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sunshinecrashed · 4 years

Note

Hii again! Hope you're having a nice day! How about prompt 42 of the clichè prompt list with Tsukasa? I just love this adorable psychopath. OwO

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ?

𝗍𝗌𝗎𝗄𝖺𝗌𝖺 𝗒𝗎𝗀𝗂 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝟧𝟢 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗍𝗌, #𝟦𝟤. “𝗂’𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗹𝘆; 𝘁𝘀𝘂𝗸𝗮𝘀𝗮 𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗽𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲.

word count: ~1.4k

↳ warnings: a rlly self-absorbed classmate, buckets of sarcasm, some cursing, and uhh,,, jumping out of a window,,,,,,,

a/n: i just gotta say this rlly quickly, thank u for being so patient!! i hope ur having a nice day too 🥺💕let me know if there was anything u wanted to change!

⋆──────☆──────⋆

“[Name], I think I really like you! I was wondering if I could take you on a date?” your classmate, Ryou asked you, handing you a small gift box.

You questioningly cup the box in your hands, your eyes flitting over the wrapping before looking up to meet your admirer.

“I.. didn’t know you felt this way about me.” you admit. Ryou was someone who you occasionally talked to during class, and he was fairly popular for his status and charming looks. But still, this was so.. sudden?

After a short pause to think, you concluded, “But I wouldn’t mind going on a date to get to know you better. Here,” you scribbled down your number on a scrap piece of paper before handing it to him. “I’ll let you know when I’m free, and we can go from there!”

“For sure! I’ll talk to you later, cutie!” Ryou flashed you a grin and waved, rounding the corner to go meet up with some friends.

As you turned away with a bubbly smile, you found yourself almost knocking into a curious Tsukasa.

“So.. Who was that, [Name]?”

“Tsukasa!” you jumped. “That’s a classmate of mine. He asked me out on a date, isn’t that exciting?” You playfully twirled around him as he attempted to hold you still.

“You can’t just go on a date with some random person and not expect me to be.. to be…” He blinked, uncharacteristically trailing off.

“Tsu..kasa?”

“Ah, nevermind!” His cheerful demeanor was back in a flash, so quickly that you thought.. maybe you were imagining that out-of-the-blue mood swing?

While you opened your mouth to question his odd behavior, Tsukasa grabbed your wrist and started to lead you back into the school, hastily changing the subject.

You weren’t given any more time to dwell on his mysterious reaction.

After a few days of texting back and forth with Ryou, you agreed to meet him at a local coffee shop on the weekend. It was a quaint little place, and despite its limited space, it still had a small second story that made up for the lack of room on the bottom floor.

You ordered a simple mocha with whipped cream for yourself and sat down at a booth on the top floor.

‘Okay, he’s a little late..’ you thought to yourself as you peeked at the clock.

After twenty minutes passed, you narrowed your eyes and stepped out of the booth to promptly leave. ‘..He’s not coming.’

But right as you stood up, you came face-to-face with a Ryou, a relaxed expression on his face.

“Ah, sorry for being late. Something came up that I had to take care of.” He didn’t seem like was in a hurry at all.

The crease in your brow softened, and you sat back down. “It’s fine, I understand. I wasn’t sure what kind of coffee you liked, so I just got you a simple latte.”

Ryou made a disgusted face and nudged the cup away from him. “Really? A latte? I’m not a big coffee drinker, you know.”

‘Then why did you want to bring me to a damn coffee shop‒’

You plastered a calm smile on your face, muting your internal screaming. “O-kay. Then, what do you like to drink instead?”

“I’m so glad you asked! I’m a great fan of tea. My family actually runs a highly successful business…”

He droned on, and on, and on, talking about himself and his accomplishments. Or rather, his family’s accomplishments, while throwing in a back-handed compliment to you here and there.

He didn’t ask you a single question about yourself. When you tried to contribute to the one-sided conversation, he would either cut you off, or wait impatiently for you to finish, before continuing where he left off in his “dramatic” life story.

An hour hadn’t even passed before you were already thinking, ‘how the hell do I get out of here’.

While he paused to take a breath, you quickly interjected, “Hey, so, I think you are a pretty nice guy and all, but I don’t think our interests are aligned‒”

“You aren’t trying to ditch me, are you?”

His sudden question almost gave you whiplash. With your most deadpan expression you stated, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Maybe he would finally get the hint‒

“Great! We’re on the same page!” How the hell could someone be so.. dense?

Ryou’s eyes moved past you as he spotted some school friends.

“HEY, over here!” He shot up out of his seat with a huge wave, already heading over in their direction. “[Name], could you give me a second here? I need to talk with them about something really quick!”

You internally sighed with relief. “By all means, take all the time you need.”

He joked, “You better not be gone by the time I get back! Haha!”

Once he was a fair distance away, you mumbled under your breath, “And wouldn’t that be tragic..”

You shoved your face into your hands in exasperation.

Tap-tap‒

Someone’s.. tapping your shoulder?

As you lift your head up, someone’s hands cover your eyes.

“Guess who?” a sing-song voice called.

“Wait.. Tsukasa??” You questioned, confusion riddling your voice. “How the hell did you find me?”

He took his hands off from your eyes and gave you a sly smile.

“Well, I followed you, of course. And I,” Tsukasa settled into the booth across from you, “‒am going to save you from this terrible date you’re having.”

Both of your eyes glittered with mischief.

“I... like the sound of that.”

A vivacious smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. With a fleeting glance around the room to confirm that your date was still distracted, you leaned across the table to whisper to your favorite ghost. “So, what’s the plan?” you asked.

“On a scale of one to ten, how.. Ambitious are you willing to be?”

“A million.”

“Oh,” you could immediately tell that you made the wrong decision, and Tsukasa knew it.

“Well in that case..!”

. . . . .

“I am not jumping out of a window.”

“C’mon! It’s not that far of a fall!” Tsukasa pouted. “You did say that you were willing to do anything!” he called from below.

You were currently looking down at him from the second-story bathroom window. With a bite of your lip, you threw your leg over the side and hung onto the edge of the window frame. “Tsukasa..”

“And besides,” he continued. “He’s blocking your only other entrance! This is your best bet, [Name], I’m telling you!”

You pointed a finger at him menacingly. “If you fail to catch me, I’m going to come back as a ghost and knock the shit out of you. You hear me?”

“Aye-aye captain!” Tsukasa yelled back with a cheeky grin.

Taking a deep breath, you muttered, “Okay, here we go..”

“One.. two.. Three‒!”

You shut your eyes as tight as you possibly could and let go of the window frame.

For a solid couple of seconds, you could hear the wind rushing past your ears as your stomach dropped.

‘ohfuckohfuckohfuck‒’

And even though it only lasted a moment, you were still surprised when you felt a pair of arms quickly secure around your waist.

Opening your eyes cautiously, you looked up and met Tsukasa’s wide, golden eyes. He was just as surprised as you were.

“Hey, you actually caught me!” You cheered and wrapped your arms around Tsukasa’s neck in a make-shift hug. Your warmth enveloped him, and he allowed himself to indulge in it.. just this once.

He gave you a child-like laugh, “Aww, you don’t trust me? You wound me, [Name].”

Tsukasa set you down onto your feet, but didn’t quite let go of you yet. You had a beaming expression on your face, and your cheeks were tinted just a little red from the excitement rushing through your veins.

That’s the expression that made the odd, bubbly feeling grow in his chest.

“Wait,” He started, piercing you with those cat-like eyes, “Shouldn’t I get something in return for saving you?”

Oh fuck. You should have figured he would sneak up on you with this. He may not look like it, but he really knows how to get what he wants.

You chuckled, already seeing where this was going. “Oh yeah? And what would that be?”

“A date, of course!” he brightly exclaimed.

You plucked the hat off of his head and placed it on your own; this time, with a victorious smile.

“You know.. If all of your dates end up like this,” you gestured to how close you two currently were,

“‒Then I just might have to take you up on that offer.”

#tsukasa x reader #tsukasa yugi x reader #yugi tsukasa x reader #tsukasa #tsukasa yugi #yugi tsukasa #tbhk x reader #tbhk #toilet bound hanako-kun x reader #toilet bound hanako-kun #jshk x reader #jibaku shounen hanako-kun x reader #jibaku shounen hanako-kun #jshk #x reader

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skrltwtch · 3 years

Text

Silverware

Prompt: on a first date and A is a werewolf and doesn’t know the cutlery is silver (Source in master list)

Word count: 4,897 words

Genre: Fluff, romance, supernatural

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

I buried my nose in the bouquet of lilies and roses Jake had bought for me. It was the perfect emblem of summer with its warm, sunny hues and fresh, tangy scent — and the perfect segue to the next part of our date. The first part was a visit to the local farmers market, out of which we were now walking. Coming here had been his suggestion. It was something different from the usual first date stuff like coffee or a movie, and I liked it a lot, notwithstanding my initial reservations. I liked him a lot after what I’d seen of him at the market. I felt like the place helped bring out a certain spark between us. For one, there was constant talk about planning for date number two using what we’d seen and bought. If that wasn’t promising, I didn’t know what was!

‘Thank you, Jake. I love it,’ I said about the bouquet.

‘You’re most welcome,’ he said, a broad grin brightening up his face. ‘And thank you for the flavoured olive oil. Makes me kind of wish we didn’t have this dinner reservation …’ His grin turned sheepish in nature. ‘But that’s what’s making me look forward to our next date.’

See?

‘Do you want to call for a taxi or walk?’ he said.

‘What time’s our reservation?’

‘6:00 p.m. on the dot.’

My watch came alive with a flick of my wrist. ‘Let’s walk, then. I want to walk off all the cheese I sampled.’ I’d sampled a lot. In my defence, it was almost that time of the month — and that other time of the month. ‘Do you know the way?’

‘Google Maps can teach me.’

The route Google Maps recommended was scenic. London Bridge looked lovely at this time of day. Its appeal was heightened tenfold with Jake by my side. Could you believe we met on Tinder? It still felt unreal to me. Getting this match used up all my good luck for the year, and we were only at the halfway point. Well, if it meant burning the roof of my mouth most of the time I ate to be able to quit the dating scene for a reasonable amount of time (“once and for all” seemed a little ambitious, though that would be nice), who was I to whinge about the hand fate had dealt me?

The restaurant was located within the Four Seasons. We had been overdressed for the market. Now we were … dressed. I was flattered as fuck that he picked such a lavish place for dinner for a first date. I hadn’t the faintest clue what it was about my profile and our conversations that made him think of a high-end French restaurant helmed by a Michelin-starred chef in a five-star hotel. I did try to talk him out of it (gently). It wasn’t about the cost. Food was one of the things I was more than happy to splurge on. It was just … I never had anyone think this highly of me before, and I wondered if that’d change if … and when … he knew the truth about me.

The host led us into the main dining room and to our table. An amuse-bouche and warm bread came together with the menus. The prices were as expected of the type of establishment this was. Everything sounded good, though this was my first time coming across some of these words. Looking up what each one meant would add to the time something would take to reach our table, and my stomach would sooner eat itself out of desperation.

‘Please don’t hold back,’ said Jake, sensing my indecision. ‘The price is not an issue.’

I did have to hold back. The coincidental timing of this month’s full moon and crimson tide amplified every-fucking-thing I could possibly feel to a divinely hellish degree in the days leading up to them. As it was, I could easily polish off a five-course meal by myself. If Jake wanted this date to go in a less chaste direction after dinner, hell would freeze over before I’d even dream of talking him out of it, first date etiquette be damned. Was the fact that he was such a goddamn catch helping anything? Absolutely fucking not.

‘No, it’s not that. I can’t — I can’t decide what I want,’ I said. It was technically true. I was torn between the beef (never mind that it was £98) and veal … and both of them at once. ‘What are you having? Maybe I can get some inspiration from you.’

‘I was thinking the turbot … or the pigeon. Yeah, I can’t make up my mind either. I’m leaning toward the pigeon …? No, the turbot. Or the scallops …? Fuck. I need an adult.’

‘Let’s choose for each other.’

‘Promise not to hate each other’s choices — or each other?’

‘Pinky promise.’

We locked our pinkies together. I hoped touching him would never grow old.

Once our promise had been sanctified and we separated from each other, Jake signalled for the nearest available waitstaff. One came over almost instantly. The restaurant was bustling with activity, a far cry from however long it had been since we arrived. She took our order in a cordial fashion, not making a bigger deal of how we were ordering for each other than it should be. I chose the scallops for him; he chose the veal for me. I convinced him to start our evening with the langoustine; he sweet-talked me into ending it with the rhubarb. The waitstaff validated all our choices with a knowing smile.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask — and I hope I’m not stepping on your toes here,’ Jake started when our table was just the two of us again. ‘How did you get that scar on your arm?’

It was a matter of time. And bless him. I would never be offended by being asked about the memento of what’d changed my life forever. I would be offended by an adverse reaction to how exactly my life had been changed forever. I raised my arm, giving the scar in question its time in the limelight: brownish-pink, leathery circles arranged in the shape of a crescent, the ones at both ends abnormally large and ragged-looking.

‘My ex-boyfriend’s dog bit me,’ I said. More like my ex-boyfriend was the offending canine. ‘That’s not why he’s an ex, in case you were wondering.’ I’d wanted to be turned. He’d been more than happy to lend a helping set of fangs. Sadly, the idea of us being cute werewolves together was yet another one of those things that simply sounded nicer on paper. It wasn’t all sour between us. We’d sometimes meet for romps. It got lonely sometimes, and it wasn’t like there was an online forum for werewolves to socialise or whatever. I doubted he’d have known of one anyway: he was literally an American werewolf in London.

‘Did it hurt? It’s such a huge scar. Did anything happen to the dog afterward?’ He held up his hands. ‘Am I being nosy? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’

I smiled in the hope that it’d soothe his worries. ‘You’re not being nosy. It was … okay for what it was.’ Euphoric. ‘The dog’s fine. It wouldn’t be fair to punish it for an instinct thing.’ Yup.

‘That’s good to hear. I think it’s a bad-ass scar. And I didn’t think it’s why he’s an ex.’

‘Thank you. Most people did. Yeesh. Give me some credit.’

‘I’m not most people … I hope.’ He smirked. The apples of his cheeks turned pink.

He really wasn’t. And I wanted so badly to tell him the truth there and then to see if that’d still hold true in the face of a bombshell like that. I had yet to tell anyone about my lycanthropy: if movies, television shows, books, etc., were anything to go by, I’d assume most people would react with fear or disgust, or both. Chris had been thoroughly flabbergasted when I reacted the way I did to learning why he always turned down my suggestions to go stargazing on nights with full moons. I got what I wanted … eventually.

Maybe I should tell Jake sooner than later. Separate the wheat from the chaff. Then I wouldn’t have wasted my time having pined for someone who thought I was some kind of freak of nature.

That conversation — or rather, thinking about that conversation would have to wait, as our starter, bearing a strong resemblance to a flower arrangement with colours befitting the season, had arrived. Food was always the perfect diversion. So would the inevitable back-and-forth about who could have the third and last langoustine. Splitting it was not an option, for one piece was as big as my thumb. I loved the portion sizes of frou-frou fancy food. So much bang for one’s buck.

‘Bon appétit,’ said Jake. ‘That’s one of … four French phrases I know. The other three are “bonjour”, “omelette du fromage”, and — I can’t say the last one in a public place.’

‘Is it by any chance … “voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir”?’ I made no effort whatsoever to lower my volume — or maintain a straight face. Brazenness blazed through my cheeks.

He put a hand on his chest, feigning surprise. ‘Well!’ He tittered. ‘Since you asked ever so nicely, and in French … This is why your choices tonight have been shellfish, isn’t it?’

‘You got me.’

‘Looking at their portion sizes, I don’t think your plan’s going to work very well. Not that I’d need the help of — shut up, Jake.’

‘Keep going, Jake’ was what I’d have said and wanted if my stomach hadn’t started getting on my case for letting good food get cold. (‘Rubbery lobster? Gross!’) There was something hot about someone like Jake — a posh, proper Englishman, the polar opposite of Chris … okay, no, stop bringing him up, stop thinking about him, goddammit — talking openly, confidently, about his prowess. Such words … coming out of his mouth … in that accent … I quickly pressed my legs together to quell any desires. Which hunger of mine was responsible for this?

Wanting to satiate the one appetite I could at this very moment without earning myself prison time for my troubles, I said, ‘Bon appétit, Jake’, and picked up my fork … which promptly fell onto my plate with the fucking loudest clang. The smell of burning flesh tickled my nostrils — my burning flesh. My fingers were sizzling where the fork touched them. Sizzling! I prayed it was only my nose that could pick up this delectable aroma.

I stared at the cutlery. Trust a high-end French restaurant helmed by a Michelin-starred chef in a five-star hotel to use real silverware, not that cheap silver-plated shit. I prodded the fork handle — and withdrew my finger immediately. Not one of my finer moments. Please don’t tell me Jake saw it.

‘Is everything okay?’ said Jake.

Ah, fuck.

‘Yeah,’ I said, examining my palm. Good news: the burn hadn’t healed and wasn’t healing as quickly as my wounds and injuries (not that I had many of them) did after I was turned, so that was one less question to dodge. I didn’t want to keep lying to Jake. I didn’t like that I had been. How would I explain the absence of a second-degree burn that existed mere seconds ago anyway? Bad news: was this never going to heal because of what caused it? I had been so careful with silver since I was turned. How would I explain a perpetual second-degree burn? Would it out me as a werewolf to people who knew what to look for? Was now really the time for Twenty Questions?

Noticing Jake had been waiting on me to provide some kind of elucidation on my well-being, I said, ‘I guess I have a silver allergy. Can you believe it? Who’s allergic to silver?’

He didn’t need to say, ‘What kind of allergy burns someone?’ for me to hear it in my head.

‘Can you eat, then?’ he said.

I shook my head. As far as I was concerned, silver was lethal. No ifs, no buts, no maybes. If a perpetual second-degree burn was the worst thing to come out of fleeting contact with the metal, so be it. I’d consider myself a lucky lycan indeed.

‘Pardon me,’ Jake said to the waitstaff who’d come with our entrées, ‘would you have any disposable cutlery perhaps? My lady’ — he did not — ‘is allergic to the silverware.’

The waitstaff did an excellent job of not acting like this very dashing gentleman had just dropped the barmiest string of words on her during her entire employment in this line of work. Even I didn’t quite believe it myself. ‘I’ll see what we have, sir, ma’am,’ she said, cool as a cucumber. After she finished setting down our food, she collected all the silverware on my side of the table and left.

‘I don’t think whatever she comes back with would help with your veal. I could cut it up for you?’ said Jake.

Oh, my God. Getting burnt by silver must be the universe’s way of course-correcting the unusual jackpot I’d hit with him. Good Tinder matches were a myth!

‘No, it’s fine. Thank you. I’ll manage … somehow,’ I said. The wooden cutlery the waitstaff had returned with didn’t inspire confidence in me to not fling a piece of meat or a utensil at someone while cutting into my food.

‘We could swap dishes. I’d be fine with the veal. It was in my top five earlier.’

I suffocated a sigh. His scallops looked more like an appetiser than a main. But what choice did I have? I could either eat the veal like the animal that put me in this position or go through the restaurant’s entire supply of wooden cutlery with nothing to show for the effort in my belly and possibly injure someone in the process. Neither option would do any favours for my image in the eyes of the guy I liked and whose bones I’d like to jump at some point, enhanced animal lust or not.

So, I agreed. I tried to draw out the meal for as long as I could. Between the teeny serving and the unwieldiness of the wooden cutlery, I was having a miserable time. Dinner had become a silent affair, a far cry from everything prior to this point. Contrary to the vibe I was putting out, the food had nothing to do with my dour mood. For the first time since I was turned, I wasn’t happy about what I was. Could I never truly lead a normal life? Did I have to lie to every potential suitor and fret about whether they’d accept that other side of me on top of all the intricacies of dating?

There ought to be a dating app for verified supernatural creatures.

