it comes as a surprise when 1-A realizes that the three boys that they deemed as rather mundane end up as a trio of powerhouses.

Because listen.

Listen.

You know these three are going to be strong.

-Izuku learns to use Full Cowl before the Sports Festival. Why?

Because Denki uses his power throughout his body, and asks Izuku why he doesn’t do the same.

Boom. Full Cowl is created.

And Hitoshi is drilling it into him that he needs to keep a level head + tone down the sacrificial streak, so he’s not as scared.

-Denki is also being reminded to be rational from Hitoshi, and Izuku helps him come up with strategies and designs for support gear that can aid him in his Quirk even more.

-Hitoshi, our poor lad, ends up going through a toned down version of All Might’s training plan, coached by Izuku. So he gets his strength, too!

Random Bits I Found While Typing this Up:

Bakugou, who grew up being told he had the perfect Quirk: How is our ‘Big Three’ a Deku who breaks his limbs, a dunce who fries his own brains, and a useless insomniac who can’t do anything physical???

The rest of the class, who has seen the changes and is in awe and fear: :000

-Now, I love seeing Izuku beating Katsuki in a fight. It’s got passion and motivation behind it.

-And Hitoshi beating Katsuki is beautiful because it’s a show of the ‘villainous’ Quirk overpowering the so-called ‘perfect hero’ Quirk.

But I offer you

-Denki, decked out in support gear and aided with the knowledge of Izuku and the dirty tricks of riling opponents up and making them lose focus that Hitoshi has learned over time, beating Katsuki into the dust.

And then saying something like, “Didn’t think a dunce face could do that to you, huh Kacchan?”

Because Denki is the only one I know of who has canonically picked up the nickname.

Kaminari: Looks like an idiot, could kick your ass

Shinsou: Looks like he could kick your ass, could kick your ass

Midoriya: Looks like a baby, can kick your ass

Also all three can have dad figures.

Izuku with All Might.

Hitoshi with Aizawa.

Denki with Present Mic.

(They switch off dads occasionally to get more KnowledgeTM, 1-A is quaking.)

#bnha au #kamishindeku #platonic or romantic just give me more interactions for these three #big three kamishindeku #bnhaven #give me my boys

51 notes · View notes

ichigo-kamome · 3 years

Text

Start Over - Imagine Dragons - Sakuatsu One Shot

Okay HI GUYS so first post

(wow how cool)

I wanted to do a little writing exercise and shuffle a playlist I really enjoy and then write for characters based on the song. So, Start Over by Imagine Dragons was my first song <3 here’s a link to the song!! https://open.spotify.com/track/2Iug43iQrHN8CbGsUd2tEt?si=CrDSFtEpRKe1UkYojJwWiQ&dl_branch=1

This is just going to be a quick one shot because I can only listen to a song on repeat so many times before wanting to scream, so it stops whenever I get annoyed of the song :) ig this is angst with like a good ending? IDEK HAHA BUT ENJOY!!

oh and there is a bit of language in this? :,D also I didn’t edit this because I didn’t have time to so my apologies for unintentional grammar mistakes and misspellings! :,>

The plane was filled with hardly any noise at all, but in Atsumu’s mind there was a storm of noise, emotion, and words. So many words. Words he was told, words he said, words he shouldn’t have said, words he should have said.

Actions. Ones he did take, ones he didn’t take, all of them ran through his mind faster than the plane was soaring in the air. The silence around him felt entirely deafening, and there was nothing he could do in this moment but sit there and replay the memories of the past night.

He was more than aware that he had royally messed up. Sakusa Kyoomi had informed him of that. Yet, his own ego rendered him completely blind the moment he heard such words.

“You care so much about appearances, yet you refuse to work on your own. Becoming a better version of yourself on the court is something you’re more than willing to do, but outside of that? Where the public eye is blind to? Well, so are you.”

Those words replayed countless times, echoing off walls and coming back to him. It was all he could think about. How he had done Omi wrong, and how all he wanted to do was fix their situation.

However, that wasn’t exactly possible in the present situation.

Miya Atsumu was on an airplane with no cell service, and he would be stuck there for multiple hours. It felt like hell, having to sit there for so long with his own thoughts and the words that he heard last night. The words that were true. Then again, it wasn’t all a bad thing that he had to reflect on the situation.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was also left alone with his own thoughts, emotions, the words that were spoken last night. This odd feeling of the presence and absence of regret plagued him in his isolation. He knew that what he said needed to get to Atsumu in some way.

Lately, the setter had been so concerned with who he was on the court that he had forgotten to examine his character off the court. Of course, this led to mistakes, apologies, more mistakes, more apologies, an endless cycle of hurting those around him, and Sakusa left alone many nights in which he shouldn’t have been. The pain he felt wasn’t sharp, however. It was more of a dull, emotionless pain that caused him to feel somewhat repulsed.

“Ya shouldn’t be hangin’ around someone who makes you feel like trash, right? So, I’ll do the honors and kindly fuck off for a while. See how ya like it, Omi.” He still was dumbfounded by those words. He knew Miya to be someone who would sometimes speak first without fully evaluating how it would effect the other party, but he didn’t realize just what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of those comments.

Sakusa and Atsumu had a relatively healthy relationship. Of course, they had their disagreements, but there had never been an explicit moment in which Sakusa could remember that Miya would have the chance to lash out so harshly.

That’s a good thing, at least. It’s only happened once. He thought.

But, how long until it happens again?

Omi felt his heart sink and he sighed, trying not to think too much about that right now.

What if there isn’t an “again”?

---

Again. A word Sakusa didn’t seem to be fond of in the recent weeks. Atsumu had always made the same mistakes, again. He had always been out too late with other people, again. He had always come home the next morning, again. Apologized, again. Said he’s never do it, again.

But now, the word had new meaning. If there was no again for Atsumu to hurt him, would that mean that he had moved on? Would that mean his leaving was final and there wouldn’t be any risk to get hurt again?

There was always a risk to get hurt. Sakusa knew that full well. And, he knew there was a risk to get hurt repeatedly. However, if there was no risk, that meant there was no Atsumu. While he didn’t like risk, he didn’t like the idea of never being able to say “I love you,” again to his best friend.

Miya Atsumu had been gone for a couple weeks for training in another country. He had been so far, and yet all he wanted to do was go back home to the people he cared about.

He had messed up so many times. He had his “fall” and realized he sure as hell didn’t like how lonely it was on the bottom. The people he had neglected to care about recently weren’t there, and everything that came along with promise was so far from that. He didn’t want to be there and longer, and knew he had to change his habits and lifestyle outside of the court to better himself and lend more towards those he truly cared for.

One of those people being Sakusa Kiyoomi.

God, I need to call him before my flight back home, was all he could think. He was sitting in the airport with less than 5 minutes until he was to board. I have time, he thought.

He grabbed his phone and dialed Sakusa’s number by instinct. Omi <3 read the contact. He hesitated only slightly. Maybe this is better to settle in person. A phone call isn’t the best way to discuss this, especially when I only have so much time.

He sucked in a deep breath. There was no way he could do this properly

“But, I hafta at least try.”

One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

Damn, Omi, pick up...

Four

Five.

“Hello?” He heard at last.

“OMI!” Atsumu practically shouted in the middle of the air port. People turned their heads towards him dramatically, some looking aggravated, some confused, some about to laugh. He didn’t care. The noise in his mind had already been that loud, so he had hardly noticed the stark contrast when he spoke at such a loud volume.

“Ow, okay, no need to shout. It’s a phone call, I’m right here. Why did you call?” Omi said monotonously. Atsumu felt a cold shiver run down his spine, and all at once he wanted to hit the large red button on his phone screen and pretend he never called and their argument never happened and everything was okay. However, that would get them nowhere. That’s not what Atsumu wanted.

“Heya, uhm, I don’t exacly have a lot of time?”

“Mm. Figures.”

“But all I’ve been able ta think about lately is how ya were so right.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi wished he had been recording this call, because he might not ever hear those words again. Before, it was always ‘I was wrong,’ never, ‘you were right.’

“And I’ve been treatin’ like so much less than ya deserve. Yer one of my favorite people, Omi, and I have don’t nothin to show that ta ya.”

Silence for the first time in two weeks.

“I wanna do better by ya. And, I don’t have a lot of time ta get into details because I board the plane shortly... and I don’t expect an immediate answer from ya, but, can try again?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t push your luck, you heard me the first time. Get home safely.”

“Oh. And, of course, we can talk more about it later and everything, because I still have a lot ta say and I wanna hear what you hafta say too because what you wanna say is important to me an-”

“Miya?”

“Yes?” he sucked in a breath, holding it in the absence of conversation.

A pause.

“Get home safely. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Yeah, you got it. Me too.”

“Goodbye. See you soon.” A beep.

“Bye, Omi. Cya soon.”

#sakuatsu #oneshot #haikyuu #unedited #sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi #atsumu miya #miya atsumu #haikyu #haikyuu fanfiction #angst #idk what i'm doing honestly #but i'm kind of proud of this ngl #maybe i should do this more often #or maybe it will never happen again #good luck trying to figure it out #haha ty for reading <3 #Spotify

3 notes · View notes

casmoments · 3 years

Text

Marriage of Convenience; part 7

Prompt: “Arranged Marriage” - Certain factions of heaven are on your tail, the consequence of your death a trigger to greater destruction. In order to protect your life and others, you agree to an old custom that prevents any heavenly agent from harming you. The basic ritual? You have to marry an angel. Final part in the series. Reader Gender: female Word Count: 5640 Warnings: technically reader death but only the aftermath, not the process (cause/time of death is ambiguous). flashbacks to when the reader was first captured by angels, though. some true form!castiel as well.

part one ; part two ; part three ; part four ; part five ; part six

“Oh my god,” you say, mere moments after dying—sitting in heaven and you already blaspheme. Something like fondness curls in the film of his being, slithering down every wisping stem of his essence. The sensation tickles the underside of two faces, a curl of a smile on one head.

“No,” he says, the sound on the tips of his wings as he brushes them over you, “just me.”

You’re very small next to him. A human soul is no bigger than the human that was, but yours is blown wide, augmented by his grace. It has melded into your being like something that always belonged there. Your soul is thus small and not miniscule in comparison. If he was human and you a subject, you’d look like a doll in his hand.

But neither of you are either thing. He’s chaos and light and sound, rendered to something tangible in this odd dimension, with three heads and two arms and two legs, and blinking eyes running the length of every limb. Two vast wings stretch behind him, greater versions of what he showed you long ago on earth. The winding blue flames which circled ivory wings now cover the expanse of his back. It licks around him and sometimes looks more like water than fire, and you might swear it reflects starlight like quiet waters under open sky.

You are warmth and sound, golden and soft next to his whirling blue fire and white light. You best resemble a single flame, yellow and flickering, but your own being slowly bleeds through, even in this divine place. Your soul begins to manifest to a human face.

You’re perched before him in a garden which revolves underfoot. You sit on a branch—it’s the only thing that sits still.

“Oh, Castiel,” you say, “there is nothing just about you.”

Golden colours slip around you like a translucent gown as your body takes shape where you sit. You tip your head and look at him quizzically, glowing gold eyes roaming his form. You look directly at his middle head. “Is there a face under there?”

“No,” he replies, that same fondness slipping through him. “That is my face.”

“Oh.”

His middle face appears to have a veil draped over it, a vague shape of a human head beneath it. Of course, there is no beneath or atop, that is simply his entire face. On its left sits the face of a bird. It’s no specific bird as it seemingly changes at every angle. On the right sits the head of some wild cat, something like a panther with thicker and coarser hair, though coloured brightly as the rest of him, and likely softer than it looks. Other than the endless eyes, his arms and legs extend as a human’s might, albeit connected to a much bigger and stronger body shape. It must be to support those wings.

“Do I please you?” he asks. He moves onto one knee in genuflection, and even though you sit at a very high vantage, it only just puts you at eye level.

Your body has taken its full shape now, its outward age the same as the day you married. The translucent gold sheet still wraps around you and the iris of your eyes remain gold in colour. Other than that, you are familiar where he knows he is not.

But you smile and lean forward, looking him over.

“Yes,” you say, “very much.”

He lifts a hand to where you sit, placing it against the tree and not you. It’s a timid offering for you to touch him if you like. Considering he could easily crush something your size in one hand, he knows better than to suddenly grab at you like a plaything. He won’t hurt you, but it could startle you.

You stare at his fingers for a moment. His hands are somewhat human-shaped, and the eyes running down his arm end at his wrist, but something fiery seems to run over his knuckles, and his nails are more claw-like than any human. For a moment, you just stare, then tentatively reach out and lay your whole palm against him. When you make contact, wires of gold shoot up beneath your hand, running along his form like veins. You snatch your hand back with a yelp, looking at him in concern.

“It is all right,” he says, inching his hand closer. “That is how we are.”

He sees your understanding. As his grace fills you, so does your soul fill him, bound from the celestial consummation which marked you as husband and wife.

