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sassyhobbits · 4 years ago

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Can we get more of rowaelin playing chess in canon? It'd be so funny!

yea! i have a lil something something up my sleeve! enjoy!

(also plz be gentle my chess notation is NOT good)

~~~

Aelin Galathynius worked well under pressure.

Better than well, to be honest. Her life had been on the line often enough that working under pressure had become second nature. Her work as Celaena Sardothien had always been intense, and being a queen was no easier.

All of her practice over the years was the only reason she hadn’t cracked yet.

She sat across from Rowan, chess board situated between them. Both of their brows were furrowed in concentration, leaned forward and staring intently at the black and white pieces. Their game had been going on longer than any of their other matches had in the past.

Aelin hadn’t expected it to last this long. It was almost Yulemas, and most of their court had made the journey to Orynth for the holiday. They had been drinking and lounging around the parlor, warmed by the blazing fire Aelin tended to. Somehow, she and Rowan had migrated towards the chess board and set up a game, a practice that was becoming standard between them in the evenings.

As the game went on, as they manipulated the pieces and schemed and thwarted one another, they had slowly gained an audience. It started with Elide, who was an excellent player herself, always seeing three steps ahead. Then, Fenrys, who provided unwanted commentary. Lysandra and Aedion paid a bit of attention, but neither of them were that fond of the game anyway. Finally, Lorcan begrudgingly stood behind Elide and watched them play.

With every game Aelin played against her husband, she got better. Rowan was a damned good player and never went easy on her.

Rowan had been studying the board for longer than Aelin had ever witnessed him do. She had made the last move, blocking the play she knew her husband had been trying to make. It had gone on like that for a while, shifting pieces strategically, no clear winner in sight.

Aelin glanced up from to board to the male across from her, a small smile on her lips as she noted his furrowed brow. He looked quite handsome, not that she should be thinking about such things now. It would only distract her.

A few more moments went by, the air filled by the crackling of the fire and tiny whispers between their crowd.

“Draw?” Aelin offered. She had never managed to come to a draw with him before, but this might be the day. She felt as though she had run through every possible move on the board and she couldn’t find a way to victory for either of them.

“No,” Rowan said with a single shake of his head.

Aelin narrowed her eyes at him, wishing she knew what was going on in that head of his. He must have been seeing something she hadn’t if he wasn’t going to agree to a draw.

“I would have taken the draw,” Aedion murmured to no one in particular.

“That’s because you’re a shit player, Aedion,” Fenrys shot right back.

Everyone fell silent when Rowan shifted, reaching towards the board, grabbing his remaining knight, placed it down, before looking up. “Check mate.”

Aelin blinked in disbelief. There was no way that was checkmate but… she studied the board as if it might change for her.

“Oh, you bastard!” Aelin hissed in fury, knocking over her king.

There was a little self-satisfied smirk on Rowan’s face that she could tell he was trying to hide, but did so unsuccessfully. "Great game, Fireheart. Your best yet."

"Don't compliment me. I'm mad at you."

"That was an excellent play, Rowan," Elide commented, studying the board a bit more.

"Don't compliment him either!" Aelin cried. "It'll go right to his fat head."

"You're a sore loser, cousin."

Aelin’s returning snarl was nothing short of viscous.

"I don't understand why you all are so invested in this," Lorcan grunted. "It's just a game."

"Spoken like someone who doesn't know how to play," Aelin taunted.

He glared. "I'm five hundred years old. I know how to play chess."

Aelin glanced across towards her husband, a glimmer in his eyes that seemed to say, Kick his ass, Fireheart.

She grinned wickedly, turning back to Lorcan and gestured at the board. "Indulge me in a game then, Lord Lochan."

In the years she had known Lorcan, Aelin had learned his pride never let him back down from a challenge. Especially if Aelin was the one offering it. He simply loved to prove her wrong.

So it wasn't surprising when Lorcan huffed and ground out a tight, "Fine."

Aelin started setting up the board once more, Rowan bequeathing his seat to Lorcan. She had never once seen Lorcan play chess before, and judging by the veiled excitement in Fenrys and Rowan’s eyes, neither had they. Oh, they were about to witness a massacre.

Aelin grabbed two pawns, one white and one black, mixing them up before holding them out in two clenched fists. She inclined her head towards her opponent. "Choose one."

Lorcan didn’t deliberate long before tapping her left hand, which held the white pawn. He seemed pleased at this fact.

He looked at the board for a heartbeat before moving his F pawn up one square. Aelin squinted, wondering if he would be foolish enough to make the move she was thinking of. She moved her king's pawn two spaces.

And then the bastard did it. He moved his G pawn up two squares. Aelin wasn't able to hold back her loud bark of laughter. Neither did their audience.

"Oh, you did not just make that move!" Aelin snickered.

"What?" he snapped. "What's wrong with that move?"

Aelin could only shake her head as she continued to laugh, moving her queen on its diagonal and settling back in her seat. "Check mate."

Lorcan merely blinked at the board as Fenrys howled with laughter beside them.

"Five hundred years old…" Aelin mused. "And you just got Fool's Mated by a twenty-three year old woman. How does that feel?"

Lorcan merely scowled, moving the pieces back to the start. "Again."

The queen shrugged, placing her pieces back in their starting position. She generously allowed him to play white again, beginning by moving his queen’s pawn up two spaces, clearly not wishing to make the same deadly mistake he made the last time.

Aelin would give it to him. Lorcan lasted longer this game. Not much, though. In four moves, Aelin had captured his queen, and with eight more, she had mated him once more, making Lorcan release a filthy curse.

“Again.”

So, they went again, Aelin playing white this time.

She won with twenty moves.

Lorcan banged his fist on the table. “Fuck. Let’s go again.”

They went again.

It took twenty-one moves for Aelin to win once more.

The young queen leaned back in her seat, satisfied smirk on her lips. She felt rather than saw Rowan beaming at her proudly.

Lorcan shook his head at the board, fingers tangled within his long, inky hair.

“No need to feel bad, Lord Lorchan,” Aelin drawled, stretching her legs in front of her. “We can’t all be good at everything… well, I can, but I can’t hold you all to that same expectation.”

Elide perched herself on the arm of her husband’s chair, pressing a long kiss to his temple. “It’s okay, love. I can help you practice.”

“Yeah,” Fenrys agreed. “Maybe with a few hundred years, you’ll be able to beat Aedion.”

Lorcan scowled at Fenrys, but wrapped his massive arms around Elide and pulled her firmly into his lap.

“I like to watch you win, Fireheart,” Rowan murmured against the shell of her ear before kissing her cheek.

She grinned, poking her index finger into the middle of her mate’s chest and vowed ,“Just wait, husband. You’re next.”

#wtf do i tag this #lil bit #rowaelin #a splash of #elorcan #idk man #team terrasen?#anyway #enjoy yall #my writing #i like seeing aelin pissing off lorcan

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withteeths · 4 years ago

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Maybe Steamrolling Games is Bad Actually

Videogames are unique in that they are inextricably tied to corporatism and have been since birth (this is an oversimplification but roll with it). This means that to an extent most companies even since the ’80s have never really cared about proper preservation or easy access to their titles. Nintendo carts were originally manufactured to have their battery die in 3 years so you would have to buy a new one (this failed, but it’s why you still see a lot of dead carts floating around). I think there's a nostalgia issue within the gaming fandom regarding "oh x was great back then" but a lot of the time, games manufacturers have been historically shitty and anti-consumer and it’s just that they now have the tools to execute it much more effectively. Regarding obtrusive DRM, that’s an issue PC games have had since their zenith, where if you lost your original copy of a manual or a small plastic key you could never play a game again because the codes were individualized for each copy and support would refuse to give you a new one. Even back in the arcades, there were particularly batshit examples like the CPS board, which I shit you not was built to explode a battery pack filled with corrosive acid if it detected you were attempting to repair or modify it. There’s a lot to say about the current state of games but what I would likely illustrate is that 2/3 major consoles are racing to decide who will be obsolete first. Games consoles are reaching a point where they are trying to emulate PCs with more restrictions and DRM. We're already seeing interest in steam spike again and it’s likely that eventually, we will see almost a crash for consoles where no one can justify the price for games they can play on a PC rig. The only solution I see there would be a merger between the two consoles which feels inevitable.

That being said as interest in the PC space increases again so does attempts at entering the bubble. We have Epic, Origin, Microsoft, Indiegala, Itchio, and Steam all vying for attention, requiring accounts, and offering exclusives to justify the use of their storefront over others. Some people think this is a good thing because it's breaking up Steam's monopoly but it literally is not, if you ever really wanna hear me rant ask me about Leftist obsession with itch being some sort of ethical steam, which it is provably not. In the end, the real sort of saviour figures that work to preserve games are random ass people on the internet. I know people who automatically assume that at the end of the day, companies care about games preservation too, and they usually have a three-pronged argument that cites a) Steam’s ability to allow the redownloading of delisted games, b) retro companies periodically rereleasing titles for modern consoles in compilations, and c) companies doing limited reruns of a game that fans request. All three of these examples are basically an incredibly effective use of diversionary tactics, but most of the time when someone cites these I just assume it’s a misunderstanding and not outright malicious intent because a lot of the time companies will attempt to actively implant these ideas to build brand loyalty.

My main dissertation is usually that Steam is incredibly selective with what titles you can redownload, and most importantly, corporate benevolence is more-so a band-aid on a gaping wound! There’s no contingency for when Steam might migrate to a new service, go belly up, or become obsolete when a new OS is created. That means thousands, tens of thousands of dollars worth of games are just gone, permanently, along with fan mods, DLC, and content. It’s a terrifying thought that not many people bring up when discussing the problems with game storefronts that focus so much on providing a cloud and have DRM attached to every purchase. In a way, Steam preceded the trend of not allowing consumers to actually own the things they purchased, and they’ve avoided criticism by strategic use of silence and creating the illusion of a company being made by the consumers they’re attempting to serve. At the end of the day, Steam is a business, and if you ever lose access to your Steam account, or they decide to up and leave one day, you will not be able to play almost all of those games, even if you have them installed on a hard drive, because if you’re online, they connect with a server to ensure your steam account has the ability to play them. When it comes to other arguments like the limited rereleases or use of compilations to preserve arcade titles, I usually just beg people to look at community-driven options that have existed for years. The Scott Pilgrim game is a big source of contention, but I would point out that for years now, it was playable, for free, with all the DLC, on PCs. Preservationists didn’t wait for the gods of Universal and O’Malley to rerelease it for 30 bucks or save up to snatch the fucking ridiculous 200$ limited edition with shitty paper cut-outs, they straight up just did the work to make the game free and available. RCPS3 has (with a contemporary build) been able to run the game pretty flawlessly for years now, in fact, it was how I played through a majority of the game in high school on my shitty brick of a laptop. If you look further out than this one example then it gets even better, MAME and other emulation backends have been able to play obscure, unfinished, and homebrew titles with 100% accuracy, on almost any setup, for free, for decades! I found out about many of these options back in 2015 or so, certainly late to the curve, but I never really questioned as to why emulation, games preservation, and some key titles being available on PC remained some sort of arcane, unknown knowledge to most people interested in games. In the end, the answer was a highly effective propaganda campaign that combined with strategic use of DMCA takedowns has resulted in the concept of communal games-preservation and emulation becoming some sort of debate, where people will wholeheartedly side with corporations in some sort of quest for preserving things the “ethical and correct way,” which is code for preservation on the condition that it remains profitable for the IP owners.

I think the best way to illustrate this would be with the community built around the preservation of an infamous PS4 title, PT. The story of its inevitable delisting from the storefront and the messy breakup between Kojima and Konami is well known, so I won’t regurgitate it, look it up at your own leisure. What is significant here is corporate reactions to attempts at preserving the game, which can basically be boiled down to Konami acting with borderline rabid fervour to prevent redownload, redistribution, or recreation of a seven-year-old demo, released for free download. Mentions of solutions to redownload the game have been taken down, fan-made recreations for PC, and archival servers that store a copy of the game for future preservation or emulation. Usually when this is brought up a debate occurs citing that technically speaking, Konami has a right to do this whenever they want, for whatever piece of media they believe infringes on their copyright. On one hand, yes this argument is factually correct considering the current state of copyright and ownership of media, but on the other hand, what compels someone to step into the ring for a multi-million dollar company with the primary argument being “well actually, people SHOULDN’T be able to play this specific video game until it benefits the shareholders”? In my opinion, it’s some sort of corporatized symbiosis where players believe that, if you cull the bad actors and play by the rules of the company, you may be able to eventually play the game a couple of years down the line. Sure, this has happened in the past with a few isolated cases, but it can’t be stressed enough that this is a genuinely dangerous and reductive position for people to take regarding games preservation.

I have two colleagues, Mariken and Fotocopiadora, who released a short interactive title called Videopulp (playable here: https://fotocopiadora.itch.io/videopulp). It’s a dramatic reimagining of a real historical event, wherein a promotional event was held in 1994 at Lelystad to destroy bootleg carts by a figure in a Mario costume. This perhaps best encapsulates something I am pleading with younger generations to understand, as an archivist, art historian, and creator: corporations are not your friends, and they never will be. With the rise of online circles of leftism, this concept is starting to gain traction but is starting to be polluted with concepts of fandom and tribalism. This has lead to arguments that while *most* corporations are bad how could you say that about Nintendo? Or Valve? Mario is so innocent and characters like Wheatley are beloved by all! I feel some people don’t realize that they can enjoy a select title or character without enlisting in a corporate faction in the battle for “best company” or “best videogame”. It leads to a parasocial kinship with a nonexistent figure that was hand-crafted to ensure consumer loyalty to a certain brand. It’s depressing, terrifying, and should stand as a disquieting example of how the grip of capitalism on works of art has permanently distorted how we think and engage with media today. So, what’s the solution? As always I can never really provide something concrete that’ll act as a cure-all, only things that people in games need to work towards. Bring up conversations about games preservation, create archives for your own work, support archivists and boost their work whenever a new discovery is created, and try to promote optimism and solidarity in your hobbyist communities. I’ve noticed a lot of futility being intertwined with the future of AAA gaming, use of online storefronts, and the inability to own pieces of media anymore, and I feel this should be pushed back against, even in a minute way. Open-source programmes still exist that allow you to hold on to what you have purchased, offline and ad-free options exist for games launchers, e-readers, and media players. The future isn’t bright, but it is not a place without hope, and as long as people continue to enter communities with passion and ingenuity, I think we have a chance at stopping the events at Lelystad, 1994 from happening again.

