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silverfootstepswrites · 5 years ago

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Amaryllis | Chapter 16

< Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 >

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A thousand years or more,

Where you and I once met

A thousand years or more,

When I'm left with my regret

Sakura opened her eyes to the singing woman's voice. The bittersweet taste of wine lingered on the tip of her tongue. She raised herself on her elbows, blinking against the unfamiliar slants of light across the ceiling.

There was a weight in her lap. She looked down.

Gaara slumbered there, his curls crowding boyishly into his face as he pressed his cheek to her thigh. Sakura reached out to trace the lingering dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes. She knew that her cousin had slept so little at home. Even with two of her guards posted at his door, he had lived in constant fear of his father lumbering his way in with a bottle of wine in one hand. His sleep had improved since she had banned Rasa from the island.

Sakura cupped Gaara’s cheek, feeling the warmth against her skin. He frowned, but didn’t wake.

She tilted her head back. This is Gaara's room, then, she surmised. A low grunt from the corner drew her gaze to Kankuro sprawled across a long couch. The front of his shirt was ripped wide open. A crude drawing of a horse was etched into his skin with what looked like charcoal.

Kankuro's room, Sakura corrected herself.

On the windowsill sat Temari. Her knees tucked against her chest, she still held onto her spear as she slept. She had obviously fallen asleep while trying to keep watch over what Sakura surmised had been a rather raucous affair. Temari's hands were stained with what suspiciously like the same charcoal on Kankuro. If she thought hard, Sakura could recall some vague flashes of snickering as Kankuro snored, blissfully unaware of the world around him.

It took some effort, but Sakura wormed her way out from under Gaara. Smoothing his hair back, she pulled the tasseled blanket up around his shoulders. Her bare feet touched the cool tile, sending a shiver rippling up her body. Her heels slapped against the floor as she made her way out into the hall.

She was suddenly struck with a memory. A sliver of a glimpse. Light hair whisking around a corner, translucent fabric whispering after it. The deep gold and burning crimson of the tapestries blurred together in her mind's eye. Slowly, she dredged up the afterimage of a long neck and a tender smile. She blinked. And it was just the hallway, bathed in morning light again.

It took her a minute or two of wandering before she could orient herself. The night came back to her slowly and then all at once. Wineskins that gave off a heavy, sweet scent were what she remembered first. Some famous traveling performers had played the night away. And Sakura remembered being convinced to drink more and more of that intoxicating wine. Somehow she had a vague memory of Kankuro murmuring that he smelled poppies. There had been dancing and laughter as they ran through the cold desert air, wrapped in richly embroidered blankets and rugs.

Side-stepping a line of women carrying jars of water to the kitchen, Sakura slipped into her room. To her surprise, the young servant girls had still been by to tidy the room. The unused bed had been remade and a fresh set of desert roses had been placed in the glass vase at her bedside.

Sakura washed her face in rough, slapping motions. And then, just for good measure, she washed her neck and her arms too. With some of the sweat and grime rinsed off, it was easier to think straight. While she considered what to do with the remainder of the wasted morning, her stomach let out a sad gurgle.

"Ah. Breakfast, then," she murmured to herself.

She changed quickly. It felt odd not to go through the motions of buckles and buttons that her clothes normally required. The shapeless purple and gold tunic simply slipped over her head. A short-sleeved outer jacket went on top- richly embroidered and adorned as always. For a brief moment, Sakura remembered the way silk and linen whispered over her skin.

It had been so long since she had seen her island. It would be the winter solstice in a few weeks' time. Though Plumeria, with its tropical weather, had never had reason to celebrate the winter, the festival on the mainland always meant that more merchants visited the island in search of special goods. It would be a lively time on the island during an otherwise quiet season.

Reality called Sakura back in the form of a growling, empty stomach. She let out a loud sigh. The beginnings of a biting headache gathered at her temples.

Though it was a little late to call it breakfast, she still wandered down the bright corridor. It wouldn't be difficult to ask a servant to find something for her to eat.

Pushing past heavy wooden doors, Sakura entered the room where she normally took her meals.

Prince Ebizo sat at the low table alone. He said nothing but gestured for her to sit to his right. There was only a pot of tea, along with one beautiful painted cup. His forehead wrinkled as he took her in. Sakura paused at the threshold as she awaited his reaction. Irritation, perhaps. Anger, even. It had been a given that she join him for breakfast each day since her arrival a few months ago.

But Ebizo only chuckled softly as he gestured for her usual spot to his right.

"Come, child. Your face tells me everything," he called out to her.

Ebizo listened to Sakura piece together the previous night while servants hurried to serve Sakura her breakfast. One servant was thoughtful enough to bring her a fresh cup for tea as well. The dark brew was bitter and herbal, but welcome.

"What confuses me is that there are always people smoking from pipes. How would the smoke have affected us so strongly this time?" Sakura wondered out loud. Because now that she was eating, her head was clearing up.

"I smell flowers," Kankuro had remarked as they sipped at the wine brought by their guests.

Last night, like many other nights before, some distant relative had visited to greet her. While it kept each day from becoming monotonous, Sakura couldn't help but feel at least a little concerned at how many men came to visit. They brought long caravans of camels. Their backs were heavy with wine, jewels, and decadent fabrics. The pile of gifts in her apartment had grown so large that Sakura had started telling the three servant girls to take whatever they liked.

But something was odd about that night. It was customary to pass around a pipe filled with the dried extracts of poppy flowers. As usual, Sakura had declined. She hated the sensation of smoke pouring into her lungs. She had experienced more than enough of that standing on the battlefield.

Ebizo was laughing.

"Yesterday's guest was my nephew's son, Hirokazu. He and his family own land that is famous for its poppy fields. He must have brought a sample for you from over the mountains," explained the old man. Sakura pressed her palm to her throbbing forehead.

"And is there any possibility that it could have been-" she began.

"Oh, indeed. He most definitely added some to the wineskins. It adds a pleasant dimension of flavor…among other things," Ebizo confirmed. He continued to laugh.

"Great-Uncle, next time, if you aware that a guest has a proclivity for poisoning me, please feel free to warn me," she said with a sharp sigh.

The old man only laughed harder. He pulled a large wooden case across the table. When he popped the metal latches open, inside laid several drawstring pouches. He plucked one pouch out without hesitation.

"The job of the elderly should not be to rob the young of their joys," Ebizo quipped in response.

Inside the pouch were dried leaves with a familiar smell. The scowl slowly faded from her face as she watched his bony fingers sprinkle the leaves onto his open palm. With practiced movements, he picked up his pipe and swirled it upside down into the leaves. There was just the crinkling noises and Ebizo's tuneless humming as he worked. He patiently moved the pipe in little circles until almost all of the brown bits were packed inside.

It was oddly soothing to watch him work.

She found her stiff shoulders relaxing. Her hand moved to cup her chin. For the final touch, Ebizo flipped the pipe upright and patted down the remaining pieces inside. He reached into the wooden case again to retrieve a long, slender stick. One end of it was already blackened.

"Hold up that lantern for me, child," he instructed.

Sakura's back straightened. Her head turned in the direction he had vaguely gestured. In the center of the table was a rectangular black lantern standing on three little legs. The panels were made from thin glass and painted over with deep red roses and pointed leaves. Sakura lifted the lantern with both hands and set it down on the ground between them. She tugged the ring on top to lift the lid. With a practiced hand, Ebizo stuck the blackened end of the stick inside until a thread of white smoke rose up. A tiny flame bounced up together with the stick when he pulled it out.

"Great-Uncle," she began, choosing her words carefully. Ebizo hummed in response as he lit the end of his pipe. His lips closed around the mouthpiece, puffing softly as he waited for the tobacco at the end to light. Then a soft stream of smoke escaped from his mouth. He waved the stick to put out the flame.

"When I last asked you, you declined my request for soldiers," Sakura stated. Ebizo nodded like he already knew the answer to the question she had yet to ask. He exhaled, enveloping them in a cloud that quickly dispersed. The wisps curled into themselves until there was nothing left. Ebizo closed the wooden case, pressing the latches shut with two sharp clicks.

“I recall,” he answered.

“And yet not soon after, Prince Baki arrived and offered me his troops. And then a few days later, a man named Gando arrived to sell me ships.”

Slowly, the corner of Ebizo’s mouth lifted. He puckered his lips around his pipe again. When he exhaled, he raised a grizzled eyebrow. He examined Sakura. She leaned forward towards him, her palms pressed to her thighs. Her shoulders were high and tense again.

"Why?" she questioned.

There was no fluff of flattering words. No beguiling looks. None of that was necessary with this man.

"Why did you say no, Great-Uncle, if you were just going to send aid anyway?”

“Did my rejection disappoint you?” he queried. He drew in a long breath from his pipe.

"Yes," Sakura answered, unsmiling.

Only then did Ebizo chuckle again. The brief tension between them dissolved as he leaned back on one hand.

"Of course it does. Since you have arrived, I have been saying nothing but 'family' to you. And why should family not extend its hand to you in a time of need such as this?" he commented. He glanced at her again.

Her eyebrows drew down low over her eyes. She despised rhetoric.

"But my answer is unchanged. I cannot, with a clear conscience, hand you tools of war. Bloodshed is not a burden I wish to pass down to you,” Ebizo said, his voice softening. Sakura's lips thinned.

"You tell me that my reputation has reached you already. I'm the woman whose hair is painted with blood. If I’m already the Heartless, why does any of that matter?" demanded Sakura. Her hands fisted into her skirt.

Ebizo puffed on his pipe a few times as he considered her. His gaze was sharp even through the haze of smoke between them.

"How many men have you slain, my girl?" questioned Ebizo.

Sakura smiled with her teeth as she considered this.

"Is there a word for uncountable in your language?" she asked in return. Ebizo ran his fingers through his beard. The thin golden chain hanging from his neck tinkled lightly. Then, he uttered one fluid syllable.

"It means 'infinity'," he translated. But then he cocked his head slightly as he studied her.

"But I don't mean in the heat of battle. I mean in cold blood," he then clarified. Sakura frowned. Her pointer finger twisted a circle into the fabric of her skirt.

"Death does not discriminate, Great-Uncle. If a man's heart stops because of me, it cannot discern between murder and patriotism," retorted Sakura. When she blinked, she felt the hot slime of blood wetting her palms. Though she had done a great deal of good during the war, she couldn't block out the shrieks of widows. They screamed the names of their butchered sons, spitting in her face as she tried to have their bodies buried. Fields smoked, ash and salt souring the soil for generations to come. Vultures circling as the smell of decay rose high.

I'm not a monster, she had told herself countless times.

"If I am ever to be held accountable for the blood on my hands, it will certainly be a long list of accounts," Sakura sighed.

They fell silent for a long while. Then, Ebizo reached out to place his hand over hers. His skin was dry and cool.

"If you already bear the burden of the world, what use is there in adding to that weight on your shoulders? If I am truly your family, I cannot add to your suffering," he uttered in an incredibly heavy voice. Sakura squared her jaw as she looked into his eyes.

"My lands and my legacy have been stolen from me by vipers, Great-Uncle. If you truly love me, then you would feel this pain and know my suffering,” she whispered.

Ebizo’s face contorted. “My girl-”

“I have watched these men trample on the memory of my mother. Of my grandmother. Your sister. And to have you look me in the face and tell me that you would spare me a little more blood on my hands…” Sakura trailed off.

She hated how this was how so many of their conversations went. The old man just nodding and smiling while she lost her temper. She hated how childish she sounded in front of him.

Ebizo pulled the pipe from his mouth. He clasped both her hands between his. Raising them. And then pressing them to his chest.

“My girl, listen to me,” he sighed. “You fight for a just cause. I respect it. But it is a selfish cause. And you must acknowledge this.”

“That throne is my right,” Sakura snapped. Ebizo held onto her with surprising strength. His stare sharpened.

“You think yourself a veteran of war. But a personal conquest is different from any war you've fought before. There will be no one to blame but yourself. Those screams and deaths will truly belong to you alone. It will poison you," Ebizo insisted. This time, he let her slip her hands out from his.

“Very well, Great-Uncle,” was all she said with a shallow smile. Her back too straight. Eyes dry.

Ebizo leaned back as well. He recognized that expression.

"There's no need, then," Chiyo sniffed as she turned her head away from him.

Ebizo almost smiled. She was so like her grandmother, even if she had never met her. He picked up his pipe again. As he raised it to his lips, Sakura opened her mouth to speak again. His eyebrows rose as he waited.

“I… will do my best to understand your intentions, Great-Uncle. I apologize for my childish behavior,” she said. But the rest of her thoughts trailed off as she noticed the way Ebizo stared at her.

The old man squinted, as if she were speaking an entirely different language from him. As the silence lingered, his expression sobered before it settled into what could only be described as a sad smile.

“Ah… do you think it simply a pet name when I call you ‘child’?” he wondered.

“I’m 23, Great-Uncle. I came of age many years ago,” she replied.

Still squinting, Ebizo retrieved his pipe. He raised it to his mouth to suck in a few breaths. He patted her knee a few times as he explained. “Here, when a son marries, he stays in his father’s house. Even as he raises his own children, his family continues to watch over him. Just because you’ve come of age doesn’t mean you know the world.”

Sakura's forehead wrinkled as she considered this. It baffled her. Marriage was the symbol of a man leaving his parents to settle his own estate. And a woman left her father's house to join her husband's. She had seen girls as young as 14 marry to start their own families.

She didn't move when Ebizo placed his hand on top of her head. The weight was both comforting and stifling.

"You have been forced to undergo horrors that I would not wish on most adults. And yet, you are still young. Why not allow yourself to fumble like any other child?"

Ebizo's words lingered with her as she stood under the punishing rays of the desert sun later that day. The dry heat alone sapped the moisture from the inside of her mouth and nose.

She opened up her hands, clenching and unclenching her fists.

But then, as she let the warm rays of light bathe her face, she squinted toward the horizon. Over the swell of sand dunes, she saw a little figure, blurred by the heat. It moved steadily closer. As she waited, it became clear that it was a figure riding a horse.

Her arms folded across her chest. She took a deep breath to calm herself.

It took several minutes for the rider to reach her. It was a teenager. His clothes were coated in a thin film of sand. When he pulled down the cowl of his shirt, the clean skin around his mouth was a completely different color than the rest of his grit-covered face. He smiled, teeth startlingly white against his dark complexion.

"More letters for you, Your Royal Highness," he greeted her. The language they spoke in the Arids was beautiful. It was fluid, like a roiling river over stones. She knew it in her heart. It was just that when she spoke it, it wasn’t as fluently as she would have liked.

"My thanks to you. Your journey has been tiring. Would you come inside to rest?" she answered. The words felt clumsy in her mouth. Karui and Samui had coached her on some of the subtleties in pronunciation. As time went on, she began to feel her tongue loosen up. Perhaps, with enough practice, she would speak it with some comfort.

The boy smiled, revealing a dimple in each cheek.

"Your hospitality honors me. I am not ungrateful, but I have other messages to deliver, Your Royal Highness," he answered.

Sakura took note of the way he rolled his vowels together while accenting the hard 't' at the end of certain words.

She nodded. Pulling the cowl back up over his face, the boy bowed his head.

Sakura watched the horse trot over the sands for a minute before she looked down at the envelopes in her hand. The servants had informed her that it was actually faster to have falcons sent to one of the large port cities on the western border. From there, special couriers took possession of such letters and delivered them into the desert. Birds were often disoriented or even killed by desert storms. Couriers knew the desert well enough not to have much trouble navigating the dunes. Sakura had discovered that, on average, her letters arrived about a week faster through using these messengers.

The stack this time was enormous. There were several of them piled together and secured with a length of twine. It took several seconds of tugging with her nails to loosen the knot enough to pull the twine off.

The first envelope was a little heavy. It was cream-colored and sealed with red wax. When she turned it over, she easily recognized Itachi's handwriting. She flipped through the other letters.

Two from Haku, several from Ino, a few from Lady Kurenai, and another few from Sasori. There was also an envelope in Shizune's careful hand, along with messages from her marquises. And an extra from a friend who called himself ‘Sota'.

Sakura slipped the letter from the mysterious 'friend' into the folds of her dress. She ripped open Itachi's envelope as she walked back into the shade of the palace. The top of her head was beginning to feel baked by the sun. A smile immediately formed on her lips as she took in Itachi's familiar handwriting. The precise loops and slants of his writing reminded her so much of him.

Dear Sakura,

It seems that I am constantly beginning my letters to you with 'I hope this finds you well'. But what more can be said? Your absence has left a gaping wound in all of our lives. I hope that you, at the very least, are sleeping well. I must admit that I sometimes find myself missing our midnight walks.

Our dear friend Sasori has been less than happy about what he calls his "dull incarceration”. He threatens, about once a week, to abandon his post. But then resumes his work with such diligence that I can’t help but laugh. He has also become a good source of conversation in these last few months. If I don't listen carefully, sometimes I hear you in his sarcasm.

He went on to talk about the weather, about how the winter harvest of moon tea had gone. The winter crop was always slightly more potent than the summer harvest. Apparently he had spent an afternoon in the kitchens with Shizune, watching how she soaked the dried flowers to be reconstituted into tea.

The envelope was particularly heavy because there were a dozen letters included. They were all from different days- some rambling and some short.

The shortest letter was only three sentences.

I miss you terribly today. All is well. And yet nothing is well without you here.

The longest one went into great detail about how he had accidentally stumbled upon Kisame and Ino locked in a fierce battle of cards. Though Sakura was glad to know that her friend had found something to occupy her on the island, she worried about the mischief that particular duo might get up to.

The most recent letter asked her if she remembered one day they had spent in the library at Goliaf perusing through various records of family trees and laughing at some of the awful names they had found. She remembered him, of course, wrapped up in his austere robes then. Conflict of any sort was just a distant memory. The tentative brush of her hand against his had been enough to set his cheeks and ears ablaze.

By the time she had finished reading all of Itachi's letters, Sakura was back in her room, sitting on the bed.

I am growing to despise the ocean that separates us.

Would it be too obscene to ask it to part? Can I ask the heavens to move more swiftly, that the spring would bring its touch more promptly?

Despite the headache pounding between her temples, Sakura couldn't help but smile at that. As verbose as some of his messages were, she smoothed her hand fondly over the stack. His quill and fingers had moved over these very letters. Her irritation over the sluggish morning quickly dissolved. And just in private, for that one moment, she closed her eyes and let out a real, soft laugh.

The rest of the letters she took in just as carefully.

Haku wrote to her of the island. Shizune had officially taken him under her wing as her protégée. He now assisted her in overseeing all of the palace's day-to-day activities. Even through written words, she could imagine the pride in his voice.

Perhaps, one day, I will have the honor of directly managing your household, My Lady. When that time comes, please continue to treat me kindly.

Ino described all the new people and things she did during her days and nights. She had become fast friends with many of the staff at the palace. They often took her out to the city where she snuck into taverns. She sipped at sweet fruit liquors and learned to sing bawdy songs with the merchants.

At the end of her letter, Ino also insisted that she had written to her parents and informed them that she was safe. She made no mention of her mother, or worse, her father arriving in the port, demanding to see his daughter. Which was odd.

She saved the letter from her mysterious friend for last. Perhaps out of a childish desire to heighten the excitement. Or perhaps because she already had an idea of who it was from.

The envelope was a more coarse material. It was sealed with plain white candlewax. But the pattern stamped into the wax was far from ordinary. It was the impression from one of her rings: a rose inside a circle. Infinity swallowing the most fickle of all flowers.

My dear friend,

I hope that you have been in good health. My travels had found me riding the high seas in search of the perfect present for you. I have been to many different cities and yet the proper gift for you eludes me still.

My brothers send you their greetings as well. The last I have heard, they were scattered along the countryside. No doubt they too are on their various journeys, searching for treasures of their own.

Though I may struggle to find you a sufficient gift, rest assured. I will return home in time to partake in your birthday festivities.

In the meantime, guard yourself fiercely. My thoughts are always with you with the rise and the fall of the moon and tides.

Fondly,

Sota

She had never expected a mercenary to have such decent handwriting. She had laughed out loud the first time she had seen him write something down.

"Kisame," she sighed.

"My thoughts are with you," she read out loud.

Suigetsu and Mangetsu are with you.

Cheek cupped in her hand, Sakura considered the letter for a long time. Though she had privately discussed these matters with Kisame, she wondered just how much she could trust the mercenaries to prove useful to her. Sasori distrusted them with just a touch more hatred than she deemed appropriate. Itachi seemed to have little issue with them. He had even struck up an odd friendship with Kisame.

For the time being, she was now aware that should the need arise, Suigetsu and Mangetsu were staying in the same city as her. Given the Diamond Oasis' security, she doubted there would be any need for them. She wondered why Kisame had deemed the brothers the most apt to serve as her protectors. She would have preferred Chojuro, who stood out the least with his mild smiles.

Ever since she had discovered Suigetsu’s little stint spying on her, Sasori had urged her at least two more times to just have him killed. But the mercenary had sworn loyalty to her. He and his brother had gotten on their hands and knees to thank her for her mercy. She suspected from the way that Mangetsu glared at his brother that Suigetsu had been reluctant to do so.

She knew that the brothers would be stopping by in the next few days. She also knew that tomorrow would be yet another day that she still didn’t have all the answers she wanted.

Sakura tossed the letter aside. She rolled onto her stomach, then onto her side. Staring out the window. As the countless stars swirled together in dizzying circles, she imagined falling upwards into the vast expanse of the cosmos, twisting and drifting with the heartbeats of life too.

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"Are you certain this is safe?" Ino asked for the second time. Her hand hovered in the air.

There was a light touch at her elbow. She glanced over. Haku urged her to reach forward. And finally, she grasped the strange, prickly fruit. The spear-shaped leaves pricked lightly at the skin of her palm. She looked at Haku again. The boy mimed splitting it open with his thumbs. Ino hesitated again before she pressed her thumbs firmly against one side of the fruit and pulled it open.

The sticky pulp inside released a sweet fragrance. She sunk her teeth into the fruit, sucking the juices up. A giggle squeezed past her teeth. Wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, she stared down at the wondrous fruit in her hands.

"Amazing! This is absolutely exquisite!" Ino exclaimed as Haku handed a few coins to the vendor.

"You say that about every new food you try, Lady Ino," Haku commented with a smile. Ino didn't even get irritated when he poked fun at her like that.

"True. But that’s only because everything here is delicious and wonderful. No wonder Sakura prefers to spend her time here. This place is easily 10 times as pleasant as the capitol," she sniffed in return. Haku said nothing else as Ino filled the basket and paid the merchant, who was still laughing at how she had haggled the prices down.

“Young lady, you come back anytime now. You’re too akamai to get cheated by some other vendor,” the merchant instructed.

Face pinching, Ino looked back at Haku. “Intelligent,” he translated for her.

Her face lit up. She was laughing and chatting with the merchant all over again. Somehow, she walked away with an extra free fruit in the basket Haku carried for her.

Lady Ino chattered merrily as they made their way back to the palace. Her golden hair trailed down her back in a loose braid. Delicate lines of pearls crisscrossed between sections of her hair. A few small flowers were tucked in here and there. Ino was immensely proud of the style and took every opportunity to boast about the wonderful skill it took to accomplish such a thing. It had been done by a few of the servant women's young daughters who fawned over the pretty lady with her blue eyes and hair the color of the sun.

At one point, Ino hooked her arm through Haku's and drew him close to her side. Haku flushed until he realized that Lady Ino most definitely did not see him as a boy, much less a young man. The forwardness of her actions was still somewhat flustering but he was learning to expect it from her more and more.

She's quite sweet. If anything she does piques you, remember that. She has a good heart, Sakura had warned him. Patting his cheek lightly, she had boarded that ship in her tall, tall boots and wandered off. She wrote back as frequently as she could. And once she sent back a small ring that fit on his thumb. It was a simple gold band with a triangular diamond set in the middle.

