#well. polish translation is a little loose on that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fandomfluffandfuck · 1 month

Note

TELL ME ABOUT THE SHOES!!!

related to this

Okay, okay, okay, first, I have to mention that every day I drive home from college, I drive past two different sex shops and one strip club and one of these sex shops has an LED sign that advertises a bunch of different spicy stuff, and the other day they had one word up--

Shoes

And upon reading that, I was hit over the back of the head with the first shoe-related thought I have that relates to fandom:

You always want what you can't have

Bucky mentioning in Captain America: Civil War how Steve used to wear newspapers in his shoes speaks to me about the depression, how he must've had beat up, worn out, hand-me-down shoes with newspapers stuffed in them to make them fit better, to make them warmer in the winter, to try and at least make them feel like there weren't holes in the bottoms of them. Steve drawing here and there throughout the Captain America movies--drawing himself as a dancing monkey, sketching buildings--makes me think of his artistic eye. An artistic eye that we see beyond drawing, with his comments about Stark Tower being big and ugly, plus, similarly with, according to Steve, the ugly brown van they use to save the world. Both Bucky's comment of the way things used to be and Steve's appreciation for aesthetic makes me imagine that Steve could gravitate toward shoes. Pretty, slim "women's shoes," as well as generally shiny, bulky "men's shoes."

The first time he notices shoes is early, when he watches his Ma slip into her Sunday best heels. Her stockings might be laddered and torn because she doesn't have enough pairs to have a special Sunday pair--she needs to use all the ones she has when she's nursing, dealing with all sorts of untold grossities at work, often throwing them out--but this pair of shoes look brand new. She takes good care of them, so much so that Steve's not allowed to touch them. Her Sunday best heels are hardly scuffed or creased because she never wears them to work or anything, just to church. They're pretty and special, and on the way, she's always careful, not stepping in puddles, on cracks, or anything.

The way his Ma treats her Sunday best shoes makes Steve investigate during church, more interested in eyeing all the other special shoes than listening to the preaching that Sunday, peering over the open Bible his Ma holds out in front of him. He's cataloging all the differences between the men's and women's shoes. Both kinds are shiny, but women's shoes are especially so. Angular and polished and bright, often with tiny details that men's shoes don't get the luxury of having--tiny buckles, little bows, patterns pressed into or cut out of the leather, etc. Women's shoes are so delicate, clicking across the floor while men's land much heavier, more of a clunk. A thunk even.

As soon as he's drawing, his interest translates there, too. It's the shine, reflective and glinting, every crease exemplified; the angles, shapely and precise; the colors, usually more muted but occasionally very bright and attention grabbing, either way, they're always saturated. It's fascinating to draw shoes. The lines are so clean that it's easy to make a mistake. And it's so challenging to capture the way the positioning of the shoes changes the shape of the whole thing! But that's what makes it interesting. Every angle holds new details. Steve discovers quickly that he can tell stories through shoes, too... where the creases are and how many there are, scuffs, rough leather, loose threads, color bright and bold or not, the angle he draws the shoes from, too--looking down at them from where he stands, lying on his belly and sketching straight on, detailing the bottoms--there are endless possibilities.

But, as Steve gets older and the more it sits in his head, the more it becomes something deeper until it's something beyond a passive, special interest. Beyond somewhere where his eyes always go when he meets someone new--glancing at their footwear just to see. It becomes something of desire.

Desired because of how forbidden it is. Women's shoes are for girls. Steve isn't a girl. He can't have them. He wasn't allowed to touch them. He's still not allowed to touch them.

There is a desire for men's shoes, too, but he knows men's shoes. He appreciates the sound of a big, tall man walking down an alleyway by the hidden bars around their run-down cold water walk-up with the swaggering thunk thunk thunk of their boots on the street. He does like that. Something about it makes shivers crawl up his crooked spine. But, he knows them. Bucky wears work boots. They live in a heap next to their front door. Plus, Steve has his own shoes. Men's shoes are familiar.

Steve buries his desire for men's shoes deeper, for whatever reason. It has nothing to do with internalized homophobia, no, why do you ask?

Women's shoes, though...

They're forbidden and unknown. The closest Steve's gotten to fancy, truly bright, and angular ladies' shoes (outside of staring at them through shop windows) was when Bucky brought home a blonde dame--Steve never got her name, she just came and left once--with a rich Daddy. Her shoes were kicked off by the door when Steve got home, sitting fallen over next to Bucky's heavy boots. Steve's heart pounded unevenly in his thin chest, just seeing them together. Darting between the shoes. The contrast.

(That dame must've been short, too, like Steve. Her shoes were so little, especially next to Bucky's. By the looks of it, they might even fit Steve. Maybe. He wouldn't dare touch them, though, not even to straight them in the way he grumbles but organizes Bucky's footwear.)

The second time Steve really comes close to the off-limit territory of women's shoes is after the serum, dragging through the USO Tour with all the chorus girls. Their glittery, flashy, short, and bright uniforms. Meant to attract, so can Steve be blamed? Because suddenly, it seems like Steve can't go ten feet without tripping over one of the girls' pairs of shiny, bright, tall heels.

Once, just once, one of the gals leaves her heels behind. She's going back home, her service done with, so...

With his heart pounding strongly in his broad chest, practically echoing through it, he swears, Steve grabs them. Hastily stuffing them under his trench coat and wisking them back to his private tent--the luxury of being a technical captain.

Alone and in private, Steve knows just looking at them, understanding space strangely well these days, that they're too small for his feet. Even if they weren't too small, Steve is sure he couldn't bear to try them on. Not here. What would he do anyway? He's never thought past getting his hands on ladies' shoes. He couldn't walk with them on. Could he? No. He would be scared of someone hearing the click click click. And he couldn't... he doesn't have anyone to... show?

So, what would be the point?

There isn't one. And Steve doesn't even try to put them on. Instead, he sets one of the pair of the heels in his lap. Cradling it, the shoe is a lot lighter than he expected it to be. The material is much thinner than he thought even though he's drawn shoes a ton. He's studied them. And he studies them again now, up-close and personal, just... looking.

He just holds it.

Without realizing it, he starts to subconsciously stroke the shiny, patriotic-colored leather. It's so smooth. It's cold to start, but quickly, it isn't anymore, warming up to him. The heel isn't as sharp on the edges as he would've thought, but it's not too soft, either.

He's more familiar, having it in his hold, but they're still exciting. Fascinating. Interesting. No matter how often he sneaks away to hold one or both of the stolen shoes in his hands, they're still so different.

They're special.

Steve loses the pair when he walks to Austria. He's not sure what happened to them, and he's afraid to ask. Did someone find them? If they did, what did they think? At worst, they probably just thought Steve spent the night with one of the chorus gals, right? They wouldn't know about... about what Steve did? (And what did he do? He just held them!?) He can't stop thinking about them, though. His hands are so calloused these days, and all his shirts are grimy and coming apart at the seams, holes everywhere, and wouldn't it just be nice to touch something smooth?

Bucky sees through him and asks him what he's missing, but he falls before Steve can say it out loud. So, the secret dies with him.

Steve doesn't let himself think about something so soft and delicate when he wakes up. He can't stomach it.

Eventually

Bucky is back.

Steve has Bucky back.

And they're both trying to heal.

Healing takes many shapes... including, apparently, the shape of a sleek, biege box with a looping, white font delivered to their front door, which contains rich, red, and shimmering tissue paper, fragile and weightless, and a pair of matching, shiny black heels with blood red bottoms.

Steve doesn't even want to know what they cost Bucky. He vaguely grasps the pop culture knowledge to understand how infamous heels like these are, how expensive they are, and he's not dumb enough to miss all the details, thoughtfulness, and exorbitant materials. Shockingly, they have money now, existing somewhere, acrewing in a bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else entirely, and between the two of them, Steve is the one who doesn't know what to do with it. Bucky knows.

Bucky knows.

Bucky bought him a pair of heels, not so bright, save for the bottoms, but still delicate and shiny and alluring. The shoes feel more like Bucky's style than Steve's and... Steve likes that. He likes that Bucky chose them, he likes that he wants to see him in them, and he likes that they're here.

Steve's almost afraid to put the shoes on, his thumbs rubbing back and forth across the smooth, perfect surface. He's not even sure if he wants to put them on or not. He's only ever drawn or held shoes like these. He's not put them on. Does he want to cross that line? Is that even a line? After all the things he's done, is this even daring?

What if it's not special? What if it's not as good as he wants it to be? Does he want it to be good? What's good?

Should he put them on?

Steve's head is so full of questions that he can't do anything but stand there, a contemplative statue; Steve's supposed to be brave and daring, but there are moments where even he's allowed to hesitate.

Right?

Bucky isn't so hesitant. He knows his best guy is going to look killer in those heels, and he knows whatever Steve has built this up to be in his head... it'll be fine. He just has to let go and do it.

With some convincing and a few charming grins, Steve puts the red bottomed heels on and...

It's good.

It's better than he imagined.

While he's wearing them--falling apart at the seams and succumbing weakly to the fever raging through him--Bucky fucks him hard. Deep and good. Leaving Steve unable to hold back the ah, ah, ahs that pour out from inside him and causing him to put bruises, dents really, in Bucky's back with how tight his legs are wrapped around his stocky waist. He can't. Bucky's dick hits his prostate again and again. Oh, god. It's making him so weak--his dick always does. It forces Steve's brains to melt out of his ears, struck stupid with his lips falling open, bright red and wet.

With another hammering, ah, ah, ah, dick carving so deep in him, sparking and hot, desire courses through Steve so strongly that his toes curl until the soles of his feet cramp. As his toes curl, it forces the shiny heels to slip off of his feet just as he crashes through his orgasm. His moans pitching higher--shattering suddenly, shaking apart with the pleasure coursing through him.

Bucky is merciful enough to fuck him through his orgasm, leaving him a whimpering, shaking mess, all too docile and sweet, but he doesn't say merciful. He's awful. Terrible. Evil because he's slowing his hips to a filthy, deep grind. It's slow enough to have Steve's gasping, his body electric and white-hot, making him go haywire and stay achingly hard. He doesn't do anything about it, though. He doesn't reach to jack him off or touch him or do anything but--

Bucky spares one hand to grab the shoe from where it landed haphazardly on their ruffled bed before sliding it back onto Steve's foot after using his strength to uncurl his leg from around his waist, straightening his leg so the back of his knee is at Bucky's shoulder, all so he can put the stray heel back onto him.

He's so flexible.

The position makes Bucky's cock get in deeper.

AH!

Fuck, Bucky is treating him like he's delicate and cute, kissing the thick curves of his muscles and making sure nothing is out of place as he worships him, fucking him like he isn't soft or delicate or nothing. It's like he's being fucking out to make sure Steve's heated draw to heels is even worse after this!

Also, secondly, I keep thinking about:

You wear your devotion on your sleeve

By the time Steve gets to the front and gets to Bucky, pulling him from the jaws of Hell, dangling above its throat, on the cusp of being swallowed, Steve is fucking sick of...

Everything?

He's sick of being in a body that doesn't fit. Chronic illnesses first. A lifetime of rasping lungs and fatigue that follows him like a shadow, always growing taller and longer with the ever slowing dip of the sun in the sky. Then. This. Whatever this is. A body that attracts attention, eyes always dragging over his form, never leaving him alone when before no one would ever even glance his way. He was invisible and agonized; now, he's in the spotlight and burning up.

Something in him yearns to be small again.

The only refuge he finds for that is at Bucky's feet.

He finds the feeling of being small yet respected, taking up no space at all but still being seen and heard, at Bucky's feet while he's shining his boots. He knows how much appearance matters to Bucky. His hair is always done just so, even in the middle of the rain and wind and wilderness. He's always freshly shaven, no matter if there's running water nearby or not. And his boots are always shining, never mud caked like all the others.

So, when Bucky ended up with bruises shading his ribs, barely able to sit up, let alone bend over or breathe as good as he should be able to...

It's only natural that Steve offers to shine his boots for inspection for him.

At first, honestly, it's terrible. He's holding Bucky's leg as delicately as he possibly can, scared to even slightly squeeze him too hard and leave more bruises or, god forbid, break his bones, but Bucky won't have it. Bucky tugs on his hair, shaking his head to get the point across, making sure he's looking up at him before he assures him he won't hurt him. He can't. He needn't hold him so delicately, and, c'mon, if his boots are gonna be clean, he needs to put some more muscle behind it. A smile cracks across his face, and, suddenly, it's all good.

