#they are shaped by their choices (or lack thereof) before they became what they are

[joannasteez]

stay, please

pairing: roman reigns x blackreader warning: ANGST.. smut . explicit descriptions! so minors please do not interact! word count: 10k ... now that we found love, what are we gonna do, with it? ...

all that time ago, when you'd first met him, your acknowledgement of roman was flimsy, a shell of nothing, but the simple words and pretty smiles made him run warm all the same. "my tribal chief", you'd say, airy and teasing, void of awe. he was big and strong, hubris making him this mountain of a man, but he was just that, nothing more than a man, and you'd seen enough men to know that they did not differ much. they groaned in time with their irritations, made their problems yours. lusted wild and unapologetically. they demanded everything, in their time, in their way, and gave what little that they wanted. and roman reigns, the tribal chief, was no different. 

his eyes, suggestive and sharp, had taken to the fit of your ring gear easily. the shaping of the fabrics in places and in others, the lack thereof, pulling his interest till his fixations melted something warm and devious into your skin. he'd approach you wolf like, this stalking pace as if to circle prey. grinning amused. "i think you can do better than that for me. a little more enthusiasm".

and he was a tower then, still is now, strides long, full of leisure. your eyes peered from under the fan of your lashes, indulging the domineer of his presence with the coyness of good prey. you'd done well to make the game, the chase, or whatever this was for him, at least somewhat entertaining if not completely so. 

you'd indulged. leaned into the mass of him, one small step forward after another till the air had no choice but to be shared between the both of you. a finger lifting to trace faint over the lettering of his shirt. and it'd taken everything not to fall then, not to give in to the pull of him, like some small wayward celestial object fighting against the orbit of a great star. the heady note of his smell, the strong comfort of his warmth, the height of him, the sure soft ways his eyes drifted over you, like he'd just known without complete expression of words or deeds that you were his. 

your touch had turned more firm then, from one finger to your palm, slipping down till it played at his abs. and a grin had curled, amused now too, feeling the rushing in his blood. "i can be a whole lot better for you, you gotta earn that though".

but your words, so teasing and strong then, built firm and made off your tongue to last, were not as reliable as you'd thought they'd be, for the gravity of him was this overwhelming thing. and before the rush of it could settle, before the excitement of lust could wane, you found yourself with him at every corner or surface available. your legs wrapped in his, your lips wet and your tongue tangled, pushing and licking to taste him. your breaths caught forever, short and desperate as they fought to be full. he felt good and the heat of him melted the worry in your bones, until it didn't. 

until the fun of it became dense, so much so that it was unbearable. his touch becoming more nailed into the skin of you, and his words fixing quiet, each more vulnerable than the ones before them. these heavy sinking whispers in the night, your bodies laying sated and damp, thighs aching and your blood rushing smooth just after release. arousal still sticky between your legs where his hands and mouth had been. from him came these words, forming to sound like something similar to forever. but by then it was too late, to stop, to take back, to slip away from under him. 

and in the midst of fighting and failing to keep away from his body, and his quiet bed time passions, creatives of the smackdown brand championed the idea of a more feminine edge to the bloodline. someone who could rough and tough it, take a bump and bounce back for more. someone who could smile and charm and manipulate. someone who could, in the blink of an eye turn vicious if need be. a character that had draw, that could have the crowd eating from their palm. and though yes, roman was not starved of womanly support by way of the viewership, the faction was in sore need still of a lighter touch. something, or rather someone less naturally brutish, that did not wreak of ego or that larger than life self importance. and so, from a charismatic mid-carder, to the upper echelon, you rose and dominated as an entity connected to the infamous crew. 

the full silver of your ring gear slowly altered to accommodate the overwhelming red and black, his colors, till there was a more even mix. and it all spoke without words, the black and red these leading lines, binding you to the one called the tribal chief. 

a botched spot in the ring kept you away for some time. a few months of recovery, the perfect amount of time to go cold turkey from roman. 

and though he called and texted and face timed, his constant travels and your inconsistencies left him hallow. an emptiness that soon would leave his ego to pulse with a bruising pain. he thought, in the midst of all those months of your recovery, that it was just the tingling in his fingers that he needed gone, these simple bouts of lust that could be easily remedied. but it was more than that it seemed. aches in his chest and this drawing pull in his skin. a helpless sort of longing. 

he wrestled harder in those months, brutal, bordering relentless. when you wouldn't answer at all, or would only answer with few words, he pushed the fire of his anger, drove it through muscle and nerve, about the bones that built him till it was all he could feel. 

why the fuck were you dodging him?

and all that fire, that white hot anger, attempting to purge his bones of you, flared and burst wild till it could no longer. flared to consume him till it proved shallow and here you were, under his eyes again. the silver-red-black of your ring gear calling his fingers to run against it, the tips where his nerves live itching to flex and curl into your skin. the curve in there where your hip dips, the muscles in him remembering well as the feelings there form back to life with excitement. 

you look as good as you did pre-injury. maybe even a little better. 

he makes himself known, the tone of him rich, stunning. something dark amidst the allure. you'd forgotten how well it arrested you. 

"hows your arm?"

"bendable, so it's fine". 

you do little to acknowledge him, afraid of what even a little eye contact can do to the strength of already weak resolve, but you move your newly healed arm about rather flimsily, showing him just enough so he can go about his business. 

the carpet ruffles with his every step. closer and closer he gets. your heart knocking into your chest. "recovery must've been good, should've been", his breath warm and feathering along your neck. your fingers moving with a slight shake as you make to clean an already clean vanity. "had to have been", his fingers taking a small trace over your shoulders to hold you there, "cause i barely heard a thing from you". his thumbs sooth into the fabric, soft and remembering. 

your breath hitches, the tip of his nose running small at the line of your neck. and none of those months of recovery mean anything in the slightest, save for the healing of your arm. your pulse quickens and beats harsh, same as it did before, skin taking to a slight tremble as the warmth of him surrounds you here. and your own fingers, working to burrow into the hard shape of the vanity, itch to touch him too, though something nags at you to fight against him. to war with the resolute way his touch fastens to your body. 

"i didn't realize you were my keeper". 

he sighs, slightly annoyed by the way your words fight to push against his own, but it doesn't stop the straying of his lips along your skin. skimming where they please till they pull in to leave a faint kiss at your pulse. "you've been ignoring me".

"apparently not enough". 

he laughs, pulls your hips close till they flush against him, and laughs some more. his mouth parting just at the shell of your ear. "you're not convincing", his fingers flexing, a firm pulling as they make their way to play between your thighs at the fabric covering where they'd itched and feened to be. "not even a little bit". 

and how you'd gotten here, falling so fast back into him to be consumed, back into the deft maneuver of his fingers and the heat of his mouth, was not at all lost on you. just as similar as it was not all that lost on him either, to feel your skin and the faint release of your breaths. fighting on his own for months to undo you from him, all for nothing. both affected in full by the other, thirsty and bordering impatient. and when he curls in past the stretchy material to slip against the wet of your slit, your hips move with a mind all their own, seeking a harsher friction. 

heat braces your skin, head lulling forward. your hips shifting rigid, fighting to still and losing as they chase the smooth circling of his touch. "roman", breathy. urgent. 

"no, no, no, no, no", his free hand firmly at your neck. an upward motion to reveal your eyes again. "you don't run from me, not when you want it this badly". his finger slipping further to sink in knuckle deep. the push in of them lax and patient. a pace he takes to feel you throb for him. with every second, the length of it steeping in the soaked mess of you. 

you gather words, a sloppy attempt to fire back at him and it fails as you moan through it. "who said i wanted this or you". 

"you know what it is babygirl", the speed of his touch urged on by his ego. his need to prove you wrong. you want him, you want him and he knows it. if not for words then he knows it with how eager your hips grind into his fingers. the slip of your pussy easy and hungry as it pulses. so much so that it resounds into the dead air of the dressing room, the tune of it forcing his hips to rut into you. "you don't want it, you tell me and i stop". he breathes hot and hectic into your skin, into your neck, kissing between takes of air. fingers thick and glistening under harsh fluorescent lights as they curve in to fuck you deep. "c'mon, tell me how much you don't need it, how much you don't need me", eyes brown and blistered. of course you needed him, of fucking course you do how could you not? when he needed you. "c'mon sweetheart, tell me so i can leave". a tear struck the apple of your cheek, a simple roll that told of everything. your skin twitched and your muscles ached, ready to feel the draw out of release, but the cage of your chest rattled, flaming with a need to say something long unspoken.

but to do it, to say it, would be worse than breaking a bone. worse than the raw opening of slit skin. to give in to him, would be the end of it all. 

"fuck", a whimper breaking. wrecking the strength of your voice. your hips working to rut against the curl in of his fingers. your head lulls at an angle to sink into his chest. hands free from the vanity as you grab to hold onto him. "keep it there baby, please". 

"yeah?", his neck craning to take your lips with his. tongue messy and suckling. and his fingers move with vigor, arm taut and muscle bound, veins striking against his skin. something similar to lightning. "and when you come what do you say?"

your breath catches and the sharp ways of your vision blur. the coil wound up in your core bursting wild at the seams as you rut and drip against the softening thrust of roman's fingers. your lips trembling as words flow hot and feverish. "th-thankyouthankyouthankyou". 

even if the body was not made to do so, you could fly high, tumble, knock into, break at, and push over just about anything in ring. it's what made the rise from the mid-card so satisfying. it's what made the star studded rivalries so well anticipated and stunning. women of a particular caliber, head to head, their bodies and their wits and their wills stressed and strained until only one remained. at it's core, the work all by it's lonesome was easy. tiresome yes, but the pursuit of winning, that bright gold belt about the waist, was all a singleminded affair. easy. but the presence of him was, is, a storm. difficult to escape. reckless. ungovernable. and it seemed that the drifting of his eyes to find you and the remnants of his touch could not be undone. like a deep soldering under your skin, at the hard make of your bones.

he lingered, and beyond the shallow 'i don't want you's', the cut of your eyes and that cold far away disposition, something like need teemed, warm and fettered to your fingers, pressing slow into his skin, the fabric of his t-shirt, slipping into his hair. just before the quiet, when ecstasy was it's loudest, he could feel it running into him like nails, 'stay', etching red and raw into his flesh. and then a soothing kiss, more passionate, wordless but tender all the same, 'stay please'. 

your inconsistencies were nearly earsplitting. i want him, i won't. i need him, no i don't. it made even the prestige of the women's world championship lackluster. 

you'd won, your waist decorated in gold, but the true excitement of such a grand moment could not reach you beyond the loose way liquor paints your tongue. skin racing warm and control undone. the floor moving with this deep hard shudder, bass bleeding out. the air is thick from bodies, from the unintelligible roar of people. but what is clear, beyond the blur that comes for the eyes after chilly shots of espolon, is him. roman smiling in that faithful way that he does, wolf like, suggestive. clever and telling in the way that it so clearer reminds you of how small and good you can be as prey. something for him to take. to hold and guide and pull and pry at till he’s full. but that look of allure is not for you, no he'd done something fucked. he'd gone and found someone else to look at like that, some woman near the edge of the bar too oblivious and taken by the size of him to know that it was all a game. 

a game you were losing at. your lips wet from the bits of your next shot that seemed to miss your tongue. you were too loose, too hot, too lethal. it was just barely easy to play the game when it was you, denying him and tugging along that thinly wound string that tethered itself from you to him, but when he made his moves to do the same, it wrecked you well. 

tore you asunder. this deep splitting at the heart till you were left raw to the open air. 

'fuck him, you're the women's world champion', the espolon steeped so well into you that it speaks. 'say it', persistent. you turn from him, your head lulling as your mouth greets another shot of that smooth tequila taste. 'sayitsayitsayit' 

"fuck him".

but is it believable? the harsh bite and break of words as drunk lips form around them, bound to such a severity that only comes with the pain of pain. 

the harsh bass nearly breaks your ears and makes your body tremble. you would like to leave, to tear your eyes away from them, from him, but you would also like to stay. 

"you play right into his hand when you do that", a mouth near your ear persists above the noise. the well fitted dress of a button up forgotten for something sloppier and indicative of the loose, dancing, club energy. cody rhodes' face just a few ways away from beet red as he holds chilly water in one hand. 

and there are crueler things in the world, things that grind against the spirit till it's worn and faint, but nothing pricks against the heart more in this moment than that woman’s fingers lingering against romans. the charm of her smile luring him in as she mouths to him unrecognizable things. "he wants to spite me, let him". 

cody snorts, lazily throws his arm about you. "it wouldn't be anything you've never done". and you think maybe you hate the sense of his logic and his friendship. the filterless way he says things. so forthright, so readymade. 

"fuck you, wheres the loyalty". 

his cheeks pull high into the creasing corner of his baby blue eyes. fully amused. he probably thinks you're a damn joke, and maybe it's true, in the petulant ways you avoid and revert inward. 

he hands you the cup of water and you sip it willingly, wishing maybe though that its something else. 

"he'll play cat, you'll play mouse, he'll fuck you and hint at what you fear most, you'll run and we'll be right back to where we are now. so what the fuck's up with the preamble". 

you shove the cup of water into his chest, picking up one of the many shot glasses that stand still on a tray. the taste of it not so dissimilar to water. he frowns, watching on as you glare into the emptiness of the shot glass. sometimes, in these short moments, when you crave things you aim to kill, he worries. 

"didn't realize all my shit was so entertaining". you look angry, sound that way even, but the melodramatic coupling of words tell him you drift more towards a sullen pain than to anger. 

"no, entertainment isn't this boring", he quips and you jab your elbow into his stomach. just enough to make him grunt before the break into a fit of little laughs.

but then you set the glass down and turn in to face him, to nuzzle closer into where your forehead meets his collarbone. eyes forming with hints of a glassiness that lend themselves to vulnerability. 

roman's eyes take to looking about the club, instinctively, falling against the warmth of your embrace with cody. fire forms in his chest, aches with a burning. 

your voice leaves off soft into cody's ear, muffled in the fabric of his shirt. "it won't work. not in any way that matters". 

"you don't know that"

"i've been played before. i'm not new to games". 

cody rubs soothing into your shoulder, the compassion making you melt in that drunken way that leads to the welling of a tear. 

"games aren't made to last, that's why they get played, and why people play them. if it's real then it's real". 

"is this what it is now? you don't speak when you see me?" 

dead air and his own words, tired in their anger. 'how long can i go, before i break?', but the break came quickly, the silence disrupting him. he rests but not really, stands there idle as if to feign the strength of a stable man but his nerves stir with ill-control. they flip and they twitch, crashing up against the inner parts of him. you won't speak, and your eyes don't meet. and when the job forces your hand, you grow cold in this subtle way. warm still but a biting chill just like at the cusp of spring. and your lips become these masters of brevity. and he wants to say it here —where his blood rushes irate, wrought by adrenaline— that he isn't too far from hating you. your skin, your touch, your voice, your face, the pull of your lips when you smile, all the things that make him lov-

"we work together, i talk to you all the time". 

and even in all this, he couldn't not move closer to you. one foot in front the other till he was arms length. "promos and in-ring action aside, y'know what i mean". 

you fight your own urges. to meet his eyes, to touch him, to fall beyond the bounds of those drunken whispers from nights passed where you cursed his name. "it should stay like that, professional. it's cleaner this way, safer". 

he scoffs. something like a tower now the way he stands over you.

"yeah?", smirk mirthless. "and what, me fucking you out back behind an arena ain't clean? you bendin' over in a dressing room ain't safe enough anymore?" each word slightly louder than the last. 

"keep you voice down", you hiss. 

"or what?", his eyes sharp and narrowing. scrutiny burned into the brown of them. "everything you do is convenient for you". and his lips spread in that mirthless way again, bordering disgust. "you get scared so you pull away, you feel good again and come runnin' back. you ain't never fit me in for consideration, not once, unless it meant me sticking my dick in you". 

and when blood is drawn, words like venom dripping into raw split skin, isn't it only appropriate to do the same? to do him in with the violence he so easily struck with first?

"once upon a time i didn't have to consider you", meeting him with words, cold and mocking. "i paid you fucking dust and when i did acknowledge you, you were grateful for it". vexed and thrilled, you watch the silent ways his rage manifests. the flaring in his nose and the shifting in his jaw. beneath where heaps of muscle lie, just there at his chest, falters this steady beating. a deep plunging of his ego. it makes you smile, nicks pain into your heart just the same. "maybe we should revisit that and stay there, and not be so damn emotional about it".

he recedes into something like pity. "whoever he was before me, he did a number on you". 

it's this rupturing that hurts the most. the pain of it, a distant memory long remembered. this great big wound. raw and the skin so tattered still and messily undone. "you don't know me". 

"exactly", roman urges. still above it all, wanting to know something. the slightest thing. anything. 

you leave, slamming the dressing room door.

it was as if the spite of him, that which that'd already existed —a small, near idle thing, had reared it's head to tear through him again. seemingly more brutal than before. whether cruel or not, whether it worked or not, he'd made the effort, against his better judgement to see you bend. not to break no, but to see something other than the usual push and pull that became the mainstay of whatever this thing was between the two of you. that night at the club—his own go at drawing up some jealousy, an attempt at cracking your little shell of resistance, to see if you even cared, but still he didn't know. not for sure anyways. so here he was, needy, spiteful, and a short ways away from brutal as sweat broke from his brows and a frustrated groan from his lips. hips swinging in lethal, teeth gritting, and the core of him coiling tight. 

he couldn't remember her name, no, but she was too similar to pass on. she ran just parallel enough to you that it could work. similar skin tone, the nonchalance, the coy silence of the eyes, sly slim touches that roughed into something harsh—near skin splitting. but when she spoke, the puzzle piece couldn't quite fit. her pitch too bright, not bitty enough. it didn't wreck through him the same, didn't rush in to him or thrum his blood but he couldn't complain about it, not when the chase of his release was so close. just palpable enough to satisfy. 

roman took a mild shifting, hiking up a leg to leave the other bent, his foot nailing further into the hotel bed sheets, all to work his hips deeper. 

her face ran into the sheets, mascara smudging dark into the clean white. "mhmm- fuck! i-", her hips fluid, rolling against the swing of roman's. words nearly undone, breaths close to finishing. "pleasepleaseplease".

she pulsed about him, hips rocking to chase the burning in her limbs, the harsh twist up of her core. and where he dug into her she fought to keep him there, soaked and clenching but it just barely came close. she hugged him for dear life, fucked on him till she couldn't take him to the hilt anymore. attempted to possess him even, with sultry moans and the allure of whispered begging. everything he liked, everything he wanted but it didn't quite fit. everything lacked by only half of a half step but it all mattered. and it was evident you made the difference. 

the lazy trace of your lips, the delirium you took—even in rare bouts of aggression—the burn of your touch like a piercing in his skin. the dulling of your eyes, till they rolled overwhelmed and undone. the shivers in your skin and the submission of your body, the skin and bones of you left for him to form back together. 

he missed you, and yes of course he wanted to fuck you, completely break you in that faithful way that he did in times past, where you'd rush in dainty, words like feathers, thankyouthankyouthankyou, but he also wanted to hold you. wanted to mold himself to you till he was unsure of where he ended and you began. he wanted breath stealing kisses that rolled lazy and thick. he wanted to still the shivers in your body, wanted to caress you through the burden of release and even after, he wanted to keep you there. safe in the strength of him. 

and it was here, in these thoughts, where he found the feeling. the pulling in his gut strong and subduing, tugging away from the wet mess of her to release. thick ropes against her skin as he groaned. 

"fuck......".  

your name slipping through. unabashed and clear as day. 

roman winces, feels the recoil of it in his flesh. this awkward reversion where his body fights not to cave in on itself out of embarrassment.

why the fuck would he do that? 

but she's moving before he can do anything, cleaning herself till she's rid of him. and damn it, why can't he remember her name? his back flopping into the sheets, an arm thrown over his eyes. he's tired and ill feeling, somewhat ashamed. 

the woman saunters in, some ways from disgust. such a beautiful man, so obviously successful, and seemingly hung up on a woman who cares less than a fuck about him. thats what she can gather anyways. her fingers helping her slip her clothes back on. she grows curious. 

"who is she?"

roman looks to her, realizing just how much she doesn't look like you at all. beautiful but not you. 

"what?"

her eyes roll. that small sliver of curiosity done away with as she shuffles to adjust her heels."if your'e gonna finish all over me, the least you can do is remember my name". 

she makes for the bedroom door of the luxury suite, leaving roman to fall deeper into his own silence. her voice carries, sweet and mocking. 

"your little nda is signed. thanks for making me come". 

roman grunts in response. feeling the slight rattle of the slammed door. 

from the chill of new york city winter weather, to the warmth of one of the city's many luxurious hotels, came a firm dulling of the nights mixture of cocktails and whatever other light liquor your dear friend cody rhodes had decided was good enough for you. and what a dear friend indeed, always so caring, so righteous and so fucking motherly. his every word soft and urbane — "slow down, take this water, no more of that drink"—and his every look one of knowing and pity, until his glassy blue eyes and lisp-y mouth became resolute, even when in their own drunkenness, going as far as to putting you in a car and shipping you back to where you were now, at the hotel. "you're not even having fun, go sleep", his lips pulling into a gentle pout. his arms a warm embrace till they were gone, and you were ducking sullenly into an SUV. 

he was all you could think about.

...whoever he was before me, he did a number on you... 

and with so little said, roman had done you in to a silent sort of suffering. this shoddily made shell of something —your heart— playing at nonchalance, completely destroyed. stripped now, naked and fearful of whatever is to follow. the possibility, whether with or without him, the unknown, left you stunned, ill even. 

...should you call?... fingers itching to reach, to slip against his contact ...but would he answer?... or would he, and rightfully so, do you the quieted sort of violence you'd done to him, time and time again?... those brutal ways your lips refused to speak, and when they did their words like daggers. your eyes never meeting, and when they came upon him, they bore over him icy and displeasured. like he was a nuisance, or even worse, a stranger. and the desertion of your touch, once upon a time, when the drive of lust and adoration was new in him, seemed that it would never leave. yes, you'd understand, but fuck if it wouldn't hurt, wouldn't pierce the greater parts of you, where strength of the ego and desire lives. 

but its only when the phone rings that all hesitancy of the moment breathes hard. knocks unceremoniously against free inhibitions till you're wishing for him to ignore you. maybe, right here, right now, making the effort is enough, maybe it's all you need to say ...i did it, i tried... and nothing else. your whispers rushed and a bit scared and waiting. "don't answer, don't answer don't answer".

the ringing stops. he answers. 

your breathing is soft, but present, the only thing that sings amongst the silence of him. what is this? after the callousness, the hardy stones you'd thrown into the glass of his resolve in an attempt to break him. 

he's tired but not really. done but not really. he sighs, fingers roughing through his beard. "yeah?"

you giggle, breathy. a bit unnerved. your words rolling off, slightly slurred still. "thought i'd get your voicemail", you wonder how he looks, if his heart threatens to beat beyond the cage of his chest the way it does yours. "didn't think you'd answer".

he's quiet. breathing. "why'd you call?"

"you sound nice". the little thats left of the tequila pouring over your tongue into words. even in his tiredness he sounded beautiful. rich and dark and alluring. "did i wake you?" 

"no". but he can't help himself, in being curious, in caring. "you alright?" 

"i'mfine, ijust...i-"

"you sound drunk". 

"tipsy". 

"how much did you have?", a question but more so a command. the authority threaded in his voice lulling you in. it makes you shiver with need. makes you want to touch him. 

"mhmm idon'tknow rome". and he can hear your shifting over the sheets, as you shift over answers to give him, that would satisfy him. you wanted so badly, despite your fears, to satisfy him. "a shot, a drink or two". 

"lightweight for real", he chuckles. "who were you with?"

"cody. he got my uber". 

is it so bad?, when the hour is late?, to think of seeing you, even if the thought is little and fleeting and ways away from dangerous? "you here at the hotel?" 

"damn", and you're laughing. giddy at the way he worries. reeling with sarcasm "you want me to share my location?" 

"watch yourself".

"yes sir". 

and here the air is hesitant, forming fragile and ill-informed of whats to come. it shapes about the both of you wearily and groans even in it's stillness of how ill-suited it is at holding the ambivalence of this... love, lust, longing or whatever it is twisting about the both of you. it yearns for something new, for something unweighted and free and sweet. 

roman asks you again. curiosity breaking a heaviness into the weight of him. "why'd you call?" 

your bed sheets pinch and ruffle between your fingers, taking on the burden of your anxieties. "i figured if i went out...i'd-i'd get a little courage yknow? a drink or two and then i could call you, could hear your voice". 

"hear my voice huh?", his jaw clenching. tone one of full mocking and scrutiny. after everything, all that was said, something like venom off your tongue in a means to poison his resolve, and now you wanted to hear from him? "and all that big talk, all that mouth and bravado, paying me dust and keepin it how it used to be", smiling mirthless. "what happened to that? where'd that go?"

you shiver, cold despite the warmth of the room. "i don't know roman". 

"you don't?"

"i don't wanna argue with you". 

"what do you want then? tell me so i know". 

"it doesn't matter", something like a grin running through your lips, sullen and wistful. formed only by the sweet safety of what if's and what could be's, because those were always easier. "you'd leave". a single tear slips against your cheek. "you'd get bored after a while and you'd leave". 

...but he isn't him, whoever that other man was, or could be, the one that'd seemingly broken you...

he sighs. "you're afraid of somethin that ain't happen".

"yet", you add. 

"it's not going to".

"you don't know that". 

"you don't either". and of course the fight is natural, this insistent war where true desires of the heart are subdued to the will of something comfortable and simple, because love, even at its easiest, proved always to be tedious and demanding. "i don't make it a habit of getting played".

"i don't make it a habit of playin", sincerity filling him whole. "how i've felt... how i feel still, about you? it's always been real sweetheart". 

another tear and then another, till your skin is warm and nerves flustered. your chest tightening as your mouth trembles. "don't fault me for being scared, please?" 

"clean slate. we can start over". 

"ok". 

and that restless buzzing, the harsh rushing  of the city — cars and trains and people— works easy to overcome the natural fall of silence. breaths passing, his and then yours, one after the other and then together, in waiting, eager but unsure. 

the emptiness is unsettling. makes you restless. urges the drive in his muscles to move. 

your hand splays against a pillow, fingers curling in soft, your voice even softer. "what side of the bed are you laying on?"

"left side". 

you hum. imagining him. hair splayed, long and gentle. "i hate the left side".

"i know", he smiles, small like and imaginative. thinking of older memories, where your legs find themselves curling against his own. 

"it's empty, my left side".

"yeah?"

"yeah".

possibility, this mighty rushing in his blood. 

"whats your room number?" 

there was nothing flimsy about this, the gentle pull of his lips, tongue slipping cautioned but ready all the same, his fingers and palms seemingly made to do and withstand the brute force of many things but taking the time instead to hold you dearly. to savor with his touch what his lips cannot. but when the well of patience in him fills to the brim, when it overflows and floods him unsparingly, his persistence has no choice but to do the same. and your knees threaten to buckle, threaten to kill your resolve, as he cradles your head with one hand and the other anchored firm at your jaw —thumb and pointer— his kiss growing wetter, tongue sharper. because the time away —where neither of you could do more than fight and throw stones and break and avert, gazes and words and touches and thoughts and feelings— felt like forever. and then came the standstill, the white flag. clear air and even clearer intentions, over a phone call of all things. with simple words of the heart. 

roman figured if anything, he was making up for lost time. your palms taking to his beard, thumbing over his cheeks, mouth forming soft over his. 

you felt good, he felt good, but not so much that it couldn't be true.  

and here, where you feel the abandon of his control grow, you break from his mouth, trying and failing to grab for something on a nearby shelf. but he's faster, reaches to grab the outstretch of your arm, flying it over his shoulder. his breath warm and enticing, rushing a thrumming in your blood as he nips the skin there. teasing. 

your nails take this tender clawing into his nape, dipping into silky hair. "i thought we were taking it easy?"

his words mix between the twist of his lips. "we are. your clothes are still on". kissing along your neck.

but he doesn't loom here, statuesque in his anger. doesn't suffer your resolve to threaten a breaking or diminishing to fold under the weight of a harsh truth. knowing whether or not if his words would split you raw for a vicious bout of bloodletting. no he doesn't loom here, but his standing is firm all the same. gentle minded and secure. immovable in the way that it refuses to let you go. 

you wonder if jimmy and jey and solo and naomi can hear him in the pantry from where they are in the living room. hear his groaning, and the smack of his lips as he takes yours. hear his lust and his love and his longing. 

you hum against him in bliss. "you make it very obvious that you want to eat me alive when you look at me like that in front of everybody". 

"am i supposed to feel bad about that? because i don't". 

"being lowkey goes a long way sometimes". 