'To my diamond, who shines even in the dark,’ was all she had written in the enclosed letter. Haku feared losing it as he worked. He twisted it round and round his finger whenever his hands were empty. And eventually, he began to fear losing it and stopped wearing it during the day. Only slipping it on and admiring it at night, just before he went to bed.

But less than a week later, he had received a little package wrapped in brown paper. Inside was a gold chain, by no means a cheap trinket. He slid the ring onto it and wore it around his neck at all times. Though no note came with the present, Haku had a suspicion as to who had sent it.

Because as he walked around the palace running his errands, he noticed one of Lady Sakura's mercenaries often staring at it. The tall man called Zabuza seemed to always be staring at him. And even when he was standing with his eyes closed, Haku could feel his dark eyes roving over him whenever he turned his back. The other servants, who had become like older sisters to him, always laughed.

"He fancies you, of course!" they exclaimed as clouds of flour puffed up between them. More giggled as they plopped down the risen mounds of dough onto the counter. Haku watched the older women, with their strong forearms, knead the dough into shapes. With practiced ease, they spun the dough into ribbons that they twisted together and braided like strands of hair. Other sections of dough were flattened and filled with sweet fruit spread. He helped them brush honey and flower nectar along the tops so that they glowed a crisp golden brown when they came out of the oven.

“Why would he not? Our Haku is so very charming,” one of the girls closer to his age piped up as she swept the finished bread onto a plank of wood.

“But… I’m… I’m not a woman…” Haku sighed as he looked down at himself.

“Is that what worries you, little Haku? We’re different from the mainland. Such things don’t matter here,” one of the other girls said as she pinched his cheek. Haku flapped his hands at her. Fresh laughter erupted from the rest of the staff.

"That wasn't what I was worried about," he huffed.

"Then have him sweep you up in those big, burly arms! Life is short, little brother! And wasted on one as beautiful as you!" someone else chimed in. With more laughter ringing around the kitchen, they opened up the doors to the blazing ovens to shove the loaves inside. As the sweet smell of bread swept around the room, Haku rubbed the flour on his hands off onto his apron.

"Little Haku. would you fetch us a jar of fresh water?" one of the older women instructed.

"Yes, Ma'am!" Haku responded, already moving. He hurried down the walkway, sandals slapping against the creaking wood.

As he walked, he pulled the tie out of his hair. His ponytail had loosened throughout the morning. While he struggled to gather all his hair into a manageable bunch, he failed to notice a tall figure standing directly in his path. He collided hard with a wall of muscle, teetering on one foot.

"Careful," Zabuza's deep voice rumbled. His huge hand closed around Haku's arm. Haku's eyes grew wise like twin saucers.

"Um…thank you…I mean- pardon me," he blurted out.

"Haku?"

Haku started at the sound of the woman's voice.

"…I am truly sorry. I wasn't listening, Miss Shizune," he admitted with what he hoped was the appropriate amount of contrition in his voice. But the older woman simply sighed without anger.

"I said that the preparations for Lady Kurenai and Lord Sasori's breakfast went very smoothly today. It seems that the kitchen has benefitted greatly from your presence," said Shizune.

She graciously ignored the blush spreading across the boy's cheeks. The child had been in an odd sort of daze all afternoon. It wasn't like him to be so inattentive. Although…

Shizune's gaze flickered to the glint of the gold chain around Haku's neck. Lately, Haku had developed a habit of fiddling with the jewelry whenever he was deep in thought. And everyone in the palace knew that nothing escaped Shizune's notice.

They stepped down the wooden path together, Haku still immersed in his thoughts.

“You know, they say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she remarked.

“I beg your pardon?”

Chuckling, she put her hand on his shoulder. “You heard me, little bird.”

+++

Elsewhere, far across the seas, the smells of a roasting pig drifted up from the lower levels of the castle. The biting chill in the air had settled in long before the frost. But now the kingdom was covered in a layer of snow. Each morning brought a faint hint of sunlight before the grey skies settled in for the day.

Kushina smiled sadly as she watched her son pace back and forth at the window.

"Do you think she received it? Was it lost at sea? Did bandits steal it?" Naruto fretted aloud. Slowly, Kushina rose from her seat. The heavy folds of her dress settled around her as she took steps toward him. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she stopped Naruto.

"Naruto, you’ve been there yourself. The islands are a long way from here. It is possible that she hasn't even received them yet," she slowly said. Naruto's gaze darted from the window to her. Finally, he took a deep breath.

"Yes. And…she could have written me back and the letter is on its way, right?" he said. As he looked back at his mother, she quietly avoided his gaze as she searched for the right words. At the silence, Naruto looked past her to his father. Minato smiled brightly, crinkling the lines near his eyes.

"Of course, Naruto. Now your mother and I have matters to discuss," Minato told him.

Expression brightening, Naruto nodded. He squeezed Kushina's upper arm before he exited the room. Kushina stood frozen in place, her hand still hovering where Naruto had been moments ago. Heaving a deep sigh, Minato lowered his body into a chair. He rubbed his face with his palm before raking his fingers through his hair.

It took a long moment before Minato could gather his thoughts.

“Why did you tell him that? Rumors say that she’s not even on that island,” he sighed.

“At least he can have something to hope for! He’s been worried sick,” Kushina snapped.

Minato rubbed his temples.

“Alright. Fine. But that aside, the fall harvest was smaller than anticipated. Marquess Shimura tells me that we must raise taxes to purchase more grain from the Mountain Kingdom. But if the peasants are already hungry, I doubt that they can afford to pay more," Minato began. Kushina only crossed her arms over her chest as she listened.

“Duke Hyuuga has been discouraging me from proceeding with almsgiving as we discussed. With the discontent among the poor, why doesn’t he understand how important charity is?” Minato wondered.

“Perhaps he doesn’t see merit in helping the poor? Duke Hyuuga has always had a low opinion of everyone other than himself,” remarked Kushina. If he were in a better mood, Minato would have laughed at that. Kushina’s smile faded too.

“Thankfully, Marquess Shimura managed to convince him. That should keep the citizens quiet for a little while.”

Minato didn’t sound so relieved.

The reason why he discouraged Naruto from walking around the city was that the animosity towards his family had only grown in recent years. He had hired Sir Sai last year to keep watch over Naruto as public opinion continued to sour.

After the war, his advisors had assured him that people were easy to please. In the end, neither the nobles nor the people were so easily handled.

The nobles had split into two contentious factions. The nobles that supported the Namikaze family, led by Marquess Shimura and Duke Hyuuga called themselves the Aristocratic Faction. The nobles that supported the Haruno family, led by Countess Inuzuka called themselves the Loyalist Faction. The various noble houses of the kingdom had aligned themselves in secret. A few oddball families such as the Akimichi’s had chosen to remain neutral.

The clear split in the kingdom had, no doubt, become obvious to their neighbors. Thankfully, Naruto and Sakura’s visit to the Mountain Kingdom had produced favorable results. And Sakura had made quick work of the conflict in the south, although Marquess Shimura seemed less than pleased by the outcome.

"And now Count Yamanaka's daughter has gone missing and he is accusing Sakura of holding her captive. Even though Lady Ino herself assures us that she is there of her own volition, the Count comes barging in every week to demand action. But how can I even begin to accuse my…my…" Minato trailed off as he struggled to come up with the proper word for her. Not-quite-daughter? Niece?

“We could send some ships… just to confirm,” suggested Kushina.

“I doubt the navy would be willing. The Admiral is her cousin.”

“We have some ships of our own. They’re small enough that we could slip in as merchants. We’d be in and out before anyone even noticed.” Kushina laid out the plan. Admittedly, Marquess Shimura had mentioned this to her the other day. About how he envied that the Namikaze family had a port of their own.

“It would make communication and travel so much more convenient,” he had sighed into his tea.

Minato gave a tired smile. He nodded as he thought.

“That could work. Thank you,” he uttered, his shoulders too heavy.

"I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, husband, but the noble ladies have been pushing that we begin grooming Naruto as a proper prince," Kushina informed him. Minato wracked his exhausted brain for the right answer. Some days he felt so tired that it seemed good enough to tell Marquess Shimura to handle things.

“I…” Minato found himself rubbing his head again as he thought. “But Naruto isn’t the heir.”

“Then who is?” Kushina asked.

Minato slowly raised his head. His tired eyes took in Kushina standing by the window. Her willowy silhouette looked sharp against the soft grey and white of the landscape. She had started to look so washed out since they had moved here. He could have sworn that her hair had been more red. Perhaps it was the gray light playing tricks on his eyes.

At that ball, when they had first met, his chest puffed out with excitement, her ribcage squeezed into a corset. Lightheaded and irritated all at once, they had exchanged barbs and then sly looks. She remembered the joy that had lit up his expression when she allowed him to take her hand.

And she remembered, off in the background, Minato's older brother sweeping up a gorgeous lady in his arms. The entire world had seemed to glitter around them. The way their heads lightly tilted toward each other made her heart squeeze. And she could imagine the secrets, the laughter that flowed between them as they swept around the dance floor. Even the wispy fabric of her train, soft and transparent had made it obvious that she was from a different world.

That night, Kushina had looked at Minato and known that they weren't from the same world as those two. At best, she knew that she was pretty. And he was good-looking. But that was more than enough for her. Feeling his sweaty palm in hers, she had known in that instant that her slice of happiness was here.

“You hate this,” he whispered, not for the first time.

“I just want our family to be happy,” she replied, her voice tight, her face even tighter.

Minato almost answered: “But we are happy.” He couldn’t say that one lie. Not when his wife stared at him that way. Not when he understood the danger they all were in.

Because if he vacated the throne, there would be war. The nobles would bite and claw their way for power. Sakura would be forced to take up arms and slay her own countrymen.

And if he stayed… he had no idea what would happen if he stayed.

“…I hate this too, Kushina. Just… a little while longer,” was all he could say as he reached for her hand. Kushina let him take it. Her fingers felt too cold as she squeezed his tight.

+++

The night was usually a calm time in Sami. Though the occasional feast or festival filled the air with drumbeats, for the most part, when the sun set, so did the noise.

Sakura believed that once the evening meal had been served and cleaned up, the servants deserved some time to themselves. This was, at times, inconvenient. Such as when they wanted tea right away. But it did afford a unique calm to the labyrinth of walkways and water.

Of course, just because the palace was quiet didn't mean that the rest of the city was.

During winter, the seas became unpredictable. Sudden storms often struck merchants and their cargo. As a result, winter was a quiet time in their trade-dependent city. Only the most necessary goods were shipped through the tumultuous waters. And only the most experienced mariners dared to try.

Empty boats. A full city. It was the busiest time of the year for the taverns and inns. Each night, faint strains of music and swells of laughter floated into the island from these establishments.

Kurenai herself had been in these places many times. They were often filled with the island's sun-baked workers and the soldiers that had followed Sakura over from the mainland. They served as guards and patrols, sometimes even taking the time to pick up a new trade from one of Plumeria's many skilled craftsmen. Over drinks and music, they attempted to make conversation. It was a patchwork quilt of words. Often each side replaced a word he did not know with a word from his own tongue. Hand gestures and facial expressions filled in whatever gaps remained.

Because Sami sat just above the city, the lights from these buildings were still visible from the palace. And sometimes the rowdier taverns could even be heard at a distance. This night, although a little windy, would have been the perfect night to sit and overhear the noises of the city.

For the first time in a while, however, Kurenai was not lounging in a pavilion in Sami. Instead, there was a villa on the northern coast of the island. Her sister had given it to her as a coming-of-age present. It was humble compared to her usual residence, but it was a good place to get some peace and quiet. She had sent word in the morning. The servants had been prepared for her by the time she had arrived after sundown.

Eyelids drooping, Kurenai pulled off a piece of bread to throw into the water. The white scrap bobbed on the surface for a few moments. Then it sank slowly into the depths. There was a flash of silver as a fish below snatched it up with a jerk of its head.

It had been months since Sakura had sailed off to the Arids. Sasori was hard at work each day, fulfilling the work Sakura had left behind.

“It’s incredible,” Sasori had remarked over supper one day, ��how Gaara manages all this without losing his mind. Administration is no easy task.”

A deep sigh blew out past her lips. Reclining on her side, she tossed the rest of the bread in at once. Hungry fish rose, disturbing the surface with their greedy mouths. Her eyes returned to the letter.

It had been a long time since he had arranged the meeting place like this. Usually, he left it up to her. Crumpling the letter in her hand, she let it fall into the water. Where the ink would run. And the paper would dissolve into nothing. Just as everything else did.

It wasn’t so bad, she supposed, to let him take charge every once in a while.

"And what is a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?" a voice interrupted her thoughts.

Before she turned to look, she knew who it was. A scowl settled over her face. She continued reclining, her cheek resting heavily in her palm.

"The better question is, what is a thing like you doing in a pretty place like this?" she jibed in return. But she kept her back turned to him to hide the blush spreading across her cheeks. In all her musings, she hadn't heard the creak of his little boat or the splash of his oars in the water.

Chuckling, Asuma slipped the length of rope over the metal peg on the walkway. With a grunt, he heaved himself up onto the dock. The boat drifted with the current, sliding underneath the platform and bumping lightly against one of the wooden posts. Even when the clomp of his boats stopped directly behind her, Kurenai refused to move.

She felt his fingertips skim over her bare arm. They were fleeting touches, whispers of a slight tickle. Then the backs of his fingers stroked her temple. The touches pushed her hair out of her face. And then his lips pressed against her shoulder. His breath was warm against her cool skin.

“Cruel as always. You seem to be well,” murmured Asuma.

Kurenai finally turned her head to meet his lips. His beard scratched her face. She complained about it, for the millionth time. His smile didn’t change.

“I think it makes me look dangerous,” he insisted.

“I’ve always hated it,” Kurenai grumbled.

“And I’ve always ignored that you hated it. Why change now?” came his cheerful reply.

“That’s true. People like us don’t need to change,” laughed Kurenai, her hands linking behind his neck. She pulled herself up to meet him when he bent down for another kiss.

“Now, Count Sarutobi, care to share why we’re meeting here?” she inquired.

"Tell me. Were you this cold with all your suitors?" he questioned, his hands sliding down her back. Asuma's beard was prickly against her throat as he nuzzled against her. His weight settled over her, powerful but not overbearing.

“Yes. A lady should be consistent in all things," she remarked. Asuma laughed again. The sound of it vibrated through her in a pleasant sort of way. It had deepened over the years, but she could still hear the past in that sound. Like if she rubbed her eyes hard enough, they would both look the way they had when he had first stumbled upon this villa all those years ago.

Clearing his throat, Asuma put his hand over hers. Patted it a few times. “Alright, alright. I wanted to talk to you about the grain crisis in the kingdom.”

The smile evaporated from her face. “There is no crisis. We should have more than enough to last us through the rest of the winter.” Her voice whipped out sharp as she sat up. Asuma rolled off her with a smug look. The silk strap of her dress slipped off her shoulder.

“Exactly,” he replied. Propping up his chin in his hand, he watched as the thoughts raced through Kurenai’s head. He slowly reached out to hike the strap of her dress back into place. She didn’t even seem to notice.

Eyes narrowing, she snapped her head toward him. “What do you know?” she demanded. And then, casting a furtive look over her shoulder, she grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket.

“Who else have you told?” Kurenai hissed.

Asuma raised both his hands in surrender. “No one. Just you,” he assured her.

Only after she measured his expression did Kurenai release him. “Then continue to keep this a secret.”

Asuma blinked a few times. “Even from the little lady?”

“Especially from my niece. She has enough to worry about as is.”

+++

Samui's lips thinned. She held out the letter pinched between just her pointer finger and her thumb, as if the very envelope would sully her skin. This was how she had walked into the room. Karui followed, her face twisted in a similarly sour expression.

A goblet of wine raised to her lips, Sakura turned her head to regard the guests. She nodded at them.

Temari sat across from her, her fingers busy peeling the rind off an orange in an even spiral. Kankuro's head lay in her lap. A towel lay across his face to block out the light, which, he claimed, worsened his migraine. It was rare for him to act so spoiled, but Temari tolerated it given his suffering.

Though it was now night, it seemed that Kankuro, in particular, was still struggling to recover from his groggy awakening that morning. It had taken him nearly half an hour of scrubbing in the baths to remove the crude drawing from his chest. Though Temari swore that they had no idea who the culprit was, her smile made it quite obvious who.

Gaara sat between the two women. His gaze was bright and clear. If anything, it seemed as if the deep sleep had refreshed him. The only hint at the previous night was the light bruise on the side of his forehead. It matched perfectly with the one on Kankuro's forehead. The brothers did a good job of hiding them with their curling hair.

Sakura sipped her wine before she spoke.

"Is it a summons from the lord of pestilence that you must hold the letter so dramatically?" remarked Sakura. She cradled the goblet in her palms.

"No. An invitation from…her," Samui commented with a curl of her lips. Sakura looked over at Temari who simply shrugged one shoulder.

"You must forgive me. That pronoun does little to explain," Sakura answered.

"The eldest daughter of the Terumi family. To be precise, she is the daughter of your Grandmother's nephew," Samui clarified. Temari's forehead wrinkled as she attempted to connect the twisting lines of the family tree in her head.

Sakura didn't even bother to try. All those extra words in the relation meant little to her. If she was descended from the original Haruno line, then she was a relative in some way, distant or not. If she was a great deal older, she would be an aunt. If they were similar enough in age, they were cousins.

"And she is…summoning me?" Sakura inferred based on Samui's scowl. The blond woman nodded once, blunt bangs swishing against her forehead.

"The precise word she uses is invite, but you can assume her meaning," added Karui. Samui clicked her tongue.

"Regardless. The audacity of it all is staggering. To invite a foreign guest? Why does she not make the journey across the sands herself?" Samui went on. Karui nodded furiously throughout the rant. Sakura only listened with as neutral an expression as she could muster. Occasionally Temari nodded beside her, her mouth also settling into a grim line.

"Tell me about her, please," Sakura interjected. At this, Karui and Samui turned to exchange strange looks. Karui shook her head. Samui sighed heavily.

"Well… Mei is… well known around these parts. She is…" Samui began. But Karui cut in by miming tracing the shape of a woman's breasts.

"She is very well-endowed. And she dresses in a manner to make this obvious. Her lovers number into the dozens," listed Karui.

"Oh," was all Sakura could say to that.

“Her city lacks steady supplies of food, so she’s been known to make… deals to secure supplies,” Karui added, making a face. Samui went a little green just at the thought.

"What exactly does her family do?" Sakura interrupted, already bored by such petty gossip. Samui blinked a few times.

"Ah…the Terumi family works with metals from the earth. Their family produces some of the finest blades on this side of the sea," she informed.

Temari's eyebrows rose. Gaara nudged Sakura's leg under the table. But even without these cues, Sakura was already considering the possibilities in her head. She reached out for the letter, which Samui gladly handed over.

My dearest cousin,

I apologize for my delay in extending a warm welcome to you. Your journey to the Land of Wind must have been exhausting. Therefore, I wanted to provide enough time for you to rest before writing to you.

I am aware that courtesy would have me come to see you in person. However, I would like to break with tradition and invite you to my home instead. We have a great many wonders in the east that I believe you would enjoy. The stories of Plumeria have reached me even here. Still, I’d imagine a woman of culture such as yourself would appreciate seeing something new.

Terumi Mei

The letter ended there.

Sakura felt Gaara lean over her shoulder as he read along.

When Temari nudged his knee, Gaara began reading out loud.

By the end of the message, Temari wore the same expression as Samui.

“She’s quite… eccentric,” was all Gaara could say.

“Rude,” Temari corrected him.

“Rude or not, it sounds like she could be of use to My Lady,” Kankuro spoke up in a coherent sentence for the first time that night. He even nudged the towel aside to meet Sakura’s gaze.

"Perhaps we should pay her a visit then. It would be rude not to accept such a show of hospitality," murmured Sakura as she folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope.

+++

Act One [End]

+++

< Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 >

#courtly intrigue! au #itasaku #amaryllis #fanfiction

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bluepenguinstories · 4 years ago

Text

Happiness Overload Chapter Fifty-Eight

There was a thought in me when those two got away that I had to descend further in order to realize my vision. Such thoughts weren’t new by any stretch of the imagination, but the imagination had to stretch in order for the thought to develop, as that was just how such thoughts operated.

Those two: Velvet and Coriander. Two names which may not have been their original names. To that, I could relate. It wasn’t the name that mattered, but the acts; in my case, they saw my actions as ‘evil’. As such, I may as well have played up the act.

No. Not an act. Performance, yes. But all genuine.

My name would have to change in order to suit the occasion, however, as I understood it, the name ‘Dr. Evil’ was already taken. Phooey. Guess I’d have to go back to the old drawing board. Lucky for me, there were many drawing boards in my mind. When one canvas got filled, there were several more that awaited me. Not to mention, being on my back gave me time to think. Something which I already knew was not always a good thing.

Indeed, it wasn’t the first time I had been called ‘evil’. Even the organization which went through many efforts to recruit me had deemed me wicked. What a contradiction! Weren’t they the ones who were also deemed ‘evil’ when they thought they were helping humanity? So then why was I the one excluded?

True, I set a couple people on fire once or twice. It wasn’t my first foray dealing in extremes. That first foray, though, had become lost on me...it must have been far into the Arts and Crafts room, when everything had grown to a point of consternation. Every request, fulfilled. Great things at my disposal. But the time between seeing another soul seemed like an eternity. Long ago, my friends at FU (Flashbulb University, in case it wasn’t obvious) left to join the Fine Arts Department. I had let them. All I asked was to have a room of my own. So I did. But in isolation, I grew to wish I had made a different decision. It was too late; my stubbornness wouldn’t allow me to have it any other way. So I sat, imagined myself in a burning building, and told myself, “this is fine.”

One last flashback. That was a promise: one last flashback...about The Flashbulb:

Late at night when my father was busy painting a commission of a great dragon, I by his side, refilling the ink pots.

Not long into the piece, he spilled a blot of ink all over the parchment, thus ruining it. He grumbled, then went to sleep.

I panicked.

There was NO way I was about to let the commission go unfinished! With all the mess around the house, dishes thrown every which way on the floor, nary a scratch of food. Hell, even if there were, between the two of us, we would have made a negative meal. Our bodies were made for art, but not the art of cooking! We HAD to get that commission money, so we could get good food, none of that ‘homemade’ crap!

I scrambled and paced, likely stepping on a few things in the process.

Then, I drew a breath, pulled out a fresh parchment, and recreated his piece from memory. Each detail added was one he would have in his own style. By the time dawn approached, I had finished, and I set the signature on the bottom, a forgery I grew to master many moons ago.

“Ah! I see I finished it in my sleep!” He got up and looked over. I looked up at him and smiled.

“Indeed! You never fail to impress!”

Of course, a lie. But there was an art in lies; not too harsh, not too delicate. Just as if it were a conversation.

In truth, he really was impressive. Made quite the name for himself. Several names, in fact. He was always seeking out a new medium and would take commissions for everything.

Yet, he was also lazy. Often starting a piece, then taking to the sheets. Really, though, who could blame him, when he started so late into dusk? That was why he had such a great assistant, able to finish anything he started. Because of that, was it any wonder that I managed to paint so fast?

I was about to lay down, myself, as I had deprived myself the luxury long enough. Such luxury would have to wait just a little longer, as we received knocks at our door. Father was kind enough to answer it for me, and I heard indecipherable chatter between my father and the solicitors. Then, father turned to me.

“They’re here for you.”

“What?” I sat up. “What for?”

“They say they have a job offer for you.”

I went over to the two at the door and asked them what business they had.

“We would like to offer you the chance to come with us and improve humanity.”

“What kind of cult is this?” I scowled, then slammed the door on them. My father looked shocked and asked me what I did that for.

“I don’t need humanity. All I need is you and the craft.”

“Maybe they had more to say. If they appear again, please hear them out.”

“If that is your request, then yes.”

Next morning, another knock; they appeared again. This time, I answered it.

“What?” I asked.

“We believe we made a mistake yesterday, so allow us to clarify: we are in need of a talented artist.”

“Why me? Why not my father?”

