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pleasancies · 3 years

Text

Escape Attempt #1

wordcount : 1.8k+

cw : self harm, mention of past torture, suicidal behavior

tropes : lab whump, lady whump, failed escape attempt, manhandling, whumper as caretaker, sensory overload, wound agitation, blood (everywhere)

***

Previous Chapter

John laid her on the infirmary bed, the white sheets instantly turning red. He left, and Professor Clayton replaced his absence with Lisette trailing behind. He had accompanied Avis to the institute, wrestled against five foot long greenery and walked over the pile of carcasses, yet his coat and pants doesn't look affected at all.

"Fenrir, I wager I never properly introduced myself."

"I've heard about you. Get lost."

Clayton glanced at Lisette. She hurried to the storage room. His side leaned against the bedframe. He reached for Avis's ankle. He held it in a vice grip. Plastic casing rubbed against gaping wound.

Avis grit her teeth, ended up voicing a guttural groan instead. Her voice was strained as she managed a 'stop'.

"I'll stop if you let me work on you. Cooperate."

"Just kill me and get it over with."

Clayton twisted his grip. The burning sensation multiplied. "It would be a mercy. Don't you understand? You lost the choice to kill yourself the moment you're trapped with us."

"Watch me," Avis said between grunts of pain. The edge of the wound on her ankle skinned raw. She tried catching Clayton's hand, but he had withdrawn his hold. He went into his pocket. The shock stunned Avis's like a slap to her face.

"Alright, try. Right in front of me. I'll help you even. Say the word, and I'll turn on your shock bracelet to full blast. You'll scream and writhe under this bed until you shit yourself. After I'm sure you're dead, I'll took your brain and put it inside a warbeast. I'll save the handful of memories that makes you you. The next thing you know, you're tearing your comrades limb from limb and there's nothing you can do about it."

Avis didn't bother to hide the fear in her face. It was abhorrent. Even the most pro-monarchy man she met would squirm with the idea. She think back to the warbeast she'd slain. Their eyes, does it ever glowed the way a human would? The bout of nausea was back. Avis covered her mouth, swallowing a gulp of saliva.

Lisette was back. She was carrying a table filled with medical kit. There's a thin smile on her face. A cross between smug and content. Did she heard?

Professor Clayton doesn't wait for permission. He took a small screwdriver, methodically disassemble the ankle bracelet. The man is practically oozing with competence. His steps were hurried but certain. Years of experience in researching alien technology shows clearly in the lines of his face and the coat he wears.

Meanwhile, Lisette worked on her smaller scrapes and bruises. She cleaned her up, dabbing a soaked rag across her bloodied face. She started from the top, wiping up Avis's blood matted hair first. Cool water dripped from her neck. Avis supressed a shiver. The intern nurse's fascination to her scars and peculiarities had died down. Lisette didn't even seem to care if she is alive. She grab a clump of hair, pulling it from the base of the scalp. All that for Avis to lift her chin.

"Cut it out, Lise."

"Stop what? I'm taking care of you."

Avis let it slide. Frustration welled deep inside of her. She let Lisette tug at her shoulder, poke and prod the bruises on her back like it was nothing. Her fingers somehow managed to find every point her body hurt most and make it worse. She hated it, the way people would play others like a toy if they could get away with it. She looked down on the bed, watching her shaking fingers. Avis wasn't feeling particularly cold, but her hands just wouldn't let up. She wondered how they distributed their tasks or what Lisette and John will do after their internship.

"What's wrong?" Lisette asked.

"My hands."

Lisette frowned. Concern crossed her face. Even Clayton stopped.

It was Avis turn to ask now. "What's wrong with me?" As if anyone would give a straight answer.

"Nothing. The trigger serum wasn't exactly a full success is all." Clayton draw a small incision on her ankle. The pain was dulled. It flared slightly as he fully opened the second layer of bracelet clinging on to her skin. "The Fenrir formula adjusts it's effects depending on the host. You'll always get the same enhancements of course, but each of it's potency differs in each person. You and the first Fenrir weren't the same, obviously. Not even similar. We need to run some basic test first before your reeducation. During your reeducation, we'll recalibrate the trigger serum. And then, you'll go through this test again. Ready as ever."

The professor dips a wad of cotton to a small jar. He gently dabbed it against the skin. The oily fluid runs againt the burning wound, causing Avis to wince.

"Now, now, don't flinch. I assure you, your next test will be so much more this would feel like a gentle stroke in comparison."

Avis scowled at her doctor. Fucking fantastic. Another round of tests, surgeries, physically molding her into the perfect hound. And a long session of brainwashing, mentally shaping her until she could strangle her comrades and derive joy out of the act. Avis needs to escape. And she doesn't even know which research facility they held her in. Empire's Defense Department my foot, practically every Institute is made for them. It's simply the easiest way to gain funding.

Clayton and Lisette left shortly after. The entire session with John passed like a dream. He was strangely sheepish. Unlike yesterday, he doesn't bother to strap her arms and legs. Avis was too tired to notice. Or even think. She slept.

A couple of days have passed when her hands and legs stop feeling like stone. It was midday. There's no other patients but her. One nurse stationed near the door. The same one she'd seen when Lisette brought her here to recover from her bruised ribs. It doesn't took long for her to notice Avis was staring.

"Yes, Avis? Anything you need?"

"Uh, some water please." Avis looked away, heat growing in her cheeks. Is she really that obvious? Embarrasing. Valerie was nice. She was the only one who called her with her real name. Shame knotted in her gut. Just a minute ago she was thinking how to incapacitate her. If only Valerie knew the reason why Avis was staring at her.

Valerie set the glass to her bedside. "Next time, talk."

Avis mouthed a thank you. She stared at her drink, unwilling to touch it. The beige walls of the infirmary looks a lot like the first hospital she got into as a patient. It was a strike that had gone awry. She was separated from her friends. The Empire's officers doesn't care if she was young or a woman. She could still remember the faint taste of rubber boots in her tongue. Her broken leg had healed a long time ago, but the dull ache in her foot stays every winter. Back then, Emmett and Sherman hadn't joined their organization. James got arrested. Their old friends like Thomas and Mike were either too injured or busy dealing with the fallout. Nancy alone had to hold her in a bridal carry.

"Well? Aren't you going to drink that?"

"Sorry, Valerie. Just zoned out a bit."

The infirmary nurse sat beside her. "Had something on your mind?"

"Yeah, actually. Do you think I should be reeducated?"

"I'm not an expert opinion on that. You should consult your handler."

"No, I'm not asking for you to revoke my probationary status. I just want to know your personal opinion."

Valerie pursed her lips, her face drawn in concern. She glanced at the camera in the ceiling. It's too unreliable to pick up sounds or even the movement of her lips.

"I'm conflicted to be be honest. You... you did a lot of bad things to other people, but when I got to know you better, it's obvious that you're just lost. Those Heretical men used and abused you. You're one of the good ones, Avis."

"Thanks," Avis said. Her heart sanked. "I'm really sorry, though."

Before Valerie could react, she swung the glass to her face.

***

There are two major types of pain. Acute or chronic. There are other classifications based on what caused it for or how debilitating it is, but it was irrelevant. In the context of Avis triggers, there's three. All of them present in her current situation.

She was backed to a corner. The soldiers were split in two. A small squad were standing at the bottom of the stairs, while a couple of them guard the door she sneaked out from. Drops of blood trailed her departure. It formed a line, then a puddle below her wrist. Avis cradled her bleeding hand. A piece of tape still stuck on the edge of her wound. Her hand is throbbing, a continous pulse that quickens alongside her heart rate.

A man started to climb towards her and Avis brings her hand on the edge of the wound. Clawing at the edges.

"Stop," she said. "Took one step closer and I'll fucking eat you." She hissed, partly due to pain and a spontaneous urge to do so. The hiss turned to a groan as she dip her fingers in. The floor sways slightly under her feet. Red stained her hospital gown.

This is manageable, she insist. What was she thinking? She doesn't even know where she is. It's fine! People had run away without figuring out where are they are. But she's escaping an military complex. Stupid, reckless! But she doesn't have a choice right? Barnes had warned her. Clayton had fucking taunted her.

Avis shield her eyes from the light, blood running through her face. The buzz of fluorescent lamp almost drowned the murmur of conversation between soldiers. Her senses grew sharper with every hurt she inflicted. A dull ache growing on the base of her nails, gums, and joints. This time the transformation was slower. Passive, even. Slow enough, she could understand the change in her mindset. Her stomach was already empty before she did her escape, but now the hunger pangs were almost unbearable.

Avis taunted between gasps of breath, "Go on, shoot me like an animal."

The door at the bottom of stairs swings open. Someone spoke, and the voice sends a chill to her spine.

"Don't listen to her. She can't hurt you. She's not under the trigger serum."

Professor Clayton strides up the stairs. Avis's legs scrambles backward but there's only solid concrete behind her. His eye settled on her arms.

"You pulled off your IV. Are you afraid of needles?"

"No, just don't want to be drugged again. It's what you do. You'll wait until I let my guard down before testing."

Avis glowered. The armed guards advanced to protect Professor Clayton. Nothing they give is safe. Anything could be drugged. Food, medicine, even the air she breathed.

"The test wasn't due for a week. But I could speed things up for you. How about the day after tomorrow? How does that sound?"

She tackled him, but there was no power in her arms. Avis collapse on his chest, her vision darkened. Gravity rapidly dragging her feet. The last thing she remembered was her nails, puncturing Clayton's shirt and flesh.

Next Chapter

#whump fic #lab whump #lady whump #failed escape attempt #whumper as caretaker #manhandling #sensory overload #suicide cw #self harm cw #past torture #injury whump #bleeding out #wound agitation

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fydream · 4 years

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"Y/n!" A familiar voice calls out to you from down the hallway. It's less crowded now due to the majority of the students being in a classroom while the few that were there were either at their lockers or socializing with friends. This allowed you to see who was calling for you, to no surprise it was your best friend, Lee Donghyuck.

As soon as you spot him a wide grin appeared on his lips, one to be mirrored by you. "Is that my savior, Lee Donghyuck coming to rescue me?" You joke as you walk towards him.

"Why yes it is." He giggles, following along with the joke. "Oh and what a savior I am to be walking across campus to help my best friend find the cafeteria."

"You ruined it." You taunt, punching his arm lightly. "You wouldn't have to come get me if you showed up earlier this morning y'know.."

"Okay listen," He starts, which you reply to with an "I'm listening."

"You try sleeping over at a friends house on a school night trying to work on something for your best friend, then we'll talk." He scoffs.

"Aw you made something for me? I'm touched." There's a hint of playfulness in your voice and Donghyuck doesn't seem to pick up on it.

"Of course I did! What kind of friend would I be to not give my best friend a gift after not seeing them for so long?"

"You're so dramatic Hyuck," You sigh. "I was just kidding, besides I would've been happy to see you gift or not."

"Okay first of all," He starts. "You think I'm dramatic?"

"Did you really just ask me that question?" You ask back.

You roll your eyes at the boy walking next to you before replying with "You're literally the worlds biggest drama queen, but okay Hyuck. Whatever you say.."

He scoffs at your comment, "It's like you're not even trying to insult me Y/n. We both know I'm dramatic, so thank you. I try." He laughs.

"Anyways, my friends and I already made you one which is why you're getting one missy." He taunts and all of a sudden a warm feeling is brought back to you would get whenever you talked to Donghyuck.

It was a heartwarming feeling, to know that even after the couple of years you spent apart you two would still bicker over the silliest things. It was just another reminder to let you know that somethings never change, for the greater or for the worst. In this case, it was for the greater good.

