#way of speaking characteristic to capitals but that's it -- it's just the tone and not volume because i do not shout!

[leatherbookmark]

Randomly thinking about my sense of humour and how it comes off irl. Well and online too now that I think of it because online I suppose it's even harder to tell whether someone's joking or not. Specifically I think with the way I talk? Because like. I must've said multiple times that I write the way I talk (and talk the way I write, my voice is the exact same), and the way I talk is that very often when I'm trying to be humorous I'll just adapt a tone that I think is OBVIOUSLY not genuine (a villainous drawl or a slightly nervous bright titter), something so "this is me playing a role for your amusement" that I don't stop for a second to consider whether it landed or not.

(I'm also someone who picks up/gets attached to specific phrases, tones of voice or basically "ways of speaking" a lot and uses it for humorous purposes -- for example, little phrases like "such is/is such that", "but however", "alas!" that I feel are at this point (see, another thing: the word order) a part of the tumblr familect (?), this way of speaking in a quasi-archaic, quasi-elevated style about things that are very mundane just to be funny. That's my jam.)

And I feel like with my father it usually did? Because our senses of humour were very similar, but my mother's sense of humour is like... it's not good fellas... and the typical scenario between us is I'll say something sarcastically, she replies seriously, I, pained, go "that was a joke" to which she replies that of course she knows! But I know she's lying. And I guess she's a special case, but I've had several other-people-cases where I thought I was saying that was obvious sarcasm/doing a bit, but the other person reacted as though they took me seriously. Like, I don't know, something is fubar, I go "oh, wahoo! how lovely!" v e r y dryly and someone goes "well um I don't think that's good actually".

But it's rather difficult to figure out whether the other person understands you in terms of like, the message you're trying to convey; figuring out if they picked up on the nuances of tone and sarcasm is much more difficult, especially if you give of a Weird Vibe. :/

[ephemerlskies]

the lighthouse | jjk

⇢ pairing: reader x jungkook

⇢ genre: one shot, fluff (what's new), strangers to "lovers", mutual pining, so much sap you're gonna have to shower after reading this, ANGST, jungkook is a literary scholar (?) of sorts

⇢ word count: 12k

⇢ warnings: as stated before, it's Cheesy with a capital C, lots of introspection, brief mentions of death, explicit language, mommy issues, (((major plot twist)))

⇢ summary: you and jungkook had one thing in common: you were both lost souls stagnant in the search of some fulfillment. the one of many differences was that your story had been written on your sleeves, while jungkook’s was a story needed to be unriddled. was this going to be another disappointing chapter in the book of unattainable desires or could your encounter with the mysterious man who lived in the lighthouse lead to something much more?

a/n: i'm super proud of how this turned out even though it ripped my heart out of my chest... this was probably my favorite fic to write and ahh im so happy to release it!!!! i hope you lovely little angels enjoy!! :) <3

What makes us human? This question posed by your philosophy teacher had been stalking your thoughts hours after class had ended. As the rain padded against your umbrella, you piled in a few answers to this question. 

What makes us human? A question that would seemingly have a clear cut answer, but when you got down to it, there was no distinct characteristic that differentiates humans from other animals. It was easy to say something such as how we have complex linguistics or industrialized civilization, but that is to discredit how the packs of wolves howl to each other, the birds sing from tree to tree, the beavers diligently construct their dams, or the dirt cities in which ants build their own societies not much different than humans. 

You pondered the idea that we love so deeply, even when it is often unreturned, but there is no denying the way a mother bear strikes down any and all enemies to protect her baby cub is anything other than true love.

So, what makes us human? You sat on a bench placed on the sidelines where you could witness small scenes of the lives of passing strangers. This sonder might be what makes us human. The knowledge that each person lives and loves and cries and fears and speaks and dies in ways with which you will never begin to familiarize. Life continues on around you despite how unimportant it may seem to the rest. 

Does a lion waste any moment of his time wondering how the deer had found its way to the shallow pond, whilst preparing to strike? Of course not. 

You watched a couple clinging onto each other and wondered where they met. You then were captured in the peace of an old woman prodding around in the grass with her golden retriever; perhaps it was her last companion. Then, your eyes drifted towards the two boys pushing each other over but with the gentleness one could only assume that was out of friendship or perhaps brotherhood.

And then you saw him. 

Gentle fingers tracing the stacks of magazines lined in a perfect column; an arm that disappeared into the sleeve of his dark, wool coat. A tweed newsboy hat sheltering his eyes, and deep chestnut Oxford shoes stepping lightly, nearing a tiptoe, between the cracks of each cement plate, weathered by the infinite other shoes that tread on those very grounds. A body so magnetizing and moving as if it were a secret, and you couldn’t imagine why no one else had been ingested by the enigma that is this man. You longed for him to reveal these secrets that hid underneath his hat and coat, though if he wouldn’t, which he most likely wouldn’t, you had no problem with seeking them out yourself.

In a city filled with young souls draped in modern streetwear, jeans, bright colors, and converse or Dr. Martens or perhaps high heels, catching this needle in the haystack plugged into every synapse of wonderment. The muted tones of his clothing gleamed the brightest out of the sea of strangers.

This is what made you human. Your desire to know everything that lies barely beyond your wingspan. Everything you could hold was close to nothing in meaning, and everything your arms could not reach was always all you could ever want. The rise of your legs, the way you replicated his every movement, running your fingers along the stack of magazines, fastidious prancing in the spaces between the cracks, and your subtle pursuit of the man just out of reach was what made you human. 

Bodies bustling through your path failed to untether you from this chase. It felt far beyond your power to stop yourself from the rising excitement and allure in your chest that pulled you towards him. The man was quick and swift to dodge oncoming bystanders, however your eyes became a missile fixed on a target. 

The unexpected turn he took had you floundering for you had been trapped behind an older lady and a couple walking side by side. Sadly, your memorization of the streets and landmarks had been admisal, so you found yourself in uncharted territory. Each road sign and corner store had been displayed like a foreign language, and you mentally cursed yourself for letting your silly lust for learning what shouldn’t be learned lead you into this difficult position.  

You stood defeated, the man had evaded your fragile trail behind him with ease. You lost him, or maybe he got away.

It was still midday, prompting you to make an end of this means. Your eyes discovered the coast set along the edge of the town, and though this was the furthest you had ever gone, you dared to go further. This mishap of yours granted you the opportunity to introduce yourself to the shore, and the waves have always delighted your interest. So, you found it just to walk down to the sand. The sound of the water pressing into the wet sand was calming; it was something you could find yourself getting used to. Luck presented itself kindly, giving you a moment unencumbered by the rain that had ceased not long after you stepped foot on the beach. 

