#I’ve been suffering with migraines recently so it’s been hard for me to play for long | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xxdragonwriterxx · 4 years ago

Note

hi! i'm so sorry to hear you haven't been feeling well, i also suffer from migraines and they're the worst. i was hoping to request levi and his s/o (who only recently started dating) and they're playing around, like play fighting/wrestling, and his s/o finds that he's extremely ticklish and a little embarrassed by it bc he had no idea?🥺 (but of course that's how s/o wins the fight hehe) thank you for taking the time to even just read this!

A/N: Hi anon! Thank you for the kind words, I’m feeling better now! Thankfully, my migraines don’t happen very often, but when they do, they are really bad. But I haven’t had one for a little while so that’s good! I’m sorry you suffer from them too, they really are the worst 🙄. Thank you for requesting! This was a really sweet, fluffy request and I really enjoyed writing it. Embarrassed Levi is cutest Levi. I hope this was what you were looking for! Enjoy! ❤️❤️

🐉 Song Recommendation: “A Closeness” By: Dermot Kennedy 🐉

Word Count: ~2.9k

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🔥Unexpected Sensitivity🔥

“Asshole.”

(Y/N) barely managed to refrain from rolling her eyes as she tried to ignore the raven-haired man sitting on the opposite end of the couch and turned back to her book. She was able to get through another two sentences before a loud huff and a low grumble of annoyance once again drew her away from the story.

(Y/N) threw him a glare, “Levi, I told you, I am four fucking chapters away from finishing this book, can you please just entertain yourself until then? It won’t be much longer.”

She gritted her teeth when Levi made no attempt to keep from rolling his eyes, sending a scowl right back at her, “I’m bored.”

“Well that’s too bad. Last time I checked, I was not your babysitter.”

Normally, (Y/N) enjoyed when Levi was needy for her attention. She loved how she was the only one who got to see that side of him. Their relationship was relatively new, so she had had to work hard to get him to open up around her. She was proud that she had finally managed to get him to relax around her, of how far he’d come, and it made her heart melt when he craved her affection, like a cat begging to be petted.

But recently, Levi had been begging for her attention a lot. She had no idea what had made these past few days so different, but it was starting to wear her out. Now, whenever he wasn’t working, he wanted to be at the center of her attention, no matter if she was already busy, and it was starting to grate on her nerves a little.

Was it really too much to ask to let her finish her book? She was known to be a very quick reader, it shouldn’t have taken long, but she had barely made a dent in the last few chapters because she was constantly being distracted.

Levi frowned at her and crossed his arms. He really was acting like a petulant child, and while it was annoying as hell, a part of (Y/N) couldn’t deny that she found it a little cute. Especially since she knew his behavior was coming from a place of love. She hadn’t forgotten how lucky she was to even have him acting like this with her, but that didn’t mean she had to enjoy it every time. Especially when he was being this intense about it.

“Asshole.”

“Levi, for the love of god!” (Y/N) snapped, slamming her book shut and tossing it to the side. “How hard is it for you to just let me read four bloody chapters? I told you I would give you attention as soon as I was done! I just wanted to know the ending, you know this is a book I’ve been looking forward to finishing for days.”

Levi raised an eyebrow at her, “Is some boring old book more interesting to you than me?”

Oh my god. She was going to kill him.

(Y/N) took a deep breath and forced herself to stay calm, “Of course not, Levi. But that doesn’t mean I have to be with you every second of every day. I just wanted to know what happened in the end, that’s all. Why is that such a big deal?”

“Because I want you to cuddle me, damn it,” he mumbled, his eyes averted from her face and a light tinge of pink on his cheeks.

(Y/N) immediately felt her anger wash away. She could still feel a little bit of irritation prickling in her chest but she ignored it, choosing to focus more on the warm feeling that blossomed throughout her whole body at his words. Yes, her boyfriend could be annoying as hell sometimes, but she couldn’t deny how adorable he was, wanting affection but embarrassed by the fact. She didn’t show it, but she was proud of him for even gaining the courage to say something. While they had only been dating for two months, she had never heard him directly ask for anything, it was always buried beneath a mask of sarcasm or annoyance.

Levi watched her features soften and felt the corners of his lips curl upwards as she sighed, knowing he had finally won. He knew that when she sighed like that, she was going to give in. His heart warmed at the thought that she found him difficult to resist, even when she was clearly annoyed with him.

He knew he was being shitty, but he just couldn’t help it. Not with her anyway. She was not his first girlfriend by any means, but she was the first girl he felt he had a genuine connection with. The first girl he genuinely loved. His past girlfriends had been nothing but trials, mostly set up by his friends, trying to show him that dating could be fun. He hadn’t believed them until he met (Y/N).

Now, he couldn’t get enough. He knew it was partially unfair to her, even if he knew she secretly loved it. He knew he was being invasive and annoying but at the moment, he just didn’t care. He was aching to feel her pressed against him, her arms wrapped lovingly around his waist and her head on his shoulder. His arms itched to pull her close and relish in the way she fit perfectly against him, as if they had been made for each other. He had never felt this way with anyone else, but now that he had, he craved it. He had never realized just how touch-starved he was until (Y/N) entered his life, and now he burned to be by her side, even if she didn’t always want him there.

“Alright, fine. But you have to promise to let me finish my book later, okay?”

(Y/N)’s words snapped him out of his thoughts and he nodded too quickly for it to be as nonchalant as he wanted it to look. (Y/N) rolled her eyes affectionately and gave him a warm smile that had his heart beating a swift tattoo against his chest.

Levi moved his legs from where they had been laying lengthwise on the sofa cushions as (Y/N) approached, turning his body so he was seated normally, giving her the room to settle down beside him. He immediately felt himself relax as soon as she curled up against him, a satisfied sigh leaving his parted lips.

“Relieved are you?” (Y/N) teased.

Levi thought about teasing her back, but suddenly found himself too sleepy to engage in their usual banter, her comforting presence making him feel drowsy. “Yes.”

(Y/N)’s cheeks heated, not expecting the straightforward answer, “I’m still mad at you for being so obnoxious.”

“Mm.”

“And you��re not sorry for it at all, are you?”

“Mm, no.”

“Pain in the ass,” (Y/N) mumbled affectionately, nuzzling her face into his chest.

(Y/N) was just about to drift off, enjoying the comfort of cuddling with her boyfriend despite her earlier reluctance, when a sudden sharp jab in her side made her jolt up with a yelp.

“Ow! What the hell, Levi!?”

“You called me a pain in the ass,” Levi grumped.

“Yeah, so? You called me an asshole. Twice!” (Y/N) said, leaning over to give him a hard poke in the shoulder.

“Tch,” Levi said, giving her another poke, this time on her thigh.

(Y/N)’s retaliation quickly led to a fierce battle between the two, annoyed huffs devolving into genuine chuckles and shrieks of joy as the two fought, the war only growing more intense when (Y/N) straddled Levi’s thighs to better reach him.

“Brat, stop poking me!”

“You stop poking me, then!”

“Fine,” Levi said, the mischievous look on his face making (Y/N) nervous.

Before she could react, Levi pushed her off of him and pinned her to the couch, hovering over her. (Y/N) laughed, her eyes sparkling, “Oh, how romantic, Levi.”

Levi snorted at her as he moved lower, slinking down her body, his own eyes twinkling with barely suppressed mirth.

“Levi? What are you doing?”

“You told me to stop poking you, so I stopped. But that doesn’t mean this is over.”

“What the fuck does that mean- AH!” (Y/N) cried out in surprise as Levi’s fingers ran up the bottoms of her feet. “LEVI!”

Levi merely chuckled in response, reaching down to tickle her feet again. He smirked when she writhed and squirmed beneath his strong grip, tears of desperation spilling from the corners of her eyes as her loud laughter filled the apartment.

“Levi! Levi, stop! I can’t- I can’t breathe!”

Levi thought about letting up, but he was having too much fun. He quickly doubled down on his efforts, laughing quietly at the loud squeal she let out in response, trying to jerk her feet from his touch.

(Y/N) was getting desperate. He had her pinned by the hips to the couch with his incredible strength and he wasn’t stopping his assault on her poor feet. She tried to wrench them from his grip to no avail, his cocky smile and bright silver hues making her want to slap that look of smugness off of his face.

Frantically looking for a way to escape, (Y/N) suddenly remembered that her hands weren’t being held down. She had her own fingers she could use. She knew it would be no use trying to pry his fingers off, he was much too strong for that, so she did the next best thing.

She blindly latched onto him, her fingers flying over his skin as she searched for a weak point, a tender spot, anything. Levi was finally starting to slow down his attack, his fingers only lightly brushing her skin to watch her jump while she caught her breath, but she was determined to get back at him.

“(Y/N)? What are you doing?” Levi asked, finally taking his fingers away from her sensitive skin and leaning back on his haunches. His eyebrow rose when she followed him, her hands still moving all over his body.

“What do you think I’m doing, idiot?”

Levi smirked down at the woman that was now back in his lap, her brow furrowed in concentration as she poked and prodded beneath his shirt, practically feeling him up as she tried to find where he was the most sensitive.

“Nice try, brat. But unfortunately for you, I’m not tickLISH-!”

(Y/N) and Levi both froze.

Levi’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide and his hands loosened from where they had been holding onto (Y/N)’s waist. He had never, in his entire life, made a noise like that before. It sounded like the cross between a yelp of surprise and a barked out laugh. He was still uncertain if it had indeed been him that had made the noise, it sounded so unlike him, so foreign to his ears he couldn’t be sure.

(Y/N) was just as shocked. Had Levi really just squawked? That was probably the only way you could describe the noise that had just come from her boyfriend’s mouth, even though it seemed like the kind of word you would never in a million years associate with Levi Ackerman.

While she was certainly surprised, she recuperated faster than Levi, a deviant smile spreading across her face as she suddenly realized the power she held. She noticed Levi’s eyes narrow on her borderline evil expression, but his dazed state made his reaction time slower than normal. Before he knew it, he was on his back, her legs straddled over his hips, his wrists held in one of her hands while the other was snaking back beneath his shirt, aiming for the spot along his upper ribs.

He tried to squirm away, but he underestimated her strength as she pressed her full weight into him and tightened her grip on his wrists, holding him there as she brushed her fingers along the spot that he hadn’t even known would make him go crazy.

To his horror, another loud cry was ripped from his throat, quickly turning into loud, rich laughter that rang out and bounced off the walls as she tickled him. He tried to flash her a warning glare but she only smiled wider, followed by a slight shake of her head.

Fuck, she was going to show no mercy.

Tears gathered in his eyes as she continued to attack the sensitive flesh in the same way he did to her, his body losing all control. He wriggled and arched, trying to escape her torturous fingers, until he was finally able to free one of his hands. (Y/N) tried to hold on, but as soon as one of his hands was free, she was quickly shoved off of him, her own laughter joining his as she was pushed from the couch to land with a satisfying thump on the carpet below.

Levi’s laughter was quick to quiet into soft chuckles before finally fading into heavy breathing, the apartment thick with silence as the pair fought to catch their breath, unwilling to move for a while.

“Whew,” (Y/N) said, eventually breaking the silence. “Who knew the fearsome Levi Ackerman was ticklish, huh?”

(Y/N) was smiling, a hand coming up to cover her mouth to stifle the giggles that tried to filter into the room at her teasing, but when he didn’t respond, (Y/N) grew worried.

“Levi?”

(Y/N) sat up, and quickly lost all feelings of giddiness at the sight of Levi, turned away from her with his knees brought up to his chest, his hands covering his face, and his back hunched slightly, so different from how he normally was it almost made her panic.

“Levi! Are you alright?”

It took him a moment, but Levi eventually nodded once, refusing to remove his hands from his face. His response calmed (Y/N) down somewhat, but concern still coursed through her as she gently eased onto the couch beside him, her palm reaching out to rest on his back.

“Levi, what’s wrong?”

A quiet mumble reached her ears, but his hands were muffling most of the words. Even when she strained her ears she couldn’t understand what he was saying, but she did notice his face get a tinge more pink, especially on the tips of his ears.

“I’m sorry, babe, I couldn’t hear you. Can you repeat that?”

Levi huffed in annoyance, and it was enough to bring another small smile back onto (Y/N)’s face. He then shifted his hands, uncovering only enough to free his mouth.

“I said, I’m… embarrassed…” He trailed off at the end, the last word much quieter than the others, but (Y/N) heard him loud and clear. She immediately felt a wave of relief and guilt wash over her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Levi. I really didn’t mean to embarrass you like that, I thought we were just having fun. I never want you to feel uncomfortable around me, ever. I’m sorry, I never should’ve pushed your boundaries like that.”

Levi finally removed his hands from his face and turned around to look at her. His face was still red and his eyes were slightly swollen from the tears he had shed during their intense battle but his expression was soft. He reached up and brushed his fingers along her jaw, affectionately stroking her skin.

“It’s not your fault. I attacked you first,” Levi said. “I didn’t even mind it that much at first, I just didn’t expect to react… like that.”

“Levi, it’s okay! Everyone reacts like that, that’s why nobody likes to be tickled. I mean, you heard me! I didn’t sound any better.”

Levi smirked, the beginnings of a sparkle coming back into his eye, “Yeah, you sounded like a donkey with a sore throat. Or maybe a dying bird.”

“Hey!” (Y/N) said, slapping his shoulder playfully with a false pout. “That’s mean!”

“But true.”

“Oh, do we want to go back to what you sounded like?”

“Oi, watch it, brat.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Levi gave (Y/N) a light-hearted shove before standing up to stretch, his shirt riding up to show off a bit of his muscular back as he brought his arms above his head. (Y/N) followed him with a large grin on her face when he moved into the kitchen, intent on making tea and forgetting the whole experience. They lapsed into a comfortable silence as Levi heated the water and (Y/N) grabbed the tea leaves, the pair working together seamlessly despite their short time spent as a couple.

When the tea was finally finished, Levi offered a cup to (Y/N), who took it gratefully, before leaning against the counter and taking a sip. (Y/N) watched as Levi closed his eyes and hummed in pleasure at the taste, his body finally starting to unwind again. Her eyes swept over him, her heart beating a steady drum for the man beside her. She loved him so much, felt so lucky to have him, and while the tickle fight had certainly been an experience, she couldn’t wait to have many more adventures just like that with him by her side.

“Hey, Levi?”

“Yeah brat?”

“For the record, I think your laugh is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.”

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cardinal-carvings · 3 years ago

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About: Archex Cal’lien

[ Physical Characteristics ]

Height: 5′11″ Weight: about 200 pounds, maybe give some Body build: well-built, muscular Eye Color: hazel

Glasses or contact lenses: n/a; Archex has better eyesight than any pureblooded human would and is even capable of seeing in the dark.

Hair Color: Best way to describe it is to say it’s not unlike a raven’s feathers-- it’s dark in colour, but not black-- a blue tint is obviously there, especially under the right lighting

Type of hair: somewhat thick, a little course but not in a way that’s unpleasant at all... it’s got a sort of soft, fluffiness to it if it’s allowed to grow out

Hairstyle: Military hair cut back in the Order, but after leaving it grows out and Archex takes to not cutting it down as much. In a way, it’s like breaking free from just another aspect of his life that was micromanaged back before he escaped. In his mercenary verse, Cal’lien actually allows it to grow out past his shoulders and keeps it done up in twin braids. Any other time, it usually doesn't grow past his shoulders.

Complexion and skin tone: Warm coloured skintone, oftentimes described as something akin to a ‘golden-tan’. Heavily covered in freckles.

Scent: The best explanation for back in the Order is ‘clean’, and perhaps the lingering smell of what he uses to polish his armour. Post-defection he tends to smell a bit earthy... like sunlight, if that makes any sense. Often times the scent of something he’s made recently to feed people may cling to him, or there’s a sort of wooden scent-- usually after he’s spent some time carving.

Voice: Hard to explain if you’ve never listened to the Phasma novel-- the narrator gives him an accent that has heavily stuck with me and will forever be associated to him (if I don’t hear the accent when writing, I know I’m not going to be satisficed)-- but I have sort of mashed it into Kalani’s voice. I also have a strong idea of his Jakku accent, but can’t find anything to point to for that... which drives me nuts. Bonus; Archex pronounces words differently than everyone else in the book, despite it being the same narrator! It’s a fun little tidbit and it’s not exactly something that can be conveyed through writing.

Health: Aside from the factor he’d suffered greatly back on Jakku, and then just before he was dragged from the Order he sustained two major injuries that have permanently damaged him, Archex is rather healthy. The First Order goes out of it’s way to make sure those in it’s ‘care’ are always at their absolute best, even going so far as to ensure everyone’s getting vitamins they may well have missed out on for one reason or another. Between that, Archex’s stubborn desire to continue working out to stay in the shape he’d managed to reach, and the factor that Archex will be careful about things like eating healthy and staying hydrated... he’s healthy!

[ Intellectual | Mental | Personality Attributes and Attitudes ]

Native language: Not Basic, but I’ve yet to decide just what yet :) but he learns Basic properly once the Remnants of the Empire scoops him up. He understood a chunk of it due to his time on Jakku, but couldn’t form proper sentences.

Do they know any other languages: Plenty! Between being on Jakku, which housed enough different languages for a small handful of different phrases needing to be learned and the factor that it was important for him to learn them for his jobs in the First Order (comforting a kid who didn’t speak Basic yet, for example--)... that’s to be expected.

How smart are they: Smarter than he thinks he is, honestly. Due to the heavy programing and such thinking too much does tend to give him a massive migraine-- may also be a result from the drugs the FO put in their water, who’s to tell. Either way, there’s a roadblock to thinking too hard, so it takes awhile after his defection to break free of that. It’s of note he’s capable of figuring out how to help just about any kid with learning things, no matter their strengths and weaknesses. Sometimes that is not an easy feat.

What is their strengths: Kindness, stubbornness, a strong tenacity-- great with children and figuring out ways to survive despite all odds. Usually he’s one person who is sure to persevere.

Weaknesses: Kindness, stubbornness... his blind-loyalty. The touch of naïveté he actually has despite not realizing it-- he doesn’t quite understand the world he’s in like he thinks he does.

Short-term goals in life: Survive. End this war.

Long-term goals in life: Heal... help his children, however he can, to pay back for the role he’s played. Settle down, and provide a good home for any child in need of one.

[ How does your character feel... ]

... About love: He’s a romantic at heart, though there’s the probability he’d deny it if it were brought up. He’s not particularly looking for love, but if he were to settle down eventually he’d realize something is missing without a partner.

... About crime: Crime is... complicated. It’s not as black and white as he’d like it to be, and it makes it an ever shifting line in the sand. One that could be easy to pass over if you’re not careful.

... About Politics: ugh

... About People of a different sexuality: He’s pansexual... he’d date an alien. I don’t think he’d even bat an eye, honestly? I don’t think he’d even think to think it strange.

... About Different nationality/Species: Despite being raised in the presence of those who survived the fall of the Empire, he’s not even a little xenophobic.

How does your character show affection/love: Acts of service and touch. His biggest way to convey that he cares deeply for someone is to be sure they’re eating healthily and staying hydrated. Making sure they get rest, and comforting them when necessary. If he knows someone's going through a rough time, he’s very likely to find a way to bring them something he knows they like-- usually food or a drink over anything else.

How does your character handle grief: He tries to keep to himself with it. Bottle it up and show no signs... it’s thanks to the Order, but also because of the role he had played when there. He didn’t have the luxury to grieve much, and what time he had alone had to be used for sleeping as much as he could manage it. Hate to admit this, but when the asshole Brendol died he had definitely thrown himself more into his work and nearly ran himself ragged because overperforming was more acceptable than underperforming... and it was a distraction.

Leader or a follower: Not as much of a follower as everyone in the First Order wanted him to believe-- he’s a leader in his heart, it’s why he did so well as a Captain. He’s the kind of leader who will listen to those who follow and if they have valid concerns or a better idea, then so be it.

Are they 'big picture' or 'little details': Big picture... sometimes little details, but usually big picture.

What kind of energy level does your character typically display: Back in the Order he actually had... alot of energy. He trained alot of kids, it was kind of necessary. It was a more contained sort-- nothing chaotic, but you could practically feel it when in his presence. Now...? He’s tired. Depression and the such has worn him out. But when he finds a task and dives into it, forgets everything...? He’s back to that level of energy he once had.

Describe their sense of humor: Self-deprecating. Also, dad jokes but you don’t get those as frequently as you probably could-- again, FO shit. He also has a thing for irony, hah.

[ Hobbies ]

- carving: It’s something he had to do to survive back on Jakku, but has since turned it into a more proper hobby. Though he does usually sell the toys and such he carves, it’s not uncommon to see him gifting them to children who show extreme interest in them or to otherwise help distract / comfort them.

- cooking: Another thing he’d learned originally solely for survival, and something he’d been hesitant on exploring-- perhaps out of fear of messing up-- he actually picks it up rather quickly and loves to make food for others, especially those he cares about.

- does teaching count?: Especially with children, Archex has a love for teaching things. Even just something simple. It’s one thing the First Order never managed to take away from him.

tagged by @irrfahrer�� <3

#ooc — 🔪 menace #long post #??#yeah #about archex

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anxresi · 4 years ago

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Chloe’s Last Straw

Synopsis:

Chloe is guilty of many things in her life. But not this. Never this. So when her mother says something unforgivable to a person she'd usually consider an enemy, it's up to her to put things right. Grab your popcorn folks, and get ready for a roasting. Written for Blackout Tuesday.

..............................

Caline Bustier sighed in exasperation, wondering how her once promising career as an educator had stuck her with this… the most ill-disciplined, out-of-control bunch of students she’d ever had to guide since her formative years as a kindergarten coordinator.

But even those young rapscallions had some level of respect for their elders, whereas the current batch of alleged ‘maturer’ teens…

They couldn’t even raise their heads for role-call in the morning.

“Max! Stop playing with that flying toy this second ! Mylene, Ivan… you can kiss each other during recess! Return to your desks now ! Nathanael! Put down those pencils and listen to me! Lila, I know you said you suffer from ADHD, but until I see a doctor’s note, I expect you to respond immediately when I call your name! Honestly, it’s like trying to herd cats! And where on Earth are…”

“I’m here! I’m here!!” As if in answer to her request, Adrien Agreste bustled in just then, out-of-breath and apparently with a ready-made excuse to explain his absence. “Dawn fashion shoot… then piano recital… early morning practice… stop me falling behind. A-Apologies Miss Bustier… you know how it is with my father…”

“Hmm, yes… I’m afraid I do .” The frowning teacher gave an understanding nod, for Gabriel Agreste’s huge expectations for his son often led to constant late arrivals for his son. “I would say ‘try not to let it happen again’, but something tells me it’s out of my hands. Oh well, at least you haven’t missed any actual lesson time this week. Go and sit down, please. Now I wonder where…”

“ Argh ! S-Sorry Miss! Mom got sick… and usually she handles the morning deliveries… so I had to take a quick detour on my way here… and…” bang

At least, that’s the sound effect there would’ve been, if a stumbling Marinette Dupain-Cheng hadn’t been caught by Adrien on her inevitable descent to the floor. Right place, right time.

Still didn’t stop her blushing like a stoplight though.

“A-Adrien!! Gulp. H-Hi. ” The blunette gave a passable impression of a fish out of water.

“Hey there! F-Funny the places we run into each other, isn’t it?” Adrien seemed equally struck for what he wanted to say.

“ Ahem !” That was the sound of an impatient teacher, who obviously had no romance in her soul and was eager to restart the headcount. “If you two are quite finished with your impromptu act, you can save it for the talent show next month. Take your respective seats so we can get on. Wait…”

Glancing at Adrien And Marinette’s chairs had revealed something unprecedented in the recent history of this hallowed halls of education. In fact, so unbelievable was it, Miss Bustier had to rub her eyes twice just to make sure what she saw wasn’t just another product of her espresso-infused imagination.

For it would appear as though young Agreste and Dupain-Cheng, by some measure the most tardy pupils Caline Bustier had ever known, were not among the last ones to arrive that incredible day.

No, that dubious honor belonged to none other than the students the aforementioned pair shared a desk with, namely Nino Lahiffe and Alya Cesaire.