You smile at him, it’s one of those smiles that you get when you remember a favorite memory of some sort. A sad, yet happy smile. It’s subtle and short but Donghyuck manages to see it.

“What?” he asks, looking at you weirdly. “Why’d you look at me like that?”

“It’s nothing.” You reply with, gathering your thoughts together.

“Okay.. Weirdo..” Hyuck comments, earning another light punch on the arm from you.

Another minute or so passed by until the two of you reached your destination. The school cafeteria, oh fun.

It’s noisy and loud, just as any other place full of teenagers would be. There’s tables set up in the middle and to the right of the room while the lunch line is on the left. There’s an isle between the tables in the middle and on the right that leads to a door outside towards the field of your school.

“Over there.” Hyuck nearly shouts, trying to make sure you hear him over the noise of the chatty students around you. He points to a boy with purple hair and another boy just a couple inches shorter standing next to him, who you assumed to be his friends.

A couple tables over you spot Jeno, Jisung, and another boy with them. "Huh, I didn't know they were friends." You thought to yourself. You notice that the purple haired boy was sort of eyeing Jeno and that Jeno was returning the favor. Jisung must've noticed you looking at Jeno and the purple haired boy because he had hinted at Jeno to quit it, earning a bunch of snickers from the other boy seated next to him.

"Weird." You thought. Before you knew it Donghyuck was pulling you through the crowded cafeteria by your wrist. He gave a few "Hello's" and compliments to certain people while you mumbled a couple "sorry's" to whoever you bumped into. Sooner than later you were in front of the two boys that Donghyuck was pointing at.

"Lele! Junnie!" Hyuck called out as he waved at them.

"Hyuck!" The shorter boy said running towards you two. "Is this the infamous Y/n I keep hearing about?"

"Hell yeah it is." Donghyuck replied, introducing you to his two friends. "Y/n, this is Renjun" He said pointing at the shorter boy, who waved at you in response. He was holding what looked like a poster due to it being rolled up and a rubber band keeping it together.

"And this is Chenle!" He said pointing at the purpled haired boy. Chenle was holding a box which you assumed was the gift the three of them made you due to it being wrapped and having a red ribbon on top of the lid.

"Welcome to NCT High!" Chenle greeted, handing over the box to you. You were just about to grab it when Donghyuck snatched it from him.

"Lele!!" He whined, "Not yet!!! We have to give her a proper introduction." He pouted.

"That was a proper introduction, Hyuck." Renjun scoffs, taking the gift box from his hands and handing it back over to you. "Don't mind him." Renjun smiles. "He's just excited."

"Boy do I know.." You laugh, looking over at your best friend who was now giving Renjun puppy dog eyes. "He really hasn't changed at all." You mumble to yourself as you watch him attempt (and fail) to get things go his way.

"What's in the box?" You ask Renjun, turning your focus on to him.

"It's a surprise." He giggles. "You have to open it."

"Boo.. You're no fun." You joke as you tug on the ribbon, watching it easily fall apart.

Taking the top off of the box, the first thing you notice are the three letters taped to the bottom of the lid. Each envelope had one of the boy's names written on them along with a small doodle. "Aw, cute." You say as you file through them before putting them down back onto the lid. "I'll read these later" You think to yourself before continuing to open the gift. You don't notice it until now that the other two boys had started watching as you opened the gift from them.

"What?" You ask looking at the two boys in front of you.

"Nothing." Hyuck smiles, "Just keep opening it."

The second thing you find, or things in this case are woven and beaded friendship bracelets. The woven one followed the color scheme of purple, white, and blue, while the beaded one had your name spelled out with black and white beads and a heart next to it. Picking both up to put on your wrist you notice that Donghyuck is wearing another bracelet with the same color scheme as yours, just witth a different pattern, and Chenle the same. When you look over at Renjun you ask why he doesn't have one on and he explains that he clipped it onto his backpack.

"That's not the point of a bracelet though, Junnie." Chenle comments.

"I didn't want it to get dirty!" Renjun protests and Chenle snickers in response.

The last thing in the box is a small black leatherback journal. Painted on the cover is a pink heart that appeared to be melting at the bottom with the letters "DNYL" outlined in yellow on top of it. Confused, you open it to see it's empty. "What's this?" You ask holding the journal up to show the two boys in front of you and the one sitting next to you. None of them respond and all you gained was a fit of giggles from the three boys. "What?" You ask again, this time for firmly.

"You'll find out soon." Renjun replies, as a smile appears on his lips "But for now, welcome to the club y/n."

As you continue to question the three boys what "DNYL" stands for, a couple tables over Jisung couldn't help but watch you socialize with Lee Donghyuck and his friends.

"Whatcha looking at?" One of his friends asks from behind him in a mischievous tone. It startles Jisung at first before he realizes who it is. The boy hops over to sit next to Jisung and Jisung scowls at him. "Jesus christ Jaems, you fucking scared me."

"That's her isnt it?" Jaemin says teasingly, poking Jisung's side. "That's Y/n, huh?" He asks again.

Jisung swats away Jaemin's hand before giving him a more annoyed look. "Maybe it is," He responds. "Why does it matter?"

"Let's go say hi!!" Jaemin prompts excitingly as he attempts to drag Jisung off of the table and towards you, but Jisung doesn't budge and Jaemin is stopped by Jeno grabbing his forearm.

"No, Jaemin." Jeno starts. "As much as I'd like to, don't know you how badly this could go if all three of us just waltz over there right now? Can't you see who she's with?" He sighs.

"Yeah? Lee Donghyuck and his crew?" Jaemin questions. "What are they gonna do? Tell her what happened with us right there?"

"Yes! A thousand times yes! That's exactly what they're going to do!" Jisung exclaims. "Who do you think she's gonna believe more? Jeno and I? The two people she just met today. Or Lee Donghyuck? A boy who she's probably known her whole life." Jisung asks harshly.

"God god, okay." Jaemin backs off, not wanting to start a fight. He stops for a second trying to find another option to try and talk to you. "Jeno don't you have her number? Just text her and ask if she can meet us after school or something." He scoffs, turning his attention back over to his unfinished lunch.

"You're so eager.. And for why?" Jeno teases in a light voice, handing Jaemin his phone. Jaemin glances up at Jeno then back to his` phone before raising an eyebrow as if he's asking "Why?" after all, Lee Jeno isn't one to be so careless. Jeno picks up the confused and unsure vibes from Jaemin as he nudges it closer towards him. "Are you gonna take it or what?" He asks, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Jaemin doesn't hesitate to snatch the device out of Jeno's hand as he frantically searches through his contacts for yours, and Jisung snickers at the fact that Jaemin is definitely in no rush to talk to you.

"You're so needy, Jaeminie~" Jisung teases, earning a light slap on the back of his head.

"Fuck off. You're one to talk." Jaemin hisses, handing Jeno his phone back.

"You're both needy. There." Jeno scoffs, rolling his eyes as he tucks his phone back into his pocket. "What did you even message her?"

"Nothing much, I just asked if she wanted to hang out after school that's all." Jaemin says, smiling innocently.

"Whatever you say Jaemin, just know that I can still see whatever you sent."

"You don't trust me?" Jaemin gasps dramatically, hand coming up to his chest to show that he'd been hurt.

"You're so annoying." Jeno teases, rolling his eyes at Jaemin. "But I believe you, just this once."

"Thank you, Jeno!" Jaemin exclaims, eyeing Jisung who still happens to be looking in your direction. "Nice to know some people will believe me."

"I didn't even say anything!" Jisung defends, hands shooting up.

"Will you two ever stop fighting?" Jeno asks as a dramatic sigh escapes his lips as he watches the two boys go back at each other again. He knows it's all just playful banter but sometimes he wishes the two would just quit it.

"I'll stop when he stops." Jaemin mumbles to which Jisung responds with "You started it!"

"No I didn't! You did!"

"You sound like children." Jeno snorts diverting his attention away from the two boys and on to his phone where he see's Jaemin's text to you. "I guess he wasn't lying." Jeno thinks. Soon enough he sees a bubble pop up on his screen indicating that you were typing. A message appears from you saying "i'll see if i can ask my mom! if not maybe over the weekend? :]"

Jeno smiles but before he could respond the bell rings indicating that lunch is over and all the students in the cafeteria, including you, leave to go to their next class. He sighs and packs up his lunch as he watches the other two boys continue to bicker.

"Jaemin, are you coming?" He asks, getting Jaemin's attention. "The bell rang and I can already tell Ms. V doesn't like us.." He mumbles.

"Yeah yeah, just give me a second." Jaemin responds before sticking his tongue out at Jisung.

"They're both children.. I swear.." Jeno mumbles to himself was he watches Jaemin pack up his bag and Jisung leave walking to the doors opposite from where they were sitting.

"You two are annoying, y'know." Jeno snorts as he and Jaemin walk to their history class together.

"I know." Jaemin smiles, "But you love us anyway."

"Sadly.." Jeno sighs, earning a "Hey!" from Jaemin.

"You know it's true.~~"

"Yeah. It is."

✰ how to be a heartbreaker

↳ so what happens when park jisung, the school’s infamous fuckboy runs into the new girl at school? out of boredom he decides it’ll be fun to have someone new to play with, but little does he know, she’s learning how to be a heartbreaker.

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maddgarbagemonkey · 5 years

Text

80's Nico Di Angelo

@alartes-draws and I came up with the idea of Nico from the 80's instead of the 40's in a moment of absolute genius and that led to some incredible potential hijinks that needed to be shared!

Baby Nico running around camp on the first Day calling everything he sees "wicked" and everyone starts giving him weird looks.

"WOAH PERCY! You use a sword! That's, like, TOTALLY BITCHIN'!"

Older Nico coming out of his cabin wearing this:

...and everyone is so confused and amazed simultaneously because the scary ass Ghost King is actually Keanu Reeves in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.

Will patches up a patient with Nico there and he calls all of the especially gorey wounds "Gnarly" and "Grody to the Max" to the point where Will has to calmly ask him to leave.

"Really? Me and Solace? Together? Ugh! Gag me with a spoon!"

"What's your damage, Grace? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Calling McDonald's "sweet Grindage" before stuffing his face and Will has to fight the urge to scream.

He's still making "Where's the Beef?" jokes in 2019 along with references to Wayne's World and Full House.

Screaming "gotta bounce" before shadow traveling.

"You're gonna make me stay here for three days? Thats totally bogus, man!"

He brought a Walkman with him from the Lotus Hotel and he only ever let's Will and Hazel borrow it, snapping at anyone who even looks at it.

They sometimes try to share it by squishing their faces together and putting the headphones over both of their heads, but then Nico gets too flustered and lets Will use it while he works, as Will loves music and it helps him focus and the Walkman doesn't alert monsters.

A I R J O R D A N S

Constantly wears scrunchies, slap bracelets, and swatches on his wrist, one of which is Bianca's and he never leaves without it.

He also wears those squishy rubber bracelets and trades them with Will, who has a collection of his own. He's also the kind to chew on them when he gets nervous.

PLEASE NICO WITH LEG WARMERS. The Aphrodite kids all collectively sigh at his lack of style... or too much style?

I cross the line at Nico with a mullet, I'm sorry.

He starts off only listening to music like The Pixies, The Cure, Rush, and Iron Maiden, but then Will introduces him to current pop and plays it all the time.

Nico constantly sports denim and bomber jackets that Will steals when he's freezing 'cause he's a little baby.

He tried wearing a shirt with crazy prints and colors ONCE but then Coach Hedge started matching with him and he decided never again.

He wears make up almost always and sometimes he falls asleep with eyeliner on and Will has to wipe it off with his sleeves, which Nico feels very conflicted about.