It's great.

It's so fucking nice to be staring up at his familiar face and be small and--

How does Bucky convince him to wrap himself around his leg and grind against his newly polished boots until he's messing them up, so he has to lick them clean again? 😮‍💨😮‍💨

(I wanted this to be longer, but I don't have the time right now, ughh)

#asks #fandomfluffandfuck #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky

45 notes · View notes

eliza-styx · 1 year

Text

Ghost x Soap fics masterpost

It’s been crazy five weeks since I returned to writing fanfiction at full speed so I figured it’s time to highlight all the ghoap fics I wrote so far, in case anyone is interested in checking out my work. The fandom is really lively and so many fics are written for the ship that it gets lost in the sauce quite fast but I figure some of these are still bangers you may wanna consider reading!

1. Heart of Stone, Simon Riley A fluffy take on what could have happened in-between missions, it’s just tooth-rotting fest of cuteness with minor hurt/comfort elements

2. Simon and the Ghost

First fic I wrote for this fandom, a take on Simon vs Ghost internal conflict and his so totally mysterious feelings for Soap, a little sappy, a little humorous

3. Pillow Talk

Ghost’s survivors guilt gives him nightmares but Soap is there to hold him through it, a notch angsty, hurt/comfort, pre-slash

4. Hopeless Christmas Interventions

Soap impulsively invites Ghost to his parents’ house for Christmas and his parents treat him as if he was Soap’s boyfriend, which he totally, absolutely is not; it’s pure, unfiltered Christmas fluff and Soap’s parents are the parents we all deserve

5. Simon and the Soap

This is a nsfw sequel to Simon and the Ghost, they are switches in this one because why the heck not, pretty sappy for pwp

6. His Healing Touch

The angstiest take on Ghost’s trauma I’ve commited so far, mostly focuses on his sexual trauma and the trust between him and Soap that lets him reconnect with that side of himself, nsfw, bottom!Ghost, top!Soap, turns quite sappy and romantic

7. Dabloon For Your Thoughts

This is a crack!fic that people didn’t trust to read lol It’s fluffy, it’s cute and it’s not as ooc as you may think, it’s just them falling in love during a very unrealistic journey, based on a tiktok prompt

8. Chodź (Pocałuj Mnie)

The first ghoap fic to be posted on ao3 in Polish, it’s sweet and erotic (and someone said it reads well even through google translate)

9. Between Soft Strands A fluffy little thing about Ghost being obsessed with Soap’s hair and yearning to touch it, soft with just a dash of teasing

10. Don’t Tell Him It’s Me A loosely defined romcom au wherein Ghost and Soap sort of date before they meet on the mission but Soap does not recognize his “boyfriend” behind the skull mask

11. Overgrowth

Cute silly fic inspired by bearded Soap craze on Twitter, Ghost just has a thing for Soap’s beard

12. My Heart At Home

A collab with MizuShiba, companion piece for their stunning fanart!

13. Sweet

Just Soap and Ghost being sweet and vulnerable, slow dancing at night

14. Cat Dad

141 have a kitten now and it basically thinks Ghost is its mommy

15. Blowing Off Steam

Rated E, PWP with a sappy ending, sparring match gone sexual

16. The Sweetest Flower Wild Nature Yields

Flowershop AU

17. Trapped By You

Rated E, porn with a bit of plot

18. Rutting For You

Rated E, untraditional a/b/o, alpha x alpha, porn with a hint of plot, may have a sequel at some point

19. Slipping Up (co-written with Starry)

hurt/comfort, tw: for drinking as a coping mechanism

20. The Maskmaker

pure fluff, written for MW2 fic/art exchange

21. The Heart At Fault

angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, tw character injury

22. Retraced

Rated E, porn with feelings, body imagine issues

23.Tenderly

Rated E, porn with feelings, ftm trans Soap

#soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #fluff #smut #fanfiction #masterpost #reccomendations #ghoap #sost #cod mwii #ao3

209 notes · View notes

lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit · 1 year

Text

✨The Moonshiners’ Menu✨

So it looks like you have found our blog (or at the very least this post, drifting along the deep blue river of Tumblr). Welcome!

If you have a thing for beautifully drawn and dapperly dressed fictional feline criminals from the 1920s (be that “thing” a platonic fondness or romantic attraction... or even an eldritch cactus), you’ve come to the perfect place! Step right up and quench your thirst with our following selection:

Oneshot On The Rocks:

Rich and full-bodied with a deep, soulful amber shine. The serving size may only equal a single chapter, but in exchange for the lack of wordiness it is sufficiently potent. Soft or bold, tragic or harsh, sweet or (for the more daring) spicy - all those nuances will be tailored to the requester.

(Translated into common tongue: we do fluff, angst, crack, anything in-between, but no smut. Dirty jokes or suggestive references, sure, but actual erotica's off the table. Please pick another tavern to indulge your unorthodox desires of that sort.)

Headcanon Home-Brew:

Clear, undiluted character; an essence of the purest kind. Bullet-pointed brews based in our very own interpretations of the cast, personally prepared for pretty much any theme under the sun so long as it ties back to a relationship with the reader in one way or another.

(Oh yeah, right, I forgot to add. Any relationship type goes! Lovers, friends, siblingly bonds, adoption, whatever the heck. Not everyone wants to smooch the kitties, and that is more than alright. We serve whatever sort of affection is needed.)

Scenario Cider:

A ripe golden concoction blooming with the smooth taste of apple orchards. Fragrant and foamy, it has a delectable tease of plot... or semblances thereof; it is not fully a Oneshot, not a Headcanon cocktail either, but something to satisfy tastes in-between that blends the strongest points of both.

(We retain the right to refuse service, a.k.a not do a request, if we are not comfortable with it for whatever reason. We shall likely expand on these rules in the future if more disclaimer-worthy details emerge.)

Absinthe Imagine:

A herbaceous chartreuse refreshment dripping with indulgent abandon. Mostly it can be described as an idea, a thesis, a feeling poured into crystal-polished words and gently whispered over the counter like a wistful secret. May remind a bit of Headcanons, as they're similarly concentrated, but more loose and situation-like.

(Oh, and one more thing; we write at our own pace and have some rather busy lives outside of this lovely hellsite, so please be patient with us! We're doing our best! As well, true quality doesn't exactly develop quick, heh.)

Which is all very fine and well, but, a reader insert isn’t quite a reader insert without the characters themselves! At the moment we are able to provide the following “flavors” from Lackadaisy’s cast of beloved kitties:

🔥 Roark "Rocky" Rickaby 🔥

⚾ Calvin “Freckle” McMurray ⚾

🎶 Ivy Pepper 🎶

⚒️ Viktor Vasko ⚒️

🍷 Mitzi May 🍷

🎷 Dorian “Zib” Zibowski 🎷

✒️ Mordecai Heller ✒️

🔮 Serafine Savoy 🔮

🐊 Nicodeme "Nico" Savoy 🐊

💎 Sedgewick Sable 💎

(Regarding rarer flavors (side characters from the comics not included here), most we can offer is a couple drops (some headcanons or maybe short scenarios/imagines), but don't let that stop you from ordering whatever your little heart desires! Just don't expect it to be particularly lengthy.)

Requests Open!

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy pilot #lackadaisy x reader #lackadaisy & reader #lackadaisy reader insert #reader insert

125 notes · View notes

guildwuff2 · 1 year

Note

would you be willing to do a sort of tutorial about how sort through the shapes of charr and asura?

sure thing! i'll go to the absolute basics so folks from any art level might get something from it, so i apologize if i'm explaining something that might be obvious, but bear with me here

soOoo:

i've pulled a couple in-game screenshots! using refs to start with is gonna be the most help tbh, and it's good practice imo to get the hang of everyone's shapes this way. our models today will be Mycologist Seeli and Hazel Steelcrasher

it can help to start by just taking the characters and tracing over top of them to figure out their shapes. the way i tend to do it is with a sort of wooden art mannequin way, separating out the sections into blocks and connecting them with joints, adding median lines that help track the direction different aspects are pointing, things like that! if you're just starting out it might be really helpful to crack some art anatomy books for humans and animals before tackling funky li'l guys like these, as we can take observations from life and apply 'em fictionally

from there I can start to try and eyeball the shapes-- both of these mannequins i've drawn were just by referencing their adjacent images, and all the shapes have done for me is map out my pose as well as the characters sort of volumes so that i can get a feel for where they are in the space i've put them in, if that makes sense. all the extra little lines on the face can help me with proportions and expressions too, but i've gone a little loose with 'em here for the sake of just focusing on structure

then from there, I can apply my sketching process to freehand drawing without references! that said, there's absolutely nothing wrong and it is in fact a good thing to use lots of references to apply to your work, especially for a piece you super wanna polish

and finally!! it's very, Very helpful to figure out how both asura and charr differ from a strictly humanoid anatomical setup! admittedly i draw my charr and my asura slightly more human-proportioned (usually around the legs) but doing studies that compare and contrast certain structures, like the face or the torso and legs like i've demonstrated above, can do wonders in designing characters in the future and translating certain features between body types.

anywho!!! uuh! hopefully that's helpful, thank you for reading! if there's anything y'all can think of that you'd like me to focus on in specific, i can do my best to break it down for ya!

#my art #art reference #charr #asura #gw2 #guild wars 2 #seeli #hazel steelcrasher #can't sleep post art refs

76 notes · View notes

laroinda · 10 months

Text

Meet my son, a sculpted xdd emote. He was born on march 19th 2023, at 00:35 CET, which makes him 110 days old (as of july 7th 2023). This is him right after birth:

He is made of air dry clay with a ball made of alluminium foil inside. He was born at my best friends house. Their name is Mirka and they are his other parent (I am the first one of course).

He was safely transported to my house the day after birth. Now he spends most of his days on my windowsill, on a little blanket taken from his parent next to a wooden heart given to him by Mirka. The wooden heart is engraved with an inspiring message in polish and it says "Lewy pas pizda gaz" which we have loosely translated to "Fast lane ass hit the gas". Right next to xdd, there is a small succulent named Succy Baka (I got him during the pandemic). This is xdd at his usual spot:

During his short life xdd has already visited many places. This is him at our local McDonalds. As you can see, we take care lf him well. He is well fed and gets pocket money for his own spendings as well.

Today, I decided to pick up crocheting. As I was trying to learn how to make a regular, square pattern, I got so focused on the repeated movement that I completely forgot about the tutorial I was supposed to be following. When I finally came to my senses, I was left with a piece that was perfect for our little xdd. By complete accident I have made him a little hat. He is visibly very happy about it:

Bonus: xdd with my cat

Subscribe for more updates about our little xdd

#xdd #shitpost #can you tell that i'm absolutely jobless?#meet my child

35 notes · View notes

greenelectricsky · 4 months

Text

So, OK, what I made in 2023. Well... I'm really surprised how that year ended. In January I completely didn't think I'll be back to writing and I'll start publishing my works. Moreover, I was preparing a totally different costume! So, hell, what a year. Here we go!

First thing: costume of Cysiek and TuśTuś!

I still think, it came really good as a last minute thing!!! Especially the wig, because I didn't just glued hair but I made it in a totally different way, because I wanted it to last and last for the next few years!

Second thing - Cats scenes! It was a moment, an inspiration and I started writing them... It was supposed to be just an experiment, a little thing, and I thought it will end as fast as it started. But no. They keep coming, one easier than the other, one funnier than the other and... Well, now it's a part of my life! And I like them, even if some people would be extremely happy if I would never write anything again!

Third thing - fanfictions! Oh boy, that's a story!

I wrote, published, translated and published those:

Those are from the Star Wars universe, most of them I wrote loooooooooooong time ago at a paper and I have no intention to translate them, for now at least.

So yes writing them down on paper was work from other times, but writing, rewriting and polishing them on the computer and publishing them is 2023 work!

That last series (Scenki rodzajowe) is "work in progress" because more of them are on my computer, but need a lot of work before publishing... So still, 2023...

And six next wait for digitalisation! Those I don't count as 2023's achievements.

Some next are brewing in that head of mine, but are waiting to write them down! So 2024 will be really interesting... I don't know if my hands can deal with that!

But, more about Cats and 2023!

Those four I wrote and published, two of them waiting for a translation:

And I have those four beauties!