#videogames #games preservation #scott pilgrim #rambling #post

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agentbarton12 · 5 years ago

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Die Hard or Not At All - 2

bucky x black!reader, avengers/brooklyn 99 crossover course why the hell not

summary: you are a shield agent caught by the nypd where you are reunited with your old high school best friend, jake peralta. investigating the same robberies, you team up and go undercover as a married couple to infiltrate a crime mob. the only problem? bucky barnes, your collegue and love of your life was assigned as security. this was going to be fine.

warnings: swearing, fluff, dumbassery, fake marriage, idiots in love, jealousy

word count: 3.3K

a/n: sorry for the wait but part 2 is done! will the last part take as long? mayhaps lol. anyway i hope you enjoy and send an ask if you want to tagged!

inspired by the amazing works of @mypassionsarenysins, @seasaurusrrex, @sunmoonandbucky, @maarrvveell and @morsmordrethings

series masterlist | masterlist

“you did it, you crazy son of a bitch, you became a detective!” you praised jake as you were sitting in the car. the transport vehicle from shield arrived ten minutes after your grand speech, and in that time, jake gave you and bucky a tour of the precinct and introduced you to the rest of the squad.

you immediately hit it off with them, amy mostly, and you all swapped embarrassing stories of jake, old and new.

bucky hung back and stayed silent for most of it, and it was kinda annoying you. he wouldn’t even talk to you!

right now, he was sitting up front alone while you were next to jake. even though you were a literal spy, it was hard to read bucky sometimes.

jake beamed. “i know right! and you became a spy? unbelievable.”

you chuckled, waving his praises off. “i prefer the term secret agent,” you admitted with a wink.

his mouth hung open in awe. “literally so awesome.”

“right?” it was still kind of surreal to you too, even though you had been an agent practically since you left college. you and jake had both been obsessed with crime (a healthy amount for normal teenagers) and you could both proudly say that bruce willis inspired you to help people. if it wasn’t for him, you might be something drab. like a doctor. “but really, jake, i’m proud of you.”

“means a lot, bunny.”

you rolled your eyes at the nickname. “that ones never gonna die, is it?”

“i cross my heart,” he said playfully, doing as he said and that’s when you noticed something gleam on his hand.

your eyes widened in shock and your hands shot to cover your mouth. “you’re married and you didn’t tell me?” you a quick sweep of the car and turned back to your friend. “it’s amy, isn’t it? you married amy?” you asked with delight. you were practically vibrating with glee.

jake’s eyebrows shot up and almost disappeared into his hairline. “how’d you figure it out so quick? is it cause you’re a secret agent?” he asked in amazement.

you scoffed. “what, no, of course not. it’s because you’re basically the male version of me and i’d definitely want to marry a cop or someone in that field and amy is awesome,” you explained. “what would being a secret agent have to do with anything?”

“true true,” jake agreed nodding. “and you’re right. she’s my wife.” he said it with such adoration and pride that it made your heart swell. you couldn’t help but imagine bucky talking about you like that, before you shook your head from those thoughts.

playfully smacking jake’s arm, you scolded, “peraltypus, i cannot believe that was not the first thing you told me.”

from two seats in front of you guys, rosa’s head snapped back to face you. “peraltypus?”

“uh yeah, my mom used to call him that. isn’t it great?” you asked teasingly which caused jake to playfully roll his eyes at you.

rosa merely nodded. “oh yeah. it’s perfect.” her eyes had a mischievous glint to them and you knew that she was never going to let jake forget it. you felt no sympathy for him. it was what he deserved after not telling you he was married, and you told him as much when he tried to complain about what you just caused.

“there was a literal avenger in front of me, it slipped my mind!” he argued. then, realising how that sounded, he backtracked and yelled to amy who was sitting next to rosa, “no offense, babe!”

“none taken,” she said turning around in her seat. “i forgot we were married too when i saw him.” she stole a quick glance at bucky before flashing her husband a grin.

jake’s face contorted into shock and slight hurt. “but, you know we are now, right?”

amy had gone back to looking at bucky. “hmm?” she asked turning to jake.

you laughed. clapping jake on the shoulder, i stood up. “speaking of avengers, i’m gonna go.” you gestured to bucky with your eyebrows and jake waved you off.

plopping down on the chair next to bucky, you turned to face him. “what’s up with you?”

he shifted in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “nothing, why?”

“because ever since we got to the bullpen back at the precinct you’ve been all broody.”

shrugging, bucky said, “just tired, i guess.”

you scoffed. “so you were so exhausted that you forgot that you prefer to be called ‘bucky’ and not ‘james’?”

bucky spluttered. “uh…that...was because jake’s name starts with a ‘j’ and so does james, and i wanted us to have something in common, you know? cause he’s ypur friend and i want us to get along.” he flashed a very unconvincing grin, and you eyed him suspiciously.

“fine. don’t tell me.” you slumped back in your chair. you could tell the bucky was lying, it just confused you as to why.

bucky felt bad after that. he didn’t want you to be mad at him, but he couldn’t exactly just tell you he was jealous of jake. because he was. he knew he had no reason to be, because as you said, jake was your friend. an old friend. an old friend that was married for crying out loud! but bucky liked you a lot and seeing you all chummy with other people wasn’t great.

you arrived at shield hq shortly after and assistant director hill met you guys inside.

the squad ooh-ed and ahh-ed as they looked around in awe. jake mostly. when he wasn’t reminding everyone how this was all happening because of him. (not really, but who were you to deny him his gloating?)

“hey maria,” you greeted when you were close enough to her.

she regarded you with a nod before looking to the squad. “these the detectives?” she asked looking back you. you nodded.

captain holt stepped forward and held his hand out to maria. “captain raymond holt. the nine-nine is very honoured to lend our help in any way we can.”

taking his hand, maria squinted her eyes, studying him. “you reminded me of my boss for a second, but then you ruined it by being polite. i’m assistant director maria hill, thank you for agreeing to do this.” captain holt nodded silently. “now if you’ll follow me, fury’s waiting for you upstairs.”

maria turned on her heel and the squad followed closely after, with you and bucky bringing up the rear. you then all climbed in an elevator and again migrated to the back with the super soldier. cautiously, he reached his pinky finger of his vibranium arm to brush against yours. you swallowed softly and continued looking ahead. you knew what this was. his way of apologising to you. and even though you still wanted to know what was up with him, you couldn’t stay mad. so, without looking down, you hooked your pinky with his. you didn’t fail to notice the slight grin that spread across his face through your peripheral. if it made you heart flutter, that was no one’s business but your own.

when the elevator stopped, maria led you all to a briefing room where director fury was standing hunched over a long conference table. he straightened his back once he noticed your presence. captain holt walked around the table to fury and held out his hand to shake. “raymond holt, captain of the ninety-ninth precint.”

fury nodded and took his hand. “fury. director of shield.”

“no first name?” holt asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“just fury.”

“interesting...are you also a superhero?”

“excuse me?”

“well, i assumed that would be the reason for your silly pseudonym.”

fury and holt chuckled mirthlessly and stopped at the same before proceeding to stare each other down.

the rest of you watched in utter awe and shock. “it’s like looking into a leaner, meaner mirror,” terry observed. you all nodded in agreement.

then suddenly fury pointed up at holt and said, “i can see why you’re captain.”

“and i understand why you’re director.”

they nodded to each other and then fury’s attention snapped to you. shit, you thought. “agent y/l/n,” he called.

“yes, sir,” you replied, trying to be as polite as possible so as to make him go easy on you.

“the iron shadow robbed a bank this morning and you failed to reach them in time even though you have been tracking their every move. and then you get yourself arrested? if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you were getting sloppy.”

all sense of politeness flew out the window at that. “with all due respect, fury, but i have been out there for three weeks. i am running on three hours of sleep, four slices of toast and caffeine patches because i have been too exhausted to actually drink anything. i didn’t get sloppy. i got tired.”

fury looked at you for a long moment, and for a brief moment, you saw understanding flash in his eyes. fury wasn’t as mean as he made himself out to be. he nodded at bucky. “barnes.”

bucky stands at attention. “sir.”

“take y/l/n to her quarters. make sure she rests and gets herself cleaned up. we’ll catch her up when she’s back.”

he nodded. “yes, sir.” he turned to you. “you heard the boss. let’s go.”

rolling your eyes, you allowed yourself to be whisked away by bucky.

he leads the both of you to the elevators and takes you up to the personal floors. he knew the way to your room like the back of his hand. he’s been there dozens of times before to watch movies and do face masks. and in return, you’ve been to his room at the Tower to cook and play board games, ‘cause bucky’s old fashioned like that. before he became friends with you, he used to hate being in his room because it reminded him of the nightmares he’d had before. then you started sleeping over and eventually he started to. sleeping, he means. because his sheets smelled like you. he realises, it turns out, that any room with you in it is a room he wants to be in.

using the extra keycard to your room he always carried with him, bucky unlocks your door and guides you to your bed. you groan as you sit down. “my feet are killing me,” you complain, as you you start unzipping your boots.

“i’ll bet,” bucky murmurs. you hum in response. “what do you want to eat?”

you thought for a minute, shutting your eyes. “anything but toast.”

bucky nods silently then walks to the kitchens to prepare something for you. he settled on heating up some leftover pizza he found in the fridge. he’ll apologise to daisy later. when bucky returns he finds you passed out on your bed and he smiles. bucky places your food in the mini fridge in your room for you to find when you woke up. he pulls your throw blanket over you and moves the pillow from under your head ‘cause he knows how much you hate sleeping with pillows.

you let a sigh and let out a quiet “thank you” bucky almost doesn’t catch. but he does.

“always, doll,” he whispers into your hair. he debates leaving a kiss on your head,

—that’s platonic, right? clint kisses nat all the time and it’s clearly platonic. and nat’s with steve and he never makes a big deal out of it. so yeah, totally platonic—but then you roll over before he gets the chance. he stops himself from watching you sleep, because he knows that he’ll never move if he does. he does though, and goes back downstairs for the debriefing.

***

you wake up 37 hours later feeling like shit. after having to peel yourself out of bed, you head to your bathroom for a much needed shower. you hurry yourself in order to get down and get to the debriefing as quick as possible. after dressing, you finally take a look at your hair. it would be a pain the ass to comb through and you know it. you truly did not have the time to fix your hair so you simply tie a silk blue scarf that sam got you around your head.

on your way out the door, you grab the plate of pizza bucky left for you from your fridge. you make a quick stop in the kitchen to heat up your food. then you are headed for the elevators going down.

many of the detectives are hanging around in the break room refilling coffees and eating whatever food they could get their hands on when you reach the meeting floor. terry notices you first.

“hey! you’re alive!” he exclaims with outstretched arms.

amy and charles turn away from their conversation to look at you. “bucky told us you passed out as soon as you reached your bed,” amy reveals.

you waved them off. “exaggeration. anyway, what’d i miss?”

taking a bite of your pizza, you walk to the table amy and charles were sitting at. terry pulls up a chair and joins you guys.

“we found out that the iron shadow was responsible for the robberies we’ve been investigating,” charles begins.

you nod along, chewing your food. “which i don’t understand. the iron shadow’s been operating for months before shield even caught wind of them, and all they’ve been involved in is underground alien weapons dealing. why would they make their first public move and not want people to know it’s them?”

amy nods. “bucky made the same point.” the corner of your lip twitched at that. “maria also brought up that while you were on the stake out, you went looking for dirty money.”

“yepp. went into stores and asked for change.”

charles took over. “tests came back for one of the bills and guess what?”

“it was dirty?”

“it was dirty!” he cheers, clearly excited. “ and not just that. we sent rosa into the same store to buy some random things, and all the money she got as change? dirty as the hudson.”

amy takes a sip of her coffee. “we looked into the owners of the store, clarissa and alejandro ortega, both have hefty criminal records. we think they might be the leaders and their shop is a cover. we asked around and the shop opened a week before the iron shadow surfaced.“

charles leans onto his elbows. “a customer told rosa that alejandro didn’t usually manage the register, after he calculated the wrong amount of change for her and she nearly blew a fuse. said his wife usually handles it, but she’s been out of town, and to ‘go easy on him’.”

“it’s a lot of speculation,” terry admits, “but we have a criminal informant in for questioning with rosa and jake right now, so hopefully we’ll get some answers.”

your face scrunches at this. “we have a ci? since when?”

“oh, gina found him while scouting the area yesterday.”

“who—?” you’re question is cut off by someone walking into the break room.

“—hypothetically speaking, is selling socks owned by superheroes a punishable offence? because it counts as merch, right?” a tall woman with long brown hair asks and you jump up out of your chair at the sight of her.

“gina ballerina?” you scream.

the woman looks up from her phone and gapes when she sees you. “bunny?”

“you got us a ci? you’re a cop too?”

gina shrugs and flips her hair over her shoulder. “basically, yeah.”

terry scoffs. “she’s holt’s assistant.”

“more like advisor. see, i like to think of myself as an integral part of the brooklyn nine-nine. i am the glue that ties everyone together.”

“sticks,” amy corrects. “glue sticks not ties.”

gina looks around as if she can’t see amy. “am i going crazy or did the pantsuit just speak?”

you snicker as amy gasps.

rosa then walks in. “hey dipshits, conference room. now.”

you all head back into the briefing room where fury is again waiting with holt by his side.

“y/l/n, good to see you rested,” he greets.

you nod back at him. “thank you, sir. feels good.”

“i’m sure the squad brought you up to speed?” holt asks. at your nod he continues, “detectives diaz and peralta have just finished questioning our ci, curtesy of gina. if they’d be so kind to share with us the new information.”

rosa and jake both walk to front of the room.

jake clears his throat, “our ci, mason hartley, has been working in close relation with the iron shadow for two months now and has confirmed that the ortega’s are, in fact, the leaders of the iron shadow.”

“called it!” amy yells, punching the air.

“yeah, you did, babe!” jake praises.

you hear movement behind you, and you turn to see bucky slipping into the room silently. you know no one else noticed, but as a spy, you were naturally in tune to a shift in your surroundings.

and as a pining idiot, you were naturally in tune with him.

“mason told us that the iron shadow doesn’t know where the parts come from, they just manufacture the weapons. every week there’s a drop-off and exchange: alejandro goes to some location and there’s a bag waiting for him full of alien tech. he takes it and leaves a bag of cash in its place. no idea who the supplier is though.”

