#but practical sensible women deserve fun too! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

akitokihojo · 4 years ago

Text

Monster - Chapter 1

And, here we go. Chapter 1 of this monstrosity (no pun intended) is now up and running below, on AO3, and on FF.net.

I'm going to be completely and 100% honest with everyone before you start reading, so please heed this warning! This first chapter is rough in the sense where it contains a bit of brutality and the death of a child. So far, this is the only gruesome chapter, and while the gore is NOT detailed, I still want my more sensitive readers to be wary.

This is the most action-packed fic I've ever written, and also the most expansive world I've ever built (in my humble opinion). With that being said, while the setting is a bit more on the historical side, there are plenty of modern references. For instance, not in this chapter but in future ones, a bathroom is just a bathroom. I don't mention plumbing or the lack thereof. My attention and energy was on more important things and I just didn't care about those details, lol. Additionally, a lot of slang, jokes, and references are fairly modern. Don't @ me (but also do). All-in-all, what I'm trying to say is I built my own damn world where there is no historical accuracy, so don't go looking for it, lol.

Unless otherwise stated, I plan to post each new chapter every Friday. So, yeah... I think that's all I've got to say.... have fun! Enjoy! Thank you for reading! Ily! Bon Voyage! Don't hate me!

----------

The responsibility is ours.

Kagome gasped as her feet slid in the mud, the small decline of the path she and her younger brother hurried down gradually becoming more slippery as the rain began to pour harder. Through the noise of the droplets and the sloshing of their boots, she heard a slight commotion; horses’ huffs, heavy feet, and boisterous men barking orders. Initially, she’d figured it was the village men ushering their families indoors, their livestock into barns, their carts and tools under shelter, and their firewood into a dry place as the storm reared its ugly head. The sunset sky was shadowed in gloom, thunder making it’s entrance in the far distance as it was bound to be banging on their doors and windows in no time. But, at the tug of her arm by her sibling, her attention was shifted to the actual cause of it all: Naraku’s henchmen.

“Again?” She shuddered resentfully.

“Third time this month.” Sota confirmed, clenching his jaw as he slightly tugged his sister behind his smaller frame. He was perfectly aware that he was only twelve, well in the know that he stood no taller than her shoulders, but he’d be damned if he did nothing because of it.

This time, there wasn’t a hoard of them. No, there were merely four, all of which were already off of their horses on the main path through their little village, making demands and threatening anyone who got in the way of their objective.

Throughout the last four and a half years since Naraku rose as a fearsome demon that easily brought down peaceful powers and attempted to control the world Kagome knew, she’d become more than familiar with this procedure. It wasn’t until just recently that they’d started coming more often than a monthly visit, though. And, it was no secret what, or who, they were after.

Her.

Anyone of her kind, really.

She was different. She was hunted. Those like her were supposedly powerful, but matters being what they were had caused anyone who shared a similar fate to subdue their abilities to the point of total lack of recognition of their true potential. At least, that’s how it was in most cases. Because, if they were found out, they were killed on sight. The reason for it was entirely unknown. Naraku didn’t just target them, though; he made everyone’s lives hell, especially if they stood out in a supernatural manner. So, while she figured there had to be a yet-to-be-identified reason, she felt it was safe to assume it was also just because he could. Maybe he didn’t like the threat of other, similar forces that could collide against him. Maybe he was egotistical enough to think he was the only deserving being. Whatever the case, he was cruel.

Kagome’s kind had several names through the decades - so many, she hardly knew the correct term for herself. At one point, ages ago, they were called banshees. The title didn’t make sense whatsoever, given their powers and what a banshee actually was, and the story was so old that she didn’t know where the justification even stemmed from, but it caused them to be feared, and for that, she honestly wouldn’t have totally minded if the name stuck around. They were called priestesses, but then it sounded too peaceful, too practiced, and it painted them as “good.” They were called witches, mages, sorceresses, but they committed no typical magic of that sort. Kagome didn’t know a single spell, nor did she have nearly enough time in the day to pack an array of herbs, spices, and what have you into jars that were sealed with candle wax - though she had caught wind that there were some older women of her kind with the ability to curse. Now, they were called conjurers. Their abilities were that of the spirit, aiding with protection, purifying dark forces - passively or forcefully, bringing forth light, and more she was sure.

In Kagome’s unpopular opinion, given what they could do and what they supposedly stood for, priestess was more suitable a term, but she also understood that there was nothing holy about the world they lived in.

There was no birthmark of the conjurer. There was no dead giveaway of their kind. The powers were gifted at random, as far as she knew, not passed down through lineage. The only thing Naraku and his followers seemingly had to go off of was that conjurers were born female.

Sometimes, they’d conduct their mission by way of senseless inspections. They’d rip apart the insides of homes looking for all the wrong things in all the wrong places. Truthfully, with how absurd they carried themselves, it was obvious they didn’t know the telltale signs they were looking for and were wasting their time. Which was what made it clear that for them to be so clueless, even Naraku didn’t know all there was that made up a conjurer. They were ignorant and they were blind, but they were also relentless and ruthless.

The days where they singled women out were the worst. Kagome, so far, was spared that cruelty, but that didn’t make it any better. It was usually the more mature, the elderly, that received the short end of the stick.

More often than anything, they’d line up every woman and girl in town and go down the rows one-by-one, stimulating their nerves in one way or another to see if they could get a “conjurer’s reaction.” Kagome could only guess that meant a sudden surge of purification power. It was the main trait conjurers were known for; but they were going about it wrong. Screaming in their faces, threatening everyone, or jostling them around a bit wasn’t going to get the demons purified, no matter how much she wanted to toss something their way. Of course, she wasn’t going to be the one to tell them that.

Every so often, they’d come in a pack and create havoc with violence. They said it was their way to pressure people into giving up any information they might have, but in all honesty, the smiles some of the brute demons wore said they were bored and simply wanted a little entertainment. Apparently, screaming and pleading were equivalent to a musical number in their bloodlust eyes.

Their own little group of demon slayers that resided in the village helped prevent this from happening when they could, which was why the henchmen came in numbers. The demon slayers fought for a sense of control, not to kill. They would only allow so much, but belligerent violence was not an option. It was obvious that, as of late, their village was a targeted spot, one that got a little more attention than neighboring towns, and for what reason, no one knew. They didn’t have the fighting power to win that sort of fight, though, and the leader of the group of slayers was sensible enough to understand this and explain it to the masses that questioned them. They were made up of a handful of men with rigorous combat skills they didn’t learn from home, refused to take recruits below a certain age, and could only train so many at a time. As much as they’d all love to retaliate and end things for good, intuition was telling them not to in that manner. Even Kagome felt that. Deep in her gut, she knew that even if they could, killing them would only put the people of the village in a worse position. This wasn’t something that would stop by taking out the underlings. Not at all. Far from it. Anyone who was paying attention could see that they’d need to exterminate the head honcho in order for any positive difference to be made.

Unfortunately for them this time around, their little pack of demon slayers had left on a request to take care of a troublesome demon a little ways off just that morning. And, listening to the henchmen now, seeing them in their dark leather, their cloaks, feeling their dangerous energies wafting through the streets of their little town, Kagome could tell that they were going to do whatever they wanted tonight, despite the fact that it was just the four of them. It wouldn’t be horrible, and would most likely be a lineup, but they were definitely going to take their sweet time and see who they could break.

“There’s still time. They haven’t noticed you. We can hide you.” Her younger brother said, his tone more on the convicted side as opposed to suggestive. He should have known she wouldn’t have gone for it, though. So long as every other woman and girl had to stand in front of their villainous promises and vile breath, so long as her mother had to keep a straight face, Kagome would always stand there with them. She’d made a promise to her brother, her older cousin, and especially her mom that she’d never willingly out herself for no reason, but she just couldn’t bring herself to hide when everyone else had to stand through their harassment. She swore that if the demons were ever convinced an innocent was a conjurer, that was the reason to give herself over.

Never would Kagome allow another to mistakenly go down in her stead.

No one but her family knew of her powers, and until necessary, it would stay that way. According to her cousin, the more people that knew, the increased danger she was in.

“Let’s just get this over with.” She shook her head, minding her steps through the small slope of mud as she gently pulled her arm out of Sota’s grip.

“Miroku would say the same thing if he were with us.” He argued.

“Yeah, well he’s not. In fact, he’s probably getting himself into trouble by picking a fight with one of those goons.”

“Kagome, I have a bad feeling about this. Come on, just listen for once.”

“Okay,” She stopped, turning around to challenge his look. “Say something bad is going to happen. Knowing these assholes, you really think my absence will stop that?”

“No, but -“

“Right. They’re going to do something no matter what, correct?”

“Kagome -“

“And then what?”

“And then they’re wrong, but they didn’t get you.”

“How is that fair to the person they might hurt?”

“That person isn’t my sister.”

“What if it’s mom?”

Sota’s eyes slighted to the side, a heated huff leaving his lips just before he begrudgingly sealed them. His jaw clenched minutely as his head gave a little shake, brown eyes once more meeting his sibling’s. “Miroku and I will protect her.”

Kagome gave a fed up smile, sighing, rolling her eyes, and turning back on her heel to continue toward the main path. Families came out of their homes dressed in cloaks as they prepared to, once more, be harassed until Naraku’s men exhausted themselves, husbands and male relatives holding resentful expressions as they guarded their female family members until they couldn’t any longer.

“Kagome!”

“Sota, quit it. The louder you are, the more suspicious we become.” She quietly warned. Kagome heard her brother’s aggravated grumble before he jogged forward to catch up, his demeanor holding much like every other male in the village.

No one’s feet rushed toward the excitement. The tension of the town was up so dramatically that Kagome could physically feel the crushing weight of it all, the anxiety as they made their way closer to their disgusting visitors was causing her stomach to bubble and waver, and her throat constricted nervously as she and Sota finally met up with the crowd, her brown eyes scouring over shoulders to scout out her family. Sota’s hand encircled her wrist firmly, tugging her to the right as he found them and guided her over. Miroku stood tall in front of their mother, brows noticeably creased and indigo eyes straight ahead until he’d caught their movement in his peripheral vision. Immediately, his posture squared further, as if enlarging his shoulders so that he’d be able to successfully hide both Kagome and his aunt behind his frame. Her mother held out her hand for Kagome to take as soon as they were close enough, a peaceful smile unsurprisingly gracing her lips while she pulled her in, shoulder-to-shoulder. Somehow, no matter the circumstances, she always did her best to calm Kagome’s nerves with the simplest of sweet gestures. Sota took his spot before them, influenced by Miroku’s stature as he replicated it.

Allowing herself a brief moment, Kagome bowed her head further, bracing it on her older cousin’s shoulder. She shut her eyes, inhaling slowly, deeply, attempting to release her trepidation with a long and heated exhale before composing herself and straightening out.

“- But this is too much! Why the hell are you back again!? There’s no conjurer in our village! Don’t you fucking get that by now!?” A man shouted, livid, and it was evident she and her brother had missed the beginning of the argument playing out in the center of the uneven circle created by people.

“Get the fuck out of the way!” One of Naraku’s men yelled back.

“Not until you tell us why you’re back for the third time!”

“Would you rather we made ourselves at home!?” Silence from the opposing man answered his question clearly. “That’s what I fucking thought.” He spewed, and Kagome could hear the spittle fly out as he cursed. His attention returned to the general public, his tone shifting from vicious to gruff as he made his command. “Only girls ranging from ages five to twenty, line up! Now!”

Increased unsettlement coursed through the crowd, mothers and fathers clinging to their young daughters, little girls’ fearful whimpers polluting the air as they hid their faces in their parents’ legs, and even Kagome’s own mother’s hand tightened her grip as a breathy gasp left her lips - understanding that this meant her eighteen year old daughter was being sent into the fire without her. They were narrowing down, slimming the numbers, and the small smiles on the villains’ faces made Kagome assume that something last time may have tipped them off to lessen the demographic.

“What do I do?” Kagome whispered to her cousin, failing in her attempt to hide the sudden panic striking her.

“Nothing. You do nothing.” He urged quietly, shifting his head to look into his younger relative’s eyes. “Listen, Kagome, treat this like routine -“

“This isn’t routine.”

“Treat it like it is. Keep your head down.”

“If they -“

“No.”

“But, they’ll -“

“Kagome, no. You made us a promise.” Miroku reminded firmly, knowing exactly where her mind was traveling. In the case of an incident, which there seemed to be a higher chance of this time around, she may need to intercede.

She took a deep breath, straightening her face as much as possible so Naraku’s men wouldn’t grow suspicious as they impatiently yelled again for the girls to gather before them. “If this means they suspect something -“

“It may just be a tactic they’re using. For all we know, they have nothing and could leave here with the same. So, treat it like routine. Okay?”

“Promise.” Sota insisted during Kagome’s silence. The mens’ barking got louder, more demanding, as did the crying of little girls being pulled away from their parents. With the building weight in her chest, like a liquid filling her lungs quickly, the density making it almost impossible to take full breaths of air or move without falling forward, all she could muster was a meager nod before forcing herself to walk out. Miroku and Sota both leaned to opposite sides to part their shoulders for her to move through, her mother’s soft hand still lightly holding her own until she was far enough for their fingers to slide away from each other’s.

At most, there were about twenty girls in that age range to offer, and Kagome’s brown eyes drifted over the uneven row of heads as she approached, finding her friend in the mix trying to calm the little girl beside her. Sango glanced her way, as if feeling Kagome’s eyes on her, giving an apprehensive grin and waving her over.

“Ready?” Kagome asked, though it was completely rhetorical. It was just habit for these things. It was unavoidable, unexpected, and overall, impossible to be ready for. But, when they bounced the question off of each other, it was like one final reminder to stone.

Sango knew. Sango and her family were the one exception to the familial rule. She was Kagome’s closest friend and Miroku’s significant other. She was more than trustworthy. And, more importantly, had known since Kagome accidentally found out, herself, as a kid. Because, that’s how it was being a conjurer. You weren’t born knowing. You didn’t have an outward appearance that proclaimed your status much like demons did. It was always an accidental happenstance; in her case where she put a little too much oomph into her bow and arrow lessons and purified the evil - and life - right out of a passing crow demon after missing her target.

She remembered the feeling of total surprise, then tremendous fear because she thought she’d be in a lot of trouble. Kagome had literally thrown her bow to the ground like the thing, itself, was the culprit of the power. Miroku was gawking, Sango was covering her mouth with both hands, and their dad’s shared an identical, tight-lipped expression. Her papa was motionless for an overwhelmingly-tense sixty seconds before shifting his wide, curious eyes to her.

“Did you know you could do that?” He’d asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, daddy.” Kagome innocently answered, but she could feel the red, hot heat in her face from her lie. She was awful at those when it came to the people she was close to. Still was to this day. Give her a stranger and she could keep it straight, but in the face of friends and family, she cracked almost too easily. It was a guilt thing.

But then he’d laughed, ruffling his little girl’s hair before reassuring her that it was okay. He said they’d just have to go about her training a little differently from that point on to make sure accidents like that didn’t keep happening, and it was only because of him, his adventurism, his accessibility to knowledge from his travels, that she even discovered what she was in the first place.

Back then, though it wasn’t quite as dangerous to exist as a conjurer, her papa had still suggested they keep her abilities under wraps. She distinctly remembered binding that with a pinky promise after Sango’s dad had a private discussion with her own. Maybe it was because Sango’s dad was even more educated with the world, and knew the potential hardships that could come her way, being the leader of the demon slayers that he was - and still is. Honestly, the reasoning was hard to determine now because she didn’t put much thought into it when she could and should have. Being the young, spunky, loyal girl that she was, if her dad wanted her to keep a secret and held out his pinky to her, that was all the reason Kagome needed, and nothing pleased her more than making her papa proud. And, when he and her uncle were fatally wounded in a demon attack on their village, even though Naraku’s name had never once yet been muttered near her ears, he still made her do one final pinky promise to him saying, “Protect yourself for me, my little bird. Keep it in its cage. I love you so much, Kagome.”

She wasn’t even a teenager when that had happened. There was a part of her that wondered here and there if he was secretly clairvoyant, or if he merely studied the patterns throughout history of people of her kind and wanted nothing more than to keep her safe and make her life as easy as possible, given the reputation they had, their ever-changing titles, and the ignorance others had of their nature. If only he knew where she was now. Would he still ask his little bird to stay in the cage while the door was wide open?

“Ready. You?” Sango returned, standing straight and allowing the little girl to cling to her leg.

“Ready.” Kagome breathed.

Those not lined up hesitantly backed away, creating space and growing agonizingly silent as they seemingly held their breaths for those that were chosen. Kagome hated when they did that. It was like she could physically feel the onlookers’ anxiety, and it was the last thing she needed on top of that of those actually subjected and her own.

The four men walked back and forth, up and down the two rows of girls, criminal eyes taunting them with silent threats and menacing grins. It was creepy, but no longer was it fear-inducing. Kagome had a bad habit of not shying away anymore. Sure, she was nervous beyond belief, but the last thing she was afraid of were their snarls, scarred and dirty flesh, and crooked teeth. That, of all things, was the least intimidating factor for those who were calloused to the routine.

But, when an abrupt instruction was given by the leader, her already-loose expectations of “routine” fell apart completely.

“Hold out your left hands, palms up!”

Confusion soared through every individual, and Kagome met Sango’s brief side glance, minutely comforted by the fact that she wasn’t the only one without a clue as to what was going on. Questions weren’t allowed though, and even the little ones were well aware of that, so as the small group of men demanded everyone shut up and do it, all outward bafflement dissipated.

Slowly, Kagome raised her left palm, her arm outstretched, swallowing as she willed the slight trembling to cease. Brown eyes searched quickly as she waited for whatever to begin, weeding through the crowd and finding Miroku already pinning her with a stare. It was wary, but hard, his jaw visibly tense.

The sound of an unsheathing blade was unmistakable, and immediately Kagome’s attention bounced to her left where the leader danced the grip of a knife in his fingers, his lips curved downward into a permanent frown. The first girl in line couldn’t have been any older than fifteen, noticeably shaking as her anxious stare bounced from the man to the blade.

A man in the crowd began shouting, stirring, pushing forward through the heap of villagers to reach the forefront, “Hey! No! What are you going to do!? That’s my daughter; what are you going to do!? Don’t you dare touch -“ Abruptly silenced by a defensive elbow to the diaphragm, gifted by an all-too-fast demon.

The young teenager shuddered, not sure what to worry about first as the leader gave her no moment to react, grabbed her hand, extended it further, and gave a small slice with the tip of his knife to the center of her palm. She winced, a whimper easily escaping her mouth from the sharp pain, tears leaking from her eyes quicker than the blood that seeped from her laceration. And then he grabbed her hand in his, sealing their palms together as he stared her in the eyes for a moment. She was utterly terrified, wanting to pull away while knowing she shouldn’t, but as nothing else happened, the man released her, murmuring to stay in line as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his blade, his hand, then moved onto the next.

Kagome’s attention snapped back to Miroku as it dawned on her, his eyes holding the same idea as he gave a steady but stern shake of his head in retort. They were looking for the untrained conjurers. The conjurers who weren’t skilled in holding back. Everyone was already scared, and the wound inflicted a heightened sense of fight-or-flight. Then their hands gripping the victims’ - their demon hands against the victims’… they were working to spark a purification reaction, and they were going about it right this time. It wouldn’t be strong enough to kill them, nothing that small or unsuspecting would be, but it would hurt - much like the notorious fairytale of a vampire taking a quick step into the sunlight before swiftly turning around and heading back inside. And, that was all they needed.

Unbeknownst to everyone but Sango and Miroku, Kagome wasn’t completely helpless. Not only was she well-versed in subduing her powers, but alternatively speaking, she could knock a guy completely on his ass. She’d practiced. She’d practiced for hours at a time for several years now to see what she could do, what sort of strength she possessed, all on the far outskirts of the village, hiding near caves with only her friend and cousin who'd agreed, despite promises and secrets, that they all should try to be prepared for anything. By no means was she an expert, but she could handle her own for the most part and a situation like this was something she’d been well-conditioned for, for quite some time now.

Especially since she’d first received that message in a dream.

The responsibility is ours.

Whatever it meant, no matter how bleak it felt, it was a no-brainer that Kagome couldn’t go on without some sort of knowledge of her own potential.

She took a shallow breath, diverting her gaze to the goon before her as he happily took out his own blade, the other two following suit as they set out to narrow the time this was going to take. He stepped forward, grasping the wrist of the frightened and resistant girl beside Sango, who Sango had to hush into calming, telling her it would be done quickly. When nothing gratifying came from the occurrence, the man moved on to Sango, pinning her with a glare that she challenged right back. She hardly flinched at the slice of her skin, brown eyes never leaving the demonic ones of her assailant. When she shrugged a brow as he clasped their hands together, Kagome could practically see the heat rising in the man’s body language, quickly fuming from how audacious Sango was acting - which Kagome couldn’t help but respect, not knowing if the chuckle she forcefully swallowed was one of matched humor or nervousness.

The man threw Sango’s hand to the side, merely wiping her blood from his palm and blade on his pants before vehemently grabbing Kagome’s and extending her arm completely, bringing an inadvertent gasp to escape her throat. As the tip of his knife pierced her palm, dragging slowly to create a burning gash - one larger than Sango’s, so she suspected her nonchalant pass of amusement wasn’t as admissible as she’d thought - Kagome couldn’t stop the hiss that slid off her tongue, her brows creasing and jaw dropping as crimson dripped from her hand to the mud. With a clap, he pressed his palm to hers, fingers squeezing her small hand with unmitigated pressure. She felt a flurry in her abdomen, her diaphragm, her chest, warmth that drove her power, and that was her cue to hold her breath, to pretend everything was fine, to tell herself she was safe and trick her mind when she really wasn’t. She pretended she was holding Sota’s hand - the first person that came to mind, and the least intimidating one that she knew. Sota as an adult whose hand was finally bigger than hers. She couldn’t help but feel this was a huge insult to her younger brother, so she subconsciously apologized as she continued her visualization. It was like a lump built in her throat, the kind that grew too difficult to swallow, but she also felt completely in control, returning the man’s stare before he dropped her hand and moved onto the girl beside her.

“Shh,” Sango gently hushed the small child. “Everything’s fine now, but you have to stay quiet. Give me your hand.”

Kagome slowly let out her captive breath, the air she sucked in to replace it cold and not the least bit comforting despite the danger she’d evaded. She kept her palm face up but closer to her heart, cradling it for a moment as she tried to ignore the searing pain, diverting her attention to Sango and the kid. Her best friend was already looking up at her, using the long sleeve of her shirt to clean the blood from the girl’s hand and apply pressure so it’d stop bleeding, never minding the bleeding of her own palm. Thankfully, it only looked to be a little knick, and Kagome wondered if the creep of a demon that had handled them secretly had a soft spot for children.

“You okay?” Sango silently mouthed to Kagome. She nodded in reply, picking up the bottom hem of her own shirt and pressing it to her wound.

A sudden, deep, and broken yell punched through the air as one of the demons stumbled away, his hand yanked back, fingers furled in offense, and face twisted in rage. A little girl shrieked as he lunged forward, grabbing her by the collar of her cloak and pulling her out of the line, her feet stumbling to keep up as she cried apology after apology.

No. Conjurers weren’t common; now more than ever. How could there be two in one village? Especially one as small as theirs? How could there be more than one not even miles apart? How did Kagome not know? Didn’t conjurers have the ability to sense one another? She’d only assumed that was the case because of the seemingly-prophetic dreams she’d been having; because of the woman that had been coming to her in those very dreams. It was a weak hypothesis to go off of, but it was the only answer that made sense to Kagome. But, now there was a child being dragged into the center of where the town congregated, begging and pleading for her life while her mother screamed from the sidelines where she was being held at bay, and Kagome was none the wiser to her existence.

She wanted to yell that they were wrong, but how could they have been? It was a physical test. The accidental reaction of her powers was a dead giveaway. They couldn’t even lie their way out of this, or pretend the allegation was false. She was a conjurer. And they were about to kill her.

Kagome’s heart twisted and bunched painfully, that hard lump once more building in her throat, a murmured, “no,” barely leaving her parted lips, and her brown eyes caught a pleased grin on the approaching leader’s face that, just moments ago, seemed stuck in a scowl. He twirled his dagger in his fingers before kneeling down in front of the weeping girl.

“Found you.” He snickered, plunging the blade into her abdomen.

“No!” Kagome gasped, slapping her hands over her mouth in shock. The village was alight with terror, screams, cries, the rumble of defeat, the wailing of a grieving mother striking over all other sounds. Still, she was withheld from her little girl, reaching for her over the shoulder of the unforgiving demon who kept her away.

The knife was yanked free of the girl’s gut and she fell to her knees, her hands braced before her stomach as crimson crawled out, staining the front of her rain-soaked dress. Small hands weakly pressed into her abdomen, the wide look of horror, of pain, of fear etched into every inch of her expression as she gasped tremblingly. All too easily, the leader stood and walked away, not an ounce of remorse displayed.

“She was… she was just a kid.” A sympathetic village man stated morosely. “She wasn��t even ten yet.”

“She wasn’t dangerous!” Another testified.

“Would you like to be next?” A demon threatened, thinking his raised voice would retain order.

Kagome could hardly breathe, tears burning and brimming at her lower lid. All she could think to do was try to stop the bleeding, try to save the child, her feet moving on their own accord as she rushed out of line. Beyond the anger building in the crowd, the yelling growing louder, and the intense disturbance increasing rapidly and overwhelmingly, Kagome heard her name called multiple times. But, she couldn’t bring herself to listen, to stop, as she skidded to her knees in the mud, her arms catching the little girl as she fell forward. Her mother was finally freed, racing over and falling to the ground at her child’s side, helping through her weeping to lay her on her back.

“It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here.” She soothed as best as she could, hovering over her daughter's face so the rain wouldn’t hit it, shaking fingers pushing sopping hair from her cheeks.