"yeah a little too long". 

but that night had only been one of the first nights of this mending, this slow cautious maneuver of putting back together the broken pieces of whatever this thing was that had been brewing for sometime. and it isn't until you're sitting in a shared comfortable silence, sipping wine and tasting sweet deserts that the realization comes to you. that this —the sex and the passion and the strife— has only ever been a thing, something ill formed and without definite shape. uncategorized and hesitantly spoken of. it had all been rushed with hushed pleasures and secrecy, rendezvous and an inherent longing that would not, for fear of realer things, be spoken of.

but it was very clear now, as he dipped a spoon into tiramisu, that you needed him. 

and the pace here is easy, as waiters and other patrons breeze by your table without rest, without wait, his eyes and his stillness forming well over the hold you have as you touch him idly. your palm at his knee, raising to take his hand in yours, fingers folding in, shy and feathered and bursting with a wordless affection. 

from where you are, just a short lean in from his lips, his features are not so intimidating, not so all consuming in that daunting way he's perfected. his cheeks are freckled and round and the brown of his eyes are bright. 

you kiss him, take that short lean in and meld your lips till he hums and thumbs your chin. because he isn't him if he doesn't touch you. doesn't hold fast to your warmth. 

and even after you part, the intimacy laced in the air breathes slow and lingering. "thank you for being so patient with me, with everything". your fingers fiddle and caress over his. "i know i haven't made it easy for you". 

"when it's something i want, i wait". 

and wait he did, with a statues patience. but even the strength of statues fail, worn and weathered if left to stand against time and their own stillness. eventually they all crumble, some in such a poetic fashion that its destruction means more than its birth, and other's with a simple, unceremonious falling. but the undoing of roman's patience is fierce and alluring. and as you breathe short, in between the firm pull of his lips, water hot and raining against your skin, you feel the chipping away of that patience as well. and it isn't just the pouring in of the shower and the sweet warmth of soaps and candles, but the influence of him as well, melting underneath flesh and bone.

6:17 PM

the steam forms something amorous. thickens the anticipation and lulls your resolve into a surrendering. and the tight feeding of his fingers into your thigh doesn't help any, nailing sharp and greedy as they have your leg hooked about his waist, his tongue licking against yours. and here in the kiss his lust grows slow and exacting, in a means to savor. making you moan and forcing your hips to grind mindless. his body hard and wet and safe. 

your fingers curl into the hair just at his nape, tugging to pull, to break his lips from yours, but he's fast and wanting, rushing in for another sweet assailment. groaning in time with his pleasures as his hips rut at your soft skin. you try again to break from him, to breathe even if the air suffocates you so, and he gives in. settles for fastening himself to you elsewhere, to supple skin, and to grinding his hard dick at you. his mouth roaming about your neck, nipping with his teeth and kissing gentle. a meager attempt to reigning himself in. 

your touch wanders further into his soaked hair, mouth moving to trace his, to tease him. "we have a reservation for 9", you kiss him lightly. "i don't wanna be late".

he hums, rests his forehead to yours. taut fingers working your hips to a slow grind against his dick. working what nerves lay dormant in you to life. 

"the restaurant is a 30 minute drive", his nose and mouth nestling into the plains of skin where your neck ends and your shoulder begins. drinking in the small breaking off of your moans. "plenty of time". 

7:29 PM 

and the minutes wandered away fast and teasing, forcing in an urgency as you fought hard to slip away from him and the heaviness of his desires. and it took much control, to part from his warmth and the heavy lust of his eyes. from the way his touch and his mouth maneuvered —with seductive method— and the heat of his cock laying at your skin, so terribly close to where you need him. but how odd the fear is here, after the pulling away of all that nasty pettiness and the settling of it, no longer scared of how much he would love you, or how well he could etch himself to the inside of you —with touches and deep words filled with passion— but now, weary of just how unbearable you would be. because it seemed now that he was stuck with you, and that if he would continue his affections with such an intensity, that you would have no choice but to return it. and even in this, your fears, your weariness of this love and lust and longing, were not so frightening at all. but exciting. 

you're excited. 

"tie or no tie?"

the bulk of his arm, where tattoos paint the skin, slip through a white button up. fingers deft as they take the time to do in each button. 

"no tie".

your hands soothing over your skin with a warm smelling body butter. eyes trailing to his as he watches your hands work over your skin. 

"and the jacket, yes? no?" 

"yes to the jacket", but your answer barely registers, and how could it possibly do so clearly enough when the fabrics of your underwear form over your body the way that it does. everything about you soft and inviting to the touch as you approach him. your fingers undoing the top most buttons. the intricate designs of tattoos here at the curve of his pec peaking through. "and just leave this open a little". your palms smoothening away at the rest of his shirt, over his shoulders to adjust the already adjusted collar, fingers slipping against already buttoned buttons, and when the smallest wrinkle catches your eyes, you're already flattening it to straighten. and here he takes you in, arresting with silence and a never ending depth to his eyes that leaves you without words.

his mouth close enough, breaths are shared. and there is no other word to describe the scent of him other than divine. 

you want to fall into him, as free as air and without hesitation. 

his lips smile. "you're staring". 

but it is justified, because shouldn't all beautiful things be looked upon with awe and a speechless sort of appreciation? shouldn't they be touched, the way you touch him, your palms possessing him to hold as you kiss him greedily and without wait. your tongue lashing through firm and without the mind to yield. moaning gentle into him and if not for his own strength he would fall to his knees. is this not how beautiful things should be treated? should they not be adored and reverenced? should he not pry at your skin the way that he does? dull nails sinking in to remember the forms they take as they go. your leg found slipping around his waist again as his fingers move swiftly to claw their way down till your panties push away helpless. 

and he groans, lips parting only to find yours again, finding you warm and wet as his touch slips through the mess of your slit. and he wonders how long you've been like this, stewing in your own desires. his blood rushing hot and fast, feeling the heavy throb your body takes as he plays a teasing touch at your opening. something whiny and dainty tumbling off your tongue as you fight to reign in that wild burst of lust so loosely falling off your skin.

"roman", you warn. so small it nears a whisper. 

"shhhh, relax", his finger dipping in to feel the heat of your pussy. a neediness to see you break bursting in the cage of his chest, his heart hammering at the sweet daze in your eyes. "just a little bit baby". 

"we're gonna be late". you fight.

and you want to say how much you hate him, how much you hate the ease of his touch—such a terrible gentleness— and you hate how it makes you swoon, and throb harder, feeling the depth of his artful handlings. you fucking hate it, hate him, fuck, and your breath labors harsher than before, feeling the seam of his lips as they sit to hover above yours, and shit, his fingers stroking firmer than before, a slighter urgency in the pace that catches your breath and his eyes dim low but they hypnotize you, and no you don't, but, well yes you do hate him, but you don't, a moan stretching in sync from him and from you, and damnit you love him. love his touch and the proof of his lust, how naturally it is born from his love and his longings. 

he can see the prickling in your eyes, the glassiness just before the burning brown of them. and you ruffle your face into his chest, into the balminess of his skin but he does not relent. and the sound your arousal makes as it coats his long fingers is lewd but it brushes over you warm and inviting. drives your waist to grind into his every stroke till release is sweet and so close. 

the undoing is palpable, a licking flame against the skin. short tremors starting in your legs as you call to him. little whispers that beg, "please...please...please", hushed and slurred. 

and just when it's there, it isn't, his fingers slipping out of you slow, wet still and gripping your ass to stop the mindless grinding your hips take. 

"roman, no, what are you-", his lips kissing yours to stop the words and the worry. but he's kilt weeks, hell, months of such a lengthy build up, and your body rushes confused and unsatisfied. you pull from him, just enough to speak, feeling his palm caress into where he holds you. "what are you doing?" 

"its almost eight", his body forsaking yours to step out of the bedroom. "need you to clean up and finish getting ready". 

8:18

at your wrist

at the bend of your inner knees, your elbows

the skin of your neck just behind your ears

and just where your ankles roll inward. 

his dress shoes click back into the bedroom to be met with an immediate assailment. but this violence is no violence at all, but rather a sweet, sultry thing. enticing. and he holds his wrist forward to check the time. 8:20. fuck the reservation, he thinks, stepping till he's behind you. eyes peering through the mirror, watching the delicate way you curl a thin brush over your eyelashes. a dark mascara that thickens and pulls the length and when you check the fruits of such minuscule labor, beautiful and satisfied, the crotch of his pants prove too thin, and uncomfortable. and as he dips his nose into your neck and molds his fingers to your hips, flushing you against him easy, you work into your nerves an air of dispassion. cleaning the dresser of miscellaneous things, fighting the urge to let him do whatever he wants with you. 

and here, just behind your ear, the perfume proves to be intoxicating. his grip nailing in, curling to bring you impossibly closer. but his eyes never break. they hold, piercing hot and mischievous through the mirror. 

in the silence you both suspend, weighing the importance of your plans. 

he nestles into you. the fabric of your dress raising as his fingers pull. 

and his voice makes you weak. thrums your blood. 

"how important is this dress?". 

"important enough", you hold against the balling his fist takes. "i paid money for it".

roman eases to his knees. undoes the neat knot he's made of his hair. he knows just how much you adore the feel of it. he pushes the fabric to rest above the curve of your hips. taps your right leg. 

you lift it, angling it to rest your knee on the dresser. breathing labored. excited. 

his own breath is warm at your skin, "and if we miss the reservation?" the sweet spice of your perfume meets him here too. his thumbs spreading you in a leisure manner. 

anticipation consumes you. voice ragged. "it's not important". 

he hums, delighted, his tongue lapping soft. testing and teasing. and your body leans forward, sensitive and longing, hips shifting away at such an intimate touch. but he holds firm, slipping wet through your slit again, continuously, his thumbs caressing where his grip tightens into your skin. and now that he's here, his patience to leave you undone forms new. bleeds a vigor about his every muscle and bone. your senses growing pliant above him, resolve melting as your hips shift to brush along the wet sweep of his tongue. and why he takes to such a leisure pace, you have no idea, but the pleasure simmering, fighting its way up the slope of your spine, grieves. wishing for something harsher. something less controlled. 

the silence is remedied with a tender "please". teeth taking your lips to bite. 

his mouth kissing, lingering, and you feel it spread. a smile. his mischief slipping into your skin before the inevitable pulling in, your clit caught, pulsing and needy as he sucks, thirsty and unstopping. and you feel arousal drip slow, glistening, his tongue catching it to savor. throat groaning as he shifts back forward to taste the fat of your clit. and though you stand above him, your hips shift ill-controlled and your voice leaves you soft and broken. belly coiling tight as his ministrations grow more singleminded by the second. 

the nails of your fingers find their way to the roots of his hair, pulling him closer and running to soothe into his scalp. jaw dropped and gasping."feels so good baby". 

and the slip of roman's tongue is lewd, caresses the swell of your clit as his mouth works your pussy. and as desperation mounts your bones, your other set of fingers tighten to hold against the dresser, arousal dripping its way past the onslaught of his mouth to run through his beard. the pricks of the hair there, rubbing your inner thighs to burn raw. 

he grunts. "fuck", muffled and heated. dipping his tongue through till he's caressing the warmth of your walls. slow and reverential, savoring the tight clutch that holds him there. 

white heat blankets your skin, fingers slipping to nestle through your slit, laying a dulcet touch to your clit. his tongue wide and gentle as it fucks you. and the sensation there is terribly sweet, solders hot and binding till your legs begin to tremble above him.

"roman", you call for him. tender and broken. he feels a blooming in his chest. heat and an eagerness. " 'm coming". 

and the burden of that mounting coil shatters. pulses hard as you ride the sensation, fingers rubbing over the mess of your clit. thumb catching the soft nub to press against your pointer, trapping it to prolong that rich thrumming that flows about your skin. and roman takes to kissing you again, licking his tongue through the messiness of your release and kissing over your fingers.

8:50. the dinner reservation long forgotten.

but there are many other things forgotten besides white table cloth, wine glasses and intimately lit candles. the once so perfect button up he'd tucked into expensive slacks, now strewn about the floor, creased to hell next to the shine of abandoned shoes. and with all these things, left to be unremembered, is that mischievous sort of patience born from his teasing. where his touch was once salacious and mocking, unforgiving in the way it played well and denied pleasure better, is now just a filled shell of desperation. need running like flares of wild fire. and it shows here, as you sit atop the dresser, legs wrapped about him, the way roman aches and throbs, hot and demanding. cock thick and hard, reddened and leaking as he slips it through the stickiness of your slit.  

his tongue growing sloppy, drunkly slipping over yours, pushing in the taste he'd savored so dearly. his skin teeming with a rushing, this great throbbing in his spine and the muscles in his core as he nestles the tip of his dick through the tight clutch of your heat. groaning in time with his pleasures as he sinks in, corralling your thighs forward to control the pacing, and deeper he goes till you're taking him to the hilt. the build of him seeming to crumble before your eyes, this mountain of a man trembling and undone by the warmth of you. delirium coursing fluid over bones as he stills to feel the softness and the pulsing. everything he'd missed, finally at his finger tips again. 

and if not for the pain and the violence of it, you'd pull your nails through him. over taut skin and the great build of his muscles. not in a means to destroy, no, but in the hopes to consume him. a more permanent etching beneath his flesh where blood flows, just as he's done to you. 

you hiss, breaths stuttered. mouth falling where the freckles at his cheeks live, balmy and heavy, attempting to find his mouth amongst the fall of his hair. to kiss him as he stretches you to take him. your fingers combing over the strays and flyaways, roughing your legs tighter to deepen the weight of him inside you. 

you moan. something feathery and gentle. the fullness of him threatening to split your ears. and when his hips slip forward, fluid and strong, your fist knocks against the marble of the dresser. pain in your hand turning to pleasure else where. 

"mhmgmh", his groan dark, feeling it rough up your body. and the carved marble of the dresser becomes more tainted by the second, the drag of him against the pulse and flutter of your heat so terribly charming. a soothing take to your pussy thats rigid enough to leave you breathless. and when your spine curls forward, head lulling to kiss the mirror, he leads with tongue to kiss your skin. "that's it right there huh?", but he needs no answer. pure evidence here, his dick rutting forward through the mess of you. 

"yesss", stressed and drawn out. 

the gentle pull of you, flexing wet and tight, a cureless addiction. his words slightly slurred, lips at your cheek, trailing to your neck, over your shoulder, plush and kiss swollen. "so soft babygirl". the draw in of him singleminded, throbbing and rutting. groaning as dazed eyes catch the feed in of his cock, a deep burying that shudders his skin. "love when you let me touch you like this", driving his fingers to form further up over your hips, dull nails curling at your back. "when you let me fuck you good", his hips pressing in as he stills, grinding slow, for you to feel him there, where he belongs. "how you need it". 

you cry, a tear staining your cheek. the tremble of your lips forming over his as you kiss him. body molding to him, the go of his thrusts mindful as they work to fill you. and here, he slips in easy, steady still but with a gentler purpose. and his fingers, even in their dullness, don't run as brutal and the deftness of him proves with a tender rocking of his hips. arousal soaking him sweet as it sounds above the silence. 

and the shock of everything takes hold. the ways you fought so terribly against him, to suffer in what you thought would be some less harsher fate than to live lovingly with him. 

your voice stretches out delicately. into the safety of him. "don't leave me", quivering as you feel the building pressure in your body. "stay please".

"not going anywhere sweetheart", a hand at your cheek, thumb caressing there, "i'm right here", and the other pulling you impossibly closer by the thigh. lips over yours, sharing breaths. "you feel me? i'm right here", words whispered and groaning, the stroke of him deep and easy still. 

and as he'd wanted since the beginning, your resolve crumbles as he holds you in his hands. 

your heart heavy. fearful, excited. "....love you....", trembling as you come undone. "i love you". 

he twitches, releasing thick and warm in you. pulling your lips in, passionate and relieved, tongue rolling to taste the words he'd waited to hear from forever ago, when everything about your attitude towards him was flimsy and hollow. and the bursting in his chest is undeniable, a smile slipping across his lips as the heat of the air sits easy about the both of you. 

he kisses you again, lingering, with love and lust and longing. 

"i love you too". 

#roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns x black reader #roman reigns fic #roman reigns smut #platonic!cody rhodes x reader #joannasteez #roman reigns x female reader #angst #i love the angst #reader may be a lil insufferable idk #shes going through it #bare with herrrrrrrrrr #roman has sex with a woman thats not reader #it makes him sad tho so… we still win #i wrote one of these parts when i was tipsy #these are yearning hours #its smut with decent plot #the fear of love after love is lost #at this point im just yappin in the tags #nah this shit is long as hell omg #but it ended so cute !!!

[benbraeden-a]

Hi, ive always been curious. was there a reason the shapeshifter targeted ben and begun wearing his face. or was it a random choice that became a game to the shape shifter??

okay nonnie i hope that you are sitting down comfortably and is ready for a long tandem about ben braeden and his history with the shapeshifter, because not only am i going to talk about ben's history, but i am also going to be talking about the shapeshifter demon's history regarding the braedens. i have yet to post it on ben's carrd at the moment (as far as i believe) and i only mildly touched this topic now and then, so! let's begin!

the shapeshifter demon's motives to hunt down ben stems from years ago when ben actually started to regain his memories back from when they were previously erased by dean. it's the same song and dance, the supernatural creature believed that ben had direct linkage to the dean winchester, and wanted to take him out due to the fact that the winchesters are big names hunters, and the shapeshifter demon wanted to target them in his own way. but upon looking closer, the shapeshifter realized that he yearned something that a lot of people usually do: a maternal love.

being a shapeshifter and a demon, both of his parents were supernatural entities, and therefore, did not have the love or devotion for him that he so desperately craved. all that he wanted was to be seen, and cared for; and the lack thereof only polluted his mindset and his morality, and tainted him to be the supernatural creature that everyone feared. but whenever he saw the way that lisa would act for ben, he craved for that kind of mother, because he never had it.

so out of an act of selfishness, whenever ben was gone on hunts, the shapeshifter demon transformed into ben, and stayed in the braeden's place without ben's knowing, and would get that motherly love that he so desperately wanted. and it became this routine. he would wait for ben to leave to go on a hunt, and then the shapeshifter demon would go in and pretend as though the "field trip" was cancelled and just stay. at this time, though, ben was not treating his mother very kindly.

ben held a resentment towards dean and in turn, he took it out on his own mother at times. even though she still couldn't remember dean, he still blamed her for introducing him into the braeden's lives, and putting them through hell. it was the reason why he started to hunt, and lie to his mother about his whereabouts. he kept her at arm's length, and would be bitter and sulking about the fact that their memories were erased, and that only ben was the one in the household that could remember anything.

the shapeshifter demon could see the way that ben would treat lisa, and he started to resent ben for it. how could he treat a mother like that? someone who was caring and loved him? it made him sick to his stomach. one night, the last hunt that ben went on before his life fell apart, the shapeshifter demon decided that he was going to tell lisa the truth and see if she would rather accept him as a son, instead of ben.

it was a far fetched idea, but one that was motivated by his own accord and his own plan. he watched as lisa broke down, telling him (as she thought that he was actually ben) that he can be so cruel sometimes. she said that she wished that he would always be this kind, this soft with her; and that made the shapeshifter believe in his own twisted way, that maybe lisa could tell that he was not actually ben. that maybe she could sense that he was different, and a better son. a better choice for her.

so that night, when she was getting ready for bed, the shapeshifter demon goes to her and tells her the truth about what and who he is under the impression that she would welcome him with open arms. he revealed his true face to her, happy that he could finally allow himself to be free; but she screamed in horror, much to his surprise. she was scared of him. she did not want him. in a burst of seething anger, and hurt, the shapeshifter brutally killed her. he lashed out from a place of seething rage, something that was untapped before, but now a second skin to him.

the damning thing too, is that he blames ben for the death of lisa braeden. he believes that if ben was just a little kinder to his own mother, then the shapeshifter demon would not have had to intervene. maybe perhaps, just ben would have died, and lisa would just be a grieving mother. so the shapeshifter decided in that moment that he was going to hunt down ben. he wanted ben to feel as pathetically alone as the shapeshifter demon did in that moment when lisa screamed in horror. he wanted ben to feel the pain of knowing that he couldn't be loved; he wanted ben to know what it felt like to be a monster.

#anon. #headcanon. #replies. #ooc. #please do not feel like you HAVE to read all of this: i know that i rambled a fuck ton. #i tried to underline and bold the important highlights but!!!!! #i always love talking about the shapeshifter demon because even HIM AS A NPC is such an interesting character to write. #because he is motived by the same thing that a lot of people are triggered by: parents. #parents can make or break us; too much or too little (or even in his case; none at all).

[solareidolon]

thinking about how michael’s corridors were an inexplicable maze of curves and twists while helen’s looked like a vaguely unassuming hotel

thinking about how michael focused more on years long campaigns of hallucination-based terror while helen’s specialty was convincing her enemies she was a friend and a safe place

thinking about how michael’s becoming was a much more violent and devastating affair, completely stripping him of his autonomy while helen made her choice within the distortion to open that door

thinking about how the very effects applied to the voices within the podcast reflect michael’s conflicted nature in contrast to helen’s steady goals

thinking about how each of the faces of the distortion have a unique perspective within the fear and it shows

#okay so i could be completely off on all of these #this is going off of vague recollections and i didnt fact check #so take my musings with a grain of salt #but i just think the differences between the characters are Neat #theyre so distinct? despite technically being the same entity #sorta #i think its cool that not only the faces and personalities changed #but also their way of interacting with their patron entity #and how they feed it #they are shaped by their choices (or lack thereof) before they became what they are #idk its just neat writing #tma #the magnus archives #the distortion #helen distortion #michael distortion #helen richardson #michael shelley

[smilepal]

For the Character solidifying (i love reading about Hiro ♥) : 2 - 17 - 22 - 43 and 46

Character Asks for @gloryride 💖

2.) Their mother? How do they think of her? What do they hate? Love? What influence - literal or imagined - did the mother have?

Hiro's relationship with his mother is more defined by their absense than any real care they provided him. He certainly wasn't planned for, and was predominantly raised by his older brother. His parents weren't present, and shouldn't have been tasked with caring for a plant, let alone two children and neglect is what shaped Hiro's childhood--or lack thereof. He grew up desperate for some sort of guidance/role model he could rely on, and ended up finding them--just perhaps not in the best places. His relationship with Wakako was a complicated one, having met her when he was young and looking for support of any kind. She was quick to pick up on this, and their relationship has remained complicated, particuarly after how strained it became as he got older. There's a lot of resentment there, both for how he feels he was taken advantage of, and pulled deeper into the Claws, but also for himself, for trusting her in the first place and allowing it to happen.

17.) Did they travel? Where? Why? When?

The furthest Hiro's ever traveled has been the Badlands outside of Night City. He's never had the financial means to travel, nor the opportunity. After leaving TC, and if he'd ever found himself in a place of relatively stability, he'd probably consider it though, if only to satisfy personal curiosity. He'd really enjoy traveling with close friends, and discovering new places but probably would never settle anywhere else. Night City is his home, and as much as he hates it sometimes, I don't think he'd ever be able to leave for good. There would always be something calling him back.

22.) Who are their friends? Lovers? ‘Type’ or ‘ideal’ partner?

Hiro tends to gravitate towards people who are as outspoken as he is, and have the same sort of outgoing personality. That isn't to say he won't befriend quieter people as well, it usually just takes a little longer. He's typically pretty open to befriending most people though, especially if they're as down for a bit of trouble as he is. He's usually not super particular in his choice of partners but more often finds himself leaning to more 'domineering' ones, I suppose? He likes people that he's able to banter with, and who aren't opposed to a bit of good natured teasing. He always wants to try to get the more serious ones to crack a bit, whether it's a secret smile, or just to get under their skin--it doesn't matter to him. Appearance-wise though, he's not picky, but he's always been attracted to extensive cyberware, and won't say no to a healthy dose of combat mods, or a lot of chrome. On a less aesthetic side, he appreciates partners that give him space when he needs it, and don't try to pry too much before he's ready. Nosiness/trying to tug emotions out of him he's not willing to divulge is a really good way to scare him off.

43.) Does your character have any secrets? If so, are they holding them back?

Hiro has plenty of secrets. A lot relate to his past with the Claws and he's very unwilling to divulge them. There's a lot of guilt there, and it's one of the reasons he knows he can't go back--even if they would have him. There's a lot of frustration with himself, for feeling like he's had to re-teach himself how to follow a different path. And there's the fear that it's the only thing he's good at, and what he deserves. He knows how easy it would be to slip up again, and how there probably wouldn't be a second chance. And it scares him, more than he'd ever want to admit.

46.) Is your character tall? Short? What about size? Weight? Posture? How do they feel about their physical body?

Despite his rather over-sized personality, he's only 5'4 (162cm). He's well-muscled though, and spends a lot of time maintaining his body. Most of the things he likes to do when he's not working are quite active--and it's easy to tell. He's a little heavier than he looks, owing to the many cybernetic implants he has, but it doesn't seem to hinder him too much. His posture is surprisingly good, and he moves with an easy grace--he's danced for years, and it's easy to see. Overall, he's very confident in his physical body, even if he's lacking confidence in other means. He takes good care of himself, and it's his way of relaxing/spoiling himself. Hiro likes looking good, and if others think so too? So much the better--he definitely appreciates the attention.

Thanks for asking!! Really appreciate it, and for you giving me the opportunity to ramble about my boy :3

#character asks #ask game #cyberpunk ocs #hiro oda #tyger claws #headcanons

[hypnoshatesme]

Night Out

[[Fairly sure @korrolrezni came up with this and I am very sure they wrote some of the dialogue. Just some fun, really.]]

*

Something was wrong with Gerry’s closet. He didn’t notice, at first, and even when it became obvious things were going missing he assumed he was somehow misplacing them at first. It happened. Gerry wasn’t the most diligent with laundry.

But when his favourite sleeping shirt disappeared and he couldn’t find it anywhere in the apartment, he knew something was up. His closet seemed to be eating his clothes. When he looked closer, he realised that the reason it had taken so long for him to actually notice was because they were being replaced. He found himself pulling out a pair of black jeans only for them to not, in fact, be black. Instead he found himself holding something striped, sunflower yellow and bright red. He frowned at them for a long moment, unsure what he was expecting to happen. Maybe for the colours to fade back to black. They didn’t. He put them back in the closet and got them out a moment later. Now they had big green polka dots on orange. He sighed.

“Subtlety is really not your strong suit, Michael,” he mumbled into the empty room.

There was no answer, but Gerry still felt like he could hear the laughter like a distant tinnitus.

He shook his head and left the trousers on his desk. He was used to Michael’s shenanigans. Usually it at least showed itself when it decided to fuck around with things. Gerry actually hadn’t seen it in a while. Clearly, it was making sure he didn’t forget about it even if it didn’t grace Gerry with its presence. As if Gerry could ever forget about it.

Gerry still tried to ignore whatever was happening with his clothes. He just went about his life. It wasn’t the first time Michael tried to get to him with its reality-bending-shit. Usually, it considered Gerry’s reaction - or lack thereof - too boring to continue, eventually. It was a game, of sorts, and Gerry was determined to not let this get to him, either. His life was weird enough. Accepting a capricious closet really shouldn’t be too hard as long as he kept himself from thinking about it too much. And ever since Michael had become a reoccuring aspect of his life, Gerry had become decent at that. He was confident this would just end in Michael giving him a disappointed pout again, complaining that he was no fun. Gerry grinned at the image. It was a surprisingly cute expression, in a very wrong way.

*

Gerry was running out of clothes that did not have clashing colours and patterns. Even when he had stopped putting his clothes in the closet, they eventually shifted into garish button-ups and equally horrible trousers. It was getting, if not annoying, at least slightly inconvenient. Okay, maybe Gerry was also starting to get a little annoyed. But he wouldn’t let it get to him. Gerry went shopping.

He wasn’t necessarily surprised that, once he got home and reached into the bag, he did not pull out the black clothes he had bought in the shop. But he was a little irritated as he looked at the shirt that looked like it was made from multiple horrendous shirts. Looking at it too much hurt, and he couldn’t quite pin down which sleeve had what pattern, colours seemingly shifting as his eyes tried to focus on it. But they never had the same colours or patterns, no matter how long Gerry looked at it. The same seemed to be going for the rest of the shirt, one side different from the other, different from the collar and the back and at the same time never the same. It was a nightmare to look at.

He looked at the trousers instead, feeling like he had gone cross eyed from staring at the shirt for way too long. At least the trousers seemed to be shifting less, but maybe that was him. They had some sort of wavy pattern to it in what might be yellow, or maybe blue, Gerry couldn’t tell. Which probably wasn’t a good sign. This needed to stop. Gerry wanted his clothes back. He started changing out of his clothes and into the atrocities he had just brought home, sure Michael wouldn’t skip on the opportunity to show up and tease him about it. Gerry didn’t need to face the mirror to know he looked wrong. He sighed, brushing his hair out of his face.

“Fine, Michael. I caved in. You can stop this…whatever you’re doing, now.”

Gerry didn’t even hear the door open, but he knew Michael was there even before it spoke up, “Ah! You gave up so quickly!”

It took a moment for Gerry to figure out where Michael’s voice was coming from. Gerry was fairly certain that was business as usual, but he couldn’t be sure about it. The thought slipped from his mind when he finally found Michael’s grinning face to his left, closer than it should for Gerry not to notice at first. It was difficult to tell, but Gerry was fairly sure, somehow, that it was taking him in. Gerry had already forgotten what he was wearing in the underlying confusion Michael always brought with it. But he remembered, now.

“What exactly was this all about?”

Michael’s impossible grin went a little wider and Gerry was still fairly sure it was still not looking at his face. “Colour.”

Gerry crossed his arms in front of his chest, raising an eyebrow. “Colour? All of this to…what, see me in colour?”

Now Michael’s nightmarish eyes dragged themselves up to meet his, making Gerry squint before the mess of bright colours calmed into something less painful to look at.

“Worth every second,” Michael said, amused, as far as Gerry could discern.

