#once impulse is animated i have no more animation wish lists | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fueledbysano · 1 year

Note

HEY YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU 🥹

BESIDES ME JUST FINISHING YOHR PROLOGUE IN YOUR IF/THEN SERIES

i wanted to ask...... since you're a tokyo revenger enthusiast, i wanted to know deeply about your analysis on draken, mikey, toman, just the whole series in general

since tr has irl japan content, i'm quite hesitant to tackle it when it comes to writing, so here's me asking mikey's wife 🤭

i also.... really need a deep char analysis on draken when it comes to him, i was hoping that you knew more about him as well

like from the surfaces, to the depths of his character

just like you, i am so utterly smitten by him, there's just this wave of- maturity? around him that i cannot describe nnghgg

but anyways, i'm just stopping by again 🥹🩷 (and will continue to do so in the future)

your if/then prologue impacted me as always 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 fucking hell like i forgot toman literally goes ghost mode 😭 i love and adore your writing so damn much

with tears of admiration,

- hiraeth

Let me just start this off by saying that this is my personal view on the series and the characters, based on their canon personalities and everything that happened throughout the series. There will be some spoilers for arcs that haven't aired in the anime yet but I will be putting a warning for a heads up!

We all know that the series circles around the themes of friendship, loyalty, growth, and the importance of second chances.

For those who don’t know, Ken Wakui himself was a gang member in the 2000s called “Black Emperor” which actually heavily influenced the series. He said in an interview that he has lots of regrets in his past and often wished to go back in time, so instead, he made a story out of it! (You can look this up yourself, I found out about this in 2020 through a Japanese forum whom I had my sister translate for me)

… Which is why I think the series feels very authentic and nostalgic! The mangaka himself experienced the gang life and made a whole story and characters around it. (Could it be that Takemichi was a self-insert and your other favorite characters are driven out of real people too?)

Draken

The #1 on the list as best boyfriend! I personally love the DrakEmma ship. They’ve always showed how they cared and love each other, but both are so stubborn :’)

*spoilers*

That’s why the Tenjiku arc and the beginning of the three deities arc really hurt like a bitch. I'm such a sucker for bittersweet tropes. But I’m very happy how Wakui gave them the ending they deserved. I don’t care that people say he had a Disney ahh ending but I truly think that it’s the right path to take here. These people deserve to be peaceful once and for all and they have it!

*end*

But here’s my relationship headcanons for him!

We see that this guy is practically Mikey’s father. He depended on Draken as a teen and Mikey even got him to be his motorcycle mechanic. This just shows how reliable he is. However, I feel like he may struggle with letting others in emotionally. He may be someone who values his independence and autonomy, and may be hesitant to open up and trust others. It takes time to fully know his heart. And once you do, he is deeply loyal and committed. He may value stability and consistency in his relationships and may dislike drama or unnecessary conflict.

Draken is an ESTP personality type and is known for his outgoing and spontaneous nature. He may be the type of person who enjoys adventures and new experiences, and may be spontaneous and impulsive. He may be someone who values excitement and variety in his relationships, and may struggle with staying still or with routine. On the other hand, he may also appreciate a partner who can help him slow down and appreciate the quieter moments.

Draken's love for muscle training and physical fitness may make him attracted to someone who also prioritizes physical health, well-being, and how they present themselves. He appreciates a partner who can be workout buddy or partner in his fitness journey. If he gets you to the gym with him, he is more than willing to be your very own personal trainer!

Draken's love language is acts of service and gift giving! He may show his affection by performing tasks or favors, and he may enjoy taking care of his loved ones in practical ways, like he does with Emma and Mikey. Like if you're a person who has dyed hair, he dyes your hair on your blind spots for you.

One thing I can also envision is him lending his iconic black and white patterned cardigans to you. the iconic style is recognizable at first glance and would send any delinquent out of your was from a mile.

And finally, Draken's love for motorcycles and his passion for riding them extends into the relationship too. He always has a helmet ready for you, in your favorite color. He loves having his partner holding him close throughout a joyride. Even when tinkling with motorcycle parts, he would find himself asking his partner to reach for certain parts and tools. They grow familiar with what certain parts are called and surprise Draken when they start to actually help him with the hands-on work. Kenchin appreciates someone who is adventurous and up for a challenge, as well as someone who can match his energy and intensity.

Mikey

Okay I put him last on purpose, and I’ll explain the best I can :’) Okay… He is a deeply complex character, who has a strong sense of honor and loyalty to his friends, but who also struggles with his own sense of self.

In this house, we love every Mikey version. Not only there is more to write about but also there’s just also a lot of him to love… thank you Ken Wakui <3

Now, being in a relationship with someone who has trauma is… not for the weak. Of course, everybody deserves to be loved. But never get into the relationship with the intent of “fixing”. It would be unhealthy to rely one’s happiness on another person. When you're in a relationship with someone who has trauma, it's natural to want to support and comfort them. However, it's important to be mindful of creating a healthy balance and avoid becoming your partner's sole source of happiness or support.

Mikey is often shown to be struggling with complex emotions. He just needs someone who can provide a safe and supportive space for him to open up and share his feelings in his comfort. We all know that he enjoys being taken care of and pampered by those around him. I believe that to be in a relationship with Mikey, you have to get on Draken’s level of dedication and trust. He loves the feeling of being taken care of and protected. Someone who is patient and understanding of his emotions may be a perfect match for Mikey.

In the relationship, this extends to having bath times with Mikey, making him bento boxes during lunch, doing his hair, or even the simple yet sweet snuggles. Just overall lots of acts of service and quality time. He is very lazy but for yo, he will never run out of ideas for dates and adventures.

Mikey is known to have a sweet tooth, he will always ask you to get him treats, but he prefers everything that you hand-made. And hey, look at that— he’d share his sweets with you too! Indulging his sweet tooth and his love for food in general truly is the way to this man’s heart.

This is something I came up with at the very last minute but since he is canonically a great singer, I feel like he loves singing you to sleep and learning your favorite songs. :')

Lastly, Mikey's childish side makes him a fun and loving person to be around. Matching his sense of humor and being able to bring out his playful side is a must. He enjoys spending time for spontaneous adventures and bringing you along to trips and hang outs with Toman captains.

But as much as he loves being babied, Mikey values someone who can give him the freedom to express his emotions. Someone who allows him to be himself and express his emotions without judgment. He appreciates someone who can understand his need for downtime and space, and who can encourage him to take self time breaks when he needs it.

That’s pretty much what I have to say for these two and Tokyo Revengers in overview. I’m pretty pleased with how everything played out in the story. I love the way that… a lot about these characters and their stories are open for us fans to interpret and imagine around. What do you mean “where’s the Haitani brothers’ backstory?” make your own! What was Hanma going to tell about his past? Come up with yours!

But what I really loved the most about TR… every depth of every single type of relationship was shown. friendships, romance, family, enemies, brotherhood, etc… There are many ways to experience relationships… there’s no one way.

I know this is long overdue but take my insights 🤲 this gave me a sense of inspiration and nostalgia from when I first discovered and fell in love with the series 🤍 I hope I answered what you were looking for 🤍

#💌 answered #tokyo revengers #character analysis #ken ryuguji #draken #mikey #manjiro sano #mikey sano

15 notes · View notes

mtdthoughts · 9 months

Text

Heroism (Migi & Dali Analysis)

*Spoiler Warning* This discussion is about Episode 12 of the Migi & Dali anime (or Chapter 42 of the manga).

This is also a bit of a long read, so do be warned if you decide to proceed.

If there's anything that Episode 12 showed us, it was heroism. First, Akiyama saved the gang with his trusty axe (and beloved bird costume ruined!) when it seemed all hope was lost, then Dali charged into the burning Ichijo house (with Migi following behind) to save a suicidal Eiji, and finally Micchan made yet another surprise appearance as a guardian angel and showed us that even in death, her love and willpower was strong enough to save our beloved twins once more (almost in a Jojo-esque fashion). These characters all deserve praise for their courage, but the main topic here is Dali's decision to save Eiji. While Micchan's and Akiyama's actions were understandable because of their devotion toward the twins, Dali's was very much unexpected and seemingly uncharacteristic. After all, the cold and rational Dali we know would never risk throwing his life away, much less to save a stranger that he hated and previously intended to kill. If anything, we expected the impulsive but gentle Migi to save Eiji, as he initially seemed more inclined to accept Eiji. This decision was so reckless that Dali was even (reasonably) scolded by Migi, something that pretty much never happens. That's why this decision is so important, as it highlights how far Dali has come in his character development.

Speaking of heroism, I searched various types of heroes in literature, and the Byronic hero stood out to me. This archetype, named after the English Romatic poet Lord Byron, focuses on a character with innate heroic abilities that are plagued with psychological issues and are oftentimes destroyed by their flaws. I won't go too deep into it, but I will say that from this description, it seems that Dali fits the bill here. I convinced myself of this by looking at common traits of Byronic heroes listed on TV Tropes, and almost all of them describe Dali to a tee.

Physically attractive and charismatic: I won't judge physical attractiveness, but the twins are noted by other characters to be very cute and handsome. Dali is also very charismatic in whatever role he plays (i.e. the mask he puts on), such as the twins' fearless leader, the cool and reliable older brother, the perfect son and friend Hitori, and the mysterious and alluring girl Sali.

Struggles with personal integrity: Pretty obvious here.

Intelligent, perceptive, sophisticated, educated, cunning and adaptable, but also self-centered: Definitely, as he is a great manipulator and mastermind, and is a top student (probably with an affinity for math and science) despite having no previous education. However, I'd argue that Dali is pretty selfless.

Emotionally sensitive and emotionally conflicted: Definitely, since being a great manipulator requires him to be perceptive of others' emotions. Also, at several points in the story his desire for revenge conflicted with his desire to protect Migi, with the latter eventually winning out.

Intensely self-critical, introspective, dark, and brooding: Dark and brooding is pretty obvious. Also, throughout the story, he's displayed regret for his actions, such as when he sacrificed himself and his revenge so that Migi could live, and when he finally decided to grant his brother's fervent wish in returning to Origon Village after beating him up.

Cynical, world-weary, and jaded due to a dark and troubled past: Pretty obvious here.

Extremely passionate with strong personal beliefs that he prioritizes over others': goes without saying, as he initially put revenge (and eventually protecting Migi) above everything else.

Believes that he must take the long, hard road to do what must be done: Definitely, and the Sali saga is the best showcase of this.

His intense drive and determination to live out his philosophy without regard to others' philosophies produce conflict and may result in a tragic end: Definitely; his desire for revenge conflicted with Migi's desire to live normally, and he almost killed Migi as a result.

Hopefully, this is enough to show that Dali fits this archetype, though I'm sure this could be done more rigorously. But the point was to highlight the type of person Dali was, the fact he could have suffered a tragic fate (e.g. killing Migi) like many other Byronic heroes, and his character arc. Unlike Migi, who initially imitated Dali (as befitting of the "King of Imitations") but gradually stopped as his true personality came out, Dali radically transformed, as his internalized personality flaws were being erased. Despite being initially distrustful of others, controlling, and obsessed with revenge, Dali was eventually able to befriend Akiyama and Maruta for real, build a healthier and stronger relationship with Migi, and even sympathize with Eiji and save him. All of this was possible because of Migi, who served as Dali's light and helped him grow from the deeply broken boy he was at the start of the story. As Dali stated, Migi always ruined his plans, but he realized that this was actually a good thing because Migi's kindness, sincerity, and innocence helped guide him toward the right direction. This leads me to believe that Dali's personality didn't just reverse out of nowhere; rather, deep down he wanted to make friends, he wanted Migi to be happy, and he was always a compassionate boy (even more so than Migi). He might have even possessed a light brighter than Migi's. But because of his mother's death and its associated burdens, Dali's heart hardened as he repressed this side of himself and built walls around his heart for the sake of revenge, and it was Migi who was able to tear down these walls and illuminate the darkness within Dali's heart, allowing Dali's repressed personality to come out.

Finally, let's get into Dali's decision to save Eiji. Dali finally understood that Eiji was just like him, a victim of their parents' sins, and that Eiji was always alone as he never had someone like Migi with him. Dali hated Eiji because he reminded him of himself without Migi, a deeply broken boy who only caused himself to suffer by forcing himself to fulfill an obsession (e.g. revenge and perfection). In other words, Dali hated the the dark version of himself that rejected others, hurt his brother, and caused himself to suffer for the sake of revenge. Dali was able to overcome himself because of Migi, and he wanted to extend this opportunity to Eiji as he seems to have finally accepted Eiji as his brother. This act of compassion showed us the essence of Dali's "revenge," as what he did for Eiji can't be characterized as revenge, but rather justice. Instead of getting revenge against his mother's killer, Dali sought justice for the triplets and the suffering they endured as a result of their parents' sins. His anger towards Eiji transformed into a defiance of destiny as he sought to prove that regardless of their dark past and mistakes, they could still live happily and face a brighter future. In this episode, we witnessed the depth of Dali's compassion, which was even greater than Migi's, as well as the rise of a hero who was able to overcome his darker nature. This is one of the biggest reasons why Dali is my favorite character in the story, as his character arc was just that compelling.

However, at the end, someone had to take responsibility for the tragic events that occurred that night. Eiji realized that even though he now sought to live, the life he was promised by Dali was "too sweet" for him, as he had to atone for killing Reiko and attempting to burn everyone to death. As Eiji was taken away, Dali watched with a sorrowful and/or distressed look and a new burn scar on his left cheek. On the surface level, Dali can't keep up the Hitori act anymore. But the scar may carry a deeper meaning. For example, it can be seen as a proof of Dali's courage and heroism. On the other hand, it can also be seen as a proof of Dali's sins and his failure to bring Eiji home. Knowing Dali, he might internalize the latter interpretation, and may carry a great deal of guilt and self-loathing as a result. We can only hope that in the final episode, Dali (and likely with Migi's help) resolves whatever emotional fallout there may be and can finally embrace the happy and cherry-pie-filled life with Migi and the Sonoyamas that he craved (and IMO deserved).