He freaks out whenever he sees a smartphone or computer so small because they look so much cooler and more futuristic than the big box computer that Bianca had.

Because of the AIDS epidemic in the 80's and the awful stigma against and hate towards members of the LGBTQ+ community at the time, Nico is terrified of coming out. He was taught as a kid that members of the LGBTQ+ community were "spreading the illness" and it was their "fault" (obviously an incredibly harmful and disgusting stigma.) He was super uneducated as a child about the situation and it led him to be terrified of getting sick and dying simply because of his feelings.

It got so bad that he freaked out whenever he simply touched Will and wouldn't come out of his cabin.

But Will caring so much about his wellbeing and emotional health educates him about the illness, what caused it, and the fact that it did currently have treatments. He also ensured him that things where very different now than they were when he was young, with much more acceptance than the past and celebrations and pride.

Nico is so relieved and appreciative that he just cries and hugs will for a long time.

"Will. I never actually told anyone this... but you're totally tubular!" "I'm sorry. I'm going to have to ask you to back the fuck up."

He gets really sad after learning that Prince died. He was all like "I loved Prince's music a lot! I wonder when he's gonna come out with new music."

And everyone just awkwardly looks around at each other and then at Will because someone's gotta tell them.

And then Will just softly exhales like "oh sweetie."

Then the same thing happens with Kurt Cobain, but this time he finds out on his own and mournes in secret, not wanting to embarrass himself like last time. He thinks he's gone undetected and everythings fine until Annabeth visits with Magnus.

He thinks he's tripping at first, because this kid can't be Kurt Cobain, he's dead! But he senses death within Magnus and then just goes bat shit crazy, Will having to physically hold him back to prevent him from tackling the newbie.

"Nico. Dear. What the fuck?" "Shhh. Shh. You smell that?" "What? What are you talking about?" "Smells like... TEEN SPIRIT!"

So yeah.

Son of Hades???

More like Son of H-80's

Welcome to my new favorite thing.

#percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #heroes of olympus #hoo #nico di angelo #will solace #solangelo #jason grace #piper mclean #leo valdez #annabeth chase #hazel levesque #frank zhang #magnus chase #rick riordan #riordanverse #80s nico #solangelo au

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rm-dimplemaster-blog · 5 years

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don’t deserve your love (vhope)

(read more break included- press to read the whole fic :) )

for @ollania

The first time Hoseok hits Tae, it's by accident.

Middle of July. All seven of them are working on a complex dance in the practice room. AC is busted—it's literally in pieces hanging off the wall with all its green and yellow wires dangling like tangled-up cat whiskers. Tae is sweating off all his mascara. He put some fairyland purple on his left eye, disco animal black on his right (massive chunks of glitter that poke your eyeball everytime you blink included) earlier in the kitchen while he was catching a tan by the giant window all across his bare back and freckled shoulders. And now it's running down his cheeks, pooling in his cupid's bow, and it looks like he's been crying stardust tears.

The blow comes outta nowhere. An elbow straight to the chin. Knocks him down in a sec cause he wasn't prepared. He falls in a heap on the floor, red and purple striped shirt, dark damp hair and unlaced light-orange snickers.

Someone goes aigoo!

Jin goes waaaa and pushes the bangs out of his eyes using the hem of his tee.

Namjoon's deep voice from the left, to Hoseok you're like a typhoon. With two fingers he does a whirlwind motion accompanied by a whooshwhoosh!

A warm hand on Tae's left shoulder.

Hoseok's face above his: peach-colored lips from a creamy lip balm that makes his cupid's bow all shiny and well-contoured; lashes so fine it looks like they were drawn on with the lightest of mechanical pencils; a black string necklace around his neck with its dove pendant swinging all silver and weightless above Tae's face.

Bits of neon lights weave themselves into Hoseok's hair and beam on the smooth line of neck and shoulder. In the big mirrors: Yoongi scratching an itch on his right elbow, Jimin blowing into his loose tanktop cause midday summer heat, Jin making fun of Namjoon's dancing skills, Jungkook snacking with his nose all scrunched up.

The room smells like Yoongi's raspberry handcream, the detergent they all wash their clothes with, a faint trace of cigarette smoke from the all-black wearing dance instructors, and youth. From above him, Hoseok smells like fresh fabric and sun-kissed jeans and for the first time ever, looking into his eyes makes Tae's heart go a little faster, a little rougher.

Hoseok's soft bony fingers on Tae's face, checking for injuries. Hurts somewhere?

Yoongi you probably knocked some of his molars out.

Jimin ah you make it sound like he has like ninety nine of those.

Namjoon still alive there, Tae?

Jin no, he's freshly deceased.

Tae shakes his head at Hoseok, bangs flying all over the place.

Sorry Hoseok says all small and smiley, music makes my mind go poooof! I lose track of everything. My arms turn into windmills.

He tries grabbing Tae's hands but gets handfuls of red and purple striped sleeves instead. Tae huffs out a laugh through his nose and squeezes Hoseok's hands through the fabric. His jaw aches. So does the side of his face. But it doesn't matter, not now.

The second time it's part of a game.

It's past midnight and they're playing the 키스 또는 히트 game. You're supposed to spin a bottle aka truth or dare style: the cap points to you and you get to decide if you smack the receiving end across the wrist or give 'em a kiss. They didn't have a bottle and trying to spin Namjoon's yellow slipper was a fail so they went for Jungkook's pumpkin spooks special Halloween edition lip smacker instead.

They're sitting out in the hallway where all the lights are out for the night. They have Jin's scented candle crackling all soft on one of the mint green plastic waiting chairs

(jin, all eyes:

What if we set off the fire alarm

Yoongi what, with that candle. Ha. Goodluck with that. Weak flame. Plus this building's so old, half the shit here don't work.)

--and like four empty bags of banana chips just lying everywhere and their phone screens are sending fuzzy columns of light towards the low ceiling. The darkness has everyone all giddy and alert and shushing eachother cause they're laughing too hard.

So far it's been a whole lot of wrist smacking, but also a whole lot of kissing and Jungkook's lip balm doesn't only serve as the pointer in the game it's also being passed around for extra softness and sweetness and everyone's lips taste like pumpkin and spice.

Sitting in a circle with shadows under their eyes and flickering orange candle light fluttering in their irises, all seven of them play the night away.

Jimin smooched Namjoon. Slipped on a chips bag while crawling on all fours to get to Yoongi and rolled on the floor laughing for five minutes straight till he was clutching his belly and going all red in the face.

Jungkook smacked Jin's wrist so hard the slapping sound bounced off the walls like an outta control rubber ball

(Jin, gawking at literally everyone did you see what he just--

Jungkook smiled extra wide and his teeth shone almost translucent in the dark)

Yoongi gave an ok to kissing Hoseok but when it was time for him to actually do it he whined

Aish I'm so sleepy and hugged his backpack and put his chin on it and Hoseok wah how lazy can one be took the whole kissing thing on himself and planted a quick one on the left side of Yoongi's mouth to which Yoongi hasn't objected and which made the tips of his ears turn a little red.

When the lip smacker's end ends up pointing to him, Tae hugs his knees a little bit tighter and looks up from behind a curtain of freshly cut and dyed bangs. First time it points to him tonight. Moving his toes inside his red Doc Martens, he blinks around, the sudden silence all around him sticking to his lashes like glue. Six pairs of eyes stare at him in the dark. The hallway smells like pumpkin and grape gum, shampoo and warm skin and past midnight draft.

The cap of the lip smacker pointing to him, Hoseok looks at Tae with a twinkle in his eye, hugging one knee, colorful bead bracelet hanging off his right wrist.

Jin and Namjoon exchange insinuating glances.

Jungkook looks from Tae to Hoseok and back again with his mouth open, curious.

Yoongi says all deadpan kiss is bliss.

Jimin bites his knuckles on a smile.

The dark closes in on him and his heart beats all muffled under his baggy black shirt.

Hoseok looks at him all soft and insecure, pushing the blue and purple beads around, mustering the courage to crawl across the light-orange tiles and weave his fingers into Tae's hair and really gentle press his lips to his.

Tae swallows hard. Blinks down at the tiles without looking up again.

When Hoseok pushes his hair behind his ears and goes on his knees to head his way, Tae lifts up his sleeve and exposes his wrist.

Hoseok kinda freezes on the spot, smile faltering, fingers of one hand splayed out on the floor while those of the other running up and down his thigh, scratching lightly and crumpling the denim.

Whoa Jin says.

Nibbling on his bag's zipper, Yoongi goes hello there tough guy.

Jungkook scrunches his nose plot twist!

You sure? Hoseok asks, whisper the same tone as the smoke curling upwards from the candleflame's belly.

Tae sucks his lips in. Nods. Offers Hoseok his wrist, veins up, making a fist.

Hoseok doen't wanna do it but those are the rules. Setting himself on his knees infront of Tae, he helps him push the sleeve up higher, then grabs his wrist.

He hits with two fingers.

Jimin flinches for Tae when Tae doesn't even blink.

Third time it's playful.

First time they kiss, it's in a street corner in Singapore.

They sky is bluish-grey and short sleeved dress shirts are flailing really faint on the clotheslines overhead. It's funny because with all that bright afternoon glow, the clothesline themselves seem to disappear and if you look up from the street below, all you can see is a mess of shirts and light jackets tossed everywhere amongst the puffy weightless clouds, a senseless scene from a futuristic painting.

The roads are packed with carts full of oranges and apples and chubby rough-skinned pears. Everywhere you look it's food booths with noodles and saucy meats and steamed rice that smells like the ocean and stings your tongue with delicious saltiness. It's flowery parasols that fly open like a flock of birds reaching for the sun; it's girls in dresses and women in sandals that let out a soft squishy sound when the heel leaves the ground. It's lanterns as big as pumpkins filled with light that birds flutter by with a song. It's shop signs with Chinese lettering that Hoseok, during their stroll earlier, used to point to and attempt to read

(what Hoseok said when he spotted Tae giving a little smile after he read aloud a bookshop name.

Tae gave a shy shrug just love the way you make the 'sh' sound when you speak Chinese. I love the way it sounds.)

It's turquoise-painted doors and wind chimes that ring out so delicate it tingles down your spine.

And it's Hoseok's soft hot mouth on his when the wind comes from the left knocking a few shutters closed and billows their shirts and sends their bangs flying into their eyes. Tae's holding a half empty pink glass bottle of fizzy sweet blueberry soda and the straw pushes between his ring and middle finger. His left hand, Hoseok holds between their bodies, almost hidden by the fabrics of their shirts.

It's summer and they're on their first Asia tour and the street smells like oranges and Hoseok presses his forehead against Tae's temple, lashes fanning across Tae's cheekbone.

I'm seeing stars Tae kinda whispers. He's not trying to be funny, it's actually what it feels like, but Hoseok laughs all bubbly and weightless.

He smacks Tae's shoulder, suddenly shy and self aware.

Fourth time, it's emotion.

Hoseok slaps Tae hard. The sound rings out across the empty stage like a clap of thunder.

They had just finished rehearsal and almost all the lights are out. Tiny grains of dust float in the air like fireflies. Behind Tae, a giant screen shows chunks of silver glitter falling and falling and falling, endlessly, the loop invisible.

Tae touches his ring finger to his lip. The corner of his mouth is bleeding.

Tae kissed another boy. He wanted to. The love Hoseok gives, he feels like he doesn't deserve. Never has. Never will.

He looks at the smear of blood on his finger. Winces with the stinging tear in his lip.

This, he deserves.