Though it always sounded amused, he guessed. Maybe it seemed like a more specific kind, one Gerry couldn’t quite place but could feel. He let out a deep sigh, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. This was ridiculous, which, of course, was very much like Michael.

“You could have just asked, you know.”

Michael snickered its strange laugh and ran one of its hands through its twisting curls. It had started doing that recently and Gerry was still unsure if it was aware of it, purposefully calling him out on his habit, or if it had simply picked it up subconsciously. It sure made for a very strange view, fingers looking sharp enough to give it an impromptu haircut. Then again, its hair didn’t really behave or feel like hair, either.

“Where would have been the fun in that?”

Gerry shook his head and laughed. He gently bumped it with his elbow. “You’re unbelievable.”

Michael was back to letting its eyes wander over him, expression still unreadable, though Gerry thought it looked somewhat alert?

“Well, how do I look?” he asked, letting his arms fall back to his side and turning around.

Michael made what Gerry assumed was an appreciative noise. It sounded a little bit like a trill. When he looked back Michael looked…soft. Felt? Gerry wasn’t sure. Neither was he sure what exactly he meant with soft. It looked very put together, as far as he could tell. It seemed…agitated? But in a good way. A smooth way?

“Adequate,” it buzzed after a moment, and Gerry understood it was excited . Its hair twisting and twirling into little….hearts? betrayed its word choice. That was new. Michael always seemed to find new ways to express itself and Gerry was rather fascinated by the motion for a moment. Definitely hearts.

He grinned, looking back at its face. “Adequate?”

“Very adequate.”

Gerry was unsure whether he imagined the heart shapes flying through its eyes. He laughed, head a little light from looking at its eyes so intently. He assumed this was one of those cases where Michael avoided saying what it actually meant. Sometimes Gerry wondered if it did it on purpose. It was never clear on how much it could really go against whatever it talked about as ‘its nature’. Gerry guessed its hair and words not quite matching probably fell into that vaguely defined confusing nature.

“Where did my clothes go?” he asked after a moment. It was difficult to remember what had brought him to this, as it always was when Michael was around. But Gerry usually managed, to Michael’s impressed disappointment. “Do you have them?” Gerry added before his mind got all hazy again. It was usually easier to keep track while talking.

Michael instantly broke his focus with its seemingly unrelated comeback, eyes going bigger, “Do you want to see me in black?”

Gerry frowned, unsure how they had come to this point in the conversation. He shrugged, knowing thinking too much about it would only give him a headache. He had never seen it in dark clothes. It might look interesting.

“Hm…sure.”

Michael put one finger to its lips in what was probably a thoughtful gesture. Gerry knew what was coming when it started to flicker and shift and he lowered his gaze, having long since learned that watching when Michael changed its form - and he guessed clothes, too - would just give him a migraine. He waited until the suddenly more intense, popping static calmed down again before he looked up.

Michael was, indeed, wearing all black, but that was the last thing that made Gerry’s eyes widen. It was wearing a bat sleeve, v-neck blouse, cropped and tied at the waist and velvet flare trousers. The black plateau ankle boots and black ribbon tying Michael’s hair into a ponytail really added to the overall look and Gerry grinned, trying not to laugh. Of course. What had he expected from Michael ? Obviously it would find a way to make an all black outfit as eccentric as its usual attire. Somehow, it looked so very fitting and Gerry’s shoulders were shaking with bit back laughter, more at how Michael had managed to be utterly surprising yet again than the actual outfit.

Michael threw its hair back at Gerry’s reaction, grin wide and self-satisfied. “What? Deliciously handsome?” It winked, or maybe one of its eyes glitched into its face for a moment. “Of course, that’s why you are shaking at the mere sight of me.“

Gerry burst out laughing, then, and Michael’s echoing, layered laughter soon joined him. It took a moment before Gerry managed to calm down, some chuckles still escaping him. “You’re going to be the end of me, Michael.”

“In a good way?” Michael giggled, brushing Gerry’s hair behind his ear, uncovering the lovely blush the laughing had left him with.

Gerry grinned up at it. He wasn’t sure if the boots were actually making it any taller, or if Michael was distorting its height on purpose, as it sometimes did. “In a very confusing way, probably.”

Michael looked satisfied, one long finger twisting a strand of Gerry’s hair around it. It let go for the hair to stay in a perfect ringlet. It leaned it close, thumb tracing Gerry’s jaw.

“Since we’re all dressed up…how about we go out?” it purred.

Gerry cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? What do you suggest?”

It pointed at the open door that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Gerry followed the motion with his eyes, but he couldn’t see a lot, mostly neon signs and faint music.

“What’s that?”

“Do you want to find out?”

“That’s unfair.” Gerry mock-complained. Michael knew he could never say no to such a question. He could already feel the urge to find out whatever was behind that door. Gerry had been like that even before the Eye, but it did seem to be even worse now. He sighed, giving Michael a nod and taking its outstretched hand. Michael grinned and pulled him through the door.

*

It was loud and Gerry was disoriented, which wasn’t necessarily new. While he was comfortable enough to use Michael’s doors by now, it usually still left him a little light headed. But it wasn’t just that, this time. There were lights and different kinds of music everywhere and it took Gerry a moment to make sense of his surroundings. An amusement park. He raised an eyebrow. “Is this the place you mentioned last time?”

“The time you didn’t want to leave your apartment, yes.”

“I was tired.”

Michael laced their fingers together, its own looking as human as they ever got, though they still felt heavy. Gerry knew that if he looked hard enough, he could still make out the long and sharp digits that shouldn’t be able to fit between his own fingers at all.

“You are boring when you’re tired.”

He looked up at it. “I’m always tired.”

Michael was closer than it had been a moment before and when Gerry looked down he saw that it had provided him with some holographic pink plateau boots. Trying to figure out if they matched with anything he was wearing was a thought he decided to not bother with. Michael’s face was suddenly in front of him.

“Thankfully, you’re not always boring.” It grinned, wide. “I do like when you get all cuddly.”

Gerry blushed a little, mumbling, “Thanks, I guess.” He looked away, trying to change the topic. “So, where to?”

Michael straightened up again. “Wherever you want to go.”

Gerry thought about it for a moment. It all looked and sounded overwhelming, too many colourful lights and different smells. He had never been in a place like this without it being work-related. He had no idea how to navigate it for fun .

He frowned, unsure. “I think…I could eat.”

Michael nodded and started walking, pulling him along. They walked around for a while and Gerry got himself something to eat along the way. He was surprised to find his wallet in his pocket, though the vendor seemed so utterly confused looking at Gerry’s ever-shifting shirt that he could have probably managed without paying, had he wanted to.

The vendor wasn’t the only eyes they drew as they casually made their way along the streets in-between booths and rides. It wasn’t new. Gerry had drawn eyes long before he started occasionally walking around hand in hand with somebody that towered over most people and also, if looked at too closely, looked somewhat removed from human. Still, he was fairly sure that part of the glances they were getting now were due to their attire. As somebody who was rather used to such looks, Gerry could just feel it.

He wasn’t necessarily bothered by it. His surroundings provided enough distraction from that strange awareness that he was wearing something quite outside his comfort zone. Gerry had never been to an amusement park outside of work-related instances. Well, instance. The memory put him somewhat on edge at first. He felt Michael’s hand tighten around his own and his thoughts scattered. He gave it an apologetic smile.

“You should try one of the rides,” it said.

“For distraction?” It was probably not a bad idea. Gerry guessed that’s why people came to these places in the first place.

Michael grinned. “For fun.”

Gerry rolled his eyes, but grinned. “Lead the way.”

*

The rides were fun. And it did make it significantly more difficult to get hung up on whatever paranormal entities might be on the loose within the amusement park. The clinging unease subsided as they went from one to the next.

Michael didn’t seem too impressed by the rides themselves, but it seemed to take joy in how obviously it added to the light-headedness of the people sitting close, how uncomfortable they seemed the moment they sat down. Some even forgot to gawk at their attire once Michael was sitting right next to them.

The only thing that did seem to genuinely make Michael buzz excitedly next to Gerry was when they approached the house of mirrors. Gerry rolled his eyes. “Sometimes, you are predictable, you know?”

“Were you expecting me to ask you to go in there?”

There was something in its voice that made Gerry think for a moment, consider where the catch might be. “No, I thought the choice would be too obvious.”

“Then I subverted your expectations.” It squeezed his hand in barely-contained amusement.

Gerry chuckled. “There’s no winning with your word-twisting…”

*

It took very little time for Gerry to get lost within the mirrored halls, all reflecting distorted versions of himself and sometimes somebody else, sometimes nothing at all. He was fairly sure they were not all supposed to work like this. Michael followed him closely, thought it seemed more distracted than usual, which probably had something to do with the occasional distressed noises reaching Gerry from fellow people walking around the labyrinth. Michael often bothered the people around them a little - even when, as far as Gerry could tell, it wasn’t actively trying - so he let it slide. It was clear that it was doing it on purpose this time, but maybe people would simply get out thinking of how impressive the house of mirrors is. People were weird. Some were surely enjoying this right now. Michael was certainly looking like it was having a great time whenever Gerry looked at it, and it did make him smile, although somewhat guiltily.

Gerry did stop when he saw a door in one of the mirrors, one currently being approached by a wide-eyed person whose hurried steps betrayed the urge to get out of the maze. Gerry knew where this was going, hand coming to grab Michael’s wrist, forcing it to stop next to him.

He sighed in mock-exasperation. “Really, Michael? On a date?”

Michael looked at him, but only with one of its eyes. The other was still trained on the door in anticipation. “ You already had dinner.”

Gerry shook his head. He knew it didn’t kill them anymore, just let them wander until close - sometimes beyond - the breaking point and released them again. It had been the best compromise they could manage, and Gerry had made peace with it. But that didn’t mean he necessarily wanted to watch the next victim open the door. That would be a rather sour end to a pretty nice date.

Personally, Gerry had had a very different end in mind. As ridiculous as Michael’s outfit seemed, Gerry had caught his eyes lingering on its velvet-hugged hips, the bit of exposed not-skin that looked so much paler in-between all the black. Even when Gerry caught it shifting from the human pale colour Michael usually stuck with. Maybe the actual ridiculous aspect of Michael’s get-up was that Gerry was into it.

His hand slipped from its wrist, coming to rest on its waist instead. Michael’s other eye focused on him, too, then, a curious glint in it. Only for a moment. Maybe Gerry had imagined it. The tips of his fingers slipped underneath its blouse as he leaned in, still a bit too short to properly reach Michael’s ear.

He knew it still heard him when he mumbled, voice low, “Let’s go home. I haven’t had dessert yet.”

It seemed to lose its grip on itself for a short moment, something like a shiver running through it. Gerry gave it a knowing grin, eyes half-lidded as he followed the line of whatever was going for its spine in that moment downwards. It could be quite predictable sometimes. The smug grin on Gerry’s lips only grew when the door previously in one of the mirrors in front of them appeared behind them and Michael pulled him through it, an anticipating grin on its own lips.

*

[[Michael’s outfit was actually sent to me by my abovementioned friend and you SHOULD gaze upon it.]]

#gerrymichael #michaelgerry

[sciencenewsforstudents]

During the Middles Ages, decrees from the early Catholic Church triggered a massive transformation in family structure. That shift explains, at least in part, why Western societies today tend to be more individualistic, nonconformist and trusting of strangers compared with other societies, a new study suggests.

The roots of that Western mind-set go back roughly 1,500 years when a branch of Christianity that later evolved into the Roman Catholic Church swept across Europe and beyond, report human evolutionary biologist Joseph Henrich and colleagues in the Nov. 8 Science.

Leaders of that branch became obsessed with what they saw as incest, the researchers say, and launched a “marriage and family program” that eventually banned marriages between even distant cousins, step-relatives and in-laws. Church policies also encouraged marriage by choice instead of arranged marriages, and small, nuclear households, with couples living separately from extended family members.

Using historical, anthropological and psychological data, Henrich and his colleagues show that the Church’s policies helped unravel the tight, cohesive kin networks that had existed. In places under the Church’s influence, a Western-style mind-set has come to dominate, the team says.

“Human psychology and human brains are shaped by the institutions that we experience and the most fundamental of human institutions are our kinships [and] the organization of our families,” says Henrich, of Harvard University. “One particular strand of Christianity … got obsessed with this and altered the direction of European history.”

But behavioral economist David Huffman of the University of Pittsburgh urges caution in interpreting the new results. “I’m pretty convinced that they’re finding these correlations,” he says. “I’m just not fully convinced about the causal story from kinship ties to all these other [psychological] variables.”

Across the globe, much variation exists among different societies’ psychological beliefs and behaviors. But in general, individuals in European countries and other countries of British descent tend to be more individualistic and independent and less conforming and obedient. These societies are often described today as Western, educated, industrialized, rich and democratic, or WEIRD for short (SN: 11/18/15). (Henrich coined the acronym in a seminal 2010 study in Behavioral and Brain Sciences).

To understand how that Western mind-set might have emerged, Henrich’s team started by mapping the worldwide spread of that branch of Christianity, known as the Western Church, prior to the year 1500, when the marriage program reached its height. The team then zoomed in on the spread of bishoprics, or church administrative centers, across 440 regions in 36 European countries from 550 to 1500. That spread was mapped alongside exposure to the Eastern Church, which evolved into the Orthodox Church and did not adopt such strong taboos against “incest.”

Next, the researchers assessed how varying levels of exposure to the church and its family policies influenced the strength of community- and family-based institutions. For a qualitative approach, the authors used an existing anthropological and historical database of 1,291 populations observed before industrialization. By honing in on elements of family structure, such as marriages between cousins, habitation patterns and presence or absence of polygamy, the team showed that “kinship” — close ties with an extended clan beyond just immediate family — decreased in areas exposed to the church.

When the researchers zoomed in on rates of marriage between cousins, they found that for each 500 years a country spent under the influence of Western Church, this type of marriage dropped by 91 percent.  

Lastly, the scientists evaluated that transformation in family structure alongside changes in psychological beliefs and behaviors. Drawing on existing data sources on 24 psychological metrics, such as individualism, creativity, conformity, honesty and trust, the researchers found that the longer a population was exposed to the Western Church, the higher its individualism, nonconformity and trust of strangers.

A look at countries categorized by their church experience (dots, diamonds, triangles) suggests that the early Catholic Church’s dissolution of traditional family structures during the Middle Ages reduced marriages between cousins (left). That correlates with intensified individualism, nonconformity and trust of strangers (center), known as WEIRD traits, or those prevalent in Western, educated, industrialized, rich and democratic countries. That behavioral shift is weaker in regions exposed to the Eastern Church (right), where taboos against cousins marrying weren’t as strong, researchers find.

CREDIT:  J.F. SCHULZ ET AL/SCIENCE 2019

This interplay between history, family structure and psychology affects modern times, the authors say. In Italy, for example, the Western Church’s influence was limited to the northern and central portions of the country until well into the Middle Ages. Data based on Vatican records show that, consequently, marriages between first cousins were almost nonexistent in the north, but accounted for 3.5 to just over 5 percent, on average, of all unions in the far south from 1910 to 1964, the researchers found.

What’s more, the country’s average blood donation rate — a proxy for trust of strangers — equaled about 28 bags of blood for every 1,000 people, according to data from 1995. But the authors found, for instance, that a doubling of the rate of first cousin marriages in a given region was linked to a decline in blood donations by about 8 collection bags per 1,000 people, suggesting more distrust of strangers among people there. Similarly, Italians from areas with higher rates of cousin marriages were more likely than other Italians to distrust banking institutions, preferring instead to take loans from family and friends and keep money in cash.

One’s loyalty to extended family, or lack thereof, explains cultural variations within Italy, Henrich jokes. “The north is where the birth of the Renaissance was; the south is the birth of the Mafia.”

#science #scied #sciblr #humans #invidualism #psychology #anthropology #science and society #catholicism #church #Middle Ages #medieval

[enterlilith]

FOR MADDIE: PHYSICAL PRESENCE AND GESTURE = (8,12) DISPOSITION AND TEMPERAMENT = (14, 17) CONNECTIONS WITH OTHERS = (24, 25) ACTIVITIES AND PREFERENCES = (31, 32) THINKING AND LEARNING = 33, 40) FREE FOR ALL = (41)

 42  CHARACTER  DEVELOPMENT  QUESTIONS      /      ACCEPTING

 8,      WHERE  AND  WHEN  DO  THEY  SEEM  MOST  AND  LEAST  AT  EASE?      WHY?      HOW  CAN  YOU  TELL?

 it’s  not  claustrophobia,      but  madeline  gets  clearly  upset  and  restless  if  she  is  confined  or  otherwise  limited  to  closed  spaces.      she  already  radiates  a  great  deal  of  restless  energy,      almost  like  electricity,      but  when  she  feels  like  her  movements  have  to  be  numbered  or  calculated,      she  seems  to  vibrate  more  and  to  move  around  a  lot  more,      not  really  interested  in  adhering  to  the  economy  that  is  asked  of  her.      she  is  at  ease  the  most  if  she  feels  like  she  is  in  her  element,      and  for  her  that  means  in  the  streets  with  good  company,      navigating  nightlife  in  busy  big  cities  or  when  taking  nocturne  trains,      which  is  very  much  an  activity  that  soothes  her  a  great  deal.      madeline  appreciates  having  a  lot  to  see,      sensory  overload  is  something  that  she  seeks,      while  blank,      closed  spaces  unnerve  her  a  little  bit  more  than  it  should  for  not  offering  what  she  wants.

 12,      HOW  ARE  THEY  BODILY  EXPRESSIVE?      HOW  DO  THEY  USE  NONVERBAL  CUES  SUCH  AS  THEIR  POSTURE,      STANCE,      EYES,      EYEBROWS,      MOUTHS,      AND  HANDS?

 she  is  extremely  expressive,      face,      body,      posture,      everything  shows  her  hand  and  she  is  not  very  concerned  about  it.      madeline  is  very  transparent,      it’s  like  you  can  see  through  her  most  of  the  time  because  she  doesn’t  make  an  effort  to  curb  her  body  language  or  the  way  she  conveys  what  she  is  feeling.      even  though  she  is  mostly  relaxed  in  some  sort  of  a  cool,      nice  girl  kind  of  way,      she  has  very  intense  body  language  from  the  way  she  moves  her  mouth  when  she  talks  to  the  fact  that  she  bites  her  fingers  and  back  of  the  hand  often  in  different  contexts.      madeline  has  a  lot  of  energy  so  she  spends  it  generously  when  she  is  interacting  with  others  and  herself  as  well,      not  consciously  but  because  she  is  not  ashamed  to  be  expansive  or  to  draw  attention  most  of  the  time,      it’s  just  not  a  concern  in  her  book.

 14,      WHAT  DO  THEY  CARE  DEEPLY  ABOUT?      WHAT  KIND  OF  LOYALTIES,      COMMITMENTS,      MORAL  CODES,      LIFE  PHILOSOPHIES,      PASSIONS,      CALLINGS,      OR  SPIRITUALITY  AND  FAITH  DO  THEY  HAVE?      HOW  DO  THESE  TEND  TO  BE  EXPRESSED?

 madeline  has  nothing  of  the  sort,      not  really.     one  of  the  themes  and  concepts  that  are  recurring  to  her  as  a  character  is  the  fact  that  she  is  fundamentally  unstructured,      loose  and  lost  in  the  world,      the  only  aspect  that  is  permanent  in  her  life  and  unlife  is  that  she  is  in  a  state  of  free  fall.      she  is  constantly  juggling  many  interests,      jobs,  hobbies  and  allegiances  but  none  of  them  seem  to  be  able  to  hold  her  down  for  long,      they  are  phases  according  to  what  she  wants  to  pursue  and  hold  dear  at  the  time.      madeline  never  had  the  experience  of  religion,      she  is  not  tied  to  blood  relations,      not  even  that  of  her  sire,      her  moral  compass  is  easily  bendable  according  to  her  condition  and  necessities  in  the  world      (cue  the  fact  that  she  sees  herself  in  the  position  of  symbiotic  creature  with  humans  because  she  needs  their  blood  to  live  and  that  is  not  intrinsically  bad  in  her  book),      she  has  no  true  passion  or  calling  but  a  fragmented  array  of  little  excitements  that  make  up  her  whole  approach  to  what  she  does  for  a  living  and  how.      perhaps,      the  one  thing  that  prevents  her  from  going  too  wild  is  the  fact  that  she  makes  sure  to  follow  humanity  even  though  she  doesn’t  belong  there,      again.      even  then,      following  humanity  is  not  a  moral  choice  or  preoccupation  but  a  practical  decision  that  helps  her  blend  in  and  be  allowed  to  enjoy  whatever  she  wants  in  the  world  without  being  ostracized  or  flat  out  destroyed  for  losing  control  of  the  beast  too  much.

 17,      ARE  THEY  MORE  SHAPED  BY  NATURE  OR  NURTURE  —  WHO  THEY  ARE,      OR  WHAT  HAS  HAPPENED  TO  THEM?      HOW  HAVE  THESE  SHAPED  WHO  THEY’VE  BECOME  AS  A  PERSON?

 it  was  all  a  question  of  upbringing  and  it  did  affect  not  only  who  she  became  but  the  nature  of  several  issues  that  she  has  to  deal  with  after  she  is  embraced.      madeline  was  passed  down  from  household  to  household  like  an  unwanted  heirloom,      an  inherited  issue  in  the  subconscious  after  her  mother  passed  away  and  because  of  that,      her  concept  of  a  permanent  home  died  well  before  she  grew  into  her  formative  years.      the  fact  that  no  one  wanted  to  claim  her  as  their  own  was  something  that  would  later  come  back  to  haunt  her  and  seep  through  the  cracks  of  every  kind  of  relationship  she  would  ever  have  in  life  or  unlife.      madeline  would  have  to  sleep  in  different  beds,      play  with  different  cousins,      eat  different  meals,      run  free  in  town  as  she  liked  and  know  places  by  herself.      childhood  was  an  experience  in  exploration  by  herself  and  if  she  noticed  that  no  one  fussed  about  the  way  she  dressed  or  ate,      it  was  with  the  corner  of  her  eye,      unfazed,      an  attitude  that  became  commonplace  in  adulthood  as  well.      everything  was  temporary,      always  very  temporary,      and  a  girl  could  get  used  to  it.      the  way  she  was  handled  as  a  child  and  adolescent  shaped  the  way  she  built  herself  as  an  adult  and  the  kind  of  peculiarities  she  carried  into  unlife  like  the  completion  anxiety,      the  severe  untreated  adhd  that  dictates  her  lifestyle  and  the  fact  that  she  was  immortalized  as  someone  constantly  on  the  move  thinking  of  everything  as  temporary;      and  that  is  something  she  is  not  able  to  dodge  or  change,      at  least  not  until  she  reaches  golconda.

 24,      HOW  DO  THEY  PRESENT  THEMSELVES  SOCIALLY?      WHAT  DISTINGUISHES  THEIR  “PERSONA”  FROM  THEIR  “TRUE  SELF”,      AND  WHAT  CAUSES  THAT  DIFFERENCE?

 there  is  no  distinction,      madeline  is  as  genuine  as  they  come  in  terms  of  social  interactions,      so  much  that  she  is  unable  to  hide  the  bulk  of  what  she  is  feeling,      she  is  quite  transparent  in  this  sense.      she  presents  herself  as  she  is,      outgoing  and  easygoing,      sometimes  a  little  bit  shallow  though  that  is  done  on  purpose,      a  very  positive,      hyperactive  and  hardworking  girl  that  can  be  a  bit  kooky  at  times;      she  is  an  all  around  ride  or  die  kind  of  person  and  it  shows,      it’s  very  clear.      she  makes  no  effort  to  hide  or  change  anything  about  herself  in  fact  of  others,      it’s  just  counterproductive  and  quite  frankly  unnecessary  to  the  kind  of  unlife  that  she  wants  to  live.

 25,      WHAT  DO  THEY  NEED  AND  WANT  OUT  OF  RELATIONSHIPS,      AND  HOW  DO  THEY  GO  ABOUT  GETTING  IT?

 relationships,       at  first,      are  not  a  primary  concern  to  madeline,      her  treatment  of  them  is  as  loose  and  blurry  as  her  approach  to  her  lifestyle,      but  it  begins  to  narrow  down  into  something  a  little  more  palpable  with  the  passing  of  time  and  growth  of  sentiment.      the  bottomline  is  madeline  wants  to  love  and  be  loved  and  she  is  not  ashamed  of  that  in  the  slightest,      as  in  so  many  other  instances  in  her  life  and  unlife.      this  is  not  a  question  of  needs  but  wants,      and  no  matter  how  slim  the  chances  of  being  offered  that,      she  enjoys  the  certain  degree  of  stability  that  some  relationships  provide  her,      even  if  that  stability  and  structure  is  temporary  as  well.      there  is  a  contradiction  in  her  approach  to  structured  relationships  because  she  craves  it  at  the  same  time  that  she  needs  to  be  free  to  move  on  her  own  terms  according  to  what  her  vampiric  nature  dictates,      which  is  the  main  reason  her  long-term  relationships  are  doomed  to  fail  if  the  other  person  cannot  understand  that.      most  of  the  time,      her  loved  ones  are  unable  or  unwilling  to  keep  up  with  her  chaotic  pace,      which  is  how  she  thrives  as  a  person  in  the  world,      and  madeline  is  forced  to  sooner  or  later  leave  them  behind,      or  have  them  ditch  her  first,      if  she  is  involved  enough  to  let  that  happen.      for  that  reason,      she  is  prone  to  favor  casual  things,      though  she  is  not  afraid  to  risk  this  comfortable  state  in  the  slightest  and  will  not  hesitate  to  dive  headfirst  into  someone  if  she  is  interested  enough  in  them  and  the  sentiment  is  mutual.

 31,      IS  THERE  ANYTHING  THAT  COUNTS  AS  A  “DEALBREAKER”  FOR  THEM,      POSITIVELY  OR  NEGATIVELY?      WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  GO  SMOOTHLY,      AND  WHAT  SPOILS  AN  ACTIVITY  OR  RUINS  THEIR  DAY?      WHY?

 it’s  quite  difficult  to  ruin  her  mood  or  spoil  things  for  her,      madeline  has  a  very  thick  skin  in  terms  of  resistance  to  negativity  and,      in  general,      she  is  used  to  have  things  go  smoothly  because  she  adapts  and  overcomes  faster  than  anyone  else.      perhaps  her  only  dealbreaker  concerns  disruption  or  obstruction  of  freedom  or  personal  boundaries  both  for  herself  and  others,      regardless  of  her  affection  for  them  or  lack  thereof.      this  is  something  she  reinforces  for  everyone  and  not  just  herself  or  her  relationships.      madeline  has  a  very  healthy  approach  to  sexuality,      for  instance,      so  whatever  happens  that  disrupts  someone’s  sexual  freedom  or  rights  is  bound  to  upset  her  to  no  end.

 32,      DO  THEY  HAVE  ANY  “PROPS”  THAT  ARE  A  SIGNIFICANT  PART  OF  THEIR  LIFE,      IDENTITY,      ACTIVITIES,      OR  SELF-PRESENTATION  SOMEHOW?      WHAT  ARE  THEY,      HOW  ARE  THEY  USED,      AND  WHY  ARE  THEY  SO  SIGNIFICANT?      HOW  WOULD  THESE  PROPS’  ABSENCE  IMPACT  THEM,      HOW  WOULD  THEY  COMPENSATE,      AND  WHY?

 madeline  is  quite  detached  from  her  material  possessions,      she  owns  very  little  and  what  she  owns  is  not  held  with  special  care  beyond  necessity,      with  the  honorable  exception  of  the  photographs  that  she  takes;      those  are  her  only  prized  possessions.      however,      madeline  routinely  wears  trench  coats  and  overcoats  with  many  pockets  so  she  is  able  to  carry  a  plethora  of  items  in  them  without  too  much  trouble,      such  as  but  not  limited  to  her  trademark  glass  pebbles,      whatever  documents  necessary  for  whatever  activity  and  her  trusty  white  lighter,      anything  compact  enough  that  needs  to  be  carried  around  for  a  purpose.      it  began  as  a  practical  alternative  to  having  to  carry  her  backpack  everywhere,      but  with  the  passing  of  time  it  became  a  little  bit  more  than  that,      sort  of  something  that  she  incorporated  into  her  identity  and  how  she  presents  herself,      so  much  that  it  should  be  quite  strange  to  see  her  out  in  the  streets  without  an  overcoat.      in  addition  to  that,       madeline  takes  her  corgi  nikko  with  her  everywhere.      he  is  not  a  prop,      but  the  two  are  absolutely  inseparable  and  if  one  is  seen  around,      the  other  is  bound  to  be  nearby  as  well,      to  the  point  that  nikko  is  the  one  who  watches  over  her  body  during  the  day.      if  it’s  already  uncanny  to  see  madeline  not  sporting  an  overcoat,      madeline  seen  without  nikko  is  almost  uncharacteristic  of  her.