“Ah, well, you see...he’s a bit famous, and we’re looking for someone with a little less renown.”

“But you should consider him, not me. Because the only person I work with is him.”

“I see. We took the wrong approach. Dr. Monet, if you will.”

The one addressed as Dr. Monet stepped forward and showed me a rabbit in his hands.

“Yes. It’s a rabbit,” I didn’t see what the big deal was, to say the least.

“Actually,” one of them corrected. “It’s a needle felt.”

“What is that?” Those two words, ‘needle’ and ‘felt’ sounded unrelated. The only thing ever I felt from a needle was pain.

“It’s a form of art. There are several forms of art in the future which you may never learn about if you stay here. But if you come with us, the very concept of time won’t matter. Every potential form of art would be at your disposal with the potential to learn it all.”

“No. Time is important. Deadlines are important. Without it, I would never be able to measure my growth.”

“Very well; We will come by one last time, next morning, and if you still decline our offer, we won’t appear again.”

After I closed the door on them once more, I felt the presence of my father next to me with a pressure I couldn’t ignore.

“You should go with them,” he told me. “You may not get such an opportunity again.”

“No. They’re too suspicious.” If I had more awareness, I’d have placed why, and may have said, “they remind me of cultists,” but I didn’t think of that at all.

“That may be, but I could tell your excitement when you heard about new mediums to work with. Hasn’t the thought of ‘if only I had five, no, ten more years’ ever cross your mind just as it has crossed mine? If time weren’t a factor, imagine what you could do.”

“But what about us as a dynamic duo? It sounds like you want us to go our separate ways.”

“No. But yes,” he spoke, almost in a pious fashion. “Our styles are already drifting from one another – I’m leaning more toward nature. Birds, fish, rabbits. While your drawings of people are unparalleled. I know no other who can capture women so well as you.”

Ha. Capture women. If only that had stayed on the canvas and not bled into reality.

“At least think about it until tomorrow morning. Then if you tell them no again, that will be that.”

Then, that should have been that, right? But loathe as I was to admit, all the red flags that popped up when those people showed up excited me. The danger, the idea that it could all go south and I would be in peril, it was enticing. I didn’t even know why that was. Then, my thoughts drifted to its next logical conclusion: if I joined them, would I put others in danger as well?

At the time, I hated such a thought. I never wanted to put anyone else in danger. Plus, they spoke about improving humanity, not putting them in danger, right?

So, on the third morning, I said yes. I agreed to go with them. From then, there was Flashbulb University. There was the plan to integrate the Arts and Crafts and AV Club into the Fine Arts Department, and...there was my placement.

It didn’t take long for me to grow restless. Even with all the art supplies I requested fulfilled, it didn’t help. I’d create sculptures out of popsicle sticks. Dolls. But that wasn’t enough. Not even the assistants that I requested would be enough. I began to no longer see people as people, as the very idea of anyone else’s existence became absurd to me. All the echoed thoughts to keep me company, and in turn, the people who would come to support me became just like the supplies and food sent my way. Just props.

So then why did they get mad when I set one of their props on fire? I was only curious, that’s all. Earlier in my lifetime, I remembered witnessing houses set ablaze and wondering what it would be like had I been in the building. I only meant to find out what the experience was like, the sensation, through another. What about that was evil?

Without the ability to see outside my confines, finding inspiration grew difficult. To make matters worse, my past life, as an assistant, myself, had faded to such a degree that every memory held no environment. Just vague shapes and phrases. Left alone, of course I would grow desperate.

Enough. I lifted myself up. I was in enough pain, but the narrative needed to go on. Through secret panels, I stumbled through. Soon, Velvet and Coriander would meet me again. One of them weakened, the other a puppet. Then, they would meet each other.

“Looks like I must don my mustache and wizard cape and become Dr. Geppetto,” I shook my head and smiled. Those two may not have realized it, but I was prepared to help them in any way I knew how. That was what I said I would do and I refused to go back on my word.

One thing still perplexed me: if I was so evil in the eyes of my peers, why was I sealed away, rather than been disposed of? They could have sent a janitor to clean up the mess they made, but then I realized: isolating me was their clean up. Their damage control. As long as I wasn’t a threat to humanity, they saw no reason to paint me as a target.

Now, the question was, what decision would Velvet reach? I couldn’t wait to find out.

At the moment, I was dealing with some moving statues that were trying to smash me and tear me limb from limb. Then there was the imposing walls. Oh, and not to mention, there were little computer panels thrown about where I had to crack some codes in order for the walls to sink down and allow me passage through. Yes. You heard right. I couldn’t just punch through the walls.

Oh, but you’re probably wondering (hypothetical person) how I got into such a mess. To be honest, I was wondering the same thing. Hmm...ah! It was right after Dr. Fuckface put up a wall to separate Coriander and I. Due to such an unforgivable circumstance, I gave my not-official-girlfriend a free pass to beat the shit out of Dr. Art.

“I do hope she’ll be okay…” I paced about. That phrase repeated a few more times as I grew more and more anxious. “But what about me? I can’t just do nothing and wait my turn. I need to figure out a way to get back to her.”

As I began to walk back, a new wall shot up in front of me until I was trapped on both ends.

“Well isn’t this just grand!” I stomped my foot. Due to my attitude, it may have seemed like I was back at Full Velvet and my energy was restored. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I was just pissed.

To my side, the wall opened up to reveal a pathway.

“Oh, I see what’s going on!” I threw my hands up and trudged forward. It was just like in that “movie” she had me trapped in. No matter how many times we had the upper hand, we were just being pulled into another one of her traps with little room to find an exploit. I cupped my hands and yelled out, “I’ll have you know, I hate being railroaded!”

The passage didn’t go far; soon, it opened up and I found myself in a wide room, which at first seemed empty. Oh, how wrong I was.

Something shoved itself into me and knocked me onto the floor. I looked up to see a marble sculpture (or statue? Fuck. What’s the right terminology here? You know that one thing where there’s that clay guy with a tiny dick who stands around in a museum? Like, one of those things. Except the one I was face-to-face with didn’t really have any features. Like, I’m talkin’ none. Nada. No pussy out look, just a vague shape of a human with no face or nothin’) with arms in the air, and ready to smash.

I rolled out of the way, and once I got back to my feet, I ran for it.

There we go. Something like that was just what I needed to get myself back into gear, but then, another thought emerged. What if I stumbled into a dream again?

No. No thoughts like that!

Before I could get too far, a wall sprung up. Next to the wall also sprouted a computer panel. The obvious answer must have been to crack a code, so I began to get to work. From the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of statues run toward me.

Damn. How are they doing that?

So, I had to scramble to crack the code, but I was getting nowhere. Just when I thought I was getting the hang of things, the statues ganged up on me and both tried to punch me at the same time, but I ducked just in time, and they ended up punching each other instead and their heads rolled right off.

“Whew,” I wiped my forehead, but that relief was short lived, as another came charging in. That was when I had the bright idea to circle around the computer panel and have the statue and the panel collide with one another.

Spoilers: it worked. But also, it was a bad idea.

As the statue/sculpture (fuck it, it’s a statue) crashed into the computer, the combination resulted in an explosion which knocked me back. Once I got back up, I noticed that the wall in front of me had been demolished. Not only that, but something about the broken statue on the floor stood out to me: circuits and wires.

That explains it. They’re all robots. Or Terminators.

So now that all that background was out of the way, suffice to say, I went through a bit of trial and error with hordes of statues and walls appearing and disappearing, but it didn’t seem to end.

I began to huff and grow short on breath. I was beginning to wear down again and I knew that’s what she wanted, but I didn’t know what else I could do.

More came in greater numbers, surrounding me on all ends. I noticed a vent cover next to me that looked like I could fit in. Not seeing any other option, I ducked down and slipped through, closing the grate behind me. I crawled forward and upon emerging, found myself in another large room. This time, it was reminiscent of the initial room that we met Popsigirl in.

“All right. You probably had it planned that I would go through that, too!” I called out. That time, I got a response.

“Actually, I was planning on you cracking the code on one of the consoles, but it doesn’t matter what method you chose, because every path would have led you here!” She was a considerable distance away, and yet I could tell she was in the same room.

Like I said, I hated being railroaded.

“Where are you, anyway?”

“I’m on a platform next to the ceiling!” Was her response in an inappropriately chipper voice.

Dim spotlights started to shine down on the floor and that’s when I saw Coriander on the other end of the room, hunched over, head down.

“Hey! There you are!” I waved, and before I could get another word in, she flung herself forward and lunged at me. I moved out of the way, but I still felt my heart pound.

Did she lose control while facing Dr. Geppetto?

Coriander turned to the side and then swiped at me, and a wide cut etched its way onto my arm. I yelled out, but did not retaliate.

“Damn it,” I seethed. “That was a nasty cut.” The sting was still fresh, but she would not relent – she continued to swipe away in such awkward, jerking motions. I managed to avoid them that time.

She grunted and made sniffling sounds. I had a hard time distinguishing between whether she was in a frenzy or if she was in pain, but either way, I didn’t want her to stay in such a state.

“I know you’re in there somewhere! You can fight this!” I protested.

“Ugh! You idiot!” The words forced themselves out of her. That proves it: she’s definitely in pain. “I’m not being mind controlled! It’s my limbs!”

I froze. So that was it. My fists clenched, and all around, I shook.

“Dr. Lynch! Dr. Geppetto! I told you! That if you...if you…” That also shook. My voice. “I can’t forgive you! Do you hear me?”

“I’m okay with that! Kill me if you must! But first, you should worry about yourself.”

Coriander lunged once again with the knife. I jumped back, all the while, Dr. Geppetto provided commentary.

“You should have known that sooner or later, you’d have to make some hard decisions. Do you really expect to defeat The Flashbulb without anyone being killed? And if you do end up having to kill, what will you do with the bodies?”

While I tried to drown out her words, I failed to notice Coriander being pulled forward and the blade she held scratched me across my cheek. “I’m sorry!” She cried out after doing so and although I winced, I smiled.

“Why?” I covered my cheek with my hand. If I could avoid a few more hits, I would be golden. Two cuts, maybe a gash, that was enough. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

Again, she swiped, but I leaned back and the blade missed me by about a good two inches or so.

“I fell for her trap! I became pulled along on these strings and forced to attack you! I can’t pull them off, I can’t break free!”

I continued to smile and nod. I’m sure both of us could tell that it was a forced smile, but I felt it as necessary a moment as any.

“It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. We both fell for her tricks.”

Her swipes grew more furious and to avoid them, I had to run. Not the ideal solution, but all I had to keep myself from being a bloody mess.

“Wow! Amazing! I thought you’d be worn out, but look at you go!”

“Please!” I retorted. “I’m running on adrenaline!”

Coriander was close behind me. I glanced over to see her gliding and floating.

“Go! Get to the exit! Leave me behind, or kill me if you have to, but just go!” Coriander pleaded.

I stopped in my tracks. She was about to strike down with the knife, but I grabbed her wrist.

“I’m not about to give up on you,” I grunted. “You can kill me if you want to, but I refuse to harm you.”

“I...I don’t want to!” She broke out in tears. “I have no choice! S-So, stop being foolish!” It must have been one of the strings, but she next tried to stomp her foot down on mine, but I caught on too quick and held her feet down with my own. She continued, “Defeating The Flashbulb is more important! So if I have to die, so be it! You need to see this through!”

I’m sure if it were any other protagonist, they’d probably accept that, deal the blow to their lover, and go on to save the day with a bittersweet feeling. But nah. That wasn’t it for me.

“Well sorry for being selfish, but I don’t want to defeat the big bad if you’re not next to me while I’m doing it!”

“Why?”

“Boring! I thought there’d be some stabbing, not a lovers’ quarrel! I wanted to see faces being ripped off!” Dr. Geppetto booed and hissed. Ignoring that, I kept my eyes on Coriander.

“Why? Because who ever said the day couldn’t be saved with you alive? Why should I have to choose when I can have both?” I leaned in, keeping my grip on her arm, and whispered in her ear, “hey, do you wanna break free?”

She mouthed the word ‘yes’, and that was all I needed. I gave her neck a peck and she got so flustered that she dropped the knife and I managed to catch it.

“Hey! Give it back!” Dr. Geppetto spat and used the strings to reach Coriander’s arms down to try to grab it from me, but I rolled away just in time, and once I got up, I cut loose the strings holding down one of Coriander’s arms. The rest was up to her.

She stretched her free arm a bit, rolled her fingers, then reached over to the arm that still wasn’t free and yanked down, causing Dr. Geppetto to fall down alongside the strings she must have been holding. The force and the height must have coupled together with such an intensity that once Dr. Geppetto hit the floor, a loud cracking sound was heard.

Coriander, now standing over the fallen artist, stared down and her breathing grew shorter, more hoarse.

“ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?! ARE YOU?!”

She wailed and repeated that phrase. I walked over to her, saw the body of the one who had caused us both torment, and hugged her from behind.

“It’s okay,” I leaned my head over her shoulder. “It’s okay.” She continued to sob and wail, but no more words. There wasn’t much else I could do but continue to hold her, and slowly, she calmed down, although still in tears.

It didn’t take us long to find the exit. Weary, I held on in order to figure out the code, and once I opened the door, we held each other up as we made our way out, into the light.

#happiness overload #writing #fiction #scifi #art #drama #this chapter is kind of on the short side

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softnow · 6 years ago

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paracosm [ii/?]

msr | college au | this chapter: gen | words: 2.2k

she resents the idea that some boy who will no doubt be gone in another week’s time can ruffle her so much.

it’s dana’s turn, folks. necessary shoutout to @o6666666, champion of baby dana and all her emotions. also tagging @today-in-fic.

← last chapter. / ao3.

— — —

Dana has always been good with change. It comes with the territory of being a Navy brat. As a kid, she attended four different elementary schools, two middle schools, and she graduated high school with a class she’d only known for less than a year.

But there is a difference between moving with her family—keeping, if nothing else, the familiarity of her siblings, her parents, the old worn quilt on her old twin bed—and moving alone to the other side of the country, starting college (an exciting but daunting task on its own) nearly 3,000 miles away from everything and everyone she’s ever known.

Granted, she’s handling it better than some—better, for instance, than the girl who lives across the hall and cries on the phone to her parents every night, or the boy in her math class who comes only every third day and reeks of alcohol and pot when he does. Dana, at least, is making an effort.

She has gone to a few welcome mixers, to an underwhelming movie night hosted by her RAs, to a panel discussion on monoclonal antibodies with an audience of serious-looking grad students and old men in sweaters. She leaves her door open while she studies, just in case somebody should like to pop in. On two different weekends, she has allowed her roommate to take her out to parties filled with people who, even if they are new like her, seem to have known each other their whole lives. She has even formed a tentative working friendship with her bio lab partner, and she is frequently invited to have dinner in the dining hall with some of the girls on her floor (although, after a few nights of awkward small talk over rubbery pizza, she has stopped accepting).

But still. Despite the built-in camaraderie of the freshman experience, of being one of many sharing the same anxieties, excitements, and first-time hangovers, she feels…foreign. A little out of her depth.

She tells herself it doesn’t matter. College is, after all, simply a means to an end. But when she calls her parents on Sunday afternoons and her mother asks if she’s making friends, having fun, having the all-American college experience—the one she herself, married and pregnant right out of high school, was denied—well. Dana’s never enjoyed lying.

So she’s glad for the library. She may not know the difference between all the fraternities or where to find the best pizza in town or what a Jägerbomb tastes like, but she has the Dewey Decimal System down pat. She knows all the nicest reading nooks—even the ones the other freshman haven’t found yet—and she gets a startlingly large amount of satisfaction out of booting couples who think they’re sly enough to make out in the fifth-floor economics section. (In the three and a half weeks she’s been working here, she’s kicked out four couples. A rush, every time.)

She likes being the one who, at least for a few hours a day, gets to ask how can I help you? She likes that she has the answers. And she likes—perhaps better than anything—that here, it is perfectly fine to be alone. She doesn’t feel self-conscious behind the circulation desk the way she sometimes does sitting alone at a table meant for four in the student union. There’s nothing sad about it. There’s no pressure to socialize.

Or: there didn’t used to be.

Because now there’s a boy. A persistent boy. A persistent, irritating boy who is tall and lanky with a flop of dark hair and a collection of wrinkled t-shirts, who goes by his last name even though (in Dana’s opinion) his first is actually kind of nice, who, for some unknown reason, has set his sights on her and has made it his life’s mission to not give her a moment’s peace, who has decided that any day she is here, he will be too, hanging all over her desk, following her from floor to floor like a lost puppy, forcing her to listen to his questions and his stories and his inappropriate flirtations which, despite her best efforts, turn her pink as a cherry blossom, damn her Irish heritage.

Even when she tells him to get out—Mulder, I need to work—he will only grin and lean closer like he was never taught about personal space and say something completely disarming like, Dana, has anyone ever told you that you have Cassiopeia right…here? And then he will touch her little constellation of freckles so gently with the tip of his finger, like he’s really not touching her at all, and she will lose track of her filing or her faxing or whatever it was she was doing before he sauntered up, so cool and composed, to lean across her desk in the first place.

It would be easier, she thinks, if he wasn’t so nice. And clever. And handsome. If he was a dumb, ugly jerk, she would have no problem throwing him out (and she’d probably take an even greater amount of satisfaction in it than with the horny couples).

Because she’s not stupid. She knows that pretty, older boys with low, rumbly voices and plush, pink lips don’t seek out girls like her. Not with good intentions, at least. Boys—men, she corrects, because, god, he’s twenty-one—like him go for a different sort of girl. Taller. Older. Louder, funnier, sexier.

So there has to be some ulterior motive, has to, and it’s only a matter of time before his sweet exterior cracks to reveal whatever is really lurking beneath those puppy dog eyes and big smile and soft, gentle hands.

She hopes he just leaves her alone before then. It will be easier, really, for everyone involved.

—

It is a quarter past ten, and Dana lies curled on her lumpy twin bed, her phone cradled in both hands, her back to the wall. The cinderblocks are cool through her thin pajama top.

“He came in again today,” she says, low, like a secret.

“And?” Her sister’s voice is tinny and amused, two thousand-odd miles and a phone line away.

“He said I was beautiful,” she says. “He said I was going to win the Nobel Prize.”

Missy hmms. “For being beautiful?”

Dana shakes her head even though there’s nobody here to see it. Her roommate has been gone for three nights in a row.

“For curing cancer.”

Melissa snorts. “And what’d you say?”

Dana bites the inside of her cheek, the sore patch she’s nibbled raw.

“Nothing.” She draws the blankets tighter around herself. “I told him to leave.”

A pause. Dana thinks her sister might laugh at her, but Missy only sighs.

“Dana.”

“Yeah?”

“Why?”

“Don’t do that. This guy likes you. Why are you—”

“No, he doesn’t,” Dana says. She scrunches the phone cord between her fingers and releases it. Scrunches. Releases.

Melissa does laugh now. “Excuse me, what?”

“He doesn’t like me, Missy. He’s just…playing.”

“Just playing.” Melissa doesn’t sound convinced.

“The way guys do. You know. When they don’t mean it.”

“Oh, my god, Dane.” Melissa laughs again. “‘Just playing’ is calling you after midnight to ask what you’re wearing. It’s…it’s buying you a few drinks, taking you home, and not calling you the next day. This boy is not ‘just playing.’”

When Dana doesn’t say anything, Melissa continues: “Babe,” she says. “Do you honestly believe this guy would be spending that much time in the library if he was ‘just playing?’ Last week, you told me he was there until eleven o’clock on a Friday. Trust me. No guy is spending his Friday night in a library for a girl if he’s just playing.”

Dana bites her cheek again, licks her bottom lip. She thinks about last Friday. He’d shown up a little after eight, fresh from a shower, his hair still damp. She’d been in the fourth floor biology section, pulling books on tree frogs to fill a hold request, and he’d materialized behind her, smiling, with a cup of coffee and a packet of peanut M&Ms. The flip in her stomach had almost knocked her over.

“Hey,” he said. “I was looking for you. Here. Sustenance.”

And he’d thrust the coffee and the candy out at her with a dip of his chin, almost shy. She’d had a lab at eight that morning, and she’d been exhausted. The coffee smelled heavenly—rich and creamy. Exactly what she hadn’t even known she’d needed.

But instead of taking it, she’d folded the books about tree frogs to her chest, lifted her brow, and said, “Mulder, no. You can’t be doing this.”

“Why not?” He seemed genuinely curious. Concerned, maybe, that he was breaking some food-and-drink policy.

She tightened her grip on the books and said, “I don’t need it. I’m working. I need to focus.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Caffeine. Sugar. I only have your best interests at heart.”

Her cheeks flamed and she turned away, trying to seem like she was looking for the next book on her list even though all the titles blurred together.

“C’mon, Dana,” he said. “I come in peace.”

“I’m busy.” She didn’t turn around even as he came up behind her, so close she could feel the heat of him, could smell his foresty, manly soap.

“What are you looking for?”

And she’d relented. Something about his closeness, about the way he leaned over her just a little bit, made her weak. She’d shown him the list, and she’d accepted his help.

But she hadn’t accepted the coffee or the candy. Not even when he’d followed her back to the circulation desk and spent the next two hours shifting his weight from one foot to the other, asking her about class, her day, the best book she read that week, her last name, her phone number, and would she like to have dinner one night—any night—he was free any time?

“Good night, Mulder,” she said about ten times before he finally left—not without a few glances over his shoulder—so she could close up.

He’d left the coffee (cold) and the candy (unopened) on the desk. The coffee she poured out in the women’s room. The M&Ms… The M&Ms she ate later, one by one, while she called Melissa, sucking the candy coating off to make them last.

“Dana,” Melissa says now, breaking the silence. “You know he’s not going to wait forever, right?”

Dana frowns against the receiver. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this guy is clearly crazy about you. But if you keep playing hard to get—”

“I’m not!”

“—then he’s going to get bored, okay? It’s fun for a little while, but then it’s like…like running your head into a brick wall, over and over and over again. Eventually, if you keep telling him to get out, he will. And he won’t come back.”

“Good,” Dana says, even though the unexpected ache in her chest doesn’t necessarily agree. “That’s what I want.”

“Hmm.” On the other end of the line, Dana hears the flick of a lighter. “Well. If you really don’t want him, tell him you’ve got a sister in California who would be more than happy to entertain him.”

An image—brief, but not brief enough—flashes through her mind and her stomach clenches.

“I have to go, Missy,” she says. “Good night.”

She recradles the phone on her bedside table and turns out the light. She imagines walking into the library tomorrow, no Mulder. And the day after that, no Mulder. And next week, no Mulder.

She imagines that today was the last day. She imagines him never coming back to lean over the circulation desk and waggle his eyebrows at her, or stand too close to her in the stacks, or surprise her with a little treat ever again.

Maybe she’d spot him on the green one day and he’d point her out to his buddies and laugh. Hey, that’s the girl I messed with last semester. You know, the dumb one who really thought I liked her? Maybe he’d be too busy making puppy dog eyes at some other girl—some tall, willowy, interesting girl—to even notice her.

It would be for the best. This past week has just been a sort of…temporary universal insanity. A paracosm. A Dickensian glimpse into what her life could be if, perhaps, she lived in some alternate reality (which, let the record show, she does not believe in—but hypothetically).

Here, Missy’s voice interrupts, echoing in her head. This guy is clearly crazy about you. She frowns into the darkness. It sounds so simple when her sister says it, so reasonable.

And then there’s Mulder’s voice, too, low and intimate, asking her to coffee, to dinner, to a movie, to anything, really, anything at all. And not just one day. Every day. Several times a day, again and again and again, no matter how many times she says no, says Mulder, please, says I have work to do.

Dana tosses and turns and draws the covers up over her head, curling herself tight against the seductive pull of fantasy. She has always been the level-headed one, never a daydreamer, never impractical. She resents the idea that some boy who will no doubt be gone in another week’s time can ruffle her so much.

Huffing, she hugs a pillow tight to her chest and resolves to put Fox Mulder from her mind. It works, like most nights, only until she begins to dream.