You took this time to be with yourself and sort out all the problems that have been worrying your mind these past few weeks. Your best friend, Chaeyoung, had an upcoming birthday that had snuck up on you before you had the chance to even think about getting her a card, let alone a gift or celebration. And you would be disappointed with yourself if you failed to outdo last year’s efforts. There was also the test in your Chemistry class scheduled only a day after her birthday, curtailing your plans of staying out late because there was no way you would allow for anything less than your very most on this exam. Then, there was the essay on what makes us human that you denied any chance of regaining priority to your list of worries, knowing it would gnaw at your mind until you forcibly shut it out.

And the man that willed you to seek him out, and that wore the title of his stories as if he intentionally wished to spark your wonder to learn them.

That should have been the last of your worries. It should have been. 

The day began to fade into a warm, orange dusk. Skies once gloomy and grey now covered in blankets of clouds reflecting the sun’s gentle rays and you found yourself reunited with the calming feeling similar to when you first stepped on the beach. 

Not long after registering how far you had traveled along the shore, you noticed a quaint lighthouse with a house-like structure at the base. The off-white stones cemented up until a red paneled roof covered it, tempting you to know what lies behind those walls.

It looked like it was about to rain again.

Are lighthouses closed off from the public? 

There’s a house, there must be someone inside that could help me find my way home. 

All these comments to yourself made to premise the conclusion of entrance into this lighthouse. As you approached the door, framed in oak lining and painted red, the clouds appeared heavy once again. A few drops of condensation was enough persuasion that what was about to be done was for the good of your well being. You pushed it open and a creak echoed around the room inside. 

The walls were covered with stone bricks and there was one table in the center of the room. Other than that, this house was barren and if it weren’t for the second door that you guessed led to the lighthouse you would have called a car to take you home. 

Your walk was pensive and mouse-like; there was some quality about this structure that made you feel like you weren’t alone and sudden movements would disrupt an established peace. Your hand turned the cold, gold-plated handle and pulled open the door, soon being met with a warm gust of air that engulfed you into the lighthouse. 

This part of the building was exponentially more decorated than the room that preceded it. A staircase cemented into the sides of the lighthouse plastered with shelves upon shelves of books spiraled along the cylindrical walls, paired with dull lanterns that illuminated each level of railing had you drawn into its magnificence.

You stared up to what looked like a platform that held a place in which one would rest and look out into the ocean. There was no one in sight, and you assumed permission to climb up the staircase. Your eyes scanned each spine, creased and slightly warped from the moisture of the air, like they had been read over and over again. Your breath became heavy and your stare was focused on the books to ignore the dizziness settling in.

Reaching the top of the staircase came as a blessing, your lungs were close to catching fire. There were two armchairs, side by side, one fashioned a knitted blanket and the other was used as a table for five to seven or so novels, and the walls behind buried in high stacks of more books. There had to be at least seventy in the first half of piles you accounted for, and before you had the chance to snoop around the rest of the room you heard a voice coated with alarm behind you.

“What are you doing in here?” Your breath halted as you turned around, about to explain why you had let yourself into this building, however no amount of words could fully justify this invasive act. 

You recognized the wool coat and the tweed hat now resting in his hand instead of on his head. His eyes were shrouded in a youthful innocence despite his attire that implied he was a sophisticate of some sort. 

“Are you going to answer me or do I have to call the police?” The boom of his voice was chilling, sending shivers along your neck and chest. 

“Sorry, I’m-” How could you possibly defend your intrusion without sounding juvenile or absolutely insane? “I was… It was raining and I just was walking on the beach so-”

“So, you decided breaking and entering was better than getting a little wet?” His barbed responses hurdled how you plaintively stuttered around excuses. Despite his efforts to seem menacing, you couldn't let go of his boyish facial features. It was absolutely astonishing to you that someone who looked young enough to attend your own college and handsome enough to garner quite a bit of attention had anything to do with this dingy, aged lighthouse.

“No, I was going to come in here to ask for directions. I’m lost.” The pitiful temperament of this comment was not intentional, but the man who now stood in front of you felt itched by it. He couldn't ignore how your legs trembled, partly from the cold but also because of his raised voice directed at you, and how that admittedly aroused some guilt.

“It’s fine. Just-” He sighed deeply, placing his hat on the side table adjacent to the left armchair, “You can just wait here until the rain stops. Though, I have to say it looks unrelenting at the moment.” The man’s attention was captured by how the heavy rain seemed to wage war against the raging tides. You caught a glimpse of a smile. The slightest upturn of the corner of his lips almost compelling you to reveal you had spotted him in the town earlier today, and that you found yourself enamoured with his every movement, and he was ironically the reason you were stuck here.

“Are you sure? I can go, I shouldn't have been here in the first place.” The words escaped from your mouth quickly as if they were trying to race each other to be spoken.

“No, I said it’s fine.” The suddenness of this offer hushed you. He then removed his wool coat, unveiling the clothes he wore beneath it. The burgundy crew neck sweater layered tastefully over a collared shirt was just as old fashioned as every other article of clothing he sported. How intriguing.

“I'm sorry.” Your muscles grew sore from suppressing how aggressively you would have been shaking from the cold. “Thank you.” Him granting you shelter gave you motive to keep the umbrella that would suffice to protect you from the rain under wraps. The option he presented was far more favorable.

“Sit down. Please, use this blanket.” He gestured towards the throw draped over the right armchair. His eyes avoided you as much as he could manage though you had this glow emulating from your wanting eyes and soft looking skin that crept to the corner of his vision too brightly to ignore. Consequently, this comment soothed both your body and mind for he unguarded a kindness that was hidden when he first spoke to you. 

“My name is ___.” He was facing the window that displayed the sea, now thrashing and falling into itself, and without moving his head, his eyes drifted towards you.

“I know who you are.”

“Wh- How?” Maybe accepting an invite in a secluded lighthouse on the beach wasn’t the safest thing you could be doing on a Friday afternoon. Anxiety pioneered a place in your breathing, turning it rushed and choked.

Before your mind could theorize all the ways in which you could make an escape from this room or how quickly you could use your hidden umbrella as a weapon he said, “I noticed you following me in the town’s square earlier today.” You sighed, releasing the terror that pricked your lungs. If anything, it was he who should be afraid of you.

“I’m not a stalker!” That weak defense was all you could push from your throat before any well constructed explanations could be put forth. 

His laugh, along with his cryptic gaze towards the waves, made you feel even worse about your actions.

“You were just so stunning and I wanted to know what kind of person still wears a newsboy hat without trying to make a statement.” Your lower lip tucked between your teeth stopped the nervous laugh about to spill and expressed worry that the more you tried to explain yourself, the more this man believed you should be charged for stalking not to mention trespassing.

“Stunning?”

“I mean, like, someone I’d want to meet.”

“What were you planning on doing once I stopped somewhere, or noticed you?” He questioned you only because he relished how you were scrambling to a proper defense. He knew you weren’t any threat to him, not many people were, however he enjoyed your chatter more than the silence that would have taken its place.

“I don't know, maybe just… introduce myself?” This sheepish, yet honest, reply had you drowning in humiliation, while the man before you seemed as if he were floating effortlessly along the surface. 