You see how fat some of them are (I'm writing on both sides of every sheet, so one of them is more than 120 pages)???? And all that was written in 2023, waiting for digitalisation! I have zero idea how to translate them... Just... I'm afraid it's too much but I really, really, really want them in English, so there is no other way than to do that at some point... Well, it's the future!

And of course I have more plans. Two as a Labyrinth/Cats crossovers (one Tuggoffelees and one Skimblestrap), big work with the complete story of my OCs, Mac's redemption ark; one more serious work about Tugger adopting a little Misto after loosing his brother Mac and coping with that - those are solid ideas, with notes and of course more less concrete things, more a ideas without any context.

And, what do you think? It's a lot? Not at all? For me it's an incredibly big thing and I'm proud of myself!

Also, from other things - I'm planning to change my job. I still love working with animals, really, but well... I was burned out by working with clients :( It's just... It's really nice helping others, giving them ways to be a good pet leader but in that moment I'm more resigned than hopeful. Also, I have enough of my bosses and environment in which I work. I want to start working with costumes and/or stage props, because it's more to my liking. I have no idea how to realise those plans, but I'm hopeful.

#cats the musical #cats musical #happy new year #2023 achievements #my writing #cosplay #star wars the old republic #star wars #fanfiction

9 notes · View notes

miekasa · 1 year

Note

the intimacy of prince!levi tending to/patching up the wounds of knight!reader after reader gets back from an expedition (ft. levi's usual stern but affectionate chastising and lecturing)

Oh the intimacy of having someone take care of you... of putting you back together... far too much... I was gonna offer you a traditional, “Don’t be so reckless next time,”—translation: don’t leave me next time—scene, but instead I offer you this excerpt from that prince fic I’ll never complete teehee.

cw: mentioned/descriptions of blood and injury

It takes two weeks for you to be able to leave your bed, outside of essential trips to the bathroom, after regaining consciousness. It feels slow and agonizing, even with your catalyzed healing abilities, but Moblit applauds you and reassures you that your recovery is incredible, and escalating far more quickly than anyone could have hoped for.

The shallower cuts have healed by now, leaving only scars and stained skin in their wake. The deeper gashes along your sides, arms, and ankle remain wrapped and careful monitored by Moblit and the other nurses; as do your stab wounds and the burns on your right arm—it’s wrapped from shoulder to wrist, the bandages extending around your pinky and fourth fingers that were heavily sprained.

Your bedside attire consists of open-back cotton gowns and loose, but elegant robes that allow your nurses easy access to your wounds. But, to venture downstairs for dinner, you would need to find something more sightly to wear. Your standard uniform was out of the question, and to your knowledge, out of commission; and even if it were to be pieced together and polished, something as routine as strapping your armor to your suit would bear a significant burden in your current state. Even more casual attire expected of the knights would be difficult to wear—pants and thick shirts would only serve as invitation to chaffing, and further irritation to your wounds.

You don’t own many gowns outside of those provided for surgical ease or for formal events. A skirt might be the solution to the bottom half of the equation, but finding a matching blouse that you could fix to button up with your six working fingers posed another challenge. With a sigh, you carefully close the drawer shut, and take a seat in front of your vanity. You understood the risks of your actions, and that recovering from your injuries would be gradual and frustrating, but you hadn’t anticipated your difficulties would start with your clothes.

Luckily, you were blessed with people who had anticipated this. Isabel comes by with Farlan and Eren in tow, maneuvering handfuls of dresses into your closet. The princess informs you that she and her mother have sent your measurements to the tailor to have more made for you—along with a variety of loose shirts, skirts, pants, and undergarments.

She refuses to accept your protests for any further special treatment, busy with ordering the boys about to make room in your boudoir for more slippers and robes—only allowing them to rest when she deems their work satisfactory. “We’ll leave you to change! Eren’s got some boring papers to read, and I’m making Farlan go riding with me before the table gets set, but Armin should be heading over here soon to help you get downstairs,” Isabel exclaims, clapping her hands together, “I’m so happy you feel well enough to come to dinner. I missed having you at the table.”

You thank her and the boys again before they exit, waiting until the door is shut behind them to take ginger steps towards your wardrobe. You’re aware that your armor is costly, but there’s an undeniable luxury about the garments gifted to you that outweighs the bronze and gold you’re accustomed to wearing. Your uniform is hard, resistant, tough; these gowns are soft, light, and smooth to the touch. They are not gifted without thought—non-irritable fabrics with little or no buttons, at most, a single zipper that even your limited grasp can handle.

Carefully, you select a dark blue piece from the crowd: a silk slip that slides over your skin and falls at your heel, with delicate lace trimming around the neckline and wrists. The fabric is light on your shoulders, but weighs heavy on your mind; this is one of the Queen’s gowns, and although Kuchel has always been more than kind and welcoming to you, you can’t help but to be reminded of her status when adorning one of her dresses. You figure the least you could do to honor the material is to wear it the way it was intended to be styled, so you reach your dresser to find an appropriate corset.

You settle for a white one with a softer skeleton that you figure won’t sit too uncomfortably on your wounded torso. Fitting it around your waist proves to be the easiest part; attempting to lace it and position it properly is where your limited mobility and strained muscles are highlighted.

You must spend at least ten minutes trying to fix the damn fabric on your body—hissing when you move too sharply, cursing when you lose grip of the laces, huffing when your arms grow tired. So, when you hear a gentle knock after your fifth attempt at stitching your corset, you’re relived—believing it to be Armin, you call for him to enter, “I’m glad you came. I think the stairs should be fine, but I need your help with—”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing.”

The voice is dark, heavy, and cuts through your pleas with that question, phrased like a declaration. You needn’t turn to confirm your suspicions; and Levi’s eyes are steely and scrutinizing in the reflection of your mirror.

You choose to blame your hesitance on your injured state, unable to react normally as you continue to watch him in the mirror as he takes strides towards you. Levi pushes your hand away from the laces of the corset, holding the offending fabric between rough fingers and questions you through the mirror, despite his proximity, “You were stabbed in the side twice and you think to put on a corset?”

He holds eye contact, even as he unlaces your hard work between every word. You part your lips to protest, never minding Levi squinting at you. “The dress is typically worn with one, though I suppose you’re right—a waistcoat would have proven to be easier.”

“I was not insinuating that you need something in place of this,” Levi says, setting the corset onto the bench once it’s off your body. You know that; he presses anyway, carefully reaching to your side to adjust twisted fabric before holding your gaze in the mirror once more, “It’s fine on its own.”

You don't dare to protest again; any excuses becoming meek in your mouth as you hold Levi’s gaze—unwavering and headfast with room for gentle affection. It's a look his mastered well, you think, considering how often he throws it your way.

A protest will fall on deaf ears; an alibi cut with a silver tongue. So, instead, you offer the truth: “I wish not to draw attention to myself.”

Levi squints again, barely, but you catch it—not scrutinizing this time; wary, almost, of what you’re not sure. You don’t question him, even as he breaks eye contact to look at your right wrist, carefully raising it between his fingers, “Then don’t get blood on your sleeve.”

Your eyebrows pinch together before you look down and see red seeping through the bandages around your wrist and palm. You curse under your breath, realizing you must have reopened a tender gash with repetitive movements. You part your lips again to speak, but Levi does so first: “It’s old, anyway,” he says, “Moblit didn’t change it yesterday. Sit, I’ll fetch more.”

“You don’t need to, I can—”

“You can wrap your own bandage with your non-dominant hand that has two splinted fingers,” Another question delivered as a statement, followed by a command this time, “Sit. I’ll get more.”

You nod shallowly, and carefully resume your seated position, noting the way Levi watches you again through the mirror; only when your sat completely does he turn to bedroom to retrieve more bandages—almost out of sight before he turns around, walks back, and grabs the corset to take with him.

You laugh—genuinely, for the first time in a long time when the prince turns his back to exit your boudoir again. “That wasn’t necessary,” you taunt, laughter still seeping through your syllables.

“You’re stubborn,” you hear Levi hum, before he turns his head to look back to you in the mirror. “I know you.”

His words prompt further laughter from you, and he turns his head before you can see the gentle smile that graces his face.

“You think so?” you question, watching his back in the mirror as he pauses just under the door frame. You watch how gently his hair moves when he nods, not sparing you a glance this time when he speaks, “I know you very well.”

#anonymous #the more asks i get about my graveyard fica #*fics #the more im like wait i kinda liked this LMFAOOOOO #i cut out some stuff in the middle bc it related to Plot that doesnt make sense without context but hehehehe #levi my most beloved... oh when ur the knight who gets injured and your prince assumes the role your caretaker now..... enough #levi x reader #aot x reader #snk x reader

67 notes · View notes

ollieofthebeholder · 5 months

Text

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 71: March 1998

Gerard likes to think of himself as reasonably fluent in Latin. At the very least, he can translate a good number of the texts his mother puts in front of him these days, and he’s written out his fair share, too, and they’re more or less understandable by anyone with a working grasp of the language. His pronunciation is decent and, when his mother reads aloud to him, he can usually comprehend it well enough.

He has, however, no clue what the old man in the frock coat is saying.

Well, that’s not…entirely true. He’s following along, for the most part. But it’s just off enough that it’s like the guy is speaking a different language. At the very least it’s a dialect he’s not familiar with, and does Latin even have dialects? He supposes it must have, at one point, just like every other language does—the Roman Empire was big enough, and lasted long enough, that there must be variants all over the place—but he’s never learned anything but the scholarly, textbook variety, and he’s not sure what’s going on.

He realizes he’s focusing on something supremely unimportant in the grand scheme of things. If he worries about how the man is saying what he’s saying, he doesn’t have to think about what he’s saying, or why he’s saying it. He can pretend everything is normal.

To his left, Melanie stands unusually still for once. Her black crepe dress with the white lace collar fits her way too well to have been recently purchased—Roger almost always buys things Melanie is going to grow into—but her patent leather Mary Janes must be new, since he’s never seen them before and they’re far too shiny to have been worn much; they haven’t even picked up much of the dirt. She’s taken her hair back with a faux pearl clip, silver stars wink in her recently pierced ears, and at her throat is a cameo necklace on a black velvet ribbon. Her face is drawn and pale, and she’s clutching an honest-to-God handkerchief trimmed in lace, which might have been white once but is currently the same ivory color as the cameo. She stares straight ahead, not moving, except for the fingers that keep twisting and twisting the handkerchief.

Gerard’s eyes rove over the crowd. It’s mostly older people, a few people he recognizes vaguely from seeing around the neighborhood and one or two who’ve come to Pinhole Books on occasion, but for the most part they’re all completely unknown to him. (He’s learned by now not to use stranger in a benign context.) Roger, standing on Melanie’s other side, seems to be polishing his square spectacles rather a lot, and Gerard’s not about to look at his mother, because he doesn’t want to know what she’s looking at and doesn’t want to get in trouble if what she’s looking at is him.

Unfortunately, that only leaves him two places to look.

He lets himself, reluctantly, look at the folding chair placed just ahead of them. It’s almost entirely empty, except for two figures. Aunt Lily has gained back some weight in the last year—a lot of weight—and now has to use a cane everywhere she goes; her hands, covered in black kid gloves, are folded neatly over the carved wooden handle, except when she raises one to cough discreetly into a handkerchief—like Melanie’s, except hers is trimmed in black. She honestly looks like she’s just stepped out of an Edwardian fashion plate in a magazine instructing people on proper mourning attire. For fuck’s sake, she even has a hat with a veil.

Of course Martin stands next to her, slightly behind her. He looks smaller than usual, like he’s crumpled in on himself. His black suit jacket is just a little too big for him, hanging loosely on his shoulders and covering half of his hands, but he’s finally grown into the Norfolk cap he’s owned as long as Gerard has known him. Because of where he’s standing, Gerard can’t see anything else, but he knows he’s wearing a pair of too-long trousers that cover his smart black school shoes. He can, however, see his face, and it makes his heart hurt. It’s beyond upset, beyond even devastated. Martin looks…lost.

Gerard looks away, and of course in doing so his eyes lock onto the box just behind the priest. For some reason, the box bothers him more than Martin’s face, even though it’s closed. Maybe especially because it’s closed.

He keeps telling himself the old man isn’t really in there. That it’s just a box, containing an empty shell. That they know the old man is dead and beyond the reach of the Fourteen. The body he viewed last night, dressed in a dove grey wool suit and fingers folded over the rosary his parents brought from Poland, isn’t really the man they all knew, it’s just a husk. That man is gone, somewhere they won’t see him for a long time, if ever. Gerard isn’t terribly sure what kind of an afterlife there is, if there even is an afterlife, and he’s not sure he’ll ever earn a place in the same afterlife as Alastair Koskiewicz if there is. But wherever it is, it’s somewhere better than this, it has to be.