‘How’s the veal?’ I said. I had to speak up: I wasn’t being fair to Jake by acting like a sullen teenager over something he had zero control over, and the silence was deafening.

‘It’s — I might’ve done you a favour. How about my — your scallops?’

‘As good as three bites can get. I can’t tell if it tastes funny because of the wooden fork.’

‘This has been a disaster, hasn’t it?’ He flashed a wry smile. ‘Can I be honest? I have no idea what possessed me to pick a place like this for a first date.’

‘It’s a nice place. And it hasn’t been a disaster.’ If anything, I was the disaster. As always.

‘How was the market?’

‘The market was great. I had an amazing time.’

‘Thank God. I’ll take one out of two.’

I reached across the table and placed my hand on top of his. He made things extra saucy by interlocking his fingers with mine. ‘Jake, it’s fine. Today has been wonderful. I should be sorry for making things awkward with my … allergy.’ Nope, that still sounded silly.

‘What? No, don’t be. It’s not your fault.’

It … kind of was.

‘How about ice cream after this? My treat. I’m certain the rhubarb will be so very pretty and so very … nothing.’

He hit the nail on the head. The food we had would do wonders for my Instagram feed while having done nothing for my diet. I appreciated his offer, though I was afraid it would take more than ice cream to fill me up properly … Then again, that was a problem that rested solely in my dominion, not his, and it was one I intended to solve by trawling the likes of Deliveroo and Uber Eats in the comfort of my underthings at home — the one true way to enjoy food.

I asked for the bill the second dessert arrived. I wanted to leave here as soon as possible. I had quite enough of the wooden cutlery. I felt like a child using them. And like I told Jake earlier, I was on the fence about whether to attribute the food’s slightly off taste to them or my unrefined taste buds. Even the rhubarb wasn’t spared. Dessert was supposed to be my safe space, dammit!

I footed the bill in its entirety despite his objections. It helped that the waitstaff presented it to me because I’d been the one who asked, and that I was quick with my card. Sisters watching out for each other, everyone. The plan was then to go about the rest of the evening as if it had slipped my mind to ask him for his half or even bring it up in the first place. It was the least I could do for putting a wee damper on dinner with my … me-ness. He was going to treat me to ice cream anyway. There. We were even now.

The best-laid plans of mice and men often went awry: Jake snatched the bill folder and, taking out his phone, said, ‘Do you have Paym, Pingit, or PayPal? Why am I only noticing now that they all start with P?’

I admitted defeat: ‘Paym.’ It might be harder for him — or anyone — to believe I had none of those apps than that I was a werewolf. Did I want to put that to the test? No.

My phone buzzed with the confirmation that my plan had been a dud. ‘Thank you. Now let’s blow this popsicle stand and head to a real one.’

We left and worked on our next destination outside the restaurant. The staff had to want us out of there as much as we wanted ourselves out of there. The time of day meant we had limited options: ice cream parlours in London seemed to think people would lose the mood for sweet treats the moment the sky turned dark and the air cooled. Inanity. We had to return to where our date started for the one place that was open at this hour. It was just as well: I needed the walk this time to clear my head after what happened at dinner. It hadn’t seemed to dull the shine of his opinion of me, at least. He was as chipper as ever. Unless he was a good actor and paid up as soon as he did so he could ghost me after this and find himself a date that didn’t have some bogus allergy to silver …

Me? Over-thinking things? Never.

‘Do you want to do takeout or eat in?’ I said when we found ourselves less than fifty metres away from the parlour tasked with plying us with ice cream for tonight without a say in the matter.

‘Let’s do takeout and walk back to Borough Station. Full circle.’

The place was crowded: the most logical outcome for the only ice cream parlour open at this time near a tourist hotspot in the middle of summer. Customer turnover was quick, however, and we left with our orders within fifteen minutes. As tempting as their sundaes and waffles — towering, decadent creations of sugary indulgence — looked, we went back to the basics after our overly sophisticated dinner. Unlike before, what we wanted came to us in a snap: for myself, a speculoos gelato; for Jake, a gelato, too, but make it salted caramel.

And this time, we could help ourselves to each other’s food. With permission, of course.

‘A fraction of the price, but infinitely better,’ I said.

‘I hope the same can be said of our second date.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Dinner at Chez Walker. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’

‘I do think so.’

‘It would have to be the weekend after next, though.’

‘Why? Got another date next Saturday?’ I had a firm enough grip on reality to recognise and accept that a guy like him had to be neck deep in matches.

‘No … next weekend’s the full moon. I thought you’d know.’

I stopped dead in my tracks. ‘Why would I?’ I buried my stammer under a bemused scoff. Like, why would anyone — any not-werewolf, which, as far as Jake was concerned, was what I was — care to know when the full moon was?

He, too, stopped walking and looked me dead in the eye. ‘Imogen, I know what you are.’

I wiped my palms on the front of my dress. They were suddenly so sweaty. So sweaty. Why were they so sweaty? Could he see that they were so sweaty? I tried to defuse the situation the best — and maybe only — way I knew how: ‘Are we quoting Twilight? I’ll have you know that I liked the book when I first read it in 2007. And I thought the movie wasn’t too bad either.’ This was true, and I wasn’t ashamed of it. Any female millennial who said they had felt nothing for Edward Cullen was a filthy liar.

‘I’m not ashamed either to say I read the book and watched the movie. But I’m serious.’

‘Okay … say it, then. Go on.’ Was that how the line went? I wasn’t going to look it up now. On a list of things that mattered in this moment, accurate movie quotes was nowhere near the top twenty.

‘You’re a werewolf. And I know how this sounds, so don’t humour me or —’ His tone had taken on a jittery lilt, uncharacteristic of someone who ought to be humoured, ridiculed (what his next word had to be), or — my worst-case scenario — feared.

‘How did you know?’

His mien changed in a manner that suggested that wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. Fuck it. Chris had trusted me enough to tell me the truth after a handful of dates, and he did it because he liked me a lot and he wanted to get it out of the way as soon as possible so that we could move on in some way. (Me asking him to turn me was the real curveball of that conversation.) The least I could do, really, was to extend that same courtesy to Jake. I liked him. I liked him a lot. If he had a problem with what I was, it was better that I found out now that he did than many months down the road. There was no element of compromise to my … condition.

‘You mean I’m —?’

‘Right? Not crazy?’ I showed him my palm. The burn had taken about an hour to reach the healing stage normal people would reach in a week or so. ‘Yeah.’

‘Damn …’ He cleared his throat. ‘How did I know? I was brought up on a steady diet of horror movies and read way too many young adult supernatural books in the day, more than I’d care to admit. That, and my ex-girlfriend’s second uncle was killed by a werewolf.’

‘Shit.’

‘I’m kidding — about the last part. The first two are true. My ex-girlfriend was a vampire, and one of her uncles — I can’t remember which one; it could’ve really been her second — was with a werewolf when we were together. Vampires and werewolves get along quite well, actually.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

‘How the tables have turned … I’m not.’ He went through his phone with his free hand and, upon finding what he’d been looking for, passed it to me. ‘Look.’

On the screen was a photo of him with his arm around a hazy figure in clothes that were otherwise in focus.

‘Drove me quite mad at first, thinking something was wrong with my phone. Then she went a little … overboard once, and the rest was history. She shared everything about her world — your world — with me. And I’m also in several online paranormal communities, so there’s that. It’s not all as hush-hush as one might think. It just takes an open mind.’

I returned his phone to him. ‘How did you figure me out?’

‘Your “allergy”. I had my suspicions about your scar. Your reaction to the silverware confirmed them. Allergies … don’t do this.’ He took my hand and stroked my palm. The sensation of his fingers on the raw skin was … electric. ‘I’m sorry I put you in an awkward position and you weren’t ready to tell me. What I said … just slipped out. I understand. It has to be fucking terrifying. It’s okay if you don’t want to see me again after this. But I want you to know that what you are doesn’t change a thing about how I feel about you. How you were turned is none of my business. The whole thing is, really. I did an arse thing. I’m an arse. First with the goddamn restaurant, now this. Way to fucking go, Walker,’ he said to himself quietly.

I flung my empty gelato container into the nearest bin, and then my arms around him. I helped throw away his for him, too. ‘You’re not an arse, Jake. This doesn’t change anything about how I feel about you, too. I like you a lot.’ His cheeks flushed deeply under the moonlight. ‘I was freaking out about this whole thing during dinner because I like you a lot. I am so relieved that we’ve gotten to lay our cards on the table.’ I fanned myself with my hand. Don’t cry, Imogen! ‘And because I don’t want there to be any more lies between us, it was my ex-boyfriend who turned me, and he did it because I wanted it.’

‘Oh. Yeah, it still doesn’t change a thing.’ His lips landed on my forehead in a peck. ‘Okay, I never imagined the topic of our exes would come up so often during our first date. Oh, well. Guess they had more of an impact on us than we’d like to think.’

‘Yeah’ — I chuckled, ‘let’s keep walking.’

I peeled myself off him. Our hands remained intertwined. Like dinner, the remaining walk — as short as it was — to the station was a quiet one. Unlike dinner, it was more so that we were simply basking, revelling, in the afterglow of our attraction to each other and each other’s presence. The world felt right again, just as it did at the farmers market.

The next time we spoke was on the train platform. ‘Thank you for the lovely time,’ I said, ‘and for being such a sweetheart.’ I waved my bouquet at him. It still looked pristine despite all the walking we did. ‘For everything.’

‘Thank you, too. I had an amazing time with you today. I can assure you that Chez Walker will serve larger portions than what we had earlier.’

‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘The weekend after next, then?’

‘Yes,’ I said, grinning. ‘I’d be down for any time before the weekend, too, if Chez Walker is open then.’

‘I’ll speak with the chef.’

He moved in for a goodbye kiss, which I seized wholeheartedly. His smell and the sound of his heartbeat flooded my senses. I could feel his heart beating against his chest under my touch, thumping, thumping away for every second our lips lingered on each other’s. I had to contain myself and keep things G-rated and light, as such kisses were wont to be, though my instincts were screaming, baying, at me to get to satisfying at least one craving tonight. I was the one to break off the kiss for fear of going too far.

‘Just in time,’ said Jake, his eyes doing that thing they did whenever he smiled. ‘My train’s here. I’ll see you next week?’

‘I thought you said you’ll speak with the chef about next week.’

‘I realised I don’t care what the chef thinks. He’ll be fine with it anyhow: he doesn’t have to bust out the good silverware.’

‘Goodbye, Jake.’

‘See you, Imogen. Message me when you get home?’

‘I will.’

We waved at each other, right before the train doors swallowed him up. My train came soon after, too. I spent the entire ride home wondering not what to fill the void that was my stomach with, but what fresh hell the universe had in store for me in return for scoring me a guy like Jake.

#exophilia #terato #werewolf #monster love #monster romance #mine

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charlettebffxiv · 3 years

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Prompt #6 Avatar

“What is that?” Alistair’s favourite words, or perhaps just the only ones he can think of when in current company. The large, red-headed Highlander was often the confused member of the group. Charlette wouldn’t say he was out of his depth, but sometimes she did think he needed a little extra time to catch-up. “It’s a statue, obviously. And I carved it myself.” her response was, maybe, a little more annoyed than it needed to be. Alistair balked, eyes going a little wide in the way they always did when he realised he crossed a line. Poor man was very afraid of causing offense.

“Oh! I, uh, I mean. I was not sure, but you know. My dads a Blacksmith, well you knew that since you’ve met him. But what I mean is, my mom is a baker, you’ve met her too so you knew that as well. But you see, because they’re both a blacksmith and a baker. Well not both, but as a pair they’re capable of doing both, separately, in their own learned skill sets-” Charlette had to stop him, he was going red in the face, and the whole thing was just a bit too bright and desperate for her to tolerate. “Get to the point Alistair.” “Right! Sorry, yes. I’m used to talking about blacksmithing and baking stuff, so carving is lost on me! Yeah? It’s great, just took me a little while to understand it because I’m, y’know, dumb.” Charlette flicked Alistair on the nose. “You aren’t dumb. You just act dumb.” turning back to her project, the one that had taken her most recent fancy, and sighed. “It’s a horror, isn’t it?” Alistair placed a heavy, thick-fingered hand on her shoulder. Gods, when did his arms get so hairy? “Just a bit. But maybe that’s a good thing?” Charlette did not look convinced by this optimistic take, which only encouraged the up-beat Hyur. “See, something you kind of learn by necessity when living with two crafters as parents is how to see things for what they are, not always what they were intended to be.” stepping forward, Alistair waves a hand beneath Charlette’s creation. Several ilms tall, and a few ilms thick, the shape she had been slowly chipping out of wood for the past two moons was rough. That’s the kindest she could be. She was proud of it though, her little Ishgardian knight on his horse with, uh, four legs? Five? From this angle it was playing with her mind a little. “I can see that you’ve attempted a griffon-riding paladin!” Charlette didn’t correct him. That’s what it was now. “And that’s pretty ambitious! Or, at least I bet it is because what do I know, I’m just the son of a baker and blacksmith.” walking around behind it, he pointed to the winged helmet atop the knight, ah, paladin’s head. “Look at the small details here! Those are feathers, right? You meant it to be a winged helm?” She nodded. “Well, I got that much at least, but you know what it really looks like? The feathered headdress of an Ixali warrior.” he was not wrong. “Huh, I do see that. And I suppose if he were an Ixali, the fact his shoulders are slumped over, and his waist is far too thin would suddenly make sense.” thump! A big, meaty hand slapped against Charlette’s back. Alistair was becoming more and more like his father. “Yes! See! This isn’t a Paladin of Ul’dah. It’s an Ixali Warrior, riding an Avatar of Horror! Like a, um, Yarzon crossed with a morbol via Shroud witchery?” Alistair had many more talents than he could see in himself, and one of them was his way of trying so very hard that Charlette simply cannot refuse his freckled face and it’s bright, hopeful grin. She dipped her head forward, slumped her shoulders gently, and with a huffed breath agreed. “Sure, why not. This is, in fact, my Shroud Witch Ixali Void Knight Warrior: The Avatar of Horror. I actually rather like it. I can’t imagine anything less terrifying for a Gridanian to see charging out of the undergrowth.” Alistair nodded, so quick and enthusiastic was it that his trimmed beard almost swayed. “Nope, I’d proper shite myself if that came tumbling out of the bushes and squealed about pecking at my guts like a crow.” Charlette placed a finger just under the base that her monstrosity stood upon, drawing a line along it as she spoke of a possible title for her piece. “Avatar of Horror. Proper shite yourself in it’s presence.” They looked at each other, then laughed. “Think you’ll grace us with more visions of the Shrouds most awful things that probably, maybe exist?” Alistair swept away the last of the wood-chippings from Charlette’s workspace. Just a small desk setup under a little thatch awning at the back of her family's home. Charrette herself put away the carving, and felt a little more in love with it at that moment. “You know, I was thinking I would just do the one, and quit after that. I’m not very good, but after our chat, I’m feeling perhaps I’m just not very good at the thing I wanted to do.” Alistair snapped his fingers and made a sound somewhere between a cough and grunt. But somehow, he had made it feel encouraging. “That’s the way to think about it! You didn’t fail, well in a way you did, but only at the one thing! You actually succeeded in another though! You’re a monster-maker Charlette, kids will love it I bet.” she took one look at her little horror, saw the faceless head and realized the lifted visor of her knight, turned paladin, turned Ixali, looked much more like a beak. Hello there, little Ixali. “I guess I am.” and she covered it up, keeping it safe for the moment she will unveil it once more. Maybe on All Saints. Right at that moment though, there was a slice of cherry pie and some ice tea with a certain friendly Hyur’s name on it. He’d earned it after all.

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv rp #ffxiv roleplay #ffxiv #ffxiv writing #duskwight #elezen

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passionate-reply · 3 years

Video

youtube

In this installment of Great Albums, we’re back to talking about albums nobody’s ever heard of! You might not know who Zaine Griff is, but you’ve probably heard of a guy called Hans Zimmer, and Zimmer is the real mastermind of this record: a masterpiece of New Romantic synth-pop made long before he made his name composing for the big screen! Not to mention contributions from Ultravox’s Warren Cann, YMO’s Yukihiro Takahashi, and even Kate Bush. Find out all about it by watching this video, or reading the full transcript below the break!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today’s installment is going to feature an album that is most definitely towards the obscure side--but, like most of the more obscure artists and albums I’ve talked about, I think this one is every bit as good as the classics. Zaine Griff’s Figures is not only a forgotten album that I think deserves more acclaim, but also an album that, in many ways, feels like it could have been a huge success in its own time.

Zaine Griff grew up in New Zealand, and moved to Great Britain in the 1970s in the hopes of pursuing a career in music. His debut LP, 1980’s Ashes & Diamonds, would mark him as one of the many artists straddling the musical landscape in the aftermath of glam, in the long shadow of David Bowie. With keen visual panache, a suave way of slurring when he sang, and the requisite killer cheekbones, Griff fit in perfectly with the so-called “New Romantics,” as stylish and sophisticated as Visage, Ultravox, or Japan.

Music: “Ashes & Diamonds”

The real turning point in Griff’s career was his being “discovered,” so to speak, by Hans Zimmer and Warren Cann. Cann had already become a figure of some renown, as the percussionist for the aforementioned Ultravox. Despite his tremendous fame today, Zimmer actually had much less to show for himself at this point, aside from a somewhat dodgy stint in the Buggles. While geniuses in their own ways, neither of them were necessarily natural frontmen, and Zaine Griff seemed like the perfect missing piece to fit into their pop ambitions.

Even setting aside Zimmer and Cann, Figures is actually full of recognizable talent, and I think it may have the single most stacked list of album credits I’ve ever seen in my life! You’ll also hear contributions from Yellow Magic Orchestra’s Yukihiro Takahashi, backing vocals from Linda Jardim, who was also the soprano on the Buggles’ famous “Video Killed the Radio Star,” and a guest appearance by none other than Kate Bush. That’s really a lot of clout going around, which is one of the reasons I’m so surprised this album went nowhere. Anyway, that aside, the most dominant sonic footprint on display here is certainly that of Hans Zimmer. Zimmer is credited with producing the album, and his dynamic, expressive, perhaps “cinematic” work with digital synthesisers is surely the driving force behind Figures’s sound.

Music: “Fahrenheit 451”

It’s easy to imagine “Fahrenheit 451” is the thumping theme to some delightfully 80s adaptation of Ray Bradbury’s classic novel. Its theme of lustful but dangerous romance is a constant throughout the album, most notably on tracks like “Hot” and the haunting closer, “The Beating of Wings.” The song’s tense and dramatic mood is well bolstered by those soaring synths, courtesy of the Fairlight CMI. One of the most distinctive sounds of mid-80s synth-pop, the soft, breathy tones of the Fairlight hadn’t yet reached full saturation when Figures was made--Zimmer was an early adopter of this particular musical revolution. You might be surprised to learn that “Fahrenheit 451” only saw minor distribution as a single, exclusively for the French and Belgian markets. I think that sort of mismanagement on behalf of Polydor really shafted this album. Its lead single was actually its title track.

Music: “Figures”

The title track of Figures isn’t the worst song I’ve ever heard, but I do think it just might be the worst song on this album. With a strident, stabbing synth riff and a somewhat sparse and anemic soundstage, the title track is not particularly exciting, and also not particularly representative of what the rest of the album sounds like, with no indication of the lush and vibrant textures that dominate tracks like “Fahrenheit 451.” It also has less lyrics than the other tracks, and offers Griff little opportunity to demonstrate his pipes. Thematically, though, its imagery of wispy and mysterious personas, flitting in and out of substance in a world where appearance and identity are trifling and ephemeral, is something that resonates strongly with the album as a whole, as one might surmise from its title also being used for the album. “The Vanishing Men,” another song that easily feels like a better single than “Figures,” handles the same sort of subject in a more playful and upbeat manner.