“I’m Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” Relief replaced the worry that he would turn you away, leaving you to the hands of the storm outside. The fact that any other person would have done so led you to believe Jungkook held a lot more compassion than he let on. You held your hand to greet him, finding it only polite to execute this formality. His, however, remained folded behind his back, notably denting your ego as you retracted your hand quicker than you extended it.

“Okay.” You muttered to yourself in slight embarrassment from this trivial rejection. “So, do you live here or something?” Your question was first replied to with a breath of annoyance. Jungkook was kind enough to allow you a sanctuary from the rain, exemption from the intrusion and stalking, and now he found himself having to entertain you.

“Yeah, something like that.” All this disinterested answer did was persist your attempts to break his catatonic gaze. However, his reserve had been solidified steadily over the years, so this venture was going to be tough.

“I didn’t know you could live in a lighthouse?” Your inquiry was spoken with the hopes this would ignite a lasting conversation. 

“It’s not a lighthouse, technically.” Jungkook’s affirmative tone flew right over your head, conjuring even more annoyance that oddly enticed him to continue responding to your dense questions.

“Well, it looks like a lighthouse. It’s shaped like a lighthouse. It’s on the beach, just like a lighthouse.” A chuckle joined the sigh of his breath and his head that shook at your shallow observations. Jungkook eventually turned around and made his way towards the stacks of books, trying to preoccupy himself from whatever this exchange was. “All signs point to this being a lighthouse.”

“Well, it’s not. Lighthouses are meant to send signals to the ships out at sea. This doesn't,” His curt response tickled your amusement, only encouraging you to further aggravate him. “Therefore, not a lighthouse.”

“Okay,” You sounded agreeable, but this was soon followed by a doubtful comment whispered just loud enough for Jungkook’s ear to catch it, “It’s a lighthouse.” He found his stoicism melting away due to your spiteful attitude and conniving giggle in the face of his frustration. You wanted to get a rise out of him, and he knew this, and you were doing a fine job at it.

“It’s not-” His voice elevated with excitement, but he soon tamed the defensiveness threatening to spill from his lips, “Do you want to go back out into the rain?” 

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” Though, you sounded all but remorseful. The sly smirk resting on your face matched Jungkook’s satisfied expression, despite these smiles surfacing for different reasons. You couldn’t deny how humorous it was to distemper this man. How all the worries you laid out like the pebbles and seashells on this beach were washed away by the tides. Meanwhile, his grin provided little contribution in masking his enjoyment of your company and relentless curiosity.

You now sat in the right armchair, bundled in the blanket. It was not necessarily a thick blanket, but the chills once disturbing you had dwindled almost immediately. You were still entranced by Jungkook's movements. His hands were now occupied with a book from one of the stacks he’d been eyeing; the way he cradled the book like it was a newborn baby further revealed he had a somewhat protective attitude towards them. 

“What are you reading?” His eyes remained between the pages and lines of the book, but his focus was yet again thieved by your incessant curiosity. Jungkook thought it irritating similarly to how one would find a cat disrupting their owner from work, annoying yet ever so endearing, and adorably distracting.

“I’m not reading, I’m being bothered by you.” His snark was meant to damage your brazen pestering, but unknown to him it merely fueled it.

“Boohoo.” No matter how elementary that retort was, you still managed to fever him and hold hostage his attention.

“I’m reading The Odyssey.” Jungkook surrendered to you, placing the book on his lap that was now sitting in the armchair next to yours. “Why do you ask so many questions?” His eyes laid on you the same way they laid on the sea, filled to the brim with fascination. 

“I just wanted to know what you were reading.” Even when he expressed a clear indication that he was past your nonsense, it went unnoticed like the particles of dust flitting around the darkened room. This oblivion of yours prompted your next question. “Could you read it to me?”

His eyebrows furrowed at this request. Jungkook had already found himself exhausted by your persistence, and predicted ‘no’ would not be accepted as a viable answer. He just sighed and began to read aloud.

His soft voice somehow drowned out the sea’s commotion. The words flowed off his tongue as if he wrote the book himself; such poise for a young man lured you to immerse yourself in his narration and time grew more and more abstract. 

After a bit, Jungkook paused to examine how you'd received his reading and he was pleased to find your chin resting in your palm and your eyes and ears fixed onto him as if he were reading the gospel. This made it difficult, impossible, to deny entry for the subtle blush working its way on his cheeks.

“Are you satisfied?” He closed the book, peering out of the window to check if the weather had eased since you arrived. Though the intensity of the storm hadn’t lightened in the slightest, there was a new tranquility adopted by the drizzling sky waters that sank and fed into the waves.

“Never.” You replied with a hungered conviction twisted into your words, “What happens next?”

Jungkook laughed in shock of how eager you were to hear more of this story. It was unlike someone who wasn’t well versed in literature to genuinely enjoy listening to this archaic novel. 

“Why are you laughing? Read more!” Your whine came off a bit childlike, but succeeded in its goal. 

“It’s getting late.” He commented with a gentle sternness, though he proceeded to reopen the book. Your peculiar attention naturally drew him to oblige your desires. Even in the midst of a storm, even as the hours slipped by and the evening had been born, he continued to read.

You settled back into your chair in rejoice that you’d get to spend a bit more time with Jungkook. He was practically a stranger, and still there was a climate of comfort and intimacy that took the place of the crisp, winter air when he read from his book. He felt it too, and that was reason enough to allow you this company.

Throughout the chapter he had been working to finish, he snuck glances to find your eyes growing heavy with sleep as each page turned. Jungkook halted from reading and was trapped in the flush of your cheeks and lips and how your mouth hung slightly ajar as you inhaled the cold, wet air of the lighthouse. The puffs of breath that billowed from your lips had him yearning to know a warmth so full with life and curiosity.

“Are-” Jungkook tensed at the idea of disturbing your sleep, as if you hadn’t barged into his life without a hint of permission. “Are you asleep?”

Your head lifted slowly, then held stiff to maintain consciousness, “I was just resting my eyes. I’m not tired, I want you to read more.” You said this in spite of knowing you would drift asleep if he did.

“I think we are done reading for now.” The book closed for the last time, his hands pressing against the cover to seal his assurance. “You should head home.”

“But, I don’t know how the book ends.” This weak argument came from a place of jaded desperation. Regardless, he almost fell victim to your subdued urgency but any sensibility he could garner warned him not to allow this. You were quite obviously tired and he prefered you be safe in your own bed before the night advanced.

“Well, that’s because I only just started this book and it is very, very long.” Jungkook hoped this would usher you out even if that meant the return of loneliness would seep between the pillows of the right armchair after you left him with his solitude. 

“Well, I won’t be able to get these questions out of my mind unless I finish the book.” Another weak argument drained from your inventory of excuses. Maybe a change of subject would present an opportunity to linger in his company. “Also, why do you live here all alone?”