The golden threads fade and you place your hand to him again. There is a faint pulse where they show again, but it disappears even as your hand remains. You smile, running your hand back and forth.

“You sound different here,” you say, looking up at him. “But it’s pretty.”

Pretty is probably an understatement. He shifts so he kneels completely before your tree, each head fixated on you.

“This is how Enochian should sound,” he says. You look bemused again.

“Are you speaking Enochian? It just sounds like—” You don’t continue; you can’t continue. Sound is just sound, as redundant as that thought is. You shrug. “Am I speaking Enochian?”

“No. You can if you wish.”

“That’s good to know. I guess.” You are not capable of blushing here. There is no blood in your body-like form to alter it. But he wraps his second hand beneath the branch you sit on, and there is open affection in his many gazes.

“Your cheeks pinken often,” he says. You touch your face as if a blush sits there.

“What? No, they don’t!” You smile before the protest ends. “Yes, they do,” you confess. You’re thoughtful for a moment, looking away. You look at him when you speak again. “You told me I would be scared of your true form.”

“I thought it might frighten,” he says. “I am pleased it does not.”

“Me too,” you say with a warm smile. “But I don’t think I could ever be scared of you.”

“I thought you were,” he says, one of his head ducking in shame, “once.”

“What?” You have never heard this story and you look at him confusedly. There are traces of amusement on your face, however, as you see him recoiling with embarrassment. Angels should not feel embarrassment—but then, they should not feel many things he does. “What do you mean you thought I was scared of you? When?”

“In the beginning.”

“Tell me.”

He does.

He remembers the warehouse where he first found you. Until that night, he had not even realized a new prophet existed. A gang of corrupted seraphim must have activated one, their dark purpose immediately clear as Castiel followed their trail.

Though he never received a clear explanation of how he came upon their trail at all. They had quieted your prayers, preventing you from reaching anyone no matter your efforts. But a whisper somehow reached him, transferred across cosmic wavelengths without explanation, planted right in his head so he might find you.

Castiel set on the mission by himself. He would not burden the Winchesters with an endeavour beyond them. They were already crippled by an obvious misery, memories of past failures. Castiel felt much of that, feeling it beneath the skin of his vessel as it bled into his very being. Responsibility, disappointment, heartbreak, and a terrifying despair if he failed that day.

Such unending chaos, unending hurt.

Only two angels held you in captivity, awaiting a summons from their superiors. Castiel easily vanquished one but released the second, not wishing for more bloodshed. The angel taunted him for his sentimentalities, but even then Castiel ignored him. Only when he saw how you had been treated did he reel. When the angel came at him again, he finished the mutilated shadow of divinity. He mentally recited but one lament, that for the human vessels not spared.

Then he was at your side, helping you from your frightened position. You had curled in on yourself, protecting your body from further injury. The damage done looked worse than it was, though the shock of it all had broken you. Castiel touched you very carefully, even then you cried out in protest and tried to break from his arms.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised, though his gruff voice may have startled you. He slid his hands past your protesting fists and cupped your cheeks, allowing a remedy to spread through your body.

Your panic settled, bliss falling with the physical relief. When he touched his hand to your mouth, healing the sensitive injuries more directly, you groaned into his palm—a very pleased moan that rumbled down an unfamiliar nerve.

“Is that better?” he asked when it was completed.

You slumped against him, all but collapsing in his arms. He remained on his knees, your body slanted against his, but he looked down when you looked up.

“Thank you,” you said, spoken with such sincerity. He felt a thrum of something like affection. You had placed unabashed trust in his presence. It felt good to feel the embrace of someone who thought him unremittingly pure of character, a protector as he should have been. He had failed in many regards but your gaze perceived someone who had not.

But it did not last.

Time saw these sentiments flitter away. And for the best. It was wrong of him to indulge in good feelings for the sake of their simplicity. Nor did he deserve it, anyway.

Castiel observed your nature in the bunker, your demure character giving way to someone more boisterous once you were comfortable. But you were never comfortable around him. While you welcomed Sam and Dean into your circle, Castiel read your distance as fear. A wall stood between you and him so he remained dutifully behind it, even if a bitter and jealous sting affected him. He had found you and helped you, had been the first to hold you, but it was others who reaped the benefit. But he quickly quelled those thoughts; you were an individual and deserved greater respect than such crude thinking. It was not his place to gain anything.

And, truly, it pleased him to see you so happy. To see the Winchesters so happy.

He recalled a particular visit to the bunker, early in your stay. He materialized in the library but found it empty. There was a scuffle echoing down the corridor, laughter and shouting and iron clattering. Curious, Castiel ventured forth. He followed the sounds to the kitchen where he stopped in the doorway. His eyebrows lifted as he looked on in surprise.

The room was completely upside down. Pots and pans were littered across the floor while dishcloths were suspended from lighting rigs. Vials of food colouring stained the floor in multi-coloured patterns and it looked as though a bakery had exploded at the centre table.

You were in the middle of it, the Winchesters as well. You were hurling flour at one another, forgotten dough sitting on a cutting board. All three of you were washed in white flour. Castiel turned the corner just in time to witness Dean pouring a bowl of chocolate mix over Sam’s head.

“Dean!” Sam hollered.

You were beside yourself in hysterics, draped over the table and laughing. The brothers became occupied with wrestling each other, smacking one another with flour and bits of dough while you watched and laughed to your heart’s content.

Though Sam and Dean were vastly amusing, Castiel found his gaze straying. He looked at you though you had yet to notice him. Your smiles always compelled him to watch longer.

He admitted there was a race to his bloodstream, albeit beyond control. A warmth spread across his chest and for a moment he remained there, standing in the doorway and looking at you. Your hair fell from its messy up-do, caked in sugar and flour, your cheeks powdered white and a streak of pink icing across your forehead.

It was incredible to think you were the same girl once curled on a basement floor, a stranger to all three of them. How much had changed and yet how much had not. You were still more stranger than friend despite the growing desire to change that completely. He wished to speak with you, wished to make you laugh as you laughed now, and because he was an unfettered excuse for angel, a patchwork creature felted of heaven and human, he could not help but admire your smiling lips and kicking legs, the wiggle of your hips and curve of your figure as you bent over the table.

It was the first time his thoughts of you wandered to carnality—but not the last.

As he relates this chapter of his story, you slide to the edge of your branch to look at him better. His wings have wrapped completely around the tree, one hand gripping your branch and the other holding the trunk. He pauses in his account to asses you, wondering of your intentions. You look at the ever-changing ground and then at him.

“Can you hold me?” you ask.

He eagerly offers his hand, having been waiting for you to ask such a thing. You drop into his hold, not even blinking as you let yourself fall. He catches you then sits back, allowing you to walk over his hands. You move onto your hands and knees, bending over to look at the eyes on his arm. Then you sit back in his palm and look up at him, smiling.

“Continue,” you say.

He does so, perhaps with a greater strain now that you are in proximity. And, of course, his story unfolds with more decadence than any angel should hold.

One day he happened to appear in the kitchen just as you bent right over, unwittingly flashing him a sudden view up your dress. He didn’t move for a moment, taken back. He hadn’t braced himself for that. When he realized what was happening, he panicked, flying from the room. He aimed for the library and succeeded—at the cost of smashing right into the table. He toppled a chair and almost took himself down.

You came running into the room, the skirt of your dress billowing.

“Castiel,” you said, already flushed. You seemed embarrassed. Did you know? Did you know that he invaded your space and then remained there while you unknowingly revealed your more private attributes?

“Y/N,” he said after a moment. “Are Sam and Dean here?”

He knew they were not. He meant to check on you. You had been alone in the bunker for over a week.

You shook your head, looking at him a bit strangely. You were too polite to question his odd behaviour.

“No, they’re—”

“Oh,” he said quickly, “I apologize.”

He promptly fled the scene.

He fought to return to his previous state, a simpler state. He liked to hear about you. He liked to see you. He liked the things he learned, your stories and habits, and there were other things he wished to discover. Granted, he learned these things second-hand, through Sam and Dean. But he enjoyed them nonetheless. It was a fond acknowledgement, a tender affection. An innocent curiosity. Nothing more.

And then he joined the Winchesters on a hunt, waiting in their motel room while they dined elsewhere. He turned on the television, idly flipping stations. He momentarily thought of you, wondering if he should check on you. Perhaps not. He continued surfing the television instead, always a bit curious to see what he might find.

He froze after flicking to a pornographic channel, blinking at the screen. His usual reactions were absent, a derisive glance or quirked eyebrow. His first foray into pornography had been baffling, to say the least. He understood the concept of intercourse but the details of certain partnerships escaped him. Those details were clarified but didn’t make particular sense. After that, he had a low regard for most of it.

It was still quite farcical but his vessel grew taut, human senses overpowering his angelic ones. It was a faint sensation, gradually evolving. It was difficult to reverse. Especially with his eyes locked on the screen.

It just—it so happened to be that this particular actress resembled you in a certain fashion. His thoughts would not have strayed had the scenario been different. But this unfortunate coincidence was very difficult to shake.

The woman tossed her head back, a cry of ecstasy on her lips. Castiel thought of laughter, another human response, and suddenly matched the two expressions. A poor development, honestly. He could now imagine such an expression on your face, lips pink and upturned with a delirious smile. Ecstasy—

He turned off the television when the Winchesters stumbled back in. They didn’t notice anything but Castiel excused himself, reappearing a block away. He felt the evening breeze, his vessel alerting him to every sensation. He peered through a narrowed perception, down at his own body. This was not the appropriate time to become aroused. And certainly not the appropriate reason.

After that night, it did occur him that he should better understand these responses and ideas if he wanted to overcome them. And he really needed to overcome them.

The next time he visited, he recalled his previous thoughts and felt something like shame. You would be appalled if you could hear his musings. Not only did every thought once exist but they lingered.

He may have tuckered through a moment with you, had you not wandered into the library wearing nothing but a long t-shirt. You clearly just rose from sleep, something so natural and human, your body rolling through its cycles. A body which made him very aware.

Needless to say, a whole slew of thoughts piled on him at that one moment—your skirt lifting as you bent over, a breathless moan on your lips, your head thrown back in ecstasy, and you nestled in your bed with a simple garment wrapped around your body.

“Castiel?” you asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Sam and Dean,” he lied, careful to stand behind a chair. The last thing he needed was you seeing was his traitorous cock protesting at its material confines. He stood very still, breathing. Not breathing in any particular fashion, but breathing.

“They went out,” you replied.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. Goodbye.”

“Uh, bye—”

He tried to detach you from his thoughts as he researched humans and their oh-so vast sexual escapades. You may have inadvertently encouraged this venture, but he only embarked upon it so he could better understand it. The more he knew, the easier it would be to divest himself of it.

He actually thought himself a decent success, not once debasing himself to any human level. His vessel didn’t enjoy his purposeful avoidance, but he learned to control its urges.

At least until visiting yet another day. Sam and Dean were gone and he was checking in, but he couldn’t find you anywhere. He strolled the halls and paused as he neared your bedroom. He would not just waltz in, obviously, though he did freeze when he heard noise inside. He stepped a bit closer to the door, brow furrowed. For a moment it sounded like you were in pain and he almost knocked.

Then he realized.

He stood still, feeling a physical drop as his vessel tightened around him. You were moaning in pleasure, bedsheets rustling beneath your moving body as you so clearly pleased yourself on the other side of that door. Castiel leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling very heavy. He furrowed his brow and looked down, almost groaning at how quickly his vessel had hardened. Was he so weak a creature after all?

He pushed away from the wall, moving to the other end of the corridor. He leaned back, flexing his fingers. He contemplated leaving, perhaps going to heaven, but he couldn’t find the willpower. His blood was pumping hotly and it all moved south, his cock almost hurting with how desperately hard it was, trapped in his clothes. He did eventually manage to fly, but he only made it to a bathroom on the other side of the bunker.

He all but collapsed against the counter, with a ragged groan submitting himself to the habits of humans. He opened his belt and then his pants, breathing out in relief when he pushed his hand down and freed the frustratingly needy erection which waited there. He clutched the edge of the counter, panting but otherwise keeping his volume down. He made a few half-hearted attempts to clear his mind, moving his hand over his cock in the appropriate fashion.

It was no use. When he came, your image was plastered everywhere in his mind. He recalled you moaning into his hand that day you met—morphing into a mental image of you sprawled beneath him, similar noises tumbling from your lips as you spread your legs and called him to you.

After cleaning up, he simply flew from the bunker and did not return. He didn’t visit you when you were alone anymore. Clearly, he had to keep his distance.

“I can’t believe you never told me that,” you say now, sprawled across his hand and looking up at him. His heads have turned aside but he directs them to you, eyes likewise blinking in your direction.

“I thought it might embarrass you,” he says, a cord of blue flame twining from his wing, teasing at your body. You laugh, squirming as you roll away. He holds you carefully.

“It would have then,” you admit, “but I think I would have liked it.”

