#coastal���s mumbles

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Eyes and Ears

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam

Summary: An AU where Barbara finds Jason instead of Bruce.

Chapters: 7/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Barbara Gordon, Jim Gordon, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Sheila Haywood, Original Character(s)

Relationship(s): Jason Todd/Original Character(s), Past Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson

Additional Tags: Canon Divergent AU, Older SIbling Barbara Gordon, Jason Todd-centric, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Jason Todd is NOT Robin, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Has a Crush, Adopted Siblings

Chapter Seven: Seaside

Barbara went out as Batgirl shortly after dinner, leaving Jason home alone to wait for Jim. As the night progressed, Jason lay on the couch watching tv. He wanted to be awake when Jim returned. It reminded him of how Jason often waited for his parents to come home, and that's what worried him most. As hard as he tried to stay awake for Jim's return, he couldn't keep his eyes open past two in the morning.

Jim dragged his feet as he entered the house around three in the morning. His body and mind were weary as he hung his coat up and kicked his shoes off. He turned the tv off and smiled at Jason, who lay curled up on the couch, holding one of the throw pillows to his chest. Jim picked Jason up and held him for a moment before taking Jason to his room to tuck him into bed. Jason took hold of Jim's wrist and mumbled, "Don't go... Please don't go." His voice was broken. Jim pushed Jason's hair back.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here... We might have to go get ice cream in the morning, though," Jim whispered as he sat down on the floor by Jason's bedside. Jason turned on his stomach, facing Jim, and he opened his eyes.

"Are you okay?" Jason asked. Jim took a deep breath.

"Mind if I tell you what happened and why I was gone so long?" Jim asked. Jason nodded.

Jim talked about his work with Batman and how many bombs they had to defuse around the city, and Jason stopped him. "But are you okay?" Jason asked. Jim paused, and his shoulders dropped.

"I'm exhausted, and I feel bad for how I left you earlier... I want you to know that I would've come home hours ago if I could've. I don't want you to think I abandoned you," Jim whispered.

"You were working," Jason yawned.

Jim left the room and showered, and climbed into bed. He lay awake for a few minutes only to hear Jason's footsteps in his room. Jim lay still and listened to Jason make a shuffling noise before complete silence. He turned on his side and met eyes with Jason. Despite the pounding in Jim's head, he opened his mouth and whispered, "It's cold down there. Come up here." Jason hesitated for a moment before climbing into Jim's bed, and he closed his eyes. Jim threw the blankets over Jason and took a deep breath.

"I was dreaming about my mom... My birth one. I mean, I don't know her, but maybe this is the way she wanted things to be. Maybe she didn't want me," Jason whispered, "Maybe she doesn't want to be found..."

Jim kissed the top of Jason's head. "I can't imagine someone not wanting a kid like you... But I honestly hope that even if you do find her, you'll consider making this your home for good," Jim whispered.

"You'd want me to stay for the next five years? Like until I turn eighteen?" Jason asked.

"Or until you're ready to leave home. I figure if you're still living with me by the time I retire, we could go live in Maine... Get away from all the noise. We could go fishing there," Jim whispered as he went on to describe the coastal cities and the lighthouses and the silence. Jason's breathing slowed, and Jim kept speaking as if Maine was some fairy tale place.

Jim drifted off to sleep only after he knew Jason was fast asleep. They both slept late into the next day, only waking once the sun was too bright to ignore. "Pop?" Jason asked as he sat up, and Jim groaned. "Therapy?"

"Mhm, we'll pick someone out together... But first, let's go eat, okay? I promised my son I'd take him out for ice cream," Jim smiled. Jason got out of bed, and he stood in the doorway.

"I know I just kind of got you, but... You're the best dad I've ever had," Jason whispered before waving. The words made Jim's heart heavy. He got cleaned up and dressed before leaving his room and ran into Barbara in the kitchen.

"You do realize that you just can't promise him ice cream and make things okay, right?" Barbara asked. Jim nodded solemnly.

"I know," he replied, "But I did talk to him about therapy, and he said he'll give it a try as long as I'm there with him."

"How'd you manage that? He wouldn't even—."

"I took a different approach. Do you want to come with us to get ice cream?" Jim asked. Barbara nodded.

"Sure, why not. I have a day off... Also, I noticed... This is the second night in a row that he hasn't slept in his bed," Barbara noted. Jim nodded.

"I know. But last night was sort of my fault. He was gonna sleep on the floor," Jim explained. Jason came out of the bathroom and stretched out. "Hey, I'll be downstairs." Jason nodded and moved to follow Jim before Barbara took his hand.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" Barbara asked. Jason nodded and stood in the kitchen with her. "You okay?"

"Train me," Jason whispered.

"What?" Barbara exclaimed. "No! Are you crazy? You're just barely thirteen, that's way too young—."

"How old was Robin when he started? He didn't exactly look like he was in his early twenties," Jason whispered.

"Robin wasn't my baby brother. You are," Barbara replied as she tried to walk past him, and he grabbed her wrist.

"I already lost one family. I'm not gonna lose this one," Jason tightened his hold on her wrist, not to hurt her, but to let her know he was serious. She sighed.

"I'm not letting you in the field, but I'll consider it," Barbara replied, and he embraced her. She stood still in shock for a moment before hugging him back. "I'm serious. It's not a yes. I'm just thinking about it."

She tried to keep a stern look on her face, but she couldn't help but smile. "I call shotgun, Barbie!" Jason smiled as he ran down the stairs.

"Wait! No one calls me that!" Barbara shouted as she locked up and followed him down the steps and out to the car. Jason chuckled to himself in the front seat.

While they were eating ice cream, Barbara tried to think about the idea of a partner, but she knew he was far too young and much too traumatized to be out in the field. On the other hand, he would be too busy training to worry about losing them and decided that keeping Jason preoccupied was her best option.

She understood where Jason was coming from, but she was no Batman. She could only allow him to dream, nothing more. Barbara secretly hoped that he would lose interest as his fear of loss subsided. Only time would tell.

[coastxlwaters]

Ayeeee! It’s ReyRey, or Reyn if ur BORING, I mean-

DISCOURSE FREE BLOG

Uhhhh, hiiiiiiii- idk how to do this sooo-

IF U ARE A MUTUAL, HIGH CHANCE I WILL SEND U SHARK MEMES

If u see any sea life stuff or sea related things, reblog and tag meh pls-

(Any cute animals actually-)

A mostly sfw blog

Minor (I am not comfortable sharing age), Audhd, severe anxiety, Low empathy, OCD, Agender (They/them), bisexual, aroace (aromantic, partially repulsed asexual), depression (not severe)

___________

-Follower count: 153

-Triggers: Sexual Harassment, sexual things in general

-Phobias: (irl) vengeful spirits, thunderstorms, the unknown, that I am always watched, lullabies, uncanny valley stuff, skinwalkers, abandoned places of worship (unless its ancient), distorted faces or images, being abandoned

-Requests: Open <3

-Art trades: Why not? I would love to!

-Commissions: Not open

______

-art tag = Coastal’s art

-reblog tag = Lucid memories

-Ref sheet tag = Coastal’s random shit

-Ask Tag = Lucid does shit

-Just random posts = Coastal’s mumbles

_______

Main Fandom(s): TSAMS (the sun and moon show), The DCA (The Daycare Attendants)

Others:

Percy Jackson, WoF, Warrior Cats, HermitCraft, Empires smp, Life Series, HTTYD, SCP

__________

Other blogs:

@luciddoesshit (oc rp blog)

@reynadesilly (oc/sona ask/rp blog)

@coastxl-reblogs (the name explains)

__________

My AUS:

Cafe and Motorcycles AU (a dca au with fanon eclipse, annular (canon eclipse), moon, and sun! Tag = Cafe and Motorcycle au)

______

Random Shit I’m interested in:

Any and all known sea life (mainly whales, orcas, and sharks!), Psychology, Horse riding, animal training, herping (snake hunting), and astronomy and astrology!

DNI:

Pedophiles, aphobes, queerphobes, racists, just dont bitch on my blog or be jackasses pls ty <3

[fateinthestars]

Star-Crossed Myth Fluffbruary FanFic (3rd Feb): Coastal Rain (Ichthys/MC)

Title: Coastal Rain

Fandom: Star-Crossed Myth

Genre: Fluff

Rating: T

Pairing: Ichthys/MC (MC’s name left blank so you can fill it in with whatever you wish in your head)

Word Count: 611

Written for Prompt: February 3 : umbrella | seashore | mist @fluffbruary

February 3rd: Coastal Rain (Ichthys/MC)

It had been a while since she had had a trip away from the others with Ichthys, but as they both had a bit of free time right now they had decided to head to the beach again. In fact Ichthys had insisted despite slight concerns about whether it was the right weather for this from ___ .

Walking along the seashore, arm in arm with Ichthys, ___ glanced across the ocean. The mist that was lowering from the sky was making it hard to see the horizon but the gathering clouds were causing the sea to be all different shades of blue. It was actually really pretty.

“Ichthys, not so fast,” ___ suddenly exclaimed with a slight laugh, the other pulling her forward as he noticed something glinting on the sand.

Before he could respond to her, the wind swirled around them before rain started to fall down hard. He frowned a little. “I suppose we should get out of the rain…” he muttered, clear that he didn’t really want to leave yet.

___ however, smiled at him. “I know you don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave either.”

“I don’t want you getting cold though,” Ichthys mumbled, holding her close.

Leaning into him, ___ whispered a suggestion into his ear.

Now smiling again, Ichthys snapped his fingers and an umbrella appeared in her hands and they were both now wearing raincoats.

Opening the umbrella, ___ moved it between them so they were both holding the handle and it was covering both of them.

As the rain started to form puddles on the sand, she glanced at Ichthys.

“What you thinking?” Ichthys asked her.

“Well it’s more a kid thing to do but… I dunno whether you do it in the Heavens… but one way of having fun when it’s raining is to jump into the puddles.”

Ichthys’ grin widened. “Let’s do it then!” 

___ grabbed his arm as he was about to pull them ahead. “Maybe some waterproof footwear first?” She suggested, before explaining about wellies.

Without a word, Ichthys snapped his fingers once more to change their shoes and then he dragged her forward in an almost run, looking around to find the biggest puddle he could. 

As he jumped, so did ___, and there was a massive splashing noise as the water was displaced.

Ichthys laughed. “I dunno why everyone leaves the beach when it’s no longer sunny. Water’s always fun.”

“You would say that,” ___ muttered, though she was also smiling brightly. “You’re the God of PIsces after all.”

“True, true,” Ichthys replied with a grin, before turning to face her and capturing her lips in a kiss.

The umbrella slipping from their hands and falling to the ground, ___ wrapped her arms around Ichthys and pulled him into a deeper kiss, the rain falling around them mostly forgotten for a moment.

When they broke for air, ___ shook her head to get some rainwater out of her hair. She shivered a little.

“Cold?”

“Only a little. Probably cos we were standing still.”

Ichthys’ eyes lit up blue briefly. “Oh! We should have kept moving.” A mischievous expression then crossed his face. “In which case…” he snapped his fingers and summoned another umbrella, as well as putting the other back in ___’s hands.

“Ichthys? What are you up to?”

“We were jumping in puddles right? Wanna see who can jump in the most puddles the quickest? Come on! Come on!”

___ sighed a little as Ichthys rushed off, waving at her to follow, but smiled lovingly to herself as she watched her boyfriend having such fun.

This was turning out to be a perfect day.

[sanguine-salvation]

@crimson--corvid is still missing...

A rolodex.

Really.

Not even their father, ever a man who fawned over the novelty of the obsolete, owned a rolodex. But thankfully, Rauir�� did. Because he surely did not leave a phone behind. There had been only one name that caught their eye, the others being too familiar, and this one having been left on display. Ruairí never could remember numbers.

NOVAK.

But as if this was not an utterly exhausting moment to be existing through already, the business card lead to of, course, The Coastal.

Their stomach sank, their skin bristled, but their legs pressed on. They couldn't be gone too long, they would not leave Roxxy yet. They had an oath to fulfill before they would...

could...

"Shh." Viktor hissed at themself and pushed past the doors without even minding the guard, damned near shoving them aside to do so. Though, given they were still limping obviously, having barely been patched up and only slightly rested since the battle, they looked a lot less like a patron than most.

Every inch of their body went stiff as stone as they were bombarded with the only sounds that clashed with the deafening mumbling of voices and memories in their head. Slots and card games, a dull drone of apathetically bouncy music, the clinking of glass. They recoiled harshly at a plume of cheap cigarette smoke, and peeled off towards the edge of the room as a flush of unwanted sensation clung to them like a tepid, acidic slime.

It was worth it. For Ruairí. Something was wrong and they. would. know. Where was he. He would not have left Roxxy.

They trudged past the memories pulling at their legs from the floor, clinging to the screams and pain to actually wash away the knowledge of what tables they had sat at and which ones they had won or lost at, until they found the table they were looking for. A table... they'd been... at before...

The shock wore off, and Viktor slammed their hands onto the table. Chips scattered in play, drink glasses rattled, and several of the gamblers lean away in panic. Viktor had touched this table before. They sat at that seat. They remembered their hand. Four of a kind, 3's and an ace. The thrill in their heart and the breath in their lungs as they watched the others fold one after the other after the other until—

"You." They narrowed their eyes at the man at the head of the table, the features of his face carved so deeply into their mind that it made their stomach flip and shortened their temper all the more. They snarled as someone tried to push them back, simply slamming their elbow back into the hand and not once losing focus on Novak's eyes.

"We. have. business."

[hazamacore]

augie anderson & the subtle art of caring

wc: 1.4k // character + relationship study in a slice of life manner. ykykyk

Weary mumbles loop in a cacophony, conflate with stertorous breaths. Whirs from the ceiling fan accompany.

Craning his neck to the side so cheek collides against cool pillow, Augie squints, eyes drowsily gritty and glassy, at the contorted sleeping figure of Skip.

He’s not known many people, but he’s certain there’s no one who sleep-talks like Skip does. It’s never intelligible, it’s always persistent. By now, it’s familiar. But sometimes…

Augie groans under his breath, squeezes his eyes shut.

Sometimes it’s annoying.

He fights the urge to nudge him, make him shut up for a while, too aware of how arduous a task falling asleep is for him. And he’s not that much of an ass. He’s already hogged the blanket.

Elmo stirs from where he's curled up on top of him in a comforting weight, and Augie languidly pats him on the head as sweet remnants of his strawberry-scented shampoo waft from the bathroom.

Prising his eyes open once more, he then slides them towards the flimsy coral-patterned curtains flung across the window, oscillating in and out of focus. Subtlest cerulean fingerprints of morning seep through like spilled paint—a sign he should be up soon, anyway. Teasing Skip about sleep-talking comes later.

Or not. Maybe. Whatever.

First things first.

He flicks Elmo’s ear. A grunt in response. A whimper. Then two big, sappy eyes peering down at him. Augie snorts, concedes to reconciliatory pats as he wriggles free of the blanket before chucking it over Skip.

…Hand still hovering, he tucks the blanket around him with a grumble as Elmo watches with a wag of his tail, half-sliding off the bed.

He scans the room for signs of Mudsy and Boo, with the creases in the armchair neighboring the window and levitating blanket unveiling them. Accounted for, he fumbles for his backpack slumped against the bedside table.

Breakfast hunting. None of that overpriced hotel food. A town resides a few minutes away—bound to contain a convenience store.

Augie beckons Elmo to where their shoes are strewn. Dressing holds too high a risk of waking Mudsy and Boo, frighteningly light sleepers, the duo rocketing awake is unequivocal. He snatches his jacket off the floor at least and shrugs it on, reaching for the door patched in olive paint…

Roughly shaking his head, he yanks the handle.

The hallway exhales thick laundry detergent in its air as a similar turquoise coastal print to their room’s curtains swims across the wallpaper, shadows stretching as if live in the liminality of hotels.

“Right,” he says, voice doused in sleep. “Food. Breakfast.”

Elmo barks.

“Shush! And I made bacon yesterday, dum-dum.”

Elmo barks, quieter.

“Fine, I’ll make ‘em again. Stop looking at me like that.”

Their trudge down the hallway slows upon reaching the door to April’s room.

Pawing at it, Elmo sniffs, tilts his head up to him. Augie shifts his weight from foot to foot. Silence echoes.

Much like Skip, April isn’t one to sleep easily, and it’s these times staying in hotels when he’s unsure she sleeps at all. Camping or kipping in the Looney-Duney engenders his propensity for knowing they do. Skip’s twitching eyebrows at any movement and clicking tongue settle down eventually, April’s curious and alert gaze with sparking eyes shortfuse eventually. Eventually, they succumb to sleep and shortly thereafter does he. Hotels only let him do that with Skip.