#vhope #bts #bts fanfic

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god-fucking-dammit-mizutani · 5 years

Text

Moonlight Mile 2

Rating: G | Word Count: ~5200 Pairing: Taishirou Chapter: 2/3 Tags: Summer Camp AU Part 1 | Read on Ao3

Across the field the early morning sun has ascended just above the tree line, slipping enough light under the propped open window boards to lighten the rec room cum mess hall in a gentle haze.

“I get it,” Mimi declares. Every curl in her hair shines with the vibrant hues of an artificial sunrise. The metal star clips fastened between each ringlet soaks up the sun and reflects little rainbows off the walls, the ceiling, the table.

Taichi stares up at her, watches her chew in an oddly considering way. The slight nip in the air causes his sleep deprived eyes to burn.

“You do?” Jyou asks around his fork. She nods at him, vigorously.

One of the little rainbow lights comes to arc over the back of Taichi's hand. He tries to pin the intangible light beam down with the weight of his fingertips, but they slip away when Mimi turns back to him. She raises her fork up nearly towards the center of his eyes in lieu of her pointer finger.

“What's more surprising than someone being in love you, right?”

“Oh, right!” Jyou thumps a closed fist into his open palm, exclaiming, “I get it!” He smiles brightly as Mimi beams back at him. Taichi's only seen Jyou look this excited when it rains during his field duties and everyone gets stuck inside playing board games and foosball.

“Wow,” Taichi says, dragging the syllable out.

“Not you, you,” Jyou puts in, sheepishly. He makes a gesture Taichi isn't really sure means anything. “But the general you, you know?”

Mimi pulls back her fork and wields it against Jyou next, swiping a few of his tater tots with a single stab. He glares at her, but Mimi just smiles. Jyou moves his tray just a few inches over, using the bulk of his shoulder to ward off any further invasions on his breakfast.

Taichi blinks up at them and then turns away, resting his cheek down on the table. They’re the sort he remembers using in elementary school and if he angles it just right, the laminate surface feels cool and inviting, like an ice pack for his swollen eyes. Beyond the windows, the outside world is quiet. Taichi watches as the wind ruffles through tree branches and thinks about his mother running her hand through his bangs, cooing and asking if he feels well. Taichi’s not sure.

“Come on, Taichi,” Jyou begs softly. He hums in response.

“Don't worry about him,” Mimi says. “Taichi's like a rubber band, he'll snap back.” He hears a crisp woosh over his head and Mimi shouts.

“What did you think was going to happen?” Jyou asks. Taichi tilts his head until his chin lays flat on the edge, watching Mimi wave her hand erratically. There's an angry, red bracelet of skin Taichi knows wasn't there before. It sits under the thick part of her palm, just barely covered by a hot pink hair tie.

“I was proving a point,” she whines. She rubs the mark with her other hand, frowning pitifully.

“It’s not good to wear those things on your wrist anyway,” Jyou adds, frowning.

Taichi laughs, a short little huff through his nose, but it's enough to steal back their attention. They smile at him.

Jyou's eyes flicker over the crown of Taichi's head and they widen momentarily. Taichi doesn't have to look up to know what's caught his attention. Jyou always insists on sitting where he can keep his eyes on the clock despite having a perfectly functioning wristwatch.

He slides his tray over to Mimi's awaiting hands. In her excitement the fork clears straight through the styrofoam, but it doesn't deter her from wiping the debris off the pronged tips and popping another tater tot into her mouth. Jyou winces. Taichi snorts.

“That’s just unsanitary, Mimi,” he says in a high whine already ambling to his feet. Mimi shrugs. “You don't know the last time these tables were washed.”

Mimi snaps her gaze up to him, cheeks puffed up in a pout. “Of course I do!” she shouts. Several people behind them whip their heads around to gander at the outburst. Taichi waves them off and they return quickly to their meals. “Because I washed them. Last night.”

Jyou keeps his nose wrinkled up at her.

“Not that I'm complaining,” she continues, “but there's still ten minutes left. You have plenty of time.”

“But the allergy kids, Mimi,” Taichi puts in just as Jyou follows up with, “but the kids with allergies will be coming in soon, Mimi.”

Mimi looks back to Taichi and they both giggle.

“I just want to be diligent,” Jyou sniffs at them. When his eyes meet Taichi's, a light smile lifts the frown lines along his face. “Hope you feel better, Taichi.”

“Thanks,” Taichi drawls, letting his forehead thunk against the table. It does nothing for the aching in his brain, but the darkness greets him like a comfortable friend. “Have fun getting puked on.”

“I will,” Jyou says back. Taichi makes a face, unseen, because he's not sure if Jyou's being facetious. His footsteps slowly become indistinct among the other camper’s, now little more than the white noise around them.

But Jyou’s still lingering at the far end of the building when Taichi tilts his head that way, giving his other eye a minutes reprieve with the cold surface. A camper wiggles and kicks in his arms, knocking a chair in front of her to the ground. It’s the one that usually keeps the back door propped open, Taichi notices with an amused snort. He’s seen campers and counselors alike through the years pull the chair from it’s post to climb that particular wall because it’s there—the sloppy red-purple stain that haunts the rec room. Even when the rest of the paint and plaster had eroded away, it had remained, stubbornly attached to the crown molding.

Taichi’s heard the rumors, the urban legends; they’ve evolved over the years from the stain being an ominous mark of the apocalypse to a symbol of good luck if you can reach high enough to slap the vibrant blemish with the full of your palm. Taichi’s never believed any of them. Mostly because he remembers putting it there himself after chucking his cranberry juice at Yamato when they were eleven. It’s his greatest regret, missing so poorly.

He can almost hear Jyou across the room, giving his lecture on the dangers of falling from high places as he ushers the camper back to her seat. He takes the chair back out with him, pushing the door open with the broadness of his back. Taichi watches him notice someone in the distance, waving as the door falls shut, Jyou on the other end of it. The slam echoes along the arched ceilings, over the shuffling and rabble of the campers, but no one seems to mind it. Taichi watches the door, though, his heart holding on a beat as the handle jiggles and someone pulls it back open.

Koushirou, notoriously late to breakfast, keeps to predictable this morning. He pushes the chair up against the door and fiddles with it a moment, making sure it’ll hold before stepping up into the rec hall. Across the room his dark eyes meet Taichi's for a moment, and they look, somehow, as if he’d gotten less sleep than when Taichi had last seen him.

Taichi looks away, shoving his half eaten tray into Mimi’s hoard and let's his forehead rest against the table again.

“Hey, Taichi?” Mimi calls him gently. Her hand sits gently on the crown of his head. Taichi welcomes the chill of her fingers where they graze his scalp in soft waves of her hand. “If you don't feel good, you can switch with me today. Or I'm sure Jyou will let you sit out in the first aid tent.”

Taichi looks back up at her again. Mimi's smile is sweet, serene, and it makes his heart both swell and ache. For how much the three of them banter, Taichi enjoys her company, and Jyou’s. But he wishes, too, that Sora were here. He thinks she'd know exactly what to say, but Taichi has no way to contact her.

He props his arm up on the table, rests his cheek inside the cup of his palm, and tries his best to smile. “Thanks Mimi,” he tells her, voice hushed under layers of fatigue. “I'm just super tired.”

“You sure?”

Taichi nods, his eyes following the motion without his permission. He yawns. “I'll let you know if I change my mind.”

On the field, under the sun, Taichi thrives. Usually.

The listless cloud that had kept him company through the morning has since evaporated, the pull of his eyes to remain shut, gone. It feels like every ounce of his blood has been replaced by static, the crackle of it deafening in his ears. He wants to believe it's his natural habitat: the bright skies, the echo of laughter ringing in the air. But he knows it has everything to do with his unlikely company.

Taichi looks behind him, the top of his head scraping along the ground where he’s splayed himself across the slope of the hill nearest the field. Most of the counselors usually hide up in the shade, under the trees at the plateaued top. Taichi prefers being under the sun himself. Koushirou is of the former group, and Taichi understands why, his skin an unhappy shade of red. Taichi watches him struggle with a near-empty bottle of sunblock, alternating between squeezing and slapping the bottom, until it finally deposits the last dollop of lotion into his hand with an undignified plop. Koushirou’s nose wrinkles at the noise, dismayed.

Taichi watches his expression turn to a grimace when he slaps it against his face. He hasn't worn sunblock in so long himself, but his skin still feels the sympathetic prickle of cold as Kouhsirou soothes the lotion into his cheeks.

He notices Taichi's stare a moment later, dark eyes quiet and inquisitive. There is a moment Taichi has to fight the urge to look away.

“Yes?” Koushirou asks. He breaks eye contact to tug his laptop back into the seat of his lap. Taichi can only see the sprout of his hair, darkened by the shade above him, just over the lip of the the back of it. Which is fine. Taichi wasn't going to tell him where he'd missed spots along his face, anyway.

Taichi breathes in and the scent of sun and sweat and everything quintessentially summer wafts in through his nostrils. "It smells like barbeque," he says. To Koushirou's back, a small distance away, is a thicket of woods. Just beyond that is a residential haven, where Taichi hears the owner of the camp lives in a rather sizable craftsman house with a large acre of land for his two large dogs to run around. Taichi only knows about the dogs because they sometimes find their way to camp through the woods, jumping out of the bushes when campers have their lunch out on the lawn on nice days. The old man's daughter used to be Taichi's counselors for years, but now she's some high powered attorney in a big city.

He wonders if she's visiting now, and they're celebrating in that big old craftsman house with the dogs begging under the deck tables. Taichi's stomach growls with envy.

He rolls over onto his stomach, legs kicking up behind him and dismantling grass from the bottom of his shoes as Taichi swings them. He cradles his chin in his hands and watches the bob of Koushirou's hair over the edge of his laptop back. His lower thighs burn where the sun rests upon them. He takes in a deep breath and adds, "and Dr. Pepper." “That's oddly specific."

“Dr. Pepper is very distinct,” Taichi insists. This time when he sniffs, it has nothing has nothing to do with scent.

The clacking of keys stops momentarily. Koushirou tugs down the screen of his laptop until his eyes find Taichi's. It feels like he's staring back down the barren forest roads, deep in the thick of midnight, and Taichi can't seem to breathe in deep enough.

Koushirou sniffs at the air, brows furrowed deep. One of his hands comes up to curl around his chin. Taichi's seen the pose in movies before, the ones with mad scientists and rampaging monsters. Koushirou sniffs again, and the look on his face is the epitome of perplexed.

He should look confused more often, Taichi decides.

“Interesting,” Koushirou mutters. He lifts the screen back up with his other hand and the clicking starts again, but he’s still murmuring to himself. Taichi only understands every other word because he thinks Koushirou's still talking into his palm.

“Would you say it's—”

Koushirou snorts. “Don't start.”

“Come on,” Taichi whines. “You're berry un-raisin-able, Koushirou.”

Unexpectedly, Koushirou laughs.

It's raspy, but loud, and Taichi thinks the toothy smile Koushirou sports could have brightened their way home. His laptop slips from between his crossed legs, gingerly tapping the grass as he falls back, clutching at his stomach and Taichi can't help his own smile.

He can hear some of the kids on the field wondering about Koushirou’s health, asking if they should get Jyou, if heat stroke is contagious. Taichi turns over, crunching to a sitting position and waves them off. Half of them have taken up sitting in the grass, pulling up blades and stray weeds and tossing them at each other. A large group has started playing cards under the goalie posts. Taichi wonders if they'll get in trouble for not watching them properly today, and finds that he can't really muster up the energy to care.