“I just do. I feel like I don’t have to explain this to you.” Jungkook was bewildered at his admission to give you, an unannounced and uninvited visitor, any explanations and still he was close to doing exactly that. “You’re quite invested in my personal life.” As much as that was true, his withdrawal from your curiosity wasn't all that effortful. Living in secrecy and desolation had the feeling of companionship nearly vanishing from his memory and you reunited him with  that warmth. And, he had not realized how it had nearly been forgotten or how much he missed it until he finally felt it again. 

“You seem like someone who has better things to attend to.” The lament that stained his words bore such heartache that was soon displaced in your chest. 

“No, no. My life is boring, and I don’t know. What person wouldn’t be interested in the personal life of a hermit who lives in a lighthouse?” You stood and paced around the platform towering over the swirling bookshelves below, towering over what felt like the entire world with Jungkook. The end of the blanket trailed your footstep as your drooping eyes skimmed the multicolored novels which were remarkably arranged alphabetically by author. How he had the time or patience to organize the hundreds of books he owned was beyond your comprehension. Every detail you acquired from Jungkook was stored in a compartment of your heart, almost as if it were assigned by fate. They were told in riddles and secrets and everything else meant to be deciphered.

“Not a hermit, and not a lighthouse. I couldn’t imagine someone like you being bored with your life.” His voice had become welcoming, with a hint of genuine interest, and this transition felt imminent ever since you first introduced yourself. The tilt of your head signified your agreement with his last statement and implied there was something that bothered you about this truth.

“Someone like me?”

“Someone like you. Curious, young with your whole life ahead of you. It's hard to believe you should be bored with that.”

“You say that as if you aren't the same age as me.” Jungkook shrugged lazily and scuffed his shoes against the rug as he now stood against the window sill, observing your interest of his books.

“I shouldn’t be a lot of things, and yet I am all those things. Bored, curious, and I’m here talking to a complete stranger that totally has the capability to murder me like in those movies instead of going back home.” Your comment that snuck out had wrested a soft chuckle from Jungkook. They were absentmindedly thrown into the air that filled the space between you and him, nurturing his reciprocated fascination with you. Your diligent grazing of each book had distracted how the weight of your eyelids heavied by the minute.

“It’s not like I don’t have great people in my life or a quality education that takes up most of my time, I just,” Your brief pause was to turn your attention over to Jungkook, who did not hide how he was listening intently to these confessions, alleviating from a place in need of emptying. His eyebrow was arched in a manner that jolted you back to your senses. You’d revealed one too many privacies to someone who you had been acquainted with only hours ago. Mortification would have bathed your body if not for the way Jungkook seemed to strongly engage with your openness.

“You just?” He staged his interest overtly to correct the imbalance of how your genuinity left you hanging lower than him on the emotional scale. Jungkook believed that was the least he could do to mitigate the embarrassment about to silence you. 

“Uh, I just never seem to be satisfied with what I have. And that makes me seem like a greedy, spoiled child which makes me even more frustrated with myself.” You admitted, pulling the blanket over your shoulders tighter as if that would shield you from the compromising guilt slithering out of your body. “And that’s how I see myself. Ungrateful and spoiled.” This certainly scraped the barrel of your deep rooted disgust with yourself.

“Not spoiled, just lost.” His response felt like a soft and thoughtful embrace, granted that this was meant to ease the tinge of reproach in your heart. The words he spoke caressed your cheeks and told you that every horrid thing you thought of yourself was flawed.

“I’ve certainly been in your position.” He euphemized what he really wanted to say to you, that he saw himself in you. Even though you spoke very little on this, he felt himself living every experience you alluded to as if he had been right beside you your whole life. Or rather that you had witnessed his life and suffered identical desires and grievances and adversities and were simply retelling his story down to the most intricate detail; and somehow you made it sound brand new and a thousand times more aching. He was stranded in a state of amazement, ambushed by your pain and how even in moments of emotional destitution, you were unquestionably beautiful.  

Likewise, this stranger, who was no longer estranged, and his kind words nearly compensated for the billions of people you could never meet, all the dreams you wanted but could never alter into incarnation, and all the disappointments that plagued your heart.

And you felt held by his words, his voice, him.

“You’ve been in my position?” You requested confirmation.

“I was. Certainly.” And he confirmed.

“Where are you now?” In turn, you wanted this to suggest, ‘where can I find you?’

This question carried profound sentiment on both the giving and receiving end of it. To you, this yearned for advice. Any piece of wisdom would gladly, gratefully be accepted to ease this rampage of constant dissatisfaction. To him, it resurfaced a series of speculations long undisturbed until you had asked this question; a place intentionally void of all attention because it was sometimes too grim to remember. A haze of difficulty crowded a definite answer, though he knew there was one. He couldn’t place his finger on a fitting response and found himself next to you in search of the answer.

Where are you now?

This haunted his mind for a bit, leaving him speechless and albeit impressed, for once, by your curiosity. 

“It’s hard to say. Somewhere in between, I suppose.” Whatever meaning this carried did not resonate as sound to you. The mere idea of being on the end of perpetual longing, waiting for a clear path to the end that promised fulfillment, made it implausible to settle on being somewhere in between the two. Again, you were left unsatisfied and feeling a burden placing itself on your shoulders and wallowing a fit of disappointment in the pit of your stomach. Jungkook noticed how your eyes fell from his, down to the maroon accents of the rug, and felt out of place. Out of place, in his own lighthouse, all because your gaze and attention he’d grown used to in this short time wasn’t directed at him.

“That’s the kind of ambiguity that leaves me so hungry.” He nodded in agreeance with the twisted cruelty of his response you had pointed out. Jungkook didn’t know how or why he’d come to turn every corner and check each crevasse to find what could settle your appetite. This whole time, though, he sailed through this painstaking search without a trace of uncertainty. His illusion of disinterest and annoyance soon dissolved into the floor that your eyes hadn’t strayed from. 

“Maybe if I lived in a quaint, not-lighthouse I would be satisfied with that answer, but I don’t. I live a normal, normal, normal life.” The repetition of your words stressed your fatigue of this dullness, your desire for everything just inches away from your fingertips.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a normal life. I think it’s wrong that we have put the idea of drama and excitement on a pedestal.” This outlook, unlike the last, did gain traction in stripping the thick ambiguity around Jungkook’s mind. To your surprise, you could be satisfied with the small pieces of this man’s mystery being chipped bit by bit. 

He was well aware of his deep rooted appreciation that accompanied your eyes as it moved towards him once again. There was some sense of purposefulness in this glance that demoted his callousness to tender captivation.

“Can I ask one more question?”

“I have a hard time believing you only have one more question.” His doubtfulness didn’t seem to discourage you, or him.

“For real! Only one more, it’s important.” The only way to prove whether or not this question was truly important was for you to ask it. His head nodded his approval.

“What do you think makes us human?” Before he could answer, a swell of perplexity had overtaken his thoughts on this. You could tell, out of everyone, Jungkook would have a profound answer that could save you hours of contemplation over your philosophy essay’s prompt. 