 33,      HOW  DO  THEY  LEARN  ABOUT  THE  WORLD–WHAT  IS  THEIR  PREFERRED  LEARNING  STYLE?

 madeline  is  a  bit  of  an  empiricist,      she  prefers  to  learn  things  through  experiencing  them,      very  hands-on  kind  of  trial  and  error  process,      it’s  how  she  internalizes  things  better.      she  is  not  very  good  with  standardized  learning  methods  and  prefers  to  be  left  to  her  own  devices  in  this  sense,      pure  theory  eludes  her  if  she  is  not  given  practical  knowledge  and  opportunities  to  develop  it  by  herself.      for  that  reason,      she  is  very  much  someone  who  would  rather  learn  working,      and  her  fields  of  interest  reflect  that  a  little  bit;      madeline  is  prone  to  take  interest  in  areas  that  she  can  get  the  hang  of  on  the  go,      figuring  it  out  as  she  works  with  it  and  experiences  it  with  the  real  context  of  the  world  as  a  backdrop.

 40,      WHAT  DO  THEY  WONDER  ABOUT?      WHAT  SPARKS  THEIR  CURIOSITY  AND  IMAGINATION,      AND  WHY?      HOW  IS  THIS  EXPRESSED,      IF  IT  IS?

 just  about  anything  can  draw  her  attention  as  easy  as  it  can  lose  it,      so  this  is  quite  the  tricky  question  for  someone  as  fickle  as  madeline.      she  displays  interest  in  a  wide  variety  of  subjects,      areas  and  concepts  in  the  world,      but  doesn’t  seem  to  limit  herself  to  them  or  to  want  to  go  deep.      she  is  more  tuned  to  the  present  and  to  practical  things,      immediate  satisfaction,      things  that  she  is  able  to  touch  or  witness.      introspection  is  rarely  done  and  she  avoids  it  considering  that  if  she  stays  too  long  dwelling  in  her  own  mind,      things  could  go  very  sour  very  fast  as  she  has  to  deal  with  the  beast,      the  network  and  her  derangements  at  the  same  time.      madeline  keeps  physically  busy  in  order  to  not  have  too  much  time  to  give  leeway  to  whatever  pops  in  her  head  without  her  consent.      her  whole  knowledge,      wisdom,      curiosity  and  even  the  lapses  of  lucidity  are  very  inclined  to  practicality  and  fruits  of  things  she  lived  rather  than  result  of  abstractions.      that  is  not  to  say  that  she  is  incapable  of  abstractions;      she  simply  doesn’t  want  to  deal  with  it.

 41,      WHAT  ASSOCIATIONS  DO  THEY  BRING  TO  MIND?      WORDS  OR  PHRASES,      IMAGES,      METAPHORS  OR  MOTIFS?      WHY?

 as  mentioned  before,      madeline’s  themes  deal  a  lot  with  the  fact  that  she  has  no  structure  and  that  she  is  lost  and  loose,      in  constant  state  of  free  fall  without  anyone  to  claim  her.      the  danish  word  særling  describes  her  best,      and  it’s  used  to  describe  someone  eccentric,      an  oddball,      a  little  weirdo;      canonically,      she  has  been  described  both  as  wild  card,      eye  of  the  storm  and  loose  cannon  in  the  thread  of  fate  as  well.      furthermore,      madeline’s  most  common  imagery  includes  pink  skin,      blood  oranges,      nocturne  train  trips,      ghosts  traveling  along  the  railroads,      mild  pyromania,      flickering  incandescent  lamps,      the  concepts  of  wearing  rose-colored  glasses,      street  smarts,      jack  of  all  trades  but  master  of  none  and  thriving  when  overcome  with  busy  nightlife  or  sensory  overload.

#ancientplot #madeline haugen. #answer. #headcanon. #long post // #jesus you went off with this one and i love you for that. #THAT'S SO LONG THOUGH I'M SORRY.

[spectralarchers]

Christine! Writing help question here, if that's okay with you: I saw your reblog on Crowley's blubber/stutter at points throughout GO series and wanted to ask how to make dialogue realistic? Like irl we say uh and backtrack and stuff a lot but I'm wondering how to pull it off well... and kind of on a tangent, I struggle with finding a balance between dialogue and action (too much dialogue in my case). Any tips?

Hi, Ver!

Sorry it took me so long to reply to your ask, I wasn’t around on my laptop much and I wanted to give you a proper response! The post @verdelet​ is refering to is this one, which is a compilation of all the times Crowley in Good Omens just makes noises instead of saying stuff, where I used the following tags:

#HONESTLY THOUGH #THIS IS A GREAT EXAMPLE OF HOW DIALOGUE WORKS THOUGH! #SOMETIMES WHEN I READ A FIC AND THE AUTHOR INCLUDES THESE SOUNDS IN THEIR DIALOGUE I GET ALL HAPPY! #BECAUSE PEOPLE MAKE THOSE SOUNDS WHEN THEY TALK! #AND LIKE!!! YES!!! #EXCELLENT ACTING CHOICES!!!!

I don’t think I have any specific tips, but let me try. 

There’s one scene I always, always, always think about when I think about my dialogue and writing it, and it’s this one from Ocean’s 11:

Which in the script of the movie looked like this:

DANNY (V.O.) And Saul makes ten. 

48 INT. BAR - NIGHT 

48Danny and Rusty look weary from all this recruitment. Anearby TV with the sound off plays a promo for anupcoming Tyson fight. 

DANNYTen should do it, don't you think? 

(as Rusty shrugs)You think we need one more? 

(as Rusty shrugs)You think we need one more. 

(as Rusty shrugs)Okay. We'll get one more.

It’s super simple, but it works so well, because it feels genuine - the whole Ocean’s franchise is really good with its dialogue (a lot of it was scripted, but a lot of it was unscripted too). This was just for inspiration.

But, like, when I write dialogue - especially in action scenes - I try to let it flow naturally, as much as possible - if that means I have to cut up the description of a car flipping over in order to get the swear word in, I’ll do that:

He’d miscalculated the stickiness of the road - or rather, lack thereof. The moment he felt the car skid off the ice, his heart took an unexpected leap into his throat. 

“Fuck!” 

He immediately gripped the wheel tighter and stopped pressing the brakes in the hope of steering the car back on track. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he tried to figure out how long he had before they were done for good.

You can also use the dash to cut up your dialogue: 

The road ahead seemed to be going into a tight turn, though, and in spite of his efforts he may not be able to get the car to stop before they hit the bedrock.

And so, the only thing that came out of his lips as he felt the car skid onto the patch of black ice was “Jesu- fu- hold on!”

“Hold on to what?” she yelled from the passenger’s seat, her fingers gripping the safety belt. 

Turning the wheel completely to the other side, in the hopes of forcing it onto the side, he clenched his teeth. 

It’s like a natural cut up of the word, sometimes people get interrupted in what they’re saying, and it’s totally fine to do it in the dialogue as well. I usually keep in mind that the words needs to get cut off in a place that’s logical - for example, if you’re going to cut off “fuck”, better either cut if off at “f-” or at “fu-” because “fuc-” just doesn’t make a lot of sense, if that makes sense?

I also quite like having my characters repeat things, or look for their words when they’re mumbling, so I consciously try and get them to say things either twice or mumble, like I would in real life. It’s like letting the dialogue tell the story, rather than try and say that they’re mumbling or looking for their words: 

Finally, as the car skid to a halt, she hit him in the shoulder. “You! You absolute- you absolute idiot!” she shrieked as him, as she tried hitting him again, but this time, he caught her wrist.

“I’m sorry- hey, stop- I’m sorry, alright?! I didn’t- I didn’t think the road was going to be frozen tonight!”

“You should have known!”

He made a sound, sharply inhaling. “Huh?! I’m sorry I didn’t! Because I don’t control the weather, okay? And can you please stop trying to hit me?!”

He caught her other hand this time and immobilized her in her seat. 

“Uhhh, yeah, pfff.” She paused for a couple of seconds, before resuming: “You’re always, always, always going on about how well you know these- these- these stupid roads!”

One of my favorite parts of dialogue I’ve written is in chapter 7 of Nothing Burns Like the Cold, when Clint is explaining to Steve why the American military is in Greenland, and he’s explaning the Monroe Doctrine and the whole World War II shebang up in the North Pole, because I feel like I made Clint’s long, long, long monologue break up into more understandable pieces of dialogue. I’ve highlighed the ‘dialogue things’ I did in bold in order to make the monologue feel more natural: 

“Well, I’m not sure if you know this, but the Danish Ambassador to the United States during World War Two decided he wasn’t going to take orders from occupied Denmark, and so whenever he spoke to American politicians or diplomats, he would do it on behalf of the ‘free’ Denmark. He thought that because the King and Government were being held prisoner, none of their orders mattered, and apparently we liked that a lot. Especially because of the Monroe Doctrine, I think- I- I think that was it. Because we got afraid that Nazi Germany would establish bases in Greenland, so when this guy, when this uh- this- Kauffman? Yeah, that was his name, it was a big deal when Kauffman came into the picture and said that he was giving the United States authorization to defend Danish colonies on Greenland from the Germans. He was sentenced for treason by everybody back home in Copenhagen, but it’s basically because of his agreement that we’re still in Greenland. He never put an end date on the agreement, I think they called it something like the ‘agreement relating to the defense of Greenland’ but I’m not sure on the exact phrasing. It just states that the American personnel can stay on site until- until- uh, ‘for as long as there is an agreement’?”

Clint rubs a pearl of sweat off his temple, as he takes a breath.

“The US Coast Guard and War Department established some weather and radio stations, and it didn’t really matter after a while, once the war ended. But, a couple of years after the German abdication, stuff happened - NATO, and other agreements, Denmark ratifying the agreement and everything. It made Denmark and the US closer allies. In 1951 though, the Danish and American nations forced native Kalaalit people out of their homes in Thule, because the establishment of the airbase was of “more importance” than them living there, where they’d been living for centuries.” Clint pauses, as he looks over at Steve.

“It was bad, man. Governments said it was on voluntary basis, but it wasn’t. Kind of like when we put the Native peoples of the Americas in camps and called it a good thing,” Clint spits, as he clenches his hands. “After all of that, Greenland became a key point in the Cold War. I mean they set up… They set up 14 bases in Greenland, Bluie West, and Bluie East. And then, when Operation Chrome Dome sailed around, they used Thule as one of the bases where they could re-fuel and load up the B-52s that would fly around 24/7. That operation ended in 1968 when one of the planes crashed.”

He pauses.

“In Greenland. On the - the indlandsis? The ice sheet? Right out of Baffin Bay, they think. They were carrying four hydrogen bombs aboard. Thankfully, there wasn’t a big nuclear explosion because the safeties prevented it, but the explosion caused the sheet to melt and a huge area to become contaminated with radioactive material. It also sank to the bottom of the ocean.”

Clint rubs his face and spits to the side.

“The clean-up, they called it Crested Ice, I think. I mean the plane crashed and burned, and there was a patch of blackened ice which was just- just huge, man. I’ve seen the aerial picture that was taken then, and it was terrible. Some documents which were released from the clean up revealed that plutonium contamination reached extremely high levels, and there was… It was bad, Steve. The workers who helped clean up were poisoned, and they still haven’t received compensation for their work.”

Sighing, Clint finally says the truth that he doesn’t want to tell Steve: “Part of the entire Chrome Dome operation and the Thule Air Base was to patrol the Arctic border to the USSR and to find you, Steve. ” Clint takes a deep breath, as he sees Steve’s head drop next to him.

And, the whole above quote, which is practically 600 words of Clint monologuing, all the while I was writing it, I was sometimes stopping up and reading it out loud to see where would someone pause, where would someone search for their words, where would they be thinking about another word?

I remember when I wrote it, it was difficult because there was a lot of information I had to write correctly (the whole Kauffman and Monroe Doctrine is historically accurate, as is the displacement of the Kalaalit peoples) but also make it seem like it was someone trying to recall something they’d learned a long time ago all the while explaining it to someone who had never heard of it before.

It’s the same thing when your character doesn’t know the thing and motions for it instead. If we continue in the car crash example I was writing earlier, it’d give something like this:

“You told me the bend would be like- like this,” she says, as she moves her fingers in an S-shaped formation, and he shakes his head.

“Nah, it’s more-” he moves her hands closer together, “-like this.”

It’s breaking up the lines and introducing the actions you need to convey where your words can’t do it for you - in the above example with Clint, when he’s looking for his words, I like to think that the reader can imagine him either moving his hands or looking thoughtful because he’s repeating himself, or he’s mumbling, or talking to himself, and therefore, I don’t have to tell the reader that he’s mumbling, because he’s doing it himself? (Does any of this even make sense???)

And, FINALLY, to answer your last question, any tips on finding a balance between action and dialogue would be writing the thing, and then leaving it be for a couple of hours and coming back to it, to read it with a pair of fresh eyes.

If the action scene slows down too much because of the dialogue, you don’t have to interrupt it with actual dialogue, but you can just write that they’re “exchanging swear words” or “yelling whenever their body takes a hit” instead of wanting to force the swear words into the narrative text, if that makes sense?

Otherwise, I don’t have any tips, other than reading your work again if you feel like you were struggling with it. Eventually, if you have someone who is willing to help you out, get a beta and ask them to look out for your pacing. 

@kate-katiehawkeye helped me SO MUCH with Swallow Your Soul, like, the only reason that story makes a bit of sense if thanks to her amazing eyes. 

I hope that this large and long pile of blubber managed to help you out a little bit? I am not the best at giving advice because I feel like half the stuff I’m doing is a total improvisation thing, so... I hope this helped! :D

#writing #writing tips #dialogue #verdelet #people ask christine stuff

[rational-mastermind]

I’ve been meaning to make a review about Breath of the Wild for a while, but at least wanted to wait until after I finished the shrines.

SCREW. THAT.

I’m gonna just say it up front; it’s not one of my favorite Zelda games. I mean, yeah, I have a personal history with Majora’s Mask, but that’s not the only thing. I’ll start at the beginning, under the cut. Cause this is gonna be long-winded.

I’m not gonna make a lot of complaints about how it sucks in comparison to Ocarina of Time or make too many mentions about the timeline issue, cause we all know that it was bullshit since the moment they said anything. But there are just...so many things that bother me.

I will say that Breath of the Wild has a lot of great thing going for it and it’s easy to be impressed when you first sit down to play it. The graphics are gorgeous and the voice acting was done very well. There are so many wonderful little bits of lore, call-backs, and even general mechanics of the game that just made everything amazing. (I was so fucking excited to jump without running off a ledge.)

However...there was a lot of the story itself that bothered me. Not to mention a few other things. One of which, was the music. Or....serious lack thereof.

One of the things I loved the most about Zelda, was the music in nearly every game. Background music is very essential in making up the environment of any level. From your typical fire temple, to underwater, to creepy ghost town. And for Zelda, it wasn’t even just that, but that song itself had a large to-do with a lot of the lore and story. Song tells others you have something to do with the Royal Family. It changes the universe around you. It soothes the dead. Not just in Ocarina of Time either. So it was really weird to...not have any of that in Breath of the Wild.

Yeah, we have some soundtrack but..it felt so..threadbare. When you go into a shrine/town/battle, I barely register the music. Walking through the open field...nothing. When I’m galloping on the Lord of the Mountain, the fast-paced piano feels more high-tech than race-horse and makes me feel uneasy about a guardian lurking nearby. Then when you DO face a guardian, or any mini-boss of a monster, it gets so fucking intense, so damn fast, I was worried about challenging a Hinox for the longest damn time. (Geez, I felt stupid for that after I realized how easy they were to beat.) Everything just felt...off. And it was weird that you didn’t have to repeat any song 10 fucking times. I mean, yeah, I was really sick of Elegy of Emptiness after going through the Stone Tower in Majora’s Mask, but I’ll listen to the 50th remix of Song of Storms. It was like...one of the few things that kept the whole timeline thing connected. It was that there was always a harp, there was always a song, there was just...something that connected us to the higher powers. And it’s kinda cool for a game to give something like music, so much power.

But I’ll stop bitching about that and get to my real problem. The story.

Now the basic crux of it, I’m fine with. They attempted to beat Ganon, failed, and had to pay the price 100 years later. Cool. That’s interesting. A nice premise. But gosh DAMN if the details don’t fucking trip me up! Let’s run through this chronologically.

Okay so Zelda, being the nerdy princess that she is in this life, discovers that yeah, they reincarnate every several hundred years and beat an evil known as Ganon. There’s supposed to be her, the physical embodiment of the goddess Hylia, and Link, a young knight sworn to protect her. Hooray, self-awareness.

Apparently, she also discovers that, what was it? 1,000 years ago, the Sheikah... the shadow people who are skilled ninjas that protect the family...built 120 shrines, robots, and massive weapons of terrible destruction...just to help beat this one guy that two kids and a magic sword handles on a regular basis. Actually no, I shouldn’t just say it’s two kids and a magic sword.

It’s a knight with a magic sword, three pendants, six sages, and the final seventh sage (aka the fucking goddess-child) that defeat the Evil.

It’s already upsetting enough that the Sheikah are stupidly advanced in technology (cause ancient magic tech from the gods is always the way to go...), and that the 1,000 year span makes the whole timeline thing confusing as FUCK (even if it is in the broken world timeline), but that they just...do that. They just fucking dissed the fucking premise for like, so many of the games. You find three pendants/orbs/stones/things, the master sword, six sages, and then help Zelda. Thanks for reducing everything else to nothing. Thanks for making 6 sages fucking nobodies. And yeah, I’m gonna harp on that.

One of the things that was nice about Ocarina of Time is that the 6 Sages became one from each race. In Link to the Past, it was the descendants of 6 powerful wizards. In Wind Waker, it was at least the last 2 other species left alive after the whole flooding incident (cause those three gorons are gonna fucking die and I wanna cry thinking about it). It just...it made sense.

So why. The fuck. ARE WE RELYING ON ONLY THESE FOUR????

We still have the Sheikah and the Koroks. What, just cause Impa’s old now? Cause the Korok’s are tiny as fuck? That never stopped anything before. We could’ve had Purah, or Paya take up the mantle. If size was an issue, how about Hetsu? Koroks can choose their shapes and try to put on brave faces. Saria was willing to help with the fight. Makar was willing to go through a whole temple to help. I don’t see what makes this generation a bunch of pussies! What the great and all-knowing fucking Sheikah just..FORGOT about the other sages???

Like, don’t get me wrong. Again, there’s a lot of good. I wouldn’t say gorons would be my favorite race but dammit I love Daruk and I love his grandson. They’re just sweet and adorable as fuck. (and I have a weakness for soft-hearted big-guys. ^//^) I’m glad they fixed the Rito’s appearance (though I hate Rivali’s fucking attitude). I liked their stories and their powers. But you could’ve at least rounded it out to be EVERYBODY. And further more, as great as it was to see their spirits put to rest, it doesn’t make a lot of sense for ghosts to pilot giant robots. It could’ve made a bit more sense for maybe the later generations to take up the mantle and help out. (Since that’s what a lot of them seem to imply.) It would’ve been kinda cool to go through the Divine Beasts with the Next Gen and let them help us fight the blights and let them take control.

Also on a fashion note: WHY THE FUCK IS EVERYTHING BLUE?? Thanks for dissing Farore. I guess she wasn’t a very important Goddess! Certainly not the one that LINK correlates to. Yeah, I get it, he’s supposed to get his signature outfit later, but I’m gonna get back to that problem in a bit. You could’ve at least kept the design and made it fucking GREEN.

Cause yeah, I get it, it was supposed to signify their unity and shit and that’s great and all, but BLUE had a purpose and that was WISDOM. Link isn’t WISDOM. He’s COURAGE. That was the whole rite of passage thing in Wind Waker!

Also, Zelda. Zelda, babe. Hon.

Zelda... What the FUCK ARE YOU WEARING???

Like, DAMN girl’s got hips for DAYS but do we really need the thicc shown in fucking leggings?? I mean, okay, her normal princess outfit is fine. Would’ve liked it to be a liiiiitle more traditional, but whatever. You look the part. And her normal adventure outfit is...okay?? It doesn’t look very practical nor comfortable for travels so it seems a little weird?? It just looks really uncomfortably tight and really draws attention to the thighs. But see, it’s the fucking Goddess getup that I have the most problems with.

Like, I’m just gonna start with saying that she looks fucking pregnant.

The empire waist wasn’t a good choice, especially cause she’s already just so damn thicc. And then you mix it with a sleeveless top and you have these fucking layers that just exaggerate the hips in the most unflattering way possible. I’m not saying she needs to look sexy but for a goddess, she could’ve looked more elegant? I’m sure with some kinda alterations, this would’ve looked great, or maybe on a different body, but like! I don’t like the dress for Skyward Sword either but at least she looks more goddess-like than this! (and that was a VERY boring dress...) She looks like Ariel putting on that sail cloth when she turned human. I mean, she could’ve had like, three-quarter sleeves with a v-neck or sweetheart neckline and then let the skirt flare out with the Hylian buckle around the waist. But this looks.. it just looks uncomfortable. I wouldn’t wanna practice goddess magic in this either.

So aside from forgetting about important races and a lack in fashion design, then you move on with the story. So since Zelda’s such a nerd and cause she lost her mother when she was younger, I guess that means I should feel sorry for her long-ass struggle with her goddess powers but um... I’m not. I don’t feel sorry for this woman. I just feel annoyed. I feel very annoyed every time I run all over Hyrule, trying to find these fucking memories, only to get five minutes of her bitching at US for her own failure.

Link is a soldier. And on top of that, he’s burdened with the heavy duty of carrying the Master Sword. HE is the one who has to fight Ganon. And instead he just runs around escorting Princess Twilight Sparkle while she geeks out over learning and frogs and then insults him, yells at him, and pushes him away from doing HIS FUCKING JOB. Unlike her, LINK IS DOING HIS JOB. I don’t blame him for shutting the hell up while she bitches and cries. I’m gonna side with Zelda’s father on this one, she found out about the prophecy, but SHE NEEDS TO DO HER JOB. Not for the sake of reputation (which seemed unusually dickish for him to say....) but because that’s her damn job. Everyone else knew what it meant to be a soldier. They knew when to dig in their heels and get ready to fight. WHY. DIDN’T. SHE?? Or at least why didn’t we see her trying like she kept talking about?? Yeah we saw her pray to ONE FUCKING FOUNTAIN. And it wasn’t even supposed to be her damn goddess! The whole mess wouldn’t have happened if she had just SHUT THE HELL UP and thought about someone else besides her own problems.

Also, if you were gonna show the tender moment where she finally does unleash her powers, maybe you SHOULDN’T make that a “secret ending” after you run around and try to guess where the rest of the memories were based on poor-quality pictures. And yeah, Zelda. you took a lot of shoddy pictures with that damn tablet. HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DIFFERENTIATE ONE FOREST FROM A THOUSAND OTHERS??

Maybe I would’ve felt more sorry if I didn’t have to climb through a fucking castle full of guardians, avoid tripping the cut scene, and THEN read in a long-ass diary about her mother dying, but you know, that just didn’t happen. I don’t feel sorry for her. I don’t feel excited for her to unleash her powers. Actually, I’m rather sad that despite the games being called “Legend of Zelda”, I REALLY didn’t wanna focus on THIS incarnation of her. The idea of it would’ve been fucking fantastic, but did Nintendo really have to make her such a whiny bitch?

Okay okay okay. Now before you send me hate mail, I will point out some things I like about her. She had a nice voice. She was cute (in a good outfit). And she wasn’t a total bitch. It was a good idea for Nintendo to try to focus on the titular character for once. I just don’t see this excusing all the other problems though.

Moving on, I mentioned earlier how I hated Rivali. That was the understatement. I am so glad he fucking died at the hands of one of the easiest damn bosses. I know some people may have liked him but I can’t stand ego. It’s an immediate turn-off and the sad part is that he had a sexy design and voice. He could’ve been redeemable if he showed some kinda humility after being dead for 100 years, but no. They just...didn’t give him that. Not willingly at least. Again, this is where I would’ve LOVED the next generation to take up the mantle instead, but... Yeah. No. We didn’t get that. (And I swear he was jealous that Link had Mipha and Zelda’s affections. Especially Zelda’s.)

Urbosa was good, but I felt like we didn’t get to know her personality too much? And the same goes for her grandchild. Also even though the Gerudo are known for hating men, they HAVE accepted men into their clans before. What happens if these women marry?? They have to leave town? Link was genuinely accepted as one of the Gerudo in OoT and was free to walk around! And that was just for debunking their strongest warriors. BotW!Link saved the whole fucking town, saved one from dehydration and another’s husband, and is a renowned champion! You think that would give him a get-out-of-jail free card!

I already talked about how I liked Daruk cause he’s definitely a strong leader and a gentle-soul. I do like the Goron City but it feels a little weird how....corporate they became. I mean, it makes sense. They can make a good profit from the gems they harvest but it’s still a little weird considering how tribal and relaxed the gorons were before. Still, they were a cute bunch and I really liked going to Goron City again.

And Mipha was sweet and I really loved her one-sided relationship with Link. I felt really sad thinking about Sidon growing up without his sister and I see why everyone shipped him with Link. Sidon himself was pretty good but....personal preference dictates that a super excited, extroverted, supportive type...doesn’t suite me. Don’t get me wrong. He’s very sweet and cute and I can see why a lot of fangirls were into him. It’s just the over-exuberant extrovertedness that gets to me. Also I was really surprised that this game made the ZORAS racist, out of all of them. I mean like, fucking damn... I know your princess died but fuck! Finally, last note, I...really didn’t care for their designs. I know the Zoras have been through a hell of a lot of redesigns over the years and they’ve certainly improved, but I think Ocarina of Time’s era was just enough of Fish and Human to make it a good hybrid? Rather than making...a shark..humanoid...with another shark...on his head?? And somehow related to a whale??? With a...manta ray...for an advisor.. I mean, I get it, he was suppose to look old, but it’s literally just a stingray on his head.

I liked Hetsu too, though collecting korok seeds is kinda annoying. I hate it when games make you have to gather more for just one thing, it’s just..not a fun mechanic to have? And the koroks themselves are still cute, though it’s taken me a while to accept that they replaced my beloved Kokiri and Dekus. (I only had OoT/MM growing up, so when I finally played Wind Waker as an adult, yeah I was pretty upset about the change in the species.) I still wish they had a bigger role to play in all of this.

Lastly, Ganon had a pretty great design, though it was a little weird he was like...semi-solid for this game. Like.. What? What was with all the...”malice”? (Which is an actual word, guys. You could’ve called it something besides that...) I really liked how he merged himself with the technology and it was interesting that he was controlling the guardians, but honestly when she said “Given up incarnation” I was a little disappointed he still went by Ganon cause you know... His original form wasn’t called Ganon. It was called Demise. Also for having a giant smoke-pig with a huge gaping mouth hovering around the castle, it would’ve been a little more interesting for him to...still retain that when you walked in? But design aside, fighting Ganon wasn’t actually all that hard after you freed the Divine Beasts and it’s...a little disappointing. I mean, I’m running around, fighting lynels and dragons and guardians and really, I had more trouble with THOSE than I did with HIM. And that’s REALLY disappointing when Ganon is the long-standing Ultimate Bad Guy (tm) and I was REALLY looking forward to feeling more accomplished beating him than I did when I beat a silver-maned lynel.

Finally some last complaints:

I wish the Sheikahs didn’t have their hands in everything. Who said that THEY should determine who Goddess Hylia’s chosen hero should be? Why were THEY the advanced race when you have one that harvests iron on a regular basis? And I hate that they don’t have any actual temples cause one of the things I liked about the whole thing is that there was a running religion and the Sages and Temples actually had some significance? Even though it’s pointless, I like history and archeological search in a game, even if I’m the only one doing it for my own amusement, cause it just helps me to connect more to the world that I’m playing in but I don’t get that when I walk into a weird-ass abyssal room with small puzzles or fights.

Also there are seriously WAY too many fucking shrines. None of them make any sort of callback to old games. The spirit orb system is confusing cause if that’s a callback to Skyward Sword, then at least say it was by Link’s own doing and not these dead monks that have been preserved in suspended animation for 100 years. Why didn’t Link do the shrines to start with 100 years ago? Also I HATE that you have to collect 4 spirit orbs for hearts or stamina. I mean, we all know stamina sucks, but this just making it REALLY obvious? And seriously it was so fucking easy to die early on into the game, especially if you ran out of stamina or were still fumbling with the new controls.

Why didn’t he ask more questions in this game? If you have voice acting, why didn’t you actually give Link any dialogue? I think that would’ve made a stronger impact for Zelda to get her powers or something.

Seriously the three dragons bug the shit out of me. I know they were supposed to represent the goddesses and it was really cool to first come across them and shit but 1) it’s really hard to keep up with any of them. 2) they don’t really add anything to the plot. 3) was Zelda supposed to pray to a dragon?? 4) Did the dragons from Skyward Sword just like...de-evolve? (devolve?) Cause they spoke and wore clothes??? Why didn’t these??? 5) (and this goes to Skyward Sword too) why is the one who represents the fucking forests, you know, FARORE, have lightning powers? I think Pokemon already took the cake with mythical creatures representing Fire, Ice, and Lightning. This would’ve been better with Fire, Water, and Grass, y’know?

I fucking cringe looking at the map cause it feels like so much it just out of place... Like, how do you move a whole Forest from the south to the north? Why is the volcano moved like, way far to the back? The WHOLE Lake Hylia was moved like, so far from the original spot. Really the only things that stayed in place was Hyrule Castle and Gerudo Desert.

Also don’t give us giant skeletons and then NOT ACTUALLY EXPLAIN WHAT THEY REALLY ARE. Leviathan is not just a blanket term for Giant-Ass-Monster. Was that the Dodongo King at the volcano? The Sky Dragon from Skyward Sword?? What the fuck froze to death? Why was that and the one in the desert more similar the one at the fucking volcano??