#migi and dali #migi to dali #spoilers #analysis #long read

7 notes · View notes

buckets-and-trees · 2 years

Text

Fifty Followers

There are MANY writers out there with so so so so many more followers, but I wanted to take a beat and celebrate a first milestone for me...

I pushed this little boat out into the water only a few months ago, no fandom friends to speak of, just a desire to get out here and write and connect with people. Mostly for me - but when I say that I mean not to like become fandom famous or tumblr famous or anything. This year I decided I wanted to get back to doing things I want to again. I wanted to write. I wanted to write fanfic. I wanted to connect with people through fandom again because I did that a long time ago in a different fandom, and some of those people became some of my best friends (still have ties, but loooong distance and the seasons of our lives have all changed).

Truthfully I didn't expect to have fifty followers yet, and it's really cool to just get the little votes of confidence that yeah I'm writing what I want to write but that some of you also think hmm yes let's see what she does next! It means something to me.

So... because I want to really start to have fun and get to know y'all... What if I throw out a ton of questions, and I'll answer up to like 50 of them this week. If you want to ask, drop a note in my askbox with the numbers you want me to answer.

I've got a list with writer-y questions, get-to-know-you questions, media-related questions, and fandom questions, so PICK YOUR POISON!

What was your favorite childhood treat?

Tea or coffee?

EDM or Bollywood?

Fame or money?

Childhood life or adult life?

Move on or Hold on?

Cats or dogs?

What part of your daily schedule is your favorite part of the day?

What is your favorite food?

What is your favorite song that you hear on a loop?

A crime you would like to be caught for.

Which 2 things do you want after the apocalypse?

Your current favorite song?

First trip after COVID.

Where would you go using the anywhere door?

Last search on internet explorer.

A thing you recently purchased impulsively.

A fictional movie you want to experience IRL.

If I were a celebrity, I would be…?

What instrument do I play?

Which is my favorite season?

What are your top 3 most used apps?

What is my spirit animal?

What am I allergic to?

Would you rather have 10M followers on Instagram or find true love? Why?

Do you want to be famous? If yes, then for what?

What’s your most-used emoji?

What would you do if you won the lottery?

What is your favorite holiday?

What is something you think everyone should do at least once in their lives?

Does writing energize or exhaust you?

What is your writing Kryptonite?

Did you ever consider writing under a pseudonym?

What other authors are you reading, and how do they help you become a better writer?

If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?

What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?

What’s your favorite under-appreciated novel?

How many unpublished and half-finished fics do you have?

What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?

How many hours a day do you write?

Have you read anything that made you think differently about fiction?

What was your hardest scene to write?

What one thing would you give up to become a better writer?

What is your favorite childhood book?

If you had to do something differently as a child or teenager to become a better writer as an adult, what would you do?

How long on average does it take you to write a story?

Do you believe in writer’s block?

Name a book that you would cherish for a lifetime.

Name a movie sequel you wish for.

Your Favorite Series worth a binge-watch.

What is your favorite Hollywood movie, and why do you like that movie?

Who is your dream girl or dream guy working in film/tv and why?

Your anytime movie.

Who's your go-to band or artist?

What is a movie adaptation you like?

Which actor or actress do you hate to watch in any movie?

Name a celebrity you truly admire and why.

Suggest a list of movies to watch this weekend.

Do you prefer real-life TV shows or animated TV shows?

A character you would die for.

A character who could corrupt you.

What book or series would you die to see turned into a movie or tv show?

What was the last book you read?

What moment do you wish you could experience again for the first time from any book/movie/tv show?

What is the first book that made you cry?

What OTPs in your fandom(s) do you just not get?*

Is there anything in fandom you used to like but can’t stand now?

Most disliked character(s)? Why?

Most disliked arc? Why?

Is there an unpopular character you like that the fandom doesn’t? Why?

Is there an unpopular arc that you like that the fandom doesn’t? Why?

Unpopular opinion about your fandom?

Instead of XYZ happening, I would have made ABC happen…

Does not shipping something ‘popular’ mean you’re in denial and/or biased?

What is the one thing you hate most about your fandom?

What is the purest ship in the fandom?

What are your thoughts on crack ships?

Your current OTP.

A pairing you initially didn’t consider but someone changed your mind.

What was the first thing you ever contributed to a fandom?

Have you added anything stupid/cracky/hilarious to your fandom, if so, what?

What’s the longest you’ve ever been in a fandom?

What fandom was it?

What was your first fandom?

Has tumblr caused you to stop liking any fandoms, if so, which and why?

Name a fandom you didn’t care/think about until you saw it all over tumblr.

How do you feel about the other people in your current fandom(s).

Your favorite fanartist/author gives you one request, what do you ask for?

Your favorite fandom (for the people; not the thing you fangirl over).

Choose a song at random, what ship does it remind you of?

Invent a random AU for any fandom (we always need more ideas).

A pairing you ship that you don’t think anyone else ships.

What's a headcanon you have?

What are your favorite male/female ships?

Do you have any 3-way ships? If so, what?

5 favorite characters from 5 different fandoms.

3 OTPs from 3 different fandoms.

A fandom you’re in but have no ships from.

What's a ship that you want to ship publicly, but everyone on tumblr hates it so you keep your mouth shut about it?

Character you want to be your PLATONIC ride-or-die.

#how did this happen #fifty followers #follower milestone #fifty followers fifty questions #an aspen thing

1 note · View note

creacherkeeper · 3 years

Text

homebrew autism & ADHD mechanics

been thinking about homebrewed disability mechanics for a while and thought i'd make a post with some suggestions based on my experience as a disabled self-advocate and disability coach. i've seen mechanics go around but i haven't seen them broken down by traits! also disclaimer: i am autistic but my experience with ADHD is through friends, family, and clients and i did consult to make the ADHD traits

**i recommend choosing 1-3 of these to emphasize mechanically for your character, and inhabit the rest of the neurotype through roleplay**

shared traits:

special interest/hyperfixation: choose 1-3 interests for your character. you make either intelligence OR wisdom checks about that interest with advantage. if taking an hour or more to engage with the interest, you gain the benefits of a short rest. if you must unwillingly disengage or move away from an interest topic, make a dc 10 intelligence saving throw. on a success, you are able to disengage. on a fail, you will do anything short of harming allies to stay with the special interest, and if there is a person or creature tied to your interest (such as a knowledgeable figure, celebrity, or particular species) you enter the charmed condition for them

time blindness: roll with disadvantage on wisdom and intelligence checks having to do with time, timed events, or order of events. if making an investigation check, you can lose track of time and trade one in-game hour for advantage on the check. add a free 'orb of time' to your inventory - you are unable to tell the time of day while indoors besides use of this item

sleeping issues: if going to bed before midnight, make a dc 10 constitution saving throw. on a success, you fall asleep normally. on a fail, roll 1d4. that is how many hours it will take to fall asleep. while waiting to fall asleep, you cannot be surprised by enemies. on a natural 1, you are unable to fall asleep that night and do not get the benefits of a long rest. you have advantage on saving throws against being put to sleep by magical effects, but may choose to fail them if you wish

sensory processing disorder: as decided by the dm, in busy, chaotic, or loud environments, your passive perception is knocked down by 5 and you have disadvantage on investigation and perception checks, and charisma saving throws. in quiet and calm environments, you get advantage on perception checks involving the senses and you cannot be surprised by enemies

executive dysfunction: **choose 2** 1) once per long rest, roll a dc 10 intelligence saving throw. on a fail, you lose one item from your starting pack. 2) if rolling to recall a list or instructions, make a dc 10 intelligence saving throw. on a fail, the dm may remove 1d4 of the items before telling you. 3) if making an investigation check that takes over an hour in-game, roll a dc 10 constitution saving throw. on a fail, you are too bored or frustrated to continue and auto-fail the investigation check. 4) when approaching a task that will take some time in-game, roll a dc 10 intelligence saving throw. if the check is failed, roll a d4. on a 1 or 2, you underestimate the time needed by one hour. on a 3 or 4, you overestimate the time needed by one hour. 5) prereq: spellcaster. when preparing spells for the day, roll a dc 10 intelligence saving throw. on a fail, use a random number generator to select one spell and take it off your prepared spells list. use the generator again to prepare a different spell at random

autism:

motor issues: choose between athletics and stealth, or acrobatics and sleight of hand. on one set you have advantage, and on the other disadvantage. you auto-fail dexterity saving throws while under the cover of the darkness spell or under the blinded condition

social: you have disadvantage on insight checks to tell if unfamiliar people are lying to you or using sarcasm. when telling an unfamiliar person a surprising truth, your persuasion check is instead treated in-game as a deception check. if you make a saving throw for a zone of truth spell, add 5 to the dc for only yourself. you may add one free language, or tool or weapon proficiency

meltdown/shutdown: make a list of triggers. when faced with a trigger, make a dc 10 wisdom saving throw. any character can use an action to grant advantage on the roll, including animal companions or familiars. on a success, nothing happens. on a failure, the player chooses between three consequences: meltdown, shutdown, or aggression. meltdown: you take on the 'fear' condition. shutdown: you take on the 'stunned' condition. aggression: you must use your action to attack - if the character is a non-combatant, it is a non-lethal unarmed strike. on any of the three consequences, a character can use their action to prompt another dc 10 wisdom saving throw. on a success, the condition is removed, but you take one level of exhaustion (if the condition is entered during a battle, the exhaustion is taken after the battle is over)

ADHD:

rejection sensitive dysphoria: at the trigger of rejection (real or perceived) make a dc 10 charisma saving throw. on a fail, you enter the stunned condition. you or an ally may use an action to prompt another saving throw to end the condition. when the condition is ended, you take one level of exhaustion (if stunned is entered during a battle, exhaustion is taken after the battle is over). the spell vicious mockery always prompts the RSD saving throw, and does max damage if the RSD saving throw has been failed in the same battle. you get max healing from healing word spells, and automatically get a 4 when under the effect of guidance

impulsivity: you auto-fail the saving throw for the suggestion spell. before rolling an attack, you may choose to subtract 5 from your attack roll in order to add your proficiency bonus to the damage. dash is a bonus action for you

focus: **choose 1** 1) inattention: if making an investigation check that takes more than 10 minutes in-game, first roll a dc 10 constitution saving throw - on a fail, you become bored and roll the investigation check with disadvantage. you roll with disadvantage to remember proper nouns. in a combat with 3 or more enemies, if more than one enemy is within your normal movement speed, you must pass a dc 10 wisdom saving throw to attack the same enemy multiple turns in a row. 2) hyperfocus: while making an investigation check, if you spend double the usual in-game time on the check, you will roll with advantage, but if you are interrupted before that time can pass, you roll with disadvantage. if engaged with a task, roll 1d4 - this is the amount of hours that will pass in-game if you are not interrupted - during this time your passive perception is knocked down by 5. in a combat with 3 or more enemies, you must pass a dc 10 wisdom saving throw to switch targets or take a disengage

if you enjoyed or are planning to use these mechanics, it would be totally cool to drop me a kofi but absolutely no pressure! if this post does well enough i'll probably end up making more cause this was super fun!!

#dnd #d&d #d&d homebrew #d&d 5e #actually autistic #autism #ADHD #d&d disability

2K notes · View notes

sg-marshall · 4 years

Text

sims 4 trait legacy challenge

Overview:

This is a ten generation legacy challenge based on some characteristics people can possess. Each generation will be based upon a new trait. The style and gender of the generation is completely up to you (I usually play as women but gender does not matter in this challenge)! Complete all goals before focusing on the next generation. Some may play onto each other, so be sure to look ahead before moving forward! I created an adapted version for people who do not have the packs I used listed below the challenge. I wanted to make sure everyone could play and not feel left out!

Rules:

No cheats or mods!

Start off with $20,000 and a build a house wherever you want one.

Complete all six goals for every generation before moving onto the next one.

Complete the full aspiration and reach level 10 in the set career.

There is no rules when it comes to aging up but I suggest waiting until it is their set birthday.

Play on normal life span.

Packs Used: Base Game, Discovery University, Seasons, City Living, Get to Work, Cats and Dogs, Parenthood, Spa Day, and Knifty Knitting

Generation One: Responsibility

You are a very old fashioned person who believes things have a certain way of being done. Every object in your house has a set place, the person you marry you are supposed to stay with forever, and the world should be a clean place to live in. Never once have you strayed away from your beliefs and you’ve always lived your life by the book. Even once your partner dies and you are left with a child who cannot handle their passing, you stay true to your morals. (EDIT: I have been playing this challenge myself and found that the final level of the aspiration said “have a child master a career”. I do not know if you have to be in the household for that, but if you do, just add this generation to the household of the next one before they master it. It is also okay if you want to ignore/cheat this part.)

Traits: Neat, Good, Green Fiend

Aspiration: Successful Lineage

Career: Education (Administrator Branch)

Goals:

Max charisma skill.

Max research and debate skill.

Be married as a young adult, but have your partner die (do not tell your child how) once they reach adult hood. Never remarry.

Have only one child with your partner.

Complete the snowglobes collection and have them set up in a specific room in your house.

Make your neighborhood green and keep it that way.

Generation Two: Determined

You’ve always struggled to cope with the death of your father/mother ever. Maybe that's because you never really knew why they died in the first place. Left with too many questions to handle, you destroy your relationship with your friends and family and run away to find some answers. This entails a trip to Sixam, where you can finally wrap ahead around the passing of you mom/dad. You decide to come home just in time to see your mom/dad just before they too pass away. After a heart-breaking conversation, you realize that all the secrecy was for the best.

Traits: Gloomy, Ambitious, Loner

Aspiration: Nerd Brain

Career: Astronaut (Interstellar Smuggler Branch)

Goals:

Max rocket science skill.

Max mischief skill.

Build a rocket ship and fly to Sixam.

Run away and live on your own as a teenager.

Have a horrible relationship with your mom/dad as a young adult, but become best friends with them before they pass away.