#fox mulder #dana scully #msr #msr fanfic #myfic #paracosm #this chapter is some necessary expositiony stuff #which i hope you still find enjoyable #next chapter is very very fun #and will drop...idk next week sometime maybe #thank you to everyone who's been so enthusiastic and kind about this!!!#mulder #scully #txf

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spicedrobot · 6 years ago

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Chasing the Demon

Fandom: Overwatch Pairing: Sanzang!Zenyatta/Oni!Genji Warnings: trans genji (clit/cunt terms used, no PIV), vagina dentata, anal sex, murder mentions?? Genji’s a bad dude Notes: Uhhh this is old and I’m now wondering if this is to anyone’s taste but! I hope you enjoy. ;’) I can only put an art preview on tumblr, but please read this on ao3 for the full picture by @/zoannim on twitter!

It is greed that undoes him.

In the beginning, Genji preyed on the drunk and cruel. His first was a gambler who brought his house to ruin; the next an adulterer who frequented the pleasure quarters. Each target he justifies in some fashion, though he does not need excuses after the first, intoxicated by the rush that each death grants, eyes bright as hellfire and body glut with their souls.

His targets are embarrassingly easy to tempt. He waits in the shadows of taverns, luring with sweet words and sweeter hands. Each kill makes him bolder, and he begins slinking into houses, into the same rooms where spouses lay sleeping next to his prey. It takes only a finger pressed to his grinning mask as he peels off his lower armor to keep them from alarm. By the time he envelops their cocks into the tight heat between his thighs, it’s too late.

Rumors spread of strange deaths: each victim found half-naked but unharmed, eyes glazed in ecstasy. The city becomes hysteric, and most dare not venture out after dusk. Soon there are few left that catch Genji’s eye; it is time to move on to the next village where new victims wait, ignorant and ripe for consumption.

He leaves at dusk, lingering at the city gates for the changing of the guard. That’s when he sees it: a gleaming palanquin surrounded by gold and crimson banners.

No litter so fine ever held less than royalty. In the cover of shadows, Genji follows it to the fanciest lodging in the city. The servants place the palanquin on the ground and fold back its drapes, revealing its occupant.

Need seizes in Genji’s belly.

A prince, sharp and gorgeous, with painted eyes and full lips, adorned in finery that catches in the late sun’s gold. He moves with grace unparalleled as he rises, a necklace of heavy orbs chiming with each practiced step. Every motion is collected and pristine, and how Genji wants, how easy it would be to debauch such a treasure who has only known love and excess.

One more, he thinks. Just one more.

Slipping past the guards is child’s play.

At this hour, he expects the prince to be nestled beneath layers of grand silks that adorn the suite’s enormous bed. Instead, the prince kneels in prayer upon the wooden floor. The vast room is lit by a single torch, but Genji’s never struggled to see in the dim, not after the souls had changed him.

He creeps closer, the soft spice of incense that weaves into his mask warm and pleasant.

“Who are you?”

The prince’s voice surprises him, deep for his stature, melodiously rhythmic. He does not move; not even his heart quickens as Genji draws another step closer.

“A lonely soul looking for company,” Genji murmurs, stopping in front of his bowed head. “You are far from home, prince.”

The prince stills. Then he laughs, the sound startling in the quiet.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” The prince straightens. His eyes are the last to raise, deep and dark, the gaze leveled at Genji so intense that he feels stripped bare before him. “So, lonely soul. What flavor of company do you seek?”

“One that only you can provide.”

The prince’s shoulders shake as he laughs silently.

“Flattering words shall not sway me.”

Genji slips a cool finger beneath the prince’s chin, tilting his face upward, enamored by the supple curve of his lips, synthetic but alluring.

“I speak true. Since I saw you, I knew no other would satisfy me.”

His hand shifts, cupping his sharp cheek. The prince leans into his touch, eyes thinning.

“Hm. Are you willing to prove your devotion?”

Genji crouches, dipping his head in a gentle bow.

“Nothing would please me more.”

Genji’s stomach clenches deliciously, his breath quickening as he disrobes the prince. The omnic lets him, waited upon and pampered at every turn, Genji thinks. To rend such arrogance will be all the sweeter for it. Fine circuitry, strangely scuffed but beautiful, reveals itself piece by piece. Genji slips his hands into soft fabric, feeling between metal thighs as the prince arches into him, mouth circled on a gasp.

The prince’s hand follows as Genji exposes his lower body, pressing a sequence of panels; his cock, segmented and just shy of tumescent, slides into view. Most of Genji’s partners have been flesh and blood, but the prince rises and twitches like any other, helpless beneath his fingers as he takes him in hand.

Genji lifts his mask, smirks with long fangs, though it does not cause the other pause. Instead, slim thighs part wider, cock thickening in his grip, the seams of it glowing teal. It’s a dizzying sight, enough to keep a witty reply from his lips, breathless as he kisses the crown of his cock, the smell of incense heightening, cloying.

“You are quite good at this, lonely one,” the prince sighs, the sound dream-like and far off, the hand on the back of his head urging Genji quicker, stealing sight and breath.

Genji tastes the sweet slick from the prince’s cock, eyes fluttering shut as he draws him deep. Soon whatever soul the prince possessed would be his, a final, lingering thought before oblivion.

He awakens to gentle buzzing between his ears and the smell of fresh evening air.

“So you are the demon who has been terrorizing the city.”

Genji groans.

“What…”

He cannot move.

Red cord segments his body, arms twisted behind his back, calves and thighs bound together. His struggles are limited; the strange, lingering drowsiness weakening his movements. Not incense, then.

“You are an imposter,” Genji says with as much venom as he can muster.

The false prince clicks his tongue, too close.

“My identity was assumed. I simply did not correct your error.” His breath tickles over Genji’s cheek, and try as he might, he cannot pull away as the omnic laughs quietly behind him.

“Who are you?”

“A lowly monk in service to the lost.” There is no fire to it, only a statement, gentle against his head. “Your lusts have warped you. It is a terrible burden, to exist without succor.”

Warmth lines his back as the monk presses against him, teases fingers around his flanks. The demon grunts, but he can do little more than twitch and jerk as the monk rubs circles into his hips, cups his thighs through his clothes, close to the heat between where he yearns, always wanting.

“Some monk,” the demon groans as the imposter tears his pants, exposing him to the room, chilled until fingers trace between his legs, not quite daring to do more.

The pads of warm metal find short, sharp teeth surrounding a warm slit, puffy with arousal, dripping and swelling the longer he touches.

“Were you planning to swallow my cock with this? A sweet death, I am sure.”

The monk’s whispers echo in his mind, Genji’s focus undivided on his fingers, tracing and spreading him, testing and teasing his cunt but nothing more. Then his fingers shift, dragging beneath, catching the slick leaking from him then pressing lower.

Genji hisses at the first caress, trembling with the strain. The monk is undeterred, stroking between his cheeks, teasing and prodding until Genji relaxes. He growls as his insides part around the single, smooth finger, heat gathering between his legs, not quite where he needs, but he cannot resist it all the same.

“Do not worry. I will provide the company you so desperately seek.”

Genji swears, anger warring with the strange, teasing pleasure of the finger twisting inside him, motions smoothing as he opens him up, discomfort replaced with something delicious he should reject. He should’ve moved on—but now he writhes on the monk’s finger, back arching as another one slides next to it, brushing something that makes his vision blur.

“That’s it. Just relax.”

The monk nuzzles his pointed ear, catching it in his teeth, kisses just beneath, a place Genji never knew would be so sensitive. His fingers are a constant maddening slide that has him so close to begging it makes his blood boil. Then those fingers curl, and Genji shouts, tossing his head back against the monk’s shoulder, surging like electricity down his spine, sizzling—close…

He whines as those fingers withdraw, petting his swollen rim, more slick pooling over his hands, unsated, so needy.

“Unless you would rather stop.” The amusement is thick in his voice, purring from his synth.

Genji gnashes his teeth, trying to catch those capricious fingers against his ass, grown more enraged each second the monk does not press back inside and finish him proper. The monk’s other hand holds steady at his waist, drawing calm circles just above his clit, aching to be touched.

“N-no,” Genji bites.

“Hm?”

Sweat rolls down his temple, his body squeezing and twisting, but there’s no relief.

“Fuck me,” Genji says like a curse, moaning high and hard as the monk drags him into his lap, his cock, swollen and bright, sliding between his thighs and against his cunt. A synthetic hiss as Genji’s lower teeth brush his cock, and the demon grins even as he feels pressure at his ass instead, worked open and aching, cunt pulsing as the monk starts to slide inside him.

“Oh—fuck.”

Genji bends forward, rocking back on the monk’s cock as he bottoms out, slick dribbling around his cock, not even aware enough to be embarrassed by how much he’s turned on, being tied and used like this. The monk fucks him hard and deep, belying his gentle appearance, more sinful than his occupation allowed. One hand locks on Genji’s hip, the other just above his cunt, thumb grazing his clit.

“F-feeling good, monk?” Genji warbles, drool slipping down his chin as the monk tsks, pounding him in a place that no monk should, stroking his swollen clit in small, tantalizing circles.

“Mouthy,” he murmurs. “Perhaps you will require multiple lessons.”

“Please...!” Genji bites his lip, whining in his throat. “Harder.”

The monk shoves the demon gracelessly forward. Genji cannot break his fall, but the pain is worth the monk’s hands sealing around his hips, driving deeper, faster, the ache within delicious and perfect. He babbles, gasps and swears, guttural sounds that would make any proper human blush, but instead the monk snaps his hips harder, groaning into Genji’s shoulder as the demon seizes around him, barreling into orgasm like slamming into a wall.

His cunt clenches, slick spilling in a gush between his thighs, nearly screaming as the monk shoves him to the floor and holds, pumping him full, so hard Genji feels it settle in his stomach. Steam plumes around them, swallowing Genji’s groans and whimpers as the aftershocks take him, nearly as potent as the first shattering crest.

“Is...is that it?” Genji says, hoarse, squeezing around the cock still inside him.

The hands at his hips tighten, a breathy laugh escaping the monk who starts to move, slowly but gaining speed, Genji’s toes curling at the deep, tender feeling that makes his lower half feel liquefied.

“I suspect you still have more to learn.”

Genji can’t move as the early morning light spills through stained glass, though it had been hours since he’d been tied, freed somewhere between the third or fourth round, he can’t quite remember. He groans, twinging deliciously like he hasn’t in ages. When he glances up, he finds dark eyes watching him in turn.

The demon should be ashamed, angered: he was tricked, used, but he’s only sleepy and sore.

“I do not think I can move,” he murmurs, nuzzling beneath the monk’s chin.

One of the monk’s orbs glows, bathing Genji in a warm light that numbs the worst of the pain.

“Being a monk has its perks.”

Zenyatta weaves his fingers behind Genji’s back.

“Taming demons such as you is one of them.”

Genji laughs.

“There are many like me?” He mouths at the monk’s neck, relishing in his gentle, heated sigh.

“No, you are very much unique.”

“Now who’s the flatterer?”

The monk leaves the town as he came, surrounded by the gold and crimson of a fine palanquin, one passenger heavier and many times more dangerous.

#genyatta #bendoverwatch #trans genji #vagina dentata #murder mention #fics #no piv #lemon

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j2madhatters · 6 years ago

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Why Padalecki marriage annoys me - non Tinhat perspective

I can safely say that never before has a marriage annoyed me as much as the Padalecki marriage. Even the Ackles’ behavior is reasonable. They don’t kiss and make out public because Jensen is not an exhibitionist sort. I have never respect PDAs. In my opinion, it is inappropriate. But remember, I am not a tinhat so you can draw your own conclusions about why the Ackles don’t “display” their love in public. There is nothing wrong with theorizing.

Genevieve, and Jared [when he is in husband mode] just irritate me. They oversell it. In the beginning, I thought she was so lucky to have a husband like him. He is so beautiful. He’s so sensitive. He earns well. He is respected in his field. Plus he cried on their wedding day. How beautiful is that? For years afterwards, he would gush over her during his panels. At first, I smirked, then I became poker faced, then I became mildly annoyed and then one day [I even remember the panel] it just got too noticeably exhibitionist. It was the last question. Timothy Omundson was called on stage, pretending to be the last question. And he comically fangirled uncontrollably before perching himself on the designated chair. His question was “who is your favourite guest star, and why is it Timothy Omundsom?’‘ It was a funny question, and Jensen went with it, saying that he was a fan of Omundson’s beard, which caused Robbie to throw a faux hissy fit because he had a beard too, darn it. But Jensen pointed out that his beard was pathetic because it was short and he couldn’t braid it. After the laugh fest, Jared gave his answer: ’'My favorite guest star is Gen, because she’s my wife and the mother of my children”.

For some reason, that is pissed me right off. It was a funny question. It didn’t warrant a serious, gushy husband reply. Some witless creature made a mistake of pointing this out, in the comment section. The entire page converged on her. Even people who had initially agreed with her, backtracked. I felt angry at this fandom's self-censoring. I realized she was over loved, not because of any personal merit, but because she married Jared. They were calling her a queen. Seriously? A queen. For what? So I went on the internet to see if I was the only weird person who couldn’t detect her monarchical merits.

That was last year-ish. How do you think I stumbled onto tinhats. I like most hats because it seems they don't conform to the politically correct norm of ’'treat the wives like gold’’. And they don’t ask tinhat questions during panels. Unlike the leeches who love destiel and Misha Collins. Jared was becoming too extra when it came to Genevieve. And I noticed he inserted an obligatory Gen mention at least once, in every single panel. Even after seven years, he was far too “in love”. And eventually, instead of being happy for their happiness, I started feel like they were rubbing their domestic bliss in everyone’s face. “look at what we’ve got, nyah nyah nyah.’' My polite and genuine [but not over the top] respect for their marriage dissipated.

You know who he reminded me off. He reminded me of Tom Cruise when he was a guest on Oprah and was over pushing the epic love he had for Katie Holmes, jumping on the couch and fist pumping the air. That incident, I found humorous and embarrassing. This was plain irritating. I noticed he’s slowed down now. The unnecessary wife mentions sometimes don’t even make an appearance, for which I am thankful. I wonder why though. Unless he is telling a story that she is a part of, like the Highway story, he doesn’t mention her anymore. My non tinhat guess is that he was aware that fans were getting pissed off, especially since, he had mentioned something about her in a panel recently [I don’t remember which one], and someone in the front row said: We know!

Another thing I don’t like about this relationship is Genevieve intruding on fan space. If people are paying bucket loads to see their favorite actor, unless they specifically ask for a guest appearance by the actor’s wife, don’t intrude. Once, Genevieve appeared on stage, during a J2 panel, to contribute something unnecessary to the story they were recounting. I think it was the highway story. Then she made sure she kissed him before leaving, while the crowd watched. Why? She added nothing fresh to the story, and couldn’t she wait to leave the stage, to kiss her husband. She isn’t paying to see her husband. The fans are. Don’t take that precious time away from them.

And I noticed, she usually sits at the side of the stage, overseeing the whole exchange. As far as I know, Danneel hasn’t done that yet. Why the need to loom over the proceedings? Does she love to hear him talk? That reminds me of the livestream they did, where he was talking and she mouthed ’'blah blah blah’' while making a mocking hand gesture, because apparently he was talking too much. So obviously Jared’s yammering doesn’t entertain her.

Then at Jib, she got to join the panel. I didn’t fault her for attending because apparently the previous year, he had gotten sick and didn’t make the con. I assumed she was there for moral support. I am a non hatter so that is my analysis. You cant of course, explain your perspective. But that doesn’t mean she needs to be on stage. For what? Its not like she did something spectacular whilst there. Rob, Rich and Jared had to take over the discussion because she was so dull. Eventually even Jensen joined in, revved the crowd up even further, and left. One of her fan girls complained that the boys ’'didn’t even let her speak”. Thank goodness they didn’t.

She is inserting herself between Jared and the fan, and now people are forced to be enthusiastic about her. Its so unfair. It almost seems like Genevieve wants shared custody of the fans. That is not how fame works. You earn it. You don’t inherit it. I started to get more and more annoyed with being forced, [by all of fandom, I thought] to go crazy over some woman, I could care less for. She wasn’t impressive as fake Ruby. And I was not the only one who thought so. Cassidy was a bland actor, in my humble opinion. Genevieve was worse.

The only reason she didn’t fade into oblivion, like all the other female actors, is because she married Jared. There was a blog called anti-Genevieve on Tumblr, that received a lawyers letter to cease and desist, because of defamation of character. Its her right to safeguard her reputation, so no problem there, especially if the blog is over malicious without proof or facts. I did visit the site. But I don’t remember seeing anything horrible other than her being called a beard. But it has been a while so maybe I just forgot.

However, there is another blog called Supernatural Snark. Almost the entire blog bashes Jared for everything that comes out of his mouth. One day, an ask about Jensen’s weird behavior at Jibcon, illicited an odd response from the blogger. The asker said that Jensen’s breakdown was Misha, Jared and the destiheller’s fault because Misha queerbaits his fans, Jared teases destiel and the fans abused Jensen on Twitter after Jaxcon. She said Jensen was trying to pacify the fans. The blogger said that it didn’t make sense for Jensen to wait six months to pacify the fans. Then she disabled the comment so the asker couldn’t respond. Of course, even I know he waited six months, because he shares no other panel with Misha. That’s when I realized that Supernatural Snark is a heller blog.

How come Genevieve doesn’t send a cease and desist lawyer’s letter to this witch. I think I know why. She only looked for anti stuff about herself on the net and that’s how she found this page. If she was looking for anti Jared blogs, she would have found Supernatural Snark. The Minute Maid commercial and her words in it were a little incentive. She said she was making so many sacrifices. Well missy, bundle up your babies and buzz off to Vancouver. You husband is not gone off to war. You are sacrificing nothing.

She doesn’t seem to care for him. She doesn’t care about his campaign. She never tags AFK for anything. She tags Random Acts, though. The thing that makes my blood boil, on a personal level, is that she claims that she also suffers from depression. As a bipolar sufferer myself, the one trend I noticed is that when people are impatient with me, and I point out that I have bipolar disorder, they quickly say that they also suffer from depression, so they don’t look bad. Since when does she have depression. Because if she did, she wouldn’t ignore her husband’s campaign that is supposed to help people like her. Is she sharing in her husband’s sympathy the same way she is sharing his fame?

She has diehard fans on Instagram. One of them is Ivana. Ivana gushily asked Genevieve to sign her name so that Ivana could have it tattooed. I was surprised. When did Gen become a rockstar? Then I realized that Ivana has her own SM page where she says she is ITK and best buds with Genevieve. So she knows that Jared abuses his wife and neglects his children. Ivana is a heller. Her best friend Lua James [@Poptivist on Twitter], led a smear campaign against J2 for the Nolacon joke. Her followers are the ones that made this problem reach MSM. And J2 had to apologize, publicly, for nothing. That is ok, because what Lua and gang were initially hoping for was for separates for the boys' panels, so that Jared wouldn’t be near Jensen. Genevieve is making herself the whip with which hellers can beat Jared.

And both Ivana and Lua cornered Danneel at one con to tell her how everyone hated her, except them. That was their snide contribution to tinhat hate. Danneel signed Poptivist’s SPN magazine, with the caption: “He is mine, bitches”… something inappropriate like that. Danneel was wrong for writing that. I noticed she fights with Jensen’s fans a lot. Ungracious. Lua is so toxic that she needs a guard at the cons, supplied by Creation to keep an eye on her. WTF!!! I always wondered why she wasn’t just excluded, but I think it’s because she is friends with a Creation staff member who also happens to be Misha’s relative. And because she is a Misha fan girl, she gets to stay.

That’s why Misha’s face appears on the main posters with J2, despite him not being a lead. Because he is related to staff. The wives have no fans, but I think Genevieve’s ego is in denial. Her intellect isn’t, which is why Jared’s appears in her vlogs. He is the deal sealer for her. One day this pompousness is going to backfire on Gen. I hope she figures that out one day.

APOLOGIES FOR ANOTHER LONG POST. I HOPE YOU DONT MIND.

Thank you for your submission, I’ve always wondered what non-hats make of the OTT parade and the wife stanning.

#submission #go-diane-winchester

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hirayaea · 6 years ago

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ikesen fic - the inevitable correction of treading through time (prologue)

Summary: You and Sasuke decide to make the timeline as close to your reality the only way you know how: by making sure the the Tokugawa Shogunate happens, no matter how many tries it takes.

— ieyasu/mc — you remember how this timeline began: with your eyes wide open

[AO3]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

現時点

Your place in the war council had changed. In fact, you used to sit at the farthest corner of the room; a presence welcomed but not entirely needed, allowable only because Nobunaga's orders were absolute. You were his favourite, and until his deathbed, he called you his lucky charm.

Now you sit on the dais, a little to the right of the man you would sacrifice your life for. You should have known the years would change you (you knew what would happen, after all), but never did you imagine how reality would come to play.

As if time traveling was absurd enough, you were now somehow the wife of the first leader of the Tokugawa Shogunate.

Sasuke, bless his wandering soul, would be proud.

正しい時代

You remember how this timeline began: with your eyes wide open.

"Princess, can I come in?"

Sasuke's dulcet tones seemed to make the candle flicker. Your world re-orients, and suddenly, you understand. You had already attempted to sleep, but despite your fatigue the darkness wouldn't come. When you glanced upwards, the roof panel was slightly open.

"Sasuke?"

The ninja jumped down, landing with grace, taking a sitting position next to your futon.

You sit up and sigh.

"I'm..." You search for the words to say, hoping he would understand. "I just woke up."

At first, he is nonplussed. "I apologise for my intrusion, then."

You blink at him, and shake your head. Your sigh is of someone carrying a great weight. You place your hand on your heart, and try to block the memories of everything you've left behind. It's easier this time, somehow. Today, you have just awoken, and you need to determine who you—

The answer clicks.

"I'm finally here, Sasuke," you breathe in relief, but your best friend just stares at you blankly.

Until - "Oh," he says. He readjusts his glasses and you know the numbers are running through his head.

"Tadaima," you try again.

Sasuke nods, but his face is grim. "Welcome back."

思い出

When Nobunaga dies, even you are surprised. You had grown so used to him being immutable, you were sure he would outlast all of you. But not even he could outrun death, especially when it came so swiftly, and in the form of the powerful sea.

You still remember his face, how confident he seemed in his polished black armour, a large ship in the background. His haori billowed behind him, and he looked every bit the regal warlord you thought you would only see in history books.

But over time, your knowledge of him had become so personal, almost like family; that when he descends his horse to pat your head you even have to resist the urge to embrace him.

"Take care of Azuchi, my lucky charm," he tells you, as if you are one of his retainers with enough power to command his armies. No one questions him; if he willed that, everyone knew it could be so. His large hand ruffles your hair and then tilts your chin—you allow it with a small smile, but only because you knew someone else wouldn't.

"That's enough," Ieyasu steps in, with a frown meant to warn, but they all knew it would only make Nobunaga amused.

True enough, he laughs. "I will miss seeing new expressions from you, Ieyasu," he says, and in a rare show of affection, he also pats the blonde's hair and ruffles it. He walks away, then, and with his back turned, "I'll leave everything up to you."

Ieyasu nods. "I understand."

You watch him climb the plank to ascend the ship. When the sailors shout their final call, Nobunaga is on the deck, high above you, the rising sun reflecting on his dark hair with an orange sheen. His crimson eyes glint with the excitement of an explorer, and you think, this is how you'd like to remember him, the Devil King of the Sixth Heaven, for all he was feared, was also just a boy with a dream: to see new things, to travel far and wide, to go beyond the borders of his world and live.

Ieyasu glances at you. He slowly moves to take your hand.

"He'll come back," he says softly at first, then, with his usual sarcasm, "He'll be back in no time, and we'll be running ragged around the castle again."

You want to laugh, because you know these words comforted you the first time.

Instead, your grip is tighter as he entwines your fingers.