Seriously your mini bosses shouldn’t be harder than the Ultimate Bad Guy. The blights were harder and I especially had trouble with the lynels and guardians. And seriously WHY was there a fucking guardian on the fucking Plateau?? I was fucking terrified of these killer robots and it’s seriously unfair that I barely ever get any proper armor or shields to deal with them! Also seriously, why did there have to be a whole graveyard of them right underneath a stupidly challenging maze??

Also I don’t mind teleporting everywhere in a game, but when there’s literally secrets over every last inch of this game (from shrines to korok seeds to weapons, food, and needed pictures) it gets REALLY boring to travel on foot. Especially when climbing mountains in freezing conditions. I mean, I love that it’s so open-world and I love that we get to go exploring whatever we want, but there are a few problems with that. The other being that it’s hard to follow the plot of a game when you hardly have any reason to go do it or to follow any intended order. I did Rivali last, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t bother to explore that side of the map until it was all that was left. I WISHED SOMEONE SAID SOMETHING EARLIER IN THE GAME CAUSE THE GALE WOULD’VE HELPED TREMENDOUSLY.

Finally I swear someone on the staff has a giant fetish, and not that there’s a problem with that? But can we have ONE game where the Great Fairies aren’t horrifying to look at?? Like, if some people like it, fine, I guess? But gosh damn these bitches just look so GAUDY. There’s too much glittering, there’s too much...just too much everything. Also you should be able to up all your armor, not just a few things? It would’ve been awesome to walk around as Shadow Link and have it upped to be at least decently protective.

Okay.. I think I’m done complaining. Now I’ll stop my own bitching and actually give the game its proper praise.

The game does have some amazingly gorgeous graphics and it blows me away every fucking time. When it does want to intimidate you, it does so very well. And so many things were designed so well. Despite earlier complaints, I love how the dragons were designed to vary from one to another. I love how all the baddies were designed. I love the large array of wardrobe that you get for Link and it’s so much fun to change his looks and dye them different colors. (though, again, you should be able to dye the Champions tunic to GREEN.)

Some of the characters were fun and had some great personalities. I liked the bits of lore this game generated. I also loved whatever small callbacks it did make (like mentioning Naboru, and Makar’s island). I liked that you could catch and ride so many things and it’s fun that there’s a motorcycle (I haven’t unlocked that yet, but I’m sure it’ll be fun ^^). It was fun exploring different worlds within this game and just really see some of these beloved races expand and grow and see how the world is affected by such an apocalypse.

I like hunting for your food and surviving that way rather than random hearts coming out of the grass. The whole sense of survival is pretty awesome and thrilling. It’s fun to discover things in this world and it’s fun to just go around, explore, and make up your own adventure. (I just wish there was a bit  more guiding for the story...)

Some of the reactions in this game are so much fun. Like walking up to people naked, or riding the Lord of the Mountain to any stable. Actually that entire story about the Lord of the Mountain is really sweet and heartwarming. But the actually dialogue that’s written into this game is really fun and pretty spot-on.

I really liked the side mission of buying your own(old?) house and creating an entire village from the ground up. It was such a sweet side-story to the whole thing and was a lot of fun to to. The other side mission of helping the korok through the woods was super cute. ^^ It was little moments like these that really did make me enjoy the game. And I did like being able to stumble into Zelda’s room or study and read about her life in the past, seeing her figure out Link and such.

And the challenges of conquering the Divine Beast was actually fun, but again, would’ve liked a bit more direction. Actually getting through this game was kinda fun, but it was easy for the magic to get sapped out of everything with stupid shit.

Overall, I wouldn’t say this was the worst Zelda game. Heaven know Skyward Sword did much worse. It could’ve been better though and that’s what really makes me sad. I was really looking forward to playing something new and amazing, especially having just finished Wind Waker for the first time before it and was honestly, disappointed after the magic of the new features wore off. It wasn’t the best. But it wasn’t the worst. It just really needed some work on in a few areas. Over all I would rate it 7/10.

#Zelda #Legend of Zelda #Breath of the Wild #Link #Zoras #Gorons #Rito #Gerudo #Sidon #Mipha #Urbosa #Rivali #Daruk #Ganon #Triforce #Din #Farore #Nayru #Hylia

[measuringlife]

Grief Letter to Daddy

Today I wrote my Dad a letter as per advice from a grief counselor catching him on my life the past 11.5 years. I hope to make this a new tradition each year.

Dear Daddy,

Today would have been your 70th Birthday! I can’t picture you as a 70 year old, but I know we would have done something fabulous to celebrate, likely a trip somewhere. However 11 of your birthdays have passed and 11 of mine. I was 24 when you died, just 6 months out of graduate school working in my first full time job in Texas. Texas, where you were. I remember some of our last conversations were about my managing the stresses and finances (or lack thereof) that came with being a new professional. There are so many times of the years that I wish I could call you about work, get some advice, vent, or just brag on myself. While on a recent grief support call about Father loss I was advised to write you a letter, I figured a letter on your birthday would be perfect.

After you died I finished out the school year at Midwestern State in Texas and then moved on to a job at Auburn. However before I left Texas I got Freddie, getting Freddie from a breeder in Oklahoma was quite possibly the best part of the last 6 months I spent in Texas after you died. It was actually on your birthday in 2008 that I interviewed for my Auburn job. It was great to be back there, to have the opportunity to flex my creativity, open some minds, push some boundaries through my work and know what it feels like to be on a high achieving team. Auburn was where I started running. You would have been so supportive of my running, I bet you would have flown out to cheer me on at my first Marathon in Los Angeles.

After my almost 4 years “studying abroad” in Alabama it was time for me to make my way back up the east coast. I worked at George Mason in a brand new position, there was so much freedom and autonomy. My first year went pretty well, but then all of my colleagues had life circumstances that happened at once which left me without a supervisor and no colleagues willing to help pull any weight. These spring days in 2013 was the first time I was staying in the office long after other people left to do work. I can’t pinpoint why I felt like I had to be a superhero, why I couldn’t let a ball drop or ask for help. I was still a younger professional and trying to prove myself, but let's be real I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove myself.

Despite some toxic times at Mason, I had some great ones. I overhauled curriculum, help reshape programs, and brought prestige to my department. Some of my favorite work was working with our outdoor extended orientation program. Can you picture me whitewater kayaking, rock climbing, camping, doing all day hikes? I know I could hardly believe it either, but I loved it. While at Mason I lived in Alexandria, VA with two of the best Craigslist roommates ever. I joined volleyball, kickball, and cornhole leagues. I was also still running and dating. You would have loved my dating nightmare stories, but thankfully I found a good one. He is very different than you or me. You and I were always the loud and “jovial” (I STILL always think of you when I hear that word) types. Actually one of the things we bonded over early on was our love of the ocean and California, we both would love to live there one day.

In 2015 I was really serious about California, I applied to a ton of jobs out there. Flew out there and interviewed for 3 - but none of them were right. I was at a fork in the road, I knew I couldn’t stand to work for my toxic supervisor a moment longer. I started looking for jobs outside of higher education and interviewed for some, but then my “dream” job as a Director of Orientation came up in DC. Little did I know the next 18 months at this institution would be full of turmoil and transition, somewhere I experience a lot of unintended fallout. 2017 nearly killed me, like seriously. It’s a miracle that I’m alive and was able to pull myself through it all. However all the things that happened led me to counseling and then my Adult Children of Alcoholics group and back to writing/journaling/blogging and working with a life coach.

I think it was your birthday last year that really gave me a big momentum push. I actually teleworked on your birthday last year - on an Amtrak train for an up and back to NYC in a day to go see Kinky Boots for the 2nd time by myself. My beloved David Cook was starring it in and I had gone up a few weeks before to see him in it, but I knew I needed to see it again. I thought going on your birthday would be a perfect way to spend the day. That day I actually posted on my personal Instagram about you being gay. It felt so vulnerable to share something I kept so sacred and private, however in sharing that I got some great outreach from people and immediately felt deeper connections with some friends. Posting that gave me the confidence to be more vulnerable in many different settings.

In the past year I’ve grown Measuring Life, gotten in the best physical shape of my life, became certified as a group fitness instructor, started petsitting, and gained control of my finances as part of a debt free journey. More importantly I have been deepening the relationships that matter and releasing the relationships that don’t matter. I’ve learned that I’m enough. I’ve learned not to be ashamed of my past or feel guilty about my choices. I’m laying the foundation for what’s next for me, the health and wellness world is where I want to be. I want to work with trauma survivors and post traumatic response. For better and for worse your life and death have shaped me and for that I thank you. I look forward to what I’ll write to you next year as part of a new tradition.

Love ya Daggles,

Jenniac

.

#grief #fatherlessdaughters #jovial #vulnerability #recovery #traumarecovery

[vinodiriso]

Mejika Nikki: Inheritance from a Phantom.

She didn’t know it yet, but that was going to be one of the recurrent dreams belonging to most of her nights. Not a dream though… more of a nightmare, indeed. Yoshino knew what she was experiencing was not real but at the same time she could not deny the sensations attached to it. Those were absolutely real and concrete.

She queued outside with many other people under a tangerine sky, they were all waiting for something hidden behind closed doors. There were friendly faces in blue uniforms at the heads of those lines, everyone of them was smiling and nodding politely as they welcomed the queued ones in, one by one.

Yoshino shifted her gaze around, she wanted to understand what was going on, where she was, what she was doing there. She tried to grab somebody by their shoulder but regardless of the words she spoke, none seemed to figure her out. At that point she was desperate to learn even the slightest about that situation.

“Excuse me!” she cried out in agony as she addressed one blue-dressed guard (guard? when did she realize those were guards?), a woman with luxurious blond hair cut in a short bob.

“Yes, ma’am?” her voice was kind and soothing.

“Where are we?” Yoshino asked, clinging at her clothes.

“Please, ma’am, just follow the queue” the woman replied with a cold smile. Her politeness spread no warmth, it was as glacial as ice itself. It burnt on the Nara widow’s skin.

“I want to know! Where are we going?! Tell me!” by that time she was wriggling like a hopeless fish which had swallowed the hook. Many ran to her, guards and not, attempting to contain her rage, but she managed to shake their hands off.

“Where are we?! What is waiting for us?!”

“No more question, ma’am. Please, get back in line.”

Yoshino shouted and thrashed her arms. She wanted to escape. She needed to escape.

The gentle expression of the woman turned into a furious frown. Her features changed accordingly: she became an aged man with salt-and-pepper, shoulder-lenght hair tied up into a bristly, erect ponytail. Wrinkles around his eyes and mouth made him even more intimidating in his appearance. Yoshino knew whose that face was and had she been able to think rationally in that moment, she would have realized that was her father-in-law’s face, whom she had nothing to be scared about at the very least. Right then though… that was the most fearsome face in the entire world.

“JUST GET BACK IN LINE!”

As she bolted upright with short breath, she had to get used to the lack of illumination in the room. It was plunged into the deepest darkness, the tealight candles she employed as night lights had to have been blown out. She was wheezing and trembling, her forehead was sticky with sweat as much as the back of her neck; she tied her hair up to find some rest, but that would not work against the nervousness she was feeling.

It was too late to get a bath, moon was still up in the sky, so Yoshino sorted out to get herself a cup of tea and just wait for the sunrise. It was not the first time she would spent the entire night awake anyways, so she felt less irritated that usual. Honestly, there was nothing capable to pull an emotion out of her in that state. The only thing she wished for was to float around that sense of dullness forever until the end of her days would have approached: she didn’t want to feel anything. She didn’t want to fucking deal with any shit for as long as she was alive. 

Oh, of course, how could have she forgotten the migraine? It always made sure to turn up uninvited.  It felt pretty much like her skull was smashed with a fifteen-tons-weighting hammer, beaten up repeatedly and with gusto. Most of the times it came with such heavy pulsations she could barely lift her body up, the only thing she was enabled to do was crawling under the blankets and clenching her palms against her temples in hope to ease the pain.

“Fuck,” she moaned, teeth gritted, “go away. Go away. Go away.”

It didn’t work, but Yoshino was not going to get overpowered by a bad headache, not that time. She wobbled through the large corridors of Nara compound, one side of her body pressed against the wall in order to support her up and onward. At every throb she found herself shoving her eyes shut and tightening her jaws in a hollow bite, but she manged to reach the kitchen and fill the boiler. Now the water was heating up, the woman sat at the rectangular-shaped table with her head in her hands.

The next morning, the Three-Heads-Council would appoint her precious, little son head of his clan and Yoshino was so afraid. Shikamaru was still too young to take that responsibility upon himself, he didn’t know what being a clan head meant… Shikaku had no time to teach him.

Oh, what a rash thought had just crossed her mind! How bold from her to think of that name, the name she had avoided for days. It affected her on a physical level: a precise stab into her chest, a tough one who would have hurt for weeks to come, it made her gasp for air.

She raised her eyes and, as expected, he was there in front of her, his charcoal irises fixed on paperwork he brought home from the Hokage’s tower, his lips bent in a serious grimace. She had stared at him working for so much time… she remembered just how red she became when he looked up and found her studying his face like a love-stricken teenage girl.

“Come here, darling,” he used to say that, and as soon as she reached him, he pressed a kiss against her soft mouth. “I’m sorry. I promise I will not work at home anymore.”

It was a lie, but Yoshino didn’t mind when he spoke at her like that, with that tenderness in his husky voice.

No, no, she shook her head: he was not there. He would never be there again. He was dead. Dead for his village, dead for his homeland, dead for his comrades, dead for his honor. He was dead for everyone but her. Oh, yes, he preserved her safety… but what about her sanity? What about those unfilled silence none could take up? What about the coldness in her bed none else would ever be entitled to melt away? Without him, she was lost. Even worse, she was dead just as much as he was, she had no reason to be alive.

Yoshino buried her head into her arms, too weak and tired to think properly, too sick to function. The kettle started an obnoxious whistle which only reinforced her headache, so the woman removed it from the stove. Was she to be considered a woman anymore though? That new label was already glued on her back and followed her wherever she went: widow, the widow of the Great Chief and Jounin Commander Nara Shikaku. According to the Konohanians, a widow had to renounce to her status of woman to fence herself in at home and grieve her husband until her eyes would have dried out or her children would have given her a grandchild to sacrifice her life for.

So, if she wanted to list up what Shikaku’s demise had granted her by far, she would have written: 1) loneliness; 2) lunacy; 3) unwanted epithet.

“Where are you getting all this bitterness out of, Shishi?” she mumbled to herself, stirring up the herbal mix she had selected for her tea, “aren’t you satisfied enough with his death? Do you really want to unravel your heart through over and again until the little shred of humanity you still hold will be ripped to pieces?”

Of course not. Dullness and daze were much more preferable, a complete abstention from life and a consequent lack thereof. If only all the people around left her for dead just as her dead husband…

Sound of tranquil sips consumed into the disturbing silence of the shadowed room accompanied the rest of Yoshino’s night, freed from draining lucubration that only brought unwanted pain forth. Morning was about to come and the mother (yes, she liked that label more) knew she had to wake Shikamaru up, as much as that made her cringe. She felt ashamed to disturb his well-deserved rest after having fought a war for such an embarrassing minor inconvenience as a formal appointment; they all knew his father’s place was his to inherit, just like Shikaku’s mansions he had already been charged with by Rokudaime. Her beautiful son, too young to be burdened with that title… her innocent, sweet, poor little fawn ready to be sacrificed to Atlas’ altar.

“Shikamaru,” she murmured so very quietly, gently shaking him away from his dreamless sleep, “wake up. It’s time.”

His hazel eyes (or rather, her hazel eyes pasted onto a Nara-like face) fluttered open in bewilderment as his mouth twitched a couple of times. It took him a few seconds to realize he was home, safe and tucked into his bed, his mother was kneeling right beside him. Yoshino knew that look: his father and her had the same look for several months after the war. Son of two scarred souls, and yet those couldn’t prevent him from gaining one as well. Yoshino felt so sorry and regretful.

“Yeah, ma,’” Shikamaru muttered with a drowsy voice, rubbing his eyes open, “give me ten minutes.”

“Okay. Just be sure to come down in time for breakfast.”

He nodded with the same energy he had shown prior. That drew a sigh out of his mother’s lips but she knew better than fight with him about it: he was just made like that, but it was not his nature to contravene orders, especially considering just how much all the family was emotionally bound to breakfast. It had been the last meal the reunited members had eaten all together before the two males would leave for the battlefield.

“Don’t ya eat anything?” the boy munched the words coming out of his mouth together with the warm rice as he observed his mother looking out of the window absentmindedly. He was perceptive and his gaze was as sharp as a sword: after all, it was his best weapon.

“No, I’m not hungry” Yoshino shook her head with a soft temperament Shikamaru had hardly seen from her. Her stomach was corked and her mouth too exhausted to work on food… moreover, her morbid trail of thoughts did not help her appetite.

Shikamaru decided not to reply. Wise choice. “You know, there are quite some possibilities I won’t be chosen as the next leader.”

Yoshino hissed in denial, she maintained a skeptical attitude. “Tsk! Your grandfather is the one charged to elect a new clan head. Do you think he will risk removing the title from his own bloodline? Don’t be dumb, Shikamaru.”

“Yeah, I know that myself,” the younger acknowledged with a compliant tone, “but I am too young to be appointed. Breaking the rule will not do us any good… it would end up doing more harm than anything.”

The woman bit down her lower lip as she realized Shikamaru was not wrong. Tradition was fundamental to Naras, a load-bearing pillar none would ever dare to break. Their clan was conservative and devoted to its culture to an enormous extent. Now that their head had passed away, would they have stuck with the tradition of appointing the first child of the previous leader or were they more close to the idea of never letting a young man like Shikamaru rule their lands?

“Guess we will find out in a flash,” the chuunin shrugged it off like it wasn’t a big deal. 

Yoshino could sense he was just forcing a tough approach, his actual self was much more worried. That was the closest and most precious inheritance his father had left to him and he was ready to take it upon himself. Not receiving that position would delude him beyond words and make him lose confidence in his ability, but at the same time he was aware he could not fight the law, he was taught to respect traditions above else. A teaching Yoshino had learnt to appreciate during the years she had spent by Shikaku’s side, yet now she was boiling with rage and anger… sure, there still was a chance Shikamaru would have been appointed as Nara clan head, but it was thinner than before.

“Yoshino-sama, Shikamaru-dono…” a dark-haired head peeped out from behind the entrance door. The woman recognized Daichi’s figure, one member of her personal escort. Daichi was the youngest component of Nara Guards Corps, being him only nineteen at the moment of his designation; now he was twenty-four and still one of the best Kagemane-specialized shinobi in their clan.

“It’s time to go. We are moving in five minutes.”

Yoshino nodded in agreement weakly as she dismissed the ninja. She hoped her nerves would resist at least until the ceremony was over. In all fairness she didn’t even know where she had found the energy to wear an appropriate mofuku, that black garment only endorsed her funereal mood and worsened her dizziness and general ache.

Shikamaru was at the head of their cortege wearing the most likely only one formal kimono he owed (he despised that kind of clothing because of the occasions it was linked with), Daichi and Daen both covered wings position while Yoshino walked in the middle, behind her son. On those official situations, she used to lead the procession alongside her husband with Shikamaru being secured strictly by two Guards. The symbolism was clear: clan head and his significant other conducted the clan towards a brighter future, while the fruit of their union was shielded by the highest-ranked ninjas in their family. Now, though, she was considered a frail, dried, crunchy leaf ready to be stepped on and crumbled. That dark humor elicited a bitter smile out of her lips.

“All hail the proud fawn and his beautiful, honored mother doe,” Yoshino was addressed by a sarcastic, adult male voice. It took her no effort to identify the source of such a comment: a tall man with a black eye patch was catching up with the group at his pace.

He was similar to her deceased life companion the way a pine and an oak resemble one another: both shared the typical Nara traits (slanting eyes, thin, black hair and an oval face shape) but more than that there was nothing that could recall Shikaku to mind in him, although those two were blood-related cousins. The man was taller and bulkier than her husband, other than spreading a cockier vibe. Shikaku, on the other hand, was the proud bearer of a regal elegance in speech and step that that guy couldn’t even dream of.

“Morimaru,” Yoshino greeted him with the same sympathy she would save for a cockroach, “care to explain your presence here? The meeting we are going to attend is reserved to the titleholder family.”

“In a hurry, Yoshino dear,” he bowed respectfully, although Yoshino could sense no regard in his gestures. “I’m here in quality of eldest male blood-related to royal family.”

“What?!” Shikamaru didn’t manage to bite his tongue in time. The look he gave Morimaru was as blistering as molten lava. Truly her son, without any doubt.

The boy’s reply only made him gloat. “Oh, poor fawn, I thought your father taught you the law better. Don’t you know the rules of our clan? Now that our dear Leader is deceased, may Gods bless his soul, our legislation orders us to choose a new head. Legislation imposes to old Shikaichi-sama to choose a proper successor to my cousin, who would be you, without any doubt, but unfortunately you are way too young to guide our family, Shikamaru-kun.”

“In case of premature passing away of the head, whether the first born child is younger than twenty, the eldest male related to the child will be appointed in their place,” Shikamaru recited the code by heart, glowering at Morimaru like a rabid dog.

Yoshino was shocked to a major extent. After all what Shikaku had done for the Naras, that was how he would have been repaid? With his beloved son being excluded from the leading race? That was an insult to his memory.

“Do not dare to speak about Shikaku like that, you jerk—!”

“Yoshino-sama,” Daichi was fast to stop her before she would lapse into further badmouthing. “We have to go. If you wish to follow us, Morimaru-dono, we would be glad to escort you.”

“Not a bad idea at all, Daichi-kun,” Yoshino could see just how tight his face muscles became as soon as Morimaru called him that, “please, Shikamaru-kun, lead the way.”

The double doors were pushed open by the youngest Nara. They creaked as they revolved on hinges, stone screeching in contact with the floor. Anxiety clutched Yoshino’s chest, she couldn’t help but glancing at the man standing behind her and the threatening air about his relaxed expression. She couldn’t let her husband’s legacy go wasted on that human refuse, but she felt so powerless. She could not influence her father-in-law in any way and the rules could not be changed in accord to Shikamaru’s situation, could they? Morimaru would never return the title to Shikamaru once he had turned of age, he would have bore it until death and after that his children would inherit what was once property of her son.

Yoshino walked as slowly as she could, her steps echoed against the damp walls as she furiously turned her brain inside out in the desperate search for an idea. What could she do? What could she do?

“Mom,” Shikamaru put a hand on her shoulder, asking her for a brief pause. Yoshino looked at him, a bit worried for the sudden serious tone in his voice.

“What’s wrong?”

“Whatever happens from now on, I don’t want you to blame yourself.”

Yoshino bit down her lip. Her son knew her all too well. “I’ll try. But don’t you dare to blame yourself either. Your f-father…” she choked on those words. She could not enunciate it without a solid knot springing in her throat.

Shikamaru nodded solemnly. “I know. Shall we enter?”

The doe took his hands and grasped it. “Let’s go.”

Upon seeing them all gathered together into that large room, Yoshino had no trouble remembering exactly why she hated those meetings. The dark chamber had only two narrow openings on the top and was built on two separate levels. On the tallest part there were three hanging arrases with the clans symbols. Before those, three towering stalls where three old men seated. The Nara spouse immediately recognized Shikamaru’s grandfather, Nara Shikahiko, who was looking down at them with those black eyes of his in the middle of the line. 

On his right side there was Inoichi’s grandfather, Yamanaka Inoto, whose skin was so thin it looked translucent. He had been a very attractive man in his younger days, no doubt, but now there was almost no trace of it, aside for a pair of green orbs that still seemed bearing quite some brightness. 

On the left there was Chouza’s father, Akimichi Choutaro, a man even broader than his son (which was an impressive thing alone) with a wilder, white mane that fell loose on his back. He brought forward no hint of gentleness, his hands were as warty and knobbly as a farmer’s.

At the floor lever there were a couple on the right and a trio on the left. Ino was accompanied by her grandfather, Inodai, and the two of them held a regal composure in their suffering: the elder man was encircling her shoulder in a tight embrace, while the girl kept her hands one into the other, her facial expression was neutral in the attempt of pushing away every emotion. 

Chouji and Yasuhime turned to glimpse at what was left of the Nara family as soon as they entered, but Chouza murmured some sort of warning that made them look away. Yoshino was grateful for it.

The royal Nara stood in the center of the room, side by side, after they had politely bowed to the Council. Their escort kept themselves aside, as well as Morimaru: as much as he liked to make them feel his breath on their necks, he knew he had to follow etiquette. Yoshino was shaking a little bit, but with Shikamaru grabbing her hand she had nothing to be afraid of.

“We are all here,” Choutaro said austerely, scolding down at his audience with those hawk-like eyes of his, “to acknowledge a painful loss in our clans. Two heroes have been ripped away from the warm solace of their families. Before further discussion, I invite you and us all to pay our homages to the deceased and the bereaved through a minute of silence.”

Spying from beneath her lashes, Yoshino saw Ino lowering her head down, some tears rolled fast down her porcelain cheeks. Shikamaru’s grip became more intense.

“My grandson Inoichi has greatly honored his lineage and his whole clan,” Inoto continued, his voice was shallow and breathy as expected for a man of his age, but still ruling. “For this, his memory will be conserved in the years to come by his descendants as well as his subordinate clansmen.”

“Same applies to my son, Shikaku,” Shikahiko sounded worn out by grief to a trained ear like Yoshino’s, but she suspected none else could notice it. “He has been a great leader for our people and the Nara shall never forget him, as Yamanaka will never forget Inoichi. Yet this objective is only obtainable through the sacrifice of whom bears their name. Nara Shikamaru, Yamanaka Ino,” the mentioned two knelt down in respect (Shikamaru also let go of her hand), “this task is upon you.”

“We are honored to oblige!” they recited in unison.

“Your intentions are commendable, but as you may well know this is not the only thing that counts for our families,” Choutaro resumed the speech after a pause. “The desire in both your fathers’ hearts was for their clans to be passed down to you when the moment had come, but they have left us too early with two children that are not eligible for the position. Because of that, we have been called to choose substitutes while waiting for you to turn older.”

Yoshino’s heart froze in her chest. And so, after all, Morimaru was right: Shikamaru was not going to be appointed next head of Nara clan. She could already sense his depraved sense of victory, his malicious self-gratification. It was appalling and revolting. She saw out of the corner of her eye Shikamaru’s complexion growing paler. He could not gaze up to meet Shikahiko’s face, he felt too betrayed by his own blood.

Inoto spoke first. He stood up, although with some difficulties, keeping himself on his feet with a long, ivory cane. “A man should never outlive his child,” there was compassion in his teal eyes as he settled down on his son Inodai, Ino’s grandfather, “for the tragedy that has stricken you, Inodai, I express my condolences. I demand you to take back your role as leader of Yamanaka. This is not a task that should be passed on a man who has already suffered enough torments as you have, but please, keep it in mind that you are doing this for the future of us,” he gestured at Ino, who was still leaned on one knee, “your granddaughter. Will you accept?”

“I will,” Inodai replied with force. “For the memory of my son and the future of his daughter.”

“Shall your name be praised among our people, Yamanaka Inodai,” Inoto said, Yoshino perceived his emotion as he spook, “for you have taken willingly the greatest responsibility for a man not only once, but twice.”

He nodded and knelt down by Ino’s side. Yoshino started to tremble as she took into realization that it was Shikahiko’s time to speak. Morimaru grew more excited, she could hear his breath accelerating.

When Inoto seated back, Shikahiko came to his feet, his limp hindering him even with a cane to support him. The woman’s hands were shuddering as she clung on the edge of her mourning vest, eyes open wide in the moment she fixated it on her father-in-law’s mouth. She hung off his words, like everyone else in the room. She could feel on her own skin their morbid curiosity about the destiny of Nara. She didn’t care about it one bit, she only wanted to know the fate of her son.

“Traditions are determining to us all, be one a Yamanaka,” he pointed at Inodai, that smiled a little at him in return, “a Nara,” he indicated Morimaru, standing in the darkest shade of the room, “or an Akimichi,” he proceeded to sign Chouza, who dropped his head in reverence.

“Traditions, and the respect of those, are the very base of our clans and our greatest strength,” he went on, “our most prized possession is the Ino-Shika-Cho formation, the covenant between our families.”

“The past has always been a beacon for the future, a specimen for the path we should follow. That we should, not that we are called to.”

Shikamaru raised his head in confusion. “Grandfather, please, speak clearly.”

“What I mean is that tradition always proved to be a great model to imitate for us,” the eldest Nara’s voice became more passionate, he clenched his free fist closed, “but there are cases where tradition does not provide any archetype and a man has to take a stand and assume charge of innovation. That is, my friends and relatives, the case I found myself in.”

Yoshino didn’t understand. Did that mean he choose to appoint Shikamaru, no matter his age? The clan might not have accepted it at first, but the woman was confident her son would provide a great leader just as much as his father had been in the past. She would be by his side to give him advice as long as he wanted to, as long as he didn’t find himself a woman to accompany his life course.

“This is not the first time a Nara leader dies before his descendants have turned rightful to claim his heredity,” this time, it was Morimaru’s turn to contest his uncle. He kept his voice steady, but Yoshino could feel it vibrate with fury and anxiety. The freshest occasion to steal her husband’s position and now he saw it being taken away right in front of his eyes. “The procedure has been established many and many years ago, Shikahiko-sama.”

