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another-fantasy-world · 4 years ago

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The Idol’s Inspiration

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Title: The Idol’s Inspiration

Pairing: Valkyrae || Rachell x Fem! Reader

Summary: In which the international singer find’s her inspiration in a certain brown eyed-often screaming- streamer

Warnings: None? Fluff. Awkward Crushing. Top Rae? (Oh Gosh)

Word Count: 2,905 Words

@short-kid27 helped me with this one. Go check her out she’s actually great

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You scoffed when you saw what your bandmate tweeted out, tweeting as if he wasn’t using his phone either. Deciding to throw something at him, you spot a plastic perfume bottle, reaching out for it, only for Luna, your other bandmate to slap your hands of her perfume bottle.

“Don’t you dare.” She playfully glares before turning back to her original position, with her hair stylist tending to her long reddish-brown hair.

“Sebastian, you are so lucky you’re on the other side of the room right now or I swear to God, you would have a concussion.” You frowned, before turning back to your phone, further proving Sebastian’s point.

“See?! What are you even doing?” He loudly asks, you barely hearing him from the noise of blowdryers.

“Writing.” You answered, annoyed. It wasn’t a lie tho, You were now writing a new song, since your management once again are rushing you to write at least 12 songs for your new album.

“We wrote 3 songs yesterday. Calm down.” Your bassist, Luna reassured you, who just finished her glams.

“We’re supposed to be finished with this by the end of the month. How am I supposed to calm down?” You complained.

Ever since your band, Coldify, got enough attention, your management barely gave you enough time to just breathe and write like you used to, How were you supposed to produce quality music?

“Choco Milk?” Jace, your drummer offers you his second cup

“No thank you. Hot sweet things stress my throat. Maybe later though.” You stood up, thanking your stylists, before changing into your casual clothes, since you would be doing a Q and A session first as a soundcheck and also for extra fan service before the concert proper.

Once you finished changing, you walked out of your dressing room, only to find that your bandmates are now all set up, all except you.

Jace is fiddling with his drum sticks

Luna is tuning her bass guitar

And Sebastian is playing a random tune on his electric guitar.

You rolled your eyes at them, before slinging your own acoustic guitar over your shoulder, the familiar weight and pressure of it’s strap makes you smile.

“Are we ready guys? We can start now, there’s only 5 minutes left.” You asked them, plugging in your “in-ears”

They all nodded at you and you guys started to do your signature intro, you playing a few notes on your acoustic, followed by Sebastian and Luna, then you all run out, hearing the screams of your fans intensify, before Jace started banging on his drums, ending your intro with all of you guys harmonizing your band name and lifting your right arms up, showing the compass tattooed into the insides of your wrists, symbolizing your band and the friendship that will never grow old.

“What is up LA!?” You loudly said into the mic, chuckling when they screamed louder than your own mic.

“Well, we certainly need to up the mic volume later.” Luna giggled, sitting on one of the chairs positioned in the middle of the stage.

“Mhhmmn. Let’s all calm down first yes? You guys save your energy for later.” Sebastian winked into the crowd, also sitting on one of the chairs, with his mic in his hand.

“Great, great. We’re all settled in, Please sit down and let’s start this 1 and a half hour Q and A? Soundcheck? Fan service? Whatever you want to call this whole shebang.” You joked, thanking the staff that gave you your own water bottle.

“You know the drill, if you don’t that’s fine. My name is Luna and I am the one who plays the amazing silver-gray bass back there.” Luna introduces herself

“That amazing silver-gray bass that you would marry someday. I swear you are inlove with that thing.” Sebastian teased, earning him a loud smack to the shoulder.

“That is animal abuse. Stop it.” You hold in your laugh, but bursted out laughing anyways when you saw the appalled look on his face.

“My name is Jace. And I bang my sticks into a hallow cylindrical thing for a living. I heard they’re called drums but whatever. I also live with these idiots and I, unfortunately, am the one who holds their leashes.” Jace introduces himself, smiling into the crowd

“Okay, Father. My Name is Sebastian. aka the most attractive one in this group. I play the guitarrrrrr. You guys can call me Seb, Sebastian or Daddy. Your choice.” He winked.

“Ew.” All three of you pretended to gagged, before laughing at Sebastian’s pouting face, your audience also laughing at your antics.

“Okay- Okay, Stop. We need to be serious. Gosh. My name’s Y/N! And I’m your local sapphic lead singer. Yes, I need to say that everyday because people still debate that I’m straight. It’s annoying” You introduce, taking a sip of your water

“Right. So this is how it’s gonna work. There are multiple Coldify interrogators, as we call them, roaming around, all you have to do, is raise your hand, first one they see wins the first question. And the cycle continues until we run out of time.” You explained

“HmmHmmn. So are you guys ready?” Luna asks, earning a few “Yes!” and “WHOOOOO” making all you guys chuckle.

“Okaaaay! on 3. 1,2,3! OH! That redhead with the all black attire. I like that.” Sebastian calls, waiting for the guy in the uniform to hand the girl the mic.

“What’s your name love?” Jace asked the now blushing girl

“Ah. Kadie. I just wanna say that I am such a big fan and I wanted to know if, besides the tattoo you guys have right now, the compass, are you guys still planning on getting a matching tattoo?”

“Ooooh. Tattooes. Hmm. I personally would love to have another tattoo. But you see, Sebastian here cried when we first tattoed. And I am not looking forward to that at all.” Luna answered, laughing when Sebastian whined.

“Oh yeah. No. Not again.” Jace agreed, while you just smiled and nodded.

“Next Question Please.” Sebastian interjected before you could even talk

“Hi my name’s Catherine-” You guys interrupted her to say hi

“Hehe. Hi. Uhm, I wanted to know if you guys have like, favourite youtubers or streamers?” She asks shyly, which made you smile.

“Oooooo. Okay, now you guys get to know why I tweeted that earlier.” Sebastian chuckles

“Okay Mr. Snitch. But uhm. I would have to say... Sykkuno. His voice is just the best-”

“Excuse me? Corpse?! Hello? Corpse has the best voice don’t even. He’s my favourite, what you said was just Corpse slander” Sebastian interrupts Luna, to which Luna answered with a glare.

“Uh-huh. Okay. As I was saying, Corpse’s voice is good, but Syk’s is just this wholesome anime type voice that just melt’s your heart you know? He should be a voice actor for like, an anime protagonist. AND HIS PERSONALITY IS SO GOOD AND WHOLESOME LIKE WHAT THE FUCK?” Luna gushes, nodding to Jace before she goes on a full rant

“I’m sure you won’t match with him, expecially since he’s quiet and you’re loud and abnoxious.” Sebastian casually says

“You know what?”

“Pokimane...” Jace speaks into the mic, interrupting the siblings from fighting. “...Because she’s actually a really good gamer, and she also has a cat called called “Mimi” and that’s major points in my book.” Jace says, smiling.

“Hmm. That’s actually a tough choice... I would have to say-” You were interrupted when your phone let out a noise, letting you know you forgot to silent it.

“BABUSHKA!” Your face felt hot as you desperately tried to put your phone in silent, but it was too late.

“My phone just outed me what the hell?” You mumbled into the mic, hiding your face as you hear your fans laugh and coo at your cuteness and embarrassment.

“Anyways, if that didn’t answer your question, I don’t know what will. But uhm, Valkyrae. 100 percent. She’s just really skilled in video games and has probably played more games than me. Also, she’s absolutely fucking gorgeous and I just love her personality and all.” You smiled, still feeling a little bit embarrassed

“I just love her personality- Please, last night you fell asleep to her playing a horror game. She screams alot in that video, I’m just saying. How could you sleep to literally her screaming in your ear?” Sebastian shrugs, ignoring the glares you sent him

“Just this morning, you were frowning because there was another viper on the team Rae was fighting against in Valorant, and you accused that viper of being a copycat.” Jace added

“Or the fact that you always flinch, or dodge and curse whenever someone shoots at Rae-” Luna finishes making you cover her mouth before she says something more

“Okay. I think it’s pretty obvious that I have a crush on Valkyrae but please- Stop.” You grumbled, frowning playfully at your fans when they awed at your band’s interaction.

“Next Fucking Question Please.” You huffed, closing your eyes and leaning back into your seat, trying to settle your beating heart

Rae will for sure see that. Oh my god. Thoughts of Rae seeing your clip of literally simping for her has your heart running marathons.

“Hi! Uhm, this question is for Y/N”

You hear the gasps of your bandmates, but you pay no attention to it since you were still gay panicking inside

“What will you do if you ever met Valkyrae in person?” a familiar voice echoed in your ears, you of course can’t figure out who it is.

“I honestly don’t know how I would react. Maybe faint? But then probably hug her? I dunno? Kiss her cheek maybe? I mean, how would you react if you meet your long time crush?” You answered mindlessly, chuckling silently knowing that you probably faint and be knocked out for God knows how long. Or maybe you’d fumble and embarrass yourself.

You hear your bandmates join in the laughter with the audience, and that made you open your eyes, throwing a confused glace to Luna who just patted your back and made eye contact with who, you presume, asked the question.