Complete the microscope prints collection.

Generation Three: Loving

Your mother/father was extremely distant growing up, which caused you to rely on friends as your family. Your childhood best friend has been with you every step of the way, and you ended up fell in love with them. All you wanted to do was be a mother/father, but found out you could never have children. You adopt a child as a baby and raise them as your own, teaching them everything you wish your parents did for you.

Traits: Romantic, Family - Oriented, Foodie

Aspiration: Soulmate

Career: Babysitter (Teenager), None (Young Adult and older)

Goals:

Max parenting skill.

Max wellness skill.

Marry your childhood best friend.

Adopt a baby after you get married.

Teach your toddler to max all skills.

Have a side passion of knitting.

Generation Four: Intelligence

You grew up incredibly smart with no knowledge of who your real parents were. However, that never mattered to you. Your adoptive parents have made it their life goal to advance your gifts in every way they know how. Late nights of helping you with homework, early mornings of finishing projects, and spending their fortunes to enroll you into the college of your dreams. All you wanted to do was repay them by becoming a world renowned journalist. You dedicate your best-sellers to them because, after all, they’ll always be your biggest fan.

Traits: Genius, Bookworm, Unflirty

Aspiration: Academic

Career: Writer (Journalist Branch)

Goals:

Max logic skill.

Max writing skill.

Reach level eight in five other skills of your choice.

Go to the University of Britechester and study Language and Literature (distinguished).

Join the Debate Guild and reach the highest rank.

Write five novels.

Generation Five: Hard - Working

Fashion has been your passion since you were a little girl/boy. You even asked your parents to stop dressing you as a toddler because the clothes they picked were “not stylish enough.” As a self-proclaimed style icon, you knew you had to make your biggest dream come true: to create your own fashion line. So, as soon as you graduated high school, you packed your bags and moved to the big city - San-Myshuno. There you created your social media platform and blew up! A normal life was never your style, and you made sure to put in as many hours as it would take to achieve all you ever wanted.

Traits: Perfectionist, Self - Assured, Materialistic

Aspiration: City Native

Career: Style Influencer (Stylist Branch)

Goals:

Max photography skill.

Max painting skill.

Must live in San-Myshuno.

Complete the crystals collection.

Hire a nanny for your child and do not spend much time with them.

Gain 10,000 followers on Simstagram.

Generation Six: Resilience

After being known as “the child of the most famous fashion designer” all your life, the city became a toxic place for you. You hated the loud noises, constant stream of people, and just wanted to live a quiet life. You loved visiting your grandmother/father’s house and hearing one of her/his famous stories. You decided to pull inspiration from one of their novels and live off by the coast in the adorable Brindleton Bay. Your passion for crafting and living off the land inspired you to start a small business selling your candles and juice - all locally grown of course.

Traits: Loves Outdoors, Maker, Creative

Aspiration: Master Maker

Career: Freelancer (Simply Crafted)

Goals:

Max fabrication skill.

Reach level eight in both candle making and juice fizzing.

Move to Brindleton Bay as a young adult.

Have four or more kids.

Complete the frog collection.

Never go to an event in the city or visit the city once you are a young adult.

Generation Seven: Carefree

Being in a big family is can be hectic at times. So, you decided to be the happy jokester in the middle just trying to get people to crack a smile. And you got really good at it. As a major people person, you made sure to get to know everyone you meet. You even started a tradition of taking a picture with them so you could never forget that moment. Your friends will always invite you to go out because you are known for being the life of the party. However, the parties you host, are even better. You decide to live life as if it was one big stage, and you’re the star performer.

Traits: Goofball, Clumsy, Outgoing

Aspiration: Party Animal

Career: Entertainer (Comedian Branch)

Goals:

Max comedy skill.

Max singing skill.

Host a party every week.

Take a photo of every person who visits you.

Marry someone you met just two days before.

Attend every festival or event you are asked to attend.

Generation Eight: Kind

Expected to be just like your mother/father, no one ever assumed you would be the quiet kid who preferred reading over partied. However, that is exactly who you were. When it was that time of the week for a new social event, you either left for the library or locked yourself in your room, praying it ended soon. Your parents noticed you struggled talking to people, so they allowed you to adopt a puppy once you became a teenager. You and your dog instantly became best friends and you took them everywhere. Even though you may not be great with people, being compassionate was a skill you ranked high in. You always looked out for the less fortunate and wanted to provide in anyway you could.

Traits: Vegetarian, Loner, Good

Aspiration: Friend of the Animals

Career: Gardner (Floral Designer Branch)

Goals:

Max gardening skill.

Max flower arranging skill.

Keep up a garden of just flowers.

Adopt strays: one dog, and two cats.

Marry an ambitious sim.

Donate $100 to charity weekly.

Generation Nine: Impulsive

You grew up hearing stories of your grandmother/father’s so called “wild days” and fell in love with the energy it brought. However, your mom/dad raised you better than to go out spending life as if there was no consequences. Finding a balance started off to be very challenging for you. You could never hold down relationships and even got pregnant/got someone pregnant twice. It wasn't until you became a secret agent and learned how to live two lifestyles: one full of fun and adventure; the other more stable and structured.

Traits: Active, Non-Committal, Bro

Aspiration: Bodybuilder

Career: Secret Agent (Diamond Agent Branch)

Goals:

Max fitness skill.

Max handiness skill.

Go to either college for Psychology and play soccer.

Have four failed relationships and never get married.

Have two children from two different relationships.

Move three times once you become a young adult.

Generation 10: Passionate

Because your mother/father’s job required you to move around so much, making real life friends was a lot harder than it seemed. So, you built your relationships within the online community. Every day, you and your closest friends would hop online and compete in tournaments or even play for fun. As the years went on, you became really good at coding and even started working on your own apps. You looked up to the players from ESports Gaming - only the best gamers in the world - and longed to be sitting in one of their spots. And sure enough, after years of perfecting your strategies and game plays, your dreams came true!

Traits: Geek, Hot-Headed, Outgoing

Aspiration: Computer Whiz

Career: Tech Guru (ESport Gamer Branch)

Goals:

Max programming skill.

Max video gaming skill.

Complete the MySims Trophies collection.

Attend and compete in every Geek Con convention.

Make five video games or apps.

Mentor your child/ren for five hours each.

Adaptations:

Gen 1:

If you do not have Discover University, go into the Business career (Management Branch).

Max cooking skill if you do not have Discover University.

If you do not have City Living, complete the postcards collection.

Gen 2:

Unlock the secret world in Oasis Springs if you do not have Get to Work.

Gen 3:

If you do not have Parenthood but do have Get to Work, max the baking skill.

If you do not have both Parenthood and Get to Work, max the gourmet cooking skill.

If you do not have Spa Day but do have Knifty Knitting, max the knitting skill.

If you do not have both Spa Day or Knifty Knitting, max the photography skill.

If you do not have Knifty Knitting, have a side passion of photography.

Gen 4:

If you do not have Discover University, read a new skill book every week instead of attending university.

Gen 5:

If you do not have City Living, have the Fabulously Wealthy aspiration.

If you do not have City Living, live in Oasis Springs.

Gen 6:

Do not have a career if you do not have Eco-Lifestyle. Instead, craft item on the woodworking for money.

If you do not have Eco-Lifestyle, max the fishing skill instead of reaching level eight in candle making and juice fizzing.

If you do not have Cats and Dogs, move to Evergreen Harbor.

If you do not have both Cats and Dogs or Eco-Lifestyle, live in Willow Creek

If you do not have Eco-Lifestyle, have the self-assured trait instead.

If you do not have Eco-Lifestyle, have the Angling Ace aspiration.

Gen 7:

If you do not have City Living but do have Get Together, max the dancing skill.

If you do not have both City Living or Get Together, max the mixology skill.

Gen 8:

If you do not have Dogs and Cats, have the Freelance Botanist aspiration.

Do not have a career if you do not have Seasons. Instead, sell your plants for money.

If you do not have Seasons but have Get to Work, max the baking skill.

If you do not have both Seasons or Get to Work, max the violin skill.

If you do not have Dogs and Cats, but have Seasons, own three bees nests and two insect nests instead of owning pets.

If you do not have both Dogs and Cats or Seasons, have three children instead of having three pets.

If you do not have City Living, have the cheerful trait.

Gen 9:

If you do have Strangerville, go into the Military Career (I do not have it, so I played as a Secret Agent)

If you do have Snowy Escape, have the adventurous trait instead of the active trait (I do not have it but believe they would be adventurous).

If you do not have Discover University, read five skill books over different topics, instead of going to college.

Gen 10:

If you do not have City Living, compete in an online tournament weekly instead of going to Geek Con.

#sims #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 legacy #small creator #newchallenge #lilsimsie #clairesiobhan #maxismatch #maxismatchccworld #legacy #sims4 #basegame #traits

695 notes · View notes

lubdubsworld · 3 years

Text

Blackberry Winters.

Part 1

Namjoon Werewolf Au !

Alpha werewolf!

Heavy angst.! Pregnancy, unrequited love, hate to love, prejudice, mental health issues.

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

There is a tide in the affairs of men, which , taken at the flood leads on to fortune. Opportunities had to be seized and made use of and you had to be bold and confident in order to lead your people to fortune.

Namjoon, as the head alpha of the Kim clan, knew this better than anyone else. Which was why he was here, in a meeting with alphas from the three neighbouring clans lining his boundary lines, hoping to get permission to access the seven or so aquifers that lay to the east of the packhouse.

The rains had been kind to them, the reservoirs were full but he wanted to make sure they had a backup plan just in case things went south in some way. His father had taught him that. Being prepared for the worst was second nature to him now. The land around the aquifers was rich and fertile and Jungkook had already let him plant tangerines and apples in the area for the little ones. The harvest was generally shared between the two clans and Namjoon was grateful for the easy camaraderie that the alpha of the land offered him.

The land belonged to alpha Jeon , a dear friend by all means and he knew that Jungkook would grant him permission as he always did . But still it was never a certainty. The council members had the final say and many of them held a grudge when he refused to marry Jungkook's sister last spring. That had been a no brainer for him. Junghee was beautiful but also like a sister to him, besides being incredibly intelligent. He didn't need a wife like that. And that was why he had picked, Jiah.

Sighing, Namjoon glanced back at the campsite where the women were gathered, sitting in small groups and laughing around a blazing fire while a few alphas hung about roasting meat and passing out moats of wine around . His eyes fell on his wife, timid and shy , sitting away from the rest and regret churned. He had been impulsive. She was ill suited to be his wife , and the last three months had been a bitter wake up call. Namjoon was well read, eloquent and bold. His wife was barely illiterate, with a stutter and shifty eyes that never met anyone's gaze head on.

He had chosen her because she had seemed docile and pliant and while she was definitely that, she was also ....at the risk of sounding rude and unkind, very very boring.

A simpleton. She seemed to know nothing about anything, content to disappear into the shadows, to hide and hang back and practically become one with the upholstery when he asked her to sit next to him.

It had been three months and they had barely spoken beyond a dozen words. It was awkward and stilted and just plain uncomfortable, sleeping with her. Sex was supposed to fun and passionate and filled with excitement and desire but with her , it was a chore he couldn't wait to cross off his list.

Leaning back against one of the poles holding up the makeshift tent, he watched her as she scooted away from one of the older omegas in the Jeon clan, the lady looking startled at the reaction. He shook his head in despair. He hadn't even wanted to bring her along but his mother had insisted. Something about her being young and innocent, too shy to stay behind with strangers for two whole weeks while he traveled to the Jeon's .

How was he supposed to explain that they were strangers as well ? That despite the label of mates, despite the fact that he had been the one to choose her, he felt nothing for her? Not even the idle curiosity one felt for strangers?

It was partly her demeanour, but mostly her appearance. She wasn't well groomed and it always made him frown. He had hoped that she would at least keep herself presentable, maybe hire the weavers to make her a few new tunics .

Something colorful and patterned like the ones the other omegas wore during festivities. The Kim clan had a lucrative fabric trade with the Min pack , and Yoongi and Hoseok always kept the most luxurious and vibrant silks and fabrics for him.

Jiah had shown a brief and fleeting interest in the luxurious threads, when his mother had brought her along to the tailor to get her wedding trousseau done....but the moment the young beta had asked her questions about her likes and dislikes, she had recoiled and went back into her shell. Namjoon had watched the whole scene, annoyance growing with every passing second. He wanted her to be pliant but also independent. Low maintenance . But apparently he would have to hold her hand through everything.

And that's when he'd begun to actively distance himself from his wife. He didn't have the time nor inclination to help her navigate her new life. He was busy, what with autumn coming to an end and the first chills of winter already beginning to permeate the air. The betas and alphas in the pack were already occupied with hunting enough meat to last them the winter, the women busy with curing the meat with spices and salt.....

He should have left her behind with them.

" A coin for your thoughts, Alpha Kim?"

Kim Jisoo came to stand by him, her scent of floral dust and vanilla cloyingly sweet on his senses. She had helped him with many a rut and he had always nurtured a sweet spot for the omega who was well versed in many languages. She was also one of the courtesans they had brought along for the evening entertainment. Jisoo slipped her hands through his arm and he smiled, letting her brush close to his torso.

His gaze went to his wife, who was staring at him, eyes blank and lips parted softly. She looked a little upset.

Which was understandable but still annoying. They weren't in love or anything and he wasn't cheating on her. Jisoo was a friend. He was allowed to have those. Jiah had no right to look at him with suspicion or with entitlement. He didn't owe her all her time. He wondered if she would react if he were to confront her now. As it is , he let himself stare right at her, half wishing that she would talk back to him.

But the moment their eyes met, Jiah looked away, entire body shifting as though in embarassment. He frowned , but lightly patted the soft fingers curled on his arm. He turned to Jisoo with a smile, taking in the pretty elfin features. The perfectly curled hair , threaded with gold and jeweler pins fell in soft ropes around her face, her lips tinted red and her cheeks brushed rose. She looked enchanting and unreal and he felt his blood stir in arousal, the need to feel her under him suddenly overwhelming.