“This is the first time, though, that a Nara head dies without any rightful close relatives,” Shikahiko remarked, “the law of our clan is oral and based on previous cases. When my father died in war, I was ready to welcome his clan as his last gift. When my great-grandfather Shikato became a victim of Uchiha’s fury, by the time Konoha was still a dream of Senju Hashirama, his brother treasured the clan waiting for the little Shikaichi to be ready to embrace his inheritance. The family bond connecting them was thick and close. Neither you, Morimaru, nor my niece Kadoko are close enough to custody Shikaku’s greatest possession.”

“And who are you going to call for this job, uncle?” Morimaru was gritting his teeth, his voice was the shriek of a wounded lion, “who is more qualified than me to become head of Nara?”

Shikahiko’s gaze spaced among his audience. Everyone was eager to know his answer to a question that, truth be honest, belonged to them all. Shikamaru was the most obvious reply the previous leader could give: his grandson had in him the power to look after the Nara. Please, say his name.

“It can’t be me,” Shikahiko started, “I already am a member of the Three-Heads-Council and I cannot resign from this enormous duty, it would be dishonorable from my part. My grandson, on the other hand, is too young and naive to fully cover the head role, he is not ready.”

“Still, there is a person who has the bravery and the power needed to receive this task in memory of my son, a person who knows well the sacrifice requested to a leader for the sake of their clan… the wife of the prior mentioned leader.”

Every single pair of eyes in the room turned to Yoshino. She felt like fainting. This can not be real. He could not do that to her, not after all she had endured… she would have broken right under that umpteenth burden thrown on her shoulders.

“You cannot be serious!” Morimaru exploded, Daichi took him by his arm but the older man shook the guy off, “she is not born a Nara, she is not a member of our clan! Damn it, she is not even a member of our village! She is an outsider! We will never acknowledge her as the clan head!”

Shikahiko ignored him and talked directly with Yoshino. Those burning black orbs were branding Yoshino’s frightened, hazel gaze, but he didn’t care. She knew why: the only thing that counted to him was to protect and guarantee Shikamaru’s future as a leader. Which was, after all, the same thing Yoshino wanted as well.

“You, Yoshino, are chosen as the guardian of this title into our noble family. My son, Shikaku, is no longer here to watch over the forest and his people, the Nara. A placeholder you are, yes, though the time ahead of you is difficult and yeasty and the decisions you are called to make will mark our family’s destiny. Shikaku, my son, blood of my own blood, trusted you when he chose to put into your womb the seed and the hopes of our family, making you the mother of the heir. Now, I entrust you with the great appellation of honorable clan head of Nara. Will you accept?”

What hurt Yoshino was the word he used, ‘placeholder’. According to him, she was an object useful to fulfill his aims, a piece of his shogi board. No, not a shogi board, for she was the Queen of chess. It suited her to a T, a powerful and strong piece, capable of slaying whatever enemy put in front of her for the sake of her King, but still weak enough to be eaten by a simple, well-positioned Pawn. The irony was evident.

“I…” “Yoshino-sama…!”

Shikaku made her the mother of the heir. The mother of the heir… like she had no will or voice in it. It was nothing short of an atrocity to say that out aloud, unforgivable, shameful, insulting. Shikaku had loved her! He did not reckon her a breeding cow, she was a woman, she was his beloved wife! She was a person! He had loved her! …had he not?

The tangle forming in her throat was as hot as the blood she tasted in her mouth, a revolting sip of pure, liquid iron, the cry originating from her chest scratched her flesh open, she was falling apart. Why her? Why was it  always her?

Shikahiko (and all the people in the room) were waiting for an answer with different heart dispositions. She could smell fear, power lust, indignation, sense of betrayal, consternation, daze… every emotion pierced her through like fine needles. She knew tears were watering her arid orbs, yet she could not fight them back. She was left truly defenseless.

“I will” the faintest whisper left her pale lips, but in the thick, heavy silence filling the room it was as loud as a fired gun.

“Ma’!” Shikamaru’s call fell on deaf ears.

“I greet you, Nara Yoshino, head of the almighty Nara Clan, protector of the eastern forest and its people, paladin of the fawns and descendant of the ancient hunters,” Shikahiko proclaimed with royal dignity. 

Each epithet weighted on her back that threatened to break under all that pressure, but eventually she managed to keep herself intact. Not the same could be assured about her spirit. She was irremediably split.

“May your reign be prosper and rich… Kage no Mibojin.”

“Yoshino-sama!” Daen was intended to stop her from asking further explanation. “We should head back to the compound. The news of succession should be announced by our new leader-”

“Daen, please, spare me this pretense. It nauseates me,” she was done with them all. His skewed, usually stern eyes were flooded with worry. Yoshino knew he was extremely faithful and loyal to the previous Nara head and, as a consequence, to his family he had sworn to protect. He would give his life to save Shikamaru’s or hers, she was not dubious about it. Nonetheless, she could not tolerate the sight of his face, of those Nara-ish features he brought forward.

“Let Morimaru have this honor. I am sure he looks forward to sully my name in front of the whole clan reunited. He aches for destroying Shika-ke’s reputation, doesn’t he? I don’t care about it. Just fuckin’ let him do it!”

“Yoshino-sama!” she lent no ears to the rebukes Daen kept on exclaiming, she moved towards the stairs. She had seen her father-in-law going to the rooftop deck straight after the meeting end. Inodai had striven to talk to him, but Shikahiko seemed not to appreciate his concerns, since Choutaro told his Yamanaka friend something about the hardness of his task, or at least she understood that from reading their lips. The hardness of his task… what task? Giving to a reluctant, dirty no-Nara the most important title for his family? 

The salt-and-pepper-haired man walked fast to his destination, Yoshino was familiar with that dignified stride: it was the same his son had used during all of his life.

She would not surrender like Inodai. She had to speak with Shikahiko, no matter what he would have said. She didn’t believe his words: there was a different reason for why she had been appointed instead of Morimaru that Shikahiko had chosen not to reveal. She, though, was about to get the truth out of his deceitful tongue, that was her thought as she went up to the building rooftop.

“Much time has passed from when your feet were heavy and secure as shinobi’s ones,” Shikahiko stated. He was leaned against the short, gray rail, as he watched the forest down them. Birds sang no-stop, it was love season for them: sparrows, ravens, robins and many more she hadn’t learnt the voices of. “Now you’ve acquired the lithesomeness of a true lady and the gentle heart of a mother. I struggle to see again the cold-blooded kunoichi you once were, Yoshino.”

“Not that you’ve ever wanted to see me anyways, old man,” she replied as she went to flank him. The trees profound green was always a splendor to look at, she found it peaceful to breathe in the sweet, fresh air of the forest, especially in the moments of unrest. Those soft leaves were the witnesses of her shakuhachi melody, an ancient song full of sadness and regret that spoke of a love badly enshrined.

“Our relationship has never moved mutually to the best direction,” he admitted, “but I’ve never loathed you, Yoshino. You are the mother of my grandson, after all, and you were the pride of my pride.”

“You didn’t want him to marry me,” she accused him with her breath short. She would not allow him to go back to himself after her husband’s death: he had never been a good man, and he was not going to be one because of his loss. “I was a stain on your family’s reputation. The next-to-be clan head that marries a foreigner? Who had ever heard of that?! You’ve opposed our union since the moment he proposed to me!”

“I was sure you would not prove a good mother, both for the lack of sensibility you had shown that far and for the ailment you harbor in your body,” Shikahiko corrected her, “but reality of facts had belied me.”

“Do not pull that sacrosanct attitude with me, old man,” Yoshino spat out and turned right to glare at his composure. She gripped the rail with both her hands, trying to contain her anger. “You have never accepted me into your family, and it’s not only for my sickness or my bad temper… you have hoped I would die the very same day I gave birth to Shikamaru so that he would have been left with you and Naoko-san.”

He kept quiet for a long minute, he examined the shapes of the clouds above their heads. Eventually, he sighed. “Yes, I did. I wanted you to be dead, Yoshino, because I believed you were worthy neither of my son, nor of my clan. When you’ve fallen unconscious after Shikamaru’s birth, I prayed you would never wake up again… the baby was healthy and Shikaku was attractive enough to find another spouse in no time, someone better who could raise his offspring.”

Yoshino had to hold on to the balustrade in order not to fall off the rooftop. She didn’t expect Shikahiko to simply drop off his dead son’s name like it was nothing, nor that he would assert such a cruelty right across her face. He had wished her dead at least once in her life… but nonetheless he had made her the head of his clan.

“Why not Morimaru?”

“He would have stolen the title from Shika-ke and consigned it to Mori-ke,” he retorted, “but I am sure you already know that. What do you really want to know?”

“Had he been…” she swallowed her dreads down, “had he been a more trusted man, would have you given the clan to him?”

“Without a second thought,” Shikahiko said, “Morimaru is the best head for this clan, way more than his cousin. Shikaku was loved among the Nara, but he had major faults as their leader.”

“How could you possibly be so vicious and disrespectful of your own son?” she cried out in disbelieve and hurt. She could not stand to hear anyone belittle her husband’s memory with unfounded criticisms… how could his father not bear any shame or pain covering his legacy’s name with mud? “He… he was the best clan head Naras have ever remembered! They loved him so much! He was their hero!”

“Shikaku was a charmer, a captivator, who knew how to make himself appreciated,” Shikahiko rectified her sentence with nonchalance, “unlike me, he had many ways to rabble-rouse people, he was a good leader because he had care to feed their illusions.”

“Morimaru— Morimaru cannot do this, you know it.”

“Yes.”

“So why, in your opinion, should he be such a good head?”

“Because he is just like me,” Yoshino was taken aback by his response. She stumbled back, her whole body on alert just as much as her eyes, which were pierced by suspicion. “He and I are so much alike that more often than not I have wished he was born mine, instead of my brother’s.”

“He does not sweet-talk people into anything he pleases, as my son used to do, he acts for the best. Often his actions are misinterpreted and make him appear as heartless and indifferent to other people’s lives, but there is nothing he loves more than his clan.”

“In my entire life I’ve noticeably neglected my family: my wife has forgiven me this fault, but my son… my son never had. I supposed that’s why he cared so much for you and Shikamaru, why he had always made sure that you were lacking nothing. All I’ve ever seen in Shikaku’s eyes was his contempt and his disregard for my persona, we shared nothing else but a passion for shogi. And now… now he is…”

Yoshino had never observed her father-in-law being prey of a sorrow as intense as the one he was experiencing in that moment. She saw him holding on to the metal as his head sunk down to mask a  pained expression, to mask a heartache he had all the rights to suffer. He pulled his face muscles taut to keep control of his reactions and Yoshino was suddenly stricken by the realization he was about to weep real tears. Nara Shikahiko, Tetsu no Dansei… was crumbling down under her eyes.

“A man should never outlive his children,” she recited, averting her gaze from the inglorious sight of  him. He did not deserve to be witnessed in such a state. She heard his breaths becoming more and more unsteady, some agonizing moans slipped out of his thin mouth, he was wheezing in anguish, yet he ultimately survived his crisis. He inhaled with force, then cleared his throat. In the end, Yoshino decided it was safe to look back.

His face had turned redder and more fatigued, but aside for that nothing suggested he had just cried the death of his only child. Yoshino had buried a husband, of course, but that man had buried a son. She could never imagine the despair and the grief that would torment her, had she been in his place.

She was surprised she found herself proving compassion for that man: after all, he was human just as much as she was. Do not harden your heart for anyone, my sweet child, that was what her mother whispered into her ear when she was a baby girl. World has been unfair to many people. If we all tried to understand each other, maybe it could become more just.

“Old man…” Yoshino dared to look at his black eyes, so similar to the ones his son owed and had captured her so many years ago. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“I am sorry for yours too, Yoshino,” he murmured back, “but I am sure Shikaku has found his peace, wherever he is right now. He had a golden heart beating in his chest, just like his mother.”

“He respected you very dearly, Shikahiko-san” Yoshino unfolded, this time her hazel pools were glued on the cerulean. She had faith Shikaku would not lament her disloyalty since it was done for the best interest of his father. “He took you as an example to improve himself. He was impressed by the strength you bear and although you two are very different people, he looked up to you. He considered you a great leader for the Naras.”

Peeping from the corner of her eye, she noticed a tiny smile tugging at the edge of the older man’s lips. It was so hurtful to look at him during those times, just as much as it was to look at her own son: they all resembled him so much. Her dear, beloved husband… forever gone.

“You still have to ask me the real question,” he reminded her. “I think it’s time for you to do what you’ve come here for in the first place.”

The Nara widow took a deep breath. “Tell me… why me?”

Shikahiko didn’t answer to it offhandedly, but instead he reflected upon the matter and the words to employ with great care.

“Because you were the best choice,” he confessed at last, dumbfounding Yoshino. That was not what she expected to hear him saying. “You have the passionate heart of a woman and the detachment of a shinobi, aside from being the mother of my grandson. You are smart and quick-witted, difficult to control and moreover, you have a taste for rebelling to anything you feel you are constricted to do. The other clan heads will have a hard time trying to frame you, unlike many other candidates I took into consideration. Although you may have been hurt by my utterance earlier, I meant what I said: Shikaku had chosen you to carry his child not only for the love that had tied the two of you. He had loved you to an extreme extent, but he was also sure you would provide a good second-in-chief for his leadership, which again proved to be a brilliant intuition from him.”

“And despite you wanting to remove it from your memory, in your vessels flows the blood of a ruler. You have been trained to this since you were a child. You were once the princess of the Yukinohana and now the queen of Nara. You were meant to become a leader, a great one too. Let me ask you this again, away from any indiscreet ears: will you accept to guide our clan, Nara Yoshino?”

Yoshino’s eyes were veiled by melancholy and sadness. She had no escape for that: her life had driven her to that point and there was no turning back. For Shikaku, for Shikamaru, but also for Haru, for Sakumo-sensei, for Nuwa-obasan, for Arata, for Ayumu… she would not delude them.

That was her last, colossal call: being the head of the clan who had welcomed her. She could already tell that would have not been easy by any means, that there were lots and lots of obstacles to surpass, that many snakes were already hidden in the grass, but she would not let anyone down. One last jump and finally she would have rested. It was time for her to adopt a new label: not a woman, not a mother, not a widow, but a clan head. The Nara head. She would have given her best.

“I will, for my son and the memory of my husband. This is my inheritance.”

An inheritance from a phantom.

#reupload bc of series name change #mirin writes #yoshino yukinohana/nara. #yoshino: less shady isn't brighter (default) #Shikahiko Nara #Morimaru Nara #Shikamaru Nara #Mejika Nikki #long post

[jhara-ivez]

Enderal Character Ask// thx to The R3d Painter

1. The basics Name: Jhara Ivez (Jhara->“Misery“, Ivez->“Archer“)

Sex: male Gender: male Age: 25 Race: Half Arazealean Eye color: Light blue Hair: Blond Sexuality: bi

2. Describe their appearance. He’s intimidating. Like 90% of the time. The other 10% is very boyish. 3. How do they like to dress? He usually wears the armor of the Ash Warrior outside of Ark. Inside Ark he likes to dress more casually, but mostly he prefers darker shades of colors.

4. Do they have any markings (scars, tattoos, birthmarks)? He's got a lot of scars from his Ostian days. Mostly from aggressive stray dogs.

5. What are they like? Describe their personality (use whatever tools you like):

I don't need a crown,

no palace, no jewels,

wherever I am,

every place is my home.

I am a tramp,

but I am free,

the cup passed from me.

To be free does not require much.

Only who is free is a king.

Shameless takes the cheeky thief

because he forges his own luck.

What others dream of,

I'll take at night.

My walk is equal to a white wedding horse.

A fearless king,

guarded by mercenaries,

a vain god... in my heaven

(In Extremo – Frei zu sein)

6. How would they describe themselves? He would describe himself as a stray.

7. Education level? He's skilled with numbers and is able to read. That's basically it.  

8. What are they proud of in themselves? What are they embarrassed about? He's proud to outwit anyone at cards and dices. He's also proud to be quick and rather talented in stitching things together... He's embarrassed about his sleeping pattern. People randomly try to give him 'good advice' on how to get to sleep properly („Drink some hot milk!“). 9. Do they know any languages other than Inal? He knows the language of his mother's tribe.

10. What, if any, aspects of their mother’s culture influenced them growing up? Due to his mother he learned how to deal with horses. She told him a lot about her country of origin, the customs and language. A great deal was his mothers book of arazealean fairytales, they both hid from the fathers eyes. He learned about the original meaning of words like 'freedom', 'heroism', 'survival' and 'war', that were completely misused in the southrealms ideology, which made him wary about the Creators ways.

11. Name a song (or a few) that remind you of them. In Extremo – Frei zu sein In Extremo – Zigeunerskat

12. Speaking of songs, can they sing? What is their voice like? How about instruments? His voice is pleasant and has a certain melody when he speaks due to his accent. I always imagine him to sound a bit like Kendji Girac. Singing or music was never something he did on his free will (although he might be able to sing without all of Ark closing their windows and doors to him)

13. What was their life like before coming to Enderal? Jhara was born on a stormy day in winter. Yet as soon as he was born it was not sure if he would survive, not because of illness, but because his father was sure that he was not his own blood. This may be true. Jharas mother married his father eight months ago by force and lived in Arazeal before, maybe spending time with other lovers. In his fathers eyes Jhara therefore was a sin, that was to be killed or to be abandoned. Why he did not do any of it is still unknown. His fathers hate is seen clearly in Jharas first name, meaning 'misery' in the old language of the arazealean tribes. His childhood was marked by violence, against his mother and himself. The most important reasons being his fair skin-, eye- and haircolor which gave a great contrast to other inhabitants of the southern realm, who mostly appeared to have darker skin and darker hair along with darker eyecolors. Four years after his birth his sister was born. Jhara liked her although she was clearly his fathers first choice. Nonetheless he tried to be a perfect son, working hard on his familys farmyard. His maintask were the horses, and since his father liked it better if he was outside he spend a lot of time with these animals. Political events never reached his ears. His father did not talk about any of it at home and Jhara never left the farmyard and its surrounding area. The transition of power in Ostian came unnoticed, as well as the massacre that happend just a few hours afterwards in the city and the urban fringe. Later this night the tempels militant elite, commonly known as the masked men, came to the farms, lit up the houses and killed a lot of farmers in cold blood. Jharas family was part of the desaster. He luckily (?) was not at home at the time but saw the smoke from the distance. By returning to the farm it was already too late. Not knowing what to do he hid himself and stayed near the house for a few days before hunger was too strong to ignore. Begging on other farms to get a new place to stay he was send away with insults and prejudice. His only chance was the city, but the way was tough. Desertheat and dangerous animals lurked everywhere. His horse did not make it in the end, which was another blow of fate to aggravate the pain. When he made it, finally, Ostian was not what he expected it to be. The city was dangerous and monitored. Guards were everywhere. Other children and teens on the streets lived in groups, hidden from the guards, Most of them got into fights a lot of times with each other, but also provided some kind of protection. Jhara was not welcomed, since his outer appearance was considered 'too noticeable'. All on his own he survived physical and psychological violence from other teens, passersby and the militia. These experiences significantly shaped his behaviour. Surviving in a world where the stronger one has less problems, where the militia showed violence and aggression without reason and death was nothing uncommon, he developed aggressive behaviour himself. Pickpocketing, stealing and getting into fights became his usual business, as well as the trade of stolen goods. He also learned to hunt for snakes in the swamps und the desert.

14. How did they decide to leave Nehrim? The final decision was made when the war between the realms of Nehrim became unbearable and the harbour was shutting down.

15. Describe their relationship with Sirius. Sirius was the only one who dared to befriend Jhara in Nehrim. Nevertheless the relationship was complicated. Jhara often made fun of him for being 'not even able to pluck a chicken' while Sirius tried to be Jharas good conscience with questionable success.

16. Who do they blame for what happened to their family? It was only because Jhara snuck away that night to spend time with his favorite horse that he survived the mass execution, so he partly blames himself too. What he found when he returned was traumatizing. Strange men with swords made of silversteel and his family screaming in agony and fear, crucified and burning.

17. Apart from stowing away, have they ever broken the law? Too often to count.

18. How honest are they? Under what circumstances would they lie? Jhara is seldomly honest. He's closed off and knows exactly what to say to get what he wants. The only time he is clearly honest is when he's around his horse since horses read body language and not words.

19. Worst memory(s)? Best memory(s)? Best: The image of seablue eyes Worst: Besides seeing his family, his horse, Jespar, Bushybeard and Sirius die and being bitten by a rattlesnake?

20. Fight, or flight? Depends on the rate of success.

21. Describe their combat style. Jhara fights with two swords, a) the Falcata which is perfect for crushing someone's head (it's useful for cutting wood too) and b) a longsword which is perfect for blocking and parrying. He depends strongly on his own reflexes and his quick feet (if a fight does not turn out as it was supposed to). He uses the kiléan bow from horseback. In occasional quarrels he depends on his fists and dirty tricks. Jhara: “Oh deer!” *rips a deerhead from the wall and throws it at the opponent* Jespar: “No deer-jokes as long as I am still here...

22. Have they ever killed before? What is their reaction to combat? He has never killed in Nehrim since all of his actions there were supposed to happen without being seen. In Enderal however, after figuring the whole shit out, combat sometimes gets a bit out of hand. His lack of moral codes makes him a merciless fighter. Sometimes he even thinks about killing as something funny and makes it even more painful for his opponent. If rage takes over the identification of the remains can turn out to get quite difficult.

23. How do they react to having magical abilities? Do they use them? Since magic reminds him of the temple's evil priests and militia he refuses from using it except for occasions when he has to.

24. What do they think of Enderal? He thinks the people are unable to haggle properly, are strangely superstitious and can't make proper bread, but in general he likes his new life there. He instantly fell in love with the landscapes.

25. Did they do the Biggest Egg Hunt Ever quest? Yes. And then he encountered the alchemical features and the poor starling never got his eggs.

26. How do they feel about joining the Order? What do they think of Arantheal? Most of the time he has no feckin' clue how he got himself into this mess. He does not fit in and he doesn't like 99% of the people there, but as it seems he has no other choice and at least the payment is quite nice. („And does someone know where all the silver tablewear vanished to?“) Arantheal counts into the 99% of people he does not like. This is mostly due to the fact that Jhara feels like a dog unleashed from the kennel whenever the calculating, old bastard sends him onto missions. He has a feeling that there is something fishy about him, but can not really tell what it is except for the obvious pride-issue and the I-am-infallible-attitude.

27. What is their opinion of the gods (or lack thereof)? Jhara gives a shit about them and he's not very good at pretending otherwise. Gods never helped anyone.

28. Wine, or pipe? Wine. Peaceweed only via second-hand-inhalation~

29. Do they spare or arrest Hallys, the farmer-turned-bandit in the quest, Deus Ex Machina? Why? Jhara spared him. He was more concerned (and secretly pleased) about the fact that he of all people had to decide his fate.  He even picked the decision without asking Calia what she thought about it. In retrospect he strongly agrees that he picked the right verdict, because a dead or imprisoned farmer plus impoverished family is worse than a few people from the Undercity who “can not show their gratitute” properly.

30. What are their feelings and opinions about the Undercity? Jhara doesn't like the concept at all but he visits the Undercity often enough to make some questionable 'friends' down there. In his opinion change must come from within, but most people are too stupid or too weak to even try, especially those who still believe in the gods. If no one is ready to take risks he's not the one going to push them.

31. How do they react to the beggars of Ark? He usually has conversations with them and tells them some secrets to hear some secrets in return.

32. Where and how do they spend their time when in Ark? Jhara frequently visits the Dancing Nomad and the Marketplace. Since he's pretty vain with his hair and beard he also visits the bathhouse in the Nobles Quarter quite often or pays a visit to the Fat Leoran to listen to Gerril's singing.

33. What would they do with three wishes? a) end the Circle b) keep Jespar safe c) keep Meran safe

34. How do they feel about death? Do they fear it? Death is something that occurs to everyone. Jhara is deeply afraid of it nonetheless. Especially now that he has one guy and a horse to protect.

35. What (else) do they fear? Spiders. He absolutely hates them.

36. Do they have any secrets? Jhara rarely ever sleeps. He dozes off a lot but never truly sleeps deep enough to dream. Most nights he spends outside wandering the city or down in the Dancing Nomad, because he feels caged up in his room.

37. How is their behavior around people they like? People they dislike? Jhara is not an honest person. He often plays his own kind of game, cheating along the way and bending rules to his advantage. He can be very charming, funny and downright sexual, but usually he is relatively quiet. He often appears to be out of reach and egoistic. Therefore he does not do friends that easily. If he doesn't like someone and has no further gain from said person he can be very rude. He also likes to step into peoples personal space to test out if they back away or not. For people he likes however he acts like a fallen guardian angel if necessary. He's very loyal and tries to impress them at any given chance. 38. What is their relationship with the companions? Who, if anyone, did your prophet romance? With Calia it's more friendship or comrades-in-arms, but Jhara lacks the commitment to really make it work. Calia does not understand his sense of humour and he thinks of her moralcode as absurd. All in all it just works because both are very patient with one another. Jhara feels drawn to Jespar like a moth would to a flame. The mercenary provides the risk, the adrenaline and also the honesty Jhara needs in his daily life. There is a lot of not-so-friendly banter going on between them, but everyone who takes just one longer look at them can instantly see the chemistry between them. They are both utter idiots – Jespar being Jespar and Jhara trying to imitate a peacock with all his attempts to woo him.

39. Was there any non-companion character that they were close to? That they particularly disliked? Jhara likes Ulfur Featherdance, the innkeeper, a lot. He's always in it for a few words of wisdom, shuts his eyes to cheating at card games and dices and keeps the key to Jharas room. Other than that Jhara took a liking to Lishari and Firespark, even thought the old man probably doesn't feel the same. He especially adores Andrasta Braveblood for her interesting idea to murder people via paintings (and for her beautiful face). A character he disliked was Rynéus because he just dislikes children (minus his sister).

40. How do they feel about myrads? He's terrified of flying. Cuddling the myrads is fine, as long as he can stay with both feet on the ground.

41. What dreams or ambitions did they have before coming to Enderal? What about afterwards? Before: Surviving. After: Surviving.

42. Do they like cities? Or do they prefer the country? Is there a region of Enderal that they like or dislike more than the others? He loves the sandy dunes, blue glowing stones and exotic fauna in the Powder Desert as well as the near beaches, it's where he and the horse both feel at home. Other than that he likes the Goldenforst and the Farmer's Coast. In general there is no region he really dislikes. It might just be a bit too cold for his liking. He likes to be in Ark too, but nothing beats roaming the wilderness.

43. What do they do to lower their considerable stress? There's nothing better than drinking, ripping somebody off at card games or dices or participating in a good old barfight to get all that frustration out of the system. Or sex. Or listening to Jespar's voice.

44. Describe their perfect day off. He would have a cake with a lot of honey and dates and fresh figs for breakfast, stroll through the streets of Ark later, take a nap in a sunny place somewhere and in the afternoon he would fetch his horse and ride to the beach at the Farmers Coast to take another nap there.

45. List three of their favorite things. Three things they hate? Favorites: the heat, the sea, Jespar's eyes (because they look like the sea) Hates: Endralean bread, dreams, spiders

46. What’s in their pockets? Dates, coins, some jewels, lockpicks, Jespar's letter  (maybe a bit crumpled after all that time), a comb (because he's vain with his hair), a hone, bowstrings, a pan, one or two books, coal to write or tag something, two sets of extra clothes, seashells, two blankets, one or two bags with clean water, an XL-scarf, a few pieces of leather or leatherstripes, a variation of needles, some healing potions

47. Pets? Mounts? Treasured possessions? Jhara owns a horse. This horse is called Meran (the brave one). Everyone at the stables knows Meran, because he is the son of a vatyr. He's a rather big chestnut stallion with four white legs and a white marking from his forehead to his lips. The blacksmith doesn't like him and everyone else doesn't want anything to do with him either. He's unmanageable and a pain in the arse. One can not handle him with kindness, nor with friendship, nor with softness. Then again you can not handle him with dominance or aggression or firmness either. And then there comes this foreign idiot and takes one look at the horse and both fall in love with each other immidiatly. Nonetheless it took some time to establish the rules, because Meran was sure that all humans were idiots and unable to give clear signals and had to learn again to listen carefully. At least around Jhara he became very gentle and loyal like a dog, other humans were still idiots. And for Jhara this horse became his little brother because horses are family and must be cared for accordingly. He spent vast sums of money on the most beautiful crafted horsearmour he could think off and when he found „treasures“ like nice seashells or pearls or small gems they usually ended up stitched somewhere on the tack. And when there was that bandit who had the nerve to hurt Meran... Well, it was interesting to listen to his whining for almost the quarter of an hour after cutting off both his hands, piercing his cheeks and tongue with an arrow and letting him dangle from a tree to attract the attention of wolves.

48. How are their cooking skills? He knows how to produce full roasted flavour while grilling an innocent salmon. Honestly he just eats what he gets, without really appreciating the taste. The only thing he is picky with is the bread (he only knows sand-baked flatbread which is not as sour in taste). He loves everything sweet like honey, dates and other fruits.