You followed her gaze, eyes widening when you saw the brown-eyed brunette beauty holding the mic. Your brain lagged, trying to comprehend the situation.

“Uhm, I mean- Unless, You know? She’s uncomfortable about it. I don’t wanna make her uncomfy, you get me? First impressions are a thing. I mean- I’m just gonna shut up.” You just spat words out before your brain could even comprehend it.

Come on Y/N keep it together. She gotta think that you’re cool. Not an awkward gay mess.

“Pfft- Little too late for the first impressions that included you being cool.” Jace threw his empty water bottle at you

“...I said that aloud didn’t I?” You asked, now trying to hide your face behind Luna’s back, who’s doubling over from laughter

“Please, someone tag me when you decide to upload this very moment. I wanna blackmail Y/N with it.” Sebastian wheezed out.

“I think we can do something with the hugging thing. Just don’t faint on me.” Your eyes snapped to Rae’s as you see the smirk etched on her face, her hands still holding the microphone

Your eyes widen as your fans, screamed and a series of “OOOOOOHHHH” and “Get it Y/N!” erupted, making your embarrassment amplify even more.

“Is it embarrass Y/N day today? God, please- Next Question please. Oh Jesus.” You put your face in your hands, trying to hide.

Thankfully, they didn’t pry anymore, your embarrassment slowly subsiding as they asked about your daily life, career, albums and upcoming awards. After finishing a couple more questions, you guys sang a couple cover songs, and that’s what concluded your soundcheck. (Sebastian managed to sneak in Janet’s PETTY song, which you rolled your eyes on but sang nonetheless.)

You walked out and to the backstage as you shoved Sebastian playfully for making kissy faces.

“Y/N and Rachell sitting on a tree-” He was suddenly cut off by someone

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G” Your gaze wonders to Pokimane, or Imane who just interrupted Sebastian

“Kissing?! Isn’t it a bit too early for that? Why would they kiss-” Sykkuno says glancing between Rae and I

You wondered if they said anything else because you’re going to be honest to yourself, you were only looking at Rae’s eyes. The deep brown orbs you only ever saw through your screen, was now staring right back at you, her brunette hair tied up in a bun- She’s staring back at you.

Quickly averting your eyes, you felt yourself grow shy, you now also find your shoes very attractive.

“Keep your head up or else you would faint on me and I don’t want that. I prefer to hug a conscious person, Thank you very much.” you lifted your head so fast you could’ve given yourself a whiplash. Darting your eyes around Rae, you quickly find that your friends + Imane and Sykkuno have left the both of you alone.

“Sorry. You just caught me off guard there. Hi! Uhm. I really don’t know what to say to you- Uhm.” You rub the back of your neck, nervously smiling at Rae you in turn smirked at you, raising her brow in the process.

She quietly chuckles before opening her arms, signaling for a hug, to which you launched yourself in, trying not to breathe because that would be so weird.

“Okay so now can you take out your knife and stab me just to make sure that this is real.” You stated, looking directly into her eyes

“...But I’m not the Impostor?”

“...Okay that’s clever-” You laughed, taking a sip out of your water bottle, leading her to your dressing room

“Speaking of, do you mind if I play with you guys sometimes? I’ll find time, I promise.” You say, watching the time considering you only have half an hour to change and get ready, not to mention your crush is right in front of you as well.

“Wait really? Yeah! Just DM me on twitter! I’ll organize a lobby just for you.” She replies, plopping herself on the sofa you have.

“Awe, I feel so... special” You smiled, finally composing yourself, emerging from behind the curtains, already in your performance outfit

“The almighty Creator of the Year, creating a lobby? For lil ol m-” You were greeted with a facefull of pillows thrown at you, just for that statement. Which made you laugh.

“Shut up.” She grinned

“I’m sorry, m’lady” You curtsied playfully, expecting her to start smacking your shoulders, instead when you lifted your head up, she was just sitting there with a soft smile on her face.

“You’re wearing my merch.” She stated

You widened your eyes then looked down, the hoodie that you just randomly picked up was her merch.

“I’m sorry, do you want it back?” You spit the words out before your mind could comprehend how idiotic that sounded

Rae bursted out laughing at your statement, putting her hand over her mouth while doubling over. You rolled your eyes at her and plopped down on the sofa, crossing your arms.

“Yeah, Yeah. Go on. Laugh. At least I can spell broccoli right.” You teased, poking her side

“OKAY! LISTEN HERE HOTSHOT! I-” she was interrupted by a series of knocks on the door.

“Y/N! PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE DECENT AND IS NOT SEDUCING RAE BECAUSE THAT’S JUST WRONG” Sebastian loudly asked through the door

“Oh My God. Please just kill me.” You rubbed your face with your hands

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be the one doing the seducing but okay.” You hear her mumble under her breath, making you look at her with a scandalized look on your face

“DOOR’S UNLOCKED SEBASTIAN. DON’T BE AN IDIOT..” You replied

“Don’t mind him Y/N We’re just coming in to say that you have 5 minutes until we have to go onstage.” Luna softly replies, shoving Sebastian out your field of view.

“I’ll be right there Lune.” You stood up, smiling at Rae

“I guess that’s it. I’ll talk to you later? I think? Just check your DM’s soon yeah?” She pulls you into a hug, kissing your cheek as she pulls away.

“Good Luck out there. I know you’ll do great.” She smiles, walking out, leaving you to your thoughts

“Huh?” You touched your cheek, a smile slowly paints itself upon your face

"Come on, lovergirl we're running late." Jace drapes his arm around your shoulder

"She kissed my cheek." You say, still shocked

"Lucky You." Jace says, his ears reddening.

...lucky bastard

"POKI KISSED YOU TOO DIDN'T SHE?!" You screeched

'Hush!" His cheeks are also red now.

"Huh. I guess today's our lucky day." You grinned, now extremely happy and hyped

"Oh, check your e-mail now by the way. Manager says she sent our line up there." he pats your back, getting into his position, as best as he can considering the stage is now pitch black

"Huh. Okay." You pulled out your phone, sending a piece of paper flying. Bending down to pick it up, you feel your heart soften into mush and then it decides to run another marathon.

Just incase my Twitter DM's don't work, or if I'm streaming. xx 09-xxx-xxx-xxx

"Be still, my beating heart." You sighed out

Valkyrae just gave you her phone number

#valkyrae #valkyrae x reader #valkyrae imagine #There is no Corona in this fic thank God #rae x reader #Valkyrae Fanfiction #Shes so cute wth

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girlactionfigure · 3 years ago

Photo

Only when he got older he realized just how fortunate he and his family were to be alive.

“The extermination of most of his relatives and millions of other Jews by the Nazis; the intrusive, unemployed immigrants who survived and crowded his parents’ small apartment; his sickly childhood; his mother’s dark moods; his own ever-present depression” - all of this, he survived, according to Patricia Cohen of The New York Times.

He was born in Brooklyn to Polish-Jewish immigrant parents on June 10, 1928.

One of his earliest photographs (attached to this story) shows him as an infant - “a plump, round-faced, slanting-eyed, droopy-lidded, arching-browed creature” held by his mother, with his older siblings, according to writer Margalit Fox.

Growing up, Murray as he was then known “harbored ongoing fear of the perils that might lurk outside of his home and neighborhood” and remembered how he celebrated his bar mitzvah, according to writer Stephen Whitfield.

That's when his father discovered that much of his extended family had died in concentration camps. The young boy thought he had "done something very bad, that I had made him suffer more than he had to."

“The death of members of his extended family during the Holocaust . . . exposed him at a young age to the concept of mortality,” according to NPR.

“As he got older, he was constantly aware of his marginality and difference,” wrote Whitfield.

He seemed to be always sick, but when he was well, he could be naughty. He remembered his mother often called him “vilde chaya”, which in Yiddish meant "wild animal".

“His view of the outside world was often limited. . . and the little that he could see from his window,” according to PBS. “It was during this time that he began to draw and to allow his imagination to run free.”

He made a name for himself as an illustrator. When he received an opportunity to write his first book, he used the title "Where the Wild Horses Are" - unfortunately, he realized he couldn't draw horses, so he told his editor. His editor would respond, "Well, what can you draw?"

He would answer "Things."

He would become “the most important children’s book artist of the 20th century, who wrenched the picture book out of the safe, sanitized world of the nursery and plunged it into the dark, terrifying and hauntingly beautiful recesses of the human psyche,” according to the New York Times.