His hand twitches, clenches, nails indenting crescents in his palm, but he resumes. Undoubtedly, she’d roll her eyes to the moon if she saw him like this.

Stop freaking out, that’s Mudsy’s job! she’d tease, and Skip would snicker along with her, and he’d scoff, slip into harsh laughter as blisteringly bitter bile tenuously crawls up his throat, because it’s not worry. Worry isn’t something he feels.

He doubles back, leaves the door to their room unlocked.

Outside, Elmo’s trundle stretches into a dash, spraying gravel, and Augie’s face splits into a grin, opening way for a loud laugh that rings clear in the parking lot and ascends to the morning sky. Heavy summer humidity clings to his skin, burning tarmac washes up his nose, and he charges after Elmo, town-wards!, to free himself of it, until his own silhouette melts into the horizon.

Convenience stores, too, refute sleep—aisles always stretching and twisting, packaged products always looming in vivid hues.

Elmo glowers at the no dogs! sign while Augie snorts and scratches under his chin. “Chill out, it’s not like I’ll take long.”

A snuffle.

“I was going to get you treats anyway…you’re so dramatic.”

Shouldering the door open, a bell tinkles above him. A vibrant blue and green poster advertizing a new stockage of popsicles blares above the freezer; but that’s far from his mission. Focus.

Idly, he tunes in and out of the muffled radio chatter rippling around the store as he weaves in and out of aisles and bats away smoke from an old dude puffing a pipe.

Dog biscuits. Bacon. Eggs. Bread. Soda. On paper, everything…

…He snags a bottle of maple syrup, glowing molten in the early sun’s glare.

“How much?”

The cashier drags her eyes upwards, pops her bubblegum, as he fishes in his bag for his wallet.

“People're still in town?” she says, clasping her hands so her bangles clang together. “You should probably get out while you can, kid. Creepy things’ve been happening ‘round here lately, ghosts and stuff.”

There it is. The radio drones out a weather report. Heatwave.

“Sure. Anyway, how much?”

“Two dollars, seventy-nine.”

“Thanks.”

Sweaty hand meets copper door handle, and she calls out, “Be careful, kid. I’d grab your friends and book it, if I were you.”

The bell above the door tinkles.

Elmo yaps in a greeting that pulls Augie into a laugh leaving crinkles to frame his eyes, and he crouches to wave a dog biscuit in front of him. Impatient, Elmo grabs his hand with his paws, and Augie hauls him up in his arms in response to a whine.

“Wait ‘til breakfast, boy. Augie The Great here will make us a feast!”

Satisfied, they trek back to the hotel under the sky and surrounded by grass bordering the footpath.

News of supposed “ghost sightings” tugs at Augie’s mind in an echo. Typical, honestly, that this would happen to them. They’re phoney, of course. It’s doubtful that a whole town can see ghosts like they can, really.

The echoes nag him to tell Skip and April. They’ll want to investigate, no doubt. That convenience store would be the perfect starting point, that’s right.

Simultaneously…they’re sleeping. They’re due to set off after breakfast for a dune buggy rally in Boulder. His brow puckers, he shifts Elmo in his arms. They can miss one weird happening, can’t they? There’s bound to be someone else who can sort it out.

Maybe.

First things first.

By the time he returns, they’re all up and in his and Skip’s room. Skip leans on the bed’s headboard and grasps the blanket up to his chin, bedhead intact, where April perches on the bed’s edge thumbing through a leather-bound book, cardigan thrown on over pajamas. Assumedly, Mudsy’s out on his routine morning walk—he’s never liked being around while they eat.

The sight prompts something strange to fester within him, warmth to match the sun that pours like nectar through the now open window and crowns their heads. He shakes his, offers a half-wave, dumps Elmo on the bed and shuffles to the cozy kitchenette. Immediately, Elmo rolls over to April who chuckles and wraps an arm around him.

Skip’s sleepy gaze tracks him as he unpacks the ingredients and fires up the stove. What his intent is, he never knows, but it’s as much the morning routine as anything else. So…

Anyway.

It lessens the longer he cooks, and Augie’s shoulders loosen when Skip instead engages in conversation with April concerning her book. He catches the odd word and phrase (Rebecca. Gothic, again?), soon adapting to it as background noise with the rustle of curtains in a barely-breeze that, somehow, helps him focus on the blue with specks of green flame.

Helps him so much that, soon enough, sizzles and tantalizing scents envelop their room, and Augie grabs plates from a cabinet to dish up.

He adds a dollop of maple syrup to April’s bacon. And he ensures Skip’s food is separate, untouching.

[erenmusic]

The Turkish Rap scene and the song Fight Kulup

When you think of Rap and Hip-hop, the Turkish scene isn't the one that comes to mind for most people. This doesn't mean that it is objectively worse compared to other scenes or underrated or whatever, what it really means is that it is a very new and growing sect in Turkish music that has become a lot more mainstream in recent years especially with young people now listening to Rap instead of the Regular Pop music that had Turkish Radio in a chokehold for the last 15 years. Before we get into the recent popularity of Rap music in Turkey I want to go to the beginnings of it, and really explain who the big players who started the scene were. First off we have Ceza. who is very often compared to Eminem because of his style and flow being very fast, (especially on a song like Holocaust which is very often seen as the Turkish alternative of Rap God where it is basically just the rapper rhyming as much as possible in the shortest amount of time.) but I feel like Ceza was always closer to actual Turkish popular music and Arabesk music especially in his use of beats. This song down here is a great example of what I mean when I say he uses traditional Turkish Instrumentation in many of his beats.

To keep on with the Theme of Ceza, another Originator of the Genre is Sagopa Kajmer. Sagopa and Ceza used to be close and made music together. Sagopa was always a lot more emotional and held up the more Lyrical part of the early scene while Ceza was more of a Flow over lyrics type person. I think an amazing example of this contrast between them is on Ceza's second album Rapstar on the song Neyim Var ki, and man, Sagopa's voice is just perfect for the chorus.

The line, ''Neyim var ki Rapten gari'' means ''What would I have without Rap'' which just goes to show how important hip hop was to these early rappers and why they tried so much to bring it into the mainstream. Unfortunately, Ceza and Sagopa split paths after this and stopped making music together for reasons we still do not completely know. Young people were starting to catch on to names Like Sagopa and Ceza and also a lot of other minor artists mostly coming from connections through Ceza when he went to Germany, names like Eko Fresh and Killa Hakan are some of the most Popular. I picked Killa Hakan from this era because he is a Turk living in Germany and is a great example of how that German scene also connects back to the Turkish Scene. I personally dislike Killa Hakan's flow on most songs. He misses the beat atrociously on almost every bar on the song Hersey Yolundadir which is shown below. However the song still kind of sounds good, and was a hit comparatively because the scene was so small at the time.

Now with the early era out of the way I think its best we start talking about the new era names. Some popular ones that I come to mind are Ezhel and Ben Fero. Ezhel is from Ankara the capitol of Turkey and he came out with his debut album Muptezel in 2017, he was very much influenced by the mumble rap and autotune era the rest of the world was going through and it can be seen in his music. He also had a lot of problems with the government because of him talking about Drugs and Political issues in his songs which is a big No-No in Turkey. The song ''Alo'' which is down below shows this really well.

The whole song is basically about how hard it is to get weed in Turkey. He starts with a verse about calling his friends to get money together, then to the plug not answering, then going and buying shit weed just for the cops to pull up and him dropping the weed and losing it, only to call up his friends again to get more money together. Its great commentary on the Drug issues in Turkey in my opinion and also a very catchy song, ''ALO ALO ALO ALO''. The next artist that really got popular in recent times is Ben Fero, he is from the Coastal city Izmir and he really came out of nowhere with an album in 2019 called "Orman Kanunlari" that got so popular I know 50-60 year old Turkish people that played these songs at social events, it was that big. I think it had a huge effect on Rap music becoming more Mainstream in Turkey. here is the most popular song on that album Demet Akalin, the name comes from a Turkish pop singer that he is eluding to in the song.

The line "Radyomuzda yine Demet Akalin, Bi kez olsun bizi Calmadin Adamim" roughly means "Demet Akalin on the Radio again, play our music for once my man" it sounds a lot better in Turkish trust me. Ben Fero is also the only Turkish rapper I know of who uses the N-word frequently, but the connotation in Turkey is very different, I do not believe that Ben Fero is a racist, he is simply too lazy to find a different word to Rhyme with. Now why did I highlight these Rappers specifically, because I wanted to show you guys a very important cultural event for the Scene, The Song ''Fight Kulup" which features all 4 artists I talked about.

This song came out around 4 years ago, at Ezhel and Ben Fero's peak popularity and Ceza and Killa Hakan at their comparative lowest. The song was Clowned on online by people who Liked the old era better and they didn't like that Ceza was coming together with this new mainstream. (The Ceza fans think they are better and more musically in tune than everyone else and hate on anything that isn't similar to Ceza's style.) The dislikes were immeasurable and almost every comment was a hate comment against Ezhel, Killa Hakan and Ben Fero while no one really could bring themselves to Hate Ceza. However, the hate the song got didn't change the fact that the song was still extremely popular and has a million YouTube likes to this day. I personally do not enjoy the song a lot but I understand why it was so big. this was a clash of eras and it brought Turkish Rap back into the conversation for the average internet consumer even though it was because people were making fun of it. At last Turkish rap had become mainstream and now you can ask someone on the street in Turkey, do you remember the Blup Blup Blup Joke that was everywhere because of the song Fight Klup?, I bet you 100 Lira that they will know what I am talking about.

[gwen-oconnell]

Night had long since fallen: stars glowed overhead, blanketing the misty, far-flung village in an almost eerie glow as the group tended to their own after a full day of fighting. Alliance soldiers led by Greymane had taken the capitol by force and storm in glorious and storied battle, while a much smaller-scale war of inches was fought on the fringes of Gilneas by civilian groups and paramilitary forces alike. By the time they’d gained ground and settled in for the night, there was little left to many of the sea-sprayed coastal hamlets. 

As they tended the wounded and mourned the dead, a grim silence had fallen over the hundreds who were encamped in the nameless town’s square; a silence much needed after the day’s struggle and strife. The only sounds came from the medical tents, where the last of the wounded were being brought in from the surrounding countryside. 

Gwen stood in a tent next to a cot, her hands stained reddish-brown as she peeled back layers of bloody clothing covering a young man’s chest. He can’t even be twenty, she thought as her fingers picked at charred and bloody cloth. Her look darkened almost imperceptibly in the lantern light as she pulled the last bit of cloth back to reveal a gaping chest wound, blackened around the edges. The sharp smell of copper and burnt flesh met her nostrils as she shifted her gaze to the lad’s face. 

“Yer gonna be fine, love,” she said gently, even as the light began to dim in the boy’s eyes. His charred hand grasped at her skirt, blackened fingertips clawing desperately at cloth as he reached out to touch someone else one last time. Gwen scooped up his hand in one of hers as the other rummaged in her pocket. 

“Yeh s-sure?” he rasped as he struggled for breath. She nodded as her fingers closed around what she’d been looking for: a tiny syrette— one of dozens she’d used that day alone. 

“Sure as the day’s long— what’s yer name?” Gwen asked as she slid the needle smoothly into his upper arm. 

“H— Henry, m-ma’am…” He struggled to focus on her as the drugs took quick effect. “...feels… feels like’m gonna… be fine…” he mumbled as his eyelids fluttered shut. Gwen dropped the syrette to the floor and placed a palm on the side of his face. 

“Yer gonna be fine, love,” she repeated as she leaned in and touched her dirt-smeared forehead to his. Her eyes closed as his last, shuddering breath left his body. “Ancestors guide him,” she intoned, barely above a whisper, “an’ bring him peace in his next life.” As Henry’s grip slackened in hers, Gwen straightened herself up and made a moment of placing his hands crossed over his chest, just above the fatal wound that had taken his life— the one she’d been too late to treat. Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention: she turned to see a woman approaching with a ragged blanket. 

“S’all I got, but he shouldn’t have t’ lie around uncovered,” she said to Gwen as she went about draping the blanket over Henry’s body. Gwen gave her a single, stiff nod. 

“Yeh know ‘im?” she asked quietly. 

“I know boys like ‘im,” the woman replied grimly. “Lost as much as we gained today, eh?” 

Gwen hummed her agreement. “Aye, we did,” she replied as she turned away. Her eyes— bright with unspilled tears— scanned the tent for the next person, the next victim, as her fingers pulled desperately at the hem of her shirt. She flinched and turned around as she felt a hand on her shoulder. 

“He were the last one brought in,” the woman said gently as Gwen fruitlessly attempted to blink away the tears. 

“There ain’t— there ain’t no more?” she asked; the woman shook her head. Gwen let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding and fairly collapsed into the woman’s arms as the dam burst and the tears fell thick and fast. “Thank the gods,” she mumbled as the woman guided her to a chair. The woman removed her shawl and placed it across Gwen’s shaking shoulders, and stood in silent vigil next to her as the rest of the scant few medics in their group finished tending to the last of the wounded. 

In the distance, the hulking shadow of Gilneas city loomed, its slate rooftops silhouetted by flames from the battle undoubtedly still raging in the city proper. It would be morning— grey and drizzling rain— by the time the Gilnean flag was raised once more in the cathedral square; by then a dozen more fighters would be gone from Gwen’s cadre in the smouldering, windswept remnants of the forgotten seaside town. 

In the upcoming days, some would wonder aloud— and in the throes of grief— if what they were fighting for was worth it; others would insist that retaking their homeland was a necessity for the pride and glory of Gilneas. As Gwen sat in the chair with her face buried in her hands, something her father had said to her on the eve of the family’s last fated trip to Duskhaven struck her memory: This is just a place, my love. Gilneas is not this land— Gilneas is and has always been its people. 

Scant comfort were the words in the wake of the intervening years, but she would have been lying if she’d said she hadn’t wondered if Gilneans couldn’t have both; not just their people, but also the reclamation of their ancestral homeland. Part of her mind was certain that she would finally be at peace with the magnitude of her own personal loss if there could be meaning behind it; certain she would at least truly begin to heal. Her own desperate hope for any semblance of a life after grief was so all-consuming that she had leapt before she’d stopped to look: she’d vanished in the night— again— fairly aching to find purpose in her misery. 

[raitrolling]

(Alternian Equivalent of) Nationality + accent intensity + LOTE proficiency masterpost cuz i havent done that yet and i love copying my friends’ headcanon posts 

disclaimer - i dont base troll nationalities on regions they grew up in / have any basis in their upbringing, its just me giving a lil nod to their non-troll AU equivalents

Liiore: Korean. His accent is only slightly noticeable, as he was required to go through vocal training during his idol days that caused it to fade away. Has an intermediate knowledge of Korean, and can speak it far better than he can write it.

Katrin: English, lower-class London / ‘chav’ accent. It’s hard to tell how strong her accent is because she tends to mumble through her words, but its there. Cannot speak any languages other than Standard.

Nancor: Peruvian. Fairly strong accent, and can speak a decent amount of Spanish. 

Dismas: American. I don’t know which region specifically his accent comes from, but he does put on a more (fake) posh accent to sound cultured, so whatever it is there’s a bit of Received Pronunciation thrown in there too. Was not taught any languages other than Standard when growing up, but Maidel has been teaching him words from various languages.

Aislin: English, same accent as Katrin. Also hard to tell how strong her accent is because she rarely (if ever) speaks out loud, but it’d be stronger than one would suspect from her. Was not taught any other languages growing up, but has been teaching herself Japanese.

Eichio: French-American. His natural voice is flat and has no discernible accent, so he copies Viltau’s ‘Hollywood’ accent to sound more appealing to others (and is capable of mimicking other people’s accents if he wanted). Cannot speak any languages other than Standard.

Benrii: American. No specific region decided yet, but his accent isn’t particularly noticeable amongst his usual haughty and self-important tone of voice. Cannot speak any languages other than Standard.

Soroll: New Zealander (however in human AUs he’s Canadian by heritage, New Zealander by birth). Incredibly strong accent. Cannot speak any languages other than Standard.

Callan: Australian, specifically with the intensity of someone from Queensland. Incredibly strong accent. Cannot speak any languages other than Standard, but also prone to using slang that apparently might as well be considered its own language. /s

Somerl: Scottish, not sure what region specifically but he did grow up in a coastal area. His accent is noticeable, but not as strong as one would usually associate with stereotypical depiction of Scots. Cannot speak any languages other than Standard.