49. Do you consider any particular quest or side quest to be definitive for your prophet? Which one(s) and why? Into the deep would be the first one, because it was in the seacavern that the bad gut feeling first started to make itself known more strongly. The second would be A song in the Silence because he was deeply terrified of the father and Rynéus and in fact the whole village. And the third was All the dead souls. Because it happened too fast, and Jespar was an idiot to go in there alone, and Jhara got so, so angry and everything became a blurr and in the end he felt just hollow and his outrage had no effect whatsoever because you can't turn back time by slaughtering the sister.

50. How forgiving are they? For example, if they were yelled at in a brothel after searching high and low for this little sh*t, how would they react? Jhara with a broken heart, a lot of dammed frustration and anger is terrifying as hell. In the conversion itself he's patient as far as his patience goes, but afterwards... let's say there happened to be a few innocent people with broken bones on the way back to the surface.

51. What do they think of the Veiled Woman? He would like to know what exactly she is. Likewise he's annoyed of her constant riddles and sudden actions.

52. If they had been a victim of one of the black stones, how would it have affected them? What would they have used its power to accomplish? I think he would have created a bubble where he has his peace and quiet. And just when he gets terribly bored of all this peace and quiet he would go on a rampage.

53. What was their reaction to the Black Guardian’s revelations? Do they accept or reject his offer? In fact the thought did not really register with him. Being dead or not was suddenly unimportant. He heard the offer and Jhara did not think twice about it. He had to save Jespar, to get him out of this mess, if there was any possibility left, even if that meant destroying the beacon and die in the process for real, despite not knowing for sure if Jespar really was dead or alive. Him maybe being alive was enough to die for.

54. How does their story end? Badly.

55. Do they change over the course of the story? In what ways? He changes in a way he can not comprehend. It goes from being important to being important to someone, and I think that's what made the difference.

56. Anything else you’d like to share about them? Jhara adores tigers. He has heard stories about them in Nehrim and always thought that Jespar looked like one of those big cats when he killed off enemies with the grace of a brabaric dancer, who cut one man's throat and had his eyes fixed already on the next target. When he saw a tiger for real the first time he got nearly killed by it because he was so faszinated.

57. Bonus: For you- what are you most excited for in Forgotten Stories? E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G.!!!!!!!

#enderal #sureai #enderal skyrim #prophet #oc #the-r3d-painter

[togafukagiftexchange]

run red run (1/3)

My, really late, gift for @evil-muffins ! I’m sorry this took so long, but I hope you enjoy the first part of this fic. I saw your prompt for a Red Riding Hood Au and this just…became a thing. So please enjoy the first part of a three part project!

Will be cross-posted unto my AO3.

Once upon a time…

There lived a family in the woods. A young girl, the only child in the family, who always appeared unkempt and smelled fairly awful. A father, who had stories parents the nearest village would scare their children with. And, lastly, two equally horrible women.

The young girl’s mothers.

They were a quiet, secluded family. Living so deep into the forest that the local villagers would often bet whether or not they had all died. A harmless game for sure.

Until it came true.

A search party hadn’t gone out looking for them until one could smell the rot and decay coming from the forest. And naturally the villagers had suspected the worse. For the forest was dark and dangerous and full of wolves. Hungry, vicious wolves.

Monsters, really.

So it really came as no surprise when they came upon the source of that abrasive stench. The father and the two mothers in barely recognized pieces. Splattered along the walls. Scattered all over the floor.

A wolf’s doing.

That, the villagers had foresaw. That, they had prepared for. They had expected all of it. Except for one little thing.

The girl survived.

Byakuya Togami was pissed off.

By order of his father, the affluent heir was forced to travel to the lower rungs of their lands to pay a visit to the peasants and serfs who were failing to produce up to Togami standards. Tch!

Imbeciles.

“Careful there Byakuya, your face might freeze like that.” Came a sharp quip from his right, with just the barest hint of a smile. From none other than the irksome acquaintance of his, Kirigiri Kyoko. A rather successful detective and another equally analytic mind. Though if the choice had been up to Byakuya, she wouldn’t even be sitting in his family’s carriage. But, unfortunately, Byakuya didn’t have the choice.

Thus contributing to his foul mood.

“Hmph, and to think that I never took you as the superstitious type Kyoko. How disappointing.” Byakuya responded, never once looking at the lavender-haired woman next to him. Choosing instead to stare out of his carriage windows and into the worker-trodden fields before him. His father must truly be going senile for him to force his only heir to do such a menial task.

The old fool.

But it wasn’t as if Byakuya could just openly defy him. Not when he held up his son’s position over his head like a damn leash around his neck. Though, Byakuya supposed, that just further proved the young heir’s point. His father was scared of him. Sacred that he would bring the Togami family to such grand heights that all the old man’s achievements would be rendered to mere footnotes within their family history. Such a fear was rather deplorable. Especially coming from Byakuya’s father.

But not entirely unfounded.

“Byakuya-chi! Kyoko-chi! We’ve arrived!” That announcement, the heir swore, was the one good thing to happen today. Despite the irksome idiot who declared it. Kyoko wasted no time, opening the nearest door to her. Never waiting for Byakuya to offer her so much as a hand to help her off the vehicle.

Not that he would’ve.

Opening his own door, Byakuya had half a mind to close it and command the palm-tree idiot driving the carriage to take him back to his family’s manor at once. However, the heir’s rational side, the side that kept him and made him the prodigy he was today, fought such weak notions aside. And so the Togami heir exited the out-of-place luxury carriage with all the grace of someone worth a hundred times more than those around him.

And he was.

It was by the might of the Togami family that they had so many villages working and producing for their land. Easily making them elites among the other nobles. Those around him were merely livestock to whip into proper, functioning shape. And, in the case of this particular village within his family’s land, a strong, capable hand was needed.

And an even stronger whip.

“Yo! Togami-chi! Do you want me to wait for you or-?”

“Naturally. How else are you supposed to erase your debt to my family?” At the mention of the sheer amount of money one Hagakure Yasuhiro owned to him, the former promptly shut his trap and proceeded to stay put at the entrance of their destination.

Mirai Village.

A rather hopeful name, almost obnoxiously so. But they were the Togami family’s leading prouder in wool, and, for whatever excuse they dared give him, their production numbers had been dropping. Resulting in both his and Kyoko’s visit. Him, to remind those beneath him who their true master was. Kyoko, to sniff out any possibility of theft. Granted the two of them didn’t like working with one another, but no one could deny that when they did, the pair could be quite intimidating.

As the villagers quickly realised.

The path through the village was a straight dirt road with all manner of houses and shops crammed into it. As the pair walked, dressed in clothes clearly proclaiming their nobility, the local residents all stopped and stared at the pair.

Not that Byakuya could blame them.

His suit was deep navy with a black waistcoat lined with gold. The chain of his gold pocket watch sparking in the light, ticking warmly against his chest.

And Kyoko always did look the part of a rather fierce noblewoman, the heir supposed. A long, primply ironed skirt, full-sleeved blouse, and dark leather gloves gave absolutely none of her away. Save for the long stream of lavender hair that practically sliced at the air as she moved through the town.

Receiving nothing but stares.

Everyone was looking at them now. A hush fell upon the villagers. Who, Byakuya had to admit, did look a little worse for wear. They all looked…scared. Like little mice caught and cornered and waiting to be killed. Surely that wasn’t because their arrival.

Surely.

===

Makoto liked his routine.

Wake up, eat breakfast, take a bath, start his chores, sell bread, and so on. Granted, the life him and his family lived wasn’t very glamorous. But it was cozy. It was safe and average and hardly ever changed.

Until one day.

It started out normal, of course. He was just bringing a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls out to an unusually quiet street. That should’ve been his first clue that something was amiss. But then he saw what caused all the commotion. Or lack thereof.

Then he saw her.

And promptly walked into a wooden beam.

Just his luck, she had noticed! She and her companion were looking in his direction, subjugating the poor boy to the full force of their razor sharp gazes. Crap. The woman was even prettier the closer she came to him, her companion staring quizzically at her retreating back. Makoto frantically scrambled to collect the rolls that had fallen into the dirt road.  

Oh crap.

But just as the young man was about to pick up the last sticky sweet roll, someone else beat him to it. A dark purple glove enclosing around the dropped pastry softly. Makoto looked up.

Losing his breath.

It was the woman from before, mere inches from his face. Kneels folded underneath her as she lowered herself to his level. Her skin was so pale, clear and soft-looking like a doll’s. But her eyes were anything but. Makoto never thought that such a soft lilac color could make up such a disabling gaze. But here was the proof, staring directly at him and stealing every ounce of breath from his lungs.

Makoto leapt back.

“S-Sorry about that Miss! I wasn’t looking where I was going and I-” Tripping over his own words, Makoto hastily stood up. Nearly dropping all his rescued rolls in the process. The young woman, however, rose with a certain grace that she seemed to effortlessly exclude.

Her companion coming to her side.

He looked awfully familiar, but Makoto could quite put a name to the blonde hair and cold blue eyes. All he could come up with was that this was clearly a noble and he was the kind of person to make that well-known.

“It’s quite alright. In fact, I think we can help each other Mr. Naegi.” The slight, aloof smile on the young woman’s face brought a rush of heat to Makoto’s face.

He dropped the cinnamon rolls.

===

This was ridiculous.

Still, Byakuya had little else to work off of other than Kyoko’s strange hunch. The heir could only follow her as that moony-eyed baker lead them into their family shop. A rather run-down and homely looking establishment that Byakuya would’ve otherwise never be caught dead in.

But the smell was…passable.  

The sugary, sweet smell of pastries and the hearty, warm scent of fresh bread right out of the oven was unfamiliar to the Togami heir. Though not…entirely unwelcome. The shop was composed almost entirely out of wood, with metal pans of warm goods set out to cool on wooden shelves. All while flour seemed to be permanently transfixed in the air. The fumbling baker boy, Makoto Naegi, Byakuya believed the young man’s name was, barely managed to set the soiled pastries down before turning to them.

Smiling like a fool.

“So what can I help you two with today?” Clapping his hands together, Makoto sent another plume of smokey flour flying in the sunlit air. There were even smears of it on his face.

Ugh.

“We’re here to look into the recent killings and mutilations of this village’s livestock, or should I say, my livestock.” Byakuya announced, gliding in front of Kyoko to stand eye-to-eye with the young baker. He was on the shorter side. Standing just under the noblewoman with only the strange spike of hair atop his head protesting the fact. Glass green eyes that blinked up at him.

Once, twice.

Then the realization struck him. It was almost comical really, how his expressions shifted from open and asking to shocked and stuttering. It nearly made Byakuya laugh.

Nearly.

“S-So you’re Mister Togami? Wow, you’re a lot younger than I thought you were!” Makoto offered his hand for a handshake. But Byakuya just stared at the floury hand offered to him with a mild sort of disgust. Kyoko taking it upon herself to take up the formality.

Leather gloves gripping at the flour.

“I’m not here for chit-chat, I’m here for answers.” Byakuya interjected, promptly startling Makoto and Kyoko out of whatever strange, prolonged staring contest they had initiated.

“Oh! Right! Sorry about that…um, you said you stopped by because of what was happening to all the cattle?” Spasming, Makoto slipped his hand out of the noblewoman’s. Moving it to rub at his neck somewhat awkwardly. Strange, Byakuya thought.

His cold eyes narrowed.

“Please, call me Makoto and…well, its just really weird. All our stables and fences are in order. And no one really hears anything at night.” He wasn’t looking at them. Makoto was looking at everything but the two nobles. The heir could already see the cogs turn in his companion’s head.

But Byakuya was hardly surprised.

The reports had said as much. Every security measure was left intact, but the slaughtering persisted. And it wasn’t as if the cattle was butchered cleanly. No, nearly every slash was crude and almost frantic. With most of the animal remaining intact. Spoiled beyond use, but intact.

Save for the heart.

In every case of mutilation, the heart of each farm animal was nowhere to be found. Be it sheep, cow, or even an uncommon horse. All of them were impaled onto the ground with strange, scissor-like blades. Gutted and maimed for just one organ.

However, those who had reported the issue to the Togami Family cited supernatural causes for the killing. Werewolves, they said. Some going as far as begging for money to better protect themselves with silver.

Ridiculous.

There was no such thing as monsters. They existed to scare rowdy children and provide some mildly interesting literature that Byakuya was often forced to read when bored at his family manor. Their origins were even more pathetic. Vampires were repurposed Turkish counts. Ghouls and Ghosts were regretful wish-fulfillment by people haunted by Death. And Werewolves?

They were just mutts.

Wild dogs that looked bigger in the dark and scared fools traveling in the forest half to death. Big dogs that, in the shadows, appeared much larger and more dangerous than they actually were. In the end, all those monsters were the same, mere products of overactive imaginations and paranoia. They were of no significance to Byakuya.

And therefore not worth his time.

“But there will always be at least two or three animals dead by morning. We’re all kind of at our wits end trying to figure it out…” At this, Makoto smiled apologetically. But there was something to his eyes then.

Something Byakuya couldn’t quite place.

“That’s what we’re here for Makoto, so any information you have would be helpful.” Kyoko supplied, once again affixing the baker in her intense stare. Picking up on that anomaly almost as fast as Byakuya. Makoto looked at the two of them.

Struggling with something.

Byakuya crossed his arms. He didn’t have time for this. He was supposed to be taking charge of the Togami Family, not running around some village in the middle of nowhere. Makoto swallowed, leaning over the large flour-painted table and racks of goods cooling next to him. Cupping his hand over the side of his face as he beckoned the two closer.

Like a child telling a secret.

“…I don’t know if you heard, but most people here think the killings are the work of-“

“Werewolves, I know. Really Naegi? Do you honestly think I’d be stupid enough to even consider that a possibility?” The Togami heir snapped. He was growing tired of this. It was obvious the two were wasting their time here. Byakuya was just about to signal their leave when-

“I don’t think it’s a question of stupidity Mister Togami.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ah well, you haven’t been here before, so it’s understandable that you might not have heard…” The baker floundered in response to the Togami heir’s ice cold glare. Quickly clearing his throat. Oh boy.

Him and his big mouth.

“Makoto, please, if there is anything you know, or if you’ve met anyone suspicious, you need to tell us.” The detective interrupted. Byakuya’s eye twitching in annoyance, but it seemed whatever Makoto saw in his companion’s eyes compelled him to answer. The strange look in his eyes only growing stronger.

Heavier.

“There was an incident that happened, around the time where I was a little kid, and it’s kinda like what’s going on now.” Kyoko’s eyes sparked at Makoto’s words.

Latching onto the lead.

“How similar?” But Makoto only grew more flustered at Kyoko’s increased attention on him. Oh, if only Byakuya could vomit at the display.

If only.

“A family who lived in the forest, the Fukawas, were killed by some…thing in a similar way. And most villagers think that’s why all the livestock is dying.” Now this peaked Byakuya’s interest. A beast that attacked humans before but now feasts on animals?

No animal ever does that.

One they taste human blood there’s no going back. The taste of former prey lost all value. And their only option was to hunt nature’s most dangerous animal for another taste of blood.

So why was this creature even trying?

“You said ‘other villagers’, is there someone else who can tell us more?” Kyoko’s voice brought Byakuya out his thoughts of blood and beasts and missing hearts.

“W-Well I don’t know how much she’ll tell you, but there is someone you might want to talk to.” At this, Makoto took off to somewhere behind the shopfront and into the bakery. The click and clang of pots and pans echoing after him as he searched for something.

Talking all the while.

“Really, she’s a good person. Just a little strange that’s all, she’s really nice one you get to-“

“Just tell us Naegi.” Byakuya cut in, putting a stop to the baker’s pointless chatter. The noise from the kitchen ceased, and Makoto emerged once more.

Smiling hopefully.

“She lives really deep in the forest, so if anyone knows more, she might.” In his powdery white grip, Makoto handed over a roll of parchment to Byakuya with a slight, cryptic smile on his face. The note detailing how to get to this mystery informant.

“Her name’s Touko Fukawa.”

===

Today felt different.

And she hated it.

Different was no good. Different meant change and that was the last thing Touko Fukawa needed right now. Granted, her morning routine was much the same that day. Wake up, scrounge up some breakfast, and write.

All day long.

When she wrote everything just…faded away. The hunger, the smell, the memories. It was as if all of it had been easy and was long behind her. A lie of course.

But a comforting one.

Touko had notebooks and notebooks filled with her work. Known to the few she had deemed worthy enough to be her readers, her stories covered a long list of topics. But they all had one thing in common.

Romance.

Yes, at the core of her being, Touko Fukawa was enamored by the concept of love. Of giving it, of having it accepted. Of it finally feeling right and fitting into her chaotic life. Such a thing had to be possible.

It had to.

But this…feeling in the air. Like new winds and shifting directions. She didn’t like it. Touko drew what threadbare curtains her cottage had closed. Locked the door and shut out the outside completely.

Just not the light.

Oh God no, not the light. Not when the dark reminded Touko of all she had gone through. So she always kept candles lit, scattered around her meager home. And, though the light they gave off was warm, the young woman constantly kept her cloak tucked closely around her. It was the finest thing she owned and Touko loved it dearly.

A cloak the pure white of snow.

Huddling deeper into the familiar warmth, she hunched even lower above her newest work. The metal nip of her pen digging dangerously into her notebook. The nib was new. The old one having snapped in two halfway through chapter five.

But Touko despised going into town.

She hated the swell of it. All the people. All the noise. All the hustle and bustle. It all too loud, too noisy, and too dirty. Touko only ever made the journey when it was absolutely nessesary.

Like her parents had taught her.

Like she had learned. The hard way. The bloody way when one night she had risked going out to-

DOCTDOCTDOCT

Touko screamed and scrambled out her chair with enough force to knock both of them to the floor. Landing squarely on her rear, the young woman pressed her hands to her lips.

Digging her bitten, dirty nails into the skin around her mouth as if to punish herself for the outburst. Gray eyes encased with thick, circular wire frames gazed, half in shock and half in fear, at the wooden door that separated Touko from the young outside world.

At the door that kept her away.

The knocking came again, all while Touko could only stare. At the rotting, pitting groves of the door. Almost as if once she stared long enough, she could see beyond it. Someone? Out here? No one ever came out here.

No one sane anyway.

Her hands fell away from her pale face with all the speed of someone sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Touko’s breath fast and light. Who? Who could it be? All around her, all the candles’ flames flickered, as if to convey a message best left unspoken. Did she…?

Did she dare?

Anyone could be outside that slab of wood. And what then? Invite them in for afternoon tea?! Pffft. Not likely. But what if they didn’t go away? What if-?

Touko’s nose twitched.

Huh? Wh-What was that smell? That scent in the air? It smelled like aged wood and spices. A comforting musk that existed just beyond her reach. Then, almost subconsciously, the young woman rose to feet. Moving just halfway to the door.

When she stopped.

Wait, what was she doing? Opening the door to a complete stranger? That was like rule number one of living alone! And that’s what she was good at!

Being alone!

But the knocking came again. Making Touko jump and return her eyes to the door. She shouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not with all she had at stake. Not when the meager, filthy life she had was hers. Pain and all. Her nose caught the receding scent.

And her hand opened the door.

===

This was stupid.

Complete, utter nonsense and Byakuya was going to have his Kyoko’s head for it. Sending him, the heir to the Togami family, into the damn forest?! When this search proved fruitless, and he had a feeling it would, he was going to wring her neck for even suggesting it.

The two having decided to split up.

Kyoko had opted for the opportunity to stay in Mirai and have Byakuya look into Naegi’s lead. The heir having half the mind to kill the baker along side the detective. Surely this lead was a ruse.

But then he saw the house.

Having followed Naegi’s simplistic instructions, Byakuya was lead to a small, rather filthy-looking hut in the woods. There was an underlying stench to the air that, initially, make Byakuya keep his distance.

Initially.

The Togami wanted all this over with. He wanted to question this crazy woman and get back to manor as quickly as possible. Perhaps the answer to this pointless endeavor was to just spend some gold and hire a guard.

His father be damned.

But Byakuya, despite being annoyed to his wits end, was nothing if not through. Ignoring the increasing stench of rot, the Togami heir ventured closer the the small wood house. Knocking firmly onto the moist, rotting wood of the front door. All the blinds drawn tightly into the house as if the owner feared the li-

“EEK!”

Even Byakuya couldn’t help but jump at the sudden shrill scream. The heir took a step back, staring at the door. Who in their right mind screams at the sound of a knock? He grit his teeth.

This was stupid.

What was he even doing out here? Questioning some forest-dwelling recluse as if she could possibly have the answers Byakuya wanted? Ugh.

He knocked once again.

But no startled scream came this time. Only a cutting silence that bled into the air. And part of the Togami heir wanted to demand an answer, especially after all he had gone through to even arrive in the middle of this godforsaken forest. But another part of him was already finding this entire ordeal tiresome.

And started to walk away.

He made it a couple feet away from the threshold of that rancid hut. Not far enough to get away from the stink, but just far enough for the sun to bring back the warmth to Byakuya’s skin. Dots and ribbons of light slicing through the canopy of evergreen pines. Settling on Byakuya’s path back to village like a wall. With no escape in sight. That’s when he heard it.

That’s when the door opened.

Looking behind him, Byakuya hid his surprise well. In the threshold of that filthy house was a young woman. Probably around Kyoko’s age. With long, alabaster hair tied up in two trailing braids on either side of her head. Oily and unwashed, they swung behind the girl’s thin frame like damp ropes. Her skin was pale. Clearly she wasn’t one to venture out of the little hole she lived in. She wasn’t what Byakuya expected.

But maybe she’d be useful.

The Togami heir drew closer. Eyes never leaving the small, smelly creature before him. The details of her person becoming clearer and clearer the closer he dared to move. Her entire body was thin, almost unhealthily so. With long, slender hands and fingers topped with obsessively bitten fingernails. A long skirt and blouse hiding a great deal of her skin away from the forest’s blinding light.

A white cloak around her shoulders.

It’s seemed so out of place on someone as dirty as this girl. Complied from a good percentage of silk, the cloak was a bright, clear white that made the girl in it seem all the more small and sickly looking. Her gray-Wait.

No.

Purple? Lilac? Pewter? Admittedly, Byakuya stared into the girl’s eyes for longer than might’ve been appropriate. Trying and failing to put a name to their color until his common sense came rushing up to smack some sense into him.

“Are you Touko Fukawa?” To his credit, the heir was able to successfully keep his voice direct. Despite the momentarily flailing of his mind. The young woman looked up at him through thick circular glasses. Blinking once.

Twice.

Her mouth, with a mole above the left of her chin, gaped open. Not unlike a fish. Her lips were thin and chapped. Byakuya tore his eyes away.

Blaming it on the stench of her breath.

Then the woman’s brows furrowed. Her gaze turning hostile under those wire frames. Scuttling away from him as she clutched her hands to her chest. Looking at Byakuya in trembling distrust. My.

What large eyes she had.

“Y-Yeah! T-T-That’s right, who w-wants to know?!” The girl, Touko, all but screeched as she pointed an accusatory finger at him. Byakuya scowled at her tone. Peering at her through his blonde lashes.

“The lord of your land, Byakuya Togami.” The heir announced, but, to his confusion, Touko remained suspicious.

“This l-land? No b-body c-can just own thi-”

“Yes well, I do Miss Fukawa, now are you going to invite me in or not?” Byakuya barked, startling Touko’s fingers back to their gripping place above her heart. And, after a heartbeat, she stepped aside to allow him inside.

A faint blush on her cheeks.

===

She was breaking so many rules right now.

Rules beaten into her by her parents. Rules she had steeled herself to. But now here she was. Inviting a complete stranger into her house. But she couldn’t help it.

Touko could never say no to pretty face.

She stepped aside, and allowed the older man, Byakuya, to enter her home. A prick of shame stinging at her chest when she saw him look around her dark lodgings. His noble features pinching at smells that had all but grown invisible to her.

But Touko pushed it down the second she saw that her notebook was still open. Shoving past Byakuya to close the leather-bound book in a flustered rush.

The heir only blinking ot her.

But there was something…comforting about the disgust he showed her. It was reflected, clear as day, on his face, not stewing somewhere in the back of his mind. There was an upfrontness about this man, a no-muss-no-fuss sort of manner that made all his distaste for her and the way she lived clear.

And Touko appreciated it.

Most people would’ve just walked into her house, pale at the smell, but still have the nerve to lie about it. Smile too wide a smile and comment on how ‘cozy' her home was. It was partially why Touko never bothered with people in town. The lot of them too stupid and too afraid to hurt. But not this man.

Not Byakuya.

Not with his pinched face and flinty stare. No. Touko knew with just one glance that this man was leagues above putting on any polite guises. And she appreciated it.

Almost as much as she did his face.

“Now I don’t want to stay too long in this damn town. So if you could procure something resembling a chair from this pigsty and answer my questions as quickly as possible, I would be ecstatic.” Now that got her moving with all the sudden sharpness of a cracked whip. Pulling her white cloak closer, Touko threw the single chair she had previously knocked over back into place.

Byakuya taking a tentative seat while the young woman stood, fidgeting, at his side. There were no other chairs for her to take seat, but the young woman quickly found that she didn’t care.

Not when she could look at Byakuya.

The heir sighed, annoyed. Granted, he was out of the forest, but was this place, and this woman, any better than the wilderness he had just been subjected to? Hmph.

Best get this over with.

“Just h-how did you find m-me? No one c-cares ab-”

“Naegi, the baker, told me after I asked around for information pertaining to my investigation.” Now that halted Touko’s thoughts. Makoto! Of course! That meddling little brat! Her expression soured and her hands curled as the young woman seethed. Had that irksome boy no idea of privacy?! One of a woman’s most treasured possessions!

Why she outta-

“So since I’ve come all this way, I’ll need all my questions answered Miss Fukawa.” Oh how that ice-blue gaze could cut her! Touko didn’t even try to suppress the blush rising to her face as she nodded enthusiastically. Being ordered around by a handsome man who sought her out for her mind? Not bad.

Not bad at all.

“Now, my investigation pertains to the recent slaughtering of livestock in Mirai Vi-”

“Get out.” Her body felt cold, but God was her heart pounding. Damn near shattering the bones trying to cage it in. Oh God. Touko knew she shouldn’t have opened the door.

She knew it!

Byakuya looked at her. Halfway between shocked and outraged. But Touko didn’t care. Not when she struggled to breathe. Wrestling the chair out from under Byakuya, the frantic woman was too terrified to keep her strength in check.

“Wha-How dare y-”

“Out!” She was screaming now. White cloak flapping all around her as she roughly grabbed the heir by his shoulders. All but pushing him out the door.

Eyes wide in terror.

The room was spinning and her hands were ice. She could smell it. His shock. The slight whiff of fear that clung to his skin as Touko pushed him. Oh God. She could feel it.

Byakuya’s heart.

Bright and thumping and red underneath his pale skin. It was strong. Young and beautiful and just within reach. She just had to-

Touko slammed the door in his face.

“Stay away from me!”

#togafukagiftexchange #togafuka #touko fukawa #byakuya togami #fanfiction #danganronpa #2018 #potentiala #submission

[jamesvehrlinger]

Leviathan

I awoke to the whisper of the Worm. Before, the familiars suggestions had been subtle in their impressions, but now it filled my head and nauseated me. Like a viscous liquid, the ebb and flow pounded on the sides of my skull. As I collected myself and began to focus, a deep and voluminous call resonated within the waves.

A single word,

'D I V E'.

As terror cut through the nausea, I rose to my feet and exited into the hall. I found my voice and beckoned my sisters from their quarters. My typically commanding tone escaped my mouth shrilly, suffused with fear. I felt them begin to stir, I turned and made for the bridge. The waves beat and battered the hull of the ship, I felt the juvenile welds and patchwork seals creak and groan under the immense pressure. I emerged onto the bridge, and activated the oculary. The pale-green walls became bathed in blue hues, the center filled in with the familiar deep green of the ocean of Fundament. I gasped at the sight, waves climbing leagues higher than the ship, and crashing with enough force to cause eruptions of foam to blanket the exposed platform at the nose of the ship. Had the geomagnetic stabilizers not been repaired mere days before, the ship certainly would have been thrown about, and ripped apart by the sheer mass of the surf.

I heard the voices of my sisters from the hall, their forms nearly discernible. The inner chamber of the bridge bordered absolute dark, so as to best project the image of the oculary. I turned to meet their worried murmurs, but before I could spoke the voice of the Worm filled my head again. This time, it spoke clearer and with greater conviction. I fell to my knees as the whispers cut through my thoughts and forced themselves through my ears.

It spoke again,

'T H E S K Y G R A S P S T H E L I M I T S O F Y O U R R E A L I T Y'

'I T W I L L S W A L L O W Y O U I N I T S M A N T L E'

'T U R N T O T H E D E E P T O S U R V I V E'

'D I V E'

I rose from my spell, and wrenched myself from the arms of my sisters. I grasped the oculary apparatus, and turned it skyward. Silence befell the room. Fifty-two small dots, indiscernible against the black of space, but unmissable against one of the massive suns that occupied the skies of Fundament. Our voices rang out in unison, "Father".

Prior to the destruction of our home, our Father had begun to descend into what his people called madness. He would ramble, walking the halls of the Osmium Court, about the movement of the bodies in the sky, about great and terrible calamities, about the Syzygy, the God Wave. He was called mad by his detractors, even I believed his mind had been lost to time. However, now I know the truth. The form of the worm draped over his neck spoke to him. And now it speaks to me in his stead. After the usurpation of the Osmium Throne, The King's three daughters, my Sisters and I, fled the Court. As we stole away on one of the traitor's ships, our Father's final words echoed throughout the bloody halls. "Aurash, my first daughter! The moons are different! The laws are bent!". I ruminated on those words for days at a time, and now they have come to exact their toll.