Kagome grabbed the length from the girl’s cloak that stuck out on her side, bunching it and pressing firmly into the wound. The choked gasp that came from the kid was agonizing, and Kagome apologized profusely, blinking away her own tears as she whipped her head around to take in the rousing group of people, fury evident in their tones, in their bodies, as they returned threats with the offending demons.

“Where’s the doctor!?” Kagome asked as loudly as she could, her soaked, dark hair whipping her in the face as she spun her head around to try and find their town's self-proclaimed physician. “Help! We need help!”

“He isn’t here; he left for herbs yesterday.” Sango informed as she dropped down beside Kagome.

“And he still isn’t back!?”

“The storm must have delayed him.” Sango shook her head in response, her brows creased together as she glanced over her shoulder to quickly mind the budding commotion before turning her worried expression back toward the crying child. “What can I do? How can I help?”

“I don’t - I don’t know.” Kagome stammered, her breathing growing heavier as she panicked, noticing the blood was barely halting, the stain in the girl’s dress expanding and absorbing through the cloth she pressed against the wound.

“Apply pressure!” Miroku instructed when he slid to his knees in the mud on their opposite side, careful of the girl’s mother.

“I am!” Kagome cried.

“Stay with me, baby! Stay with me! I’m right here, look at me!” The woman coo’d, sniffling and gasping with her tremors while the comforting smile never left her lips.

“Hey! Leave her! Let her die, or we’ll kill you too!” One of the vile men demanded, though his shouts went ignored, easily drowned out by the encroaching, enraged men who finally appeared fueled enough to physically challenge them. Kagome could only hope they’d hold the demons back so they’d have the chance to save her.

“Here, let me see!” Miroku pushed Kagome’s shaking hands away, pulling aside the cloth of the cloak to take a peek at the wound in her stomach. Kagome had to look away then, the sight of the thick blood seeping through too much to handle. Instead, she focused her attention on the little girl, crawling up to hold her cold, bleeding hand.

Scared, pained, blue eyes focused on Kagome as she took shuddering breaths, her chest convulsing slightly as her small voice broke with her cries. Little fingers softly gripped her hand in return, and the tiniest of smiles curved her lips upward, light beginning to dim from her irises.

“Miroku!” Kagome urged. She glanced back at him and noticed the hopeless expression on his face. One that claimed there was nothing anyone could do. Her heart dropped, a nauseating weight filling her stomach. Quickly, she turned back to the little girl, leaning an inch closer. “Kikyo and the other conjurers, they’re gonna win, okay? We’re gonna win. I promise.”

“Who’s…”

“You! What did you just say!?” Heavy steps sloshed in the mud toward them, his voice low, growling, dangerous.

Kagome had spoken up to be sure the girl had heard her over the yelling, but she hadn’t realized that it could have been heard by anyone else. She didn’t think about the ramifications. She didn’t think. She’d just wanted to fill the child with some form of final hope. What was wrong with that? Was it the fact that she’d said Naraku would fall?

She’d hardly had enough time to turn and react before she was grabbed by the hair and lifted to her feet, yelping as she was dragged back and away.

“You mentioned Kikyo!” He exclaimed, giving a forceful yank as Kagome loudly gasped from her constant stumbling, the pain on her scalp, the fear racing through her. In the thick of it, she’d forgotten Kikyo wasn’t a person who was widely known. She’d forgotten Kikyo was a secret beacon of hope to the surviving conjurers, who appeared in dreams and spoke in riddles.

“No!” Was all she could manage to reply, screamed brokenly, heard clearly throughout the number of villagers around as the action died down and all attention was on them.

“How do you know her!?”

She yelped again, forcefully pulled backward and released to only trip and fall over some tools.

“Tell me, wench!” He demanded, picking Kagome up by her throat and slamming her back against the wall of a home.

“I don’t!” She adamantly swore, still able to speak. His grip was there, but not choking.

“Liar!” He said, slapping her hard across the face. “How do you know Kikyo!?”

“I heard of her in passing!” Kagome cried, wincing from the sting before she was forced to look at him again.

“I find that hard to believe.” He growled, inching closer to her face. His hold on her throat tightened, cutting off air, thick fingers pinching painfully into the sides of her neck. “Where is she?”

“I - I don’t know.” She sputtered, wheezed, her tears hot as they glided down her face. The rain was nothing but a drizzle now, though the distant sound of thunder roared angrily. She was both cold and hot, her lungs begging for air as his hand pushed further against her windpipe.

“Stop it! Let her go!” Miroku barked, and his presence was just enough to distract Naraku’s henchman and cause him to release some tension from her throat. Kagome greedily sucked in as much air as she could, though he still constricted his fingers against her. It was like breathing through a straw.

Her cousin stood there, dark hair sticking to his temples, bloodied hands braced before him as if to reason. “She doesn’t know anything; she just told you!”

“Oh, another tough guy?” A demon behind him chuckled. “A little scrawny for that, don’t you think?”

“You have me wrong, I don’t want to fight. Release my cousin, and we’ll back away peacefully. She meant no harm.”

“The harm was done when she stepped out of place to save the girl!”

“She was a child!”

“She’s a conjurer! She has no place in this world!”

“She did! She did have a place in this world, and we all know it!”

“You best shut the fuck up, boy.” The leader said from the sidelines. “Word may carry that you’re on their side. Now, you wouldn’t want that. Would you?”

“Tell him to let go of her.” Miroku sternly ordered.

“Back off.”

“Let her go!”

“Suit yourself. Have some fun.” Their leader flicked a finger at the two other demons, allowing them to do as they pleased.

Miroku hissed a low, “Fuck,” before dodging a hit from one of the two demons enclosing in on him. He was able to throw one of his own, nailing an ugly bastard in the face before he was grabbed from behind, bulky arms wrapping under and over his shoulders to hold him in place. The other demon was eager while he arrogantly approached in front of him, smiling as he punched Miroku in the stomach.

“Stop! Miroku!” Kagome squirmed against her own offender’s grasp, her instincts beginning to kick in as she felt a wild sensation build in her veins. Something righteous whispered the power she held in her ear, told her to use her abilities to save her cousin, further fueling the heat that made her forget about the nip in the air.

“Kagome, don’t!” Miroku coughed, pinning her with his indigo gaze before his eyes pinched shut from a swift hit to his diaphragm, blood dribbling over his bottom lip and down his chin.

Control sucked Kagome back to the present, the earnest crackle of Miroku’s voice ringing in her ears and overpowering the one that told her to fight. The grip against her throat tightened again, closing off her air passage as red eyes turned back to her, the lines of his frown deep.

“Don’t, what?”

Kagome wasn’t sure if he actually expected an answer or not, but he’d made it physically impossible. She clawed her nails along the thick skin of his large hand, trying to pry him away so she could breathe. It was dire that she didn’t use her powers; she understood this. But, as the adrenaline raced violently through her body, it was growing increasingly harder to keep it subdued. She’d be killed in a heartbeat; she’d already witnessed their unforgiving lack of hesitation. Her mother and younger brother would have to watch. Her cousin, too. She’d promised everyone she would protect herself, and she'd promised herself that she would protect them. Above all that, a different, deeper, more rational voice spoke to her, drowning out the one that told her to take action just a moment ago, telling her that her fight was meant for somewhere else. Something bigger. She could practically feel the breath hitting her ear, urging her of the importance. It told her to swallow it, hold it at bay, keep it buried no matter how badly it burned for release at the underside of her flesh. Keep it in its cage.

Finally, the demon released his tight hold on her neck, opting to firmly grip the front of her shirt. His upper lip twitched in disdain while Kagome sputtered, and coughed, and gasped for air to fill her lungs.

“Don’t, what?” Naraku’s henchman repeated, this time a little lighter, and it was impossible to miss that he was visibly analyzing for any sort of body language that could tip him off.

“Fight.” Kagome attempted to say, though her voice came out incredibly raspy and broken.

“Like I’d be worried about what a girl as small as you could possibly do to me. Unless,” He cocked a brow. “I’d have a reason to worry. Unless, you’re a conjurer.”

She shook her head, scared to look away from him, hyperaware of any movement she made in that moment. She was absolutely terrified of letting him know she was lying, but what if her stiffness was what told him the truth? What if the vehemence behind her objection was exactly what he needed to convict her? Where was the happy medium? Was there one? Kagome’s bottom lip quivered, resisting the impulse to glance Miroku’s way when he continuously coughed, the sound slightly gurgled, scared the shift in her eyes would be mistaken for something else.

“How else would you know who Kikyo is?”

“I - I h-heard of her in p-passing.” Kagome said, still unable to use her voice, and she wondered if the strangulation was enough to damage her vocal cords or if her anxiety was the cause of it. “I-In a nearby town. By - by the r-river.”

The demon yanked her forward and slammed her back against the wall, the back of her head smacking the wood painfully. “Are you a fucking conjurer, wench!?”

“No!” Kagome wheezed, releasing her own hold on his fist to emphatically present the blunt cut on her palm to him before she repeatedly smacked it against his forearm, smearing hers and the little girl’s blood, showing him the exact reaction - or lack thereof - they were looking for in coming today in the first place.

“Let - let her go.” Miroku was on his knees, breathing impaired, holding his side with one hand while the other braced his weight in the mud. “She’s not a conjurer. She’s not. She can hardly even hunt. I have to take her everywhere. There’s no way anyone that knows her would believe she’s one of them.”

“Being a conjurer doesn’t have anything to do with hunting, boy!” One of them spit.

“Well, how the hell would anyone know!?” Sango shouted from the side, still seated on her knees beside the child. Her cheeks were flushed furiously, and her hands were held out inches from her chest, palms up, covered in blood that she was afraid would never wash off. Their attempts were in vain and the mother wept, clinging to her little girl, her face buried in her daughter’s still chest. “Conjurers are practically going extinct; you’re all winning! We don’t know what they can do! They probably don’t know what they can do! Conjurers either have to hide to save their lives, or they don’t even know they are one yet!”

For a brief second, Kagome allowed herself to glance beyond Sango’s head, finding her family. Her mother’s hands were cupped in front of her mouth, trembling as she never removed her eyes from her daughter. Her brow was creased deeply, concern etched so thick you’d think an artist may have been too heavy with their pen. Kagome couldn’t tell if her mom was breathing slowly, or if she was holding her breath. She couldn’t tell if her mom was saying a silent prayer, or if words could barely form in her mind as she had no choice but to watch the scene unfold. Her mother had to witness a daughter torn away from another; a daughter who held the same, supernatural fate as her own. Kagome could only imagine the stress that currently laced her mom’s system.

Before her stood both her brother and Sango’s, Sota bearing a wide expression, neck tense and lips parted uncertainly, and Kohaku wearing a more cautious grimace, watching apprehensively. Knowing her onlookers were nervous, worried, should have been the very thing to cause Kagome to proceed carefully, but instead it served as the switch that flicked on in her head. She was tired of living like this, done with the dreadful thought that this was their normal. This wasn’t going to continue.

She’d been waiting for a sign, waiting for her cue. Bags were packed and weapons were stored in a hiding place where they’d been training outside of the village. Miroku, Sango, and she had discussed a while ago that they were going to eventually leave together and find the called-upon conjurers, and join Kikyo to fight against Naraku. It was their - the conjurers’ - responsibility. As much as she wanted to know why, pleaded with the apparition of this seemingly all-powerful conjurer time and time again for an answer, at this point it was no longer deemed necessary. Not anymore. Kagome figured she’d hear this magical invitation telling her when and where - which was farfetched but a fair assumption given she barely had anything to go off of. She even thought she might have to wait a while longer until she was stronger, more trained in her capabilities, before Kikyo gave her some form of clear signal instead of these ominous, detail-lacking prophecies in her subconscience that she was currently getting every other night. But now a tick in her core, an itch in her chest, a steady deepening in her resolve told her the time was now. Screw waiting, screw messages, screw rolling over, screw self-pity, and screw Naraku. If he wanted a fight, if this was his initiation all along, his declaration of war, then he was finally going to get one.

“If that’s the case, bitch, then what were you telling the girl?” The demon holding her collar jerked her slightly to demand her attention, receiving it with vexation.

“I,” Kagome took as stable a breath as she could, her throat aching and voice pathetically weak, clearly evident now that it was due to the ruthless strangling she’d received. “I told her Kikyo would kill Naraku.”

“And, why the fuck would you say that?” He asked, almost surprised at her bold statement.

“I wanted her to go with hope, not fear.”

He guffawed, his chest pumping. “You don’t actually believe that!”

Without hesitation, as straight as she could manage while she halted his laughter, Kagome replied, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

His smile faded quickly, humor replaced with anger as his fists bunched tighter and he heatedly pulled Kagome away from the wall and threw her to the floor. Kagome landed on her front, quickly pressing herself to her hands and knees just before he pushed her belly down, her wrists sliding and giving out so the side of her face planted in the mud.

“Kagome -“ Her cousin called, stumblingly crawling her way before another demon kicked him in the side he’d been clutching, a tiny crunch being heard just as Miroku choked in pain.

“Miroku, stop! I’m fine!” She attempted to say clearly, a foot braced on her back.

“Enough.” The leader stated. “Everyone back in line. We haven’t finished yet.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” A man asked disbelievingly. “You don’t think you’ve done enough damage already!? Get the fuck out!”

“Yeah, get out of here!” Other villagers began to call out, joining in. “You aren’t welcome here! You’re only taking advantage because our demon slayers are gone!”

“You think that matters?” The leader chuckled. “Go ahead. Revolt. Fight back. Make us leave. See how quickly your entire village will be wasted the next time around. You see four of us and think you stand a chance. You see a large group of us and think you’re safe because you’ve got a little pack of demon slayers protecting you. Funny, that’s never stopped our inspections before, so I don’t see why you think that’d stop us now. Either way, not a single one of you would be left alive if we brought a fraction of the wild demons under Naraku’s control, and he wouldn’t bat an eye if we borrowed them to kill you all. In fact, that’s already in the plan if we don’t check in. You kill us all, congratulations, but you’ll be worse off. Compared to him, we’re the most compassionate monsters you’ll ever meet, and I suggest you learn to appreciate that. Now, get your girls back in line.”

“It’s okay, papa.” An older girl spoke. Kagome couldn’t see from where she lay, but she recognized the seventeen year-old’s voice. Ayumi. She was soft-spoken normally, but also fairly brave and kind. The only child of a widowed father, and a girl, like the rest of them, forced to grow up too soon.

Ayumi walked forward, having backed away from the rowdiness with the majority of the girls who hadn’t run back to the safety of their parents. Notching her chin upward, she raised her left palm, “Let them finish. They won’t seem so big forever.”

“Bold girl.” The demon complimented.

“Yeah. The more I find myself hoping the conjurers win, the bolder I feel.”

“Careful, now. You’ll wind up getting yourself killed.”

“Looks like being female might just get me killed, anyway. So, I might as well go down confident that Naraku is the true evil here, and evil never wins.”

“What a disgusting cliche.” He groaned. “Grow a brain and come up with something original before you spew that sort of shit. It’s embarrassing. Look, I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but as the chick over there stated, we already are. We’re winning. Now, I won’t argue that we’re the bad guys here, but at this point in time, that doesn’t really matter.”

Ayumi swallowed thickly, eyes faltering downward for the smallest moment before she rose them to meet the red eyes of Naraku’s henchman. As sickeningly as that notion sat in her esophagus, Ayumi felt it would be worse if she’d sunken her shoulders at the validity of their power. By no means was she strong, and by no means was she actually all that courageous. Ayumi, true to heart, was a daydreamer, was a fantasy-enthusiast, was a soft, sweet, and hopeful wisher, was tired, was passive. So, while she could admit her stare wasn’t striking, her irises would never be vivid with the passionate heroism she dreamed about, her lips would never curve with a compelling and threatening snarl, she could also admit that just the act of matching his gaze was all she needed to do to defy defeat. With chapped lips parting, not a waver traveling over her tongue, she spoke. “Yes, it does.”

“Yes, it does.” Another girl agreed, approaching to stand beside Ayumi.

“The world hasn’t always been this way. Naraku only grew large less than five years ago.” A woman said, a mother, holding her fearful daughter in her arms. Several more girls got back in line, their shoulders a little more broadened than before. “I find it appalling how arrogant you all have gotten in such a short time. I assure you, conjurer, demon, human, or anything in between, I’d give them my trust sooner than I’d yield to the idea of life staying like this. Good and evil, the difference will always matter. So, yes. Yes, it does.”

“Inspirational.” One of Naraku’s demons remarked sarcastically, cringing.

“Hey, whatever blows your skirt up, lady.” The leader shrugged. “You can believe whatever you want. No sweat off my back. Funny enough, I’d put down all the money in my pockets right now to bet not a single one of them would return that trust, nor would they risk their lives to save you. I mean, not to play devil’s advocate or anything, but look at the twisted circumstances. What the fuck have you done to help them? Human’s are selfish; only looking out for themselves. You hate us showing up because you don’t want us to hurt you. It doesn’t have a damn thing to do with us hunting down conjurers, and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with that little girl on the ground over there. If it did, you would have never watched it happen. If it did and it was just the ‘shock factor’ holding you back, you still would have done a little more than yell at us about how unfair it was. Oh, cry me a fucking river.” He grinned, stepping over to the first girl in the newly-formed line. There were less than half left that hadn’t been tested, and he got straight to work, unforgivingly slashing at the pre-teen’s palm and slapping his own to hers as he continued his heartless speech. “Even better, there’s two of your own on the floor, both of them getting quite the beating, and not a single fucking one of you did a damn thing to help. I understand the lad; that’s his - er - sister? Cousin? And, I mean, at least the chick tried to help the conjurer survive. I’ll give them kudos, but I think I speak for all of us non-humans when I say fuck the rest of you egotistical pricks. Oh no, my child might have a scar on her hand. Oh no, more trauma.” The leader mocked, his tone high and whiney. “Yeah, well, at least they’re not dead in the mud like little Suzie over there.”

There was a collective gasp from the audience at the harsh and morbid insensitivity. Still, no one challenged him. Someone should have, and no one said a thing.

Kagome tasted bile on the back of her tongue from the disgusting sentiments plaguing the thick, electric air. How cruel. She wanted to open her mouth and beg him to stop and just finish his job already, force her broken voice out to demolish his train of thought and hope he doesn’t mention the death for the remainder of his stay. The only thing stopping her was Miroku’s steady stare on her. It held more power than an order from his mouth to stay quiet ever could. With a foot on her back as a warning for more damage, the impending threat that he would easily be hurt again, and the fact that she’d said enough as it was, no matter how bold she felt in the face of this evil, she knew she was meant to face the source. She could only do that alive. So, begrudgingly, she obliged to his logical demand.

If they wanted them to finish, they needed to stop fighting. They needed to shut up. A double-edged sword. Like bowing their heads to the abuse. Enabling it. Allowing it so it ends quicker.

Kagome could feel her palms burning in the mud, a sense of humiliating defeat flooding her chest, making her feel sick to her stomach. She kept her eyes on Miroku, he kept his eyes on her. She tried to raise the volume of her thoughts, no matter how negative they were, to tune out the gasps and muffled cries of the young girls as they received the cut to their palms for testing.

How could she hold any form of power, yet still feel so powerless? How could she have the privilege of a voice, but feel so irrevocably silenced? She wanted to believe she could save everyone there if she just untied the knots concealing her abilities, but it physically pained her to understand that it was the wrong thing to do. It would be counterintuitive. It would wind up getting them all killed later. She could fight, but she also couldn’t.

“And, there you have it.” The leader finished by wiping his knife clean and slipping it back into the little holster on his hip, the hint of pride and sarcasm on his tongue. “Thank you so much for your cooperation and understanding. We’ll be seeing you.”

The demon holding Kagome down applied a small kick of pressure as he lifted off of her, chuckling as his dirty boots stuck in the mud with each step away.

There was an eerie silence, one that grew more deafening as the henchmen took their horses and disappeared from the village. It was heavy, thick, like sludge. Weighted with failure and death. Even the cries from the mother were muted. For a moment, Kagome thought that instead of drowning out the pained noises with her own thoughts, her brain had responded late to her distress by completely disabling her sense of hearing instead. But, she could hear the stickiness of the mud as she peeled herself from the ground to sit on her knees. She could hear feet slowly walking - most likely children rejoining their families. She could hear the thunder threatening them of the next onslaught of rain to come. The silence that captivated them was one that couldn’t be lifted with a simple, “Thank god that’s over.” No one could make it dissipate by asking if everyone was okay. Because, it didn’t matter.

And, that was something everyone, even the young, could recognize.

The small talk that would eventually come when everyone was back in their homes, the whispers, the crying, and maybe even tiny chuckles from people trying to find the little joys to get them through this, they would all be irrelevant. Because, outside there would be a blanket of despair thicker than the friction-inducing clouds hanging over them at this very moment, and it promised them there that it would stick around as long as it needed to.

“Hey,” A soft voice spoke in Kagome’s ear, a gentle, cold hand brushing her arm, and it was only when she gasped and jerked upright that she realized she’d been hanging her head, sights stuck on her hands on her thighs. “Sh, sh. It’s just me.” Her mother reassured, kneeling beside her and using her sleeve to try and wipe her face clean of some clumpy mud. “Are you alright, honey?”

Out of sheer reaction, she gave a meager nod.

“Look at me, Kagome. Look at me. Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” Kagome said as convincingly as possible. When Miroku groaned, catching her mother’s attention and even her own, she was happy to have the focus off of her. Kohaku and Sango were beside him, trying to sit him up, freezing as he struggled.

“Come on, boy. Let’s get you home.” A couple, larger village men came over, better suited to help. One of them firmly clasped his hand in Miroku’s, quickly pulling him up to his feet so the pain wouldn’t be dragged out. Her cousin hissed at the shock, clenching his throat to try and swallow his grumble, and the two men supported him by pulling his arms over their shoulders.

“Can you stand?” Kagome’s mother asked.

“Yeah.” She whispered, not wanting to irritate her throat further and finding no real need to speak up right now. “I’m fine, mama. Don’t worry about me. Miroku needs your attention more.”

“Even if that were true, he’s kind of surrounded. I don’t think I’m needed there, love.” She replied, grabbing her by her elbow to support her as they stood together. “Sota, take her other side, please. Just in case.”

“Wait.” A broken voice called to them, trembling but by no means weak.

They all stopped just two steps in, looking over to the mother on the ground. Her daughter’s body, from head to toe, was covered by a long cloak belonging to one of the villagers beside her now, attempting to give comfort.

“Kikyo? Is that what you’d said? Kikyo?” She asked Kagome.

As clearly as she could, with a little nod of her head as she processed the question, Kagome said, “Yes.”

“Who is that?”

Kagome could feel the tension in her brow falter as the sympathetic, concerned curve in them wilted away to change more into dubiousness. “You - you don’t…” She didn’t know who Kikyo was. Even her own mother knew who Kikyo was. Her mom was the first to hear about her dreams before she started discussing them with the rest of her family. Had her daughter not had the same messages coming to her? Or, was she so confused, so distraught from them all, that she chose secrecy over being seen as insane?

“She’s a conjurer.” Kagome answered.

“Is she - is she a strong conjurer?”

“I think so.”

“I’m sorry, did your daughter never mention anything about Kikyo?” Sango carefully asked.

“N-no. Why would she?”

“We were just under the impression that she may have been sending survivors telepathic signals of sorts.” She said.

“That’s preposterous.” A man scoffed.

“Maybe. We heard it in passing. From an old man, no less.” Miroku said, discomfort laced in his tone.

“What - what could she possibly have had to say to a little girl?” The mother asked, her bottom lip quivering while her hand rested on her daughter’s chest.

“I’m sorry. I wish I knew.” The words were painful to speak. Not from her throat, but from the fact that she had to lie to a woman who’d had her everything stolen from her. A woman who, more than anyone, deserved the truth.

When she’d said what she’d said about Kikyo before, the little girl had muttered something in return before the demon tore Kagome away. It seemed like she was about to ask who Kikyo was. Kagome was sure now that the kid didn’t know. She hadn’t had the dreams, the premonitions, the one-sided conversations, nothing. She hadn’t had any communication with Kikyo, whatsoever. Maybe Kikyo was kind to exclude the young, and only spoke to the older, potentially more conditioned conjurers.

Or, maybe there was a possibility that Kagome was the only one.

And, it terrified her.

“Will she win? Kikyo? Will she defeat Naraku?” The crying mother asked.

Kagome was finding it hard to reply, to communicate. Her throat was tightening up as she watched the woman’s body begin to crumble once more toward her little girl’s; like she needed to be connected with her to prevent her from going cold. She could feel her eyes stinging, tears brimming, her fingers quaking and legs growing weak. Her cheeks felt hot and her chest wouldn’t allow a full breath of air - only unsteady, unmatched, quick puffs that burned. A hot hand slid into her right, her brother’s fingers tightening their grip, but she couldn’t control her body enough to grab it back.

“I refuse to believe otherwise.” Sango answered confidently.

The mother now sobbed, nodding in acknowledgment as she weeped over the covered body of her daughter. “Thank you.”

Kagome wanted to apologize profusely. For failing to protect her. For failing to try to protect her. For her loss. For the chance she was never given to learn to defend herself. For the silence she had to keep. The guilt was so heavy on her shoulders, she was ready to give in in front of them all, but the hand in hers pulled her back, made her move.

More villagers were moving toward the mother and child to help comfort while they removed the body, and that was the prime opportunity to get Kagome out of there. Sota could tell from the moment it started that she was going to break down, maybe even panic. He knew his sister, he knew the signs, he understood the stress she was under, and he wanted nothing more than to get her away and help her as best as he could. So, he disregarded everyone else and began pulling Kagome ahead. Miroku would have to move at a slower pace, Sango and Kohaku would stick by him and the men that helped, and he figured their mom would respect that they needed a moment of peace where they weren’t under more eyes than necessary.

Sota ignored the broken utterances of his name that came from his sister, he ignored the threatening weather, and he ignored anything that could potentially get in his way. He directed Kagome around their house, to the back, and toward the tree line of the woods. Three trees in past the shrubbery bush, on the opposite side of the trunk, Sota found the rope ladder to the treehouse their dad had built them hanging. Holding it steady, he released Kagome’s hand.