Amarys: Russian-Korean & English. No distinct accent, but she tends to pronounce words the Received Pronunciation way given her upbringing + amount of time spent around nobles. Cannot speak any languages other than Standard, but would like to learn. 

Ananta: Nationality undecided, but I can see them being either South- or Southeast Asian. They don’t have much of an accent, and cannot speak any languages other than Standard.

Rosato: Italian. Decently strong accent, especially in how he rolls his r’s. Can speak a basic amount of Italian, primarily simple everyday phrases and any terms related to winemaking.

Ashell: Hungarian. He’s lost his accent over time, but you can still hear it in the way he pronounces certain words. Can speak a small amount of Hungarian.

Vivyin: German-Korean. Fairly strong German accent, and her ‘t’ / ’ch’ sounds resemble her lusus’ chittering noises. Speaks fluent German, and wasn’t taught Korean when she was younger but she does try to study it when she has free time. Also knows a few words in Czech and Polish thanks to Glasya. 

Ariete: English, specifically from the Cumbrian region. Her accent is very noticeable, but when she’s trying to fit in with the noble castes she’ll try to put on a bit more of a RP accent. She understands a number of historical languages, including Latin, Old English, and Classical Gaelic. 

Celise: Welsh-Japanese. Their accent is not very noticeable, and leans more towards Welsh though I dunno which region specifically. Cannot speak any languages other than Standard, and has little interest in learning either Welsh or Japanese.

Velour: French-American. Has a bit of a Californian accent (or NorCal if you want to get specific) in the most YouTube-marketable way possible. He wasn’t taught any French growing up (given that he wasn’t raised by his lusus), but he’ll occasionally play into that side by dropping basic French in his videos. Just enough to make the fans go ‘when he’s bilingual 😍😍😍’. Has also started learning Japanese as well thanks to Hanabi and Jikiro.

Mikiel: Italian. Noticeable accent that becomes even stronger the angrier he gets. Speaks fluent Italian, and also knows bits and pieces of French and German.

Lusien: Icelandic. His accent would be more apparent if he spoke more than a few sentences at a time. Knows a couple Icelandic words, mostly phrases his lusus + guardian would tell him as a kid to reassure / calm him.

Sharle: Monegasque. Accent has the same intensity as his namesake, but he has a much deeper voice. Speaks fluent Monegasque, Italian, and French.

Viltau: American. Specifically has a ‘Hollywood’ accent thanks to sweeps of vocal coaching to try and get rid of both his stutter and his natural Boston accent. The Boston accent slips out when he’s angry, though. Cannot speak any languages other than Standard, but has been taught a few Japanese words by Jikiro.

Glasya: Czech. Their accent is of average intensity and doesn’t tend to fluctuate. Speaks fluent Czech and Polish.

Vallis: Singaporean. His accent is of average intensity, but is more apparent on certain words. He was taught how to speak Mandarin, but is much better at writing it than he is speaking it because he still gets tripped up on the inflections. 

Belamy: Austrian. He’s tried to tone down the accent over time because of how intense it can get, but it’s still quite noticeable. Can speak fluent German.

Linnae: Dutch. Has an American accent of some description because he was raised by Nemone. Cannot speak any languages other than Standard.

Fleure: Dutch. His accent is noticeable, but not particularly strong unless he starts speaking the language. Can speak fluent Dutch, and also has a good understanding of various languages spoken by the mages of his time.

[chalametdarling]

T.C. fluff:  Being Timothée’s co-star in an upcoming romantic drama, and having a long weekend off together to explore the coastal European city you’re filming in

“Wow, this is beautiful.” You hugged your rolled-up towel close to your chest, the view of a crowded beach, sparkling crystal blue water and colourful umbrellas lining the sand awaiting you. 

“Oui, c’est très beau,” Timothee agreed, playfully nudging your shoulder, guiding you to follow him down onto the sand. You slipped off your shoes and the two of you began meandering through the endless sea of warm sand and towels, eventually finding vacant real estate between a young family and a group of women bathing in the sun. It was Timothee’s idea to explore the French town you were filming in together while you had a few days off, and as you laid down your towel, and Timothee retrieved containers of strawberries and savoury biscuits from his backpack, you couldn’t believe you’d thought of spending your Friday any other way. 

You talked and ate and waded into the water, splashing each other and jumping over waves. And when you weren’t doing that, you alternated between reading your script and a novel while Timothee laid on his stomach, headphones on, head resting on his arms.   You couldn’t quite tell behind his sunglasses, but judging by how you’d finished reading an entire chapter and he hadn’t moved a muscle, you assumed he’d fallen asleep. Under the sun block and daylight, his pale skin seemed to glow. His hair a perfectly messy mop, grains of sand nestled into the ends of his curls. Timothee really did have perfect features. You could objectively see that now that you were really looking at him. Bold eyebrows poking over the tops of his sunglasses, strong nose, angelic lips- “You staring at me?” You quickly looked out towards the water, resting your chin onto your knees and hugging your legs. “No, just checking if you were awake.” He rolled over, stretching out. “I am now.” Checking the time on his watch, he added, “Shit. We’ve been here for hours.” He reached out and picked up one of the few remaining uneaten strawberries by its stalk while you packed away your books into your bag. “Do you feel like getting dinner?” he asked, tossing the leafy remains into the pile you’d made as you ate.   “Yes,” you eagerly nodded your head. Laying out on the sand all day really worked up your appetite. Already feeling drowsy from the fresh air and too much sun, you followed Timothee’s lead from the shore to the row of bars and cafes lining the beach. He led you inside the doors of a quaint pub; one hand holding the door open, the other on the small of your back. A live band was set up on the raised stage towards the back, playing acoustic French music for those enjoying meals and post-work drinks. You found a seat at the bar, sharing bread and wine, your heart swelling the more time you spent learning the workings of Timothee’s mind. You could’ve sat all night with your chin in the palm of your hand, listening to him rattle on about his favourite directors and film theories and character studies, then abruptly stop himself with an embarrassed laugh, running his palms down his thighs. “Anyway,” he laughed, shaking his head. He finished his drink, then tuned into the DJ who’d since replaced the initial band. “Wanna dance?” Several drinks in and hours of dancing later, you were still on the dance floor with a drink in hand.  As the night went on, every time your head spin subsided, Timothee was either dragging you through the crammed bodies back over to the bar or replacing empty glasses in your hand with overflowing cups of alcohol. After the fourth glass exchange, you put an arm around his neck to pull his ear down to be level with your lips. While your thoughts were still somewhat coherent, your words were a little slurred. “Timmy, maybe you should slow down a bit.” As you were speaking, the ABBA remix playing faded into Kid Cudi, and you watched as your words fell onto deaf ears. Timothee’s face lit up and he shouted, “FUCK YEAH!” raising his free arm above his head. Your eyes followed his movements as he sang along to every word, big grin on his face, never stopping to breath; only pausing for a sip of his drink.   Before you knew what was happening, your back was against the wall and Timothee’s lips on yours. But just as quickly as he had kissed you, he was pulling back, flicking his hair back and shouting the next lyric through a tipsy grin. As the chorus started for a second time, he caught sight of you watching him, wide eyed and in a daze, and set his empty glass down as you reached to grab his waist. He stepped in to kiss you again; this time harder, longer and deeper.   The remainder of the night became hazier and hazier; only blurred visions of licking salt off the back of your hand and clinking shot glasses, jumping and spinning around the dance floor, and your fingers getting caught in Timothee’s salty curls remained. * An instant ache shot through the middle of your forehead as you blinked your eyes open, and you groaned. Sheer confusion washed over you, your mind unable to piece together where you were or what day it was, until you spotted a familiar black backpack against the wall and a bottle of cologne on the dresser. Ah, Timothee’s place. Timothee’s bed, to be specific. Slowly rolling over and rubbing your eyes to look behind you, you discovered you had the bed to yourself. The other side was practically untouched, blankets still tucked under the mattress. A door creaked open, and Timothee emerged from the adjoining bathroom, dragging his feet behind him. Seeing you were awake, he changed course and climbed onto the intact side of the bed, mumbling out, ‘Morning’ in a deep, soft voice. He sat with his back to you, and the one hand cradled to your chest itched to reach forward and trace down his spine. You weren’t sure where the urge came from. Maybe because of the way his hooded eyes, drunk on tequila and European air, remained locked on yours for hours last night. How his strawberry lips sponged kisses on your cheek and neck as you waited at the bar. How his hands had so delicately clasped around your cheeks when he kissed you for real over and over and over again. It would’ve been so easy to push back the covers, walk your fingers across the mattress; to drag them up and down his back or affectionately twist the ends of his hair. But Timothee was leaning back against his pillows to lie down beside you before you could muster up the courage to do so. With interlaced fingers resting on his bare chest, he looked over to you. “How did we get home last night?” You yawned, nestling further down into the pillows. “We walked, remember?” “Oh, shit.” Timothee nodded, pursing his lips with a hum. “I feel like shit.” “You drank a lot last night,” you said softly. He licked his lips, covering his face with his hands. “Fuck.” He stayed like that for a few moments, rubbing his face, and you wondered if he’d forgotten anything else from the previous night.   “I should probably go back to mine.” He dropped his hands back to his chest, looking over again, voice gentle as he spoke. “You can stay if you want.” “No, I should go and have a shower,” you told him, rolling onto your back and stretching your arms out. Timothee’s fingertips ghosted over your neck with a small smile, and you instinctively moved your head back from under his sudden touch. “What?” He shook his head, bringing his hand back to its resting place on his chest, eyes still lazily drooped as he enquired about your plans for the rest of the evening. You pushed yourself up to sit against the headboard, your hand subconsciously hovering over the spot Timothee’s had just been. “You know we have work on Monday, right? I’d like to read my lines at least once before then.” After pointing out you brought your script out with you the previous say, he added, “You have all of Sunday for that.”   You pursed your lips with a sigh. He rolled over, holding his head up with his hand. “Come on, y/n.” You evidently didn’t need much convincing, because a few hours later, you were meeting Timothee for ice cream. Desserts in hand, you found a small table outside the ice cream parlour, shaded from the orange glow of late afternoon sun by an umbrella. The two of you sat looking out at the streets, sunglasses hiding both of your dark, hungover eyes, observing the strangers passing by. And when you had the chance, you stole glances at the boy sitting across from you. When you met him out the front of the hotel, his formerly dry, sandy hair was now shiny, the ends still a little damp. He smelled fresh when you hugged him, and his jumper was soft on your cheek. He’d complimented your turtle neck top, which reminded you… “By the way,” you said, pulling Timothee’s attention from the open roads to you, “I’m not too happy with you, Timothee.” He frowned, taking another lick of his ice cream. “What the fuck did I do?” You teasingly held his stare. “Oh, I don’t know,” you said, pulling down the high neck of your top to reveal your purple stained skin. A shy smile overtook Timothee’s face and he shrugged, laughing awkwardly. “Oh, yeah. Sorry?” “Funny is it?” you mused, sliding your sunglasses down your nose to look over the frames at him. Timothee licked his melting ice cream, then said, “No, but now that you mention it, y/n, I’m mad at you too.” You slid your glasses all the way off, placing them down on the table. “Really? Why’s that?” Timothee, with a cocky smile, tugged down the chunky collar of his sweater, revealing a light bruise at the very base of his neck. You instinctively lowered your face and hid your eyes behind your free hand. “Oh my god.” Through the cracks between your fingers, you saw him smiling, bringing his cone back up to his mouth. “Forgot about that, did you?”   Dropping your hands with a laugh, you reached forward, using your thumb to push back his collar again and run your thumb over the mark you left on his pale skin. “Sorry,” you mumbled with a little pout. With an exaggerated sigh, looking up to make eye contact with Timothee, you added, “What is wrong with us?” He laughed, putting his hand on your wrist and running his thumb over your skin. “It’s alright. I forgive you.” You shook your head in mock disapproval, but there was a buzzing in your chest as you felt his lingering eyes and warm skin on yours.   You strolled back to the hotel in comfortable silence. Despite being a bundle of nerves, it was nice being with him. He made you think, and he made you feel. A man adorned in a billowing linen shirt sat on the side of the street, guitar in hand, singing a sombre tune. You slowed down along with the few other strangers who had paused to listen to the man’s song, Timothee a few paces behind you, taking his sunglasses off as he slowed. A few moments passed, and Timothee leaned down from his place behind you so that he could speak softly in your ear. “He’s singing about his lover.” Timothee paused to listen to the next line. “He doesn’t want to live without them… he feels empty… and sick… he- he’s waiting for her but… he knows she’s gone for good.” Turning over your shoulder, you pouted up at Timothee, who reciprocated the expression. “That’s so sad.” Timothee nodded. His hair flopped over his cheek, and you noticed his eyes sparkling in the golden cast of evening light. Over his shoulder, a couple held each other, longingly looking into each other’s eyes, tenderly touching each other’s cheeks. As a loaded weight settled on your chest, you looked back up at Timothee. The space between his eyebrows slightly creased and he smiled. “What?” Clicking your tongue against your teeth, and shaking your head, you answered, “Nothing.” You both knew it wasn’t nothing. With a sigh, you snuck your hand between his arm and body, grabbing onto his forearm to lead him away. “Alright, I only agreed to ice cream. Let’s go.” It was quiet when you got to your floor of the hotel, so you tried to be as silent as possible climbing the stairs, so other guests weren’t disturbed. You and Timothee were work colleagues, and friends, and his room was only ten steps further down the hall, and you were almost positive that you’d definitely be seeing him again the next day; but as he lingered by your door as you rummaged in your bag for your key, you couldn’t help but feel a little sad you were saying goodbye. Once you retrieved your key, you looked up at him with a smile. “Alright,” you said softly. “This is where I leave you.” Timothee stood by your door, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes stuck on your face. He wasn’t budging, and you weren’t game enough to break first. His messy curls flopped over his eyes again, and you pushed them back behind his ears. He held onto your wrist, slowly lowering it down to your sides. Relationships with colleagues could get messy. Everybody knew that. What does this mean for us? The words were caught in your throat. You wanted to ask; to say it out loud. But you couldn’t bring yourself to form them. Why couldn’t you just be okay with enjoying the moment? Timothee inched his head closer to yours slowly, almost unsure if it was okay. You kept your eyes lowered. “Timothee,” you whispered. “Yes,” he whispered back, resting his forehead on yours. You slowly shook your head. “I can’t.” “Why?” You didn’t respond right away, eyes still focused towards the ground, and he nudged the side of your nose with his, then pulled back from you. “Hmm?” You sighed, closing your eyes and lifting your face to his. Very slowly, he took the sides of your face into his hands. Static in the air charged your movements as his lips grazed against yours. Somehow, you simultaneously had both a million things to say, yet nothing at all. You settled on hugging him, chin resting over his shoulder. It was nice hugging him; to have him holding you close. “Good night, Timmy,” you muttered, eventually breaking free. “Good night,” he said in reply, hands sliding out from around your waist. With tingling lips, you stood up on your toes for a second to place a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth once more. You unlocked your door, and while slipping inside your room, you looked over one last time at Timothee smiling. “Good night.”

[arahul-abyssia]

To Mend What's Been Broken

And thus is my third story for @starprincesshlc and @jklantern 's Nintember celebration! (Coming a day late because of Various Reasons.) I have written about Emotions! Again! So we're three for three on that front! I have also accidentally mirrored Me-From-One-Year-Ago and once again made Story 3 only a bit shorter than the combined lengths of Stories 1 and 2.

Also, this story is very much a direct sequel to one of the stories from last year, specifically the only one I haven't mentioned in this post yet. This one should be >83% understandable if you haven't read part 1, but still, here's a link to it! (Please let me know if the link doesn't work, I know Tumblr tends to hate links.)

~~ Craft, Bug, Beach, Anger, Family ~~

Rynn looked to the sky, the noonday sun shining down upon the beach. It was far warmer in the coastal Lurelin Village than he was used to back in his mountainous home, and the still-smoldering charcoal from the previous night’s bonfire was not helping matters. Fortunately, he would soon be headed far away from the blazing warmth of the sands; unfortunately, however…

“Well, Rynn! You’re looking much better than yesterday; is your wing fully healed, are you ready to fly back?”

Rynn did not turn to look at his father. “Doctor Faldea examined me earlier, says the healing potion took effect and my wing is ‘good as new’. But--”

“Excellent! Then as soon as Director Nokoss finishes up the communications with the Lab, we’ll take off!”