I turned to address my sisters. They both stood in shocked silence. I found my voice and told them of the Worm's whispers, of it's promise of salvation. They were quick to skepticism- they spoke of the immense pressure of the methane ocean, the scalding heat of the planet's core, to dive would be certain death. I turned to the Oculary, and with an outstretched arm gestured to the titanic waves. "And, is to allow our oaths to be buried in the waves not the same fate?" Their eyes narrowed, and their gaze shifted. I raised my voice. "I am Aurash the Navigator. I will not allow our crusade on the traitorous Brood Mother to be ended by mere waves." I turned from them and placed my hand the console. The Worm had guided us in our escape, it had guided us in our desperation, and it had procured for us the means to our salvation. "The Worm granted us this ship, and I will trust it with my life."

The ship bellowed as the thrusters turned skyward. The nose of the ship dipped below the waves, and in a moment we were enveloped in the Deep.

I do not know for how long we dove. As the pressure and temperature gauges whined and groaned under the immense stress, I began to feel tinges of doubt. Had I made the wrong choice? Had the Worm deceived us, in our desperation? I stole glances at my sisters, both pairs of eyes widened in terror. As the doubt and fear overwhelmed me, I snapped my eyes shut. And then, nothing. All in a moment, the sound of the gauges, the creaking of the hull, the immense crashing waves, were silenced. The lack of sound felt almost tangible, like a weight that fell on my shoulders. I stood and turned to my sisters, their fear mutated into curiosity at our current circumstances. I reactivate the Oculary, and was stunned by the sight, or lack thereof. There was no picture of our surroundings, no emanating blue hue. In all directions, there was only the Deep. The gauges read nothing. No pressure, no heat, Nothing. Compelled beyond words, I moved to the release, and opened the seal on the Bridge. As the metal hissed and receded, the way opened out to the atmosphere. No rushing methane, no immense heat, only the Deep. I walked out onto the nose of the ship and closed my eyes. In the distance, I heard it all. The deep groan of shifting continents, the subtle conventions of the waves, it was all there, but far away. So very far away.

As I began to lose myself in the serenity of it all, I became overwhelmed by a presence. It weighed on my chest and shortened my breath, it's volume dominated my vision. It's body snaked and enveloped the hull of the ship, scales the size of small continents turned and snaked around one another. As the two massive bodies parted, the creature's head emerged. A large chitinous skull, with three glowing green eyes stared me down. The ship could rest on the creature's eye alone. I felt as though I was a small dot on a universal canvas. A word took shape in my mind, the only word capable of describing such a massive creature. The Leviathan loomed over me, and it spoke. It's voice seemed to come from all directions, invading my mind as the Worm had.

It spoke unto me,

"The Deep and the Sky exist in an eternal war."

++MY EYES ARE WIDE, MY GAZE IS LONG++

"I look out across the universe, and see their works in conflict. The Sky builds refuge, cultivates the fires of life. The Deep envelopes it in its cold logic, and drowns its ashes. Fundament is a rich font of life, treasured by the Sky."

--BUT THE DEEP IS HERE WITH US--

"It's cold presses on our walls, and tests our laws. Pursuing a ruthless, final age of final Shapes."

I shouted unto the Leviathan,

"Fundament is no refuge, no safe place for life! We Krill live short, tumultuous lives! We are made prey by the cosmos themselves, an inevitable and total fate of destruction. We dive in pursuit of hope, in pursuit of salvation, in pursuit of Truth."

The Leviathan spoke unto me again.

"What call draws you down into the Deep? What call drives you to reject the sky? Small, meek Krill, I have watched your struggle for lifetimes, taut between the Sky and Deep. You were my treasure, my proof against despair."

++FOR THIS IS THE DEEP CLAIM++

"Existence is the struggle to exist. Form writhing to maintain itself against Formlessness. When Form decays, all things turn to the Deep to survive."

--I REJECT THE DEEP CLAIM--

"Turn back, small Krill of hope. Relinquish the Deep, return to the Sky."

I summoned my strength and shouted back.

"If our short and meaningless lives are our doomed fates, I will not have it! I will struggle to change Form, to writhe, to grow! I will kill anything in my way!"

The Leviathan began it's final Dirge.

"Your cold and terrible logic will be your undoing, You will embrace the Deep, and drown in it's Claim. You stand at the beginning of a path of ruin, the worship of death! The Sky builds new life, combating the invasion of death, towards a more gentle shape. The Deep embraces the invasion, submitting to it's inevitability. Submitting to formlessness."

++TURN BACK FROM THE WORLD-KILLING WAY++

--OR YOU WILL LIVE AS DEATH AND DEVASTATION--

"My charge is balanced, my voice exhausted."

As quickly as it arrived, the Leviathan receded, it's massive body becoming enveloped in the Deep again. In a moment, I was alone again. Alone with the Deep. I turned and retreated to the interior of the bridge, when I entered I addressed my sisters loudly. "The being claims that we must be content with our lives! That we must deny the strive for betterment! Our Father died in pursuit of a better shape, I will not have it! He has passed the Worm's blessing unto us, we cannot forsake it. Who will we trust? The voice that wishes us to live and suffer as we have lived and suffered!? Or the plain, honest worm?"

"Let us Dive, O sisters mine."

#Destiny #Fiction #Leviathan

[talesfromthesnogbox]

A cliched one but Mileven soulmates

I’M SORRY THIS TOOK 5EVER I WENT A LITTLE NUTS!

I also made it a roommate AU because why not, that’s where my brain went. Hope you like it!

Delicate

Mike and El had always been the best of friends. Neither of them could figure out why they got along so well.

Hawkins, Indiana wasn’t El’s birthplace, but it had been her home ever since Jim Hopper had adopted her when she was 12. Her new setting made her timid, but once she’d befriended her lovely party of nerds, she came right out of her shell.

Now at 21 years old, El, and the rest of their party called Chicago home. All six of them decided to head out to school in the windy city, and their parents couldn’t have been more thrilled. The party was a tight-knit group, and while they all had their own lives, and their own friends outside of each other, it was comforting to come home to each other.

Two apartments across the hall from the others became available and the party couldn’t resist snatching them up. Mike, El, and Will shared a cozy three bedroom while Max, Lucas, and Dustin shared a two bedroom. It was fate that the listings both became available on the same day, especially considering after a long period of contemplation, Lucas and Max had agreed to move in together.

It wasn’t early on that Max and Lucas had discovered each other’s soul marks. In fact, they didn’t get along very well until their senior year, one year after Max had moved to Hawkins from sunny California. Lucas always wore his heart on his sleeve, and his soul mark was constantly visible on his arm, just above his elbow. But Max… she was more reserved. She wanted to rebel against the whole “soul mark” thing, why should love be up to fate and not choice? In truth, she was scared knowing Lucas was her soulmate, but the moment she gave in and showed him her own matching mark just above where her heart sat, the two had been inseparable.

But even soulmates had their flaws.

“I swear, he never does the dishes!” Max grumbled loudly in the kitchen. Friday was the boys’ day; they all only had morning classes, so they all got to start the weekend off early. El and Max had never quite gotten into Dungeons and Dragons, so while they had girl time in Max’s apartment, El’s apartment had become the Chicago equivalent of Mike Wheeler’s basement.

El giggled. “I bet that’s how they feel about me over there then. Of course I would end up living with two neat guys of the party.”

“Whatever, I’m not doing his dishes again. Back to what you were saying… you met someone?”

A smile crossed El’s features. “Sort of, I mean, he hasn’t asked me out or anything, but we’ve been talking a lot after class, sometimes we’ll go get a coffee together.”

“That sounds like a start!”

“It is.” El sighed.

“But he’s not Mike.” Max prodded her. Everyone in the party knew that El and Mike were absolutely soulmates, there was no doubt about it. The only two that couldn’t see it were… well… El and Mike.

“Mike… he’s just a silly crush. Besides he’s my roommate, and my best friend, I don’t want to mess up what we’ve got.”

He wasn’t just a silly crush though. The swirly filigree shaped mark (that strangely looked like 011 the more she stared at it) sat just above El’s hipbone, and she couldn’t tell you how many times she’d dreamt of Mike having a matching mark. She loved him, she loved him with all her heart, but she’d known him for over 9 years… if he was her soulmate, they’d already know it.

“But even still El, you don’t want to just try it out? Who says you have to end up with your soulmate anyways? They could live halfway across the world for all you know. We were taught the statistics, El, only 45 percent of people on Earth actually meet their soulmate.”

“Then maybe I’ll be part of that 45 percent.” She clapped back. “Look, Max, I love you, but you’ve gotta stop bringing up Mike like this. I just want to get over him—”

“But he’s in love with you.” As soon as the words left her lips, Max threw her hands over her mouth. “I was not supposed to tell you that.”

El’s face was stoic, but her mind was reeling. “I… I think I’m just gonna go.”

Max stood and followed her to the door. “I’m sorry, please don’t be mad, I just want what’s best for you, and I want my friends to be as happy as I am.”

El smiled. “I’m not mad at you, Max, I just… I think I need some air.” She crossed the hall into her own apartment where the boys were no longer quite so deep in their campaign.

“I’m telling you, she was smoking hot, we totally clicked, but her soul mark didn’t match mine.” Dustin was talking animatedly to the rest of the party, obviously not that invested in his story.

“Yeah… I’m sure that is the reason she didn’t go for you.” Will shoved Dustin and moved to the couch. “Hey, El… you’re home early, I thought you and Max—”

“We ended it early, I’m not feeling well.” Her door closed softly behind her, but the party knew something was up.

Mike frowned. El was usually so open about everything; their friendship really knew no boundaries. Well, he thought, I still haven’t seen her soul mark… we have a few boundaries.

“Is she okay?” Lucas pointed to her door.

“Let me go check on her.” Mike went to her door and knocked quietly. “El? Can I come in?”

She bit her lip, now in a cozy pair of pajamas curled in her bed, it’s nothing he hadn’t seen before, but she didn’t want to face him after what Max had told her.

“Go away.”

“Please? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” She pleaded, voice muffled by her pillow.

“Okay, then let me see you’re fine.” El had a history of shutting down when she was upset. Sometimes her thoughts became too dark and dangerous for her to deal with, but the party was always there to help her through it.

Mike heard her footsteps get closer to the door, and she opened it with a huff.

“See? Fine.”

“El… wait.” He hated that he’d done it, but Mike was always overwhelmingly drawn to El. He loved the party, but El had to be his best friend. He worried about her, he loved her… he was in love with her (but he’d never tell her that). Mike followed her into her room and shut the door behind him. He followed her and took a seat next to her on her bed. “Don’t give me some bullshit answer. What happened?”

She sighed and covered her face with her hands. “Max and I sort of got into a fight about soulmates.”

Mike frowned. Sure, El had dated some, but he didn’t think she’d be this broken up over the soulmate issue. Their conversations had never quite meandered over to their love lives (or lack thereof), it just wasn’t something that the two of them really ever talked about. “Do you want to talk about it?”

El leaned into Mike’s shoulder and he immediately wound his arm around her. It was a common position for them, and he was a really good cuddler. “I… not really.”

“Okay.” He shrugged, happy to just be with her like this.

“I just… what if I never meet them, Mike? What if I’m always left wondering what they would be like, what they would look like… even if I’m with someone else? That’s hardly fair.” It was one of the reasons why she’d never tell Mike how she felt about him.

“It’s not fair, but really, everyone thinks about it. Everyone has someone out there for them, El, but not everyone meets that person. It’s okay to think that way, it’s human nature.”

He did have a point. “She had to go and bring up statistics and all that again about how not everyone meets their soulmate… it’s easy for her to say, she found Lucas in high school.”

“Sounds like someone’s a little jealous.” Mike poked her side, smiling at the girl in his arms.

“I’m not… okay maybe I’m a little jealous.”

“You shouldn’t be. You’ll find someone amazing, I know it El. And think of it this way, Max is stuck with Lucas for the rest of their lives.”

She giggled. “Same dick forever.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.” He winced.

“It’s a joke, relax.” El sighed. “What if I meet them at the wrong time though?”

“Well… they’re your soulmate… they’ll wait as long as they need to.” I know I would, it goes without being said.

The two fall asleep in that position quickly, too comfortable with the other, too comfortable after unloading some weight off both of their shoulders. They sleep until Dustin of all people sneaks in.

“What the hell, guys, come check this out.”

Dustin’s voice carries through the apartment, and draws Mike out of his restful state. “Fuck off, Henderson. I’m comfortable.”

“Yeah I bet you are. So you figure it out yet? That you guys are actually soulmates?”

“No. Go away, seriously.”

“What, are you too afraid to tell her your soul mark is on your ass cheek?” Dustin snickers.

“I’m ignoring you. Goodnight Dustin.”

“Night, loverboy.”

Mike shakes his head at Dustin, settling back into El’s comforter. There was no way he was moving tonight, she was wrapped around him using every limb she could, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Is your soul mark really on your ass cheek?” El’s soft voice startled him.

“Y-you heard all that?”

“Hard not to when Dustin is that fucking loud. Answer me, is it seriously on your butt?”

“N-n-no… well… kinda. I mean—” Her giggles cut him off. “Stop laughing! It’s not really on my butt, it’s like… really low on my back.”

“So your butt?”

“No!” He sighed. His mom always had this theory that it’s there because he was so closed off about his emotions, he’s starting to believe it might be true.

El gave him a mischievous look. “Can I see it?”

“I—I um…”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to, I’m only teasing. Unless you want to, then that’s totally up to you.” El snuggled further into his chest, her eyes feeling heavy again.

Silence washes over them, and Mike is suddenly all too aware of every little thing around them.

“Hey, El?”

“Hm?”

He pauses. “D-do you mind if I stay?”

El couldn’t explain it, but she felt something shift in the room. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and the tension in the air could be cut with a knife. For some reason, that simple question felt like a do or die decision, and she had to follow her gut.

“No… you can stay.”

Mike hid his smile by pressing a light kiss to the top of her head. Sure, they’d been affectionate with each other, holding hands, cuddling, before, but this felt different. Something had changed.

“Thanks.” He whispered, pulling her closer and resting his head on her pillow. “Night, El.”

“Night… loverboy.”

He let out a huff of breath and she giggled before they both drifted off.

The next morning, Mike realized that waking up beside El was pretty much the most perfect thing he could ever experience.

Her soft breaths hit his chest, and her arms tightened around him whenever he tried to move, but his favourite part of waking up beside her had to be how peaceful she looked. Her features were soft in the morning light, hair mussed, lips parted slightly. The angelic expression on her face tugged at his heartstrings, and he absolutely couldn’t move now, not until she woke up. He never wanted to disturb her while she got her much needed rest.

Mike’s cheeks reddened softly as he realized he was staring, and suddenly, she was stirring.

“Morning.” He whispered sleepily.

El groaned. “You make a great pillow, Wheeler.”

Mike smiled, pride filling his chest making his heart flutter. Their eyes met, and he felt something, an invisible force pulling them together. This is it, he thought, wondering if either one of them would push it one step further and take the plunge. But before either could do anything, Will burst into the room.

“Hey, the rest of us were talking… oh shoot did I interrupt something?”

“N-no.” El said, tearing herself away from Mike for the first time in hours. “What’s up?”

“Oh, just that we were gonna check out this new bar that just opened up a few blocks from here tonight instead of movie night. Sorry, I thought I heard you talking.”

“It’s fine, we were just getting up.” Mike said, scratching his head.

“Great! I’m making waffles if you guys want to join!”

El looked at Mike and smiled as Will left the room. The moment was unfortunately dead now, and Mike was kicking himself. I should have done something.

“I guess I’ll just… um… breakfast.” Mike told her, following Will out into the kitchen.

Mike had been avoiding El all day, a feat that proved to be tough considering they were roommates. He holed himself up in his room, doing anything he could to stay there and not face up to what had almost happened this morning.

What if I’d gone through with it? What would happen? Would she have kissed me back? Would it have gone any further? Would she want to be my girlfriend?

Will pulled him out of his reverie.

“Hey, get ready we’re leaving soon.”

Mike nodded to him in acknowledgement, and minutes later, was joining Will and the rest of the gang in the living room.

The night out had been… interesting to say the least. Max and Lucas were attached at the hip all night, El clung to Dustin, and made for quite the wing-woman (he’d gone off talking to a pretty blonde girl in a quieter part of the bar). But the most shocking part of the evening was Will finding Evan.

Will had come to Mike, pale faced an hour after they’d arrived. “I think… Oh my god, Mike.”

“Hey, hey, what happened?”

Will swallowed. “I just spilled my beer on someone.”

“It’s fine, it happens all the time in these places.” Mike said with a shrug. “Why, are they giving you a hard time?”

“No… he’s got my soul mark on his neck.”

Mike’s heart dropped to his stomach. “Th-that’s great! You should go talk to him.” He gave Will a forced smile. He tried to be happy for his friend, really, he did, but after his conversation last night with El, love was the last thing he wanted to think about.

Will nodded and walked back in the direction he came from. Mike could see him tap the other man on the shoulder and pull the neck of his shirt aside to show him the identical mark. The man’s face immediately softened as he brought Will in for a hug.

All Mike could do was sigh and take another swig of his beer.

Before he knew it, Mike was drunker than he’d ever been in his life.

“I can walk I promise!” He slurred as El helped him into their apartment. She was pretty tipsy herself, but far less so than Mike.

“Oh really, is that why you fell out of the cab?”

He fell onto the couch bringing her with him. “See? Totally fine.”

“Sure Michael.” El rolled her eyes.

“You’re so beautiful, you know?”

“And you’re so drunk. Come on, into bed.” She patted his poof of hair.

“Is that an invitation?” He wiggled his eyebrows. El’s eyes were wide. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Mike put his arm around her and pulled her close. “But last night was really nice with the sleeping though.”

El sighed, her heart in her throat. “Yeah… it was Mike.”

“El?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

She giggled and tapped his nose. “I love you too, Wheeler.” El moved to get up, but he pulled her back down. “Mike?”

Mike didn’t think before he kissed her.

El melted into the kiss, kissing him as if she’d kissed him every day of her life. She found it was the most natural thing in the world, yet a new sense of excitement ran through her.

She sighed into the action, coming back for kiss after kiss like she was addicted to him. El clutched the front of his shirt while Mike fisted a hand in her curly hair, and their lips moved with the others in a way that sent a pleasant chill down Mike’s spine.

Until El pulled away.

“O-oh my god, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”

Mike groaned as she left his side, her warmth gone. He peeked a glance at her, messy hair, dilated pupils, swollen lips, and he wanted nothing more than to continue what they had going just moments before.

“El… Ellie please.” Mike took her hands in his, only to have her pull them away. “El I love you.”

“Mike, we can’t.” She shook her head. “We can’t do this, not when our soulmates are still out there. I can’t do that to you.”

“Ellie I don’t care. Fuck soulmates, you’re my soulmate.”

“You don’t know that.” She sounded choked up, like she was holding back tears.

“No, I don’t, but what if we are? Didn’t you feel that? Because I felt it. Ellie, that kiss was like magic.”

“I can’t do this.”

“El… Ellie wait…” He tried to follow, but his stomach had other plans, and instead, he was running to the bathroom.

El sighed and marched right into the bathroom after him. She may have been upset over the kiss, but Mike was still her friend, and she couldn’t leave her friend to be sick on his own.

Her hand rubbed gentle circles on his back while the other ran through his dark locks as Mike emptied the contents of his stomach. “That’s it, let it out.” She soothed him before getting up to grab a glass of water and some mouthwash.

“T-thanks Ellie.” He said, gratefully accepting both as she cleaned him up with a washcloth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop, let’s not do this right now, okay? Wait for morning.”

Mike nodded, beginning to sober up. Together, they got off the floor, and El helped him into bed. “Goodnight, Mike.”

“Night, El.”

He awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and a deep sense of dread filling his chest. Mike knew that he and El would have to talk about what had happened at some point… it wasn’t over last night, they’d just put a bookmark in the conversation, and he had a feeling it would have to happen today.

Staring at the ceiling wouldn’t do him any good, so Mike slowly got out of bed and joined El in the kitchen.

“Did Will go out for breakfast?” He asked her, not wanting to immediately jump into a serious talk.

“No, he didn’t make it home last night actually. I got a call from him this morning, he met his soulmate, Mike!”

“Good for him. He kind of mentioned it to me last night, I didn’t know he stayed over there though.”

“Yeah, his name is Evan, they went back to his hotel. Evan is doing a road trip across the States… he’s from York.” El had obviously had a longer conversation with Will about this than Mike had.

“New York?”

Her face fell. “No… like York in England. H-he’s lucky he was in the right place at the right time.”

“Oh…” Mike gulped loudly. “So it’s true what they say that soulmates can be anywhere then… even halfway across the world.”

“Yeah. They’ll work it out, I know it.”

El slid a coffee across the counter to Mike who sipped it gratefully. The silence wasn’t comfortable like it had been the previous morning. “El… El I have to apologize for what happened yesterday.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay! I—I shouldn’t have said anything, not when I was drunk anyways. But I meant it, I meant every word, El. You don’t have to say it back or anything, I… I just wanted you to know.” Mike had his hands in his hair, his heart pounding from his confession. It felt good, getting that weight off his chest. What didn’t feel good was hearing a sniffle come from El across the counter. He looked up to find tears in her eyes. “Hey, hey, don’t cry.” He stumbled around the counter to pull her into his arms.

“I can’t do this to you Mike, I—I love you too, but I can’t be with you knowing that my soulmate might be out there somewhere.”

“What if we forget about the soulmate thing? We may never meet them El.”

“They’re tattooed on our skin, Mike. Every time I see yours it’ll be a reminder that I’m not the one for you.”

“Are you planning on looking at my naked butt a lot?” His joke lightened the tension, pulling a giggle out of her. “To be fair… we’ve never actually seen each other’s soul marks…”

El said nothing. She debated with herself, not wanting to confirm that there was someone better out there for Mike… but… but what if…

“Y-you think we…?” She whispered, desperately hoping he was the one.

“I meant what I said last night, El.” He repeated himself. “I—I think you’re my soulmate.”

El looked up at Mike through her lashes. She wanted to be with him, she really did, but… her mind raced at the possibilities. They were extremely close, they shared everything (almost everything), she always felt a gravitational pull towards him… “Mike… once we look… there’s no going back from this.”

He blinked. He wasn’t expecting her to actually consider going through with it. “We don’t have to El, it… it was just a thought. But we’re bound to see them somehow, one way or another, it’ll happen, and we’ll know for sure. I don’t care if you’re my soulmate or not El, I want to be with you either way, but this… this is just a way of knowing for sure and doing it purposely.”

The silence stretched between them. He was still holding her, and although they’d slowed, the tears still dripped down her cheeks. “I think I’m gonna need some time to think about it.”

Mike nodded. “Fair enough. Thanks for the coffee, El. I… I’m going to hang out in my room for a bit.”

It was nearly five in the evening, and Mike still hadn’t come out of his room.

Will was still out with Evan, so a deafening silence spilled over the apartment while El attempted to study in the living room.

She rubbed her neck, sore from the intensity of her focus on her psych notes. El had always been like this, thrown herself into other work as soon as she was faced with something difficult.

El groaned, closing her book. What had happened between herself and Mike that morning wasn’t something she could just ignore, she needed to think it through, she needed calm, peace…

The gentle strumming of a guitar broke through the apartment.

Mike had taken up music in high school, and his acoustic guitar had become the soundtrack to her life. Instantly, she felt the tension break and her mind clear.

Yoga.

El changed into something more appropriate for the meditative practice she found helped her so much growing up. She rolled out her mat in the living room and ran through a familiar routine, using Mike’s strumming to keep her grounded.

Minutes of the practice had already relaxed her muscles, her mind felt clear again, and she soon became absorbed in her own head. So much so that she didn’t realize the strumming had stopped.

She continued the sequence until she heard a soft gasp come from in front of her.

El frowned, dropping her hands and opening her eyes. Mike stood ten feet away, staring at her hip. The exact spot where her soul mark was.

“M-Mike?”

“El I… I didn’t mean to see… your shirt it just…”

Her stomach dropped. “You saw my mark?”

He nodded, his face blank. El felt like throwing up, her breath hitched nervously, and everything she’d done to calm herself came crashing down on her.

Mike gulped and turned slightly, looking awkwardly to the ceiling as he pulled at the waistband of his jeans until a delicate black filigree mark was visible.

011

She was speechless. El stumbled backwards until she felt the back of her knees bump into the couch. She fell in a heap, her hand covering her mouth.

“I um… El I’m sorry for sneaking up on you like that.”

Her eyebrows rose into her hairline, a pleasant shiver scaled her body, her heart was pounding, and suddenly all she felt was excitement. El was giddy.

A giggle bubbled from her lips, and she could no longer hold herself back. “I—I can’t believe you just mooned me!” She giggled uncontrollably, throwing her head back into the cushions.

Mike frowned, this was not the response he was hoping for when he’d decided to show her his matching soul mark. “El?”

“You – you just pulled your pants down and th-there it is! On your ass, just like Dustin said it was.”

He took a seat beside her on the couch. Mike didn’t know how he should be feeling. Of course, he was elated, he was right, El was his soulmate, but why was this her reaction?

Upon further inspection, Mike noticed tears rolling down her face. Her shoulders shook again, but this time, she was crying. “El, talk to me, please.”

El gave up and threw her arms around Mike. “I… I can’t believe it’s actually you.”

Instantly, his heart melted. He’d automatically assumed the worst, but of course his Ellie… she always did lead with her emotions.

“Just like I said, right?” Mike’s arms wound around her body, a hand flying to stroke her hair.

“I didn’t think I would ever find you.” She sniffed, refusing to let go of him.

“I’ve been right in front of you the whole time.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “God Ellie, I’m so in love with you, I’ve been waiting for you to realize it without acting like an ass. Well, except for last night…”

“No, stop talking about last night, I was scared and confused. I didn’t want to fall in love with you, but oh my god,” she let out a giggle and pulled away from the hug, “now I know why I did.”

Mike couldn’t wipe the shit-eating grin off his face. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her happier, despite the tears rolling down her cheeks. She was his, he was hers, and instantly he felt his entire purpose in life was to make her happy, make her smile every morning, cherish her… he’d do anything he could for the love of his life.

“El, you’re my everything. I love you… I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

“I love you too Mike.” She hastily wiped at her eyes. “God, I’m sorry, I’m ridiculous.”

He shook his head. “You’re beautiful.”

El looked at him, losing herself in the depths of his eyes, and couldn’t hold herself back from kissing him.

It was nothing like the kiss from the night before. The night before was frantic and rushed, but this… this… a warmth started in her belly as their lips moved together slowly. Their kisses were soft, feather light, almost tentative as they began to learn the other in a way they’d never done before. The warmth seared through her and made her heart thump excitedly in her chest. God, she could do this for hours and she wouldn’t get tired of it.

He pulled away first, slowly, making sure to press two short pecks to her swollen lips before his eyes met hers again. Her cheeks were pink, eyes bright, and lips curled into a dazed smile.

“Hi.” She whispered, taking her bottom lip between her teeth.

Mike’s vision was glazed over; he was in absolute bliss. “That was fucking incredible.”

El’s fit of giggles started up once again, breaking the intensity of the last few minutes. This time, Mike joined her, leaning on her shoulder as they laughed, causing him to topple over her onto the couch. He held her close, trying to shift most of his weight off of her, and of course, Max chose that moment to waltz straight into their apartment.

“Hey El, can I borrow your—oh shit,” she covered her eyes turning away from then, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you guys were… I’ll just come back later.”

“Max it’s alright, you weren’t interrupting anything.” Mike shouted over, picking himself and El up off the couch. He pecked her lips once more before Max came barreling back into their living room.

“Cool. El, can I borrow your curling iron? And while we’re at it, you can tell me what I just walked in on.”

El nodded, and Max went straight for the bathroom to retrieve what she came for. “Curling iron, yes. The explanation…”

“That she’ll have to give you tomorrow, we’ve got plans tonight.” Mike explained, another shit-eating grin crossing his face. El rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I just wanted to spend some time with you.” He whispered in her ear, kissing her cheek. “We’ve got some catching up to do.”

Max reappeared, curling iron in hand. “Yeah, you two have a lot to explain. You’re lucky I’m running late.”

“I’ll give you the spark notes…” El nodded cheekily. “I found him.”

“Mike? He’s your roommate, did you lose him last night or something…” El saw the realization dawn on her friend and she giggled, taking Mike’s hand in hers. “Him? Like… him? Your… Lucas?”

“Yeah, I found my Lucas.”

“Well fuck El, I hate to say I told you so, but…”

El got up and pushed her out the door, shutting it behind Max. “Oh shut up and go curl your hair.”

“Hey Lucas you’ll never guess what just happened!” She could hear Max yelling to her own soulmate through the door.

“That went well.” Mike shook his head.

“Catching up to do you say?”

Mike’s hand flew behind his neck, scratching at his hairline awkwardly. “I mean…”

El giggled and kissed him sweetly. “I’ve been crushing on you for 9 years, you’re right, we do have some catching up to do.”

His face lit up, and he started rambling off about takeout and dates.

“As long as I’m with you, I don’t care.”

#mileven #puzzlingsnark #prompts #stranger things fic #mike x eleven #my writing