W-What the… the panicking teacher’s look of astonishment was completely forgivable, as both Marinette and Adrien made good their escape. I’ve never known anything like this to happen before. It’s most unlike them. I just hope they’re okay. Maybe, if they’re not here soon, I should ask the headmaster if…

Miss Bustier’s short soliloquy was interrupted by an unpleasant shrieking noise as a familiar pair strode in. The high-pitched noise made the hairs on her neck stand on end and shattered the formerly serene atmosphere of the classroom once and for all.

“ Dahling . You know I wouldn’t go back to New York without saying goodbye to my precious Coraline, don’t you sweetheart? I might be away for quite a while this time, even past Christmas, but you understand, right? If I’m not there to personally introduce my new range of spangly negligees to the world at Fashion Week, my competitors might steal my thunder! I might even be bumped off the front page of Vogue! And you remember what I’ve told you every day, since the blessed occasion you were born, whenever that was…”

“Yes, mother. ‘If you’re not somebody, then you’re nobody.’ I get it. But do you ‘get’: my name isn’t ‘Coraline’, it’s Chloe . Coraline is that so-called kids movie we saw years ago, the one that was so scary I nearly wet… you know what, n-never mind.”

The loud screech of Audrey Bourgeois’s voice was almost enough to give poor Miss Bustier a migraine, as if the prospect of trying to teach her disruptive daughter good manners wasn’t difficult enough. Why did this have to be the one day I forgot to bring my aspirin to class with me? Tell me, what did I do to deserve this? Did I walk under a ladder yesterday? Did I crack a mirror, or step on a gypsy’s foot by mistake? Please, if I am cursed for whatever reason, let me know how I can fix it. For the love of…

“Mrs Bourgeois! What an unple… u-unexpected pleasure!” The rapidly unraveling teacher put on her fakest, friendliest face to welcome the surprise guest. “How are you? When was the last time we met? I seem to recall it was at the salon…”

“What was that? Who is this strange person heckling me, dear?” Audrey pulled down her shades to stare closer, as Chloe whispered in her mom’s ear. “Oh yes, your public school educator. Still with the red hair I see, ugh . Yes, I remember… I told her to dye her roots blonde like me if she wanted a better job than the impossible task of instructing these degenerates. Because as we all know: ‘blondes have more fun’. Isn’t that right, Chlorine?”

Whether Chloe was still sore from Audrey getting her name wrong twice now, or just plain embarrassed by her female parent’s condescending behavior, who knows. She didn’t repeat her mother’s mantra again like last time though, and instead stood there nervously with her hands in her chino pockets, portraying quite an un-Chloe lack of confidence.

“Well anyway, if you simply must know Miss… Bustier, was it?” An uninterested Audrey inquired, proving the rumor true that her daughter’s name was the only one she regularly forgot. “I was just seeing my precious off, before catching the afternoon plane to uptown New York. It’s just wonderful there in the summer, with all the glitterati in attendance for the various functions. You really must try it, darling… oh sorry I forgot: on your meager salary, it might prove to be an impossible dream. Still, we can’t all be as ridiculously wealthy as me and my husband, can we?”

“Y-Yes, I suppose so.” Miss Bustier desperately kept her sentences as short as possible. She didn’t want the dreadful woman to stay there a second longer than absolutely necessary. “W-Well, I don’t want to keep you, if you have things you need to…”

“So, these are the local children you go to school with, dear?” Deciding she was tired with Miss Bustier’s ‘rambling’, a bored Audrey fixed a critical eye over the classroom. “Well, I must say, I’ve seen far better. A poor crop if ever there was one… why your father refused to let you be privately educated is beyond me. I suspect it’s because he wants to boost his election prospects by letting you ‘mingle with the common folk’, but is it really worth it? I hate to think the effect such distasteful surroundings must be having on your delicate young mind.”

Outraged gasps erupted from all around the room, and if Chloe could’ve jumped into a fifty-foot hole never to emerge, she likely would’ve done so with relish. Alas, this was not an option, and so once more the twitching girl was forced to deal with the consequences of her mother’s shameless arrogance and total lack of volume control.

But just as even the usually docile Miss Bustier was about to say something stronger to defend her visibly irritated students, the last two attendees emerged through the door, puffing and panting as they arrived at long last. Also noticeably, covered in what can only be described as black oil stains.

First up was Nino Lahiffe, who paused slightly to catch his breath and adjust his cap. Then came his girlfriend Alya Cesaire just behind, who despite being pretty exhausted herself, began to speak “N-Nino’s dad gave us a lift, but the car broke down. We had to help him fix it…”

Suddenly Audrey Bourgeois, obviously on a roll, glanced behind her with a pronounced sneer. Upon seeing the pair in question, her expression of disapproval grew even more pronounced…

And what she said next was truly shocking. Except, maybe not her.

“Who might these ‘people’ be, then? While I think it’s laudable you’ll let just about anyone into these types of schools Bustier, I hope you realize some individuals can’t be taught. Just look at those hopeless youths, for example. Obviously from a rough neighborhood, probably down to one parent each, deprived of everything to judge by their filthy clothing, and they can’t even be in class on time. Probably wasting their lives on the street listening to ‘wrap’ music, or whatever it’s called. As if this sort even need an education, in their future careers as minimum wage cleaners or drug-dealers. Really dear, you’d be better off kicking them out and investing in school uniforms instead…”

“ That’s enough !!”

Stunned faces all around. Jaws dropping to the floor. A few people on the verge of fainting, at the identity of the person who uttered those two screamed words.

It wasn’t Miss Bustier, who was prepared to declare her response by more physical means (a hard fist to the face of an unrepentant bigoted snob, if you must know).

Not Alya, who looked just about ready to burst into tears, being held by her apoplectic boyfriend in his arms (otherwise, he might’ve formed an unstoppable tag-team with his teacher to kick some serious a**).

The surprise shouter was none other than Chloe Bourgeois, who having finally been pushed to her absolute limit at her mother’s complete lack of respect for anyone besides her own reflection, had finally snapped.

And boy, was it something to behold.

“Mom, as I’m sure anyone who isn’t you would agree, I’ve put up with a lot over the years. The insults. The dirty looks. Long absences. Always getting my name wrong. Never telling me you love me. Raising me to think ‘sacking’ anyone who disagrees with you is permissible behavior. I can tolerate all this and more, but there is one thing where I must draw the line. You want to know what that is?”

“ Must we get into this now, dear? You know I like first pick of the best VIP seats…” There Mrs Bourgeois went again, thinking this was just another conversation where she could brush off her daughter’s genuine concerns.

Well, in this case, she was about to get ‘schooled’ (pun not intended).

“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. It’s racism Mom, plain and simple, and I won’t stand for it! Whatever problems I might’ve had with Alya and Nino in the past, and believe me there’s been plenty, I’ve never treated them differently due to the color of their skin! How shallow can you get?! And coming from me, this is the biggest of big deals!”

It was as if someone had lit a fuse underneath Audrey’s designer shoes, as the formerly unflappable woman suddenly recoiled in shock. “W-What… well I never ! How could you say such terrible things to me, Chlorophyll? Why, if you weren’t my own flesh and blood, I’d sue you on the spot! I’ll have you know, some of my best workers are blac…”

“Yeah, ‘workers’. You just made my point for me. That’s all they are to you, aren’t they? I’ve seen the way you treat them differently to even our other staff, calling them ‘tanned’ and ‘colored’ right to their faces. They don’t say anything because they don’t want to lose their jobs, and shamefully neither do I because frankly, you scare me sometimes. Well, that ends this second . The instant you behave that way again, I’ll be on you like a ton of bricks. Also, do you wanna know something else?”

“H-Huh?” Audrey’s demeanor had abruptly switched from coolness personified to utter confusion. Being called out so blatantly in front of a bunch of ‘underprivileged ragamuffins’ by her petulant child was not on the itinerary today.

“I’ll spoil it for you again. Father hates your attitude even more than I do! Whenever you finish treating the staff like the dirt under your feet, he goes to each one in turn to apologize personally. As well as give them a few extra euros that month, as if that’ll make up for the abuse they have to suffer. But look who I’m talking to! The woman who thinks Chinese and Japanese people are practically the same! And people wonder where I got such a stupid idea from…”

‘I-I…” For the first time in her life, Mrs Bourgeois was completely lost for words. All she could do was stare dumbly and numbly at her irrepressible daughter, as the young girl finished her extended lecture with a flourish.

“Finally, I suppose I should let you know about the head cook at our hotel. You know, the one who you think makes the best meals around for Daddy and his clients at short notice? Or when you have to entertain people, and she puts on a spread that’ll put any other caterer in the city to shame? That’s Mrs Cesaire, the mother of Alya over there. How do you think she’s going to feel, when she hears you racially insulted her daughter so terribly in front of her entire class? I don’t know, but if I were you I’d check my food for signs of saliva for a while. Also, put your lawyers on stand-by, because I think it may be heading for court. And if you want to know who’s side I’ll be on, here’s a clue…”

At this juncture, Chloe put her mouth to her now trembling mother’s ear to whisper sharply:

“...It won’t be yours!”

That was all it took for Mrs Audrey Bourgeois to collapse on the floor, in such a comatose state that not even the strongest smelling salts around could revive her in the foreseeable future.

...Not that anyone really wanted to do that, of course. Even the school nurse balked at helping someone who’d been so vile to the innocent students there. So, in an unconscious heap on the floor she stayed.

In the end, she missed her flight and the free expensive champagne on offer. Oh dear. How sad. Never mind.

As for Chloe, having said her piece and blithely sauntered over to her seat next to Sabrina afterwards, she was most surprised by the deafening cheer that subsequently erupted, as well as the much better treatment she got for an entire week afterwards by everyone present (even from Marinette).

As unusual as her newfound popularity was though…

She could quite easily get used to it.

If only she could master this whole ‘being nice’ thing.

..............................

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Remember everyone, having White Privilege isn’t just about paying lip service to the concerns of minorities and posting black squares and hashtags one Tuesday to show you care…

It’s about using your advantageous platform all year round to speak up to defend those in need, whoever they are. After all. if activism was just listening to others whilst doing precisely nothing to change the world outside the confines of social media, how are we gonna change the world?

Food for thought. Hope you enjoyed the story, which (I hope) got the point across well enough. Whatever you think, let me know… and thanks for reading! :)

#chloe bourgeois #audrey bourgeois #Nino lahiffe #alya cesaire #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #adrien agreste #Miss Bustier #ladybug #miraculous ladybug #miraculous #blackout tuesday #blackouttuesday

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blu-joons · 5 years ago

Text

BTS Reaction: You Have NF1

Jin:

Your head fell back over his chest, trying to keep your eyes on the television. Jin noticed you struggling, your eyes were getting sore after the long day the two of you had had. “Are you tired?” He asked, watching as your head nodded.

His hand ran along your waist, kissing the top of your head. “Just go to sleep, please, you don’t need to stay awake for this.”

“No, I’m fine, just a bit of an ache, that’s all,” you assured him. As much as you wanted to shut your eyes, you couldn’t fall asleep on him, it wasn’t even night-time yet.

“If you’re sore then make things better, I don’t want you to make things worse for yourself, I really don’t mind,” he reminded you, running his hands through your hair to try and ease you into sleep, lulling you into a dream.

You sighed, knowing it was only a matter of time. “Let me help you sleep.”

“Just do what you’re doing,” you told him, bringing his hands to the sweet spot you had, allowing your eyes to droop shut.

“I’m right here jagi.”

Yoongi:

His hands grabbed onto your arm, spotting your café-au-lait spots for the first time. You yanked your arm away, placing it into the sleeve of your jumper. “I’ve never seen these before, when did you get these?”

You looked across, meeting his eyes. “I’ve always had then, I forgot they are there most of the time, it’s just difficult to explain to new people.”

“Are they sore? It looks like it could give you some grief,” he commented, resting both his hands over your bicep. You smiled softly, shaking your head.

“They’ve never been painful, it’s just skin really, just a bit more pale then most of the rest of my skin. It’s nothing to ever worry about, really,” you assured him, resting against his chest, feeling his arms wrap around you.

He nodded, pecking your lips, “well it’s good to know you’re not suffering from it.”

“I’m all good, just one of those things I’ve got to get on with,” you smiled. He looked down at you, an admirable grin across his face.

“You’re a trooper, honestly.”

Hoseok:

A harsh sting along the side of your neck made you fall onto the sofa, clutching at the sore spot. Hobi heard your gasp, running over to make sure that you were alright. “What is it? Are you alright? Speak to me, what’s going on?”

You shook your head, resting a hand over his. “I’m fine, just the tumour stinging a bit, it’s nothing to worry about Hobi.”

“Are you sure? The way you reacted didn’t seem like it was just nothing,” he spoke, bringing your hands up to press a soft kiss to the back of them.

“No, it’s just one of those things. I’ll be fine in a minute; I think it was just a shock. I guess it’s just been a little bit sorer recently,” you assured him. Once he’d laid you down, and gave you a minute, the pain began to subside.

Seeing you smile instantly relaxed him too. “Everything better now? Need some time?”

“It’s a lot better, just calm down and don’t worry, I can look after myself,” you chuckled, brushing your hands through his soft hazel locks.

“You’re good, so I’m good too.”

Namjoon:

You sighed noticing the swelling that had grown overnight, Namjoon knew instantly by the look on your face that it was the problem, it was the worst symptom you suffered from. “You’re still beautiful you know, just calm down.”

Your head shook, turning away from him. “I hate when I swell, it makes me look terrible, it’s just a bit deflating too.”

“Stop this, don’t beat yourself up like this. Just because you have a little struggle doesn’t mean you’re not beautiful. It’s hard for you, I know, but you’ve coped for so long, so well, just stop fretting,” he assured you, kissing the top of your head.

“Sorry, it’s just annoying, that’s all. Recently it’s been getting a bit troubling, I don’t really know how to react,” you sighed, resting against his chest.

“I know, it’s hard for you, but I’m really proud of how well you’re doing. You’ve just got to carry on, you’re good at that, it’s all you’ve ever know.”

He sympathised, naturally, he felt terrible for you. “You’re right, can we do something today?”

“Of course, we can jagiya.”

Jimin:

He chuckled at the meme on his phone, holding it out for you to have a look at it. Your eyes squinted to try and understand what was on the screen, the image was blurred. “Can you read the words out to me?” You asked nicely of him.

He did so, but he was worried about the strain on your eyes. “I can’t lie jagi, I’m getting worried about you, you can normally do this with ease.”

“I don’t know, my vision hasn’t been great recently, it was just blurred. I’ll be fine though,” you assured him, allowing your eyes to shut for a few moments.

“I know that it’s one of those things, but it is really beginning to worry me. You shouldn’t be struggling this much; it’s getting a bit ridiculous now.” He was full of concern, but you couldn’t help but feel he was slightly angry with you.

You sighed, glancing away from him, “I’m trying my hardest Jimin, I can’t help these things.”

“You can’t, I know. I’m sorry. I just wish that thing could be easier for you, it’s not easy seeing you struggle,” he whispered.

“We’ve just got to get through things, together.”

Taehyung:

It had played on his mind the entire time since your check up at the doctors, your weight had taken a considerate drip, something that had been playing on his mind ever since. “I can tell you want to say something to me Taehyung.”

He sighed, nodding his head. “Your weight, it just worried me a little bit. I didn’t realise you’d lost so much weight. Are you looking after yourself?”

“Of course. It’s just a symptom of all of this, sometimes I lose sometimes, sometimes I gain, there’s nothing you need to worry about. I’m happy and healthy,” you ensured.

“If you need any help with anything, diet, exercise, reassurance, you know I’m here for you. I didn’t realise that it was something related, I was concerned that you’d been struggling,” he smiled, resting his hand gently over your thigh.

You nodded, grinning back at him. “If I need you to worry about me, then I’ll let you know.”

“As long as you do, I only want the best for you. Just please be careful, don’t let things get too out of hand,” he requested.

“I won’t, I promise.”

Jungkook:

Your groans continued to grow at the pounding in your head. What started off as a little headache soon turned into a serious migraine, leaving you laid out across your bed in a darkened room. “What’s going on?”

You hadn’t realised him come home, switching the light on much to your disapproval. “Please turn that thing off, my head is pounding.”

“Sorry, yeah, of course,” he fumbled, turning the light off, laying down beside you. “Come give me a cuddle, let me look after you,” he smiled.

You’d come home from work with a bit of a struggle, but once you finally gave yourself time to sit down did the migraine finally begin. “I just want this migraine to end Kook, they’ve been getting more and more regular recently.”

He sighed, kissing the top of your head. “It’ll go soon, I’m home now to take care of you.”

“That’s true, your cuddles always make me feel a little bit easier,” you smiled, running your hand along his chest. “It’s nice having you home.”

“It’s nice to be home.”

---

Masterlist

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koholinthibiscus · 4 years ago

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My Tumblr Journey and mental health

What the hell is this? Where am I? What do I do and how do I do it?

You often hear of people getting to their 30′s and feeling more comfortable in their skin and just owning, accepting and loving themselves. Well, maybe it’s because I need psychotherapy, and maybe it’s because I’ve come into adulthood in a period with huge economic and political upheaval as well as a pandemic; but I don’t feel that way. I feel simultaneously old and young. clueless about young things (like tmblr) and clueless about old things (like mortgages... even though I have one)

I’ve deleted Facebook and use twitter sparingly these days so the reason joined this site is to purely vent. To write my thoughts out and send them into the internet ether to languish, probably ignored. But just getting it out might make all the difference to my physical and mental well being so I’m just going to give it a shot and see where things go.

I feel terribly alone and isolated. I have a type of social anxiety that you probably wouldn't notice. You might just think I’m an idiot or a bitch. You might barely acknowledge my existence. I’m pretty average so I may not register. But when I’m done talking I will think and think and think about it. How did I come across? why the fuck did I say that? You think I’m a fucking idiot don’t you? I will simply torture myself forever and ever. And I avoid social interaction, especially with new people, as much as I can. I can just about manage in a workplace setting but all my energy for this is taken up with that.

I feel unheard, unseen and unsatisfied. I feel a lump in my throat and a weight in my chest. I feel exhausted and headachey most of the time. I can’t bear this current situation. I have a visceral hate for my country. I can’t bear sad news. I can’t cope with news that implicates humans as ignorant, unsympathetic, inhumane creatures. I feel deep sadness at the existential threat our planet faces and confusion and sadness when I realise that barely anyone in my real life feels the same urgency and guilt. I have changed my lifestyle (probably not enough) to try and alleviate the guilt but it hasn’t worked.

So I get into things to try and distract myself; fandoms, stories, subjects, video games, novels and I feel sad about it because I feel useless “not good at it” or that they’re a waste of time. I hate myself so much that my hobbies make me sad. How stupid is that? I’ve recently been getting into DnD during lock down and watching critical role. I enjoy it but it makes me sooooo sad and jealous that I don’t have a strong friend group like that who can enjoy playing DnD with the same level of fun, ease and camaraderie. It literally hurts my heart and I’ve been feeling weird for days. So I’ve tried to make myself better by consuming things. I’ve bought a new set of dice and bought some unrelated books.

I skip from one subject or thing to the next feeling unsatisfied and discontent. I don’t practice things, I don’t finish things. I give up. And I feel like I’m giving up at life. I am lazy and stupid. My hobbies, likes and interests feel like a plaster over a gaping wound and was working but it’s not any more. Getting lost in a fantasy world just makes me feel sad I can’t create my own or be with a group of friends, either on line or on person where I can create together.

I am petrified of parent hood. I have an amazing 3 year old. She is a marvel. But I have a constant dread of failing her. Doing too much, doing too little. I want her to strive for happiness. Take on hard things, work at things till she’s good at them, whatever it may be. I honestly don’t care what as long as she enjoys it, has a passion for it and is ultimately happy. I want to push her, but I don’t want to push her too much. I worry about sending wrong messages. I worry about not doing enough with her. I do not want to bring her up the way that my mother brought me up. I am terrified of repeating the same mistakes.

I’m ultimately a kind person who is trying their best but can’t unleash my true potential due to depression, anxiety and self-confidence issues. I get so angry and sad at people who don’t follow the same ideals as me. which.... isn’t ideal. I can’t stand TERFs, racists, ableists, misogynists, right wing people, climate change deniers, ignorant people. I can’t stand it when people think that poor people only have themselves to blame. I hate capitalism and colonialism. I want to change the way the world operates even if it is to my detriment as a white CIS English women living in comfort. I feel trapped in suburbia where nothing changes and no one looks or is different.

I don’t mean to fetishize certain communities with that statement and I reliaze that it’s probably ignorant of me to suggest that everyone is the same too, given that I struggle to interact with people. And I’m not suggesting that I’m some sort of special flower or that ‘I’m not like other women’ (eeww) either, I know there are people out there I would probably get on with but like I say, I struggle.

It frustrates me when people don’t feel the same way politically. I think that people’s politics are based on their morals so I struggle with conservatives for example. I don’t understand them or where they come from. I want things that people need to be owned by the public and free at the point of access, healthcare being the main one and I fear for the future of the NHS. Yes, even if it means higher taxes (but I obviously want the super rich taxed more) I don’t believe billionaires should exist. I want universal basic income. If the human race keeps breeding, if we keep suffering from pandemics, if we progress technologically to the point where mechanization is even more prevalent, we will not need people to have jobs. We need UBI to level the playing field. And I want a vegan world. All of the above makes my head swim with anger and despair. What type of world will my child have to endure when she gets to my age? I fucking hope it’s better than this. I can honestly say that I believe I am on the right side of history with my politics. It is ultimately about being kind and humane. But no... I’m probably seen as a soft SJW snowflake keyboard warrior twat by my family (which is why I went off facebook). Even though I have a masters in Gender studies and a career in social justice work, but sure, I’m just after the ‘internet points’ or want to look ‘woke’. I feel like not many people truly know me and if they do know all of the above and don’t like what they see, I don’t know man, that kills me. I want people to think well of me. I want people to think I am a good person.

I could yap on for ages about this honestly but it would make little sense.

I think I wanted to start this as a place to get my feelings down because I am starting a journey of therapy soon. My sessions should begin in September but I feel the need to get stuff out now. I’m having a bit of a shit time in my head right now and I felt like I would burst.

I’m already worried that I will appear stupid and self centered. There is nothing particularly wrong with my life. I have a good job that I love but am also petrified of it and of getting it wrong so I self sabotage, worry and don’t believe in my abilities and I’ve been doing that since college. (I need to un pack how I feel about work and my actions around it, I have a lot of thoughts, maybe for another time)

I pick the spots on my face till they become angry red welts, I pick the skin around my nails till they get infected and then I hate myself for how I look, even though it was my fault in the first place. I don’t shower, don’t wash my face, don’t get enough sleep then look in the mirror and see my greasy lank hair, baggy grey eyes and bad skin and I just hate myself. Is this an analogy for the entirety of my personality? I am my own worst enemy and I need to give myself a fucking break. Easier said than done.

Things to unpack in therapy:

My work

My politics and how I interact, deal with people who don’t feel the same way as me

My child hood and family dynamics - It’s fucked up y’all.

My Child

My husband

My past relationship

The sick thing I do at night when i think about horrible things, like the death of my child for no god damn reason. (Is it punishment?)

It’s frustrating being so aware of my issues and not feeling able to do anything about it.

It’s probably an effect of lock down but I have been feeling really bad consistently for a very long period of time now and it’s exhausting. I always have peaks and troughs, feel great to OK for sometimes a good few months then it just comes down on me like a bag of hammers and I feel like death for 2-4 weeks.

I’ve been having those hiccups more often and for longer. I’m so fucking tired man. A couple of months ago a I had a terrible headache for 4 days, could barely move and felt tearful all the time. I just thought it was a migraine attack at the time (which I very very rarely have) but I coincided with a particular event that I’m not ready to talk about (It’s really not that juicy it’s quite fucking pathetic actually) and I think it was a major depressive episode.

I think I’m done now, I’m emotionally exhausted after reading this through and my throat hurts from trying not to cry. Maybe this is the start of my tumblr journey maybe I’ll delete it all in a few days I don’t know. I had to try something.

#mentalhealth depresson anxiety tumblrnovice isthishowhastgaswork?

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theateared · 5 years ago

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You’re One Hell of a Guy. ❜

Summary: But deep inside, you and I are still the same kids.