Music: “The Vanishing Men”

The titular “vanishing men” are quite clearly the life of the party here, and in the world of this track, the insignificance of true identity is portrayed as an invitation to experiment and have fun with it--though not without a slight hint of danger as well. Perhaps it’s a good metaphor for the curated aestheticism of the New Romantic movement, decried by some as “style over substance.” New Romanticism really didn’t have much time left by the time *Figures* came out, being so strongly associated with trends in fashion that were on their way out by this point. Even Ultravox would find themselves pivoting towards more of a pop rock-oriented sound for their final classic lineup LP, 1984’s Lament. I can’t help but think that the changing landscape of musical trends is part of the poor reception of Figures, which is such a consummate New Romantic album, which basks in the full flush of the movement’s prior penetration into the mainstream. As stated above, “The Vanishing Men” is all about the glamour of mutable identity, but other tracks on the album seem to assign this theme a bit more weight, as in “The Stranger.”

Music: “The Stranger”

The titular character of “The Stranger” is described as “a stranger to himself,” but also “no stranger to anyone else.” This track seems to be more focused on the negative aspects of fashionable persona-play: losing the dignity and security of a true form, the people around you seeing through your charades, and becoming trapped in an existence defined by arbitrariness and artificiality. I’d also be remiss not to mention this track’s winsome pentatonic synth riff, which helps create a mercurial and ambiguous mood. It might be interpreted as a nod towards the rampant Orientalism of New Romantic music, which ran with the early 80s verve for all things Asian, and wasn’t shy about appropriating “Asiatic” musical motives like pentatonic scales to evoke mystery and wonder. Griff and friends’ use of such here is relatively subtle, though, and perhaps a bit more tactful than how many of their contemporaries approached other musical ideas associated with the East.

The unforgettable cover of Figures is as dramatic and infused with capital-R Romantic sentiment as the music contained within. Above the text relating the artist and title, which uses a V for a U for a touch of the classical, we see Griff splayed dramatically in a pond of lilies. With sharp makeup that emphasizes his lips, and a diaphanous, blousy top that turns translucent in the water, he seems to be the perfect tragic hero of some lost work of Shakespeare’s--complete with another flower stylishly pinned to his chest. As I mentioned before, Figures is an album that rides the wave of New Romanticism particularly hard, and I think its cover is yet another symptom of those sensibilities.

Speaking of Shakespeare, I can’t help but want to compare this image with a famous painting of one of Shakespeare’s best-known characters: Ophelia, by Sir John Everett Millais. Painted in the early 1850s, Millais’s Ophelia depicts the moment where Ophelia, driven mad by Hamlet’s romantic rejection of her, drowns herself in a river. It’s exactly the kind of story of wild, passionate, and doomed love portrayed on tracks like “Fahrenheit 451.” Ophelia is also associated strongly with flowers in the text, and features in a particularly memorable scene where she doles out various symbolic blossoms to members of the royal court. Besides the affinity of subject matter, even the composition of Millais’s work resembles the cover of Figures, contrasting its subject’s pale skin with the dark and murky natural surrounds, and emphasizing the drapery of their wettened attire. Ophelia is often considered the definitive masterpiece of the short-lived art movement, the “Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,” who, as their name implies, sought to recapture the intuitive, colourful, and emotive power of art created prior to the High Renaissance. Not unlike New Romanticism, the Pre-Raphaelite movement would crumble after only a few years, but not without leaving behind a trail of masterpieces that would continue to inspire future artists and admirers, far removed from their own time.

After the release of Figures, Zaine Griff remained involved with Hans Zimmer and Warren Cann, and, as the supergroup “Helden,” they embarked on an even more ambitious musical opus together: Spies, a sort of synth-pop oratorio about immortal Nazi super-spies falling in love in a futuristic dystopia. Spies is about as out-there as it sounds, and brings the flamboyant musical excess of Figures into a suitably theatrical setting. It’s also got nearly as star-studded of a cast as Figures, featuring not only Zimmer, Cann, and Jardim again, but also Eddie Maelov of Eddie & Sunshine as a mad scientist, and the enigmatic French electro-cabaret chanteuse Ronny, in the role of a super-computer with a sultry female voice. Griff portrays one of the titular immortal spies, known only as “The Stranger”--which, of course, begs comparison to the track of the same name on Figures, and prompts the question, to what extent was Spies already in the works when *Figures* was being written and recorded?

Music: “The Ball”

We all know the rest of the story for Hans Zimmer, who began working with music for film in the mid-1980s, such as the queer cult classic My Beautiful Laundrette. But Zaine Griff obviously never became a household name. Despite being finished in 1983, Spies never got to see an official release, as it was a bit too out there for a label to take a chance on at the time, and it would probably be lost media today if it weren’t for a vinyl bootleg that’s thankfully fairly easy to find online. Griff decided to retire from music shortly after this, and recounts a story of having walked past an extremely talented street musician, and having a sort of epiphany about just how hard it was to make it in music. After all, if a true virtuoso could end up busking on the street, how fair and rewarding could the industry possibly be? Disillusioned with the world of pop, Griff returned to his native New Zealand and got a day job as a golf instructor. More recently, though, he’s also released several new solo albums in the 2010s, surprisingly enough, and attempted to push forward into some very contemporary-sounding pop rock. The world is, of course, a very different place nowadays than it was in the 20th Century, and particularly in the world of music distribution, so perhaps it makes sense that our brave new world has room in it for someone like Zaine Griff to return.

My overall favourite track on Figures is probably “Time Stands Still,” which I think is perhaps the most accessible, pop-friendly track to be had on the album, and the one I would’ve released as the lead single had I worked for Polydor. With a big hook and simple, repetitive lyrics, it’s a true pop song through and through--though, if an artist releases a commercial-sounding album in the woods, and nobody is around to buy it, is it still really “pop?” Anyway, I also love this track’s delightful outro, imitating a skipping record to represent a freeze in the flow of time...though I admit it’s a lot less harrowing to hear when listening digitally! That’s all I have for today--thanks for listening.

Music: “Time Stands Still”

#music #great albums #album review #album reviews #zaine griff #new romantic #ultravox #warren cann #hans zimmer

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thosequeenboys · 4 years

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Super Trouper (John Deacon x Reader)

Summary: You and John Deacon became good friends during college. When John joins a band, you both thought it was a fun hobby - until it became more. Over the years, you each followed your own career paths and shared your love of music, staying in touch mainly through letters, as friends -- until he invites you to Queen’s show at Madison Square Garden in 1980.

A/N: This piece was written for @imcompletelylost for the Possessed by Love Event. I was so excited to be your creator, as we have some musical interests in common that I incorporated into the story. I hope you enjoy them. The story is based on my favorite ABBA song. Thank you @yourlocalmusicalprostitute for coordinating this event. Thank you, @warriorteam1924 for great beta reading, ideas & support. Also thanks to @mirkwoodshewolf and @iwilltrytobereasonable for brainstorming and your terrific ideas.

Warnings: 2-parts fluff to 1-part angst. Band and song dates may not perfectly align with the story time frames. I hope music historians will be forgiving, and any lapses will not detract from the story.

It’s 1971, and you and your best friend, John Deacon, were in the cafeteria line pushing your trays along the railing. Each of you grabbed a plate of sodden fish and chips from under the orange warming lights. After four years, you still missed a good old American burger and fries, but aside from the food, attending college in London had been a great experience.

“They asked me to audition. Seem like a good gaggle of guys.” John laughed at his alliteration.

“They call themselves Queen? Like, Your Majesty?” you queried.

“Indeed,” John affirmed. “The lead singer, Freddie, is an art student. He’s drawing a crest. And there’s Brian and Roger. They’re science students.”

“Lovely!” you enthused.

“A good distraction from studies.” John concurred. “Though they do seem quite ambitious.”

“Can’t hurt to give it a go,” you shrugged. “Though good thing you all will have those polished degrees to fall back on,” you said, only half joking.

“I am pleased to confer your degrees upon you. Congratulations to the class of 1972,” the Dean asserted with a tight grin. The audience broke out into polite applause. You looked around a bit bewildered. You missed the American tradition of giddy graduates tossing their mortarboards in the air with abandon. After a quick embrace, you and John made your way to the local pub to meet up with his band mates, now considered your friends.

“So, Y/N,” Brian said, placing a beer down before you, “You’re heading back to America next year? So willing to leave our lush gardens, cultural sophistication -- and our dear friend, John?

“Not to mention, the next band destined for greatness,” Freddie declared with a broad smile as he tucked his chin slightly, his long hair falling into his face.

“Yes, well,” you took a deep breath feeling four sets of eyes upon you. “The advertising agency I worked for during school offered me a position in their New York office. Always wanted to live in New York. I will miss London’s beauty and culture,” your voice lilted with the faint British accent you had picked up.

“And…” Roger prompted you to respond to the end of Brian’s statement.

“And, yes, the people I’ve met,” you spat out. You shot a glance at John, and you melted as you felt his eyes meeting yours. “And the memorable times I’ve had. With them.” you added, trying to sound light, but you felt tears collecting on the rim of your eyes and you blinked to dissipate them. You knew their presence resulted from the thought of leaving the most important person to you-the lithe, long-haired brunette, whose grey eyes you were now lost in-your best friend, John. Only a friend, the last four years had established. You grabbed a napkin and subtly dabbed at your eyes.

John blinked, and his lips fell into a grin that made his eyes crinkle. “You can’t be talking about our first day as chemistry lab partners when your signature hand movements to Dancing in the Street knocked the beaker clear off the table, smashing it to a million pieces.” John smirked.

“No,” you laughed, moving past your embarrassment to counter, “I’m actually thinking about the time we stayed up all night to write our English papers and finished each other’s sentences, taking sips of beer after each successful line.”

“Some of the best writing the University has ever seen,” John deadpanned, as he looked up wistfully. “And one of the highest English scores I ever earned, legless or sober.” He added, rubbing his chin.

“There it is then,” Roger interjected.

You both looked at him mystified.

“You’ll stay in touch by writing letters. Though you’ll each have to finish your own sentences, I suppose.” Roger concluded, unleashing his playful smile.

*****

Your tight bell bottoms skimmed the floor and the loose open-neck cotton blouse with colorful embroidery flowed around your curves. You glanced at your bags piled by the door, moving over to check one to distract yourself from the impending onslaught of emotions. A soft knock interrupted your nervous efforts. You rezipped the bag as John entered and halted, taking you in. His swallowed, and his mind revisited the thoughts he repeated to himself over the last few weeks. If only. If only this conversation could be different. If only I said something sooner. If only we wouldn’t be risking our friendship. If only you wanted this to be more. ‘If I only had the words to tell you, If you only had the time to understand. Though I know it wouldn't change your feelings, And I know you'll carry on the best you can.’ (1) You’d probably go anyway, he had concluded.

“Thanks for seeing me off,” You said, avoiding his gaze.

“I…I brought you something,” John blurted out, as his long fingers dug into the front pocket of his faded bell bottoms. He thrust a rectangular box toward you.

You forced a smile through your tense face and lifted the lid. You pulled out a delicate sterling silver chain that held a mounted luminescent grey oval stone with angular cuts that refracted blue hues. “John, it’s…beautiful,” you said, as you reached behind your neck to fasten it.

“Here, let me,” he moved behind you, his strong fingers overlaying yours to ease the clasp, as he thought of the day he purchased the gift. Brian had accompanied John to the jewelry shop, and as they peered into the display case, Brian suddenly gasped. “Oh, a moonstone. So beautiful how it catches the light and changes colors. This is really exquisite, John. And, it will be a reminder that even apart, you’ll still share the same moon.”

Back to the present, John stepped in front of you and admired the gift resting splendidly between your collarbones, perfectly framed by your open blouse. “I’m not into all that crystal nonsense,” John said, “but it’s said to be a calming gemstone. And a wise man said, it will remind us that though we’re apart, we’ll be sharing the same moon.” John figured Brian wouldn’t mind him lifting his line.

“Oh John, that’s lovely,” you leaned in to hug him, and as he returned the embrace, your denim jeans pressed together and your arms pulled each other close. How could you be leaving this, him? You had to accept that nothing more was meant to be.

“Wait! I have something for you!” You pulled away suddenly, knowing time was of the essence, and reached into your bag, retrieving a long black box. You held it out to John, who opened it quickly. He held up the beautiful pen engraved with JRD.

“Now that we’ll be writing to each other….” You indicated.

“It’s perfect.” John said his eyes shifting between you and the gift. Before you could embrace again, a horn blared. “Cab’s here. Let me grab some bags,” John looked down, hefted two bags and headed out the door. You looked around your flat, grabbed your last suitcase and purse. As you entered the hallway and slowly shut the door, you knew this special chapter in your life had ended. And you hoped Roger was right: that your friendship with John would continue from afar.

*****

Sirens blared outside as you dragged yourself up the four flights of stairs. You felt a corner of the record digging into your side through your thin fabric bag. Once inside your apartment, you pulled the record out of the beautiful jacket, and read the song list on the label. You propped open the heavy lid of your record player and blew on the vinyl disk before placing it gingerly on the turntable. You flipped the on switch, and the album turned rhythmically. You carefully lifted the needle, hovering it over the fourth groove as the record turned, waiting to release it at just the right place to start the song, at just the right indentation to avoid a scratch. You steadied your fingers and eased the needle down carefully. After a beat, success! ‘Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?’ (2) You took a deep breath as the beautiful, familiar melody consumed you, taking you on an emotional journey, flooding your small flat. You kicked off your heels, curled up on the couch and grabbed your writing kit from the side table.

Dear John,

I’m listening to Bohemian Rhapsody-on my own record player! What a work of art! I loved your last letter describing your creative adventures with the boys at Ridge Farm. The song sums up how I’ve been feeling recently: my fantasy of working at a big ad agency has been replaced by the reality that starting out, it’s more grunt work than glamour. Accepting that helps me stick with it. And, it calls into question, what really matters in life? And what is Scaramouche, anyway? Ha-ha. Give the boys my love and let them know I am so proud of them and so pleased you’re all getting deserved recognition. Too bad those hard-earned degrees are going to waste! Cheers, Y/N

Dearest Y/N,

Yes, the reception for A Night at the Opera has been a whirlwind and exceeded our wildest dreams. Speaking of which, I had a dream we were back at Uni playing the finishing sentences game in your flat. I handed you my notebook and instead of words, there were musical notes. Probably because I’ve been writing some songs. In fact, I wrote You’re my Best Friend for you. True story. Yours, John

*****

Dearest Y/N,

I know we were both disappointed that we missed each other during our recent US tour. I hope your business trip was all it was supposed to be. Well, we’re back in London now, having had to cut the tour short in Boston, as Brian was very ill-and is still recovering from Hepatitis. Suffice it to say, it was very scary. But, you know him, as ill as he was, he was still writing. He was afraid we’d kick him out of the band, which we would never do. We are brothers, family. I thought the band was just a hobby, and now I can’t imagine my life without being part of Queen. Love to you always, John

Dear John,

My goodness, I hope Brian has recovered, and you have as well from a stressful trip. Speaking of trips, mine was…very good. I met someone special… Eric. We just clicked-about life. He’s in Boston. And get this! He was supposed to see the show you had to cancel because of Brian’s illness. He was so impressed that I knew you all ‘way back when.’ Can’t wait to see him next weekend. Not picking out the wedding gown yet….But, I did pick up Billy Joel’s early album Street Life Serenade. The Entertainer reminds me of you and the boys: ‘I am the entertainer. And I know just where I stand. Another serenader. And another long-haired band. Today I am your champion. I may have won your hearts. But I know the game, you'll forget my name. And I won't be here in another year, if I don't stay on the charts.’. Well, you don’t have to worry about the last line. You guys will be on the charts for the foreseeable future-and beyond. I also thought it was funny that he wrote, ‘if you’re gonna have a hit, you gotta make it fit, so they cut it down to 3:05.’ (3) Tell Freddie he proved that wrong with Bohemian Rhapsody! Take care and hugs to Brian. Cheers, Y/N

****

Dearest Y/N:

That’s a great song! Joel’s descriptions are certainly accurate, but they don’t capture everything. It’s been a tough time. Tensions permeate the group, and there are lots of arguments. I do think in a weird way they help to fuel creativity, but it can feel exhausting. Even though you and I are not together, I feel you with me, soothing me, steadying me. Truthfully, that helps calm me-and helps me to soothe the boys and try to keep us all focused. I hope you are happy. You’re my Best Friend. Love, John

Dear John,

I’m sure you are a great calming influence for the band. You are a stalwart trouper during tough times indeed!

Speaking of calming, your beautiful necklace has been soothing me as I try to move on from the failed love affair with my Bostonian. The line from Summer, Highland Falls sums it up: ‘How thoughtlessly we dissipate our energies. Perhaps we don’t fulfill each other’s fantasies. We are always what our situations hand us-it’s either sadness or euphoria.’ (4) It was a roller coaster of grand fun and tense irreconcilable disagreements. He was very inflexible, wanting everything on his terms. I realize everything was easy with you and me; there was a give and take. Knowing you’re there for me – and that we share the same moon – helps. Cheers and love, Y/N

*****

The boys were nursing warm drinks in a Munich bar, as John pulled the letter out of his jacket and scanned it again. The boys eyed him, sensing relief that John found hard to cover.

“It’s OK to gloat, John. Glad she dumped that selfish bloke,” Roger said. “You’ve been a trouper all these years, being a great friend to Y/N. It must be hard though. I mean, you’ve always wanted more…”

Freddie put his beer down loudly on the table and took a commanding tone. “Enough with this letter-writing rubbish. Now is your time, John! Invite her to our upcoming Madison Square Garden show! YES!!! We’ll have your dressing room decorated with lights and big bouquets of fragrant flowers brought in from the nearby Flower District! And Moet of course!” Fred’s words spilled out of him, as the images came into focus.

Roger jumped in. “We’ll arrange a limo to bring her to the show. She’ll be escorted to her front row seat-and then backstage after the show to meet you privately. Finally! You’ll tell her how you feel; ask her to move to London and….”

“Guys, wait, wait!” Brian said in a measured tone. “This is John’s decision. It’s a big step for him, and he…”

“Really, Dear,” Fred interrupted, trying to hold back an eye roll and a disdainful tone, “Must you be such a Dolly Downer?”

John looked at his band mates warmly, touched that they clearly wanted what was best for him. “Well, I do appreciate the premiere matchmaking services of Mercury-Taylor. And May is right, it’s a big step.” John hesitated. He felt he was on a precipice looking out into a sea mixed with excitement and anxiety, like waves gathering, crashing gently toward each other before rushing out at low tide. He added haltingly, “It…it may be too late.”

“Well, you won’t know unless you try. It would be nice for you to share the same moon on the same continent,” Brian said with a wink to John.

John smiled as a lyric came to his mind, ‘You can't be everything you want to be before your time. Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight.’ (5) “Maybe it’s my time. Our time,” he said, casting a smile at his friends.

“Wonderful! I’ll tell Miami the arrangements to be made!” Freddie said decisively.

******

Your office meeting stretched into the night, not an unusual occurrence, though the head of the firm addressing a small team of top-performing staff was unprecedented. “We have acquired a number of significant clients in London, and we will be expanding our office there. If any of you are interested in a position, please let me know in the next two weeks.” As the meeting ended, your colleague turned to you, “How about we let off some steam at the Palladium?” Sounded good to you. After the bouncer removed the velvet rope, you were welcomed to the club by pulsating music and lights thrown off a large disco ball hanging from the ceiling. You entered the dance floor and started to move to the blaring beat, ‘Gimme gimme, gimme a man after midnight.’ (6) You realized it wasn’t any man you wanted. It was John. Maybe you should take a position in London. Maybe you and he….But you were getting ahead of yourself. Tomorrow you’d have a front row seat at Queen’s Madison Square Garden concert and a private reunion with John afterwards. For now, as usual, you let the music envelop you and move through you, expressing your feelings.