It doesn’t help much.

It’s not just the fact of the coffin, the idea of being shut up in a box and dropped in a hole and covered in dirt forever and ever, and how horrifying it would be if he wakes up and can’t get out. Gerard’s read stories about that happening and it’s kept him up at nights sometimes, although not as often as thinking about the casual comment Martin made when they first met (why didn’t he ever tell Alastair about that, why hasn’t he told someone, is Martin still being punished like that, what if Martin wakes up in that coffin someday). It’s the whole fact of him being dead. Death is one of the Fourteen, after all, so even being dead doesn’t mean he’s completely safe. Gerard’s not sure how that works and he’s kind of afraid to ask.

Tiny cold fingers slide into Gerard’s, and he squeezes back on instinct. That’s all Melanie needs, apparently, and she clutches his hand so tight he almost expects his fingers to pop off. For a skinny little twig like she is, she’s got a really strong grip.

The priest recites a phrase, and even if it doesn’t sound exactly like how Gerard learned it, he at least knows what it means: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He then nods and gestures at the coffin.

Six men, five strangers and Roger, step forward and each take a handle of the coffin, then carry it over to the hole. A man, probably an employee of the cemetery, directs them, then signals for them to let go. For a moment, the coffin rests on a series of straps before the pallbearers lower it into the ground.

At his side, Melanie gives a low whimper and turns away for a moment, pressing her handkerchief to her lips, before straightening and facing the grave again.

At another signal from the priest, Aunt Lily hefts herself to her feet and limps forward, Martin trailing after her. She takes something from the priest and throws it into the open grave, then steps back. The priest beckons to Martin, who also comes forward and hesitantly lets something fall from his hand into the grave. Unlike his mother, though, he doesn’t stand back, just stays where he is. The priest ignores him in favor of finishing the ceremony.

Once the final amen is said, the crowd drifts away from the graveside and back towards the road, probably intent on heading back to the old man’s house, where a reception has been laid out. Roger moves over to assist Aunt Lily to her feet, and she leans on both him and her cane as she struggles forward. Gerard’s mother focuses on an awkward-looking young blond man standing off to one side, gives a sharp, sweetly poisonous smile, and heads in that direction. Martin remains where he is, staring down into the grave, even as the gravediggers uncover the pile of dirt under the tarp and begin spading it back into the hole. Gerard can hear the rattle as it rains on the lid of the coffin. Melanie flinches at the sound, then suddenly yanks her hand out of Gerard’s and rushes over to Martin’s side, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly.

He doesn’t react. Gerard’s heart constricts.

Hesitantly, he crosses over as well and puts one hand on Martin’s shoulder and the other on Melanie’s. He’s taller than both of them, for now anyway, tall enough that he can look over their heads and see into the grave as the smooth, polished wood gradually disappears under the dry, brittle soil.

“C’mon,” he says gently, trying to steer Melanie and Martin away. “Let’s get back to the house.”

Melanie starts to come without too much resistance, but she stops dead in her tracks when Martin doesn’t budge. He keeps watching as the coffin is slowly but steadily obscured.

He’s not crying. Gerard doesn’t like it. He understands Melanie—he’s never seen her cry, no matter how upset she gets—but Martin wears his heart on his sleeve, and the fact that he’s not crying for his grandfather is…worrying. As is the way he’s just…staring at the hole, and the box.

“Martin,” Gerard says, a little more insistently. He holds his shoulder a little tighter, shakes him a bit, trying to get his attention. The fact that Martin still doesn’t react scares him more than he’s willing to admit, and before he can stop himself, he slaps the younger boy across the face. “Martin!”

Martin jerks and stumbles back from the edge of the grave. Gerard takes advantage of him being off-balance to grab his arm and drag him away; Melanie loops her arm through his other one and helps, although she’s not much help. Actually, Gerard has to admit that if Martin wasn’t already off-balance, he wouldn’t be able to move him either. Martin is chubby, to put it politely, and probably weighs as much as both of them put together, and he can be quite difficult to move when he wants to be.

The village cemetery is probably a good mile from the house, but most of the cars have already left by the time they manage to wrestle Martin to the road. Gerard reckons that’s probably not the worst thing in the world—the walk will do them good—but before he can even bring that up, a woman comes over to them. She looks to be about the same age as Gerard’s mother, a sweet-faced woman whose thick braid of hair is more white than black but whose dark blue eyes shine with innocence, and she’s dressed in a black skirt suit that looks more like an everyday work outfit than something bought specially for a funeral.

“It’s Martin, isn’t it?” she says in a soft, gentle voice. Martin recoils, shrinking back, a naked terror suddenly replacing the half-blind look that was in them before, but nods once. The woman doesn’t seem to notice his fear. “I’m so sorry about your grandfather, dear. I used to work with him a long time ago. He was a very, very good man.” Turning to Gerard, she adds, “And of course, you’re Eric’s son, aren’t you? Gerard? We used to be colleagues. I was saddened to hear of his passing.”

Passing. Like it was an easy thing and not the work of his mother and a pair of hedge clippers. Gerard swallows down that response and only says, “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

Turning to Melanie, the woman’s smile softens. “And who are you, sweetling?”

Melanie surprises Gerard. She looks up at Martin briefly, then back at the woman, but doesn’t answer. Gerard figures she’s just shy for some reason, or too upset to talk, and steps in. “This is Melanie. She’s our friend. Her dad was one of the pallbearers.”

“Of course, of course. Are you a friend of the family, then?”

Gerard starts to answer, but Melanie shakes her head and pulls on Martin’s arm. “Gerry, you know we’re not supposed to talk to strangers. C’mon, let’s go home.”

“Oh!” The woman gives a silvery laugh, then instantly sobers. “I’m so sorry, I forgot entirely! Of course none of you know me. My name is Emma.” She looks around the parking lot and adds, “It looks like everyone else has left already. Why don’t I give you a ride back to the house?”

“No.” That single word, laden with terror and cracked with tears, explodes out of Martin’s mouth as he takes a step back. It shocks Gerard, who suddenly realizes it’s the first word out of Martin’s mouth since Alastair died, but also because Martin is never rude to grown-ups. Or anybody, really, but especially not grown-ups.

He’s right, though. Gerard was on the verge of accepting the ride, but it dawns on him just how stupid an idea that is. They don’t know this woman, and for all she claims to know both Martin’s grandfather and Gerard’s father, they can’t prove she actually does. Did. She could be trying to kidnap them, or worse.

With that in mind, Gerard tosses a hasty, “Thank you, ma’am, nice to meet you!” over his shoulder as he heads up the block, arm still looped through Martin’s. It’s hard to say who’s dragging whom.

It takes them almost half an hour to get back to the house. The drive and street are clogged with cars, including the one belonging to the woman called Emma—so at least she’s actually here—and a few shadowy figures pass by the windows. Gerard figures they’ll slip inside, grab a plate each, and find a quiet corner to tuck into.

Martin surprises him again. He bypasses the house entirely, sliding his arms from Melanie and Gerard’s without a word, and makes straight for the grove of cherry trees, currently bare and only just beginning to think about budding; they won’t flower for at least another month. He doesn’t stop there, either, just reaches up and seizes a low-hanging branch and hauls himself into one of the older and sturdier trees. Martin might be plump, but he’s strong.

“Martin! Jesus.” Gerard looks at Melanie, who gives him a worried look in reply. Bowing to the inevitable, he goes over to the tree with her and boosts her up. Once she’s managed to pull herself onto a branch, and while she’s trying to figure out how to climb a bit higher to reach Martin, Gerard turns and heads back into the house.

For a wonder, he manages to elude both his mother and Martin’s, retrieve a few snacks he can secrete in his jacket pocket, and slip back out again without anyone being the wiser. Getting himself into the tree is harder, but with the assistance of the split-rail fence and a bit of effort he manages it. Martin has climbed as high as he possibly can before the branches won’t hold him anymore, and Melanie has managed, with some difficulty, to get just a couple branches below him. Gerard makes his way up to join them, then fetches the food out from his pocket and passes some to Melanie and some to Martin. He takes it mechanically, but doesn’t eat.

Finally, Gerard breaks the silence. “I’m sorry for telling that woman your name, Neens.”

“I don’t mind. She knew yours and Martin’s, it’s only fair she knew mine, too. I just wasn’t going to talk to her.” Melanie peers up at Martin. “You didn’t like her, did you?”

Martin shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything. The sausage roll hangs from his hand, and he’s staring vacantly at something far away. He looks a lot older than nine years old and Gerard doesn’t know how to fix it.

Before he can figure out what to say, or even if he’s going to say anything, he hears voices and looks down. The woman from the cemetery is passing under the trees—which she has no reason to do, they’re not between the house and the cars—along with two other people, neither of whom look so old. Gerard can’t tell genders from this angle, only that one has curly blond hair and the other has sandy brown shingled hair. They’ve obviously all been at the funeral, or are trying to blend in with it, and are apparently mid-conversation.

“—know him?” a man’s voice asks. “I guess she must have, if you did. Shame she couldn’t come.”

“She’s very busy.” The older woman’s voice doesn’t quite have the same soft, gentle tones it did when she was speaking to the three of them, but it still sounds very sweet and pleasant. “That’s why she sent us, to pay her regards.”

“I have to say,” says a woman’s voice, “the, er, bereaved didn’t seem particularly upset.” The person with the shingled hair stops and puts hands on hips, so Gerard presumes she’s the one speaking. “Not until you mentioned the Institute, anyway.”

“I probably shouldn’t have done that,” the man says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I—I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal. I mean, if her father worked there…”

“Worked, past tense,” the unknown woman points out. “Why did he leave, anyway, Emma?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Emma says, a bit vaguely. “It was so long ago—it wasn’t very long after I started working for Gertrude myself.”

“Was he in the Archives, too? Did he know Eric?” The man’s voice is a bit eager.

“Gracious, no, not the Archives. Alastair was a practical researcher. You’ll find his name on several of the catalog entries for the older artifacts, if you know where to look.” Emma sighs. “But yes, he knew Eric, too. And Fiona—you never met her, of course, she sadly passed away before your time—”

“Didn’t I get hired to replace her?”

“—he was always so patient with her. The rest of us thought she was a bit of a fuddy-duddy, honestly, but I suppose she reminded him of his own mother.”

“You must have known him well,” the unknown woman says shrewdly.

Emma shrugs. “Not very, honestly. As I said, we were in different departments. He usually brought down information for Gertrude from the other departments, and they’d chat a bit, but I was always so busy I never had much time.”

“Ms. Robinson must have been busy, too,” the man says, sounding defensive.

“I’m not saying she wasn’t, Michael dear. Only that I didn’t make the time to make as many connections as she did.” Emma sighs—a bit theatrically, Gerard thinks. “It’s something I regret in my old age.”

“You’re not old.” Michael, or at least Gerard assumes he’s Michael, touches her arm urgently. “You’re still quite young, honest.”

Emma laughs that same silvery laugh. “You’re so sweet.”

Michael sighs. “You know who I feel bad for, though? That little boy. Is that—was that Alastair’s grandson?”

“Yes, that’s Martin. I wanted to speak a bit more with him, but he’s understandably upset. He must have loved his grandfather very much.” Emma clucks her tongue. “The poor little thing.”

“His grandfather loved him, too,” the unknown woman says. “I didn’t see a single picture of his mother anywhere in that house, but that little boy was all over it.” She sighs. “Come on. We’d best be getting back. I’ve still got to follow up with a couple of people.”

They move off, and for a few moments, there is complete silence. Then something wet hits Gerard’s hand. He looks up and sees Martin, still staring fixedly ahead of him, but with big, fat tears dripping down his cheeks.

“Martin.” Abandoning safety, sense, and sausage roll, Melanie pulls herself to a standing position and lunges forward to wrap her arms around Martin’s middle before Gerard can tell her be careful. She buries her face in his side and just holds on for dear life.