Koushirou has righted himself by the time Taichi peeks back over his shoulder. He's rubbing under his eyes, face still blotchy with speckles of white. He wonders if Koushirou's one of those kids who gets freckles in the sun.

“Can I ask you something?” Rushes out of Taichi's mouth. Koushirou stills, hand already grabbing at his laptop. Taichi doesn't know if the red on his face is from lack of oxygen, or sunburn. It's almost indistinct in the shade.

“The more we talk, the more onerous it is to terminate this feeling.”

Taichi frowns. He looks back at the field, his own fingers skimming along the ground and plucking a few blades of grass when he finds them. It used to be green here, when the sprinklers were used in the summer. Now there's mostly patches of yellowed land that can't quite be called grass or dirt. He sits his collection upon his thigh. Taichi's always been dark, but the skin sitting just under his shorts is almost starkly pale compared to the bits that have been sun-touched.

“Why did you decide to come here—”

But Taichi doesn't know if his question ever makes Koushirou's ear as a shrill tweet cuts through the air. He checks his watch immediately. Five minutes to lunch.

The time doesn't seem to deter campers, or counselors, from leaving their posts. Kids clamber out from every hidden view, from the archery grove and the arts and crafts “tent”, yelling and waving and rushing their way to the mess hall.

Taichi looks back. Koushirou's laptop has already been packed, holstered to his back. His face is down, unreadable, but Taichi watches the sway of a bright orange whistle thump against his standard issued counselor’s shirt.

He watches him go without a word. Even among the crowd, Taichi can pinpoint the shock of red hair maneuvering around a sea of children. He's barely taller than the median age groups.

When he's disappeared into the old building, Taichi turns away. Across the field Hikari stares at him. He can make out the gesture of her finger tapping her wrist, and he shrugs.

“Don't move.”

Taichi opens one eye. A little girl glares down at him, tugging his hand closer to her eye level. Taichi sighs.

“I said don’t move!” she reiterates. She loops a key ring around his pointer finger. Taichi watches her weave gel threads together in what he can only assume is a lizard. Maybe a crocodile.

“Why is this happening to me?” he asks no one in particular.

There isn't much sun that reaches through the canopy of trees, but there's enough light for Taichi to notice the shadow hovering over him.

Hikari smiles down at Taichi. “Well,” she starts, tapping his nose with the feathery end of a paintbrush, “if you're going to lay on the table, then you're going to become it.”

“You don't paint on tables,” Taichi says, narrowing his eyes. Hikari giggles.

Taichi kicks his legs minutely. There’s barely enough room to accommodate six kids sitting up, and so Taichi's legs dangle over the edge. When they smack back down he winces where the wood bites in the plump of his calves. At the far end a little boy shouts.

“I'm going to make you into Miko,” Hikari decides.

She disappears from above him and Taichi breathes in deeply. This corner of camp smells unevenly of paints and sunblock, but above it all the scent of aloe vera is thick. The tickling sensation in his leg returns, the little boy focusing back on his masterpiece blooming along Taichi’s leg. He cranes his neck to try to gain a sneak peek of it, but a few other heads bob in and out of the way, some of the kids using his stomach to hold up their papers. On his free hand, a kid looks up at him with a bright, almost toothless, grin. His brush strokes leaves a colorful trail of paint along his nails.

“I'm going to look like pastel Frankenstein,” he whines. He doesn't really mind, but the outburst gains him several giggles from around the table. He wonders if they get the reference. Hikari returns, smiling back down at him, holding up a small, wooden palette. There's a splatter of old, caked-in paints, but the only fresh color is a giant dollop of black.

“Pastel Frankenstein’s monster,” she corrects him.

Hikari wets the tip of her brush and leans back over Taichi. He scrunches his nose at her as the first, cold plop of paint hits his skin, but Hikari doesn't even reprimand him for it. She looks peaceful, concentrating on her own art, as if she were crafting her magnum opus. She swipes three dark lines on his cheeks, up to his hairline and Taichi thinks she may have gotten some in his hair. The tree branches above them sway in the light breeze, shadows dancing along her face, as she drops three identical marks to his other side.

A crisp whistle in the field signals dinnertime starting in the rec hall. Hikari gets the campers to put their supplies back and Taichi lifts a bucket of water to splash over their hands as they scrub away the evidence of their activities. He fills it back up with a hose attached to the old shed, as the campers scamper off across the way. Hikari organizes the paints together, ordering them into a display of splotchy rainbow containers along the repurposed bookshelf. “So what's wrong?” she asks without looking up.

Taichi frowns. “Why does something have to be wrong?” He takes in a deep breath. “Why are you psychic?”

“You always take Mimi's field shifts for her,” Hikari says, breathing a laugh. “It's just reasonable to think something big must have happened if she was willing to take your spot.”

“She said, and I quote,” Taichi brings up his fingers to create the quotes himself in the air for emphasis, “‘I can finally work on my tan.’ I'm doing her a favor.”

Hikari smiles wryly at him. She strides back over to the table and collects the abandoned paint brushes and twirls them, one by one, into a mason jar until the water turns a dark, murky gray. Taichi takes the brushes from her and dries them off on a paper towel, until the repurposed soup can that houses the camp's paintbrushes is, just barely, full.

“Someone confessed to me,” Taichi says, suddenly, “kind of. I think.” he scratches the back of his neck, a rosy burn spreading across his skin. Hikari looks up at him from wiping paint offfrom the plastic art palettes.

“A camper?” she asks. When he says nothing she guesses, “Another counselor?”

Taichi sits down across from her. He folds his arms and rests against them, until he's looking up at Hikari.

“It's not your first love confession,” she mentions, turning back to her task. “So what's bothering you about this one?”

Taichi watches the shade freckle her cheeks, the sun sit in her amber eyes until they shine golden. “He said he's been in love with me since fifth grade.”

“How sweet.” She means it and Taichi frowns.

“Sure,” he drawls out. He can barely hear himself over the thudding of his heart, the beat of it aching in his limbs. Talking about it more has done nothing for his nerves and it frustrates him. “I guess it would be nice, except I only just met him at camp. This year.”

Hikari doesn't seem phased. “Maybe he met you in school,” she reasons. “One of your classes or clubs or something.”

She takes to cleaning up the table next, rousing Taichi from his resting spot. He almost asks her to thank him, his skin and uniform having taken the brunt of every real mess. But he knows she'll just remind him that he had a choice for where to nap. Maybe he should have taken the risk of getting puked on and rested in the first aid tent instead.

“I would have remembered him if he was in my school, Hikari.” He frowns. “I'm not that oblivious.”

“No,” she agrees, snorting. “But you are a social butterfly. And sometimes a jerk. I'm sure there's people you forget all the time. Sometimes on purpose. Like how you ignored Yamato’s existence for half a summer after he told Sora about your little crush.”

“We don't talk about that year.” Taichi glares at her without any real heat. He'd been at fault for Hikari getting sent home early; Taichi had spent half of camp fretting over whether he'd be an only child after the state she had left in. Their mother had been furious, and he almost thought he’d end up an orphan, too.

Hikari pins him back with one her own glares, the weight of it drooping his shoulders. “That's exactly what I'm talking about.” She takes a deep breath and tells him, “I think you need to talk to this guy directly, otherwise you're never going to get the answers you want.”

Hikari gives him a once over and snorts.

“You should probably wash up before dinner, Taichi,” she tells him from behind her hand, the laughter shining in her eyes. Taichi wrinkles his nose at her and that doesn't really help his case at all.

But he says, “Thanks,” and ruffles her hair on his way past her.

Just before the showers, Taichi hangs left.

His fingers graze through the chain link fence, the metal clicking and vibrating as he walks by. The pool hasn't contained anything but grime and litter since Taichi was fourteen, but it's also overflowing with years of memories. He kissed a boy on a dare, once, in the deep end for five bucks, right under the diving board. Joke had been on Yamato, though, because Taichi had kind of wanted to anyway, but cheating him out of his snack money had been like a price for reinstating their friendship that year.

Taichi grips the pole at the far end and swings his weight around it momentarily. The rod shakes in it's cement shoes and Taichi releases his hold, clenching his fists through the chain link on the opposite side.

Last year they’d hopped the fence, him and Sora and Yamato, after lights out, their stash of an entire summer’s worth of snacks dropping from their arms like a fairy tale trail of their misdeeds. Taichi frowns. It was going to be tradition, they had decided, agreed even when they spent the whole next day in the first aid tent, clutching their stomachs. He squeezes the fence tightly and then continues down the lake path behind the abandoned pool.

Even in twilight gnats hover tightly to Taichi's face along the trail. No amount of swatting shakes them, but Taichi knows this. It is absolutely out of habit.

Campers greet him on their way up, some of the more familiar faces jumping up to give him a high five. Some stop him to take pictures, complimenting Taichi on his new look. He thinks Hikari would be proud.

It's the best time to visit the lake, when everyone else is eating. Plus, it's Takeru's shift to watch the canoes, and he sometimes let's Taichi take one out if he helps fish out the stray life jackets and paddles tossed between the avenues of land and water.

Taichi stutters to a halt when he reaches the mouth of the beach.

Koushirou’s got the fabric of his khakis rolled up high on his knees, to no avail. They're already dark with damp as he splashes along the lakeshore, a small little grunt escaping his lips from the strength it takes him to heft one of the canoes up along it’s brethren on the beach. His hair is as radiant under the evening sun as it is in contrast to the night sky and Taichi frowns as he pads down the sand, coming up alongside him to share in the burden of the canoe’s weight.

"You're not Takeru," he mutters.

Koushirou startles, his fingers slipping from the lip of the helm, but his momentum continues backwards and he drops into the lake with a distinctive plop.

A heartbeat passes between them before Taichi throws his own head back, howling with laughter as he pulls the canoe up on the sand. Koushirou watches him, offering no help. His eyes look so impossibly wide, the sort of deep you can swim in, drown in, and Taichi pushes back the urge to offer him a hand purely out of spite.

He surveys the lake for any straggling gear before he drops himself on the shore, tucking his knees up towards his chest, his shoes squelching with every move. He grimaces, wishing he’d had the foresight to toe them off before trekking through the lake. The fabric of his pants chafing uncomfortably against his knees. Below that, his calves looks bruised, splotchy with a plethora of colors bleeding together where the kid’s painting had been compromised by the splashes of water. He never did remember to look.

"Where's blondie?" Taichi finally asks.

"He's—we—" Koushiro splutters. His face tilts down, exposing the reddened nape of his neck. He manages eventually to say, "T.K. offered to switch with me after lunch.”

To not see me, something tells Taichi. "I couldn’t procure any additional sunblock," is what Koushirou tells him. Water drips from his bangs where his trip into the lake had splashed back up at him. "Jyou said he only had enough to spare for the kids until the next supply run." Koushirou turns to look at him, backlit by the evening sun and static charges in every one of Taichi's muscles. He grips a flat rock in the palm of his hand and tosses it just to the left of Koushirou. It glides quietly along the surface and sinks seamlessly into the folds of a languid wave.

Koushirou picks himself up and plops down a decent distance from Taichi. He notices since they’d last seen each other that the little bits of block he’d neglected to warn Koushirou about have been properly applied now. "Did it hurt today?" Taichi asks. Koushiro blinks at him and Taichi grabs for another rock indiscriminately. It hits the water less gracefully, like a belly flop among swan dives. "Your sunburn." "Oh, " Koushirou says. "Just an iota." "Remember to apply aloe vera or it won't heal well." "I will," Koushirou replies. There's a smile in his voice that Taichi can just imagine blooming shyly on his thin lips and his stomach pinches. "Thank you.”

He’s not the only one who seems to notice anything new, Koushirou’s eyes following from Taichi’s hairline, down to the tips of shoes.