*****

You were ready to go in a black leather miniskirt, white sleeveless tank top and your white go-go boots. Your nerves were making a cameo; as you clasped John’s necklace your fingers shook. You entered the waiting limousine and stretched out in the back, enjoying the rare city view from a car. It sure beat riding the subway. Upon arrival at the VIP entrance, you were escorted to your seat. Your stomach felt hollow, and you had to consciously remind yourself to breathe. As you settled in, taking in the huge stage, thoughts coursed through you: Here you were: sitting front row at Madison Square Garden, seeing Queen-a band you knew and truly admired, reuniting with John -- and hopefully clarifying your future. You tried to push it all aside as the hot spotlights lit the stage, signaling the start of the show.

In the wing backstage, John shifted from foot to foot as he peered out onto the stage lit only by four glaring spotlights that cascaded over the smoke. He could already feel the heat from those lights, but he knew there was more to the warmth creeping through him: you were out there, and the two of you would be reunited soon. A smile bloomed across his face as he took in the roar of the crowd. ‘Suddenly I feel all right, and it's gonna be so different when I'm on the stage tonight. Tonight, the super trouper lights are gonna find me shining like the sun, smiling, having fun, feeling like a number one, Tonight the super trouper beams are gonna blind me, but I won't feel blue like I always do. 'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you.’(7)

Ratty gave the queue, and Freddie led the boys in a bounding stage entrance. John took his place behind Freddie’s piano. The powerful beams prevented him from seeing the fans, but he wasn’t blinded. He saw more clearly now than he ever had.

The show was magnificent, and after the encore, the boys met again in the stage wing, as the roadies handed them towels.

“Your dressing room is ready!” Freddie reassured. “We snuck in a few candles, though we are violating New York City Fire Code,” he added with a wink, and glance at Roger, who tried unsuccessfully to conceal a laugh.

Brian rolled his eyes and raised his hands dramatically in front of himself. “News Headline: Queen burns up Madison Square Garden. Literally.”

“For a good cause, though!” Roger defended.

“Thanks, Guys,” John said softly, nodding to his best friends. “Wish me luck.”

John’s heart beat faster with each step down the long corridor. As he opened the door he spotted you seated on a couch, and he gasped. You stood, and he reached out his hand, which you took, as you swayed your hips slightly to release some nervous energy.

“Y/N, I’d hug you but…I’m a sweaty mess,” John said, suddenly self-conscious. “You’re so beautiful.”

“You look gorgeous-you always did,” you said. “The show was fantastic! And I love what you’ve done to the place,” you said coyly, gesturing around the romantically lit room, dotted with lush bouquets and a champagne bucket. “Who knew The Garden had such impeccable decorating taste?”

“It was Fred and Roger’s doing, actually,” He chuckled. “Sit, sit.” He bent into the couch and still holding your hand, he eased you down with him.

You both started to speak at the same time: “Y/N, I wanted to tell you that I….” “John, my company has positions in the UK and I’m thinking of taking one….”

“Is that what you want? To return to London?” John asked, trying and failing to temper his excitement.

You stared at each other. “If,” you said, gathering courage and then shaking your head to change the point. “It isn’t just work I want to return for…It’s…well, I know you probably have girls lining up, but I…”

“No.” John cut you off. There’s never been anyone serious. There couldn’t be. There’s only been you. All these years.” He swallowed before continuing. “Tonight…the reason for all this, I was planning to tell you that I love you, always have, always will, and ask if you’d consider coming back to the UK. Back home, to me….”

“Yes! A definite yes!” You embraced with some distance between you, and John broke apart sporting a broad grin. “Oh, Y/N! I…. I need to shower and then we can continue our plans. I’m so happy! And I need to tell the boys that their matchmaking efforts worked-and that as Brian said, we’ll be enjoying the moon together-from the same place.”

‘Whenever we’re together, that’s my home,’ (8) you said, letting your happy tears flow.

Song Notes

1. If I Only Had the Words, Billy Joel

2. Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen

3. The Entertainer, Billy Joel

4. Summer, Highland Falls, Billy Joel

5. Vienna, Billy Joel

6. Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (A Man after Midnight), ABBA

7. Super Trouper, ABBA

8. You’re My Home, Billy Joel

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hardcorehardigan · 3 years

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[Cover: GREG WILLIAMS/AUGUST IMAGES]

Tom Hardy interview and exclusive David Bailey shot

By DANIELLE DE WOLFE

02 September 2015

ShortList meets the British actor who took on the Kray twins and won. Plus an exclusive image of the actor taken by the inimitable David Bailey.

Interviewing Tom Hardy is not like interviewing other film stars. From the moment he arrives – alone, dressed down in hiking trousers and black T-shirt, puffing away on a complex-looking digital e-cigarette – it is immediately clear this is not someone who will be exhibiting any kind of on-promotional-duties polish. He is very, very nice (I get a hug at the end of the interview), but there is unmistakably a wired edginess about him. When we sit down, it starts like this:

Me: I’m going to start with an obvious question, which is… Hardy: Have you seen the film? Me: Yes. I… Hardy: Right, well that’s the first question, then. The second one is, “What did you think?” I tell him I loved it, and why, and he is pleased (“That’s a f*cking result!”). When we move on to me asking him questions, his answers – again, in contrast to other film stars, with whom the game is to get them to veer slightly away from prepared, succinct monologues – are smart and eloquent, but long, drawn-out and enjoyably all over the place, veering off into tangents prompted by thoughts that have clearly just formulated. At the end of our allotted time, we are told to wind it up not once but twice, and even then he is still going, launching into theories about American versus British gangster films and life and humanity and such things (“Sorry man, I can talk for f*cking ever!” he laughs). He will be talking with a seriousness and sincerity (“All the risk was taken by [writer and director] Brian [Helgeland], to be fair…”), then will switch without warning into a piercing, mock-hysterical falsetto (“…letting me PLAY BOTH F*CKING ROLES, MAN!”).

In fact, briefly, while we’re on the subject of the way he speaks…

Tom Hardy’s normal speaking voice is not something we have been privy to onscreen. Since he delivered – whatever your opinion of it – the most imitated cinematic voice of the decade in The Dark Knight Rises, we haven’t come close. That thick Welsh accent in Locke, The Drop’s quiet Brooklyn drawl, the Russian twang in Child 44: we just never hear it. And this might be because it doesn’t exist. It’s five years ago, but if you watch his Jonathan Ross appearance in 2010, where he is very well spoken, he confesses he “sometimes picks up accents, and sometimes I don’t know how I’m going to sound until I start speaking”. If you then watch another video of a feature on GMTV, dated just a month previous, while addressing some young people from troubled backgrounds as part of his charity work with the Prince’s Trust, he is speaking to them in a south London street kid drawl. Today, in the flesh, he is about halfway between these two.

A natural-born chameleon.

Tom Hardy shot by David Bailey for ShortList

BEING DOUBLE

The role we are here to discuss today does not, by Tom Hardy’s own standards at least, involve a huge stretch accent-wise. But it is “the hardest thing that I’ve ever done, technically”. This is because, as mentioned, he plays not one role, but two. In the same film. You will likely have seen the posters for Legend by now, depicting Hardy as both of the Kray twins. Which seems an ambitious, almost foolhardy undertaking.

Hardy agrees. “It is one of them situations,” he says. “You get an actor to play two characters, and immediately, it’s pony. It’s gonna be rubbish. Just: no. It’s a bad idea.”

This particular “bad idea” came to him when he first met writer and director Brian Helgeland (who had previously written screenplays for – no biggie – LA Confidential and Mystic River) for dinner. Brian wanted Hardy to play Reggie (the hetero, alpha male, more-straight-down-the-line Kray). Hardy, though, had read the script, and of course, being Tom Hardy, was drawn to the more complex character. “I was like, ‘Well, I feel Ronnie,’” he says. “So which actor am I gonna give up Ronnie to, if I play Reggie? Errrrrggh…. I can’t have that. ’Cos that’s all the fun there! And Reggie’s so straight! But there was a moment when I could have come away just playing Reggie. We could have gone and found a superlative character actor to play Ronnie, and that would have been the best of everything."

But Helgeland sensed the dissatisfaction in his potential leading man. “I’m sitting there thinking, ‘Oh, he wants to play Ron,’” he tells me. “And the paraphrased version is that by the end of the dinner, I said, ‘I’ll give you Ron if you give me Reg.’”

And so began their quest to turn a risky, potentially disastrous idea into something special (as Brian puts it to me, “the movie’s either gone right or gone wrong before anyone even starts working on it”). Hardy found some comfort in Sam Rockwell’s two-interacting-characters performance in Moon. “I’m a big fan of Sam,” he says.

“And Moon gave me reason to go, ‘I know it’s possible to hustle with self, to create a genuine dialogue with self.’ So then it’s the technical minefield: can you authentically create two characters within a piece at all? So that the audience can look past that and engage in the film? It is what it is: it’s two characters played by the same actor. But I think we got to a point where people forget that and are genuinely watching the story."

This was the ‘why I liked the film’ reasoning I gave to him at the beginning of the interview. And it is a remarkable performance, or pair of performances, or triumph of technical direction. The opening shot features both Tom Hardy Krays sitting in the back of a car, and feels strange, but very quickly, within about 10 or 15 minutes, you settle into it, and forget that it is actually the same guy. This was made possible, in part, by Hardy’s stunt double from Mad Max: a New Zealander named Jacob Tomuri.

“He inherited the hardest job of my career,” Hardy grins. “I put on a pair of glasses, played every scene with Ron, then took ’em off and played Reg. And we went through every scene in the film, recording it on the iPhone. So he’s got every scene of me doing both characters, on his iPhone. He actually played both brothers, had to learn all of the lines. He was paying attention twice as hard to keep up. But he superseded that, and was eventually ad-libbing. There’s a line that ended up in the film, where Ronnie goes, ‘I bent him up like a pretzel, I hurt him really f*cking badly.��” “Where did that come from?!” Hardy shrieks, in that falsetto again. “It came from New Zealand."

The wife’s tale

The other big potential pitfall, as Hardy sees it, was contributing to the ongoing glamorisation and eulogising of two brothers who were, to say the least, not very nice. Somehow they have become almost as iconic a piece of the Sixties puzzle as the Beatles or the Stones. But this was not something that Legend would be setting out to reinforce. “One has to approach these things thinking about the families of the victims who were involved in the other end of it,” he says. “Before you find the heart to like somebody, you’ve gotta look at their track record as best as possible: the people who’ve been hurt, the bodies, the suffering, people who were bullied, who lived in terror, who lost significant parts of their lives in the wake of these two men. There’s a lot of sh*t to wade through. And a lot of people who do not, quite rightly, want to see anything to do with these two men. And if I were them, I wouldn’t want to be involved myself, but there’s also part of me that wants to know. That wants to get under the skin.”

So how do you go about doing that? About humanising, to any extent, such people?

“I think the first port of call is, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to do and say whatever you wanted to do and say in the world, regardless of the ramifications and the consequences?’ Ultimately, when I – we – go to the cinema or read a book or we go to escape, we respond to certain types of characters that go, ‘F*ck it: I’m gonna do whatever I want.'

And that’s because we can’t. Because most people would feel a responsibility.”

The answer to how Legend would do this came in the shape of a person who did feel some responsibility, namely Frances Shea: the troubled wife of Reggie, who died in 1967. Played by Emily Browning, she became the centre of the film when Helgeland met Krays associate Chris Lambrianou, who told him that “Frances was the reason we all went to prison”.

“We could have put more of the carnage and the crimes in that film,” says Hardy. “Not to say that it is not there, but what you do see, really, is Reggie, Ronnie and Frances. That’s the dynamic we focused on, that space, which hasn’t been seen before. What was that dynamic like? I don’t know if we came anywhere near the truth, because we weren’t there. But that was the playing field, if you like: Frances Shea, future ahead of her, caught up in something, and no one with her, the suicide. That sits with me in a way as the lead. She’s who we forgot. Ronnie, Reggie, they’ve done their bit. Frances was forgotten. And that kind of all ties it together for me."

FUTURE LEGENDS

The initial praise for Legend has been plentiful, but the mindset of Tom Hardy right now is such that he does not have the time to bask in it. There are other quite ludicrously challenging projects to be pressing ahead with. Coming in autumn is The Revenant, starring his good friend Leonardo DiCaprio and directed by Alejandro González Iñárritu of Birdman fame. Its trailer, as well as doing the not-going-anywhere trend for big beards no harm whatsoever, suggests that it will also match Mad Max in terms of an unrelenting barrage of intensity. Further into the future there’s the Elton John biopic Rocketman (initial challenge? Hardy “can’t sing”) and another foray into comic-book adaptation with 100 Bullets (news of which broke just after our interview).

And right now, as in this week, he’s working on a BBC series called Taboo, which is set in 1813 and stars Hardy as an adventurer who comes back from Africa and builds a shipping empire. The story has been developed by his production company Hardy Son & Baker (formed with his father, Chips) and has been written and directed by Locke/Peaky Blinders creator Steven Knight, with Ridley Scott also exec producing.

“We’re sat on something really awesome,” says Hardy. “And it’s trying to piece it together. I’ve never produced anything before, so I basically don’t know what I’m doing. But I’ve got some options and solutions: if you say something is not working, you better come up with at least four other options. But it’s good. It’s just different.”

Another day, another big challenge. Another chance to do something different. It isn’t an easy life being Tom Hardy. But neither will it ever a boring one, and that’s good news for us.

Legend is at cinemas from 9 September

Words: Hamish MacBain. Images: David Bailey, Studio Canal

You can also read the Hardy interview in this week's ShortList Magazine. It'd be a crime to miss it.

Source: https://www.shortlist.com/news/tom-hardy-interview-and-exclusive-david-bailey-shot

#shortlist #bewareoftheman #tomhardydoesntbiteunlesstherolerequiresit #tomhardy #interview #exclusive #davidbailey #shot #danielledewolfe #september2015 #legend #gregwilliamsphotography

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un-bearablysweet · 4 years

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The final installment is here!!! Along with unique bonus posts soon to come, thxs for hanging around this long. Art school has been kicking my butt with all my online classes and projects.

Edit: I had a good chunk of this prompt already written before Corona hit, and I live in New York City…. and well, I’ll make a separate post about it.

The first thing Mikey does is establish himself in the high school social circle. His worst fear is forever being known as Raph’s, Donnie’s, and Leo’s kid brother.

“ Hey, aren’t you Raph’s little brother? Will you tell him not to be late for Friday’s Knitting club.”

“Your Don’s brothers?! His videos are stellar! Can you ask him to shout me out in his next vid?"

” I didn’t know Leon had a little brother, you’re so cute are you gonna be a model like your big bro?“

The last thing he wants to be remembered for is being the kid brother of the star quarterback, the sassy tech genius, and the charismatic basketball captain. With Mikey’s relative chill, happy go lucky attitude stepping out of his siblings’ shadow was easy as pie really.

Mikey stands out pretty quickly in a crowd, lovely brown skin with adorable blotches of vitiligo peppered around his skin. A particular patch mimicking freckles spread across his cheeks. With more spots on his arms and shoulders. His curly 4a hair in an ombre style transitioning from blond to brunet, top to bottom.

Mikey’s wardrobe was merely a mix of styles depending on his mood, and no matter what he wore, there always seemed to be a stain of paint or charcoal somewhere on his clothing. Please don’t ask him how they got there. He couldn’t tell you if he tried.

He was pretty popular! Very easy to talk to and was considered the coolest freshman around.

What establishes his place in the social hierarchy is when he paints a giant mural on the school’s side.

A beautiful mural featuring the nighttime version of the city landscape, the lights of the painting buildings spelling out "build your own mojo.” A stunning and awe-inspiring piece filled with color and life. It even made the local news. But not before numerous meetings and arguments with the school board that “exposure” is not suitable payment for labor.

“This would be a great experience for you.”

Arms crossed Miguel stared pointedly at the Principal, “Then why don’t you pay the janitors or teachers in the so-called experience?”

“uh….”

With Donnie’s knowledge in the school in charter and local labor laws and royalty fees, they were able to piece together a nice contract and get Mikey paid for his efforts.

He quickly proved to be just as talented as his brothers. After nearly giving a teacher a heart attack, Mikey is no longer allowed to show his ‘Razz ma Tazz’ in the hallway.

Splinter was promptly called after Mikey had jumped off the side of the stairway, backflipped his way down, and landed perfectly on his feet. At least 20 students were recording it on their phones, and it got over a million views.

This, of course, leads to him joining the local gymnastics team. The trainer was more than happy to have Mikey on their side. Mikey is a natural, twisting a bending his body mid-air, he was utterly mesmerizing.

Daring and unique yet beautiful, his coach even believed Mikey could take them to the Olympics.

When it comes to his to school, art class is undoubtedly his favorite, and Mikey even earned the title of teacher assistant. And his English teacher Mrs. Ramona adored Mikey’s creative short stories; her favorite short story was about a goat and a rat raising four turtles. Miguel indeed had a vivid imagination.

Mikey was entirely overwhelmed by the options of clubs he could join or even create himself. Raph not wanting to develop another Donnie situation said he could only join four clubs max.

Of course, he chooses art club, art being his first love, then cooking club, the soccer team, and starting his own therapy club.

Mikey’s therapy club was a huge success, students could go there to relieve their stress and talk about their problems.

Even the guidance counselor was surprised by how well Mikey was at getting people to open and give solid advice. Mikey was quick to become the cinnamon roll of the school. He was caring, kind, and funny all around a helpful and model student.

With Donnie and Aprils help starts his own youtube channel called “Mixing with Mikey."

Donnie wanted him to be called Michelin Mikey, like Michelin stars, but Mikey also wanted to make painting videos.

The cuteness doesn’t last forever, though, because Dr. Delicate Touch has new patients to take care of.

The first time the school populace is introduced to Dr.Delicate touch was during a confrontation in the hallway. One of the senior soccer players refused to help clean up after practice and was always picking on some of the newer players. David Manson needed a severe attitude check.

Spotting the senior stuffing his books into his locker, Mikey quickly swam his way through the crowd to speak to him.

With a voice as smooth as butter, he slid up next to Davids open locker

” Hey, David, can we chat for a sec.“

Not even sparring the blond a glance "I’m busy, so make it quic-”

The teen had yanked the senior by his collar as he stared into the freshmen’s flaming eyes.

“Getcha mind right, son!” He screeched.

Davids’s ears rang from the volume, the hallway going in quiet from shock.

Hands clenched around his shirt collar, he stared daggers into the goalie’s eyes to make sure his point got across.

“Nobody on the team is your mama, so pick up the slack and lay-off our the newbies!"

The senior was soon shoved against his still open locker, as his dirty cleats and jersey were tossed into his chest.

"Understood?” arms crossed. The whole hallway waited with bated breath at the drama unfolding in front of them.

“y-yeah, man, we’re cool,” he stammered. Arms clutching his stuff for dear life, he had never seen such a steely gaze from the freshman before. He almost thought blond was going to hit him.

As if flipping off a switch, all the tension and anger left Miguel’s body.

A bright smile on his face

“ Awesome bro, see ya at practice Monday.” He sang.

Turning on his heels, the blond skipped down the hall.

Onlooking students stared at the youngest Hamato’s back in complete disbelief. Sliding down his locker, all the adrenaline immediately left his body. Michelangelo Hamato, while small, was not to be messed with.

Michelangelo ’ Koshiro ’ Hamato

14 years old, freshman

Local Therapist, Head chef in a cooking club, starting forward in the Soccer team. Voted most likely to either become a world-famous chef or well-respected therapist.

Koshiro meaning “wide-mind; ambitious

#rise of the tmnt #tmnt #tmnt 2018 #Rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #michelangelo #mikey #my art #rottmnt

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rosesisupposes · 4 years

Note

also 114 + roceit?

Lover Prompts

114: “I once believed love would be burning red, but it’s golden”

⁂

pairing: Roceit

tags: post-breakup, bartender/patron, bad ex, nobinary Deceit, Deceit is named Dante, this is a lot of projection and i won’t apologize

word count: 1,815

read on ao3

⁂

The day Roman met Dante was the worst day of his life.

Not because of them. The two events were unrelated. (Time’s just funny that way).

But the fact remains that Dante’s first words to him were “Well don’t you look like shit. What happened, did the Beast steal your Belle?”