“I know,” he says, a second strand of his grace dancing over you. This time you lean toward it, humming contently as it caresses you. “I know very well the things you like.”

You would be blushing again if you could.

“What about when we married then?” you ask, laying on your stomach. You prop your chin in your hand and kick your legs, tipping your head as you look at him. “Were you happy when you found out we had to get married?”

“If I ever was, it caused guilt.”

“Guilt! Why?”

“I thought you disliked me,” he replies. “I thought you feared me. It would be selfish to feel happiness at the arrangement if it would upset you.”

“It made me happy,” you say softly. You rest your head when more of his grace rolls over you, covering you sweetly.

“A fact I soon realized,” he says.

He remembers your wedding night very well. He had been so concerned with hurting you, and then you revealed you were a virgin he felt even worse for intruding on your potential life. It was not until he had you beneath his hands did he begin to wonder if he had been a fool. Your body responded keenly to his touch, and he saw you fighting to stifle your gasps. It could not be contained for long, your hips lifting so he would slide his hand beneath you, a tremble in your body as he touched you and felt how you desired him.

Then you were on your back, willingly spreading your legs as you encouraged his advance. He settled over you and wondered. He recalled your reactions the first day you met. You were rattled from your ordeal so he never blamed you for your hesitancy. But as he looked at you then, pink-cheeked and shy and embarrassed, unable to meet his eye as you shifted beneath him, he wondered if that held true once before. Perhaps you did not move away in fear, perhaps you did not avoid his gaze in worry. Perhaps his own infatuation had commenced that day. Perhaps you reciprocated.

Perhaps was a heavy word, saturated with so much possibility, yet he found its use persistent. For perhaps it was preposterous to imagine any sort of infatuation rooting so early in a story, yet he supposed everything had to start somewhere.

He was so used to chaos and catastrophe, to the sinister and ugly. He knew all about small problems snowballing into cataclysms of unmatched proportion. He never thought something which in itself was quiet and affectionate could begin somewhere even smaller and blossom softly. He wouldn’t know how to proceed much further. In heaven, there was only the Will and the Way. On earth, there was only pain and, if not pain, worry for the next mission. He was the perpetual soldier.

It was unusual to feel himself falling into something brighter.

As his body had almost entirely overcome his senses, he had mere scraps of grace on the surface of his being. The deeper levels would be breached at the celestial consummation, one that would bind you to him for eternity. Of the outermost remains, he used all of it to make the experience more comfortable for you. He carefully aligned his body to yours as he filled you for the first time. He offered to leave the consummation at that—but you brought an end to his wonderings and hooked your leg around him, with a smile inviting he continue.

He did, of course, thinking how happily he would continue for however so long you wanted him. And it seemed you did want him, as mere hours later you were rolling back into his arms, requesting he make love to you. He had lain behind you for hours, not sleeping but watching, touching your hair, your skin, careful not to wake you, content to be with you. And then he had you wrapped around him again.

It all felt so good until morning came. Uncertainty returned as you woke hazily, seeming almost frightened again. Instinct kicked in, the same which had always protected him, and he retreated with pitiful shame, thinking he had pushed himself to the outskirts of your affection again.

Until your emotional confession in the evening. When he had you in his arms again, he was certain to pry every secret from your lips, confirm your wanting of him, and swear to himself that he would love every inch of you and never again allow petty insecurities to stand between you.

“You did a very good job of loving me, you know,” you speak again now, sitting on the edge of his hand. You cling to him as he moves, laying on the spinning earth-like ground. Your feet touch the grass and he remains on his side, watching as you roam in a circle near to him. “Where are we?” you ask, looking up at his wing as it folds at his side, the tip reaching you. You stand on your toes and touch it.

“Your heaven,” he replies. “You have two. Prophets are blessed with an awareness of all heaven; you can come and go as you please. This is a place for you to roam, but you have a personal space which resembles an earthly memory.”

“Oh,” you say. A flash of gold moves through him when you sidle alongside him, pressing into his torso. His wing slides further over you, gently keeping you against him. You remain there for a moment, smoothing your hand over him as his grace likewise touches your hair. It’s difficult to measure time in this place, but you linger for quite a while. Then you sit up, touching his wing. “Can we see the other heaven?”

“Of course.”

He stands in mere seconds, lifting you off the ground and holding you in front of him. His wings seem to explode around him, flying up and spreading wide, so wild and bright it’s almost blinding—even here where you have nothing to properly blind.

You close your eyes anyway. When you open them, you feel something flat beneath your bare feet. You look around and realize you’re in your bedroom at the bunker.

“Home,” you murmur. You shiver when you hear the flap of wings, much smaller and very familiar. You turn around and see Castiel, standing in the shape of his vessel. The gold thread which draped over you before remains, but as material now. Likewise is he wrapped in something sheer and blue. Though you don’t think you have a beating heart, you swear it races as he approaches you.

He doesn’t say anything and you don’t need him to. He takes your face in his hands as he did the day you met and he kisses you. You feel the fabric fall from your body and then his. Every sensation is heightened to the extreme, a tremor running through your entire form as his hands slide down your body. You lean against him as he kisses down your neck, hands smoothing over your backside. You squeak, smacking his chest when he squeezes your bottom.

“Cas,” you giggle. He nips at your shoulder then lifts his head, smiling fondly. “Always such trouble,” you say in Enochian.

In reply, he lifts you off the ground. Thinking of his true form, all that strength makes sense. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your legs his waist, and you hold onto him when he lays you back on the bed. His mouth moves down your body while his hands settle under your thighs. He pushes them apart, breaking your hold on his waist. You tremble and start to breathe when his lips scour your inner thigh, tracing familiar paths.

“Castiel,” you breathe his name, lifting your hips as he teases you. You moan with blissful relief when his mouth moves where you need it. He brings you to climax quickly and, as usual, you expect a breather. As usual, that doesn’t happen. You make a high-pitched noise as he continues his assault, your body bending as you partly lift off the bed with your second orgasm. “Cas,” you moan raggedly, because he isn’t stopping. He turns you over and lifts your hips, and then his mouth returns. “Ugh, this isn’t different—” you say, but you say it with a smile.

Your smile is broken with surprise when you feel him slide inside you, fingers still swirling over your throbbing and sensitive clit. You finish in seconds, pulsing around him and listening as he breathes and grunts with every thrust. He holds your hips with both hands, pitching almost erratically against you. You clench around him and he comes, fingers digging into your hips. You slump forward with hazy delight when he pulls away. You slide onto your stomach, laying there for a moment. You turn your head to look at him and you anticipate a tired, content look.

But it still blazes with desire, his hand running down your back.

Your body recovers quicker here. You suppose it does for him too. He rolls you onto your side and, still a bit delirious, you grab at him messily. He doesn’t seem to mind, hoisting your leg around his waist as his cock presses at your entrance. You take hold of him, aligning him, mimicking his low sound when he fills you again. You have each other in that position and then he rolls you onto your back. His thrusts fill you differently, almost better, but he swallows your sounds with a hard kiss.

He makes you come again, following moments after, and you swear you see white for a moment.

Then you’re settled in his arms. His wings, scaled to a reasonable proportion again, unfold around him as he lays on his side. He draws you against him and you nestle your head against his chest, breathing in as his wing slides over you.

“So how do you think you heard my prayer?” you ask, thinking to the beginning of his story, how he heard your prayer when you were taken captive.

He kisses the top of your head then breathes out.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, that familiar rough voice sounding in your ears.

“Can we go back to that other place for a bit?” you ask. As much as you adore this form, you’re almost starting to miss his other one.

No sooner has his wing moved do you feel yourself standing. Gold wraps around you again, a part of your essence here, and you stand while he waits on one knee before you. He still towers over you. You lift one hand and he takes that as indication, picking you up.

Before long, you’re sitting on his shoulder. You felt a bit ridiculous at first but you adjusted quickly. You touch one of his faces and he makes what must be a pleased sound.

“Do you think you were sent to save me?” you ask, sliding off his shoulder and into his hands as he lays down again. You curl up on his chest, his wings folding around you. The flame is bright blue, amplified by the white beneath it.

“Cherished wife,” he says, all his phrases a bit different in pure Enochian, but the compliment no less welcome. You shudder when you suddenly feel much more, a whirl of emotion beneath his chest as a thousand different feelings unfold beneath you. Most of them are unpleasant and you wonder why he shares them, but they soon bleed into something much warmer, and then it blisters hot in the most wonderful way. You think of his story, beginning with worries and fears, ending here. You understand, the essence of your soul almost completely bleeding into his grace. Gold flickers in his wings above you like stars in the blue. “You can see,” he says, “who was sent to save whom.”

castiel x reader masterpost

#castiel x reader #castiel imagine #castiel x y/n #casreader #castiel

18 notes · View notes

thecoleopterawithana · 4 years

Quote

When he wanted to, John could be an avid reader, and he decided to read every book in the house. In the afternoons we sat by the pool and read quietly. John became obsessed by two books Tony King had given him as gifts, Hunter Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Nigel Nicholson’s Portrait of a Marriage, which Tony said would remind John of his marriage to Yoko. John loved the Thompson book, a seamy study of a drug-involved journalist investigating the underbelly of America, and became obsessed with the notion of starring in a film version of the book. On the other hand Portrait of a Marriage really disturbed him. The book was an account of the fifty-year marriage of Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicholson, both of whom were bisexual and continually unfaithful to each other, yet were able to evolve a relationship of great depth and longevity despite the incompleteness of their marriage. John was very distressed by the theme of sexual incompatibility in the midst of great emotional attraction and the fact that no matter how hard one tries, a marriage may always remain incomplete.

In May Pang’s Loving John (1983).

[My profound gratitude goes to @eppysboys, who’s going through this insightful book and took the time to bring this gem to my attention.]

Regarding Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas:

It was later adapted into a film of the same title in 1998 by Terry Gilliam, starring Johnny Depp and Benicio del Toro who portrayed Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo, respectively.

The novel lacks a clear narrative and frequently delves into the surreal, never quite distinguishing between what is real and what is only imagined by the characters. The basic synopsis revolves around journalist Raoul Duke (Hunter S. Thompson) and his attorney, Dr. Gonzo (Oscar Zeta Acosta), as they arrive in Las Vegas in 1971 to report on the Mint 400 motorcycle race for an unnamed magazine. However, this job is repeatedly obstructed by their constant use of a variety of recreational drugs, including LSD, ether, cocaine, alcohol, mescaline, and cannabis. This leads to a series of bizarre hallucinogenic experiences, during which they destroy hotel rooms, wreck cars, and have visions of anthropomorphic desert animals, all the while ruminating on the decline of both the "American Dream" and the '60s counterculture in a city of greed.

The preface quotes Samuel Johnson: "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man." The quotation alludes to the protagonists' profuse drug use in escaping the coarse realities of American life; passages detail the failed counterculture, people who thought drug use was the answer to society's problems. The contradiction of "solace in excess" is thematically similar to The Great Gatsby. Thompson posits that his own drug use (unlike Timothy Leary's mind-expansion experimentation drug use) is intended to render him a mess; that he is the poster boy of a generation of "cripples and seekers..."; their erratic behaviour depicts the restless failure his generation feels. Throughout Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the protagonists go out of their way to degrade, abuse, and destroy symbols of American consumerism and excess, while Las Vegas symbolizes the coarse ugliness of mainstream American culture. [Source]

I've seen through junkies, I been through it all / I've seen religion from Jesus to Paul / Don't let them fool you with dope and cocaine / No one can harm you, feel yer own pain

LADD: What happened to the in-quotes “revolution”?

JOHN: Not the physical revolution, but the whole game that was going on? [pause] I think, in one way, all of us were under a slight illusion that we might… Maybe it wasn’t an illusion, and maybe had we pushed harder, we would’ve gotten what we wanted, but I’m not sure we – anybody really knew what we wanted. We knew we didn’t like what was happening, but nobody knew quite what – what it was that we wanted. ‘Cause we’d never had it.

— Interview w/ Jim Ladd. (October 10th, 1974)

[John talking about waking up from the dream that was the idealism of the 60s as a metaphor for waking up from the dream of his own life]

About Portrait of a Marriage:

Vita Sackville-West, novelist, poet, and biographer, is best known as the friend of Virginia Woolf, who transformed her into an androgynous time-traveler in Orlando. The story of Sackville-West's marriage to Harold Nicolson is one of intrigue and bewilderment. In Portrait of a Marriage, their son Nigel combines his mother's memoir with his own explanations and what he learned from their many letters. Even during her various love affairs with women, Vita maintained a loving marriage with Harold. Portrait of a Marriage presents an often misunderstood but always fascinating couple. [Source]

The classic story of the relationship between Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson, and a unique portrait of the Bloomsbury Group. The marriage was that between the two writers, Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson and the portrait is drawn partly by Vita herself in an autobiography which she left behind at her death in 1962 and partly by her son, Nigel. It was one of the happiest and strangest marriages there has ever been. Both Vita and Harold were always in love with other people and each gave the other full liberty 'without enquiry or reproach', knowing that their love for each other would be unaffected and even strengthened by the crises which it survived. This account of their love story is now a modern classic. [Source]

Even though I have not read this book, I can’t help but wonder if the assessment that the marriage was “incomplete” in the absence of sex and/or monogamy was perhaps not a feeling expressed by the participants, but rather a projection of John’s own anxieties.