“You look—”

“Don’t,” Taichi says, narrowing his eyes at the tight smile on the other’s lip.

“Glamourpuss,” Koushirou finishes in an absolute deadpan. “That was—”Taichi breaks his own sentence, laughing as Koushirou joins him “—the worst.”

“I purrceived as much.” Taichi sends him a look. “Just simple purrvenge."

Taichi groans and for a while the lake echoes with their laughter.

Wildlife chatters around them, fills in the eventual silence that settles between them, twilight critters stirring in the brush. A little chipmunk pokes out from the corner of Taichi's eyes and swiftly pilfers a forgotten batch of fruit snacks. He bets Koushirou would probably know the exact taxonomy of the little rodent. He probably knows every bird by their chirping alone, because the little that he knows of Koushiro is that Koushirou knows probably everything and Taichi doesn't.

"You said you were in love with me, you know?" Taichi breathes out. It feels like the exhale after taking a soccer ball to the gut. "You wanted me to shock you," Koushirou says smartly. His toe digs a short line in the dense sand, water lapping his toes with swift licks. His face colors, filling in the gaps where the sun hadn't touched. "Enamoured might have been...superlative." Taich breathes out again. "You don't feel anything for me, then?" The breeze shakes the branches above them, swims through the lake like a current. A fish breaches the surface, the only evidence of its ascent a strong, circular ripple. Taichi reaches for another stone and tosses it a good few feet into the water. It takes several steps this time before plummeting. He clutches a new one, but let’s his hand rest in the space between them. Taichi wonders if Koushirou would take it, is considering it, and his heart pounds.

"This lake is so sedentary," Koushirou says instead. "Do you think it's still down there?" Taichi narrows his eyes. Between them is a basin of questions that seems to be ever flowing, yet never emptying. "What?" This time, Koushirou picks at a rock instead. It's heavy and when it plops into the lake not too far from them, water droplets rain and scatter until there's an orchestra of ripples along the shore. A few drops land on Taichi's leg. "The headrest.” Taichi stares at him. There's a glint of mischief in his darks eyes that twinkles and Taichi thinks of stars, galaxies and it feels oddly fitting because Koushirou always seems to be somewhere close, but elusive.

“Fifty dollars says I can retrieve it by the end of the summer."

Taichi looks at the lake, the very last rays of the evening light dipping beneath the trees on the farshore and he licks his lips. "Deal."

#digimon #taishirou #taishiro #as always I will probably not come back to fix the emphasizes that tumblr stole #despite how much it destroys my soul to not have them #anyway!!! I did a thing!!!! WOoohhh!!!!#I rewrote this chapter from it's original draft and it took so long to get it right but I'm...okay with it hahaha #ANYWAY ALL HAVE A NICE NIGHT #sparkle garbage

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cwkrp · 6 years

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have a little imagination, will you?

INTRODUCING son sujin, she/her, 17/12/95 COURSING ba in applied arts, second year AFFILIATION ursa ANNOTATIONS n/a

a note from the past.

TOKEN.

slender fingers combed through freshly dyed hair, a smile aimed at her from behind the barber chair.

“you look so beautiful, my love.”

it’s a compliment, so eight year old son sujin smiles back through the mirror. after all, a compliment is such a rare thing from her mother. she’ll take what she can get, even if it only comes after everything about her has been modified. if that’s what it takes, then maybe the change was needed.

heels clicking with every step and sneakers slapping against linoleum, a little girl trying desperately to keep up with her mother. she looks out of place next to her, a clumsy child with rubber bracelets and scabbed knees to accent her school uniform while the woman is anything but. she’s all elegance and curves accentuated by a tight red dress and red lips to match. they’re a site to see as son mirae guides her child into an expensive shop, littered with mothers and daughters who looked to be in the same boat.

“try this on,” she suggests, holding out a simple white dress to the schoolgirl. sujin takes it, albeit reluctantly, and lets herself be shown to a changing room. that’s where it begins. she exchanges her bland school uniform for something more glamorous and before she can even show her mother, more dresses are being handed to her through the curtain. galactic shades of blue and purple, oranges and yellows that could put the sun to shame. she’s made into a doll, so she might as well play dress-up.

“what is all of this for, mama?” she asks as they exist the store, now wearing a soft yellow dress and white wedges. she doesn’t quite like it and she’s found that walking feels weird when she isn’t wearing sneakers, but she doesn’t say that. how can she, when her mom is smiling so widely at her, radiating happiness? how can she ruin that?

she learns that it’s for a pageant. she’ll get to dress up like a princess. it will be fun. she’ll be the envy of all the other little girls. that’s what mirae tells her, anyway, and sujin still doesn’t say anything because that doesn’t sound very fun to her but she was never taught how to say no. even if she had, something told her it would be a losing fight.

one pageant turns into two, and then the number multiplies. she can’t eat her favorite foods anymore because she has to stay skinny. “it’s only until the next pageant,” her mother tells her, but the pageants never end and neither does the diet.

she blinks and she’s sixteen, a petite teenager in high heels and a pink dress, short in the front and long in the back—but it’s a little too short in the front, so she keeps tugging the hem down, but it just inches up more every time. in the end, she gives up and just smiles as she’s awarded with a crown, a sash and a bouquet of flowers.

“give it up for the beauty queen, son sujin!”

it’s a title that fits her, almost. it fits her soft smile and softer features, her pink lips and doe eyes. but it’s not who she wants to be. she’d rather be at home in sweats and a t-shirt, an easel in front of her and a paintbrush in hand. she’d rather be creating beauty than being judged for her own.

she doesn’t say anything, though, because no one had ever taught her how to speak up for herself.

STEREOTYPE.

she’s trying to study for the csat. she’s in her bedroom with the door closed, a compilation of edith piaf’s best hits spinning on her record player. she doesn’t mind studying, not really—it’s relaxing to her, in a way. it’s much more simple than anything else she could be doing.

but her peace doesn’t last for long. the music is drowned out by an incoming phone call and the ringtone is a stark contrast to edith piaf’s relaxing voice, so sujin answers as soon as possible just to get the person off her back. “what is it?” she asks, her voice tired. defeated, almost, although the conversation hasn’t even started yet.

“there’s a party tonight, sujin. go with us.” it’s one of her best friends and she can hear her other friends in the background, laughing among each other. no doubt getting ready for the party. “i don’t know, i’m studying for the…” she tries to explain, but she can’t even finish her sentence before her friend is speaking over her. “c'mon, it’ll be fun. don’t be a wet blanket. can’t you meet us at hyeri’s place?”

sujin says yes, but she means no and she meets them there at seven o’ clock sharp so they can all get ready together. after all, that’s what they want.

the party is loud and crowded, filled with people that she doesn’t know and people she wishes she didn’t. there’s a distinct stench of marijuana in the air and she tries to ignore it but it’s difficult when it’s in every corner, every crevice of the house. she resorts to standing near the dance floor, an unimpressed look on her face because her friends are nowhere to be found now and she doesn’t know what else to do. she isn’t a party girl. she never has been.

there’s a boy standing near her, his gaze lingering on her. predatory. he’s tall, dressed in leather and dark denim; a complete opposite to the petite girl in white. maybe that’s what gets his attention. he approaches her with a cup in each hand, filled with some mixture of alcohol that she’d never want to taste but when he looks at her with those deep eyes and asks if she wants a drink, she says yes even though she means no.

she takes one sip, and he takes a sip of his, and he asks her if it’s good. she says yes because she knows that’s what he wants to hear, and she’s right; he smiles then, and he tells her to drink up. she does, even though she hates the taste and it takes all the willpower she has not to spit it back out.

that’s how sujin’s story goes. every chapter is a series of “yes, yes, yes” even when she so desperately wants to say “no, no, no”. it’s the tale of a marionette and the strings which keep her bound, always grasped in someone’s hands other than her own, even when the puppeteer is unaware of the power they have over her.

a color for the present.

GREEN.

every time they pass the playground, sujin looks the other way. she’s tired of seeing mothers pushing their daughters on the swings and the merry-go-round, tired of seeing children playing on the jungle gym together. the worst part is that when they fall, they don’t frown; they just keep smiling, dust the dirt off of their knees, and get back to climbing. she knows it’s petty to be angry over such a thing, but it feels like she’s the only elementary school kid on the planet who isn’t allowed to play and she can’t help but turn green with envy when she sees them having so much fun.

when she’s in middle school, the father-daughter dance rolls around. it’s all her friends talk about and she wants so badly to go, to feel like she’s part of something, but she lacks one thing; a father. of course, her mother’s man of the month offers to go with her, but there’s something not quite genuine about it and she’s not dumb. he doesn’t want to go. he only wants to earn brownie points with her mother so maybe she’ll keep him around longer than the other men that she lets into her bed. sujin knows that, so she politely declines and he doesn’t push it.

then she’s in high school and she’s in her bedroom, watching some new drama on her television. it’s cute and she almost thinks it might be worth watching until it cuts to a scene of a family on vacation. there’s a mother and a father who appear to be so madly in love despite their three kids bickering in the backseat of the car. it instills a heaviness in her heart so strong that she reaches for the remote and turns the tv off.

as far back as she can remember, she’s always craved a family. maybe if she had a father, there would be someone to control her mother’s reckless spending, her mistreatment of sujin. maybe if she had siblings, she wouldn’t feel so much pressure to be the perfect daughter. maybe there would be someone that she could share her thoughts with, someone that could understand her.

and she knows that family isn’t perfect. she knows that there would be pointless arguments and misunderstandings would arise along the way, but if anything, that only makes her wish she could experience it more. after all, it has to be a step up from the lonely life she’s been given.

RED.

she’s a dreamer. it’s one thing that no one can take away from her—not because she’s fiercely determined, but because she’s quiet about her wishes. she keeps her daydreams under lock and key because she knows herself well enough to know that if someone tells her she can’t do it, she’ll give up.

but when she closes her eyes, she doesn’t see darkness. she sees paintings hung neatly on pristine white walls, floors so clean that the whole place seems to shine. she sees families, couples, kids, critics and everyone in between walking from artwork to artwork, observing. understanding. appreciating.

there’s one painting that sticks out to her, although it’s blurrier than the rest. she can’t quite see the contents and she can never seem to remember the colors, but there’s one part that’s crystal clear—her signature in the bottom right corner. it’s a new painting, freshly unveiled, and that fact doesn’t change no matter how many times she lets her mind drift away to this safe place. there are people crowded around this painting, voicing words of praise and admiration for the new artist.

for someone who doubts herself so much, this dream is one thing that she’s trying desperately to hold on to. trying to believe in. because if she lets herself have one goal for the future, then even the worst days don’t seem so bad. and almost, almost, her black and white world turns to color.

#cwk // profile #cwk // ursa

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fashiontrendin-blog · 6 years

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A Guide To Common Watch Repairs

http://fashion-trendin.com/a-guide-to-common-watch-repairs/

A Guide To Common Watch Repairs

A bit like death and taxes, one of life’s other inevitabilities is that your watch will one day need to be serviced. If you’re not a door man, or you don’t have some other job that involves you behaving like a human battering ram, then chances are this will be a half-decade occurrence or, if you’re a quartz-only man, when the battery runs out – which can be anything from two years to 10.

For some, that’s a slap on the face (if not the wrist). Like cars and property, the expense associated with a wristwatch doesn’t end the moment you strap it on. The more expensive your watch, the more complicated it usually is. Which means there are more components to look after.

“Service intervals can vary by brand and model but in the main, manufactures recommend a service every three to five years to keep the timepiece in good condition,” explains Ian Haycock, head of technical services at Watches of Switzerland, which has over 40 individual brands in its display cases.