“That’s an interesting question.”

“An interesting question in need of an answer.” You prodded him for his response, though this was pointless if there was no response that could possibly be constructed. Not a response of reason that you seemed to require, but of feeling. Like an instinct, and that in itself made it inapplicable to this question.

“Ask me again some other time. I don’t know if the answer is that simple.”

But, of course, it was. The answer, in his eyes, was blindingly clear.

“I’ll hold you to that!” He gladly took accountability for that commitment. An unfamiliar contentment with the unknown had lodged in your chest when the promise of spending time together emerged through the once conditional circumstances. The promise that transformed those conditional circumstances to voluntary acts.

This humbling discovery left a wide grin on your face, beaming directly towards Jungkook. 

Jungkook peered over to the antique clock placed on a shelf next to the window. The aversion of his eyes was to save face from how your soft smile that projected praise and attachment had effectively unnerved him; he stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide his fingers that twitched out of pure elation. 

The hour hand stationed on the twelve carved in roman numerals verified how his company had erased any discern for the hours that passed. They had floated away so silently, slowly that you could have sworn time froze altogether. 

“Oh shit, it’s midnight? Fuck me.” The decibels of your voice boomed against the walls, it could have shaken the stacks of books down to a pile of mess. “I’m sorry, shit. I didn’t even realize it was so late.” You unraveled yourself from the blanket and collected your belongings in a bit of a frenzy. 

“It’s alright. I, um, I had a nice time.” He distanced himself from you swiftly as you dashed across the room to the edge of the stairs. Even in a hurried state, you still looked back to him and offered a smile, unsure if that was enough to suffice for a proper gesture of gratitude. 

“Me too.” The words were close to inaudible, but you knew he heard them loud and clear, along with the string of implications that were laced in them. 

“Oh and by the way, make good use of that umbrella. It looks like it could start raining again.” Your ears felt engorged with flames when he’d revealed his knowledge of your little secret. It was foolish of you to believe you could outsmart Jungkook because what you thought obscure was well within his range of astuteness and the umbrella, still damp from the rain, was apparent from the beginning.

You didn’t catch how he’d been smiling when you turned away bashfully, strutting down the stairs in an attempt to portray false confidence. But if you did, you would have picked up on his mutual indulgence in your visit, the absolute bliss laden in his eyes. You grasped tightly to the joy evoked from the thought of seeing him again, however your nerves held a tighter grasp that did not allow you to express this to him. Perhaps your giggles of excitement, surely heard by Jungkook, spilling from your throat as you rushed out the empty room or the way you clutched your umbrella to your chest in admittance you had purposefully kept that fact from him would give Jungkook a clue of how thankful you were to meet him. And even more so to be able to see him again.

As you parted from the lighthouse that was not a lighthouse, something in between, you felt that the comfort you once had taper off with the growing distance from the not-lighthouse. You were fraught with a gentle yearning to turn back, run up the spiraling stairs, settle yourself back into the right armchair, and ask humbly to stay a while longer.

Little did you know, Jungkook’s hopes coincided with yours like two concentric circles. 

(One week later)

If it wasn’t the question left unanswered that motivated you, it was the fact that you missed the view of the beach from the window. Or maybe it was the countless supply of book titles that you didn’t get to finish inspecting. Perhaps it was that you missed how the soft blanket complimented the feathery cushion of the right armchair. 

Any of these excuses could be suited to explain how you rushed through the town, determined, goal-oriented and passing down streets now ingrained in your memory, with a destination clear in mind.

But it definitely couldn't be how dearly you missed the sound of his voice when he read to you or his smile or the way he studied the waves with gentle affection. No, it couldn't be that.

Either way, you arrived at the base of the lighthouse. It had been a week since your first visit and you hoped that the invitation still stood for your return. Making your way through the empty room felt quick since you hadn't wasted time to notice how the table now had a vase of flowers in the center. Nor did you notice the new mat placed in front of the interior doorway to the lighthouse.

Your heart dropped from your chest when you reached over to the door knob only to find it was locked. You turned the handle back and forth as if that would miraculously function as a key to unlock the door. After a bit of knob fiddling had proven itself useless, you turned away with a huff of air releasing your frustration. 

The click and turn of the handle had you twirling around optimistically and seeing him made all that disappointment dissolve. 

“You’re back again.” He was smiling at you, then cocked his head to say come in. The moment you stepped into the lighthouse, its lackluster disappeared as if by magic. But Jungkook knew it wasn’t magic at all; it was the person that hid their umbrella, and asked him to read and promised to return as much as he promised to let you return.

“I believe you promised to keep reading to me.” 

“Did I?” The reasons for your return weren’t all that important to discuss, both you and him were just glad to make your way up the stairs to the two armchairs once more, hearts both racing not because of the physical exertion from the stairs but from the excitement rasping through yours and his bodies.

“Yes, but this time I won’t fall asleep.” 

“We’ll see about that.” There was no question that your intense focus wasn’t because you cared about the book he had been reading. In all honesty, you would not be able to summarize any bit of the plot if someone asked. You probably would have a hard time even naming the author of the book because what sank you into the words on the pages wasn’t the story itself, but the voice that read them. Jungkook made those languid paragraphs sound like the first words ever to be spoken; he reinvented the English language through his unique dialect, inflections and phrasing that had the words of Homer dancing off the pages. So, of course there was no question that you wouldn’t be able to name any of the characters or recognize the writing style of Homer because those details faded away, leaving only the memory of his voice with you.

This time, Jungkook didn’t have to offer you a seat. He made it clear that this spot had been reserved and waiting for you by the way the blanket had been folded and worn by the arm of the chair and the new pillow resting at the base of the chair’s backrest. You planted yourself on the cushion that felt more plump than the last time you sat in it and faced towards the large window that showcased the ocean’s energetic swaying.

“I would never get tired of this view.” You commented while Jungkook pulled back the curtains further to widen the seascape. He too was drawn to the deep blue waters making their way to and from the shore. 

“I usually don’t leave the windows this open, but my love for the scenery of the ocean has rekindled.” When he said this, your eyes hadn’t budged from the window unlike Jungkook’s that peered over to you. You pretended not to notice that or the way your heartbeat had taken a quickness that had your skin growing warmer. 

“How could it leave in the first place?”

“It is well known, especially by you, that having an abundance of something lessens your appreciation for it.” A corner of your lips lifted at this, knowing exactly what he had been referring to. Each wave passed by and in a comatose-like state, you wondered where on the shore it would land.

“No need to call me out already, Jungkook.” He had left the window and retrieved The Odyssey that hadn’t left the side table since the night he read it to you. This broke your trance, and you shifted to face the left armchair.

“You made it too easy, ___.”

“Okay, Hermit.” Your smile did wonders to ease the irritation in Jungkook’s chest to tenderness. Though he refused to admit it, this otherwise taunting nickname sounded affectionate coming from you.