“I can’t remember his face,” Martin says, his voice small and fragile and choked with tears. “I, I didn’t—Mum said, she said I wasn’t allowed to look if I couldn’t see on my own and, and I was too short, so I didn’t see him last night, there was just the picture, but he was so young, he wasn’t—he wasn’t finished. It wasn’t his face. But I can’t remember what he looked like. He loved me so much and I can’t remember his face…”

Gerard swallows hard. He can empathize with that, a little, anyway. He barely remembers what his own father looked like, and…well, he assumes his father loved him. He remembers loving his father, anyway. Martin’s had nine years with his grandfather and only just lost him. That has to be disconcerting.

He could describe it to him. Tell Martin what his grandfather looks like. He could also reassure him that even if he had been able to look into the coffin last night, it wouldn’t have looked like his grandfather, not with all the makeup and the weird slackness that death adds to a face.

He doesn’t. Instead, he puts one hand on Martin’s leg and the other on Melanie’s waist and summons up every ounce of authority and assurance he can.

“You don’t have to,” he says.

Martin blinks and looks down at Gerard. “Wh-what?”

“You don’t have to remember his face,” Gerard repeats. “Is that what’s important? Or is it important that he loved you, and you love him? You can remember what he sounded like when he told you stories or taught you poems, right? What it felt like when he hugged you? What the cherry pie he made specially for you smelled like?”

“Yeah…?”

“Then that’s what matters. Faces change. Yours isn’t finished yet either, or mine, or Melanie’s, and if you didn’t see us for years and years and then one day you saw us again, maybe you wouldn’t remember what we looked like, but you’d remember we’re your friends. Love doesn’t have to look. Love just has to be.”

Melanie and Martin both stare at Gerard, who tries not to look embarrassed. He’s almost twelve, and love isn’t a word he throws around a lot, but for these two, he’ll do it. He’s never had a brother or a sister, but he feels like he’s got one now. And Alastair treated him like another grandson. He’s, he was, a good man, and Martin deserves to not feel bad for remembering him in whatever way he does.

“Besides,” he adds, to lighten the mood a little bit. “He looks a lot like a cross between your mum and a bulldog with big dangly jowls and a walrus mustache. You don’t want that image in your head all the time.”

It elicits a tiny giggle out of the other two, and Martin starts to wipe his eyes with his sleeve before Melanie hands him her handkerchief. “He’s right,” she tells him. “Not about your granddad, not exactly, but—I don’t remember what Mama looked like either. Not really. The only picture I’ve got of her is from after she got sick, and that didn’t look like her really either.”

Martin dabs at his cheeks. “But…but what if I do forget?”

“Then we’ll remind you,” Gerard says. “That’s what family is for, right?”

At that, Martin finally smiles and nods. “Yeah. That’s what family is for.”

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#gerard keay #martin blackwood #melanie king #martin blackwood's mother #death #funerals #burial #implied/referenced child abuse #mention of murder #forgetfulness #grief

6 notes · View notes

groggydog · 1 year

Text

Requiem (Interactive Fiction Devlog #1)

(See my previous posts here.)

For today's dev log, I want to talk a bit about design.

If you've played any of my games, you know that I heavily favor a blocky, high-contrast aesthetic. The Familiar was perhaps the "softest" game I've done.

REQUIEM's design is loosely based on "Neo-Brutalism," a sort of counter-aesthetic to glossy, polished skeuomorphic design.

More about this and my philosophy after the jump.

Here's my entry for Spring Thing 2022, Super Mega Tournament Arc! Notice any similarities? (I love a good box shadow.)

Usually in Neo-Brutalist design you're also using a lot of vibrant, often clashing, colors. While I did adhere to that with bright pinks and blues in SMTA! I'm eschewing it for Requiem in favor of a more stark black and white theme.

In the top image, you can see the one red Menu button. Normally, that's black and white. But on hover it changes. Only a small number of things do this in the game (battles have a lot of color, for instance, but very little else does), as a way to help manage information and intensity.

So why did I pick Neo-Brutalism?

Mostly, this all has to do with setting. I've imagined a futuristic monastic order, and I wanted the interface to reflect what they might have on their devices. I think the very rigid, boxy interface communicates that and mimics their theoretical black-and-white habits, while also working really well on modern screens.

And since this game is a rogue-lite/RPG, I also know that my players are going to be clicking through a *lot* of pages, and so I want to make sure information is eminently readable, and there are consistent design trends. Take, for instance, the one darker button choice in the menu up above. I'm using weighted menus every so often to help the reader keep up a good pace in clicking through things without having to stop and think critically about it all the time. Sometimes it's enough to just click the bolder button!

I also like this design because it was very easy to translate to mobile. I've done a poor job in the past designing for mobile, and so it was important that a vertical, smaller, responsive layout was a design consideration from the beginning.

And lastly, I've tried to be more conscientious about accessibility, especially when it comes to fonts.

@manonamora-if recently helped me out in the Twine discord to figure out (based on this still very useful @idrellegames post [careful with copy and pasting]) how to put this in my own game. The "theme" changes the highlight color from red to green or blue. There are currently two font sizes to pick from (Default and Larger), and three fonts - Monospace, Verdana, and Helvetica. Nothing major, but a bit of customization that was not terribly hard to code in.

And that's it for this week's dev log! I've got a few posts planned ahead already, but I'd love to know what you want to see about my game. Feel free to drop me an ASK or comment with your suggestions.

#interactive fiction #twine #if wip #twine game #interactive fiction game #game development #interact if #twine wip #groggy requiem

6 notes · View notes

blueflyingturtleontheway · 2 years

Text

It's way too late but who cares! Here is my analysis of the Polish translation of the first song from Encanto, Family Madrigal!

Just a headsup, this song is one of the "just good" ones, so dont expect any fireworks like with WDTAB (we'll save those emotions for What Else Can I Do because boy)

*I'll start by noting that I really like how in the og version they made "drawers" rhyme with "floors" and "doors" even though it shouldn't be possible

+ Then again, Mirabel's Polish VA balances it out by having more enthusiasm in her voice when she sings this part than her English predecessor had

+ I have to say I prefer "time for the show" over "let's go", and this is also a good example of when using a macaronism/slang term works really well

-"Here's the family" I know "my family" wouldn't fit but it just sounds weird x)

+ "We're all here thanks to her" I think sounds a little better, sweeter maybe than "She led us here so many years ago"

+ "It's better (for us) with each new day" > "every year"

+ And here I'm conflicted, because "I'll tell what I know from this story" just sounds better to me, like more in character? But it's kinda far from the original "There's just a lot you've simply got to know". Though at the end of it I think I like the dubbed version better

= "And it's okay" instead of "We're on our way" I know it was made to fit the sound of the original but it's a very interesting choice I'm not convinced about

= "This is my family Madrigal" instead of "I'm part of". For me Mirabel's constant assurances that she's part of the family were quite unnatural but I mean, I guess that was the point and part of her characterization/foreshadowing of her problems so

+ Coffe got diminuted into "kawka" <3

*I just wanted to make a note that if you can follow an og line with a dubbed line and it still sounds fine, then you know the translation is good

+ I'm not going to translate the whole line but I think the internal rhymes in the line "her recipes are remedies for real" work even better in Polish

+"It's not a dream, it's something fantastical, somthing magical/It's my family Madrigal" again we loose the foreshadowing but it sounds better

+Okay here are the fireworks I just love how the part about Felix and Agustin got transalted, just, the internal rhymes in "wój mój" and "za to tato" (the use of tato in Nominative is so informal <3) and it sounds even faster than in the original despite having the same if not less syllables it's just *mwah*

*I feel like I should say something about the use of "pocisnę" which is very slang, and "time sheet" (like you have in school) but I don't know what so here

-"Camilo changes (himself)" sadly we don't have a verb to shapeshift 😔

+"Antonio will find out his gift today" instead of "get", I like it, it implies they all already have it and the ceremony only like, outs it (And if you want to go the angsty route, this might've been what made Mirabel think she's talentless, the ceremony didn't out any gift cause she never had any)

-"She makes a flower carpet in seconds" no sass for Mira here

+ "Her brain and lion heart" lion heart <333

-"Look for me in the family Madrigal" I... absolutely don't understand this line

+ I like the use of the word biographical in the og line, but Polish one is more natural, kinda like she's no longer really singing a song, but just speaking normally and fitting into the melody and rhythm simply by the laws of musical

+ English: Julieta, better, arepa; Polish: Julietę, arepę, lepiej

+ Also the town chants "talk aabout yourself, Mirabel!" so again, more direct

-We lose the meta joke about Dolores hearing the chorus

+ Instead of just "what are you doing" abuela uses a stronger word (so not "robisz" but "wyczyniasz")

+ And finally I don't know why but just, Dolores' line is much more funny to me in Polish XD Maybe it's because of the archaic/poetic word order, maybe it's the delivery, but yeah

So generally, even though I've noted out many strong points, these are the kind that I only noticed now during this analysis, so I guess they've added a lot, but still in general it's just, equally good.

#my post #encanto #the family madrigal #family madrigal #polish dubbing #dubbing #translations #encanto song #translation analysis #languages #hm i should make a tag for those #since i dont plan to stop XD #yes that means you can expect the rest of the song this whenever!#and id sum this song with one polish idiom -#theres no frenzy ass doesnt fall off #edit:#blue's bafflegabs

11 notes · View notes

itsuki-minamy · 1 year

Text

"CRUSH ON BABY" (PROLOGUE)

NOVEL: REI RAIRAKU (GORA) / ILLUSTRATION: HIROKO UTSUMI

TRANSLATION: NARU-KUN

* List of Chapters

As he was approaching Shimokitazawa Station, he heard the sound of a piano carried by the wind.

Kamijo Yozora stopped the bike and looked at where the sound was coming from. A straight piano that anyone could play freely, located in a place in front of the station square. A young man sat in front of the woodgrain piano, his fingers dancing happily on the keyboard.

Although he had a certain level of technique, while he played majestically at that busy time, the rhythm was too free and the sound flow was chaotic.

Yozora, who was used to listening to professional music, found the performance quite unsatisfying, but many people in the plaza were drawn to the sound of the piano and stopped to listen.

Yozora looked at the pianist.

He seemed to be enjoying himself from the bottom of his heart, and he was making animated sounds. He surely was someone who really liked playing the piano. You could tell he was rough around the edges, but the pianist's fun carried over into the sound and energized the performance, drawing listeners in.

Feeling the pain deep in his chest, Yozora moved away from the young man who was playing the piano and started the bike again.

Heading to his own little castle, leaving behind the sound of the piano.

Yozora's Castle... the small bar run by Yozora, is located on the second floor of a multi-tenant building on the corner of the first street. Thanks to the help of the owner of the store where he had worked until two years ago, he was able to rent an empty space at a low price, so he opened his own store there.

He parked his bike in the bike rack at the side of the building, he walked up the narrow stairs and saw a door with a metal sign with "Nox" etched in a thin typeface. When the door is opened, you can see an authentic bar with an atmosphere that is contrary to the worn appearance of the building. Yozora turned on the light of a small, but fully attached bar, and rolled up his sleeves to start cooking.

The snacks that are served at the bar are dehydrated foods such as nuts, cheese, olives. In addition to items like prosciutto ham and other items that are always in stock, it offers a slightly changing daily special. At the time, he was planning to make a special butter chicken curry.

For daily side dishes, caprese, ratatouille, various stir-fries, salads, pate de campagne, etc. are prepared. Depending on his mood of the day, and the curry is usually prepared the day before.

That day he decided to make a terrine, so he organized the ingredients he bought over the counter.

While he boiled the asparagus, baby corn, red and yellow peppers, and shrimp, he made a bouillon soup and dissolved gelatin in it. He stuffed the terrine mold with the liquid bouillon gelatin and the vegetables little by little, taking into account that the color of the cross section will be beautiful.

"...Good."

He arranged it neatly in a mold as if he were making a work of art, he nodded, and put it in the fridge to cool and harden. He put the prepared curry on the fire, checked the taste and adjusted the spices.

After he finished cooking, he polished the bar counter and the small table with a single seat, and cleaned the floor.

In his spare time, he spends time checking the sake inventory, polishing glasses, and looking at magazines while taking a break.

At 6:00 PM, he flips the input label to OPEN. The shop opens at six, but the bar customers are late. He thought he would be free for a while, but the doorbell rang a few minutes after he opened the store.

"Thank you for your hard work, Yozora-kun."

A familiar face appeared.

A young man with a slender body, tall and well-proportioned, with an affable and kind face with slightly drooping eyes. He wore a dolman-sleeved bra top over a black turtleneck, loose-fitting pants, and the combined style of the top with the loose-fitting pants was simple but well-balanced.