He glanced back at Jiah and she looked a little green , her face ashen. His eyes narrowed when she shifted and looked around in a mild panic. Oh God, what was it now?

Irritable, he gently pulled away from the beautiful omega next to him.

" Excuse me, dear. I need to check on my wife." He said apologetically and she frowned staring at where he was looking.

"What's wrong?" Jisoo asked sharply but he ignored her, already moving to his mate.

Which was just as well, because the moment he reached her, her eyes rolled back and she toppled right into his arms.

She had fainted .

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

" I'm sorry we had to cut this short but I hope your mate feels better soon, hyung." Jungkook's voice was laced with genuine concern and Namjoon nodded, hugging the younger alpha tight.

Junghee looked just as sympathetic, next to him.

" She'll be fine . I tried to get her to stay but she's been panicking a lot and refuses to let any of the healers here examine her. I think she'll be more comfortable with your pack healer. " She said gently.

Namjoon nodded, glancing back at Jiah who sat side-saddle on one of the smaller ponies, her eyes wide and face still ashen. He had tried to tell her it would be okay , but she had insisted on going home. The stark terror on her face had unsettled him deeply. He didn't know why she was so scared of the Jeon healer? Could it be because he was a man? Whatever the reason she hadn't let him examine her and because he couldn't ask her to just forget about the whole thing ( he was still head alpha , he still had to set an example as a caring mate. ) Namjoon had been forced to arrange for their return back home.

He had left Seokjin and Taehyung behind to carry the talks on his behalf, and Jisoo stood a few dozen feet away looking annoyed as he gave her

an apologetic smile.

The journey back to the Main village would be a couple of days and he had packed enough food for the both of them.

As he turned back to mount his stallion, he caught a glimpse of her face as she stared at him.

She looked lost , apologetic and clearly upset.

And he wondered if he would have to spend the rest of his life reading her face, trying to figure her out.

He has no interest in either.

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

The journey became incredibly tiring, especially when the skies opened up on them. Rain Lashed the ground , intent on soaking the earth and Namjoon watched her shiver, trembling as they all huddled beneath the shade of some trees, blankets wrapped tight around her thin torso. Why was she so thin? Why did she look at food like it was poisoned?

They were only a mile from home but had to stop, the deluge was far too strong for the animals to see ahead of them.

Namjoon himself sat next to an omega from the clan. He recognised her as one of the maids his mother had given to Jiah.

" Is your mistress doing well?" He asked gruffly and the omega startled, bowing twice in respect before answering.

"I...she ... She doesn't say much, alpha." The girl blushed under his gaze, looking away nervously and he frowned, glancing back at Jiah.

So it wasn't just him, then. She didn't trust anyone. He stared at her till she felt the heat of his gaze and looked up, eyes wide like a startled bird, like one of the starlings that nested in the wooden beams of his hut. She looked surprised, then terrified, eyes darting away at once and he tried not to growl in sheer frustration.

He wondered if it was because of his face.

Namjoon had no large feelings about his looks but he knew he was far from beautiful. ( A/N : A whole lie , I know but please bear with me for the story :*) it was one of the reasons he had wanted a plain looking bride. But perhaps his own chosen mate had , had dreams of marrying a very handsome man? Perhaps she had been infatuated with someone like that , from the clan?

It wasn't a far fetched idea. But still, she had been free to refuse his proposal. When he had first met the clan's watchkeeper, old man Gong in the humble hut on the outer borders of the pack land, he had made it clear that it wasn't some kind of order. She was free to refuse.

But she hadn't.

She had merely bowed and agreed and promptly appeared with a satchel full of her things and followed him back to his own home.

So why did she continue to act like she was here against her will?

It irked him no end.

As the skies cleared, they began their trek again and Namjoon pushed thoughts of her out of his mind. He had to plan for the winter, make sure there was enough food and also make sure they had enough herbs and liniments and oils in the apothecary. Mind drifting off to the countless things he was responsible for, Namjoon forgot all about his awkward mate and the reason they were going back home in the first place.

Which is why, when they reached home and he took his bath, cleaning himself up and finally settling down to some delicious food from the kitchens , his mother's words made him drop the chopsticks in shock.

" She is with child."

Namjoon stared at his mother in complete shock.

Fuck.

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

Authors Note : I had this idea and just had to write it. Hope you guys enjoyed it.

#werewolf namjoon drabbles

157 notes · View notes

gloryofluv · 3 years

Text

How the Last Three Brothers react to MC with ADHD

So this is the last half of the brothers. I also added some bonus content at the bottom in regards to all of them!

Here's the first four in case you missed them!

Asmo-

Heard about it from Satan. Was amused, but definitely didn’t care too much about it.

After meeting you the first time he decides that you’re not quite his type, but is friendly anyway. It wasn’t until he noticed that you were trying to mimic his makeup and did a stellar job that he was interested. He flat out asks you why.

When you express that he’s the most beautiful friendliest demon and wants to fit in more that he gushes! He immediately starts to have beauty sessions and finds out through teaching you proper hair care that you confess that you never feel like you fit in and want to, that he asks more about your ADHD.

Telling Asmo is easier than Lucifer. Mostly because he’s hugging you and brushing out your hair. Relaxing you into a state where you’re able to admit how awkward it makes you feel.

He immediately makes it his goal to improve your self-confidence! Doesn’t ask. Barges into your room with products, brushes, and other items at least once a week. You review the week and he listens to your worries. If someone is bothering you at RAD, he has ways of ending their lives in social suicide.

This beautiful boy becomes your gal pal with benefits. He always has something healthy to offer for your skin, clothing that he wants you to try on, and never says one horrible thing about you. He LOVES that you want assistance with your Devilgram and makeup. He even doesn’t mind when you zone out. He’ll be patient and repeat it.

Alone time? Well, don’t expect him to leave you completely alone. He’ll text you and not worry about receiving answers right away. He knows sometimes you just need to hear what he does. You give him so many compliments that his ego is boosted through the roof. He suddenly can’t live without you!!! Don��t leave him, okay? Other than Solomon, he’s never adored a human this much.

Beelzebub-

This boy. He didn’t care, but not because he was indifferent. He was just like, okay??? Doesn’t get it.

Notices you don’t snack or you snack all the time. No in-between. That’s a problem. Humans need to eat, right? Starts to make extra afternoon snacks for you. Doesn’t even make a big deal out of it. He just knocks on your door with water and a plate, offering them and leaving.

Notices that you’re tired or ready to run for a mile. No middle. Starts to ask if you want to go with him every day and will carry you on his back if you’re tired. Once something happens once it’s routine. Expect a knock at your door every afternoon with a snack and then going for a jog.

He isn’t as interested in the clinical details but asks you what it means when you become closer. You explain in a simplistic fashion why your brain is weird. He laughs and nods but still says he likes you just the way you are.

If you ever get sad, he will definitely ask if he can help. If you get tired, he’s used to carrying around a tired teddy bear. He offers to carry you. If you’re stress he’ll ask if he can give you some of his snacks and hug you.

He really likes you. A lot. You’re always saying how sweet, kind, and gentle he is. He’s just himself, but he always glows when you say it. It makes him warm and fuzzy.

If anyone makes you cry. Be prepared for this gentle giant to go full apocalyptic demon. He will ruin them! It doesn’t matter if he finds out after the fact. He will find them and eat them. No one fucks with his little human cupcake. Well, inedible cupcake, he’d never eat you. (Well… he had thoughts when you playfully tease, but no. He could never hurt you and worries about that.)

Beel is literally your bodyguard and teddy bear. Expect big hugs, head pats, and plenty of food. That’s the way he shows his love. You will have to tell him you can’t eat so much and he can have it and to tell you how it tastes. He’d be happy to share that and anything else of his. He’d give you anything because he sincerely loves you like his brothers. Maybe more? Food = love, right?

Belphegor-

Meets you well after there are established routines. He notices how you are so odd for a human. He likes it, but then he doesn’t, but then he really does. He asks Beel about it and that’s how he finds out about your ADHD.

A weird brain? That might be fun. He uses that as a base to start contact with you. You tell him all about it without resistance and explain how the last several months have gone.

He suddenly has the urge to see how much your quirky personality is entertaining for him. He asks you to tell him more stories, they don’t even have to be about the Devildom. You tell him all the funny and ridiculous stories laying with him in the planetarium. It was… endearing.

He instantly adored you. You made him feel something more than bitter and tired. He listened to you and snoozed, opening an eye every so often to see you smiling and animatedly talking. He liked the inflections in your voice. He liked the smile on your lips. He liked that you were weird because he is sure as fuck was.

The fact that you were unique and still felt awkward in your own skin except when you were alone made him identify. Sees you. Sees that your struggles didn’t define you. Your issues, no matter the list, didn’t make you angry or mean.

Not only did he value your forgiveness and care. He valued your differences the most. He didn’t care if you were a bit wild or sad or even stressed. He would pull you into a tight snuggle and kiss your hair. He’d wait until you were almost napping in his arms to say he’d never let anyone else ever hurt you. He would love you for every piece of you for eternity.

He’d never admit to his soft and fluffy side in front of his brothers, often teasing you, but his hinted smile only reinforced your private friendship. It was all part of the layers you both built so no one truly could dig to the fluffy pillows you were.

Soon naps and confessions became routine in the afternoons after RAD. He would spill his heart out in return for your sincerity. It would make you mushy and relax you so that you could release the day.

Expect Beel and Belphie to become inseparable with you. The minute this little cuddle bear identifies that you are his squishy human, he tells his twin it’s their job to make sure you never leave them. He is a bit demanding but always returns the favor in different subtle ways.

Expect midnight texts and asking you to come up to his room or the attic. Insomnia is no longer really an option. The moment he latches onto you, you’re comforted like a weighted blanket and out in minutes.

Expect secretive treats, blankets, and gifts left in discreet places for you. Expect him to wait for you outside the classroom if you’re not together with Beel holding him up. Oh, and don’t even think you’re getting out of it. He found the one thing he loves more in life than sleeping. He dreams about you all the time and will tell you all about them, even the dirty ones to your chagrin. This demon boy will do anything to keep you happy and his.

~BONUS~ Fun additives!

Lucifer often asks Mammon to be sure that you aren’t stressing over homework and has him go check on you. That usually leads to some antic that makes you relax and have more fun and less anxiety.

Satan has a favorite blanket that he’ll wrap you both in when you’ve had a long day. It has aromatherapy and helps him too. It’s weighted and often both of you relax and find a way to laugh over books or a cat video.

Asmodeus has a whole wish list on Akuzon made just for you. Some items are personal care, others are cute stuffed animals because he knows you have bad days. Lucifer knows of this list and will often offer some money for doing a simple task so he can buy them for you.

Belphie will tolerate sharing your time with Leviathan to play video games or watch anime. As long as you allow him to curl against you so he can watch you smile or hear the thrum of your voice as you talk to Levi about the game or show.

If you are crying and Lucifer caught you, he will pull you into his study. Sit you down with tea and ask you what’s wrong. If you tell him it’s just a bad moment, he will break formality and stroke your hair. He will tell you stories about his brothers so that you start to smile and relax. He fucking lives for that smile.

Satan sets up mock adventures through the Devildom so that you enjoy the impulse of adventure without the dangers. (Mammon does enough endangerment to your impulses!) He will be sure while setting it up that it’s human proof. He also asks Solomon for extra warding charms for you without telling you. They’re usually hand-made bracelets that Satan crafted and attuned by the sorcerer.

Leviathan will do check-ins when you’re at RAD and he isn’t. If you feel upset about something, he will quote TSL at you to give you courage. Then when you get home, he will have a video game you have to try. Soon you’ve forgotten about the stressful day.

Asmodeus will take pictures with you allllll the time. He says it’s for him because he’s so beautiful, but his captions are always about how gorgeous you are while tagging you. Half of RAD thinks you’re dating just because of how much you’re on his Devilgram.

Beel will listen to everything you say. He may not respond immediately, but he evaluates it. If you’re having a really rough go at something, he will ask Belphie what to do. Often he’ll just sit with you or ask if you want to help him in the garden just so he can try to make you smile. He’s not horribly good with bad feels, but he will do anything for you.

#obey me #obey me fandom #obey me headcanons #obey me asmodeus #obey me beel #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie #obey me asmo #obey me mc #adhd #obey me brothers

203 notes · View notes

kendrixtermina · 3 years

Note

Omg that was so helpful! Confirmed the 4 for sure but I do believe I have a strong 9 fix so that also really helped. Can I just ask the difference between infp 4 and ISFP 4

Hm. I wish I could think of a good example an ISFP 4 example right now.

ISFP might be a bit more competitive (esp. if w3) because of the sometimes 'aggressive' of Se, but there are also some rather unagressive ISFPs.

Ne tends to have a 'fantasy' vibe, Se is more gritty and realistic - this would definitely be salient.

In song lyrics sensors often describe very specific places & situations to create an aesthetic/atmosphere, whereas intuitives might work with metaphorical images or have no decriptions/particulars whatsoever, I presume something similar would be reflected.

The ISFP would probably cram more activities in their day & their chosen art form might involve using their hands more wheras Ne is more verbal. Maybe they do handicrafts, culpt, paint, or perform on stage. (but this isn't a strict division, there's probably some writing SPs and some stage-acting NPs)

They'd have slightly less (but still some) problems with the withdrawn type typical action inhibition but more problems with impulsive decisions.

General differences between Si/Ne and Ni/Se.

- Se/Ni ppl buy new clothes once in a while (Se gets bored of always the same ones) whereas Si/Ne ppl typically wear their clothes till they fall apart & replace them if needed

-Si users tend to remember physical/sensory details from their pasts; Ni users remember things more as a general "gist" than concrete details/images, but this isnt a 100% guaranteed rule

-Se/Ni peeps have an easy time getting activated/mobilized but a harder time getting into relaxed mode; Other way around for Ne/Si peeps

-Ne humor involves puns & references; Se humor tends to be more physical & slapstick.