思い出

"That place Nobunaga went to," Ieyasu's whisper is raw during the nighttime; he is usually more honest after lovemaking, and you take every pillow talk as an opportunity to read him like an open book. He caresses your bare shoulder and continues, "Kankoku, was it. Did he..."

Your breath hitches. Ieyasu has made it a personal principle never to ask you about the future, but his repressed concern for Nobunaga could match Hideyoshi's on a bad day. In the fresh wake of Nobunaga's absence, you deem this is a bad day as any. He senses your stillness, however, and decides not to continue.

Once before, you let this moment pass. You distracted him by moving closer and drawing him in, your tongue languidly asking for an entrance you knew he would gladly give.

Weeks later, however, when the news came, you saw him look at you, his once bright eyes the color of a dark forest, asking—and though he would never admit it, blaming.

You cannot go through that again.

"This timeline is different," you say instead, hoping the truth in your answer would satisfy him enough. You choose your next words carefully. "In the future... the one that I originally came from, it was Hideyoshi who ventured outside the country."

Because Nobunaga was already dead, was the unspoken context. Because I wasn't there to save him.

Ieyasu traces circles on the area where your shoulder meet your neck, and you resist shuddering at the pleasure. "I suppose it doesn't matter," he murmurs as a reply, and when his lips replace his fingers, you know he will not ask anymore.

You wish you could say the same.

思い出

Hideyoshi mourns like no other when a sailor returns to say that their ship had capsized against a great wave.

Nobunaga's body was nowhere to be found.

Azuchi should be in chaos, but you steel yourself and follow Nobunaga's final will to the dot, even if you had to let Ieyasu translate half the complicated kanji the letter was written in.

Somehow, as if he had known what was going to happen, Nobunaga had sent a letter to his chateleine before boarding the ship, perhaps as a precaution, with orders to open it only if unpleasant news arrived.

His final letter to you included instructions on how to manage the castle permanently in his absence. Not just the castle; it also included new laws to be applied to the free market, an updated taxation scheme for the residents, and discrete orders to let Hideyoshi return to his fief until he calmed down.

No one else but you will be able to tell him it came from me, even Nobunaga's handwriting was lordly, and with a hint of nostalgia, you could imagine him penning this message with a smirk on his face. He will believe no one else. Ieyasu will take charge of my domain and my conquests for the rest of the year. Then, have Hideyoshi return and he will know what to do to succeed my will.

Ieyasu, for the most part, did everything Nobunaga asked with begrudging acceptance, but you knew that deep inside his heart swelled with pride to be chosen to lead. Ieyasu was a fine lord, through and through, and while you watched him hold a war council, finally taking Nobunaga's position on the dais, you felt a swell of affection so overwhelming it needed to be expressed.

That evening, you take Ieyasu's face into your hands and lean in for what was once your last kiss. You pull away a second earlier than you would have liked, and with the knowledge of one who has gone through time, push Ieyasu to the ground as a kunai whizzes past.

"Grab your sword," you tell him, dropping to a roll to get to the other side of the room. A bow and arrow sit on display and you swiftly grab the set, make the form of an archer, and shoot beyond the door. A dead body slumps beyond the shoji, and you hear quick footsteps rush around the house, making the torches flicker wildly. For a moment, it reminds you of your awakening.

"There are four of them, but only two are after you," you tell Ieyasu, bow locked and ready as the two of you step outside. The frown on his face is as much for you as it is for the situation, and you know you will have some explaining to do later.

The two of you huddle on the corridor, back to back, Ieyasu with his sword out and your body tense, arrow ready to fire. A figure clad in black rushes from the trees, hand raised with a knife, and you are not fast enough — but Ieyasu is.

His katana slices the man's arm cleanly and the blood gushes like a waterfall, and the assassin screams until Ieyasu pierces his stomach.

Pulling his sword out, Ieyasu huffs as the man crumples to the ground. He flicks the blood away with a single movement. "You said there were four."

Your eyes scan the surroundings, but your stance relaxes. If you remember correctly... "Masamune will take care of the other two."

True enough, as if he was called, the One Eyed Dragon of Oshu rushes to the scene, twin swords out and face wild with adrenaline.

He is panting when he gets to you, but you do not miss the worried way he gives Ieyasu a once-over before his eyes settle on the entire scene. He takes note of your bow and the first assassin with an arrow sticking out of his chest.

"Wow, nice aim, Princess," Masamune says with a whistle. Then, with a feral grin, "So, what did I miss?"

You almost laugh in relief, but you bite your lip because Ieyasu does not look happy at either of you. He scowls as he puts his sword inside its sheath.

"You're explaining this. Now," he says matter-of-factly, before practically stomping towards his quarters.

Your first urge is to comfort him, but you are like an unwound spring with how the tension leaves you all at once. You stare at the dark sky, remembering a different version of what happened tonight, trying to erase the vision of Ieyasu having a knife on his neck, bleeding on your bed.

The memory slowly fades, replaced by this one, and you realise you're doing something right.

Ieyasu turns around when he notices you aren't quick to follow. Masamune also has his eyes on you, and you wish you could answer all their questions at once.

Instead, you say, "We have to unite Japan."

The silence is overbearing after your statement; Ieyasu stares at you, his expression unreadable, but later you realise he might've been looking at you like you were mad.

Still, you continue; this time, with your eyes piercing his.

"Become Shogun, Ieyasu."

別の時代

The conundrum is understandable. You and he changed history enough for the world to change.

"There are two ways to go about this," Sasuke has been working on this issue for longer than you were even here. "We either forget all of this happened, go back to our time, and live life as usual."

Basically, return things as they were.

The ninja stared at you—if it were that easy for your human hearts, he would have already suggested this plan ages ago.

"However, with our," he coughs, "attachments, to this timeline, I surmise neither of us would like this to occur. Hence, we must find a way to restore history's course despite our wish to remain here. Else, the consequences to the future may be disastrous."

You decide to take a risk and ask. "How disastrous?"

"We could change Japan as we know it." He senses you want him to continue, so he does. "The Azuchi-Momoyama transitioning to the Edo period was a game changer in Japanese history. The Tokugawa Shogunate developed many laws and cultural traditions that served as the stepping stone in creating what we know as modern Japan, also affecting, in turn, Japan's influence on the world."

"So, do you mean, as long as the laws and traditions are the same, everything should work out fine?"

"Unfortunately, it's not that simple. The context of why those laws and traditions are in place are also important, as is the attitude of the Japanese people towards them. It would be useless to implement any law if people didn't see why they were needed at the time."

In simple words, Sasuke was telling you that suggesting those laws to Nobunaga and having him implement it wasn't the same as having it implemented in the context of the Tokugawa Shogunate.

You find yourself sighing. "This is because of the Battle of Sekigahara, isn't it," You strive to remember what made that battle important... then it hits you. "The outcome of that war. It conclusively shifted the power of the daimyos."

Sasuke seemed proud you remembered some of your high school history. "Yes, and it was the first ever Shogunate to unify Japan as one."

You nod. "And without the tax, market and law reforms of the Tokugawa era, Japan would never have gone into seclusion and built up its economy."

"Exactly. Foreign influence would spread much earlier than it originally did. This could change the Japanese mindset immensely... whether for better or for worse, we wouldn't know."

"But it would change." It was starting to dawn on you, how selfish it really was to want to stay. "All because we're here."

The thin purse of Sasuke's lips were enough to tell you that he didn't take this matter lightly. His—no, your—beloved history, everything that you loved about modern Japan in 2019, all of that could be gone because you decided to fall in love in the Sengoku era.

All I was concerned about was myself and how I wanted to stay, you chided yourself. A part of you believed everything would work out, but that was naive. Since you decided to remain permanently in this era, you would never know what Japan would be like 500 years from now, but that was just washing your hands of the guilt that the truth brought:

You changed history. Permanently. In effect, you may have changed the fate of the entirety of Japan and its contributions to the entire world, permanently.

Sasuke breaks your inner monologue. "I may have found a way to ensure we stick as close to the original timeline, however."

"Go ahead, I'm listening."

"Well, the conclusion I've arrived to is simple enough," Sasuke's eyes are shining now, and you know he only looks this bright when he talks about — "The Tokugawa Shogunate needs to happen."

He looks at you meaningfully.

"Ieyasu needs to be Shogun."

It sounded straightforward enough. With a new resolution, you nod to Sasuke's suggestion.

"I'll stay by his side until he becomes Shogun, then."

You have never regretted those words, but sometimes you wonder if there is a timeline where you had.

思い出

"Become Shogun, Ieyasu."

You think the silence will drag out, that this will only confuse them more instead of make sense, but Ieyasu only steps forward and sighs.

"Alright."

[/Prologue]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

#ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku fanfiction #fanfiction #tokugawa ieyasu #sarutobi sasuke #nobunaga oda #ikesen #cybird #the inevitable correction of treading through time #psychedelic aya #aya writes

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anavoliselenu · 3 years ago

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santi chapter 5

Before coming down to breakfast I’d walked past my old room. It’s cleaned up, more of a guest room now, the dark panels still there but open. The bed made to welcome someone new. The mask in its glass case gone. The rosary he’d made me wear since our wedding night not on the nightstand where I’d last left it but gone. I’d stood outside the door and thought about how much time I’d spent in there. How easy it would be for him to just put me back in, lock the door and forget all about me.

Trust.

He wants me to trust him.

Ads

I blink, my eyes focusing on his, something in my stomach fluttering when he smiles as if trying to draw the same from me, and I remember something else about last night. Something else she said.

That he could never love me because of what my father had done to him. To their family.

“I want to see my father,” I say.

His expression changes. Darkens.

“You want me to trust you, but all I seem to do is give, and all you seem to do is take.”

“That’s neither right nor fair, and you know it.” His voice is harder.

“Yes, you’ve come through on my sister. And I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful that we, you and I together, will have guardianship of her.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“That’s right, isn’t it? You and me together will have guardianship. Not just you.”

“No, not just me. That’s correct. Would you like to see the paperwork so you believe me?” His words are clipped.

I shake my head. “I understand about Hazel. About it being dangerous for her and maybe even for you to be keeping her location a secret from The Society. I don’t understand why I can’t have a cell phone or access to a phone and at least call her, though.”

He doesn’t say anything at that.

“And I’m willing to let that go. For now. But you have to give me something, too. In addition to Evangeline. I want to see my father. I want to see him today.” I don’t ask it. I don’t say please. Because what I want is not extraordinary. It’s not some ridiculous request. He’s in a Society hospital. He’ll be guarded. I will be too. No chance of Abel or anyone else getting to me. No risk to my safety. “You can take me, Justin. I want you to take me.”

He studies me for a very long moment, and I watch how his left eye narrows, see the tic in his jaw, and I’m sure he’s going to say no, and then I won’t know what to do. What my next move will be. But he surprises me when he nods.

“You eat something, and I’ll take you to see your father.”

I almost don’t believe him, and he must see that because he turns me around puts a hand on the back of my chair, and gestures for me to sit back down. So, I sit, and I let him make a fresh plate of eggs and toast from the sideboard, and he sits down too and watches me eat.

“My sister is jealous,” he says once I’ve finished and set my napkin down after wiping my mouth. “It’s ugly on her. On anyone. But she’ll come around.”

“No, she won’t, Justin. And you’ll have to keep choosing, and I’m just afraid the day will come when you choose her, and I’m back in my room or banished to wherever, and I don’t think I can survive that. Especially now that there’s more at stake than just me and you.” My throat tightens as I say the words, but I swallow them down.

“Selena—”

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I stand. “I’m ready.”

Selena

I realize my father was in the same building as me when I was brought here after the aspirin incident. He was just a few floors above me kept behind secured doors not accessible by anyone without a reason for being there and with an additional guard at his door.

“He was here all along?”

Justin nods as he guides me down to the last room.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Would you have?”

“I haven’t lied to you, Selena. Not once.”

Is that true? I’m taken aback. Confused.

We stop a few feet from the door, and he turns to face me, backing me into the wall. “Like I told your sister, you may not like what I have to say, but I won’t lie to you.”

He dips his head down, so his forehead is touching mine. His eyes travel to the pendant hanging at the hollow between my collarbones, and he touches it, then takes my left hand to finger the rings there, the salt and pepper engagement ring, the wedding band. He shifts his gaze back to mine.

“I am trying, Selena.”

I reach up, I can’t help it, but I stop myself before I touch his face. Instead, I smooth his shirt down—he changed before we left for the hospital, showering and putting on fresh clothes—and when I do, I realize my hand is resting over his heart, and for a moment, I keep it there and just feel it beat.

He closes his hand over mine.

“I know you are,” I say and feel a little guilty because right now, I’m the one with the agenda. I’m the one lying because omission is a lie, and I am here not only to see my father, to hug him, to know he’s okay but also to ask him about what Mercedes said. To find out what it is they think he did that is so terrible that Justin would do what he’s done. The thing that would leave him incapable of loving me.

He nods and takes my hand as we step in front of the door. The guard nods his greeting and opens it, and I see him. My father. And for as frail as he looks when the nurse turns his wheelchair around and as different from the tall, commanding man I remember before the coma, I am relieved.

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“Daddy!”

Justin releases me, and I run to my father, who looks surprised and then happy, so happy. He opens his arms, and I’m careful when I hug him, feeling his arms around me, having mine around him.

When I pull back, he takes both of my hands in his and looks me over, pausing at my stomach momentarily before smiling back up at me. I’m wearing a Henley and jeans, but I don’t think I'm showing in this. He glances over my shoulder then, and I follow his gaze to see Justin standing by the door, one arm folded across his chest, the hand of the other closed over his chin, watching us.

“Thank you, son,” my father says, and when Justin opens his mouth, he catches himself. “Justin.”

Justin nods and shifts his gaze to me, then opens the door without a word. He gestures to the nurse, who leaves and then follows her out.

He is trying.

And he’s right. I know Mercedes is just jealous. And I get it. I usurped her throne. It’s not even about me. I’m sure she’d hate anyone who took her place in Justin’s life. It would be strange in a normal situation, but given what they’ve gone through, the loss of both brother and father on one terrible night, the death of their mother soon after that, then the near loss of Justin, I can see how they’d become so central to each other. Although I don’t think it’s quite the same for Justin. But then again, maybe if Mercedes found someone, maybe Judge, she would be different too.

I turn back to my father, who is studying me with a smile. “He married you.”

I nod.

“What about school?”

“That’s not really in the cards anymore.”

“Perhaps in time. Sit down, Selena.” There’s a small couch along one wall, and I take a seat there. The room isn’t big, and my father rolls himself closer. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything to offer you.”

I smile a little awkwardly. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him and so much has changed. “It’s just really good to see you like this.”

“Well, I’ve been better.”

“You’ve also been worse. I’m glad you woke up from the coma.”

“That’s thanks to your husband.”

“Justin?”

“I was poisoned, Selena. I read the report. What he said is true. It wasn’t cardiac arrest or a sudden stroke or whatever they told you. What happened to me was brought on by poison.”

I’m not sure how I feel about this. Fear, I guess. Cardiac arrest or a stroke would have been better. Poisoned means someone tried to kill him, and my mind wanders to that lipstick I found. To Abel’s silence when I questioned him.

“Is he treating you all right?” he asks.

I nod. “And Eva’s at The Manor too. She’s actually really happy there. I think so at least.”

“I’m glad. Your mother?”

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“I haven’t seen her.” Silence. “Dad, did you help Hazel run away?”

He is obviously surprised by my question. “Is she safe?”

“I think so. Justin knows where she is. He said she has a little boy.”

“Michael. He’s a good kid.”

“You know?”

“I helped her, Selena. You were too young to know anything about it.”

“You helped her run away?”

“And stay away. It’s very hard for a single mom out there. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t force her to marry someone she didn’t love, and the fact that she was pregnant with another man’s child, well, that changed things. At least she came to her senses about that one, though.”

“But The Society…”

“Does not come before my family. I’ve made that mistake more than once.”

“Abel’s mom?”

He nods and tries to smile, but I see something is worrying him. “Among other things.”

“I need to ask you something, Dad.” I glance at the door, not sure how much time I’ll have.

“Go on.”

“What happened with Justin? You were like a father to him. I remember that. I remember how much you loved him.”

“I love him still even if he is misguided.”

“What happened?”

“Do you know he paid me a visit last night?”

“Last night?”

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My father nods. “It’s good he did. Good he told me about the poisoning. But also, about what Abel tried to do to your baby.” He quiets again, looking away from me momentarily, any pretense of a smile fading. “I did wrong by that boy. It’s not his fault.”

“Abel’s a grown man.”

“If I’d given him half the attention I gave Justin, if I’d put my family first, then things would be different now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about this all night. Trying to piece the puzzle together. I should have known better than to trust him blindly, although it’s what he needed. His father’s trust. But when those names came up, when ties to the Grigori mafia family were mentioned. The De La Cruz Cartel—”

“What? Mafia? Cartel?”

He looks at me, and I get the feeling he’s considering how much he’s already said.

“What are you talking about, Dad?”

“They’re not associated with IVI. Not the Cartel and not Grigori. IVI, as it stood, would never have accepted the likes of them into the fold.” He stops, shakes his head. “I should have looked into it myself first and verified things. I would have known if I had, and many lives would have been saved, including Justin’s father and brother.”

“I’m sorry, you lost me.”

He focuses his attention on me and tries for a smile again. “To answer your question, Selena, Justin thinks I, along with your brother, sent him and his family not to mention other countless Sovereign Sons, to their death.”

“What?”

“The explosion, it wasn’t a simple gas leak. I think it was revenge, and I set it in motion. Abel handed me the evidence of wrongdoing, and I took it to The Tribunal, unknowingly starting it all. Because those families that were excommunicated, that lost everything, they had their revenge that night or at least that is how it appeared. I need to talk to Abel. To hear it from him. Hear what he did. How many lives he was willing to forfeit.”

“Dad, I don’t understand.”

The door opens then, and Justin stands in the entry. He locks eyes with my father, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.

“You heard, I’m sure,” my father says calmly.

“What?” I ask, standing, looking between them.

“If you’re saving your neck—”

“By hanging my own son?”

Justin doesn’t reply.

“I won’t have more blood on my hands. I won’t have my grandchild’s blood on my hands. Not even your blood, Justin.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“I think I know how Abel was funded,” my dad says. “I need my computer, some files I kept, but I think I know.”

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“Selena,” Justin says, not looking at me. “Marco will take you home.” As if on cue, Marco appears behind Justin.

“I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s happened.”

My father reaches out to take my hand. “You want to know why he hates me. Why he hates us. He thinks I set him up. He thinks I orchestrated the explosion that killed his family.”

Justin

Selena is waiting for me on the stairs when I walk in the front door, bundled up in my bathrobe, which seems to drown her small frame.

"What are you doing sitting here in the dark?" I ask.

"We need to talk, Justin. I'm not going to bed without having this conversation."

I sigh, already dreading the inevitable fight as I join her at her side and help her up. "Come. Let's get you upstairs."

She doesn't protest as I lead her to our bedroom, but I know it can't be that easy. And I am proven right when I shut the door behind us and toss my jacket aside.

"I'm worried about my father," she says, emotion choking her voice.

That suffocating anguish in her tone lances through me, and I don't like it. I find that I am compelled to fix it for her, even though I know I can't. Not without sacrificing my own promises to my dead father and brother.

"Your father is well cared for," I answer stiffly. "He has the best medical treatment money can buy. He's in a secure facility—"

"You mean a prison," she interjects. "You have him locked up in that room like a common prisoner, dictating who comes or goes."

"It's a kindness he does not deserve," I mutter, turning away to unbutton my shirt and discard that too.

"I should be helping him." Selena sniffs. "He shouldn't be there alone, recovering without any of his family. He should be here with us where I know he's safe. Where the guards can protect him too. Now that I know someone poisoned him, I won't be able to relax thinking that it could happen again."

"It won't," I assure her, leaving out the part that his death will not be so kind.

"Please." Her voice wavers. "I want you to promise me you won't hurt him. I need that from you."

I turn back to her, rigid and frustrated. I can't give her that. Doesn't she understand? I can give her anything else in this world she might desire, but not that.

"I can't make you a promise I have no intention of keeping."

Her face falls, and she staggers back, using the bed for support as she stares at me with watery eyes.

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"But he told you he would help you. He told you it was Abel or those other members. Not him."

"He told me what he thought I wanted to hear," I say. "Any man in his position would do the same."

"You'll never accept it, will you?" She swipes at the tears that are starting to spill down her cheeks. "You won't accept that you could be wrong about him because it means you would have to admit you've been wrong about me too. Then you'd have to open yourself up and learn how to love someone other than yourself, but you can't because you're so blinded by your own hatred."

“You think I’m in love with myself?” A bitter laugh escapes me. “Oh, sweet, naïve Selena. You have no idea what I feel.”

She dips her head, a flush creeping over her cheeks. “You can be so… infuriating!”

"I'm going to take a shower," I growl. "Go to sleep."

I slam the bathroom door behind me, sealing myself in as I close my eyes and drag in a deep breath. Ice runs through my veins as I play her words over, dissecting the meaning behind them.

You'd have to open yourself up and learn how to love someone other than yourself.

How could she not realize I have no love for myself? It should be evident every time she walks through these darkened halls. And who does she expect me to love, exactly? Her?

Answers to those questions are in short supply, but it doesn't stop me from playing them on repeat as I turn on the shower and step into the hot spray. I turn to face the wall, eyes shutting as the warmth flows over my face. Why would she possibly think I'd ever be capable of love?

This sick feeling in my chest isn't that. It's something else. I've already decided that because it's the only thing that makes sense. I can't love my enemy's daughter. Granted, I have made concessions. I have been too soft with her at times, and perhaps I have even lost sight of my goal, changing course entirely. But just because I've decided to keep her instead of kill her it doesn't mean anything has really changed. It's simply the sensible thing to do. She will be the mother of my children. The warmth in my bed at night. The body that brings me pleasure. Those are all practical considerations in a marriage. Feelings have nothing to do with it.

Why can't she see that?

There is truth in her prediction, and she should know it. Eli will never be able to prove his innocence to me. He can search through files and attach all the blame to his son as much as he likes. But it doesn't change the facts. He was the one who called me that night. He was the one who asked me, Leandro, and my father to go in their places. If he hadn’t, they would still be alive, and I wouldn’t be… like this.

Frustration wells inside me as I consider how much I need him gone. Selena will never accept it. The battle lines have been drawn, and I can't win either way. Judge was right. I have to decide what's more important. Having the satisfaction of my revenge, or the warmth of my wife.

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A hand on my back startles me from that unpleasant thought, and when I glance over my shoulder, Selena is behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and leaning her face against my skin.

"I don't want everything to be a fight," she whispers.

"Then don't make it one," I answer childishly.

She sighs, tightening her grip on me.

"I can't imagine the pain you must have felt," she says. "Losing your father and brother that way. It hurts me just thinking about it, and I'm sorry that nobody has ever apologized to you and meant it, Justin. That isn't fair and it isn't right. My father should have addressed the situation with you right away, had an open conversation to start. But he let it fester like he always does, and now, we're here."

"What happened is between me and your father—"

"I'm not finished," she cuts me off stubbornly. "Just let me say what I want to say."

When I indulge her with silence, she continues.

"I'm sorry for the pain you've endured. I'm sorry for the incredible loss that's changed your life forever. But I am not sorry for your scars."

She turns me slowly, forcing me to face her as she cups my jaw in her hands. "These scars are a part of you, and I wouldn't change them because they prove that you are strong, a survivor. Every one of them are a testament to what you have endured and overcome. And to me, they are beautiful.”

"There's no need to lie.”

"It's not a lie, and you know it." She tightens her grip on me. "Stop projecting your own insecurities onto everyone else. People aren't afraid of you because of these scars, Justin. They are afraid of you because you stomp around like a fire breathing demon who will burn anyone who dares to look at him."

"It's... all I know," I confess, regretting the words as soon as they fall from my lips.