He seemed to frequent the city's overflowing thrift shops, both as a buyer and a seller. That day he also had a shopper from a second-hand clothing store in his hand.

"Minase. Come to think of it, the store was closed today."

"Yes. I didn't have anything planned, so I thought I'd take a walk around town and do some light shopping, see Yozora-kun's face, and go home."

After saying that with a smile, Minase sat in his usual seat at the counter.

"Gin fizz, please."

When he asked that in a polite tone, Yozora gave a light look and placed the shaker and the main cup next to each other. He quickly measured the gin and lemon juice into a measuring cup, added the syrup, stirred in the shaker, and used a bar spoon to drip a drop onto the back of his hand to taste. He added ice to the shaker and shook. The cool sound of ice crackling in a shaker rang out on a small bass.

Minase watched the series of movements with sweet eyes.

"Yozora-kun, I love how you make cocktails. It seems to flow smoothly, it's beautiful."

As soon as he lowered the shaker, Minase told him that.

"...Thank you."

He hid his embarrassment and responded, pouring the shaker's contents into a glass filled with ice. Carbonated and gently stirred, he added a lemon wedge and placed it in front of Minase.

Minase slowly tipped his glass and said, "It's delicious." Yozora breathed a sigh of relief.

"Gin fizz is a simple cocktail and hard to balance. The taste differs from shop to shop. I've researched how to make it myself, but get a little nervous when asked to make it."

"That's right... Yozora-kun, you're already a professional bartender."

Minase said so reluctantly.

Slowly, the lower part of his chest ached again.

The image of the person he had just seen playing the street piano happily flashed through his mind.

But that little memory soon faded away, and Yozora laughed and looked at Minase.

"Even you, Minase, are a very good professional stylist."

"No, I'm still a kid. I finally graduated as an assistant and just got to cut clients' hair."

"And you're a model too. I bought a magazine you were in the other day. It's great."

Minase smiled sheepishly.

"Did you buy it? Until my salary as a hairdresser goes up a bit more, I keep thinking about it, but I'm really not fit to be photographed that much. Hibiki knows how to handle himself better in that realm."

Yozora shrugged at the name Hibiki that came out of Minase's mouth.

"Hibiki is too assertive about his existence, so he's not suitable to be a fashion model, right? His face is loud."

"Loud face."

Minase repeated Yozora's words and they laughed out loud.

The doorbell rang almost at the same time.

Yozora raised his eyebrows at the young man who opened the door after shouting "Welcome!"

"If you spread rumors..."

"What? Were you talking about me?"

Hibiki Aisaka, a young man who entered the bar, raised the corners of his mouth and slid into the seat next to Minase.

Hibiki is a handsome young man with a strong presence and aura. The sharp and slant eyes that make you think of a cat are impressive, and people's eyes are drawn to his face. It seemed to him that the role of model, whose role is to make readers project themselves in such a way that they want to wear the clothes he was wearing, would not really be suitable.

Also, his fashion sense is strangely unique, and it's hard to imagine him wearing the clothes that they have sent him.That day, Hibiki was wearing a T-shirt with a design that mixed English, Japanese, and Chinese characters, and it was strong enough to embarrass him.

"I told him that Hibiki wasn't suitable to be a model."

When Yozora spoke, Hibiki pouted.

"What's that, you bastard?"

"Don't say bad words."

"Eh?"

"No, no, what Yozora-kun is trying to say is that you have too much presence, so those clothes are only suitable for a mannequin-like model displaying clothes. He'd rather praise you."

"Minase."

He said his name as if to criticize him, but Minase kept smiling softly, and as expected, Hibiki leaned forward with a smile.

"Are you acknowledging my charisma?"

"Don't be put off."

"I'll ask you while you're in a good mood, but don't you feel like doing a song for me soon?"

"No. More importantly, what is your order?"

He asked in a weird way on purpose, but Hibiki said with a smile, "Give me curry."

"I have practice after this, so I'll drink water. A big helping of curry."

"It's not the kind of place where hungry people come to eat curry with water."

With a sigh, he immediately reheated the pot of curry. If someone tells him, "Yozora's curry is delicious," he doesn't feel bad.

"How about you, Minase? What snack do you want?"

"What's today's menu?"

"I made a prawn and vegetable terrine."

"How nice. Give me that, please."

Yozora nodded and took the hardened terrine out of the fridge and cut it. He put the brightly colored vegetables on it and held the small plate in front of Minase.

Meanwhile, he served the freshly heated curry. A creamy curry with large vegetables. The spice mix is changed little by little through trial and error each time.

When ordered as a side dish or after dinner, rice is served less, but the order came from someone misinterpreting the bar as a restaurant. The rice was also generously served and, in response to the request for a large serving, he poured a lot of roux over it.

Minase and Hibiki's eating habits were in contrast. Minase looked at the served terrine with a smile as if he enjoyed it with his eyes, then carefully cut a bite with a fork and brought it to his mouth. Hibiki, on the other hand, raised the spoon as soon as he put on the curry bowl and began to eat with refreshing speed.

But equally, both of them expressed their satisfaction with the taste with all their faces.

"It looks beautiful and fun, and the jelly is really delicious."

Minase smiled and said that.

"In Shimokita, a fierce battlefield for curry, I feel like eating Yozora's curry, so it's amazing."

Hibiki said that while he ate curry.

He was really happy when people thought the food and sake he made was delicious.

As Minase said, Yozora is a "professional bartender" who is attached to his bar and takes pride in the sake and food he prepares.

He doesn't think he regrets the future he didn't choose.

But...

As Yozora polished his glass, he watched Hibiki's face as he moved the curry spoon.

Even when Hibiki looked up at the wrong moment, his eyes met perfectly. Hibiki narrowed his eyes and smiled.

"We have a live performance this weekend, so come see us, Yozora. Then maybe you'll get the inspiration for the songs you write."

"You're persistent. That's why you say you don't write songs, right?"

"Again. Even if you're willing to. Do you hide your shame?"

"No, you're annoying..."

"Hibiki, I think it's bad to speak without sincerity like that."

Minase looked at Hibiki with a laugh mixed with exasperation. Yozora let out a deep breath.

"Minase, you should choose your friends. Don't go the wrong way by hanging out with this dumb guy."

"Wait, Yozora-kun. Stop treating me like a weird kid."

Minase made a sour face, and shrugged slightly. Since the time they spent together as children was longer than the time since their meeting, Yozora tended to act like an older brother to Minase.

It's been about half a year since he saw Minase again, and met Hibiki. However, partly because they often come to Yozora's bar, it felt natural for the three of them to spend time together like this.

― "Finally I found you!"

He remembered the first time Hibiki came to the bar with Minase.

With cat eyes shining, Hibiki said to Yozora.

― "Do you remember ten years ago? I started listening to music that day. Make me a song."

Ten years ago, Yozora was fifteen years old. Known as a child prodigy, he composed his own music while taking piano lessons and giving informal concerts in restaurants and other venues when requested. Hibiki must have heard Yozora's music somewhere.

He doesn't remember, but it wasn't that he wasn't happy.

― "I'm sorry, but I've given up on music."

Still, that was the only answer Yozora could give, and it hasn't changed even now. For some reason, without hesitation, Hibiki kept coming to Yozora and asking him to compose a song jokingly.

Yozora looked back at Hibiki's face.

Having his own store in that town, he was able to live in peace. After Hibiki appeared, Yozora felt the ripples rising higher in his heart and muttered, "I won't make it.".

#gora #crush on baby

4 notes · View notes

lotlvision · 6 months

Text

my first listen jesc 2023 rankings!

ireland 9.5/10 oh i adore the mood of this, and her dress! this is going to be BEAUTIFUL on stage i can already tell, and she's got such a lovely voice. as long as she can perform it live, she'll be a big contender.

spain, 9/10 oh this is SO fun, i love the video. so many fun colours, i hope the staging lives up to the vibe this gives off. it doesn't feel like a winner in a competition - a little bit too pop-y for that - but is DEFINITELY going in my playlists!

portugal, 9/10 i REALLY like this one, her voice is beautiful, it's such a wonderful mood. i'm not sure how it'll translate to the stage - i'm crossing my fingers she can do really well. another one that's a big favourite for me but doesn't feel like it'll win a competition

germany, 9/10 oh my god she's singing AND signing? that is IMPRESSIVE. big fan of the instrumental, this is another one that has a huge potential with the staging. the fact that i'm already trying to sing along and i'm writing this during the second chorus says it all

georgia, 9/10 i wanted georgia to win last year, and i honestly really love the music video. if the staging matches it with storytelling this could be another really strong contender. the usual comment on recorded vocals, hope they can deliver on stage. LOVE the costumes

malta, 8.5/10 some great vocals (if replicated live), a really good song all round honestly. we'll see how it translates to the stage, i think they could risk taking away from the sound of her voice if they try to get too busy with the staging

ukraine, 8.5/10 the fact that a kid young enough to still be loosing baby teeth is performing LIVE this well already is insane to me. the staging is fun, the colours are wonderful and bright, and i love her costume. super catchy too!

united kingdom, 8/10 last but not least - us! the costumes are great, though these kids look more like 17 than 12/13! there's a clear direction for the staging already, the dance is fun, the song is quirky and unique. if they can perform it live it'll be great!

france, 8/10 i love that they've recycled la zarra's props 😉 it's very france, which checks out. france always delivers so no surprises here. much like the others, just fingers crossed she can deliver the vocals live.

the netherlands, 8/10 this is a builder, the dancers in the first part are going too hard for the song at that point. the staging looks fun, it's all very co-ordinated. it's a fun song, but possibly too generic-pop to stand out? the vocals are very good, especially the young girl!

armenia, 8/10 a music video always makes it harder to assess what live vocals will be like, but it's a fun song, lots of bright colours, good choreography. if they can perform is live it'll be great on the stage!

estonia, 8/10 music video again so hard to judge live vocals, but the song is very pretty. the staging should be powerful but simple if the video is anything to go by. the worst part about (j)esc is pitting ballads and pop songs against each other

italy, 7/10 the vocals are very mature, though the usual pre-recorded disclaimer applies. i'm not sure i have much of a sense of how staging, lighting, costumes etc. might work so i'm a little lost with where to put this

poland, 7/10 it doesn't feel too special, hopefully with some polishing between selection and next months there'll be less nerves, she had a great voice further into the song. i don't think this will make waves, but i could be wrong!

north macedonia, 7/10 she has a lovely voice, and i hope those moons(?) feature in the staging. i like her voice, but it's pre-recorded and doesn't quite match with the video. we'll see how she does live. it has potential!

albania, 6/10 viola has a solid voice, especially if those pre-recorded vocals are also her, damn good range. the instrumental feels a bit empty, & between singing there's not much in the way of stage presence, but she should have more to play with at jesc.

#jesc #jesc 2023 #junior eurovision #junior eurovision 2023

1 note · View note

borgmagnussen7 · 2 years

Text

To the highest degree masses for each one solar day terminate up non complementary crucial tasks because they don't get laid how to effectively supervise their sentence. This pot principal to practically accent in your lifespan due to non organism able-bodied to capture deciding things through with. And then everything snowballs, and ahead you eff it thither is excessively a lot on your denture. That totally changes today, because the undermentioned article is Here to service you in effect deal your time, so support on reading!