His father had interjected as soon as he heard what he wanted, and cut him off. Again. This had a tendency to happen whenever he had his mind made up about something, and Rynn felt like he did so even more when the topic of flight, specifically of Rynn finally taking flight, came up.

Though both of them never said it, he could feel a level of disappointment from them, disappointment in him for failing his Trial of Flight the previous day, as if they had expected him to avoid a storm that came out of nowhere or a large Sheikah device hurtling directly toward him. They acknowledged those were unforeseen circumstances, but yet, he still felt like they blamed part of the failure on him.

“Alright, I just finished the meeting with the Hateno Tech Lab.” Both Rynn and his father turned toward the flight director, who seemed to have come from the center of the village and was wearing a very clear look of annoyance, little though the difference was from his usual expression. “To make a long story short, they thought their airborne Weather Formation Machines consistently hovered far above Rito flight height and will look into what went wrong. Somehow, they didn’t consider communicating with us about what regions to keep clear on certain days, but I will be kept in the loop going forward. Regardless, they aren’t experimenting in Faron today or in the near future, so we should have no trouble getting back or setting a new date for the trial.”

“Well, that’s all good to hear! Wouldn’t you agree, Rynn?” His father had turned to look at him, but Rynn had lost himself in thought, doubt, and fear again, and he had to say his son’s name several times more before he was shaken back to attention.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, that’s great, I guess…”

“Right… I’ve programmed the Updraft Device to send all three of us high enough to catch the winds back over the jungle. If you both are ready, I’d like to head back as soon as possible.”

Rynn’s father gave a nod, which the flight director seemed to take as confirmation from them both, and motioned for them to take certain positions as he brought out the same angular Sheikah device from the day prior and began fiddling with it. Rynn, however, was hardly paying attention, once more dreading having to fly. When he was with others, it was easier to focus on things that weren’t the void he was staring in the face, but after the disastrous events of the previous day, the prospect was even more frightening than usual. Yet, he knew that nothing he could do or say would convince either of them to find an alternate way home, so he instead attempted to swallow the fear and prepare to take wing.

“On my mark. Three… Two… One… Fly.”

Director Nokoss activated the device, creating a massive updraft beneath the talons of all three Rito, which quickly caught their wings and brought them far above the land. It was all Rynn could do to focus on the forms of his father and director instead of anything and everything else, as they adjusted to follow a westward--and quite rapid--wind and thus began the journey back toward Whistling Hill.

The last rays of sunlight were fading as they reached their destination, though the stable lights seemed to be shining even brighter than usual. In tandem, Rynn’s father and the trial director adjusted and descended, and Rynn followed suit as best he could. The flight had taken a toll on his nerves, further throwing off his balance, and as the other two Rito made graceful landings upon the hill’s peak, he came in too fast, failed to catch the grass properly, and stumbled briefly with the momentum before falling onto his face. Though the ground was dry, it reminded him all too much of how he woke up after falling from his trial the day prior.

“Hm. Your landing could use some work. Remember: lead with your talons, not your torso.” Director Nokoss remarked.

“...Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind…” Rynn mumbled through gritted teeth. Comments about his flying and anything related to it were just about the last thing he needed at that moment.

“Well, now that we’ve got those unforeseen circumstances out of the way…” the director continued as Rynn pushed himself upright. “We ought to take a moment to set the trial’s new date, preferably within the next several days, so we can avoid having to plan around the Labs.”

Rynn froze.

“Ah, good idea, Director!” said his father. “What do you say, Rynn? Take tomorrow to recover and complete the trial the day after?”

“No…” said Rynn, his voice only a low murmur.

“Oh, that fall must really have knocked it out of you, huh? How long do you need? Three days? Four?”

“...No…” he said again, his voice barely a whisper. His whole body was beginning to shudder.

“‘No’? Rynn, I don’t understand; we can’t wait too long… You have to complete your trial of fli--”

Something snapped.

“No!! You don’t understand! You don’t ever listen to what I say, you don’t ever pay attention to how I feel. Why can’t you understand that I. Hate. Flying?!”

Without waiting for any manner of response or reaction, he turned and ran down the hill as fast as his legs would carry him, ignoring the shouts from behind as tears began to well in his eyes. He didn’t know where he was going, all he knew was that he wanted to be far, far away from his father, and the director, and any others who wouldn’t see his struggle, and if that meant disappearing into the night, so would it be.

After a while, enough for dusk to have given way to twilight, Rynn slowed his pace in order to catch his breath. He looked around and found himself in what appeared to be one of the many, many century-old ruins that littered the land. Not wanting to leave himself exposed to the night, he quickly located and crawled into a small, mostly-intact room in one of the dilapidated buildings, over the mound of rubble that occupied what was likely once its doorway. The moonlight illuminated enough of the space for him to find his way to a wall and finally, for the first time in what felt like ages, try to relax his shaking, adrenaline-charged body.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to sit there through the night; that was plainly a terrible idea. But he needed space and time--to think and to focus and to get away from people who wouldn’t and couldn’t understand him--and he would not find those back at the Riverside Stable, not with his overzealous father and impatient flight director.

Though now that he had finally sat down and begun to calm his jittery nerves, he realized how exhausted he was, having spent almost the entire day fretting, flying, fighting, or fleeing. A dull soreness all over his body pleaded with him to stop moving, and though some part of him screamed to resist the pull, he felt his vision begin to fade…

…

“Hey, sleepyhead!”

Tevara’s bright voice cut through his drowsing like an arrow-shot. Rynn glanced up to see her smiling face gazing at him from the other end of the rubble, illuminated by the moon and the flame of the torch she was holding.

“Oh… hello, Tevara.”

“It’s been a bit over an hour, Rynn. Are you ready to come back yet? We…” She trailed off, her tone shifting as she seemingly noticed his expression and posture and silenced some quip she had planned to make.

Was he ready to go back? He knew, in the back of his mind, that he had already spent far too long away from civilization, but he had fallen asleep instead of processing his thoughts like he had wanted, and if he went back now, they’d still be tangled and writhing, and he didn’t really even want to look at his father or the trial director until he knew what to say.

Not hearing a response, Tevara spoke again, her voice now much softer. “I’m… really glad you're safe, Rynn. I feared the worst when we heard what had happened, and then when we came out to welcome you back, we heard your outburst and saw you running away… well, the night can be dangerous, especially when you’re alone.”

Rynn let the silence hang between them as he took in her words, then, after a few moments, spoke. “How did you find me before my father did? I thought he would have taken to the skies to try to trail me… him or Director Nokoss… or both…”

“That would be because I stopped them.” Rynn jumped slightly as another voice, the kindly and warm tone of Tevara’s mother Burnora, sounded from behind his friend. She stepped aside as the tall woman bent down to peer past the rubble pile as well, her scarlet-red hair joining her daughter’s and the torchlight in obscuring the opening in flame. “They both wanted to pursue you immediately, but I managed to convince them to wait for a while, and let us try to find you and bring you back first.”

“She grabbed them by the talons to force them back to the ground and calmly threatened to break their wings if they didn’t listen.” Tevara interjected, with her mouth turned up ever so slightly in a mischievous smirk. Rynn felt himself smile slightly, though he doubted either of them could see it.

“Rynn, I’ve known your father almost as long as you’ve known my daughter, and you’re right: he does often fail to listen, especially when he’s got his mind set on something. And up until an hour ago, he was set on you being able to be like him: Mevulo, one of the greatest fliers of our day, recognized by Master Teba himself.”

“So, what? He just… changed, suddenly? Suddenly he saw things differently?”

“You’ll have to talk to him yourself to see, young voe. For all his… idiosyncrasies, he truly does love you and want you to be happy, and… whether or not he would have listened to you before, he will listen now. I ma-- I’m sure of it.”

Rynn went silent once more, once again weighing his options. He wasn’t truly entirely ready to confront his father, but he also had a sneaking suspicion that, if he didn’t at least attempt to talk to him, he would never be ready. Slowly, he brought himself away from the wall and climbed out of the room--I swear it wasn’t this small when I entered--bringing himself back to his full height and stretching his limbs.

Tevara looked as though she wanted to hug him, but seemed to be resisting the urge, knowing how he felt about being touched. “Right, let’s head back! The night’s great and all, but it’s starting to get a bit chilly for what I’m wearing.”

The hike back to the stable passed without incident, and the three split ways at the entrance to its inn, Tevara and Burnora heading inside while Rynn went to meet his father at one of the campfire circles nearby.

“We’ll be here if you need us, Rynn,” said Tevara, “just… please don’t go running off again if things go south, okay?”

“I… I won’t. Thank you, both of you.”

They nodded as he turned and walked, slowly but firmly, toward where his father was sitting. He had been watching them from the moment they had returned, and upon being approached, leaped up from the log. Rynn was acutely aware of his father’s limbs twitching oddly and his posture being slightly off; it was clear that he, too, wanted to embrace him, but was trying to give him his space--it was one of the few things he had ever completely listened to Rynn about--and besides that was overall somewhat uncomfortable with and hesitant about the situation. It was a state that Rynn could not recall ever seeing his father in. A dark piece of his mind wanted to relish in that, fancying it a comeuppance for the discomfort he had had to endure; he quickly quelled it as best he could.

“Welcome back, Rynn… are you alright? Didn’t get hurt again out there?”

“I’m fine… could be better, but… fine.”

“Good…” His father’s expression shifted slightly, as if he wasn’t sure whether to prolong the pleasantries or get to the point, before he let out a quiet breath and settled upon the latter. “So… I never realized that you… you hated flying…”

This was obvious and unsurprising, but it still stirred Rynn’s frustration once more. “Really? You never once noticed how nervous I was whenever the topic of flying came up? The number of times I tried to avoid all the flight training? The fact that I never once expressed interest in flying, unlike literally every other Rito ever?”

“I…” he seemed to want to protest, or justify himself somehow, but… “No. I honestly, truly didn’t. Could you… perhaps elaborate? So I can… ‘understand’?”

“And you’ll listen? You won’t jump in or interrupt until I’m clearly finished speaking?” Rynn attempted to keep the malice out of his voice, but some managed to manifest anyway.

His father appeared to wince slightly, mumbling something to himself, before nodding. “Yes. I will wait, utterly silent, for you to say what you need to say.”

Rynn nodded, much more slowly, then took a deep breath, attempting to resist the stinging in the corners of his eyes. “Flying… it scares me…! I know it’s a cruel paradox, a Rito who’s afraid of flight, but... It doesn’t feel freeing, or exhilarating… it feels like I’m trapped in an uncaring and unforgiving void, and if anything goes wrong, I’ll plummet to the earth, desperately hoping that I can somehow slow the fall and mitigate the inevitable pain. There’s no ground, no cliffs, to support me or allow me to catch myself from the fall. That’s terrifying! Even the thought of it makes my mouth dry out and fills my stomach with butterflies, to say nothing of what it’s like actually doing it…! And then… and then…”--the tears had begun to flow, and he no longer cared to stop them--“And then, when my worst fears came true, and I tumbled from the sky and woke up lost in the jungle, alone, with a battered body and a broken wing, it was only by luck that I was rescued. And immediately after the damage was healed, you had me fly all the way back. These past two days have easily been the worst of my life, and you didn’t notice at all! For so long, you’ve constantly pushed me toward these lofty aims, but you never asked how I felt about them, about what I wanted to do.”

Another bout of silence hovered between them, as Rynn’s father considered his words and Rynn tried to calm his rapidly beating heart.

“And you… never tried to talk to me about this? If it… if it’s been affecting you this badly all this time?” His voice was sympathetic and concerned, with not even the slightest trace of accusation.

“I wanted to, and I really did try to! But every time I try to talk to you about something important, it feels like you’re always focused on something else, or so intent upon whatever you’ve set your mind on that you cut me off before I can say it. It’s been happening for so long now, that I’ve pretty much just… mostly stopped trying.”

Rynn was left almost breathless, having said much with more force than he had meant to. He collapsed upon the log opposite his father, trying to focus on anything else that might help to alleviate the anger and onslaught of unrestrained emotions that were rapidly taking a toll on his little remaining energy: the blades of grass beneath his talons, the way the breeze rippled through them and the way the firelight danced across them, the way they both cooled and warmed his ruffled feathers and strained limbs, or even the miniscule creatures that he couldn’t see for the dim glow, but knew were present all the same. ...Nothing truly seemed to help, and whether his father was waiting for any further word from Rynn or taking a remarkable amount of time to take in what he said, the silence between them was quickly approaching deafening.

Eventually, though he finally spoke. “Rynn, when… when you ran away, and Burnora stopped us from pursuing you, I was… confused, perhaps shocked… I didn’t understand why you did what you did, or why you felt what you felt. But then, she… said some of the same things that you did, in that way she always does. ...And it’s true: I always have struggled with letting others fully finish before jumping in, or taking notice of the states of others if I’m really focused elsewhere. It’s something I thought I was getting better about, but… it seems that, for this whole ordeal, at least, I wasn’t. I thought I knew what you wanted, how you felt, but… I was wrong, and I never did ask you, not truly. Flying is important to me, and I guess something in me made me feel as though you must as well.”

He paused again. It was odd to hear such explanations laid plainly from his father, but at the same time, with these admissions of fault, Rynn began to feel as though some weight were slowly being lifted from him.

“But you’re my son, not my clone; you don’t have to be exactly like me. I… I hate to see you like this, Rynn…! I hate that I made you feel like this. You shouldn’t feel like you can’t communicate with me, you shouldn’t feel pressured to do things that make you this viscerally uncomfortable, certainly not by me of all people. ...I wanted to be the best father and guide I could be to you. But I see now that I wasn’t. So… for all of this; for not listening, for making undue assumptions, for distressing you so… I want to apologize: I’m sorry, Rynn.”

Once more, something snapped. Not like the first time, like a branch being loudly split in twain, but rather like the resounding clicks of something finally falling into place. For the first time in far too long, a genuine, if shaky, smile crawled onto his face; not a smile of peace or contentment, but a smile formed out of a much-awaited lifting of weight and tension, of a catharsis long-overdue.

He lifted his head, finally looking directly into his father’s eyes again, difficult though they were to see through the fresh wave of tears. “I… I… ...thank you, Dad.”

A matching expression formed in his face, a clear relief passing over and through his body. “No, thank you, Rynn, for helping me to finally see you. I promise, on my honor as a Rito, a Hyrulean, and someone who you should be able to trust, that from this point forward, I’ll do all I can to make sure that nothing like this ever has to happen again.”

Rynn stood. His father’s form was again held in that odd and subtle-but-evident way that indicated a repressed intent to embrace, which he only now had a greater appreciation for.

“Now, it’s later than any of us should be up. Don’t worry about Director Nokoss: he left a bit ago, something about having ‘other obligations’. We can figure out what to do next--for everything and anything--in the morning. For now, though, I think you deserve to get some proper rest.”

Without a word, Rynn nodded, turned, and headed toward the stable’s inn. There was still much to think about, much to talk about, and there were some parts of it that he couldn’t say he was looking forward to, but for the time being, he felt lighter than he had in a long while, almost as if he was, then and there, without fear or doubt or fright or dread, flying.

[straymackerel]

Is it still open bc if so here’s mine UwU 5. luftmensch thanks and congrats on 600 and there’ll be more to come im sure~^^

dazai + luftmensch || לופֿטמענטש (yiddish, n.) literally “air person”; someone whose head is in the clouds; an impractical, unrealistic dreamer.

➽─{ahhhh thank u liz!!! i’ve always associated this word with fun but i wanted to play with the direction teehee,,}─❥

warning(s): this is not a fairytale.

As much as you loved your boyfriend, you had ample reason to worry about your future together. Try as you might, you couldn’t overlook his innumerable faults, faults that grew more and more glaringly obvious with the lapse of time. In the grand scheme of things he was not only a heavy drinker, but also unmotivated, hobbyless, and jobless. In fact, today he was quite literally celebrating the one year anniversary of his unemployment─a cause of joy for him, but a cause of concern to you. 

You took to the sea together that afternoon, viewing it in all its glory from the safety of a cable-stayed bridge. He hummed a happy little tune having just picked up all his favorite foods from the grocery store. You buzzed at a similar wavelength, sharing in his musical delight. Together, the two of you stood in unspoken harmony, content with just watching the fishermen and ferries as they passed by. That is, up until that one nagging thought crept into your mind and out of your mouth.