John was very distressed by the theme of sexual incompatibility in the midst of great emotional attraction and the fact that no matter how hard one tries, a marriage may always remain incomplete.

The phrasing of the issue is so on point, that despite May’s developed emotional intelligence, these ideas appear to me as having been expressed by John himself (whose indulging in deep introspecting often made him quite apt at identifying his feelings).

It’s just handy to fuck your best friend. That’s what it is. And once I resolved the fact that it was a woman as well, it’s all right. We go through the trauma of life and death every day so it’s not so much of a worry about what sex we are anymore.

— John Lennon, interview w/ Jonathan Cott for Rolling Stone: Yoko Ono and her sixteen-track voice. (March 18th, 1971)

It’s a plus, it’s not a minus. The plus is that your best friend, also, can hold you without… I mean, I’m not a homosexual, or we could have had a homosexual relationship and maybe that would have satisfied it, with working with other male artists. [...] It’s the same except that we sleep together, you know? I mean, not counting love and all the things on the side, just as a working relationship with her, it has all the benefits of working with another male artist and all the joint inspiration, and then we can hold hands too, right?

— John Lennon, interview w/ Sandra Shevey. (Mid-June?, 1972)

202 notes · View notes

astoria00 · 3 years

Text

Crimson Calling

Summary: When Cinder's and Ruby's powers clashed they both winded up in a rather different version of Remnant than the one they were used to. Now they both try to find their way back on their own, asking help in familiar places with...questionable consequences.

Pairing: Salem x Cinder

Genre: Angst; kinda dark

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Non-Con; Dub-Con, Manipulation

[Small one shot series; Cinder/Ruby in later chapters; noncon/dubcon for first one shot]

This world was certainly strange.

Cinder had no other words to describe it. As similar as everything appeared…it was not the Remnant she knew. The one she learned to fear and despise.

Especially Salem gave her some…really mixed signals.

Of course she wouldn’t dare to insinuate that she had the literal goddess of hate incarnate all figured out, but…there was a subtle…difference in her behavior.

And they all seemed to involve her for some reason.

Lingering touches, incredibly gentle smiles…last night Salem had even dined with her. It had been strange and ridiculously awkward, but also quite enjoyable.

There had been a time where her Salem had treated her quite the same way, earning Cinder that accursed title of the favorite, and yet it was easily explained by the fact that she had been a child back then.

Not that Salem didn’t still hold her to some higher standards most of the time…but she since had abandoned overly sentimental displays of emotion and respected her boundaries.

Cinder sighed and leaned a bit heavier against the inner wall of the chimney.

Whenever she felt unruly and unsettled the urge to retreat to a safe spot became so overpowering that she had given up fighting it.

So far it seemed to work.

Salem left her alone whenever she hid herself in here and she was glad to find out it was the same in this world as well.

She needed to think…to clear her head.

This world’s Salem had promised to help her return to her own version of Remnant.

There was nothing to worry about.

If someone was able to pull that feat off it was her.

Salem is obsessed with me.

Rubbing her temples Cinder tried to blank out what her otherworldly self had told her.

She didn’t know anything!

Traveling with the likes of those bandits and Ruby Rose.

Running away from Salem, from her ensured way to power?

What a laughable version of herself.

Not even a maiden…

‘How pathetic.’

Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Thinking about this was ridiculous!

Salem had always valued talent and a certain drive for reaching one’s full potential.

Her…rather strong interest could be easily explained by never having truly gotten to know her Cinder…seeing as that one was a spineless coward, so how could Salem not try to treat her in a fairly affectionate manner?

Still…she really wanted to get back home again.

“Do you enjoy being in this place, Cinder?

I have seen you…visiting that spot for quite a few days now.”

Startled, Cinder peered up out of the fireplace.

Of course this Salem would find her just as soon as she had stopped thinking about her.

Oh well.

“Just a habit of mine I cannot seem to get rid of”, she answered pleasantly, hoping to hide her uneasiness.

“No need to discomfort yourself on my behalf.”

‘Dammit!’

The master of grimm smiled amused, inclining her head amicably.

“May I sit with you?”

‘Sit…‘

With her…inside a chimney?

This question felt more than a little strange to her.

The maiden couldn’t help but have a…bad feeling about this.

But this was Salem they were talking about.

How could she refuse her master?

“Of course, but…it is not really the most spacious place…”

“I don’t mind”, came the prompt answer, as Salem ducked inside the fireplace, sitting across from Cinder, as the girl backed away somewhat, trying to put some form of distance between them.

Crimson eyes settled on her almost teasingly.

“Are you nervous, Cinder?”

As much as she wanted to deny it…she knew it wasn’t in her best interest to lie to the older woman, other world or not.

“Yes, naturally being this close to someone in such minimal space is bound to make me a tad…unsettled.”

She could see that Salem approved of her choice of words by that pleased smile of hers that flitted over her features.

“I enjoy your honesty.

But you are correct. It is rather…cramped inside this chimney.

Which begs the question…what are you hiding from?”

‘What?!’

Jumping to her feet heatedly, Cinder stated vehemently:

“I’m not hiding from anybody!”, bumping her head against the hard stone roof, she winced from the pain and slumped down again rather unceremoniously, rubbing over the sore spot.

Chuckling quietly, Salem shook her head in amusement.

“You are a terrible liar, Cinder.”

Have you lied to me?!

A dreadful feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, as she hurriedly replied, almost stumbling over her words:

“I am not a liar! I-”

Cinder trailed off, taking a deep breath to calm herself down, before continuing in a far more controlled way,

“Frankly I believe this topic might be a bit too…private for me, so I would like to stop talking about it now.”

On second thought, maybe she shouldn’t have revealed that part after all.

She…didn’t quite like the gleam that had entered Salem’s eyes.

And she especially didn’t appreciate her leaning in far too close for comfort just to ask:

“How private?”

Alarm bells began to ring in Cinder’s ears, as she tried to backpedal somewhat, fighting the impulse to flinch away and huddle in the corner.

“Too private to discuss it with a stranger.”

A dark look crossed Salem’s features, but it was gone so soon that Cinder couldn’t be sure if she hadn’t just imagined it.

“A stranger you say…”, the older woman pondered over her words, a very sweet note to her tone,

“But aren’t I far more to you than that?”

That…was oddly specific.

“Yes, but-”, the maiden admitted begrudgingly, trying to process the truth behind those words, only to be interrupted, by her master tugging her a bit closer, forcing her to stare into these blood red orbs.

“And wasn’t it you who basically invited me to sit and share this place with you?”

‘…huh?’

Was that how it happened?

She wasn’t sure.

Their close proximity caused her head to spin

“I…”

Salem embraced her completely, just like she had done countless times since the maiden had gotten here, lowering her voice to nothing but a whisper.

“Does that not mean you trust me?

That you feel safe in my presence?”

It all felt so strange and yet…so familiar.

“I…do…”

Had her voice always sounded like that?

“But of course I won’t pry.”

Salem’s hands ghosted over her shoulders, giving her an ominous smile.

“Whatever happened…whoever dared to lay their hands on you, I will destroy them!

Even in this world if I have to.

Do you know why, Cinder?”

No, she didn’t, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything.

There was this…sickening feeling inside her gut, a mix of disgust and…anticipation, when Salem gently lifted her head some more.

“Because my love for you knows no limit…or boundaries.”

And with that she bridged the remaining distance and captured Cinder’s lips.

The alarm bells that had rung inside the maiden’s head abruptly stopped, as the sensation registered within her brain, rendering it utterly useless.

Salem seemed to take her response rather positive, smiling into the kiss, deepening it slightly, letting her hands run through Cinder’s unruly hair, causing the girl to twitch involuntarily.

It…didn’t feel entirely unpleasant.

The warmth that began to rise inside her…the tingling spreading through her body…

‘What’s…happening to me?’

Cinder had never felt like this before.

So…entranced…so…

‘Violated!’

A wave of nausea washed over her, as disgust crept up on her, settling in the pit of her stomach. She tried to back away, to break the kiss, to press herself against the wall behind her and just push Salem away, but she was unable to move.

‘Please stop!’

As if her prayers were being answered, Salem pulled away with a satisfied hum, licking her lips in such a sensual way that her stomach flipped.

Why was she reacting like this?

This was her mentor, her mother even!

She was sick even thinking about her that way and yet…she felt strangely aroused by her.

‘Wrong…this is so wrong!’

Peering into these crimson eyes that seemed to want to devour her, the maiden shuddered noticeably.

She felt trapped, like prey in front of its predator.

“Please…”

Her voice sounded strangled and unnatural, even to her own ears.

So vulnerable and…insecure.

Salem’s expression softened, tugging Cinder closer, before pressing a long finger to her lips gently.

“Shh, let me love you, Cinder.”

‘…love?’

Was that what this was supposed to be?

Did that mean she could just…refuse it?

“I-”

The rest of her words were immediately swallowed by Salem kissing her again with even more vigor, eliciting a sudden gasp from her in the process.

A moment the master of grimm didn’t let slip by.

Quick wittedly she slipped her tongue inside the dark haired girl’s mouth, the contact making Cinder jolt backwards, hitting the wall with her back in the process.

Salem loosened the hold she had on her, using them to balance herself, as she decided to trap the maiden further using the weight of her body, causing the girl to squirm and struggle against her grasp. Her kiss became even more fiery, as she tried to tempt the girl into reciprocating her motions, letting her tongue tease Cinder’s.

“Hngh.”

A soft whimper tore itself from Cinder’s throat.

‘Feels…’

Odd, wet, strange, weird, overwhelming.

‘…nice…’

It…felt nice?

Her struggles slowed, as her mind was being swarmed by pictures.

Pictures of her and Salem…in bed…entirely naked…entangled into the throws of passion.

Cinder’s stomach churned unpleasantly, but she couldn’t help the heat that pooled in between her legs, feeling her resistance ebb off, as she slowly began to kiss the older woman back, her hands loosely trailing over her shoulders.

Humming at her compliance, Salem drew back, sitting back across from Cinder beckoning her over.

The pictures made the dark haired girl woozy.

She couldn’t help but be lured onto the older woman’s lap.

She didn’t want it to stop and the pull was too strong.

Why had she even wanted to stop in the first place?

Huddling close to her, she initiated a short passionate kiss herself, feeling Salem’s skilled pale hands roaming over her back. The maiden subconsciously followed the touch, as those hands slipped underneath her top, running slow circles along her shoulder blades.

Every nerve inside her seemed to be on fire, when the older woman leaned forward gently nibbling on her ear. Her hot breath causing pleasant tingles to run down her spine.

“Do you feel it?”

Salem’s husky low tone only turned her on further, her breathing having become just as heavy as hers.

“Yes”, Cinder managed to wheeze out, welcoming the slow caresses.

Something…odd was starting to poke against her stomach, but she paid it no mind, helping Salem instead to get rid of her top.

There was such a…need inside her. She wanted the pictures to finally become reality.

How could she have ever thought this wasn’t right?

The master of grimm needed to love her, only then would the fire extinguish.

…but why did she still feel so nauseated by the whole ordeal?

As soon as her top was gone and thrown carelessly aside, Salem mustered her with unmasked hunger in her eyes, leaning in once more to trail a line of kisses down the maiden’s feverish skin. She made her way from Cinder’s neck down towards her collarbone, her soft lips burning on her flesh, as her fingers came into contact with her naked breasts, causing the girl to yelp and trying to shift away from her.

“Don’t fight it, girl.”

The maiden was unable to truly focus on Salem’s words, but her tone let another shudder run through her body, arching her back into the older woman’s touch.

“Hangh!!!”

Cinder’s chest was on fire.

The soft tongue running over her erect nipple caused her to buck her hips forward, tearing a strangled moan from her, as she brushed the kind of hard bulge along the older woman’s lower abdomen.

“Hmmm.”

Salem practically purred at the contact, pulling Cinder closer against it, while rocking upwards.

“Wha-hangh, what’s-?”

‘What is that?’

She wanted to know what brushed against her core over and over again.

It felt so good!

“Shh, Cinder.”

But Salem’s words where almost contradicted by how impatiently she began to pull at the maiden’s shorts, while rocking her hips even harder.

Not that Cinder complained.

She wanted the older woman to finally give her the release she so craved.

Her pants felt so incredibly tight and the friction wasn’t nearly enough.

A new picture flashed through her mind, bringing with it the promise of even greater pleasure yet to come. Of something buried deep inside her. The most intimate connection they could have.

And oh how she wanted it.

“Please, I-hah-…I need-!!!”

Salem sucked harshly at Cinder’s sensitive nipple, making her cry out.

“…You’re right…let’s make love together.