-Si/Ne ppl are generally more reluctant to move to a completely different place & might be nostalgic for the place of their youth. Se/Ni ppl love travelling & don't have that same sentimentality (xSFP might romanticise going to different, new places instead) - this is less true for the inferiors some Se-infs are pretty inert and Si-infs can love travelling as well. (but still have some nostalgia)

General Sensor vs Intuitive Differences

-Imagine two lists of words. One has actual real-life words - the usual example is mundane objects like microwave ovens but it could also be interesting real objects like forest, animals, fast cars etc. The second list has nonsense words like "philosophy oven" or "sky fork".

-Sensors say the real objects because they know what those are & what they do, whereas the nonsese words are just nonsense. The intuitives are more interested in the nonsense words because they're new, and start to imagine what the nonsense word could be - Does a 'philosophy oven' perhaps represent the process of refining ideas until they are ready?

-As kids, intuitives might use any toy to represent anything (A doll could be a spray-can of fairy dust) whereas a for a sensor, a toy car will usually represent a car

-Sensors tend to assume that ppl who have done a task before know best how to do it. An intuitive, especially if young & foolish, might perhaps naively assume that their theoretical idea is just as good

-Si users learn by copying; Se users learn by doing. Intuitives learn by abstract explanations, so they might easily get the gist of a complicated topic but especially the NPs can have trouble applying it, keeping the steps straight etc. (school is kind of largely built for Si users, & Se users might have a tough time/ not see the value in "things they're never gonna use" , doesnt help that schools have cut out practical skills in favor of forcing everyone to go to college...)

-Sensors get locked into a context quickly whereas intuitives don't. If a sensor hears "she married a rock", they'll gather from the word "married" that the context is "relationships" & assume at once that "rock" here is metaphorical for an emotionally unaffectionate person - whereas your Ne user friend might ask - "wait, like metaphorical or like objectophilia?"

-One example involves a sensor husband asking his intuitive wife "What kind of car is this?" meaning "from which rental company", thinking this was clear from context. What does the wife answer? "A red one!"

-Since intuitives are not so focussed on sensing they might be absent minded, distracted from their surroundings, clumsy, or missing things in front of their eyes. personal space might be cluttered, minimalistic or bare. If someone has a really nicely decorated house or lots of flashy furniture they are likely to be a sensor. They rarely stop noticing or "tune it out" so they would want to be looking at nice surroundings. Some ISTx can be frugal/minimalistic but then usually they buy/like good quality products. So maybe this istj has 2 jackets but their good leather that feels nice & lasts them 20 years. Or you get an ISTP whose room is a mess but their computer has really nice speakers to better hear the video games.

#mbti #isfp #infp

13 notes · View notes

danascully77 · 3 years

Note

#10 angst and/or #10 general from the prompt list :)

#10 angst “How was I such an idiot, to believe that you, out of all people, could ever love me?” and/or #10 general “You want to play pretend? Well two can play at that game.” from the prompt list :)

I picked the first one, but tried to work in the second. Hope you like it! <3

Mulder’s been back from the dead for a few weeks now and things are tense. He’s barely spoken to Scully and tries to avoid looking at her pregnant stomach when they are forced to be in the same room. His eyes will flutter down before snapping up to hers with a sad, detached look in his eyes.

The interaction breaks her heart every time.

Sighing, Scully knocks on the door to his apartment and waits. It feels foreign, this formality. Before his disappearance and subsequent death, she would knock once and then let herself in. It didn’t matter if she was there for work or a casual hangout (or toward the end, for sex). And then after he was gone, she would key into his place to spend the night in his bed. Even though it was lonely and her heart broke for a man she thought she’d never see again, it felt natural to claim ownership of his space.

Now she feels like an intruder even after he opens the door and lets her inside.

She wants to scream, to holler at him, to slap him when he glances down at her stomach before turning away with the same broken expression. He hasn’t even asked her about her pregnancy and it makes her want to throw-up. Why isn’t he happy? Does he regret getting her pregnant? Does he wish she had left him dead?

Too many thoughts burn in her mind. She’s trying to give him space. Coming back from the dead after an abduction can’t be easy (she knows about the latter) and doesn’t want to rush him. Yet, his complete lack of questioning hurts. She longed for him for months and now to have him back as a shell of himself is hard to take.

“I brought Chinese.” Scully says, awkwardly holding up the bag of take-out.

“Thanks.” Mulder takes it from her and settles them on the couch to eat the feast she brought. Scully catches him watching her out of the corner of his eye as she slowly brings herself down to the couch, grunting silently as the weight of her stomach pinches her spine before she rests against the cushions.

“Need another pillow?” Mulder offers, sliding it behind her back before she can nod in affirmation.

The question and action stun her. It’s the closest he has come to acknowledging her pregnancy.

“Thanks.” She whispers. It’s silent then, for the next few minutes as they both pick at their food. Neither are very hungry, but chewing gives them a distraction from talking. Mulder’s tv is on in the background and they both stare at the poorly written sci-fi movie playing out on the screen.

Scully tries to subtly study him from the corner of her eye as she eats. He seems tense and rigid, his lanky limbs coiled as if to spring to action at any moment. She knows his forced vacation/firing is hard on him, making his re-animation even more painful, but there seems to be something else upsetting him. Scully wishes he would speak with her, but can’t find the words to ask him about his feelings.

They were stunted in that department before the abduction. Now it’s even worse.

As a sigh draws from his lips, his food discarded on the coffee table, she knows she’s been caught studying him. She sets her own food to the side and turns to stare at him directly. “Can we talk?”

“About?” His response is smooth, but she catches the slightly annoyed undertone.

“Us.”

“Us?”

“Yes.”

“What is there to say?” This time his tone is less subtle and Scully bites her bottom lip at the irritation in his voice.

“How are you feeling?” It’s a weak question, a cop-out. They both know it. On a normal day, Mulder might let her get away with it, but not tonight.

“Scully, you don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Check on me.” Mulder waves his hands in front of him. “Hang out like we used to.”

“Why not?” Scully’s nervous. Does he not like her anymore? Does he blame her for not saving him?

“You must have more… important things to do now.” His eyes glance purposefully down at her stomach.

“Oh.” Scully breathes, looking down at her own body. “I’m fine. My doctor said I’m still okay to be active.” Her eyes glance back up at him to find that his jaw is tight and his fists are locked at his sides.

“I didn’t mean that you should stay home.” The low, dark quality of his voice scares her slightly. Scully can tell he is pissed, but isn’t sure why. At her confused expression, Mulder sighs again. “I just meant that you must have someone else to be with now.”

Scully’s confusion turns to utter shock. He doesn’t realize I’m pregnant with his kid. The realization slams into her like a ton of bricks. It all makes sense now. Mulder would have no reason to assume this pregnancy is because of their few nights together. She was sterile. He doesn’t know that they got their miracle.

Her jaw opens and closes twice before she reaches for one of his closed fists. “Mulder, look at me.”

“Scully, I can’t do this.” Mulder shakes his head, anger leaking out of every pore. She tries to cut him off, but he stands suddenly to pace the apartment. “How was I such an idiot, to believe that you, out of all people, could ever love me?”

The heartbreak in his voice draws tears to her eyes. “Mulder.” She tries again, but she can’t get off the couch quickly because of her large stomach and fumbles as he continues to pace.

“You haven’t even mentioned his name. Am I that much of an embarrassment that you don’t want me to know who he is?”

“Mulder, you’re wrong. Let me explain.” She’s desperate now, trying to get off the couch but the old cushions are too soft and she keeps sinking back as she tries to stand.

“I get it, Scully. You thought I was dead, but it’s only been a few months. Months. Am I that easy to get over?”

“Mulder.”

“I should have stayed dead. You should have left me in the ground.”

The moment he switches to self-deprecation in the form of suicide, Scully loses her patience. “Mulder!” His name is a loud shout and it finally draws his attention. “Get me off the fucking couch.”

The annoyance and anger in her tone surprises him and he moves quickly to assist her in standing. He sees her tears forming and mistakes them for frustration. When she’s finally vertical, Mulder’s eyes drop to the floor, deflated now that the anger is gone. “If you want to go back to just being friends, I can pretend that I’m okay with it. I’ll pretend for you, Scully.”

“Mulder, I don’t want you to pretend.”

“Oh.” Mulder nods, tears prickling his own eyes. It’s the first time since being back alive that he has felt any other emotion other than anger and betrayal. “I understand. Thanks for coming to say goodbye.”

“What? No, Mulder. You’re not giving me time to explain.” Scully grabs his hands and holds firm when he tries to pull away. “Look at me.”

“Scully.” “Mulder, shut up and look at me.”

His eyes lock with hers and he stops trying to pull his hands free. His taller frame bends slightly toward her out of an unconscious impulse to be closer and they take a few seconds to breathe. The emotions in the room feel like electricity and both of their bodies have goosebumps from the adrenaline.

“Ask me.” Scully whispers.

It takes him a second to understand, slowly shaking his head back and forth. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Ask me.” Scully prompts, blue eyes shining up into his with unshed tears.

Mulder gulps and glances at her stomach before meeting her gaze once more. “Whose child…” His voice breaks for a second. “How did you meet…” Mulder sighs. “Is it someone I know?”

Scully smiles a small smirk and drags his hands to touch her stomach. He flinches and tries to withdraw, but she holds steady and tries to ignore the pain in her heart as he attempts to jerk away.

“It’s yours.” Her voice comes out shaky and an octave too high, her fear evident in the quiet of his living room.

Mulder stutters for a second, his eyes rapidly moving up and down from his hands on her stomach to her face. “What?” It’s a breathless question when he is finally able to form words.

“I found out the day you went missing.”

“How? You were sterile. I thought the in vitro fertilization failed?”

Scully shivers as she feels his hands grip her stomach, no longer trying to rip away from her. She’s pretty sure he doesn’t realize he is actively holding her now. “The in vitro did fail.” Scully confirms. “But we had sex…” The word makes her blush despite everything they’ve gone through. “… and…” She breaks off, nervous about saying the word they used to promise to one another.

Mulder’s eyes widen and a tear falls down his cheek. “You got your miracle.”

Scully holds back tears at his wording, reaching up to swipe his from his cheek. “We got our miracle.” Scully holds her breath then. This is the moment. The one that’s been a long time coming. They are either in this together or Scully is about to become a single mother.

The baby kicks before Mulder can respond and he jumps back an inch, staring in wonder at her stomach. Her shirt moves a bit as the baby presses against her, flipping in the womb. Mulder’s mouth opens in shock, looking back at her face in wonder. “Does that hurt?”

“Not really. Sometimes the baby rests on my spine, which is painful, but otherwise it just feels… different. But good different.”

Mulder nods, listening to every word. His hand, which was pulled away from her when he jumped in surprise moves slowly back toward her body. “May I?”

“Of course.” Scully confirms, lacing their fingers before pressing his palm flat on her stomach. “If you hold here sometimes you can feel a kick or two.”

A few seconds later, Scully is proven correct as if the baby in her stomach was waiting for a performance cue. A foot kicks out against her stomach lining and Mulder huffs a pleased laugh in surprise.

“Oh, Scully.” Mulder whispers in breathless awe. The baby kicks again and Mulder pulls Scully into a tight embrace. It’s a bit awkward because of her protruding stomach, but he makes up for it by folding his taller frame around her. “We’re having a baby.”

The moment Mulder takes ownership of their child, Scully’s unshed tears burn down her cheeks. A sob breaks from her lips and she clings to him, fingers digging into his back through his t-shirt. “I’ve missed you so much, Mulder. I… oh god… I thought I was going to raise our child alone.”

Mulder pulls back to cup her face, stroking her wet cheeks. “Scully.” Her whispered name conveys all the emotions they are feeling. She cries openly, watching as Mulder does the same. He opens his mouth to say more, but a kick against his abdomen draws his attention and they both laugh instead. “Our child.” Mulder whispers with a broad smile.

Scully nods and gasps quietly as Mulder drops to his knees. Her hands land in his hair, fluffy from the few weeks he has been back without a haircut, and she strokes his scalp as he slowly lifts her shirt.

“Oh.” A startled gasp breaks from her mouth as his lips land on her bare stomach. The feeling of his pouty lower lip touching her skin makes her body tingle and her fingers dig lightly into his scalp. Emotions pull in her chest and she sobs when he kisses all across her stomach.

“I can’t wait to meet you.” Mulder whispers to the baby after he is done with his kissing exploration.

The words break Scully’s barely withheld resolve and she lets out a loud sob. Bending down, Scully tugs on his hair and slams her lips to his with a wild desperation. Her tears mix with his on his cheeks as she devours his lips. The kiss is messy and sloppy and uncoordinated. Too many emotions make it frantic, but neither of them seem to care. The fact that they are kissing again overshadows finesse.

They pull back as Scully whimpers a sob against his lips. “Scully.” He breathes, standing to pull her back to his chest.

“Please, Mulder.” She whines, not entirely sure what’s she’s asking for but knowing she can’t stand to be without him for a second longer.

As if understanding, Mulder laces their hands and leads her to his bedroom. It’s clean and organized, a sign that Scully was living there during the months that he was missing, but his worn clothes litter the floor. The sight makes another sob pull from her chest and Mulder is quick to remove her shirt, discarding it among his own clothing.

Scully turns slightly, suddenly bashful about the state of her larger body, but Mulder catches her by her arms, holding her steady. “You’re still so beautiful, Scully. I’ve missed your body.”

“Mulder.” She whispers. She realizes that she hasn’t said his name this many times since his disappearance and it feels heavy and reverent on her lips.

Mulder runs his hands across her hips, catching the band of her leggings. “May I?”

“Yes.”

Slowly, her pants are peeled from her legs and she is left standing in her bra and panties. Mulder moans softly, tracing his fingertips up her thighs. They are slightly larger from the extra weight she is carrying and he smiles as they tremble under his hands.