He remembers receiving a letter from one fan:

In an interview with NPR, he is quoted as saying, “A little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children's letters – sometimes very hastily – but this one I lingered over . . . I wrote, 'Dear Jim: I loved your card.' Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said: 'Jim loved your card so much he ate it.' That to me was one of the highest compliments I've ever received . . . He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.”

~~~~~

“Maurice Sendak has been one of the most consistently inventive and challenging voices in children’s literature,” according to PBS. “His books and productions are among the best-loved imaginative works of their time. Like the Grimm brothers before him, Sendak has created a body of work both entertaining and educational, which will continue to be popular for generations.”

“Roundly praised, intermittently censored and occasionally eaten, Mr. Sendak’s books were essential ingredients of childhood for the generation born after 1960 or thereabouts, and in turn for their children,” wrote Fox. “He was known in particular for more than a dozen picture books he wrote and illustrated himself, most famously ‘Where the Wild Things Are,’ which was simultaneously genre-breaking and career-making when it was published by Harper & Row in 1963.”

He brought “to life a world of fantasy and imagination,” according to PBS. “His unique vision is loved around the globe by both young and old.”

When he died in 2012, the Washington Post wrote:

“They say that a creative adult is simply a child who has survived. Sendak survived a great deal, losing relatives in the Holocaust and struggling through a childhood that he remembered as “a very passionate, upsetting, silly, comic business.”

“And his books captured this — never talking down, yet always reassuring.

“The best writers are the ones who trust their audiences. Sendak did. And we trusted him right back.

“Sendak did not lie to children. He did not attempt to say that the world was more or less difficult than it was.”

~~~~~

In 2008 in the New York Times, Sendak revealed that he was gay and had lived with his partner, psychoanalyst Eugene Glynn (February 25, 1926 – May 15, 2007), for 50 years before Glynn's death in May 2007.

In that article, Sendak said he never told his parents: "All I wanted was to be straight so my parents could be happy," he recalled. "They never, never, never knew."

In a 2011 interview with NPR host Terry Gross, Mr. Sendak said "finding out that I was gay when I was older was a shock and a disappointment. I did not want to be gay. It meant a whole different thing to me — which is really hard to recover now because that's many years ago. I always objected to it because there is a part of me that is solid Brooklyn and solid conventional and I know that. I can't escape that. It's my genetic makeup. It's who I am."

Elisabeth Hoffman of the Baltimore Sun wrote, “Why do we pass laws that isolate, demean and shame people for something so utterly personal? It's no surprise that gay teens are bullied. No surprise that Maurice Sendak had to hide part of his identity from his parents — and from his readers.”

“In that often emotional NPR interview, Sendak also said: "I have nothing now but praise for my life. I'm not unhappy. I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more. What I dread is the isolation. There are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die. But I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready."

~~~~~

“His work . . . did not seek to forget the emotional threats that scarred his life,” wrote Whitfield. “Sendak’s recollections of dread and danger instead became the source of a painstaking creativity that [Golan Y.] Moskowitz [author of “Wild Visionary: Maurice Sendak in Queer Jewish Context”] readily calls illustrations of “genius.” Sendak believed that his fantasies must instill truths, rather than confirm the conventions of innocence, and this thinking revolutionized the way that young people were understood and addressed.”

In that last interview with NPR, “the beloved children’s writer and illustrator was 83 years old and in declining health. He was feeling the loss of people close to him who had died in recent years. Inevitably, the discussion turned to issues of mortality … By the time it was over there were teary-eyed people in cars all across North America. One listener, Brent Eades, left a message on the NPR Web site: “I happened to be listening to this extraordinary interview while on the early-morning commute from my small Ontario town to Ottawa. I was entirely absorbed in it; and the final couple of minutes left me with tears streaming down my face, which I’m sure nonplussed my fellow commuters.”

~~~~~

In “Where the Wild Things Are”, Sendak wrote:

“ . . . the wild things cried, “Oh please don’t go we’ll eat you up-we love you so!”

And Max said, “No!”

The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth

and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws

but Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye

and sailed back over a year

and in and out of weeks

and through a day

and into the night of his very own room

where he found his supper waiting for him.”

~ jsr

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page

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magicianapprenticelyra · 4 years ago

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Counting the Days

[Finding Space and Time] | [Counting the Days]

Timeline: Muriel's Route; The Moon/The Sun

[Featuring @vesuvianoak‘s fan apprentice Ąžuolas]

Asra staggering back to the camp was not what Bảo and his family had wanted to see.

“Asra!” Bảo drops everything, rushing on toward the young one.

His face becomes etched with worry: the original party of three is down to one . . . plus Doctor Devorak. The latter follows closely behind the young magician, trying to get Asra to go steady on his feet.

“Asra?” Bảo repeats, placing his hands over Asra’s shoulders. “Asra, where—?”

“Ah, Mr. Nguyen,” the doctor murmurs, placing a firm hand on Bảo’s shoulder, “I would recommend that you, uh, give him some space at the mo—”

“Where are they?!” Bảo pleads. He shakes Asra a bit, trying to get the magician to talk to him, to look at him—

Unfortunately, the young magician’s purple-pink eyes are wide and blank: the poster child of shell shock.

“Bảo—” James’s voice cuts into his inquisition from a distance. He’s quickly moving to get to them, but Walt gets to the trio first.

“Hon, c’mon,” Walt gently pries his hands off of Asra. She nods at Julian as he leads Asra away, a protective arm around the latter’s shoulders.

By then, James has caught up with his partners, quickly ushering them away. Already, there was talk, talk of concern, worry, and dread of what this meant to the resistance against Lucio.

As Walt, James, and Bảo make their way back to their tent, the shortest of them keeps looking up at the sky, a sky that looks too bright, too nice of a blue . . .

How fucking cruel.

Whispered over and over, Bảo mourns, “Ở đâu? Ở đâu, con?”

Where? Where are you?

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

The war council that night is joined by what currently remains of the Aster-Nguyen family. Walt and Bảo are understandably quiet; James is pacing back and forth along the length of their side of the table; Neha, on the other hand, is livid.

“Why the hell am I the last one to know?!” Neha demands vehemently. “She’s my sister! We just got her back—!”

“Nene—” Bảo gets cut off with an aggravated snarl from her.

“Why did you have Ly and Muriel be the ones to go?! There are a lot of other people that could’ve gone in their place!” Neha snarls, her gaze hard and pointed at the Countess. “There are more experienced soldiers in the camp—I know this because—”

“Neha, stop—!” James shakes his head, but it’s no use.

“Who the hell do you think you are!?” Neha demands, slamming her hands onto the table. Tears flood her eyes; as they drip down her cheeks, she yells through gritted teeth, “They’ve already done so much for you! Are their lives that expenda—”

“Neha!” Walt snaps, “Stop it! Don’t talk to the Countess that way!”

“But Mom—”

“No! Enough is enough,” Walt sighs, shaking her head. She looks to James, who nods in return.

Wordlessly, James pulls his daughter away from the war council. Neha fights him the whole way, but James ultimately bundles her under his arms and walks off into the night. Before long, all that could be heard of Neha are her distraught, furious sobs.

The silence around the table is incredibly awkward. The Consul breaks it with: “ . . . well, that was dramatic.” He sips the last remnants of his wine, shaking his head.

For a moment, Nadia is at a loss for words. Her gaze is turned to Walterine and Bảo in sincere apology.

“There are not enough words for me to say how deeply sorry I am that you and your family are going through this,” she says.

“They, ahem . . . they wouldn’t want you to feel bad, Countess,” Walt reassures, though her voice warbles a bit.

“They’re not dead,” Bảo retorts, sighing. He rubs his eyes, tears having already made tracks on his face. “We just need to wait . . .”

“If there is absolutely anything you need,” Nadia replies, “please do not hesitate to seek me out. You know where to find me.”

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

After the first three days of Lyra and Muriel being missing, the Aster-Nguyen family are a wreck. The people around are kind enough to cover their shifts with cooking rotations, patrols, and even tidying around their campsite.

One of them, Ąžuolas, is a dear family friend. A frequent customer, the young man has seen Lyra around the Shop before and after the Red Plague. As of right now, Ąžuolas is among the camp that believes that Ly and Muriel will return. However, his firm belief in them didn’t belay his worries. From what he heard the pair were facing the Pontifex . . . defeating them would not have been easy. Still, he visits the Aster-Nguyen family daily, checking in with them and helping them out wherever needed,

It’s also during this time that Neha became rather sedentary. She did not go and see any of her friends; they came to her instead. With permission from her parents, they had sleepovers around their tent.

For hours at a time, Bảo wandered around the forest. He would come back in an hour or two, but he has this vacant stare in his eyes that sent chills down everyone’s spines. James had to nudge him more often than not to eat.

Asra wasn’t any better: he was usually travelling the realms of the Arcana with Walt to search for their loved ones. They did not have any luck, and it got to the point where Walt actually invited him and Julian to stay a while around her family’s campsite.

“We’ll find them sooner or later,” is her hopeful remark during one dinner.

Asra and Julian look at her with matching expressions of inscrutableness. She falls silent there, quietly returning to her food.

“The point still stands.”

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

The fifth day is when Walt, James and Bảo return to low levels of returning to their assigned duties. Neha was exempt, and she makes a habit of traipsing off into the woods.

It’s Asra who finds Neha out there this time.

It’s not too far away from the edges of Tent-Vesuvia; the magician had been intending to nap at the base of a certain tree, but Neha was already there.

Upon seeing him, Neha says flatly, “You can lie down or sit down or whatever . . .”

Accepting her invitation, Asra spreads out the blanket he has in hand, lying down on it. Settling on it with Faust coiling up on his chest, he places his hat over his eyes, hoping to sleep.

“. . . do you think they ran away?”

Lifting his hat off, propped on his elbows—and hat in hand—Asra raises an eyebrow at her. “How do you mean?”