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"No, it isn't." A small smile curves her lips as if she's recalling something. "I have seen your softness. You are capable of letting your guard down. Eva has seen it. Antonia too. I just think you are terrified of giving it away so freely, in case anyone gets the wrong idea about you. That you are actually good and decent inside."

"Well, that would be the wrong idea," I murmur.

“Give me an inch,” she says. "I'm not asking for leaps and bounds. All I'm asking for is that you try to trust me, like you asked me to do."

“Trust you like I did today, when you went to your father with one motivation in mind?”

“I wouldn’t have to sneak around if you’d just talk to me,” she retorts. “And I did want to see my father. It wasn’t just to interrogate him.”

"I suppose you want me to trust your word that your father wasn't involved too?" I ask. "That's what this is all about."

"Partially, yes. I know him, and I know when he's being truthful. I'm asking you to trust my intuition on this. At least until you have solid evidence to otherwise condemn him, and not just your own suspicions."

“How do you know I don’t already?”

“You would have brought it to The Tribunal if you had, surely.”

I have to give her that. She has a good point, but I wouldn’t have brought it forward because this justice will be doled out myself.

"You are too close to the situation to be unbiased," I tell her. "What you're asking me is to give up my revenge."

"I'm asking you to give my father time to prove his innocence. Now that everything is out on the table, we can all work toward the same goal together. Let me help you. As your wife and your partner."

I stare down into her eyes and swallow. She isn't in a position to barter for her father's life, but right now, I can't seem to tell her no.

"I will... consider it."

My voice is strained, but somehow it still manages to produce a relieved smile on Selena's face. She presses her naked body against mine, the softness of her skin rubbing against my cock. I drag my fingers up to the base of her skull and hold her there while I lean down to kiss her.

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Her hands stroke over the scars on my back as she parts her lips for me. I swallow her soft moans, pivoting her body toward the wall and walking her backward. She reaches down between us wrapping her fingers around my cock, greedy for it as our kiss deepens to something hungry and feral.

She's stroking me, driving me mad with need. I want to fuck her hard and rough, reclaim her all over again. But I don't know that it's safe.

I pin her against the wall, my fingers sliding down over her throat, her collarbone, and then stopping to pinch and grope her nipples. She arches her head back, biting her lip, and then sucks in a sharp breath when I lower myself to my knees before her.

Our eyes connect as I lift her legs and drape them over my shoulders, using the wall against her back as leverage. She tangles her fingers in my hair, arching her pelvis forward at the same time I dip my head between her thighs.

The first lash of my tongue seems to send a shockwave through her body, thighs clenching around my face as she tightens her grip on my hair. I groan and do it again, and again, watching her come undone for me, losing herself to the pleasure. But through it all, her eyes never leave mine. She's watching me watch her. It's an intimacy I am unfamiliar with, yet, neither one of us seems willing to break it.

"Tell me what you're thinking," I demand.

She pants broken fragments of her thoughts. "So good... it's so hot. Watching you do this."

My dick jerks in anticipation, and I squeeze the bottoms of her thighs in my palms, spreading her wider for me.

"Where do you want to come, Mrs. De La Rosa?" I tease her with my nose, dragging it along the seam of her pussy, inhaling her. "On my face, or on my cock?"

"Both," she answers breathlessly.

"Someone is greedy today." I thrust my tongue back inside her and she squirms against me as I bury my face deeper. Devouring her.

Within seconds, she's rocking, tugging on my hair, crying out as her orgasm rips through her. She clenches around me, toes curling into my back, hands falling loose as her body nearly collapses in the aftermath.

I hoist her up into my arms as I stand, adjusting her body so her legs are wrapped around my waist. She watches me, face soft and relaxed as I fumble to get my dick inside her, sliding around the wetness and pushing the head deeper and deeper until I've sank all the way in.

I release a contented sigh, rolling my hips against her, and she reaches up, pulling my face down to hers. We kiss as I fuck her and hold her, and I can't stop it.

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I can admit that her hands on my body, her lips on mine, feel better than anything else ever has. Her pussy may as well have been molded for my dick. It's so warm and soft I don't ever want to leave.

I'm too drunk on this feeling to unpack the meaning behind it. So I just thrust. In and out until she's crying my name, coming for me again like she wanted. And then it's my turn as I bury myself inside her and groan out a release that seems to last for minutes. I'm still rocking in and out of her as my dick begins to soften, come dripping down between us.

She reaches up and touches my cheek, warmth in her eyes. Something happens at that moment. It feels like I'm being electrocuted, and all I want to do is get away. I'm thinking about it already, setting her upright and telling her to go to sleep while I go to my office. But Selena seems to sense this weakness in me, and she cuts it off before it can sprout wings.

"Let me wash you. You've had a long day."

She wiggles free from my arms, and my dick falls sad and limp against my thigh as she reaches for the soap and squirts it into her palms. While she lathers, I turn away, offering her my back as I try to catch my bearings. When I feel her hands on me though, all my fleeting thoughts fall away.

“I didn’t mean it,” she says quietly. “What I said about you being in love with yourself. I just… it came out all wrong.”

“I’ve forgotten about it already,” I lie.

She doesn’t reply, and we settle into silence as she washes me like one might detail a car. Slowly tracing over the ink on my skin, examining every line and swooping curve. It's something I never would have allowed anyone at one time, but with her, I don't mind it. I want her to know this part of me, even though I can’t understand why.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

She's halfway through the front of my body, already teasing my dick again when I reach behind her and grab the soap.

"Your turn."

She frowns like a child who's just been told playtime is over, but she gets over it quickly enough when I start by massaging her shoulders. I wash her arms and breasts and slide my soapy fingers between her legs, to which she reacts with a soft moan. A side effect of the hormones, I tell myself. But when I reach her belly, splaying my palm across the small curve taking shape there, it hits me unexpectedly.

We are making a human together. A tiny human that will have her qualities and mine. It chokes me up unexpectedly, and I hope she can’t see it. This is just the natural order of things. This is what we were supposed to do as husband and wife. But right now, I feel oddly... proud. And content.

"You're thinking about how you impregnated me, aren't you?" She rolls her eyes.

"It was quite the accomplishment," I remark without reservation.

"It's biology, Justin."

"And the De La Rosa virility," I argue.

Her smile fades as her palms come to rest on my forearms. "What will happen if this baby is a girl?"

"Then we will have a daughter," I answer, not understanding her point.

"But it won't be the same as a son." Sadness tinges her voice.

"Do you want a boy?" I furrow my brows.

"No, that's not what I'm saying," she huffs. "I'm saying you do."

"I want a boy," I agree. "We will need male heirs, certainly. But I want girls too. A mixture would be good."

Her eyes widen. "How many babies do you think we're going to have?"

"As many as I can put inside you."

She does not look amused as she shakes her head. "I'm not a baby factory."

"I know. But you have to admit it isn't a chore to make them."

"Make them, no. Carrying them around for nine months and raising them? Yes, that will be a lot of work."

"We'll have help," I assure her. "Antonia—"

"Justin." She traces her fingers over my lips, quieting me. "Let's just get through one baby at a time, okay?"

I shrug, and she seems to let the issue go, for now. We wash off beneath the spray, and then towel off and brush our teeth at the sinks. The entire ritual is oddly domestic, and I feel a suffocating weight on my chest, like I need to leave. To escape for a while. But then Selena ruins it all with one request.

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"Will you stay with me tonight?" she asks. "For at least a little while."

"Okay."

She pauses to look at me like she doesn't believe me. "Okay?"

"Don't make a big deal of it."

She fights a smile and nods, and together we go back into the bedroom and crawl in bed, still naked. For a few minutes, we lay there, side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Not touching, neither of us speaking. And then beneath the covers, I feel Selena's palm on my dick.

Next thing I know, I'm balls deep inside her again, fucking her into the bed as she cries out my name, digging her nails into my ass.

Once we have both come, I collapse beside her, and she nestles her head into the space between my arm and shoulder, curling her body close to mine. My hand falls around her naturally, and I close my eyes, just for a minute. That minute turns into an entire night, and the next time I open them, I'm surprised to see it's morning.

I spent the entire night in bed with her.

Selena

The next month passes peacefully between Justin and I. There’s no sign of Abel. It’s like he’s vanished off the face of the earth. Any bank accounts in his name have been frozen, according to Justin, who has somehow gained access to them. There’s been no credit card activity on any known cards for weeks. Between Justin’s men and the soldiers, The Society has stationed throughout New Orleans and anywhere else Abel has ever had ties, I can’t fathom where he’d be hiding.

Did he have more than one safe house? He had to have. He needs a place to lie low. He needs money.

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Unless, of course, someone is hiding him.

Justin hasn’t said as much but I know it’s on his mind. A man I’ve yet to be introduced to has come to see Justin multiple times and with Justin’s tendency to become more animated and raise his voice when it comes to my brother, I’ve overheard a few things. It’s not that I’m eavesdropping exactly. It’s just if I didn’t happen by his office door during these visits, he’d never tell me anything.

He’s been to see my father almost daily and when I ask my father what they talk about, what has him and Justin so worried, he changes the subject, maneuvers me around on tiptoe. At least I’m allowed to see him, though. Although I’m still not sure Justin’s feelings for my father will ever change. If he’ll ever not blame him for what happened the night his father and brother were killed along with so many others. The night he walked away a scarred, broken man.

I know Justin doesn’t want me to worry. I know he’s keeping things from me in order to protect me, protect our baby. At least I believe that’s his thinking process. I don’t like it, but I can’t seem to budge him on that. In some ways it’s endearing me to him. I like seeing how careful he is with me. Different than he is with anyone else. He’s gentle and thoughtful and I realize I feel safe. Safe in this house. This home we’re making. Safe in his arms and in his bed.

I haven’t told him my feelings for him yet. Haven’t said the words I love you. But they’re creeping up more and more often when we make love. When he holds me afterward. And it’s getting harder to swallow them down.

He’s let Eva and I video call Hazel and her son, Michael. Michael looks like a mini version of my sister, and seeing her, even over a video, was so much more emotional than I ever thought it could be. I missed my sister these years but I didn’t realize how fresh that hurt was.

We keep the conversations pretty light with Michael and Eva around but it’s okay. At least we’ve reconnected. At least I know she’s safe. And the best part of it is that Michael already calls me Aunt Selena and has begun to randomly call me when he gets home from school to tell me about his day. He most often forgets he’s on the call after just a few minutes and puts the iPad he’s using down to go off to play or eat a snack. It’s the sweetest thing.

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selenium-drive · 4 years ago

Text

Stay Gold Chapter 2: The Search

Words: 6.8k

Series rating: Explicit

The thrill of the dogfight between the Mandalorian and the unfortunate bounty hunter who tried to cross paths with him, had worn off for The Child. The poor shape of both mutilated engines that were hanging on by a thread didn't make for the smoothest landing. It was very possible that once the engines were shut off this time, it would take much more work to get them started up once again. A simple flick of the emergency power switch would be useless at this point.

The beskar clad bounty hunter collected the now still and sleeping infant before laying it down on the cot. The Mandalorian stepped back slowly, eyeing The Child while it stirred peacefully in its sleep. It stilled once more, somehow nestling comfortably in the haggard, poor excuse of a cushioned mattress. The hunter quietly made his exit down the ship's ramp, setting off to find someone who would be able to provide adequate maintenance to the Razor Crest.

Three small approaching shadow figures caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He instinctively drew his blaster from his side and fired off warning shots in the direction he heard the multiple sets of footsteps emitting from. The electronic shrieks and metal feet pit pats of scattering pit droids hitting the desert floor caused the Mandalorian to cease fire. It was a bit of an overreaction on his part, but with his profession and newly acclaimed wanted status, it was more of an instinctual response. The screech of an angry woman sending threatening shouts his way however, was an illicit reaction well deserved.

"You damage one of my droids, you pay for it!" A slim figured, curly hair woman sauntered out of her office, hands balled into fists at her side. The large dusty windows looking into the landing bay made it easy for someone watching, to know full well it was a Mandalorian that was causing all the ruckus. Most people would cower in fear or scramble in the other direction at the sight of one of the legendary warriors. The fact that a tiny woman such as herself, bravely stomped over to the towering offender while chastising him loudly, caught him off guard.

"Just keep them away from my ship," Mando warned monotonously. The woman pushed past him, obnoxiously banging on every metal panel of the ship that looked out of the ordinary. She reluctantly agreed to making the repairs, but Mando knew her price was too steep and his pockets too empty. There was no other choice but to settle down for a bit on Tattooine and add finding work to his list of tasks to complete while he was there. He would wander from cantina to cantina if it meant finding a decent paying job. That would even give him the opportunity to ask around about the woman he was searching for. If things went smoothly, which they typically haven't been lately, he would succeeded in killing two birds with one stone.

"I'll get you your money," the bounty hunter promised. A Mandalorian's word was true. They abided by their promises and it was in their nature, no, culture to be dependable. Peli Motto, on the other hand, wasn't having it. Mandalorian or not, she was too no nonsense of a woman to give a damn about who or what you said you were. She frowned and rolled her eyes.

"I've heard that before." With a flick of her hand, she waved the other man off dismissively.

"Wait," his deep voice radiating through his helmets modulator stopped her from beginning her repairs. "I need to ask you a few questions. I'm...looking for someone."

Peli scoffed. "Why does that not surprise me? You know you're being a little demanding here, Mando. Depending on what you ask is gonna cost you more if you're not careful."

Mando suppressed a exasperated sigh. Instead, he turned his gaze back towards the battered Crest. "I'm looking for a woman."

"Well good luck finding one who will put up with you," Peli snorted.

"No," Mando corrected himself sternly, "that's not what I meant. I was told she would be on Tattooine. I don't know where and I don't have much to go by." Peli stared hard at him, waiting for him to further elaborate on who exactly he needed to find. "All I know is that she has black hair. She hides her face. Her eyes are-"

"Golden," Peli interrupted. Mando's head jerked back into her direction. His helmet tilted a bit to the side out of surpise that she possibly knew who he spoke of. "Yeah, I know who she is. Well, kinda. Don't know her name, don't think anyone does..." Peli trailed off, looking down at the pale desert floor with her eyebrows creased together. It was her turn now to stew over her words before she continued talking. Mando waited, surprisingly patient while she continued muttering softly to herself. Eventually, Peli lifted her hands up to him apologeticly after ending her long-winded, self-discussion. "Yeah, I've heard of her! Last I heard she's in Mos Entha. Not horribly far from here but it'll be a pain of a walk. That, or I can let you rent something for a price."

Once more, Mando kept his irritated groan strictly internal. Having a bit more actually reliable information to go by was a breathe of fresh air, something that didn't come too often. Still, he didn't care for the fact that Peli was trying to milk him for every credit he didn't yet have.

_________

It was much harder for Mando to keep a lower profile amongst the more populated city of Mos Entha. Portions if the street were bustling with commotion coming from the various spaced out marketplaces and traders. He could barely hear himself think over the aggressively bartering Jawas looking for their next high paying trade deal with merchandise that was more than likely not theirs. His fist involuntary clenched at the recollection of finding his ship torn apart and stripped by the pack of tiny annoying thieves, just days ago. They had the audacity to make him bargain for his own parts of the Crest. Luckily, Kuiil came through and helped him restore his ship to its state of normalcy and then some.

Mando got somewhat of a break from the overwhelming, deafening chatter erupting from the dense clusters of people. Every corner he turned, people would catch a glimpse of his shining armor and part out of his way quietly and effortlessly. Once he was out if sight, the echo of numerous voices picked right up back where it left off. Being around this many people in a more densely populated area than he currently liked, put the bounty hunter on edge. If he was to find this person, it had to be soon.

He wormed his way through the streets of Mos Entha and into one of the less crowded nearby cantinas. Once again, one by one everyone in the room fell silent once they turned to see who joined them. A few left, leaving their already paid for drinks behind, not even taking one last sip before slipping out the door once the Mandalorian passed them by. A few shrank defensively in their seats, praying to miraculously go unnoticed by the life form scanner embedded in Mando's visor. The bartender froze completely when he realized he was the unfortunate prey locked onto by the hunter's stoic, unreadable gaze.

Mando meant no harm, but of course no one else knew that. He effortlessly slid himself onto one of the barstools, slipping a hand into one of his pockets. The bartender's breath hitched and he let out a small tremor of fear. His posture relaxed some when Mando placed his hand on top of the counter then slowly removed it, leaving a what few handful of credits he did still have, in its place.

"I'm looking for someone," he began softly. His voice was just above a whisper, the modulator barely able to pick it up. It was just loud enough for the bartender to hear thanks to the stillness of the cantina. "I've heard she's here, in Mos Entha. A woman with black hair and golden eyes." Mando finished his sentence by pushing the credits in the other man's direction in attempt to entice him to speak.

The cantina employee didn't dare take the currency quite yet out of fear of angering the Mandalorian seated at his bar. "Y-yes. I know who you speak of," he croaked. "She's a-a mechanic at a hanger not f-f-far from here. B-but that's all I k-know. Promise." The man's voice cracked at the word "promise". Mando knew he was telling the truth. There was so much fear lacing those last two syllables that it was pitiful. He placed another credit on the table with the others, still maintaining eye contact with the poor soul who was subjected to his interrogation.

"Do you know her name?" He asked firmly. The bartender remained quiet. Mando doubted he knew seeing how no one else did around here. The bartender shook a bit more violently this time out of fear for telling the bounty hunter what he didn't want to hear: the word "no". Sensing his hesitation and out of a signal that it was okay to continue, Mando slipped one more credit on the countertop for the compliant man.

"N-not her real n-name. Around here, w-we all just call her...T-Tajana." Mando stared wordlessly in the direction of the bartender. He wasn't even necessarily watching him, rather just starting off while he pieced all the information together. After a few seconds for the hunter but what felt like an eternity to his prey, Mando said thank you and walked out of the cantina.

He looked around at the surrounding buildings, trying to see which one was the closest spaceport. From behind the protection of his cold, steel helmet, his eyes locked onto a massive, dome shaped tower.

He quickly strode towards the gigantic structure, pushing past anyone who dared stand in his way. It was still light outside but the end of the day would be drawing near shortly. Although his mind was set on finding the person Kuiil spoke of, he didn't dare forget the small green infant who was, hopefully, still sleeping peacefully on the Crest. He couldn't risk going back to check on The Child and then returning the next day to continue his search. Word would travel fast of a Mandalorian snooping around on Tattooine. That, and there must be some reason why this person doesn't show their face, some reason why they don't reveal their name. If there is by some chance a bounty on her, Mando didn't want to risk her catching wind that he was looking for her. He had come so far and couldn't mess it all up now. For all that it's worth, he hoped listening to Kuiil would be worth it. He had a strong trust in the man's intuition even though they had only known each other for a short while. The faith Mando had in the moisture farmer and the desperate need for another crew member, fueled the Mandalorian to keep at his search.

_________

The streets of Tattooine seemed especially loud today. The various market stands drew in large crowds of people, and a certain golden eyed female could hear the roar of the bustling crowd from the landing bay of which she worked. Clusters of sparks and heat blossomed from the burning metal situated in her delicate hands, glowing bright red and white under her touch. Wisps of smoke bounced off her aviator like goggles that protected her honey amber eyes, and tried to snake its way through the fibers of a black scarf that obscured the lower half of her face.

She set town her tools and dusted off her gloved fingertips on the baggy thighs of her maintenance uniform. Peeling off the gloves one by one, she set them in her back pocket and sighed. Although it seemed busy beyond the walls of her work station, it was a rather slow day today with not much work to be done. It was a bit of a cooler day today on Tattooine, which isn't saying much, but that still didn't stop a few beads of sweat from forming on her golden, caramel skin. She lifted her goggles back to their usual resting spot on the top of her head, then reached back to tighten her long, black ponytail. Her work for the day was almost complete; just a few wires to be arranged and pieced back together with a bit of soldering here and there. She was knowledgeable in the field of spacecraft maintenance, something she picked up on during her stay on Arvala-7.

The girl approached her workbench casually and began to stuff some of her unused tools into a small duffle bag. Her movements slowed when it dawned on her that it seemed...quiet. Rather uncomfortably quiet for how loud it was just a second ago. It was if all the chatter of the patrons outside had stopped all at once. She was just about to poke her head around the entrance to her landing bay when the she was interrupted by the rapid thumping noise of hasty footsteps rounding the corner.

The man in charge of the entire ship docking station appeared before her, crouched over and out of breath. "It looks like a bounty hunter heading is here," her employer whispered harshly. "A Mandalorian. Stay out of his way. I'll tell the others." He scampered off, making his way to the surrounding docks warning them of the same approaching threat. It's not that he cared about the wellbeing of his employees, not by a long shot. Some of his hires had questionable histories but their labor was cheap and fruitful. It would be a pain to replace them with how much business was brought in. He was mearly giving a fair warning to anyone who needed to bolt if they had to. Best to lose an employee for a day or two while they hid than lose them forever in custody.

There was no use in finishing the final repairs to the ship she was assigned to fix today. The amount of work left to be done was minimal. She didn't know for sure if she was wanted or who the Mandalorian was actually after. The fear of the repercussions of certain occurrences in the past leading up to her settling down in Mos Espa, made her realize it was best to hide. There was a reason why she hid her name and face from the public.

A few of her fellow workers had the same idea of fleeing. She followed the sound of their bounding footsteps that raced out into the streets. Some ran so fast that the air was thick in some spots from the amount of powdery dirt their boots had kicked up. She herself was quick, but the second of hesitation she had in the bay on whether or not to leave proved to be one second too long in her escape.

Her sprint came to a sudden halt. It was as if the air around her grew thick and heavy in a split second. Every muscle in her body told her to keep going, but every ounce of her instinct told her that would be a foolish decision to do so. The looming heaviness in the air caused her breathe to catch in her throat; every hair on her arm stood straight up.

"You there," a heavily modulated baritone broke out from the intense silence, "turn around."

It was a man's voice. It was unfamiliar to her, but also very hard and demanding. She sensed no hostility in his tone but something told her not to push him. She knew very little about Mandalorians, but had heard some impressive stories about their kind over the years. There was a reason why people panicked when one came near.

Every fiber of her being was torn between complying and running. She said nothing. The blood pumped so hard in her ears that it was nearly deafening, yet she could still make out the subtle clattering of beskar shifting behind her. The Mandalorian was growing impatient quickly from her lack of response. Before she could open her mouth to speak, he did so for her.

"An Ugnaught from Arvala-7 sent me. Perhaps you know who I speak of." The girl worriedly jerked her head in the direction of the intruder staring her down.

"Is he okay?" Her voice was strong and clear with a strong hint of concern underlying her words. If she was afraid, she did a damn good job of hiding it. A bit of relief washed over the Mandalorian at the sure confirmation that this is who he was searching for.

"Yes," he said bluntly. "He generously helped me locate a bounty and-"

"So you are a bounty hunter," she spat. She was small in stature, even more so in comparison to the intimidating man standing several feet away from her. "What do you want with me?" Her fingers twitched in the direction of her calf where unbeknownst to Mando, a sheathed dagger rested soundly in her boot. Her sudden aura of hostility and subtle movement dared not go unnoticed by the keen eye of the Mandalorian. His gloved hand instinctively darted a just a hair closer towards to his blaster, hesitating just over the handle resting on his side.

"I'm not here to collect you," he said calmly. "I'm here strictly for business purposes." The tension in the small woman's frame subsided a minuscule amount. She turned around completely to finally stare down the man who dared bring all this chaos to Tattooine. Not like it was the most peaceful planet to begin with, but it was still a bit better than some.

"If you wanted repairs, you should’ve brought your ship to my docking station just like every body else," she said boldly. Her striking honey colored irises scanned the blackened T-shaped visor of Mando's helmet, tinged with annoyance and still brewing with malice from his intrusion.

"I'm not here for your handiwork," he retorted. "There are other duties I'm seeking a crew member for, one of which I would like to address with you in private."

She crossed her arms and mounted her feet sternly in place. "If you have anything to tell me you can say it here. You've already scared the others off. And why me? Why not anyone else or Kuiil himself?"