Going to Murr’s house was something he barely had time for, but he refused to leave him hanging. Though the times that he could stop by properly were few and far between, he’d become adamant on at least trying to make them happen.

Murr is, after all, my best friend. I want to see him.

As he took a swig of his coffee ( Murr hated the stuff but kept some in his cupboard specifically for when he visited ), Kuro leaned on the table, cheek cradled in his hand. The early hours were always the best time for him to visit, the time he was the least likely to be pulled away. Over time, Murr had grown less frustrated with him. He’d realised that it wasn’t his fault when he was called to action. He was yanked away from everybody equally-- even his beloved wife suffered for it.

“I’m glad ya could come,” Murr admitted, sitting at the table with a cup of hot chocolate between his hands. “I was feelin’ kinda lonely. Feels like ya’ve been a little MIA recently.”

"Just work,” Kuro replied with a heavy sigh, trying to will the recurring ache in his forehead away. The last thing he wanted was for the little time he did have with his friend to be plagued by the dull thrum of an oncoming migraine. Gently does it. Pushing hard only makes it stick more. “Real fucked up case. Some kinda gang activity in Vidé. At first we thought it was just some kids fuckin’ around but it turns out they have some real dons runnin’ the show. Shit’s a little more serious now.”

Murr sniffed derisively. "Yeesh. Sounds like a fuckin’ party.”

"Psh, yer invited if y’feel left out.”

“No thanks, pal. I like havin’ my organs in my body? Ya know-- where they belong?"

Kuro couldn’t help but snicker at the facetious remark. The knowledge that most Huros had on gang activity was incredibly basic, based almost solely on fiction. It was all "buying hearts” and “selling drugs”, boisterous street rats and crime lords that struck and then vanished like ghosts. From a place so peaceful, most had no clue about the horrors that occurred outside of their cosy borders. Sadly, it was Huron that was the exception, not the districts that were chock-full of violence.

The topic of his most recent play came up, and he watched as Murr became excitable, one leg crossing over his lap as his hands began to join the conversation. He’d always been the type to talk with his body too. Somewhere along the way, Kuro found himself zoning out. Something disconcerting had been on his mind lately. Though he’d never stray from his wife, he’d been thinking a lot about Murr lately. Innocently, almost in passing, but frequently nonetheless. The things he never said to his friend were beginning to irritate him, like a rash that wouldn’t go away, and an alien pang of longing arose whenever they shared space like this. You’re just so easy to be around now that I’ve allowed myself to be. I feel regret every day now for the way that I treated you. Maybe if I hadn’t been so one-dimensional, I wouldn’t be feeling the way I do now--

“Helloooo? Huron t’Sheriff?” He refocused to see Murr leaning over the table, waving a hand almost desperately in his face. Despite this, his expression was full of mirth. ❛❛ Damn! If ya really think my ideas are that borin’ ya can just say so! ❜❜

❛❛ No, it ain’t that. It’s just… I’m thinkin’ again. ❜❜

His eyes closed as he felt Murr flick his forehead. “Well don’t. Ya get sad when ya think too much. I don’t wanna have ta tell yer wife that I made ya cry, again, so ya’d better stop bein’ a dumbass.”

“Yeah yeah… I get it.” Maybe I don’t. Maybe we should finally talk about this. I have some conflicting feelings about you. It’s making me feel like a bad husband. A bad person, even. "Actually...” For some reason, he felt unbearably nervous all of a sudden, heart speeding up as he thought about how best to pose the question. Eventually, he settled on an inoffensive: "Can we talk?” He watched Murr’s face fall based on his body language, waving a hand at him quickly. “It’s nothin’ bad. I don’t think. It’s just… somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about lately. I feel like I should be honest with y’.”

"Okay...” Murr tugged at his collar briefly, as if to get air beneath it. "Yeesh... way t’make a guy nervous.”

Kuro couldn’t help but chuckle, fingers drumming soundlessly against the pot of his mug. He wasn’t entirely sure why the idea of saying something about this was filling him with so much apprehension. It wasn’t like anything was going to come of it. Not only was he happily married, he was almost certain that Murr wouldn’t be able to live with him after the things he’d done. Forgiven he may have been, but it didn’t mean that the pain has miraculously been undone. He’d still prompted Murr to almost take his life; had still put his parents-- his second family-- through the terrible strain of thinking they were going to lose their son; had still treated him with aggravated fury every time he’d tried to come back into his life despite having no right to. In truth, it wasn’t a matter of whether he was truly bisexual or not-- it was that Murr was too good for him.

❛❛ … when we were kids… y’know, befer everythin’ went t’shit, I sorta-- ❜❜ He caught himself then. He almost wanted to laugh at his feeble attempt to utter an age-old confession. It was as if he was 140 all over again, flushed and stammering through a halfhearted ‘’I like you!’’. It was this thought that made him feel better, a tiny sliver of a smile forming on his face as he finished with a blunt: ❛❛ I had a crush on you. A pretty big one. ❜❜

❛❛ Aheh… this’s a joke, right? ❜❜

❛❛ No. ❜❜

He watched his friend’s body language closely. On occasion, his face revealed itself to him too, but now was not one of those times. He suddenly became very closed, as if trying to fold himself into a small cube and slot himself somewhere safe from his gaze. The quiet lingered like a cloud, uncomfortable silence stretching between them like wire, and in his head Kuro could hear the same phrase repeating over and over: please say something, please say something, please say something, plea--

❛❛ Oh. Pfft. Me too! ❜❜

He all but gawked at how easy it was for Murr to say such a thing. Though he knew that Murr had never been the type to act apologetically, there were some things the man treated with an air of secrecy. His sexuality, for whatever reason, was one of them. It wasn’t as if Huron was rich with homophobia; he just didn’t seem to like labels like a lot of other people did. For that reason, despite being his best friend, Kuro still wasn’t quite sure where on the spectrum Murr sits. It didn’t matter, wouldn’t affect their relationship any in the slightest, but he was curious. He’d almost been curious about his own leaning lately. Had he not withdrawn from Murr during his tens, could they maybe have forged some sort of romance together? There were certainly feelings involved, and now that he knew they were requited he had to wonder if either of them would have been bold enough to say something at some point. It was this constant lack of knowledge that was turning his brain to mush. The relationship he consciously desired with Murr was nothing more than a friendship, but his subconscious seemed to have other things in mind.

For some reason, he felt a dull form of elation that caused his pulse to flutter. It wasn’t as if he was still in love-- he never would have burdened a woman with a ring if he was-- but having Murr back in his life again, so close and personal after years of sombre silence, raised some primitive questions in his gut. Could we have been together? Could that ring have been yours, or would college have split us apart in a different way? Would we not have aged well and not remained friends at all? Did I need to lose you to be close with you again later? What would have become of us? Do I strictly like women? Or was my attraction to you a one-off thing based on friendship? What do I like?

"Really?”

"Well duh,” Murr chirped airily, hopping up from his seat and beginning to rinse his mug clean. “We spent all our time together! And even back then, you were all stoic ‘n’ weird-- I was drawn t’that like a magnet. It was interestin’. You were different from the other kids. So was I. It made sense ta me. Us against the world kinda thing, ya know?” There was a pause as he set his cup down on the drying rack, eyes glued to one drop of water running slowly along the handle until it fell and met the drain below. In a way, it reminded him of what he thought college would be like: as if he’d be lowered from his awkward tenner suspension and be reunited with souls that his could understand. After a moment of thought, he picked it back up, leaving it in his lap to fiddle with. “… maybe that was why it hurt me so much when ya wouldn’t answer my calls or hang out with me much. Maybe I was a little homesick.”

"Homesick?”

"Yeah. You were my home, Kuro. No two ways about it.”

He should have learned by now to not grow stunned by Murr’s poetic brevity, but he’d always been partial to a heartfelt yet conveniently short verse. You’re one hell of a guy, Murr.

“... ‘n’ now?”

There was a pregnant pause, one that latched onto his insecurities and fed much like a parasite would. For some reason or another, a heavy sense of dread opened up inside of him, that familiar black hole sucking the life out of everything around him as it so often did. Then, all at once, Murr released the tension in his shoulders with a shrug.

“Nothin’s changed about that, bud.” He moved then, perching on the counter much like a child would, long legs kicking gently. “... are we good? Why’d ya feel the need t’bring that up? It ain’t like we’re the same people.” His vision wasn’t impaired the same way Kuro’s was; he could see his face clearly, knew the creases of worry in his brow almost as well as he knew his own hands.

“I worry that you are the same person,” he replied quietly, almost as if he’d been holding his breath prior to admitting it. “‘n’ sometimes I worry that I am too.”

The air fell still, both men cloaked in silence, and only when Kuro felt something wet on his face did he look up. Murr’s face was clear - and it was pissed. The empty cup in his hand sat tilted in the Sheriff’s direction, telling him plainly that he’d filled it and then flung it at him as if he’d desperately needed a bath. Kuro wasn’t one to flinch often, but the scorn in his dearest friend’s eyes shook him to the core.

“Ya keep sayin’ stupid shit like that, yer gonna flood my house,” he said through clenched teeth. There was no way in hell that he could tell the other man why he was so angry. It would ruin everything he’d worked so hard to piece back together. “If ya think I’m selfish enough t’split you ‘n’ yer wife up fer some dumb childhood crush then think again.” The words hurt to say, an all-too-familiar pain blossoming in his chest like a thorn-covered rose, but he knew it was the right thing to do. If he was ever to tell Kuro that he felt similarly-- that their convoluted history kept him awake at night, that he still fantasised about holding his hand sometimes, that he tossed and turned some nights, unable to sleep, because all he could think about was the what if that had steadily consumed his life-- he knew that they could both be led down a very dark road. He didn’t believe in cheating, and he certainly didn’t believe in homewrecking. He also didn’t believe in Kuro’s self-esteem enough to think that he would be above doing either if he was to open the door for him. I’m saying this for you. Maybe you don’t realise it now but you will in time. “We’re not like that. It doesn’t matter how it was when we were kids. We’re not kids anymore. You left.” He internally cursed the bitterness in his voice at that, cursed the slight stiffen of Kuro’s shoulders even more. He continued before he could lose his nerve-- before he could truly do something stupid. “... and that’s just it, Kuro.” He forced himself to smile, though the expression looked crestfallen at best. “You’ve got somethin’ good now. So don’t throw it all away for a couple’a stupid kids that don’t even exist anymore, alright?”

Kuro stared at him a moment longer before averting his gaze completely. When he tried to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, he found that his face was blank once again. The static spiralled tauntingly ahead of him, the dreary squiggles ruining the clear picture he’d set his sights on just moments ago. Even your anger is better than the static. A large hand raised to wipe at his face, ridding it of the damp as best he could before he rose from his chair.

“Alright,” he said with a grunt, his usual monotone drawl returning with a vengeance. Murr’s right. Things are different now. Living in the past will only fuck up the present - and there’s a lot to fuck up now that I’m married. His coat was shrugged on, hands slid into his pockets. “... thanks fer the wake-up call. Yer right.”

“Of course I am.” He smiled wider despite the words twisting in his heart like a knife. It’s selfish, but I want you to stay. “Ya should go now. Yer wife’s gonna be askin’ where ya are again.”

A humourless laugh escaped the other man, head bobbing once in acknowledgement before he turned around and headed to the exit. “Remember t’mop yer floor by the way. Asshole.” The front door clicked shut behind him. It was quiet, but it echoed with an agonising finality in Murr’s head as the smile faded.

What was that? Was he trying to approach the topic of a relationship with me? Or did I make that up? Gah… it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. Like he’s always been.

He hated himself for the weakness that welled up in his eyes, hot and shameful as he tried desperately to keep himself from falling to pieces. It doesn’t take much these days. I used to be so much more durable. Now I’m all sensitive and lost. A palm dug stubbornly into one of his eyes, ridding it of tears, before he followed suit with the other. He didn’t feel much better with them dry, but he knew that he at least looked the part now. He hopped down from the counter, grabbing the mop from inside the utility cupboard, beginning to clean, the wet sound of water spreading across a surface filling his ears like white noise. He welcomed it, zoned out altogether, and by the time he stopped mopping, half an hour had flown by.

A vacant feeling had always been there since college, but it ebbed and flowed, came and went in waves, and it often left him stranded in a dangerous spot between ‘okay’ and ‘absolutely falling apart’. It was an emptiness he couldn’t quite explain; oxymoronic in that it was so void and yet so full, as if his head was closer to imploding with every second longer that it chose to reside inside of him. His heart felt like a rock, his brain a grenade. If only I could reach inside myself and pull the pin. I want to pull the pin. I have for a while.

When he put the mop back in its place, he thought only momentarily before stepping inside the cupboard himself, closing the door behind him. If I put myself away like a broom or a bottle of bleach, will people forget I exist until they need me again? What if I’m never needed again? Will I stay undiscovered in this closet until I die? The smell of chemicals and damp immediately rose to his attention, though it was a welcome distraction. His head met the closed door gently, eyes opening despite not being able to see anything. It was an accurate depiction of the void inside of him; that inky blackness that covered everything in a thick layer of nothing, as if all it touched simply ceased to exist

I don’t feel real. I can’t see. I can’t touch. Even the smell is beginning to fade away. I’m just an empty vessel in an empty space. A cat in a box that is both dead and alive at the same time. Tired bones rather than tired eyes.

At some point, he felt himself slip to the floor, content to remain in the dismal darkness a while longer. He hated that the only thing he could think of was him. Sitting there alone in the dark, wondering if he’d just ruined his one chance at true happiness, he felt both horribly and wonderfully alone.

#☆ — i never promised you your dream boy. ❜ ( main. )#☆ — i'm just here to destroy. ❜ ( ic. )#drabble *#🞮 — i wish i was as brave as my last name suggests. ❜ ( kuro. )#/ OOF FUCK #ALSO ALL DIALOGUE IS IN HURAL BUT OFC ENGLISH FOR THE DRABBLE

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strawbebbynya · 5 years ago

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I need cat help.

So, recently, I replaced my bed with a larger futon. This has all been fine and dandy, besides the lack of space but we’ve been making due. The problem is Percy, our cat.

Percy is a 2 year old tabby who loves to play with us. He’s used to rough housing and other kittens, and his old owners never disciplined him. He’s been getting better in some regards; he hasn’t outright attacked me in a while while I was walking to the bathroom, and he’s learned the noises he needs to make to get Hayley to put him down when he’s done, instead of just biting her.

But ever since we got the futon and moved things around, Percy’s gotten far more aggressive with me. I can’t sleep through the night, because it means accidentally moving and Percy attacking me, or screaming and clawing at me until I wake up to go to the bathroom. He’s attacked my legs, feet, arms, and has nearly caught my eye in the past. Just this morning, I was walking to the bathroom and he clamped his teeth and claws on my leg hard enough to leave teeth marks. When I fell asleep after work, he attacked my feet until I started waking up and then attacked my arm when I refused to move.

He’s violent, but we’ve been teaching him boundaries, but the way he’s been attacking me is brand new. I can’t get enough sleep at night, and it’s been showing; I’ve been near tears several times because I’ve been woken up, I’ve been snapping at my roommates, and suffering bad migraines. I’ve tried playing with him when he wakes me, before I go to sleep, spraying him with water, ignoring him, and kennelling him for a few minutes at a time (we only just started, but he’s been getting excited when I bring down the kennel.)

I don’t understand where this behavior has come from, and I’m quickly reaching the end of my rope. I just want to sleep in peace, without worrying about being woken up in pain. If you have any advice, please, please, DM me or something.

#animal behavior #animal help #cat behavior #cat help #I'm so tired #I have been driven near tears several times already

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kriscme · 6 years ago

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The next three chapters

Hi! Still working on this story. It won’t be up on AO3 until it’s finished. I like the option of going back to change things if it suits the plot. I don’t write to a plan. The characters decide which direction the story will go. There’s been one minor plot change. Sateen and Arthur did find the factory safe after their factory was bombed. Chapter 13

“Katniss! Wait!” My feet slow to a stop and I reluctantly turn to face him. He’ll want to talk about the note I left for him. I knew I’d have to face Peeta sooner or later. I was hoping for later. Much later. His face his flushed with exertion by the time he catches up to me, his breath misting the frosty air. He probably can’t wait to let me have it. How I threatened to have nothing more to do with him unless he tried to get his memories back. And that now I’m giving up on it. Even going to far as to imply that it was a waste of time and I’m fine with him staying just the way he is.

“Do you mind if I walk with you?” he asks. “Of course not,” I say, giving him a weak smile. At least he doesn’t seem mad so that’s something. I resume walking and Peeta falls in alongside me. There’s only one road from the Village and that leads to the town. I’m meeting Sateen and Arthur for a lunch date at a new café that’s opened recently. I assume Peeta is heading into town to call on Lace and then they’ll go out somewhere together. They go out a lot. To the swimming pool when the weather is warm for their swimming lessons. To the ice-cream parlor for Lace to lick ice-cream off his face. Or out to dinner at a restaurant. Peeta’s never taken me anywhere, even as a friend. Oh, there was that one time to the ice-cream parlor. But that was to soften me up before he told me to stop coming over at night when I had a nightmare. How could I ever forget that? But otherwise, he wasn’t even keen to have me walk into town with him – not after he met Miss Face-licker.

Peeta gets right down to it. “I got your note.”

I nod. I steel myself in anticipation. Here it comes.

He takes a deep breath. “I owe you an apology.” “Huh?” I exclaim, taken completely by surprise. An apology is the last thing I expect. “I’m sorry I’ve made you think I don’t trust you. Katniss, I wouldn’t have asked you to watch the tapes with me if I didn’t.” “But you said – “ “Yes, I know what I said. But it wasn’t true. And even if it was, it was a tactless, even cruel thing to say, whether I meant it or not.” I shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve come to accept that the hijacking has changed how you see and feel about me. And I’d much rather you were honest and didn’t sugarcoat it.” “But it’s not how I feel at all. It’s like I told you before. I have all these feelings and I don’t know where to put them. But wherever the distrust came from it’s not with you. Please, I need you not to give up on me.” His hand reaches out to tug on my arm, urging me to look at him. His face is full of entreaty and for a moment, I feel my resolve soften. But then I remember that he’s out walking with me because he’s on his way to see Lace and it hardens again. “It’s not giving up on you,” I say, as convincingly as I can. No, it’s more like letting you go, I say to myself. Although I would hard pressed to explain the difference if asked. I turn my attention back to the road to avoid looking at him. “It’s time for Haymitch to take over anyway. Dr Aurelius hasn’t sent you anything about your own Games before we became allies. And why would he if he knows I’m the one watching the tapes with you? And what comes after too, like what happened behind the scenes with the berries, or in the Quell, for instance. Haymitch would know all that. I don’t.” “But why can’t you be there anyway? There might still be questions that Haymitch can’t answer.” I shake my head. “No, it wouldn’t work. My presence might discourage him from speaking as freely as he would like.” “Yeah, I guess you have a point,” he reluctantly concedes. “It’s just that I hardly get to see you anymore. With the dinners gone, watching the tapes was the only time we spent together.” There’s something about his tone that annoys me. Like it’s all my fault that we see so little of each other. He said so himself that he was neglecting Haymitch and me in favour of Lace and now he complains that he doesn’t see enough of me? “I thought you’d be glad about the dinners,” I retort. You were the one who wanted to keep switching them around so you could be free to take Lace out.” “I never meant that we shouldn’t have them. It was only changing the days.” “For your convenience. Those dinners were to help all of us establish a routine. A routine means doing the same thing at the same time.” “Well, it’s no routine at all if we don’t have them,” he points out with a reasonableness that annoys me even more. Since I can’t think of a comeback, I stare ahead in stony silence instead. It’s then I notice that dark clouds have gathered over the mountains. It seems sort of apt, considering how this conversation is going. “Look, Katniss, I don’t want to argue,” he continues. “I don’t care about dinners. I just want to spend time with you. You’re one of my best friends and lately it feels as if we’re drifting apart. I had this idea. We could have hang-out days.” “What’s that?” “It’s when you hang-out with a friend. You know, mess around. Do whatever you feel like doing.” It takes a few seconds to get my head around it. A day with no purpose behind it, other than to mess around? I’ve never had one of those days in my life. When I met with Gale, we had serious work to do. If we weren’t hunting, we were trading. As for Peeta, when did he ever have time for a hang-out day between school, wrestling practice and working at the bakery? “What made you think of that?” “Oh, nothing really,” he says. He sounds embarrassed. “Maybe the tape we watched last week. You know, with the picnic on the roof. We seemed to have a lot of fun, just messing around. It looked a good way to spend time with a friend.”

So that’s how he’s interpreted our roof top date – as “hanging-out” with a friend. I wonder how many friends he’s had rest their head in his lap while he plays with their hair.

“Tell me, how do hang-out days with a girl you were supposedly once in love with fit with being a good boyfriend?” I ask.

“I didn’t mean – “

I don’t let him finish. Whichever way he’s rationalized it, I’m not interested. We’ve come to the intersection where we part ways, anyway. He to Lace’s shop and me to the café to meet Sateen and Arthur. I turn to look him squarely in the face. “You can’t have us both, Peeta. Not the way you want to.” He stares at me, uncomprehending at first and then as if struck by a sudden, and painful realization. I don’t wait for a response. I spin on my heel and stalk off. I’ve had enough of Peeta Mellark for one day. I glance backwards once I have some distance between us. He’s still standing where I left him, gazing confusedly around him, as if he can’t quite work out how he got there. And then he starts walking in the direction of Lace’s shop. Unbelievable! Even as a naïve sixteen-year-old I knew my days as Gale’s hunting partner were numbered once he met a girl he was serious about. And that was working together! Not “hanging-out.” And apparently, I’m not even his best friend either, but just one of. I don’t feel bad about that letter anymore. In fact, I think I might even have had a lucky escape. If this is his idea of a good boyfriend then I’m better off without him. And he’s not only not a good boyfriend. He’s not a good friend either. Lace can have him! By the time I’ve reached the café, I’ve worked myself into quite a state. Before I enter, I take a deep calming breath. I don’t want to spoil a friendly get-together by starting out in a bad mood. When I push open the door, I see brightly painted walls, potted plants, and mis-matched “pre-loved” furniture. The “alternative look” Effie called it. Very on trend, she had said. And almost as fashionable as district ruins. My guess is that the proprietors are ex- Capitolites and have no idea that shabby was never a fashion choice in 12, but just the way things were. However, I can’t deny that the ambience is very homely and comfortable and gives the impression that most of the love is lavished on the food. I search for Sateen and Arthur and at first think I must have arrived before them. But then I spy Arthur, partially hidden behind a rubber plant, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. He’s alone. I take the chair opposite him. “Hi.” My eyes sweep the room, looking for Sateen. “She’s not here,” says Arthur. “She has a migraine.” “Oh.” Poor Sateen. Madge’s mother had suffered greatly from migraines. They had been very debilitating and she had needed morphling to relieve the pain. That was how Madge could get hold of some for Gale when he was whipped. “Does she get them often?” Arthur lets out an exasperated sigh. “No. This is the first time. And it came on just before we were about to leave.” There’s no point in pretending. We both know what Sateen’s intentions are. “She’s determined to get you paired off, isn’t she?” Another sigh. “Yes. She thinks because we went to the Mayor’s party together there must be something between us. I told her over and over it was a business arrangement but she wouldn’t listen.” “Why is it so important to her? I’m sure you’re capable of finding someone, if that’s what you want.” “Thank you. Would you mind telling Sateen that? But it seems she wants me settled before she goes back to 8.”