terry raises his hand. “why don’t we stake out the location before this guy shows up and corner them?”

jake shakes his head. “location changes every week. never the same place twice.”

bucky watches as you take this information in. it was fascinating to see you switch from goofy and carefree to serious and intense. he watches the set of your jaw and how your tap your hand on the desk.

you raise your hand. “the cash, the dirty cash, they can’t pay their supplier with it.”

bucky snaps his fingers and points at you. “and it looks like they can’t get it cleaned.”

“fast enough,” you counter. “they never seemed to have a problem before, but now, maybe the meeting was coming up fast and they didn’t have time. so they do the next best thing to get clean money.”

“they rob banks.” you nod. “but they’ve robbed three banks so far. why don’t they just get the money cleaned?”

“because alejandro doesn’t know how.” you turn to rosa. “you were told clarissa usually does the money stuff, right?”

it doesn’t surprise you anymore how well you and bucky worked together. the way the two of you feed off each other, without ever stepping on the other’s toes.

she nods, crossing her arms. “yeah, but apparently she’s been out of town.”

“for how long?”

“...couple weeks,” rosa says with a growing smirk.

standing up, you address the room. “so, clarissa leaves town and alejandro is left in charge. he, already having to keep track of manufacturing the weapons, forgets to get the money cleaned in time for that weeks exchange. naturally, he decides to rob a bank; get all the clean cash he needs and then some.”

“unfortunately for him,” bucky continues, “he does not learn his lesson and the same thing happens two more times. the last, two days ago, when y/n nearly catches them.”

“so the question is: has the exchange already happened?”

rosa nods, already halfway out the room, “i’ll find out from mason.”

“oh no need,” gina says stopping rosa. “i just texted him. he said clarissa’ll be back tomorrow morning on friday and that the exchange is always on saturday. there’s a block party happening that same night at the shop to ‘welcome clarissa back’, but really it’s just to get new buyers. he says he can get you guys on the guest list.”

the room quiets at that.

then amy speaks, “so we’re just gonna brush over that or...?”

charles nods. “it’s better that way.”

jake clears his throat. “well, you know what that means. we’re going undercover baby!”

taglist: @dianadov, @morsmordrethings, @smol-flower-kiddo, @darkness-doughter, @winterprincess-sky, @pinknerdpanda, @holybatflapexpert, @farfromjustordinary, @thegriefcollector, @marvelstank, @momobaby227, @cliffordasparagus, @crookedslimecreatorpasta, @supernatural508, @itsametaphorbriansblog, @moroccannerdchild, @m-a-k-e-d-a, @chixkencxrry

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aesthetixallyexo · 6 years ago

Text

blissful ; dks

word count: 1.5k

genre: smut, but like, soft smut????

warnings: oral sex, waking up a partner with oral sex (predetermined consent), thigh riding, implied shower sex,

‘in which you wake kyungsoo up in the best way possible’

-------------------------------

“You want to what?” Kyungsoo asked. “Don’t think I’m complaining or anything, but-you’re asking me if I want it, and is that something you even have to ask?”

You’d just asked your boyfriend of several years if you could wake him up with a blowjob. It was something you’d been thinking of for a while, but you weren’t sure how to bring it up to him. Worrying was dumb, yes, but you and Kyungsoo weren’t very-how should you put this, adventurous in the bedroom. Who’s to say he wouldn't be all weirded out?

“If you think it’s weird, we don’t have to do it. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about and it-” He had to cut you off because you had started to ramble. “It’s not weird. I’m just wondering why you, for one, seem so worked up about it, and two, are asking in the first place. You’re literally asking to give me a blowjob, did you think I was going to say no?”

When he put it that way, it made sense. “I just wanted to make sure you were on board. Besides, if I didn't tell you that I was going to do it, you could wake up with a heart attack or deck me in the jaw because you weren't expecting it.”

Kyungsoo chuckled. “Okay, fair. Just so you know, I’m about ninety eight percent sure I wouldn't deck you in the jaw.” You shrugged to say ‘you can’t be sure of that’ and he kissed you on the cheek in reassurance.

Now the idea was planted in your minds. It was incredibly late when you first brought it up, and neither if you really mentioned it for a few days afterwards. “So, when are we going to do, you know...?” He asked during dinner one night. Truth be told, you hadn't really thought about when this would go down.

You wanted an element of surprise to this; if he knew about it the night before, where's the fun in that? “Maybe we should do it closer to the weekend? I think it would be fun if we did it when you weren't expecting it.”

There was an excited glint in his eyes. Neither you or Kyungsoo could wait.

Kyungsoo had been waking up everyday hard in anticipation. Part of you was tempted to just to forget the whole surprise aspect of it, but there was something so satisfying about leaving him high and dry until he least expected it.

The look on his face every time he woke up and realized that he was imagining things was kinda priceless. You did feel a little bad for him, but he’d get what he wanted in due time.

He was getting impatient and you were getting antsy. Both of you wanted this so bad, you were certain one of you were going to explode. This needed to happen soon, or you’d go insane.

The day (or rather, the morning) had come. You woke up a few hours earlier than you normally did so he wouldn't expect a thing. Kyungsoo was fast asleep; sprawled out on his back and a half hard erection in his boxers.

You started by pulling the blanket off his body as slow as you could. He did shift a little bit from the change in temperature, but he still seemed to be sleeping. Giving a few seconds, you skimmed the tips of your fingers over his boxers to test the waters. Kyungsoo’s reaction was minimal; a low sort of groan came from his throat and he stretched out a little bit.

Now you wanted to go all the way in.

You slid his boxers down just enough to allow his cock to spring free. His cock was all too inviting for you to touch, leading you to grasp it softly and rub your thumb over the tip. His hips bucked up at the touch and you smiled to yourself. You focused your attention downwards; jerking him off as gently and as slowly as you could.

Bored with just using you hand, your started doing little kitten licks at his tip. Kyungsoo’s eyes squeezed shut and you finally took him into your mouth. He gripped the bed sheets tightly and fought the urge to thrust harshly into your throat. His cock was halfway in your mouth while your hands accomodated the rest.

Just about fully awake now, his hands flew to your hair and he slipped his fingers into your tangled hair to help guide you and your pace. You let your tongue massage the underside of his cock and he accidentally thrusted to hard and you choked. You pulled off of him and coughed. “Oh, fuck! Sorry (Y/N), are you okay?” You nodded and he gently massaged your chin.

“Are you good to keep going?” He asked. You were glad he stopped to make sure you were alright; there were tons of guys who wouldn’t have cared like Kyungsoo. You smiled at him and nodded. “Whenever you are.”

Taking him back into your mouth, you continued at the same pace as before. You fell back into the familiar rhythm and took him as far as you could before he’d hit the back of your throat. He tugged on your hair and you hummed. The vibration around his cock made him twitch and you smiled (as best as you could in that moment) around him. He was getting closer to his breaking point, but he wanted to hold off for as long as he could.

One hand slid down to jerk whatever was difficult to accommodate with your mouth. Meanwhile, you were slowly grinding your hips into the mattress to relieve some of the need burning between your legs. Kyungsoo was aware of what you were doing and the feeling of you whining around him made him twitch.

“I’m getting close. Fuck, I’m getting so close.” Pulling him out of your mouth, you focused all of your attention on the head of his cock. He made a noise of protest from the lack of contact at first, but your little kitten licks shut him up. It was when you started sucking in the head again that he came.

Most of it landed in your mouth and you swallowed it all. Whatever missed was promptly wiped away with a tissue and tossed into the wastebasket by your nightstand.

“Holy shit, that was good.” Kyungsoo said, voice a little shaky after coming down off his high. You smiled as he tucked himself back into his boxers and pulled you over onto him. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” You said, nuzzling your face into his chest. “I liked it too.”

He smiled and ran his fingers through your hair. “I think I need to return the favour.” You shrugged your shoulders, as if to say that it wasn’t necessary; this was your idea, after all. “No, you deserve it! You literally just woke me up in what might be the best way to wake a person up. If you’re gonna say no to that, at least let me make you cum now.”

You couldn't say no to that. “What did you have in mind?” Kyungsoo smirked a little. “I want you to ride my thigh.” You loved riding his thigh; it was quite possibly one of your favourite things to do with him sexually. The feeling of his muscular thigh between your legs you while you rut your hips felt so fucking good.

If waking Kyungsoo up with a blowjob was the best thing ever in his eyes, riding his thigh was your equivalent. “Yes please.” There was a giddy smile on your face. He spread his legs slightly so you could mount his thigh easier while you slipped off your panties.

Mounting his thigh, you slowly began rocking your hips. His hands rested on your hips, gently guiding the way you moved. Ever so slowly, you sped up. Kyungsoo’s hands migrated up under your shirt to play with your breasts while you rut against him. Your shirt came off entirely and was discarded so his mouth could latch onto your nipples.

Your moans became higher in pitch and you grinded down on his thigh harder. You were making a complete mess on his thigh but you didn’t care (and neither did he). Kyungsoo tensed his muscles and tweaked your nipples. “Fuck! I’m about to come!” Sucking your boyfriend off turned you on so much, you knew you wouldn’t last very long.

Focusing his hands back on guiding your hips in a brutal pace, your orgasm washed over you in white hot waves. You rode out your high until overstimulation set in. Chests heaving, both of you felt spent. It was far earlier than either of you liked to wake up and well, everything you’d just done was a little strenuous. “I wanna go back to bed.” You groaned, stretching out your arms and yawning. “We really should shower, though.”

That was true. Both of you were covered in sweat and you were pretty sure there was cum in your hair. You got out of bed and stretched again. When turning back to Kyungsoo, you noticed he was getting hard again and he wasn’t shy about it. Once he got out of bed, you were almost certain about one thing: the two of you would have a fantastic nap after getting the shower.

Maybe then he would return the favour?

THE END

#exo #do kyungsoo #kyungsoo #smut #exo smut #domestic au #fluff #the importance of consent #waking up #blissful

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averycanadianfilm · 5 years ago

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This Land is Our Land

A PLANET ON THE MOVE

One day in the 1980s, my maternal grandfather was sitting in a park in suburban London. An elderly British man came up to him and wagged a finger in his face. “Why are you here?” the man demanded. “Why are you in my country?”

“Because we are the creditors,” responded my grandfather, who was born in India, worked all his life in colonial Kenya, and was now retired in London. “You took all our wealth, our diamonds. Now we have come to collect.” We are here, my grandfather was saying, because you were there.

* * *

These days, a great many people in the rich countries complain loudly about migration from the poor ones. But as the migrants see it, the game was rigged: First, the rich countries colonized us and stole our treasure and prevented us from building our industries. After plundering us for centuries, they left, having drawn up maps in ways that ensured permanent strife between our communities. Then they brought us to their countries as “guest workers”—as if they knew what the word “guest” meant in our cultures—but discouraged us from bringing our families.

Having built up their economies with our raw materials and our labor, they asked us to go back and were surprised when we did not. They stole our minerals and corrupted our governments so that their corporations could continue stealing our resources; they fouled the air above us and the waters around us, making our farms barren, our oceans lifeless; and they were aghast when the poorest among us arrived at their borders, not to steal but to work, to clean their shit, and to fuck their men.

Still, they needed us. They needed us to fix their computers and heal their sick and teach their kids, so they took our best and brightest, those who had been educated at the greatest expense of the struggling states they came from, and seduced us again to work for them. Now, again, they ask us not to come, desperate and starving though they have rendered us, because the richest among them need a scapegoat. This is how the game is rigged today.

My family has moved all over the earth, from India to Kenya to England to the United States and back again—and is still moving. One of my grandfathers left rural Gujarat for Calcutta in the salad days of the twentieth century; my other grandfather, living a half day’s bullock-cart ride away, left soon after for Nairobi. In Calcutta, my paternal grandfather joined his older brother in the jewelry business; in Nairobi, my maternal grandfather began his career, at sixteen, sweeping the floors of his uncle’s accounting office. Thus began my family’s journey from the village to the city. It was, I now realize, less than a hundred years ago.

I am now among the quarter billion people living in a country other than the one they were born in. I’m one of the lucky ones; in surveys, nearly three-quarters of a billion people want to live in a country other than the one they were born in, and will do so as soon as they see a chance. Why do we move? Why do we keep moving?

* * *

On October 1, 1977, my parents, my two sisters, and I boarded a Lufthansa plane in the dead of night in Bombay. We were dressed in new, heavy, uncomfortable clothes and had been seen off by our entire extended family, who had come to the airport with garlands and lamps; our foreheads were anointed with vermilion. We were going to America.

To get the cheapest tickets, our travel agent had arranged a circuitous journey in which we disembarked in Frankfurt, where we were to take an internal flight to Cologne, and then onward to New York. In Frankfurt, the German border officer scrutinized the Indian passports belonging to my father, my sisters, and me and stamped them. Then he held up my mother’s passport with distaste. “You are not allowed to enter Germany,” he said.

It was a British passport, given to citizens of Indian origin who had been born in Kenya before independence, like my mother. But the British did not want them. Nine years earlier, Parliament had passed the Commonwealth Immigrants Act, summarily depriving hundreds of thousands of British passport holders in East Africa of their right to live in the country that conferred their nationality. The passport was literally not worth the paper it was printed on.

The German officer decided that because of her uncertain status, my mother might somehow desert her husband and three small children to make a break for it and live in Germany by herself. So we had to leave directly from Frankfurt. Seven hours and many airsickness bags later, we stepped out into the international arrivals lounge at John F. Kennedy International Airport. A graceful orange-and-black-and-yellow Alexander Calder mobile twirled above us against the backdrop of a huge American flag, and multicolored helium balloons dotted the ceiling, souvenirs of past greetings. As each arrival was welcomed to the new land by their relatives, the balloons rose to the ceiling to make way for the newer ones. They provided hope to the newcomers: look, in a few years, with luck and hard work, you, too, can rise here. All the way to the ceiling.

It was October 2—Mahatma Gandhi’s birthday. We made our way in a convoy of cars carrying our eighteen bags and steamer trunks to a studio apartment in Jackson Heights where The Six Million Dollar Man was playing on the television. On the first night, the building super cut off the electricity because there were too many people in one room. I stepped out and looked at the rusting elevated train tracks above Roosevelt Avenue and wondered: Where was the Statue of Liberty?