"He didn't wish to live a life of servitude." Mando said coldly. His patience was running out and this girl was a bit too stubborn for his own liking. He had to return to The Child soon and didn't want to waste time with nonsensical bickering.

"What makes you think I do? I've done my fair share of time and I won't speak more of this," she hissed.

Mando stood still as could be. There was no getting through to her but with his face, or rather helmet, being known all throughout the galaxy as a wanted man, there wasn't a large selection of people he could choose from when it came to who he would trust to watch over The Child and maintain the Razor Crest. He wasn't even sure if he could trust this argumentative girl before him, but Kuiil's word was strong. He gave it one more shot.

"Kuiil said I could trust you but that it would be hard for you to trust in someone else. I'm not exactly asking you to," Mando began calmly. He paused to gauge her reaction and sighed when the scorned expression in her eyes didn't falter. "Listen, I need someone to help pilot my ship on occasion, along with doing any repairs as needed. I also...need someone to watch my foundling when I'm not around."

That seemed to melt the iciness of her stare. "You have a child?" She asked softly.

"Yes. He needs to be protected at all costs. I can even offer you the same." The girl appeared as if she was about to cut him off once more but a raised gloved hand from the bounty hunter silenced her. "I know there's a reason why you hide your face and why no one on this planet, not even Kuiil himself, knows your real name. You panicked when you heard a bounty hunter was here, even if you won't admit it, you did. So again, I'm offering you all of this along with generous pay."

Mando waited a good while for her to answer, but to no avail. Another surge of annoyance bubbled in his chest at him wasting his time on such a stubborn soul. He could have found a job and made the credits needed to pay Peli by now. Instead, he went through the trouble of tracking down this infuriating woman just to be ignored in the end.

Mando clenched his fists. "I need to know your answer soon. Repairs are being done to my ship in Mos Eisley. Once those are completed, I'll be leaving Tattooine." Even as he turned to make his leave, the woman said nothing.

His thin, torn cape made a sharp crack in the air from his sudden movement. He could feel her piercing stare on his back the entire walk out of the docking station, but she still remained quiet.

Mando grudgingly made his way back to Mos Eisley. It was the most unsuccessful day for him a quite a while. He hated leaving empty handed. He didn't even remember the last time he didn't complete a job successfully, even though finding the girl wasn't exactly a "job" per say. In the meantime, he had to find work. Doing something he was good at would make the day that much better, but it was getting late. As much as it pained him to stay stationary in one city for too long, he had no other option.

When he got back to the hanger, Peli was nowhere to be found. The suns on Tattooine were beginning to set, painting the sky in glorious rich hues of red, yellow, orange, and gold.

Gold.

Mando's mind flashed back to the woman that caused him a great deal of annoyance and inconvenience all afternoon. He let out a long, repressed sigh before retiring in the hull of his cherished gunship. He sorted through some of his belongings to look for something edible yet too pathetic to call "a meal". His supplies were running low, his ship was still a wreck, his pockets were empty, and he was just...tired.

Mando collected what bits of food he had, rationing out a tiny amount for himself and most of it for The Child. He opened the sliding door to his cramped sleeping quarters, gazing down at the tiny, sleeping foundling nestled up on the worn down mattress. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but the uneasiness he was feeling was that of feeling overwhelmed. It made him feel sick, weak, and pathetic.

Mandalorians weren't supposed to feel this way. This wasn't the first hardship of his life, nor would it be the last. The negative thoughts swirling in his mind began to dissipate when The Child stirred and glimpsed up at his caretaker. With a small coo and a smile revealing his tiny nubby teeth, Mando felt more at ease. He was doing all of this for the one little creature in front of him. That's all that mattered to him now. A new day meant for a new chance to make things better.

The Mandalorian woke later than usual due to a night of a whining, restless infant waking him up off and on. The Child had worn himself out late into the night and still slept heavily even when Mando prepared to depart the Crest for the day. Walking down the ramp leading outside, Mando caught a glimpse of Peli through the dirt coated office window. He shook his head when he noticed she was busy gambling away with her droids rather than doing anything productive. Already he was starting his day off annoyed again. He was planning on spending his time looking for work to cover the rather generous amount of credits he was to pay Peli for the repairs. The sight of her casually lazing around in return, irritated him so.

Venturing into the streets of Mos Eisley, Mando stepped inside the first open cantina he saw. It wasn't overly crowded, much to his liking. He gathered the same response he always does when he's in public; everyone stares, some flee, everyone's quiet.

"Hey, droid," Mando called out. "I'm a hunter. I'm looking for some work." The animatronic bartender cocked its head towards the bounty hunter.

"Unfortunately, the Bounty Guild no longer operates from Tatooine."

"I'm not looking for Guild work," Mando responded.

"I am afraid that does not improve your situation. At least by my calculation," the droid deadpanned.

Dank Farrik. Looks like his luck wasn't improving much more than from yesterday's.

"Think again, tin can."

The Mandalorian turned around slowly. He made eye contact, as much as he could through his visor, with a younger gentleman dressed in obviously new and unused bounty hunting attire. Both of his feet were resting up on the tabletop in an annoying, self-absorbed manner. His boots were relatively polished and dirt free, giving more of a glowing indication that he was green behind the ears in the world of hunting.

"If you're looking for work, have a seat, my friend. Name's Toro. Toro Calican."

The two men conversed not so quietly about a bounty Mando would be lending his assistance on. Unbeknownst to the pair, lurking several feet away and flush with the cantina wall, was the raven haired girl that so easily got under Mando's skin the day before. She eavesdropped as much as she could, catching bits and pieces of just who the target was and where she might be located.

Calican's ignorance was becoming too much for Mando to take seriously. When the scraping of a chair coming from their table echoed through the barren cantina, Tajana quickly retreated outside. No-one came after her once she slithered outside, the bright mid-day sun shining on her sun-kissed, tan skin. There was a metallic, smash sound coming from just before the doorway that made her jump slightly. Calican was the first to make his way out; the other bounty hunter wouldn't be far behind.

Mando slowly stepped foot out into the streets of Tattooine. His flawless beskar armor radiated the sunlight back into the eyes of anyone who dared look his way. He turned his head to look back in the direction from whence he came, failing to notice the woman he spent all day yesterday searching for.

"So what's our first job, Mando?"

Mando jerked back, his blaster drawn from his side in a few milliseconds. He pointed the weapon in the direction he heard his name come from.

"T-Tajana." He flinched at the way his voice came through the modulator; there was a bit of an uncharacteristic startled undertone that was very much unlike the skilled bounty hunter.

Standing in the shade to the side of the cantina door stood the woman from Mos Entha. Though her expression was mostly hidden, she frowned into her scarf at the disdain for the name the townsfolk gave her. Had it not been for her honey golden eyes and signature black scarf, Mando would barely have recognized her.

Her attire wasn't that of a dirtier maintenance uniform anymore. The only things remotely similar to how he first saw her included her black hair that was now tied into a messy bun with her goggles still resting on the top of her head like before, and she still had on the scarf that covered her neck to just below her eyes.

She eased herself off the cantina's wall, slowing making her way to walk in front of the Mandalorian with her hands up to show she meant no harm. He lowered his blaster some, but paused before putting it back in its holster when his eyes caught a glimpse of what appeared to be two sheathed daggers resting across the small of her back, and a blaster of her own resting on the outside of her thigh. She turned to face him, her piercing eyes staring right into his helmet's solid black visor.

"You can put down the blaster, Mando. I'm not here to hurt you, if that's what your wondering. I'm just here to take you up on your offer, albeit a little late." The bounty hunter stood still as could be, not moving a single muscle. She couldn't even see his chest rising or falling as he waited on baited breath for her to explain her sneaking up on him. Breaking his silence, Mando spoke up with his usual harsh and straightforward tone.

"How did you find me?" he demanded. Tajana scoffed and crossed her arms.

"You do know you aren't the most inconspicuous person walking around here, right? It's quite easy to find a Mandalorian in a haystack around these parts."

Mando bit his tongue once more. She wasn't wrong, which was another reason why he needed to finish his job with Toro quickly and leave Tattooine. She took his silence as a means to continue.

"I overheard your conversation with the novice hunter. I want in."

"Absolutely not," he said a little too quickly. "I can't have you getting in my way or slowing me down. I don't even know how much I can trust you."

Her eyes narrowed, that intense flicker of anger further intensifying the amber speckles in her stare. "You don't trust me, yet you offered to hire me to watch after your child? Can you explain that backwards logic to me?"

Mando slipped his blaster back into its holster. His temper was rising and he was on the verge of shooting something if he wasn't careful. "Kuiil gave me his word that you were a trustworthy option when it came to looking for a crew member. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt because I have much faith in the man's judge of character. What I don't trust, is your strength or decision making when it comes to battle."

Tajana relaxed some, closing her eyes and letting out a soft sigh. When they reopened, the smoldering hostility in her gaze was extinguished and when she spoke, her voice was much softer. "Then let this be my trial run for you. Let me show you I can defend your foundling when you aren't around, and that I can hold my own just fine."

Mando shook his head. "Not with this job. The target is too dangerous."

"I'm aware who you're after," Tajana countered. "It's Fennec Shand. If you're allowing some wanna be Guild member with no experience to join in on your hunt, then why not me? You'll definitely need my help."

He remained silent.

"I would appreciate some feedback here," Tajana remarked.

"I'm thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself, Mando."

Maker this woman knew how to get under his skin. He clenched his fists at his side for the umpteenth time since they crossed paths. "Fine! Fine. But if I feel you're any bit unsuitable for this hunt, if you get in my way at all, my offer for you is off the table."

_________

"Come, this way." Mando and his new partner made their way towards the dusty hanger where the Crest sat dormant. The repairs were coming along nicely, even nearly finished. There were a few fine tunings that Peli had to work on; small tasks that would’ve been completed had it not been for the no droid rule.

With a few touches of the controls on his gauntlet, Mando lowered the hatch leading into the aircraft. He took a few strides up the ramp, finally pausing when he noticed he didn't hear any footsteps following beside him. He whipped his head around, staring impatiently at the slightly younger woman that was supposed to be accompanying him. She stood there at the base of the ramp, glancing around at the newly refurbished exterior of the Razor Crest.

"So this is your ship, huh?" She asked, running a small gloved hand over the sand coated steel.

"Yes," he answered shortly. Tajana removed her hand, following up the steps to join the brooding hunk of beskar that stared her down.

"I've never seen one of these before. Looks like she's still holding up, even after the beating I'm assuming you put her through that landed you here? You should know older things require more care, Mando."

Again, Mando was silent. "Old" is a phrase he's heard numerous times that people used to refer to his ship. Granted, it was still much better than the "piece of junk" or "horribly outdated" he commonly heard. It didn't necessarily hurt his feelings when people degraded his ship, but it was still his home people were talking down on. The Crest was sturdy. Reliable even. It did the job and welcomed him back when he was done with his own. He didn't have the luxury of using a ship just as means to travel. It's where he lived. Mando didn't mind her word of choice to describe the Crest. A lot of memories and feelings of stability tend to come from things that have been around for a while. "Old" was just fine.

"Maintenance is part of what I'm hiring you for," he spoke up after a minute. "The other part is for watching the foundling."

When they made their way around the inside of the Crest, Tajana continued to take in her surroundings. She took note of where everything appeared to be: the entrance to the cockpit, an arsenal cabinet, the carbon freezing chamb-

The heavy thudding of footsteps caught her attention before she could map out the rest of the gunship. The metal flooring vibrated intensely when a charging Mandalorian rushed towards the exit. The smaller female was immensely caught off guard and did her best to step back out of his way. Mando's impenetrable armor slammed into her side, not so graciously knocking her against the hard gunship interior walls. She balanced herself and regained her composure from the bounty hunter's spontaneous freak out. Nursing her shoulder and arm, her attention was directed towards distant shouting back in the direction of the hanger's office.

Tajana pushed herself off the wall and cautiously staggered down the ramp with one hand resting on her blaster. She perked up upon hearing a woman screeching angrily at some poor soul. "You woke it up! Do you have any idea how long it took me to get it to sleep?"

"Give him to me," Mando growled. The iciness and hard tone in his words made a small shiver travel down Tajana's spine.

Peli saw right through his cold exterior. "Not so fast! You can't just leave a child all alone like that. You know, you've got an awful lot to learn about raising a young one."

"I'm well aware," Mando barked. "That's why I hired her." Without even looking, he jerked his head back towards the entrance of the Crest. Peli, still clutching the Child tightly, stood on her tiptoes to try to catch a glimpse over the Mandalorian's broad shoulders. She locked eyes with the girl making her way towards all the commotion. Turning her attention back to Mando, she grinned.

"Ah okay Mando! I see you finally found the girl you were looking so hard for." The bounty hunter went rigid.

There was a brief silence beginning to settle in the air before Peli began explaining the progress she made as far as repairs goes. Tajana tuned her out and instead, she focused her attention on the tiny creature wrapped in a brown burlap sack that was tucked in Peli's arms. She could make out large green ears, a wrinkly little forehead, and two big black eyes that stared right back at her with all the curiosity in the world.

"...You got a job, didn't you? You know it's costing me a lot of money to keep these droids even powered up." The last part of Peli's one sided conversation snatched her attention back to the adults in the room.

Tajana glared up at the taller man, golden eyes ignited by anger once again. "Did you hire me when you can't even afford the repairs on your ship?"

Mando loomed over her in a threatening fashion, yet the hostile girl didn't back down. "My current financial status is only temporary," he said in a low voice. "This job will pay a hefty sum, and there will be more to follow. I'm a man of my word. Don't doubt me."

There was a subtle annunciation towards the end of his warning. Mandalorians were some of the most dependable people in the galaxy. It always rubbed Mando the wrong way when someone dared to question the honestly of his word. The bounty hunter stared down at her for a few more seconds, just to make sure he got his point across before walking away from the trio.

"Calican should be here by now. Get a move on if you're still coming," he called out.

Tajana still had her feet firmly in place. She cast a glare over her shoulder at the receding figure of the Mandalorian.

"Don't let him boss you around," Peli said sternly. "Underneath all that shiny armor, he's still just a man." With a small nod, Tajana followed after Mando towards the doorway leading into Peli's hanger.

Mando stood silently as always next to two speeder bikes, one that had a younger, relatively handsome man perched on its seat already. He turned his attention to the approaching woman, giving her a not so subtle once over up and down. Tajana's eyes narrowed slightly. When she overheard the conversation between the two men earlier that afternoon, she knew Calican sounded like an arrogant prick from how high and mighty he presented himself. She only got a slight glimpse of him in Mos Eisley. Looking at him up close, she solidified the idea in her head that yes, he really was a tool.

"Well look here Mando, you got a lady friend tagging along?" Tajana bit her tongue and fought back an exasperated eye roll.

Mando circled the two run down speeder bikes, giving them a good look as well. Calican took Mando's lack of response and lackadaisical attitude towards the bikes as an insult. "Whaddya expect? This ain't Corellia."

Peli walked out carrying the Child to catch a glimpse of what the bounty hunter's were planning. Calican acknowledged her presence and nodded towards her before looking back at the Mandalorian.

"In case you didn't notice, we only have two speeders. Either someone has to stay, or your friend has to ride with me." He surveyed Mando's reaction with a sense of haughtiness. Once again, the lack of feedback from the hunter made Calican speak up in his place. "Looks like that settles it," Calican smiled. He scooted forward some and looked back at the golden eyed girl who still was staring daggers at him, if not more-so now. "Hop on and hold tight."

Tajana stood in place defiantly. "What makes you think I'm riding with you?"

Calican shifted in his seat nervously. "Well you can't ride with Mando. His armor weighs the speeder down enough."

Tajana stared him down even harder. "What are you insinuating, boy?"

Calican twitched more under the murderous intent in her gaze. "I just...I didn't mean it that...way." His voice was wavering and he looked over at Mando for help, a bit of fear nestled in his brown eyes.

Mando kept staring ahead at the endless sea of powdery sand dunes. His modulator didn't pick up on the small snort that he made under the heaviness of his helmet and on the outside, he still appeared as stoic as could be.

Tajana proceeded to mount the younger man's speeder, sitting down roughly on the small space behind his back. There was barely any room on the seat for the two of them on the typically one person vehicle. Calican jumped when he felt her arms tightly grip around his waist, more in a threatening fashion than for her safety. The sudden movement made the already slightly unstable speeder wobble under the weight shift.

“If you kill us, I’ll fucking end you,” Tajana warned darkly.

#the mandalorian #mando #mando x oc #mandalorian fanfic #star wars #din djarin #din djarin x oc #stay gold #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal #din x oc

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jacklackolantern · 7 years ago

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For #18 of the Artist asks, what's your process on comics :)? I'm trying to work on making them myself, but I'd like to know how other people go about making theirs :D And for #30... That's honestly what I said when I saw YOUR latest comic! I saw yours and I said "Dude, that's what *I* wanna do! INSPIRATION!"

Haha no problem, I also asked and looked around as to how other artists go about their own process till I somewhat settled on mine. And really thank you so much and for the support.

In general I try to maximize mine for bulk and speed mostly because my job keeps me busy so I looked for the best way to get the most out of my time in the fastest way I could.

It’s usually a good idea in my case to work in bulk, especially at the beginning stages. For me the first two or three parts of my process when I make my comics are critical because if I don’t hammer those down at the start it will slow down my work flow and thats pretty bad for someone who only has limited time to make this thanks to my other responsibilities.

1. No drawing yet. I always make the script first. Why? Because it saves me the trouble of thinking what the characters have to say, do and in what, when and/or where they’ll be, what they feel or are experiencing.

At this stage it’s much much easier to go back and edit scenes because you don’t have to redraw the entire goddamn thing. You just scratch it out or erase it etc. And just jot down a quick description or whatever it is you need to edit in words.

Here’s what my scripts usually look like:

As you can see its nothing fancy. I’m really not the best writer so at best all I do is type up the character dialogues, panel descriptions, and a couple of notes on how they look like or feel just to remind me or give me an idea what I wanted with the scene. They even have notes on what the backgrounds are suppose to be.

I either write in my journal or my mobile phone on google docs if I don’t have my tablet or laptop with me so no matter where I am if I have a bit of time to write like sitting on a bus or waiting for food at a restaurant I write.

1 script = 1 chapter. And as much as possible I try to crank out 3 or 4 at a time and at least 3 more outlines on the chapters after that. As for ideas usually just a few outlines hear and there so I don’t forget.

2. Thumbnails. Nope I still don’t draw any of the actual pages. I first make thumbnails of the page. For those who don’t know what those are they’re quick, abbreviated sketches. And are done rapidly with no corrections. By doing this first you can get rid of ideas you don’t like as well as well as stumble on new things you do like. Sorta like window shopping, you look around first, compare and what not before you buy the item or product you really want or need.

These are super great for deciding character poses, speach bubble placement, paneling, transition etc. The point of this is to do it fast, doing only enough so you know where everything is. Another thing that’s great about it is since what you’re putting down are just quick crappy sketches you don’t get to attached and invested in the drawings, this allows you to edit it faster.

Something like this:

Takes me round an hour or two to finish the thumbnails for an entire chapter [again point of thumbnails is to do them fast]. I try to finish all the thumbnails of the finished scripts I have in a day, then leave if for another day or two before I get back to it. This allows me to look at it with fresh eyes and come up with new things I may not have thought of. And again, since they’re just quick crappy sketches its easy to edit it.

3. “What do you mean you still haven’t started?!?!?”. Exactly that. Next step for me is to open photoshop and create the panels and the speech bubbles with the text already written in. Remember how I made the script and thumbs first? Thanks to that I can just simply create the panels, speach bubbles and type up the dialogue (or copy paste if I wrote it digitally) in less than 10 minutes a page, probably less than 5.

I don’t have to think anymore of what the heck the characters are suppose to say or what the panels look like because I’ve done that already. Now that I’ve gone back to predominantly creating my stuff traditionally, I��d print these out once done.

I’m also lazy as hell so I keep a psd file that’s already got the panels I commonly use so I just drag and drop.

Right now though since my laptop is busted, I just make all the pages needed with the panels by hand. Slower but still faster compared to if I drew it every time I start a page.

4. Yes drawing stage finally! At this point now that the panels are in and the dialogue and text there, I start drawing hahaha. If you remember, the thumbs I created don’t just tell me what the panels and dialogue is, it also tells me my character’s poses, movement, environment etc. I no longer have to worry about making creative decisions and I can just draw it all out without interuption. I unfortunately don’t have much shots of this stage owing to the fact that the old scans and pictures where in my old laptop that is still currently dead. Oh well…

Eventually I’ll probably be changing my process a bit but so far this is the one I’ve stuck with for the time being.

Hope this helped :)

#artist asks #comic process #my process #I will get my laptop repaired if its the last damn thing I do #would save so much time

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trends-lockdown2020 · 4 years ago

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Look Book

Inspriration

Visual Inspiration

The sacred geometry shapes as shown below inspired me to look what designs can be be covered under sacred geometry shapes systerm. Stages of Sacred Geometry, seed of life, flower of life, fruit of life, egg of life , tree of life.

Sacred geometry design is the most used design, which is found all over the world. Sometimes the design is regarded as a blueprint creations language of the gods. The design has been admired and repeated throughout human history. I find this trend bright and optimistic, non-gender and international speaking a word of happy and fun. The reason why I choose the sacred geometry design as it is recognised worldwide. This has been around for the last 3000 years, and even the ancient Egyptians used the geometric symbol design. Mystic, sages and spiral teacher have used the shape. There is also a mathematical repeat pattern which is used. I'm not sure if I've seen or heard of a design or pattern described so beautifully.

THE GRANDDADDY OF SACRED GEOMETRY IS A GUY NAMED PLATO

Quoted” Everyone knows Plato. He was one of the most influential thinkers in human history, and he taught the world all about the dangers of chaining people up in a cave and making them watch shadows. Not surprisingly, ol' Plato's brilliant mind got delighted whenever someone mentioned mathematics, particularly geometry. In fact, Dartmouth reported that over his academy was written "Let no one destitute of geometry enter my doors." So if you math haters out there ever want to shake hands with Plato, study up.

Lets talk about the front cover firstly this is a bright scared geometry shape, with its this shows the flower of life style. I used the bright colours which wiould be in the real world colourful.

I used photoshop I have listed the actions I did to design the front cover and back cover.

Photoshop open, go to File > Open and select an image. ..

inserted the image into Photoshop.

Open and selected an image Go to Image> Image Size.

An Image Size dialog box Enter new pixel dimensions, document size, or resolution. ...

Then pressed okI did that for the back ground too.

I used the cropped tool for the sizing of the boxing image.

I reinserted the other 2 images into Photoshop in the same way as above. I used the Horizontal type tool the add the title.

Then For the front of the booklet.I choose the Arial as the font and the size of the font 38. I choose the font size to be small on the back of the book size 12.

The typography

This is a important art of arranging letter and text in ways which a person can read . It has to eappealing easie to read. It is not a simple task as every font has style, appearance and structure. Typography has the power to bring out emotions and convery specfic message. The font I chose was the Arial is has been around since 1992 created by Microsoft. Since then every computer has this font. As it easy to read in large its trust worthy. Also I found it in popular choice for advertising, book design and office communication. Arial is also used in many logos. I think I did make the correct choice in choosing this font.

Descriptive annotation (Describing your design journey giving your own opinions; successes, failures & problems that you have overcome)

Reflective discussion about your final outcome; successes, weaknesses, improvement / potential development of your outcomes

I explored photo from the internet starting with the Colour Patlette then the women in the dress . Colour full bright colours stright boxed shape with the geometric design shinning through. The cover layout was design to show the effects out size in a pattem they look the same however the colour lookmore intense. I did choose the wrong colour pink I should have used a darker so would stand out clear.

Colour Pallet

Colour palette has been significance to trend as a bright colours are in my colour palette you can see the means of the colours. Colour pallet is so important to the trend they go hand in hand.