“Gorgeous.” Mulder praises, kissing her hip right where it meets leg.

“Oh my god.” Scully moans, emotions raging wild alongside arousal.

“Is it okay if we…?” Mulder trails off with a slightly embarrassed flush.

Scully giggles and the reprieve makes her feel lighter. The emotional break good for both of them. “Yes. We can have sex while I’m pregnant.”

“I have so much research to catch up on.” Mulder smiles from his position on his knees.

The statement makes Scully’s heart lurch. He is going to research how to be a father. The thought makes her reach for him, bringing him back to his feet. “Can we skip the foreplay? I need you inside of me.” She’s slightly embarrassed at being so blunt about their first time back together, but she doesn’t care.

Mulder must not mind because he nods and kisses her once before stripping off his own shirt and pants. The sight of his bare torso makes her reach for him, stroking up his chest with flat hands.

“Please.” She breathes again.

“How do you want to do this?” Mulder responses.

Scully bites her lip. She wants to be able to see him while they reconnect, but she also knows that doggy-style would be easier with her pregnancy. “I’ll start on top.” She decides. It won’t be for long, but she needs to look at him as she takes him inside her body.

Mulder nods and quickly drops his boxers before sliding onto his bed. He watches with admiration as she slips out of her panties and sheds her bra before straddling him on the bed. It takes a few moments and Mulder’s assistance to get her there, but once she is in place they hold hands on top of her stomach for a few beats of their hearts.

“Ready?” Scully whispers.

“Ready.” Mulder nods.

Their moans join as they cry out into the bedroom, the first few inches of his shaft slipping into her sex. When he is buried inside of her, pelvis to pelvis, they pause and stare at one another. Neither can believe they are here, like this. It’s breathtaking and surreal.

Slowly, Scully begins to bounce up and down. Her movements are small, unable to lift completely with her added weight, but they don’t mind. It keeps him incredibly deep and strokes against her g-spot almost immediately. Scully gasps in surprise at the sudden intense pleasure, stunned that they still fit together so perfectly.

Mulder unlaces their hands to hold her hips, a grin spreading over his features at her slightly wider hips. “Pregnancy looks good on you.”

Scully blushes. Her breasts are larger and swollen as well and sway heavily as she rocks on his hips. Her hands cup them when the swaying starts to ache and smirks a small grin when he moans in response.

After a few more minutes, her breathing gets heavy and her thighs sink against his legs. “Mulder, I can’t…” She doesn’t have to finish her sentence. He rolls them gently over so that she’s propped against some pillows on her back. It takes them a few minutes to get things just right for her back, but it doesn’t kill the mood. Mulder slips back inside of her still just as hard as he was.

With her stomach in the way, Mulder can’t hover above her and settles for pulling her legs over his hips as he rocks into her at a ninety-degree angle to her body. Scully re-cups her breasts as they bounce on her chest and Mulder groans softly at not being able to suck on her nipples.

“Another time.” Scully gasps, catching his longing stare.

He smirks and nods, keeping his thrusts steady in and out of her. Her wetness coats his shaft and he moans at the sight of their arousals joining between their thighs.

“Scully.” Mulder moans. “I’m not going to last much longer.” He sounds apologetic, but Scully shakes her head to dismiss his embarrassment. He just came back from the dead after all. He can’t be expected to have stamina. Not when the love of his life just told him that the baby in her belly is his.

“It’s okay.” Scully promises, reaching for one of his hands again.

“Are you close?”

“No.” Scully admits with no malice in her voice. “But the pregnancy makes orgasming tough sometimes.”

“I can wait until…”

Scully cuts him off with a shake of her head. “I don’t care if I don’t orgasm tonight. I just want to feel you come in me.”

The bluntness makes Mulder groan and he squeezes her hand. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Scully nods with a smile.

They had only slept together a few times before he went missing, but she learned quickly that he was a very thoughtful lover. She never went without an orgasm, often coming multiple times in a session. Scully knows it’s not in his nature to come first, but moans as he lets himself go just this once, confident that she is telling him the truth about her desires.

His hips piston a bit harder and quicker inside of her, stroking himself along her slippery walls before tipping over the ledge of pleasure. He cries out her name, fucking her through his orgasm as he empties inside of her.

The action makes them both think about the child in her belly and after he spurts the last of his orgasm into her core he falls next to her, collecting her in his arms. Her ass meets his softening cock, their arousals smearing on her lower back, but neither mind the mess. His arms keep her close and they breath in unison for a long time.

“I’m going to be a father.”

“I’m going to be a mother.”

Mulder holds her stomach, feeling the baby wiggling around in her stomach and Scully’s hands join his on her body.

There are a lot of unknowns left to figure out. Their relationship, the x-files, if they will co-parent while living together, etc. but for right now they are back together and that’s all that matters. Scully’s in his bed with him and she isn’t alone anymore.

Turning onto her back, she kisses him deeply before settling back to be the little spoon. “Mulder?”

“Yeah, Scully?” “You do know I love you, right?”

Mulder hugs her tighter to him. “I do now. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

“I should have explained the pregnancy the moment you woke up.”

Mulder kisses her shoulder. “Let’s talk about this later. I just want to hold you and our baby for a while.” Scully smiles as his thumbs brush her belly back and forth. It’s quiet for a second longer. “I love you too, Scully.”

#x files #txf #mulder #scully #msr #prompt #angst and love

112 notes · View notes

missinghan · 4 years

Text

aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales.

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage.

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is.

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess.

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time.

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back.

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school.

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence.

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield.

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene.

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers.

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where?

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck.

“What’s your name?”

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed.

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform.

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief.

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care.

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease.

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.”

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly.

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night.

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom.

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle.

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you.

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next.

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world.

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path.

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat.

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind.

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail.

“What the fuck?”

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely.

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less.

Because that’s the least of his problem right now.

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization.

four.

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that.

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand.

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground.

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home.

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager.

Minho feels awful.

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him.

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice.

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out.

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up.

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions.

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?”

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand.

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously.

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?”

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.”

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life.

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld.

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?”

“It’s Lee Minho.”

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five.

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility.

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here.

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life.

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much?

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for.

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too.

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great.

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one.

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike.

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes.

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away.

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor.

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now.

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave.

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don’t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child.

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his.

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place.

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then.

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are.

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself.

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process.

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words.

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares.

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in.

You can only nod. “Yeah.”

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest.

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony.

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists.

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years.

Nothing makes sense.

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself.

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break.

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin.

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms.

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within.

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear.

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react.

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about?

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet.

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.”

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done.

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart.

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?”

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess.

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection.

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause.

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.

318 notes · View notes

scapegrace74-blog · 4 years

Text

Ginger Snap, Chapter 5

A/N Know what this fic needs? More Geillis. No really, I think you guys are going to like where I’m going with this. Just bear with me. Only one more chapter to go after this one, plus an epilogue. Thanks for coming on the journey with me! With due credit to Sia, this chapter’s title is Fire, Meet Gasoline.

Previous chapters are best enjoyed on my AO3 page, because I have a bad habit of going back and editing them after they’ve been posted.

Geillis Duncan drove much the way she approached life, which was to say without much regard for rules and at white-knuckle speed. I gripped her Range Rover’s leather cushion and swallowed any exclamations of dismay as we ricocheted through Edinburgh’s late afternoon traffic. When we finally slid into an underground parking spot and emerged into the bustling festivity of the Princes Street Christmas Market, I felt the tension of imminent disaster abandon my shoulders.

“Where to first, then?” Geillis asked, looking far too animated by the prospect of accompanying someone while they did their Christmas shopping.

Geillis and I had kept in touch and met for coffee a few times over the past months. When I explained that I wouldn’t be taking any more cooking classes at Ginger Snap because Jamie was giving me at-home lessons, her reaction was a moonbeam grin.

“Look at ye, wee vixen! I ne’er wouldha thought ye had it in ya, Claire. Tho I canna say as I blame ye.”

No matter how much I protested that I was together with Frank and that my relationship with Jamie was purely professional, she refused to believe me. The ongoing absence of a ring from my left hand didn’t help.

“Now,” Geillis exclaimed once we’d taken in the sights and sounds of the market, “let’s have a keek at yer list. Where should we start?”

I pulled out my phone and opened the Notes app. As she read, my friend’s nose wrinkled in confusion.

“Trouser socks, shoe stays, Moleskine notebook, Rive Gauche... who are ye shopping for, yer grandparents?”

“No,” I protested. “The first three are for Frank. The perfume is for me.”

When I explained that Frank had made a list of the items he would like to give me for Christmas, Geillis grew incensed.

“Ye mean he has ye doin’ his gift buying fer him? Tha’s the least romantic thing I’ve e’er heard. Do ye even like Rive Gauche, Claire? And dinna lie tae me, fer I can read yer feelings all o’er yer face.”

Truthfully, I didn’t much care for the flowery scent. My personal taste ran more towards woodsy or herbaceous aromas. But it was Frank’s favourite, and it pleased me to please him. Or it had. I was beginning to wonder when it would be my turn to please myself.

“Right,” Geillis interrupted my thoughts. “Marks and Sparks will do jes fine for yer wee granny list. And then you and I are going shopping fer yer real gift.”

Geillis was a force to be reckoned with in a retail environment. She navigated like a guided missile from one department to the next. Twenty minutes later, we were back on the pavement, which glistened with the colourful reflections of decorations strung above.

“Your car is the other way,” I explained as Geillis turned left.

“Aye, tis, but our destination is right o’er here. House of Fraser. See? Tis practically calling yer name, Claire.”

Inside the venerable old building was an astonishing multi-tiered arcade reaching over five stories to a massive skylit ceiling. The central space was dominated by a fifteen metre-high Christmas tree (a Fraser fir, of course) and every archway of every arcade was dripping with lights. The impression was like stepping into a Fabergé egg.

Geillis dragged me, slack-jawed, towards the ladies’ wear section. Circling the racks like a hawk on the wind, she eyed my body, sizing me up quite literally, then thrust several pieces into my hands.

“Geillis,” I hissed, wary of the sales staff hovering nearby, no doubt smelling an excessive commission in the offing. “I don’t need a new outfit. And I certainly don’t need,” I shook the garments in question, “something like this. Wherever would I wear it?”

“Well, fer starters, ye’d wear it tae dinner t’night. I dinna wish tae offend ye, Claire, but I canna in good conscience allow ye tae set foot in the Timberyard dressed fer a job interview as a primary school teacher.”

With that she shoved me in the direction of the changing rooms. Deciding to humour her, I was unbuttoning my top when two lacy bits of nothing came flying over the door.

“Start wi’ these. And dinna think I willna notice if ye’re no’ wearing them!”

I stripped down to my panties, bemusedly wondering how she knew my exact bra size.

Upon seeing me exit the dressing room in her choice of clothing, Geillis let out a squeal of delight. She insisted I rip out the tags and leave the store wearing my new outfit, declaring it was her Christmas gift to me.

I felt tremendously self-conscious as we walked towards the restaurant. The aubergine velvet jeans clung to my legs in an unfamiliar way and the black turtleneck, while technically not revealing, hinted at kink with its many heavy zippers and fastenings. Together with my unruly hair, unstraightened for once, I felt like another woman entirely. I didn’t recognize her, but I felt like she might be someone I’d like to get to know.

The Timberyard was a modern restaurant in a rugged old warehouse, not far from the farmer’s market I’d visited with Jamie. We were joined there by several of Geillis’ friends, and we ate, drank and laughed until my sides were sore.

As I wobbled to the loo, I noticed the bartender following me with an appreciative gaze. It had been a long time since a man had looked at me that way, and it gave me a guilty thrill.

We left the restaurant just before midnight. I pulled Geillis into an impulsive hug.

“Wha’ was that for, hen?” she asked.

“Nothing. Everything. Just, thank you for being you, Geil.”

“Och, tis my pleasure, lass. I only want tae see ye happy. Now, what do ye say to a digestif?”

After only a slight protest on my part, the two of us piled into an Uber. Our destination was another restaurant, this time in a converted whisky warehouse by the harbour in Leith. It was well past last sitting, but when I mentioned this to Geillis she explained away my concern.

“I ken the owner, who’s also the chef. Tis a popular spot fer locals in the restaurant scene tae meet after they close up fer a few drinks afore heading home tae their beds.”

Inside, the walls were rough stone, supported in places by industrial metal beams. The kitchen was open to the main dining area, and I grinned as I thought of Frank’s strong opinion on the matter. Near the back of the room, lit by dim naked bulbs and the glow from several open fireplaces, was a huge square table surrounded by nearly twenty chairs upholstered in bright yellow plaid. Around the table was gathered a motley assortment of men and women, all talking and laughing and sipping on a variety of drinks. And in their midst, his copper hair shining in the firelight, sat Jamie.

A shout went up from the table as Geillis approached. I hung back, tugging at the hem of my new turtleneck as though I could stretch it to cover my arse. Besides Jamie, I recognized Jenny, Angus and Murtagh, but I only had eyes for the big ginger chef. He sat at one corner, probably in deference to his long legs which were stretched out before him, wrapped in black denim. A black leather jacket hung over the chair behind him. He looked dangerous. It was a very good look for him.

Dragging me by the elbow, Geillis nudged and bumped Angus to one side despite his vulgar protests, then practically pushed me down into the chair directly next to the chef. With a smug smile of satisfaction, she then retired to the opposite side of the table.

I looked anywhere but directly at Jamie, but I could feel his butane eyes on me. I was certain he would scorch right through my outer layers and down to where Geillis’ choice in lingerie burned against my tender skin. The noise from the rest of the table faded away.

“Ye look bonnie t’night, Arsonist.” His voice was low and gruff and it sent a quickening through my veins.

“Thank you, Jamie. It was Geillis’ Christmas gift to me, and I feel, well... let’s just say it isn’t my usual look.”