“That they ran away from all this . . . crazy,” Neha gestures vaguely to the surrounding area.

“I don’t believe so,” Asra replies.

“How can you be sure?”

“For one: I know Lyra wouldn’t intentionally leave the family she was getting to know again,” he explains, sitting up fully now. “Muriel too.”

Neha’s expression screams I doubt it, but she only shrugs. Asra follows her line of sight, seeing the camp getting prepared for what seemed inevitable: lines were drawn into the dirt and a clash between their side to Lucio’s growing army of mercenaries would happen in weeks, if not days from now.

Children, those unable to fight, and the elderly were to stay in a cave until the fighting was over. Nadia wasn’t going to let anyone be stolen away to be a war prize for any of the enemy.

“I want to fight,” Neha exhales, drawing her knees to settle under her chin. “I’ll sneak away if I have to.”

“You’ll get into more trouble.”

“Do you think I care at this point?”

Asra frowns. “Even if you don’t, your parents will. Lyra will.”

Neha scoffs, but she concedes to that point. “She’s got enough trouble in her head with all this . . . if I add to it again she’s gonna get sick with worry.”

“Mhm,” he nods, then goes right back to sleep.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

“For the love of the gods, Bảo!” James exclaims. He had just witnessed his husband leap over the six foot wide, six foot long, nine foot deep hole of a trap he and several other people had just finished digging. “You could hurt yourself!”

“Well, it still easy to cross!” Bảo retorts, leaning over the edge of it to stare into the abyss.

James swears under his breath, pulling him back to safety. “You break a bone it won’t heal as well! You’re not that young anymore!”

Bảo gasps, absolutely offended. "Hey! I'm not that old!"

"Says the man with gray hair!"

Bảo sticks his tongue out at his husband, but then breaks into laughter with him. James has a point: he was no spring chicken.

Double checking their map, the group’s cartographer makes note of where this trap is. Upon finishing, they all head back to Tent-Vesuvia.

Everyone was ready for the battle ahead: Bảo was going to be stationed in the trees with some other fellows, pelting things at the enemy; Walt would be with the group where the children and elderly would be hidden away, maintaining the shields and protection spells around her charges; James was going to be among the foot soldiers, which to no end worried everyone in his family.

“Are you sure you want to be on the ground when it happen?” Bảo murmurs softly. “You could stay with me or something . . . fight them from there.”

“The only reason you’re in th’ trees is because of your height and th’ fact yer lungs are givin’ ye trouble again,” James reminds him.

“Mm,” his husband nods, shaking his head. “You don’t need to be given a boost from the top of the ladder!”

“No I do not,” James replies, laughing softly. He dips down, placing a kiss on Bảo’s cheek.

“I’ll make sure you’re up there before I get to my post.”

In turn, Bảo gains a pink tint to his cheeks. He pulls James’s arm to wrap around his waist, keeping him closer as they walk together.

O*O*O

When they’re back in Tent-Vesuvia, there’s a loud racket occurring toward the center of it. James pauses, going on his tip-toes to see that a large crowd has gathered around Muriel’s hut.

“What in the world . . .?” James murmurs, startling a bit when he can hear his wife and daughter shouting in pure elation.

“Someone get the Countess!” one of their neighbors shouts.

Bảo and James look at each other, eyes wide before scrambling onward. People got out of the pair’s way. As the pair pass people by, they hear snatches of voices, relieved and awed.

“They’re back!”

“CANDANCE, DID YOU HEAR—!?”

“Oh thank the stars, they’re okay—!”

“LYRA!!!” Bảo cries out, bursting through the circle of people to pull his niece into a great big hug.

As James catches up with Bảo, the latter is hugging the stuffing out of Ly. The shorter man is soon twirling his niece in circles, sobbing and laughing with her. Before long, Bảo sets her back down. James joins in on the group hug with Neha and Walt, a great big weight drawn off his shoulders.

She was back! She was back and safe—

“C’mere you two!” Walt beckons, waving for Asra and Muriel to come over.

“But we’re not—” Muriel’s cut off by Walt grabbing his sleeve and pulling him into the hug. Asra joins in, with Faust encircling all of them in the seven people-strong hug.

“Can you please stop fucking disappearing!?” Neha pleads with Lyra once everyone lets each other go. The younger one holds onto her elder sister tightly, with Lyra returning the hug in kind.

Before Lyra can answer, Nadia enters the scene. The sight of Muriel and Lyra safe and sound brings a smile to her face.

Everyone parts ways as she approaches, and Lyra respectfully dips her head in greeting.

“You’re here,” Nadia exhales in relief.

Cheers, hurrahs, and delighted laughter light the crowd as Nadia pulls both Muriel and Lyra into a hug.

“Perhaps it is cruel of me, to keep sending you into danger . . . yet you always come back . . .” As Nadia steps back, she wipes away a tear, which makes Lyra fret a little.

“Oh Nadi—” Lyra soothes, pulling a handkerchief out of a pocket to give to her.

“Thank you,” Nadia sniffles, wiping away the rest of her tears. “Next time, I will be right beside you. I promise.”

Neha has a doubtful expression at that. She gets nudged by her mother, and gets a look from her father.

Reluctantly, they move away as Lyra and Muriel are whisked back into the hut with Asra and Nadia. Doubtless it’s to catch them up for the battle ahead.

“C’mon,” Walt urges her family, arms around the shoulders of her husbands as Neha leads the way. “Let’s do one final check of our stations and off to bed!”

[NEXT]; Updated July 26th, 2021

#The Arcana #fan apprentice #Muriel #muriel x apprentice #Asra #Julian Devorak #Asrian #Nadia Satrinava #Consul Valerius #OCs #oc x oc x oc #Uncle Bảo #Walterine Aster #James Aster #Neha Aster #From Buds to Flowers to Fruits #the scribe writes

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sometimesiwriteangst · 5 years ago

Text

Soul Mates Are Forever - 1

Summary: Emile gets odd messages, and his boyfriend and brother get concerned quickly, for good reason,

Note: Deceit is called Desmond in this fic. Yes, for once he has a normal name in a human au of partially mine!

Chapter TW: Kidnapping, stalking, u!Virgil, u!Patton.

AO3 Link

Written with @scenecipriano!

Tag List: @samuel-the-gay @alik-gl

-Present Day-

Emile was getting fed up with the odd messages. Every time he blocked a number, they returned with a new number. They weren’t threatening, or anything that made him believe he should go to the police. Just sporadic “hi”, “why aren’t you replying”, “are you there?”

Probably a wrong number. Or some guy who was given a fake number. At first Emile had tried telling him this, but over the last couple of weeks he’d given up. If he just kept blocking and ignoring, surely they’d get the message?

He sighs as he turns his phone off, silencing the constant dinging that came from the unwanted messages. Emile glances in the full body mirror and runs his fingers through his pink fringe, a nervous tic he developed when he was a teenager.

“Emi! Your breakfast is getting cold, stop worrying and get down here!” His boyfriend calls from down in the kitchen.

“I’m coming, Roman!”

Emile looks into the mirror once more and gives his reflection a reassuring smile, ‘Everything was going to be okay.’

The smell of coffee and eggs fills Emile’s nose when he steps into the kitchen, he chuckles when he sees his boyfriend swaying to the melody of a Disney song that was playing from his phone’s speaker. Emile sneaks up behind the distracted redhead and places his arms around Roman’s waist, earning a squeak from the taller man.

“You’re the cutest you know that?”

“I do! I actually hold the world title of being the cutest man alive, now you need to sit and eat. You’re not going to work on an empty stomach.” Roman replies as he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Emile’s mouth.

Emile chuckles as he sits down at the table, taking a sip of his coffee as he does. “What would I do without you, Ro?”

“Starve, considering you can’t cook.”

The young therapist in training rolls his eyes as he scoops a bite of eggs into his mouth.

“Wrong, Dee would feed me plenty.”

“Until the two of you get into an argument, then you’d have to rely on fast food.” Roman teases as he sits next to Emile with his own plate of food.

Emile sticks his tongue out and drinks more of his coffee before shoveling the rest of his eggs into his mouth. He quickly chews and wipes his mouth with a napkin before pressing a kiss to Roman’s cheek.

“Speaking of arguments, I’m going to have to take the bus this morning. Apparently calling him a ‘reckless’ driver was insulting.”

“Desmond Wickham a reckless driver? Please, going eighty through a residential is his default setting, it’s only reckless if he goes ninety!” Sarcasm drips from Roman’s mouth as he bites into a piece of buttered toast.

Emile snorts in amusement and shakes his head, “Of course, but I better go. I’ll text you before I go in.”

Roman quickly snatches his boyfriend by the waist, causing Emile to bend down slightly allowing Roman to press a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Be careful, my precious rose, I love you.”

“I love you too, prince charming.”

Emile adores the way Roman still blushes at the nickname. They’d been dating since High School, with only a short break at college before Emile missed Roman too much and begged for a long distance relationship. And yet the man still got flustered over the nicknames Emile found for him.

In a way, it was ridiculous, and Emile’s brother would happily say that until the cows came home. But Emile knew Desmond liked Roman really, and more than anything it was sweet. It reminded him of when they first started dating, and everything was new and experimental.