“Sateen’s going back to 8?” This is news to me. I thought she had moved here permanently. “Yes, to marry. Didn’t she tell you? “ I shake my head no. “Well, it hasn’t been long. She probably didn’t want to say anything until she was sure. She had a falling out with her fiancé before we came here but it seems they’ve patched things up. I don’t expect it will be a long engagement. Not if know my sister.” Not if I know her either. This fiancé of hers will be marched down the aisle double-time. Sateen doesn’t like to mess around. “But in the meantime,” Arthur goes on, “Sateen seems to have intensified her efforts to get me married off too.” He gives his head a rueful shake. “She’s always been over-protective, even though I’m the eldest. I suppose it’s because there was really just the two of us after our mother died. Our father was mostly absent running the business.” “Yeah, I know how that feels,” I say. I think about Prim and how protective I was of her. I wonder if Prim might have worried about me if she was to leave the district to marry. Would she be concerned about leaving me alone, and hopeful of seeing me “settled” before she left? Especially if she thought of me as socially inept? I think she might have. Now that that subject is exhausted, the conversation comes to an awkward stop. Arthur and I have as much in common as night and day and neither of us are good at small talk. Peeta would have come in very useful right now. I could always relax knowing that he’d shoulder the burden of keeping the conversation running smoothly. When the waitress comes with the menu it provides a welcome diversion and I make a play of examining it closely. Arthur does the same. “They have a very unusual selection,” I say, desperate to fill the silence. “Chicken and chickpea salad with a marshmallow dressing. I’d never have thought of that.” “No, it’s most unusual,” Arthur agrees. More silence. I decide to bite the bullet. I ask, “did you get any business from the Mayor’s party?” Arthur’s face clearly shows his relief. And then he launches into his favourite subject – the clothing industry. I prepare to be bored for the next hour, but it’s better than the two of us staring into space with nothing to say to each other. When the waitress returns, we give her our order; pulled horse panini with a side of deep-fried cabbage for us both. And Arthur keeps on talking, and talking . . . “Imagine seeing you here!” squeals a female voice at my back. I spin around and just a few feet away are Lace and a very uncomfortable looking Peeta. This lunch date just got a whole lot worse. “Do you mind if we join you?” asks Lace, although she’s already pulled over a chair from an adjoining table. “Lace, I think we should leave them alone,” says Peeta in a low voice. His eyes flicker between Arthur and me. “It’s OK, isn’t it?” Lace smiles at Arthur but ignores me. “Of course, it is. The more the merrier,” says Arthur in an uncharacteristic jovial voice. Peeta drags over a chair and reluctantly takes a seat. I try to avoid looking at him but it’s hard with him sitting so close. “Well, this is cozy,” gushes Lace. “I was all set for an afternoon of cutting out patterns, when Peeta called in. Very timely it was, right on lunchtime.” “Well, you’ve got to eat,” says Arthur. “Is that how you like to work? Doing all your cutting at once?” And then they’re off. Peeta and I may as well not be here. I smile and pretend to be interested. I become aware of Peeta’s eyes on me, and once or twice, I get the feeling he wants to say something before deciding against it. The waitress comes to take their orders and asks if we’d like all four meals brought together. Before I can say no thanks, Arthur jumps in to accept. Now we’ll all finish eating at the same time. No excuse for an earlier exit now.

The meals come. Lace has ordered pumpkin and yoghurt soup with pork crackling. Peeta, spinach and cheese custard with wild rice.

The horse panini is surprisingly tasty and so is the deep-fried cabbage. Lace pulls a face when she takes her first mouthful of soup and picks out all the crackling to give to Peeta. “Here Peeta, you should like this.” Lace turns to Arthur. “Peeta’s family were pig farmers,” she explains. “As well as bakers.” “We were never pig farmers,” corrects Peeta. “We kept one pig at the back of the shop. It was cheap to raise because we could feed it scraps and any food we couldn’t sell.” Like burned bread, I think, remembering the bread Peeta tossed to me on that awful night in the rain so long ago. His mother had told him to feed it to the pig.

“Well, I’m sure the pig appreciated it,” says Lace. There’s a faint emphasis on the word “pig”. Lace’s expression is devoid of any hidden intent. But just the same, I get the impression she’s talking about me. She could have learned the bread story from either Peeta or the interview Cressida did of me. “It did,” I say, lightly. “Best fed pig in the district. Better fed than most of the residents of Seam actually.” “That’s where you lived, Katniss?” asks Arthur. “I recall you mentioning it in the Games.” “Yes. It’s all gone now though, thanks to Snow. But it lay between the town and the forest to the north. Most of us worked in the mines, and there was rarely enough to eat. It wasn’t uncommon to die of starvation. But I suppose it was like that in other districts too. Among the poorer classes, anyway.” Arthur nods. “Our workers had it very bad. And we couldn’t increase their wages because it was set by the Capitol. My father would sometimes slip a few coins to the worst cases, but there were so many in need.” My eyes turn to Lace, who has suddenly taken an inordinate interest in her food. Lace worked in a factory in 8 but somehow had the resources to travel to another district to set up a business. And she attended Victory Tour parties too. I don’t recall seeing any impoverished guests at those events. “Was it like that for your family, Lace?” I ask. Lace’s head jerks up from her soup. “What? Oh, yes, a bit,” she stammers.

“It could vary,” says Arthur quickly. “So, the two of you didn’t actually meet until the Games, then?” “Oh, um, no, not officially,” I say, taken by surprise by the sudden change of subject. And did I just see Lace caught in a lie, and then Arthur cover for her? “But we knew of each other,” I add. “We were in the same year at school.” “I noticed Katniss from the very first day,” says Peeta quietly. “My father pointed her out. She wore a red plaid dress and her hair was in two braids. And when she sang the Valley Song at music assembly the – “

“The birds stopped to listen,” Lace chips in. “And then you were a goner. It’s a sweet story. We all thought it so romantic when we heard it on TV. But that’s Peeta for you. He certainly knows how to romance a girl. Doesn’t he, Katniss?”

Lace dimples at me as if we are two friends sharing a confidence about a boy they’ve dated. If I’ve been unsure of Lace’s veiled taunts before, I’m certain of this one. The implication is clear. Peeta had made up or exaggerated the story. If not for the cameras, at least then to sweet-talk me. I glance over at Peeta. He’s looking disapprovingly at Lace. This must be the first time I’ve seen him anything other than love-struck. But she could have only got the impression from you, Peeta. Afterall, I was the one who had people suspecting the star-crossed lovers were an act, not you.

“Yes. He does,” I say tightly. I don’t return her smile. Suddenly I can’t stand to be here another minute with these people. Boring Arthur, smug Lace and false friend Peeta. If I were with Sateen and Arthur as arranged, I would be leaving by now anyway. I push my chair back from the table so abruptly that it makes a harsh grating sound against the timber floor. “Sorry, I have to go now,” I say in a rush. “I’m expecting a phone call from my mother.” I reach into my pocket for some money and drop it to the table. And then I leave with a hasty goodbye. I make it to the corner before the tears begin to fall. Those memories of our time in the cave had been precious to me but now they’re ruined too. For all I know, he had made up that story all along and I had fooled myself into thinking it was true. I did wonder about it when I first heard it. Peeta’s not the only one who doesn’t know what’s real or not real anymore. Afterall, he can make people believe anything. Why should I be any different?

And how could I have let Lace get to me like that? It must seem so obvious from the way I hurried out that she had upset me. I had been doing so well too, keeping it together. I should have laughed it off. Pretended I was in on the joke. Or that I didn’t care. Then maybe I might have preserved some dignity and shown that I don’t care one jot that Lace has him. Lace! How she must love this. Katniss Everdeen, running off because she knows she’s lost.

Oh, what does it matter anyway? The dinners are gone. So too are the tape viewings. Peeta and I don’t work together anymore either and I’ve made it clear I’m not interested in hang-out days. Peeta and I will hardly see each other. I’ll see even less of Lace. As for Arthur, the only thing we have in common is Sateen. And she’ll be returning to 8 to get married. Perhaps it’s worked out for the best. It makes the break from Peeta more final now and the fewer fond memories I have of him the better. Better for him too, if there’s nothing to keep him back from going forward with his new life. I swipe the tears away with the back of my hand. Fortunately, there’s not many people about on this wintry afternoon to see them. The clouds I observed earlier are now directly overhead, heavy with the threat of imminent rain. Arthur and Lace live in the town, so they don’t have far to get home. I should make it home before the weather breaks but Peeta will almost certainly be caught in it. If he has any sense he’ll go home with Lace. It’s where he belongs now, anyway. The first icy drops catch me as I pass through the Village gates. By the time I reach my front porch, it’s plummeting. I brush the raindrops off my coat before hanging it in the hall closet. And then I get a roaring fire started in my sitting room and make a pot of tea. Pamper myself, that’s what I need to do. I pull up my most comfortable chair in front of the television and then switch it on. It’s some silly reality show from Plutarch based on a houseful of people under constant surveillance, but it’s mindless escapism and just what I want right now. Buttercup jumps onto my lap, careless of the cup of hot tea I’m holding. There, what else could I possibly need? I have a warm, comfortable house, a comfortable chair, a comfortable animal purring on my lap, and I’m sipping a comforting beverage while people on TV are making fools of themselves for my entertainment. A perfect recipe for contentment. I don’t know what makes me look up from the television and out my sitting room window at that particular moment. Perhaps it’s the sudden surge in rainfall pounding against the roof, or the sound of a tree branch creaking in protest at the wind. But there, in the distance, on the other side of the road, I see Peeta, soaked to the skin, struggling to unlock his front door, presumably with fingers numb with cold. Why on earth didn’t he stay at Lace’s until the storm passed? I hope he gets out of those wet clothes at once and warms himself by a fire. I’m tempted to give him a call and invite him over to share mine. But then I remember that Peeta and I are to live separate lives from now on and I turn my attention back to the television.

Chapter 15

With remarkable timing the train pulls into the station just as I finish the magazine article I’ve been reading. It’s an interview with someone called Marcus Muir. He wants forests designated as national parks for “conservation and recreation.” Apparently, they had them in the old days before fences were put up and everyone was shut out. Well, almost everyone. I guess it makes sense. More people will use the forests now and it will need to be regulated to prevent abuses. I take children into the forest myself on a regular basis to familiarize them with it. I’m a bit concerned about what this will mean for hunting though. Will that need to be regulated too?

No time to worry about that now, though. I hope Sateen and her husband-to-be are here to meet me. I have no idea where I’m supposed to go if they don’t show up. But just as I step out onto the platform Sateen rushes forward. Close behind her is a very tall man with the blue-grey eyes and ash brown hair typical of people from 8. Sateen’s hair is now the same colour as Lace’s – number 654 Light Mahogany Brown.

Sateen proudly introduces her fiancé. “Katniss, this is Roy.” He gives me a shy smile and we shake hands. I know quite a bit about him now. His full name is Corduroy Button and his family owns one of the few factories that survived the bombings in 8. They met when Sateen was sixteen and Roy nineteen and, according to Sateen, there had been some kind of understanding between them. However, Roy dragged his feet when it came to making it official, and Sateen, fed up, went with Arthur to 12. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say, for Roy pined for Sateen, phoning her frequently and eventually proposing marriage. As Sateen puts it, “he came to his senses at last.” Cars are almost as scarce in 8 as they are in 12, but the wealthy Buttons own one. Sateen chatters to me from the front seat full of news about her wedding arrangements. I try to appear interested. If she only knew that talk of wedding gowns and floral bouquets bore me to tears. My real attention is on the scenery flashing by outside my window. I barely recognize it from my last visit. The dingy, crowded tenements are being replaced by pleasant, low rise apartment buildings with courtyards. There’s no sign of any factories, yet I know that textile manufacture is still the main industry, so they’ve evidently been zoned away from residential areas. And most surprising of all, I see the establishment of parks and gardens, when before you’d be hard pressed to find a single tree.

It was all bombed out buildings and rows of ugly grey warehouses when I was here last. It was from the roof of one of those warehouses that Gale and I joined Commander Paylor and other rebels to shoot at enemy hovercraft. Haymitch was hopping mad afterwards because I had cut off communication by pulling out my earpiece and disobeyed an order to retreat to a bunker. But as unimpressed as Haymitch was, I think I earned the respect of Paylor that day, who didn’t appear to know what to make of me when I had turned up hours earlier to visit the wounded in my shiny new Mockingjay outfit, surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards and a camera crew. Maybe that’s what persuaded her to grant me permission to visit 8. Another is Sateen. When Sateen invited me to attend her wedding, I had to decline. The terms of my release stipulated that I was confined to 12 until further notice and I hadn’t as yet received any. But Sateen reacted in typical Sateen fashion. She went over my head. She was straight on the phone to Paylor, who, as it turns out, is an old family acquaintance. The only condition is that I keep my visit low key. Sateen told me this with such a sorrowful face. Apparently, the key to the city and a plaque unveiling had been in the works but would have to be abandoned now. “You mean so much to us, Katniss. The rebellion started in 8, you know. We still talk about the time you came here during the war. It would have been so nice to commemorate it with a ceremony, at least.” Inwardly I had sighed in relief. Thank you, President Paylor!

Roy drops me off in the town centre at 8’s newest hotel. Not enough room at the Button residence, explained an apologetic Sateen. Not with every available bed occupied by assorted relatives. Another welcome reprieve. I like my space and Sateen can be a little . . . overwhelming, let’s say. I’ll see plenty of her over the next few days anyway.

After a shower and change of clothes, I take a walk through the town. As with 12, there are many new buildings. But unlike 12, there are still many old ones too. Although 8 had sustained heavy bombing, it hadn’t been leveled like 12 had. I pass by the Justice Building. I hadn’t before noticed how handsome and imposing it is. I last saw it on our Victory Tour when it was in a very dirty and shabby state. But then, I was hardly in the right state of mind to appreciate the architecture. Not with the stress of the tour, and Peeta and I doing our best to quiet the rebellious mood in the districts with little or no success. Especially in 8, where our mere presence seemed to stir tensions. I move on. I don’t want to think of those days. Or of Peeta either. Especially Peeta. I peer into shop windows. They appear to have everything from bakeries to book shops. And an abundance of clothing and tailor shops too. I can see why someone starting out in the clothing industry, like Arthur and Lace, would choose to move to 12. The market is saturated here.

Eventually, weary of walking, I come to a small park and take a seat on one of the benches. There’s hardly any shade to speak of - all the plantings are new, but a retaining wall gives some shelter from the weather. The wind is cold and biting, but compared to the snowy conditions in 12, winter here is comparatively mild. That’s one advantage in coming here. The other is distraction. At least, I thought it would be. But Peeta is everywhere. Even in 8.

I thought I’d see less of him when I withdrew from the tape viewings and begin the process of removing myself from his life, but it hasn’t worked out that way. In fact, I see even more of him. Peeta’s hours at the bakery have changed and we now start work at the same time. So, when I set off for the school, Peeta is there waiting for me so that we can walk into town together. I don’t know how to avoid him as there’s only that one road in and he knows what hours I work. He seems determined for us to remain friends. And at least walking in plain view and engaged in the common purpose of travelling to work is more acceptable for a man in a relationship than hang-out days. But it doesn’t help my cause any for the two of us to live separate lives from now on. I should really move out of the Village. But so far, no luck in finding a suitable house. And to make it even more awkward, he sometimes gives me these strange looks. It’s not unlike when we were at school, when I’d find his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I suppose it’s because I made a fool of myself that day at lunch. He can’t work me out. Not that I blame him. I can’t work myself out half the time.

I don’t know if Peeta has kept up with the tapes. At my request, Haymitch and I don’t talk about him. But I do know that if Haymitch is helping with them, it’s not on a Saturday afternoon at three o’clock, because I’ve checked to see if he visits at that time from my sitting room window.

I take a look at my watch. Half past four. I ought to get back to the hotel now to get ready for dinner with the Buttons. I’m to be picked up at six. I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I won’t know any of them except Sateen and Arthur. I wish Max were with me to act as a kind of buffer. Sateen’s wedding has coincided nicely with the winter break, so Max could have come. And he already has a suit (the vomit came out OK). But the invitation said “Miss Katniss Everdeen”, not “Miss Katniss Everdeen and partner.” I know the Buttons aren’t short of money so the omission isn’t about keeping costs down. It likely means only one thing – Sateen still thinks Arthur and I are a chance. Max thought it hilarious when I told him about Sateen’s hopes for Arthur and me. He likes to tease me about it. You wonder why I give him more ammunition, but the Katniss Ever-ready jokes were getting old. In vain I told him that Capitol gowns are meant to be worn without underwear. But Katniss Ever-ready was just too good to be let go easily without something to take its place.

For dinner I wear a Cinna designed cocktail dress in emerald green teamed with black patent leather shoes. With five minutes to spare, I find a chair in the lobby near the window and make myself comfortable. I’m not kept waiting long. Right on six, I see the same car I came in pull up just in front of the hotel. From the driver’s seat emerges a young man with a quick, energetic stride. He recognizes me immediately. Something I’m still not quite used to.

“Katniss! Hi! I’m Roy’s brother – Tweed. All ready to go?”

I follow him out to the car and get in the front passenger seat. I quickly learn that Tweed is a very different driver to Roy. My body is slammed into the back of the seat with the sudden surge of speed as we set off. And when we come to some traffic, or what counts for traffic in 8, Tweed weaves and cuts his way through it as if we’re in a tearing hurry to get where we’re going. Roy drives like an old woman in comparison. In fact, Tweed seems the opposite of Roy in nearly every respect. Short rather than tall. Bleached blond hair rather than a natural brown. Talkative rather than quiet. He dresses differently too. No conservative suit in a dark colour for Tweed, but a jacket in a bright floral brocade with purple velvet lapels piped with gold braid and matching purple trousers with gold braid down the sides. He could be a walking advertisement for Capitol fashion.

“So, Katniss, what do you think of 8 so far?” he asks. “Um,” I begin, trying to focus my thoughts on the question as Tweed brakes and accelerates around a series of bends, “it’s very different than I remember it. A much pleasanter place to live. You know, for the factory workers, now that they have better housing and parks to walk in. I suppose it’s the same for the field workers?” Tweed’s brow creases in puzzlement. “Field workers? We don’t have field workers here. 8’s always been manufacturing. Why did you think that?”

“Oh, just something a friend of mine was told. They said there were three social classes: merchant, factory workers and field workers, with the field workers being at the bottom. I guess either he or the other person got it wrong,” I reply. Tweed laughs. “Did they ever? I mean, like all the districts, 8 does produce some of its own food but it’s mostly for personal use, like keeping chickens or growing one’s own vegetables. The bulk of it is imported from other districts. And as for raw materials for our factories, natural fibers such as cotton, flax and jute come from 9, and animal products like wool and leather are from 10. The exception is silk, which we do produce here but it hardly requires field workers. And furs end up in 1. I don’t know where they get them from. Synthetic fibers we make here, of course.” “Of course,” I repeat. I hardly hear him, too preoccupied with what Tweed had said earlier about field workers. Lace! She told Peeta there were three social classes. A resident of 8 would know there wasn’t. What other bullshit has she fed him? “You couldn’t can get any lower than a factory worker, anyway,” says Tweed. “Not the way it was then. There’s only so far you can starve or ill-house people and still get a decent amount of work out of them.” They were like us in Seam then. Barely surviving. Merchant would be the equivalent to factory owner here, then. “Even us owners were doing it tough,” Tweed continues. “Before the war our profit margin was set by the Capitol. It was so small I couldn’t even afford to buy the clothes I’m wearing now, for instance, that our very own factory produced! ” He says it so indignantly, that I almost laugh. “When I first saw you, I thought you could be a walking advertisement for Capitol fashion,” I tell him. “Thanks,” he says, chuffed at the compliment. He doesn’t know that I find Capitol fashion ridiculous. Except for Cinna’s, of course. His tone becomes plaintive. “You can’t imagine how frustrating it was producing all these gorgeous garments and not being able to wear any of them.” “It must have been awful,” I say, doing my best to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I bet the people who actually did make them would have traded the gaudy jacket he’s wearing for a square meal any day. Tweed turns the car into a long driveway and we come to a surprisingly modest house surrounded by a garden. “Well, here we are. The family home. Won’t be for long, though. A much bigger one is being built closer to town.” “Business must be booming,” I say, as I unclip the seat belt I’d been clutching since we left the hotel. He’s halfway out of the car, but he stops to turn his head in my direction. “Yeah, well, it helps that most of the competition was put of business. And now that the market, rather than the Capitol, decides how much profit we make.” Once inside, I’m led into an entrance hall and then through a sitting and dining room. I don’t see anyone. But from somewhere at the back of the house I can hear muffled voices and then a sharp voice telling everyone to shut up. I have a bad feeling about this. Tweed opens a set of double doors and my fears are confirmed. There are bright lights, streamers and balloons, and a banner across the far wall. “Welcome Katniss Everdeen” it reads, “From a grateful District 8.” A loud cheer goes up and Sateen rushes forward to pull me in for a hug. ‘We fooled them. There was no way we could let a visit from Katniss Everdeen go by without doing something to show our gratitude,” says Sateen with tears in her eyes. I think she’s been into the punch already. She’s so proud of herself that I don’t have the heart to do anything but return the hug and thank her. “Let me introduce you,” she says. I meet cousin Chambray and Uncle Chino. Aunt Chiffon. Roy and Tweed’s sister, Georgette, and her husband Dobby. Friends Damask and Loden. Grandpa Serge and Grandma Taffeta. Twins Voile and Viyella. Parents of the groom Organza and Oxford. Nieces Chenille and Gabardine. Babies Braid and Denim. “Does everyone here have a name to do with textiles?” I ask Tweed later. “Almost everyone,” he replies, pointing his glass in Arthur’s direction. “Among owners, anyway. It’s not so common with workers, though. Aren’t there name traditions in 12?”

“Some,” I answer. “Flower names for girls. And for merchant boys, the family profession they’re born into.” “Awful, isn’t it? It’s like having a label stuck on you. I hated Tweed, growing up. Rhymes with weed. Could be worse I suppose. At least I’m not a Moleskin like my great-aunt Paisley wanted. That was her husband’s name – he’s been dead the past fifty years.” “Which one is she?” I ask, looking around the room. “I don’t think I met her. Is she here?” “Unfortunately, yes. She’s the dried-up old witch with the walking cane over by the buffet table. You need to watch that cane. She’s liable to poke you with it.” “Can I meet her?” I like the look of her. Despite her age, there’s an alertness about her. It’s in her eyes, bright and curious. I bet nothing gets past her. Tweed shrugs. “Sure. It’s your life. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He walks over to Aunt Paisley and I follow. Her eyes rake him from head to foot. It’s clear she doesn’t approve of his choice of attire. “Aunt Paisley, this is Kat –“ “I know who she is. I may be old but I’m not stupid,” she says, cutting him off. She pats the chair beside her and says to me, “Sit down dear, and we’ll a have a chat.”

“Thank you, Tweed. You can go now,” she says dismissively. He rolls his eyes as if to say “see what I mean?” but he does as she says. I have a feeling that Aunt Paisley nearly always gets her way and makes life difficult for everyone until she does. Her family have learned that it’s easier not to fight it. “That boy has turned into a popinjay,” she says, not bothering to lower her voice. “As Capitol as they come. He’ll be wearing make-up next. They should have called him Lame and without the accent on the “e”. Luckily Tweed doesn’t appear to have heard her. Or maybe he did and doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction. If that’s his intention, it worked. Aunt Paisley seems disappointed that her barb has apparently missed its target. With a snort of disgust, she turns her attention back to me.

“So why isn’t the Mellark boy with you? I was hoping to meet him too,” she says almost accusingly. She’s the first person to ask me about him. I suspect that Sateen has warned everyone not to. Perhaps she missed Aunt Paisley, or Aunt Paisley, with her lack of tact, has chosen to ask anyway. But far from it being awkward, it’s just what I want. I need answers. And maybe Aunt Paisley can give them to me. “We’re not together anymore,” I say sadly. “He wasn’t the same when he returned from the Capitol. He’s dating a girl from 8 now. Perhaps you know of her. Her name’s Lace Bomul.” A bony hand reaches out to clasp mine. “I’m sorry, child. I wouldn’t have said anything if I had known.” Yes, you would, you old liar. But it’s not sympathy I want from you. But information. “Lace Bomul, you say?” she asks, pursing her lips. I nod. “Yes. She said she was a factory worker but I doubt that. She’s been to Victory Tour parties.” Aunt Paisley shakes her head vehemently. “Workers weren’t allowed to attend Victory Tour parties. She’s lying about something – either the parties or being a worker.” “I thought it sounded strange,” I say. But Aunt Paisley isn’t listening. She’s deep in thought. “Bomul,” she says, rolling it over her tongue as if trying it out. “It’s a common name here. If she was a worker, she could be one of thousands. I do know of one Bomul family who owned a factory but I don’t recall a Lace among them. There was a lot of scandal attached to the family at one time.” “Auntie, I hope you’re not spreading gossip,” chimes in Organza, who’s helping herself to the buffet. “What else is there to do at my age?” says Aunt Paisley, peevishly. “But since you’re here, listening in, you can at least tell me the name of that young slut who got herself knocked-up by a worker.”