To D’s credit, they had no idea what an effect their words would have. But that didn’t stop Roman from flipping them off as he started to cry all over their bar again.

And that left them with a choice. Ignore the crying man, as they’ve ignored so many bar patrons, passing him drinks in silence until he drinks himself into becoming a part of it. It would be a little different - most patrons aren’t in an outfit that looks straight out of a Disney coloring book. But they could do it. Or, instead, they could do this.

“Forgive me, Princey, that was uncalled for. Let me get you a drink, you tell me all about it, hmm?”

And the man dressed like a prince looked up, tears still leaking out of his eyes, and nodded.

Dante was a professional. They prided themselves on the ability to match a drink to a mood - not always what their patrons wanted, but always what they needed. And what this face needed was maudlin, but not self-pitying. Something with some sweetness, but complexity.

“Un Vieux Carre pour le monsiuer,” they said with a smile, sliding the elegant cocktail to land in the man’s immediately open hand.

“Merci beaucoup,” he responded, almost automatically. He took a sip, and paused, looked down into the glass, and carefully took a second, swirling it in his mouth.

“Like it? It’s a New Orleans classic,” Dante said, leaning on the bar. It was a quiet Tuesday night, they had time to chat. “Let me know what you think, or if you want, you can tell me why royalty is getting weepy in my bar tonight.”

Tears started leaking once more.

“Or we can start with your name?”

“Roman.”

“Good evening, Roman. I’m Dante. If you forgot about seeing the sign already, this is The Snake’s Den bar, and I’m the snake. Now that we’re all caught up, how’s that drink-”

“It’s my fucking boyfr- my fucking ex!” Roman cried out suddenly, interrupting the bartender’s calm voice. “That absolute- he just- and then he-!” and there were tears leaking down his face again, but hotter now, dripping with anger and not just despair. He swigged more of his drink, and kept talking, words tumbling out like a burst dam.

“We’d been together for years, and I thought it was perfect, ya know, we were both actors! We understood the struggle together! And he’d encourage me to try out for the big parts that I would have only dreamed of, but I actually got some of them! And then this- this fucking play, it’s only my childhood dream, and he says, “Oh, wouldn’t it be fun to be castmates?” and we both audition, me for the Beast and him for Gaston, but then it turns out, oh, actually, he went the FUCK behind my back and auditioned for the Beast too!”

Dante listened, nodding and humming in understanding, a perfect sounding board. “That must have been tense when he told you,” they offered sympathetically.

Roman slumped at that. “I wish. My friend texted me that the cast list had been posted and I wasn’t on it. I told him I was on the way to his place cause I needed to talk, and before I could get there, he… broke up with me. Via text message.”

In spite of themself, Dante gasped aloud. “He did not!”

“He did! Like, am I in some fuckin’ teenage melodrama?! Did I somehow date a cartoonishly terrible villain in a DCOM?!”

Dante nodded sagely. “Perhaps that’s why he didn’t go for Gaston - he wouldn’t have had to act at all.”

Roman leaned forward, eyes flashing. “And you know what’s even worse?! He’d been helping me prepare for my audition and listening to all the ideas I’ve had for how I would play the Beast, if I got the chance! But I didn’t want to make too bold a choice in the audition room, so I was holding out. And that piece of shit used my idea to get the part!”

“A scoundrel and a thief!”

“And you know the absolute worst part?”

“What?”

Roman seemed to freeze as his thought connected from brain to mouth and he processed it fully. His shoulders slumped. “I wish he’d take me back.”

Dante stood up straight. “My dear Roman emperor, let me be the first to tell you: bullshit. To quote a wise scholar: “He doesn’t deserve you! If he doesn’t treat you right by now, you’re gone.””

Roman smiled weakly. “But he- he pushed me, in my acting. He was my fire, the one who encouraged me to be ambitious and dream big and- without him… I don’t know that I’ll be able to.”

Dante nodded. They spoke softly, calmly. “Roman, I’m going to say something that might be hard to hear. His actions in these auditions? They showed that not only did he not respect this dream, but he never respected any of them. He only wanted you to succeed as far as it made him look good.”

Roman scowled. “He was an ass, but he wasn’t that, he wasn’t just a manipulative bastard, he believed in me-”

“He didn’t,” Dante interrupted. They were still calm, almost gentle. “He believed in his ability to keep pushing you to be an asset to him. Until it wasn’t beneficial anymore.”

“No-”

“And you knew this, deep down. And that part of you wasn’t taken by surprise.”

Roman stared, his face a mask of many emotions at once - confusion, heartbreak, denial, acceptance, but what won out was rage.

“You know what? Fuck you, I don’t need your psychoanalysis bullshit! Hasn’t my day been hard enough? See you fucking never!”

Dante watched him storm out, leaving the rest of his drink. A man in a prince costume, disappearing into the night. If it had been a decent narrative, it would have been raining.

But narratives aren’t often perfect.

Neither are promises made in anger.

Dante looked up to see Roman arriving back at The Snake’s Den only days later, looking a bit chagrined and only slightly less regal out of costume.

“Barkeep, I regretfully did not pay for my drink at our last encounter, and have come to rectify it.”

Dante nodded graciously. “While I appreciate your integrity, it was on the house.”

“Nevertheless, I insist that you accept payment.”

“Why don’t you have another, keep me company on slow evening?” they suggested.

Roman hesitated for all of a second before sitting down once more, the same stool as the last time.

Two months later, it was Roman’s Stool and no one dared occupy it even in his absence, unless it was truly and utterly packed.

In two months more, Roman had dragged friends to the Den too, but none became a fixture the way the actor was.

And one week after that, it was another quiet evening. A Tuesday, just as it had been before. (Time is rather funny that way).

And in one of the comfortable silences that patron and bartender often found themselves sliding into and out of with ease, Roman cleared his throat.

Dante looked up. “Yes, darling?” Their nicknames and pet names had escalated the day Roman realized he needed an honorific besides ‘sir’ or ‘madam’ and had chosen ‘dearest,’ but neither of them seemed to mind.

“My dear, I- remember what you said, that first night?”

Dante pursed their lips. “Of course I do. And I stand by it.”

Roman nodded. “I… I know you do. I know you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I might lie to other people though,” they pointed out blandly. “Like the people who come in with a sob story when it’s all just their own choices. Because the boss said I can’t call people ‘sad sacks of pathos’ any more.”

“Your way with words will never fail to delight me, my Divine Comedian. I know you didn’t think it was a lie, but I didn’t fully believe you until recently.”

Dante put down their cleaning cloth and leaned in near their friend. “May I be so bold as to ask what changed?”

“So this will sound a little melodramatic-”

“You? Dramatic? Perish the thought.”

“Fuck you too, my sweet serpent.”

Dante blew a kiss and fluttered their eyelashes at him. “Pardon me, I interrupted you, you were saying?”

Roman shifted in his seat, adjusting without meeting Dante’s eyes. “I didn’t want to believe you, that that bastard was never cheering me on for my sake alone. Because- I said he was my fire, and I meant it. He was determined, and ambitious, and I thought that him urging me on meant that I was sharing in it. He was burning red, and that was what I wanted to be, and I thought I could be an equal flame where we burned stronger together.”

Dante nodded, humming quietly in understanding without interrupting.

“But instead, I was just the candle that helped him burn brighter while slowly melting away. I was always so exhilarated with him, excited but then so exhausted. I always wanted to be more, or wanted to be what he wanted, at least. And he always wanted more. I tried and tried and I could never be enough because he just… he drained me.” A single tear leaked out and courses down Roman’s tan cheek.

Dante reached over and wrapped their hand around his, and squeezed. “Love could look like that, could look like encouragement and ambition. But I don’t think that’s what you had, Ro.”

Roman blinked up at them. Both realized it was the first nickname based on their actual name that either had used. “So I wasn’t just a fool to think he really meant it?”

“Of course not, sweetheart. He was the fool, to not fully appreciate you.”

The lights of the bar shone through tawny bottles of liquor and glinted off the brass trappings, bathing them in a warm glow. Roman looked up at Dante, and he could have sworn they were absorbing the light and releasing it anew, their golden skin practically incandescent. And their smile, softening as they looked at Roman, focused on brushing away the dampness from his face, a careful and doting look that they never directed at their other friends.

Roman swallowed hard. “Dante, darling?”

They met his eyes, face lighting with a smile that rivaled the sun. “Yes, Roman?”

“I think I know what love looks like, now.”

“And what’s that?”

Roman rose up to Dante’s eye level, cupping their cheek in his hand. “It’s golden,” he breathed out, before their lips met.

#roses writes fanfic #roceit #prompt fill #ts roman #ts deceit #post break up fic #getting together #bartender deceit #nonbinary deceit #projecting onto roman time babes

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sign-from-god-complex · 5 years

Text

Idealistic

Summary: Even after months of friendship, Logan didn’t know Remy’s major. There was, in fact, quite a lot he didn’t know about Remy, but Logan found he was more than willing to learn.

Pairing: Sleeplogical / Losleep

A/N: This fic is based on the lovely @sleepless-in-starbucks' space!Remy idea!!! it’s probably also worth noting that Logan’s last name here is McKenzie, which is why that’s what Remy is calling him.

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There are certain things certain groups of people will always find important.

For example, when you meet a child, they will often tell you their age down to the month—a fact not many adults will care all that much about sharing. Fisherman will talk about fish and authors will talk about books; each group has its own unique priorities.

One of the things that university students find to be particularly important is your major.

Your major can tell people a lot about you—give hints as to whether you're practical or creative, whether you dream big or are more realistic and, often, what you are truly passionate about.

Logan's own major—psychology—told others that he was fairly grounded, ambitious and that his misunderstanding of other human beings and how they work had culminated in a lifelong fascination in figuring it out. Had Logan been looking into practising psychology rather than simply researching it, that would have said other things, but Logan had made it very clear where his interests lay.

Logan's roommate, Roman's, major declared him an overdramatic idiot with his hopes set higher than it was usually possible to achieve; Patton's major declared him sweet, caring and hardworking; Virgil's major declared him subtly intelligent and willing to stay up to unreasonable hours to get things done. Truly, there was so much you could learn from knowing the majors of the people you socialise with.

Which is why it irritated Logan so much that he still didn't know Remy's.

Remy was an enigma. From the moment they sauntered their way into Logan's regular coffee shop, only displaying the bits of themself they wanted people to see, Logan had been enamoured by the idea of what lay underneath the surface.

Every so often he would get a glimpse of something more than the flirty persona Remy put on. They would laugh—genuinely laugh, ducking their head, their cheeks flushed—or they would sigh—soft and quiet and sadder than Logan ever wanted them to feel—and moment by moment Logan fell just a little bit further for them.

He didn't mean to, but he had been reliably informed that no one ever did.

Logan exhaled into the cold air, watching his breath mist in front of him. The sound of music from the house behind him was muffled as he leant against the balcony railing, trying to catch a moment alone.

Roman had dragged him to this party, citing that he needed to get out more and stop being such a buzzkill. Logan personally thought that there was a large difference between finding studying important and being a buzzkill but he wasn't going to waste his breath attempting to explain that to Roman, who rarely listened to him anyway.

"You doing alright out here, McKenzie?"

Logan caught the sound of Remy's voice and he spun around, watching them close the sliding glass door behind them. There was a grin at Logan's reaction but it wasn't unkind, just teasing and playful.

Logan, hoping the dim lighting outside would hide his blush, turned back to look over the railing. "I am fine, Remy, thank you."

Out of the corner of his eye, Logan saw Remy approach the edge of the balcony to stand beside him, lifting their sunglasses to perch on the top of their head. Something in Logan warmed at the fact that Remy felt comfortable enough around him to remove their armour—and he knew without a doubt that's what those sunglasses represented.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Logan whispered, gazing up at the sky and failing to notice the way Remy tensed beside him at the question.

"The stars? I mean, they're just balls of gas." Remy's voice was stiff and uncomfortable as they fiddled with the sleeve of their leather jacket. "What’s there to be so excited about?"

Logan startled, turning to look at Remy incredulously. "There is so much more to them than that, Remy. Barring the fact that the stars are one of the most visually pleasing things we, as human beings, will ever get a chance to see, they represent so much more than just balls of gas. They represent the idea of exploration, of infinity, of a sense of longing for that which is outside our reach.”

He gestured vaguely upwards, expecting to go on, but was interrupted by a single word from Remy.

“Astronomy.”

It was blurted, hurried and almost afraid, and Remy appeared as if they already regretted it.

Logan furrowed his brow. “What?”

“You… wanted to know my major, that day in the cafe when we met.” Remy spoke slowly, seemingly almost rolling their words around their mouth before releasing them.

Logan nodded. He hadn’t been sure at the time why Remy had so adamantly avoided the subject of their major but it was obvious they didn’t want to share and Logan was learning not to push. It bothered him immensely—because it was another missing piece of the puzzle when it came to figuring Remy out—but he didn’t want to risk their friendship over something so trivial.

Remy sighed, directing their gaze upward and away from Logan. “It’s astronomy.”

And suddenly, Logan felt he had a much clearer picture of who Remy was then he had ever been afforded before.

Because astronomy tells tales of someone always longing for something else. It tells the story of a young child sitting on the roof, wishing to be anywhere but here, wishing to be somewhere they felt they fit. Astronomy was patient, insatiable curiosity and childish excitement hidden behind the guise of serious scientific achievement; it was someone who looked up once and never saw the worth in looking back down.

Logan tilted his head, trying to figure out the reasoning behind Remy’s previous attitude. “But why would you…?”

He trailed off as Remy huffed, twisting up their mouth with a look Logan couldn’t quite identify—something between self-deprecation, anger and regret.

“I was just so sick of people’s reactions. Sick of being told I wasn’t smart enough, sick of being told that I needed to be more realistic, get my head out of the clouds. The stars are gorgeous—” and with that, Remy leaned out further over the railing, almost as if they were trying to throw themself right up there to join them—“and there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t give to know everything I could about them.”

“I feel the same way about humans.”

Remy laughed, pulling themself back from the railing, their face painted red in embarrassment. “See? Grounded.”

Logan shook his head. “Idealistic,” he corrected, “I think we both are.”

That seemed to calm Remy, prompting them to sigh—low but not too heavy. They both returned to look out at the sky, hands resting side by side on the balcony railing and eyes catching subtle glances at each other between breaths. The atmosphere felt as if it had been lifted, making Logan seem weightless, even hopeful.

“Can you… tell me about them?”

“About the stars?” Remy looked hesitant but Logan felt as if he knew what that stemmed from. It was from every dismissal, every pointed and over-dramatic sigh and every time they’d been disrupted. Logan wouldn’t even dream of letting that happen here.

“Please,” Logan insisted, “I’ve always been interested but I’ve never really had the time to look into it. You would be doing me a favour.”

They took a steadying breath, their eyes scanning the sky for a second, before settling on one spot in particular. They pointed upward, their hand wavering ever so slightly. “That’s Sirius, d’you see it?”

Logan hummed lightly. “I’m not sure.”

Huffing a breath, Remy moved to stand behind him, pressing up against his back and resting their head on his shoulder. The two of them were about the same height—Remy was slightly taller but it was by an almost negligible amount—and yet Logan had never felt quite as small. Or as warm.

They grabbed a hold of Logan’s hand on the railing and aimed a finger towards a particular star.

"How ‘bout now?”

“Yes, I see it.” Logan’s voice was hushed, almost reverent, as if he was concerned about disturbing the quiet that had settled over the two of them.

“Sirius is the brightest star in our sky, though it’s actually a binary star system made up of two stars, Sirius A and Sirius B. It’s also one of the closest stars to Earth, sitting at eight and a half-ish light-years away.

“And if you see the stars, here…” Remy elongated the word as they drew Logan’s hand around the sky, gesturing to a few other stars in the area. “They’re all a part of the constellation Canis Major, or the Greater Dog, which also contains VY Canis Majoris, one of the biggest stars we know about. At the moment, anyway.”

Logan made a hum of acknowledgement, watching Remy grin out of the corner of his eye.

They were excited—genuinely excited—their eyes glittering and bright, biting at their bottom lip as they thought of what to say next. Again, they moved Logan’s hand, gesturing to a particular star, then another, then a cluster, then a constellation, filling Logan’s head with passionate chatter and a landslide of interesting facts.

He's certain he's never felt so fond—potentially of anyone but certainly of Remy, and he's always fond of Remy. There was just something about seeing someone engage in their passions without remorse that lifted that feeling to a whole new level.

If only there was a way to remove that hesitance for good.

"What?"

Remy drew away, their tone defensive as they caught onto Logan's shifting mood.

"It's nothing." At their unamused glare, Logan sighed, correcting himself. "I just… I wish you were this excited all the time. I don't know what happened exactly to make you so apprehensive about your interests but watching you ramble like this is enchanting, Remy."

“Well, I got an image to maintain, gurl,” Remy snarked, “Can’t just be throwing this kind of vulnerability around wherever; gotta save it for the people who matter.”

Logan flushed, ducking his head slightly to avoid the adoring look Remy was giving him, making him feel warm even despite the bite of the wind. “I have to admit that I’m vaguely surprised to be included in that group of people.”

“Hun, you’re almost the whole group. Don’t really have people chomping at the bit to be my best friend.”

Their tone wasn’t disappointed or resigned, simply stating it like they would anything else in their life and it frustrated Logan that they thought they were worth so little in the eyes of other people when they were so valuable in his own.

“I truly can’t imagine why not,” Logan muttered under his breath.

They gave Logan something of a soft look, shaking their head in a way that made Logan wonder if they’d heard him. “Anyway, I think we have a party to be getting back to, doll.”

Flipping their sunglasses back onto the bridge of their nose, they gave Logan an impish grin, tossing in a wink before pushing them up for what Logan was sure was no other reason than to watch his cheeks stain red. They had a tendency to do things like that, to make Logan flustered or stumble with their words and small gestures.

Somehow, he felt as if this could be more than simple teasing, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

They threw their arm around Logan’s shoulders, steering him over towards the door and pulling it open with more flourish than was probably required for the action.

“Wait, Remy.” Logan flung his arm out, stopping Remy halfway to walking back into the house.

He paused for a moment, trying to gather both his thoughts and his courage. Remy only waited patiently, their focus entirely on him—not on the rest of the evening or what they might be doing tomorrow, not even on the stars or the sounds of the party inside, but solely on him and this moment.

“I… enjoyed this…” Logan began, words hesitant and low, “And I would be amenable to doing something similar again in the future. Perhaps without the drunk college students in the background.”

A smile softened Remy’s face, their sunglasses gleaming in the dim lights of the street outside and Logan couldn’t tell exactly how they were looking at him but he thought he had a pretty good idea.

“I think I’d like that.”

Logan smiled back—more involuntarily than in mirror of Remy’s own expression. He felt no butterflies or fireworks inside him; instead, Logan felt warm and safe, like a sunrise cresting over the hill, shining a light on a day that he’d been anticipating for months now.

It would also be fair to say he felt… protected. He always did with Remy. Logan would never claim to want for or require protection by any means, however, it was comforting all the same.

“Good.”

It was barely more than a whisper, a suggestion of a word rather than practical implementation.

“Good,” Remy echoed. Then their brow furrowed the tiniest bit, their smile turning into a smirk, “It’s a date then.”

Logan nodded absentmindedly. “Yes, it’s a dat- wait, what?”

Remy laughed at his shocked expression—bright and sharp and their tongue poking out and gods, they were so pretty; Logan wasn’t sure he was capable of fitting all of these emotions inside his chest without simply exploding.

They painted on a Cheshire-cat grin, somehow looking amused and affectionate all at once. “See you ‘round, McKenzie!”

And with those parting words, Remy twirled on the spot and disappeared into the crowd of people, leaving Logan with nothing more than the sound of their laughter ringing in his ears and a night to look forward to.