“Technically a hermit is-”

“Technically, I don’t care about your technicalities. No amount of facts will persuade me that you aren’t a Hermit.” Jungkook dug his tongue into the side of his cheek to resist from joining in with your laughter. He’d been fidgeting with the book that was waiting to be read, but neither of you seemed to mind putting that off.

“Ho- How was your day?” You shouldn’t have felt as proud as you did for making a man who could read aloud for hours stutter over his own words, and nonetheless you were extremely flattered by this.

“It was good.” Good never really meant good, and Jungkook knew this.

“And what’s the truth?” Your playing field had once again been unleveled, the advantage returned into the palm of Jungkook’s hand in the blink of an eye. His perceptiveness had been bordering on annoying but still remained on the side of impressive.

“Well,” You bunched the blanket in your fists as an expression of worry, “My mom called today.” Anyone who could hear would be able to tell you sounded unhappy about that.

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” Jungkook articulated his question to get the answer he’d been looking for, finding the hostility in your voice far more interesting than the actual conversation between you and your mom.

“You don’t know my mom, but she projects her over achieving personality onto almost everyone she meets, but most of it goes onto me.” Your back had straightened when mentioning your mom, almost as if it were a reflex, like Pavlov’s dog, that you were conditioned to be on guard at the thought of her. “I don’t know why I get so mad at her when she does that because I know it comes from a place of love.”

Jungkook hummed softly, granting you space to continue talking. 

“Yeah, it probably comes from a place of love but part of me doesn’t believe that. Part of me thinks every time she calls to check on me it’s really just a ploy for her to nag me on what I could be doing better.” You scoffed as the conversation from earlier in the morning played out in your head again. Envisioning the back and forth between you and your mother only fueled your frustration but you couldn’t help yourself. There was no stifling the seething anger imploding before Jungkook’s eyes. “She always says stuff like, ‘Maybe if you applied yourself more you would be doing better than this.’ or ‘I told you that you should have done this or that and now it’s too late’ or the infamous ‘Do you not care about your future?’ lecture that just gets under my skin. She’s so good at saying the wrong things at the wrong time. I don’t know how she does it but she always manages to rub dirt in the wound.” 

“So, she’s never satisfied with you?” Jungkook observed.

“No, never! And you’d think a mother would be supportive or happy with all the things her child had already accomplished but somehow it’s never enough. And she knows what she’s doing. That makes it worse. She knows how she weaponizes my guilt against me.” You held your tongue from the much longer rant about to digress, feeling a sudden discomfort in the way you’d been complaining to Jungkook. You couldn’t understand why it was all too easy to talk of these kinds of things to him, why he looked so interested in what you were saying even when anyone else would have grown tired of you by now, why you found in him a warm confidant much more comforting than you’d expected, yet there was no way to dismiss this reality.

Jungkook did not offer advice, or tell you that you should be thankful or that maybe you were handling these situations poorly. He did none of that. His silence was more thoughtful than any number of things he could have said. He simply listened. 

You rose from the chair to get a closer view of the sea. Past your reflection in the glass, the consecutive tides seemed to grapple over the next and the next; the previous wave always just short of reach to tackle the immediate wave. He had followed you without a word, living up to your desire to have him at your side. There was no need for mindless comments or condolences to fill the silence, only mindful amity, at your side, because watching the ocean with you was enough.

“So, that was my day.” It was the first thing spoken after a period of quiet, perfectly timed and delivered for it to bear a dry humor in its intention. Jungkook and you laughed, finding this the long needed release of tension in your head. 

“Is this going to become a habitual thing?”

“What’s that?” 

“Me complaining to you about my personal struggles that would have gone in my journal or somewhere far more private than this.” All said while your and Jungkook’s gazes didn’t wander from the view of the window. “Me inviting myself into your lighthouse, or not-lighthouse, whatever.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” Two heads turned towards each other almost as if it were on que.

The way your pupils dilated and softened conveyed every bit of thanks you held in your heart but couldn’t muster the courage to voice. Jungkook’s doe-eyed smile thanked you likewise and confessed the gratitude for how you had rescued him from yet another lonesome afternoon with a curtained window, an unused blanket, an empty chair, and a melancholic silence as he read his one of thousands of books. Not including The Odyssey, that was for your ears only.

“You wouldn’t?”

“Maybe a little.” His tease succeeded to provoke that smile of yours. And even though that was a favor on his end, he was the one that felt graced by it. Realistically, a smile costs nothing yet there grew an enormous debt in his heart; and even though he couldn’t afford it, all he could do was bask in every detail your smile, of the crease of your eyes, and of the way your cheeks took the form of a sweet Spring Peach, and the scrunch of your nose and brows. Before he sank himself deeper in debt, Jungkook beckoned for the two of you to return to your seats and read all your worries away.

---

Who would have guessed that The Odyssey, of all things, would be the thing that would occupy most of your Fridays through the rest of the winter? Sometimes you visited a Sunday, and other times you’d find yourself needing to hear The Odyssey on a Wednesday evening or a Monday morning. The days on which you swung by the now familiar lighthouse would vary, but they remained a weekly occurrence. 

Jungkook had grown comfortable with this routine, reading to you while you watched him and the waves, but mostly him. Occasionally, his reading would cease to an interruption of his own doing to ask how your day was in a very specific way that only Jungkook seemed to exhibit. He’d ask you say anything but ‘good’ or ‘boring’ and he’d clarify that he wanted you to not leave out any details. 

“Why?” You would ask. And he’d look at you as if you set yourself on fire.

“It’s important to me.” He’d reply as if it were that simple, or the answer you were looking for. Still, if it was important to him you didn’t need any more persuading.

Like when you told him you stopped by a coffee shop, he’d tell you to specify which drink you ordered and how it tasted. 

“Cinnamon.”

“Is that your favorite?”

“No, I prefer peppermint but sometimes I combine those flavors and that becomes my other favorite.”

“That sounds sweet.”

“It absolutely is.”

“Does that make you happy?”

“It makes my insides feel like Christmas.”

“Is Christmas a feeling?”

“It is to me!” He smiled at your childlike enthusiasm because it made life seem a lot more appealing than he’d ever believed. Before you, the world was a little greyer. After you, suddenly full of vibrance, saturated to the grandest extents.

Or the time you brought a candle to fill the air with something a bit more pleasant than the smell of the old, wet stones of the lighthouse.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a candle, vanilla and patchouli.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I don’t remember. I just found it in my house and thought this place needed something sweet.”

“But you’re here.” Your teeth bit down on your tongue when he said this. You almost fallen trapped in figuring out what motivated him to say this, but the flattery of his comment was all too pleasing to ignore.

“But I don’t smell like vanilla and patchouli.” You said, only to save face from the fact that you suddenly felt like a deer in headlights when he looked at you, bracing for when he would crash into you and hoping to god you can absorb the exhilaration of souls colliding; and hoping to god he would crash into you.

“Could you light it, then?”

“Of course.”

And the room filled with a sweetness that complimented your company finely. Now, whenever he would smell the scents of vanilla and patchouli he would think of you, and you of him.