We have both waited for so long.”

‘Finally!’

Lifting her hips to assist the older woman to pull down her shorts and underwear, she breathed harshly, her nerves burning, as all she could think about was what was about to come.

Salem trailed her long fingers along her inner thighs, leaning forward to press a kiss against her damp folds, eliciting another sweet moan from the dark haired girl.

This was beginning to feel like torture.

Cinder could feel her slick juices running down her legs, as her master rubbed teasingly over her clit.

“AHNgh, pl…please…I…hngh…I need you to…aah love me!!!”

Salem chuckled quietly.

“Gods, you are so ready for me.”

One of her hands disappeared from her thigh, fiddling with something Cinder couldn’t see in her half way standing position, when the older woman’s other hand tugged her down onto her lap again, colliding with something hot and pulsing against her entrance.

Yes, this was it.

This was how they would become one!

Following Salem’s guidance she felt the hot member parting her folds, gliding inside without much resistance…until it hit a barrier.

It was in that moment that her master’s other hand joined the one on her hips and began pulling her down…and pleasure was replaced with pain, causing Cinder to tense up, squeezing around the pulsing length.

Salem didn’t let up, a long drawn out moan escaping her lips.

“Ahh, you are so tight, Firefly!”

…

Fire…

‘FIREFLY!!!’

It was as if Cinder had been doused with a bucket of ice cold water, as the reality of what she was about to do hit her full front.

Just…how…?

Memories flashed through her inner eye.

The time Salem read her stories, taught her to fight, hugged her when she was upset, praised her, scolded her…

Pressed her against the wall of the fireplace, kissed her without consent, was currently somehow inside her…

Her thoughts finally caught up with her head.

Her mentor…her mother…was…

‘Inside…-‘

…

Cinder screamed.

She couldn’t remember the last time she did so…to be honest she couldn’t even focus on anything beyond the fact that she wanted, no, NEEDED, to get Salem away from her.

Fire erupted all around her, the sudden outburst of her powers clearly surprising the older woman, as she was blown away, the wall behind her breaking at the force of the impact.

Shaking like a leaf, the maiden stared at her hands in disbelief.

Whirling around she fled from the room, mindlessly running through the castle she had once called her home until she reached the basement, right into the room her world’s Emerald and Mercury had been given once upon a time.

Crawling under the bed, she tried to calm her racing heart.

She had been right!

They all had been right!

This Salem…was dangerous!

‘RUN!’

Cinder needed to get out of here.

And that as fast as possible!

#cinder fall #salem rwby #witchfire #rwby #rwby fanfictions #my writing #one shots

16 notes · View notes

rayatii · 3 years

Text

A (somehow both very biased and not very opinionated) review of the Met orchestra musicians concert “Song to the Moon” from February 21, 2021:

I had been bothering my Tumblr followers with my excitement over this event yesterday, so it felt only right for me to stop procrastinating and give an attempt for a review of the whole thing; I think this is actually my first time writing a lengthy review ever, and it will probably sound naïve and be an embarrassment for me in the future.

It started around 10 PM where I live. I sat in my bed with my computer while eating chocolate in order to stay awake throughout the whole thing, and trying not to spill any pieces on the sheets, excitedly waiting for this event, having actually bought myself a fifteen-buck ticket about three weeks prior with my parents’ credit card (they didn’t bat an eye when I asked their permission), happily knowing that the money was not going to end up in the pockets of the undeserving Met management.

Given the shitty Lebanese Wi-Fi and the fact that this was a livestream, I had been worried that I might miss significant chunks and get upset over the fact. The stream did glitch a few times for me during the first number (mainly because I had my computer on my constantly-moving knees, before settling it down next to me on the bed), but otherwise it never failed me.

But let’s get on with the review. The livestream began with a title card representing an animation of a lunar eclipse, displaying the title “Song to the Moon”. The concert started with a performance of Antonín Dvořák’s String Quintet No. 2 in G Major, Op. 77 by members of the Met orchestra. (actually, given that this is a Met musicians concert, I feel that they ought to be rightfully credited; Nancy Wu, 1st violin [for this piece], Bruno Eicher, 2nd violin [for this piece], Désirée Elsevier, viola, Kari Jane Docter, cello, and Leigh Mesh, double bass.)

I actually listened to a recording of this piece in preparation a few days prior, just so you guys know. Obviously, there were a few slightly flat notes that were played, but overall this was quite a pleasant rendition, and I still have the theme from the 2nd movement stuck in my head as I’m writing this. What I also liked was that at one point (i.e. when I was actually paying attention in that area) I could actually hear the notes being played by the double bass quite clearly, at least compared to the other recording that I had listened to.

Next on the program, the musicians were joined by soprano Angela Gheorghiu (i.e. my main reason for actually purchasing the ticket), who performed all the way from the Athenaeum of Bucharest, Romania, [1st instance of Raya uselessly gushing] looking ethereal in that shot that was shown of her just walking inside the building wearing that white dress and flowing cape, before the actual performance. Just a warning for you guys here; I love Gheorghiu (actually, it’s a bit of a celebrity “crush”), so please expect a little bit of somewhat controlled gushing here and there (partly physical appearance-wise, which are indicated by the bold, and which I deeply hate myself for). This part of the review is causing me even more anxiety for that reason.

She performed on the stage of a theater that was practically empty besides the pianist. She sang in two languages I do not understand at all, which helped me a bit with not getting too distracted by pronunciation. [2nd instance of Raya uselessly gushing] Before I get into what y’all actually came for, I just wanted to get it out of my system about how she had this appearance that defined “has aged, aged really well”. She had this kind of mature beauty, especially with her makeup, that seemed to give me the overall vibes of a pleasant middle-aged auntie. (well, this was very difficult embarrassing to write) Even her singing voice had this sound that can be described as having this sort of “mature” quality blended with the whole fact of her overall sound being “hers”. I hope I have made myself clear.

Okay, gushing finished for now, let’s move on with the review!

Apparently the footage taken in Bucharest and the one taken in New York were both filmed separately. I found it really mind-blowing how the audio of both got synchronized so perfectly.

The first gem Gheorghiu sang was an arrangement of “Tatăl nostru”; basically an early-19th-century musical setting of the Lord’s Prayer by Anton Pann that is still used to this day in the Romanian Orthodox Church (totally NOT reading off the PDF for the program notes provided on the website). I had obviously never heard this piece before; I had tried to (VERY lazily) look it up a bit, but to no avail. I unfortunately don’t remember much from this performance apart from everything mentioned before, but what I do know is that was rendered really epic thanks to the participation of principal Met percussionist Gregory Zuber alongside the string players.

Next was performed the aria after which the whole concert was named, the incredibly famous “Měsíčku na nebi hlubokém” (aka “Song to the Moon”) by Dvořák again, from the opera Rusalka. This version was actually arranged by the violist Elsevier, who is among the musicians who retired from the Met during the pandemic. And it was indeed a beautiful arrangement! Now, unlike “Tatăl nostru”, which I virtually knew nothing about, I love this aria and know it quite well, so I did pay attention to some of the pronunciation; but then again, I do not speak Czech, so it didn’t matter much. Overall, Gheorghiu’s rendition was not perfect (I thinnnnnnnnk there were some notes that were a little bit out of tune? but there was vibrato that also touched the right tone and so I couldn’t tell), and I would certainly not imagine it within the full context of Rusalka the opera (see what I noted above concerning the quality of her voice), but that did not stop me from finding it quite beautiful.

It felt so weird not to hear any applause after each number, and so I could not help but clap after each gem, even though no one could hear me.

After the concert wrapped up, the audience got to watch a chat session between Gheorghiu and Met horn player Barbara Jöstlein Currie, where they talked about how this whole thing came to be (so apparently there was Instagram DM’ing between the two that was involved in the preparation?), before the five string players (which actually include two married couples!) whose music we heard earlier joined in. So unlike the concert, which was all pre-recorded, this was a Zoom session being streamed live. [3rd instance of Raya uselessly gushing] Gheorghiu’s speaking voice sounds radically different from her singing voice, and I can tell English is not her primary language, but that’s just something useless I wanted to include, on which I have zero strong feelings. In contrast to the pre-recorded concert, here she was responsible for me writing in The Balcony Seats Discord server earlier today about how “you know you have aged well when you end up looking a bit like Morticia Addams”, especially with the makeup. [gushing done]

The whole discussion hinged on the concept of “Met family”, and I found the whole interaction between Gheorghiu and the musicians just very very sweet, a star singer and musicians in the pit seeing each other as equals, as family. It’s not every day that I see that (but then again, my background is severely limited, so what do I know). Among the relatively unimportant things the convo touched on that stick with me, in no particular order, are:

Gheorghiu apparently married on the stage of the Met because the guy from the City Hall lost their papers and I never knew that??? (but then again, I never directly research info about my hyperfixations because I get overwhelmed) Everyone had a nice laugh at that recollection.

She got into this whole profession mainly to sing at the Met. Also the whole deal of her making L*vine cry and making her debut at a young age for a star singer.

Everyone relating to the feeling of going home at night after a concert, and not being able to go to sleep because you still have adrenaline flowing through you. As someone who does performing arts, I also relate to that on a moderate degree.

Family life talks.

Gheorghiu mentioning how she can’t work with a director who’s like “your character does that because that’s what I decided” because something something harmony? I can’t remember; I’m pretty sure I’m misquoting. But that’s basically the equivalent of “my house, my rules” (”my production, my interpretation” in that case, lol) imo, so can’t object too much.

Something about playing the finale of Götterdämmerung led the musicians to humorously throw in the idea of Gheorghiu singing Brünnhilde as her next role, and she went all “nah” to that, also humorously.

This led to her admitting that she’s not the biggest fan of Wagner’s music (though she would consider singing Elsa); saying that she’d travel back in time to tell Wager to stop writing these interminable phrases, to just get to the point (I’m not really into Wagner either, so I don’t completely disagree). Also, she believes that Wagner is difficult to sing, and that singers who nail Wagner tend to end up singing only Wagner (here, I think it depends, but there is a point somewhere in here).

She doesn’t seem to like singing acapella/without music very much, which also led her to record some sAcRiLEgiOuS versions of Orthodox worship songs, which you’re apparently not supposed to sing with music.

She sang something like “goodnight, goodnight” (idk) at the very end, it was cute.

To go back to the important stuff, Gheorghiu apparently wrote directly to the Met donors, asking to help in any way, because she wanted to set an example for other people by doing the right thing, and to help what she sees as her “family”, as mentioned above. I had heard some stories about her diva reputation (and she does seem to enjoy attention and stuff, from what I’ve seen myself), but overall she seems like a pretty good person. Mainly mentioning that because as y’all know I’m autistic and can’t tell intricate body language and stuff, plus my very strong belief that good person >>>>>>> great performer. (but my dear friends say that loving her is valid, so I guess I’m safe from too much disappointment. what am I even writing).

And that’s it for my incredibly long and uselessly detailed and almost incoherent and somewhat gushy review, which took me nearly 3 hours to write (and for which I may or may not have replayed a little bit of the stream just to get one bit of info right), and which will, again, probably embarrass me for the rest of my puny life, but which I could not not let out into the void of operablr.

(There were also moments earlier today where I was fantasizing about being interviewed on that very Zoom meeting for the scene-and-duet I composed back in January in response to the Met’s poor treatment of its musicians)

I guess what I can take from this post is: never write a review again, Raya!

#sorry everyone!!!#raya writes a review #concert review #opera concert review #angela gheorghiu #(whom i have excessively gushed over)#(but seriously you should count the number of times i have written 'gheorghiu' in this one post!)#(i haven't bc it's late)#met orchestra musicians #song to the moon #song to the moon concert #dealing with part of a current hyperfixation

3 notes · View notes

tact-and-impulse · 3 years

Text

At Arm’s Length Chapter 15

Happy Lunar New Year, everyone! Let’s kick off the year of the ox with an appropriately obstinate Kamiya dad.

At last, Koshijiro arrives in Kyoto, where reunions and revelations await! The whole gang’s here! Now that I’ve reworked the plot, we’re actually at the halfway point of the story. I’ll be taking a final exam today too, so I’d appreciate knowing what you think! FF.net / AO3

Chapter 15: Reunion

The train’s steady rocking caused him to nod off once or twice, but the sun, cresting over the horizon, kept him awake for good. The sky changed colors, from light purple to intense orange to gentle blue. As he watched, he massaged the back of his neck. It had taken a while to settle in his futon last night, and his muscles were somewhat sore.

Takani had been lightly dozing, and she stirred when the light poured in through the window. She yawned, covering her mouth with one hand. “Did you not sleep, Kamiya-san?”

“On and off. We still have some time before we arrive.”

“Oh, I can’t anymore. I should be ready to work once we disembark.”

“I did hear Sagara-san might have done something that will upset you.”

She clicked her tongue. “Typical!” After a moment, she asked. “Did you hear anything else?”

Mixed feelings. “Nothing medical.”

Her lips pursed in suspicion. “Anything that would upset you?”