When it comes to managing your clock time wisely, calendars are a essential! About individuals rich person a predilection for composition calendars they physically stigmatise things downwardly on. Some masses obtain achiever with physical science calendars that you bottom instal on your headphone or information processing system. No thing which path you do it, a calendar is the just about effective way of holding trail of your day. Pay off close attending to deadlines if you regain you are perpetually recently with projects and appointments. Procrastinating only when lets emphasize mass up and things bewilder worsened from on that point. However, staying on teetotum of your deadlines way you make things done faster, and you ne'er ignore the jobs that very indigence your care the well-nigh. If hebergement site web pressed for time, offset nerve-wracking to be too soon for everything. If you purport to be on time, evening a piffling dealings seat flock up your intact schedule by making you deep. However, when you do your better to be early, you are ofttimes remaining with a fiddling superfluous time, which you tin and then pose to serious habituate! Take to LET the brief things go when you are overwhelmed by a engaged mean solar day. Citizenry World Health Organization incline to niggle over to a lesser extent important matters often turn a loss their centre on the adult picture, frankincense cachexia clip. Get your priorities full-strength and don't set aside small problems to sire in the mode of managing fourth dimension efficiently. Penny-pinching the doorway to your authority to exploit expeditiously. When your doorway is extensive open, populate suppose they bathroom involve questions and hash out their problems. Windup the doorway bequeath advance you insistent privateness. This bequeath demo the people some you that you intend line. Sir Thomas More challenging projects should be dealt with in the other break up of the 24-hour interval. Harder tasks that take in more than sentence ought to be handled showtime. This volition assistance you be a great deal to a lesser extent stressed as you do work through and through your lean of things to do. The remnant of the twenty-four hours testament flavor identical loose. Lay yourself outset. Often, we regain ourselves putt other people's needs ahead of ours. But clear that just about of the punctuate from a poorly managed sidereal day is not getting your own patronage established. Prioritise your of necessity and tasks and allay or so blackjack. This volition appropriate you to best centering on others' needs when it is prison term. View Pareto's Prevail when considering clock time direction. In truth the lion's part of your centralized work out (80%) gets through in 20% of your clip. That's convention and not the augury of individual inefficient. The human being mental capacity inevitably polish clock to adjust and reincarnate itself. Hold certain you hand yourself breaks and periods where to a lesser extent is potential. Bet into winning a family in meter management. Here, you leave be presumption information to facilitate you amend quite a little with you metre. You mightiness tied require your employer if they offering single. If your society does not extend such classes, match the local anesthetic senior high schools or community college. Make a sit-belt down with yourself every day. The number one one-half time of day of your daylight is nigh scheme. You should shape a heel of priorities that balances your solar day. Do not overtake the list with more than than your daytime fanny wield. If it is not a priority for today, weigh it for tomorrow's list and centering on higher priorities. If you wish to superintend your clock better, a diary tin aid. Track record your actions with kid gloves for several days. Bank note what you did and the duration of clip it took. And then translate your journal to draw a better estimate of where you should meliorate. Later on version the to a higher place article, your liveliness will be a dole out to a lesser extent nerve-racking after fetching in these neat clock direction tips. You don't stimulate to have crucial things mickle up on you at the final minute, straight off that you get an apprehension on how to form your twenty-four hours. Maintain learning, and shortly you will regard your years decent a great deal easier to bring off.

#hébergement web algérie

0 notes

istanleyff7 · 3 years

Text

TOTP, Episode Aerith, Scene 1-4

Final Fantasy VII Remake: Traces of Two Pasts Episode 2- Aerith Scenes 1 - 4

A Light Novel by Kazushige Nojima Translated by Stanley (@istanleyff7 on twitter)

Scene 1

Aerith Gainsborough was on Shinra Ferry No. 8, and like her friends, she was wearing a Shinra's military uniform. It was her first time on the sea, as well as on a ship. The ferry connecting Junon and Costa De Sol was unexpectedly lavish. Enticed by curiosity, she looked around the ferry. However, the wealthy passengers were not welcoming towards troopers. Driven away by the cold stares, she arrived at the bottom ferry's cargo hold. The goods and luggage were all over the place. Someone was already there.

"Hey, I heard this on the deck a while ago..."

It was Tifa Lockhart, clad in Shinra's equipment. One won't expect it based on her tender smile, but she's an excellent martial artist. She is a reliable companion, equipped with her unstoppable punches, diverse kicks and jumping power. It hasn't been long since they met. However, Aerith believed that the bonds that were fostered by overcoming critical situations were genuine.

"When you feel that you're becoming seasick, it seems that it's good to chat as a distraction."

"I see. Tifa, are you feeling sick?"

"Nahhh, I'm good."

"Me, too."

The conversation ended there. Soon after, Aerith noticed that Tifa wanted to speak. She's reserved at times.

"You wanna talk? Let's talk."

"I'd like to hear about you this time."

"Me?"

"I'm a good listener. You see, I am always doing so at the bar."

She straightened her posture and pretended to polish a glass.

"Hello, it's your first time here, isn't it. Where are you from?"

"Wow."

Aerith was in admiration.

"Do you live around here?"

"Nope. I live in the slums of Sector 5."

"I see. Sector 5 seems pretty lively too. Were you born there too?"

"Well...." Aerith hesitates to say. "It's probably hard to explain."

Tifa immediately sensed it. She had already spoken about her being an Ancient and about her being the last surviving one.

"Sorry, I've gone too far."

"Oh, not at all." Aerith denies it immediately.

"I was just a little taken back. There isn't anyone who says that they want to hear it, nor is there anyone I thought of telling. Well, you wanna hear it? You wanna hear it?"

"If it's alright with you."

"I'm good! I'm good!"

Scene 2

Ifalna, Aerith's mother, was the final pure-blooded descendant of the Ancients as both of her parents were Ancients. She was under the protection of Shinra. To collaborate with the various studies concerning the Ancients, she lived on the upper floors of the Shinra building for a long time. Except for having the freedom to go outside, she had a room that provided almost everything. Aerith lived with her mother, but she couldn't remember the day when she first entered that room. Her first memory was in that room too. As everyone around was adults, the only person she could call a friend was Ronnie, the son of Ifalna's caretaker, Mariel, who brought him along. He was two years older than her.

It was the year 1992. Aerith was seven years old. Her head was suddenly flooded with images. She saw not only landscapes and people that she had never seen before, but also the figures of animals and monsters too. Aerith's Ancient powers were awakened. The inexperienced Aerith could not only control these images, but she also could not ignore them. She painted on papers, painted on the walls and showed it to anyone who wanted to see them. She thought that by doing so, these mysterious "visions" would disappear.

Scene 3

"I understand now that up till then, I was a hostage, and to protect me, my mother had no choice but to obey Hojo. But because Hojo also knew that I inherited the powers of the Ancients, he was overjoyed. Because he discovered a successor, he started doing terrible things to my mother, which he hadn't done until then. And just like that, my mother's health began to break down..."

Scene 4

Because of Hojo and his fellow staff, Ifalna's “working” hours increased. She was made to work for Hojo's studies every day from morning till evening. She was weak every day, and she could not walk on her own. There were also times when Hojo's staff pushed her back into the room in a wheelchair. At that time, Fuzz Hicks appeared and was dressed in a lab coat. Out of all the staff that Aerith knew, Fuzz had the largest physique. His eyes, nose and mouth were huge too. He was a very trustworthy figure who easily carried Ifalna with his massive arms.

When Fuzz came over, Ifalna begged him for medicine. She had a sad, sweet voice. Aerith did not say anything, but she did not like her mother whenever she made that kind of voice. She wanted her to be cured soon if she was ill.

“Fuzz, please…”

Aerith was almost sure that Fuzz knew it. He turned his back against the surveillance camera. He left a small bottle of medicine and a syringe, reminding her to keep it a secret from the other staff, and then he left. Ifalna used it on herself. Aerith could not see her mother sticking the needle in her arm, usually hiding in the sofa's shadow.

Aerith has little memory of the calendar dates of events regarding her childhood. It was one night when she was seven years old. She snuggled under her mother's bed as usual. It was a habit she had since she knew she was being monitored. She covered herself entirely with a blanket.

"Aerith. Want to go on an adventure?" Ifalna whispered from the other side of the blanket.

“What will we be doing?” She had a longing and a fear towards the outside world.

"I miss it."

Aerith did not understand what her mother was feeling. However, she sensed that tears were mixed in with her voice.

Aerith did not want to see her mother's face and got out from her blanket. Ifalna covered her face with her arm. The sleeves of her loose sleepwear were turned inside out. She had plenty of painful injection marks.

"If we head out, will you be okay, Mummy? You’re not going to take any more injections?"

“Yes. I think that will be so.”

"Well, let's go. But, I wonder if we can do it. The cameras are watching."

"Fuzz will help us out."

"Why will Fuzz help us out?"

There was a brief pause.

"Because he's a good person"

↞↠

Ifalna was taken out of the room as usual and returned in the evening. Fuzz was pushing the wheelchair.

"Yo Aerith," said Fuzz with his deep voice.

"The preparations are in order. I have prepared a secret house in the Sector 3 slums. You will also have a room. It's small, but we'll be leaving here."

He only told her that, and he left the room.

The emergency bell rang in the morning. Hurried by Ifalna, Aerith changed her clothes. It was clothes she had never seen before.

"Fuzz prepared these for us," Ifalna informed as she also wore her new clothes.

"Let's go."

"We will be seen."

"Don’t think like that."

Ifalna opened the door.

"It can't be. The lock is open. Why?"

The mother did not reply, took a deep breath and dashed out to the corridor. There was not a single person there. The bell signalling a crisis rang into their ears.

"Experimental monsters are on the loose. Staff from the Science Department evacuate to a safe location," the public announcement monotonously announced.

"That's rough."

Aerith was frightened. However, Ifalna ascertained the direction and walked. She was hobbling. Her condition was good only when she opened the door. Aerith took her hand and kept up with her.

They turned at the first corner of the corridor. No staff were seen, and there were also no signs of wandering monsters. Ifalna rushed over to a wagon carrying cleaning tools; a large metal box attached with tiny wheels, with a long brush and mop, stuck into it. She slid her hand on the side of the wagon, and a part slid open. It was empty. There were supposed to be various cleaning agents and tools in there. The shelves and dividers were also removed.

"We will be hiding in here. I'll head in first."

Ifalna bent her body and slipped into the box.

"Come, Aerith."

Invited by her voice, Aerith went inside. Ifalna pulled her knees towards herself to make space for her daughter. The petite Aerith quickly got in.

"We are going to be here for some time, so find yourself a comfortable position."

"Okay. This position is good."

"Got it."

After Ifalna closed the door, the wagon became pitch black. The public announcement remained unchanged and announced the experimental monsters’ escape. Before long, there was an indication that someone was nearby. The wagon vibrated lightly.

"It's me."

"I'm leaving it to you, Fuzz."

"We'll get going."

The wagon started to run.

"No matter what happens, do not make any noise."

"I'll be making a turn."

"It's an elevator. We will be transferring elevators several times."

From time to time, Fuzz could be heard. While in the elevator, Aerith became nauseous.

"Mummy, I don't feel good."

"It will be over soon."

When the free-falling feeling with the wagon was over, it started running again. As Fuzz mentioned, he will be transferring elevators several times.

"We're in a parking lot."

A different and unpleasant odour, unlike before, crept into the wagon.

"I'll be stopping soon. There'll be a truck, so hurry up and hop onto its cargo bed. I'll assist the both of you."

There was likely a change in the ground surface. A rattling sound came out from the wagon as it ran. The wagon soon stopped, and the door came open.

"Well then, hurry on."

Aerith was pulled out by the large hand that went into the wagon. He held Aerith up and placed her on the cargo bed as though she was an object.

"Move inside," Fuzz said as he also lightly placed Ifalna on the cargo bed.

"There are a few wooden crates. The innermost one is empty, so hide in it. Don't forget to close the lid. My cousin will be driving the truck. After arriving at the train station, the crate will be loaded onto the freight carrier. The cargo will eventually arrive at the Sector 4 slums station, so wait for me there."

"In the box?" Ifalna asked.

"Nope. I think you both will end up waiting for me somewhere at the station. I have a friend there, so follow her instructions. I've written the details in this letter," Fuzz said as he folded the paper and passed it to Ifalna.

"Where are you going, Fuzz?" Aerith asked.

"I'm heading back up to pretend to search for the both of you. If I get caught, it's going to cost me more than my neck."

The car horn sounded, and feelings of anxiety rushed in.

"Well, later then. There is food and water in the crate."

"How long do we have to wait for you to come?"

"At worst, till the last train," Fuzz said as he kissed the back of Ifalna's hand. Aerith was surprised and looked at Fuzz and her mother one after another.

"Fuzz, thank you."

The truck moved off before Ifalna could finish her words.

↞↠

The mother and daughter crawled on all fours on the swaying cargo bed and moved to the back. There were five wooden crates, one size larger than the cleaning tool wagon. After Ifalna found the empty box, she opened the lid and placed Aerith inside.

"Smelly..."

After leaving the room, they smelled various odours, but this was unbearable.

"Endure endure. We'll get used to it soon," Ifalna uttered as she also entered the crate.

Aerith did not overlook the frown on Ifalna's face.

"You think it stinks too, Mummy!"

Ifalna stuck out her tongue, and after gazing at each other, they laughed.

Aerith noticed the paper bag at the bottom of the crate. There was also a portable torchlight, a pouch of dried fruits and nuts, a hard bread and a water bottle when she looked inside it. There was a thin envelope, so she peeked inside and found that there was money in it.