“Come on. Climb.”

-> | next chapter |

60 notes · View notes

bramblepeltao3 · 4 years ago

Text

Hey why am I still doing this?? This has become my ‘just for fun’ little thing I go to when I’ve finished doing all the other writing stuff! And it’s become just stupid fun for me.

So then, on to more Prince Prompto AU of my AU fic specifically!

Prompto felt his heartbeat quicken. They were here. Facing the Lucian royal family. He, as the Prince, stood at the front of the procession. He knew what he was supposed to do. He practiced several times on the train ride over, and he got it perfect a couple of times. He could do this.

Prompto bowed slightly towards King Regis and Prince Noctis. “The Empire of Niflheim thanks you for your hospitality. We hope that with this extension of good will, we can forge a future of peace and prosperity between our nations.” Nailed it. Prompto stood back up, perhaps a bit too quickly, and saw a look of humor on Noctis’ face.

….did he mess up? Did he say something wrong and sound stupid? Was his shirt on inside out?!

Prince Noctis took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them.

“Nice to finally meet you.” He said, extending his hand.

Prompto felt his face flush. This was...less than formal. Not as he was coached to expect. He offered his hand as well, and Noctis quickly took it with a crooked smile. There was applause from behind, the crowd of Insomnians who had come to see the display were cheering but they sounded so very far away. It felt like it was just them. Prince Noctis and himself.

He didn’t deserve to be here. His ears began to pound with the sound of his pulse. The King was saying something, Prompto couldn’t hear it. His throat suddenly felt very dry and he wanted nothing more than to reach out to Doctor Del and ask for help. Make the dizziness and nausea and hotness on his cheeks go away.

“See you at the party, then.” Prince Noctis said with a wave, turning and following his father back into the palace.

“Good job, Shortcake.” Aranea was then at his side.

Oh. It was over. He did it? He turned to see the others, hoping for further validation of his success.

Loqi was standing at attention, no sign of approval or disappointment on his face. And Del was...angry?

“No one said anything about a party.” She sneered.

“Awe, what’s wrong lemon tart, didn’t bring a ball gown?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m sure a doctor isn’t important enough to be in attendance.”

“Not a doctor, perhaps.” Loqi said, in a very strange way.

“I’d really like it if we could all be there!” Prompto found himself saying out loud by accident. It was true. He needed everyone he could get to stay by his side. “I mean, I bet the dinner will be really good. I’d hate for anyone to miss it.”

Del’s face softened with a smile. “Of course we’ll all be there, Prompto.”

“Guess we’re going dress shopping then.” Aranea shrugged. “You boys are lucky, you can get away with your military and royal regalia. Us girls tend to be held to a higher standard.”

“Yeah, I’m not-”

“Hey you, you look like someone who knows things.” Aranea pointed at a young, well dressed man. “Where can a girl get a party dress around here?”

Prompto’s mind was flooded with his crash course in etiquette and felt himself jumping into damage control.

“My apologies for my shield, Sir.”

The young man smiled, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nodded. “Ignis Scientia, royal advisor to Prince Noctis. No need for apologies, your grace.” Prompto felt his throat close up. How many ways could they possibly mess this up before they were all kicked out in shame?

Ignis turned to Aranea and Del. “If you’re looking for a gown for this evening’s event, I know the perfect establishment of tailors who are more than capable. Allow me to call you a car.”

“Commodore, Doctor, I will happily esco-”

“No way, Loqi.” Del frowned.

“Yeah, you’re not going anywhere. You need to stay here with the Prince and make sure he doesn’t trip on his shoelaces or something.” Aranea emphasized her point with a harsh stab of her finger to Loqi’s head.

“But...these boots don’t even have laces…” Prompto said, looking down to check just in case.

Ignis hung up his cellular phone and approached their little party once again. “Ladies, I have informed your escort where to take you. And should you wish to see any other parts of our lovely city, please feel free. You are in safe hands.”

The advisor bowed to them, then Prompto, and left with a smile.

He seemed nice. Prompto hoped he’d be there this evening as well.

“...why didn’t you yell at him?” Loqi asked. “He addressed you as ladies! Aren’t you-”

“Oh put a sock in it Loqi.” Del rolled her eyes.

“It’s different. Obviously.” Aranea said with a smirk.

A shiny black car pulled around and stopped by the curb.

“Looks like our ride, Doc.” Aranea coiled her arm around Del’s, pulling her towards the vehicle. “You boys be good! Auntie Nea and Auntie Del will be back soon!”

Prompto watched in stunned silence as Aranea dragged his doctor into the back seat of the car, the door shutting behind them. He hoped they’d have fun. They both worked so hard for him, they deserved a break. And pretty dresses.

---

Cor really should have seen this coming, but somehow he was still blindsided. Scientia called asking for a high security escort for two of the Imperial diplomats. Well, it didn’t get more high security than the Marshal. And with the flurry of preparations and excitement, he needed a moment away to refocus.

An hour to drive a couple of diplomats to some store downtown, wait in the car, and drive them back. Easy.

Easy until he took a look in the rearview mirror and immediately recognized the blonde woman sitting right behind him. She was scowling, exactly like he remembered her.

“Awe come on lemon tart-”

“Quit calling me that!”

“Doctor tart then, listen, I know you’ve never been involved in politics before but if you’re planning on staying by Shortcake’s side it’s time to get used to it.”

“I’m just a doctor.”

“And tonight you’re a doctor in a fancy dress charming all the eligible bachelors Lucis has to offer.” The other woman seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in needling her.

Brave of her, that.

“Speaking of, I’m not seeing a ring on our escort’s finger.”

Oh she was very brave. And just as much a pain.

“Aranea, leave him alone.”

“What’s your story, Driver? Excited to watch two young women play dress up?”

“ARANEA!”

“We’re here.” Cor said, thanking the Astrals for the small blessing. He was ready to simply sit there quietly, wait for them to finish their shopping, and hope the tinted windows did their job. But then he just had to take one more look into the rearview mirror, and there was that little girl’s face again. Looking scared, just like she did the last time he saw her.

Shit.

Just rip the bandage off, it was going to happen eventually. Best to get it out of the way somewhere far away from the paparazzi.

Cor stepped out of the car and opened the rear door, standing with all the respect he’d show to any important guest of the crown.

Del stood up, looked at the store, and then a tree planted in the middle of the sidewalk, then the sky before looking up at him.

For a moment her face didn’t change. Then realization must have struck, because her eyes went wide. And her brow furrowed. And her shoulders raised up.

“Quit dragging your feet, Doc, the longer you mope the longer this’ll take.” Aranea dragged her away and into the store before she had a chance to start screaming. “Wow your face got red. I mean sure he’s hot, but he’s twice your age. You can do better.”

He followed them in. If nothing else he needed to make sure this place was genuinely secure. There were whispers of citizens not too happy with the possibility of getting chummy with Niflheim. The last thing Reggie needed was an international incident right on the precipice of treaty negotiations.

Cor stood at attention next to the door, watching as young sales people hungry for a commission off the royal account bombarded the two women with measuring tape and color swatches. Del looked like she was in hell. His presence probably wasn’t helping the matter.

Aranea was the first to emerge from the fabric tornado, sporting something barely meeting the dress code as it barely contained fabric.

“Hey flaunt it while you still got it, right Doc?” She called back to the other changing room as a young man showed her jeweled accessory pieces. “You’re being awfully quiet, you know?”

“And you’re being awfully obnoxious!” Del screeched, pulling the curtain back. “No I don’t need shapewear, what the fuck is that? I’ll wear whatever shape I have, fuck.” She was wearing a very sensible green gown.

“Awe look at you, Lemon Tart, so modest. So practical. No fun.”

“Yeah I guess you can call what you’ve got going on fun.”

“What do you think, Mr. Driver?” Aranea grabbed Del around the shoulders, pulling her right next to her side so they were both facing him. “Think she’ll be the belle of the ball?”

Del was staring at the floor with a fierce determination.

“No comment? Smart guy.” Aranea chuckled.

Cor moved his gaze over to a tailor sewing glittering embellishments to a bright pink gown. It looked like something meant for a very young girl. Incredibly gaudy. One of the small rubies fell from the dress.

...but it stopped. And moved-

It wasn’t a gem.

“Get down!” He yelled, rushing the two women and forcing them to the ground right as he heard the glass window shatter and two of the sales clerks scream.

“Shit.” Aranea’s eyes darted around, seeming to be searching for the gunman based on the trajectory of the bullet that barely missed them.

Cor opened the emergency channel on his ear piece. “Coyote on 3rd and Grace Street. I have two ducklings unharmed and a store full of civilians. Requiring backup.”

“Heard, Red Drake. Backup en route.”

“Ducklings? Really?” The older woman joked, helping him drag the trembling doctor behind a sales counter as another shot went off.

“Don’t look at me, I didn’t come up with the system.” That was all Reggie.

“What’s the plan, Driver? Cause unless our killer is a gold medal sprinter it looks like there’s at least two of them. If we stay here we’re sitting duck- oh, I get it. Funny. Doc you’ve gotta pull yourself together.”

Cor looked down at Del who was folded in on herself, hands grasping through her own hair and trembling.

“Hey, kid.” He said, gripping her shoulder. She looked up at him, terror naked in her eyes. “You’re going to be okay. I’m getting you out of here.”

The irony of his words were not lost on him.

The store manager joined them, removing her jacket and rolling up her sleeves. “There’s an emergency exit through the break room, it leads into the same hallway as the other stores. There’s an elevator too, goes all the way to the roof.” She gestured for them to follow, taking cover behind clothing racks and display cases.

“Sounds like you’ve done this before.” Cor commented.

She chuckled. “I’ve worked here for decades, since I was a teenage sales clerk, I have seen some shit.”

Cor made a note to make sure she was commended officially for it.

The break room door slammed shut once everyone was safely inside. The manager, who introduced herself as Marigold, got to work moving the table in front of the door.

“What are the chances our killers know about the access hallway?” Cor asked, helping with the barricade.

“It’s there specifically so the clientele don’t have to think about us as people who have lives outside of their consumer needs.” One of the men said. “So unless they work in one of these shops, unlikely.”

“Not like we planned ahead to be here, either.” Aranea offered. “In fact...the only person who would’ve known we were here was that Ignis guy.”

“Scientia? If he had a stake in extending the war he has a funny way of showing it.” No one was closer to the Prince than his advisor, and a war running into Noctis’ reign would bring him nothing but pain. “More likely someone’s been following since you arrived and waited for their chance.”

“Shit, this glass is really stuck.” A very young woman cried out, trying to pull a large shard from her arm.

Del immediately snapped out of her panic and rushed over to her. “Please tell me there’s a first aid kit in here.” She took the woman’s arm, shooing her hand away from pulling at the glass.

“Just one, and it’s very old…” The male sales clerk got the white box from a cabinet and handed it to her.

“As long as there’s tweezers and gauze, I’m good.”

“Oh wow, you’re actually a doctor.” Marigold laughed.

“I’m going to check the hallway, make sure no one’s waiting for us.” Cor reached into Reggie’s armiger, choosing a pistol in place of his blade. He opened the door.

“Cor!” Del yelled, gripping a bandage to the girl’s arm. Her green dress was covered in blood stains that most assuredly would never come out. “Don’t you-”

“I’m coming back, Del.” He said flatly. Maybe don’t run off anywhere this time.

The hallway was well lit with hard flooring. After several minutes of no shadows or footsteps, Cor was satisfied.

He turned his ear piece on. “Status update.” He whispered.

“One coyote down, two confirmed on the run.”

“Can we get an evac on the roof?”

“Negative, Red Drake, too many rocks in the pond, stay put until cleared.”

The door behind him creaked open, Aranea slipping through.

“Not sounding like good news there, Driver.”

“Listen, I have two ducklings and four civilians that need to get to safety. Send an eagle to the roof of the Statler building for immediate evac. That’s an order.” Cor switched off the receiver.

Aranea’s face fell into a look of suspicion. “Funny, on our way in I could have sworn I saw the word Nelson.”

“You did. It’s a decoy.” He tapped his earpiece. “If I’m right, our assassins are tapping our communications. They’ll think we transferred to the building next door and wait for us there. In the meantime, we’re taking the elevator to the fifth floor. There’s a walkway connection to the fine arts center. From there we make our way to the auditorium.”

“Oh? And then what?”

Cor smirked. “Dress rehearsal.”

---

Somehow, some way, the piece of absolute stupid idiot garbage got them out. And thank the Gods too, because Del wasn’t sure how to say the girl needed a hospital. The bandage was only doing so much and it wouldn’t be long before her wound bled through.

Cor flashed his fancy badge, got them into the costume room, and for the second time that day Del was forced to play dress up. This time with hats and wigs! Fun!

She was fuming. Having to rely on him again...after what he did? And he had the absolute balls to say “I’m coming back.” Like?!

Fuck him. He was an even bigger dickhead than she’d remembered. And she remembered everything so that was a hell of a feat.

“Oh, a shame. This was my personal pride of the season.” Marigold sighed, holding the ruined green dress.

“Send the bill to the Citadel, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. Think there’s anything you can lend out for a royal ball in six hours?” The asshole moron asked.

“Seriously?!” Del screeched after finishing getting into a weirdly form fitting newsboy costume. “Some fuckos just tried to put a bullet in our heads and you expect us to go mingle with canapes like nothing happened?”

“What did I say, Doctor Tart? Politics. Get used to it.” Aranea was somehow completely cool headed in some gaudy bright retro outfit.

“Nothing about this can get out, the last thing we need is any more tremors in this shaky situation.” Fuckhead McGee said.

“Understood. Shame about that armed robbery in our store.” Marigold shrugged her shoulders like it was nothing.

She looked at her staff who all nodded in agreement.

“Are you all batshit?!” Del screamed. “We’re supposed to act like that wasn’t an assassination attempt on our lives?”

“Delphia, listen to me.” Aranea took her shoulder and turned to face her. “We both want the same thing: to protect Prompto. Anything less than a perfect visit is only going to raise tensions for both sides. Not to mention, Prompto would freak if he knew we were almost killed. So here’s our story: Driver got lost on the way to the boutique. The robbery happened before we arrived, and the guard went overboard in trying to protect us. We’re wearing dresses from the robbed store tonight to show our support and hope for the business to recover.”

“You’ve done this before.” Shithead said.

“I’ve had a lot of free time to read spy thrillers.” Aranea replied coolly.

“I’m sure I have some perfectly exquisite pieces in my personal collection that should fit. Ooh, we could advertise a throwback collection for the fall!” Marigold cheered.

“YOU! YOU...YOU YOU…” Del pointed at Aranea, feeling completely unable to voice any of the thoughts screeching around in her head.

“Del, please calm down, the people responsible will be taken care-”

That was it. She spun around and slapped the Marshal across the face.

“YOU DON’T GET TO TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!” You lying shitty child abandoning piece of enabling gods damned shit fuck ass bastard!

He seemed unphased by her attack. Aranea though looked like Del had just kicked an innocent puppy into an oncoming train.

“Alright. Get it out.” He said.

Oh, she was done. Completely fucking done. He just shows up, acts like the big fucking hero, pretends like he didn’t ditch her, and then dictates the terms of her emotional breakdown?!

Fuck.

This.

“Fuck you.” She said, emphasizing her point with a finger in the air.

Cor nodded. “We’re going to take the front entrance, it leads out to a courtyard. Plenty of trees, bushes, a large pool down the middle, and lots of cover. We make it across the courtyard and we’ll be on a Crownsguard HQ doorstep. I’ll have a better grasp of the situation, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

The nerve. The fucking nerve.

“Come on Newsie, Prompto needs you.” Aranea took her by the arm.

“Were the accessories really necessary?” Del asked, noticing the fishnet gloves, knee socks, and neon colored plastic jewelry.

“It ties the outfit together.” She replied, pulling her in step at the end of the line. “Now, you wanna tell me why you’re so familiar with the Immortal, or do I have to abandon all the trust we’ve been building up?”

Shit.

Fuck.

“He infiltrated my father’s facility when I was a kid. I was stupid and naive and trusted everything he said. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Aranea seemed to be rolling that answer around. “And you knew he was a Lucian operative?”

“I was six, what do you want from me? Anyway, he lied and bailed on me. Didn’t get anything he was after either so it was a big waste of time for everyone.”

“...hm. Wonder what it was he was after?” Aranea asked, acting like the very much not rhetorical question was one.

Oh, you know, just baby Prompto. Normal shit.

“We’re here. Keep your heads down and ears open. We’re going to be alright.”

Del scoffed quietly.

“Wonder why these guys are targeting us instead of the Prince?” Aranea whispered.

“Opportunity knocked, I guess.” Del shrugged. All this for a shitty dress.

“I’m just saying, Lucian terrorists need to get their priorities in check.”

“You’re sure they’re Lucian?” Del whispered. Aranea’s face broke into a wide smirk.

“Clever girl.”

“You feel it too.”

“This entire mission was doomed from the start.”

“Why else would anyone put Loqi in charge?”

Aranea chuckled in spite of herself, and the sound inspired Del to laugh in turn.

“Oh Gods, we’re so fucked.” Del whispered.

“WATCH IT!”

In a rush of air and movement that blew her hat off, hair tumbling back down, Cor was by her side with his blade unsheathed and held in front of her eyes.

She heard a soft ‘clink’ before he lowered it. Her vision came back into focus in time to see a splatter of blood in the distance.

“Was tha….did you…?”

“Run.” Cor barked, grabbing her around the wrist and pulling her back towards a line of trees.

“Either your Glaive suck at their job, or there’s a lot of people here who want us dead!” Aranea yelled while guiding the shop workers to cover.

“At this point I’m willing to assume both.” Cor positioned his blade to use as a mirror, checking for any sign of further danger behind them. “Aranea, think you can get them-”

“Way ahead of you, Driver.” From their position, she could easily lead the others behind cover with only a short sprint left to get them to the station.

But Cor and Del had a large gap of open space.

“I’m not asking you to trust me.” Cor started, his blade dissipating in a spark of magic.

Oh that was rich, super rich.

“But I need you to do exactly as I say, and you will get back alive.”

“That’s LITERALLY asking me to trust you!” Del hissed between her clenched teeth.

“Right. Well, I have one question. Can you swim?”

Del blinked. “What? No…”

“That’s unfortunate.” Cor tightened his grip on her wrist, and before she could protest he was pulling both of them down, using the momentum to roll over. She was then wrenched back upwards on her feet and pushed backwards, stumbling until she fell. Right off of an edge.

And into the pool.

She wasn’t lying, she really didn’t fucking know how to swim. Everything was dark, she couldn’t tell which way was back up, and she was reaching peak panic until her wrist was once again being pulled. Over, over, until she felt her lungs would burst and then finally, up.

“Take a deep breath.” Cor commanded.

She wanted to screech and curse and slap him again but instead she obeyed and inhaled. He dragged her back down, much further. She didn’t know what else to do. She simply let him pull her on until once more everything in her chest burned and her mind began to spiral and then-

Her head was above water once again, Cor holding her up under her armpit and slowly guiding her out of the pool.

Del wiped her hair from her eyes to see a large number of people in uniforms surrounding them.

“Marshal, Sir.” A woman in a helmet said. “We’ve done a thorough sweep, land and air. The last identifiable terrorist has been neutralized.”

Del struggled to breathe, feeling like she might just pass out right there sitting on the ledge of the pool.

“Thanks Monica, get our guests a ride back to the Citadel. I’m sure they’d like some time to freshen up before the party.”

Oh.

Oh, Del was going to kill him.

2 notes · View notes

shipmistress9 · 5 years ago

Text

HW2020 -- 5: Buying Flowers For Each Other

Part 5 of my Hiccstrid Week Project.

t-rated; RTTE-canon-verse

This one, I had a lot of fun with! 😁 Partially because of the scenes and conversations themselves, but also because of a certain headcanon that wormed its way into this prompt/one-shot which affects how I feel about many things.

I hope you’ll enjoy it! :)

(Also, linking back to the master post for all the wonderful additions 😊)

. o O o .

“So, any ideas what you’re getting for her this year?”

Hiccup grimaced at Snotlout's question. “What do you mean?” he asked, aiming for nonchalance. He knew exactly what Snot meant, but he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of playing his game.

“Uh, Astrid’s birthday, I guess,” Fishlegs helpfully threw in. “It’s in two weeks.”

Hiccup sighed. “Is that so?” As if he would ever forget that.

“I wonder why I ever bothered thinking about you as competition,” Snot muttered under his breath, then said in a louder voice. “Well, I know what I’ll get her as a gift. All women love flowers. And jewellery. So that’s what I’ll get for her. The biggest bouquet of flowers you can imagine and the most special bracelet you’ve ever seen. She’ll fall in love with me right away, you’ll see.” And with a last sneer in Hiccup’s direction, he left the clubhouse.

“‘The most special bracelet we’ve ever seen’?” Hiccup repeated, his eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. “And flowers?”

Fishlegs nodded, eager to share what he knew. "Oh, yes. Snot's been talking about little else lately. Apparently, he asked Johann to get him the most ostentatious bracelet he can find. I wonder what it'll be. Can you imagine the wonders foreign cultures may produce? I can't wait to see it!"

Bemused, Hiccup blinked at his friend but then decided not to say anything. Maybe Snot should give that bracelet to Fishlegs instead, he certainly would appreciate it more than Astrid.

Or so Hiccup hoped at least.

Because even though he'd been aware of her upcoming birthday for weeks already, he still had no idea what to give her for this occasion. He wanted it to be something special, something she'd truly appreciate, something unique. But no matter how much he thought about it, nothing would come to his mind that felt right.

The only thing he knew was that Snot's ideas sucked. Because Astrid wasn't like all women. She was special and unique in her own ways, so strong and independent, a warrior. The only worth flowers had to her were when they had any practical healing effects or the petals could be used as a dye. And jewellery? That wasn't her thing at all. Any elaborate adornments would only get in the way during fighting. Sure, she owned a few pieces, a pretty comb for her hair and a brooch to go with it. But those were family heirlooms, pieces she valued because of their meaning and not because they were 'pretty'.

No, there really was no need to worry about how Astrid would receive Snot's gifts, not about any meaningless jewellery and certainly not about some flowers either. But that didn't change that Hiccup still had no idea what to get for her…

. o O o .

Hiccup was still scouring his mind for a suitable gift for Astrid when they all flew back to Berk a few days later. He thought about looking through Trader Johann's goods himself but directly ruled that idea out again. True, sometimes he brought interesting things… but somehow, Hiccup felt like that wouldn't do. The friendship between him and Astrid had evolved and grown since they were living on Dragon's Edge, so she deserved something more personal.

As soon as they'd landed and greetings were dealt with, he headed over to Gobber's forge – or, more precisely, toward his old workshop.

"Okay, let's see what we have here," he muttered to himself as he pulled out a stack of papers and let them drop onto the desk. There were so many things he'd invented during the rather lonely years before he'd met Toothless, so many ideas he'd come up with but hadn't pursued further beyond making simple sketches. There just had to be something sensible, something he could refine during the next days, something more personal and useful than a big bouquet of flowers. The thought alone made Hiccup roll his eyes.

Humming to himself, he sifted through the papers, getting out a second and eventually a third stack. It was a fun walk down memory lane that often made him smile fondly or laugh at his younger self. Some of these ideas were absurd. However, once he’d looked through all three stacks and had hunted out every other loose sheet of paper he could find, he had to admit to himself… that he still had nothing.

Astrid had no need of a splintered twig that could hold a piece of coal. He'd designed that one for his dad once, to keep his hands from getting too messy when he took notes for his chiefing duties. But Stoick had never used it; the twig had broken between his meaty fingers almost instantly. And she also didn't need that utterly ridiculous sword-axe-mace-thing he'd designed when he was thirteen and thought all he would need to get her attention was a cool weapon.

No, none of these sometimes bizarre inventions would work as a gift for Astrid.

Sighing, he let his head drop down onto the table with a dull thump. “What am I supposed to do?”

The knock on the door made him jump up with a surprised cry. “Wha-what? Who’s there?” he asked as he hastily pushed his old notes aside.

To his relief, the door opened to reveal only Gobber, a strange grin on his face. “Is just me, laddy,” the blacksmith announced cheerfully. “I just wanted tae check if yer okay. Heard ye laughin' an' cursin' in here all day.”

Hiccup, who’d gotten up to join his old mentor in the main workshop, blinked at the light falling through the window in surprise. Gobber was right, the sun was already setting.

“I… well, I was just going through my old notes. I hoped to find something... Ah, never mind. I’ll just have to think of something else.”

Gobber frowned. “Yer sure? Is there a problem ye need help with?”

For a short moment, Hiccup actually considered asking Gobber for help. But he sincerely doubted that the older man would come up with an idea for a sensible gift either. Astrid also didn’t need a hand prosthetic that could be used as a cooking spoon, after all.

“No, I’ve got this. But thanks,” he said politely. Gobber didn’t seem convinced though, so he quickly changed the subject. “Anyway, how are you? Any news to share? How’s the forge going?”

Gobber gave him a confused look, but then shrugged. “Ah, just the same as ever. Lots of work an' too wee time. Just today, I got five old swords tae recycle intae somethin' useful.”

Out of reflex, Hiccup’s eyes shifted to the pile of metal in a corner. “Do you need my help with anything?” Maybe working with his hands would help unstick his mind.

“Nae, nothing urgent. But yer always welcome tae work here if ye want.”

Hiccup nodded. “Alright. I’ll stop by tomorrow as long as nothing else comes up.” Casually, he sifted through the mangled and broken weapons, feeling nostalgic when he recognised a blade or a handle he’d made himself. Then he paused, frowning as his hand lingered over one particular sword. “Is this…?” He threw Gobber a surprised look.

“Huh?” Gobber glanced over and then shrugged. “Aye, that’s Gronkle Iron. Grandpa Larson retired an' young Gustav doesnae want it. ‘Too short’, he said.” He rolled his eyes. “A shame. But aam sure I can fin' a new purpose for that metal.”