It was hard not to adore the reminder of how Roman would blush every time they held hands, or squeak at every chaste kiss. They may have grown and become more mature about those things, but the small flusteredness over nicknames remained a soft spot.

“How did I get so lucky?” Emile asks.

Roman’s blush deepens as he buries his face against Emile’s side, causing the pink haired boy to laugh.

“You’re such a sap, Emi! Get out of here before I decide to keep you to myself for the day.”

Emile chuckles and presses a kiss to Roman’s fiery red hair before stepping out of his boyfriend’s relaxed hold.

“I’ll be home around eight-thirty, want me to pick up some pizza for dinner?”

Roman waves his hand and gently shoos Emile away.

“I don’t mind cooking, besides I want to be better than Des at it one day, so I need the practice now go my precious rose.”

Emile steals another kiss before rushing to put his shoes and coat on, “I love you, prince charming!”

A satisfied smile comes to his face when Roman lets out a flustered squeak, he leaves with a high pitched ‘I love you too’ following him. Emile hums softly to himself as he strolls towards the bus stop, he would try calling Desmond around lunchtime and make amends.

“I should really think about getting my license…”

Emile huffs as he pulls his phone from his pocket, he turns it back on and is met with constant dings from the same random number that was texting him this morning. One message sent a chill racing down his spine.

‘Pink is definitely your color ;).’

That was the last message that was sent, Emile jumps when the roar of the bus’s engine snaps him out of his shock. He puts his phone back into his pocket and takes a deep breath, ‘They’re not talking about me, it’s okay I’m just overreacting.’ Emile tells himself as he counts out the right amount of money for the bus fare.

He flashes the bus driver a small smile as he pays the fee, the driver tips his hat and closes the door as Emile moves to sit in the back.

‘It’s still going to be a good day, it's okay.’

A part of Emile no longer believed that thought.

He tries to ignore thoughts of the text as he plugs his earphones in. There was no need for him to worry about odd texts. He’d never had strangely personal texts like that before, why would they start now? It was probably aimed at someone else, like all the other texts.

You seriously still believe that? Come on, let’s stop kidding ourselves.

Emile ignores his inner voice, choosing to focus on the song that was playing, it was Stronger Than You from Steven Universe. He tenses when the song is cut off with a new text notification. Emile takes a breath and opens the text, his blood ran cold.

‘I can see you, that’s my favorite cardigan of yours that you’re wearing.’

Emile looks up and scans the patrons in front of him, no one looks out of the ordinary, everyone minding their own business other than a mother who was struggling to calm her infant down.

‘Who are you? Please leave me alone, my brother is a detective!’ He texts back. Emile watches anxiously as the three text bubbles appear and disappear multiple times. His mouth goes dry when the dreaded reply comes through with a chime.

‘I’m your saviour, my precious bunny.’

He forces himself to breathe upon seeing the message. That was creepy, yes, but it was fine, right? There was no way he could actually see him.

‘Is your phone background still that guy dressed as a cartoon character?’

Emile breathes deeply and looks at his phone background. Roman had taken him to a comic con, and had cosplayed as Prince Zuko from Avatar The Last Airbender. Zuko had never been Emile’s type, but when it was Roman? Hot. Burning hot, one might say.

He frantically texts back with ‘no, it’s the gay pride flag’. A lie, but that was fine, right? There was no way this stalker - that’s what it must be, right? - could know for sure.

He gets the next message within a moment.

‘Liar.’

His heart races as he breaks out in a cold sweat.

‘I’m not lying, it really is the gay pride flag!’

The reply was almost instant, Emile’s hands were shaking as he read over the text multiple times.

‘Funny, because to me it looks like a pretty red-head with blue eyes, with a shitty white foundation on and a crappy looking attempt at a burn scar. Prince Zuko right? From Avatar The Last Airbender? Gotta say I didn't think he was your type.’

Emile scans the bus again, everything once again seems normal, no one standing out, only the mother with the infant was finally relaxed with the sleeping child resting against her chest.

‘Leave me alone, if you text me again I’m going to my brother.’

Once the reply is sent Emile immediately blocks the number, cutting off all contact with his apparent stalker. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, he could handle this, he didn’t need his brother’s help right now. Surely with the threat of telling his detective brother, ‘You don’t really think Dee would believe you? He’s got better things to do than worry about you.’

Emile winces at his inner voice, ‘That’s not true…’

“Hey, Emile! This still your usual stop or were you planning to go somewhere else today?” The bus driver calls back to him, it wasn’t odd for him to know Emile considering the bus was the young therapist’s most used choice of transportation.

“Sorry, Greg! I was just lost in thought!”

Emile quickly stuffs his phone back into his coat pocket, he walks briskly down the bus aisle, giving Greg a small wave as he steps off. He takes a deep breath and puts on his serious face.

“Time to get this day over,” he mumbles as he makes his way into St. Joseph’s Behavioral Health centre.

Emile puts on a calm smile as he walks inside, the cool air from the air conditioning fanning his face. Emile was a therapist in training, or well that’s what his boss says. He’s a therapist, only the health centre wasn’t hiring new ones yet, so he landed the job of being the psychiatrist's assistant until a therapeutic job was open.

Emile couldn’t wait til that day came, he had so many ideas on how to help his future patients. Most of his ideas involved cartoons but others involved other methods like journal entries! He would let his patients tell their stories in a fictive kind of way, giving them a fun time with therapy and a more comfortable way to talk about their problems!

“Emile! Finally, thought you were going to be late, follow me.” A feminine voice beckons from across the lobby. Emile looks up and sees the familiar dark face of his boss, her brown eyes crinkling at the edges as she flashes him a smile, her ebony hair let down for once instead of being held back in a tight bun.

Emile nods and walks over to her, struggling to keep up with her long strides as she marches down the hall ahead of him.

“You seem in a chipper mood, Caroline, did Marcus finally pop the question?”

“Very funny, Picani, but no. I’m in a chipper mood because one of my patients agreed to let you sit in during their session! I’ll be asking your input on things they should be doing to handle their depression, I think you’ll get along with them you two act very similar.”

Emile blinks his green eyes in shock, he stares at her for a moment waiting for her to laugh and say ‘gotcha!’ But it never came and Emile couldn’t help the huge grin that stretched across his face.

“Really!?” Emile squeals.

Caroline chuckles as she stops in front of her office door, she turns to look at him and nods.

“Really, I finally get to see just how good you think you are, rookie.”

Emile stifles his excitement when Caroline opens the door, he takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose. ‘I can do this!’

He closes the door behind him once they step in, Caroline’s office was the biggest in the health centre, with a mahogany desk and black leather chairs. Sitting in the chair on the left in front of Caroline’s desk was a man a year or two younger than Emile. He had sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, not as blue as Roman’s they were a paler shade, while Roman’s looked more like sapphires.

The man wore glasses with a black square frame, a light dusting of freckles over his tanned face. Now, Emile wasn’t one to judge anyone on their clothes considering his outfits choices consisted of baggy sweaters and cardigans, but this guy looked like one of those commercial fathers with a standard blue polo, khakis, and a cardigan or in this man’s case, a cat hoodie tied around his shoulders.

Emile flashes the man a polite smile and offers him his hand, “Hello! I’m Dr. Emile Picani, do you how do?” His smile widens when the man chuckles at the reference he made.

“Spongebob ref, nice! I'm peachy, Dr. Picani! My name’s Patton Holter, it’s nice to meet you!”

The two shake hands, Emile’s left wondering where he had heard that name before.

Within an hour Emile had learned just about all there is to know about Patton Holter. Patton was born on January 19th, 1985 and he has a twin brother, he was adopted by his two father’s when he was five, and he has been struggling with depression since he was sixteen. His methods of dealing with his depression were taking antidepressants along with talk therapy twice a week.

“You could try journaling, my boyfriend has depression and keeping a journal usually helps him, only he makes up characters and uses them as a way to vent,” Emile suggests.

He notices a change in Patton’s blue eyes, a type of recognition and malice at the mention of Roman.

“I’ll give that a try! My brother writes songs, he’s got anxiety problems and writing out depressing lyrics always seems to help him, but I’ll try story-telling. It might be fun!”

Pride swells up in Emile’s chest, ‘I’m actually helping someone!’

“Well, seeing as you liked Dr. Picani’s idea we’ll give it a try, Patton. I don’t have any blank journals right now, but I should have one by the time you come in this Friday, is that okay?” Caroline asks.

“Of course! I can’t wait for the two of you to read what I write!”

Another hour passes before Patton’s session is up, Emile stands when Caroline does, offering his hand to Patton giving him a polite smile. A cold chill races down the young therapist’s spine when he notices how cold Patton’s baby blue eyes looked. His smile was sharp and dangerous instead of the playful smile he had on earlier.

“See ya soon, Emile,” Patton says as he tightens his grip on Emile’s hand.

Before Emile could reply, Patton was out the door leaving him and Caroline alone in the office.

“Well, you’re better than I thought, Picani. Good job!”

“Thanks… Do I get to sit in on the next one or?”