Taglist: @mutechild @super-magical-wizard @shadowsfromthesun @teadays @sandersships @mctaetae613 @autism-goblin @deadlyhuggles6 @romanthestarstruckqueer @whispers-stuff-in-your-ear @rainboots-are-for-snobs @sanders-and-sides @spirits-in-my-thoughts @kee-and-co @autistic-virgil @stop-it-anxiety @figurative-falsehood @jadedfantasies231 @idosanderssidespromptssometimes @poisonedapples @sanders-screams @another-sandersidesblog @do-not-just-see-observe @mychemicalpanicattheemo @thomassandersenthusiast

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #logan sanders #remy sanders #losleep #sleeplogical #lo can write #or so I say hahah #I have to say I'm actually not 100% on the characterisation in this one?? but oh well

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cosmopoliturtle · 4 years

Photo

A lot of frantic scribbling, head bashing and fume snorting until a picture maybe forms sometimes XD

For real though I primarily use adobe programs but I can’t really reccomend them. I’m an old man and its what I know but theres better vector art programs in terms of cost efficiency. But primarily I do use vector based media. c:

So in terms of redesigning what I like to do is I find some time like, months in advance to do an overall anaylsis on each Pokemon-- what they’re based, what I like about them, what I interpret from them, etc. I also talk stuff out stuff with my super awesome sister and she tells me what she thinks also so I have someone to bounce ideas off of which helps me think of new things/realize something I didn’t think of/throwaway ideas that are too out there.

So when I get to a Pokemon theres a mix of like, I’ve been thinking about this for awhile combined with improvising on how I feel at the time/if I still like the same ideas. It’s very case-by-case, some Pokemon go from my brain juices to the canvas basically how I envisioned them and some of them I get to it and it doesn’t wanna work out how I wanted and I fly by the seat of my pants. I get some flak about that which I get, like each original Pokemon is quite well thought out so of course I can’t make as effective of a design in such a short amount of time but thats kind of part of the challenge of my project-- essentially I view each Pokemon as a character drawing prompt and just try and make it work. XD

If you mean like, whats my drawing process there isn’t a whole lot to go over-- I start with the lines, then go over them over and over again to try and make sure everything is clean, as well as readjust any shapes that either look whacky or out of proportion (I’m not hardcore about proportion as I’m sure anyone with eyeballs can tell, my art is very cartoony/stylized/whatever but I do try and have sense if something looks off balance). For normal pieces I think a lot about posing and composition but for my Pokemon Redesigns I try to focus on getting across visual information first so I don’t try to be overly ambitious about it.

I plop in the base colours after the lines are all done and after that I focus on smaller details (if I want to convey a specific surface as a certain texture, etc.) and I do patterns that go under the lines. If I feel like it needs any serious highlights or shading that happens near the end also (I’m big on flat colours as I’m sure most people can tell XD)

Thats all I can really think of I guess. Hope something in there made sense. c:

#asks #anonymous

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sloanerisette · 4 years

Text

Jyoumi Challenge Day #11: Aspirations & Meeting the In-Laws

Ok, I couldn’t resist doing both prompts in one because it feels too adorable. I don’t know a ton about Tri as I haven’t had the chcance to watch it yet, so this is a fair bit of me headcanoning and the like, but this definitely takes place in the Tri era. Getting this one out late, but I hope y’all like it!

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In the five years that Joe and Mimi had been dating, somehow she hadn’t met his parents yet.

Jim she had met all the way back when they fought VenomMyotismon, back at the Big Sight, but between his parents’ busy work schedules and Mimi eventually moving to America, it had just never panned out, even with her occasional visits back to Japan.

Now that she was going to be back for a while, she had suggested right away that they all have dinner so she could meet them and they could meet her (their future daughter-in-law, as she had put it, which had just about left Joe unconscious). It had taken a while to arrange, but once it had finally been all planned out, just seeing how excited Mimi was left Joe smiling and in good spirits all week— enough so that the group had thought it more than a little curious as to why he was in such a good mood.

Given it was Joe Kido and all.

She had even offered to cook to leave the best first impression on the Kido family possible, though Joe insisted she didn’t have to worry about that, and that instead it could be something simple.

Mimi, of course, still insisted on bringing over dessert, which at the very least, even if everything possible went wrong, whatever she made would still be incredible.

The entire week leading up to that fateful night had been light and easy, and now that Mimi was back in Odaiba, Joe felt like he was on cloud nine the whole while.

Mimi, as always, was her usual exuberant self, full of energy and without stopping for a moment, though deep down, she was still nervous for this dinner. She hadn’t been lying when she told him that she wanted to make the best first impression possible. She wanted them to love and adore her— why wouldn’t she? Her parents already loved Joe, even though every time he had seen them he spent the entire time walking on eggshells.

His parents were doctors, Joe was going to become a doctor one day, and Mimi already felt like she had to do plenty to knock this dinner out of the park. Each night she had been doing plenty to try and hype herself up, going over imaginary conversations in hopes of preparing herself as best as possible. She may not have been the most attentive student, but when it came down to it, Mimi knew she could do anything.

How tough could meeting parents be compared to fighting Myotismon?

Even though she tried to remind herself of all of that while she worked hard at making dessert for the night, deep down she still felt nervous, swallowing hard as her eyes fell to the oven.

No matter what happened, that wouldn’t change her love for Joe. Even if tonight went all wrong, she would do all she could to try and win over his parents. And if they didn’t like her still, well, that would be their problem.

Her mouth scrunched up as the oven dinged, hoping it wouldn’t actually get to that point.

Knock knock knock

“I’ll get it!” came the frantic voice of Joe Kido, finishing buttoning up his shirt and tucking it into his pants as he scrambled for the door.

He swung the door open quick, a smile instantly coming onto his face as he saw the brunette there.

“H-Hey.”

“You look handsome, sweetie,” she whispered to him, standing on her tip toes in order to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, causing Joe to blush softly as he brought his hand up to his cheek.

“Thanks… You look beautiful as always,” he told her, Mimi giggling in response.

She had opted to stay in her uniform, paired with stockings and a short tie. Just a little extra touch to try and pull off a more mature look.

“Thank you.”

“Are you ready?”

Mimi let the question hang in the air for a moment, before sucking in a deep breath, nodding quickly, “Yeah.” The word was simple, though even Joe could hear the quiet nerves that seeped through it. Mimi held up a plastic container, now putting on a bright smile, “I can’t wait for you all to try this.”

“I can’t wait,” he said, before holding out his hand tot her. Mimi wasted no time in taking it, walking in alongside him.

“Mom, dad? Mimi is here!” he called to them as they walked into the apartment, his parents now standing up in the living area, looking her over with curious eyes. Mimi simply kept up her smile.

“It’s so lovely to meet you, Doctor Kido and Doctor Kido,” she said, before offering them a bow. When she stood up, they were still inspecting her, and it took all of Mimi’s willpower not to squirm under their gaze.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mimi,” his father finally spoke up.

“We’ve heard so much about you over the years,” Joe’s mother added, which left Mimi’s smile a bit wider.

So far, so good.

The four were quick to start dinner, the Kido family having gotten sushi for the occasion. Dinner had started quiet, and Mimi was thankful that she was sitting next to Joe, keeping hold of his hand under the table for comfort. It felt so strange, foreign even, for her to be this nervous around people. In a situation like this, her and Joe both would’ve sooner expected the opposite of this, but having Joe’s support now was all she could’ve asked for. It gave her the strength to put on a brave face and keep going during this dinner.

“So, Mimi,” Joe’s father started, pausing to dab at his mouth with his napkin, “Tell us about yourself.”

She only hoped that now that she could be in her natural element it would help her out that much more.

“Well, I used to live in Odaiba before me and my parents moved to New York— though I met Joe back in Highton View Terrace. We used to be neighbors,” she said, before glancing up at her boyfriend, Joe giving her hand a gentle squeeze, “I ended up moving to New York a few years back, and I’ve just started high school. I absolutely love fashion and cooking, and I’ve been doing a lot of clubs and stuff around school!” she explained, shoving a piece of sushi in her mouth right after so she wouldn’t continue to ramble too much.

Neither of his parents said anything, instead quietly nodding and continuing to eat for a few moments, Mimi leaning towards Joe.

“…Is everything ok?” she whispered quietly, Joe glancing to her and nodding quickly.

Despite his confirmation, it certainly didn’t leave Mimi feeling any better.

“What are you hoping to do one day, Mimi?” his mother asked, and Mimi’s eyes went wide, feeling her stomach drop.

This was where she was going to be judged, she knew it. It was completely, utterly obvious, and she suddenly felt weak. She swallowed hard, now holding onto Joe’s hand as tight as possible, hoping to feel some sort of comfort in this situation. Joe let out a quick squeak at the sudden motion, nearly choking on his food, but he offered his girlfriend a smile, which had managed to help a bit.

“Well,” she started, thinking for a moment as she turned her attention to his parents, “I’d like to do a lot of things.”

His mother quirked an eyebrow, but Mimi held strong. She could’ve very well lied and talked about being a doctor too, or some sort of scientist, but that wouldn’t have been her. And if she was going to be with Joe forever, they’d know who she was eventually. This was her first time meeting Joe’s parents, and she wanted to let them know exactly who she was.

“I’d like to write a few cookbooks and maybe even star in a cooking show. Something where I combine lots of different cuisines with each other to create fantastic food people have never even thought of before. Definitely Japanese and American for sure,” she started, tapping her chin in thought for a moment, “And I’d love to get into fashion, too. Maybe create some line of cute accessories? I’m not entirely sure, yet. I considered being a singer or a model for a little bit, but it just didn’t really click with me the more I thought about it. I love singing, and modeling seems incredible, but I just can’t see it.”

Once again, Joe’s parents gave her another once over, before turning to look at each other, then back to the young couple across the table.

“That’s interesting, you really have thought about this, haven’t you?” his mother asked, and Mimi nodded, placing a hand over her mouth as she finished eating a piece of sushi.

“Oh, yes. Once I got into cooking a few years ago, I thought about how much I’d love to do it all the time, it’s just so wonderful. I haven’t thought too much on the specifics of any fashion business, but I’d still like to do that someday, too.”

“What do your parents think about that?”

Mimi hadn’t even been grilled this much about anything by her own parents, let alone everyone else, but now, she wasn’t afraid, and was just going to be honest about it. That was what mattered most.

“Well, a few times my mama has teased me about how cooking will be perfect for whenever I may get married,” she started, managing to catch her boyfriend’s blush from the corner of her eye, “And my papa has thought I’d be a fierce entrepreneur. They definitely think that something like a cooking show isn’t entirely easy to get, so I’m sure they’d like me to do something more stable, but at the same time, they raised me to be pretty independent and to get what I want. So I think they’d understand and support me no matter what,” she explained.

Silence filled the room again, and Mimi felt her throat closing out of sheer terror. Sure, it had been easy to hype herself up in the moment, but god if waiting for his parents to say anything wasn’t torturous.

She could feel Joe get closer, before she heard her three favorite words whispered into her ear.

“I love you.”

She glanced up to her boyfriend, seeing his smile, and mouthed the words back, attention shooting back to Joe’s father when he cleared his throat.

“I have to say, Mimi, that’s very ambitious of you. It took Jim longer to settle on one career, and here you are with two,” he said, a rare compliment (which thankfully Jim wasn’t around to hear) that even left Joe’s eyes wide.

“Thank you so much, Doctor Kido. I don’t give up easy, you can just ask this one,” she said teasingly, bumping her arm into Joe’s, causing him to stammer, and his parents to look at the two curiously.

“I-It’s true,” Joe finally said after a moment, letting out a nervous chuckle.

Even after that comment, the rest of the dinner had gone well, and Mimi had preened when everyone seemed to enjoy the red bean cheesecake she had whipped up for them all. By the time she had to leave, Mimi felt that this had been as much of a success as it could’ve been with the Kido family. As she stood at the doorway with Joe, she was still all smiles.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take some of the cheesecake home?”

She shook her head, “No no no, you all deserve to have some nice little treats!” she insisted.

“Thanks.”

The two stayed quiet for a moment, enjoying each other’s presence as they had been ever since Mimi came back to Odaiba.

“I think I did a good job with the in-laws, don’t you?” she asked, knowing full well he’d blush just as bright as he did.

“Oh, well, yeah, I think so. They like you more than they liked Jim’s last girlfriend.”

“I think mom liked me a lot. How does that sound? Mom? You know, because she’s gonna be my mother-in-law. And obviously I can’t call her mama, so I think it works well!”

Joe laughed, “Maybe wait a bit before you call her that? He suggested nervously, and Mimi let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Fiiiiine.”

“I love you, Meems.”

“I love you, too, Joe. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nodded, “I like that we’re able to say that again.”

“Me too.”

#jyoumi challenge #digimon #digimon adventure #digimon adventure tri #jyoumi #joe kido #jyou kido #mimi tachikawa #kido jyou #tachikawa mimi

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peace-coast-island · 4 years

Text

Diary of a Junebug

A cozy reading nook

There’s nothing like going to a thrift shop and striking gold. In today’s case, it was at the books section. Murphy and I have been spending the past few days putting together a cozy reading nook with our new gyroid themed furniture. Since the shelves were looking a bit sparse, we headed off to several thrift shops to fill them up.

Going to a thrift shop is like picking and choosing stuff from a mystery goodie bag. Sometimes you find stuff and sometimes you don’t - it’s all about chance. My mom always said whenever we went shopping at a thrift store is that if we find something we like, buy it. First of all, it’s fairly cheap, and second, you’re never going to see it again. So I base my purchases off absolutes - do I really want/need it or not? Even if I’m not gonna need it right away but might in the future, then that counts as a yes.

Today we went shopping at a cute little corner shop in Blueberry. I’ve only been there a few times since it’s kinda hard to get there but whenever I stopped by, I almost always find a treasure. And today, we stumbled across a treasure chest!

Among the many books we found today, there was one that caught my eye in particular. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a coincidence that I would stumble upon this find after hearing the news a couple days ago.

The book in question is called Climb Every Mountain by Claire Bennett. It’s one of those books that I read years ago and it stuck with me. A fairly quick read, but one that lingers for a while. I think the fact that I’ve crossed paths with Claire in the past is why I’ve been so invested in the story.

I wonder how she’s doing right now.

Climb Every Mountain’s a work of fiction loosely based on Claire’s own life - or, in retrospect, a somewhat idealized version of it. An alternate universe where despite everything that happened, there’s still a glimmer of hope that it gets better. Not that Claire’s life was terrible, but more like for every good thing that happened, it gets overshadowed by the not so good things happening behind the scenes.

I met Claire when I was living in Astra, back when she was married to Matt. She, Nathan, and I would often hang out at the Study Library Cafe so that’s how we became friends. After Claire finished grad school we kinda lost touch with her, at least until we found each other on social media a few years ago. So even though we don’t talk often, at least we hear bits and pieces here and there.

Nathan, Claire, and Matt went to the same high school - Claire and Matt being a couple years older - so that’s how they know each other. Astra’s a medium sized town so even if you don’t know everyone, you’ve at least heard of most of them.

Claire wasn’t exactly in the popular crowd, but she was notable for being well accomplished. Straight A, type A perfectionist who’s captain of the cheerleading squad and debate team as well as class president who graduated as valedictorian - she was what they described as untouchable. Despite how she might look, Claire is not superficial or shallow or cutthroat - she’s just ambitious. No one dared messed with her or got in her way.

Then there’s Matt, who was also notable but not exactly popular either. He came from a rich family who was notable in Astra and he made sure people knew that. Orphaned as a baby he lived with his dad’s advisor who tried to manipulate him so when he got older Matt kicked her out and was informally adopted by a friend who helped bailed him out when his former guardian tried to get revenge.

At first glance Matt comes across as arrogant, narcissistic, and not so bright. Part of his arrogance comes from being entitled, though it’s more of a defense mechanism to protect himself from those who tried to use him. The saying still waters run deep applies to him.

Even after everything he put Claire through, I can’t help but feel bad for him sometimes. Don’t get me wrong - it doesn’t excuse his actions, but at least it wasn’t done out of pure malice. Matt has a lot of flaws but the biggest one of all is his tendency towards self-sabotage.

Because their personalities are so different, you’d think people like Matt and Claire would clash. To everyone’s surprise, they were close friends turned high school sweethearts. In a way, they complimented each other. But they also dragged each other down - Claire bringing out the best in him, Matt bringing out the worst in her.

No matter what, Claire still sees the good in him. I don’t think Matt is a bad guy, but he’s definitely not good for her. I get that Claire has a special bond with him - and probably the best thing to ever happen to him second to his adoptive family - so it’s understandable why she’s so forgiving of him. She was in a tough spot as she could no longer tolerate his bullshit and at the same time couldn’t just cut him off like pretty much everyone else in his life.

Claire wrote and published Climb Every Mountain during her senior year of high school. At the time she was standing at a crossroads. She had two equally great scholarships - one for any Ivy League university, another close to home. There were also a lot of other factors she had to consider and in the end she chose to stay home and marry Matt.

Climb Every Mountain is a historical fiction novel set in the 60s that tells the story of a bookish teenage girl who grows up alongside her childhood friend, a rebellious orphan of a wealthy family. Despite their differences, both feel like they don’t belong because of how much they stand out. The precocious Malina is told to stay in her place and downplay her inquisitive nature while KT’s the kind of guy who refuses to give a damn about anything.

The story starts when Malina and KT are fourteen and spans about five years. Malina’s busy trying to figure out the world while KT does whatever he wants, including trying to win over Malina’s heart. As they grow older, they become closer and later get married despite disapproval from pretty much everyone. The two go through a lot of ups and downs as they realize that the world is a lot more complicated and contradicting than they realize.

The end is somewhat ambiguous but also hopeful. Malina defies her family’s expectations by speaking her mind through leading anti-war protests. KT casts away his family’s status and threw everything out of the window by dodging the draft. They were able to get away with being arrested and released because of KT’s status and now that no longer mattered, the young couple had no choice but to flee the country. So Malina stages one final protest, basically giving the government a big middle finger, and in the chaos, she and KT escape.

As they snuck away, both fought the temptation to look back. Through thick and thin, Malina and KT stuck together. Even when starting from the ground up, as long as they had each other, it’ll be all right. No matter what happens, the only thing that’s certain is that they had no regrets.

Something about Malina’s courage and determination always stuck to me. Her and KT’s loyalty to others was something that didn’t really resonate with me until I got older. Knowing the inspiration behind Malina and KT, their story digs a lot deeper.

I’d like to think Malina and KT eventually had a happy ending. After escaping the country and starting over, after everything they’ve been through, they deserve to be happy. I think that’s what Claire wanted for them too. And for herself especially.

Like with Malina and KT, there’s more to Claire and Matt’s relationship than meets the eye. I wouldn’t say that Claire was unhappy with Matt, but sometimes things don’t work out no matter how hard you try.

I don’t want to say that Matt is needy - probably high maintenance is a better word - the kind of person who expects everything and nothing less. From experience, those kinds of people can be exhausting to be around, even if they are generally pretty cool. Matt definitely fits into that category. Always venting his problems to someone - usually Claire - and expecting an immediate response, not caring how you feel or whether or not you’re in the mind space to help out or listen. It’s hard to trust someone or confide in them if they don’t respect your boundaries, especially if they almost always make it about them in the end. And to be honest, I think Matt’s the kind of guy who likes to talk just so you’d pay attention to him.

Claire and Matt were married for about eight years before splitting up. By the time Nathan and I met her, their marriage was starting to become shaky with Matt cheating on her and making enemies with a lot of people. I guess what prompted Claire to file for divorce had something to do with their kids - Katie and Brittany - as that was one major factor that prevented the two from breaking up.

After the divorce, Claire took the girls and left Astra. Matt left too not long after that. He still kept in touch because of the girls so at least he isn’t cut off completely. Claire became a journalist for the Inkwell Gazette so every once in a while I’d come across her articles. She hasn’t released another book since Climb Every Mountain, which is a shame since she’s a good writer. Given what she’s been through, I don’t really blame her though.

While she has always been successful, I don’t think Claire really flourished until she left Matt. I can’t imagine it being easy to make a name for yourself if you’re almost always associated with an heir who’s notable for being troubled. It wasn’t that Matt stifled her - he did the opposite in fact, sometimes to the point where he put her on a pedestal - it was more like Claire can do whatever she wants as long as she puts Matt’s needs over hers. Basically Claire’s a giver, Matt’s a taker.