“So how’s the job hunt going?” you asked, pretending to turn your focus towards the glistening of the coastal waters before you, perhaps entranced by its vastness or its blueness. To Dazai, however, your attempt at casual conversation held about as much subtlety as a sledgehammer.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me,” he said, eyes following your own to nowhere in particular. “You can think about it like this: the more time I spend out of work, the more time I can spend with you!” Your boyfriend wrapped one arm around you with marked swiftness, his other hand holding tight to a can of celebratory crab meat. You sighed into his trench coat, tugging on the tan fabric.

“It’s hard not to worry,” you mumbled, closing your eyes as you nuzzled into him. “You know things can’t stay like this forever.” 

You stiffened at the sound of your own voice. As the words slipped from your mouth, you almost wanted to side with him; you would love Dazai’s attention all to yourself, maybe even at the cost of his livelihood. You wanted his every regard to concern you and only you as he sank into your body, warmth combining with yours. You wanted to be his one object of importance as he reached for his grocery bags, lifting plastic-encased bottles of sake to eye level. For the briefest of moments you felt like you could make a home out of his embrace alone, but the sounds of clinking glass snapped you back to reality.

“Hey! Don’t you dare.” Your hand moved instinctively, making a beeline for the liquor. “You said you’d wait until we returned ho─” 

Looking your boyfriend dead-on for the first time, you noticed a small child materialize from his other side; he’d lifted his liquids out of their way, and now you were poised as if to grab them. There was a small silence as the youngster took a frozen, bewildered look at you both, as if caught in the tangible strain betwixt lovers at odds. With their hasty departure came with an awkward rumble from Dazai’s chest.

“Bella. Why so tense?” Dazai’s short-lived chuckle surrounded you with both the reverberations of his torso and the shellfish on his breath. Yet as composed as he pretended to be, his efforts were rendered useless by the beating of his heart pressed up against you, its rapid rhythm telling you a story of an unfamiliar nervousness.

On the Skywalk footpath beneath the Yokohama Bay Bridge, leaning against the railing and towards the Pacific Ocean, you realized something. You realized it as Dazai droned on, trying to explain himself in a manner that might soothe you. You realized it as he attempted to reel you back in the same as he’d done many a time before, always the moment before you got too close to the truth. His words cut in and out as you pondered your shared apprehension. You could explain your own unease, but where was his coming from..?

“...and I have connections, darling,” Dazai said as your attention returned, rapid heartbeat betraying his calm tone. “I’ll have something lined up for myself, just you wait. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.” He gave you a swift peck on the cheek, leaning back as quickly as he leaned in. And suddenly, it clicked. The warmth in your body drained at the revelation.

Because you realized that, as much as you wanted, needed his proximity, he didn’t care much for yours.

“Connections?” As far as you could tell, Dazai’s closest relationships involved you, your landlord, and the bartenders on the weeknight shift. You cringed at that word now. 'Close.' You didn’t dare pry any further as his arm snaked away from its half-hearted hold. What are you hiding from me? you asked silently, the words never quite leaving your lips. But he could sense it in your solemn stare and he backed away in turn, leaving you to bear the brunt of a gentle sea breeze turned brutal and biting.

Dazai wasn’t the foolish daydreamer he posed as, the halfwitted airhead he always pretended to be. He had secrets to keep about his past and secrets to keep about his future. Hot needles prickled your sides, the flush of embarrassment rising to your cheeks as he averted his eyes from your gaze. For just how long have you held me at a distance? 

“I’ll explain it to you someday,” he offered lamely, as if to brush off your every inquiry, voiced and unvoiced. In an ideal world, he would be looking you straight in the eye. In an ideal world, ‘someday’ would be today. But Dazai hadn’t the mind to let you in─certainly not now, and perhaps never.

“Just not today,” he said, as if to answer the most private of your thoughts. He would always see right through you, but in regards to understanding him, you would only ever scratch the surface.

--

source(s):

link i: timeline fact check

link ii: yokohama bay bridge

--

If you’re in crisis, there are free and confidential options available to help you cope.

24/7 USA National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255.

Lifeline Web Chat: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/chat/

USA/Canada Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741. It is silent, it is private, you can use it anywhere discretely on your phone.

UK: Text 85258 || Ireland: Text 50808

List of international crisis lines:

http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines

[solynaceawrites]

Wires [1] A Fresh Start

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M Fandom: Devil May Cry Relationships: Dante/Original Female Character(s), Implied Nero/Kyrie, Implied Vergil/Original Female Character(s), Implied Lady/Trish, Dante/Lirael Thorne, Dante/Lir Characters: Dante, Morrison, Nero, Original Female Character(s), Lirael Thorne, Lir Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Violence, Gore, Dark, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Serial Killers, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Summary: In Red Grave City, a serial killer stalks the streets. Lirael Thorne, recently transferred from Fortuna and looking for an escape from her past, winds up on his trail. Hunting him with her veteran partner, Dante Redgrave, they try to piece together the wires that bind the three of them together. In a race to catch him before he leaves more victims in his wake, the things thought buried will come to the surface, tearing lives and comfort apart.

»»————-　⚜　————-«« 

“Everybody has a geography that can be used for change; that is why we travel to far off places. Whether we know it or not, we need to renew ourselves in territories that are fresh and wild. We need to come home through the body of alien lands.”   — Joan Halifax

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Holding an aspirin tablet between her teeth, craving a drink, Lir listens to the clacking of the keyboard and blinks against the watery light streaming between the blinds. The office of Red Grave’s chief of police is smaller than the one in Fortuna, but neater: gone are the numerous potted plants, the maps and spreadsheets tacked to every available surface, the bookcases littered with little knick-knacks and family photographs. Those personal touches have been ignored in favor of something that is neat, organized, the little bit of warmth the room has coming from the soft bulb of the desk lamp and the mahogany of the furniture. It’s a bit of a relief, really. Sanctus had been old—too old, in the opinion of many—and took on a fatherly role that often left Lir feeling chafed and angry. At least here, going from first impressions, there will be no blurring of the line between duty and her personal life.

Seated with his back rod-straight is her new superior. A gold nameplate on the desk reads J.D. Morrison, and as he reads whatever file he’s pulled up on his monitor, Lir wonders what the initials stand for. James Dean is her first thought, and she finally crunches the aspirin, using the bitter flavor to smother her budding laughter. Sure, yeah, why not? Red Grave is a big city, and maybe Morrison’s parents had been so attached to the ill-fated actor that they’d saddled their son with his name. Certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing she’s heard of.

“Detective Thorne,” Morrison says. He opens a drawer and pulls out a cigar, which he lights in clear disregard of the signs posted on the doors to the building. “Says here you transferred out for personal reasons.”

“Yessir.” The dull throbbing behind her temples grows at the scent of smoke. “Wanted a change of scenery.”

He coughs, clears his throat. “That so? Well, we’ve had people do it for less. Though your track record . . . You seem to have been on a fast path to promotion. ” Lir says nothing. The expectant silence stretches between them until it turns uncomfortable, but she’s not in any particular mood for niceties. She has an apartment to unpack and a bitch of a headache brewing and she wants to get this introduction over with as quickly as she can. Finally, Morrison sighs, silver plumes curling through the air. “Normally, you’d get a tour and time to sort out your desk, but we got a call this morning and it’s all hands on deck. You up to fieldwork?”

His shrewd gaze rephrases that question nicely. You willing to actually work? “Sure.”

Morrison studies her for a few seconds longer, then nods and stands up, raising his voice to a shout that makes her wince. “Officer Simmons!”

A young man with untidy white hair tucked messily under his cap stumbles in. “Yes, Chief?”

“Take Detective Thorne here to the alley.” Simmons’ face pales, and Morrison barks, “Now!”

“Yes, Chief!” Simmons snaps into a hasty salute before scurrying out of the office.

Lir gives one of her own to Morrison and follows, feeling a sort of bemused pity for the officer. She’d been there once, bright-eyed and eager to please, thinking that the law enforcement they showed on television, with its friendly camaraderie and kind-yet-stern chiefs, was the truth of it. Simmons must still be clinging to that, and she pops another aspirin into her mouth and chews it as they weave through the bullpen to the doors that lead outside.

Simmons doesn’t say much, though he opens her door when they reach the cruiser, flushing under her raised brow, and his uneasy quiet persists well into the ride. Definitely fresh, Lir thinks. Probably still spit shines his shoes in the morning and tells people he’s a cop with pride.The thought is bitter, and angry, and distasteful. Not that it really bothers her anymore; her mind has been particularly not tasty as of late.

They drive through cramped, winding streets that turn unexpectedly into one-ways and cross over themselves into a maze, closed in by the dingy buildings until it all feels more than a little claustrophobic. Red Grave City is coastal, just like Fortuna, but it’s much larger, with more crime, and rumors of rampant corruption and greased pockets give it an unsavory reputation with other law enforcement agencies. Yet in stark contrast, it’s as much of a tourist hotspot as Fortuna, its historic district and scenic parks and ritzy downtown drawing numerous crowds every year, regardless of the season. Lir takes all of it in, the cafès and hotels and convenience stores fighting for space, their colorful signs and banners almost garish against the dull brick, and it’s not until they pass into a more modern area with skyscrapers of steel and glass that she decides to ask where the hell Simmons is taking her to.

“What’s in this alley?”

Simmons jumps, the wheel jerking under his hands and sending them partially over the white lines. A minivan behind them lays on the horn, and Lir watches the driver raise his middle finger as he speeds by once Simmons has corrected. “Sorry, ma’am. Uh, Detective. I thought the Chief filled you in.”

“No.” She straightens. “Just that it’s serious.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he mumbles. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.” The sight of his momentary pout sends irritation flaring hot and thick along her spine. Lir swallows it and rubs her temples. “Just crack the damn window.”

“Sure thing.” He does, and then reaches for a pack on the dash and. Drawing a cigarette from it, he says, “Call came in maybe twenty minutes before you showed up. Jane Doe found in an alley. She, uh . . . Well, it might be better for you to see for yourself, but it’s . . .” His fingers tremble as he tries to flick his lighter. Lir takes pity on him and pulls her own from her coat, and he smiles gratefully as she holds it to his cigarette, though his face is pallid and shiny with sweat. “First body?” At his nod, she sighs. “You’ve probably heard it gets easier.”

“Does it?” Simmons looks at her hopefully.

Lir snorts. “No. Eyes on the road.”

He retreats into a silence that’s not quite sullen, leaving her to her thoughts. Which mostly center around whether or not she’ll have time to find a new bar, one of the nice and private ones where no one wants to get friendly or gives a shit that she’s a cop, only that she pays her tab. When they arrive at the crime scene, Simmons stays in the car, looking ready to puke. Lir raps on the door once it’s closed and jerks her chin, signalling for him to head out, and she waits until he gives a shaky thumbs up and pulls away from the curb to head towards the yellow tape strung between a nightclub on one side and a sports bar on the other. An officer at the corner stops her until she shows her badge, then lifts the tape for her to step beneath. Immediately, she’s assaulted by the wet, mossy stench of death and viscera, and she takes the gloves and shoe covers and slides them on to buy herself time to adjust to it.

Cops swarm outside of the alley, keeping the rabid press contained. Inside, there’s only four others, three men and a woman, but Lir ignores them in favor of taking in all that she can before she’s forced to talk. Four dumpsters are present, two on each wall with the city’s waste disposal logo printed on the side; bits of trash and litter surround them: used condoms, soda cans, scraps of newspaper, all of the usual findings. There’s no spray paint graffiti, and a security camera faces out into the busy street. Maybe they’ll get something useful from it, though she doubts it. In her experience, they’re usually for show, just a weak-hearted attempt to prevent crime or a way to deter violence on the premises of businesses who host rowdy crowds.

The scenery accounted for, Lir turns her attention to the misshapen body in the center. Nude and pale, the woman is covered from chest to knee in red that’s gone black with time, her unseeing eyes staring at the sky with a terror that won’t disappear until the medical examiner closes them on the slab. She walks towards her, offal and iron making her throat constrict against nausea, and the woman kneeling next to the corpse looks up at her approach with a friendly nod. Dressed in a black jumpsuit, she’s no doubt the M.E., or someone affiliated with them, and she stays quiet as Lir kneels to fully take in the mutilation inflicted on the victim.

While the rest of her is untouched, her throat is slashed, and she’s been split open from rib to hip, the skin and muscle peeled away to reveal her organs beneath. As far as Lir can tell, nothing has been removed, but something has certainly been added: a pendant rests on top of her stomach, glistening wetly in the daylight. “I pulled it out,” the maybe-M.E. says. “Dante wanted to see it.”

“Dante?” The woman tilts her head, and Lir turns to see a man speaking quietly but furiously to two uniforms. “Uh-huh.”

“You must be the new detective. My name’s Trish.” Lir looks blankly at the hand she holds out before taking it, and Trish’s handshake is firm and cordial. “I’m the medical examiner, coroner, whatever you’d like to call me. Your stiffs go onto my slab, anyway.”

Her dry humor draws an unwilling smile from Lir. “Okay. Trish. I’m Lir, Detective Thorne, take your pick as long as it’s not Lily. What can you tell me about our Jane Doe?”

“Not much, other than the obvious.” Trish points to the wound. “This was more than likely done pre-mortem, going by the amount of blood—there wouldn’t be so much of it if she was already dead—and there are a couple of hesitation marks at her throat. But as to which of those killed her, and how long ago, why she didn’t fight back, I won’t know all of that until I take her out of here.”

Lir considers all of that. “Why do you think she didn’t resist?”

“No self-defense wounds on the hands or arms. At least, not that I can see.”

“Mm. Your guys get pictures?”

“Not yet.” Trish smiles wryly. “Chief wanted you to see it first. It’s why Dante’s giving those two a lashing, though he’s just shooting the messengers at this point.”

“Right.” Standing, Lir peels off her gloves and drops them into the bag Trish holds out to her. “Guess I should go save ‘em.”

“Good luck.”

Lir snorts as she turns. On first sight, she’s already unimpressed with the so-called Dante. He’s handsome, sure, model or film star handsome even, with his straight nose and strong jaw dusted with a five o’clock shadow, but he’s dressed like a detective from a noir novel: pinstripe trousers and a matching vest, a red tie, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, brown Oxfords polished to a dull shine. The only things that break the illusion that he’s stepped off the silver screen are the watch at his wrist, the gleaming handcuffs clipped to the back of his belt, the radio at his hip, and the Beretta in its holster next to the radio. She more than half expects him to pull out a flask from somewhere and take a swig mid-tirade, but the only time he pauses is to draw in a breath.

“—how the  hell  he expects us to carry out an investigation when he’s waiting on some country bumpkin—”     “Howdy,” Lir drawls.

He whirls on her so fiercely that she instinctively rests her hand on the butt of her own gun, her pulse roaring into her ears. Dante seems to catch himself, straightening to his full height to scowl down to her, and she’s startled by the pale, frozen blue of his eyes. “You Detective Thorne?”

She shrugs. “Country bumpkin works, too.”

Dante doesn’t have the grace to look embarrassed that she overheard him. “I’m Detective Redgrave. Yes, like the city, no, I don’t give a shit. You done lookin’ at the body?”

“Sure.”

“You hear that, Trish?” Dante hollers. “Take her out.”

Behind her, she hears the telltale metallic clatter of a gurney being placed on the ground, followed by a bit of huffing, the rasp of a zipper, and more heavy breathing and the rustling of fabric. “Are you going to give me the details or am I going to guess?”

He barks a laugh. “Morrison sent you out here blind? Doesn’t surprise me. Sure, I’ll humor you.” With a grin that’s more mocking than genuine, he says, “Call came in at 7:45. Some poor schmuck takin’ out the trash found our body and had the decency to lose his breakfast outside of the crime scene before he called. No witnesses so far, no clothing, no I.D., just—” “What about the camera?” Lir points over her shoulder with her thumb.

“Can’t get to it until the owner shows up, which, according to his staff could be anytime between noon and midnight.”

“Alright. What do you need me to do?”

Dante considers her, that cruel smile still playing at his lips. “You want to help?” She nods. “Go keep those fuckers away.”

“The press?” His expression doesn’t slip, and she shakes her head. “That’s uniform work. Send them to—”

“Either deal with them or go home. I don’t have time to hold your hand.”

Just like that, he turns away in a clear dismissal. Lir stares at his broad back, her head throbbing from the night before and the rage that’s been building since she stepped into Morrison’s office: rage at the incompetence of her former chief, at the glares that had followed her once she entered the precinct, at Simmons’ earnest naivety, at whoever butchered a woman and left her in an alley like she was no better than the trash already there, at Dante himself. It’s familiar, and choking, the same burning that’s festered within her all her life with every snide, “Are you sure you can handle that? Wouldn’t you rather answer phones and let the men handle the rest?”