“Fraid not, kid. You can help the nurses give out medicine and get everyone situated, then after that paperwork that needs to be signed. Think ya can handle that?”

“Of course!”

Emile and Caroline bid their farewells as he closes the door to her office. Emile stops mid-stride down the hallway and turns to look back. He could have sworn he saw a wisp of grey fabric going around the corner.

He shakes his head and chuckles softly to himself, ‘I’m just paranoid after those texts.’

He sets off to go find the nurses, which at this time of day would be in the old building. A few years ago the hospital had a donation big enough to make a new building, where they did most of the important procedures now. But the old building was still in use, and Emile hated it.

The only way to get to it was through the back entrance of the new building, follow the path (which was in an awful state), and then unlock the side entrance of the old building. And with his recent creepy texts, he really didn’t want to be out of sight. Just in case.

You’re being paranoid, it’s fine.

With a deep breath he heads out the door, down the path, trying not to catch his foot on the worst of it. He’d heard of nurses breaking things on the path, and whilst they could just be rumours, he didn’t care to turn into a rumour himself.

He rounds the bend, and pauses, hearing something behind him rustle. What if…? No, ridiculous. He turns to see a cluster of bushes and chides himself. Of course bushes would rustle. Most plants do, if there’s enough of them.

He turns back, humming softly to himself as he approaches the side door, only to freeze at the buzz of his phone. He tries to ignore it, but it buzzes again, and he hesitantly reaches for it.

“I swear I turned you off,” he mutters, but sure enough, it was on, and he had two texts.

‘Hey Bunny.’

‘Behind you.’

Emile turns quickly, looking around desperately and tensing up. Plants, plants, door, car…

“...Damn, they really got me there,” he mutters, “...I knew I was being-”

A cloth is shoved over his mouth as he gasps, and he internally curses himself for not staying aware as he realises someone is now behind him. Emile struggles weakly, trying to tear the hand holding the cloth away from him, with no luck.

“Just sleep now, bunny.”

I...no…

Emile is out before he can fight back any more.

Desmond sat in his car with his seat lounged completely back, this was how he normally spent his breaks. Just taking naps inside his car, well he had other ways he spent his breaks but Alvin wasn’t there today. Desmond cracks his left eye open when the radio strapped to his side comes to life.

‘I need any available officer to visit St. Joseph’s Health Centre. A nurse called in saying something about a patient escaping again.’

Desmond quickly snatches his radio and presses the PTT switch, “I’ll go, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

‘You could be in here doing your paperwork, Wickham.’ His boss cuts in.

“What I can’t hear you, you’re breaking up, captain!”

He shuts his radio off and fixes his seat, Desmond knew he was going to get hell for ignoring the captain later but oh well, it wasn’t like that was anything new. Besides, him taking this gives him the chance to apologize to Emile and let him know that he’ll be picking him up later.

Desmond sighs when his phone begins to ring, he accepts the call and puts on a fake cheer. “Captain! Ya know it’s dangerous to be on a cellphone while driving sir.”

“You’ve done it plenty of times, so I know you’re not worried about it. You can’t keep putting this paperwork off, Desmond.”

“Yeah, I know but the assistant I hired will handle it tomorrow. It’ll get done, now let me handle this issue, alright?”

The captain sighs.

“You and your brother got into another fight, didn’t you?”

“Maybe…”

“Alright, fine go make up with him but you bring your ass right back here afterwards, got it?”

Desmond rolls his eyes, “Yes sir,” he drawls as he hangs up on his boss.

Desmond presses his foot the gas, surging down the residential road, funny this was what led to his and Emile’s argument. ‘I really hope he’s okay…’ The last time they got a call about a patient getting loose Emile had gotten hurt. Getting smacked with a bedpan was not a fun experience for his little brother.

It wouldn’t have been fun for the patient either if Emile had let Desmond have ‘talk’ with them, but Emile said that it would look bad on his record if he assaulted a mentally ill patient. What? He’s got a temper sue him!

Desmond slows down when the health centre comes into view, he furrows his brows and narrows his blue and brown eyes.

“Odd… There aren’t any nurses out looking this time around.”

He pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park, before he even has a chance to step out, a nurse rushes over from inside the old building. Desmond blinks when her face went from fearful to utterly heartbroken.

Tears gather in the nurse's brown eyes, “I… I’m so sorry… I-I should have gone out when I saw someone behind him. I'm so sorry!”

“Hey calm down, alright? I’m sure we’ll find Mr. Stevenson, he never goes far.”

The nurse lets out a sob, Desmond twitches at the sound but forces himself to calm down.

“I-It wasn’t a patient! I-I told them… I-It was your brother, somebody took Emile and I couldn’t see their face, I am so s-sorry!”

All the air was knocked out of Desmond, ‘Somebody took Emile…’

Roman paces the living room, his phone clutched tightly in his hands waiting for Emile to send him a text message or to at least call him. He checks the time, fifteen past nine, Emile was supposed to have been home almost an hour ago.

Roman feels his stomach drop when there’s a knock at the door, he quickly walks over to it and swings it open.

Desmond stood on the stoop with his hand raised, ready to knock again. Bi-coloured eyes meet blue, they’re both silent for several minutes before Desmond speaks up.

“Emi’s missing.”

#Emile Picani #dr emile picani #virgil sanders #patton sanders #deceit sanders #roman sanders #princani #unsympathetic virgil #unsympathetic patton #tw kidnapping #tw stalking

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elenatria · 5 years ago

Text

How to turn a London Con trip into a “Chernobyl” trip.

I’m home so I can finally make this post.

Where to start.

Okay-

Let’s start with “Chernobyl”. It happened a few months ago, fell on our heads like a nuclear bomb. We all loved the protagonists but Viktor Charkov, the KGB chairman, is also a memorable, creepy, hateful character who got under our skin with the cold truth of his words, the harsh reality of his behaviour. He was too real, too pragmatic to be ignored. From stories I’ve been told in person, he’s no different than the executive arms of tyrants we had here not more than forty years ago. He exists. People like him live among us.

As for the actor himself, so strange. See, there is no mention of Alan Williams’ age on IMDB or Wikipedia and that’s enough to show that, apart from his theatre, TV and film work, little is known about him. Where to find him, contact him, he’s too old to care about social media and apparently he never was too sought out, not with a “face like a bagful of donuts” as he jokes.

But I was thrilled. I wrote the first chapter of “A single bullet” after watching “Chernobyl” and I just had to show it to this elusive low-profile thespian who inspired me. Because... I don’t know, because. Just to say “Thanks for doing a magnificent job. Thanks for helping me understand evil.”

So I tried contacting his agent. I gave her my name and nationality. I thought I’d just send her the link and forget about it.

Apparently, she forgot about it too because I never heard from her.

After a month London Con was upon us, but what to do in the evenings? Plays of course. I booked a ticket for “The woman in black” and “The Hunt” with Tobias Menzies. Then I searched and searched for Alan Williams plays but, to my dismay, he had finished playing Ivan Romanovich Chebutykin in “Three sisters” at the beginning of June and his new play, “Faith, hope and charity”, wouldn’t premiere before September. Just my luck to be in London in between the two plays. No stage door queue, no autographs.

After spending a full Saturday at London Con and Sunday at the British Museum, Monday had to be a day of leisure. A free concert at St Martin-in-the-Fields before lunch was all I was capable of attending, drag my steps towards the closest bus stop that would drop me off… wherever. I didn’t care.

But then I decided to read my post from the previous day about managing to buy a ticket for “The girl on the train” at the very last minute and meeting Alex Ferns, the naked miner. The unexpected ticket, the unexpected hug.

Now how difficult would it be to meet an actor who is NOT doing a play at the moment?

Very very difficult, confirmed one voice.

He’s rehearsing for ‘Faith, hope and charity’, isn’t he? disagreed another. He must be. It’s almost August and the play opens in September. He’s at work right now. He must be!!!

I googled and googled for almost an hour. I found that “Faith, hope and charity” would be staged at the Dorfman theatre near Waterloo station so I called the stage door. I explained to the receptionist that I did not know Mr Williams in person but I was visiting London for only a few days, was a big fan of his work in “Chernobyl” and I would really love to greet him. The man on the phone was very helpful revealing that this was their first day of rehearsing (the incredible coincidence!) and they had started only… an hour ago. He asked my name and I said “Well… you can say Eleni”, I mean, who needs my complicated surname, right? The guy said he’d save my number and let Mr Williams know.

Oh god.

But I couldn’t just sit there waiting for a call, I’d never get that call, come on.

So I rushed to the Dorfman Theatre. I was breaking my brain trying to figure out how I could get the Charkov chapter of “A single bullet” printed in a district with no stationary shops whatsoever. I was hoping I could… shove it into his face I don’t know, and later imagine he’d be reading it. He didn’t really have to read it, just nod condescendingly and lie that he would, and that would be enough to put a smile on my face. Just like all those toys and drawings people give to celebs at cons that end up in the hands of volunteers, assistants or charities, if not in the trash.