Hiccup eyed the sword again, an idea forming in his mind in rapid speed. Grinning broadly, he took the sword and turned toward Gobber again. “Would you mind if I used this metal? I already have an idea.”

. o O o .

“Here, these are for you. Happy birthday, beautiful.”

Astrid looked flabbergasted, and Hiccup really couldn’t blame her. After all, Snot had all but thrown an entire armful of flowers at her the very moment she’d appeared at the clubhouse.

“What the–” she cursed, dumping the flowers onto the nearest table. “Snotlout, are you out of your mind? What am I supposed to do with these?”

“Ah, don’t be like that,” Snot drawled. "Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady, that's what these are for.”

Astrid’s hands balled into fists. “Are you serious?” she snarled.”Odin, when the Gods handed out intelligence, you really were hiding in a cave and screamed 'I don't want any!', didn't you?"

Hiccup chocked on his laughter, both at Astrid's comment and Snot's puzzled expression. The twins weren't as considered, bursting out laughing and wiping tears off their faces.

However, Snot wouldn't give up that quickly it seemed. “Well, no,” he hastily backpaddled. “I mean, of course, no stupid plant will ever outshine you, Astrid. They can only ever compliments your beauty and–"

"Okay, stop right there before I'm getting sick," she interrupted him, visibly shuddering in disgust.

"But it's your birthday, baby!" Snot apparently wasn't done yet.

Hiccup was beginning to enjoy the show, and certainly not least because of how little Astrid obviously cared for Snot's attention. It helped kindle the tentative hope that lately had started blooming in his heart. Maybe, just maybe she felt the same…

"Yes, it's my birthday," Astrid snapped back. "So what? Does that mean I'm obliged to suffer even more of your stupidity?"

Snot gaped at her for a second but then seemed to pull himself together again. "Ah, I know why you're upset. You thought those flowers were your only gift and were disappointed, right? But don't worry, the Snotman is your saviour in every situation.” He snatched the box with the bracelet off the table and held it out to her. “Here, this one’s your true present. Come on, look inside. You’ll love it.”

Astrid took a moment to take a deep calming breath. She rolled her eyes but otherwise stayed clam which, given that Hiccup could see the tension in her jaw, was impressive. “All right, what is it this time, Snot? Let’s get this over with so that I can tell you to shut up and leave me in peace.” She inspected the box and the intricate bow that was bound around it, certainly not by Snow himself but rather by Johann or maybe even the one he’d bought it from. She tugged it open and–

“What, in Loki’s name...” She lifted a note and a simple braided leather cord out of the box, staring at them in disbelief. From where Hiccup stood, he couldn’t make out what exactly was tied into it, only that it was about half a dozen charms, all white and of a rather… phallic form. There was a moment of silence, then...

“Are you kidding me?” Astrid screeched, turning furious eyes on Snotlout.

Snot had turned an interesting shade of white, backing away with his hands raised in defence and his eyes switching from Astrid to the bracelet she’d dropped onto the ground and back again. “I… I’m sorry! I didn’t know what– It was Johann’s fault! He–” He seemed to realise that no excuse would save him, stumbling back a step or three before he turned to make a run for it – Astrid hard on his heels.

“That really is the most special bracelet I’ve ever seen,” Ruff snickered. She’d picked it up and inspected it. “I think those are carved dragon teeth. I never would have thought of giving them this form though.” She held it up for everyone else to see which led to Tuff covering Chicken’s eyes while Fishlegs picked up the note that had fallen to the ground next to the bracelet.

“Uh, no wonder she was so mad,” he muttered after reading the note. “According to Johann, this is a special talisman from somewhere far in the south. Traditionally, it’s meant as a betrothal or wedding gift and is meant to bless the donor and the receiver with...” he paused, blushing a little, “with fertility and never-ending passion. Johan even added a personal note, wishing Snot good luck and happiness with his bride-to-be.”

Tuff looked up, bewildered. “Wait, what? Snot’s getting married? When? And to who?”

Ruff just burst out laughing. “Oh, Snot is so dead!”

Bemused, Hiccup watched in silence from his place in the back of the room. He wasn’t quite sure what Snot had been thinking, whether he’d been thinking at all, or whether it really had just been Johann’s exaggerated enthusiasm. How could he get her something like this and think she’d like it, how could he misread her signs so thoroughly?

Or, could it be that…?

No, he didn’t want to think about the other option; that, maybe, it was Hiccup who was misreading her. Surely, there was something between him and Astrid, something that had developed over the past years, right? He wasn’t as stupid sn Snot for getting his hopes up… right?

He was still brooding, a little worriedly, when Astrid came back. Her body was tense with repressed anger. “Get that thing out of my sight, Ruff, or I swear I’ll shove it somewhere nobody will ever find it again,” she growled.

Still giggling, Ruff pouched the bracelet. “So, did you kill Snot?” she asked, mirth clear on her face. Apparently, she was enjoying herself greatly.

Astrid shot her a glare, then let out a defeated sigh as she slumped down on a nearby chair. “No, I didn’t. He flew off before I could reach him, all the while yelling how sorry he was. I just wish… why can’t he leave me in peace, for Odin’s sake?”

“Same reason Legs would never leave Meatlug and my brother takes Chicken with him wherever he goes,” Ruff prompted, grinning. Both boys looked at her in clear confusion.

Astrid growled at her but then paused when her eyes fell on another box lying on the table in front of her. It was only adorned with a rather simple bow, but it was enough to identify it as another present. Hiccup wished he could rush forward and snatch it away, not wanting to annoy her further, but it was too late.

“And what’s this?” she asked, her voice saturated with annoyance. “If that moron got me even more, then...” She let the threat trail off and grabbed the box.

“No, that’s from–” Fishlegs began but got cut off by Hiccup frantically shaking his head. If she got this angry and annoyed by getting gifts, he rather didn’t want her to know he’d gotten her something, too.

However, Astrid didn’t pay them any mind, eyes fixed on the box’s content. Without a word, she reached inside and lifted one of the two objects out, inspecting it. It was a dagger, sleek and sharp, perfectly balanced, the handle wrapped in practical leather. It was elegant in its simplicity – if Hiccup was allowed to think so himself. What Astrid thought, however, he had no idea.

Mutely, she stood up and walked over to where he stood, her eyes not leaving the sharp blade until she stood right in front of him. “You made this.” It wasn’t a question. She knew his handiwork to well not to recognise it.

Gulping, Hiccup nodded. “Both of them,” he mumbled, hoping she wasn’t about to gut him. The old sword had been big enough to turn it into two daggers, and while he’d worked away in Gobber’s forge, making them had felt like a fantastic idea. Now, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Astrid shook her head, gaze dropping back to the dagger in her hand and face twitching. “A Gronkle Iron dagger,” she murmured. “Two even.”

“You… you once said you’d want one…” he mumbled, feeling more stupid with every passing moment. That had been ages ago, he should have known better.

Again, she shook her head, but when she looked up again, there was surprise in her eyes, even something like a smile on her face. “You remembered?” she asked. “I… I didn’t think…” She trailed off, her face softening into a grateful smile. “Thank you!”

There was true gratitude in her voice, but Hiccup barely noticed anything anymore as she stretched to press a quick kiss to his cheek; Not Ruff’s snickering, not Fishlegs’ happy smile, and not even the blush on Astrid’s cheeks as she quickly turned away and left. All he knew was that he was grinning like an idiot, his hand rising to brush over where her lips had touched him.

So, he’d been right after all. Astrid wasn’t the romantic type and getting her flowers of all things would never do.

. o O o .

Aah, I really liked this one! 😊 I hope some of you did, too.

* - . - * - . o O o . - * - . - *

If you want to support me you can buy me a coffee. I love coffee 😊 (Ko-Fi)

#Hiccstrid Week 2020 #Hiccstrid #fanfiction #httyd #rtte #fluff #Hiccup Haddock #Astrid Hofferson #Snotlout #ruffnut #Tuffnut #Fishlegs #yes I admit the reblog of that edit wasn't by chance

47 notes · View notes

pidgebeifong · 5 years ago

Text

atla characters as bnha characters (part 1)

Aang as Midoriya Izuku

Invented The Cinnamon Roll Archetype

lights of my life, rays of sunshine, the reasons i wake up in the morning. 100/10 would recommend to friends

the pure beans the world needs but doesn’t deserve

main protagonists who make two close friends from the beginning of the story whom they go on adventures with

kings of self-internalizing their feelings and blaming traumatic events that were not their fault at all on themselves

both have powers that have been passed down by other people before them

protect their smiles at all costs

have deep-rooted hero complexes that definitely need to be sorted out, preferably in therapy. pls i am not joking would u like me to pay for ur therapy bc i will pay for ur therapy

hearts too soft for their own good

me, sending all the love in my heart to these pure boys who deserve the world: (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ=͟͟͞͞ ♡♥♥♥

Katara as Yaoyorozu Momo

the ‘mothers’ of the group

incredibly sweet and kind

the girls who have their study binders organised by colour, texture and scent

*tiredly kicks ass while disappointedly lecturing the person on how they really expected better behaviour from them*

‘do no harm but take no shit’

polite and well-mannered, kind of the most prim and proper people in their respective friend groups

physically incapable of doing any wrong

goddesses in human form

beautiful, ethereal, amazing, would absolutely die for without hesitation

have I made it obvious enough how much I would die for them bc I would die for them

sensible and responsible but also love spending time w/others and having fun

kinda insecure sometimes so they work even harder to prove themselves

the two characters who are consistently oversexualized by their respective fandoms despite being literal fucking children

Sokka as Iida Tenya

the ‘dads’ of the group

*Long-Suffering Sigh*

Setting Impossibly High Standards For Guys Since 2005

would do anything for their friends

selfless, responsible, capable, strong

i just love them a lot okay

the only voices of reason. yes the *only* voices of reason, no i do not take constructive criticism (the hosu incident was a one-time thing plus literally no one else in the gaang/class 1-a has any fucking common sense)

both look up to and want to emulate male family figures (sokka with his dad, iida with his big bro)

incredibly smart (sokka is the smartest member of the gaang, fight me on this), strategic and fiercely independent

don’t like dragging others into their own problems

both have had arcs that involve them deviating from their normal levelheadedness bc they’re ruled by grief and want revenge (iida with the hero-killer arc, sokka with the boiling rock)

Suki as Kendo Itsuka

underrated QUEENS who need more screen time, say it with me folks (atla’s over but pls let kendo get her Moment in bnha soon)

assume leader positions in their respective groups (the kyoshi warriors & class 1-b)

could step on me and i’d thank them

so pretty??? suki was the prettiest member of the gaang don’t @ me and kendo was in that beauty pageant for a reason

do not have time for boys’ shit

would stab as a warning

can make even the most uncooperative, rude characters comply to their will? (suki @ sokka b4 he drank his respect women juice and became the sokka we all know and love, kendo @ monoma whenever he’s a jerk and does his jerkbending)

excellent fighters even without bending or a particularly strong quirk (bc lbr, ‘battle fist’ isn’t that useful of a quirk compared to the rest, but kendo makes it work and that’s very very impressive. mad respect)

you know they get shit done

that friend you can always depend on bc they’d still have their shit together in the middle of a literal apocalypse

Toph Beifong as Uraraka Ochaco

Bad Bitches™

smol, short and ready to Square The Fuck Up

*chaotic good energy intensifies*

the friend you’d bring along to hide the body

make life-changing decisions based on their family situations (toph joined team avatar as mostly a fuck you to her parents, uraraka decided to become a hero to help her parents)

unfortunately do not possess the height required to deck you in the face. say goodbye to your kneecaps

not only can kick ass lmao bc they can’t kick any taller than that but will do so upon request

both use the ground/rubble as weapons

‘excessively violent’ (uraraka was even specifically criticized for it in the first practical)

two of the most powerful, capable and badass characters in their respective shows, don’t @ me on this y’all know it’s true

determined to prove themselves as strong & capable bc they don’t want ppl assuming they’re weak

kind of underrated and deserve infinite love + appreciation

I’m doing a part 2 with the fire fam and ozai’s angels soon!!!

21 notes · View notes

slxyangel · 6 years ago

Text

Pain and Noise (Duff x Reader)

Summary: I was fed up with just about everything that constituted my life, so I started playing.

Warnings: Unprotected sex, mentions of violence, swearing, panic attack.

Wordcount: Almost 5k

A/N: First fic I ever write, I am nervous and this was originally in Spanish, so be nice with my best try of a translation. Enjoy :)

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

Masterlist: https://slxyangel.tumblr.com/post/189625800403/masterlist

The pain in the back of my hands was intense, searing, and growing worse with every minute I spent holding the drumsticks and unloading my rage over the drums in the studio. The accumulated tension stiffened my fingers, the muscles in my arms were numb and it had been a while since I started feeling my nails spiking my own skin because of the pressure I was putting on it. I didn’t care; I preferred to feel that rather than the anguish that had been threatening to rip off my chest these last few weeks. I don’t know how much time I spent like that. What I do remember is the pain. And the noise.

I also remember sitting on the stool during a little while the guys were out, I’m not sure what for, maybe to grab some food or take a break. They had been working on the album for months, and these days of polishing, re-recording, fixing and tuning everything up for the final version were being especially hard; they deserved a breather. “And so do I”, I told myself while I held Steven’s drumsticks and gave it a second thought, maybe it wasn’t a good idea. He, as any other percussionist, didn’t like it when someone else fiddled with his instrument, not to mention if it happened without him being around to control it. I could only hope that he didn’t show up in that very moment and caught me, because I don’t think I would have the strength to explain him every thought that was circling my head the moment I decided to play his drums, and even less not to drown the whole story with my tears. I mean, come on, it was only going to be a little while.

I had been working with the band practically since the recording process for Appetite for Destruction began. I was in my last year of university, and needed an internship to complete my learning agreement, and, I still can’t comprehend how, my best friend’s father got me plugged-in in Geffen Records. They were the ones who decided that the best option for an audiovisuals student was in the recordings for a young rock band’s debut album. This is how I ended up being Mike Clink’s personal assistant and hanging out with Axl, Slash, Izzy, Duff and Steven. The chemistry had been practically automatic, I got along with them pretty quick and, even though I started being basically the coffee girl, I was always very comfortable in such a creative and carefree environment.

I remember those first days in which Mark, my boyfriend, used to drive me to the studio in his car. I could drive, of course, but my new job seemed almost more exciting for him than it did for me, so he insisted in getting me there, picking me up and making me tell him every little detail of my brand-new work life. He was thrilled when I told him how I had spent twenty minutes of my first day talking with Slash and he had shown interest about my studies, my reasons to be there and my general life. “If we’re gonna work together, we might as well be friends”, he said. The guy told me that he had a snake, that his parents were artists and that’s why he had always been so involved with music. He also said he got his first guitar when he was 15 and that he and the guys ended up together out of sheer coincidence, but they had realized they were the perfect combination, so they were really excited about their new project. It was there that I realized I was in the right place and, even if, worst case scenario, the rest of the band hated me, at least I had a new friend.

However, my worries couldn’t be any more unfounded. Once I had talked to Saul, the rest of it went smoothly. Axl was quite a character, for instance, a guy you felt like looking at. Wherever he was (because he couldn’t stand still for a second), your eyes would be glued to him. He had an enviable magnetism no matter what he did: singing one of their songs, bringing order to the mixing desk, finishing off half a liter of Jack Daniel’s… He was the kind of person who seems out of reach from every one of us mortals but, deep down, is a cinnamon roll. Our first interactions (mostly his, let’s be honest) were filled with double intentions. In any case, now that I see it in retrospective and compare it with the way he treated other girls, I came to think that this was his way to know women in general, his default mode. Actually, those anecdotes of conversations I had with the vocalist were worth a fair dose of laughing for Mark and me during our more than usual supermarket-pizza, Ben-&-Jerry’s-ice-cream dinners in the flat we shared. Over time, Axl’s phase of blatant flirting with me faded away, making room for a really close friendship between the two of us.

Izzy, on the other hand, treated me almost as if I was an experiment. Do you know the feeling when you arrive to a new school but the year has already started and everybody is curious about you? Well, that was more or less how the guitarist reacted to my incorporation. He had never been too talkative, or, at least, not as much as the rest of them, so my first days with the brunet can be summed up to him joining conversations between me and someone else, to learn a bit more about me without having to ask directly; to my hand-waving gestures and his responses raising his chin or his eyebrows; or to him offering me drags of his cigarette from time to time, while we waited for the rest of the guys to record their tracks so we could all go partying together. It was interesting. It was entertaining. It was even funny to see us unfolding, adapting to each other until we gained full trust. We could argue that his more reserved, almost wary personality and my own, more explosive and versatile, complemented each other as two puzzle pieces; one had what the other lacked.

And, while Izzy complemented me, Steven understood me. We were two peas in a pod: energetic, chaotic and jam-packed with energy. Basically the kids in the team. Like two naughty twins, we loved to terrorize the studio. We threw stuff at each other, we laughed like crazy, we yelled from one corner of the room to the other the dumbest, most absurd shit you could imagine… One of the activities I enjoyed the most was to scare away the chicks from him. Some afternoons when he was chilling on the couch, unaware and concentrated on hitting on whatever girl he had just met, I arrived, seated next to him on the couch and went full on clingy-ass-girlfriend with him: handsy and unbearable. I interrupted the groupie and put up with Steven’s deadly glares until, after a while, the girl took off, sometimes walking towards one of the other guys, sometimes straight to her house. The drummer always got mad at me when I did this to him, but his anger never lasted for more than ten minutes.

And then there was Duff. He was something else, something different. I had never had such a connection with anyone, and even less with anyone I had met for so little time. Duff had his own light, like an extremely bright star, and I was flashed by it but, at the same time, he irradiated a delightful kind of warmth, too nice for me to voluntarily step away. He was fun, he was compassionate, he was sensible, he was a little bit mad and he made everything unspeakably easy. The rest of the band spent their days saying that we should have sex or betting on whether we were or weren’t conscious of the sexual tension they assured was too obvious between us. At first, we either told them to fuck off or went along with it, but without giving it much of a second thought. At the end of the day, I was dating Mark, who I adored, and Duff knew it. We were nothing but friends, like the rest of the guys.

Weeks went by and I kept getting closer and closer with the bassist: we talked about everything and anything, we told each other countless anecdotes from our lives before arriving to L.A., and he even sometimes helped me with the paperwork. More than once, even though smoking was allowed in the studio, the two of us stepped outside to do it, and a break that was meant to last for 10 minutes ended up being one hour long. When this happened, Slash had to come out for him, wielding his guitar and threatening to smash it on his head if he wasn’t back inside in the following fifteen seconds. In fact, some of those days when it took me longer to finish my job he would stick around and offer me a ride home before he headed to the club, so that Mark didn’t have to come pick me up that far that late.

Of course, it was all being too good to be true. The first day this happened, when I arrived home in “some other dude’s car, instead of a fucking taxi”, Mark’s own words, I found a version of my boyfriend that I didn’t like one tiny bit: wary, silent and mean. When I asked what his problem was I already saw the answer coming, but I just refused to believe he was going to get all possessive over such a nonsense, he had never behave like that. That night we went from yelling at each other to the silent treatment in a matter of a few hours, and the next day, when I got to the studio in my own car for the first time since the guys knew me, that place looked like goddamn press conference. They took less than two minutes to notice I was a little bit off, and less than five to tell me “Dump him, fuck Duff”. I couldn’t help but laugh. I hadn’t broken up with Mark, we had just argued; I would speak to him and we would fix things; that’s what couples did. Bitch, you thought.

For the next few days everything seemed to have turned back to normal: my boyfriend and I were okay, he said he was sorry and begged me to let him apologize by being my chauffeur again. I didn’t quite feel like rocking the boat after that night, so the idea of not driving myself to work didn’t seem that bad, until the days Mark started arriving a little earlier each day. Five minutes, fifteen, half an hour before my cutoff time, as if he had to make sure I went back home with him, as if he had to keep an eye on me. In fact, one of the days in which he arrived with a bigger margin of time, he decided it was a good idea to wait inside the studio while the band was recording, and argued that “it would be a lot more boring to wait in the car”. Over the last days, the guys had noticed how pissed it made me the fact that he was chasing after me, behaving like an asshole and little more than tying a leash around my neck, so Axl stepped up and asked him to leave, since the guy wouldn’t listen to me. I have to admit I was surprised with how calmly the vocalist took the intrusion, taking into account his normally short temper. He told Mark that “it wasn’t his problem if he wanted to be his girlfriend’s chauffeur, but he couldn’t simply burst into a private property as if it was his house, and even less when they were working.” To be honest, that was one hell of a comeback, because if the singer had exposed the real reasons why he wanted him out, the other one would have clutched at straws to the philosophy “She is my girlfriend, you don’t get a saying on this.” But on his argument and on his turf, Axl had the upper hand.

Despite all the efforts, Mark told him to mind his own business and that, if the redhead kicked him out of the studio, he would be behaving like a total dick. Then, as if the destiny was trying its best to fix things, sarcasm be sensed, Duff showed up in the anteroom where we were. As soon as my boyfriend saw him, his eyes started blazing, and it only took the bassist telling him he had to leave and that I was still in my working hours so I wouldn’t go with him, for his fist to connect with Duff’s jaw in a nasty jab. And hell was fucking raised.

Axl pushed Mark, who was holding my arm with the same hand he had punched the blond with two seconds ago. Not letting go of me, he tackled the vocalist, mumbling something I can’t remember. Then he walked towards the front door, grabbing me with him. “Let’s go. Now”, he ordered. His fingers dug into my skin with such anger and despair that I could already feel the bruise forming underneath, and I was half shocked, half scared shitless. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to get in the car with him and I didn’t want any more punches either, but in any case my limbs were not responding to the commands my brain tried to make, whichever they were. It was then that, halfway across the room, before reaching the door, Mark stumbled and fell, finally releasing my arm. The first thing I saw when I lifted my eyes was Duff standing there, with his mouth covered in blood, shaking his right hand once and breathing heavily.

- If you ever touch her again like that, I’ll kill you.

While Mark was trying to get up, Slash stormed in from the recording room. He had seen the events of the last two minutes from his position behind the glass, and he wasn’t going to take any more of that shit. Right before the other one went ballistic attacking the bassist and blood started to hit the fan, Saul grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kicked him, literally, out of the place. Once the metal door had closed between Mark and us, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I vaguely remember I started hyperventilating, on my knees, on the floor, and the sound of punches hitting metal on the outside was all but helping me calm down. As tears streamed down my face and I frantically run my fingers through my hair, a hand started trailing my back. It was a soft touch, slow, really slow. Making its way upwards and then going back down, over again. The noise level had considerably decreased, and now all I could listen to were whispers, the sweetest whispers coming from the mouth of one single person. “Shhhh, easy. You’re having a panic attack. It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m here. Breathe.” Little by little my quick and superficial breathing became steadier, and after a few minutes I was able to stand up to sit on the couch. The beating on the door had stopped, and I realized all the guys were surrounding me, worried look on their faces, as Duff, seating beside me, still had his hand in my back.

_________________

It had been two weeks since that day. After the incident, I sure as hell wasn’t going to be under the same roof as Mark, and even less with the fight still recent. Who knows what he would do to me as soon as I crossed the threshold… The guys profusely insisted that I could stay with any of them, but they let me use their phone to call my best friend when I told them I would be in very good hands with her. Laura received me with a warm hug the moment she saw me, and that night, at her home, we cried, we ranted and we ate ice-cream until we couldn’t take any more. I have to admit that, given the circumstances, she managed pretty well to get me into bed feeling kinda happy. But of course, nothing lasts forever. I was about to graduate, with no home (the foster-bed in Laura’s house didn’t count), no boyfriend and no plans of work, projects or future in general; ahead of me there was a massive precipice with seemingly no ending. Besides, the production process for Appetite was coming to an end, and so did my internship and the months of togetherness with the band. Now was the time for press conferences, concerts and, if it all went well, the tour. To be honest I was super happy for them. I had seen the birth of that album, and I was blindly certain that with such a masterpiece they were bound to success. It was inevitable. But in any case, that meant the end of what had given me the most joys in the last four months and, if apart from all the financial and emotional stability I had gained during my college years, someone took that away from me… what did I have left?

__________________

After that much time hitting the drums, I had ultimately interiorized the beat so much now I was just reproducing it on loop, with my eyes closed and breathing heavily. I was so self-absorbed that I didn’t realize the door had opened and someone had stepped into the studio. Suddenly I felt how, behind my back, two hands softly landed on my shoulders. I didn’t stop playing. My arms moved now with less vigor to the beat I had marked from the beginning, while those fingers gently traced small circles in the back of my neck, comforting me.

Duff.

It had to be him, I was certain.

Little by little I reduced the speed of my movements, gradually, until I completely stopped playing. When I left the drumsticks on the snares and turned around in the stool I saw him. He was standing there, right in front of me, asking with his eyes, a calm and expressive look on his face. An almost imperceptible sigh escaped my lips. He was worried about me.

- Good thing it was you who entered, and not Steven – I said, half jokingly, as I stood up, hoping to relax the tension built up between us.

- Yeah – he laughed softly. – Had it been him he would have ripped the drumsticks off your hands and hit you with them.

I laughed too, quietly, bitterly. This was too much for me. The words we never said were floating around, like a thousand needles falling into a tailspin above us; eventually, they would have to land. The worst part was that I didn’t know if I craved that moment or, on the contrary, dreaded it.

It looked like he had read my mind when he slowly, almost asking for permission, held my hands. I startled a bit with the contact, but I let him go on. Duff looked at them for a second before he noticed the tiny wounds I had unconsciously inflicted on myself digging my fingernails too hard a while before, at the drums. Without saying a word, he started caressing them very softly, as if he wanted to calm, more than my physical pain, the sentimental one. He was breathing deeply and slightly frowning. He was concentrated in trying to make that feeling disappear, the confusion, the guilt, the fear… the stream of emotions that had been threatening to break me for some time now. He looked me in the eyes. In that very moment, the temperature inside the room raised a few degrees. We were really close. So close I could feel his breath on me, listen to his heartbeat accelerating with every second that went by, see how his lips lightly parted, practically not at all, only a hint of the thought that filled our minds in that place, in that moment. Then, almost involuntarily, as an instinctive reflex, I stretched my neck upwards. That was the only sign he needed to make the already scarce distance between our lips disappear, and kiss me.