He would continue asking these simple questions, and so on.

Why he thought it was essential for you to relay these almost invaluable intricacies was beyond you, but it did make you feel heard; it made you feel held as it always did. It made the value of your life gone without the need to be earned or proven, the value of the smaller moments that fell between bigger moments. 

It made it all okay that you felt like you stripped the clothes from your whole life off for him to revere and that he’d rarely ever display such emotional nudity for you; you were okay with lying bare before his eyes, vulnerable and pliant to his every whim. Even when you wanted to know all of these things about Jungkook and he’d hold them captive or he’d only offer half sufficient answers, you collected as many bits of the puzzle as possible to try and piece together his story.

“How are your parents, Jungkook?”

“Long gone.”

“Oh, Jungkook… I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I watched them grow old and content and that softened the blow.” 

“Are you lonely?”

Yes, it’s excruciating when you are not here. I am tormented in your absence and all too plagued with despondency and I wish you knew that.

“I’ve grown used to it.”

“So you have.”

“So I have.”

You did not want him to be lonely; you didn’t want him to ever be sad but you wanted him to be able to say that he was to you. You wanted him to be able to tell you he was lonely; you wanted him to want you to know his heart. You wanted him to feel as naked as you felt. Vagueness was all you could ever manage to arrest from his gated mind. 

And for once, the little he had given was more than you could ever ask for.

Sunday mornings with Jungkook were your favorite. The ocean was tame during this time on Sundays specifically and sailed you into its calmness; you were half asleep, resting on the sill running along the base of the window panes. Spring had been approaching which meant there were radiant glimmers of the early sun that reflected and glided along the ripples of the waves. Jungkook once said that every time he looked at these little pieces of diamond rays, he believed the sun and the sea performed in devotion for you and him alone. 

“I love that.” And indeed you did. The idea that no one else witnessed this ocean, not this one, not the way you and Jungkook had, was a greedy disposition but felt so true.

“Would you like me to read?” He said in place of, Is my voice properly fitting for something as lovely as this moment?

“I want you to talk, but not of books.” You blinked slowly at Jungkook, “Could you tell me about yourself? Just one thing, anything you choose.” He saw those specks of diamonds glimmering in your irises. He felt so close to you, sitting on the other end of the window, and close enough to finally surrender a bit of his gated mind.

“When I was a child, I knew my days were numbered. The details of why aren’t important, but I digress.” You stuffed a scoff down your throat at the assertion that the details weren’t important. Him, of all people, claiming the details were unimportant had you whirling in a paradox. “With this in mind, I did my best to fulfill everything any child would have wanted. And I don’t think I’ve ever stopped because that list of desires was never ending.” 

Was this what he meant when he said he was in my position once? You wondered.

“I spent all my time looking for the next best thing I could achieve, because the best things that I had was, as you know, never enough. One week, the best thing would be finding a four leaf clover to give to my mother. The next, it was being the first in line for the new, long awaited comic book. Or, it was the time my father took me fishing on the lake, and then seconds after it was the first fish I caught and threw back into the water, and that best thing was soon replaced by my father’s proud smile.”

Your throat tightened as you visualized a young Jungkook sitting on the dock with his father, full of youth and excitement, and how nostalgia had ripened into your heart even though you had no place in this memory of his. This dream-like sequence had compelled a few tears to fill your eyes, fogging your vision of the older Jungkook that sat before you. 

“When I grew older, in my adolescent and teenage years, the next best thing was fulfilling a newfound passion. It prompted me to buy out almost the entire library and major in World Literature. I spent the rest of my days from then on immersed in reading, as you can see. It was the only place I felt like I was achieving the next best thing, and it was cruel when I came to realize there was no way in hell I could finish all the books I’d collected in time.”

“In time for what?”

“In time... for the next best thing to come along, I guess.” This answer appeared fabricated, but was subtle enough to pass through your mind without a second thought. 

“And did it? Did it come along?”

It would have made no difference if your question had been asked to a brick wall because Jungkook brushed it off as he did every other question that would have given you another piece of his puzzle. He took precautions to avoid a defeat to your pouting by walking over to the left armchair and burying his face in the book’s fortitude. Before you had the chance to reiterate your question, Jungkook began to read, making it all too clear he was evading.

“Jungkook?” You whined to which he paid no mind by continuing to read.

“Is he being serious right now?” Again, you might as well have been talking to an inanimate object. There was nothing to be done when he lodged his restraint other than joining him in your armchair, quietly, permissively.

Every day, like this one, spent with him had you convinced it couldn’t be surpassed in enjoyment. And every day, your expectations had been exceeded. That was something you’d never think could happen. Soon, the cares and worries of this Winter melted as the avenue of Spring had unfolded before you. A long path, surrounded with flower blossoms and diamond coated seas, or in other words, the unfathomable had fallen into your hands.

The remainder of this pleasant Sunday had been consumed by The Odyssey and Jungkook’s voice singing its words as smoothly as the waves surrounding the lighthouse and small conversations during the pauses of his reading. One struck you into reminiscence of the first night you met.

“You never answered my question.” He paused, flipping through the many unanswered questions he’d left with you. Jungkook raised his brow to order specification of which one you referred to.

“What makes us human?” The due date of your essay passed over two months ago, however this didn’t diminish your curiosity to know his answer.

“In all honesty,” He paused and looked to assure you would believe his answer would be honest, or honest enough to cater your satisfaction. “I think it’s our desire to achieve the last best thing.”

Every fiber in you compiled its own list of questions in regards to his yet again ambiguous answer, though you had grown to accept that as a part of Jungkook. And you sure as hell accepted Jungkook, ambiguity and all.

“Hm.” It didn’t take a mind reader to know you had theorized any and all connotations branching off from his answer and he didn’t mind that you could be lost in search of whatever the actual meaning of it was. 

The moon was in its fullest bloom tonight, and tomorrow, it would begin to wane into a crescent then into nothing but an empty space full of new and perhaps fortunate opportunities. Jungkook found the romance of this lunar phase well equipped for the dusty instrument he discovered in the base of the lighthouse. 

“I found something that I think you’d like.” Your ears perked like a dog when it’d been presented with treats. “But you have to go get it. It’s in the other room.”

Whatever this surprise was, it had excited you enough to ignore how you’d have to descend and re-ascend the many stairs that would surely tire you. Your eager legs would have jumped right from the platform to the bottom of the lighthouse if the reality didn’t result in broken bones. As you rushed to the door to the other room, you pushed through and discovered a telescope standing in the corner of the otherwise empty space. A few moments later you were hustling back up the stairs, the telescope making the re-ascension of the stairs ten times as strenuous. All the while, Jungkook just stared in amusement at the way you struggled your way to the platform.

“No, I don’t want any help, thank you!” You said sarcastically through grunts of exertion before positioning the instrument in front of the window.