So, where should you take your prized possession when it needs a once over? What are the signs that something needs immediate attention and should you ever try some DIY watchmaking? FashionBeans is here to answer all those questions and more.

Quartz Watches

Some of the most affordable watches are powered by quartz and are relatively simple creations. When they stop working you can bet your bottom dollar it’s because of one thing: the battery. It will have either run out or it’s simply getting to the end of its life, and therefore it will need to be replaced.

Due to their simple make-up, this is an easy and cheap thing to fix – all you need to do is get the battery replaced, so head to your nearest jeweller and the problem is solved for around £20.

Another issue that can arise with quartz watches is when the buttons or pushers stop working properly. This is usually a wear and tear issue – dust and dirt can accumulate around the tiny spring that allows the pushers to do their job. It may not be as straightforward as that though, so if this is the case for your watch, a full service will be needed to ascertain whether that is indeed the problem – if it is, the springs will likely need replacing. Take your watch to a specialist service centre and ask them what they recommend.

Mechanical Watches

With mechanical watches, there are more individual parts and, therefore, more things that can go wrong. In terms of symptoms, you’re most likely to notice that time-keeping has slowed or is getting faster. And the most likely cause: lack of servicing.

“You have to treat it like a car,” says Oliver Pollock, founder of Luxury Watch Repairs, a Hatton Garden-based watch repair and servicing company that was set up due to Pollock’s frustration at not being able to get the vintage watches he was trading restored or serviced quickly and to a high-standard.

Rolex

“There are over 180 parts in a mechanical watch that need lubrication. If you don’t bring your watch in every four-to-five years then parts of it can wear, which can lead to losing or gaining time caused by lack of oil. We see 30-40 watches a day and generally when the watchmaker has had a poke around to determine a quotation, the majority of problems are caused by dry oil.”

So what are your options?

Rolex

A Full Service

The solution more often that not, Pollock says, is a full service. “[This looks at] all aspects of the watch to ensure it is performing as intended by the manufacturer from when the watch was originally sold,” he explains. If you say yes to a full service (and remember this is only ever a recommendation, you are under no obligation) ask whether the movement will be entirely dismantled and cleaned.

“If parts are worn, these are to be replaced and the movement to be re-assembled and re-lubricated,” says Pollock. You should also check to see if your crown and pushers have been replaced if they have been marked down on the service document as being worn.

Ask if the seals and gaskets have been replaced to ensure water resistance and, when it comes to polishing, you’ll be able to see easily if the case and bracelet has been buffed as any scratches should have disappeared.

Omega

“We also place the watch on a five-day time-keeping and power reserve test [applicable to automatic and manual wind watches] to ensure the tolerance is as expected,” says Pollock. “The watch is then pressure- and water-resistance-tested, undergoes three separate stages of thorough quality control and backed up by our two-year warranty.”

If any of those things haven’t happened then your watch hasn’t been given a full service.

There are other problems that require a full service, and they usually read like a short horror story to most watch collectors. Brace yourself because these are the most common: a rattling or a strong vibration inside the watch (especially if the watch has been knocked or dropped); the glass being smashed (shards of glass can end up within the movement); grinding of the crown when changing the time or winding the watch; and condensation that appears and disappears on the sapphire crystal, which is a sign of water damage from not screwing down the crown properly.

Not every bump and bruise requires a full service, however.

Tag Heuer

Part Job Or Repair

This can include replacing scratched glass, a worn or damaged bracelet, polishing of the case and bracelet and de-magnetising a watch.

“A watch can become magnetised when it is exposed to everyday items and can cause the watch to act erratically,” says Pollock. “It is something we see quite often and can usually be rectified the same day.”

Vintage Or Antique Watch Repairs

If you’re in possession of an antique watch then chances are you already know you have to seldom wear it and handle it with more care than your grandmother.

“Vintage and antique watches are usually far less resistant to the elements than their modern counterparts,” explains Dr Rebecca Struthers, co-founder of specialist watch restorers Struthers London. “Aside from dust making its way into the movement, water damage can be a real issue.”

eBay

While some retailers such as Watches of Switzerland will service and repair vintage watches, if you’re looking to repair a real antique then seeking out a specialist such as Struthers, rather than service centres, is your best bet. Some manufacturers also offer in-house services, but many have a cut-off date for the age of the watch.

“There aren’t any courses that teach vintage and antique watch restoration so the best restorers will usually have qualified with WOSTEP (Swiss) or the British Horological Institute before specialising. Look for a good portfolio, a lot of watchmakers use social media now so it’s easy to see the sorts of watches they work on and their feedback.”

What To Look For From The Place You’re Getting It Serviced

Many luxury watch brands, such as Vacheron Constantin, will insist you take your watch back to them so they can send it back to the manufacture for service or repair. However, if you’re going to opt for a third party then it’s all about accreditation – particularly if you’ve spent your savings on something.

Brands like Omega and Rolex make highly complex watches with myriad case, movement and bracelet combinations so you need to be assured the person pulling your precious Daytona apart and putting it back together knows exactly what they are doing.

Rolex

“We offer all types of watch repairs from a battery exchange and water resistance reseal to a full service and overhaul,” says Haycock. “Our watchmakers are brand-approved and accredited and have many years of experience.” And that is generally the case with renowned watch retailers – they have accreditation from most of the brands they stock to undertake repairing and servicing to a certain level before it may have to be returned to the manufacturer.

It’s when you start eschewing retailers in favour of service centres that you need to have your wits about you. “Look for accreditation and reviews,” says Pollock. “We’ve got over 1,000 and we use TrustPilot which tells our customers that all the reviews posted are from genuine users because TrustPilot verifies every one.

Omega

“As for accreditation, it is so important. I know people talk about ‘time at the bench’ and while that is great in terms of experience, you need to know your watchmaker has had fundamental training. Take Omega, for example: it is one of the biggest brands, so even something like the Speedmaster has so many types of case and a watchmaker needs to know about the idiosyncrasies of each one before starting a repair. You only know that through getting proper accreditation.

“We have level 3 accreditation, which you are only awarded after going to Omega’s HQ for training, which our watchmakers have done.”

Dos And Don’ts

Do take your watch to be given a once over every four-to-five years, even if it’s not showing any signs of wear and tear. “Putting movements and full services to one side, you should still bring your watch in every four years or so because there are things such as gaskets and seals made from rubber, which deteriorate naturally over time, but they would only cost around £80-90 to get fixed,” says Pollock.

Don’t forget to maintain your automatics even when you’re not wearing them. You need to manually wind any watch you’re not wearing every four to five days to ensure the oils don’t dry out. A watch winder is a great investment if you have a few automatics in your collection.

Do ask questions. Ask the watchmaker what his credentials are, what exactly he intends to do to the watch, and what parts will need to be replaced. It’s not only a reassurance for you, it’s a simple way of finding out how qualified the watchmaker is.

Don’t always go for the quick and easy option. “While it may seem quicker and more cost effective to simply replace a damaged part, the damage can often be more complex than simply one worn or damaged part,” says Pollock. “To find and fix the damage, the watch may need to be dismantled, cleaned and re-assembled. That’s ultimately a service in itself and does of course take a significant amount of time and care.”

What Can You Do At Home?

DIY watch repairs is an area of much debate. Rolex recommends gentle cleaning – a cloth to help your prize Submariner keep its lustre and soap water and a soft brush to get any accumulated dirt off the case and metal bracelet (don’t do this on a leather one). However, Haycock disagrees.

“We would not recommend any type of repair is attempted at home. Watches are complicated and require specialist tools, equipment and skills in order to carry out a reliable repair,” says its head of technical services. Pollock agrees.

“We don’t advise our customers to try anything at home. Even a strap change can lead to a badly scratched case if something slips,” he says. “If your watch is water-resistant and has a rubber strap then you could get a toothbrush and some warm water and soap to clean the strap, but we can give it an ultrasound and steam clean for a small price.”

In other words, put that tool kit you bought on Amazon away. There are lessons you can take (for example, the British Horological Institute offers five-day courses that cover the basics of mechanical watch repair) but unless you’re a watchmaker, chances are you will do more damage to the watch and likely void its warranty.

Let the experts do what they are paid for and your watch (and, by extension, your bank balance) will be very grateful indeed.

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shotgunhouse-blog · 7 years

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“Snake Head” by Lynda Leidiger

The whole snake head business began, of course, on Halloween.

I had seen it in the window, weeks before, on the shelf with a gorilla, Richard Nixon and an old man with one bloody eyeball hanging down over his cheek. The snake was a king cobra, emerald green, a proud hood splayed behind its head. Its small red eyes stared arrogantly above me. I loved its milky fangs.

The night before the party, my husband took me to buy the mask. “What do you want that for?” he said when he saw it. He was trying on a Jimmy Carter mask and chuckling at himself. The clerk told him they had just sold the last Menachem Begin.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s me.”

I slipped it on. It was very dark and I could hardly see out. My eyes were focused through two small holes in the roof of the cobra’s rubber mouth. It was like tunnel vision, the clerk’s face looming toward me as through a fisheye lens.

“It’s very unique, dear,” she said, squinting at me. “I only had half a dozen of these, and I had to order them back in January. This is the last one.”

Some other customers started to gather around me, pointing and snickering. I made hideous faces at them, testing the mask. They didn’t see.

“I’ll take it,” I said. My voice bellowed in my ears behind the thick rubber walls.

“Isn’t it awfully hot?” my husband said. He peered in at me without meeting my eyes and nodded in satisfaction, as though he had paused at the entrance of a haunted cave and found it empty.

I wore the head all the way home in the car. I could see only straight ahead; palm trees waved like giant feelers at the edge of my vision. I had the odd sensation of being brought home from the hospital. Instead of taking the freeway, my husband drove slowly down Ventura Boulevard all the way from Tarzana to Studio City. Although it was early afternoon and the car window was rolled down, nobody seemed to notice my head. I could tell he was disappointed.

“And they say people in New York are blasé,” he muttered.

For the party, I put on a strapless gown of purple velvet, swarming with seed pearls and rhinestones. I also had black-velvet gloves to my elbows, a rhinestone bracelet and black-patent-leather shoes with straps around my ankles. Finally, I draped a fawn-colored rabbit-fur jacket around me. The jacket felt odd; my husband had given it to me and I had never worn it. The thought of the dead rabbits was still faintly sickening.

My cobra eyes stared at me from the mirror. A golden reptile throat rose from my shoulders. I was magnificent. “It’s a shame you don’t have some green body paint,” my husband said. He was angry because he wanted to go as a gypsy and I wouldn’t let him take my violin. He thought he had a right to it because I hadn’t played in two years. He grumbled as a cut a hole in my throat so I could drink through a straw without taking off the head.

It turned out to be one of those Hollywood parties. I’m not sure how we were invited, but we went because my husband thought he might make some connections. Someone told him Ralph Bakshi might be there. A Doberman in a feather boa lunged for me at the door, barking and frothing. Fidel Castro slapped the dog’s snout until it was quiet, and handed me a joint.

“Charmed, Fidel, I’m Joan Crawford,” I said, holding out my velvet hand to him. He looked pleased to be recognized. Nearly everyone laughed. My husband beamed; he hadn’t been so proud of me in years. I held the joint to my throat and watched in the mirror as the smoke slid out over my black tongue.

We went out onto the patio and stood, smoking, under the cardboard skeletons hanging from the eucalyptus trees. Their feet scraped loudly against my head. I could tell that Ralph Bakshi wasn’t going to show up there. I got myself a glass of wine punch.