“I have no reason to be upset.”

“Hmm. Your arm’s length rule is funny.” She remarked. “But otherwise, I’ve noticed Kaoru has a lot of freedom in her life.”

“I’m her father but she is her own person. Above all, I trust her and she knows if I don’t like something, I will be honest.”

She gave a bittersweet smile. “You and my father would have gotten along. He was very progressive, like the rest of our clan. Men and women alike were encouraged to study medicine. My father was direct too, he always believed patients deserved the truth. I forgot that, over the years.”

“I think your father would be happy that you’re in a better place now, doing good work.”

She did not reply to that, turning her face slightly away. “I’ve been thinking of going back to Aizu.” She slowly said. “Not right now, it hasn’t been finalized, but I am looking for a job there.”

“Do you miss your home?”

“A little, yes.” She hesitated. “I want to search for my mother and brothers. I know it’s probably unlikely they survived, it’s been a decade. However, Dr. Gensai told me about what happened to you and how you turned out to be alive. So…”

“I understand. Would you like me to help? I can send a message to the department there and see if they have any information.”

“Would you?!” Her eyes widened before she forced herself to be composed. She interlaced her trembling fingers. “I…I would be very grateful.”

“It’s no problem. I should have done so earlier. Although I must warn you, it might not be good news.”

Her expression was wry. “I’m a doctor. I’m used to bad news and I’d rather know for certain.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s true. Can you give me any information?”

She opened one of her books, flipping to a blank section and writing in earnest. “My mother. My oldest brother, and my second older brother. I can give you their dates of birth, and here is our former address. They disappeared, during a fire at Wakamatsu Castle. Do you need anything else?”

“It should be enough to start with. Don’t tear out the pages now, I’ll investigate when we return to Tokyo. Just in case I forget, please remind me.”

“I will. Thank you, Kamiya-san.” Her hair fell forward as she bowed at the waist. When she was upright again, she discreetly wiped at her eyes and Koshijiro pretended not to notice. Outside, the landscape blurred past in shades of green.

When their last train slowed to a hissing halt, it was already mid-morning. Asking for directions, they made their way to the Aoiya. The streets slowly revealed destruction, fallen debris littered about and scorch marks upon walls. Then, there were wooden support beams propping up buildings, and round pits in the streets. Koshijiro stopped. What was supposed to be their destination was half destroyed.

“Hey! You got here fast!” Yahiko approached them, rigidly waving. Bandages wound around his head and disappeared down his neck. He was keeping his torso straight; he must have suffered an injury.

“It’s good to see you.” Koshijiro reached out to steady his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He grinned. “The Aoiya is worse off.”

“That’s certainly true. Where is everyone else?”

“At the Shirobeko. Uh…” His expression became serious. “Sano’s okay but Kenshin was hurt really bad. Some doctors were brought in last night, but they haven’t left yet.”

That caught Takani’s attention and they followed him to the restaurant. “I thought Kaoru said you were all safe! And you should be resting!” She said indignantly.

“Well, we are safe, we’re not getting attacked. And um, I wrote the telegram. Kaoru hasn’t left Kenshin’s bedside, so she told me to send a message. We figured you both would be here soon, no matter what I’d say, so I just tried to keep it short. Those things are expensive! By the way, how did you make it in one day? Last time, it took three to get to Kyoto.”

Koshijiro provided the explanation. “There was a fight between two gangs, and I was compensated for additional interrogations and paperwork in the aftermath. I was able to pay for the extra expense to take the new railroad route from Yokohama to Kobe. It was luck that we met at the Aoiya.”

“Yeah, I was tired of lying around. I volunteered to get some info, so they can start rebuilding.”

Takani wasn’t pleased. “I’ll examine you later, and I’ll have a word with whoever let you go.”

Fortunately, the Shirobeko was no worse for the wear and after greeting Sae, they walked to the second floor. One room was bustling with activity; Takani rolled up her sleeves and joined the fray, introducing herself as Himura’s doctor from Tokyo. The door closed behind her, and although Koshijiro strained to look, he was unable to see past the huddled group to find any trace of his daughter or Himura. He considered going in but couldn’t think of how he could help. It was best to leave the professionals to their work and Yahiko led him back down the stairs, to find a quiet spot in the yard.

“Do you wanna know what happened?” The boy was eager to divulge the battle in Kyoto. It was a long one, full of action and daring feats. “I took down this guy with wings!”

Some parts were difficult to swallow at first, but he trusted Yahiko. He tended to exaggerate, but he was honest. After his initial fight with Shishio’s second, Kenshin had received a new sakabato from the son of the original swordsmith. This was technically crafted with the first, and it had been the version given to the gods. Now, it would do well in Himura’s hands. Shishio’s naval attack had been thwarted by Himura, Saito, and Sagara; the city was defended by the others, along with the numerous policemen. Yahiko had picked up one of Himura’s moves and used it to claim victory over his opponent.

“You figured it out from watching him?”

“Yeah, but I had to practice in secret, since it’s not Kamiya Kasshin. Kaoru knows now, though.”

“I’m impressed. You’ve become an excellent student, just within this year.”

“Thanks. I want to get stronger, to fight with everyone.” He gave a toothy smile. He had matured a little since Koshijiro had last seen him. “Kaoru also took down one of Shishio’s gang. Her shinai broke, but she kept fighting and won!”

“Did she? I’d like to tell her she did a good job.” He glanced up at the building. He hoped she was alright, as was Himura.

“She wasn’t hurt too bad, and Kenshin will make it. They’ll be okay, Kamiya-san.” Yahiko was very certain of this, or perhaps, he was trying to convince himself too. “And then, Kenshin and Sano-”

“Someone say my name?” At the familiar voice, they turned. Sagara was in even worse shape than Yahiko, with twice as many bandages and his face badly bruised. His right hand was rendered immobile in a sling, and his left fingers were wrapped up as they lifted in greeting. If this was ‘okay’ in Yahiko’s mind, what condition was Himura in? “Hey, old man.”

“Sagara-san, how are you?”

“Still kicking.” He grinned. “Fox is here too?”

“She’s upstairs with the other doctors.”

“Right.” His good humor evaporated, and he trudged over, exhaling loudly as he sat on the back steps. “Kenshin’ll be fine, he definitely will. Now that the fox is helping out, he’s in better hands. Anyway, what were you talking about?”

“I was telling him about our fights!” Yahiko supplied. “But I didn’t mention your new punching technique yet.”

“Leave that to me.” He spun a tale of wandering in the forest, which led to a fateful instructive meeting with a monk. The new technique was essentially a double punch, resulting in increased destructive force. Unbeknownst to Sagara at the time, his teacher was one of Shishio’s comrades. It made for a bittersweet duel in the final battle, and the monk, Anji, had willingly turned himself in.

One by one, the rest of the Ten Swords fell, either in Kyoto or defending their leader, and Shinomori had settled his grudge with Himura in their own match. The story reached its climax with a four-way fight against Shishio. It had been vicious, with Himura using the succession technique of Hiten Mitsurugi, and ended with the other man succumbing to his burns in the prolonged battle. Even after sacrificing his lover, Shishio had died laughing in an inferno.

By the time the story reached its end, it was lunchtime. Sae urged them inside, and as they sat down, Koshijiro realized that there was someone he hadn’t seen yet. He glanced around, craning his head. No sign of him at all, not even a hint of cigarette smoke.

“Where is the assistant chief inspector?”

Neither of them responded at first, exchanging glances. Yahiko stalled. “Uh…”

“We don’t know.” Sagara said. “Last time I saw him, it was after Shishio went up in flames. Saito just walked back in, but I don’t think he died!”

Koshijiro didn’t believe so either, but he wondered what he was going to tell Tokio. “It’s possible he had some work to finish, for whatever the Minister wanted him to accomplish. If he hasn’t returned by tomorrow, we can try to look for him.”

“Yeah, I’ll lead the way. Sounds like a plan, old man.”

The atmosphere remained tense, and Koshijiro was unable to savor much of his meal, though he encouraged the boys to eat and recover their strength. After the dishes were cleared away, he intended for a short stroll outside.

The strong aroma of sake was the first thing he noticed. Leaning against the restaurant’s wall, a tall man was drinking out of a jug. His coat was draped over his shoulders, his long hair in disarray. He wiped his mouth, and his dark gaze landed on Koshijiro.

“So, my idiot apprentice has more people from Tokyo to visit?”

Koshijiro politely ignored the modifier. “Your apprentice?”

“Yes, the idiot who hasn’t woken up yet.” He briefly jerked his head towards the building.

“I’m afraid Himura-san is still unconscious.”

“Hm.” He took another pull, the liquid sloshing. “How do you know him?”

“Himura-san has been living with us. I’m Kamiya Koshijiro.”

“Ah. You’re the tanuki girl’s father.”

“...tanuki girl?”

“The kenjutsu master, who my idiot apprentice is besotted with.” He lifted his hand to his chin, with a smug smile. “Her face reminds me of a tanuki.”

Koshijiro was at a loss to interpret any of that.

“Anyway,” The stranger continued. “I am Hiko Seijuro, the Thirteenth Master of Hiten Mitsurugi. And as it seems, most likely the last.”

“He isn’t dead.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Kaoru’s letters had not described him in great detail, but Himura’s teacher really was an strange person. Assuming he’d only obtain more questions than answers, Koshijiro opted for another subject. “I heard that you helped protect the city. Thank you for your effort.”

“I only came since it was a request.” His eyes darted to the upper floor again. “I had to get supplies anyway, they still haven’t been delivered yet. Speaking of which…” Abruptly, he straightened and corked his jug.

“Do you need any help?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle on my own. How’d you lose the arm?”

What a blunt question! Even Hayashi’s son was more tactful, and at least, he had the excuse of childhood innocence. “…Satsuma.” He left it ambiguous to whether it was last year or during the Bakumatsu.

“Hm. This is why I stay out of politics.” Before Koshijiro could respond, he was already stepping out of the alley. Hand lifting in farewell, Hiko walked into the main street without even swaying. The entire encounter had left Koshijiro feeling off-balance, not helped by the overt smell of liquor, and he made his way in the opposite direction.

The other swordsman was still gone when he returned, though something was clearly different within the Shirobeko. Sagara had dozed off and Yahiko had acquired an inkbrush, which was paused in midair between them.

“This…this isn’t what it looks like!” He protested.

Koshijiro suppressed a sigh. “Is it a message you can’t put down on paper?”

“Well, he has ‘evil’ on his back, so I thought he’d like it on his sling too.”

“Let’s ask him when he wakes up. For now, you can practice.”

They must have been too loud, because Sagara snorted and lifted his head. “What’s going on?” Upon Yahiko’s admission, he readily agreed to the addition. “Hell yeah, you can. Thanks!”

“Sure, I’ll start right now!” He aimed for the white cloth.

“Wait a second. Do you know how to write the character?”

“I’ve seen it so many times.”

“Seeing is not the same as practicing.” Koshijiro added. “It’s the same with kenjutsu.”

“You’re right, old man.” Sagara took his side. “Come on, Yahiko, get some paper.”

Grudgingly, the younger boy began to draft his rendition of ‘evil’. Sae approached with a fresh pot of tea and rice crackers, inquiring about her sister and the Tokyo branch. The conversation was a good distraction for a number of minutes.

At last, footsteps echoed from upstairs; the doctors were leaving. Their expressions were not grim, but not totally satisfied either. After they filed out, he heard her voice first.

“Thank you again, Megumi.”

“We’re far from finished. It’ll be a long road of recovery ahead, and he has a very high risk of infection. If it weren’t for the full hospital beds, I would have transferred him to the closest one. The next few days will be critical.” Takani warned, as she descended to the lower floor.

And then, there was Kaoru, following behind her. “I know. I just wish there was more I could do.”

“You’ve done well until now, and unless I call you again, your presence is enough.” The doctor briskly nodded, and then in the direction of Koshijiro. “I’m sure your father will agree.”

Immediately, her face lit up. “Otou-san!” She rushed over to embrace him, and he held her tight. It felt like it had been years since he had last seen her. “I’m happy you’re here!”

“So am I. You look tired, Kaoru.”

“I’m fine.” She argued. There were dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, and her hair was mussed. He laid the back of his hand against her forehead. She wasn’t feverish but she obviously needed rest. Grumbling, she did her best to glare at him. “Geez, I said I was fine.”

“I heard you, I only wanted to be certain. It’s been six weeks.”

She smiled. “Otou-san, you were lonely, weren’t you?”

He deliberately cleared his throat. “We’ve just finished lunch, but I can order anything you’d like.” She had supposedly eaten a late breakfast and claimed not to be hungry, but she sat down with relief. When Koshijiro pushed the rice crackers toward her, she did grab a handful.

“Ken-san has been stabilized, and two of the Oniwabanshuu are watching him in the meantime. I don’t know when he’ll wake up.” Takani informed them as she took a seat. “I will not lie, his condition is serious and we’re treating it as such. We’ll keep a close eye.”