Instead of giving into her urge to punch him in his smug mouth, she inhales deeply and holds it until spots dance in her vision. Then she exhales and heads towards the bright yellow tape and, beyond it, the reporters and photographers craning their necks to get a look at the violence that’s visited their city. Two steps, and cold fingers curl around her wrist, sending numbness crawling along her skin from where they touch. Lir closes her eyes, counting to ten, and then she pulls free. Only on the other side of the tape does she look back, and the sight of a woman in a red dress with pale hair staring back at her sadly, her lips moving soundlessly, is exactly what she expected.  Definitely getting a drink, she muses.

The reporters are no different from the ones Lir dealt with in Fortuna, just more persistent. She repeats the phrase, “No comment,” so many times that it begins to lose meaning to her, until a uniform comes to relieve her and she’s able to hail a taxi. But she doesn’t go back to work straight away. The cabbie drops her at a liquor store, waiting at the curb while she hurries in to buy a mini bottle of vodka and hurries back out, and she cracks it open and takes it like a shot, stowing the empty bottle in her pocket as they reach the precinct. Lir tips him double, then heads inside, and the bustling and noise is so at odds with the sullen silence of only hours ago that she nearly stops in her tracks. It’s only force of will that keeps her moving to the stairs in the back and up them, to where her desk sits just outside of Morrison’s office.

Dante is seated at the desk across from hers, a phone clamped between his face and shoulder while he writes on a notepad. Lir waits until he hangs up to say, “You’re an ass.”

“Been called worse,” he replies distractedly. “Trish’s report get in yet?”

“Not in my inbox. You got a problem with me?”

“No offense, sweetheart, but city crime is different from country crime.”

“I’m from Fortuna. Not the mountains.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure you dealt with a lot of purse snatching.”

Lir bristles. “Listen, jackass—”

“Go see Trish. See if she’s got a report yet or not.”

Her mouth hangs open. Then she stands, slamming her chair back into her desk loudly enough that Morrison looks out from his office with a frown, and stalks back the way she’d come, heading for the elevators. On one hand, she understands Dante’s shit attitude; she’s new to Red Grave, new to their force. On the other, she transferred from Homicide to Homicide, and there were enough of them in Fortuna that the sight of another isn’t going to send her running, and he’s a sour bastard with a chip on his shoulder who probably thinks he can do nothing wrong and his word is law. Which she’s only proving, she realizes, running his errands for him, and she jabs irritably at the button that will take her to the basement and the morgue. Next time he demands she do something, she’s going to tell him right where he can shove it. In the back of her mind, however, disappointment is bitter. So much, she thinks, for a fresh start.

[themagicalreads]

Journey Home (Mature/Prompt)

Rapunzel was hot despite the biting cold wind of the sea rushing outside, and it was all the captain's doing. Jack sucked at the nape of her neck as he moved against her, drawing a long moan from her lips. She ran her fingers up his back, pulling him as close to her body as she could, before moving on to his hair.

"Mmm," his mumbling was deep, husky. She tugged at his white locks to bring more out of him, and he obliged wonderfully.

"Oh, captain," she whined in pure bliss.

He pulled away from her, suddenly, eyes sinking deep inside her soul.

"Jack," she corrected herself with a small smile. He rewarded her with a smirk and his tongue slipping in smoothly beside her own. Her entire body buzzed with energy, with light and tingles and love. Pure love, and shared ecstasy.

Rapunzel tightened her bare legs around Jack's hips as they continued their rocking. Then, she gripped his pale shoulders and flipped him onto his back so she now sat atop him, in control. His chest shivered as she ran her hands across it, feeling drunk by his very presence.

This was the most ruthlessly handsome man she'd ever laid eyes upon. The youngest captain to sail the Seven Seas on a fully crewed ship. And yet he had the biggest heart she'd ever had the pleasure of knowing. One he liked to trap inside of a birdcage called his ship. The Zella. A nameless ship named after her, of every human in existence.

The way he looked at her now with heavy-lidded eyes made her question how it had taken her so long to let him in, even after he'd saved her from a life no one wished to have. It had taken him a while to break apart his cold-hearted persona to her as well, but he'd shown her vulnerability long before she could even muster to reveal hers.

He gripped her hips gently, running his hands over her thighs and back again. To places that made her insides flip completely in the most wonderful of ways.

When they were finished, Jacks head dropped against the pillow as he tried to catch his breath. After a few seconds of relishing in his sweet scent, Rapunzel sat up on his hips and brought his suddenly-distanced mind back on board with a soft finger to his chin.

"Your heads off somewhere in the moon again," she said as his ice blue eyes, warm as the sun, met her own. They were full of sadness, and love, and pain.

"Is it?"

Rapunzel nodded.

"You're beautiful."

Tingles rushed over her spine, but she ignored them, to her body's dismay. She plucked his crumpled, white, linen shirt off the bedsheets beside them and pulled it over her chest. It was much more flowy on her than it ever was on him, which was one of the reasons why she loved wearing it to bed so much. Immediately, she felt fingers playing at its hem, tugging up and down. "And you're ignoring my questions again," she told him.

Jack sighed, pulling his wandering hands away from her to palm at his eyes. "Because it's a decision I've already made. We're going for the Black Treasure."

Rapunzel shook her head in disbelief. "Everyone's gone for the Black Treasure, you and I both know it's a death trap." She lowered her palms to his stomach. "No one's caught word of the Golden Flower yet, save from us, the Sea De Vil, and the Jolly Roger. And we're the ones closest to the island, as far as word carries. It'd be stupid not to go."

Jack shifted, gently pushing at her hips until she swung off of him. While he pulled his breeches on, Rapunzel sat patiently on her legs until he grumbled: "I'm not going back to Corona. I made that clear with you before you joined the crew."

"And I haven't said a word about it in six years. It would've been longer if Nicholas hadn't told us about the sighting."

Jack shook his head again, then glanced over his shoulder at her. "It's a magic golden flower. There's no such thing."

Rapunzel smiled softly, crawling over to sit just behind his shoulder. She slid her chin down over it, wrapping her arms around his own in an embrace that set her soul of fire. "I don't believe in magic," she mocked, in a horrible imitation of his voice. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard you say, Ice Man."

"I was cursed. There's a difference."

"You've never viewed your magic as a curse before. And even if it was technically a curse, the fact that it exists is proof that this flowers' powers can very much be real, too. We can't miss the chance of someone else finding it. Imagine the gold people would pay for it—more than all the treasures we've kept and sold combined. We can treasure it, too. Keep it to ourselves."

Jack was quiet for a long moment. She knew he'd grown up on the island, same as she, but he'd never confessed why he refused so strongly to go back, and she'd never felt the right to push. She hadn't told him everything about her long years in Gothelitch either. He had a right to his own privacy as everyone else did with things that didn't involve her.

He opened his mouth to speak, finally, when a loud bang! suddenly sounded from the door. "When you two lovebirds are done rubbin' up all over each other," Merida, the Zella's master gunner, yelled from the other side, "we got somethin' out here ya might wanna see."

"Aye!" Jack answered. The both of them hurried into their own garments and out of the captain's quarters. Out on the main deck, most of the crew stood gazing at something far off to sea.

"Ya see 'im watching us too?" Hook Hand's eyes glared under the hand pressed over his brows, shielding the sun.

"I can feel 'im," Big Nose added.

"Aye, captain! First lady," Merida sauntered over, nodding to the both of them. "Sailin' master's caught somethin' on the horizon. Gettin' easier to see by the second. Aye, Haddie," she yelled out to the sky, suddenly, where Hiccup Haddock stood on the main mast. "How's it lookin' up there?"

"Definitely him!" Hiccup yelled back. "I recommend we set sail East soon, unless we want a repetition of the blood moon!"

Rapunzel glanced at Jack, whose face was still as a frozen lake. The battle on the blood moon had been a nightmare, worse than any they'd been in. The Zella usually did its best to avoid physical conflict between other ships and coastal villages—it was how other pirates got their ships sunk to the ocean's bottom so quickly in their early days of sailing, or how they lost their treasure faster than they earned it, what with all the repairs it cost 'em. The Zella was more so of a silent threat, he'd say. We were a legend, never seen, yet wielding a deadly strike.

Their run-in with the Sea De Vil hadn't been planned. Jack was usually good at tricking others and tracking their thoughts long before they even made them, but he'd made a slight miss guess on Captain Crell's plans. He hadn't expected the renovations he'd given his ship months back for faster sailing. Guess someone else caught on to Jack's tricks—when you scream your plans out for the world to hear, surprise is an impossible thing to achieve. But if you put them to motion under the cover of sealed lips and well placed coins, diverting expectations most often turns victorious.

Now, that very ship was sailing straight for them, only but a small blip on the horizon. It would take a day for them for meet up if they continued on their current route.

"He's sailing for Corona," Rapunzel told him. "Heading South. We're a bonus treasure on his path."

"We're sinking him next time we meet." Jack's voice was stiff, and incredibly determined. There was no doubt in her that his words were true—the Zella's was easily the toughest ship on the Seas. "The Jolly Roger, too."

"You really think words not going to make it to the others if we take those two down? It's a useless endeavor. They'll just cost us more gold in repair, and for what? Temporarily stopping pirates from sailing for the Golden Flower?"

Jack's lips were pressed in a neat line. She knew she was getting onto his nerves about the topic, but she was itching to head home, despite what she told him. The one thing that had kept her from dangerous thoughts after she'd been forced into white slavery was the thought of seeing her parents again. She hoped her disappearance hadn't affected their protectiveness of her sister to a point of extreme. Slavery was a common thing, but her family had cared about one another far too much to let it become an unspoken topic, she knew.

"Please," Rapunzel whispered. She knew she was being cruel, torturing him this way, but she needed to see them at least one last time. She needed to know they were okay, and that she was too.

Jack refused to look at her. The pain he was trying so hard to hide in his eyes tore her heart to pieces. What was she doing to him? She knew she was right in her talk about the flower's worth, but Corona had always been the one thing he'd refused to hear talk about.

He scowled, finally, starring deep into the horizon. "Turn the sails south," he ordered.

***

They arrived at sunrise three days later. The Coronian seas were calm as they anchored down around a mountainous bend, covering them from prying eyes.

"Everyone, ready yourselves for a quick leave," Jack announced as he marched down the main deck. "I won't be long."

The crew groaned in disagreement.

"Ya mean none of us are comin' with, save for Zel?" Merida complained. "No offence, Cap, but that's idiocy at its best."

Jack shot her a dangerous look.

"You'll need Haddie for his navigation skills. And you'll need me, for added protection, yeah? Ain't that what we usually do?"

"This isn't a usual case," Jack informed her. But Merida had never been one to give up. It was a wonder Jack bothered keeping any of this crew around, considering how much they talked back at him. Rapunzel suspected he liked it, deep down. It made their days on the ship that much more entertaining and pleasant, considering the business they were in.

"We do make a good team," Hiccup had just climbed down from his mast, ready for departure. "Zella's four heads of ship."

"Fine." Jack gave in. "Shorty! Lower two boats. We leave immediately." And immediately they did. Rapunzel found herself sitting in front of an emotionless Jack in a matter of no time. His gaze was glassy, fixed on nothing as he rowed their boat off to shore. His grip on the paddles was tight; it worried Rapunzel.

"Talk to me," she said, finally, over the sound of waves tugging them along. "What are you thinking, Jack? It's no good keeping things bottled up inside. You're not a treasure map, or a letter lost at sea."

That brought out a brief chuckle from Jack. "It's nothing."

Rapunzel frowned. "You're worse than a lady. It's not nothing."

"Doesn't matter anyway," he shrugged.

The boat scratched to a stop against the sand, but Rapunzel made no move to get out. Instead, she hopped onto Jack's lap, legs on either side of his hips, and gently pried his fingers away from each paddle. They moved to rest on her waist, only to lower back to his side. The subtle action hurt Rapunzel more than she cared to admit. She leaned forward, oh so slowly, and slipped her tongue between his lips, soothed when she felt his hands return to caress her.

"I love you," she told him.

Jack closed his eyes, gripping at her hips with each rock of the boat. "Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true."

She felt one of his hands reaching up to rub against her hair. "It'll hurt more when you leave."

Realization dawned on her suddenly—he thought she would leave the Zella as soon as they docked in Corona. His sudden failed attempts at distancing himself from her made much more sense now. From the past three days, he'd been trying to rip away his attachment to her. Rapunzel gripped Jack's neck, brushing her fingers against the hair at his nape. "I just want to visit them," she clarified. "I want us all to know we're okay—that I am, now. The Zella's my new home, captain."

Relief flooded over Jack's face, something he was brief to show. A smirk suddenly found its way back to his lips. "Bad girl."

Rapunzel smiled against his lips, warmth swelling inside of her. "Forgive me, sweet, sweet, Jack."

"Aye!" Merida yelled from somewhere off to their left. She and Hiccup had just arrived. "Got a magic flower to find, eh?"

Hiccup chimed in, "Nicholas mentioned it was somewhere by—"

"I know where it is," Rapunzel interrupted, joining up with the others. She looked at them almost guiltily. "I might have done some of my own research after Nick clued us in. If I read the riddles right, it's on top of a hill just out of town. Oh no!" Rapunzel patted at her dress. "I drew a map of how I remembered the island! I was so excited, I must've forgot it on the ship, but that's alright," she was quick to add, grinning at Jack. "We can grab one in town—it'll be much more accurate, and we can visit my family on the way!"

"Sounds like a plan, Zel," Merida agreed, happily.

"If they're as sweet as you, we should invite them on the crew," Hiccup added, only to earn an elbow to the gut from Merida.

They all laughed, save from Jack. "I'm not going," he told them.

"Oh, but they'd love you!" Rapunzel insisted. She was quick to give up her attempts at convincing, however. She knew could do it, he'd crack in a few minutes time, but the trick in gaining a silver tongue was to know when not to push. Jack never wanted to go back home in the first place. Something must have happened in town—something he didn't want to remember. He could meet her family another time, then. "We'll meet back here in half an hour," she told Jack once they'd reached the main bridge.

"Make it an hour," Jack said, but Rapunzel shook her head, keeping it at half. If she spent too much time with the family, she might forget how strongly she loved being at sea.

She might want to stay.

Rapunzel pressed a kiss onto Jack's cheek in goodbye. Then, she followed an ecstatic Merida and Hiccup down the bridge.

Corona was just as beautiful as she remembered, with his big, brick building, and sunny flag. She'd been caught after wandering too far on the outskirts when she was but a seven year old girl. She'd spent another seven in the grips of white slavery, where dirty men used her in ways no child or adult should ever be used. When Jack had stopped by Gothelitch in search for the islands solid gold tooth box, he'd had a run-in with the head of operation, Sir Black. Merida had been the one to spot her first, and she'd convinced Jack to unleash the crew of the Nameless to free our group of imprisoned girls. They'd succeeded, to her surprise, despite them only having been in the pirate business for barely over a year—he'd started when he was but fourteen, Rapunzel's age at the time.

If she hadn't been so curious, she never would have left Corona. She never would of met Jack, or Merida, or Hiccup, or even the rest of the crew. She was grateful for everything that had happened to her, in a way, but she still had nightmares of her time in Gothelitch. The town itself was lovely, but it had been tainted by her reason for being there.

Hiccup located a map easily. Finding Rapunzel's parents had been harder but, with a lot of asking around, they finally found themselves before an old brick home. Her parents looked the same as she pictured, but little Poppilia was almost her height. She was seventeen now, almost a grown woman, just like Rapunzel. It hurt her to know she'd missed out on watching her grow up, on creating memories only a big sister could give her. Still, her sadness gave way to relief at knowing they were still safe and okay.

"Where have you been?" Her mother asked after many hellos.

Rapunzel briefly explained what had happened to her, sparing them of the awful detail. Only she would bare that burden. "I've been sailing on the Zella since," she concluded. But instead of pure joy at her safety, her family looked fearsome.

"Doesn't Captain Jack own that ship?" Poppy asked, worry etched on her brow.

"Yes," Rapunzel smiled. "He's the most wonderful man."

Her father turned to her mother. "He was an Overland, wasn't he? Left at thirteen. I remember him."

"Oh, Punzel!" Her mother sighed, taking her shoulders. "Stay with us! Please, it's so good to have you back. We'll protect you from that man." Her green eyes flicked to Merida and Hiccup, standing a few paces behind Rapunzel. "Your friends too, they're absolutely free to stay."

Rapunzel's brows formed a neat V as she pushed one of her mother's hands free of her shoulder. "I can't stay," she told them, expecting sadness, instead of the worry they all suddenly wore in their eyes. "But I'll visit. I promise."