"I have to close the lid."

After struggling to close the lid, the crate went pitch black.

"Next, uh ... let's read the letter."

In the dark, there was a dry sound of Ifalna unfolding the paper.

"Aerith, may you shine at this for me?"

"Okay."

She had difficulty operating it, but Aerith found the switch and turned on the torchlight. In the cutout of the darkness, her mother's pale face was there, and sweat was oozing out from her forehead.

"Mummy, are you alright?"

"I'll be reading it, so remember this too, Aerith."

It seems that she does not intend to reply to her question.

"Okay."

“The plate on which the Shinra Building is built and the slums are connected by rail. This crate will be carried into the freight train as it is. After the train runs for a while, the inside of the crate will glow red, and it will be glowing several times. But you don't have to worry about it, and do not mind it."

“What does this mean?”

"Fuzz... He thinks I don't know anything, and he is right about that."

"I'm scared."

"He wrote not to worry, let's believe him."

"Okay..."

"After a while, you will realise that the railroad tracks will be running on ground level rather than at a descent. You will soon hear the train stoppage announcement. Once you hear it, get out of the box. Next, stand by the doorway at the width of the carriage. The last stop is the Sector 4 Slums Station. The door will open when you arrive. Give the money in the envelope to the person who opened the door. It's a reward. Rest assured that she is a friend of mine, and follow her instructions and wait until I pick you both up..."

Ifalna violently coughed before she could read it to the end. It was a long-lasting cough. She turned her head away and covered her mouth with her arm.

"The light... turn it off..." Ifalna said so and violently coughed again.

↞↠

The truck eventually came to a stop. The truck bed shook, along with the rattling sound of the cargo hitting each other. They sensed people in the vicinity. The unloading began. The handling work was rough, and the crate was even thrown down to its' side.The mother and child endured through the shaking and pain in the crate. Ifalna embraced Aerith in her arms and held her daughter's leaking voice with her palm.

"We got to press on."

Silence came. They were relieved in that brief moment, then the loading operation on the freight train started.

"This is going to the Sector 4 Slums."

After hearing the muffled voice of a man, the box started to move. Again, the crate was handled recklessly. They used their hands, feet, and back to anchor their bodies down and clenched their teeth.

Shortly after that, the loading came to an end. There was a heavy, loud sound as the freight car door closed. After the train started running, it began to make a periodically repeating rattling noise. Eventually, the rhythmic sound becomes pleasant. Aerith dozed off and was half asleep. She woke up suddenly and looked at her mother's face. Ifalna's profile, dimly lit by the torch that was left on, was as beautiful as usual. In her line of sight, she noticed Ifalna smiling. Aerith was relieved, and she closed her eyes again. She finally slept.

In her dream, Aerith was painting.

When she woke up, Ifalna was coughing violently again.

"Are you alright, Mummy?"

"Yup... Give me a moment,"

Her voice got hoarse. Soon after adjusting her breathing —

"It looks like the descent stopped some time ago. The red lights are over too, so perhaps we'll be arriving soon?

"Ehhhh!? I wanted to see the red lights!"

"You said you were scared of it."

Ifalna laughed.

"I want to see it even if I'm scared."

At that moment, the inside of the crate was tainted red. The two were surprised and looked at each other.

"It turned red!"

"Yup! It turned red."

"I wasn't scared at all."

"Hey, Aerith. Let's eat something. We don't know when we'll be able to eat next."

Ifalna tore up the bread in the bag into pieces, handed it to Aerith, and ripped open the pouch of dried fruits.

"I wonder if this is like a picnic."

Aerith stuck the bread on her cheek.

"What's a picnic?" Ifalna asked.

After Aerith swallowed the bread —

"I heard from Ronnie. People would take along food, head out, walk a lot and eat. It seems that they don't eat anything sometimes. But Ronnie has never been to one before."

"Hmm. I really don't know, but walking seems to be fun."

Under the dim light shone from the portable torchlight placed on the floor, Ifalna offered her the remaining bread.

"Aren't you eating, Mummy?"

"I've already eaten. I ate it while you were sleeping with your mouth open."

She thought it was a lie. However, Aerith inflated her cheeks and showed her anger.

The train slowed down, and Ifalna coughed violently again. She shook her shoulders violently to hold down the cough.

"I'm really okay."

"Alright."

Aerith felt even more worried as she was reminded again that her mother was ok.

"Next station,... Four Slums. Sector Fo... lums," a muffled voice could be heard. It's the train stoppage announcement.

"Let's get out of the crate, shall we?"

They flipped the lid up. Ifalna comes out first and pulls Aerith up. Although the train was slowing down, the train carriage was rattling and shaking.

"This is fun!"

Aerith planted both her feet down to keep her balance. Ifalna held on to the crate to support herself.

“Aerith”

“Yup.”

“Never forget that feeling, okay?”

“Which feeling?”

“The feeling that you’ll enjoy anything.”

“Hmmm, I understand.”

“Hey hey, Aerith, look at this.” Ifalna pointed to the label on the crate which they were in.

"What's written on it?"

"From Shinra Company to Shinra Company. To be stored at Sector 4 Station. Dangerous goods. It is strictly prohibited to open it en-route..."

"We are dangerous goods?"

"That's rude."

Ifalna laughed, and the train slowed down again to a stop. Aerith lost her balance and clung to her mother as she almost fell over.

"Stay silent for a moment, Aerith. Leave this to me."

She looked up at her mother to see what she meant. She wasn't smiling anymore.

It was a young woman who opened the door. She had a pouty face and wore loose-fitting overalls. Her whole body was covered in dirt.

"Are you a friend of Fuzz?" Ifalna asked.

She nodded her head.

"Here you go. It's the reward."

Ifalna held out the envelope.

"I told him I didn't need it..."

“But…”

In the end, the lady snatched the envelope and pushed it into her back pocket.

"Get off. Quickly."

The carriage floor was well above the ground, a height that anyone would need help with. However, the lady was keeping watch of the surrounding people.

"Okay. I'll head down first."

Ifalna disappeared from Aerith's line of sight as she had jumped off. A painful moan could be heard.

"Mummy!"

"Hurry up," the lady's sharp voice pierced through their ears.

Ifalna apologised as she stood up, looking back at Aerith and reached out to her with both hands. Aerith was worried whether the woman in dirty clothing would get angry again, so she hurriedly jumped on her mother's body.That force caused Ifalna to stumble. She almost fell over while holding onto Aerith but managed to get her balance after taking a few steps.

"It's already chaotic at the top. Hide in the container yard until Fuzz picks you up," The woman pointed to a place stacked up with a lot of containers.

"When the sun sets, consignees will enter and exit the yard, so don't be discovered. That would be a pain."

"How much longer until the sun goes down?" Ifalna asked.

"In about four hours."

The woman tried to leave, but Ifalna called out to stop her and asked, "Which direction is Sector 3 in?"

The woman pointed out the direction with her chin, and as though she was escaping from them, she headed back to work.

"Mummy, let's hide quickly?"

"Yup. Let's do so."

The woman looked back once she reached the end of the train carriage and pointed towards the container yard. She was probably telling them to head over quickly.

"Aerith."

Ifalna held out her hand.

"From here on out, it's a real adventure. Let's go."

Ifalna held Aerith's hand.

"Mummy, why is your hand hot?"

"It's because I'm excited."

Ifalna laughed, and they started walking towards the rear of the carriage they had just got off. The carriage they were riding on was at the end. When they went around the carriage and crossed over the rail, they could see the station building. The woman from earlier disappeared into the station building. They saw some others in uniforms that looked like railway workers.

"Mummy, where are we going!?"

Aerith was extremely worried. However, her mother did not say a word. Instead, she held her hand firmly and started walking. They headed towards the wire mesh fence that was directly in front of them. There were a lot of people coming and going on the road over there.

"Mum!?"

"Let's climb over this fence."

"Ehhhh?"

The fence was about two metres tall.

"I can't."

"But we have to. Otherwise the adventure will be over."

In the end, they clung to the fence.

"Well, let's have fun!" Ifalna uttered.

Passers-by across the wired fence saw them, but nobody stopped walking.

"First, grab a high spot on the wired fence with both hands, and then put the toes of your left foot into the wired fence."

"Ohhh."

Aerith was confused, but she managed to be in the same position as her mother.

“Next, apply some strength to your hands and put your right toe into the fence.”

“Okay.”

"Once you can do that, move your right hand to grab the fence higher up. Then, also move your left hand to grab at the same height."

"Ah, I got it! Next will be my legs."

Aerith felt that she understood how to climb the wired fence.

"Mummy, look!"

While making a rattling noise, she climbed the fence in a blink of an eye.

"Nicely done, Aerith. Now from there, climb over."

"Hey! Get down from there!" came a piercing, angry voice.

Aerith saw a station employee running over.

"Mummy!"

Ifalna saw the station employee.

"Aerith, quickly get going!"

"You too, Mummy!"

Ifalna started climbing the wired fence. She was frustratingly slow.

"Hey!"

The station employee was getting close. The scene gathered the eyes of passers-by. At that moment...

"Hey! Hurry up!"

They looked over. A tall adult male was reaching out his hand. Aerith was confused. He was probably an acquaintance of her mother, but that should not be the case.

"Hey! Let's go!"

Before Aerith knew it, Ifalna got up to the same height and got over the fence. The station staff extended his hand out, but he barely could not reach her. Finally, Ifalna got over to the other side, reached out and grabbed the chest area of Aerith's clothes and pulled firmly. Aerith could not help but lose her balance and almost fell headfirst outwards of the fence. However, a pair of solid hands supported Aerith.

"You alright?" the man asked Ifalna while lowering Aerith to the ground.

However, Ifalna was coughing harshly and could not answer.

"Riding without a ticket is a serious crime!"

The station employee also started to climb the fence.

"It’s a serious crime which too many people commit, and you can't catch those culprits."

"Thank... you," Ifalna finally answered.

"You're welcome."

The man then struck the fingers of the station employee, who was grabbing the wired fence, with his fist. The station staff screamed away from the wired fence.

"Shinra bastard, damn y'all!"

After hailing abuse at the station employee, the man walked away as if nothing had happened. The station employee was panting heavily and glared at the man.

"Which direction is Sector 3 in?" Ifalna abruptly asked the station employee.

Not only the station employee but Aerith was also surprised at this.

"Who would teach you!" the station employee's angry voice froze Aerith's legs.

"Very well. Pardon us for our rudeness." Ifalna calmly apologised to the station employee

She then took Aerith's hand and left the station. When they looked back, the station employee was glaring at them. However, he was soon hidden in the flow of passers-by.

"Ahhh, that was heart-wrenching."

Ifalna coughed. When Aerith looked up, she saw the radiant face of her mother.

↞↠

There was no sign of anyone chasing them. The mother and daughter were moving away from the Sector Four Slums Station. Looking up, they could see the underside of the steel city. They were overwhelmed by the orderly combination of the steel-framed plate. Many people lived on it, there was the Shinra Building, and they were way high up on it. The scale was too large for Aerith to picture it well.

"Aerith, if you just look up, you'll fall."

"Okay."

Indeed, none of the surrounding commuters were looking up. It's a natural sight for slum dwellers. From time to time, Aerith could hear mysterious noises. She could also hear angry voices. And as expected, nobody cares.

"Mummy, who was the person that helped us at the station?"

"I think he's someone who hates Shinra. It seems that there are many of these kinds of people in the slums."

"How do you know about the slum, Mummy?"

"I asked a lot of people. For a day like this."

"Even on how to climb a wired fence?"

"Yup. If Professor Hojo weren't around, everyone would talk to me a lot."

"Actually, everyone is a nice person."

"I wonder. Everyone sympathised and cared for me, but no one helped me out. The truly good people are those that not only say that they'll help but also act on it."

"I wonder what Fuzz is doing."

Aerith waited for a while, but her mother didn't answer.

"Hey, Aerith, I want to rest for a bit. Shall we go over there?"

Ifalna pointed towards a small plaza in front of them. They saw several benches.

↞↠ You’re on page 24/142 of Aerith’s segment of the Light Novel. Next Scenes: Scenes 5-9 Back to Content Page (click/tap here)

follow @istanleyff7 on twitter for updates support the TOTP translation project financially here (click/tap here)

#ffvii ffviir ff7 ff7r ffviiln ff7rln

143 notes · View notes