“Thanks for letting us know. Drink up, you deserve it.” Sagara nodded at the teapot.

“Oh? I won’t refuse-what?” Her gaze had followed his sling and she gave a cry of horror upon noticing his right hand. “What did you do?!”

“Sorry.” He said without a trace of regret. “I learned something new.”

“Being foolish isn’t exactly new for you, rooster head.”

“Hey!”

As they sniped back and forth, Kaoru exclaimed. “I almost forgot! Misao should be finished soon with her recon, and she wanted an update. She said she’ll be going through the back.” With that, she stood and hurried through the dining area.

Koshijiro followed suit, and by the time he caught up, his daughter was greeting another girl around her age. She was shorter, her hair in a long braid, and her garb was designed for maximum mobility. She had a familiar face…recognition struck him.

“Otou-san, this is Makimachi Misao.”

“Nice to meet you!” She bowed in greeting, and he certainly remembered that cheeky voice.

“Thank you for hosting my daughter and her friends. But I believe we’ve met before, in Tokyo.” He said meaningfully.

A beat followed, as the girl scrutinized him. Then, her jaw dropped. “Oh. Ohhh. I did, uh, borrow your wallet.”

“Misao!” Kaoru was appalled. “You were the girl who stole from Otou-san?”

“I didn’t know, and I was running low on cash! Sorry!” She held up her hands, palm to palm in apology.

“It’s alright. I believe you’ve fully repaid with your hospitality. Although, it would be wise to refrain from stealing again.”

“For sure, I don’t need to anymore. I’m home again, and so is Aoshi-sama.” At this, her smile dropped. “Physically at least.”

“Are you speaking of Shinomori-san?” The last time Koshijiro had seen that man in person, he had broken into the dojo. He had followed a meandering path since then, but he must have changed for the better.

“Yeah…he’s been hurt too, but he doesn’t talk at all. It’s the emotional pain, I think.”

“That takes time, even longer than the physical.”

“I guess.” She gave a heavy sigh disproportionate to her petite frame.

Kaoru clasped her shoulder. “Misao, why don’t we get Megumi and my father settled in?”

“True, that’s something we can do. It’ll keep our minds off worrying about the men we love.” With renewed purpose, she bounded into the restaurant.

He gave his daughter a very pointed look. “And what exactly did she mean by that?”

Kaoru furiously blushed. “Otou-san, let’s talk later, okay?” And then, she rushed after Makimachi.

So far, people here had been hinting at something, but now this! This response was entirely unfamiliar, and he felt like his feet had been kicked out from under him. What on earth had happened while they were in Kyoto…?!

Somehow, he processed that he was assigned to the same room as Sagara and Yahiko, while Takani would join the girls. Space was cramped, but they had to make do. While his futon was set up, Kaoru had slipped into Himura’s room again, to his frustration. Later, indeed.

Makimachi introduced him to the rest of the Oniwabanshuu, four young men and women with variable injuries but equally bright smiles. They referred to her as their leader, which caused her to turn crimson. “That’s me, the Okashira. Haha!”

Her reaction was odd, and Koshijiro inquired. “Did you not want the position?”

“No, I do. That’s why I took it, when Aoshi-sama…well, he wasn’t in his right mind and I stepped in. But I’m still not used to it yet. But don’t think I’ll quit! I’ll embrace this responsibility, and lead the Oniwabanshuu into a new era!”

A new voice entered the conversation. “Well said, Misao!” Walking up to them, an older man stroked his gray beard. His bandaged shoulder concealed wounds of his own; this must have been Okina. “That determination is exactly what we need. And is this another of Himura-san’s friends?” After the usual pleasantries, he added. “Himura-san mentioned you.”

“Did he?”

“He said you were our trusted ally for the second line of defense in Tokyo, if we happened to fail here.”

Koshijiro glanced back at the too-quiet room. “I’m glad it didn’t have to come to that.”

“I feel the same way.” He smiled kindly. “Have faith in him, Kamiya-san. I was also on the precipice and I pulled through, even at my age. Himura-san will wake when he’s ready.”

Okina then spoke to Makimachi, of what seemed to be innocent errands but the deliberate phrasing made Koshijiro suspect it was code for internal matters. It was clear that he was nudging her into her role, presenting the decisions suitable for a leader to resolve; she was initially nervous but stood her ground. At the end, he was satisfied with her choices and she seemed bolstered. Saying that he’d see them around, the spy left to fulfill his duties.

Makimachi gave another heavy sigh. “Now, what to do, about Aoshi-sama. Oh! Maybe, he’d talk to you. Could you try?”

“I only met him briefly, and you know him best. At the moment, I believe he needs space.” Koshijiro then suggested. “You could write notes to him. My wife and daughter did so, when I was struggling in the past.”

“Notes, huh. That’s a pretty great idea, I can slide them into his room.” She beamed. “Thanks, Kamiya-san! I think I saw the ink and paper downstairs.”

As she grabbed the materials and ran, he remained in the dining area. Sagara and Yahiko were passing the time, playing a game of Go.

“How is he?” Sagara spoke out of the corner of his mouth, as he moved to capture a few white stones.

“Nothing new, as of yet.”

“But Kenshin is the strongest in Japan.” Yahiko insisted. “And he got some of Megumi’s medicine we brought, so that should help.”

“Did Kaoru give it to him?”

“Yeah, while they were talking on the rooftop.”

“Talking on the rooftop?” Koshijiro repeated, and the boy immediately clamped a hand over his mouth. “Why were they there?”

“Er…um…” His eyes were roving about. “They were sitting next to each other and talking really quietly, so it seemed serious. Like, they were gonna kiss or something…”

What?

“Come to think of it,” Sagara mused as he rolled a black stone between his left fingers. “Kenshin said something weird while we were in Shishio’s base. He thought he heard Jou-chan’s voice, and he felt better even if he only imagined it.”

What??

“And she was crying a lot when we came back, saying ‘please don’t die, Kenshin, stay with me’.” His voice hit a terribly executed falsetto. “She wouldn’t let go of his hand until the doctors came. Ah, oops. Sorry, old man, maybe you shouldn’t have-”

But he was already walking away. Before dinner began, he intended to have that conversation with Kaoru. She wasn’t in the girls’ room, only Takani was. She was in the middle of combing her hair and anticipated what he would ask.

“Are you looking for Kaoru? She’s still in his room.” She coolly said.

“Thank you, Takani-san.” He paused. “And thank you for your work today.”

“That’s what I can do for him. Apparently, Kaoru really helped overnight as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a fairly new practice in Japan. When someone loses blood, they can receive more from another person, but there are limitations and it can be dangerous. We’re still figuring it out. However, some people can give blood without fear of hurting someone. Kaoru is one of those people, she said she found out last year. With how much he’d already lost, there was no time to test Ken-san, so it was good to know that about her. Ken-san couldn’t have been stabilized so quickly if she wasn’t here.”

He considered this new information. “I didn’t know. Did you give him any blood as well?”

“I’m not in the same category as Kaoru. So, my expertise is all I can do for him.” Recognizing the double meaning of her own words, her rouged mouth twisted and she resumed pulling the comb through. It was best to leave her alone.

The door was slightly ajar, and he peered inside. Himura was covered up to his chin by blankets. Kaoru knelt at his side, and there was a severely torn gi in her lap, the needle jutting out of the fabric. Her expression was brimming with concern as she looked over him.

“Kaoru?”

She jerked her head towards him. “Otou-san? You can come in.”

He did, properly closing the door behind. He sat next to her, watching Himura’s slow, even breathing. “Any change?”

“No, he hasn’t woken up yet.” She undid a stitch, creating a tighter one in its place. “It’s hard to wait.”

“I know, Kaoru. It’s difficult, but he’s healthy and resilient.”

She didn’t respond at first, her throat working. “When they came back, the moon was rising. Behind them, there was a trail of blood. His blood. He couldn’t walk on his own, or raise his head. He was cold. And when the doctors were closing his wounds, he didn’t even react. Shishio bit into his shoulder, close to where the vessels were. I’m so scared for him.”

“However, you should take care of yourself as well. Overly worrying will not do you or him any good.” He gently reminded her.

“Yeah, but I can’t help it. Okaa-san died in her sleep too…” Her voice diminished as she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand.

At the memory, Koshijiro’s chest tightened. Without speaking, he lifted the blanket enough to find Himura’s hand. A few scrapes were already scabbed over, and his nails had been cut and cleaned. He placed two fingertips upon the sleeping man’s pulse. Rapid, but not abnormally so, given that his body was working hard to heal. “At the moment, he’s not in immediate danger. I heard he received some of your blood?”

She clasped the inner part of her left elbow, where it must have been taken from. “I did. While you were gone, the hospital was paying people for samples, that it could help in emergencies. It was after the students left, so I signed up. I was told that I have good blood, I can restore almost anyone.”

“Well, I expect nothing less from my daughter. You’ve done excellent work, from fighting off Kyoto’s attackers to giving your own life force to Himura-san. I’m very proud of you.”

Her smile was strained. “But he’s still fighting. Otou-san, I don’t want to lose him. We have to return to Tokyo together.” She was on the verge of tears, and he held her shoulder.

Waiting until she was calmer, he quietly broached the question. “Do you love him?”

“I…” She took a deep breath. “Misao’s been in love with Shinomori-san since she was very young. I only met Kenshin at the beginning of the year, but…I really care about him. After we were finished here, all I could wonder about was whether he was safe. I want him to be happy, and even though he carries his past regrets, I want to help him. I may not understand all of it, but if I can make him smile, that's enough for me.” She looked at Himura with an emotion Koshijiro had seen before but not from her. It had been in Kyoko’s face, when he read aloud to her while she was ill. It was longing, tenderness, a deep and unwavering love.

Oh. She really did love him. Not that he was completely surprised, but her confession made it definitive.

However, Himura had not declared his intentions at all. Towards Kaoru, what did he feel? Was it equal to her own for him? He had said goodbye only to her, but what if that had no deeper meaning? And what were the mixed feelings he had spoken of, when they reunited? There was still room for doubt, and thus, still a possibility for Kaoru to be hurt. Right now, Himura’s health was the priority, but after he recovered, there had to be a conversation. Until then, if she wasn’t directly assisting him, keeping the two of them apart at arm’s length was the best course of action. If Himura really did care for his daughter, he would be respectful, and at the very least, begin a courtship. If not…the distance would protect her. Even if she was an adult, Kaoru would always be his little girl. She deserved to be loved in return for what she gave, and anyone who treated her badly would earn his eternal resentment.

“Kaoru, when-” A rustle of movement interrupted him, as very slowly, Himura opened his eyes.

She set aside her sewing, drawing close to him. “Kenshin?”

He lifted his gaze, and his mouth formed a small smile in recognition. Almost too quietly to hear, he murmured. “Kaoru…dono.”

“I’m here, Kenshin. You’re safe at the Shirobeko. I’m glad you’re awake. Thank goodness…” She wiped away her tears of relief.

Urgently, Koshijiro stepped out, calling for Takani, who immediately rushed over. Unfortunately, he was already drifting back to sleep by the time she arrived, but she seemed reassured by the development. Sagara and Yahiko, panting from running upstairs, were disappointed that they hadn’t witnessed the moment. From below, someone complained of scattered Go pieces on the floor.

During the night, they took turns watching him, settled by a tournament of janken. With a win and a loss, Koshijiro was dealt one of the middle shifts. Through his two hours, Himura didn’t stir at all. If he was dreaming, it was hopefully good.

***

At dawn, he went with Sagara to look for their missing ally. They searched the shoreline, where the ship had sunk, and followed the trail to the rebels’ base, which Shishio’s remaining lackeys had fled. He spoke to the Kyoto police, who were making arrests, but no one had spotted the man nor his katana. It was altogether strange.

“Well, there hasn’t been a corpse.” Sagara pointed out. “But what was he thinking? There’s gotta be a reason that he went off alone.” He continued down the path, grumbling to himself.

Aloud, Koshijiro said. “Even wolves hunt better in packs. Isn’t that why I was given responsibilities in Tokyo?” The whistling wind was his only response.

When they returned, Yahiko shared that Himura was able to stay awake long enough for breakfast. Sagara barged in first, cheering to the point where Takani admonished him for being disruptive. She dragged him out by the ear, remarking that his dressings needed to be changed.

Koshijiro saw Himura uncovered for the first time. In the daylight, Himura was startlingly frail. He must have pushed his body beyond its limits, to defeat Shishio. Both of his shoulders were wrapped, the fabric crossing his abdomen. Another wound was at his right flank. Propped up on pillows, he was being spooned broth. By Kaoru.

He felt a twitch in his forehead. “Hello, Himura-san. I see that you are looking better.”

“Hello…Kamiya-dono.” His voice was slightly uneven.

Kaoru fed him another mouthful. “Let me know if you want your tea.”

Himura gave the barest nod, and even that required visible effort.