“Really, Auntie,” chides Organza. “She’s not a slut. Just because she happened to fall in love with someone outside her class.” “She’s a slut,” says Aunt Paisley in a voice that won’t tolerate dissent. “We have class distinctions for a reason. People should stick to their own. She was a disgrace to her family and she should have been thrown out and disowned.” “Well, I heard she lost the baby anyway. And he was killed in the uprising, so it all came to naught. Chantilly, I think her name was. It’s very sad.” “Sad, my foot. The whole family should have been shot. What about when their factory was bombed and how every Bomul just happened not to be at work that day. The factory that they owned, and that every one of them was employed in. It’s mighty suspicious. That’s all I have to say.” “I doubt it,” says Organza drily. “I’m sure you have a lot more to say. But the only thing I’ll add is that it’s all rumour. And the fact that none of them was there isn’t proof of anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to eat my meal. Katniss, don’t let her bash your ear too much.” “Fuck off then,” says Aunt Paisley to her retreating back. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, the Bomuls . . .” According to Aunt Paisley, the Bomuls owned a factory that specialized in Peacekeeper uniforms. It was a family run business. There was nothing unusual about that, most District 8 factories were, with the whole family involved in the running of it. Children of owners were given a broad education in the textile industry from the spinning of yarn, to the making up of garments. “So such children could be tailors or seamstresses, it they wanted to?” I interrupt. “Well, yes. They would have had the knowledge of it, and could take it further if they wished,” she answers. “Most didn’t, of course. That would have been a step down. But with the war, and with so many factories destroyed, many of us have had to take on whatever work we can find. Arthur and Sateen, for instance. Most of the tailoring and dressmaking shops in the town are run by the owner class.”

“And what about a worker? Could they be a tailor or a seamstress?”

Aunt Paisley laughs. “No dear,” she says in a condescending tone. “It’s clear you haven’t had factories in 12, or you wouldn’t ask such an absurd question. Workers in factories have very specific tasks. It could be cutting out fabric, or sewing buttonholes. But not to put together an entire garment from start to finish.”

“I see,” I say slowly. The puzzle pieces are falling into place. “So where are the Bomuls now?”

“Some of them are still around, I believe. Some migrated to other districts. But I haven’t got to the best part of the story yet. After the first uprising failed – the one where the slut’s lover was killed – the Capitol ordered a lockdown. It was terrible, child. Everyone had to stay in their homes, or they’d killed on the spot if they even so much as stuck their nose out the door. There was no food, or coal. It didn’t matter who you were, we all went hungry. But just when it was almost as bad as it could get, the order was given to re-open the factories and return to business as usual.”

She pauses here for dramatic effect. “What happened then?” I ask encouragingly, eyes wide. But I already know what happened. I’d heard the story from Bonnie and Twill, the refugees from 8 whom I’d met at the concrete house in the woods, fleeing to District 13.

“The Bomul factory was bombed, killing everyone who worked there. Except for the Bomuls, that is, who were all conveniently sick that day. The talk is that the uprising was planned from their factory and somebody told the Capitol,” she says knowingly.

“And you think the Bomuls were the informants?”

“Well, it fits.”

I shake my head. “But it makes no sense. Why would they want their own factory destroyed? And all their workers killed? What could they possibly achieve from it?”

“Information in exchange for immunity, of course. The slut’s lover was among the rebels, remember. They could have traced him, not only to the Bomul factory, but to the slut herself. That brings the entire family under suspicion. So, they get in before the Capitol does. That way they are seen as being loyal to the Capitol. “ “But their factory was still blown up,” I point out. “True, but the Capitol had to been seen to punish the conspirators to send a message, or look weak otherwise. After all, it was the Bomul factory where the rebellion was hatched, and it was known that at least one family member was fraternizing with the rebels. But all the Bomuls were spared, nonetheless. And, what’s more, somehow, they still had enough money to wait out the war and set themselves up in various businesses once it ended. Losing the factory was a small price to pay for their lives. “

“But what about their worker’s lives?” Aunt Paisley shrugs. “The workers risked their own lives with their plotting. They brought it on themselves. But it was the Bomul girl’s dalliance with a worker that brought down suspicion on every one of us, worker and owner alike. After that, factories were bombed at random as if the whole district was responsible. Look at Sateen and Arthur, their inheritance gone, family members killed. We were just lucky that the bombs didn’t fall on us.” My feeling is that Capitol bombs would have fallen anyway, even if this conspiracy theory of hers is true. Besides, since when did Snow make deals? He would have taken the information and then killed them all regardless.

“Well, I guess it’s possible,” I say carefully. I don’t want to ruin the party by getting into an argument with Aunt Paisley. “But the Bomuls could have been sick that day. Perhaps with something highly infectious, especially if they were weakened from lack of food. And, as for the money, they might have retrieved the money from the factory safe, like Sateen and Arthur did.” It wasn’t as if Lace was flush with cash when she arrived in 12. Her only equipment was an aging sewing machine. “Humph, don’t believe it. The Bomuls were always a disreputable bunch. Look at that Chantilly. Spreading her legs for an inferior and getting herself pregnant to boot. And her family, instead of doing the right thing by throwing the harlot out, actually had a wedding planned for the two of them. Any family who’d sell out their own social class, would have no compunction selling out to the Capitol either. And no one will ever convince me otherwise,” says Aunt Paisley stoutly.

It’s a good thing I have no intention of trying then. A part of me wants to tell her about my parents. How my Merchant mother defied social norms to marry a miner. Or remind her that I’m Seam and would have married Merchant Peeta. It dawns on me that Aunt Paisley and my maternal grandparents would have got along like a house on fire.

After excusing myself, I seek out Tweed. There’s one question I have left to ask.

“Tweed, what kind of fabric is chantilly?”

“Chantilly? It’s a type of lace.”

Chapter 16 The next day I’m driven around 8 and taken to the Button factory for a tour. I’m accompanied by Tweed, his girlfriend, Velvet, and Arthur. I don’t know why Arthur came, except that he likes factories. We haven’t spoken much since I arrived here. There seems to be a tacit agreement between us to have as little to do with each other as possible without appearing rude. Maybe it’s partly to put to rest, once and for all, Sateen’s attempts at matchmaking, but I think it’s mostly because we find each other incredibly boring. Sateen is resting up for the big day doing nothing more strenuous than having facials and manicures with her four bridesmaids. I was invited to join them. But after a few seconds of deliberation, I decided that a factory tour would probably be the more exciting option.

It’s a Sunday, so there’s no one working in the factory today and we wander where we like. I marvel at the long rows of work benches each topped with a sewing machine and imagine the din they must create when run simultaneously. Certainly enough noise for seditious plots to be made without being overheard by bosses or guards. Bonnie and Twill told me that’s how word of the uprising was passed around in the factory they had worked in. Arthur is beside me. I had hoped that he’d go off on his own and leave me to look around by myself. We had left Tweed and Velvet a short time ago to tarry a while longer in the room where the fabrics are stored. Tweed wanted to show Velvet the colours that will be fashionable this year, but from the giggles that were coming from behind the bolts of cloth as we were leaving, I don’t think that’s all he was showing her.

“It’s very impressive,” I say, to break the silence.

“Isn’t it?” replies Arthur. “I intend to model my own factory along similar lines. When I’ve raised the funds, that is.” I smile and nod. I’m not falling into the trap of asking how his plans are working out. He’s likely to tell me. I continue my slow walk down the rows, wishing once again that he’d go away. I’ve never felt entirely at ease with Arthur. I’ve put it down to the discomfort of not having much to say to each other and the added awkwardness of Sateen’s machinations to get us together. But today it feels almost creepy. Why did he join the party when he and I are trying to convince everyone that there’s nothing between us? To see a factory that he’s already familiar with? And why is he staying so close?

“You and old Mrs Button get along well,” says Arthur hesitantly. “Hm?” I say, in surprise. This is a huge departure from Arthur’s usual conversation. “Oh, you mean Aunt Paisley?” “Yes, Aunt Paisely. What did you think of her?”

“Um, interesting,” I say cautiously, not sure how I should respond. I don’t know whether Arthur likes her or not. “Very firm in her opinions,” I venture. There, that’s an honest assessment and can be taken as either a positive or a negative.

“That’s one way of putting it,” he says. “I prefer bigot, myself. She gets away with it because of her age and because she has control over most of the family’s finances. Organza said she overheard her telling you about the Bomuls. I think you should know that it’s idle talk. The Bomuls didn’t inform on anyone. But there’s always those who like to think the worst and spread gossip with no consideration for who it might hurt. I hope . . . I hope that it doesn’t go any further.” Ah, so that’s why Arthur is here. For a chance to speak to me alone before we return to 12. I’ve no intention of spreading the story. Few people know better than me how Snow operates. If he’d had his way, everyone associated with the factory would have been obliterated in the bombing as a warning. To workers who dare to rebel. And to owners who allow it to happen under their roof.

“It won’t,” I assure him. “I didn’t believe it, and I wouldn’t say anything even if I did. Lace had nothing to do with it. That’s who you want to protect, isn’t it?

His face stiffens with surprise. “How did you know?” I raise an eyebrow. “Well, the name is a big giveaway, for a start. Why didn’t she change it?” Arthur grimaces as if had questioned the wisdom of it himself. “Bomul is a common name here, especially among workers. She thought that would offer some protection. In any case, not all the family wanted to change it. Her brother, the one who moved to 12, is one of them. It would have seemed odd if they had different last names. He doesn’t think the family has anything to be ashamed of. But then, he hasn’t been blamed as Tilly, I mean Lace, has.” “I already knew about Lace’s fiancé,” I reply. “I didn’t know he was a worker though. Lace gave it away when we watched an old tape of the Victory tour. There was an incident in 11 when Peacekeepers pulled some men from the crowd to be shot. It reminded her of when her fiancé was killed.” “Yes, it would. And then losing the baby soon after too, I suppose. Poor Tilly. It was a horrendous time. For everyone in 8, actually. The rebellion had been going so well until – “

“Until reinforcements came from the Capitol,” I finish for him. “And after that, the lockdown. I met a couple of refugees from 8 making their way to 13 who told me about it. They had worked in a factory specializing in Peacekeeper uniforms.” “That would’ve been the Bomul factory then. It was the only place that made them.” We come to the end of the row and Arthur gestures to me that we continue our walk along the periphery of the building and then back to where we left Tweed and Velvet. They should nearly be finished looking at fabric samples by now. “So, how do you know Lace?” I ask. And he tells me. As he does, this normally reserved man’s face is soft with a light I haven’t seen in him before. It reminds me of how Peeta once looked at me. He loves her, I realise. More than that, he’s in love with her. And he doesn’t hold out any hope, either. There’s a sad resignation in his posture, in the tone of his voice. Or maybe it just takes one to know one. He gives me the bones of his story. I flesh out the rest. Or “fill in the blanks”, as Peeta might say. The Bomuls and the Bobbins had known each other for years. They were not only neighbors, they were also related through marriage. An aunt of Arthur’s had married an uncle of Tilly’s. Arthur had always been a self-contained little boy who preferred to be an observer rather than a participant when it came to games and social activities. Tilly, five years younger, was sociable, exuberant, and embraced life head-on. Arthur was instantly drawn to her. When Tilly was seventeen, he asked her to be his date at the Victory Tour party. All children of prominent citizens over the age of sixteen were required to attend these parties, although it was usual to go as a pair. But Arthur, in his diffident way, gave the impression that he was asking as a friend. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference for him anyway. Tilly, like many girls her age, was too enthralled at meeting the latest heartthrob, Peeta Mellark, to be aware that the quiet young man she had known since childhood, felt anything other than friendship for her. Meeting Katniss Everdeen was less exciting. She was, after all, an impediment – something that stood between her and her heart’s desire. Nonetheless, she wore her ash brown hair in the side-plait that Katniss had made fashionable. If Peeta liked it, then Tilly would do it. But unfortunately for Tilly, although Peeta was friendly and polite, he paid her no more attention than any other girl there. His eyes were all for Katniss. Tilly was heartbroken. But at least one person was hopeful. Now that that infatuation had been deflated, maybe there was a chance for him. No such luck, however. Tilly very soon after fell in love with one of her family’s employees. A fiery young man with dark hair, dark eyes and dangerous ideas. When Tilly became pregnant to him, her family was initially very disappointed and upset. Inter-class marriages just didn’t happen in District 8. There was condemnation all round, and the general feeling was that Tilly should be shunned by polite society, and made to work in a factory, since she had so obviously shown her preference for the people who worked in them. But her family didn’t want that. They decided to make the best of it and planned for the couple a small quiet wedding to be attended by close family and friends. The few who were still talking to them, that is. But then the rebellion happened. It had escalated so quickly, that everyone who wasn’t directly involved were caught unawares. The wedding would have to wait. At first everyone was hopeful that the rebellion would succeed, but then the Capitol sent in thousands of Peacekeepers to retake the city and shoot to kill anyone they saw in the streets. People desperately tried to make it safely back to their homes. Tilly witnessed the panic from a window in the apartment where she and her family lived. Her fiancé was among those who ran for their lives. He almost made it when he was shot through the head, his blood and brains spattering the cobblestoned street.

A few days later, Tilly miscarried. Terrible days of depression followed, compounded by the lack of food and fuel from the enforced lockdown. Then the entire family was stricken with a gastro complaint - “the runs” we called it in Seam - which left them incapacitated when an order came from the Capitol to return to work. Later that day, the Bomul factory was bombed killing everyone in it. As often happens when something goes wrong, people look for someone to blame. They settled on the Bomuls. Conveniently ill that day, they said. The daughter involved with a known rebel sympathizer, they said. Clearly, they had informed on their workers to save their own skins. There was no proof that the allegations were true but it didn’t stop the talk. It didn’t help that the Bomuls had the resources to keep themselves afloat during the war despite the loss of their factory, while the rest of the populace struggled. They didn’t accept their explanation that they had retrieved the money from the factory’s safe. It was blood money, they said. Given to them by the Capitol in exchange for information. While the war came to an end, the grudge against the Bomuls didn’t. Their reputation was in tatters. And particularly that of Chantilly Bomul. The family took the last of their savings and gave it to Tilly to start a new life in a new district. She had with her the basic tools of the clothing trade, including an old, but still workable, sewing machine. Her real talent was design but she sewed well enough to pass as a seamstress. Other family members were to follow later, once they had the means. Meanwhile, life hadn’t been easy for the Bobbins either. Their factory was also bombed and they barely escaped with their lives. A week later, their few remaining relatives were killed in a separate bombing. Arthur and Sateen were now on their own. However, they too had managed to retrieve money from the factory safe but they lived sparsely, careful to avoid the censure that had dogged the Bomuls. And, as there was only two of them, there were sufficient funds left by the end of the war to fully outfit a shop, in whichever district they chose to set up business. For Arthur there was only one choice. And that was District 12 where Tilly had settled. He hoped to not only rekindle their friendship, but also persuade her to consider him as a suitor. Alas, it was not to be. Not only had Tilly changed her name, her hair colour, and concocted a story about her background, she had also entered into a relationship with none other than Peeta Mellark, for whom she was as infatuated as ever. Arthur swallowed his pain and supported her as best as he could, although as a friend and not the lover he wanted to be. “Peeta should be told,” I say, when Arthur stops speaking. “He has a right to know.” Arthur nods. “I’ve told Tilly that. But once you’ve told a lie, it’s hard to walk it back.” “He’ll understand. He’s good like that,” I reply. Yes, Peeta won’t hold any ill-will, once he knows why Lace hasn’t been honest with him. But he might be angry if she continues to keep it from him and he hears it from someone else. Trust is important to Peeta. But will Lace tell him? I only know that it can’t come from me. It will look like interference and bad grace on my part. I’m not supposed to be involved in his life anymore, anyway. But Haymitch could do it. Yes, I’ll tell Haymitch when I’m back in 12. Then it’s his problem to decide whether to tell Peeta or not. Arthur and I are almost back to where we started when Tweed and Velvet emerge from the storeroom. It must be an exciting colour palette this season, to judge by the flush on Velvet’s face. We bundle back into the car to drive to a nearby restaurant to meet the immediate family for an early dinner. Sateen has that look back in her eye as her gaze flits between Arthur and me. But at least I have a greater understanding for why she does it. It’s more than just wanting Arthur to settle down. She wants him to move on from Lace. That this love he’s cherished for years is destined to go nowhere. It occurs to me that at last Arthur and I have something in common. We’re both in love with people who are not in love with us. And who just happen to be in love with each other.

Since Arthur’s dilemma reminds me so much of my own situation, it doesn’t put me in the best mood for the wedding the following day. But at least we have one thing in our favour. It’s not Peeta and Lace’s wedding, although it wouldn’t surprise me if they were the next of our acquaintance to get engaged. Peeta would want to marry. He’s a romantic who believes in a one true love and a happy-ever-after. Only it’s not with me anymore. It’s with Lace.

As for Lace, she’s got herself the Victor she fantasized about. Rich too. That should help with bringing the rest of the family out to 12. No, that’s not fair. Maybe she does really love him. The man himself. Not just the image. He’s a lot to take on, though. With the memory loss, and the flashbacks. She doesn’t understand him, as I do. Or knows where he comes from, and where he’s been. And what does Peeta know about Lace, really? He hasn’t even had the truth from her. But Arthur knows her. He has the same background, the same determination to succeed. But the heart wants what the heart wants, as the saying goes. Maybe it will work out. There’s a part of me that hopes that they do marry. The sooner the better. To get it over and done with so I can get on with my life too. The wedding takes place in a converted warehouse owned by the Buttons, freshly renovated and decorated with winter foliage and white tulle. The bridesmaids wear floaty pastel gowns and matching wide-brimmed hats. Sateen wears ivory satin and greenery in her mahogany hair. It takes a moment for me to recognize it as a copy of one of the gowns Cinna designed for my wedding to Peeta. That reminds me how close we came to marrying. I console myself with the thought that it would have been awful, anyway. I didn’t want to marry then. I only got engaged to save people’s lives. And we would’ve lived in fear of our children being reaped. But now, if he asked me . . . Well, there’s no point in thinking of such things. Truth be told, I don’t think Peeta’s fit to marry anyone right now. Roy is elegant in a dark suit, with greenery in the buttonhole of his lapel to match the bride’s headpiece. I wonder if Arthur made the suit for him. It looks like his work. Best man Tweed seems ill at ease, in a suit identical to Roy’s. I think he’d rather have been a bridesmaid. At least then he would have got to wear something more colourful. After the words are spoken, a ritual unique to District 8 follows. It’s called “threading the needle.” The bride holds in front of her a large wooden replica of a sewing needle. Then the best man threads a length of stiffened rope through the eye and the groom pulls it all the way through. Max would love it. It would keep him going for weeks with jokes about what happens on wedding nights in 8. They then sing an ancient wedding song, which likens marriage to sewing a garment. I wonder if Peeta and Lace will include this when they marry. I don’t want to think about them having a toasting.

There’s food, and speeches and dancing after. I don’t know any of the District 8 dances, so I stand to the side, clapping my hands and trying my best to look as if I’m having a good time. Sateen and Roy are at the center of the couples swirling around them, gently swaying to the music and smiling into each other’s eyes. Arthur, dancing dutifully with one of the bridesmaids, shuffles past and we momentarily lock glances. We seem to know what the other is thinking. Today we celebrate one marriage, and tomorrow we dread news of another.

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hypocentricblasts · 7 years ago

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Title: Sublingual [AO3] Rating: M (swearing, lime/kink, medical jargon) Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku Series: ヒロアカ| Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia Summary: Take away my heart pain, as you linger in my mouth. Note: I don’t even know if this was done before? But still, this is dedicated to @peonydee , for “saving lives” and our frequent filth exchange in our chat swamp

After ten years of daily fisticuffs as hero rivals, of clearing old assumptions caused by childhood rifts, of angst-ridden pinning that culminated in a heart-wrenching apology--

Katsuki Bakugou is here. Together, with Izuku.

Who would’ve thought he’d spend his entire life with this nerd? To be granted this chance after all the struggles they went through?

However, friends and family had told them time and again that they had, in fact, predicted this outcome. Katsuki still had his reservations, yet he would never change it for anything. He rather savored the sight of his fiance’s engagement ring on his finger, of living together in their month-old apartment, alternating meals between curries, pork cutlets and store-bought rice balls, with their greatest achievement of no longer breaking into petty arguments every thirty minutes. To their credit, their squabbles were now only limited to the smallest things every other day.

And Izuku, that sentimental cheese, probably bragged told all that development behind his back to All Might, his mother, their classmates -- or anyone in their agency who would listen about his long-winded litany of domestic woes. Katsuki never called him out about this, but he always barked a dismissal (to his family and friends) or a command (to underlings and extras) if anyone dared to ask any details about his blissful bearable domesticity with Deku.

Currently, he’s sprawled on their large, unmade bed, trying to calm his nerves when the running shower finally shut off.

However, even after all that effort to make them work, they just recently - about a month ago - started testing the boundaries of their bedroom activities.

And it took a couple of days, to coax Izuku to tell him what he wanted.

He got his answer.

But it didn’t mean that Katsuki wouldn’t let this slide without any disparaging comment.

As soon as he heard those careful footsteps, he slowly took off his loose black tank top, letting lean arms bulge as he raised them over his head. Katsuki was aware of how those bright, devouring eyes lingered at the hard planes of his torso, and drift to the tempting tent on his boxers. Pleased with the few quiet seconds brought by Deku’s attentive perusal to his body, he flung his discarded shirt on his gaping, freckled face.

He cackled as Izuku spluttered, indignant as he threw the damp shirt on the floor.

“Kacchan!”

“You deserve it. I’m judging you, Deku.”

“Oh, wow. Compared to yours? I’ve seen your search history, Kacchan.”

What a fucking dick, that Deku.

“I’m going to punch you.”

He oughta punch this useless dick.

“Mmmhm, okay.”

At the dick. With his mouth. Or he could settle things by hitting his ass. Like, assiduously slapping those firm, round buttocks.

No, he was getting sidetracked. Focus, Explosion King.

“Fuck you.” He averted his small lapse with a sneer, pulled him by his arm, as Deku took a seat at the edge of their mattress. “This is weird.”

And Deku still had the gall to smile like that.

“Yet, you’re here, Kacchan. Are you nervous?” His voice dropped a few notches. “Don’t be.”

Those smiles and his endless concern for his well-being always ignited something in him. Made him internally combust in emotions that he always expressed in expletives and extremes.

His throat felt dry. The rebuttal Katsuki had in mind became a petulant I’m not instead.

In response, Deku knelt in between his thighs. That dipshit even had that mind-numbing smile focused on him, stunning him breathless underneath the warm glow of their lamplight.

He knows Deku’s baiting him---how could he be not baiting him? With those awful come-hither eyes, framed with half-lidded, long lashes. Tousled green curls were still half-damp, plastered against his temples.The scent of clean soap was still clinging to his spotted skin. He was a half-naked, glorious vision in this cramped bedroom. And his faux-innocent seduction act was working wonders on Katsuki.

Damn this freckled-munchkin to hell.

A scarred hand gently settled at the crook of his elbow, and in response, Katsuki raised his heated fingers over the curve of his chin, a soft anchor under his lover’s beautiful, fuckable face.

“Can I start?”

“Shut up, Deku. Whatever. Go ahead. Do it. Just-”

His short rants - he caught on Deku’s incoherent mumbling habit, great - were cut short with the sudden click of his molars snapping together, as that tongue slowly flicked on the pad of his index finger.

The wet touch dipped in between his knuckles, prompting a harsh hiss from between his gritted teeth. It curled around the base of his middle finger, slowly tracing a cracked line, halving one of his numerous thick blister-scars.

Damn, who knew his callused fingers were this sensitive?

Those soft lips curved, as the little shit let the middle finger dip further inside the smooth floor of his inner jaw. A hot current shot towards his poor groin, still constrained beneath his boxers. His dick stood up more attentively to the way Izuku sucked around his bed nail, followed how the top incisors gently grazed the side of his finger. A dilated ocean-green eye stared at him beneath a curtain of his dark fringe, as he gave another swirl of his tongue.