The contact was slow, sweet and full of longing. Our lips moved rhythmically, perfectly fitting on each other’s. Duff was still holding my hands, and I could feel my breath accelerating progressively. I released one of my hands and placed it on his neck, stroking the hair on his nape and helping myself keep balance in my tippiest toes. He saw my struggles and moved his free hand to my waist, firmly holding me so that I wouldn’t fall. All of a sudden, I felt the urge to be closer to him, even more. Everything that I hadn’t been able to do and that had bottled up inside of me was now too overwhelming, and I didn’t want to fight it anymore. Our kiss intensified, we hungrily enjoyed each other, panting. The next thing I knew was that Duff had placed his hands on the back of my thighs and lifted me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist and leaned my arms on his shoulders, so I could keep kissing him while he crossed the room and sat on the leather couch, with me straddling his lap. He ran his fingers up and down my thighs, slightly lifting the hem of my dress, as if he was testing some boundaries that I hadn’t set and, at this point, I didn’t plan to.

I was euphoric, nervous and loaded with desire. In a burst of braveness or lust, I’m not entirely sure, I started to buck my hips, back and forth, following a slow path at first, which progressively accelerated. The friction of my underwear in direct contact with his leather pants was about to drive me mad, and I couldn’t stop. His hands, which a moment ago were on my hips, guiding them, started moving over my lower stomach, tracing the edge of my panties in painfully slow motions. His breath was also heavier, somehow ragged, and I felt him hardening beneath me. His lips were stuck to the base of my neck, lightly sucking as I, with my eyes closed and lips parted into a silent “O”, gently pulled his blond hair. My core grew more sensitive by the minute, and when I thought I wouldn’t be able to hold the moan trapped in my throat anymore, his fingers touched my most sensitive spot, turning my steadily rocking hips not that steady for a moment.

In a matter of seconds, and with his hand working wonders between my legs, I got rid of the dress, which only bothered, and the perspective of my almost absolute nudity on top of his entirely dressed body made me shake with arousal. His free hand took care of my breasts, now exposed, as I dug my nails into his shoulders, underneath the sleeveless shirt he was wearing.

- Take it off – I managed to blurb between gasps.

- What? – Duff seemed confused, too concentrated on something else for having been able to follow the road of my own thoughts.

- Your shirt, take it off. I want to touch you.

A shit-eating grin lit up his face right before he separated in a quick motion from that piece of clothing and threw it somewhere else. Immediately after, in a total change of the atmosphere, he laid back on the couch and, placing his hands behind his head, said:

- Then touch me.

I didn’t hesitate for a single second. My hands flew to his shoulders, his arms, his shoulders again and went down his chest as I peppered kisses all over his lips, jaw, neck, collarbones… I took my sweet time while swinging my hips against the fabric that separated my pussy from his erection, and my nails traced a descending path down his torso, really slowly. I could notice how he was growing desperate; I felt his breath, now turned into a subtle growl, against my hair; I realized how shortly he had managed to keep his hands off me, since now he was caressing my flanks, my back and my chest. When I reached the cord of his pants with my fingers, I slowly undid the knot that tied them together and slipped my hand underneath, without stopping my hip motions. The very moment I found the base of his length, a soft grunt escaped his lips. He was driving me insane.

After a while arousing each other, we couldn’t stand the teasing any longer and Duff took the first step to getting rid of the clothes that were still around. I stood up and took off my sandals so that he could slide my panties down my legs, grazing my skin along the way. He also let go of both his pants and sneakers, tossing them on the carpet. Our moves were clumsy thanks to eagerness and anticipation. I once again sat on top of him, in our initial position, only now there were no clothes in the middle of the road. I could feel him against me. Touch. Friction. Desire. His expert fingers moved now freely over my core, as he left little love bites under my left ear. I kept on rubbing his cock, fully hard and a bit wet, while, with my other hand, I held on to his hair for dear life. We were close, really close. It felt as if every centimeter of my skin was on direct contact with Duff. He was everywhere, every corner, every goosebump, every scar… With all this overstimulation, my moans filled the room, and I didn’t have enough sanity to realize anyone could come in. I was a mess.All of a sudden, right when I was seconds away from cumming, his hands disappeared from my core. Even though I couldn’t see myself, I was sure in my eyes one would be able to read the anticipation and confusion.

- Wait – he said in a desperate whisper -. I want to feel you, I want to be inside of you.

If he hadn’t stopped touching me a moment before, I am sure that sentence would have sent me to the wildest of orgasms, but it wasn’t the time for my sweet release. Not yet. He put his hand right next to mine, on his cock, and, with an almost unbearable slowness, he brought the tip of it to my entrance. A trembling sigh fell from my lips and we looked into each other’s eyes. Then, I gently let my hips descend on his lap, and he completely slid inside of me, letting escape an unearthly growl that gave me chills. He had dropped his head back, leaving his neck and collarbones exposed to me, but I had my eyes closed as I tried to control the delightful contractions that were about to take over me. I felt him inside of me, extremely deep. As if we were two pieces of the same puzzle, as if we had been manufactured specifically to be together. Now THAT was overstimulation. Once my body had adjusted to him, I started motioning my hips up and down, holding on to his shoulders so that I didn’t lose the limited balance I had left. He once again was looking at me, with his hands on my waist as I kept the path. Close, very close. His arms slid around me and I kissed his lips eagerly. Our moans died in one another’s mouth while the movements became faster, erratic, frenetic. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep my sanity, I was almost raving with pleasure, and the moment our lips broke away to take air and we looked at each other, nose to nose, without stopping for a moment, I couldn’t hold it any longer. I came with a flashing intensity, pronouncing his name countless times, asking God knows who for this moment to last forever. I couldn’t stop screaming, and when Duff begged my name and I felt his liquid warmth filling every bit of me, I saw white.

_______________

His hand stroked tenderly my naked back while my breath came back to normal against his neck. The same as that day, but at the same time entirely different. I was still on top of him, he was still inside of me. I hadn’t yet gathered the strength to pull him apart from me, but he didn’t seem willing to get separated either, so we stood like that for a while, I don’t even know how much, but I don’t care. This felt utterly intimate, intense, extremely ours and totally apart from the rest of people, from the rest of things. It was a parallel universe inside of a crystal ball. It was the embodiment of all that was right. What we had been, without knowing or admitting it, even to ourselves, waiting for all this time.

#duff #smut #angst #guns n roses #duff mckagan #oneshot #imagine #fanfic #reader #fem reader

155 notes · View notes

fullymechanized-consoomer · 5 years ago

Text

40K factions and you

Space Marines:

Your favorite flavor of ice cream is vanilla, but occasionally you might try some Neapolitan, if you’re feeling dangerous. You’re faction’s lore is designed from the ground up to accept your self-inserts, and the models are some of the easiest to paint in the entire range. None of this matters because no matter how unique you think your super-cool “realistic marines who use real tactics maaaaan” are they’ll always come out looking like a slight variation of the ones below

8th edition has finally allowed you to feel a tiny sliver of the unbalanced and over-costed hell other factions have been stuck in for years, but unlike them, daddy GW is more than willing to spend a little extra on his bulky good bois so they still get all the coolest gear and lore. Like vanilla, small children love them, but they grow out of both eventually.

edit: it was only a matter of time before GW stamped its foot down and made the inevitable decision that its favorite kid needs to be busted again. Then again in all fairness they toned down their overpoweredness from “godlike” to merely “demi-godlike”

Imperial Guard:

You’re a big “history fan”. You’ve seen Enemy at the Gates, watched some history channel shows about Nazi wonder weapons, and make 54 karma post on r/history_memes recycling debunked Eastern Front jokes. Only your intelligent eye is able to conflate this factions obvious Metal Slug levels of cartoonish design and tactics with realism, and you make sure to remind everyone else of said realism by comparing your tabletop exploits to your military experience in the reserves. Everyone used to like you back when the faction was actually made up of underdogs and under appreciated, but the Guant’s Ghosts references have gotten kinda stale, and no one appreciates the brass balls of these Starship Trooper knockoffs now that 8th edition supports and rewards the very same mindless horde tactics the Guard used to be mocked for in Lore. Despite having some of the most tried and true designs in the game, as well as an incredible amount of options, you will quickly find how limiting the only “realistic” army is in terms of customization and paint schemes, as anything but camo, grey, or tan looks goofy and reveals how silly this faction actually is.

edit: If your army consists of wrapping 30 guardsmen around basilisks I recommend you take a short fall down a long flight of stairs. Fuck you, Evan.

Eldar:

You’re a real shooter. You know what you like and you stick with it, cause lets face it, it takes a lot of loyalty to stick with these arrogant pricks. Their designs are unique but dated, their lore is a uneven mishmash of 40k grimdark schmultz Tolkien telephone, and Oliver Twist-esque whipping bois for whenever GW writers need to remind us how cool Space Marines are. But none of that matters because you know the truth: Eldar can kick tons of ass on the board, and look good doing it, as their unique designs lends them to all sorts of brilliant color combinations

And unlike other armies their rare design updates improve on their aesthetic while keeping their 40k-ness, something that is becoming increasingly rare in this era of Tacticool marines and Fantasy-creep. Just don’t expect to be taken seriously by anyone but the old-heads.

Edit: Leave it to the whipping bois to be outshined in their own event and get a single model update. Thanks GW, very cool.

Dark Eldar

You are one of two people: a meta hopping smooth brain who only jumped ship once these guys got one of the best updates in 40k history, or a true intellectual who understood their hidden merit all along. Other faction players like to make fun of you for being edgy, when in reality you know that the Dark Eldar are just a bunch of sociopathic theater kids. They, like you, know how fucked from top to bottom this universe is, and instead of getting depressed they exclaimed “how can we be the best cartoon villains we can be?”. Despite having a relatively bare army list, the fact that these d-bags come in 3 flavors of crazy in a single army offers a ton of variety: the mustache twirling villainy of the Kabals, the crazy bloodstained snuff-stars of the Wych cults, and the BDSM horror show of the Covens. All three offer substantial benefits and drawbacks and must be played carefully in order t-

Who am I kidding? You’re just gonna stuff a bunch of Kabal warriors into Venoms and zoom around the map, aren’t you? Enjoy that speed, because your abysmal save stats wont protect you anything more than a furiously thrown walnut. At least your corpses will look rad clad in some of the grimest armor and gear in the game.

edit: no longer anywhere near as dominent as they were in the earlier years of 8th, but they still look slick as hell and play great.

Orks

Your IQ randomly jumps from 20 to 200 throughout the day. There is no predicting this, no planning around this, no stopping this. You’re best bet is just to go along with it, and that’s why you play Orks. Orks are roudy good-time buddies who love slapstick slaughter, not having thoughts, and occasionally pulling of cunning plans that human savants would struggle to comprehend. Orks seem to be the only faction that know what joy is, which is why you as a player spread it to everyone else. Yes, the memes and screaming can be a bit much to others sometimes, but like with any other mentally handicapped child everyone around just grits their teeth through your bad episodes if it means not upsetting your unique sensibilities. And considering that this army’s aesthetic revolves around cobbled together nonsense, you have a lot of uniqueness to give. Orks are easily the most creative faction in the game when it comes to conversions. Nothing is too goofy, too dumb, or too silly to scrap together. As for performance on the tabletop? Go ham. This is an army that rewards merry bullshit and randomness. Remember, you didn’t pick Orks to win, you picked them to have fun.

edit: So are Orks actually getting anything or what? GW’s plans for this faction is as chaotic as the minds of the ADHD scrambled minds who play them

Necrons

You have a very specific taste in... funky weird-science space Egyptians. Seriously, these guys are practically a completely different army to what they were a decade ago. Gone are the terminator references and eldritch lore nonsense, and here to stay is senility and glyphs. You lie to yourself, saying that you’re not really sure why you chose Necrons, but I know the truth: you chose them because they used to be busted. They used to be unfair. They used to be able to take out top-tier tanks with their version of pea shooters and come back after every turn. So overwhelmed were you by their dazzeling stats and bullshit cheese your brain’s wiring fried and the erratic firing of billions of flayed neurons made you think Necrons had cool lore and interesting models. But now they’ve been nerfed to hell, and you’re no longer stuck in that lasting state of sensory overload. Like a drunk snapping awake with a hangover you come to the painful reality: Necrons are kind of dull. So like me, you put them away in a shoebox forever, leaving their fragile sculpts to slowly fall apart.

Edit: FUCK WHERE IS THE SHOEBOX WHERE DID I LEAVE IT OH GOD OH OH NO OH FUCK THEY’RE ALL BROKEN MAYBE I CAN PUT THEM BACK TOGETHER BEFORE 9th EDITION LAUNCHES I’M SO SORRY FOR WHAT I DID TO YOU NOW MORE THAN EVER I NEED YOU, I NEED MY BOOOOOOOOYS!!!

Tau

You will forever be hated by the community unfairly. You are accuse being anime - and this is true - yet the Eldar get away with being copied wholesale from 80′s space anime and no one seems to notice. You are made fun of for your bad melee, despite having one of the most comprehensively designed niches in an otherwise sloppy game and dominating with nearly every edition. You are made fun of for your lore, despite being largely separate from the cliches and story traps that everyone else has fallen into. You are hated because you are different; hated because you are Asian.

Tau are an anomaly in 40k: a completely new faction that wasn’t directly ripped off of some other franchise and with an aesthetic that is wholly their own. I won’t be making fun of them because they get enough of that, and you don’t deserve it. Just know this dirty secret: Tau outsell almost every other xenos faction, and despite the supposedly unanimous hate are probably one of the strongest factions in terms of play-style and modelling in the franchise.

Edit: The tau are grittier than ever, happy now? They still do the same thing they have always done anyways.

Chaos

Unlike the DE you actually are edgy. You worship satan, you throw rocks at homeless people, you start fires because your dad doesn’t spank you enough. Chaos are the closest things that this cluster fuck of a universe can get to being the main villains. Their lore is at once intricate and stupid, both childish and metal as hell. You play chaos because getting your fingers pricked by the models’ spikes is the closest you can come to feeling anything anymore. Just like the chaos lore you love to hype yourself up, to puff your chest and revel in the darkness inside, but when confronted you tend to fold like wet tissue paper. You’ve stopped playing public games with these guys, because the other players don’t understand you and abuse the meta and make fun of your painting skills and everything is so unfair and don’t you think that chaos marines should get buffs for their points cost, fuck?

Edit: The new models are slick and more power-metal minivan than ever, though the rules are still abysmal despite GW desperately wanting everyone to takes these guys seriously for once.

Sisters of Battle

GW writers and designers hates Catholics and they hate women, so naturally they hate Sister of Battl. They also hate you for playing them. Because of this SoB are a monument to neglected potential. They have one of the best female armor designs in fiction, great lore, and an interesting playstyle that relies on faith/determination based feats of strength and valor... but GW hate Catholics and women, so SoB get shafted everywhere all the time. More often than not you will be disappointed reading about their exploits as they continually get unfairly slaughtered, corrupted into the horny service of the pervert god, or used as receptacles for blood-based paint when the writer’s favorite faction needs to fight demons. With no plastic models in sight for over a decade everyone began to come to the slow and dreadful realization that GW was looking to Squat our favorite estrogen warriors, until a new revamp was announced. Unfortunately the beta rules look as lackluster as ever, but that’s fine, because as a SoB fan you have learned to expect that GW hates you, Catholics, and women.

Edit: GW found God and got woke because now they love women and Jesus’ one true Church, but let it be known that reformation doesn’t occur overnight, as the SOB’s faces still betray GW’s lingering discomfort in the female form:

Their rules are fun, and if every codex was designed like it 40k might actually be a fun game

Tyranids

nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom no- and that’s it that’s the Tyranids. I don’t know anything about them besides that, and neither do you, cause that’s their lore. Yes they have cool models, but next to no reliable updates. I’ll pray for you.

Edit: it really looks like GW has just completely forgotten about you poor souls huh? The Night King, a character who is closely associated with the totally-not-reconned-Tyranid-invasion, comes back and not one word about you guys. They don’t even actively hate you like, say, they hate the Eldar. It’s just... apathy.

Grey Knights

HAHA AHAHAHAHA HA HA UHAHAHA HAHAAHAHAAHAH HAHA ha ha Ah......... he. hehahaaaAHAHAHAHA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

edit: I hope you all realize that Grey Knights are far too specialized in fighting the permanently under performing forces of chaos to be 40ks “elite among elite.” You and your entire faction has been made completely obsolescent by the Custodes. The rough times will continue, say hi to the Squats in heaven will you?

Custodes

You are either insufferably full of yourself or a fine practitioner of the model making craft. Most likely though you are neither, and you picked them because you only need gold and red paint to make them look good. Custodes are the space marine’s space marines, and they’re better than you and everyone else. period. At least in lore. On the table their incredible individual stats and elite status are reflected in points cost, so for most large games you will be fielding what amounts to any other faction’s skirmishing army. Unfortunately, since 40k is a stat-sheet battler that favors raw bulk of rolls and stats over the quality of them, you’d be hard-pressed to do well in any serious game. However, for the luminous of mind, the small size is a blessing in disguise since you don’t need to buy and paint as many units as the other armies, and no matter how hard the guard player trashes you his 50 unpainted manlets will never look as good as your 15 gloriously crafted golden Chads. Stick to smaller games, and the individual strength of each model will make up for the glaring absence caused by their loss.

Ironically enough despite being an elite faction from a relatively obscure part of 40k lore, these attributes make Custodes the perfect casual player’s faction. It is my personal theory that if GW didn’t grossly inflate their prices to such a high degree everyone would have a Custodes army.

Oh yeah, Henry Cavil plays these guys, because of course he does.

#40k #warhammer 40k #table top

38 notes · View notes

marked-by-fire · 5 years ago

Text

Here’s my research paper. Took me 3 days to type up.

In most recent years, video games have become incredibly popular with a wide variety of titles and different systems to play on. People have been able to start whole careers based on competitive gaming and amass a fortune. If only playing for fun, the internet allows for anyone to play with different people across the world that they never would’ve met otherwise. All in all, the advancement and availability of video games has definitely changed the world and brought a lot of people together. Even though gaming has improved by leaps and bounds, there’s a lot of negatives that’s come with its popularity. The more prominent issues are greed and control, but that’s only scratching the service. Right now, long time gamers are getting fed up with gaming companies and their practices, and said companies are losing millions, sometimes billions, of dollars. In this essay, we’re going to explore what some of those actions and practices are and why it seems like gaming is heading towards a whimpering, drawn-out end.

First, one of the biggest issues that recent games are facing is that more than a fair share of them are being released unfinished. By “unfinished”, that means that textures aren’t loading properly, enemy and ally AI don’t behave how they’re supposed to, or there are glitches that prevent story progression. There are even games that some people call unplayable because the game itself doesn’t even work. This happens because many of the higher-ups from well-known studios will rush a game through development in order to release it by a certain date or major holiday. One such instance was during the release of Fallout 1776, that was due to be released on Thanksgiving 2018. The game performed so badly that Bethesda was sued due to the game being borderline unplayable. The most common issue for the game was that it would crash constantly. If it didn’t crash, the world was mostly empty with weak enemies, an inconsistent loot system, and, the most egregious offense, the exact same enemy that was just taken down would respawn right in front of a player if they stood still for too long in any given area. Some of these issues have been fixed with patches, but a game shouldn’t need a patch within the first week in order to work properly after being installed. To sum up this section, gaming companies are starting to release half-baked games for a quick buck, at the cost of angering fans, to only fix the mess they made later if it starts costing them actual money.

While everything stated above is a driving factor of why gaming may take a nosedive in the future, the state of games upon release only covers one side of the production coin. The other side has to do with advertisement and add-ons. One of the prominent ways advertising games has changed is the inclusion of pre-ordering. Pre-ordering games has become incredibly common to where most games can be bought and held on to a year or more before they’re released. The problem with that is a person could’ve very well bought a game that’s such a mess it fries their system during start-up and leaves the customer with an unusable block. If a game is released unfinished, or “broken”, consumers usually can’t get a refund if the game was pre-ordered because the window for a full refund has long past expired. Along with pre-ordering, there’s also DLC (downloadable content). DLC is supposed to be additions to an already finished game in the form of new areas to explore, side stories, or new/exciting items not necessary to the main game. Some companies have done the unthinkable and will cut out core parts of a game and package them up as DLC to sell back to customers. A shining example of this was with the game Asura’s Wrath. If a person manages to reach a high enough rank at different parts of the story, you’re treated to an alternate ending where you meet the true antagonist of the series. To actually face him, get the true ending, and finish the game though, you had to pay roughly an extra $10 for the DLC. Many fans were understandably angry and refused to buy the DLC and were either content with first ending or found free, illegal downloads of the DLC. That was a lot of information to take in, but everything that was just mentioned only covers just a game having all its necessary pieces. What’s made its way into games when it works is another beast entirely

When it comes to the way content has been affected, two words come to mind: Gentrification and Politicization. Gentrification is going to be covered first seeing as that’s going to be a little less volatile to talk about. What’s meant by gentrification is now that gaming has become more popular, people that were never fans of the hobby in the first place feel as though they have a right to change games to fit their sensibilities, despite how others may feel about it, and game companies are suffering for it. The reoccurring cycle is that an “outrage mob” campaigns to change features or aspects of new games they find offensive or not inclusive enough, companies cave to the demands because they think they found a new target audience, established fans end up hating the final product when it’s released because they feel alienated and infantilized, the “outrage mob” that wanted the changes in the first place don’t even buy what they campaigned for, and then the company loses out on profits. This either ends with a series or new entry being cancelled because it didn’t sell well enough or a studio going bankrupt because that game was their last hope of making a profit. This cycle has been seen so often that it coined the phrase “get woke, go broke,” meaning that companies almost always fail after listening to these people. This phrase also plays into the politicization aspect of current games

What’s meant by politicization is that more games in recent years seem to think that some political statement has to be made in order to sell and do well. It’s not uncommon for entertainment to have some sort of political statement during controversial periods of time, but that’s not the issue here. The issue is that many of the political components end up feeling forced, make no sense in where they come up, or carry little nuance. It’s one thing to have an antagonist that holds a belief or goal that’s objectively wrong, like genocide or dividing people by class, but it’s another thing entirely to awkwardly shoehorn in current, reasonable politics or people, push one or both side’s views to their extremes, and then paint one side as wholly good and the other irredeemably evil. There’s no nuance of either side making good and bad points. In the end, no matter which side the game paints as the “good side,” the other half of the fan base is still going to be angry because they’re also being called evil by affiliation by having vaguely similar views. Another issue is that people just don’t want current politics in their games. Due to social media, school, friends, the news, or any other source of information, the last thing people want is more of the current world’s problems in their escapism. People are tired of having to constantly be bombarded with issues about racism, sexism, the economy, the environment, etc. People don’t want to have to deal with that all day just to come home and have their form of entertainment shove even more of it down their throat.

There’s so much more to cover on this topic because this essay has only covered the tip of the iceberg of the issues plaguing current day gaming. There’s a lot that wasn’t covered that deserves to be but is a bit of a touchy subject that ties in with gentrification and content, and one of those subjects is censorship. A lot of games that catch the attention of the aforementioned outrage mobs are games that tend to have some degree of sexual or violent content in them, at varying degrees, that the target audience is willing to pay for. The outrage mob basically functions as new age puritans who seem to think no one should ever consume any kind of sexual or unnecessarily violent content of any kind in games because it’s “degrading to women” or “it inspires violence in the real world”. Never mind the fact that there’s never been a link between real world violence and violence in games, many of the women featured in games are designed by women, and that many of the men featured in games can be as equally sexualized, but in a different way. There seems to be this disconnect between what’s fiction and what’s reality for them and they believe everyone else suffers from this condition too, especially for people who play video games. So now there’s this rabid need to censor everything for everyone because a select few people can’t handle a woman dressed a little sexily. People don’t like having third party views pushed into their entertainment, but it’s happening anyway, and gaming companies seem to be ignoring this issue that’s rotting them from the inside out.

In the end, if this kind of trend continues, gaming is going to die out in the near future. There’s already been a number of game studios closing because they listened to people screaming on Twitter and Facebook over loyal, paying fans. Too many of these gaming companies try go for the social justice, good boy points to only have the bar moved farther away to unattainable levels. This is on top of pushing out games that don’t work or just look and handle horrendously because they were more focused on politics or making as much money as possible with the least amount of work. There are a few major studios left that stick by their fans and core principles, and there are hundreds of smaller studios that fully embrace making a good game over making money or sending a message. Though, with the way things are going, it’s only a matter of time before someone else takes over that prioritizes their online image over appeasing the people who got them where they are now. If and when that day comes, it’ll be the end. The gaming industry as a whole will die a slow, painful death.

#video games #gaming #business #college writing #long post

2 notes · View notes

nehawriter16 · 6 years ago

Text

2018, THE YEAR THAT BROKE ME

I’m currently sitting on the floor of my bedroom. It’s been a day of avoiding real work and responsibilities, but then again, escapism is kind of the theme of this year, so it’s only accurate that I’m here writing this.

Everybody is asleep, except me. And the men I like who live overseas, but they’ve been ignoring me, so I have no desire to ring them up despite the general despair and loneliness I feel. But let’s not begin our round up with boys, because although they rank high on my list of important life lessons/disappointments this year, I don’t want also want to give them the satisfaction of first place.

In the last 365 days, a lot about my life changed. I’m going to try to sum it up as best as I can.

1) In the beginning of December, I quit an internship that anybody else would have killed for. The work and constant travelling and being yelled at by crude seniors broke the delicate petal that I am. I’d landed that job at 19, and I loved that I was thrown into the adult world so early because it taught me a lot, but two years of showing up every day to do something I don’t love killed something inside of my brain. And so, I decided to take a month off and then move to a smaller firm, not realising that my job at EY would help to keep my sanity by keeping me occupied.