“The last time we met, it was before you left for Kioisaka.” Koshijiro said, sitting by the door. “I know you did not want to initially leave, but thank you for preserving this country’s peace. I am very glad that you survived, and that you did not have to break your vow.”

“So is this one.” He breathed out. “But this one came close, only once.”

Kaoru had evidently not heard this, because she lowered the bowl. “Kenshin?”

He spoke slowly, hesitantly. “It was after the first sakabato broke, and this one went to find the original smith. He had passed away, and his son was no longer crafting swords, to live quietly with his family. Then, one of the Ten Swords took their infant hostage. This one was given the only katana remaining, in order to save the child.”

Koshijiro frowned. Balancing the vow not to kill against the life of a baby? What kind of person would impose this choice upon Himura? “What did you decide?”

“This one used the scabbard to strike the enemy, and as he went down, this one saw that the sword was a sakabato after all.”

“So, that’s what happened.” Kaoru softly said.

“However, for a moment, this one considered drawing anyway.” His tone was serious; the memory weighed heavily on him. “In that second, it didn’t matter what kind of sword it was. But this one remembered something. The night when Jin-e kidnapped Kaoru-dono. The answer she gave this one, when her life was in danger. To not give in, even when it is tempting. To remember that life should be protected. So this one changed tactics. This one’s first thought was suited for Hiten Mitsurugi, but the issue was settled by Kamiya Kasshin.”

Himura had saved the child, while the principle of ‘the sword that protects life’ had saved him in turn. Since the beginning, he had taken the school’s message seriously, yet this was the first time he explicitly had it in mind during a fight. He was not only wielding a reverse-bladed sword, but the foremost lesson of Kamiya Kasshin as well. It was a subtle change, and Koshijiro approved, with an upwelling of pride and satisfaction.

Kaoru had recognized the significance as well, eyes wide and unconsciously leaning towards Himura. Her voice was hopeful. “Kenshin, you were thinking of Kamiya Kasshin?”

“This one did say that he preferred your vision.” And he smiled at her, a true one that reached his gaze.

Koshijiro realized that this was probably what Yahiko had seen on the rooftop. This closeness, like a magnetic draw to each other, even if they weren’t touching. Before he could remind them of his presence, another voice floated overhead.

“Finally, my idiot apprentice is awake.” Hiko was standing at the threshold, expression impassive.

Himura blinked. “You were here, Shishou?”

“Of course. It took me far too long, because you didn’t tell me the location of a place called the Aoiya.”

To Koshijiro’s surprise, Himura seemed annoyed. “This one believed you would ask.”

“Did you think any of these people would stop and provide directions, while the city was under attack?”

“If you did not know where it was, you could have said that, when this one first told you.”

“Both of you, stop it!” Kaoru interjected, lifting the spoon to Himura’s mouth. “Hiko-san, don’t pester him. Kenshin, you should take it easy. Everyone’s okay, so no more arguing. Understood?”

Reluctantly, they both nodded. A tentative stalemate. The silence was only disrupted by Himura’s sips.

She gave him the last of the broth, then half his tea to wash it down. She was about to stand, but Himura’s free fingers pinched her sleeve, keeping her close. “Thank you, Kaoru-dono.”

“You’re welcome, Kenshin.” She smiled down at him. There was no sign she was resuming her previous action.

“Arm’s length.” Koshijiro said, out of habit, only to remember that Hiko was standing right there.

The man erupted into loud, malicious laughter. “Is that how you’re living, baka deshi? At arm’s length?”

Himura actually scowled. “Shishou…”

“I’ve heard of horrific mothers-in-law, but you? You have a strict father-in-law.”

“Father-in-law?!” Koshijiro and Kaoru exclaimed simultaneously.

“W-what?” She stammered. “That’s not how it is! Otou-san doesn’t act like a…that would mean…”

Himura’s face was a shade close to his loose hair, and his jaw clenched. “Remind this one why you are still here, and not at the mountain.”

“My supplies are taking too long.”

“Yes, they are. Your demands must have been overwhelming.”

This was a different side of Himura, more like the young man he really was. Koshijiro thought it was refreshing, and honestly, his master was insufferable. Tired after finishing his meal, Himura’s eyelids started to fall. Kaoru ushered the men out to leave him be, though she didn’t linger either, stepping out moments later and taking his tray to the kitchen.

With nothing else to do, Hiko leisurely headed downstairs. “Will he be going to Tokyo with you?”

Koshijiro replied. “That is the plan, unless he expresses otherwise.”

“I doubt he will. I’d never seen my idiot apprentice at a loss for words, until your daughter walked into my house.”

“Didn’t he say he had mixed feelings?”

“Ah, so you’ve heard. Half anger and half relief, that’s what he said.”

Anger, presumably that she had followed him when he had willingly gone on this mission. But relief…he had been relieved to see her face. Neither of those emotions, however, were indicative of romantic love.

“But while he’s here,” Hiko continued. “I’ll make up for lost time. It’s entertaining to watch you put him in check. To think, after all these years, the idiot would actually listen to someone and it’s an overbearing tanuki father who just lost his arm.”

“I did not tell you when that happened.”

“No, but it’s in your bearing. You’re awkward, you haven’t entirely adjusted. You still believe you’re inadequate, and that burden is heavier than this coat. Well? What have you done to correct that?”

He really didn’t like this man. He retorted. “At the very least, I wasn’t drinking myself into a stupor out of worry.”

Hiko whipped around, coat flaring and eyes narrowed. Koshijiro refused to flinch.

Then, the so-called Thirteenth Master showed his gritted teeth. “It wasn’t out of worry. Sake is good at any time of the day, as long as there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“And I am content enough to be alive, with or without my left arm.”

“So, if neither of us have complaints, then we have nothing more to speak of. Tell my idiot apprentice I haven’t finished my supply run.” Abruptly, he marched on, striding out of the Shirobeko.

With his frustration boiling over, Koshijiro took the opportunity to begin repacking. He could handle his belongings perfectly fine. And he hated that Hiko’s observation had genuinely disturbed him. When the boys had described the battles, he had been thinking as well, of strategy and how he would have acted. But he had to rework every move, to account for his current state. The one-handed variant of Kamiya Kasshin was in development, and even though he had tested it, his opponent had been unskilled. With how he was now, he wouldn’t have been able to protect anyone in Kyoto, and his own responsibilities had their importance. But seeing everyone’s injuries had stung the swordsman in him. Once he was in the dojo, he’d have to continue his progress.

Kaoru must have heard the noise, because she knocked. Looking around the room, she asked. “You’re going home today?”

“I am. I have work tomorrow.” He turned to her. “Do you want to return with me?”

Immediately, she shook her head. “Kenshin can’t travel yet, and I don’t want to leave him. Or everyone else.”

Sagara and Yahiko were not ready either; Takani intended to continue her care of all of them during the week. On a positive note, Kaoru also enjoyed Makimachi’s company. The younger girl was boisterous and trained in martial arts, so it was no wonder they had become fast friends. “It’s alright if you stay.”

“Really?”

“Yes. After all, I’ll be back next weekend.”

She blinked. “Huh?! I mean, Otou-san, you don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. Who else will enforce the arm’s length rule?”

“Geez, Otou-san! It’s still in place, even when Kenshin’s hurt?”

“Helping him is an exception. If nothing inappropriate will happen, then there is no issue.”

“I shouldn’t have told you anything.” She grumbled.

He gave a leveling stare. “Kaoru. You don’t mean that.”

“No.” With an exhale, she crossed her arms. “You’re just being really picky about this.”

He sensed that if he unveiled his full reasoning, particularly the possibility that Himura did not care for her in the way she most desired, she would be incredibly upset. Instead, he said. “As a young man and woman, this ensures that you’ll be mindful of how you act around each other. It seems that’s slipped in the past weeks.”

“So we should talk behind folding screens?” As if she hadn’t poked holes through rice paper when she was younger.

He ignored the sarcasm. “If your feelings are true, they will endure. Unless you become formally engaged, the rule will remain.” Wait. Damn it. Damn Hiko for mentioning the word ‘father-in-law’.

Kaoru was bright red. “…Alright.”

“I’m not saying that I expect an engagement or that if there was such a thing, you would be free to do whatever you like.” He hastily added. “It was a hypothetical example.”

“Uh-huh.”

Acutely aware he was digging a deeper hole, he excused himself to say goodbye to the others. Makimachi was in the hallway, lightly humming and glancing up from her ink-covered sheet of parchment.

“Are you leaving already, Kamiya-san? The rest of the Oniwabanshuu are out on tasks, so that’s too bad.”

“Give them my regards, although I’ll be here again in six days.”

“Oh, great! I followed your advice, by the way. Would you like to say anything to Aoshi-sama?”

“Only that I wish he recovers and despite a rough start, I appreciated his aid in this.”

“You got it!” She finished her note with a flourish and turned to the nearest door, cracking it open. She pushed the paper inside, and it fluttered to the tatami. A glimpse showed that Shinomori was in a meditating position, his rigid back towards them. She closed the door with forced cheer; she definitely had an uphill battle, but kindness always won out in the end.

Takani was mixing medicine, though she asked him to let Dr. Gensai know she would be staying. “And here are the pages.” She carefully tore them out of her book.

“It may take time, but I will do the best I can from my end.”

“Thank you, Kamiya-san.” She returned to her work, still melancholy but a little less than before.

Yahiko was next, and he handed off a folded square of paper. “It’s for Tsubame, I said I’d write to her after we won. Don’t read it!”

“I have no intention of doing so.” He gravely answered. Sae also approached with her own message to her twin, which he promised he would deliver. He reiterated his gratitude to her and the staff, and that he was sorry to impose upon them again. It was no trouble, they insisted, and it was fun to have the Shirobeko so lively. Throughout the city, many others had been left with damaged homes, and as it had been with disasters in history, it was the time to come together.

Sagara was attempting to use chopsticks with his left hand, clacking them together. “See you, old man. I’ll be as good as you with one hand, next time we meet.”

“I’m far from an expert.” He humbly said. “Please don’t overexert yourself.”

He did enter Himura’s room one last time, but he was still sleeping. These initial days of recovery would be vital, and Koshijiro hoped he would never receive a telegram bearing bad news.

He took the afternoon train, and his daughter saw him off. “I’ll see you soon.” He intently looked at her.

“Bye.” She huffed but gave him a quick hug before he boarded. And with that, he was alone once more.

***

Despite the late hour, his first stop was the home of the assistant chief inspector, and Tokio greeted him. Her gaze briefly searched behind him, though she maintained a neutral, polite face. He delivered the facts, that her husband was unaccounted for.

“Have you received any correspondence from him?” He asked.

“No, not since he asked if we could take in Eiji.”

Silence fell over them, the worst possibility left unspoken.

“Did he have any contacts I can reach out to?”

“My husband’s work is highly classified, and I don’t think we are at that point yet. I’m more concerned with why he hasn’t notified me. Nothing can tame a wolf of Mibu, but he comes home if he’s told to. And I told him to come home.” Tokio emphasized. Her gaze was tracked on the horizon, and only the slight trembling of her hands gave away that she was in turmoil.

“You will be the first to know if I hear anything from Kyoto.”

“Thank you, Kamiya-san.” From within the house, Tsutomu whined, and Eiji called out hesitantly to her. She gave a quick bow before hurrying to the children, the door closing behind her.

If…no, when he saw Fujita again, he would have to give him a piece of his mind. Worrying his allies and his own family was too much.

The following morning, he kept his promise to Takani. He sent the information she had provided to the police department in her hometown, requesting for anyone who met the descriptions and to write back to him. In the meantime, he would continue to work, with his lunch break at the Akabeko so he could deliver the letters. Tae thanked him, and Tsubame had turned pink upon reading her paper.

According to recent reports, there was a scavenger in the vicinity of Chinshu Forest, and the station was told to keep an eye out. The younger officers also said there were rumors of a ghost, which Koshijiro ignored. When one of the rookies, Ikehira, went to investigate and confessed he had just missed whoever this scavenger was, but they could set up a perimeter. Koshijiro detoured there on his way home, to see if he could uncover more.

He heard the noises first. Dull scraping, heavy breathing. He kept his hand on his baton, as he drew closer. Near a small shrine, there was a young boy, scrambling in the dirt. He was around Yahiko’s age and he was singularly focused on rearranging the ground. Grass bits and clumps of earth were scattered around him.

“Hello?” Koshijiro called out. “Are you lost?”

The boy turned, and Koshijiro saw that he was a filthy child, as if he had been living in the wilderness. Like an animal, he bared his teeth and ran off. Koshijiro made to follow, but the boy was faster and smaller, disappearing into the brush. Within a few minutes, he could only hear his own footsteps. Unable to pursue any further without venturing into unknown territory, he resorted to finding his way out of the forest, back into town. He had not heard news of a missing boy, so who was that?

#rurouni kenshin #fanfic #kamiya koshijiro #kenkao #which our narrator is forced to address again #i have a much better idea of this story from now on #so i hope you'll cry a lot and laugh a lot too #<3

3 notes · View notes