* * *

At McClancy, the brutal all-boys Catholic high school where my parents enrolled me in Queens, my chief tormentor was a boy named Tschinkel. He had blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a sadistic smile. He coined a name for me: Mouse. As I walked through the hallways, this word followed me: “Mouse! Mouse!” A small brown rodent, scurrying furtively this way and that. I was fourteen years old.

One Spanish class, Tschinkel put his leg out to trip me as I was walking in; I kicked hard at it as the entire class whooped. “Mouse! Mouse!”

As I left the class and walked to the stairwell, I felt a hand shoving me forward. I flew straight down the small flight of stairs and landed on my feet, clutching my books; I could as easily have not, and broken my neck. When I complained to the principal, I was told that such things happen. It was within the normal order of the McClancy day.

Four decades later, another German American bully from Queens became the most powerful man on the planet. The 2016 election particularly struck home for me. Donald Trump is like the fathers of the boys I went to high school with. He grew up in Jamaica Estates, then a gated white island in the middle of the most diverse county in the nation. That explains everything about him, his fear and hatred of people different from him.

According to Trump, Haitians “all have AIDS.” If Nigerians are allowed into the United States, they would never “go back to their huts.” Mexicans? “They’re bringing drugs; they’re bringing crime; they’re rapists.” About immigrants in general: “Everything’s coming across the border: the illegals, the cars, and the whole thing. It’s like a big mess. Blah. It’s like vomit.” All this was shocking to many people, but familiar to me, because I’d heard it from the McClancy boys—and some of the teachers.

#Suketu Mehta #This Land is Our Land

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ninemoons42-lestallumhaven · 6 years ago

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(I was asked to continue with this astronaut AU and I got caught on the idea of how a musician/photographer could have met a software engineer who happens to do a lot of work on a space station, and this was the result, and thanks to @stopmopingstarthoping for asking for this.)

Quick Fic Pick 72: can you see me, major?

The bed looks awful good, Prompto thinks, the bed looks awful good and so do the threadbare blankets, so do the squashed-flat pillows, but -- every step he takes causes him to shed an awful amount of glitter onto the cold tiled floors and he curses the cheap beer and the hangover that’s already creeping in around the edges of the back of his mind, and he forces himself to head into the tiny bathroom.

He maybe curses the piano he’d been stuck with -- something fatally wrong with the pedals -- he’d had to improvise and go without any of the usual three and as a result his ears are still ringing, because the little bar had already been too loud and then his songs had been discordant, harsh, stripped bare of sostenuto and of legato, and he’s never never never doing anything like that ever again -- worst comes to worst, he’ll improvise on an electronic keyboard.

Anything but that jangling shit sound that’s still maybe sawing at his nerves even after he washes his hair three times, even after the water goes lukewarm and he leaves a trail of swirling spiraling sparkling muck on the shower drain.

Maybe he should have taken the sleeping tablets that Iris had tried to press on him. Maybe he should have smuggled Holly’s pot into the venue. Sleeping’s the farthest thing from his mind, here in this lonely shoebox of a motel room, a hundred miles from home and he can’t just make a beeline for his actual own quarters because he still has shit to do in the morning.

Shit like -- he groans, and lays out his only “get in front of the cameras and smile” outfit out on the bare shelves of the tall thin closet. Black button-down shirt, neon-green tie, undershirt, boxers, red-striped socks.

The bed fits him exactly: it is as long as he is and as wide as he is, and he curls himself up into a miserable ball of blanket and pillows, and he goes to charge his phone and he has to look, he has to look, because he can’t breathe and he misses his room and all the other things that live in that room. The ginger cat that belongs to the family next door, that spends most of its nights sleeping on top of his baby grand piano. The safe that contains his hoard of film cartridges for his analog SLR camera. The equally secured crate with its multiple lock-holes for his digital cameras.

All he has for this trip is the usual, which is his smartphone, which is now exactly two years, eight months, and three days out of date but it’s still got the single best camera he’s ever encountered in this kind of thing and so he’s gonna hold on until the thing breaks itself into little bits and pieces of shattered glass and circuit boards.

Fortunately the image he needs to look at is -- freely available online, freely remixable.

Impossible to find a comfortable spot in this bed so he just flops back onto the pillow and swipes to the image, the first file in the camera roll on this device.

The image is labeled “sand dunes” on the ’net, and he’s long since given up on complaining that it just doesn’t do any justice to the actual view, and he feasts his eyes, and thinks about letting go of the day and of the night and of all of the aggravations in his life.

Calm and dynamic all at once: looking straight down from the Eos Space Station, the image shows off the dusty-golden sands of the Leide deserts, and the single rarity of Lake Hammerhead, still and huge and the perfect reflection of the blue skies in that region. Cloud formations in the image cast shadows onto the sands and onto the lake’s shores, and in the lower-right corner, still mostly clear when he swipes to zoom in, are the hundreds upon hundreds of specks of captured movement: the migration of a massive herd of coeurls.

Every time he looks at the image he finds new details: a statue casting a strange shadow, a particularly elegant curve of dune, new and different phantom shapes in the cloud formations.

Every time he looks at the image he finds himself being able to take a deep clean breath: it must be the colors and the lighting, or it could be the idea of that oddly suspended serenity that he finds in the tension between the clouds and the coeurls and the shapes in the sand.

He takes that breath, and the words fall almost gently into his mind, the line fully formed and he swipes to one of the note-taking apps and locates one of his documents.

Maybe this is the line that completes a stanza, or this is the line that begins the chorus -- the idea blows softly away and he lets himself focus on the one thing, the important thing, which is -- capturing the line.

Sailing shadows in a summer-spark sky

He numbers that line, following all the others he’s already drafted, and he hums quietly to himself and the memory of the image allows him to stay calm, and veer away from the usual stresses of creating something new and something he’s never heard before.

And then, just because he can, he switches to a different document in the app, and reviews the story behind the image of Leide, taken from space: the name of the photographer. How the scene had been captured in the first place. Nothing more or less than a complete accident, a calibration of image sensors, a mistake.

It’s a damn pretty mistake, Prompto thinks, and he falls asleep and dreams of stars sparkling embedded in those desert-stretch ripples -- stars that are still winking in the dawn a few hours later, when he’s woken up and asked to get dressed and this is the last time he’s participating in one of those early-morning news-magazine shows.

He can’t quite smile, when he’s ushered into the green rooms and he crosses his arms atop the nearest horizontal surface, puts his head down, thinks of coeurls on the run and closes his eyes --

“This seat taken?”

He shakes his head.

“I’ll -- leave you to it then.”

Some impulse makes him shake his head a little, and groan, and mutter, “Sorry. I swear I’m not usually rude like this. Not enough sleep.”

“Ah. Well,” and is there something familiar about that voice? But his head is so heavy, and the climate control in the room keeps his sleeves cool and comfortable. “Been a while since I pulled the good kind of all-nighter.”

“There’s no such thing,” Prompto says, and he sighs and keeps his eyes closed when he straightens up. He only turns his head in the direction of the other voice. “And I’m telling you that as someone who has to do all-nighters all the fucking time.”

“So what are you doing up so early?”

“Beats me,” he says. “Not like I’m even supposed to be singing, they want me to talk about the other thing,” and he raises his hands, pretends to hold up a camera, pretends to click the shutter button.

“Ah. That’s a little different from singing, isn’t it?”

He snorts. “A little and a lot.”

“Just so.”

Before he can make up his mind to open his eyes, there’s a rustle of movement on his other side, and a voice saying, “No, no, don’t open, you need a lot of concealer right now.”

Prompto groans in agreement. “Please. I’d do it myself if I had steadier hands.”

“Let me work.”

By the time the makeup is misted and set, he’s alone in the green room, and he only has the ghost of that almost-known voice to go by, and he doesn’t even have a face to match that voice to.

So it’s a real shock when he’s joined on one of the couch-sets by --

“Have you met?” the segment host chirps. “You know, common interests and all?”

And Ignis Scientia, sitting next to him, smiles in a small precise way, and shakes his head. “Hardly. But I’m happy to be here, and I hope to learn something from Mr Argentum.”

“Not sure I have anything to teach you when it comes to looking at things,” he blurts out, and the words fall in a puddle between them, completely reckless.

“I am not worried about my eyes; I am worried about everything else,” and Ignis fucking Scientia performs the exact same gesture of holding up a nonexistent camera, of taking a photograph -- only he’s looking straight at Prompto when he does it -- looking at him, and smiling, and Prompto takes a deep breath, and attempts to smile back.

“Oh, interesting,” the host says, and Prompto knows he’s beet-red for the entire time he’s on the air with the exact same Ignis Scientia who’d accidentally taken the photograph that’s been his obsession for some time now.

And he can still feel the heat lingering in his forehead and his throat when he says, safely off the couch-set, “What exactly is stopping you from taking pictures anyway? Are you that busy, in space?”

“I’m afraid I am; and I’m afraid I get stuck looking at code anyway, so.” Even a shrug is elegant, on him, and Prompto would curse him if he hadn’t been drinking in the prettiness of him, if he hadn’t been itching to take a picture of him.

And all he’s got is his smartphone and he raises it helplessly between them, and Ignis Scientia only nods, small calm measured movement, and Prompto’s hand is shaking but the image he takes comes out startlingly vivid and clear.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly look like that.”

“You actually do,” Prompto says.

“I’d like a copy, if you don’t mind -- let me give you my number. I think I’ll still be using this one for a few more days.”

“Or I could work on this a little and then send it to you afterwards,” he says, scrambling for his footing in a familiar topic.

“I would like that. It was lovely to meet you. Mr Argentum.”

“Prompto,” he says, holding his hand out at last. “You don’t have to be so damn formal, and no one calls me that anyway.”

“Then please call me Ignis, and will you please email me -- your work?”

“Yeah.”

(He does a little better, once he’s done jittering, and the email he sends has the processed portrait as an attachment, and the following lines:

(Sailing shadows in a summer-spark sky -- catch the clouds and the contrails in careful hands like yours)

#stopmopingstarthoping #milodrums #pairing: promnis #character: prompto argentum #character: ignis scientia #music and lyrics #fic: mine #quick fic pick

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toothclawandscale · 7 years ago

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Conflict of Interest

“I’m gonna need some more specialist equipment, Kaal. The ruins are partially inside a mountain, and would need to be sealed to prevent contaminants. I’d suggest hermetically sealing it, but we do need to breathe in there. I’m gonna need some gloves to handle anything we find, as well as UV lights.” Kaal pulled a face at me and I laughed. “They’re so we don’t damage any murals or art that could be in there too. No flash photography either.”

He nodded in understanding. “I see. I’m glad I hired you, because I was almost ready to go in guns blazing and just tear out whatever I thought looked valuable. You know it took me around 4 years just to find this place?” I nodded at him. It was difficult to determine anything aerially in a desert unless it was either rusting or casting a noticeable shadow.

“Yeah, it’s always been difficult unless you’ve got a scout on the ground. It’s a shame there’s not more in this desert, to be fair. I’d kill for a good holiday somewhere more wet, Like Ersis. I hear they do cruises there, and they sound fun.” I laughed, finally glad to relax a little. I noticed Kaal had returned to his research notes, so I took it upon myself to leave.

Several weeks had passed until I met him again. He’d called me in for assistance translating some glyphs that had doubled as an extremely primitive language substitute before the mass migration of our kind to the City, where we were taught most of the commonly spoken languages. The difficulty came from the fact that depending on the context of the glyphs they could often mean different things. It also didn't help he’d found only several fragments of full sentences in rocks he’d taken from the site.

I’d got some experience with their translations, but it was not as much I’d have liked. I’d been distracted too, focusing on my - as of then - secret plan. I needed dirt, but didn’t know how or where to get it. At this stage, all I had were hushed rumours and implications posed by nut-jobs on conspiracy boards. Kaal broke me away from my daydreaming with a simple nudge. “Shit, sorry. I was off in my own world there.I haven’t been sleeping well. I keep having weird nightmares about fire.”

Kaal looked at me with disgust. “You’d better be on form. I don’t appreciate or employ people who would fall asleep.” I nodded, not saying anything about it. I wanted to. By god I wanted to pin him down and tear out his eyes and watch that royal purple warmth drip from the holes in his skull like rain against glass. However, the anger subsided and normalcy returned to me.

“These fragments were taken on prior expeditions by teams I had sent to the area. I don’t know a single thing about them, which pains me. I feel like I should know my own language but...” he paused, sighing. “It’s been a long time and we’ve all but forgotten it. You see, this is what my cause is about. The things this pyramid of steel has buried in the foundations in an attempt to forget. I will not allow it to forget how it forced our kind into this place that has become our tomb, by any means.” He looked at me for recognition, a familiarity.

“It’s been aeons, Kaal. I understand how you feel, but..” He cut me off, rushing at me and pinned me to the wall. He snarled at me, his face inches from my own. “YOU UNDERSTAND NOTHING, SAL. YOU’RE JUST AS INDOCTRINATED AS THE REST OF THIS POPULACE AND YOU THINK YOU CAN UNDERSTAND THE RAGE OUR KIND FELT AT BEING FORCED TO LIVE HERE?!” He paused, awaiting my response.

I replied timidly, in an attempt to get him to let his guard down. “I-I’m... Uh... Well aware of what you claimed..” His grip tightened on my arms and he inched a little closer. I took my chance and headbutted him as hard as I could, the rage inside me building to a breaking point. I wanted to kill him then and there, but I suppressed it. He recoiled enough to let go of me, and I immediately apologised. “I’m sorry. Kaal. I didn’t understand, nor can I ever.”

He looked at me, the fire of aggression still behind his eyes. “You’ve insulted me. You don’t get to use my name anymore. It’s “Sir” from now on, like the common dogs I employ. Do not attack me again, or you will regret ever being born.” He adjusted his suit, dusted himself off and headed back to the table with the rocks on it, clicking his fingers at me to join him.

Something inside me snapped. I was going to kill him.

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davina-wolfthorne · 7 years ago

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Entry #11 - Snow and ash

Eleventh writing prompt [Mercy vs Justice] for FFXIV 30 Day Writing Challenge

Reader warning - Below the ‘keep reading’ line is material that pertains to abuse of minors, violence, strong language, mention of rape, and death.