As for Matt, he’s remained a mystery until a while ago. He pretty much spent the past few years couch hopping, partying, stirring up trouble, and having flings. Then a couple months ago he was driving under the influence - which he’s gotten in trouble for several times - and ended up killing someone in an accident. So he fled the scene and managed to lay low for a while before turning himself in.

There’s definitely more to the story and while a part of me wants to dig deeper, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Also, I doubt there’d be much to find out anyway since this is the kind of thing Matt’s people would want to keep quiet because of scandals and such. At least from what it sounds like, Matt came forward voluntarily so maybe there’s a silver lining. Knowing him though, he’ll probably get a light sentence and then the whole thing will be buried away like it never happened. Then again, Matt’s not a total asshole so maybe this incident will shake him up and teach him a lesson.

I have a feeling that I’m gonna be re-reading Climb Every Mountain a few more times in the near future. It’s definitely one of those books worth revisiting years later.

#animal crossing #animal crossing pocket camp #Diary of a Junebug #headcanon ramble

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flourchildwrites · 4 years

Note

Why are you 'on the fence' about the fullmetal alchemist big bang? I saw you say stuff about how it would be great to do one in your notes and now you changed your mind?

Hey, anon. Thanks for the ask.

Honestly, I debated whether I should answer this. However, I post enough stuff encouraging people to drop asks in my inbox. It felt wrong to ignore this ask because giving an honest response makes me uncomfortable. I guess the answer is complicated.

You’re right when you say I’ve been pretty vocal about wanting to participate in another FMA Big Bang since September or October of 2019. My interest goes back to the beta work I’ve been doing for @teaplease1717’s Ashes of Love and War, an awesome Todomomo fic for the Boku No AU Big Bang. Working on a big project like that was (and is) fun. Naturally, I wanted a piece of that for myself in one of my favorite fandoms.

I’ve been a spectator for so many big bangs, reverse bangs and open bangs, even events done with writing and soundtracks! Every year, I wanted to participate in Resbang (in particular), but there was something always holding me back, be it an existing longfic or my responsibilities. And then there’s that awful, nagging voice in the back of my mind which cautions that my fic might not be picked up by an artist.

Then what? Are the mods going to be like, “Too bad. Write a better story next time.”

I’ve heard the big bang horror stories. Well, maybe not horror stories, but if I had to write in isolation for six+ months, I might start talking to inanimate objects about my fic a la Castaway. “Wilson, have I used too many semicolons in this chapter? And when Riza is dancing with Roy in chapter six, should Roy, like, go for the kiss or is that not slowburn-y enough? I feel like we should torture them for at least two more chapters.” There’s an apple pie scented candle on the corner of my desk that would be a great candidate for this role. I will call the candle P’Tas, after my beta reader friends, lol. (Kinda a Star Trek-ish name.)

But aside from all that (as well as the fear that the sign-ups won’t be as anonymous as one might hope – I’d like to meet and collaborate with new people, not just see the popular writers get paired with the popular artists), the FMA Bang Bang has two rules that brought my enthusiasm to a screeching halt.

There is no limit on what kinds of things can be present in your fic sans the no minor/adult rule, no incest rule, and the no blatant NSFW rule, so if you’re going to write about triggering topics outside of those already not allowed in this event then please be mindful to tag each and every one as well as keeping the content PG-13.

And

Fanfiction should not have been posted anywhere before this event (even if it was only a few chapters, not the whole work).

😪

Two fun facts. Most of the ideas I have would be rated mature because they explore dark themes. My first candidate for an FMA Big Bang would be Original Sin, a post-canon fic about the war crimes trials that I have been thinking about for well over a year. My second choice would be the surprisingly fun Royai succubus AU I thought up for Witch, Please! But let’s be honest here; neither topic is PG-13, especially that succubus AU. Like, if you’re going to read or write a succubus AU, you know what you’re there for.

The second fun fact is that I posted my Fictober prompts for the purpose of testing new material. There are at least five serviceable chapter fic ideas buried in the prompts. I wanted to see how it would feel to write a random portion of it with zero pressure or commitment (and to gauge the response). While it worked as far as figuring out which ideas had potential, doing that has also made each of the ideas ineligible for the big bang.

Thus, my idea factory has been gutted, and where I was once really excited, I’m on the fence.

Part of me feels I should just devote my free time to developing my Todomomo ideas and, like, finish up my WIPs. Another part of me doesn’t want to give up so easily. Regardless, I’m painfully aware that I’ll be starting from scratch and working under an ambitious schedule. All it takes is another bout of sickness like I experienced earlier this year, and I’ll get too far behind. So, idk…

Bet that was more than you were expecting, anon. Sorry for unloading on this ask, but I kinda needed to vent a little bit. I really hope the FMA Big Bang does well. I hope it forges new bonds between fans and marries the benefits of the old school zine mentality with the accessibility and diversity of perspective promoted by online archives.

#you ask i answer #anon #big bangs #fma

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komahinasecretexchange · 5 years

Text

Title: hiraeth

Author: @slickandsolangelic

For: @usernamefieldhere

Rating/Warnings: T (warning for existentialism and disassociation)

Prompt: Hinata dealing with the consequences of having Kamukura as a past self, au or canon

Author’s notes: I hope this is to your liking, and I hope it’s okay that the au I picked is dnd-esque fantasy! I had lots of fun with this, and I can only hope that you do, too ^^

The Isles of Jabberwock are oft a pleasant place to be in, their sand a fine gold that lets itself be swept away by the lapping currents from the crystalline blue ocean that surrounds them. Better yet is the sun there, bearing down on them with its golden rays, easing flowerings into bloom and saplings into growth. Hinata is very, very glad that they managed to rescue it from being leveled down by those ambitious bandits from the east.

An adventuring life was unpredictable at its core, but unusually gratifying after a job well done.

Which is to say, it feels really fucking good to beat up some bad guys and get money for it, but such a thought is embarrassingly self indulgent and thus will remain at the very back of Hinata’s mind, where it belongs.

Nanami looks up from the weapon she’s examining. It’s a medium sized spear with a silver tip. She seems to weigh it in her hands for a bit, before letting out a satisfied hum.

“Komaeda-kun, would this be good to use if you ever wear yourself out using your magic?”

“Oh, Nanami-san, that’s really kind of you to think of me,” Komaeda starts to say, looking up from the item he was examining, a small flute embroidered with bronze trimmings. “But I’ve never really been good with sharp things. And as I’m already worn out, I’m afraid I might just point it the wrong way and, as per chance’s design. Being impaled sounds like it’d be inconvenient for our party!”

“Yeah,” Hinata says solemnly, because he’s traveled with Komaeda long enough to know that this is entirely possible.

“Yeah,” Nanami says, and she puts the spear back.

“I like this,” Hinata says. He raises both his hands to show them them silk pouch nestled in his palms. “It’s magical, so you can put up to three hundred pounds of stuff in there.”

Komaeda is at his side then, gliding past the tables laden with strings and wooden instruments. His arm brushes Hinata’s when he reaches from the small card attached to the golden thread around the pouch’s hem.

“It’s also worth five hundred gold pieces,” Komaeda says.

“Oh,” Hinata says.

“Oh,” Nanami agrees.

“If Hinata-kun really wants it, I can-” but Hinata is already putting it back.

They wind up circling the aisles of items for a few more hours, the other two interjecting with commentary when one makes a suggestion. It’s more comfortable than anything, Hinata muses, surfing through their options with one another together like this. Battles where their competence and trust in one another made the difference between loss and success, between life and death; that’s something that’s undeniably special. Something that matters, in a way, and Hinata knows that, and he is grateful- but he much prefers the quieter moments like these, when all that matters in the moment is their group effort at bargaining with the shopkeepers, the sunset’s rays framing their silhouettes as they journeyed through the winding paths of towns they’d saved or served.

There’s something he’s come to appreciate about their regular time spent together as friends rather than adventuring companions. It’s more bothersome than jarring (in a way that makes Hinata feel equal measures irritated and fond) when Komaeda answers a yes or no question with a tangent which existentially questions the universe and when Nanami turns out to have been asleep with her eyes open for the past hour they were going over plans.

It’s nice, Hinata thinks. It’s just… nice, to have moments of quiet in between. Away from threats to their life during the day, and away from his night terrors when it grows darker.

The Isles don’t really have much to offer aside from scenery and impressive craftsmanship when it comes down to it. They have a good time crossing the bridges that lead up to the separate islands, though (it doesn’t take them that long to haul Komaeda out from the water when he falls off one), and the locals aren’t unpleasant folk to converse with.

The third island has a slightly less relaxing ambiance than the others. Of the six, it’s certainly the loudest and most vibrant of the bunch– Komaeda almost immediately identifies it as the art venue when they pass by a Bard-run tavern by the name of “Titty Typhoon”. It sounds like hell in there, but hell in fifty different types of musical instruments and also wildly out of tune.

“Well,” Komaeda says, looking cheerful. “They’re having fun.” His hands are clasped together, and his eyes are widened in something that’s either wonder or contemplation. Hinata’s learnt to recognize when Komaeda begins to form overly complex thoughts over things that really aren’t that deep, but he chooses not to intervene.

“Very loudly,” Hinata says.

“And out of tune,” Nanami adds, but she’s smiling.

“Everyone’s Bardic inspiration manifests in different forms.”

“Yeah, well, it also helps when it manages to inspire without being a Bardic pain in the ass.”

“Hinata-kun speaks very boldly! Well, I guess I can’t really blame you for not finding that kind of music to your fancy, not when your own bardic prowess is unique in a way that’s unrecognizable to most regular people such as myself.”

“That was months ago, holy shit-”

“The sweet melody still haunts my dreams.”

“You’re horrible.”

“You’re the most inspiring artist a commoner like me has ever had the pleasure of hearing.”

Hinata’s shoving him now, trying to stifle a smile behind the sleeves of his leather armour plating, and failing quite spectacularly.

“Asshole,” Hinata says, but there’s no bite to it. Komaeda gives him a smile that’s a different kind of unsettling, only because it makes his insides turn funny. It’s wide, but soft around the edges, and it makes his eyes crease ever so slightly. Then he looks away, and that’s that.

Hinata hasn’t slept in what feels like three fucking days.

In reality, it’s only been about two and a half- the other half he spent goofing around with Komaeda and Nanami in the Isles of Jabberwock, hooking up their party with new shit for the next challenge.

This is bad. With the map of the nearby continent spread out before him on the scratched and damaged inn table, he should be getting in the mood to mark their next exploit. It’s a pretty good map, even if the dim yellow glow emanating from their lamps doesn’t do its details much justice.The sharp strokes that form the peaks of mountains are unmistakable nearby the expertly woven lines of rivers and streams, cutting through grassy landscapes and flat wastelands. There are circles and lines which mark territories and label them, categorizing them as either off limits or safe to explore.

But with how tired he is, Hinata’s beginning to circle around the same thought over and over. In fact, is that a fucking city, or a firefly? Is that a firefly on his map? Hinata isn’t sure if what’s on his map is a firefly or a city. That circular dot of yellow– is it a firefly, or is it a city?

“You don’t look well,” says a familiar voice. The dot of yellow buzzes and leaps into the air and onto Hinata’s nose. He swings back suddenly in an effort to swat it with both his arms. The momentum drives his chair backwards.

The quiet tavern folk don’t care to stop their chatter when Hinata crashes to the ground with a sound thud, and so the warlock is left to stare at the ceiling with unblinking eyes and his palms cupped around his nose as the minuscule sphere rises and floats away. Nanami’s concerned face hovers above him.

Ah, so it was a firefly.

Their next quest is for a blond wizard hailing from an important family. Hinata thinks he’s kind of an asshole, but Hinata also thinks that five thousand gold is maybe a sufficient price to get a job done for an asshole. He wants them to retrieve this artifact called the “Eye of Fate”, something that apparently reflects a person’s psyche and innermost desires. This is worrisome considering the Asshole Status of the person they’re retrieving it for, but according to the client, the Eye of Fate is trapped within the body of a topaz crystal gollum, a probably slightly more dickish creature to bestow such a relic upon.

Nanami helps pick him up off the ground, but he needs to take a handful of moments to gather his bearings.

“You need to take care of yourself. We won’t be able to get anything done if you neglect your health.”

Hinata thinks this is rich coming from Nanami, who never seems to sleep and yet spends half of the time she’s awake in a state of trance that’s impossible to break her out of. He means to tell her this, but instead the words that come out are “Lord Togami is an asshole.”

“He’s not easy to work with,” Nanami agrees.

“He’s a big fucking asshole.”

“Okay,” Nanami says patiently, sitting him down on the chair.

“I hate rich people who offer lots of money for ridiculous quests.”

“Mhm.”

“Nanami, there was a firefly on my map.”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, there was.”

“It flew.”

“I think fireflies tend to do that.”

Hinata presses his face against the scratchy surface of the map. He traces a finger along the Mountain Range of the Dead, across the Red River, and straight through the continental tunnel into the cavernous entrance of the Cave of Wonders.

“Yeah,” Hinata mutters. “’S cause of their wings.”

“Sure is.” Nanami puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,”

“Yeah,” she says, and pets his hair gently. “Go to sleep.”

The journey is harsh, but not unbearable.

Through the rocky mountain range they pass, tearing down groups of chimaeras, hopping between camping sights near the valleys. Komaeda picks flowers by one of the crevices, and Hinata feels bad when they wither under his bare hands.

They stop just a clearing away from the bank of Red River for the night. The sun kisses the horizon and turns it a warm shade of purple that lulls Hinata to slumber.

He dreams.

Hinata’s by the Red River.

His pants are rolled up to his knees, and the sky above him is as dark as the waters he’s lowered his feet into.They lap at his skin, icy and unforgiving. He pushes closer to the river side, sinks his legs further in until his calves feel numb.

Below the surface of the water, something is stirring. Moving like a shadow through the already dark film that covers the waters, closer than he wants it to be.

A voice says, “Haven’t they told you that this river is red with the blood of the fallen?”

Hinata doesn’t respond. He watches the figure grow closer and closer, a monster baited to the surface. His legs form ripples in the water when he moves them to and fro. He watches the spray of droplets disrupt the dark surface, and tries to hum away the panic in his chest.

“…You’re not listening anymore.”

The darkness is coming. Hinata is not afraid. He’s not afraid. He’s not.

(He’s terrified. He can’t move anymore, can barely breathe. He is helpless in a way that makes him angry at himself, useless in a way that makes him regret its existence.)

“You’re going to have to. It’s irrational to think you can run away forever.” The voice is calm as it says this.

It is nowhere. It is everywhere. It’s the full moon that lights up the stars above his head, the ripples his legs have stopped making in the river, the all encompassing darkness that wants to eat him whole, devour him until nothing is left of his existence.

Hinata wakes up with a start. His hands aren’t quite steady. That is to say, he’s shaking bad.

Hinata steps outside for a moment. It’s dark out still, so he snaps his fingers and watches a small flame flicker to life in his lantern. Their tent’s still steady against the breezes coming from the north. (Nanami had done a good job hammering it in right, after all. She’s always been good with practical skills like these, even if her proficiency was healing). The leaves sway high above his head on their host of towering trees, though, and the wind’s whistle is unmistakable and sharp, cutting through the night.

Hinata shudders.The bite of the air is akin to the sting of frost at his knees in the dream.

A hand lands on his shoulder, and he nearly jumps a foot into the air.

“Hinata-kun?”

Oh. It’s Komaeda. Hinata tries to be subtle about the breath of relief that leaves him, but he’s sure he failed. Whatever. God, whatever.

Komaeda retracts his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says with the kind of sincerity only he seems to be capable of. “I called for you before, but you seemed preoccupied.”

“…Ah, yeah.” Hinata tries to go for a smile, but it slips off his face at astronomical velocity. He’s exhausted, tired in a way that makes his bones ache and his heart stutter at every step. “It’s just that…” For a few long moments, he contemplates his next words, painfully aware of the tentative silence between them. Komaeda doesn’t break it, and even though Hinata’s looking away, he can feel the weight of Komaeda’s gaze pressing into the back of his head, sharper than the wind that pierces through the thicket of trees surrounding their campgrounds.

Hinata says, “You’re a bard, right?” Of course Komaeda is, that’s out of the question. When Hinata whips around, he sees the look of tempered confusion Komaeda is giving him. His head is tipped sideways, and his gray eyes blink at Hinata questioningly.

“By the standard definition, I am,” Komaeda says. “Perhaps not entirely deserving of the title, but that is the most conventional term to reference what I do.”

“…Right,” Hinata says. He tries to swallow back the lump that forms in his throat, and finds he can’t do it, just as he can’t quite bring himself to dispel the anxiety eating away at the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, I know. You’re a good bard, Komaeda, we’ve had this talk.”

“And you’re changing the subject, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda responds quietly. He’s still looking at him with those intent eyes. Fuck. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Silence. And then a howl from the wind hollow and loud all at the same time.

“Have you heard of the Ender of The World?”

More silence. And then, a laugh.

“Kamukura Izuru… who hasn’t?”

“So he has a name?”

Komaeda sets his own lantern on the ground, then lowers himself and takes a cross-legged position. Hesitant, Hinata follows suit.

“You didn’t know? They named him after the original Wizard, the one whose discoveries helped incorporate the plane of magic with our own.”

“Ah,” Hinata says. His throat is dry. “I, uh, never looked into it too much. I tried to, well- avoid. That sort of stuff.”

“…I see,” Komaeda says, and there’s an obvious question in his tone. To his credit, he doesn’t ask it.

“Well, Kamukura Izuru… Well, to start, he’s beautiful. I saw him, once.”

Hinata’s heart stops. “You did?”

“I did,” Komaeda says, and smiles. There are no creases under his eyes this time, no softness to the edge of his mouth. Only a wide curve that increases Hinata’s unease. Komaeda’s eyes watch the purple flame in his lantern flicker and sway.

“When I was still travelling alone, I took shelter in a sea-side town. I was still young then, maybe in my mid teen years, and so I was still learning how to get around alone, and still learning how to cope with my abilities. Naturally, no one wanted someone whose magical energy was as unstable and harmful as mine.” Komaeda makes animated hand gestures as he speaks, his voice remaining light and unbothered.

“So I tried not to use any, even when it got cold and I needed a fire, even if I had to defend myself. As soon as they realised their flowers wither around me and the grass their cattle eat from is poisoned by my magic, they’d throw me out. I couldn’t afford to let that happen yet, not when I was in such desperate need of a sustainable place to stay.”

“Komaeda…” Hinata starts to say, a crease forming in his brow. But Komaeda just continues.

“This is why I ended up staying by the port, where there was less organic matter for me to visibly hurt. And then he was there, and the stories? They were true,” Komaeda says. “He was- ah, I’m afraid I’m not nearly eloquent enough, but he was something else. He didn’t hurt anyone then, didn’t turn any cities to dust or erase landscapes with the swipe of his hand, but his existence was like…” He holds up a hand over the lantern, and his eyes are wide enough to hold the entire sky within then. Komaeda clenches his fist over the lantern’s glow.

He whispers, “Like fire. It was burning with the demand to be attended to. It was like being charmed, but worse, but better. And where he floated, Hinata-kun? It was over the sea, which had begun to turn inky below him. It was like void. Like nothingness was just overcoming the blue, erasing it.” Komaeda’s still smiling. How is he still smiling?

Hinata tries to regulate his breathing, but he feels sick. His head spins with a thousand visions, of tarlike darkness invading crystal blue, of lonely teenagers by ports, of magical essences strong enough to burn themselves into the hearts of spectators.

Hinata’s voice sounds hoarse to his ears when he speaks. “…And? Was he- was he evil?”

Komaeda laughs again. “Evil… Well, I suppose it depends on the standards of one’s morality. I just think he was hideous.”