The first few weeks were bliss. After twelve hour work days, I suddenly had a lot of free time and I indulged in attending fun trainings and catching up with old friends. For a short second, life was filled with hope, up until my birthday in mid Jan.

2) Since I now had the luxury of lesser work hours, I decided to pursue one of my biggest dreams – writing a book. I already had the story in mind, and I thought that despite the emotional turmoil that revisiting some of the memories would bring, the bigger picture would be worth it. It’s almost the end of December now, and I’m still sure it is.

But the truth is – my relationship with A blossomed in 2016, and died a premature death in mid 2017. And I’ve been dragging it through the ground for longer than I should be. Sometimes I wonder if I’m solely responsible for squeezing it for the story. Or maybe it was the kind of love you can’t forget. Well, I can’t. I’m sure he has.

But one of the hardest things about writing this has been taking myself back to when we were falling for each other. I’ve been reading emails about hopes and dreams and forever after it has already ended. And how do you write about happiness when you know there isn’t going to be any? All this is important for the narrative, yes, but it fucks with my mental health so badly. 2016 me was naive and trusting. 2018 me is bitter, and not too thrilled about revisiting those moments mostly because of how much they hurt just to think about, forget turning them into an interesting cliff hanger filled story.

I have almost finished writing it though, and that’s what’s the more important thing. I don’t know what kind of nightmares publishing and finding an agent and royalties is going to bring, but at least I will have created something tangible and coherent instead of this faraway thing that I’ve dreamt of since I was 13.

3) I tanked my CA Final – and this was the biggest disappointment, no surprises there. More than the gallons of self loathing it brought on me, it was about the burden I created for my parents. Yesterday my mother, in a burst of anger, said, “If you don’t pass in May, you can’t live under our roof anymore.” She doesn’t know this, and she probably never will, but I cried myself to sleep because that thought terrifies me.

I feel like I am already just swimming through a rubble of guilt. Most people my age have already gotten well paying jobs and have been living out of home for years now. They are financing themselves and starting businesses and I don’t even read the newspaper on a daily basis. I lack the self control I used to have in school, or maybe my mother’s constant nagging and being up my ass was the only way I stayed successful when I was younger.

Of course, this career choice was a MASSIVE bad decision, and I’ve always felt out of place in it. I will never be the best, but I really do need to pass and finish. If I can’t pass it again, I will literally sink into unconquerable depression that no amount of therapy and medicines will be able to pull me out of.

I’m supposed to start studying from the 1st, and I hope that it doesn’t drive me FUCKING INSANE like the last time it did, because this time, the pressure is higher and time, lesser.

I still have some grit left in me though. The last two months of this year have been difficult, but creatively fulfilling, and I am okay with having to go back to analytical subjects again. I feel sane enough to drop into the mental battlefield that is the CA Final syllabus.

4) I’m 23 in a fortnight, and at least 5 of my friends got engaged this year. I was the oldest in school in my batch so they’re all younger than me. This whole finding a boy thing is stressing me the fuck out, because as per my calculations, it would take a year of courting for me to so much as like somebody seriously. After that, it would take two years for me to try every possible method to drive him away, and torture him with all my hamartias, and THEN if he doesn’t leave, and when he proposes, I’ll be like, “Okay fine. Maybe we can be engaged.” This whole process takes 3 years. I want to be married at 26, so I only have those many. The problem is that in this time period, it will not only be difficult to find an emotionally available boy with a pretty face – WAIT, for him to find me, because women don’t do the chasing – who is also sexy and charming and reads poetry and has a sensible head on his shoulders. No, in this time period I will also be taking solely career-oriented decisions as one must, and love will always take the backseat. I want to move abroad in 2020 and he may live somewhere else, and it’s clear from my several failed attempts that I can’t do long distance. Also to be noted that you cannot try this experiment with different men simultaneously. It’s sort of a one lab rat at a time type of test.

So what, then? Fuck feelings, and only be serious with hook ups? I think I’ve filled my 2018 with at least a two dozen of those hot but dumb types (tall, abs, rolling in money, half a brain, bonus if they’re good kissers, but you can never date them seriously) and to be honest I’m getting tired of them. First of all, they’re all pussies about the poetry, it literally frightens them which I find kind of hilarious, but it’s also annoying. Sure, we can roll a joint and make out on my terrace, and they’ll just pull up when I find myself getting even the least bit lonely, but the ones I really like – the fuckboys who I see have real turning into boyfriend potential – they live abroad. It’s so cliché, I might vomit, but they literally live in London and New York. London Boy is only here for a month and then he’s gone. New York one may stay back, but he always wants to meet after midnight and there’s no fucking way my parents are allowing that.

And let’s face it, I’m a relationship girl. Sure, I’ve picked up some skills with hooking up and if we’re being honest I don’t really have to make an effort, just pick a half-interesting loser from the hundred DM’s sitting in my Instagram, and it’s done. He does the work and buys the drinks. I put out. I ghost. It’s practically a system.

But I’m bored now. I need somebody entertaining. But no matter what, one of the most important lessons I’ve learnt this year is to never settle for less than what I deserve. (At least for my heart. My body gets it when she likes it, and thats enough.) So I say no to…well, everybody. True love has literally been evading me, and may for a while, I think until this CA shit is done, because it’s more important anyway.

Until then, I literally have a broadcast list called, “FWB.”

4) Do I even need to write about fake friends? Girls are so fucking FAKE NICE, it irritates me. And I have a great group of these girls in my life, who want nothing more than to use you as a stool to get to where they want. I have very few real friends and I’m so grateful for them (okay, her) because everybody else is just about the temporary bullshit. I am always afraid of judgement with them, and everything I say comes with a “what will they think of me?” filter. I don’t think real friendships should be like that at all. No, in a true friendship, you should be able to take both – your make up and fake bitch mask off and sit around in sweats, drinking and complaining about everything that’s wrong with your life.

Is this really how adults act? Will I always have to worry about the ulterior motives of everybody new I meet? And even scarier, if I spend enough time around them, will I also turn into a self centered asshole with no backbone? Will I forget who I am and start adapting to the social settings into which I’ve been thrust?

Because I hope not. Despite everything that’s happened this year, and despite almost losing my mind to mental health (yes! A thing I am still not ready to talk about! But someday will be!) I actually like my brain and what its capable of, once it starts trying. I like the stuff I come up with, the way my thoughts come out as sentences. I am actually a fan of the voice in my head, who – let’s face it – has been a real ass friend to me also. Even though she kind of went crazy with the depression, but I think the recovery has begun.

2018 was a fucking shithole, and god, I fell deep. I know 2019 is going to be even harder but I hope it is filled with more genuine happiness because it’s been a long time since I felt “happiness” as a permanent, internal feeling. It’s just been more of a fleeting and momentary thing for a few hours before the sadness envelopes me and takes lead.

So I hope that when I speak to you in – and over – the next 365 day period that’s about to begin, I am able to share some more hope and joy with you. I hope the motherfucker I’m going to marry stops sitting around on his ass and finds me, because I’m ready for my heart to be won over again. I have mourned enough, and fucked half the high spirits crowd. But most of all… I hope this book I’ve written does well. Not just because it’s a brilliant piece of shit, and a beautiful fucking story (if I may say so myself) but mostly because I really like clothes and I could use the money.

Also it would be great to stop feeling so mediocre all the time, so yeah. That would be nice. Will keep you updated Tumblr!

Love,

5 notes · View notes

zenosanalytic · 7 years ago

Text

Star Wars: The Last Jedi: Execution Strikes Back

Ok so I’ve been trying to write down my reaction to The Last Jedi for the last two days, but I have a lot of Thoughts and I’m beginning to think it’d be better if I wrote down Many Reactions to The Last Jedi, each focused on a particular aspect of my reaction, and so I’m going to do that.

OK SO: This Post will be my general reaction to the plot, story, etc. There won’t be much internal coherence to this as it’s just me jumping around, writing my general reactions to the aspects of the film that stood out to me enough to comment on without deserving their own post.

The tl;dr: It had problems, but they didn’t detract from it for me and it was really fun and I liked it, but the underlying rhetorical merchandising of “Rebel” and Related Things bugged me along similar lines to Rogue One.

TLJ follows in TFA’s footprints of having a really thin, basically tacked-on plot that’s really nothing more than the most basic background required to make the film’s true strengths -its character interactions, performances, worldbuilding, and structure- comprehensible, and to let them shine. I thought the action fun, focused, and not too busy(though occasionally Stupid); that the relationships between the characters and the larger ideas they were meant to convey were well done, clear, and engaging; and that, while the plot was Incredible Stupid(or maybe just stripped down?) and Barely Relevant, the structure of the story was quite Robust and well-built. The larger themes and rhetoric of the film were clearly conveyed, even if sometimes those themes and that rhetoric was, itself, in conflict, or just flat-out philosophically infuriating(hint: my Rogue One complaint about Disney’s commodification of “Rebellion” is amped up 1000% for TLJ, but I won’t get into that in this post). My one big problem was, as with TFA but even more so, the sheer volume of callbacks and parallels, which I found a bit distracting at points. I get that they WANT the films to feel cyclical and repetitive, but I feel like they just went too far in a few places here, and tried too hard to be “A Star Wars Movie” rather than doing their own thing, which gave it a very franchisey feel. There were moments, however, where they used those references and parallels to do some interesting stuff.

The idea of the bombing run at the beginning, the movie’s first set-piece battle, was, I thought, Very Stupid, but I get what they were going for with it and their execution of that was done well enough that I didn’t necessarily mind it. The basic idea: The FO is chasing the Resistance out of its hiding places and catches Leia’s crew in the midst of them evacuating their base from TFA; Poe and the fighters scramble to buy the evacuation time and stop a new FO siege-ship called a Dreadnought, from destroying the base before the evacuation can be completed. From practically the first lines they start introducing their themes; the opening(or maybe near-opening) shot is at the base, with one of the officers over-seeing it telling another to forget about the ammunition and intelligence and save the People instead. This idea, that it’s The People and Life that matter most and not resources, tools, and abstractions, gets repeated over and over in the film. It’s particularly important for Poe, who the lead evac officer(a woman; this becomes A Thing in his story in this film) mildly contrasts in this sequence. While she is putting the People first, Poe gets caught up in the opportunities for Victory afforded by the Dread’s vulnerability. After having won time for the evacuation Poe is ordered back but refuses, countermanding Leia’s orders to the fighter wings and ordering them to begin their bombing runs. They follow him over Leia(again: will become A Thing), and the sequence continues to needless tragedy.

So the Stupid: The bombers are big, unwieldy(I’m tempted to call them antimanuveurable), incredibly vulnerable, and just entirely impractical in their design. Their design is clearly inspired by the B-Wings but whereas those had heavy shielding, torpedo bays, and ion cannons, these are just sitting ducks with belly turrets, which are about as useful as you’d expect in a space-battle. Nothing about these is functional(they have to be over their target for pete’s sake, and they have frigging bomber scopes!), everything about these is meant to evoke WWII bombers, and all but one of them is immediately blown up to set up the death of Rose’s sister on the last bomber, heroically taking out the Dread right before her own ship kicks it. So Stupid But, like I said, it’s clear what they’re trying to do with this -establish that it is an unequal fight, emphasize that the Resistance are People and Individuals not faceless cogs in an institution, evoke WWII imagery to really drive home the anti-fascist nature of the Resistance and the Fascist nature of the First Order and further the film’s arguments, shine a spot-light on Poe’s flaws and their terrible costs even when he’s in his element, and make an engaging action scene while doing it- and they do it so well and so successfully that I didn’t mind the Stupidity of it. Unfortunately the movie then goes on to basically make this ALL about Poe, which undermines the PEOPLE!! message a bit as I’ll get into later, by having the only reaction to their entire bombing wing getting killed and plenty of fighter-pilots being Leia slapping and demoting him for his profligacy with his pilots’ lives and lecturing him about the leadership position she is STILL, after he got their entire bombing wing killed, grooming him for. Ugh. Like I said: Later.

The Last Jedi fits Very Well with This Theory by Diamanda Hagan on Youtube about Star Wars being a Cardassian “Repetitive Epic”. There are references out the Wazoo to the Original Trilogy, it’s an unabashed riff on The Empire Strikes Back(with hints of Return), characters openly reference the events of Return, Rey explicitly places herself in the role of Luke to Ren’s Vader in Return, explicitly conceives of herself and others within an ongoing historical teleology, it structures all of this about Family(while subtly subverting Family and Lineage as a theme in favor of loyalty to ideals/The State via Rey’s status as a orphan sold into slavery), and as such it cyclically fulfills the same function within the larger serial/cyclical narrative as Empire(I won’t get into the prequels that shall not be named).

Hamill plays Luke Wonderfully as a Filthy Hermit-Wizard Island-Hag XD His milking of that Totally Chill and Totally Cognizant Plesiosaulrus and subsequent raw-drinking of said milk was Inspired as Fuck :| :| 125% Malcontented Gremlin. I’ve tried to avoid review and discussion cause Spoilers, but I’ve seen some suggestion that people don’t like his characterization here and I disagree vehemently. Yes, he’s not the Luke of the OT, but the Luke of the OT didn’t blame himself and his “weakness” for the moral corruption and crimes of his nephew, nor for the deaths of half a dozen young students who trusted him. OT Luke hadn’t spent decades beating himself up for the “arrogance” and “pride” of his “Legend��, and the “weakness” that allowed this to led him to overestimate his abilities as a teacher and underestimate one particular student(I don’t think it did, but it’s clear that’s what he’s been telling himself). OT Luke isn’t punishing himself and projecting his own self-hatred and self-punishment onto “The Jedi”; This Luke is. Seeing his failure of Ben Solo as the result of Hubris, personal Weakness, and a loss of faith in Redemption at a critical moment, he projects that onto the Jedi Order who become, for him, Hubristic, Weak, and Hypocritical. He sees himself as irredeemable and deserving of death; so too he sees the Jedi. He’s been living with this negativity for years. He’s “cut himself off from the Force” -literally cut himself off from the universe itself and the Flow of all Being- out of disgust in himself(and via projection Jedi, the Force, etc) and as punishment. This is OT Luke after years of believing himself a Legend, after -as he sees it- his mortal flaws killing that Legend through a failure complete and deeply personal, and after even more years of swallowing the poison that resulted from that. I found it entirely believable, and wonderfully brought to life by Hamill.

I like Rey’s story much better than the other two, Finn&Rose’s story second most, and Poe’s story the least.

In fact I found Poe’s story to be kind of infuriating.

Here’s Poe’s narrative in this film: He’s a Heroic and Dashing Fighter-Pilot and he needs to Learn to Be the Leader He was Born to Be, no matter how many far more sensible and courageous women will have to repeatedly die, sacrifices to or for his grandstanding, for him to do so(it takes at least two, possibly three, pseudo-four, women given appreciable face-time on screen. There’s an unnamed A-wing pilot that may have died or may have made it through the movie I couldn’t really tell, and then there’s Leia’s near-death). He sees the Bomber attack as heroic and those who died as Heroic Martyrs to the cause, but Leia reminds him: they’re still dead. Those were people who didn’t have to go on that mission, who didn’t have to die, and that leadership means remembering what, exactly, you’re fighting for(Hint: it’s People! What Your Fighting For is PEEEOOOPLEEEEEE!!!!!!!! Of Course I did this :|). He sees Holdo’s cautious husbanding of their people and resources as betrayal, and so he instigates a mutiny in service of a hairbrained longshot plan that doesn’t work, putting everyone’s lives at risk in the process; AND his love for such Romantic longshots compromises that very mission, which in turn compromises Holdo’s plan, which puts Holdo in the position of having to choose between kamikaze and letting the Resistance be destroyed. Her death, I felt I was being asked to believe, showed him a True Leader’s approach to sacrifice; all I saw was an awesome figure of feminine leadership and strength, a perfect replacement for if not Leia(since Holdo wasn’t one of the Big Three) at least Akbar or Mon Mothma, well-crafted by writing and performance only to be dashed to bits at the last moment in service of Poe’s character development. And in a way that undermined the film’s larger message about leadership, risk, and sacrifice, no less. So I am Upset about this |:(

And during all this Leia’s fleet is in a slow-motion chase with the First Order through the actual middle of nowhere(so there’s no real sense of motion, either, aside from the occasional abandoned ship drifting back to be shot apart) while the Resistance manages to stay just barely one step ahead of them on low fuel reserves. IDK if TLJ introduces this(I kinda feel like it does) but this chase is necessitated by the conceit that hyperspace travel can’t normally be tracked but the FO has somehow figured out how to do it. Realizing they’ve done this is what sends Finn and Rose to Canto Bight in the first place(looking for a coder to help them break into the FO ship to disable their tracking), and Poe’s Doofery plays out with that backdrop.

I’ve seen some folks complain about Canto Bight but I thought it was fine and pivotal to the political message of the film, and consequently to Rose’s role and Finn’s arc. Its decadence is presented as the other side of the First Order’s coin, and the poverty it inflicts on the jockeys, the slavery it inflicts on the Fathiers, the ultimate goal of the FO, the source of CB’s decadence, and the evil the Resistance is fighting to end. Finn’s political and moral awakening is even mirrored in his opinion of the place: when Rose and he arrive he loves it, but as his awareness of the exploitation and corruption it’s built on grows, so too does his conviction in the correctness of making sacrifices for the Resistance and its cause. It’d have been nice if they could have had this be a more natural process and rest less on Rose dropping exposition on him, but obvsl time is a factor and Rose needed to be pivotal to this process to fulfill her role in the film and his story. Finn’s arc is realizing it’s not just about him and Rey and their safety, and you can’t do that without another, new person for him to care about and be cared for by, and having her be, essentially, his moral mentor(Rose pretty nearly parallels Ben Kenobi’s role in Star Wars/New Hope for him here) made that even stronger and more satisfying for me. I also liked that they included del Toro’s character as her foil; having Finn’s choice be an actual choice, embodied by two different people relating to him for two different reasons, made that choice much stronger, even if you never really got a sense that Finn was tempted by DJ.

Rose was Delightful overall, and I love how they defied expectations by setting her up as a “Tech” only to have her basically be the emotional and moral heart of Finn’s story, and arguably the film in general. I don’t really have a lot to say here because it’s just very simple: she reminds Finn of the things he cares about, of WHY he runs risks, that other people are just as invested in their struggles as he is and that ultimately it is the People who matter. The Fight is for the People; Victory is the Freedom, Survival, and Rule of the People; his desire for peace and dignity is no different than anyone else’s and the Resistance is fighting for that against the Fascism, Aristocratic Hierarchy, and social corruption which the First Order represents. I feel like this point could have been made more strongly by tying the First Order more directly to the Star Wars upper classes in the Canto Bight section, and I also feel like -given Palpatine’s human-supremacist notions and racism- there should have been far more humans among the upper crust and far fewer aliens, but I recognize that, on the first point, TFA had kind of written them into a corner on this topic in how it chose to present the FO/Resistance conflict, and on the second, that the impulse to show their creature-making chops(and include a Cantina Scene in the film) would be quite strong. Also I’m sure that, while Johnson may be given the writer credit on this film, Disney had significant input on the film and its overall message, and tying wealth/the wealthy explicitly to conservative politics and its perennial abuses(slavery, corruption, war, extracting wealth for the non-wealthy through political manipulation[in this case, weapons-trading and the war-mongering that makes it most profitable]) is far too liberal/leftist a message for a company like Disney to tolerate in their films.

Rey’s story is just excellent in so many ways but a lot of my appreciation of it is tied up with TLJ’s choice to go with a more OT(original trilogy) and Zen approach to the Force which I’ll talk about separately so I don’t know how much I’ll say on this here. It was a very intimate and internal story, structured almost like Buddhist monk tales(so sort of fairytale)[1]. Like: She comes to Luke, Luke doesn’t want to teach her, then in response to her persistence he says “I’ll give you three lessons over three days”(which I remember as taking place at Dawn, Midday, and either Dusk or Evening on three consecutive days, but my brain might be making that particular referential bit up; I’d need to see it again), except these lessons are meant to teach her why she should give up on The Force. Of course(in eternal trophic tradition), her purity of purpose, will, and dedication ends up instead teaching Him that his choice to turn his back on The Force and the Universe was wrong, and bringing him back into engagement with the World.

Her interactions with Ren follow a similar trophic logic(which, again, I’ll talk about in another post) except along a more “two students” than “master and student” narrative. They are both pursuing the same thing(self knowledge and control; mastery and understanding of The Force) but for very different reasons and from very different backgrounds, and these reasons and backgrounds directly influence where they end up: Rey’s “success” at accepting and internalizing them with equanimity while also setting her desires aside, leading her to Balance; Ren’s “failure” to do so by seeking the “strength” to dominate and “kill” them, and thus continual consumption by and obsession with his past and his desires. Their interactions are deeply personal, concerning their emotions and confusion and fears, and also somewhat unsettling(which I think they should be) but I don’t think that they are, at all, romantic; though there is a simultaneously humorous and disturbing scene where Ren is topless, Rey asks him to get dressed, and he refuses. Humorous for the obvious reasons; disturbing as there’s a sense to all of Ren’s behaviors in these moments of trying to manipulate her. Rey is eternally reaching for understanding, even as she feels rage, sorrow, and disgust for the monster he has chosen to become, and he is eternally trying to use her reaching as a means to power, as he uses everything. Again, the “two student” dynamic: the “good” one who seeks enlightenment honestly, and the “bad” who enters the monastery for the political and social power a monk’s life can afford; even their relative social condition -her a nameless orphan, him an aristocrat from a bloodline filled with important monastic figures- plays into the dynamics and traditions of these stories.

Ok that’s about it for right now. The next one will probably deal more in-depth with Rey’s story and how The Force is presented.

[1]Though maybe I’m wrong about these particular parallels I’m drawing here. My exposure to these tales is very limited, and mostly I know Japanese ones(though some of those are transformations of earlier Indian, Chinese, and Vietnamese ones), so perhaps these aren’t the prevalent Buddhist narratives I took them as.

#Star Wars Jokes #The Last Jedi #SW: TLJ #Movie Reviews #Cinema #zA's Outside Viewing #analytic posts

8 notes · View notes

strangedreamings · 7 years ago

Text

@welcometonightcourt wanted 7: “fake relationship au.” This was fun, thanks!

Cocktails

“There you are.”

Molly cringed when she heard those words. She was in the middle of folding her laundry and the last person she wanted to talk to was her arrogant prick of a too-damn-hot-for-his-own-good neighbor. At least my intimates are already upstairs, thank God. She took a deep breath then looked up at him. “What do you want, Khan?” she asked suspiciously.

He was leaning in the doorway of the laundry room, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, smirking. “I thought I might entice you to join me in an evening of cocktails and mingling with London high society.”

Molly raised an eyebrow. “I like cocktails but I’m not fond of high society, London or otherwise. Is this some sort of work thing?” She didn’t know exactly what Khan Singh did for a living, she just knew it involved networking, business lunches, and entertaining clients, going by what she heard him say on the phone when he was in the hallway.

“Yes, one of our clients is having a cocktail party tomorrow night. I was highly encouraged to bring a date.”

“Uh huh, so where’s Misty-Bambi-Tiffani or whoever it is you’re currently dating?”

He smiled a bit. “The last one was Amber. She’s currently dating a football player. So you see, I am quite bereft.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Sorry, not interested.”

“I can make it worth your while.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” She put her folded laundry into the basket then picked it up. “I’d like to get by.”

“What plans do you have besides eating Phish Food and watching Pride and Prejudice again?”

“I don’t do that every Friday.”

“Correct, sometimes you eat Chocolate Therapy and watch Sense and Sensibility. Just think of me as your Mr. Darcy for a night.”

“You’re certainly arrogant enough,” she muttered. “Look, Khan, I don’t like you and I never will, so there’s no way I’d be able to pass as your girlfriend.”

“I’ll buy you a week’s worth of groceries.”

Molly thought it over. “Make it a fortnight and you’re on.”

“Greedy,” he muttered, though she could hear admiration in his voice.

“Practical. I’m going to have to take a personal day tomorrow, get a new dress, shoes, and a bag, and get my hair and nails done. The least you could do is buy my food.”

“Done.” He held out his hand.

Molly set the laundry basket down then shook his hand. “What time?”

“Six.”

“I’ll be ready.”

By five the next day, Molly was padding around her bedroom in her bathrobe, mentally checking off things on her list. Shaved, plucked, scrubbed, washed, brushed. I just need to actually get dressed. Oh, wait, I should eat something first if there’s going to be cocktails. Her mobile chirped.

5:03p Don’t worry about dinner, we’ll have that before the party. KS

5:05p Are you a mind-reader? Molly

5:06p No, I knew there was something I forgot to tell you yesterday. KS

5:08p Right. Molly

At six on the dot, there was a knock on the door. Molly took a deep breath then opened it. Khan stood there in a black suit and a black silk shirt with the first two buttons undone. His hair was slicked back, as usual, and he smelled like sandalwood and citrus. In short, it was enough to make Molly want to drag him into her bedroom and forget about the party.

Then he opened his mouth.

“You’ll do.”

Well, that certainly puts a damper on my hormones. She raised an eyebrow. “I can see why Amber’s now dating a football player.”

He huffed in annoyance. “I was never an expressive boyfriend.”

“That’s probably one of the reasons why you’re single.” She grabbed her purse, keys, and shawl, then took one last glance in the mirror in the foyer. Her off-the-shoulder knee-length ocean blue lace cocktail dress fit her perfectly and having her hair curled then pinned up made her eyes stand out. I don’t care what he says, I look damn good. She followed Khan out the door then locked it before turning to him.

“I have a cab waiting downstairs,” he said. “After you.”

Once they were in the cab, she turned to him. “I don’t even know what it is you do.”

Khan chuckled. “I’m an architect. I know you’re a doctor but I don’t know what kind.”

“I’m a pathologist. So, um, how long have we been dating?”

“Six months. It’s serious, we’re talking about getting a flat together.”