When I got there I talked to a different receptionist, a very professional, very unhelpful young man. For safety reasons he wasn’t supposed to disclose neither the time they’d finish nor the time of recess. For safety reasons I had to go through Mr Williams’ agent to get to him. Outrageous, the woman didn’t even forward my story to him, let alone give me permission to meet him. I was hopeless, I was being turned down. I was being an idiot.

“But they must have a lunch break, right??” I insisted. “Can’t I just wait outside?”

That guy was a goddamn sphinx, and the helpful guy was still talking on the phone or to some lady there, I don’t remember, so I couldn’t reach out to him. Suddenly I felt unnecessarily needy as if I was sitting on the subway floor, shaking my hat to passers-by, clinging my few coins. How humiliating.

With heavy steps I exited the theatre. Why is it so complicated, why do I need someone else’s “permission”? I’m not a child. I looked around, it was a sunny day, people were sitting in coffee tables out in the patio. Some tables were empty but I didn’t care, I just sat on a column by the entrance, far enough to not be seen by the receptionists and feel like shit for lingering, close enough to catch anyone exiting.

For an hour and a half I crouched over my phone trying to figure out how to contact the agent without sounding too stalkery. I called the agency but the girl on the phone gave me the same email address where I had sent my fic. Fine. I changed the wording of my message again and again so as not to sound too needy or creepy even if I knew it wouldn’t work.

I knew I had missed my concert for no reason and I would soon have to leave because who doesn’t like giving up? It’s better to give up than stress over something that’s never gonna happen. It always is.

I was seconds away from clicking “send” and making a fool of myself to the agent for a second time when I thought I saw someone, a towering presence stopping a few meters away, looking over, hesitating, waiting.

I raised my head.

There he was, three-dimensional, bathed in sunlight. Not an image in my head anymore.

Believe me when I say that I was staring at Gandalf, Santa Claus, the Grail Knight from “Indiana Jones”, the Big Bad Wolf.

I honestly don’t know what I was staring at.

But there he was, in all his elderly silver-bearded glory. A myth in my mind, in the flesh. How did he know I was there? I didn’t tell anyone. I was supposed to be hiding.

After nanoseconds of deer-like stun I did the polite thing and jumped on my feet, ready for a handshake. I mean, I had to stand up, right? He had come out just for me.

Shit. What had I done? The nerve.

The first thing I remember noticing when I got closer were his faded blue eyes with a distinguishable light-shaded rim circling the iris. The rest was just word vomit, how we all love him on tumblr, write fics, make memes etc.

Memes?

I described to him the “Try me, bitch” edit we all love, courtesy of @two-screaming-rats.

He didn’t get it at first, then he laughed so HARD, so damn hard. You guys have to see Charkov laughing his heart out.

He said he only had a few minutes before he had to go back to the rehearsal so I decided to start the conversation with the Charkov fanfics. He was quick to apologize for not answering my email. “I’m sorry but… but I honestly don’t know what to say when someone sends me a story,” he admitted humbly. “I read all of them but… I mean I’ve been sent stories based on my characters before but I really wouldn’t know what to say.”

Okay first of all, he read my story. I don’t know if he read it a month ago when I sent it or minutes before he exited the theatre to greet me but he did.

Secondly, there are more stories about his characters? WHERE.

“I’m not a writer anyway,” I said apologetically.

The unexpected reassurance. “But you are.”

I guess one doesn’t have to be The Writer™, they just have to write. What a way to be courteous to a fan though.

Then I mentioned how we love Charkov’s trademark, his glasses, how we’re frantically looking for ‘80s-looking glasses, how we obsess over specific frames and brands.

“They’re not a brand,” he clarified, “they were specifically made for me, they’re an exact replica of Viktor Chebrikov’s glasses. Just like our clothes that were made by seamstresses who worked during that era.”

Naturally I praised the production’s attention to detail that has us ranting, how beautiful and “European” it all looked, how true the script was to Lyudmila’s story as it was described in Svetlana Alexievich’ “Chernobyl prayer”. I talked about my thoughts when I first heard there would be a “Chernobyl” TV series: the Americans made a TV show based on events that affected Europe, now that’s a new one. He mentioned Russian media admitting that they should have made that show, not the Americans. I agreed but also added “That’s the thing, it may be beautifully made, it may be the truth, but it’s still propaganda. Just because it’s true, just because the Soviet government did all those horrible things, that doesn’t mean that the show is not serving someone’s agenda.” He disagreed saying that the Soviet people were shown in a good light for their bravery and sacrifice. Well, we knew that, didn’t we.

I said how impressed I was by his portrayal of Charkov because we were told about people like him by dictatorship victims at school. People who had been tortured in the ‘70s came to us, talking about their time in underground cells, in the hands of sadists like Charkov. I told him about my uncle who was arrested and executed by the Nazis for distributing left-wing leaflets, about my grandmother who had to escape to the mountains during the civil war that followed the German occupation because she was a communist. I explained how real it felt to me, his last scene with Legasov in the kitchen. How bleak and horribly accurate.

He mentioned “You’re one of us, Legasov”. To him Charkov was just doing his job, working for the greater good and he agreed with the quote in my fic, that Charkov “couldn’t wait to retire”.

He then joked about Charkov being blasé after the committee meeting, “Meh, I’m done with arresting people, I let others do it for me”.

I assure you all those questions were answered in a couple of minutes, and I was certain our meeting was about to come to an end.

But then… he gestured toward an empty table.

Don’t let an aged man standing, was my spontaneous thought. I was reminded of my father.

Then I realized. He gestured toward an empty table.

Table. The two of us. On a sunny day.

Time, he was offering me his time.

And… oh my god, this was practically an interview, why was I not recording this, he was answering my questions so effortlessly.

No. That would be rude, that would be greedy.

Just relax and enjoy the moment and try to remember fucking everything.

I asked him what his inspiration for Charkov was, if he based his portrayal on other actors or historical figures. He paused to think and explained that the script was very strict anyway, very defined. However he did mention Charkov’s line, “I know you’ve heard the stories about us. When I hear them, even I am shocked” and how that reflected Stalin’s hypocritical quote, “What do I know, I’m just a peasant”.

His favourite line was “Trust but verify, and the Americans think that Ronald Reagan thought that up”.

“Is that really an old Russian proverb…?” I wondered.

“I… don’t know!” he laughed.

During the rest of the conversation he mentioned his friend whose job was to translate the Pravda, and his years in Canada where he met Czech-Greeks, namely Greek communists who were driven away by our right-wing government after the Second World War. Even the Soviets didn’t want them so they were sent to the Czech Republic and ended up in Canada. These people belonged nowhere.

I didn’t know that, and he didn’t know about Vladimir Gubarev, the writer of the play “Sarcophagus” and science editor of the Pravda who was the recipient of Legasov’s tapes. I quoted him saying “Why call the protagonist Legasov since that’s not how Legasov was, they could have used a character who’s a scientist and give him any other name.” Like Ulana, I added, who’s a composite character, or Chebrikov/Charkov, mostly fictional.

Our conversation was coming to an end; he asked me what plays I saw in London and he smiled when I mentioned Alex Ferns in “The girl on the train”.

It was truly overwhelming; I was torn between being swept away by the moment, focusing on nothing but the faded blue of his eyes, bathing in the calm rhythm of his voice, and actually paying attention to what he was saying. Only once did my eyes dart at his left hand spotting the unusually thick golden ring on his finger. When one’s mind plays tricks the best way to discipline is a glimpse at The Ring because if he didn’t have nearly my father’s years I’d probably be having a horribly inappropriate crush.

“Time to go,” he apologized.

We took a couple of photos and I pulled out Svetlana Alexievich’ book, asking for an autograph.

“Where should I sign?” he asked.

“Wherever you want.”

He flipped through the pages noticing my page markers, notes and underlinings. “What are these for?”

“Just… just notes. Do you want my—” I suggested grabbing my big-ass permanent marker.

Without a word he gave a knowing smile and, like an experienced conjurer, he pulled out of his jacket an elegant little sharpie. Delicate pens for delicate words.

I didn’t dare read what he wrote to me then, I could only make out his name through that intelligible doctor-like writing. Surely my name wasn’t there because I hadn’t introduced myself. Still, I thanked him from the bottom of my heart.

Time to go.

We shook hands and I said how honoured I was that he had spent time with me. I tried not to stare as he disappeared into the theatre but before I left I ran into the foyer, quickly thanked the receptionist to whom I had talked on the phone and stormed out of the building with that huge wave of adrenaline pumping violently in my ears.

As I crossed the street I was grinning like an idiot. I knew I had to stop right there and write down everything before I forgot - but it was pointless. I’m not a recorder to have to write down everything the minute it happens. It’s enough to remember the pale rimming of his eyes.

Now, two days after meeting him, I’m still torn between pride and embarrassment. What the hell was I thinking? Doesn’t a man deserve to work in peace?

But as I’m writing this and attaching his signature on the first page of “Chernobyl prayer” I dare for the first time read what he wrote to me.

Pleasure to meet you.

People say they have religious moments when meeting their favourite celebs.

Mine was poetic.

What a darling, darling man.