Arousal nips impatiently on his crumbling composure. Quickly, he raked those moss-green curls with his other hand, wanting to kiss him senseless. Lips puckered as Izuku let his fingers drag against the insides of his cheek, scrape a blunt nail against his gums before the drenched digits popped out loudly out of his mouth. His breaths came in shallow pants, accompanied by a reverent Kacchan against his skin when he gave a quick suck on his translucent wrist.

“Want more?” Katsuki couldn’t hold back his smirk with Deku’s vigorous nods, which reminded him acutely that he never really lost that childlike enthusiasm through the years, even when he’s supposed to be a successful pro-hero in his early twenties. And this dork’s excitement was more exhilarating than the light teases offered earlier. Katsuki tilted forward, dove to his open mouth to let his own tongue work this time, indulging to tickle those hard lines at the top Izuku’s palate.

It was getting harder to breathe, but it was better to drown like this.

Izuku cut off their kisses, probably getting dizzy already, knowing what a lightweight he was when he was overwhelmed. True to his predictions, Izuku leaned his forehead against his shoulder, nuzzling the dip of his neck. With a devious smirk, Katsuki grasped the sides of his wide waist and dragged him to his lap.

“I...Kacchan-!”

“Yeah, I’ll let you have more, but right now, I want to-”

To his chagrin, Izuku’s whole body shuddered on his loose embrace, head listing sideways against his collarbone,-

Did he come? Isn’t too early?

-before he rolled his eyes back and fainted.

What the fuck? They haven’t even-

“Oi, Deku. Did you just seriously nut after that?”

Katsuki shook him by his shoulders.

“Don’t you even try playing possum on me, or I’ll dick your mouth, you--Deku? DEKU!”

Izuku remained boneless, pliant and unresponsive. A slight thrum of panic ran through him as he noticed that his skin was covered in gooseflesh, cold to touch.

Is he sick? Dammit, why didn’t he say anything? But he seemed normal earlier-

A nagging thought came to the forefront of his mind.

He peeled off his eyelids to take in his dilated pupils. Took note the slow rise and fall of his chest for thirty seconds. His damp forehead, which he had assumed at first came from his previous shower, was clammy and sweating bullets. Soaked fingers firmly pressed to the carotid on his neck, and felt his rapid pulse.

Red eyes stared at his own tanned, blister-covered hand for a second, before it finally hit him like an explosion.

Fuck.

Carefully, he hooked his arms underneath Izuku’s knees and back, lifted his unconscious body and settled him on his side - just in case there’s a risk of aspiration. Or worse, if any convulsions started. From what he could barely recollect from the old hag’s guidelines for first aid during his preteens, he at least needed to raise Izuku’s feet to a few inches above the ground.

Katsuki pressed his mobile against his ear, tried to steady his trembling hold and collect their scattered pillows around the bed, along with his addled wits. He then filched a couple of trousers on the ground to get themselves dressed before the paramedics arrived.

So much for their first time.

All Izuku could hear were echoes.

Everything felt...shit, but when someone suffered from chronic aches since secondary school, the pain was frequently an afterthought. It was even a comforting constant in his life, a reminder that no matter what horrors he had faced, in the end, he was alive. Besides, his career had him acclimated and given him a higher tolerance than most individuals. It had always been a worthy price to pay - if he could concentrate on saving lives more than being bogged down by inconsequential things such as pain.

Kacchan would probably beg to differ and chew him out for that self-sacrificial thought.

He could discern, even without sight, that the pain was comparable to that time when Shouto had once unleashed his ice to turn forest fire into a tundra landscape - when everything had turned into ice, his limbs felt numb, and became cumbersome enough that he felt his body would just crumble to pieces with a single jerk. But this was worse, as he couldn’t even ignore that deafening, rapid pounding on his head, thrumming relentlessly, building like a pulsating migraine. There was also that indescribable weight that settled on his ribs, as if his body was chained to a bed, all movement impossible.

A stuttering breath, he took, before his first blinks of consciousness. His eyelids felt crusty, and the lights hurt - but it was worth it, to be awake.

“Midoriya-san.” He didn’t recognize her motherly, square face, but her scrubs and the stethoscope around her neck was a familiar to him - along with the intercom chiming overhead, its announcements, with the bustle of silhouettes lit by fluorescents overhead, and the squeaks of gurney wheels against linoleum...

Oh.

She then grasped his fingers. “Squeeze my hands if you can hear me.”

Izuku followed as instructed, and added a grunt, which earned him a relieved smile.

“Good, you’re recovering well.”

“Boku wa...?” He said, but only garbled words came out. It merely fogged the clear oxygen mask over his mouth.

“It’s the fourth of February at three in the morning, Midoriya-san. You were admitted last night in Mushuu Medical Center. Do you remember what happened?”

Ah, Momo-san’s. He needn’t worry about any media leakage about his medical condition then. So why was he being admitted to the hospital this time?

He twitched his left finger and felt the pressure of the clipped oximeter, as well the wrapped, open splint around his arm. White noise filled his ears, composed of metronomic beeps and whirs of monitors and machines. With a quick scan of his surroundings through his limited periphery, it was apparent that he was the only critical patient in the vicinity. To his relief, he had no casts, which meant he didn’t break any bones.

But what kind of injury did he get to be admitted to the ICU? Internal bleeding? Was he stabbed? His chest and stomach really felt like mush, so he couldn’t rule that out. Was he dealing with a high-profile villain case? Was it because of an enemy’s quirk? Were there any casualties?

Why can’t he remember? Where’s Kacchan? Is he okay? Kacchan?

“Ka-?” He tried to speak the moment the mask was taken off. “Kaccha-”

“Kacchan?” She prompted, and despite under the medication, he was rather amused that the nurse looked to her right, as if worried that she just summoned the devil and he would materialize in a blaze of hellfire.

Ground Zero always emphasized that he was only to be addressed using his official hero name, by colleagues and civilians alike. Yet his childhood nickname had been stuck with Izuku for years, and it was too late to change that when he referred his partner as such during interviews. And (un)fortunately, the public preferred the more approachable endearment, with kids calling him Kacchan when they went to schools or hero conventions.

“I mean, Zero-san.” She cleared her throat and added primly. “He called the paramedics from your home at 10:48 in the evening. He was awake for the whole night, and when your condition stabilized, we let him sleep on a spare bed beside you.” She waved on the half-open curtain at his right, only noting the familiar ash-blonde blur. “It’s a slow night, after all. We don’t mind.”

“Stabilized?” His question was muffled, but at least it was coherent.

“Yes, but I can’t disclose further details ” Her brows creased, concerned. “Noshita-sensei will discuss soon enough. Do you want me to call him?”

Izuku turned to his side and stole a glance at his sleeping fiancé. He usually found it reassuring to watch Kacchan sleep, but with those gaunt shadows and tired lines on his face, he felt his own chest cave in with worry.

Wanting a few more moments to think and let Kacchan get his well-deserved rest, Izuku waved his fingers back and forth as an answer.

“Of course, take your time.” She nodded, and after writing quickly on his chart, pointed out the call button beside him. “Call me if you need anything, Midoriya-san.”

And when the nurse left him to her nearby station, Izuku remained alone with his thoughts.

He tried to recollect his thoughts, brows furrowing, scouring through the cotton-like haze that filled his mind. Carefully, Izuku slowly compartmentalized the events in a mental bullet-form list before his mind blacked out yesterday.

Okay, I spent a half-day at work. Bought groceries enough for a week. There was an occasion? Kacchan was already at home. Mackerel, rice, and miso for dinner. Had to retire early because we decided it was time to-

Like stepping upon a mental landmine, he remembered. A metaphorical steam came out from Izuku’s flushed nose and reddening ears.

I passed out.

He suppressed a scream of embarrassment and settled for a loud groan instead.

While I was seducing Kacchan. Izuku ignored that his hand was still stuck with assorted needles and tubes, finding comfort in raising them to hide his flame-hot face. Right now, all he wanted was for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. His eyes watered in humiliation and stared at his covered groin.

How could he even face Kacchan now? Why did this happen? Kacchan would call him Deku again. He really deserved that childhood moniker, Useless. Not only he was inept in the kitchen, or on book-keeping of their monthly expenses, Deku couldn’t even last for a minute in bed. He couldn’t even make his lover satisfied at the basest, carnal level. How can he even stay beside him? Kacchan would surely shrug it off and merely tease him endlessly, but Izuku promised him to make him happy for the rest of their lives. He had to make it up for him, no matter what. He’d endure a lifetime of kink-shaming and doing everything Kacchan wanted, as long as-

“Good. You’re muttering again.”

Izuku nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise when the curtains were swept to the side quickly.

As always, Katsuki, who sat on the cot with a hand on his wrinkling forehead, had saved him yet again from the frequent downward spiral of his thoughts.

”Kacchan!”

Instinctively, Deku opened his arms as wide as he can (raising them from his sides, instead of extending them), wanting nothing in the world but a comforting hug. Deku’s eyelashes were even lined with tears, frustrated that he couldn’t even bend his arms to give a decent embrace.

His bloodshot eyes were reduced to pinpricks, staring at him incredulously.

Apprehensive of what that almost murderous glare meant, Izuku added quickly.

“I’m really sorry!” Instinctively, Deku opened his arms as wide as he can (raising them from his sides, instead of extending them), wanting nothing in the world but a comforting hug. Deku’s eyelashes were even lined with tears, frustrated that he couldn’t even bend his arms to give a decent embrace.

His bloodshot eyes were reduced to pinpricks, staring at him incredulously.

Apprehensive of what that almost murderous glare meant, Izuku added quickly.

“I’m really sorry!”

If Izuku could only wail out his apologies, to earn Kacchan’s forgiveness-!

“De...Izuku..”

The way he drawled out the last vowel of his name, with his right arm spasming at his side, as if wanting to detonate something into pieces...it confused him. What did he say? Usually Kacchan, despite his ill-tempered disposition, would eventually melt and mold against him the instant he asked for any physical consolation.

“Kacchan?”

“I...can’t touch you.”

Katsuki stood up from his bed, feet bare on the floor. His glare softened when it took in his sniveling face, before his scowl became an impassive straight line. His lips then wobbled, as he tried to hold it in place, as he gritted his teeth in frustration. Sunset-red eyes now refused to meet his gaze. He didn’t move to take a seat on his bed, to even reduce their distance to an arm’s reach.

Stay back, Deku.

This forced distance between them screamed those words, louder than anything Kacchan could’ve said. Words that they had twisted and mangled in different contexts, in the each of the phases on how they came to be.

“Why do I keep hurting you, Izuku?”

No one could’ve heard the question, not from the cacophony of machine tuts and humming ventilation. But Izuku heard it all, even the unspoken fear beneath the quiet words.

Remorse on Katsuki had always been ugly; a disease that would slowly gnaw his thoughts, raking healed scars raw until everything festered and ate him alive. But that guilt was an imperative process for him to heal, for him to change and make amends, to cut off the debilitating hubris that hindered his personal growth.

“Why can’t I do anything right?”

At times, that same guilt had its downsides. He’d be unable to function with a clear mind if as he continuously ran over self-flagellating thoughts. He often questioned himself at the end of the day. And gods forbid if he had hurt Izuku again, even in spars and missions, sparking that small flicker of doubt if he deserved the chance to be change, to be with him-

“I just-”

His chest ached, felt that recognizable pang of longing. It was something he hadn’t been encountering recently. How could he even dwell on the possibility of being broken apart again?

To be separated away from Katsuki now would--

There was a sudden urge to re-acquaint himself Katsuki again: to feel his blisters that roughened his touch into a sandpaper-like touch. To that radiating, summer-heat skin that he craved during cold winter morns. To commit to the angles and corners of his body, and fit himself to Katsuki’s form until there wasn’t space left between them. To match the fervor and fascination Katsuki had on him, as he took in the cluster of freckles smattered on his skin, dotting names and figures with a snicker, before flicking Izuku’s forehead whenever he tried to swat away Katsuki’s wandering hands.

Heavens, even if they stood a millimeter apart, it’ll never be close enough.

Right now, It didn’t matter if Kacchan still wore those day-old clothes, looking terribly exhausted. His spiked hair was mussed and matted with sweat - and there were dubious rust-stains on his shirt that he knew was blood. And in the absence of injury, it’s probably Izuku’s own blood.

No wonder Kacchan’s miserable.

But, whatever happened this time to instigate this age-old dilemma of insecurities and self-worth, Izuku will tell him time and again that he won’t break. Never did he ever break from the start. Nothing in the past - either their miscommunications or complications - would make him doubt and leave Kacchan behind.

No matter what happened, Izuku would be here, always, to stay.

“You’ve always hurt me, Kacchan.”

Katsuki flinched in response, stepping back in fear.

“And you know what? People have hurt me too.” His right hand, crooked and bent, littered with ”The people who I loved had hurt me because I let them. And you’re the one I love the most.”

Izuku reached, palm open and expression earnest, to Kacchan’s hand.

“No matter what others think - or what you even think, Kacchan? ”

Kacchan tried to pry away from his grasp.

Undeterred, Izuku leaned forward, reinforced his grip and held him more tightly.

“You deserve to be happy. We fought for this, remember?” Their hands were a knot made of crooked scars and broken calluses, the hard-earned reminders of their pyrrhic victories from a decade of struggle - in fulfilling their ambitions, in keeping the world safe, of the chance to be together. “I fought for you, Katsuki.”

It’ll be fine. Do you know why?

“I will always fight for us.” With a gentle smile, Izuku brushed that flash of silver on Katsuki’s finger. “So, I don’t think you’d be rid of me that easily.”

Because I’ll be here. With you.

“You fucking cornball.”

Katsuki then used his soft, green hair as a makeshift pillow, sunk his forehead into it with a relieved sigh.

“So what’s the big deal, Kacchan?”

“You moron. You should’ve known...” He wouldn’t tell Katsuki that he felt that small sniffle, but he relished the feel of those hands around his hips. “You’re supposed to be the nerd in this relationship. But I can’t believe that we’re this dumb. It’s my fucking fault too. ”

“No matter how well I can read you, Kacchan, I’m not a mind reader. Please?”

But now that Izuku was sitting up, he was now more attuned to his surroundings. His eyes now caught on the clipped board of his every fifteen-minute vital sign sheet, to his IV bag with PNSS c 1% Meth Blue q 8 written in bold sharpie on the sticker. Come to think of it, that was a standard medication for cyanide or nitrate poison-

“I poisoned you.”

Oh.

That explains everything.

He couldn’t help it.

“Stop laughing, Deku.” Kacchan looked like he wanted to punt him, but settled for a grumpy grind of his chin on his green curls. The loose embrace around his shoulders didn’t help on his attempt for intimidation as well. “It isn’t funny.”

“I told you, Kacchan” Izuku sniggered, while relishing the warmth of his embrace, spotted button-nose snuggling in the space between his neck and right shoulder. “You should’ve taken a bath first. But you were so horn-”

“FUCK YOU, DEKU. YOU WERE THE ONE WHO SAID TO HURRY UP.”

“Maa maa, Kacchan.” Izuku shushed, an unspoken reminder that they were still in a hospital, in his can you please tone it down, darling voice. “It’s my fault too. I forgot that you were a living nitrate. Don’t sweat it.” He couldn’t even finish the sentence before Izuku dissolved into giggles, burrowing his beet-red face further to hide Katsuki’s positively annoyed face. “Maybe we should buy another AC for our room?”

To his delight, Katsuki shut him up with an open-mouthed kiss.

After sixteen hours, an impromptu sponge bath, and a quick consultation later, the poison was flushed out from Izuku’s circulation and was transferred to a different, private ward.

Katsuki sat beside his recuperating dumb dork while waiting for the discharge orders.

Izuku just finished his third cup of strong, barley tea, while his other hand tapped at his tablet relentlessly to write on a word document, an acceptable substitute for his analysis notebooks. Those indecipherable mutters brought a substantial amount of ease to him, and regardless of his reservations and sanity, Katsuki took the plunge and asked:

“What are you doing?”

A pause.

Then Deku beamed a grin that could light up an entire cosmos, as the floodgates of information burst open to fill up the silence.

“I looked it up, Kacchan!” He eagerly laid the tablet between them as he scrolled to the top of text where words like perfect oxygen imbalance and light-sensitive were obnoxiously highlighted.

“Do you know that there’s no difference between the composition of a dynamite and nitrogly capsules? You just adjust the amount of dilution! I’ve always thought that your quirk wouldn’t really affect me since no one developed critical cases of anemia around you, and figured that we all developed immunity in the long run because of biological mutation or environmental adaptation, whichever came first. Which brings me to the conclusion that maybe the epidermis that had been exposed to you for years acted as a protective barrier. And the mucosa underneath our tongue, as it’s hidden and offers no protection, can quickly absorb your sweat. And there’s the fact that I probably took three doses of- ”

Gods, does he even breathe?

“Okay, I got the point. Stop yapping.”

“Sorry”

Deku stared at his fierce scowl, and the way his eyes then stayed at his trembling hand. Tried as he might, Katsuki still couldn’t conceal his apprehensions.There was that familiar iota of panic that that would shake his hand with every contact.

But Izuku rubbed his flushed nose, face set in apology, still holding strong on his shaking hand. His claw-like fingers inwardly curled, leaning even more to his side against him to close any remaining proximity left between them.

“I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay,” Katsuki grunted, filling his empty glass with tea. “Worrywart.”

“Huh.” Deku then tilted his head, that inquisitive pout told him he was about to mutter aloud again. “We should’ve thought about this a bit more. I never thought that it would end up like this.”

“Yeah. How should I know?” Katsuki blurted out in annoyance, glaring at Deku’s notes as he tried to hide his discomfort. “I’ve never had anyone suck my fingers before.”

“Oh, you liked it?”

Deku had the fucking indecency to look smug. Like it was a badge of pride. And to his horror, he felt the telltale flush that made Katsuki more flustered, so he blustered with a snappy retort.

“You’re the only freak who’d get off on it. Fucking Nerd. You should’ve known that its a drug.”

"Kacchan, you've always been a drug to me. You make me high." And the smatter of light spots on the bridge of his nose became more prominent. One scarred finger, rugged and bent, traced the side of his neck. "Palpitations." The tip of his nail followed the bob of his throat to the dip of his collarbone. "Bradypnea." His thumb then brushed the edges of his defined jawline. "Tachycardia." Those green-ocean eyes were dark, almost swallowing him whole. "Dilation of pupils-"

And because he couldn’t admit that Deku's weird dirty talk was a fucking turn on, he slapped a heated palm over his mouth.

"Stop jabbering with this poetic nerd crap. And, FUCK, Deku!" He roared when those fucking green eyes sparkled and those adorable, freckled cheeks twitched in amusement. "Don't lick my palm, you shit! Or else I’m going to-"

That fucking beautiful green stare darkened, as his brows wriggled, What?

With a demon-like smirk, Katsuki’s hand dove to the ass that has been taunting him for hours. Deku squeaked in panic.

“What? And if you say we’re in a hospital, it’s the reason why I asked for private quarters, you-”

“I like your fingers and all but...um. Rectums? Anal linings are quite vascular and I don’t think-”

Katsuki let out a strangled shout in frustration.

“I should’ve known why you like to wear skulls, Kacchan.” Deku whined, even if he had no right to complain at all when they’re already going to do it. In broad daylight. In a semi-public place. Their dignity as the best heroes in the entire world be damned. “You’re unconsciously telling everyone you’re a literal, living embodiment of a toxic substance. Already wearing subtle warning signs in public? Warning: Do not fuck this guy. Can kill you if you swallow, choke-”

“Dumbass. I don’t care. Shut up with the pillow talk.” Katsuki grumbled, shifting himself to straddle Deku’s thighs. “As long as you’re fucking me, then we’re gonna be fine.”

“...Well then,” Izuku snorted, glanced at the door lock and unbuttoned his pants. “I had enough of kinky foreplay, anyway.”

Author’s Note: HAVE MERCY ON THE POOR DOCTOR WHO’LL STUMBLE ON YOUR FRICKFRACKLE

Ahem.

This fic is also aptly subtitled as “what happens if you swallow a minute trace of dynamite?” A decade ago, I used to frequently administer NG transdermal patches/sublingual capsules to elderly patients. This headcanon came to mind when I heard the details about Kacchan’s quirk. (And IMO, canon Deku would totally know that you must never lick Kacchan’s hands, or let him poke inside your highly-vascular anal lining. Either they did it within a controlled environment, like a very cold room, lower than 5C or have him wear firefighter gloves?)

I could’ve also included here more discussions on nitrate/NG poisoning- from interventions, diagnosis and medical treatment - but I’m too tired to c/p and translate an entire wiki-like chat with my younger sister and Ate Pidi (both are healthcare/ER professionals respectively). Trust me, those conversations were both enlightening and frustrating at the same time because if I followed everything to the letter, then everyone should be suffering hypoxia around Kacchan. Or dead.

Thus, please allow a suspension of disbelief, like in all works of (fan)fiction. Honestly, at the end of writing this fic, I just threw my hands up in defeat to cry “Screw everything!”

Omake: Geriatric KatsuDeku living together Deku: Kacchan, I’m... *clutches chest because Katsuki still looks pretty even when he’s old* Kacchan: SHUT UP DEKU HERE *shoves his fingers in Izuku's mouth* Deku: *garbled shouting that meant "KACCHAN"* Kacchan: I’m saving your life here, you absolute pancake. Deku: *wrenches his fingers away from his gummy mouth* Deku: STOP SHOVING YOUR FINGERS IN MY MOUTH EVERYDAY, KACCHAN.

Comments and criticisms are appreciated! Thank you for reading!

#bakudeku : fic #bakudeku #katsudeku #bnha fic #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #bakudeku fic

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danielskatelyn1990 · 4 years ago

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Muscle Relaxers For Tmj Prodigious Diy Ideas

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Bruxism Unspecified Icd 10

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Cure Of Tmj

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#Muscle Relaxers For Tmj Prodigious Diy Ideas #Tmj 18 Year Old

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gamerestart · 6 years ago

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Games Developer’s Conference 2018: Day Two

Remember what I wrote about it remaining to be seen if we dodged the “con-crud”? Well, forget all that. We came down with it as expected after all—which is why this missive from the second day wound up being more delayed than I would like.

Onward.

Here I am in Day Two. I look terrible—there’s reasons for that which involve both a general lack of sleep and a surfeit of confusion.

By the end of the second day, trends became apparent, and I’ve had time to reflect on a number of these:

Analytics

Ads

Cryptocurrencies. (Really.)

Virtual Reality (VR) was heavily represented here. I’m going to come out and confess that VR is not something I seem to be able to take part in. I suffer from migraines even under ideal conditions, and motion sickness besides. This limits my ability to participate in VR—the one time I tried, I became nearly claustrophobic when the goggles went on, nausea set in very quickly and I had to take the set off. Even Raven can't use most VR headsets for very long—safe to say, neither one of us are within the target audience for this technology.

AR is another matter, since it doesn’t depend on my ability to focus on an image mere centimeters from my eyes. But I think the utility is kind of dependent on a given external environment or other factors, so I, again, I don’t have much to say about AR in general. Most of the cases presented at the conference were little more than tech demos.

While AR seemed a mere afterthought to the conference at large, analytics seemed to be almost an obsession. Knowing what the users of a product are doing with it at all times, aggregating the data to make better choices and create better worlds to play in, &c. Much of this would be useful for game devs who are engaged in level design, and some cases for analytics were presented with just that in mind.

However, many cases for the use of analytics verged into what I perceived as somewhat invasive territory, and I admit to being uncomfortable with that. One exhibitor offered what they regarded as a compelling use-case for using their service—say, a user hasn’t been playing your game “enough”, and in this case, we'll use the particular developer's example of a week of inactivity for a particular user who tends toward making lots of in-app purchases. Notifications can be automatically generated and sent to the individual user's account - pushed to not only remind a player that the game “misses” them, but to also dangle an extra treat or bit of loot valuable to the gameplay experience to sweeten the deal: come back to the game, and you can have this thing which you might have found by yourself after a few hours on your own.