Laying atop a thin mattress, stained with mud and dry blood, the malnourished preteen stares out a distance window. Crystals of frost have gathered around the edges of the thin glass panes. Winter is close, and every night that comes to pass its frigid approach kisses the night time air. The slave quarters are bitterly cold during these hours. All the slaves, including herself, live in what she affectionately calls a shit shack. It does qualify as a cottage, but it is so run down that no one should be subjected to live there. There are holes in the floorboards, and chunks missing out of the roof. Cracks run wildly along the walls in small fissures. The only thing in tact are the windows which are paper thin and do little to keep out the chill. In here there is hardly anything to keep them warm. In the center of the cottage is a old wood stove which Eadmer Blacke has been so kind to let them use. They have no blankets and pillows, and their clothing is made of burlap. During the long winter months everyone migrates their mattress closer to the wood stove. On especially harsh days and nights they huddle against each other and sleep that way so that their body heat can keep one another warm.

A low growl rumbles inside of her hollow gut. Starvation is something Davina can never get use to. Even after spending four years as a slave. Hands, so dirty and worn, grip onto the burlap gown over her stomach. Small fingers twist and turn into the scratchy thin material, and she desperately tries to distract herself. Thankfully her wounded legs, and the anguish they cause, gives a wonderful distraction from how much her stomach yearns for subsistence.

It has been a week since Eadmer’s doctor made long incisions in her legs. His skilled knife cutting through the layers of sun kissed skin in clean trails leading from her ankles and stopping an ilm shy of her knees. What amazes her is the fact that Eadmer has taken great care to ensure the young mage’s wounds don’t get infected. The doctor stops by numerous times a day to clean the gashes, apply salves, and wrap clean bandages over her legs. Pain is a constant factor, and the sensation of agony in her legs overwhelms everything. Even the pangs of hunger that tear at her gut.

Sounds of heavy chains knocking against a wooden door draws her attention away from her thoughts. “What now?” She can a woman’s voice question in a murmur. “D...do you think they brought food?” A child answers the woman’s question with one of their own.

“Doubtful...” Davina sighs. Rather carefully, as to not move her legs too much, she rolls over onto her right side to face the other slaves who huddle close to the wood stove. Fire burns low inside of the metal contraption allowing shadows to dance and leap wildly over the room. In the dim light she can see their faces. Fear haunts them. It is an all encompassing emotion. All their faces, even those of the other children, are worn and weathered from all the hard work and abuse they endure. Cheeks that should be so supple with a layer of fat and muscle are actually sunken in. Dark circles of flesh line the underside of their fearful filled eyes. They all seem to look at her collectively and wait in silence for an explanation. “If they haven’t given us any food yet it is doubtful they will tonight.” The mage of only eleven explains to her fellow slaves. They all have been starving for two days, and it seems their master is content on making them endure another night of hollow guts.

The cottage door is violently yanked open. Cold night air floods through the room. Making the flames in the wood stove flicker, and nearly extinguish. A Seeker girl of only seventeen is shoved roughly over the threshold. Her weak legs are unable to catch her, and she tumbles to the ground. Much like all the slaves, and Davina, this teen is severely underweight and starving. Pale skin lacks any luster, and it sags over her bones like a dress. Behind her the guards slam the door shut, and the sounds of chains dragging over wood fills the silence. From her mattress those dull azure eyes watch as a female Highland of thirty scrambles over to the Miqo’te teen. “Wh...what have they done to her?” The Highlander’s voice quivers from silent sobs.

Rolling over onto her stomach Davina situates herself so that she may see the teenager girl. Fresh blood trickles down along the Seeker’s legs. Dark crimson stains the bottom of the burlap gown that blankets over her skinny frame. She watches as the Highlander woman scoops the Seeker into her shaking arms. Sapphire eyes stare at the duo, and she watches the fight leave the Seeker girl. Eyelids close over the Miqo’te’s tired gaze, and her chest rises and falls. It doesn’t rise again. All life has fled the teenager. The Highlander screams of anguish fills the room, and all the slaves cry together. Their pain is equally shared. Tonight Davina has witnessed another life being snuffed out by Eadmer’s wickedness. As the slaves grieve for the loss of life Davina does not for the girl’s death and the sadness of the others fills her with fire. Sparks ignite in her gut and it creates an inferno of emotions.

Palms and fingers splay on the mattress, and slowly her arms unfold. They shake terribly, and her body screams out in protest, but Davina is done listening to the pain and discomfort. Rising from the bed she stands on injured legs. Anguish blossoms along the wounded lower limbs but she cares not. “This has to stop.” Words breathe out from the young mage. Turning toward the door she takes one step then another and then another. Slow at first it is as if her body is trying to remember how to move. Bare feet shuffle across the cold floorboards, but the chill that seeps into her feels so good! For now her entire being burns with a feverish need to destroy. Awaking in her is the thirst for blood and ash.

Moving over to the cottage door her hands press flat against the wooden boards. Behind her she hears someone murmuring,” what are you doing?” Another joins,” if you try to open it they’ll hear you.” Davina doesn’t listen to them. The world fades away, and all there is is that ravenous need. Around the eleven year old’s hands the bitterly cold air starts to warm rapidly. At first there is the smell of burning wood, but what comes next is a surprise to everyone. Small flames bloom under Davina’s touch. They lick and gnaw at the wood, and soon the door is ignited in fire. She can hear the gasps and whispers at her backside. Not bothering to look at them Davina instructs,” wait here. When you see my signal run. Run as fast and as far from here as you can. Come morning’s light you will be free.”

They watch with desperate eyes as Davina steps through the fire. Since the flames are of her own creation they are of no harm to her. She passes through them without any hindrance. Cold dead grass acts like a cushion to her bare feet. Davina doesn’t bother to hide her presence. Striding toward Manor Blacke her gait is steady and slow. She will have to pace herself for what is about to come will be extremely taxing on her.

Approaching a large bay window she studies the panes for a moment. Reaching up her fingertips lightly caress over the smooth glass. Trails of frost are left in the wake of her gentle touch. Crystals of ice spread like a disease over the window and only stopping when it is covered entirely. Palms press upon the icy surface, and under her skin flames erupt. Rapidly heating the frozen glass causes the panes to crack and after several seconds the window shatters. Now comes the difficult task. Fingers curl around the windowsill and weak muscles flex in her skinny arms. Pulling herself up is a struggle. Feet press against the wood siding of the large house to aid her in the small climb. Raw pain burns through her legs, and spreads throughout her entire being, but the adrenaline coursing through her blood helps her ignore the anguish. Hoisting herself over the windowsill she falls forward, and crashes into the sitting room. Hitting the ground with a thud all the bones in her body shudder momentarily. Davina doesn’t allow herself a moment of reprieve. Scrambling onto her feet she forces herself to continue on with the mission.

“What are you doing in here, girl?” A voice sounds to her right. Quarter turning azure eyes fall on the metal clad figure of a guard. Making no attempt to flee she allows his hand to grasp roughly onto her upper arm. Dry cracked lips split into a coy grin. That is the only response the guard receives from Davina. The atmosphere around them becomes alive. Making the air crackle, pop, and hiss with tension. Her left hand grips onto the metal gauntlet protecting his hand. Tendrils of lightning crawls over her sun kissed skin. Electricity leaps off of her, and into the guard. His metal armor acting as a conductor for the lightning. He is powerless to stop it as it discharges into him. His body begins to convulse while the lightning overworks his beating heart. She can smell his flesh beginning to burn, and it is the sweetest thing she has smelled in four years. Delight fills her soul as the guard crumples to the floor. His heart couldn’t handle the overload of electricity and it stopped beating all together.

Stepping over his corpse Davina continues on with her goal. Moving over to the long couch her fingers stroke over the plush cushions. Eadmer had filled his home with fine things, and that will be his undoing. Sparks ignite in the darkness and they leap onto the fabric of the couch. Flames catching on the delicate material, and the fabric acts as fuel for the fire. Slow at first the flames rise but soon they spread wildly. Consuming the couch and leaping onto the carpeted floor. But she wasn’t content.

Walking casually over to a corridor her right hand stretches out to touch a wall. Paintings of art and people litter the face of it, but she cares not to study them. Beginning her stride down the hall flames sprout from her fingertips and start to burn the wall. Davina continues to do this. Walking down hall after all and leaving a trail of fire in her wake. Flames spread over the wall. They creep and crawl over the ceilings and floorboards. Rapidly carrying through the estate. Smoke begins to cloud the hallways and open rooms. The occupants of the first floor slowly stirring from their slumber as they smell the putrid stench of furniture burning.

Making her way up the grand stairs Davina continues to move with murderous intent. Reaching the third floor, where the bedrooms are located, she listens to the silence. No one up here has caught wind of the smoke so they are still peacefully enveloped in their dreams. Soft rugs tickle her bare feet as she roams down a hallway to where the bedrooms of Eadmer’s children are located. Stopping at the door to his sons’ room she studies it for a moment. They’re around her age and here she is about to condemn them to death. Hesitation lingers in her muscles but she remembers the acts of their father. How many has Eadmer killed? She’s lost count at this point.

Both hands stretch out. Each takes a wall on the left and right side of the door. Fire crawls over her skin and jumps onto the wall. Flames eagerly devouring the wallpaper and wood beneath. Satisfied with herself Davina turns and her casual steps turn into a light jog. Behind her she can hear the cries of help from his sons but there will be no salvation for them. Running through down the halls she discharges fire from her hands. Lobbing balls of flames at rugs, at paintings, at doors. Nothing and no one is safe from her wrath.

Steps bring her to the monster’s bedroom door, and her steps come to a halt. In the palms of her hands flames start to gather. Growing more and more. She hadn’t expected the bedroom’s door to open, and when it does Eadmer’s wicked wife stands in the threshold. Her hair messy from sleep but her eyes are bright with fear. “You.....” Is all the Highlander woman goes to speak but Davina is already in motion. Launching the fire in her hands at her master’s beloved the nightgown the woman wears is caught on fire. She desperately flails and tries to put out the flames, but her attempts are futile. Brushing past the flailing woman the eleven year old mage moves to the large king bed. Twisting her hands into the sheets she discharges fire from her being. Silken sheets ignite with ease, and their fire spreads swiftly onto the mattress, the wooden bed posts, and down to the floor underneath.

Turning back to the way she came from Davina begins to the trek down the burning hallway. Smoke stings her lungs and burns her eyes. Tears glaze over the sapphire seas, but despite all this discomfort happiness ebbs and flows through her. For the first time in four years Davina feels unadulterated joy, and that sensation grows stronger with each step she takes. Tired and wounded legs carry her step by step down the stairs, and out of the front door of the estate. Everyone is in a rush to put out the flames or to save those trapped inside they don’t bother with her.

She walks through the front yard as a free girl. For a moment she stops to look at the cottage where the slaves stayed. The door has completely burned to coals by now, and she doesn’t see anyone inside from her position. They’re finally all free from this wretched place. Satisfaction floods over her in waves, but with them she can feel exhaustion beginning to weigh her down heavily. Quarter turning to Manor Blacke she savors her work in these sweetest of moments. The entire estate is consumed with fire. Flames claw at the dark heavens and plumes of smoke rise in thick pillars. Flakes of the first snow fall cascade down in fine sheets of powder mixing with the ash that bellows out from the burning building. It is the most beautiful and breath taking thing Davina has ever witnessed.

Content with her work, and with her mission completed, she turns her back to Manor Blacke one last time. Sure she could have given everyone a swift death, but that would be an act of kindness. This wasn’t a mission of mercy. It was an act of justice for all of those that Eadmer had abused, had tortured, had killed.

#ffxivwrite2017 #entry 11 #entry 11 mercy vs justice #davina wolfthorne

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at-tostitos · 7 years ago

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opening of a zombie au markjin i’ll never finish

Few Infected wander through his neighborhood but that doesn’t mean the breeze doesn’t carry the stench of impending doom into his room when Jinyoung opens his bedroom window. Wrinkling his nose, he leaves the window to fall back on his bed. He can hear the shuffling of the Infected that are in the area as the soles of their worn shoes scrape against the tar of the road. For some reason, the virus not only took their humanity but also their ability to properly pick their feet up off the ground and take actual steps.

He grabs the bag of jumbo-sized marshmallows and rips it open with his teeth. The mid-September heat has melted them and they stick to each other, the bag, and his fingers. It’s kind of gross but he can spare a little bit of water to rinse off his hands and even the slimy stickiness on his tongue is irrelevant compared to the sweet taste. He’s allowed to get a little messy and spoil himself. What’s having sticky fingers if he’s going to die soon anyway.

As he bites into his third marshmallow, Jinyoung picks up on the sound of voices. They’re voices different from the pained moans of the Infected; they’re voices that are forming actual words. Sitting up, he faces the window. That can’t be another living, breathing person. He hasn’t come across any one else in at least a week, maybe longer.

After the virus broke out a month and a half ago, many people scrambled in fear, fleeing to where they thought they would be safe — the airport (but most of the countries they could think of escaping to closed their borders as soon as the virus caught the news), emergency shelters, army bases. Before the electricity shut off, there was a news story warning against going to these places but terror makes people blind to these sorts of things.

That article was two weeks ago. He hasn’t seen his mother in as much time; at first he assumed she migrated closer to the army base thirty minutes outside of the capital like everyone else but she would never leave without him and he has come to terms with the increased possibility of her being dead or Infected. It’s the same with the other people in the neighborhood. Either they’re like him and have boarded themselves in their homes or they’re like his mother.

The voices outside his window grow louder and he raises a brow. There’s no mistaking it; that’s definitely a coherent being.

Tossing the marshmallows next to him, Jinyoung slides off the bed and walks over to his window again. He can’t see very well from there but as he cranes his neck against the glass, he can make out two boys down the street and it looks like they’re fighting off an Infected. Jinyoung leans against the wall and sucks the sticky residue off his fingers. Those kids have some pretty bad luck. There are so few people left in this neighborhood (who make it known that they’re around) that many of the Infected followed them to the capital and yet those two caught the attention of one of the Infected still wandering the area. They look like they’re wanderers themselves and he wonders how long they have been on the road because there is no way they’re going to survive for much longer if they can’t even sneak past a couple of Infected.

It isn’t exactly the hardest thing to do. The Infected aren’t as terrifying when they’re not in a big horde. By themselves they’re almost pitiful, victims just as much as the survivors are.

The craze of zombie films and books predicted a lot of things — the virus was a government-mandated experiment gone wrong and after a period of time, those exposed to the contagion ‘die’ and come back aggressive and incapable of intelligent thought — but what they didn’t predict was the Infected being blind and sensitive to light. As long as you don’t grab their attention being too loud, Infected don’t do much but limp around and make noise during the day, too bothered by the sunlight to do much else.

Jinyoung is surprised when the boys don’t attract anything else by the time one of them incapacitates the Infected with a kick to the knee because it sounds like they’re arguing. He watches as they leave the Infected lying in the middle of the road, crippled by its wrecked leg, and continue up the street. As they get closer to his house, a small thought pops into his mind.