#chernobyl #alan williams #viktor charkov #vikor chebrikov #fan encounter #dorfman theatre #alex ferns #the girl on the train #london #kgb

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voraciouslyindulgent · 6 years ago

Text

ooc

I found a super old drabble I wrote about Nickel before she showed up in the comics because I couldn’t wait like a sensible person. I kinda like it, even though it’s completely canon-divergent, so I’m gonna put this here in case anyone wants a light read.

Featuring: Tarn, other DJD, Deadlock, an OC, and of course snarky grandma Nickel.

Enjoy. <3

“Please don’t tell me it’s another crate.”

Tarn paused at the end of the disembark ramp, and squinted until his optics calibrated to the hot bake of twin, alien suns.

“I’m gettin’ real tired of delivering parcels for you, Tarn.” Deadlock scowled from his hip-cocking in front of a pod. “I have better things to do, like my job.” The fanged mech crossed his arms, and tapped a ped against the sand.

“We all have jobs, Deadlock.” Tarn waited until Helex rolled out the carpet before walking out from the shade of the Peaceful Tyranny.

Deadlock gave him a deadpan stare. “Are you fraggin’ kidding me?”

Tarn tilted his helm. “I do not enjoy the sensation of rock grains chafing against my gears, however fine they may be.” The carpet sank under his steps.

“Oh no. Rock grains.”

Tarn hummed a chuckle.

“As I was sayin’,” Deadlock grimaced, “I have more important things to do than playing delivery bot for you. Call a courier next time.”

“No job is more important than the other.” The tankformer stopped before the smaller ‘Con, “You know better than to judge the work by its nature.”

“Of course.” A drawl of syllables. “So,” the gunfighter jerked his chin, “if he’s not in a crate, why d’you need another one?”

Tarn regarded the other mech. The suns were blazing against his treads. Heat rolled from the sand in visible waves.

“I…caught him committing questionable acts with our marks.” He answered, a slight cringe in his gaze. It was not a lie, but it was not the whole truth. He had to preserve the reputation of the Division, and a sniveling plea for a transfer would not do.

“Marks?” Deadlock frowned. “Y’mean…”

“Yes.” The tankformer replied. “The ones we cross off from the List.”

“You caught ‘im having a romp with Listers and he’s not in a crate?” Deadlock looked like he was calculating advanced aerophysics.

“He was not fornicating with our marks.” Tarn explained. “He was eating them. Well, what parts that could be salvaged.”

“…Oh.” The smaller ‘Con took a shutter of optics. “Great. I can’t wait for a trip across the galaxy stuck with the guy.”

“He won’t cause you trouble.” Tarn reassured his comrade.

“So long as I’m not dead or dyin’.” A grumble.

The leader of the DJD laughed, and looked to the pod. “Where’s our new medic?”

“On her way.” Deadlock glanced over his shoulder, and gestured at the door. “Said she didn’t want any help.”

As though summoned by the mention of her person, a little aft wiggled into view, followed by stout peds ending in wheels and noises of exertion. A minibot appeared, inch by inch out the door, lugging a case twice her size and thrice her volume. Sparks flew where the metal container screeched against the ramp of the pod, dragging grooves into the scratched surface and chipping paint.

“Hey hey!” Deadlock snapped around, arms unraveling. “That’s my pod you’re carving the Rusty Canyons into.”

“Oh shut your yapper already.” A curt, dry voice retorted. “I’ll buy you a new one, Primus-damned.”

Tarn frowned, and watched the tiny body strain and hiss as it yanked at a case sinking into the sand. He tilted his helm toward Tesarus, and sent him a glance.

“Got it.” The behemoth of a grinder nodded. He walked towards the minibot, and reached for her luggage.

“Na-na-na!” A little blue hand slapped Tesarus on the arm. “Off! No touching!”

Tesarus started. His lips curled. “Listen here, you squirt—”

“Squirt? Ha! You wish.” The minibot snorted.

Tesarus blurted a blip of static. His grinding blades whirred.

Tarn’s optics narrowed.

At last, the tiny medic stopped before the leader of the DJD. She took a blast of air, and craned her neck cables as she gave him a full once-over. “It’s nothin’ personal, big T. Flying and I just don’t agree. It gives me a migraine.”

“I would prefer you to address me as ‘Tarn’.”

“Of course.” The little femme grinned. “I’m Nickel.”

“My pleasure.” Tarn knelt down, and extended his hand.

Nickel shook his index finger. “Phew! What a place!” She scanned the horizon of sand dunes, optics pinched. “My internals are fryin’. Extreme heat is not good for my little fat chassis.”

“We will depart shortly.” Tarn answered the minibot. “Gyrodyne is on his way.”

“Oh good.”

“Regarding what you mentioned earlier, about flying...” The tankformer frowned. “Most of our work requires space travel.”

“Yeah. In a proper ship.” Nickel tossed Deadlock a glare of irritation with a scrunch of her nose. “That, is not a ship.” She pointed at the pod. “That is a piece of scrap a certain idiot traded our perfectly well-ventilated and steady shuttle for.”

“Don’t.” Deadlock pointed right back. “You do not insult Gasket.”

“Now he’s named it!” The medic threw up her arms. “Turmoil’s gonna be real happy for you.”

Deadlock narrowed his optics, and growled through his fangs.

“Speaking of,” Tarn stood up, “send Turmoil my regards.”

Deadlock stopped his glowering at the minibot, and huffed. “Oh yeah, he’s just dyin’ to get your regards, Tarn. That’s gonna make all the difference when I tell ‘im what I did to his shuttle.” The gunfighter patted his pod, and stroked its fading paint with a thumb. “But in my books, totally worth it.” A small smile tugged the corners of his lips. “Never owned anything in my life.” He looked down, as though embarrassed.

Behind his mask, Tarn smiled as well. “Peace through tyranny.” He said.

“Yeah.” Deadlock rubbed under his nose with a digit, and straightened when a form scooted out of the Tyranny. “Ah, there’s my cargo.”

“Can someone please help me?” Gyrodyne dumped his crates on the carpet, cooling fans a constant whirr. “These are really heavy.” He propped his hand on his hips, and flicked the rotor blades on his back.

“Get your aft in the pod.” Deadlock rolled his optics, and made his way to the boxes.

“Thanks!” The copter pattered toward the pod, and paused at the door. “Is that a leg?” His optics flashed.

“Yep.” Deadlock answered as he hefted the crates on a shoulder. “Met an Autobot when tiny and I stopped for some fresh air.” He walked to his pod. “And don’t even think about it.” He jabbed a finger at the copter’s nose before passing through the entrance.

“I wasn’t.” Gyrodyne exclaimed as he followed inside. “I don’t like legs.” His voice trailed off as the ramp retracted and the door slid closed, a loud clunk over the activating hum of the pod’s thruster systems.

Tarn watched. The piercing sunlight scalded his plating, and the fragrant polish on his derma evaporated in tendrils of white smoke.

The pod began to shake, stirring swells of sand that burst in glittering waves. Tesarus gave him a look, and left without a word, joining the rest of the DJD as they entered their ship. Nickel lingered, a ped turned toward the Peaceful Tyranny. She waited, silent, a slight furrow between her brow ridges as the dial on her forehead wavered.

Gusts of air spat from the pod. Granules of sand beat against his armor.

“…Last farewell is fondest.” Tarn whispered, optics dim. “Fading glimpses of stars to a waking day.”

A burst of flame lifted the pod until it hovered, an outer ring of thrusters igniting.

“Dreary is the white sky cast bleak by a sun no longer warm.” He recited:

“…I am but an observer…”

The pod shot up in a crackling blast.

“…to an unending night,” he murmured, “…disguised in the tides of the world.”

Tarn watched, until the little white orb faded out of the atmosphere.

The carpet was nudging at the tips of his peds.

The tankformer looked down, and spotted Nickel tugging at her crate, which had caught on the edge of the carpet.

“Stupid…glitchin’…spawn of the Unmaker…!” She gritted, engine revving a high-pitched whine as she yanked and pulled at the handle.

Tarn shuttered his optics. “Are you sure you don’t want-”

“Then what are you waitin’ for?” Nickel blew a loud ex-vent, and sagged against the container. “I’m too old for this.” She shook her helm, fans whirring at top speed.

Tarn turned around, and scooped up the crate. He reached to pick up the minibot, but a flash of blue stalled his hand.

“Grab me and I’ll bolt your aft to the hull.” The medic scrunched her nose, and narrowed her optics.

The leader of the DJD stared at the tiny bot. A swell of laughter murmured from his throat.

“Please roll up the carpet and take it with you.” He straightened, and strolled toward his ship. “Make sure Helex gives it a thorough dusting before returning it to storage.”

“You’re putting Helex on cleaning duty?” Nickel called after him. She must have familiarized herself with their files. “One look and I know he can’t dust for scrap. He can’t even dust himself.”

“Well, Nickel,” Tarn peeked over his treads, a glimmer in his gaze, “that’s why you’re here.”

“That’s why you need me.” The minibot huffed.

“Indeed.” The tankformer turned around, a waning smile behind his mask. “Medics are irreplaceable.” He waded into the shadow, cast by the ship against the white light of twin, alien suns.

#ooc #mun fic #long post #if you're on mobile and this doesn't cut i'm sorry

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