It’s important to realize that some of these games are being used to sell advertising, and lots of ads being played during the course of gameplay leads to more income for the developer. All well and good. But:

Whatever the developer sets as “not enough time spent in game” is something I see as ultimately arbitrary— perhaps more disturbing to me, however, is now the process is automated. Is a week really too much time away? And would I personally be more inclined to play a game that effectively “nags” me to play it? The implications for the particular developer that we are using as example here also seemed a bit classist to me – users that paid more real world money into the game were obviously targeted with more notifications and enticements to return, which leads to some uncomfortable questions that didn't manifest for us until much later. Were lower-paying or free-to-play users targeted with the same level and quality of loot? What does this ultimately do to game balance?

Obviously, most mobile devices offer some level of granular control of how and even who can hassle the device’s owner, but this shouldn’t be necessary to implement from day one, because it violates a key principle of ownership and how anyone might choose to spend their own time. Would some folk be grateful of the reminder? And choose to accept the digital gift being offered? No doubt. But it’s a little creepy in an industry known for creating compelling and even addicting experiences in the name of having fun in a harmless pastime which then provokes a user’s attention in order to justify selling a few more ads. That this data is then being gathered and monitored I have no doubt, but I think game developers should tread cautiously when presented with such tools, however tempting:

Games are toys. They should only command our attention when we are ready for them, never vice versa. Hassling players in order to provoke engagement may be tempting, but accepting a passive role in entertaining others is perfectly acceptable.

Games are the kind of entertainment often easily associated with poor experiences. How often has anyone said “I hate that game” or “that game gave me cancer” and meant they were having a good time and would recommend that experience to their friends? A game might not be objectively terrible, but no player is going to be objective while playing. If free-to-play comes with a high price to play (in an annoying coin), folk may remember only the bad things about the product and forget the good things.

It never looks good seeing your company’s name (or more) in a headline along with the terms “data breach” or “users of [game] had their personal information hacked”—even if it was harmless. An easy way to avoid this is to never monitor your own users beyond accepting payments from them. Does this leave you in the dark with regards to valuable informatics? Yup. But it also covers things pretty well in light of what is turning out to be a fairly regular occurrence—and may even be part of the cost of doing business. In a free-to-play scenario, violating that trust also won’t be good for attracting new users to your product.

If I seem out of place with my tone here, given that I am at this point certainly (as I have amply established) a relative outsider, consider that most game devs still come from games players. These things struck me as obvious, but as I’ve learned, no industry is 100% infallible when it comes to trends or even groupthink.

Ads seem to be a potentially good way of helping fund a project.

But I don’t really know if there’s a best practice for this. Ads are ads—there’s not much anyone can do to avoid ads, given how pervasive they are in television, magazines, and, recently, movie theaters. Why not in games? So long as information which doesn’t belong to the advertisers isn’t being handed off to third parties, I’ve no objection to ads as a revenue stream.

I will say I prefer to pay for games outright. That seems more sustainable and less susceptible to external factors over the long haul. It also seems like a small company could carve out a comfortable niche doing only games which are available for a small fee.

Some advertising requires a transaction, either a tap/click or other form of interaction either to dismiss the ad or—for those rare occasions when a player might actually want what’s being advertised—click through. Obviously there are entities ready and able to handle those transactions and deliver some sort of fulfillment—whatever it is—on whatever’s being offered. Certainly, groups who do not only ad design but make playable games within ads themselves were represented at GDC. (That latter one is clearly new to me, given the demise of Flash, but considering the ubiquity of JavaScript, maybe it shouldn’t at all.)

Ad Delivery is understandable. Cryptocurrencies, however…

What I don’t understand is the presence of cryptocurrencies (not just one, but I counted four when we went), some of whom represented themselves as an alternative to paying for games outright, possibly in exchange for a little (or more than a little) of a game player’s CPU/GPU time or unused disk space to facilitate mining.

Let me get this out right now: I don’t regard cryptocurrencies as valid economic vehicles, investments, or even valid currencies. Right now, they seem to be digital tulips run amok. I confess to dabbling with a bit of “mining” in the past, but the frustrations associated with cashing out now that the market has become so unstable has only affirmed what I believe about cryptocurrencies. It’s clear that crypto has a lot of black market movements associated with it, and some decidedly unsavory political movements as well as money laundering. It doesn’t matter to me that fiat currency is likely based on nothing tangible, except the agreement of an entire nation or treaty group that is has value, and the militaries that often come with such arrangements—something no cryptocurrency will likely ever have.

So I remain a hard skeptic of cryptocurrencies and all of their attendant industry, which is why it was a surprise to see any cryptocurrency represented at a game design conference.

My reading on this presence is as yet incomplete.

#gdc 2018

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ciathyzareposts · 4 years ago

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The Black Gate: La Forge

I have a feeling we’re going to regret this.

So far in our chronology, expansions have been rare enough that we haven’t devoted any significant time to them. Although not common, they are nearly as old as CRPGs themselves. The first that I can identify for sure two 1981 games in the Dunjonquest series: The Upper Reaches of Apshai expansion to Temple of Apshai (1979) and the Keys of Acheron expansion to Hellfire Warrior (1980). Only shortly after those came the second and third Wizardry scenarios (1982 and 1983). They are now known colloquially as Wizardry II and Wizardry III, and later titles would continue from that numbering, but the original releases required the original Wizardry to create characters.

Lots of other games have lacked expansions as such but have been modular from the start, such as Eamon (1980) and its various clones. And of course outside of the CRPG genre, expansions go arguably back to 1976, when Advanced Electronics released Pong Extras for the pong console.

We have also seen in this era some confusion between the term “expansion” and wholly original games. For instance, the Bloodwych Data Disks (1990) are often given as an expansion of the original game, but my reading of the description is that the disks contain standalone executable files that read saved games from Bloodwych and offer more levels. I only consider a game an “expansion” if it requires the original game installation to run.

Thus, Forge of Virtue doesn’t earn any extra points for being the first expansion. But aside from the modular titles in which you could move characters in and out of different adventures at will, Forge of Virtue might be the first “interlocutory expansion”–that is, taking place entirely within the context of the original adventure. (We can come up with a better term.) The opposite would be “coda expansions,” which take place after the main quest and generally can only be played after solving it (e.g., most of Baldur’s Gate II: Throne of Bhaal). There are of course still others that allow the player to choose either way (The Witcher 3: Hearts of Stone), and others beyond that that stand completely separate from the main title (Assassin’s Creed IV: Freedom Cry). There are weird combinations such as Dragon Age: Origins – Awakening, which can be a coda expansion or a standalone expansion depending on how the main plot went, or the “Watcher’s Keep” part of Throne of Bhaal, which is an interlocutory expansion to a coda expansion that can also be an interlocutory expansion to the original game.

Interlocutory expansions are tricky because developers can’t gauge exactly where the player will be when he begins the expansion. What they can gauge is how the expansion will affect the character for the rest of the main game, and the answer is almost always that it overpowers him. Such is the case with Forge of Virtue, as we’ll see.

Heaven knows why ORIGIN decided that Ultima VII needed a few extra hours of content, or why they thought the Avatar needed even more power. The game isn’t that hard as it is. I’ve heard cynical theories that the original game was so bugged that the company came up with the “expansion” idea as a way to deliver crucial patches while getting players to pay extra for them. In a contemporary interview with Warren Spector published in Game Bytes magazine, he had no explanation other than, “Someone realized we could do it, and so they did it.” If anyone knows of any source that explains Forge of Virtue better, please link it.

The expansion is introduced into the main game in the clumsiest way. The Avatar has just arrived in Trinsic and is just beginning to hear about the murders and absorb that it’s been 200 years, and then suddenly there’s an earthquake. Way to pile it on. As you recall, once the Avatar reaches Lord British, the king has this to say:

The foundation of Britannia was shaken with the rising of an island. This event was no random disaster, it was one of sorcerous intent . . . I felt a great disturbance in the ether when this island arose from the sea. The island is none other than the Isle of Fire where thou defeated the Hellspawn Exodus . . . Avatar, thou shouldst know that when I created the shrines of the Virtues, I also set upon this island three great shrines, dedicated to the Principles of Truth, Love, and Courage. They reside within the walls of the Castle of Fire. I never revealed this to thee before as I thought them forever lost when the Isle of Fire mysteriously sank beneath the waves. The shrines are meant for the use of an Avatar only, and therefore a talisman will be necessary to use one. The talismans are guarded by tests that thou shouldst have no problem passing if thou wishest to seek their counsel.

There’s a boatload of retconning in that paragraph. Originally, the shrines of virtue were created after the events of Exodus: Ultima III, and thus after the Isle of Fire originally sank after Exodus’s defeat. The entire world has been reconfigured since the events of Ultima III, so it’s hard to believe, geologically, that this is the same island even if it could somehow be determined by geography. Third, there was no Avatar before the events of Ultima IV, so the shrines would have been useless (none of the other shrines require you to already be an avatar to visit). Fourth, it wouldn’t make any sense to lump three shrines to the principles of virtue in one place; it would have made more sense to co-locate them with the Lycaeum, Empath Abbey, and Serpent’s Hold, just as the shrines of virtue were co-located with the towns that exemplified them.

If you can ignore all that, it’s not a bad opener for a plot. The true nature of Exodus has always been a bit of a mystery. Was he man, machine, or a combination? Was the computer in which I fed the data disks Exodus himself, or was it just controlling him? Either way, his defeat definitely felt less complete than that of Mondain or Minax. I could see their heads fly off their bodies (I imagine), but Exodus just . . . sank. The endgame text even takes care to specify that he was “defeated”–not killed. His return is the least implausible thing about this backstory.

Lord British unnecessarily gives you his ship, docked in Vesper, to travel the five paces between the mainland and the Isle of Fire. Even if you didn’t finish the expansion, this already makes the game a lot easier because it saves you from buying a ship (admittedly, if you grab the magic carpet early, it hardly matters), not to mention all the stuff that its holds are stocked with. The king also gave me a “focused magic crystal” that’s supposed to do something on the island.

The healing potions are nice, but why did Lord British have so much hooch stashed on his ship?

I was originally going to save my visit to the Isle of Fire for late in the game, but an organic reason to visit came up earlier: I can’t defeat the demon guardian of the blackrock generator. Mages, friends, people I love, are suffering migraines so bad that they’re going insane, and I need to stop it as soon as possible. If I can’t defeat the guardian with my current skill set, that means powering up as soon as possible. And although the Avatar doesn’t know exactly what he’ll find on the Isle of Fire, his experience in the past has been that most shrines confer some benefits, as do the former lairs of evil overlords.

Just so I can say I sailed a ship briefly, I land the magic carpet in Vesper and take the Golden Ankh to the Isle of Fire. You sail a ship in this game by boarding it, double-clicking the gangplank to raise it, double-clicking the mast to prompt everyone to sit down, and double-clicking the sail to unfurl it. Then you can go in any direction with the regular movement keys; you don’t have to worry about wind direction or speed as in some of the earlier Ultimas. I guess the Avatar finally learned how to tack. You reverse this process when you arrive. You have to pull the ship up to some place that has accessible land on the other side of one of the gangplanks and then drop one of them.

The Isle of Fire has no dock, so I pull up to a marshy area and let everyone off there. The arrival area is a small inner bay with a half circle of land around it. At its apex is a ruined fortress covered with ash and ruined iron, although somehow torches are burning. There’s a moongate nearby, and entering deposits me outside the entrance to the Lycaeum. I reload and continue into the keep.

Looks a bit different from when we last visited.

The entry hall leads back to a room with three statues: a maiden, a knight with a sword, and an old man in a robe. I temporarily leave them to scout the rest of the structure, which has a number of portals and dragon statues.

In a western bedroom, we find an old blind man named Erethian. He knows who I am immediately, recounting my victories against the triad of evil in the first three games. He claims to be a researcher, recently arrived, which starts to explain why his food, furnishings, and books aren’t hopelessly waterlogged, but then he goes on to claim he’s found many interesting books in the keep. He gets tetchy when I question how books are useful to a blind man.

Almost immediately, he confirms that “the machine that [I] destroyed was Exodus’s means of communication with and control of the world,” not Exodus himself. The computer was a bridge between Exodus’s psyche and an evil database called the “Dark Core,” which blended mundane information with knowledge of taking over the world. He confirms that the gargoyles imprisoned Exodus’s psyche in the Statue of Diligence. A book in his room called The Dark Core of Exodus elaborates on these theories. (The Books of Britannia entry has been updated with two books by Erethian: Converting Moongates to Thine Own Use, The Dark Core of Exodus, and one by “R. Allen G.”: Ethical Hedonism.)

Erethian suggests several times that he knows me better than makes sense; that he saw me defeat the triad close-up; that he knew them personally. He makes asides about Iolo’s bardic abilities and the Avatar’s tendency to steal artifacts for his own use. At the same time, he seems unaware that the gargoyle world is gone, and he suggests that it was never daemons with which gargoyles were confused but balrons. I believe the creatures last appeared in Ultima IV.

Canon in the making.

Erethian is the putative author of the expansion’s manual, A Guide to the Isle of Fire. I’d have mentioned this book at the beginning, but it’s unclear exactly when the Avatar is supposed to have acquired it, so I’m assuming we found it in Erethian’s room. The book deals with a few of my “retcon” objections. It claims that Lord British built the shrines to the three principles of virtue on the Isle of Fire at the same time he created the eight shrines of virtue. (Previous sources have suggested the Great Council created the shrines, but the statements aren’t irreconcilable. I assume it was a collaborative effort; that Lord British directed the project and the Council did the work.) While the shrines of virtue were meant to help produce the Avatar, the three shrines to the principles were to help serve the Avatar, and thus were protected by beasts and traps that only the Avatar could solve. As for the Isle of Fire sinking, I guess I was relying on a faulty memory. Nothing at the end of Ultima III says that it sank, and neither does anything in the backstory of Ultima IV. Thus, it could have sank days before the Avatar arrived for the fourth game. Erethian thinks it sank because of the gargoyles’ removal of Exodus’s psyche, although he doesn’t specify the mechanism by which this would happen.

Yeah, when I need them to save the world.

Erethian claims in the manual to have started studying the Isle of Fire using an enchantment that allows him to breathe underwater. After he found Exodus’s Dark Core, he used the lenses to view the Codex and see how to raise the island from the depths. Thus, Erethian takes responsibility for the events of the expansion.

We return to the statue room and speak to the old man in front of us, assuming he represents truth. He introduces himself as the Keeper of Truth and asks if we seek the “wisdom and boon” of Truth. We say yes and are teleported to a small room with a moongate and two plaques. The plaques read: “Truth is truth” and “Only appearances are deceptive.” The south wall of the room turns out to be illusory. It leads to a series of invisible corridors through which we have to travel before we come to a door operated by a switch. On the other side is the Talisman of Truth. Picking up the artifact, we are teleported back to the statues, where the Keeper of Truth says that we have “mastered the path of truth.” He raises the Avatar’s intelligence and magic to 30 (the maximum), warns us that “the psyche returns to the core,” and falls silent.

Guys, did that seem a little too easy to anyone else?

The statue of the woman tells us to enter the portal to the south for the Test of Love. We find ourselves in a valley with a small hut. A logbook written by the hut’s former owner, Astelleron (mentioned in Erethian’s history), tells of how he lived on the island and created two golems to protect the shrine. The golems were originally unthinking machines, but Astelleron managed to use some artifact called the Stone of Castambre to imbue then with intelligence and reason. Astelleron has apparently died; a gravestone behind the hut reads HERE LIES BELOVED FATHER AND MASTER.

I don’t know. Was he a confederate general?

We find the golems, one of them dead and broken in a circle of stones, the other standing mournfully over him. The intact golem, introducing himself as Bollux, pleas for help. He explains that a wall fell on his brother, Adjhar, destroying him. He hands us one of Astelleron’s books, which explains how the Stone of Castambre can be used to animate golems and other inanimate objects. It outlines a process:

1. Find the Stone of Castambre, which should be located in the center of a group of five boulders, with a tree growing out of it.

2. Place something (it was smudged) within the chest of the creature

3. Use a pick-axe to strike the tree and fill a bucket with the tree’s blood.

4. Set down five rocks in a pentagram shape around the creature. Anoint each with blood from the bucket.

5. Cast VAS FLAM UUS on each puddle of blood while chanting some sacred words. Fortunately, VAAS FLAM UUS is contained within the book.

We grab a bucket at Astelleron’s old well. A mountain pass leads into an old mine, where we find a pick-axe. At the end of the pass, a teleporter brings us to a separate valley, where we find the Stone of Castambre and the tree growing out of it. Then next step takes a while because I’m first convinced I have to get up to the level of the tree, so I waste a lot of time trying to stack powder barrels to make stairs (this works with regular barrels but not powder barrels). I then equip the pick-axe and try attacking the tree in combat instead of double-clicking on it to use it. Finally, I figure it out and get my bucket of blood.

The deer was tempting, as I was low on food, but I figure you don’t kill helpless forest creatures during the Test of Love.

I still don’t know exactly what to place in the golem’s chest, so I start the ritual without it, pouring blood on each of the five stones that someone (Bollux?) has prophetically placed around the body. I then cast VAAS FLAM US. As I do so, Iolo remarks that we’ll need a heart, and Bollux immediately volunteers his own, digging it out of his chest and collapsing to the ground.

Technically, this qualifies more as “sacrifice.”

We place the heart in the body and finish the incantation, which causes Adjhar to awaken. Adjhar, created second, is the more articulate of the two golems. Seeing Bollux’s body, he demands to know what has happened. When we tell him, he asks for our assistance in restoring Bollux to life. At first, I’m worried I’m going to be stuck swapping hearts and collecting blood for eternity (Iolo even makes a joke about this), but it turns out we can fashion a new one with a chunk from the tree.

Too soon, Iolo.

Back we go to carve the heart and collect the blood. (The tree is looking a bit sickly by this point.) We repeat the ritual, and soon both golem brothers are standing before us. Adjhar happily gives us the Talisman of Love, as we have demonstrated an understanding of the principle. That raises a question: Was Adjhar really injured in a fall? Or was all of this just a test? If the former, what did the original test look like? The Keeper of Love bestows 30 dexterity and combat on me and warns me about an evil stirring in Britannia.

Yes, I’m sure two golem brothers encompass “all that is love.”

Third comes the Keeper of Courage, who again asks me to enter a teleporter. On the way, I happen to pass a mirror full of swirling colors. I double-click on it. A demonic face appears and calls me “master” before realizing that I’m not, in fact, his master. Recovering from his faux pas, he introduces himself as Arcadion. He says that he’s served Erethian for 200 years, and he clearly hates the mage. Erethian, meanwhile, is clearly up to something he hasn’t let on.

Give it a few minutes.

We return to Erethian, expecting to somehow “expose” him, but he agrees freely to possessing the creature, saying that he is “sometimes useful.” Apparently, Arcadion is keen to possess the Ether Gem, which he thinks will free him, but Erethian insists that it will just confine him to a “more mobile prison.” In any event, a dragon apparently burst into the castle and stole the Ether Gem some time ago before disappearing into the Test of Courage. This accounts for the damage and debris in the rooms leading to the teleporter.

Yes, it’s too bad you don’t have a better relationship with your demon.

We take the teleporter to the Test of Courage, which turns out to be the hardest of the tests–hard enough that I probably would have done less reloading if I’d just stayed at the Tetrahedron Generator and kept trying to defeat the guardian. The hardest part is near the beginning–a large room full of the remains of previous adventurers, in which skeletons and headless spring to life, a mage casts spells from the center, and a lich casts spells from an area to the north. Even worse, the lich is protected by some kind of ring of candles, so he can’t be engaged. The mage has in his possession the key to the next door, so his body must be identified and looted before progressing to the next section of the dungeon. Meanwhile, flames are burning everywhere for no reason and there are two red moongates in the lower corners of the room. Trying to get through this room with my entire party alive reminds me why people hate combat in this game. In previous entries, I suggested it wasn’t so bad, but I recant those statements. The primary problem is that you cannot keep your party in any kind of sensible formation. The moment combat begins, they go storming off in every direction. Party members with missile weapons become convinced they need more room and go tearing off in search of a better vantage. Anyone with combat settings for “hardest foe” or “easiest foe” or “random foe” will go charging after distant enemies–sometimes ones on another screen entirely. The only way you can keep people remotely together is to have everyone target the “closest” enemy, but even then, some party members have an odd idea of “closest.” Then they decide to flee when they take too much damage–sometimes–but they have no discernment while fleeing and often flee right into the path of other enemies or into patches of fire, where they enter a never-ending cycle of falling unconscious from the fire damage, slowly regenerating health (characters don’t take damage while unconscious, even if they’re sleeping in fire), waking up, taking damage, and immediately falling unconscious again.

This room has a lot happening.

Enemies in this room seem to spawn more or less continually, so I’m trying to herd everyone through the room while still killing the mage and anyone else who’s a direct threat. The only way I can do this is to periodically exit combat, which causes everyone to rush back into formation, and then enter it again. The issue isn’t that it’s hard to win; it’s that it’s hard to win while keeping everyone alive. The more characters you have, the stronger your party is collectively, but the greater chance that someone doesn’t survive a tough combat. Not for the first time, I wonder why ORIGIN allowed you to select individual party members in Ultima VI but not VII. With that option, I could hustle some characters across the room while others fight. I could leave most of them around the corner and send one character forth to lure enemies one-by-one. Instead, I’m reduced to a lot of reloading. I can’t tell you how sick I am of hearing the Guardian say, “Poor Avatar. Poor, poor Avatar” before waking up in Paws.

At least there’s some good equipment in the room.

All of this complaining should be tempered, of course, by the knowledge that I’m in Forge of Virtue a bit earlier than the game probably intended, so the particular difficulty of this dungeon is by design. Eventually, I do get everyone through the room, picking up a lot of valuable magic armor from the corpses on the way. We unlock the door and continue down the corridors. The rest of the dungeon has a few switch puzzles, giant spiders, giant scorpions, and other creatures before we reach the end. There are a couple of puzzles in which you have to sacrifice magic gear (although you find the gear in the same dungeon, so it’s really a draw). There’s a room with a couple of dragons before the final room with the dragon. I think I’m being clever by using a Potion of Sleeping and a vial of sleeping powder on the dragons, knocking them out long enough for my party to administer a couple of coups de grâce and then looting their corpses for gems. Then I encounter a locked door that requires the same key used on the first door, which I left behind. By the time I return, the dragons have respawned and I have to defeat them “for real” this time.

I thought I was so clever.

In the final room, we meet the dragon Dracothraxus, who indicates that he’s the final test of courage. We’re plainly meant to defeat him with a glass sword found on a charred body within the chamber, but I don’t find it until after we’ve won with regular weapons. This only takes one try, which surprises me given how hard the first room was.

The true Test of Courage.

For our victory, Dracothraxus gives us the Ether Gem and says that we won’t have passed the Test of Courage until we defeat him for good, which will require an artifact that doesn’t exist. This doesn’t make a lot of sense given that Dracothraxus forced his way into the test, but whatever. We have to walk back through the dungeon–fighting the dragons a third time–to return to the castle. Back in the fortress, Erethian tells us that the artifact of power we’re looking for is probably a giant blackrock sword, which he once attempted to make but lacked the strength to properly forge it. He waves his hands and magically summons a blacksmith’s workshop in the entry hall of the castle, including a well and bucket, a trough, a hearth full of coal, a hammer, an anvil; a bellows, and the sword blank he’d previously attempted. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the help, but this part seems far too easy. I think I might have preferred if I’d had to take the sword back to the mainland, find a forge, and figure it out for myself.

Erethian, acting as the deus ex caminus.

There’s a lot of trial and error in the ensuing process. The winning sequence goes: Fill the bucket a few times at the well and dump it into the trough; put the sword blank across the hearth; pump the bellows until the sword is glowing bright; put the sword on the anvil; beat it with the hammer; repeat the process until the game tells you you’ve done as much as you can; heat up the sword one last time; douse the sword in the trough. For a game that allows you to do so much with the environment it is unnecessarily finicky with the controls during this process. You can’t manually pick up the sword and move it to the anvil; you have to double-click on it and then click on the anvil. You can’t equip the hammer and then attack the sword as in combat; you have to double-click the hammer and then click on the sword. And the first few times you heat it up and pound at it on the anvil, there’s no encouragement that you’re doing the right thing.