“It suits ye, I think.” He reached out and lightly touched the silver tab of a zipper that ended near my wrist, setting it swinging. I swallowed and looked frantically around. Several open bottles of liquor stood nearby. Grabbing the nearest one, I poured myself a generous serving and knocked it back, all in one go. I tried to steady my breathing.

“Look, Jamie...”

Just then a blond man in chef’s whites called to Jamie from across the table. An exchange involving a lot of Scottish cursing and an off-colour reference to someone’s lobster pot ensued. I tried to convince myself I needed to leave. It was late, I was half-drunk, and whatever I intended to say to Jamie should definitely wait for another moment. Maybe never.

A hand on my thigh broke my preoccupation.

“Sorry, Arsonist, ye were sayin’ something?”

I wet my lips, frantically trying to recall anything but the feeling of Jamie’s strong fingers, stroking me through the velvet of my jeans.

“I...”

At that moment, the woman on Jamie’s far side broke into song. The rest of the table cheered and clapped along, and it was impossible to hear anything except the concussive pounding of my heart against my eardrums.

Jamie grabbed my clammy hand.

“Come wi’ me,” he instructed, grabbing our outerwear and pulling me towards the door. Geillis watched our departure with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

Outside the air was dense and cold, a briny slap after the stuffy warmth of the restaurant. Jamie obviously had a destination in mind, and we walked hand-in-hand along the cobbled streets for several minutes before finally emerging at the port. A jetty struck out into the inky sea, and it was there that we ended up. Besides a few gulls and the winking of a nearby lighthouse, we were all alone. The sodium street lights caught Jamie’s curls and made them burn.

“Forgive me, Arsonist. I couldna hear myself think in there. Tho, come tae think of it, tis no’ much better now.” Rather than release me, as he spoke Jamie stroked my hand, running calloused fingers over each vein and every knuckle. I don’t think he even realized he was doing it, but it stole every thought from my head.

“No ring,” he remarked, stroking the finger in question.

“No,” I whispered in response.

And then it burst out of me, like a tidal wave of feeling that I never saw coming. I told him everything. My childhood roaming the globe with my uncle, pre-occupied and rootless, dreaming of stability. Meeting Frank at Harvard, and realizing that he represented all the things that my life to date had lacked: structure, security, a solid foundation, a home. And how it took moving to Scotland and coming into contact with a group of near-strangers to make me realize that the price I had paid for that stability was higher than I’d ever imagined. I’d given up my dream of becoming a doctor. I’d become so lost in Frank’s vision of who I should be that I’d almost lost sight of who I actually was.

By the time the flood of words left me, I was in Jamie’s arms, crying into his leather jacket. He hushed me with quiet murmurs and languorous stroking of my hair, as one would a child who has woken from a nightmare.

I stepped out of his embrace and rubbed my sleeve across my face. I must have looked an absolute mess, but he still watched me with those earnest, patient eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I began, “I don’t know what...”

“Claire,” he interrupted. I’d never before realized just how many consonants were in my given name. “Ye dinna need tae apologize tae me. But ye may want tae consider an apology tae yerself.” At my raised eyebrow, he continued.

“I’m no’ the kind of man tae tell another what they should and shouldna do. But ye strike me as someone who’s made decisions fer the right reasons, yet ended up in the wrong place.” Here he paused, as though carefully weighing his words. “There’s no sin in changin’ yer mind, Arsonist. Tis very well tae be hungry, so long as ye ken what ye hunger for.”

“And what do you hunger for, James Fraser?” The provocative words had left my lips before I had the chance to censor them. His answer came in the form of a blistering look that left no doubt as to its meaning. Then he gathered himself, banking the fire I’d unconsciously ignited.

“Many things. Regular, ordinary things, mostly. My family’s health and happiness. A faster bike. My own restaurant.”

“Like Tom’s there?” I asked, gesturing towards the harbour.

“Och, Tom is a braw chef, and worthy o’ every accolade tha’s been showered upon him. But the hospitality scene in Edinburgh is cut-throat, an’ suitable locations cost a fortune. Nah, Jenny and I want tae buy back our childhood home in the Highlands. Tis called Lallybroch, and when our Da passed, our Mam sold it tae her brother. We’d turn it inta a country inn, wi’ Jenny running the lodging side o’ things and I the dining. Tha’s the dream anyway,” he ended with a shrug.

I rested my hand on his forearm. “That sounds like a wonderful plan, Jamie.”

Before he could reply, an enormous yawn burst from my lungs.

“Time tae get ye home tae yer bed, Arsonist,” Jamie grinned. “Come, I’ll give ye a ride.”

“Wait, haven’t you been drinking?” I inquired as we walked back down the jetty.

“Three years sober,” he explained with no hint of embarrassment. “I went somewhere pretty dark after my Mam died, an’ it took a near-fatal crash tae scare me straight.” His eyes squinted in a poor approximation of a wink as he added, “Besides, there are better ways tae chase a rush than in the bottom of a bottle.”

“Such as?” I asked brazenly.

Which was how I found myself on the back on a black motorcycle, my arms twined around Jamie’s waist. Rather than take me directly home, he steered us north, following the coast. It was very late, with hardly another vehicle about. We merged onto the motorway, and Jamie picked up speed. My thighs tightened around his lean hips, the vibration of the motor beneath us shivering up my spine. As we emerged beneath the hastate lights of the Queensferry Bridge, I stretched my arms wide, icy air ripping against the sleeves of my jacket. I laughed, although no-one could hear me. I yelled, and only the wind yelled back. I was flying.

***

It was nearly dawn when Jamie pulled up in front of my flat. My legs thrummed, my eyes were dry with fatigue, and my heart ached, but I felt better than I could ever remember. I handed Jamie back his spare helmet and shook out my curls. He watched me in that half-sleepy, half-vigilant way of his that I now recognized as desire.

“I don’t know what I could ever say to thank you, Jamie.”

“Ye needn’t say anything at all, Arsonist. Nae matter what ye decide, it has been my very great honour tae get tae know you.”

Without another word, he kick-started the engine and drove off into the early morning mist.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to his vanishing shadow.

***

The lamp above the couch was lit, and Frank lay still beneath its glow. I realized he had fallen asleep waiting for me to come home. Instead of regret, what I felt in that moment was pity.

The sound of my jacket being unzipped woke him. He blinked in confusion and then in shock.

“I’m very sorry if you were worried,” I began.

“Worried? Do you have any idea what time it is? My God, Claire, I don’t know what to make of you these days. You’ve never behaved irresponsibly before, and now you’re out at all hours and you’re wearing,” he gestured wildly with his hand at my new outfit which I had, quite honestly, forgotten I was wearing. “And your hair, Claire!” he finished, as though the manic state of my curls was definitive evidence of my fall from grace. Despite my exhaustion, I stood tall.

“Frank, we need to talk.”

#my writing #outlander #ginger snap

64 notes · View notes

justforbooks · 4 years

Photo

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did. But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #John le Carré #The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life

125 notes · View notes

k7l4d4 · 3 years

Text

Plane Shift: The Boiling Isles, Brief Character Portfolio

Hello all, today I am going to go into some measure of detail for the characters in this crossover between the Owl House and Dungeons and Dragons 5e. Everybody clap your hands!!

Now, to give a little heads up, the way this portfolio is set up is based on the following Format:

Character Name

Defining Quote/Motto

Alignment Inclinations

Favored Classes/Known Classes

Brief Profile

Okay, now that the format is listed, time to get into the nitty gritty!

Luz Noceda

“Limits? What are those!”

Chaotic Good/Neutral Good

Primary Class: Wizard, Subclass: Order of Scribes. Secondary Class: Artificer, Subclass: Battle Smith. Tertiary Classes: Paladin, Rogue, and Bard.

The young daughter of the famed Plane Warden and Cleric, Camila Noceda, Luz has always had her head in the clouds, longing for adventure and friendship. Upon entering the Adventurer’s Academy, she proceeded to rock the very foundation of Plana and adventuring by choosing not one, not two, but FIVE classes to train in! She would’ve tried them all, but was talked out of it when they professors made it clear it would be physically impossible for her to take them all, and that the number she had selected would push her to greatest of limits. Luz lives life without limits or regret, and while her extremely impulsive nature has resulted in a rather poor social life, she is greatly beloved among the street dwellers and lower ranks of local organizations and groups of her home.

Amity Blight

“Perfection is impossible. That’s why we seek it.”

Lawful Good/Neutral Good

Primary Class: Warlock, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Artificer.

The youngest child of the affluent Blight Family, recently displaced from her home dimension, Amity holds herself to a strict standard of decorum. Her methodical nature, dedication to study, and respect for authority has made her a divisive figure within the Adventurer’s Academy, as while her new instructors find her dedication admirable, they also worry it will disallow her from living a healthy and happy life. Amity regularly runs afoul of Luz, but the human girl’s friendly nature, genuine endearment, and appreciation for magic and learning has served as a bonding bridge between the two. Hints of something deeper within her heart grow clearer all the while.

Willow Park

“Nature is a blessing to us all. We have a duty to care for it, and each other.”

Neutral Good/Chaotic Good

Primary Class: Druid, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Barbarian.

The only child of the Park family, Willow is a quiet, gentle child all around, but within her lurks a frightening power over nature itself that constantly threatens to break free if not for her ironclad self-control, and kind nature. Once friends with Amity Blight, circumstances forced a rift between them, and she holds that pain as a torch within her heart, always wary of letting it burn her down to nothing but unwilling to let go. Willow’s incredible connection with Plants has made her a rare talent among the Druid classes, and she is constantly called to demonstrate her power before her new peers, much to her delight.

Augustus “Gus” Porter

“So much to learn! So much to experience!”

Neutral Good/Chaotic Good

Primary Class: Wizard, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Bard.

A young prodigy who skipped several grades in his home dimension, Gus is still an outstanding figure when it comes to both technical skill and application of magic. Excitable, kind if somewhat insensitive on occasion, and with a fierce need to prove himself, Gus often finds himself in difficult situations, both socially and dangerously, but he never allows it to affect his optimism. He’s rapidly built a bond with Luz over their shared passion and energy, not to mention his excitement over befriending “an actual real-life human!”

Boscha Triplet

“I saved the day! Why? Because I’m a Star of Course!”

Lawful Neutral

Primary Class: Monk, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Artificer.

An athletic star with an incredible ego, Boscha is by all accounts an unpleasant individual, yet since coming to Plana, she’s gradually shown signs of a more vulnerable personality, one she vehemently denies and buries within herself, much to the chagrin of others. While she initially chose Monk as a joke, thinking it of a blow-off course or something similar, the relentless physical training, and the brutally humiliating smackdown dealt on her first day have served to motivate her to continue and succeed in the Class she chose, if only out of pure spite. The philosophical aspects of Monk training seem to go over her head, yet her friends and foes alike have noted her occasionally seem to verge on saying something mean or crude, only to stop herself and stare off in contemplation.

Skara Levine

“Just go with the rhythm. Everything will work out, right?”

Lawful Neutral

Primary Class: Bard, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Sorcerer.

A young girl who lived at the top, Skara had many halmarks of being a potential problem child, often being easily lead and influenced by those deemed her friends, Skara is typically very sweet and outgoing, but for all her social butterfly moments, they are undercut by her poor interpersonal skills, frequently stumbling onto sensitive topics without any inclination she understood why she shouldn’t bring them up. She is a paradox, being both kind and cruel, nice and mean, in equal measures, the parallel nature of her behavior often befuddles those around her. She’s recently begun stating that she hears things suddenly when no one is around.

Emira Blight

“Don’t worry, I can handle this on my own.”

Chaotic Good/Chaotic Neutral

Primary Class: Rogue, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Fighter.

The oldest daughter of the Blight family, Emira is a mischievous girl with a fondness for mayhem. Nonetheless, she cares for her family and friends, even if her methods occasionally leave much to be desired. Of the Blight Children, Emira is the most independent, often resentful of any perceived restrictions, but calm enough to find workarounds rather than lash out. She frequently professes that looks forward to the day she can live her own life, and enjoys teasing her sister along with her brother.

Edric Blight

“We got this, we just got to stick together.”

Chaotic Good/Chaotic Neutral

Primary Class: Rogue, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Bard.

The lone son of the Blight family, Edric is Emira’s twin, and is in many ways both her equal and her mirror. While sharing her sense of mischief and love of tricks, Edric is far more flighty and whimsical, often hyper-fixating on animals and whatever shiny thing catches his eye, often projecting a childish air about him. He is the most insecure of the Blight siblings, though he hides it well, and dreads the idea of being alone, particularly from his twin.

Viney Arkswood

“Animals are our friends. They have just as much capacity for good as we do.”

Chaotic Good

Primary Class: Ranger, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Druid.

One of three students sentenced to the Detention Track for their mixing of magical disciplines, Viney has a caring heart and a love of people and animals that manifested in a rather strange way, in that she attempted, and technically succeeded, in training her pet griffin to be a nursing assistant. Viney is genuinely unsure if she wishes to return, with the lone benefit in her mind being to see her parents again.

Jerbo Underslack

“I might be nervous, but that doesn’t make me incompetent.”

Chaotic Good/Chaotic Neutral

Primary Class: Cleric, Subclass: Nature Domain. Secondary Class: Druid.

One of the three Detention Track students, Jerbo’s love of plants and his fondness for the idea of loyal aides combined in his creation of plant monsters that trashed the gardens of his school. Jerbo is the most suspicious and leery of his friends, often being slow to trust and even slower to act, he nonetheless is a kind soul, and used his admittance into the Adventurer’s Academy to try and kind some new meaning in his life.

Barcus Howsberry

“Your soul glimmers with the joy of a newfound toy in the arms of a lonely child.”

Chaotic Good

Primary Class: Wizard, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Artificer.

Last and oddest of the three Detention Track students, Barcus’ unusual body and strange speech make him truly bizarre, and his cryptic demeanor doesn’t help. Barcus enjoys both the art of Potions and Prediction, and frequently seeks to join the two. Upon arrival, and confirmation that yes he is a sapient being, Barcus was checked by Camila, and was determined to have a hereditary curse bound to his being, and when offered to have it removed, his comfort with his form initially made him refuse, only to be told that the speech impediment and oddness of his form would destroy any chance of him being able to integrate into society, causing him to compromise and have the curse suppressed instead.