“Huh?! Didn’t you just say-”

“I meant what I said.” Komaeda says. “He was the wrongest thing in the world, in that moment. Something that wasn’t destined to be. He was beautiful, too, and it had made me feel something. Now, I can identify that feeling as what it is.”

“And what is it?”

Komaeda turns to look at him then, eyes wide still. He closes them for a moment, but the smile doesn’t fade. Komaeda says, “Disgust,” and Hinata feels like he’s been kicked in the ribs.

“Oh. Um, I suppose that makes se-”

“I think he was just empty. I don’t understand how someone can have such power over destiny and be such a shell.” His smile takes a dip, then twitches back into place. It looks wrong, not that it ever really looked right to begin with. It looks… sour.

“People will call Kamukura Izuru beautiful, or they will call him horrible,” Komaeda says. “I just think that he’s like me.”

“Like you?” Hinata’s heart is pounding.

“I don’t mean to sound egoistical,” Komaeda says quickly, holding his hands up, His smile returns to its default vacancy again, “Of course, I could never hope to be as powerful. But Izuru-san and I have something in common.”

There is quiet now, and even the well timed howling of the wind fails to shake Hinata out of his semi-trance state of contemplation. He recognises that Komaeda’s given him an opening to ask. The tension in his gut notwithstanding, he does.

“What is it, then?”

Komaeda hums. His gloved fingers close around the handle of the lantern and pull it up to his face. Illuminated so closely by the glow, Komaeda looks like a flame himself. It’s a haunting kind of beauty that Hinata can’t fully wrap his head around. (His heart aches). He blows his flame out, and just like that, the world grows dimmer. Komaeda stands up, and Hinata wants to reach out and grab at his sleeve, but he’s too tired, and Komaeda’s too swift, and it’s too cold out here, so cold and dark and god, Hinata’s so tired.

“Well, when I looked in his eyes, I could tell. I could tell that he had nowhere to go either.” Through the mist of darkness, Hinata can’t see his features, he can sense it when Komaeda’s gaze leaves him.

He whispers, “Good night, Hinata-kun.”

Then he returns to their tent, and Hinata’s left alone.

There is a flash of light.

Pillars of light come together to form a gollum, at least 12 feet tall, its arms made of diamond shards which reflect the yellow light pouring out of the empty holes in its head that make its sockets. The gollum is a beautiful, monstrous thing, its voice caught somewhere between roar and song. It’s a compound of light shards taking the form of rocky limbs and sharp shoulders. Like tears, the light that runs down its head burns into the cavern’s ground, acidic.

They get in order. Hinata raises his wand, and Nanami prepares her wooden staff. The amethysts that stick out of the ground by Komaeda’s feet begin to lose their vibrancy as he puts his flute to his lips.

Hinata casts.

Nanami points.

Komaeda plays.

And the gollum unclasps a dark mouth trapped between jaws of silvery-gold crystals, and showers their attacking silhouettes in stunning light.

You are born.

You are a creature! And how alive you are, how real- your hands are small and pale, your hair back length and a light shade of a pretty colour. And you are not clothed, not yet, but you are so alive.

Besides you a person with shaking arms and a trembling form. They say, “O-oh, it worked, it worked,” and they sound like they’re going to cry.

You reach out to them, and you feel concerned.

Disorientation. Fear. Hinata’s head is spinning, and he can’t tell his head from his feet, not anymore. The world is nothing but a dull blur of colour, and all he hears is a the quiet hum of the gollum’s voice, a guttural, chilling sound.

And then the next flash of light comes.

II.

You are alone. Ash falls between the spaces of your fingers, the remnants of the home you once had. The sky cries for you, but you do not cry. You cannot cry anymore, not when you know they were right all along. Right to abandon you, right to throw a creature of destruction and havoc.

You are disgusted with yourself, with the pulse of energy that crackles like lightning beneath your skin.

Your hands dig into the ashes that were once meadows and gardens and homes, homes you grew up in, homes you weren’t hated for existing in.

You let out a scream that tears your throat in two, and you are heartbroken.

He can’t tell if he’s breathing.

He can’t tell if he’s seeing. He can only hear the roar approaching.

But he feels it, too, the third flash of light slamming into him.

III.

Magic is difficult.

Magic is unnatural- it’s strange, because for your family, it seems to come as easy as breathing. Generations of wizards have thrived from their line, after all, each with magical energy in the very air they breathe, clear in the way they carry themselves, evident in the gleam in their eyes.

Except for you, that is. You have grown up looking at your hands and hating them. You have grown up with the words of the divination mistress inscribed in your head from when you were but a youth, her raspy voice calm and factual as she tells your parents, This one’s a branch that’s been severed. He’s dry, he is.

And you are. You attempt to cast spells. Nothing happens. You try your hand at passive magic, tries to see if you can work out divination, or magical forgery, or bardic inspiration.

Nothing happens within. Your hands remain plain, pitiable things, empty of even the telltale scorch marks and scar of a beginner magician. There is disappointment in the looks they give you. There’s judgement. There’s torment in their stares, a searing fire that burns away at you in the expectations you know you’ll never be able to fulfill. A tiresome, constant hum of unease.

So plain.

What a shame, that one- think of the potential!

Maybe he’s just a late bloomer?

But you aren’t.

You press your palms to your face and try to feel for a hum of something more that isn’t there, was never there, will never be there.

Until one day, not many days from now, at the hands of a circle of wizards who promise your family prowess, progress, and most importantly magic- it is.

And you feel… nothing.

You don’t feel at all.

A flash of light.

Your hair is trimmed to your shoulders. You are dressed in a cloak of silver with a green hood, given a staff crafted of rosewood and embroidered with your initials. You are given a name. You are given a purpose.

The person who made you is loving. They are kind. They don’t make you feel like the tool that you are, but you know, and you think it’s okay.

And another.

II.

You learn that the leaves of plants wither first when you play. And then gradually, so do the stems. The petals are last to go, turning a sorry shade of gray that disintegrates to ashen black the more you continue.

You feel sorry.

And yet another.

III.

There is more magic in the air than has even been. More horror in your heart than you ever thought possible. They are chanting incantations, murmuring things in languages you can’t recognise, humming in tones you don’t understand, and you are scared, but your want to stop disappointing overwhelms this fear. Your want to be something that surpasses ordinary, something that beats worthless.

So you stay still.

And you drift, further and further away, into a space where you can’t feel your heart and can’t contain your soul.

And for a while, you don’t return. Not really.

Another.

You learn that you are a cleric. You learn that your name is Nanami Chiaki, and that you can wield light and speak seven languages and be very, very useful.

You find your place among an adventuring party, and you set off to do your job as a cleanser of despair.

When will it stop?

II.

You feel smaller than you should, a quiet mass of stark white hair and shaky hands that suck the life out of every unsuspecting thing. But you learn- you learn to sleep in the hollows of large trees.You learn to survive days without fire and food. You learn what you have to do to live, what you have to do to continue, but often you wonder if there’s a purpose at all.

And then you see Kamukura Izuru turn the ocean’s blue into void, and immediately realise what you have to do.

Hinata hears what sounds like a thump, but maybe it’s just the dull beat of his heart. Does he still have a heart?

III.

It is

Dark.

It is so dark , and so quiet, and you are not there, but you are, but the world isn’t, but you are, but you’re dead, but you’re not, but you’re in pain, but he’s not.

And he’s you.

Or you’re him.

Maybe you’re both and he’s neither. She finds you somewhere between existence and death, surrounded by the skeletal remains of the seven wizards that made you what you are.

She examines the circle of black glass and scorch marks that used to be their mountain, and the grin on her face can cut through the fabric of the universe and weave it into something new. She holds out her hand, and says, “Confused, aren’tcha? I think I have something that’ll work for you.”

And before you know it, the world is ending at your hands.

There is the sound of something falling multiple times all at once.

You love them so much.

You love them so, so much. But you do not, because you weren’t made for this. You don’t know what love is.

Do you?

It’s getting closer.

II.

You are a being of misdeeds, a creature of filth and ugliness.You are a pawn in the hands of luck and a facilitator of fate. And it’s fine.

It’s fine. You don’t deserve to feel this companionship. You don’t deserve the moments when his eyes meet yours and you feel something akin to hope. It’s selfish. It’s foolish.

It’s fine.

(It’s not.)

They are footsteps, Hinata realises distantly at the back of his head, and they fall like hail.

III.

You wake up in another circle of black glass. Your head is full of memories that aren’t your own, your back breaking under the weight of sins you earnt. You hands are pale and unscarred and yours, yours, yours, but you don’t know what’s yours anymore, so you dig them into the hard ground until your nails chip and bleed and you’re screaming because the pain is the only thing that makes you feel real.

You don’t know how long you lay there, but when you come to, you can cast flame, you can create light.

And it takes you so, so long, to pick yourself up, to tear away your memories and the bards’ songs of Him, of You.

You are sick of your own existence, but most of all, you’re not sure when you’ll be him again. You’re not sure how long you have as you.

(You’re not sure when you started to think of this in terms of you and him.)

When you find yourself a party, you worry.

When you sleep at night, you worry.

When your companion’s piercing gray greens look at you and tell you, “Good night, Hinata-kun,” you worry.

What’s a sense of self for someone without one at all?

Crash!

Splinters of diamond scatter across the cave’s floor, yellow and white and shades of off-orange, shattered, sharp and everywhere.

Komaeda is panting by the now screaming, headless gollum, its guttural screeches now reduced to weak yelps that sound more like windchimes. The splinters that caught him in the face send blood streaking down it, and he’s breathing heavy.

In his right hand Komaeda holds Nanami’s abandoned spear of light, semi-tangible and fading in his grasp. Nanami rises to her feet besides Hinata, only a distance away. Cuts and scrapes line her arms and legs where the crystals caught her, but she is healing faster than any of them can process, and she points her staff at the gollum, lips drawn in a thin line.

When Hinata gets into position besides his companions, his heart thrums with something that’s maybe determination, and that’s definitely the desire to beat this fucking thing to the ground.

Their eyes meet. When Hinata catches Komaeda’s, Komaeda gives him a tired, bloodied smile which he tries to return.

They attack.

LEGEND.

There is a legend in the land about a sorcerer. Or at least that’s what they think he is. He’s certainly not human- it’s not clear if he’s much of anything the people of this world can recognize.

He’s like something out of a night terror, spectral and haunting, ethereally beautiful in ways that are hard to encapture. Bards fail to find music befitting of him, and the storytellers, their hands bleed of their efforts to weave tales and tapestries worthy enough. An artist’s maddening, he is, a being of darkness, or maybe light, or maybe divinity.

He razes lands in his wake.

It only takes a flick of his wrist for the grandeur of towering spires, raised peaks and settlements, so many settlements built with caring craftsmanship and loving ambition, to become ash.

There are no scorch marks to tell of despairing fires, no bloodstained marble and cobblestone to tell the tragedy of battles lost. Only the memory of what used to be and the dust that remains of its existence.

Some call him the Destructor. Some call him a God. Most merely call him The Ender of The World.

And he is as beautiful as he is terrifying, the story tellers swear. He doesn’t function on malice, they say. It’s impossible to tell what his motives really are, but he doesn’t thrive off of evil nor off of death. He does not need to thrive, really, not when his very existence is that of raw energy and power, not when he can make himself a living deity on command of his presence.

Others have different stories to tell of him, all with the staples; the beauty, the divinity, the grace. But they speak of different powers- armies of the dead animated for seemingly no reason. Stormy clouds of gray that encircle him, a crown of booming thunder and imminent destruction.

Eyes the colour of rubies, painfully empty despite the ocean’s worth of magical energy they surely have.

The World is ending.

And then it isn’t.

The cities of ash remain as they are, as do the hearts of endless storms continue to beat with the booms of thunder. Every tapestry and abandoned sheet of song remain, but the Ender of the World does not.

At the gollum’s husk, Hinata brings down a spectral axe he summons; once her spear of light is back in her hands, Nanami maneuvers close enough to leave a gaping gash of oozing yellow where its abdomen was; Komaeda’s flute plays notes that manifest into spectral hammers which descend upon it, blown after blow. The amethysts around them are now a darkened gray.

With each hit that lands, crystals shatter across the floor.

Soon, all that remains is a gradient of gold in pieces at their feet.

And their prize reward, the gollum’s heart: an ornate circle of the very same gold, its surface clear and reflective like a mirror. The Eye of Fate.

Komaeda collapses on his knees.

He’s making a noise that sounds like giggling, red faced and dizzy, and then he collapses to the side, spent. Hinata isn’t fast enough to catch him, but he tries anyway. Chest still heaving from the effort of battle, he takes the time to brush away the red that bleeds from the wound on Komaeda’s forehead. The amethysts are more like coal now, a tell-tale sign of the energy he’s expended.

Nanami kneels beside him, and she’s not out of breath at all. But she looks just as tired as he feels. All her wounds have closed up. Hinata almost finds it funny- he always thought the reason her wounds were so quick to heal was because she was an extraordinarily healer. While that was true, he now more or less knows that there’s more to it. And she… they both…

Well, they both know now, don’t they? But the panic hasn’t really settled in just yet.

“I’ll get him,” Nanami says, and she nods towards Komaeda. Already her hand is on his chest. “You have to go retrieve the mirror. Hinata-kun, you know what to do with it.”

Hinata nods. Rises to his feet.

He heads towards the Eye of Fate, back turned to Nanami. It feels smooth and light in his hands. The surface reflects his face, bloodied and plain, and it all feels deceptively simple.

Nanami says, “Hinata-kun? I know you’ll make the right decision. I know you’re a good person, and you can make your own path.”

He feels the smile in her voice as strongly as he feels the sting in his eyes.

“Right,” Hinata says softly, and examines the glassy surface.

He throws it to the ground experimentally. It lands quietly without a sound.

And then he crushes it under his fucking feet. Over and over until it breaks apart for good.

Nanami laughs softly from behind him.

Hinata says, “All right, then. Now that that’s over with, let’s go home.”

Home isn’t anywhere but the three of them.

The journey back isn’t as tiring as Hinata thought it would be, but it’s every bit as emotionally taxing. He wallows in his anxiety on their trip back, just as he wallows in his thoughts.

He and Nanami don’t speak of it.

And he understand that she needs time, and she understands that he needs courage, or perhaps strength of will. But she smiles at him like he means something still, like he’s more than lost identities and failure and magic that isn’t really his, and he’s grateful. He smiles at her too, a bit less patient, a bit more jaded, but he hopes it lets her know that she means something to him like he does to her.

And then there’s Komaeda.

They’re back at their camp grounds when he finally wakes. The sun’s beginning to rise above the horizon, painting its line a faint white and streaking the blank sky with shades of pale blue and orange.

Nanami’s gone to bring them firewood for later on since they’re all too tired for conjuration. Hinata’s fingers clench and unclench into a fist. He counts the fading stars that are eaten by the sunrise, and wonders if he can still see the faint outline of the moon provided he tries hard enough.

Komaeda sits opposite from him. Neither of them says a word.

The silence is quiet and tangible, and when Hinata looks at Komaeda, really looks at him, he pauses. Komaeda’s fully healed and unscarred but for a nick that the gash on his forehead left, and even that is hardly notable. His hair is even messier than usual, dirtied and gray with dust and dirt from their encounter. His pallor is still prominent, but thankfully, it doesn’t look like he’s about to fall seriously ill.

"Hey,” Hinata says.

Komaeda raises his head to look at him. He’s giving him that look again, a look of uncomfortable intensity that Hinata feels in his bones.

Komaeda say, “Hinata-kun,” by way of greeting, and they fall quiet again.

Hinata looks at his thumbs.They’re shredded from the shrapnel of crystal, scarred in little crisscrosses.

He says to Komaeda, “Well. I mean, god. Let’s- let’s cut right to it. Talk to me.”

And so they start to, the rising sun a backdrop to their conversation.

“You know now,” Hinata says.

“I do.”

“You wanted to find me. Or him. Whatever.”

“I do.”

“You still do?”

He tips his head sideways, and light curls frame his curious expression. Very sincerely, he says, “I do.”

Hinata feels a tightness in his chest.

“You’re weird.”

“You’re a god.”

Hinata gives him an annoyed, incredulous look. Now he knows Komaeda’s messing with him.

He says, “You know I’m not,” and can’t help the edge in his voice.

“Of course I do,” Komaeda says, voice hushed in a way Hinata’s never heard it before. “I felt your thoughts, Hinata-kun. We both did.”

He knows this. And it’s frustrating, infuriating even, to have something like that taken away from you and broadcasted so intimately. Looking at the mess he made of his own fingers, Hinata wishes he hit harder, attacked harsher.

And then he looks at Komaeda, and oh. He sees it now, the tightness around his shoulders, the tension in his frame. The sharpness of his present smile, guarded and ingenuine.

He’s hurting, too.

And god, Hinata’s so selfish. This entire time, his own anxieties have been overwhelming him, and he wasn’t able to realise sooner that his companions have their own plates full to the brim.

Of course. Of course he’d hurt. He’s felt it vividly, Komaeda’s loneliness, his pain, just as he had Nanami’s doubt in her existence, just as tangibly as they felt his own aches.

Hinata reaches towards Komaeda, who tenses like he’s about to flinch away, but… doesn’t. He places a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And Komaeda says, “I was wrong.”

“Wrong?”

His gaze bores into Hinata. “Wrong to call you beautiful and hideous.”

Hinata puts away his hand. He says, “Then what would you call me?” and feels bold for it. The way Komaeda says ‘you’ instead of 'Kamukura Izuru’ or 'The Ender of the World’ or some other superficial title makes him shiver.

“I would call you hopeful,”

“Uh, what?”

Komaeda puts a hand over his heart. And there it is again, that terrifying earnestness in his eyes.

“Hopeful. You’re not like me, Hinata-kun. Despite everything, you’re still here. You’re still doing good after what she made you do.”

What she made you do. The illusion of guilt, the vision of the perfect monster, it’s gone. It’s all gone.

Hinata is shaking just the slightest bit. His hands aren’t as steady as he thought they’d be in his lap. This is hard.

“But– so are you.”

“So am I what, Hinata-kun?”

“You’re here too, aren’t you?”

Komaeda falls silent.

Hinata can’t quite read his expression right, was never quite able to, but the stunned look of bewilderment that twists his features isn’t hard to note.

“But I- that’s not… That isn’t how it works.” Komaeda argues, a confused frown twisting his mouth.

“Isn’t it?” Hinata is smiling, and as he does, he feels the tremors start to calm.

“It isn’t! Hinata-kun, if you’re as good at drawing conclusions as you are at playing instruments-”

“Stop trying to backhand compliment me, I probably can play if I really try.”

“Backhanded compliments? How rash of Hinata-kun to jump to such a conclusion, I was only trying to speak my mind.”

He flicks Komaeda’s forehead. Komaeda doesn’t make a move to flinch this time.

Hinata dares to push back the hair that falls in front of his eyes, heart beat mingling with the songbirds’ melody. He waits for Komaeda to stop him, but he does not. He rubs his thumb over the small scar on his forehead.

“…You were good out there with Nanami’s spear,” Hinata murmurs. “Maybe you should actually consider buying one.”

“Oh,” Komaeda breathes in response.

Sunlight makes him look even prettier.

It’s quiet here in these woods, and it’s not “home” forever. Nothing will be for a while. But the permanence of home and the worries of tomorrow mean nothing when Hinata sees that smile again. A smile soft around the edges that make his eyes crease, a smile that makes Hinata not want to let go.

“Is this okay?” Komaeda says, and his voice is quiet. His eyes begin to flutter. His gloved hands reach tentative towards the back of Hinata’s neck as he moves to lean into Hinata’s touch. Komaeda’s hands are light, their pressure barely there, like he’s afraid to hurt him.

Hinata says, “It’s okay.”

And when he kisses Komaeda, it feels like the relief of something long awaited. It feels like comfort. It feels like something right. Hinata’s hands reach to cup his face, and oh.

He kisses him again, and again, and again, and everytime Hinata pulls away, he sees that smile and just can’t stop.

They’re going to be okay.

#komahina #komahina secret exchange #fanfiction

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