“It won’t hurt to have a little fun,” he eggs himself on, knowing in the back of his mind that it could hurt. His number one rule is to lay low. Infected aren’t the only people to worry about being aggressive and even though those two absolutely sucked at handling that Infected, Jinyoung can’t underestimate them and assume they wouldn’t attack him. Still there’s a little voice in the back of his mind that makes him run to grab his marshmallows and the slingshot he hasn’t touched since he was a kid.

He opens the windows and kneels in front of it. And to think he used to be bothered by his mother constantly forgetting to replace the screen after he ripped it trying to kill a bug a couple years ago. Digging the least melted marshmallow out of the bag, he loads it into the sling and once they’re close enough, he lets it fly.

To be honest, he didn’t think it would land anywhere near them so when it slams into shoulder of the brunet closest to him he forgets to silence his hiss of success.

“What the— where…”

Jinyoung also forgets to duck out of view and finds himself locking eyes with the confused brunet.

“Oh, shit,” Jinyoung breathes out.

The brunet bends over to pick up the marshmallow and holds it up. “Did you shoot this at me?” He raises his voice to be heard and his friend, easily the younger of the two if his face is anything to go by, slaps the back of his neck.

“Be quiet,” he scolds, softer than the brunet but still loud enough to carry to Jinyoung’s second floor bedroom window. “And we don’t have time for this. We still have to make it to the next hostel before sundown and we have no idea where we are.”

Jinyoung digs out a marshmallow to bite into and glances at the battery operated clock on his wall. It’s nearing on four forty. “You aren’t going to get there in time,” Jinyoung cuts in before they can start arguing again. He really doesn’t need them to attract any more Infected. “Not if we’re thinking of the same place and you’re already lost.” There’s only one hostel nearby that he knows of and, if he remembers correctly, it’s at least a two and a half hour walk away. Not knowing the way only lengthens the time.

The kid with the baby face sighs exasperatedly and throws his hands in the air. “Great, we’re dead.”

The brunet has his face turned to the sky and is biting at his lip, looking lost in thought. Probably wondering if they should continue toward the hostel or not, Jinyoung muses. Squeezing the other half of his marshmallow, Jinyoung takes a giant leap of faith and hopes he doesn’t end up getting robbed or killed. “Don’t move, okay,” he says and pops the rest of the marshmallow into his mouth.

He rushes out of his room and down the stairs to his dark living room. When he realized that the virus wasn’t just a tasteless, out-of-season Halloween joke, he boarded up all of the windows and front door on the first floor, leaving the second floor untouched since no one can reach it without a ladder. The back door isn’t boarded up either; there would be no way for him to leave otherwise and the deadbolt seems to be enough security against looters. The Infected don’t have the mental capacity to think about forcing their way in without there being enough sound to trigger their attention.

The plants in his mother’s garden are drooping in the late summer heat and he frowns sadly at them as he speeds around the side of his house to open the fence door. Poking his head out, he sees the two boys listened and are still standing in front of the house. They’re watching the zombie they fought earlier struggle to crawl into a shady area.

“Hey,” he calls, waving them over when they turn around. They cast each other a look but the brunet shrugs and begins to walk over, the kid following a step behind. When they’re in a closer range, he swings the fence door open slightly more. “I’m hoping I’m not wrong about this but you two seem pretty okay. I’m willing to let you guys rest here so you can head to the hostel in the morning.”

The brunet eyes him critically. “Why would you do that for us?”

“Yeah, what if you’re a cannibal looking for his next meal?” The kid, who is a lot taller than Jinyoung guessed, pipes up beside him.

Jinyoung fights the urge to do anything more than stare at the tall kid blankly. Turning his gaze to the brunet, he offers a small smile that’s barely a turn of the lips. “Consider it an apology for the marshmallow.”

The two boys regard each other again and Jinyoung watches what must be a non-verbal discussion. He’s starting to get anxious; he doesn’t need anyone else knowing that he’s still living and breathing in this house. Attracting looters is the last thing he needs.

After a minute, they face him again, their suspiciousness replaced with relief. “Thanks,” the kid says. The brunet nods beside him.

Waving them off, Jinyoung ushers them inside the gate and locks it behind them. As he leads them around to the back door, he introduces himself. “I’m Jinyoung.”

“Yien,” the brunet returns.

“You can call me Bambam,” the kid supplies. When Jinyoung looks over his shoulder, he must look confused because Bambam continues with, “It’s a nickname. I’ve literally never been called by my first name except when my mom was mad at me.”

Accepting the response as truth, Jinyoung pulls open the back door and holds it as the two file into the living room. He closes it behind them, turning both the deadbolt and the regular lock and tugging it as a precaution.

Yien and Bambam haven’t gotten far, waiting for him to lead them through the house. Jinyoung watches them appreciate the living room despite the few strips of light filtering through the boarded windows. Regret hasn’t set in yet but the realization that he’s in for an awkward night suddenly hits him. He’s not socially inept by any means but entertaining two strangers who are lost in the middle of a zombie outbreak was not something he was expecting to do any time soon.

“So, uh, where are you guys from?” Jinyoung asks as he walks past them and jerks his head to the left.

“I moved to Namdong from America a couple years ago and Bam is from Busan,” Yien answers, following behind Jinyoung with Bambam at his side.

The door to the storage room is cracked open the slightest bit and Jinyoung nudges it open with his toe as he looks at his guests, specifically Bambam. “You’re a long way away from home.”

#i outlined this entire story in detail maybe i'll post the outline sometime #wip #abandoned fic #ship: markjin #group: got7

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ellawritesficssometimes · 7 years ago

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Ouija Board Mishaps (Day 6 Week of Hetalia, One-shot

A/N: I wrote this when I was sick and took too much NyQuil xD

Stay tuned for tomorrow. I’ll have a more romantic fic planned.

@weekofhetalia

Arthur’s POV:

It was a late Friday night, and against my will, my friends had invited themselves over, as per usual. Correction, I invited my younger neighbors Matthew and Alfred over, otherwise known as the twins, while the frog (Francis) came on his own free will, but certainly not mine. Francis was a senior in high school like myself, whereas the twins were both juniors.

Since October was the peak of anything paranormal, I decided to put an end to the mystery surrounding the hauntings occurring in my home. My family has a history of having the Sight, which means we’re able to communicate with spirits. However, the spirit haunting my family refused to show itself, – or should I say herself? – so we were forced to put up with its shenanigans. I grew up with these hauntings, whether it being misplaced socks, random knocks on the walls, or footsteps in rooms where no one alive was in.

But not anymore. I wouldn’t put up with it for any longer.

Impulsive, young, and stubborn as I’ve always been, I bought a Ouija board from Toys’ R US the other day, thinking I would finally be able to make contact with this spirit and get rid of it. Alistair, my older brother and guardian, was gone for the weekend, so this would have been the perfect opportunity for me to prove my worth as a spiritual communicator.

My god, words cannot explain how badly I fucked up.

Regardless, I didn’t know that at the time. My pride often got in the way of me thinking rationally.

Anyway, the four of us were sitting in the basement’s lounge, decked in comfortable sweatshirts and sweatpants.

Even Francis was wearing a white hoodie that obnoxiously read “I love Paris” on the front of it. He was wearing silk pajama pants though, so I suppose his fashion sense still carried with him wherever he went. Unfortunately, fashion sense didn’t necessarily equate to class.

Francis, seemingly out of nowhere, had procured an entire bottle of wine, taking swigs of it as he draped his hairy arms over the loveseat like he owned it. Alfred and Matthew were sharing the two-person couch, each fiddling with a 3DS in their hands.

Meanwhile, I was sitting cross-legged on the ground, setting up the Ouija board and lighting several candles.

“You still plan to go through with this?” Francis asked me, slurring slightly.

I reached out to confiscate the bottle of wine from him. “All right, you’ve had enough of that,” I grunted, ignoring Francis’s protests. “It’s my house, you cold-blooded tart. I can’t have the cops coming over to arrest you.”

“Ah, oui,” Francis mumbled and then proceeded to lower his voice to snidely insult me in French.

I padded over to the mini-kitchen in my basement, placing the half-empty wine bottle in the fridge.

Alfred looked up from his 3DS, his face paling despite the determined expression he held. “M-man, I thought you were just kidding about using that thing!” he exclaimed.

“No, you ninny,” I rolled my eyes. “Have I ever joked about something like this? I’m tired of this spirit messing with me. It’s not exactly a friendly one either,” I trailed off ominously.

Matthew closed his 3DS, only to yelp when Alfred clutched his right arm for dear life. The latter had always been unreasonably terrified of the supernatural. “What do you mean by, ‘not friendly’”? he asked softly, violet eyes blinking not in fear but rather, curiosity.

I patted the ground, inviting my friends +1 to sit in a circle in front of the Ouija board resting on the carpet. I needed them close so that I could explain everything properly.

Once the lights were dimmed slightly and I had my mobile’s flash pressed under my chin, I began my performance. I spoke slowly, knowing that Alfred was slow to pick up on things, but also in the spookiest voice I could muster. Francis and Matthew were both unfazed, taking more amusement in how much Alfred was trembling.

I chuckled lowly, allowing a satisfied smirk to creep onto my face. “Rumour has it that 70 years ago, three siblings moved into this house after migrating here from Russia. There was a brother and two sisters. The youngest sister was mentally ill, but refused to get help. Her siblings agreed with this, probably because they knew she would be institutionalized for the rest of her life if she was turned in to the authorities. The mentally ill sibling’s name was Natalia. Weirdly enough, the records only show her name if you google the murders.”

“MURDERS?!” Alfred spluttered.

“Muahahaha! Yes, murders! Your ignorant two-celled brain heard me right!” I snickered. Perhaps I was getting a bit too immersed in the story. I had always been quite the shit-disturber.

“Natalia was obsessed with her older brother; you could even say it was a fixation. When she heard that her brother had found a spouse, she completely lost her marbles. Things took a turn for the worse when the brother admitted to Natalia that he was engaged, and that she wasn’t invited to the wedding…”

Matthew elbowed Francis. “This sounds like a soap opera you would watch,” he commented.

Francis absently nodded his head, waiting for me to continue with wide sapphire eyes.

Alfred was full-out whimpering at this point.

“Now, you see, for you guys to understand why things happened the way they did, you need to know that Natalia suffered from religious delusions. She saw her brother as some sort of God, an icon if you will. And for him to be marrying someone unworthy was utterly preposterous to her. Enraged, Natalia began to break things in a fit of uncontrollable anger – there’s a dent over there by that wall where she supposedly threw a knife!”

I paused, pointing towards the dent I had actually made myself when I was younger. I had thrown an overcooked scone at my brother’s head, angry at him for insulting my culinary skills – not that he was any better mind you.

“When her sister tried to stop her, Natalia stabbed her to death. Soon, Natalia had lost all sense of reality. Her brother couldn’t hold her back, as she didn’t realize what she was doing – she was just that furious. She ended up killing her brother too before slitting her own throat, horrified when she realized what she had done.

“And that my friends, is the haunting tale of Natalia A. To this day, she still resides in this house. If you listen closely at night, you can even hear the sounds of her scraping a knife against the walls, taunting those brave enough to confront her.”

“Really?” Matthew whispered to me.

“Of course not,” I mouthed back, smirking. I was enjoying Alfred’s reaction far too much to back out now.

Francis cooed at Alfred, rubbing circles into his back before looking up to glare at me. “Nice going, you imbecile. You scared le poor diabetic fils. If his blood pressure spikes, his death will be on your hands!”

“He’ll be fine,” I shrugged, indifferent.

Alfred had already cupped both hands over his ears. “Nope, nope to the infinity. I’m not doing this right now. I betcha anything it was Communism that killed them, stupid Ruskies. This is just a made-up folktale,” he rambled to himself.

“It’s real, Alfred,” I countered, reaching for my phone. “I’ll pull up the records if I have to.”

“Screw this, I’m hungry. Not today, Satan. Not today.” Shrugging off Francis, Alfred stood up and walked into the mini-kitchen. He began pawing his way through the freezer, pulling out leftover cheesecake.

The remaining three of us sighed, going back to the story.

“So…” Francis drawled, looking uneasy for once. “You want to make contact with this Natalia…why?”

“Yeah,” Matthew chimed in, which was unusual for him. He only spoke when it was absolutely necessary; often enough it was to stop us from doing something reckless and stupid. Wait…

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, you said so yourself, she murdered people… her siblings no less…” Matthew mumbled.

“Relax,” I reassured them. “I’m a spiritual communicator. I’ve got complete control over this situation. All we’ll be doing is speaking to her. If things get weird, I can always just end the conversation.”

Francis and Matthew didn’t look very assured, but they didn’t offer any further protest either. They were more intrigued than anything else.

Before I could get to explaining the rules of the board, the microwave beeped.

“What the hell?!” I spluttered, turning. “Alfred, did you just microwave a cheesecake?”

“Y-yeah! It makes it soft! I’m nervous, okay? I need something in my stomach if we’re going through with this!”

“It’s cream cheese! It’s already soft, are you daft?! That’s it, I’m cutting you off from drinking any more Mountain Dew. That sugar is eroding at any remaining common sense you have!” I stormed into the kitchen.

Alfred wailed as I poured an entire two litres of Mountain Dew down the sink. It fizzled as I did so; what in the bloody hell did they put in these soft drinks? Poison? Carcinogens? Radioactive material?

“Angleterre, you have no right to criticize him on what food he eats,” Francis chided, unwelcomed to interrupt. “Just yesterday you made scones that were hard enough to be used as a murder weapon.”

“I still have those you know,” I huffed, dragging Alfred back into the lounge like a mother hen. The American sobbed, placing a lumpy spoonful of cheesecake into his mouth. “Don’t make me use them,” I warned.

Francis raised his hands in surrender, knowing full-well that my threat bore some reality to it.

“All right,” I sighed, grabbing a remote from a nearby coffee table. I dimmed the lights further so that the ring of candles around us were the only light sources in the room. “Let’s go over the instructions, shall we?”

Alfred grabbed the remote, flicking on the lights again. “Dude, no. First, I can’t see my cheesecake, and secondly, no again! You’re giving the ghost chick an advantage if we can’t see her sneak up on us.”

“Fine,” I sighed. I compromised by turning off half the lights. “Happy?”

“No, but this cheesecake is hella satisfying.”