“I don’t know if I can fake ‘serious’ – we’d be all over each other and frankly, your personality turns me off.”

Khan smirked. “Is that so? What about the rest of me?”

She shrugged. “You’re the hottest man in London, the problem is you know it.”

“Suppose I were to turn down my personality for the evening.”

“I doubt you can.”

“You’d be surprised. If I played the attentive boyfriend for a couple of hours, do you think you could reciprocate?”

Molly studied his handsome, perfect face, her eyes lingering on the plush lips she was desperate to kiss, despite their owner’s personality, then murmured, “I … I think so.”

Khan grinned.

Once she was seated across from Khan at a table in one of the highest-rated restaurants in London, she decided to just relax and enjoy the moment, if not the company. Of course, she couldn’t help noticing the looks Khan kept getting from the other women in the restaurant, looks she noticed he did not return, having eyes only for her.

“Does this happen everywhere you go?” she murmured as she sipped her ice water.

Khan smiled a bit. “You mean the attention from women? Yes, whether I’m on a date or not. A few men too. Just ignore them. I promise, I don’t have any jealous exes coming out of the woodwork.”

Molly smiled back. “That’s a relief.” She scanned the menu. The prices made her eyebrows shoot up.

“Don’t worry about the prices,” Khan murmured. “It’s my treat.”

She looked up at him curiously. “If you can afford this stuff and that high-end wardrobe of yours, why are you in a middling building like ours?”

He chuckled. “I like my neighbors, one in particular.”

Does he mean that or is he just playing the part of the good boyfriend? “Um, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They spent dinner talking about their respective jobs, Molly making sure that what she said was appropriate for the dinner table, then they talked about their families. Both of them had lost their parents when they were young, both of them had no other family left.

“Don’t you ever get lonely?” she asked over the chocolate mousse she insisted that they share.

“I’m a workaholic – too busy to be lonely.”

“And there’s the other reason why you’re single.”

He smiled a bit. “I suppose you’re right.”

In the cab on the way to the party, she startled when she felt him take her hand.

“Easy,” he murmured gently. “We want people to believe we’re lovers.” He paused. “Are you touch-averse or something?”

“It’s not that. I touch people all the time. I’m a big hugger. It’s just … it’s been a long time since someone touched me first.”

“Ah.” He let go of her hand. “I’ll let you initiate all the touching, then.”

Molly stared at him, amazed that he was being so thoughtful. “Um, thank you, Khan.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused again. "I wanted to tell you that you look lovely. I should've said that before, forgive me."

She couldn't help a smile. "It's alright, and thank you. You look very handsome."

"Thank you, Molly."

After a moment, she reached out and took his hand. He squeezed her hand gently. They held hands for the rest of the cab ride.

Molly sipped her sangria, her other hand holding Khan’s as he talked to one of his clients. He never forgot she was there, though – he’d squeeze her hand every so often and included her in every conversation he was engaged in. Molly found his world fascinating, even if some of the jargon went over her head. When she found out that the host’s wife was a doctor, they immediately started talking shop.

By the end of the party, she had a new friend and a new appreciation for architects, one in particular. As soon as they were in the cab, she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Khan.”

He blinked in surprise. “For what?”

“For playing your role so well. I was fully expecting you to ditch me as soon as we got there.” She noticed two of his coworkers had done that with their dates.

“Any man who does that doesn’t deserve the woman he’s with.” He smiled a bit. “My boss pulled me aside and told me to not let you get away.”

She grinned. “I wondered what he was telling you. So, what are you going to tell him on Monday? I hope it’s not that I left you for a football player.”

“Actually,” he murmured, “I was hoping to tell him that you agreed to go away for the weekend with me.”

Molly stared at him. “Well, I guess as lies go, it’s a believable one…”

“Who says it’s a lie? There’s this inn in Devon I go to when I need to get out of the city. Beautiful country.”

“Khan … I … what exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying I truly enjoyed tonight and I want to see where this goes. That is, if you want the same.”

Molly searched his eyes for a moment and realized he was telling the truth. She moved closer then pulled his head down for a kiss.

AO3, FF.net

#writing #khanolly #fic

12 notes · View notes

masked-fox-creations · 7 years ago

Text

When the Strangers Blew In, Ch. 20

I couldn't wait to let you all see this chapter. Things get intense. The beginning scene is the last happy moment until the very end.

Summary: Stanford and Stanley Pines dream of a different life. One where they’re not just tidying their pa’s shop or helping ma take care of the baby. Where they can live freely as the men they know they are, instead of pa hounding them to marry before they become spinsters. They get a taste of that possibility when two strangers blow into town, but with them comes a heap of trouble.

Pairings: Rick/Stan (stanchez); Fiddleford/Stanford (fiddauthor)

Warnings for this chapter: Some violence and tense situations.

ao3 link

Chapter 20— Fires of Death Chewing at Our Shoes

For the next few days Rick staid in bed and healed. They would have to move on the second Rick was well enough to ride. He was unconscious more than not, but when he was awake he seemed to be improving. Stanley hardly left his side.

Fiddleford and Stanford had gone out to get supplies while Stanley staid behind with Rick. The latter was asleep so Stanley was entertaining himself. As much as he wanted to be at his partner’s side, he never had liked being cooped up much.

There was a mirror in the room, cracked where his head was reflected but overall usable. He admired his hair; he and Stanford had decided it was about time for a change, and Fiddleford had cut it for them. While he trimmed down the fronts, he left the back down to their shoulders. Fiddleford did a great job, and Stanley felt almost transformed.

Next he took off his shirt and examined his back. None of his wounds looked serious anymore, mostly all healed up. That nasty bruise on his side was now a fraction of its original size and a much better looking color. It didn’t even really hurt to touch.

Stanley turned back around and stretched, testing how far he could bend comfortably. He wasn’t as stiff as when they first rode out. All the hard riding and the obstacles they’d had to deal with didn't aid the healing process, however. Sleeping on hard grounds or rickety chairs didn’t, either.

Glancing over at the bed where his partner lay, Stanley smiled. It was all worth it. Stanley closed his eyes and let himself get lost in thought. He wondered how ma was, and the girls. At least Susan and Carla had each other, and Susan’s budding romance, and he knew they’d take care of ma. He still felt a pang in his heart; those were three great women he’d never get to see again. They’d understand, though. He hoped.

He couldn’t help fretting about Filbrick. He worried Filbrick would direct his ire towards Shermie now. He wouldn’t dare lay a hand on ma. She had always tried to diffuse the tension between them, keep Filbrick from hitting him and Stanford, but she wasn’t always around. Filbrick knew how to take advantage of a few minutes where she wasn’t watching. That kid didn’t deserve to grow up with that hanging over his head.

Maybe ma would get away from him somehow. Go back to New Jersey. Or maybe Susan’s family would take her in, keep Filbrick away from her and Shermie. The sheriff might muscle in, though, stop her from leaving. He and Filbrick were close, after all, and Powers owed his position to him.

A pair of hands wrapped around his midsection, and familiar lips brushed against his neck. Stanley didn’t need to open his eyes to know it was Rick. All the same he did, smiling at the reflection that had joined his.

“If you pull your stitches Fiddleford’ll have my ass.”

Rick squeezed his arms, puling Stanley flush against him. “Can’t, i-it’s mine.”

Stanley craned his head back just enough to kiss Rick. It was a drawn out affair, neither in a hurry to break apart. Rick parted his lips to let Stanley in and for a good few minutes he reveled in exploring the familiar territory.

When they finally came up for air Rick commented, “You got beat up.”

He ghosted his fingers over Stanley’s side. Stanley looked down, focusing on Rick’s hand rather than his face. He didn’t trust his usual lying abilities right then.

“Hey, it was a rough ride getting this far. Besides, I’m not the one with a bullet in him.”

Rick shrugged and pressed a kiss to the crook of Stanley’s shoulder.

The door creaked open and the other two walked in, arms interlinked. They didn’t pull away when they saw Rick and Stanley, and neither did they.

“Looks like our patient has risen. How’re ya feeling, Lazarus?”

“Fucking ready to get the hell out of here,” Rick retorted.

“Agreed,” Stanford said, “but you’re still not in the best condition.”

“We’ll see how you are in a few days,” Fiddleford promised. “We need ta take advantage of the time we have now.”

Rick rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. As Fiddleford started his routine of examining Rick, the twins headed out for some fresh air. They walked side by side in amiable silence down the stairs.

As the first floor came into view they stopped dead in their tracks, blood turning cold.

With his back to them, Filbrick was at the front desk talking to the innkeeper. Neither noticed them.

“Yeah we got some guys like that here,” the innkeeper was divulging.

The twins slowly and silently crept back up the stairs. When they were out of the other men’s line of sight they raced to their room, barging in and startling the other two.

“What in Sam Hell?”

“Filbrick’s downstairs!” Stanley exclaimed.

“Of goddamn course he is,” Rick spat, shrugging his shirt back on.

“What’s the plan?” Fiddleford asked, leg bouncing as fast as a horse could gallop.

Stanley peered out the room’s sole window. There was no awning to jump down on or stairs to climb. They’d have to get crafty.

“We obviously can’t stay here,” Stanford answered. “Rick—”

“Don’t worry about me, Stanford. I-I-I, I’ll be fine.”

Stanford nodded and help Stanley push furniture in front of the door as Fiddleford started gathering up their things.

“So what’re we thinking?” Rick questioned.

“Remember when I showed you my knot tying abilities?” Stanley replied, already ripping sheets off one of the beds.

With Stanford and Fiddleford’s aid they began to tie them together. Halfway through their endeavors there was a banging at the door. For a split second everyone paused and stared at each other wide eyed. Then there was another series of bangs and they quickly got back to work.

“Leah, Leanne, I know you’re in there,” Filbrick growled. “Open this door right now.”

“You got the wrong room, buddy,” Stanley called out, trying to disguise his voice.

There was a pause, then the door shook angrily as Filbrick tried to shove his way in.

“Well it was worth a shot.”

Filbrick didn’t give up, and his barrage on their barricade spurred them faster. Soon all the sheets in the room had been tied into a rope which Stanley secured to a bed leg before tossing the other end out the window. It danged just a few inches off the ground.

“One day we’ll be able to leave a town the easy, normal way,” Fiddleford commented, gazing down.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Stanley chirped. “Alright, Sixer, you first. Show them how it’s done.”

With an adventurer’s practiced grace Stanford slid down the rope. He waited at the bottom, motioning Fiddleford to follow.

“I used to climb trees all the time as a boy, so this shouldn’t be too different.”

Fiddleford climbed out the window, making it down without incident. Rick insisted Stanley go next so he did, waiting there for Rick.

“Go around and get the horses, make sure the other’s ain’t out there,” Stanley instructed.

They left and Stanley concentrated on his partner. Rick was coming down gingerly, a grimace plain on his face. Halfway down his hand slipped and he fell, thankfully into Stanley’s waiting arms.

“Maybe you should ride with me,” he suggested.

Ever stubborn, Rick declined and Stanley put him down with a sigh.

The other two came back with their horses and they hurriedly saddled up. Then the quartet rode out as fast as lightening. When they crossed the border out of town they heard another set of hoofs join theirs. Powers.

Before they could do something about him, Bud and Preston suddenly shot out from the side. The former nearly rammed into Chestnut, but Stanley veered at the last second which forced Stanford to do the same. Rick and Fiddleford, riding behind the twins, both came to a complete stop.

“Sixer!”

“I’m fine,” Stanford assured. “But I do believe we’re in a bit of a bind.”

Everyone was at a standstill. Bud and Preston had weaseled in between the twins and their partners, and Powers had pistols drawn.

“Girls,” he called out, “be sensible.”

“Oh, I am beyond being sensible, you ignorant patsy!”

Stanley whipped out the guns on his belt and Stanford followed suit; Stanley had been holding onto Rick’s while he was recovering, and Stanford had theirs. Fiddleford was carrying, but one twitch towards his holster could very easily be his last.

“Fellas, get outta here!” Fiddleford urged.

“Hurry before Filbrick gets here. These idiots won’t harm you.” “But they will you,” Stanford pointed out. To the sheriff he advised, “I suggest you let them go.” He was proud at how level he kept his voice, no trace of his incredible panic audible.

“I am a man of the law, and I aim to uphold justice.”

“The hell does justice even mean to you?” Stanley snapped. “I can’t tell if you even realize how corrupt you—all of you—even are.”

“Perhaps it helps them sleep at night, imagining they’re benevolent rather than just plain crooked,” Stanford mused.

Bud held up his hands and started, “Now why don’t we all just put these silly weapons away and talk? I’m sure once you hear us out you’ll realize—”

Stanley pointed one of the guns at him. His mouth clamped shut.

“You may not care about a gun pointed at your head, sheriff, but I sure as shit know you need to keep these two doofuses alive.”

He trained his second one on Preston while Stanford kept his on Powers.

“Would you really shoot me?” Preston scoffed.

“Do you really have to ask?” the twins returned in unison.

There were at a standstill. Everyone’s eyes were focused on the twins. They in turn kept looking back and forth between their pursuers. At one point Rick caught Stanley’s eye and nodded slightly. Before he could suss out Rick’s plans the other man set them into motion.

He reared Katrina up, startling Powers and his horse. The beast let out a high pitched squeal and knocked its rider back, one pistol flying out of his hand. As he tried to steady his spooked horse Rick and Fidds tried to make a break for it.

Before they could get far Bud managed to cut the pair off on the right. They started to turn but Preston charged, ramming into Rick who fell off his horse.

Without thinking Stanley let off a shot. It cleared Preston, sailing far too close to Fiddleford for comfort.

It was too late for another shot.

“Put your guns down.”

The twins were so conditioned to what would happen if they didn’t obey that tone that they had to force their hands to stay up. Filbrick glowered at them, and they didn’t meet his gaze.

He looked around at the scene. Powers and gotten control of his horse. Rick staid on the ground, hunched over and clutching his chest. Preston and Bud looked far out of their depths, probably surprised at their own quick thinking.

“Off your horse,” Filbrick barked, and Fiddleford readily complied, casting the twins an apologetic look.

Filbrick eyed them expectantly. They staid right where they were.

“Do you two know what you’re costing me?” the man growled. “This ends here.”

The twins didn’t speak, neither trusting their voice. It was all they could do to not shake in their saddles.

Filbrick narrowed his eyes and climbed down. As he approached Fiddleford and Rick, Stanford inhaled sharply while Stanley vibrated, suddenly overcome with rage.

“You touch one hair on their heads and I will show you hell,” he promised.

Filbrick drew his pistol and whipped it across the side of Fiddleford’s face. He staggered to his knees beside his partner.

“Fiddleford!”

“I’m fine, darling, don’t you worry about me,” he assured, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth.

Preston and Bud inched away from Filbrick, shock and worry evident on their faces.

Stanford realized he was pointing his gun at Filbrick. His finger felt heavy on the trigger, and he desperately wanted to close his eyes and let that finger push down. Filbrick could never hurt his brother again then. Yet before he could Powers was at Rick’s side, gun trained on him.

“Do it, y-y-you fucking coward,” Rick snapped, leaning into the barrel. Stanford glanced at his twin. Stanley was visibly shaking, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. He put a hand on Stanley’s elbow, giving his brother a margin of comfort. It was small but it was enough to help Stanley compose himself.

“Leave them alone,” Stanley said, voice not as steady as he’d like.

“Goddamn it you idiots, leave us and get out of here!” Rick hollered.

“Rick, please be quiet,” Stanford replied, glancing from Filbrick then back to his twin. He caught Stanley’s eye and both nodded. They took a deep breath and climbed down.

“Let these two go and you can have us. We won’t fight, or struggle, or run off again. We’ll go back to Gravity Falls with you and marry these two sheepskins.”

Fiddleford’s eyes were disbelieving saucers. Rick looked ready to yell out again, but the pistol at his temple made him bite his tongue.

“Why would I ever agree to that?” Filbrick replied. “I have you both and this bandito trash.”

“Because you could have us compliant,” Stanford returned. “Which is what you really want.”

“Or you do this the hard way, and risk it all. And I swear, if anything happens to them—”

“Do not threaten me, Leah.” Filbrick pressed his gun to the back of Fiddleford’s head. Fiddleford closed his eyes and started mumbling what was most likely a prayer.

“Don’t!” Stanford exclaimed, chest tightening.

“Throw down your guns,” Filbrick ordered.

Seething, they obeyed. Rick shifted slightly, like he planned on doing something incredibly foolish. The twins shook their heads and he reluctantly stilled.

“You finally learned how to use your heads. Preston, Bud, grab those guns.”

“Us?” Preston squeaked. Filbrick shot them a dark look and they scrambled off their horses.

Bud started to say something to the twins as he scooped up their weapons, but the twins glared at the man, and he quickly shut his mouth.

Filbrick went over to his steed and pulled something out of his saddlebag. As he came closer, stopping just a few yards away, the twins recognized them as two of their dressed. The thought that Filbrick had been in their room at all sent a shudder through the brothers. They couldn’t dwell on that, however, as he tossed the dresses as their feet.

“You’re not wearing man’s clothing anymore.”

“What, you just expect us to change out here in front of everyone?”

“Don’t act like you have any modesty after consorting around like you have been.”

Filbrick leveled them with a hard gaze which Stanley matched. Stanford, however, went rigid. Stanley glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

“Sixer, behind me.”

Stanford nodded gratefully and grabbed one of the dresses, then retreated behind his twin. Stanley and Filbrick kept their eyes locked, neither breaking contact while Stanford changed. He twisted and contorted, trying to stay as covered as he could by Stanley’s frame. His face was hot when he came back out, and he refused to meet anyone’s gaze.

The twins switched places and Stanford forced himself to stare right back at Filbrick. Stanley didn’t try to be as conservative as he had been, tossing clothes off with abandon and letting everyone catch glimpses of bare skin. When he emerged from behind his twin, though, he similarly didn’t look over at Rick and Fiddleford.

The brothers glared daggers at Filbrick. He glared back. When neither averted their eyes he finally turned around, mouth practically in a snarl.

“We’re heading out. There’s still plenty of time before nightfall.”

Stanley and Stanford started for their horses but Filbrick stopped them.

“Both of you on one.”

They clenched their fists, but wordlessly climbed up on Chestnut. Stanford cringed as Filbrick ordered Bud to take Astra’s reigns. Then he laughed as she snorted indignantly and moved out of his reach. Bud tried again but the horse simply continued to jerk away.

“Calm that beast or I’ll shoot her,” Filbrick threatened, already raising his gun. Stanford instantly sobered.

“Astra,” he called with a whistle. She instantly trotted over. He pressed a calming hand to her face. “It’ll be fine, girl. I know he’s beneath you, but just go with him for a bit.”

She gave a horsely huff but, after Stanford have her an apologetic stroke, she went back over to Bud. This time she allowed him to grab her reigns.

They turned their attention to Powers who had bound Rick and Fiddleford’s hands together. Now he was attaching them to Filbrick’s horse.

“Y-you don’t actually expect us to walk.”

“If you try anything I’ll drag you,” Filbrick promised.

With that he approached their horses and slapped their flanks hard. The already unsettled beasts ran off.

“Let’s go,” Filbrick ordered, ignoring the twins who glared at him with all the malice they could muster.

Filbrick took point, Powers staying in the rear behind Stanley and Stanford. Preston and Bud staid a bit off to the side, both seeming like they had no idea how to react to the situation.

Stanley looked down as he felt a hand squeeze his. He gazed back at his brother who offered him a small smile that was more of a promise, though one it didn’t look like he quite believed himself. Stanley returned it shakily.

Then they cast their eyes ahead. It was slow going, and felt like a death march.

#Three chapters left. Our heroes are in a bind.#stanchez #fiddauthor #fanfiction #Fox made this #Rick and Morty #Gravity Falls #trans bandito quartet au #trans

5 notes · View notes

mst3kproject · 8 years ago

Photo

817: The Horror of Party Beach

A while back there was an incident at work when I was trying to get a patient to tell me which doctor he'd seen. He didn't remember anything about her except that she was female, which didn't help much because four of the clinic's five doctors are women. I tried to get him to describe the doctor, and after some thought he told me that she “looked Polish.” I managed not to laugh at him, but it was a damned near thing.

Anyway, The Horror of Party Beach. The movie begins as an evil organization dumps some toxic waste into the ocean, which causes sunken skeletons to come back to life as bloodthirsty fish monsters. If this movie had been made in the 70s or 80s, the evil organization would hang around trying to cover up its crimes and be as big a villain as the monsters themselves, but since this one's from 1964, they simply vanish from the story, their job done. The monsters immediately attack a woman at the beach, and then venture further inland in search of more victims – they need blood to survive, and for some reason only the blood of bikini-clad women will do! Our heroine, the mighty Eulabelle, first tries voodoo to combat the creatures, then discovers their true weakness... sodium!

You may be snickering at 'our heroine, the mighty Eulabelle', but I'm only partially joking: she's the only proactive character. While better-educated but stupider people are sitting around wringing their hands and wondering what to do about the monsters, Eulabelle's getting to work, making a voodoo doll and nagging Dr. Gavin to get on with his research. When the movie's Designated Love Interest, Elaine, doesn't want to fulfill her role, Eulabelle urges her to get up and go with the Designated Hero. When the Designated Hero, Hank, is close to giving up on ever finding the sodium they need, it's Eulabelle who orders him to keep looking, and it was Eulabelle herself who discovered that the monsters go up in flames when they come in contact with the metal. Everybody else in this movie just reacts to things rather than taking any initiative, and if it hadn't been for Eulabelle, they'd all have been eaten.

This is not an uncommon observation among MSTies – Eulabelle's hero status is a frequent subject of YouTube comments on the episode. It's not all that makes her the real star of Horror of Party Beach, though. Unique among the characters, Eulabelle has a personality and a tragic backstory! We know that she's the only survivor out of a large family. Her status in the Gavin household is somewhere between 'servant' and 'family member'. She feels rather maternal towards Elaine, and is comfortable enough with Dr. Gavin to stand up for herself when she disagrees with him. She is somewhat cowardly, but relies on her faith in God and a variety of superstitious practices to ward off dangers, while seeing no inherent contradiction between her Christian and non-Christian beliefs. These things make Eulabelle a stereotype, yes, but they also give her about six hundred percent more personality than anybody else in the movie.

Hank and Elaine, our supposed leads, are complete nobodies – you could replace both of them with cardboard cutouts (it almost seems like somebody did during the Summer Love scene) and it would have almost no effect on the movie at all. Hank's alcoholic, hard-partying ex-girlfriend Tina was a little more interesting, with potential for a character arc, but she's killed off almost right away. Dr. Gavin and the cops are as dull as Elaine, existing only to show up, speak lines, and vanish again. Do any of these people do anything when they're not on camera, or does the director keep his characters in boxes when he doesn't need them? Does Hank have parents? What does Dr.Gavin study that makes him the go-to expert on sea monsters? The movie doesn't even bother asking. Eulabelle is not just the only one with a character or past, she's the only one with a damned job.

A lot of MSTies find Eulabelle to be the most memorable thing in this movie, second only to perhaps the silly monsters with their mouths full of hot dogs. Now, Eulabelle is the hero we need in these dark times, but there's lots of other shit in this movie that deserves discussion. For example, you're likely to notice, if not on your first viewing then at least on your second or third, that almost all the monsters' victims are attractive young women, and very few of them are fully dressed. First to go is Tina in her swimsuit. Later it's the slumber party girls in their nighties. The Girls From Noo Yahk are wearing clothes, but the movie makes it clear that they would happily doff said clothes for random gas station attendants if only they weren't in such a hurry. Finally, while Dr. Gavin does whatever the hell he does there's a background montage of monsters attacking bikini-clad females at the beach, in the woods, and even in a backyard pool.

The only male victims we see are drunks – two come staggering out of a cocktail lounge to find a third dead in his car, in a reveal that is surely among the most blatant instances of a movie pretending the characters can only see what the camera sees. Like any sensible predator, the monsters go after the weak and confused members of the herd, right? What this tells us, then, is that the writers think a man has to be middle-aged, overweight, and so sloshed he can barely speak or stand before he becomes as helpless as a fit and healthy young woman! Not only this, but the women are easy prey even in groups. The news anchor says that over twenty girls were killed at the slumber party, apparently by just two or three monsters. Seriously? Two or three monsters overpowered and killed twenty women while only one (the report mentions the survivor rather than a survivor) escaped? Wow.

Even if you can ignore the movie's politics, it's still very strangely constructed. The over-long opening sequence, with the beach dances and Tina, seems to set up a slightly different movie than the one we're about to watch. Tina speaks of Hank's 'experiments in that laboratory' in an accusing tone, leading us to think we're going to see a film about a mad scientist creating monsters. It's somewhat confusing to then see the waste dump make them instead, and get no context for it until the film is nearly over and Hank finally mentions 'the floating pig'.

The beginning also sets up the love triangle between Hank, Tina, and Elaine, but not in a way that encourages us to like any of these characters. Neither Hank nor Tina seems invested in their relationship or concerned that it's falling apart, while Elaine is poised to swoop in like a vulture the moment Tina's out of the picture. We spend enough time following Tina's antics that we might expect her to be a major character, but her story, like those of the slumber party girls and the women from Noo Yahk, is only there in an effort to get us attached to her before the movie kills her. It fails, and by the time of the later sequences, we're wise to the trick – like Mike and the bots, we watch the scenes snickering to ourselves in the knowledge that all these characters are going to die.

Part of the reason the film fails to get us interested in Tina's fate is because none of the other characters seem very interested in it, either. She is as disposable to them as she was to the writers. We never even see Hank react to realizing Tina has been murdered, which you'd figure would be an important part of that love triangle plot. The movie had an opportunity for him and Elaine to talk awkwardly about it at the funeral, but doesn't bother. Maybe this is why Elaine's internal conflict over her unrequited crush on Hank seems so unconvincing – or maybe it's just because Alice Lyon and whoever dubbed her are both terrible actresses.