“Hey, what do you look like under that mask?” some guy asked. He wore a tweed cap and there were several pipes in his pockets. I tried to decide whether or not the pinkish-purple blotches had been painted on his cheeks. “I bet under that mask you got blonde hair. Am I right? The coat’s the tip-off; if you had dark hair, you wouldn’t wear a coat that color.”

“If she had, like, black hair, the contrast would be too much,” someone else agreed. He was an actor from Phoenix. He told us several times that he had just arrived in L.A. yesterday with two dollars and eight cents in his pocket. His shoes didn’t match and his eyebrows were drawn so that one went up and the other down.

“I bet she’s got blue eyes, or maybe hazel, and high cheekbones. And very soft skin,” the guy with the pipes said suggestively. His acne glowed eerily under the patio floodlights.

My husband smirked, pleased.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” I said, and had another hit.

A girl with pigtails and white knee socks came bouncing out of the house. Under one arm she carried a cloth doll in a bonnet. “I heard there was something to smoke out here. I haven’t moved so fast all night.” She giggled.

“It’s harsh,” the actor said, passing her the joint.

“Harsh. It’s nice to hear harsh. I mean, people say raspy. Raspy and dusted!” She tossed her pigtails and took the joint in long, noisy gasps. “It’s flippy. Hey, you’re a soldier,” she said to Fidel.

He took the cigar out of his mouth disgustedly. “Exactly what are you supposed to be?” he said.

“I’m four years old,” she said, cradling the doll.

“I’m twenty-one, going on a thousand.” The guy with the pipes kept trying to look in at me, but he was having a hard time standing up. I was having a hard time trying to figure out why no one seemed to have come in costume.

“God, aren’t there any potato chips? Raw vegetables give me ulcers,” the actor said and wandered off.

The guy with the pipes poked the girl’s doll. “That Raggedy Ann?”

The four-year-old scowled, crinkling her painted freckles. “This is Holly Hobbie. Her friends call her Hobbie; I mean, Holly.” She dissolved in giggles.

I found that I could push pretzel sticks through my throat.

“I want to show you something,” Fidel whispered. He led me up to his room. Over his bed was a huge oil painting of a Venetian canal. He told me had painted it himself in 20 hours. It wasn’t badly done at all. Somehow, he had put a small light behind it so there was a sun in the sky, which he could make brighter or dimmer. The sky was a kind of faded amber color and the crumbling buildings were dried caramel. He turned the sun low for me. “I knew you’d like Venice,” he said, fingering my purple velvet.

Just then, the four-year-old came in. “Wow. What color is it?” she said.

Fidel let go of my dress and put the cigar back in his mouth. He looked as though it didn’t taste particularly good. “There are twenty-two colors in it,” he said. “I have them written underneath.”

The four-year-old bent over him to get closer to the painting. It was getting hot inside the head; I felt like going out again. As I left, I heard her telling Fidel that she could see a little blue. I met the Doberman on the stairs. He quietly showed me his teeth but didn’t bark.

My husband scarcely took his eyes off me all night. He devotedly brought me carrot sticks and slivers of zucchini to push through my throat. Once or twice he pressed against me behind the punch bowl.

Two more people came to the party, a cop and his girlfriend. They came as each other. The guy who thought I was a blonde had taken over the stereo and was playing two lines of a Dylan song over and over again.

“Oh, Momma, can this really be the end?” he sang mournfully, waving one of his pipes.

“Oh, let’s go,” my husband said. “Everybody here is trying to break into commercials.”

As we left, the guy stopped singing Dylan to whisper to me, “I’ve voted you beauty queen of the night.”

I turned to glare at him, but the snake head stared straight ahead, haughty and indifferent, as we swept past.

At home, I took off the purple dress and touched the emerald scales of my face.

“Leave your shoes on,” my husband said hoarsely.

He pushed me onto the bed, grabbing my breasts and pulling himself into me, a climber gaining a momentary hold on an impossible cliff. I dug my nails into the meat of his broad back and spurred him on with my shiny heels. He came within seconds, as always.

“That was wonderful,” I said, as always. I touched the cobra head gratefully and cried until my tears welded the rubber to my skin.

I wore the snake head to work on Monday, with a new dress in a soft, wine-colored material that clung to me. I felt sleek and shapely, but it was the cobra head that made me feel beautiful.

“What are you supposed to be?” Rosemary said. She was a stupid, unhappy woman, just smart enough to be perpetually suspicious that people were making fun of her. She had been a secretary with the company for 28 years.

“Happy Halloween,” I said, sitting at my desk and uncovering my typewriter.

Rosemary frowned at me. “You watch it,” she said. “Mr. March said just the other day he thought you had some kind of rebellious streak. But I stuck up for you, I said you were maturing. You’re going to ruin me,” she hissed.

There was a stack of work in my basket. I crumpled the vinyl cover of my IBM and shoved it into a drawer. “I’m getting a cup of coffee,” I said.

Going down the hall to the coffee machine, I saw my lover. He was lean, forest-eyed, wheat-haired. Seeing him always took my breath away, made me weak in the knees. I was a fool, an embarrassment to myself.

He smiled at me. His eyes slid up the forked tongue and found me right away. He shook his head. He thought I was beautiful.

Safe within my rubber fortress, my slack idiot’s face melted for him. I have known you 100,000 years; we were dinosaurs together, I told him soundlessly.

Mr. March saw us in the hall. He bent toward me, trying to look down my dress. “Don’t we look yummy today?” he leered, looking to my lover for agreement, but he was gone.

“Do we?” Fuck yourself in the ass, I mouthed gloriously.

His lean brown vulture’s head bent farther toward me. “Who are you supposed to be?” he said. His wrinkled tie dangled obscenely outside his vest.

“I’m supposed to be a secretary,” I said.

Still bent over, he said, “Why are you afraid of me?”

“I’m not afraid of you.” I hate you, I said.

His face constricted with pretended concern. “Why don’t you open up to me?” he said, very low. “You mustn’t be afraid. You won’t get the reaction you expect. Think about that.” He wagged a finger at me, brushing my breast.

“I’ll think about it.” You asshole, I said.

When I got back to my desk with my coffee and my straw, Rosemary was typing furiously. “You’re cute” was all she would say.

My lover came by to take me to lunch. We went to his apartment. He is a writer; his four unpublished novels, neatly bound, stand next to his bed. They are all about a woman he loved in Paris eight years ago. He does not expect to love again.

The early afternoon sun, filtering weakly through the vines, dappled us like lepers. He stroked my proud hood with one hand as he undid my dress. I writhed beneath him, then over him, my hidden face contorted into molten curves of longing. I felt my lips curl past my teeth; sweat drizzled down my cheeks. There was a downpour in my head, dim memories of an ancient sea.

Afterward, he gave me some Perrier to sip through a straw. He put on an old record and sang to me, his voice flat and husky as the November wind. He was wishing he was in Paris.

I cut tiny slits between the scales to make the head more comfortable and stopped wearing make-up. I took off the snake head for a few minutes every night and washed my face in the dark bathroom. Once I turned on all the light and nearly screamed. The head in the mirror was pale, grotesquely small. The face quivered stupidly, a weak, pitiable, unsafe face. A face that I had tolerated despite nearly 30 years of consistent betrayals. Of its own will, it would blush and snarl and yawn and weep and look alternately sad and foolish. It had no interest in protecting me. I had given it many chances, I thought, as I put the snake head back on. It felt so good.

After I had worn the head for a week, Mr. March called me into his office. He liked to sail and there were models all over his desk and credenza. “Don’t you think you’re carrying this thing too far?” he said, staring in at where he thought I was.

I said nothing. A cobra says nothing.

“You’re not in college anymore. This kind of prank won’t go over here. You’ve got to think of your career,” he said. “You’re a bright girl, but you’ve got to start watching your step. We can’t have this. Besides, it must get terribly hot in that thing,” he added hopefully.

I reminded him that I was always on time, that i was the best typist in the office, that my work was always in compliance with company standards. I casually mentioned discrimination and the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, which was already handling several suits against the company.

He blanched under his Sunday-sailor’s tan, then tried to look hurt. “I don’t know why you're afraid of me.”

I left him jabbing his pen into the rigging of an old whaler.

Drinking all my meals through a straw was beginning to make me thin. For the first time in years, I liked the way I looked. My lover ran his tongue along the clean blades of my hipbones and pressed his face against my flat belly. He murmured that he thought his French was beginning to come back.

He pureed oysters for me in the blender and made me duckling à l’orange, frogs’ legs provençale, poached salmon with chestnuts. He sauteed tiny carrots and crumbled dillweed into the melted butter. He tenderly fed his creations into the blender and I drank them with a straw.

My husband complained, “Your tits are too small.” He said it was like screwing on box springs without a mattress. He had lost his hold. He bruised the span of his chest against my knees night after night. He never wanted me to take off the snake head.

Sometimes, after he was asleep, I’d sneak into the kitchen and put something in the blender for myself, a taco or a bowl of Cheerios, and drink it through my cold sleek snake throat. Once I stole a page of my lover’s latest manuscript and tried to drink it, but Paris was a pulpy gray paste that stuck in the straw and had to be scraped out of the blender.

I began playing the violin again. I crouched in the closet and played while my husband slept. I began memorizing arias from Bach’s Passion According to Saint Matthew and singing along quietly in melancholy German. I cried happily in the dark, under the coats.

After a while, Mr. March wouldn’t even look at me, no matter what kind of dress I wore. I licked my lips at him invisibly as she shrank against the wall, clutching his attaché case, his bald brown head smooth with revulsion.

Rosemary no longer confided what she and Mr. March said about me. They went to long lunches together; she’d come back flushed and self-righteous.

She rarely spoke to me. One day she said fiercely, “Why don’t you just go home and have some kids? Or are you afraid they’ll hatch?” Her sneer was so ignorant that it needed no reply.

My husband bought me an imitation-leather bra and garter belt. He went to Frederick’s of Hollywood, I suppose. He also bought me some absurdly pointed imitation-snakeskin boots. Luckily, I never had to walk in them. It must be like making love to a La-Z-Boy recliner, I thought, smiling while he grunted and battered himself against my Naugahyde thighs.

One night, when he was through, he told me about a bad dream he’d had.

“You burned the house down,” he said. “You meant to do it. You said we could only take a few things, to make it look like an accident. Then you sprinkled gasoline around the house and we lit it. I helped you.” He shook his head slowly and he said again, “I helped you.”

“Why did I do it?” I said.

He looked at me, his eyes searching the cobra cavern. He looked puzzled, then annoyed and sullen, like someone trying to scrape mayonnaise out of an empty jar that he could have sworn was full. “I don’t know,” he said. “It wasn’t in the dream.” Moments later, he was asleep.

A few nights after that, he got up for a glass of water and heard me in the closet. I was playing Come, Sweet Death, sobbing blissfully. He grabbed my arm and yanked me out into the light. He was shaking. Slowly he reached for me and, with both hands, tore off my head and ripped it up the back. He looked at it for a moment, lying in his hands. Then he threw it into the bathtub and started lighting matches. The scales began to smoke and melt, oozing across the pink porcelain. The smell was nauseating.

He carefully turned over the head so that I could see the emerald hood darken and fall away. The small red cobra eyes rolled upward in despair, the soft fangs flowed like marshmallow cream over the forked hot tar tongue. I pressed my violin into my chest until the strings groaned.

The room was filled with fetid black smoke. My husband was crying, too, tears cutting grimy ditches through the soot on his face. For a long time, he watched the feeble, smoldering thing that had been the snake head; he couldn’t stand to look at me. Finally, he got himself a glass of water and went back to bed.

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