If you breakdown of the 7 Unique Chakra Colors and Meanings

· Root chakra. Color: Red. Location: Base of your spine near your tailbone. · Sacral chakra. Color: Orange. ... · Solar plexus chakra. Color: Yellow. ... · Heart chakra. Color: Green. ... · Throat chakra. Color: Blue. ... · Third-eye chakra. Color: Indigo/purple. ... · Crown chakra. Color: Purple/violet.

In photoshop

Selected the Custom Shape tool .

Select the rectangle shape from the custom shape pop-up panel in the options bar. ...

Draged and draw the triangled shape.

Using the eyedropper tool and pick sample colors from the ladies dress. Then dropped it into the square box.This was done for each colour

Recycled cotton

When making fresh white cotton we use 20,000 liters of water to produce one kilgram of cottons which equivalent to a single t shirt and pair of jeans. Cotton is th most of the profitable crop in the world which a non food. it emplloyees 7% of all i the developing couries. It is said that approximately 50% of the all textiles produced are made from cotton. I would want to socure cotton and recycle the cotton to be my garments.

Photoshop

Duplicate the document

Before we mirror the image, let's make a copy of our Photoshop document. That way, we won't accidentally save the mirrored version over the original.Go up to the Image menu in the Menu Bar along the top of the screen and choose Duplicate:

hen in the Duplicate Image dialog box, name the copy "Mirror" and click OK:Next, select the

Crop Tool

from the

toolbar

:And in the Options Bar, make sure that the Crop Tool's Aspect Ratio is set to Ratio. This will let us freely adjust the sides of the cropping border:

Drag one side of the cropping border to the flip point

Depending on which direction your image needs to flip, click on the left or right side of the cropping border and drag it over to the spot where the image will be mirrored.

In my case, I want to flip the image from left to right using the woman's hair as the mirror point. So I'll drag the right side of the cropping border to that location:

Then with the Free Transform command still active, right-click (Win) / Control-click anywhere inside the image and choose Flip Horizontal from the menu:

Photoshop

Step 1.

Select the select tool from the toolbox.Step 2. When everything was selected, I need to inverse the selection so that our images were selected.To do the this Select>Inverse or Cmd/Ctrl+Shift+I.Then I dragged the select tool over the area to select it.

Select the select tool from the toolbox.

Step 2. When everything was selected, I need to inverse the selection so that our images were selected.

To do the this Select>Inverse or Cmd/Ctrl+Shift+I.

Then I dragged the select tool over the area to select it.

Appropriate Titles /Text

I found my look book could have more details of the scared geometric designs the image layout had symtri in the about page how the blue colour should been a warm colour like orange or pink.

The pages below has a mixture of colours and models, looking at the figues now I show have the one main model. There is a too many patterns as well the scared geometric which my main choice.

#S #https://www.grunge.com/90739/untold-truth-sacred-geometry/

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painterlegendx · 5 years ago

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Why Is Painting Styles Over The Years So Famous? - Painting Styles Over The Years

In backward June, the San Francisco Lath of Education aggregate to boldness a botheration that had afresh been brought its attention. An 83-year-old, Depression-era mural on the walls of one San Francisco aerial academy had started to bother some people. Corrective by left-leaning artisan Victor Arnautoff, the 13-panel artwork in George Washington Aerial Academy had been created through a New Deal art program. Arnautoff had the assignment of painting Activity of Washington, which spanned a whopping 1,600 aboveboard feet.

Famous Self-Portraits Show Self-Portraiture Trend Throughout .. | painting styles over the years So as not to bless the aboriginal admiral excessively, Arnautoff corrective Washington continuing abreast the anatomy of a asleep Native American man, and he additionally depicts apprenticed African Americans. Today, afterwards about a century, the mural is not as advanced as it already was in the eyes of the public. “It’s consistently an affair aback anyone wants to abolish or awning or displace art,” Lath Vice Admiral Mark Sanchez said. “But there are countervailing issues we had to attending at as well. We accept acceptance shouldn’t be apparent to agitated adumbration — that it’s degrading.” The academy lath voted absolutely to abort the mural, admitting not anybody agreed with its post-woke interpretation. Aback one abecedary asked her apprentice English chic to abode either in favor of or adjoin the mural, 45 out of 49 acceptance accurate it. “The adorn shows us absolutely how barbarous colonization and genocide absolutely were and are," one apprentice wrote. "The adorn is a admonishing and admonition of the blemish of our anointed leaders.”

Expressionism | Definition, Characteristics, Artists .. | painting styles over the years Two months later, the opposing abandon accomplished a compromise: The mural would be covered up but not corrective over. Still, it will no best be seen. But why stop there? Art censors of the world, why not additionally adumbrate Francisco Goya's The Third of May 1808 or Picasso's Guernica, both amazing images of conflict? In fact, a reproduction of Guernica was briefly covered up at the United Nations added than 15 years ago during a accent about the war in Iraq. It acclimated to be that if you censored art, you had article to hide. Now, it agency you're not accessible to face reality. After decades of balustrade adjoin censorship in the arts, some liberals accept now absolutely accepted it. Statues of Southern generals and Christopher Columbus are already passé. There’s a advancing new development in art criticism amid the elites, and it has annihilation to do with whether Renoir was ist in his claimed life. Now, it’s not abundant to appraisal bent artists or their "problematic" subjects. You charge additionally angle adjoin depictions of bad things — because we are allegedly extemporaneous to see them.

Art of Europe - Wikipedia - painting styles over the years | painting styles over the years Comedian and extra Sarah Silverman abstruse this beforehand this year. She appeared in blackface during a ball account in 2007 to accomplish fun of ever woke liberals. This year, Silverman said it came aback to chaw her. “I afresh was activity to do a movie, two canicule on a movie, a absolutely candied part,” she said on a podcast this summer. “Then, at 11 p.m. the night before, they accursed me because they saw a account of me in blackface from that episode.” It didn't amount that her accomplished act was meant to accomplish fun of bodies who adeptness use blackface. Her agency were artlessly too transgressive.

My 'Hare' styles over the years in 8 | Watercolor animals .. | painting styles over the years This fashionable borderland in art censorship is additionally afflictive academia, and not aloof aerial schools. At Maryland’s Washington College, an antiracist ball was afresh canceled because it depicted “some characters dressed in KKK robes.” Because the bad guys were Ku Klux Klan members, The Foreigner, a pro-immigrant comedy, was canceled an hour afore its aftermost dress rehearsal. Heaven forbid a assignment of art characterize annihilation absolutely evil. Author Joyce Carol Oates afresh regretted that Flannery O'Connor's antiracist abbreviate adventure The Artificial N----- was afar from an album because “publishers banned it on the area of an ‘offensive’ title.” Oates explained that it was “futile to explain that O'Connor was excoriating racism, not announcement it.” Art censors may argue, as Sanchez did about the Washington mural, that examination agitated or advancing adumbration is "degrading." But there's addition botheration that art admirers face, one that is possibly the best aspersing of all: ignorance. Aback you're so abashed of behind people, you lose your adeptness to accomplish art, and aback you debris to abode evil, you lose your adeptness to stop it.

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When Science Meets Art: Analysing Painting Styles Over 8 .. | painting styles over the years Read the full article

#paintingstylesovertheyears

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ark-of-eden · 7 years ago

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Thoughts on the Function of Art?

(R:) I didn't want to append this to that big thread about censorship, questionable story content, and authorial intent because I am a Small Person who just consumes things and I was pretty sure that I can't actually add anything useful to the discussion. But I'm still stuck on it a little, so here is a thing that I'm putting behind a readmore in case everyone is fucking tired of the whole censorship debate.

tl;dr: Riss is old and grew up in an environment that was not exactly info-rich when it came to controversial issues. Riss is clumsily attempting to tape this and that together for some reason, possibly just to get it out of the brain. (This ultimately turned into a long fucking story about my early life that doesn't really go anywhere. It's just a long fucking story.)(**ALERT: This includes discussions of stereotypes, slurs, and fetishization.)

People in that thread pointed out the weird over-reliance on interrogating an author about what exactly they meant by writing certain content and that authorial intent should be a yardstick for whether certain content is edifying (and deserving of existence) or not. Other people wisely pointed out that every consumer will inevitably interpret every creation through the lens of their own experience and come up with a different take on what the piece is "saying" about whatever it depicts.

Back when I was very young, there was no way to directly contact any sort of creator. Novels had small text somewhere that mentioned how to send snailmail to the author C/O the publishing company, but naturally there could be no expectation that an author would ever actually write you back. Direct contact with creators was usually in the context of them being guests at a con or signing or gallery showing, which was sort of like seeing a band play live. Every other exposure to them was one-way or indirect, through their work or news articles or possibly from hearing a radio interview or watching a TV program about them, if they were important enough. This was pre-widespread-Internet, so nobody had blogs; some big-name people had fanclubs that mailed out regular newsletters, but the vast majority of creators had nothing but their content in circulation.

I guess that the point of saying all of that is just to illustrate that the present-day situation in which creators have public social media accounts that one can just drop into and toss opinions and questions about intent at them is...kind of a luxury, in my experience? For writers of "classics," there might be printed articles or essays in which they went on about their intent or process, but for creators who weren't popular while they were alive, historians have to go mining for diaries or letters to even get an idea of what sort of person they were, much less what they meant when they wrote that one scene from that one novel that was Kind Of Problematic.

And that was a tangent leading around to a perspective about creative work in general that I heard very early on and took to heart when it came to consuming media. I read somewhere that the point of creating something was to produce a response or emotion in the consumer. Any response. The creation was meant to be a catalyst for newness or change in the viewer, even if the response was something like anger, fear, or disgust. The worst possible response to a creation was dull indifference, because it had failed to do anything at all to the consumer.

I saw supporting evidence for this perspective in a lot of media. Bands built up weird, elaborate Aesthetics purely to draw attention to their songs, not because they were demonstrating some deeply-held belief system. (I've lost track of how many CDs I saw from bands who made dark music about cruelty, despair, and the emptiness of the universe and yet, in tiny liner-note text, poured out flowery squee about how they thanked the loving Lord God and Jesus Christ for blessing them with their musical careers.) Artists who talked to other artists about their craft admitted that they often made the art they did just because they wanted to make it for no special reason, but they fabricated deep-sounding bullshit to attach to it so that collectors would buy the thing just for the story that went with it.

A piece that kept getting talked about over and over back then was Piss Christ, which was literally a large glass jar full of urine that had a crucifix floating in it. Large sections of society were fucking outraged that this thing even existed, that galleries dared to let it darken their doorways, that the artist was even depraved enough to think up such a thing. I don't recall what the artist herself (I think it was a she) said about why she made it, but what was clear to me was that she had succeeded at the goal of art like an absolute champion. Nobody could look at that piece without having some kind of intense response, and whole groups of educated people were compelled to spill out their opinions and argue about it. Piss Christ was Successful Art, the thing that every piece of art wished that it could be. It didn't matter that most of the responses were negative. Apart from making it, the artist did nothing to encourage all the discussions prompted by the art's existence. People used it as a springboard for debates about What Is Art Really, the empty veneration of religious iconography, public obscenity, and all sorts of other things, entirely on their own.

Granted, there were clear downsides to not having instant access to people's creative narratives and backgrounds, or to the greater community of consumers. There were panels discussing themes in modern writing at cons and sometimes a nearby book club where people could rec things and talk about good and bad aspects to whatever they were reading, but if you weren't in a position to have either of those things? There wasn't a lot to do but chat with any reader buddies you might have or actually trust marketing. This book is a NYT Bestseller and has its own special display in Borders? Well, must be a well-written book with quality content, or else it wouldn't have that kind of backing, right? (I was such a trusting little idiot back then, seriously.) So this was when all those toxic norms of casual misogyny, racism, and queer villainization went unchallenged in a lot of places and was just The Way Things Are.

My family moved around to many parts of the US while I was young and I swear I never heard people anywhere bothering to have a discussion about the trend of weak female characters or how POC cultures kept getting reduced to exotic window dressing. There was a sense that those kinds of intellectual topics were the sort of thing that academics did in far-off Academic Country, where they only read classic literature and went over word-by-word symbolism with ever finer combs. I'm no quality literature historian, but I imagine that those kinds of thematic conversations probably got louder as widescale communication got easier, such that a person could throw out into the aether, "Is it just me, or is the only time when cultural elements from Asian, Middle Eastern, Native American, or African civilizations turn up in mainstream lit is when they need 'exotic savage foreigners'?" and people would be able to chorus back, "OMFG THANK YOU I thought I was the only one bothered by that!!" (I mean, advancements in communication helped every minority find other people like themselves, which is why the Internet is part of real life and a genuinely precious resource to isolated odd folk who are forced to live in places that are hostile to them. You no longer have to live your entire life being the only lonely freak instance of your kind in the entire universe.)

So I recognize the shitty situation of having mainstream marketers telling people which stories were good and which story elements were admirable without also having access to Discourse that would challenge those norms. I remember just accepting that girls would hardly ever be able to be heroes the way boys could be, and that people from far-away cultures were always primitive and backward but in fascinating ways. Nothing in my daily life countered anything that I read. Discussions that I found online much later in life caused me to rethink the trends in everything that I'd read as a kid and see it all with fresh eyes so that I could realign my opinions. It's vital to have discourse and challenge happening alongside creation so that we don't have generations of people absorbing shitty norms that are supported by fiction and not realizing that there are even alternative ways of seeing things.

But there's still that issue, in my mind, of a good creation being one that creates ripples far outside of itself by prompting any kind of response in the consumer. Which is, I guess, why it seems fine to me that Problematic things exist and that people encounter them even if they come away hating those things. The encounter with that thing can make a person think about their own perceptions and experiences, and it can prompt conversations about was learned from that encounter - the why of the result and what it means. Obviously, the same can be done with media that makes a person happy or comforted, and that ends up in Discourse because people end up comparing their experiences and questioning whether the people who are happy/comforted are correct to feel that way about the media.

(Bonus Tangent: it's never possible to be incorrectly upset/offended, only incorrectly happy, strangely. Because telling people that they are not allowed to be upset about something is controlling and aggressive, but telling people that they're wrong to enjoy something is...I'm not finding any positive result. It's shaming, which is a response used to exert social control over others. Talking about whether or not casting shame on total strangers leads to the desired result is something that even I don't want to take the space to talk about. I'm one of those who considers emotion to be out of a person's control. Emotion precedes action. What's important, IMO, is what action a person takes regardless of what emotions they might have, because it's possible to choose actions. Telling a person that they're not allowed to feel a certain way is an attack based on something that a person can't actually control. Whenever I see antis saying things like "no one should ever enjoy this content," I wonder how people are supposed to casually shut off their enjoyment. Can the antis shut off their outrage with a flip of a switch, since it's just an emotion too? Attempting to reprogram a person's emotional or motivational palette leads to things like conversion therapy, which has a high rate of failure/relapse and tends to traumatize people into other mental deformities. That's why it's far more useful to focus on responses to emotion instead of emotion itself. People with uncontrollable emotional responses - such as phobias or fetishes, say - can learn adaptive actions faster than they can unlearn emotional responses.)

This was a hugely roundabout way of saying that I really think that bad media or problematic media are still important. They can prompt discussion and introspection, as mentioned, but, IME, even a shitty representation of a concept can put cracks in a person's worldview and make it possible for them to be open to better ideas in the same vein later on.

For instance, I had that strict mainstream heteronormative upbringing. The only thing I knew about queer people for a huge part of my life was that they needed to be pitied because they were going to hell, and the closest thing to a trans person that I knew about was that Crying Game trap drag queen concept where the sinister man in a dress seduced honest straight men with borrowed feminine wiles. (I literally did not know that transgender people were actually real until after I was 20, which is one reason why I am such a massive late trans bloomer.) I also had that strict gender role upbringing in which there were certain things that a person must and must not do in order to be "proper."

Back when I first got on the Internet and started interacting with fandoms, genderswap fics were popular in my circle. Often, it was basically the same plot as the source material, but you'd switch everybody to the opposite binary gender and then, based on the assumption that men and women think and do things in slightly different ways, the plot would usually derail from canon because the genderswapped characters wouldn't do the same things that they canonically did. It was just one of many common fanfic thought exercises.

Looking back, reading genderswap fics was something that started eroding the strict worldview that I'd inherited. The "men and women just naturally do things differently" was enough in line with traditional gender roles that it passed by my defenses, but the swapped cast of just about everything ended up with lots of strong, heroic women and the occasional male sidekick. Further, writers tended to use the "women are more socially/emotionally intelligent than men" stereotype to correct shitty things that male characters did in canon because, if they were women, they'd be too smart and perceptive to do whatever stupid thing they did and everything would have happened differently. Nowadays, there's formal discussion about the lack of strong female characters in mainstream fiction, but in fandom, female writers just fixed the problem directly with genderswap so all the interesting, powerful people could be women and the guys could be useless arm candy for once. It was a way of reclaiming importance and power when canon media didn't give women much else to work with.

(I became aware while ago that Discourse is informing people that genderswap fics are hugely offensive to trans people. Now, I've described my crappy upbringing, but as a trans person, I don't understand this at all. I get that the "opposite gender" swap upholds the gender binary, but the issue is offense against trans people, not against genderqueer or nonbinary people. I seriously don't get why I should be offended? Is it because the genderswap doesn't include actual RL transgender experiences, as if the entire cast were realistically transitioning as a plot element? Genderswap is not acceptable unless it specifically includes things like "this is the story of how Cloud Strife got her testicles removed and enjoyed growing breast buds thanks to HRT"?? Maybe I'm an idiot, but those are two distinctly different story concepts and both have merit. o_o)

Later on, I became aware of people who were preoccupied with stories and fantasies of fantastical gender transformation, usually male to female. Some stereotypical male character would get injected with an alien serum or zapped by a fairy's wand or something and he would immediately metamorphose into a woman. There was often a disturbingly rapey element to these stories, like the boy wouldn't want to be transformed and was horrified while he was changing, but after he settled into the woman-shape or had sex as a woman after changing, he realized that he loved it and felt so much better that way. The stories were mostly just short repeats of this exact same situation, written by different authors with slightly different details, and this group never seemed to get tired of them.

Eventually, I learned that most of the people in the core of this group identified as trans women, but they lived in circumstances where they weren't permitted any female expression or had lost hope of ever transitioning. They fixated on transformation fic as a way to soothe the pain of living. Looking back, the noncon/dubcon themes that kept appearing in the fics made sense as a way of indirectly satisfying the powerful social forces that were demanding masculinity of them. The male characters were trying hard to stay male, fighting back against the transformation; they were clearly performing all the do not want signals expected of men threatened with feminization. They fought the good fight, but the enemy overpowered them! Womanhood was forced upon them! It was totally unexpected that they enjoyed being a girl after all, but because their maleness had been aggressively destroyed, they were free to stop performing resistance and love themselves.

But you can find fetish material like this in a lot of places, without any context as to the intent of the creator. (And I'd argue that it counts as a fetish if you crave it as necessary somehow, regardless of whether or not you're jacking/jilling to it.) Some people would write the same kind of stories for forced feminization as a type of humiliation. Among furries, transformation fetish material seems to add an extra angle of growing into new power and strength by a change into some larger, more magnificent creature in addition to changes involving sexual characteristics.

Further into the fantasy fetish scene is smut involving dickgirls/cuntboys. Those terms are inherently objectifying and fetishizing; the focus is entirely on the genitals and how a person has the "wrong" ones for their body. Understandably, this is where trans people get turned into dehumanized kink fuel, and real life "tranny chasers" exist who try to weasel into relationships with trans people just to have an embodiment of their fetish.

Artists seem to be slowly getting better with at least giving a nod to real trans people when tagging this sort of art, but (likely to get the most search hits) usually it's just "transwoman/man" alongside "dickgirl/cuntboy." And the art, at least, is clearly designed as fap fuel, so it's not like changing the label makes the content more respectful to the real humans it resembles.

Fetish art with that sort of name shouldn't be uplifting or encouraging because it makes trans people into objects, I know. But I enjoy it when I see it not because it gets me hot in itself, but because I feel heartened when I see sexy art of, essentially, trans people who have not had any genital surgery. I'm fortunate in that I don't have the worst soul-crushing dysphoria surrounding my (still XX factory standard) genitals, but I know a lot of trans people get seriously torn up about theirs and worry that they'll never be truly attractive to others because their genitals are "wrong." While it's possible to find humiliation art online of people with all kinds of body configurations, I tend not to (YMMV again) find much that seems to be specifically shaming or hating on characters who have trans genitals specifically because they are wrong/ugly/queer/etc. They're just participating in enthusiastic hot sex like all the other characters. Sometimes they're literally just standing around looking sexy, like any other badly-posed pinup. But when they're in the mix of whatever smut they're depicted in, they're objects of desire with their own sexual power, unashamed and equal to the others, and the other characters find them attractive and are clearly really excited to be doing whatever they're doing with that hot trans character.

And this response is very problematic, I know, because smut of trans characters that's designed to satisfy fetishes actually does lead to cis stalkers who want trans partners as living sex toys. And art of pre/non-op trans people being sexually liberated and desirable might end up being nearly indistinguishable from most of the fetish art I've seen, apart from lacking the objectifying dickgirl/cuntboy label. I hate seeing those terms in art tags, but the art itself makes me happy. Not even aroused, just happy to see characters who are essentially pre/non-op trans people being desired and enjoying themselves. When you've lived your life believing that you're ugly and unlovable, seeing people similar to yourself in those kinds of situations is a Band-Aid on an old, deep wound. I wish someone would look at me that way. I wish someone wanted to touch me that way. And even if you can't have that for yourself, you can at least look at art where similar people can, and even if those trans people are imaginary six-breasted purple foxtaurs, you can still feel like at least there are trans people somewhere in the galaxy who are free and happy and desirable. It's the same as those trans girls who spent years telling each other the same MTF transformation story over and over and over even though it was pure fantasy. They needed periodic inoculations of that fiction to keep themselves afloat when they believed that they could never have the reality.

That's why, to return to my earlier point and to the points that the people in that big thread probably said better than I have, I don't want bad media to go away. Even gross White Man Story For White Menfolk fiction can at least prompt discussion and response and might have little bits in it that made someone out there think of something in a way that they haven't before. Even depictions of minorities that are pretty clearly designed to be shallow fetish fuel might be a lifeline to some isolated person to whom that shitty depiction is the most positive representation of their identity that they've ever seen. You'd hope that they'd quickly be able to find better ones, but beggars can't be choosers, and if that shitty depiction hadn't existed then they might never have had the chance or the knowledge that different views were possible. You just can't know what people see and think when they consume a particular piece of media. They bring so much of their own context into the experience.

That's why I wish people would focus on action instead of on vague, catastrophizing speculations about intent or potential or who has a "right" to create or consume certain things. There are at least a couple of stories floating around about female fic writers who regularly wrote m/m smut, but who, IRL, opposed same-sex marriage and disowned their queer relatives. IMO, that's how you can tell who is making objectifying content - by whether they treat actual, living representations of minorities/fetishes like frivolous entertainment. I would bet that those IRL-anti-queer fic writers wrote things that were indistinguishable from the general mass of fanfic, which was why other fandom people were shocked to discover their IRL actions. People create things for all sorts of different reasons, not because ther creations are a clear window into their innermost motivations. You just can't know what's in a person's head, no matter what sort of things they create.

And I've literally spent hours writing this and sort of vaguely editing it paragraph by paragraph, so I'm going to post this now and release myself from childhood memory hell. Ultimately, that reblogged thread still said all of this better, but I just had a compulsion to LET ME SING YOU THE SONG OF MY PEOPLE FOR TEN FUCKING PAGES. :P

And oh hey, I was so caught up in time-warping back to the 80's and early 90's that I forgot that Wikipedia existed, so here's their page on Piss Christ. Turns out the artist was male. Says it was only a photo?? Lies!! I distinctly remember seeing the goddamn gross jar of pee!! Because human memory is a reliable, unalterable record!! (Okay, I've clearly gone on too long here. I apologize to the whole internet in advance.)

#fetishization #queer #early life experiences #slurs #queer fetishization #fandom politics #not even sure what to tag this as so just sort of be generally cautious

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