Camila Noceda

“To bring goodness and love in this world means I can rest easy, knowing I left it in the hands of those I love.”

Lawful Good

Primary Class: Cleric, Subclass: Life Domain. Secondary Class: None.

Mother of Luz Noceda, Camila is the current Plane Warden of Plana, being entrusted with guarding the city from extraplanar threats and to help guide and aid those lost between realms. Camila is a loving soul, but the strain of her job has worn on her over the years, with the sole reprieve being her precious daughter. Camila often adopts a motherly role for the displaced children now in her care, offering both advice when needed, and discipline as necessary. Camila also frequently aids and offers advice to the adults now sharing her living space, hoping to help them adjust to their situation.

Edalyn Clawthorne

“I’m the most powerful witch in the Isles, but it never meant a thing until I found someone to use that power for.”

Chaotic Good

Primary Class: Sorcerer, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Wizard.

Fiercest Wild Witch to grace the Boiling Isles since Belos’ ascension, Eda marches to the beat of her own drum, no exceptions, but she still holds a beautiful heart for those she cares for, and people in general, no matter how much she denies it. Eda was genuinely shocked to learn that Camila could, and did, heal her curse, effectively if not easily, and feels a deep sense of obligation towards the woman a a result, not to mention her all around soft spot for Camila’s daughter. Eda genuinely has no desire to return to the Isles at this point, beyond maybe a chance to reconcile with her mother and retrieve Hooty and all her stuff.

Lilith Clawthorne

“I am far from perfect, and have made many mistakes. This is the least I can do.”

Lawful Good/Lawful Neutral

Primary Class: Paladin, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Wizard.

Lilith Clawthorne, elder sister to Eda, means well, but is both painfully naive and far too trusting for one her age, as well as disturbingly childish and immature. For all that though, Lilith holds a good heart and thrives in a structured and ordered environment and system. When she received the knowledge that Eda’s curse had been cured, Lilith was nearly left catatonic, as the curing of Eda rendered all her efforts meaningless and her life without true purpose. When Eda bluntly stated that even with her curse cured she will NEVER join a coven, Lilith forced herself to accept it, no matter how much it hurt. Since that day, Lilith has attempted to find a new direction in life, and to help others as best she can.

Odalia Blight

“Like it or not, one’s word is their bond.”

Lawful Neutral/Lawful Evil

Primary Class: Wizard, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Bard.

Matriarch of the Blight family, and a near-Karen level individual, Odalia is both incredibly goal-oriented and driven by a desire to succeed. Domineering and controlling, Odalia exerts a highly unhealthy and toxic level of influence over her childrens’ lives, though she does truly love them. Odalia enjoys having the upper hand, and will do anything to allow her children and family to not only survive but thrive, and is very much fond of disproportionate retribution against her enemies.

Alador Blight

“This could prove interesting.”

Lawful Neutral/Lawful Evil

Primary Class: Artificer, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: Rogue.

Patriarch of the Blight family, and all around bizarre individual, Alador cares for little in his life aside from his inventions, his wife, and his children, in that order. Often dazed and easily distracted, Alador is highly curious and constantly seeks new inspiration for his devices and creations, no matter how dangerous the circumstances. He cares little for his wife’s antics and schemes, but in no way does he find them unacceptable, he often acts as a stabilizing influence upon her, and is perfectly fine with calling her out on her behavior when she genuinely goes too far.

Hieronymus Bump

“Dedication and Focus are important, but true passion and joy for what you do makes all the difference.”

Neutral Good/Lawful Good

Primary Class: Wizard, Subclass: Undetermined. Secondary Class: None.

Principal to the famed, some would say infamous, Hexside School of Magic and Demonics, Principal Bump loves to teach and help others learn, and is perfectly willing to play the system to ensure he can do so. While he genuinely loves all his students and wishes them to succeed, he is willing to admit he is old-fashioned to a certain extent and can have trouble keeping his views on a topic unbiased, and can occasionally act in unethical ways if it means finding a solution to a problem, though he does not enjoy such measures. He aids Camila in searching for a way to return home for him and his fellows, and often acts as a reasonable authority figure for the students who came with them.

17 notes · View notes

lo-55 · 4 years

Text

Playing With Fire

While playing a perfectly innocent video game you get thrown into a dangerous world on the brink of incineration! At least you’re surrounded by a bunch of hot people. If nothing else you can shower them with copious, well earned affection.

You come awake with a start.

Everything is just a little off kilter. Like your eyes aren’t focused or you're wearing someone else's glasses. It takes you a few long minutes to realize that you’re staring down at a piece of paper.

It’s listed one through eight, with a check box next to each number.

At the top you see ‘Company Preference List’, and beneath that is your name scrawled in your own handwriting. But, when did you write it? And what was the list? You look up to find yourself in a library, surrounded by a bunch of other people all dressed in orange uniforms. You look down and find yourself in the same one. You recognize it as the Fire Force boiler suits.

You touch your cheek slowly. Then poke the corner of your eyes. You’re not wearing your VR visor. And you’re not holding handles either. Are you hallucinating? You were playing the game, in the middle of some side quest. Did the game reset? This looked like a scene from the start of the game. It followed the beginning of the series, but through the eyes of a random side character researching Haijima on their own. There was some kind of revenge plot and a lot of stuff about their big sister, but you hadn’t gotten to the full reveal of the tragic back story yet. They interacted with the main characters plenty, but mostly they spent their time in their own squad, the fourth.

You were halfway through the game, and now you were back at the start?

You look around for something to tell you what’s going on. You try to poke the menu button, but you’re not holding controllers. So all you really end up doing is poking the air between your hands with your thumbs. You’re starting to panic, when something shiny catches your attention.

When did you get that ring?

Plain silver on your forefinger. You poke it and gasp when the world shifts minutely.

A flicker of fire, a figure dark against the light. It warps in and out of your vision in a split second.

Right. Tragic back story.

The ring was from their (your?) older sister. Now disappeared a-la-infernal fire. You were like the reverse Shinra.

Wait.

Shinra.

Your head snapped around quickly from one person to the other. Most of them were boring background characters. No, no, no. Boring. Lame. Basically grey blobs.

Were you going crazy and you couldn’t even enjoy it?!

“Uh, hey? Are you okay?”

Your head snaps sideways to find bright red eyes peering at you in concern.

Red eyes. Black hair.

You stare hard at him until the corners of his mouth start to twitch and curl upwards.

“H-hey. Why are you staring at me?”

Abruptly you reach over and cup his cheeks. His face is hot beneath your hands. You can touch him. You can feel the heat of his skin. He’s blushing something fierce.

“You are… adorable,” you declare.

He turns bright red and squeaks at you until you finally let him go.

“What?!”

“Did I stutter?” you prop your chin in your hand and look him over. Yep. Definitely cute. You just wanna squeeze him. But, you should probably do other things first. Like figure out what exactly is going on.

Not that you can come outta the gate with ‘hey I was playing a video game and now I’m stuck in it, also I thought you weren’t real? What gives yo?’

Even you aren’t that impulsive.

Actually, in real live you’re not very impulsive at all. That was what made games so fun, especially open world ones where you could do basically whatever you wanted. IRL you were more withdrawn than anything, even when you wanted to be social.

Now… You could be whoever you wanted, right?

Did you even have to follow the plot? Could you put a preference for another company and go there? Or would you still end up in the forth? And what about your abilities? In the game you’d had a choice at the beginning between a second gen ability and two third gen powers. You’d ended up picking at random, since they all seemed cool and you hadn’t been very far into the anime yet at the time.

How would you even use those powers here, assuming that you could?

“Sorry, I was spacing out,” you finally said, “What were you saying?”

“Oh uh,” Shinra looked away, his grin still pulling at his face. “I was just asking if you were okay. You were looking at the form for so long, but whenever you talked about joining a company before you always said you would go to the fourth. Not that we talk a lot, so I wouldn’t know if you wanted to go to the fifth or the sixth or the seventh or-”

“Babe, you’re rambling,” you cut in, starting to smile yourself. Even though you’re beyond confused something about Shinra puts you at ease. Everything about him seems so… warm. And yeah, the smile could be off putting. If it wasn’t so damn adorable.

“O-oh!” aaaand he was blushing again.

You look down at the paper, your brows furrowing. What are you even supposed to say to this?

“I dunno,” you said at last, “I guess I was reconsidering. There’s a lot of companies, and a lot of options out there. I might end up going a totally different path if it’s not too late… What about you?”

“Me? Well I didn’t really have a particular preference, but I heard that they’re trying to send more people to the eighth this year. Since its such a new company, and so small.”

“Mmmm. That’s true. Maybe I’ll go there,” you muse. It would put you smack in the middle of all the action, and you could see the sweet Iris, and the too-hot-to-be-fair Maki. You could stay with adorable Shinra and the well meaning dumbass that was Arthur. Not to mention the two guys in charge. If you could get Obi to bench press you-

Nope! Bad! Focus on the task at hand. No thirsting over captains right now!

“I was thinking the same thing,” Shinra admitted, looking down at his own paper.

“Yeah? I guess such a small company would make it easy for you to stand out and come a hero, right?”

Shinra looked startled. You offered him a sweet smile and turned back to your paper and picked up your pen.

You marked your preferences.

Eighth, seventh, fourth, second, fifth, sixth, third, first.

“The eighth and the seventh?” Shinra asked, peaking over at your sheet.

You shot him a grin. “They both sound like fun to me. Hey, Shinra?”

“Yeah?”

Your grin grows wider. “Let’s both do our best, and save lots of people okay?”

Shinra’s smile is small, but true.

“Okay.”

You bump your fist to his to seal the deal.

It had taken you a couple of tries to find your dorm room.

Your body seemed like it knew what it was doing, even if your mind didn’t. You had to explain away your frazzled state to the woman in charge of your wing, a nun who’s name you couldn’t recall to save your life, as nerves. She had looked dubious, but hadn’t questioned you when she pointed you to your room.

Probably thinks I’m hung over, you thought as you stepped inside. If I didn’t know better I’d think I was drunk enough to hallucinate. But it’s all way too real. Just what happened? One second I was playing the game, and then my phone went off, and then it was all dark. After that I was in the library.

It was making your head hurt thinking about it.

You poked around the room. If you remembered right you’d had a roommate, but she’d already been assigned her company a week early. Her dad was some top brass in the military, so off to the second company she went,

You made sure the door was locked before you started riffling through your things.

Books, papers, clothes. Personal items.

You had a collection of antique keys for some reason, and a blanket shaped like a tortilla that was warmer than most space heaters. There was an old lighter with a hawk engraved on it in one drawer. When you touched it you got the sudden smell of pipe tobacco and a man laughing far in the back of your mind before it was gone. Just like when you touched the ring earlier.

Memories that weren’t yours. You had stepped into someone else's life.

When you looked in the mirror you found the face that your had designed for your character staring back at you. There was a thin ring of white in your eyes, cutting through their color and marking you as a pyrokinetic.

Shit. Each of those abilities had a different eye. Which one was the circle? There was a circle, a pointy cross, and teardrop because the designer was some edgelord. Which power does this mean I have? Wings? Magnet sand? Or the spear torch thingy?

You wished this could have been more like Fate/Grand Order. Then you would just have to keep track of your teams abilities, strengths, and weaknesses. Not your own.

Fuck.

You spend a long time in your room, packing up all of your belongings. None of them really belong to you. They belong to your character, and they’re only familiar in the sense that you’ve thrown them over your shoulder when you were looking for something specific before. Only now if you throw them they won’t puff back to where they were before eventually. You’ll actually have to put this stuff away.

Damn it, you’ve never liked packing.

Still, you carefully rolled your new found clothes into baggage burritos. They were pretty plain, all in all. Oh well. You could make adjustments later if you really wanted to. Was it a game mechanic you haven't unlocked? Full customization? You could pick gender and hair, and the eyes depended on your pyrokinesis. Maybe at some point you got to change clothes too.

You’d figure it out.

You hoped.

Your head was still reeling the with the idea of what was going on, but for now, with nothing else you really could do, you decided to go with it.

Once you had everything all packed up you left your room to do some exploring. You tried to keep track of where you were going in the big fire station/training academy, but before long you were hopelessly lost.

You stumbled upon a training room, where a familiar boy with a dorky pony tail was slashing a glowing blue sword through a training dummy. The poor dummy fell to the floor in pieces.

You watched him for a few minutes before he noticed you.

“Oh,” he said, “It’s you.”

Which was… pretty lame, if you’re being honest.

What, did you one pop his delusional bubble?

“Yep,” you popped your ‘p’, “It’s a-me.” Mario. “What did that guy ever do to you? Try to challenge the great Knight King Arthur on a troll bridge?” you meant it to be a joke, but Arthur actually lit up.

“Hardly! This was merely training. A Knight King must always be ready to defend his people!”

“Of course,” you nodded along, playing with him. “And soon you’ll be embarking on a great quest to your new company, right? Do you know which one?”

“I didn’t bother with those silly preference sheets. Let whichever company requires a knight most vie for my presence.”

You were honestly impressed Arthur even knew the word ‘vie’. Wasn’t he kind of a loon?

“Mhmm, mhmm, I see,” you nodded seriously. “Then in case, I might see you in my own company.”

You wanted to ask him to spar, if only to see Excalibur in action more, but you still weren’t sure what your power was or how to use it. So you ended up bowing out.

It took you another hour to find your way back to your room.

Whoops.

You don’t really sleep. You lay down and try to wake up, and hope that come morning you’ll be back in your living room with a vr stapped to your head and this whole thing will have been a (not so terrible) dream.

Keep Dreaming.

~ ~

#fire force x reader #shinra kusakabe #shinra kusakabe x reader #reader insert #isekai

116 notes · View notes