She made to move away when her father suddenly reached for her wrist. "Sweetheart, please! Don't go back to that devil! He'll flay you, just like he did his family!"

Rapunzel stilled. She saw her friends do the same as well—except they weren't watching her father.

They were watching her.

"What?" Rapunzel asked her father.

"The boy murdered his entire family, an older sister and two younger brothers. Then the coward had the sense to run away and get himself into that pirate business. No one's dared chase after him, not after everything he's done."

Rapunzel's head spun wildly, a headache blooming at her temple. When she turned to Merida and Hiccup, she found them completely unsurprised by the news she just been given. It was true, then. Jack had killed his own family. That explained why he ran away—why he didn't want to come back.

Rapunzel ripped her wrist out of her father's grip. There was an explanation, there had to be! Jack wasn't a monster. But why hadn't he told her what he did? Why hadn't he...?

She stormed out of Corona, ignoring her family's pleading calls. Merida and Hiccup said nothing, but she was pleased to hear they were struggling to follow her quick pace.

"Explain!" She yelled at Jack when she found him hanging by the bridge. Tears already stained her cheeks, but she didn't attempt to wipe them away. She could see it on his face, then, the horrified realization that she knows. Rapunzel knew what he'd been trying so hard to hide from her.

"I..." he started, but failed to continue.

"Your own family!" Her yells were drawing attention from the townsfolk, but she couldn't stop, couldn't stop it with the utter pain radiating through her.

"Not to interrupt," Hiccup hesitantly started, "But can we talk about this while—"

"It's there!" Rapunzel jammed her finger over a spot his open map. "Go find your damn flower!"

Red tainted Hiccup's cheeks, sending a rush of guilt swishing through her stomach. He and Merida rushed off without another word. She'd apologize to them after—they'd done nothing wrong. This had been Jack's secret to share, and he'd failed to do so. "Why?"

His blue eyes flashed. He glanced around them quickly. Then, he took her elbow and led her behind a nearby stand. She should have felt afraid, but he was so familiar. She'd trusted him far too much, and now her body couldn't even be afraid of him.

"It was... It wasn't me," he explained. "I mean, it was, but it wasn't. Not really."

Rapunzel lip quivered. "You're not making much sense."

Jack let go of her elbow and turned away from her. He rubbed a hand through his hair, pulling. Finally, they dropped tiredly to his sides. "It happened after the curse," he whispered. "I stole from the wrong lady. She was talking gibberish to me, saying how she was gonna curse me and all that. Thought she was just rattling out stuff that she knew would scare a normal kid." He shook his head, deep in memory. "I ran back home. Went to sleep thinking my brothers would have the laughs of their lives after I told them about what happened tomorrow." His shoulders shook, but Rapunzel couldn't hear him crying. "I woke up in the middle of the night. All I remember is sitting in the backyard, looking at—at their bodies, all—"

Rapunzel's hand betrayed her. She placed it over his shoulder in comfort, and he turned his face toward her in reflex. They were tear-filled; he had been crying after all. "You don't have to—"

"I flayed them alive. Probably did more, too, seeing how frostbitten they looked. I don't remember anything other than sitting in the yard looking at them. And then running for the fastest boat off land. I knew even then that nothing I could do would bring em' back."

Rapunzel could feel her heart wrenching, twisting harshly at the memory. How horrible must it have been to live with such a sight engrained in your mind? And she'd thought she'd experienced scarring things.

Frostbitten. It explained why he'd refused to use his powers during her first years on board. It took three entire years for them to become close friends, for Rapunzel to develop a crush she hadn't known he returned until that evening in the ship's stores when they'd gotten closer than usual. "Can I kiss you?" He'd asked, face only inches from hers. He had her pressed against the wall as soon as she'd whispered, "Yes." But the flashes of her past still haunted her, then. More than they did now that she knew she was safe. It had taken her long to let him share more than simple kisses in the shadows with her.

It had taken him just as long to give in to Rapunzel's constant encouragement for him to make use of his powers.

"Did you ever try pursuing the witch?" She asked him. "Maybe she would have known how to reverse it."

Jack bobbed his head up and down. "She was Black's mistress in Gothelitch."

Betrayal bloomed inside Rapunzel like a poisoned flower. "That's why you came to the island. To the house. To get your revenge on the Great Dame. You weren't planning on saving us at all, were you?"

Jack looked away, and Rapunzel slid her hand off of him. "Please," he begged, suddenly, looking back at her with widened eyes. His hand had quickly found its way to the crook of her elbow. "The crew really did want to get you girls out of there after we made it. I did. You know I would never lie to anyone on board, especially not you."

Rapunzel closed her eyes as his palm reached her jaw. He pet a thumb against her cheek, sending sparks running through her skin with every stroke. "I wouldn't of hated you if you'd told me," she whispered. "I could never hate you."

"You should," he whispered back. "You really should."

"Jack," Rapunzel opened her eyes. "It wasn't your fault. What you did. Your heart's as good as the Gods above, it was the curse that—"

"There he is!"

Rapunzel twisted fast toward the street, where Poppy stood pointing with a guard at her side. Fear shot through her heart—Jack was not welcome on this island, that much was clear to her now. "Run!" He pulled him away with her, just as a gunshot sounded. Its smell soured the air around them as they ran to shore, fast as their legs could take them. More gunshots came as they found their way to their boat and started rowing. Rapunzel watched as they pulled Merida and Hiccup's boat off shore—they'd have to come find them later.

Then, one last gunshot fired, and it had its eye on Jack's back. He lurched forward as Rapunzel cried out. "Hold it!" She told him, taking charge of the rowing. Her arms were already starting to burn from the pull, but she was glad to see Jack finally do what he was told. "Rip my skirts," she added.

Despite his situation, Jack still managed to smirk. "I don't think now's the time for that, princess."

"Rip my skirts," she said again. "Use it to cover the wound until we get on deck"

"Princess," Jack struggled to hum again in her lap. He was silent for a moment as he tried and failed to move himself upward. "I can't feel my right hand, and my thigh's going numb."

Rapunzel was breathing hard, sweat beading at her brow. She rowed faster. "What?" She said, looking down at him. "You—no. No, you'll be alright." She stopped rowing, suddenly, and helped him into a sitting position at the bottom of the boat, despite his protests. She wasn't strong enough to tear the fabric of her skirts, so she made sure he kept his left sleeve against the open would while she took Jack's previous place and worked all of her energy into rowing. "You'll be alright," she kept telling him.

But the both of them knew he wouldn't be.

"The Golden Flower has healing magic, doesn't it?" Rapunzel asked.

"It'll be too late," Jack answered.

"No," she insisted. "I'll hop on a boat with Vladimir as soon as we get back. We'll tie a second one with us and carry it along for Merida and—"

"No, Zella." Jack's voice was stern, decisive. It left no room for argument. "We're going back for them, just not now. They're smart enough to hold out on their own."

"Jack," Rapunzel's voice was weak, broken. The bullet had hit his spinal cord. He was being forced to succumb to paralysis, something she couldn't imagine would ever be easy for Jack to bare, considering how active he always was. He'd realized it, too, she knew. How horrible must he be feeling, knowing his fate? And after everything he'd gone through.

It wasn't fair.

Nothing was fair.

Rapunzel cried out for the crew as soon as they were close enough to the Zella. Nothing was fair, that was true, but from now on, she vowed, she would make sure to make that very saying as untrue as she could.

[setoandjewel]

In Plain Sight

Story: Non-canon. A soulmate AU of my own creation, where soulmates dream of their future with each other, but wake up with no memory of the event. For the lucky ones, simply seeing a person can trigger their memory, but others they need a specific voice, touch, or other sense. Sometimes in combination. 

Story + Author’s Notes under the cut (because it’s 2000 words almost) And I’ve been warned not to do this but thank you @blametheeditor​ for the inspiring idea that started this out!

Also the header is Your Name because it’s kinda Soulmate purity...and I made no art so..

Going out on a coastal walk that turned into around a few hours of hiking left them both tired and sore, so when the idea of using his chest as a heat pack was presented there was no way it would be denied. Sure, Seto did most of the tough walking with Jewel being able to perch on his shoulder, but every so often she’d choose to walk alongside the black Converse that sent thumps like earthquakes and threatened to make her fall.

They'd been friends for so long, and been getting a little closer over the years, so the action wasn't too far out of either of their comfort zones - otherwise, it wouldn't have gone down too well - even if they weren't Soulmates. As soon as the Anhemite stretched out on her best friend and realised how comfortable he was, there was no going back.

[b] "I never took you for a cat, Jewel."

The Japanese man had commented, to which she punched the floor beneath her and rolled over a little so she couldn’t see his big dumb eyes, focusing instead on the feed he idly scrolled through and searched for anything interesting. It was boring, to say the least, but at least the Anhemite wasn’t walking anywhere.

As Jewel found her body relaxing to the point where moving anything besides her eyes felt like a chore, she wondered about the possibility of her Soulmate visiting her tonight if she did sneak a cheeky nap on the giant. The rush of fear appearing at whoever it was thinking that she and Seto had abandoned what was tried and true and forged their own relationship - leaving two people alone without the hope of love - instead of seeing them as the best friends they were.

Because the giant laughing along to a video of someone accidentally exploding their backyard was her best friend, no Soulmates here. Or…to be honest, they should’ve figured it out already.

In their world, a Soulmate was a physical being that anyone could find and live with, in harmony with each other, showing and receiving the love and support that anyone would need. The perfect match for any one person.

The only problem was, she could only be with her Soulmate while he slept, and the same for whomever her destined partner was, as soon as one of them awoke, the connection was broken. The dreams started sporadically for everyone, but once you got one, you were bound to get it again. It was roughly two weeks from one dream to the next. One night where you and your soulmate connected through sleep, and you could see your future days together and faint memories of the waking world around them.

And, of course, the cruel twist was that she couldn’t remember who they were or what they did.

Jewel remembers more than most; being close to them somehow, and there was something to do with a captain, but any specific features of their face are a blur. She doesn’t even know if they’re a man or woman.  Déjà vu was her only chance… getting the sense that she’d seen something before. And even then, she hadn’t sparked in a while.

The Anhemite sighed as she pushed herself up, arms shaking a little from exertion before she managed to stand, brushing her hair back as she took one step only to have a hand block her path.

“Where are you going?”

Seto cocked his head down at the figure, once so calm and happy and now seeming like something was bothering her without him saying anything in-between. A poke to her side has his finger claimed, the digit curling around like a friend’s arm in a hug in the want to know what was wrong. She wrapped her arms around it, looking down as she rocked on her feet uncomfortably.

“Just…thinking about Soulmates. If I went to sleep and mine saw me with…well you.”

“They’ll know we’re just friends. And if they’re /that/ jealous of me without knowing me than maybe they aren’t the right one for you.

“Or…”

The giant only rolled his eyes as the rest of his fingers curl around to hold her tight, phone turned off as his other hand came beneath her so she was not just dangling when he lifted her up to his reassuring brown gaze to see her better, back against the arm of the chair instead of lying flat. Watch the sharp features break into a smile as she looked over the expression almost too close to be read with a pout, trying to determine what Seto’s thinking.

“Or?”

“Or I stick a sign on me that says ‘Don’t Worry, I’m Her Friend’. And ‘you have to be soulmates with both of us’.”

He finished with a burst of laughter, recoiling from the tiny slap to his nose as Jewel wriggled out of his grip to jump onto his shirt, grinning up at the giant looking bewildered at his empty hands. Jewel attempted to scramble her way down and away before hands fell from the sky and attempt to pin her.

“My Soulmate is mine.”

“Fine. But, what about your DOMS?”

At that, a treacherous fold of the shirt sent her tumbling headfirst down his chest, yelling out as she rolled and her tender muscles thumped painfully against the ground.

When the human finally stopped, her legs were in the air and she frowned up to the looming smile that shone like the sun, huffing as the fingertips pinched and righted her. It didn’t take long for the bravado to melt as she rubbed her aching calves in an attempt to soothe them

“My DOMS tells me to stop moving…” Jewel groaned, gritting her teeth as Seto scoops her up once more only to press her into his stomach, lying on top of a hoodie pocket she had made he perch too many times. She gazes up to find the smile is no longer so triumphant and is more concerned. Displaying the man who would always take care of her.

“Then you snuggle up here, and let me massage.”

The Anhemite tapped her chin as she thought it over, before stretching out and nodding. She’d never really done this before…the idea of being massaged by him was something new, but something she was eager to try to get rid of the pain. Maybe it was because they’d never hiked together, or she never really got too much pain. They met and for a long time it was just talking to a fence that separated their borderline districts, then calling and texting, then finally seeing each other.

“As long as it’s not the Ancient Technique of the Drumming of the Fingers.”

A hurt look was displayed as Seto moved his hands closer to her, pretending to crack his knuckles before gently tapping her back with his thumbs, looking for a tight spot. Definitely not ignoring the look that says he’s just drumming his fingers, inviting the woman to wait a little bit. He didn’t want to touch her legs or anywhere that he thought she’d object to, and once he’d found a spot that seemed tense, gave it some pressure before dragging a bit down her back. Jewel only yawned up to the giant looking expectant.

“What is this, the-“

“Ancient Technique of the Patting of the Cat.”

“Thought so.”

There were no objections, only a content sigh that said the combination of heat and massage was quite soothing. So Seto continued, feeling the tension slowly disappear as Jewel relaxes and the pain leaves her, stroking the one spot before he moves on to her other shoulder blade, slowly massaging the tension of the day’s exercise away. The motion is continuous and slow, allowing the Japanese man to relax and stare up at the ceiling, thoughts on what his smaller companion had said about Soulmates.

He too had one, and he too visited them in dreams, as everyone did. A few times in his life he had thought he felt the spark of a familiar face, a familiar voice but every time it seemed he was mistaken. Told that they didn’t match any of the other’s dreams, that they had already found their soulmate…or that they weren’t even looking. Man, woman, older, younger, it already seemed like he’d been through it all on his search for the person of his dreams…it always seemed like he was dumped to the curb after every rejection.

But Jewel was always there to listen to his 7th first date that consisted of nothing more than a mumbled “Hello, I think-“ for the other to turn him away. It was why she made him forget about Soulmates sometimes, and appreciate the friendship he already had. Even now when he heard her quiet breathing, the occasional chuckle from her hidden thoughts, that’s all he needed. To mess around with her just like the good old days, when no-one cared.

He was relaxed too, sighing as his worries disappeared like they always did when she could distra-

Something sparked. Like a beacon of fire was lit in his memory, triggered something to shoot a memory from the fog. Have it processed into a conscious thought that made Seto blurt:

“I’ve done this before.”

[i] A thumb stroking her spines...

Jewel raised her head hearing a rumbling murmur from up above, finding Seto staring straight ahead like a deer in headlights, frown creasing his brow. The massage had ceased, his thumb resting in the centre of her back like two blankets had piled over her.

“Hmm?”

The giant doesn’t say anything, watching everything come together like a picture behind his eyes. Appearing like a ghost at a bedside that holds a human-sized woman, and crouching down beside her with his chin on the soft sheets just to see her face. Wide eyes blinking at the sleeping form as he gingerly pushes at her shoulder, seeing it has no effect. Laughing and commenting that she shouldn’t have eaten so much.

Being with her those quiet nights, and her being with him. Running his finger over her back and feeling bumps, like spines, running right down the centre. Seeing her stand before him with wonder, looking up as she blows a kiss before going to work. Eating dinner as she tossed a noodle.

B-But…they were friends, not Soulmates. They didn’t kiss or sleep together, Jewel only really liked to lay on him when she was tired. What if this ruined everything they had painstakingly created; the trust and the familiarity and the feeling like they were there for each other as comrades in a war.

But he’d found her.

But she clearly hadn’t found him!

No.

Yes.

No!

“Seto?”

With a blink Seto snapped out of it, looking down to see the form beneath his thumb starfished out on his stomach, not-so-gently tapping his thumb to tell him to get on with it while half-lidded green eyes stare up in confusion.

“Shh, go back to sleep. I’ll tell your soulmate how it works when he gets here.”

The giant hides the pure joy when Jewel flops back down with a smile, a weight he never knew he had lifting off his shoulders.

Because she enjoys being stroked by him.

And now Seto knows it’s all he ever dreamt about wanting to do.

Author’s Note

Alright, my AU might not be the /best/ but I really love it with the Seto and Jewel being friends when I’ve written them mostly about Sewel as a ship. The idea I had for why Jewel never actually noticed was that her dreams started after she met Seto, and they had time to become friends before she began to drift a little because of longing for a Soulmate.