“Can I have a bite?” Francis asked.

“Dude, no. Get your own.”

“HELLO! If you morons are done with your squabbling, I’d like to get on with this.”

Silence.

I cleared my throat. “All right, how this works is simple. We all place our fingers on the planchette and let the spirit guide our hands to spell out letters or to answer yes or no questions on the board. If any of you fools even dare to move your hands as a prank, so help me god. The most important rule to stand by is to NEVER take your hand off the planchette unless or until we break off communication. If you do that, you are susceptible to getting possessed. I’ll repeat myself again: keep your hand on the planchette at all times if you do decide to participate. Don’t ever pull away your hand unless communication is officially broken off with the spirit.”

Silence, again. For once, my friends weren’t arguing.

“If at any time things get unsafe, we must move the planchette to the end of the board where it spells out goodbye; that will break off communication and prevent us from being possessed if the spirit is malicious. Are we all clear?”

Everyone nodded their heads.

“Right, then let’s get started.”

“Wait,” Alfred reached out to pull down my hood. “Stop trying to look like a thug.”

“I’m not trying to look like a thug! I come from a line of druids, damn you! I’m just trying to honour my heritage!” I blurted out.

“You look like a pasty snowflake at best…”

“SCREW YOU AND YOUR HIGH CHOLESTEROL!”

Francis laughed, snapchatting this entire fiasco.

Alfred furrowed his brows. “What does that even mean?”

“GUYS! FOCUS!” Matthew raised his voice, a very odd occurrence. “Just apologize, and get over with it. If we’re going to be doing this, we need to be on each other’s side in the event that something goes wrong.”

Matthew was right.

Alfred sighed, speaking through puckered lips. “I’m sorry you’re so sensitive, Artie. It must be because I’m two inches taller than you and you’re trying to overcompensate for somethin’…”

“What kind of bloody apology is that?!”

WHACK!

Francis whacked the back of my head while Matthew whacked Alfred’s. I hadn’t even done anything wrong!

After ushering out real apologies, we all moved our hands onto the planchette. Unfortunately, my hand was stuck between the frog’s and Alfred’s.

Alfred grabbed my free hand with his. “No homo,” he muttered to me. “I just want to protect ya.”

Bullshit. The yank was scared.

“We’re both bi-sexual,” I hissed with a whisper. “And what did I say about using derogatory sayings like that!? Tsk, idiot.”

Cue another pointless argument.

Eventually, we all settled down and began with the ritual.

I instructed everyone to move the planchette in a few circles around the board before asking the first question.

“Is anyone there?” I inquired. “I assure you we mean no harm.”

The planchette began to move towards the top right of the board, where Yes was spelled out in bold black letters.

“I swear if one of you twats are faking this!” I growled in warning.

“Dude, I’m not doing anything!” Alfred panicked.

“Mon dieu, did it just get colder in here?”

Matthew’s shoulders slumped. “Well, it was a nice life while it lasted. A bit more boring than I would have liked it to be, but I can’t complain.”

The planchette stopped, hovering over the Yes section of the board.

I cleared my throat. “Hello, nice to meet you. Can you spell out your name?”

The planchette began to move.

I stopped the spirit right there. “Natalia, is this Natalia A.?”

The planchette moved to Yes again.

“Oh man! Oh man! Oh man!” Alfred rambled. “We’re all going to die! I’m never going to be able to lose my virginity! I’m going to die a loser, like, like Artie!”

“It’s still not too late,” Francis purred.

“SHUT UP!” I exploded. “Do not break the ritual.”

“Natalia, is it? Tell me. Why do you steal my socks… or trip people when they’re least expecting it? Is that fun for you?”

The planchette moved into the space between Yes and No. I took that as a maybe.

“Do you not like my family living here? Is that it?”

Yes.

“What do you want from us?”

The planchette began to spell out something.

“DUDE IT BETTER NOT BE SPELLING WHAT I THINK IT IS!”

Well fuck.

“Hey, chick-ghost-dudette?” Alfred piped in. “Putting aside you murdering us for a quick second, can you tell me what Artie hides under his bed? It’s really weird how embarrassed he gets when I poke around there.”

“It’s lying!” I cried out, blushing profusely.

I didn’t even bother to acknowledge Francis’s smug all-knowing expression.

“Do ya really want to murder us, though? Like, I get it. You’ve been dead for a while, probs haven’t seen any action,” Alfred continued.

“Are you insane?!” I snapped. “You’re only provoking it, don’t you realize-!”

BANG!

The ceiling above us thudded, prompting everyone to scream and jump a little.

Everyone but Alfred knew not to take their hands off the planchette.

I realized this when it was already too late. “Alfred, don’t!”

Alfred yelped, only to fall onto his back, twitching.

“What do we do?!” Francis screeched.

“Don’t let go, we still have to say goodbye!” I instructed.

Matthew grabbed the remote with his free hand, turning the lights back on. I really wish he hadn’t. Alfred was frothing at the mouth, a single tear of blood streaking down his right cheek as he continued to convulse uncontrollably.

“Big…brother…” Alfred gasped in a voice several higher octaves than his own.

“Where…are…youuuuuuuu…?”

How could things go this wrong, this fast?

“It was a pleasure, Natalia. But I really ought to let you go now,” I pressed, struggling along with Francis and Matthew to move the planchette towards the bottom of the board, where the word Goodbye was spelt out.

But, no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t move the planchette. It was like something was pushing against us – much stronger in strength no less.

“It’s not working!” I screamed.

Francis and Matthew joined my screaming when the Ouija board was thrust into the air. We all let go, paralyzed in fear as we watched it slam into the wall opposite of us.

Matthew was the first to crouch by Alfred. “Alfred, Alfred! Wake up! Fight back, damn it!” he sobbed, slapping at Alfred’s cheeks.

“This is your fault!” Francis accused, jabbing an index finger at me. “You should have tutored him better in English. Maybe then he’d actually know how to follow instructions!”

“As if arguing is going to help with anything! Crap! I think I have a Bible upstairs! We’ll have to perform an exorcism!” I shouted.

Matthew leapt back when Alfred began to laugh hysterically, sitting up abruptly. A cryptic smirk was on his face as he licked his lips, tasting his own blood.

I reluctantly present to you, Natfred.

“A-Alfred,” I asked. “You in there, lad?”

“Alfred is gone,” Natfred laughed in a cold, feminine voice. The lights flickered.

“And soon you will all be too. I must find a suitable body for my brother. Then we can live happily ever after! But first, I’m going to need to spill a lot of blood. My, my, you’re all so young. It’ll make killing you a lot harder. Especially that one,” (she? He? It?) pointed to Francis. “I don’t usually like killing one of my own.”

“What do you mean by that?” Francis quivered as we all began to back away from Natfred, intending to run up the staircase at a moment’s opportunity.

“Are you not a woman?” Natfred asked.

“Oui, oui I am!” Francis pleaded. “Si vous plait, have mercy!”

“He’s lying,” Matthew and I both retorted.

“Some friends you are!”

“You had no problem throwing us under the bus!”

“What is this then, a gathering of homosexuals?” Natfred remarked. “It would make a lot of sense. This one– Natfred pointed at me - really likes shipping his fictional characters. It’s insufferable. For years, I’ve had to watch him lament about this ‘doctor’. And here I thought I was crazy.”

“DOCTOR WHO IS GREAT, YOU DEMONIC SHE-HEATHEN!” I raged.

“Arthur, not the best time,” Matthew snapped, being the closest one to the staircase.

Francis, however, gave us both a look, communicating the universal sign for ‘I’ll act as a distraction and then we run for our fucking lives’.

Matthew and I nodded our heads in assent.

“Tell me, ah, Natalia, who is it do you think is the gayest of us all?” Francis asked.

Natfred narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

“Since you’ve passed, it’s been medically proven that gays are amongs the strongest of humans. You want a strong body for your brother, oui?” Francis lied through his teeth. I was beginning to question just how drunk he was. What was he on about now?

“Oh, how interesting. If that’s the case, it’s definitely him,” Natfred pointed at me, again.

“WHAT, WHY ME?” I whined.

Natfred glared, as if what she had just concluded was obvious. “I just do.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Enough, this is such a bore,” Natfred drawled. “You’ll all be far more interesting once I hang the losing bodies as trophies. I’ve been wanting to re-decorate this place.”

Natfred then held out its (I decided on the pronoun, don’t get cheeky with me) right hand, snapping its fingers. A ghostly butcher knife, one that had seen better days and still had blood on it, popped into view.

“Who wants to die first?” Natfred waggled the butcher knife.

“RETREAT!” Francis bellowed, prompting all three of us to turn on our heels and run up the basement’s staircase – the literal devil was on our heels.

Natfred hissed, sprinting forward only to have the basement’s door slammed in its face. Francis and I held the door shut while Matthew grabbed several chairs for us to block the entrance with. Unfortunately, Natfred possessed Alfred’s near inhuman strength as well.

“Why run if you’re just going to die anyway? Face death like a man, you scoundrels!” It hissed, throwing an immense amount of weight against the other side of the door.

“NOW!” Matthew barked as Francis and I leapt out of the way and began piling chairs and tables against the basement door.

Not a second later, Natfred headbutted the door, splinters and dust flying everywhere as it poked its head into view. Its eyes were no longer cerulean under the spectacles it wore, but rather a strange gray-blue. We were losing Alfred more and more by the minute.

“Hide!” I shrieked.

“We can’t just leave him there!” Matthew begged. “How do we get this demon out of him? You said you have a Bible, where the heck is it?!”

“Can’t we just sacrifice Arthur? Let’s do a group vote, non?”

“Ugh! We don’t have time for this!”

I grabbed Matthew by the arm and began tugging him along with Francis towards our storage room. Meanwhile, Natfred was continuing to break through the door. We needed to find a good hiding spot where I could think and come up with a proper plan of attack.

“Over here!” I whispered, opening the door of the cupboard that lay underneath the staircase leading to the third floor. Yes, it was a real life Harry Potter room, moving on.

I closed the door and slid down on the floor. Matthew was the only one not out of breath to pull out his phone, illuminating the small space.

“Well, Monsieur spiritual communicator,” Francis spoke using air quotes, nervously pacing back and forth. His sanity was clearly not all there. “What now? How are we going to escape this alive after this massive fuck-up of yours? Mon dieu, never mind. I’ve already given up. Maybe if I surrender, she’ll let me drink some wine first.”

“NO!” Matthew and I cried out, grabbing both of Francis’s wrists before he could leave the room and give our location away.

“Get your priorities straight, will you?” I snapped. “And stop thinking so negatively. I’ll get us out of this.”

“How?!”

“I don’t know, just give me a minute to think!”

“We may not have a minute!” Matthew warned, wincing at the sound of a chair being thrown against a wall.

Natfred was free.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Natfred taunted.

“Okay!!” I clasped my forehead with one hand. “I think I got it…”

I had to pause again as the sound of knives scraping against each other echoed across the house.

Natfred had found Alistair’s knife collection.

“I’ll be the one to distract Natalia this time. While I do that, Matthew, I need you grab the Ouija board and planchette. Francis, you grab the Bible on the table by the front door; if I somehow fail at distracting Natalia, it’s your job to make sure she doesn’t notice what Matthew’s doing.”

“What exactly am I doing?” Matthew asked, lips quivering.

“Move the planchette towards goodbye. You’ll be cutting off our communication with her,” I explained. “We’re still in session, and will be until that happens. Does everyone understand the plan?”

I received two “oui’s” in response.

“All right,” I straightened my posture. “Let’s save that moronic tosser. On my lead, 1…2…3… Go!”

I thrust open the cupboard’s door, sprinting ahead to give Francis and Matthew some space and time to sneak by while I acted as a distraction.

I found Natfred sharpening two knives in the kitchen. When it spotted me walking into view from the hallway, it grinned widely, murderous in its intent. It wasn’t the aloof, goofy grin I was used to seeing on Alfred – this image would likely haunt me for the rest of my life, which could very well only be the next ten minutes if my plan wasn’t successful.

“Succumbed to your fate, have you?” Natfred mused. “Although, I was kinda hoping for the other two. You might not be strong enough for my brother to possess.”

“Oh,” I quirked a brow, my strong tone contradicting how much my knees were trembling. “And what makes you think your brother would want to come back and live with you? You murdered him, remember?”

Natfred faltered. “I-It was an accident! He knows that! I’m sure he’ll forgive me! He always does!”

“Hmmm yeah, I don’t think so,” I responded, stepping to the side to block Natfred’s view of Matthew and Francis sneaking into the living room. “I think he’d be pretty pissed off. I mean, he had his whole life set right out for him. He was going to get married, and you just had to ruin that, didn’t you? Why? Because you were selfish. You wanted your brother for yourself, and when you couldn’t have him, you threw a tantrum like a rotten five-year-old child. If you really cared about your brother, you would let him rest in peace, wherever he ended up.”

I needed to make Natalia furious; to confuse her just as much.

Natfred’s eyes glowed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” it shrieked. “My brother deserved better than that… than that bitch! Now I have the chance to give him a better life. I’ll do anything to make that happen! He was a King! He deserved more!”

Natfred’s eyes briefly flickered to its original cerulean hue.

Behind me, Matthew stepped out of the basement, planchette and Ouija board in hand. He ducked, hiding from sight by using the living room couch to his advantage. Francis sat next to him, holding a Bible for likely the first time in his life as he prayed.

Both were successful in their part of the plan; it was time for me to follow through as well. It was my fault we had ended up in a situation like this. It was time to take some damn responsibility.

“You’re overcompensating,” I hummed without missing a beat. Alfred was still in there, I just knew it.

“No, you’re a brat. A petty brat who’s trying to rationalize the impossible. You’re a stone-cold murderer. You don’t deserve even the body you’re occupying now. You know why? Because Alfred is stronger than you’ll ever be. He knows what compassion is, what it is to truly love someone. But you’ll never feel that because you’re a psychopath without any capacity for emotions. You never loved your brother. You tainted his life with your filthy greed!”

“SHUT UP!” Natfred screeched. “I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

I yelped when Natfred threw a knife at me. Luckily, I ducked to the side. The knife had crashed into the living room window, sending glass flying everywhere.

Natfred continued to throw knives at me, but somehow, I was able to dodge them all. It then proceeded to throw a blender and toaster at me.