The Avatar hammers the blackrock sword.

When it’s all done, the game tells us that the sword is too heavy to wield, so back we go to Erethian for advice. He suggests binding Arcadion to the Ether Gem and then binding that to the sword. This is supposed to be as easy as holding the gem in my hand and smashing the mirror, but here I run into significant problems. It turns out the Ether Gem is about the size of a marble, nearly impossible to find in my backpack, and at the same time I never really looked at the gem that Lord British gave us. I confuse that gem for the Ether Gem and keep trying to use it, which keeps causing it to shatter. It takes loads of time and a YouTube video to figure out what I’m doing wrong. Afterwards, I do it right–but what the heck is the purpose of the gem Lord British gave us?

Denial to acceptance in a few words.

Arcadion is at first delighted to be freed from the mirror. He then swiftly goes through the five stages of grief as he realizes he’s trapped in a gem. In the resulting conversation, I order him to bind with the sword, which then becomes usable as a weapon. I can talk to Arcadion at any time by double-clicking on the sword in my inventory. It allows me to call up on special abilities titled “magic,” “death,” “fire,” and “return,” all of which I need to experiment with more. We return to the Trial of Courage, fight our way through the monsters a second time, and confront Dracothraxus again. He and Arcadion have some dialogue indicating that they’re old enemies as the battle commences. I defeat the dragon without much trouble and he departs, giving us access to a northern room with the Talisman of Courage.

A little smack talk before the rumble.

We are teleported back to the room with the three statues, where the Avatar’s strength is raised to 30. The Keeper of Courage then demands that the Avatar seek the Talisman of Infinity. Erethian again fills us in: If we focus the convex and concave lenses on the combined Talismans of Truth, Love, and Courage, it will call the Talisman of Infinity from the void. “Once here,” he says, “it would seem that its sole purpose is to coerce a powerful force into the void.” He suddenly realizes what that “powerful force” might be and shuts down, but Arcadion pipes up and fills us in on how to perform the rest of the ritual.

The persistence of NAME and JOB when talking to a sword belie the Avatar’s newly-increased intelligence.

We have to take the Golden Ankh to Britain to grab the two lenses from the museum, then head back to the Isle of Fire.

These don’t really belong in a museum anyway.

Back in the fortress, we arrange the Talismans as instructed on top of the Dark Core. (Until this point, I didn’t even realize it was the Dark Core. I thought it was just a pedestal.) The Talisman of Infinity appears long enough to snatch the Core into the abyss. Erethian teleports in, enraged, and tries to cast VAS ORT REL TYM, which means something like “through great magic, change time,” but his spell backfires and reduces him to some bones scattered across the floor.

The Talisman does its job while the bones of Erethian litter the floor above it.

We sail back to Vesper, board the carpet, travel to Britain, wake up Lord British, and tell him the news. As a reward, he doubles my strength to 60. And thus the Forge of Virtue ends.

What if Exodus had returned and the Guardian invaded at the same time? That would have been interesting.

I have to say, as much as I’ve enjoyed Ultima VII so far, there wasn’t much that I liked about the expansion. The backstory started out promising, but then the game started playing me instead of vice versa. There was too much exposition from Erethian, his instructions were too explicit, and the resolution of his story was unsatisfying. I had hoped that it would turn out that he was Exodus–or at least his psyche–trying to figure out how to reunite with his “Dark Core.” Something needed to explain the mage’s familiarity with Mondain and Minax and other mysteries in his backstory.

If Lord British is going to keep to one side of his king-sized bed, I don’t see why I shouldn’t crawl in next to him.

Finally, while it’s nice to leave an expansion with some improved stats and gear, this one goes way too far. The Avatar’s dexterity, intelligence, magic, and combat all doubled, and his strength quadrupled. There’s no point in any further training or development for the Avatar, except for leveling so he can cast higher-level spells. And honestly, if you have a weapon this powerful, is it really necessary to make it capable of a “Death” spell, too?

My character at the end of the session.

But of course I knew most of these things going in, so I can’t complain too much. The trip serves its purpose. After our visit to Britain–where we return the two lenses, as well as cash in our accumulated gems and gold nuggets–we return to the Dungeon Deceit and the Tetrahedron Generator. The Avatar goes in and its guardian dies in a couple of hits from the sword. The Generator is destroyed.

You’ll have to take my word for it. I would trade every spell that sword is capable of casting for a permanent “Light” spell.

We cap this expedition with a return to Moonglow. Mariah is her old self, no longer confused or insane, although her character graphic still suggests she hasn’t slept, bathed, changed, or combed her hair in a while. She thanks me for restoring magic, as does Penumbra.

The way you know is that no one else ever solves any problems in Britannia.

I think it’s finally time to move on to Jhelom and Dupre, and to test out our new sword in the Dungeon Destard.

Time so far: 40 hours

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/the-black-gate-la-forge/

#retro games #dos games #retro #crpg #adventure #amiga #oldcomputers #8bit #16bit #blog #repost

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gaiatheorist · 5 years ago

Text

It’s all in your head.

To be fair, most of it is, the chemical imbalances that cause the anxiety, panic, and depression, the metal coils sealing up the two operable brain aneurysms, the third, inoperable aneurysm, the PTSD memories triggering flashbacks, oh, and the recent diagnosis of Autistic Spectrum Disorder.

It’s Mental Health Week, so some people are extolling the virtues of goat-yoga, a morning jog, mindful bullet journals, or oily fish. Good for you, Brenda, I’m happy that eating a banana for breakfast every day has helped you, no, I’m not going to try it myself, and there we go, I’m just ‘not trying hard enough.’ Some people become almost-evangelical about what has worked for them, and don’t grasp that we’re all different, that there isn’t a one-size-fits-all solution. Putting myself in their shoes, I can imagine that having had a solution must be a genuine relief, I know people who have had their lives turned around by finding the right medication, or therapist. I’m happy for them, I’m just not one of them.

‘Happy’ is one of my issues. I see ‘happy’ at one end of a continuum that has ‘unhappy’ at the other end, I’m fine bumbling along somewhere in the middle, I’m ‘content’ as long as I’m not slipping too far into the ‘unhappy’ end. Some people struggle with that, and want to ‘make me happy’. (Whether I like it or not. It usually doesn’t end well.) The middle-ground, not one extreme or the other, and the knowledge that, even if I do end up at the unhappy end, it doesn’t usually last long, it passes. (Anecdotally, I have been prescribed numerous different anti-depressants, some didn’t work at all, and others ‘wore off’ after reaching maximum dosage. Medication, for me, deviated from my ‘normal’ continuum, an offshoot, neither happy nor unhappy, just not-caring. That’s a scary zone for me to be in, I know ‘everything is awful’, but it’s a far-away awful, an awful that’s muffled by the foggy, medicated sheep-sleep, in that zone I’m detached, robotic, playing a role, it’s almost as bad as being unhappy.)

That’s what I try to avoid, offending the evangelicals by letting them know that their panacea doesn’t work on me. I’m not ‘special’, I just have a strange combination of issues, I could sort-of mask the ASD, and sort-of drag myself through the patches of depression or anxiety, the brain injuries kicked my adaptations into the long grass. Yes, Brenda, I could take fish-oil for my joint pain, but that’s working on the assumption that it IS arthritis and tendonitis as per my medical notes, and not All In My Head. (As if the mental stuff wasn’t enough to deal with, there’s IBS, Arthritis, Raynauds, Chronic Migraine, none of which are uncommon to people with ASD, shaken-bottle style, we use up so much energy passing-for-normal our bodies rebel against us.)

The population as a whole is becoming more aware of the prevalence of poor mental health, ‘well-being’ and the most common mental illnesses. We’re encouraged to be open, to talk, not to suffer alone, the issue is who we talk to. (My GP is brilliant, I remember probably 15 years ago, presenting during a depressive episode, and him being frustrated with my resistance to being medicated. “Look, I could tell you that you’d feel better if you dyed your hair blonde, or wore red socks, but it makes no difference at all if you’re not going to do it!” The Fluoxetine/Prozac was in a Tupperware container on top of the kitchen cupboard, the ex had some friends over, and they decided to try my ‘happy tablets.’ “They didn’t do anything.” Morons.) The ex liked to tell me I was stupid, that I was ‘making things up’, and that my various aches, pains, and issues were excuses. The first migraine after moving in with him should have been a red flag. “Don’t be stupid, how can a headache mean you can’t speak? Get dressed, or we’ll be late.” Then, a few years later, I’d phoned my father-in-law to take our infant son, because I could feel a migraine building. “Are you on drugs, lass?” “No, they took a picture of the thing in my head, it doesn’t work.” (I’m sure that reassured him enormously, I was trying to tell him that I’d had brain scans when I was younger, and the migraines had been described as ‘a type of seizure.’) Profoundly unenlightened, the ex and his Dad. “Why do you have to be SO fucking miserable, I’m not happy with this!”, and, when the first treatment for my IBS was ineffective, so my GP prescribed SSRI medication, “By, that can’t be right, lass, it’s your belly that’s bad, not your head!”

“Cheer up, love, it might never happen!” “I’ll GIVE you something to cry about!” and “Don’t sit there with a face like a wet week, you’re ruining it for everyone!” Act-normal-blend-in-be-happy, I’m sure that most high-functioning autistic people could win Oscars for ‘acting normal’, that’s why we slip through the diagnostic net, or don’t-mask, and are labelled ‘quirky’ or ‘eccentric.’ The masking/passing takes cognitive effort, we burn out, and acquire diagnoses of ‘stress related disorder’, which is doctor-code for “We don’t actually know, give it a few weeks to see if it passes.”

In the last consultation with a medic, I’d said something along the lines of “I don’t know if that’s the brain injury, depression, or just ‘me’.” the lovely psychiatrist responded “Or a combination, it doesn’t have to be just one.” Dog-paddling determinedly through the quagmire that is the NHS, I’d been bounced from pillar to post, and sort-of-absorbed the reductive approach, in a game of pass-the-patient, the music would stop, they’d tear off another layer, and decide “No, that’s your brain injuries.”, “No, that’s your pre-existing mental health issues.” “No, that’s your migraine.” The ASD diagnosis is probably the closest I’ve come to any given department taking ownership, and not chucking me somewhere else like a hot potato. We’ll see how long the wait is, until I have my first appointment, to anchor me to something, instead of floating, untethered between departments, with DWP breathing down my neck about why I’m not ‘better’ yet.

I’ve had my share of dismissive, minimalising doctors. There are only two GPs at my clinic, and I refuse to see one of them. “I’m not writing you a note for stress, that situation would stress anyone!”, and, when I’d presented with a breast lump, and disclosed coping difficulties, actually ASKING for anti-depressants “No, I’m not writing you a script until after your scan, we need that out of the way first.” The other GP left two years ago, he of the “Are you a bit weepy, lass?” The old catch-all of “That might improve once you’ve had a baby.” was trotted out. I had a baby, a couple of years later, a male gynaecologist had a bit of a rummage, and then told my ex “There’s nothing PHYSICALLY wrong with her.” (Polycystic ovaries, and endometrial adhesions, but, hey, he’d had a poke about inside my vagina, and there weren’t any Lego bricks, or venus fly-traps in there, so I was fine-and-just-making-things-up, the bastard didn’t even mention my tilted uterus, so I had two more IUDs fitted in a uterus that was the wrong shape.)

This is not a male/female issue. Statistically, females are more likely to book and attend appointments than males are. (The you-can’t-pour-from-an-empty-vessel mentality is ingrained in us, if we’re ill, who will cook the meals, and iron the underpants?) The issue, in my case, has been ‘at what cost?’. I didn’t take sick days at work, I actually scheduled my second round of brain surgery during a school holiday, to minimise disruption to others. I have a peculiar mind, I can do some things other people can’t, and some things that other people find as natural as breathing, I can’t do. I’m going nowhere with this, other than the pointless round-and-round that sometimes we ask for help, and are told to grin-and-bear-it, sometimes we ask for help when we know we need it, and are handed-on, because we are superficially functional. At What Cost?

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flauntpage · 7 years ago

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Football's Brain Injury Crisis Isn't Just for Star Players

Ka'Lial Glaud has a headache. Every second of every day, he says. Ever since suffering his first and only diagnosed concussion in the National Football League nearly two years ago.

A 26-year-old former linebacker who spent most of three NFL seasons with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Glaud has been diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome, a disorder in which symptoms such as dizziness, light sensitivity, and intense headaches persist long after someone experiences an initial brain injury.

Medications haven't brought Glaud relief. Nor has therapy. He isn't well enough to work, and he can't go back to Rutgers University to finish his undergraduate degree—not when reading for more than half an hour leaves his eyes exhausted and head throbbing.

Recently, Glaud says, it took all he had just to walk on a Stairmaster and then cut the grass at his home in Asbury Park, New Jersey.

"I was down for four days [afterward]," he says. "I told a doctor, 'It's like I can feel my brain.' They said that's impossible. But it feels like someone is inside my head and has their hands around my brain, and they're squeezing it."

It's been more than a decade since doctors discovered the neurodegenerative disease chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) in deceased Pittsburgh Steelers center Mike Webster, a revelation that helped make brain trauma in football an ongoing national story. Much of the subsequent fan and media focus has been on star players, like New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady allegedly hiding a concussion last season, and worst-case medical outcomes, like Hall of Fame linebacker Junior Seau being posthumously diagnosed with CTE after committing suicide in 2012.

However, fringe performers such as Glaud—training camp invitees, practice squad members, players at the bottom of depth charts—are just as vulnerable as the sport's marquee names, maybe even more so. Fighting for jobs and paychecks in the league, they arguably have greater incentive to put their brains at risk and fewer resources to cope with any lasting damage.

Even when those ailments are less severe than CTE, they still can be debilitating. Glaud was concussed in September of 2015, and since then his life has been a fog of frustration and depression.

"Everyone you hear about, they played for ten, 15 years," Glaud says. "I had three, one of those on the practice squad and another on injured reserve. I didn't play that daggone long. And it has affected me. I think about it every day."

Glaud doesn't remember the hit. He was playing for the Dallas Cowboys in the team's final preseason game, trying to earn a roster spot.

One moment, Glaud was calling plays and setting defensive fronts; the next, he was on the sideline, telling teammate Sean Lee that nothing was wrong—even though Glaud couldn't recall those same plays and fronts when one of his coaches was going through game video on a tablet computer.

Are you sure you're OK?

I'm fine.

I think I'll have a doctor look at you.

"I asked Shawn not to," Glaud says. "Then I went back out on special teams. When I came off again, he was there with trainers to evaluate me."

Ka'Lial Glaud (No. 47) in a 2015 preseason game with the Dallas Cowboys. Photo by Jake Roth-USA TODAY Sports

Team doctors took Glaud back to the Cowboys' locker room and told him remove his uniform. He figured that he would be fine. He suffered two diagnosed concussions at Rutgers, he says, and both times sat out practice for about a week before returning to the field. The injuries didn't stop him from starting all 13 games his senior year, or from appearing in seven games for Tampa Bay as an undrafted rookie in 2013.

This time was different. Back at the team hotel, Glaud was nauseous. He threw up when he tried to eat. Riding elevators made him dizzy, and he didn't want to leave his darkened room. Diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome, he spent the season on injured reserve, unable to clear the Cowboys' return-to-play protocols.

The team sent Glaud to a neurocognitive therapy center. There, he performed rehab tasks like staring at a target while shaking his head. His scores improved over time, he says, but his headaches didn't. If anything, activity made them worse. Near the end of the 2015 season, the Cowboys sent him home to New Jersey.

Glaud hasn't played football since. Still sensitive to light, he says he wears sunglasses "just about all the time." He can walk on a treadmill, but he can't run or lift weights without getting dizzy. He has to read things repeatedly to make sense of them, and has trouble sleeping—drifting off in the middle of the night, waking up before dawn, unable to nap in between.

Then there's Glaud's perma-headache. So many things can make it worse, from sudden noises to trips to the grocery store. "If I go out to dinner with a bunch of friends, I'll have headaches and feel floaty," he says. "And I will pay for it later that night or the next day."

Glaud is close to his family: his parents Marlon and Wanda, who served in the United States Navy; his brothers Anthony and Sharif, who both played college football; his wife, Kassandra Laine, a supervisor at a health insurance company, and their three-year-old son, Kingston. He wills himself to be upbeat for them, less irritable and worn down. "I try to put away my pain," Glaud says, "and act like everything is normal and OK with me."

It isn't. On the Fourth of July, Glaud, Kassandra, and Kingston drove to the beach to watch a fireworks show. Glaud never left the car. "We even parked kind of far away from everyone and everything," Kassandra says. "But it was still loud, and there were a lot of people. Afterward, he was so nauseous. He felt like he had to throw up the entire night.

"You want to be able to enjoy life as it was. And Ka'Lial loves fireworks. So he made the sacrifice to go. But it's so hard for him to recover from doing something so small."

Kingston is a typical toddler—when he's happy, he's rambunctious; when he's grumpy, he's a handful. Either way, Glaud says, it doesn't take much to feel like those fingers are digging into his brain.

"He doesn't know what he's doing, yelling or screaming or playing with a toy, and then he starts crying," Glaud says. "And it can be hard for me not to snap or yell."

When that happens, Glaud has to excuse himself. Nothing hurts more.

"I'll go sit in my car, or sit in a room by myself," he says. "It's like, 'dang, what are you doing? That's a doggone baby.'"

Glaud sees a visual therapist. A functional neurologist. A chiropractor. A cognitive therapist who doubles as an emotional counselor. He practices memorization with flash cards and numbers, works on his balance and eye movement, gets coaching to improve his ability to think and concentrate. He has cycled through four different migraine and mood medications. So far, none of it has helped. He's looking into Botox injections, which have been approved by the FDA to treat chronic headaches, and a numbing agent that would be injected into his upper neck.

"I've put over 50,000 miles on my car in less than a year, and I don't go anywhere else but to doctor's appointments," he says.

Glaud still loves football. If doctors cleared him to play, he'd be tempted to put on a helmet. He has a number of friends in the NFL, and believes that the league can do more to prevent them from getting seriously hurt—and to help people like him once they are.

Start with concussion education. Athletes, Glaud says, need more of it. At Rutgers and with Dallas, it was teammates who noticed he was hurt. Glaud had no idea.

"Growing up, a concussion to me was like when somebody gets knocked out, or they get up and they look like they're drunk," he says. "Even in the NFL, nobody ever explained to me what a concussion actually was. I got most of my education from what is happening to me right now, and going to all these doctors.

"If you look at the symptoms they tell you—seeing stars, being a little dizzy—there's probably 40 concussions among all the players in a football game. When I talk to my doctors now, they're like, 'Maybe you only got diagnosed with two concussions in college and one in the NFL, but you had a lot more.' Maybe I had way more than I can even think of. It's like, dang."

In May, retired NFL wide receiver Calvin Johnson told the Detroit Free Press that he hid his concussions while playing for the Detroit Lions because the team "needed him out there on the field." That attitude can be dangerous. Medical research indicates that suffering multiple concussions and suffering a second concussion while the symptoms of a previous concussion have not yet resolved both can increase the risk of short- and long-term neurological harm.

Calvin Johnson claims he hid concussions during his nine-year NFL career. Photo by Tim Fuller-USA TODAY Sports

In response, the NFL and other sports leagues have adopted rules and procedures designed to remove concussed athletes from play and to keep them sidelined until doctors clear them to return. Glaud is grateful for those rules: they kept him from continuing with the Cowboys, and possibly making his condition worse.

He also thinks they should be stronger. Currently, the NFL requires players placed on injured reserve to remain there for the duration of the season. A recent Harvard Medical School report commissioned by the NFL Players Association suggested creating a separate seven-day disabled list for concussed players—something Major League Baseball already does, and something the report says would reduce the pressure on athletes to hide concussions or return too quickly from brain injuries:

A player's recovery time from a concussion can easily range from no games to several games. The uncertain recovery times create pressure on the player, club, and club doctor. Each roster spot is valuable and clubs constantly add and drop players to ensure they have the roster that gives them the greatest chance to win each game day. As a result of the uncertain recovery times for a concussion, clubs might debate whether they need to replace the player for that week or longer. The club doctor and player might also then feel pressure for the player to return to play as soon as possible. By exempting a concussed player from the 53 man roster, the club has the opportunity to sign a short term replacement player in the event the concussed player is unable to play. At the same time, the player and club doctor would have some of the return-to-play pressure removed.

Glaud concurs. He also believes that guaranteeing more money to players regardless of injury would help. Johnson made over $100 million during his nine-year career. The average player earns much less over a much shorter span. Glaud knows active players who have hid concussions. One friend, he says, told him, I know I'm going to be fucked up when this is over.

"Calvin Johnson wanted to play because he had competitive spirit," Glaud says. "But if you're at the bottom of a roster or trying to make it, trying not to get cut, you're adding a whole financial aspect to it. A lot of us don't have nothing to go back home to."

Ed Wasielewski, Glaud's agent, says that guaranteed contracts would be a "game-changer" for the health and well-being of rank-and-file NFL players. "As an agent for 15 years, I can tell you that players tend to try to rush back from certain injuries, including concussions," he says. "If the NFL and NFLPA could come up with some kind of system with a salary floor for each player, that would make a lot of sense.

"The off-season runs from after the Super Bowl all the way to final [roster] cuts around Labor Day. Players are working with teams all the time. You can get a concussion in a simple tackling drill, or on a routine tackle or block. But because a player is incentivized to make the team in September—because that's the only way he makes his money—he's likely to hide concussion symptoms so he can continue to play and practice, feeling he has to tough it out because he can't make the 53-man roster from the training room."

The NFL and the NFLPA offer benefits to former players with brain injuries, but Glaud mostly doesn't qualify. For example, the league retirement plan provides disability payments to former players with at least three "credited" seasons of experience. Glaud only has two, because one of his seasons was spent on the Buccaneers' practice squad. Similarly, the league's 88 Plan and class action concussion lawsuit settlement pay out cash to retirees suffering from dementia and other severe neurological disorders. Glaud's post-concussion syndrome doesn't rise to that level.

The NBA, the NHL, and MLB generally offer lifetime health insurance to former players. The NFL does not. For now, worker's compensation covers the cost of Glaud's doctor's appointments. His wife's insurance pays for prescription medication. But the future is uncertain. What if Glaud never gets better? What if he can't go back to Rutgers and complete his degree in information technology, or work at a regular job?

One of Glaud's doctors recommended a brain injury specialist at New York University. When Glaud called to set up an appointment, he found out the specialist didn't accept worker's comp. Another doctor referred him to a clinic located in New Mexico. "That one would cost me $10,000 out of pocket," he says. "I'm leery to spend that much with no guarantee of it working."

Glaud has considered reaching out to Boston University and the University of North Carolina, where researchers are studying brain injury in football players, but hasn't yet picked up the phone. "I have a family and a child," he says. "I can't just get up and be gone for months."

"I pray a lot," Kassandra says. "He prays a lot. He's been to so many doctors. We're both willing to do things to make him better, but we are both losing hope. Ka'Lial says all the time, 'Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like?'"

Glaud earned about $350,000 in the NFL. He saved his money, and owns rental properties that generate income. Kingston is healthy. Kassandra has a good job. His family is supportive. He knows that things could be much worse.

"Imagine if you're on the practice squad for just one year, made almost nothing, now you're unable to get a job, you have a family, and your life is going to shit," Glaud says. "How are they going to afford gas to do to doctor's appointments every other day?"

Two years ago, Glaud was preparing for training camp; today he's more likely to spend time lying on his floor, waiting for a headache to calm down. Playing football gave him goals to accomplish, obstacles to overcome, a daily routine and a sense of purpose. Now Glaud often wonders, Does the NFL really care about concussions, or guys like him? When he was in Texas, he says, the Cowboys checked in with him every day, but afterward, "it has been me by myself dealing with this shit." The sport moves on. Glaud is trying to do the same. Only his head still hurts.

"Not that I need someone to hold my hand," he says. "But I didn't get hurt my damn self. It wasn't a car accident. I didn't fall out of a tree. I got hurt playing football. And I haven't been myself the whole damn time since."

Football's Brain Injury Crisis Isn't Just for Star Players published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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