His face would be so familiar to her by them, any time she might’ve dreamt about him she’d write it off, because they were /friends/ and it makes sense that her brain might stick him in there. 

But otherwise, I hope you like it!

[dweemeister]

Best Live Action Short Film Nominees for the 92nd Academy Awards (2020, listed in order of appearance in the shorts package)

Since 2013 on this blog, I have been reviewing the Oscar-nominated short films for the respective Academy Awards ceremony. Normally, the Oscars are held on the last Sunday in February and we, the moviegoing public, are given more than a few weeks to seek out the nominated films. Not this year, as the ceremony was held at the earliest date ever (it reverts back to its usual starting date, the last Sunday in February, for the next two years starting in 2021).

There’s already been a winner in this category, but nevertheless here are the five nominated films for Best Live Action Short Film. Congratulations to Tunisia for two of the five entries, but all these shorts reflect the cinematic democracy that are the short film categories.

A Sister (2018, Belgium)

Also known by its original French title, Une soeur, A Sister is directed by Delphine Girard. It is the only piece among its fellow nominees that could be envisioned only as a short film. As such, its sixteen-minute runtime requires succinctness, the filmmaking as tightly wound as a clock. Late at night, a woman named Alie (Selma Alaoui) is sitting in the passenger seat asking the man (Guillaume Duhesme) for a cell phone so she can call her sister. We hear the first few seconds of this phone call. The screen cuts to black; next, we see a bustling room with numerous people gazing into computer screens, speaking to various people over headsets. We soon realize that Alie is dialing for an emergency call center. She is being kidnapped, and does not recognize the highway they are driving on. The operator (Veerle Baetens), confused by Alie’s coded language at first, eventually intuits what exactly is going on.

Alie and the operator exercise caution during these precarious minutes, as A Sister unravels in its teeth-grinding escalation of tension. Girard notes that the inspiration for A Sister came when she heard of a story of a young American woman calling 911, pretending that she was calling her sister – “it was the story of building a story of empathy and sorority that inspired [Girard].” Through meticulous research about protocols during emergency services calls that included interviews with said operators (who also made suggestions about draft screenplays), A Sister accomplishes a dramatic urgency that films with similar goals but last far longer never reach. The clever chronological edit in the film’s opening minutes contribute to that escalation; so too the decision to shoot from the backseat, obscuring Alie’s face to make the audience rely almost entirely on vocal delivery to understand her desperation and his paranoia (although the darkness of the surroundings can leave audiences confused in the opening minutes about who or what we are looking at). Not a second of A Sister is a wasted one.

My rating: 9/10

Brotherhood (2018, Tunisia/Canada/Qatar/Sweden)

Having made its rounds across the international film festival circuit, Meryam Joobeur’s Brotherhood is an international cross-stitch of a short film serving as an expression of Joobeur’s Tunisian roots. The film’s tragic outcome and dour tone throughout make is akin to Greek drama, where the ending feels predetermined and the characters – in what makes them essential – barely evolve. In a coastal, rural Tunisian town, a married couple and their two youngest sons make their living as sheep farmers. The landscape is rugged, their lives simple. One day, the eldest son – who has been missing for more than a year – returns home. With him is his teenage wife, wearing a full niqab, pregnant, and instantly attracting suspicion from the father. The eldest son and his wife met in Syria, where the former joined the so-called Islamic State (referred to by everyone else in the family by its acronym, Daesh – considered an insult to those affiliated with ISIS) out of desperation to flee his implicitly abusive father.

Brotherhood is indulgent in its languor, sometimes hanging onto certain shots well beyond necessary. Long cuts are welcome in cinema to allow the audience to meditate about what has just occurred; their emotional and philosophical implementation in Brotherhood is inconsistent. A constant use of close-ups and the film’s 4:3 screen aspect ratio reflect each parents’ stubbornness that their opinions about their situation is correct, that the eldest son’s belief that he is morally unblemished (he professes not to have killed, nor having been an accessory to killing another). The near-complete use of natural lighting - the overcast skies, the orange hues of older electric lights – lends the film authenticity. Joobeur, a Montreal-based filmmaker, has stated that she made Brotherhood to reclaim the humanity that the Muslim world has lost to the West since 9/11. From the red hair of the brothers, the ambiguity of the eldest son’s time in Syria, to the dramatic irony that closes the film, Brotherhood always challenges those views that Joobeur wishes to reclaim.

My rating: 7.5/10

The Neighbors’ Window (2019)

Marshall Curry is principally a documentary feature producer (2005′s Street Fight, 2017′s A Night in the Garden). The Neighbors’ Window, which he directed, is only his third narrative short film and, unfortunately, the final product is indicative of that – he has directed a handful of documentary features and shorts, but the techniques and lessons learned there are not always congruent to narrative short films. Here, mother Alli (Maria Dizzia) and father Jacob (Greg Keller) are New Yorkers with young children (early grade school and preschool age) who have settled into what they both feel has become a monotonous lifestyle. One evening, they see through their apartment window that, across the street, a younger couple have just taken up residence. Without pulling down any blinds and in their erotic euphoria, the younger couple start unpackaging (and this has nothing to do with moving boxes). Like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window (1954) but without the murder, Jacob and especially Alli will occasionally peer into their new neighbors’ apartment to voyeuristically observe.

The Neighbors’ Window has little to say beyond its assertion the grass is always greener on the other side – it pains me to have written such a cliché. Other than basic editing, this is a film devoid of any aesthetic experimentation or narrative interest. The film’s plot twist, inspired by a true story heard on the podcast Love + Radio, is not strengthened by the lackluster acting. The supposed emotional catharsis that should emerge in the film’s final moments is simplistic – redeemed neither by said acting or the film’s questionable screenplay. It is, at worst, tasteless. The premise of The Neighbors’ Window is indeed worthy of cinematic treatment – perhaps even as a feature – but Curry is not up to the task.

My rating: 6/10

Saria (2019)

It is a fine line between politically-tinged narrative/documentary filmmaking and agitprop. Bryan Buckley’s Saria, a dramatization of the events that led to the deaths of 41 girls between fourteen and seventeen years old in a 2017 Guatemala orphanage fire, almost becomes exactly that. Saria (Estefanía Tellez) and her elder sister Ximena (Gabriela Ramírez) are orphans at the La Asunción Safe Home. It is a safe home only in name, as Saria, Ximena, and the many other girls housed in the orphanage are victims of staff abuse or human trafficking. Saria and Ximena dream of a life far from the girls’ dormitory at the orphanage, and there have been mumblings about a joint plan between the boys and girls at the orphanage to cause a diversion in order to begin an escape, en masse, on foot, to the United States. Given that Saria is based on a tragedy, there is only one resolution possible.

However, despite being confined to that horrific ending, the film endows its two central characters with distinct personalities and aspiration to the extent that it can. In its twenty-two minutes, Saria not only depicts the squalor and prison-like conditions of the safe home, but the desperate humanity of its subjects – as if taking a page from Italian neorealism, this film has orphaned children playing orphaned children, but the direction and writing behind their performances can be frustrating. Saria is somewhat hampered by its editing, as the emotional impact of the escape scene to the film’s final minutes feel rushed. The film’s pre-closing credits reveal – that Saria is indeed based on actual events and no one has ever been held accountable for the deaths of the forty-one girls – is harmed because of the film’s prosaic editing.

My rating: 8/10

Nefta Football Club (2018, Tunisia/France/Algeria)

On its face, Yves Piat’s Nefta Football Club – another transnational production set in Tunisia – has all the hallmarks of a film that spirals into a disastrous conclusion. Yet what instead transpires is a witty comedy that mostly adopts the point of view of its two child protagonists. Near the Tunisian-Algerian border, Mohamed (Eltayef Dhaoui) and Abdallah (Mohamed Ali Ayari) are soccer-obsessed brothers bickering over who is the best player in the world: Lionel Messi or Riyad Mahrez (personally, I have never heard Mahrez in that conversation, but noting that he is Algerian and almost certainly the greatest Middle Eastern or North African player in history, this sounds like a realistic conversation). While heading home, the boys encounter a donkey wearing headphones and carrying bags of white powder. They take the “laundry detergent” home for their mother, with the intention to sell the rest to their neighbors. Somewhere in the desert, two men are waiting for their delivery donkey to arrive.

Don’t worry, those two men will never have a clue whatever became of their delivery. Piat came up with the idea for Nefta Football Club while recalling childhood memories of him and his friend sneaking out of their house at night, finding white powders that they believed to be illicit materials, and dumping all of this into a body of water. Nefta Football Club showcases a loving, hilarious relationship between elder and younger brother, as well as the perspective divides of the eldest brother’s teenage calculation and the younger brother’s innocence. Their life station is never fully explored, nor is it ignored by Piat. Piat’s screenplay – based on believable misunderstandings that are based on the characters’ personalities – is well-executed, as evidenced by its fantastic final punchline.

My rating: 8/10

^ Based on my personal imdb ratings. Half-points are always rounded down.

From previous years: 85th Academy Awards (2013), 87th (2015), 88th (2016), 89th (2017), 90th (2018), and 91st (2019).

[jewels2876]

Playing with Fire - Part Two

A/N: I did it! For those that asked I did a part two - I also worked it in with my @star-spangled-bingo card and the lovely @shield-agent78‘s writing challenge!  

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OC Aria Pierce Square filled: Wounded in Battle Photo Prompt from @shield-agent78

Word Count: 1431 Warnings: some violence – French language used

Part One

*Present*

“Aria, let’s settle this,” Steve’s anger was apparent. Aria gave him a smirk, and then leveled her gun at him.

“Avec plaisir.”

“On va voir.”

*Two Months Ago*

Aria had been giving Steve a good cat-and-mouse game. She would pop up in the most random of places and try to goad Steve into a fight, teasing him with ideas of Bucky’s whereabouts. Steve always had Sam at his back, trying to keep him levelheaded and focused on the real task. Sam silently analyzed Aria’s attempts, knowing how much she was getting to Cap and hoping he could glean any information to help his new best friend.

“Steve, Bucky’s been such a pet,” Aria gloated last time. “He’s been so well trained by HYDRA; the kills just get easier and easier.”

Steve held his jaw tight, the tick evident. Sam threw Aria a withering glare. “We WILL find him.”

Her delicate laugh belied the cold heart beneath. “Mr. Wilson, you seem to have such high hopes! I really, REALLY want to see both of your faces when he hunts you down. Sooner than later, I believe.” She gave a mock salute then turned on her heel and ran.

Steve released his jaw to yell in frustration; the nearby wall had a fist-sized hole as the drywall fell in flakes. “How does she…?”

“Don’t worry about her Steve,” Sam calmly laid a hand on Steve’s left shoulder. “Let’s just worry about tracking Bucky. Based on my last coordinates and the lack of intel at the moment, we can go back to Romania and start from there. Or…”

“No,” Steve whispered. He hunched his shoulders. “I can’t do this right now Sam. I can’t...” Steve shook his head, willing the hope to come back, wishing this hunt would be over.

*

Just when Steve was ready to give up hope, noise of the Winter Soldier at the Kenyan border put both Steve and Sam on high alert. “Do we have anyone in the area?” Steve spoke low into his phone.

“Not that I know of,” Natasha replied. “There’s not much of anything there on my map, so why is Barnes interested?” Steve looked down at the map Sam shoved into his view. It seemed like nothing but dense jungle forest. “Ya got me, Nat.”

“I’ll text you if I hear anything more,” Nat hung up. Sam looked at Steve. “Africa it is.”

*

“Could he have picked some place with MORE heat?” Sam mumbled. The new gear Nat had sent did little to cool him off; the red metal goggles matched his wings and retained the rising temperatures making them uncomfortable. Steve kept his eyes moving as he drove the Jeep along the outskirts of the jungle ahead. “Cap, I don’t see anything but trees from up here. I’m coming down.”

Sam glided down next to the Jeep before coming to a full stop. Steve idled, waiting for Sam to slide into the passenger seat. The guys exchanged glances. “Are we going in?” Sam asked. Steve looked towards the trees, pondering their choices. Yelling drew both men’s attention further down the tree line. A glint shown and Steve’s heart leapt in his chest. Hope surged as the glint became stronger and the silver arm with the red star emerged, dark hair and camo following in its wake.

Gunfire erupted from Bucky’s CZ Vz. 61 E Skorpion as he aimed haphazardly into the trees. He stilled before turning to face Steve and Sam. Sam had his Steyr SPP raised, pointed directly at Bucky’s head. Steve kept his hands clear and raised as he spoke, sliding out of the Jeep. “Bucky, it’s me. Steve.”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” he sneered. He directed his weapon at Sam. “Not that I care.”

“Bucky, don’t do this. Come with us; we can fix this.”

“Stop!” Bucky’s eyes went wild and he took a step forward. The black paint around his eyes hid the grey-blue Steve remembered. Steve halted, a frown etching his face. “Bucky,” he whispered low, tears forming against his will. Bucky took another step, keeping his weapon raised. Then without warning turned and ran back into the jungle.

Sam had done everything he could think of to keep Steve from throwing himself headlong after Bucky. “Steve come on, we can’t help him if we don’t know where we’re going.” Steve eyed the jungle’s edge one last time before turning to Sam. “Steve, come on. We need to regroup, plan a new strategy. We can get him back.” Sam half-dragged Steve back into the Jeep and drove off. He pulled out his phone as the terrain smoothed out in front of them. “Nat, we need a place to crash. What ‘cha got on hand?”

*

The coastal waters of Greece were cool but enticing. Sam dipped a toe into the gentle waves and sighed. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know how Nat found this hideaway in the middle of Santorini but he wanted to thank them.

Steve sat in the wooden chaise staring into the sun. Smothered from head to toe in sunscreen, he looked like any other tourist. If any other tourist there looked like they had lost their best friend, still haunted by the memories of what used to be. Sam took a seat in the sand. “Steve, just a few more days. We can do this.”

“Oh dear, I do hope you don’t mean this pathetic hunt,” a low sultry voice teased. Her skin was golden tan, her hair highlighted by the sun, as she dropped her gaze over her black sunglasses. “I’ve spent a good part of my vacation making sure Bucky was sent back to the States to take care of,” she glanced at the phone in her hands, “Natasha is it?”

Steve didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked on the horizon. Natasha can hold her own, he knew; he witnessed it back in DC. Don’t let Aria get to me, he repeated in his head.

Sam rolled his eyes at the blonde in front of him. “What it is it with you Pierces? Honestly, I’m starting to think you’re all talk. You show up, you talk a good game, and then you run off. Not very threatening in my book.”

Aria rolled her eyes and put her hands behind her back, before unleashing her favorite Glock 19. Pointing right at Steve’s head, she turns to Sam. “Mr. Wilson, I kindly ask that you not speak ill of my family. All families can be…,” she thought a moment, “They can have their differences. You are not to speak badly about them. That’s my job.” Sam sat still. Aria heaved a dramatic sigh and put the gun back where it came from. “Look, just give me a moment and I’ll be out of your hair. I need to get in touch with my assassin anyway.” She nodded curtly at the two and sauntered off.

Sam and Steve both watched her walk away. “If she wasn’t such a crazy bitch, she’d be hot,” Sam joked. “Strike that, she’d be hotter.”

A day later, Nat checked in. “Bucky was definitely here; tried to get into Stark Industries but no one knows why. Gave Tony a chance to test run his nanotech and Veronica but Bucky left as quickly as he came. Any word on your end?”

Steve answered, “Ran into Aria, or rather she ran into us. Made a big deal about Bucky ‘taking care’ of you. So no idea what Bucky was after?”

“Not yet, but Stark’s still taking inventory. With the stuff he has laying around, hard to say that anything’s missing at this point.” Nat hung up.

 *Present*

A gunshot rang out; Steve miscalculated the aim and winced as it dug into his shoulder. Sam took a defensive stance in front of Steve. “Sorry, Cap. Shouldn’t have happened on my watch.” Steve grimaced as he raised his shield to cover the newest flurry of gunfire. Sam shot back and Aria’s men groaned as they slowly went down one by one. Steve heard a set of feet running behind him; he shifted the shield to his other arm preparing to throw it at the newest threat.

Steve blinked as he stared at Bucky. The guns strapped to his body were missing; he no longer had the dark eye mask nor the black garb he had worn while employed by Aria and HYDRA. The dark blue ball cap hung low on his brow; the red Henley strained over his bulging chest and arms. He wore… jeans and sneakers. “Steve?”

I would love any feedback/reblogs/love in general

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