“Jesus Christ!” I swore in the heat of the moment. “Are you trying to kill me?! Oh…”

Tragically, all good luck must come to an end.

Natfred pinned me against the counter. “It’s time for you to die,” it hissed, grabbing me by the collar of the shirt.

I hovered over the ground by two feet. “Alfred,” I wheezed. “I know you’re in there. It’s me, Arthur. Fight back, damn you! I know you’re stronger than this! Y-you can’t die! You were right. There’s so many things we never got to do together! I miss you, you dumbass. I want to do stupid things and grow old together, arguing and whatnot. You’re my best friend, so you better fucking come back already!”

“Alfred is gone, I told you that!”

“LET HIM GO!”

CRASH!

Natfred let go of me, falling forward as a Bible smacked into its back. “YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS!”

Well, that was one way to repel a demon with a Bible.

“Francis, you tart. What in the bloody hell are you doing!” I gasped, backing away as Natfred whipped around to glare at Francis.

“Protecting you!” Francis answered, wavering slightly. “Only I can bully you and get away with it!”

Francis everyone.

“You were supposed to use the Bible to repel her figuratively, not literally!”

“It wasn’t working!” Francis shrugged as I joined him by his side. “I had no choice. She was about to kill you.”

I shrugged. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

“GUYS! IT’S READY!” Matthew shrieked.

Francis and I both exchanged wide-eyed looks before sprinting into the living room, crouching next to Matthew in front of the Ouija board.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING NOW!?” Natfred bellowed, but it was already too late.

We circled the planchette on the board before finally placing it on Goodbye.

“GOODBYE!” Francis, Matthew and I all shrieked.

Natfred collapsed to the ground, twitching once more.

“Aha!” I cried out in triumph. “I hope you rot in hell, right where you belong. You will no longer haunt this house. I revoke any invitation for you to come back. Let this board seal you for eternity!”

Natfred looked up at the ceiling with blank eyes. “Brother, I am sorry,” it wheezed. “Perhaps another day we will be reunited. I will find you, mark my words…”

Natfred made a cliché ‘bleh’ sound before falling still.

I didn’t have time to let out a breath of relief as I had received smacks to both cheeks.

“YOU’RE AN IDIOT!” Matthew and Francis shrieked before crouching over the remains of Natfred, ahem, Alfred.

“Yes, yes, I know,” I bowed my head. “Let’s see if he’s okay. You can lecture me later.”

Matthew pressed his ear to Alfred’s chest. “He’s breathing.”

“Unnngh, burgers,” Alfred muttered to himself.

“Oui, he’s definitely alive,” Francis sighed.

I looked around the living room, petrified by what I saw. The fridge was hanging on a hinge alone with several cabinets, not to mention the many broken plates, dents in the walls, and ruined kitchen appliances.

“Bollocks, Alistair is going to kill me.”

I received another two smacks to the head. “At least Alfred’s okay, though,” I pouted.

Speaking of the previous devil.

Alfred sat up with a groan, eyes widening at the trashed room before him. “Dudes, did we have a killer party or something? What the heck happened in here?”

Matthew and Francis facepalmed while I burst out into tears, bringing Alfred into a hug. “Yeah! Sure! Whatever! We did that! Oh, how I missed you and your idiocy!”

“Yo, are you drunk? Why are you crying? Man, I’m hungry.”

“Screw it, I’m taking a nap,” Matthew declared, slumping against the couch.

“I’ll join you,” Francis offered.

Next thing I knew, Alfred shoved me off him and stood up. He ignored the unhinged fridge door and reached straight up for the freezer, pulling out an ice-cream sandwich.

“I’m going home to microwave this, peace suckas.”

I deadpanned.

Perhaps we should have left him possessed, after all.

-The end

#hetaliaextraganza2k17 #hetalia #aph #aph England #aph America #aph France #aph Canada #aph Belarus #day 6 #tf blood

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100percentforsure · 6 years ago

Text

Taylor and Emma Take the Mara

Again, things are volatile. We fly back to the Wilson airport to board to the Masai Mara, and without time to pull out cash, are whisked on to a plane waiting for us, and I SEE RICHARD!!! The plane is full of white people with southern accents and terrible dye jobs and tourist outfits. Emma and I are unhappy. We are going to the Mara for the migration - a national park with rules, regulations, way more animals, but also, way more people. This is expected. On a layover, I leave to use the bathroom and while I am running back, Giant Richard tells me “pole pole,” and compliments my necklace from Emma I have worn. Next thing I know I am crying to him too now and we are holding hands and hugging. I want to also add Richard to my posse of African’s I want to have around me all the time. I come back to the plane, can’t find Emma, get the attendant involved ‘WHERE DID SHE GO??” and upon further investigation, find her adorably sleeping with her other necklace in hand.

We land in the Mara and it feels like we are going to war - cruisers surrounding us waiting for pick up, guides in traditional outfits, a free for all. Our next guide, Vinnie, plucks us and our baggage out of the mix, along with a few other passengers who will BE IN OUR TOUR GROUP UGGGHHHHHH and we make small talk and assert ourselves and the alpha’s of the group (or as the guides call them “The Big Boys” - in our case, girls). At one point one of the guests in our group points out a hibiscus flower and Vinnie kills the engine for us to look at it. What the fuck, Vinnie? Emma and I shoot each other glances and just know. We know. We know that even though we are staying at one of the best camps in the Mara, we are not in Kansas anymore. The kid of the group is not even acting excited, despite this being his first trip ever to Africa, and Emma and I know we are not going to be able to do this.

The camp is a glamorous tent set up, overlooking the Mara River, with crocodiles and hippos feet away from you (and that sound like they are in your room at night). There is great food and staff (Lenny and Isaac), and we pull the camp director aside regarding our cruiser mates and try our hand at the negotiations we have come to love in this country. I will save the details but at one point I let him know “The gig ... is up.” They understand and the next morning after our balloon ride, we will have Vinnie to ourselves for about 7 hours of a combination I can only describe as bliss and hell. We settle into our room, have tea and cake, I call my family who are on an early morning walk, and have a passion fruit cocktail. At 4:30, we head out on a game drive with Vinnie who is driving about 5 miles an hour, which we give him infinite shit about, and see some wildebeast, zebras, and then a LEOPARD EATING A GAZELLE IN A TREE!! (Leopards can carry 3 times their weight up trees). When we approach, it is a murder scene of only the half eaten gazelle hanging (no Leopard), and about 30 cars with lenses propped, waiting for the right moment to click the shutter. Emma puts her hair up in a gorgeous wraps and we ask Vinnie how many cows our dowry would be worth. He says 18 for me, 19 for Emma if she wears her hair like that. We celebrate. Sure enough, the cub comes bouncing up adorably and greets his mom, who has been sleeping under the tree like a lazy bum the whole time. Up he goes for his snack, and eventually the rest of the gazelle snaps in half (they eat from the soft belly meat) and lands on the ground and a HYENA comes to eat it. We miss this all because of the stupid RULES OF THE PARK and learn from a family at dinner who is very proud of themselves for seeing it.

Back at the lodge, we are met with our hot air balloon guy, Joseph to suss out plans for tomorrow’s 4am wake up call and share insider information (Emma, you know what I am talking about). At this time, Emma and I have decided the only way to deal with all the tourists is to get drunk on wine. We are eventually seated for dinner across from each other where we will clear the air with everyone who thought we might be lesbians. Myth busted! Lenny pours more wine. We sit with a progressive British family who have great stories of travel, taking a car cross country in the US and then dumping it and not allowed back in the states, and their three adorable, one especially flirtatious, boys. The youngest one is the sweetest, softest, roundest boy of all time ( “Ned”...) who I love the most and find myself just smiling at. More, immeasurable wine poured by LENNYYYYY. There is a girl there who only eats pasta and butter for the entire trip and I find myself equal parts appalled and jealous. Wine. People find out who Emma worked and the floor is now ours, which is about the same time, coincidentally we leave early because we 1. are brats 2. have slept an average 4 hours of the entire trip 3. are now blitzed and are waking up at the butt-crack of dawn 4. Don’t like anyone there to begin with.

I try to sleep to the sound of what sounds like hippos being murdered in the night and am awoken finally at 4am by our wake up call for the balloon, which is just an African man with fresh pressed coffee letting himself into our tent via the giant zipper. We find out about 4 different kind of animals trapsed through the camp that night, which we never know if it is a tall tale or not, but appreciate Isaac and his spear and flashlight nonetheless. We get in the covered cruiser with Joe, wrap ourselves in shukas, bounce around while suffering exhaustion and only the plausible negative effects of the quickly guzzled but not effective coffee. “Taylor, this might be the time.”

After an hour of torture, we get to Governers camp and a river with a string across it. “Are you guys sisters?” Emma asks if this is African’s way of tongue in cheek asking if we are gay, WHICH WE ARE SICK OF, because of course we aren’t sisters, and I guess they really just do think we are sisters. We get in a gondola and a guy pulls us across the string and it feels like we are going to the enchanted castle. We are so, so sososo tired. We walk past some camp quarters and get to the balloons, hear some rules, drink more ineffective coffee, and then realized how incredibly blessed we are because the only people we have to share a basket with are Spanish tourists. A language barrier. No small talk. Just us, our Australian captain, our hot air balloon, and 14 pleasant strangers. We find out there is going to be a crash landing which we did not know about, and watch the balloons heat up and expand. It is so beautiful. The men in jumpsuits, the anticipation of the flight, the contrast of their darkness with the fire behind them. In a row, the balloons one after another heat up, expand, fill with people, and take off. And then it is our turn. With a translator talking all the while, we tuck into our basket and take off. We are lucky to be able to witness one more balloon after us, see it from above and become smaller as we drift away, the sheer size of it minimizing in seconds. It is so overwhelming, and of course I am crying.

For the ride, you are a bird. Everything is quiet, it is peaceful, and you are perfectly focused soaking up every single single second of the miracle that you are somehow in the sky. You go as high or as low as you want. Everywhere you look is beautiful. The colors of the balloon, the fire, the morning light on the skin of happy people’s faces, the trees and animals below. We don’t see trees like that ever. Ever! And then the basket gently spins. You get different views and perspectives and then the sun is rising and you cannot believe how lucky you are and what you did right in this life or another to have an opportunity to experience this, ever. You are so thankful.

We see wide open plains, forests, the Mara River. We see hippos (who make natural sunscreen), plains game, crocodiles, giraffes. We realize the last balloon to leave has somehow passed us, we realize that we are going both higher and lower than all the other balloons. We realize we scored the best captain with the tenure to do these maneuvers and also is keeping us in the sky the longest. We love him.

It’s time to land. The basket scoots a couple times on the ground and then tips, we are howling all the while. We find out later there have been plenty of animal encounters during this portion of the flight - one of them requiring all passengers to get back in the basket and take off again (lion!). We are gathered by Joe and head to an open plains breakfast with champagne and sausage and crepes, hear incredible stories from our captain, and get sold on a rhino encounter GUARANTEE FOR THE DAY. We don’t see a rhino, because the rhino runs into the forest. We will make Vinnie take us to see baby elephants basically the entire day instead.

Okay so breakfast is over and Vinnie shows up alone, (TG for Rekero staff), but the joke is on us because Vinnie takes us around the entire fucking national park for the next 8 hours with no breaks. Again, most of it is us pointing to baby elephants, but still, it is extremely tiring. We crawl up into the front seat, trying desperately to recreate a semblance of what we had with the boys, but just can’t seem to spark a flame. I crawl into the back seat as I can feel my energy tapping out; Emma knows exactly what is happening and lets me be me, and explains to Vinnie what I need. He takes us to some wide open spaces that I will always be thankful for - in the delusion of exhaustion and clarity that comes with complete surrender, I realize feeling this small and fabulously insignificant in this world, that my problems don’t matter, and that I am a very small piece of this great big puzzle that has so much more than my problems - is exactly what I have been looking for. It’s breathing space. It’s one of my favorite moments.

We get back to the camp at 3. They have saved us dinner. We are dragging. Dragging in new ways. We can’t even speak English anymore, formulate a thought, we can’t ask for what we want. Emma drinks regular water so you know she’s on deaths doorstep. I leave to the bathroom and miss the migration. Emma can feel her legs start to go and says “Taylor, if I were to fall right now, I would cry. Almost anything, at all, right now will make me cry.” We eat, we decide we are NOT going on the game drive, and nap instead.

Upon our wake up, we hunt down Lenny. Lenny is our age, very thin, has a doll like face, and is from the same tribe as Isaac. HE IS FUNNY. He tells us about the drinks, (“A croc... on the rocks....”), we make fun of how he always says my name (imagine I am getting in trouble, like “Taaaaaayyyllooooorrrrr.....!”), and tell him to meet us in the hideaway reading tent so we can get the juice. We also do ask for a croc on the rocs which is basically a White Russian with Amurulo. While he is there we start to get PERSONAL. What do you like to do, why this, why that, why do you have these scars. Lenny has these three little scars on each of side of the bridge of his nose, so faint you can barely even see them. I think they are fabulous. He tells us when he was little, he cried a lot. Maasai believe the cuts there, will make you stop crying. Vinnie confirms later its because your SALTY TEARS pour into the OPEN WOUND and it hurts so bad that you STOP CRYING. We are shocked. The Maasai are so tough its ridiculous. We count the burn scars on his legs and arms (toughening), and realize Lenny is pretty unbelievable. He tries to talk to us about soccer but we don’t care. We ask him why he is Maasai but doesnt have a “J name” but find out his name has been Jalenny, not Lenny, this whole fucking time. He points to his bracelet as proof. It says “J-A-L-E-N-N-Y”) He tries to give me said bracelet but it snaps when while he is removing it and then we just have to look at each other, wincing while beads roll off into every direction into the jungle.

Paul comes in to help set the table and we notice he has a very, very cool beaded belt with alternating Kenyan and American flags. “I got this when Barack Obama was president.” The manager comes in, we agree to a sundowner, and some outspoken, uninvited person tags along who is getting on my nerves and I say I have to go get a sweater and just leave. I will find my melted croc on the rocks there, hours later. Emma comes in after getting off the phone and is now trapped, which was incredibly poor form as far as friendship goes on my part.

We have our last dinner, which Vinnie comes out for (”Vinne... do you.... like to play video games...??”) and we sleep well and wake up for out last game drive, see some cheetahs and a “big boy” lion that walks behind our car, and have a beautiful last meal outside. We run back to the camp to hug everyone goodbye, but mostly Jalenny, and make our flight to the Island of Lamu.

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