Despite Dr. Gavin saying that 'a lot of families have been affected by this', nobody else misses Tina much, either. We never see her parents or friends. The next mention of her we get is back at the beach, where one of the Del-Aires remarks, “ever since Tina got killed, like, no action around here,” to which Hank replies, unconcerned, “it'll pick up.” I have literally seen people interviewed on 48 Hours who turned out to be the actual murderers and yet showed more emotion at the death of a loved one than this.

Really, the only purpose the entire opening sequence serves is to sell Del-Aires records. I don't know if it accomplished this, but I rather doubt it, since the Del-Aires broke up within a few months of the movie's release.

So having said all that... do I hate this movie? Nah! The Horror of Party Beach is way too much fun for that. The plot is absurd, the accents amusing, the monsters hilarious, and the music is... actually pretty good as MST3K music goes. It's not hard to be better than The Sad Mushroom Ukulele Anthem or California Lady, and it's true that all the Del-Aires' songs sound alike. But the tunes are cheerful and catchy, and the lyrics are pretty creative (one of the songs is, rather delightfully, about getting a speeding ticket). The Brains apparently liked them even better than I did, since Paul Chaplin says in the Amazing Colossal Transplanted Sci-Fi Channel Episode Guide that they were all Del-Aires fans by the time they completed the episode.

#mst3k #reviews #horror of party beach #manly beach dance #it's beginning to look a lot like fishmen #60s

40 notes · View notes

fifteenleads · 8 years ago

Text

well, he has his moments.

@viktorweek day four: family/friends

Viktor Nikiforov can be both endearing and annoying all at once, but it’s exactly these qualities that have captivated people’s hearts in more ways than one.

(Five moments in Viktor’s life, as told by other people.)

AO3 | stories on (and off) ice

Yuri should have known when Viktor shoved the tub of ice cream and kitty treats into his hands.

"Please please please watch Makkachin for me!" the old goof all but pleaded, his hands clasped together like those silly anime girls and his puppy-dog eyes welling up and threatening to spill over any moment. He sure is upfront with his requests, if anything, and Yuri wouldn't be surprised if this sudden favor he's asking has something to do with --

"Yuuri and I are going out on a date tonight! It's the most perfect Valentine's Day ever!"

-- Fucking called it.

It was so obvious at this point, he didn't know why he even bothered.

The large poodle bounding over and tackling him didn't help things, either, and his face is all sticky from the mutt's slobbering saliva, and it's so disgusting as fuck, and Katsudon is now peering in from the doorway, and --

"Fine, already!" Yuri snapped, throwing his hands up in irritation. "I'll keep it until you come back, okay? Just get the hell out of here!"

Katsudon and Viktor couldn't be out the door sooner enough. The teen chased them to the veranda and hollered at them not to be late.

The pair returned at three o'clock in the fucking morning, one very much intoxicated and the other very much covered in - ugh, hickeys.

Really, he didn't know why he even bothered.

ii.

Yakov should have known when Vitya asked for the rink to be closed off the day after tomorrow.

His student is quite the whimsical man, always doing as he pleases and never (for once!) listening to his sensible coach's sound advice -- not when he decided to add four quads into his program, not when he suddenly dropped his whole skating career to coach Yuuri Katsuki, not when he just-as-suddenly made his comeback, insisting on coaching and competing against said Japanese skater at the same time.

And especially not when he plans on proposing to Katsuki over a romantic, candle-lit dinner on the ice.

"Isn't it a great idea, Yakov?!" Vitya enthused, his eyes practically shining with excitement. "We'll dance together after dinner, and then I'll ask him to marry me!"

Frankly, Yakov thought his protégé could have come up with something better. Still, he has no intention of dashing the younger man's hopes with an honest remark.

"Surely, you prepared very well for this?" he asked instead. "It is quite an ambitious plan, if you ask me."

"Oh no, it's not as grand as yours was," Vitya teased (and Yakov winced because it's true), "but I already have everything down, no worries. All that's left is to pop the question."

He then grinned earnestly, a luminescent shade of powder pink coloring his cheeks. There are times the coach doesn't understand how Viktor Nikiforov can be both endearing and annoying all at once, but it's exactly these qualities that have captivated people's hearts in more ways than one, himself included.

That said, today was the proudest Yakov was yet of his silly (but nonetheless star) student.

And he hated to ruin the moment, but --

"I thought you are both already engaged?"

"Then I'll propose to him again! Yuuri deserves nothing but the best."

-- Katsuki should have married this man years ago.

iii.

Christophe should have known when Viktor came in wearing a different brand of lip gloss.

(Or rather, a certain someone's lip balm.)

He never thought he'd see the day Viktor would use a cosmetic product other than the expensive ones he owns (and if all those commercial endorsements are of any indication, they are a lot), but he supposed this is what love does to people, especially to those who are tying the knot in a few hours.

Viktor immediately made a beeline to his side and gave him a tight glomp. Chris returned the hug with one of his own, patting his friend's back encouragingly for good measure. "Love the new lips," he commented, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

"Why, thank you, my friend," Viktor accepted the compliment, smacking his lips playfully. "Mmm, I like strawberry."

"His favorite flavor?"

"I don't think he has a preference," Viktor shrugged absently in thought. "It was actually green mint last time. I'd like to think he likes the Chanel one I usually use the most, though."

"More like he likes the taste of its owner on his lips, if you ask me," Chris suggested with a wink, and caught the small tube Viktor all but chucked at him in embarrassment. He's glad he hasn't lost his Friend Touch.

And because he's such a good friend, he's gonna make sure this hopeless man gets to the altar in one piece. (He doesn't even want to think about how Chulanont is handling poor Yuuri's nerves right now.)

"Your man has good taste," Chris remarked, playing with the long-worn lip balm. It's a cheap brand he sees most women use, probably bought from a downtown supermarket. "Can't wait to see the look on his face when he finds out."

Viktor smiled in part-nervousness and part-mischief. "I love to surprise him."

If one weren't listening intently, they might have heard an "I love him" instead. And for all intents and purposes, it might as well have been that.

"Good," Chris nodded approvingly, pocketing the pilfered cosmetic. "Go get dressed. I'll give this back to Chulanont for you." Viktor hummed in thanks and did as he was told.

Halfway out the door, Chris turned back to his friend, who was admiring the plain gold engagement band on his ring finger.

"It will be a lifetime full of surprises," the groom whispered, his voice choking with happiness.

Chris smiled in agreement. "Sounds promising."

And he knew, at that moment, that Viktor will be fine.

(The way Yuuri's eyes widened in recognition as Viktor dipped him into their wedding kiss was absolutely priceless.)

iv.

Phichit should have known when Viktor clung to him like an overgrown child during practice.

"Haha, what's this?" he asked jokingly as he pulled the older man along the curve. The new not-really brother-in-law is so fun to tease. "Trouble in paradise so soon?"

At once, Viktor's forlorn expression was replaced by one of incredulity. "What? No, of course not!" He still didn't let go of Phichit's arm, though, further tightening his grip instead.

And if the way those pale, manicured nails digged into rich, brown skin is of any indication, Phichit now had a second differential in mind.

He never imagined The Viktor Nikiforov, of all people, to join the legions of victims tormented by his ongoing web serial, but he supposed that that, too, was an accomplishment of its own right. At least his minor from college is paying off well -- and handsomely, too, at a hundred dollars per chapter.

"I warned you, it wouldn't end well," Phichit laughed. "I even spoiled half the story for you."

More like Viktor actually lived through half of it, since it was a fictionalized version of his life and all. But Phichit wouldn't tell him that - not yet.

(If anything, he's actually more than surprised that his subject hasn't figured it out for himself yet. Even Yuuri already has, and he's currently getting a lot of hell for it over Skype.)

"I can't believe he wanted to break up all along," Viktor whined at him mournfully while shaking his arm. "Their relationship had so much promise, and he was willing to throw it all away? It's unacceptable."

Phichit simply raised an eyebrow in amusement. Barcelona. Of course. He shot the poor Russian a devious shit-eating grin over his shoulder. "Triggered much?"

He wasn't even being subtle anymore at this point; Not-Brother-in-Law's denseness is losing its novelty pretty fast.

Phichit received an adorable scowl in return, and the pressure on his arm is gone as Viktor left his side to bother Yuuri instead. He laughed as his best friend stumbled over his code-switching again, mixing up English, Japanese and Russian phrases in confusion. The way Viktor's face lit up at once as he glomped his husband on the ice was simply too precious.

He snapped a photo as always, of course. Those two dorks really are the best for each other, and as their friend and one of their best men, he is willing to fight anyone tooth-and-nail for it.

And if posting endless photos of them weren't enough, he'd write whole novels and dissertations for them.

Speaking of which, he has a new side story for his serial now. Spasibo, bratan.

Phichit skated away from the kissing couple, immensely satisfied.

("Viktor says he loves your new update. How do you even come up with ideas for it?"

"Aw, shucks, Yuuri! Thank you so much! Stay in love always, okay? I'll be watching~."

"Phichit, STOP.")

Yuuri should have known when Viten'ka, for lack of a better word, lost it.

And by "it," he meant both the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle and his husband's sanity.

The almost-completed picture of Van Gogh's The Starry Night was left abandoned on the table, in favor of getting down on their hands and knees to look for the missing piece. The puzzle pieces were quite small, and losing only one shouldn't really be too distracting, as long as the right frame is used and the guests kept their distance.

Yuuri had considered talking Viktor into just hanging it up as is to spare them both the time and effort, but the puzzle-shaped blank space smack dab in the middle of swirling blue skies ticked even him off. That, or a year into marriage has made him as nitpicky as his husband about such trivial things, like twin peas in a pod.

Or maybe not, because he also appreciated said husband's well-endowed ass, as it constantly shifted in position while the man was looking under the couch. Admittedly, far-from-innocent thoughts have filled his mind while it was sticking up like that, but no, he would never go that far. He isn't a bit sorry for not helping out at all, however.

As Viktor moved to the CD stand next, Yuuri affirmed the last statement as the truest of them all.

That was one more thing that had changed over time, he supposed. And Viktor, too, knows this all too well, if the generous affection he lavished in bed at night was of any indication. Those times were the most fun.

Even now, Yuuri couldn't believe how much things have changed since they first met. Back then, Viktor had been someone akin to a god -- perfect, immaculate, unattainable. Over time, he came to learn how his god turned out to be as human as he was, with various faults and quirks and random eccentricities of his own. And though he's practically run the whole gamut of emotions for it, he considered himself very lucky that Viktor Nikiforov came into his life the way he did -- like a flashy, exploding supernova that surprised him and set everything on fire.

Viktor, for his part, would never tire of telling their story this way -- how everything in his life had been falling apart like the thin ice beneah his feet, then how it all suddenly fell into place when he met the love of his life, and he felt more than whole again. Phichit certainly cried buckets when Viktor called Yuuri Katsuki the best surprise of his life, and how truly, immensely lucky he was to be married to him. (They completed each other like perfectly-fit jigsaw puzzles, he'd said. Ha.)

They couldn't have found each other in a much better way, Yuuri mused as he spied a small piece of blue cardboard under the television set. As he reached his hand forward to retrieve it, however, another larger hand closed in first and pulled out of the dark space just as quickly. His husband let out a silly grin as he raised the puzzle piece between his fingers, and Yuuri was overcome with a wave of unexplainable feelings as he pinned the other man to the floor.

"What's this?" Viktor asked with amusement. "Are you that happy we finally found it?"

"Maybe," Yuuri answered teasingly, bending down to kiss the other man senseless. Maybe it wasn't only Viktor who lost his sanity this round, after all. (And how, indeed; all this over a single missing puzzle piece.) "I've had a lot of thoughts today, is all," he confessed breathlessly as he pulled away.

"Wow, do share," Viktor commented, his flushed form clearly betraying excitement and arousal. "I'm all ears, since we've already finished the puzzle and all."

"No, thanks," Yuuri declined with a smirk, taking the puzzle piece instead and lifting himself off the ground. He enjoyed the way his husband's face comically fell at the blunt rejection. Viktor whined as he got up and joined him at the table. "Yuu-chan!"

Yuuri looked back over his shoulder. "You have your moments, Viten'ka; let me have mine."

#viktorweek #fanfiction #victor nikiforov #yuri!!! on ice

28 notes · View notes

asbestosmouth · 8 years ago

Note

Are you still doing that prompt list thingy? Because if you are I have a request: Jaime/Brienne, number 38 :)

Prompt: “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

Brienne. That wench.

She pretends she doesn’t see him. There she is, being all sensible, and staring straight ahead, listening to the tour guide and definitely ignoring his amused asides, or smirk, or rolled eyes. Every so often he nudges her with an elbow to the ribs, and she merely takes the blow like the man she is.

Far manlier than the rest of them, it has to be said. Even manlier than Sandor Clegane, because he might be enormous, but he’s definitely a crier.

A hot summer’s day, and they’re in Dorne. The Water Gardens are, according to Oberyn, beautiful at this time of year. He invited a small group of his friends to visit, and they ended up traipsing across half a continent to make appreciative noises at fountains, or various Martell daughters, or the magnificent architecture of the second greatest of the Dornish palaces. Sunspear blows the Water Gardens out of the water, and Jaime snorted when he thought of that little comparison, but the capital is the seat of the prince, and Doran has an expensive-minded wife who remodels every two years. Of course it’s more impressive than Oberyn’s loving neglect.

Beric, wearing shorts and hiking sandals, and practically going native despite his neck getting more and more pink as they wander around, asks pertinent questions. He’s the sort of man who spent the flight from King’s Landing - in LannisterCorp Air Force 1 of course, because Tyrion hates commercial airlines as a strung out air steward once offered to fetch a booster seat for him - reading out ‘interesting’ facts from his Rough Guide to Dorne, and yammering on about Nymeria.

“How does he remember all of that?” Tyrion, hand in hand with Dany who looks ethereal in layers of chiffon that match her hair, frowns. “I can’t remember any of it.”“Because you’re drunk, my Hand.” The Dragon Princess squeezes his fingers. She’s given Tyrion a ‘Hand of the Queen’ brooch, but knowing her it’s probably an actual artifact from the hoard of Targaryen gold that lives in the Iron Bank of Braavos. Jaime doesn’t want to know what the Hand does with his hands or other parts of his anatomy when it comes to Dany.

Daenerys Targaryen is a weird weird girl. She suits Tyrion utterly, as she’s the only woman, apart from Brienne, he’s ever respected.

“Not drunk enough. I’m going to the bar. Oberyn promised me wine. I have no wine. His promise remains unfulfilled, and unless it is, I will be sober. I cannot deal with Beric Dondarrion while sober. His earnestness makes me vaguely nauseated.”

The bar. Brilliant idea. “I’ll come, too. Coming Bri?”“Hmm?” She glances over, too involved with the conversation between Beric and the tour woman. “Sorry?”“Coming to the bar? Nice cold tonic water, with ice, and air conditioning?” And him, but Jaime doesn’t give that as the best reason he can think of.“No. I’m fine. This is really interesting.”The dilemma yawns. Go and get pleasantly pissed with Tyrion and the others, who are edging away from Beric - he’s comparing R’hllorish temples and the Rhoynar edifices of the Nymeria-Martells now - or stay with the intellectuals and not leave his wench to possibly be seduced by the many handsome Dornishmen that obvious lurk, biding their time.

Or the Triumvirate, obviously. Since Oberyn landed up with both Ellaria and Willas as his partners, it’s commonly assumed that he’s going Full Harem on everyone.

“I’ll catch you up, Tyr.”

Tyrion stares, disconcerting with his odd eyes and his scars, tilts his head at Brienne who, thankfully, is pitching in with the far too scholarly debate, and smirks as only his little brother can. Tyrion is a colossal shit, and Jaime adores him above the vast majority of people, but, Seven, sometimes he deserves a slapping.

“If you don’t hurry up, I’ll drink the place dry. Have fun, brother. After all, it’s only direct sunlight, one in the afternoon, and approaching one hundred degrees. Why do the Dornish use fahrenheit? Gorgeous people, but idiots when it comes to weather forecasting.”

It ends up as him, Brienne, and Beric, though Oberyn does emerge from somewhere and slide his arm about Jaime’s waist. He’s wearing white silk, and cream linen, and a really good hat. Bloody Martell and his dress sense. Everyone else dies in the heat, and their host remains cool and elegant.

“Ah Jaime. So handsome.”“No. Not joining your harem.”“While such temptation appeals, my hands are most full with my rose and my serpent.”

Considering Ellaria’s dangerous when wet curves, and since she lives at the Water Gardens she’s always soaked, perhaps he does have a point. Add to that an adorable and highly neurotic Tyrell, and yes. It’s a lot for even a man with the appetites of Oberyn Martell to deal with.

“Where are the others?”“Tyrion sobered up, took the rest back to the bar.”

“Yet you remain?”Jaime’s gaze flickers, helplessly, towards the woman at his right. Brienne’s in a blue shirt, the same colour as her glorious eyes, and she’s rolled the damned sleeves up so all he can concentrate on are her firmly muscled and lightly freckled forearms. At least she’s not in shorts. Seeing her in shorts might actually kill him; Brienne’s legs are the most incredible ladder to paradise he’s ever witnessed, and thinking about them warm and golden and slightly sweaty in the Dornish heat might do Things to him.

“Ah.” Oberyn pats his arm, surprisingly not mocking. “Shall I remove Beric from this triangle?” He’s the best wingman ever.

“I’d like to see you try. He’s gone pure architect nerd on us.”

A wink, a smoothness because Oberyn is nothing but oil and slinkiness, and he’s sliding a hand into Beric’s shorts pocket. Cupping. Definitely cupping of an arse cheek is involved.“Oh. Hi, Oberyn. I’m just blown away by how wonderful your home is-” Beric doesn’t respond to the friendly groping. Martells are far too pretty for his singular tastes.

“You are required.” He flirts a faint smile, and Beric sighs.“What’s happened?”

“Nothing much, but I require a man of your bulk to assist.”

The usual scenarios are thus: Ramsay Bolton biting someone; Thoros setting something on fire and invoking Azor Ahai while stoned; Tyrion being drunk and passing out because he’s surprisingly heavy to move; Jorah and Drogo having one of their obviously foreplay physical arguments again; Sandor punching people in the face for trying to nefariously touch Sansa or any of the women that they’re friends with. Since a) Ramsay isn’t here, thank the Seven, b) Jorah and Drogo are, even more thankfully, in their respective home towns and therefore nowhere near each other being wracked by homoerotic hatred, c) Tyrion’s not that lightweight and wouldn’t get pissed so quickly, and d) Sandor’s on honeymoon with Sansa somewhere in Lys, it therefore defaults to Thoros setting things alight. As normal.

“I’ll go and get the fire extinguisher.” Jaime almost feels sorry as those big shoulders slump, but Beric’s getting sunburned, he’s third-wheeling all over the place, and he can pester the tour guide another day.

The temperature rises even more. Jaime, fair-skinned even if he tans easily, feels the heat searing the tips of his ears, his nose, his arms. Unlike Brienne who grew up on balmy Tarth and seems immune to the blazing day apart from an attractive pinkness and a bit of sweatiness which, to Jaime, is seriously good on her, he spent most of his time in Lannisport. Sunny sometimes, sure, but the west coast is far rainier and chillier than the Storm Lands. Something to do with ocean currents. He doesn’t understand. Jaime and his dyslexia were never academic.

A drink. They’ll just do this bit, and go and have a drink. His head thuds with each compression of his heart, headache threatening behind his eyeballs.

This has turned into a war of attrition, of temperature and stubbornness.

Jaime doesn’t like being ignored, especially by the woman he loves. He’s damned sure she loves him back, considering she puts up with him, spends most of her free time with him, and has admitted to being very fond. However, they are also friends. Friends who plague each other, live to poke at bruises, and snark, and snipe.

The more Brienne ignores him, the more Jaime fights for her attention, the more pointedly she refuses to give him the time of day.

“We come,” the tour guide - one of Martell’s daughters, the blonde one with the look of a septa if you discount her debauched blue eyes - “to the Fountain of Spears. It was crafted in the thirteenth century by the brother of the ruling prince. As you can see, there are twelve spears. Each spear represents an hour, with water flowing from certain spear heads at certain times, and therefore this fountain operates as a rudimentary clock. The hydraulics beneath the fountain are a wonder of medieval technology, and represent the golden age of Dornish architecture-”

He nudges her again, and Brienne studiously ignores him.

Wench!

Nothing works as they trail up the Hall of the Almond, which is nothing more than an avenue of interlaced almond trees that, since they’re either side of a series of long broad ponds filled with carp, do nothing to encourage shade.

The drawl of the guide melts into a puddle in his head. It’s too bloody hot to be gallivanting around this obscenely massive complex in this sort of weather. Not that Jaime gets his hypocrisy; his father’s seat at Casterly Rock is as enormous, just upwards rather than outwards. Cold, and regal, just like Tywin himself.

“Bri.”

“Shh!”

The thudding increases in tempo, and he’s aware of a strange urge to pant. For some reason, his lungs don’t seem to be absorbing oxygen. For some reason the very edges of his vision dull, as if cloud covered and tending towards rain on this brilliant bright summer day. For some reason, he feels peculiar.

“Seriously. Brienne?”

“Jaime, please. We’re almost finished.”

The rush comes on all at once. He’s upright, and then he’s not. Slow motion. Sloooow. Knees refusing to straighten, he says something that doesn’t make that much sense, manages to smack his prosthetic into an ornamental orange tree and denude it of fruit, and then keels over sideways.

As he’s going down, hah, he’s dimly aware of someone grabbing him around the torso, and then he’s out like a light.

“-he’s an idiot.”

“I should have listened.”“Brienne. He’s an idiot. If he didn’t spend the vast majority of his time irritating you like an eleven year old pulling the pigtails of the girl he’s got a crush on, then you’d have realised. He cries wolf far too often for you to take him seriously when he actually needs something.”

Brothers are supposed to look out for each other, not comfort wenches. Tyrion remains, as always, a little shit.

He’s lying on some sort of couch, with a cushion under his head, and a cold compress across his brow. It’s nice. Cooler. Inside, the acoustics suggest, and without the murderous sun trying to make his brain explode.

“What happened?” His voice, ditchwater muddy, sputters from his mouth.

“Jaime? Are you awake?”“Mmmph. Yes?”

A hand rubs up his arm, all lovely and rough-skinned and massive. Brienne’s hands are a signature of hers, like her eyes, and muscles, and cropped blonde hair, and ridiculous sense of honour.

“How’re you feeling? You passed out with the heat.”“Did you catch me?”

“You fainted…straight into my arms.” She smiles, and the slight worry mark between her eyebrows digs guiltily at Jaime. “You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“The sun,” he croaks, and Brienne offers him a sip of water from a condensated glass. “I’m not built for hot weather.” For once this isn’t a ploy to get her to notice him. Everything feels shivery/aching, prickly across his back and shoulders, and the urge to beg for a hug to make him feel less awful tempts like some great hellish thing.“You are if you take precautions.” The acidity of Tyrion’s language suggests he’s been drinking for longer than thought, and Jaime scrubs at his face, winces at the suggestion of sun scorched skin. How long was he out?

“At least you caught me, wench. Faint heart won fair lady?”

Brienne considers him, as lovely and ugly-beautiful as always. The sun has pinked her nose.

“Isn’t it faint heart never won fair lady?” Jaime takes the opportunity to lob another cushion at his brother, missing by at least three feet. His left arm is rubbish at aiming.

“Piss off, Tyrion.”

“He’s obviously feeling better. I’m going back to the bar. If you need me, I’ll be up to my neck in Oberyn’s wine. It’s rather palatable, though rough. Quite like Dornish sex, so I’m told.” Tyrion deigns to pat Jaime patronisingly on the head, sending the thudding scampering through his nasal passages, before sweeping out in his always curiously regal waddle.

“Sorry.”“What for?”

“For ruining the tour.” He fumbles his hand out, touches her wrist. Even now Brienne’s turning the colour of weak tea, and her freckles have bred, like amoeba, covering every perfect inch of her skin.

“You’re more important than the tour. I should have realised that you weren’t feeling well.” She tugs lightly at his shoulder to get him to sit up, Jaime allowing the manhandling because, dammit, if he can’t let the wench throw him around a little, what’s the point of loving her? and Brienne settles on the settee. How she arranges herself allows him to lie back, head comfortable on her wondrous thighs, her fingers lightly stroking through his hair.

“Is this where you feed me grapes and look after me while I’m dying?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“If I was an idiot, which I am not, you’d not love me as much as you do.” Oh. Her touches are bliss, all short neat fingernails across his scalp, and careful caresses.

“Unfortunately, you are an idiot, and I do love you.”

His eyelids flutter open at that, and he catches the expression on her scarred pink-cheeked face. Tenderness, and fondness, and an all-encompassing exasperation that is purely Brienne.

“Love you too, wench.”“I know.”

Jaime stares. He feels so Princess Leia that it makes him wonder about his gender role in this almost relationship.

“Tyrion told me.”

“I’ll murder the little shit.”

All thoughts of slaughtering his hereto favourite brother chase from his mind as Brienne touches her ridiculously plump mouth to his aching forehead. Blessed coolness, and she needs to moisturise, and maybe she can borrow that lipsalve he likes. The one made out of beeswax and peppermint that sends his lips tingly? Kissing Brienne would be tingly enough, without the added frisson of natural oil and slick soft balm.

“We’ll have this conversation when you’ve not got sunstroke, Jaime. Have a nap.”

“Will you stay with me?” He plays up the patheticness only a little, which is an improvement on his usual needy manipulation, but he truly wants her to be there when he comes to.

A sigh, another gentle scrape of nails. Brienne should open a head massage place, but only cater for Jaime. Anyone else being near his wench with her fingers, and body, and Brienne-ness? No. Just him.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up, even if your massive head is really heavy.”

It has to be love, doesn’t it? Every little snark, and grumble, and look, and touch. Every little complaint, and tease, and smile, and want. It’s so very much love that it sends his mind spinning again, heavy and wonderful, and making him dizzier than any heatstroke could hope to achieve.

#prompts #jaime x brienne #modern day au #tumblr fic

37 notes · View notes