“Well, I didn’t offer you any, so, you’re very welcome.” He stood on the other side of the telescope, admiring the way you fell so easily in love with it, hands scaling the length of the scope.

“Do I just?” You pointed to the eyepiece at the end of the rod and he nodded. You brought your eye to the magnifying glass which was flooded with the enchanting glow of the stars. You’d never seen them this close, but this little gift of Jungkook’s had catapulted you into the illuminated abyss of the night sky. A measly woah was all that squeaked from your voice, because all the other words were stolen by the stars.

“Can you find any constellations?” He’d seen all the stars in the galaxy; that he was sure of. But none had shone brighter than the person he couldn’t tear his eyes from. Three o’clock had crept onto the antique clock, this late hour had worn down Jungkook’s walls completely as the soft glow of adornment laminated his eyes. 

“I think I see ORion's belt. That’s the only one I know other than the Big Dipper.” You laughed at your own lack of knowledge of the stars. Knowledge didn’t seem to matter though, the beauty of the stardusted sky had taken care of that deficiency. You lifted yourself away from the telescope, allowing Jungkook a turn to stargaze.

“Have you heard of the Astral Plane?” Jungkook asking you something other than, ‘how was your day’, was a rare occurrence which most likely meant this was of some importance.

“I’ve heard of it, but I think I’ll need you to refresh my memory.” You really did need clarification on what exactly the Astral Plane entailed, though you mainly just wanted to hear him explain it. 

“Some say it lies in the fourth dimension. It isn’t tangible or something that can be touched. It lies between everything, every atom, every cell, every city and forest and mountain and even between the crevasses of one’s own mind and soul. A place like this is full of divinity and complete attainment and the way it is reached has been theorized by many.” Jungkook’s meticulous readjustments of the telescope had you wondering which constellations he was searching for, or maybe he’d been looking for Venus or Mars or the Moon. “Some say you arrive there in your dreams, or when you reach enlightenment, or when death draws its curtain on you…  I-I don't know why but I’ve always thought that it was stitched into the sky. Far beyond our galaxy, maybe the Astral Plane has situated itself in between each star, just like it does our souls, and exists as the vastness of outer space.” It turned out he wasn't looking for any of those things, he was looking for the Astral Plane.

Could the heat rising throughout your body be merely adoration, or was it something along the lines of a forlorn longing? When he spoke, you felt this sensation growing dense in your bones; you felt a gravitation towards him.

“Seems about right to me.” Fondness had stained your tone which filled some void in Jungkook’s hungry heart, and he’d failed to predict you were the one that would be able to settle it. “Maybe we’ll never reach the Astral Plane, but at least I’m here with you.”

When you said this, the hairs on his arms pointed towards the ceiling. For once in a very, very long time, Jungkook felt a euphoric resurgence striking through the catacombs of his soul and hot tears dripping down the expanse of his cheeks, to the tip of his chin, and onto the glass scope that was shielding this sudden emotional combustion. He blinked away the tears to the best of his abilities and turned away from you and the telescope and the sky. Jungkook felt the push of air from your movement towards him, but he shifted further away. 

“Are yo-”

“I found a cluster of stardust, go look.” He averted you from him and you always fell victim to every trick in his book. 

“Wow, that’s amazing!” The grip you had on the telescope was firm, like you were trying to hold onto the stars themselves.

“Amazing.” He said. This reiteration wasn’t for the stars, however. He wondered if you knew that. He wondered if you could feel how consumed he was by your magnificence under the full moon that reigned with gentleness over the waves. The once wild tides, now moving with the same serenity and romance embedded into Jungkook and this lighthouse. He wondered if you could see he had been emotionally disrobed and bearing all his affection for you. And he wondered how he was so okay with that.

Six o’clock didn’t feel like six o’clock. Your eyes that struggled to keep open told you otherwise, so again you and him were parting ways as the sun had begun dawning over the horizon and there were no more stars to fill the hours slipping away. Jungkook did all he could to compose himself. He’d offered to walk you out; you reached the door that led to the dewy, Spring air awaiting your departure from the lighthouse.

“Wait, ___!” This exclamation echoed louder than the beating of his crimson heart. After stepping through the threshold, you turned to meet his gaze, teary-eyed from what you guessed was from lack of sleep. Teary-eyed from what he knew was because of another egregious goodbye. “Thank you.”

This moment seemed fitting to test the theory that actions speak louder than words. This moment called for the lapse of courage in need to act, not speak. This moment was the moment when you finally expressed the thankfulness that, to you, seemed to outweigh his by pressing a tender kiss to his cheek. It was much colder than your lips and the docile warmth of the morning, but once you pulled away the warmth had stained his cheek. 

Jungkook felt like every cell in his body was evaporating into the space around him. Like the way a fire would extend its heat into the air or the way Spring melted away the frost ridden Winter, your act had covered him in a blanket of love and refuge from the loneliness once vaulting his heart. And it certainly spoke louder than words; all the words in every book Jungkook had ever read and the words left unsaid and the words passing between everyone in the universe.

“I’m the one who should be thanking you, Hermit! You helped me see Orion’s Belt up close and personal!” You called as your strides began a slow fleet from a laughing Jungkook. You waved, now standing a generous distance from him, and he found this gave him the space needed to finally let his tears fall. 

“I love you.” He whispered, hoping the wind would carry it to your ears and heart.

A revelation had overcome him, and no matter how many times he tried to wipe the tears away, they’d be instantly replenished like a stream of water rushing from a conquered dam, spilling over endlessly, with all control suspended in the air around him.

Was it finally here? The last, best thing?

---

A week after the stargazing, your mind had mapped out the stars as you too searched for that Astral Plane. To you, Jungkook’s proposition of it being strewn in the night sky was the only theoretical that made sense. You wanted to flaunt your newfound passion for this concept he’d introduced, and admittedly - and more importantly - you wanted to kiss him again, leading to yet another blissful walk down the seashore to the lighthouse. The air was warm but not humid, carrying a breeze that evened out the sun’s heat nicely. A few pillows of clouds were cascading through the sky, never staying in one spot for too long; you’d come to appreciate each one’s temporary presence and when they passed, you grew to appreciate that as well. The gaze once fixed on the sand had now traveled to the waves of much gentler motion than ever before. 

This walk, unlike the dozens of others, felt different. The streets looked lovely and the air felt clean in your chest, giving you a pleasant journey far more intimate than the last. Then you realized, it felt like you were walking back home.

When you grew closer to the lighthouse, you noticed the curtains had been drawn which was strikingly unusual for a sunny day such as this one. This was a passing observation as you made your way to the base of the lighthouse. 

Through the door to the room before the lighthouse, you were taken aback to find your armchair sitting in front of the table. you walked up to discover a single, folded parchment sealed with a red wax stamp labeled with your name along the top of the paper.

This felt eerie, for some reason, and you called out his name only to be met with silence, before sitting yourself down and unsealing the note.

It read in his voice:

My Dearest, ___

I wrote this to relay a lot of things left unsaid. The first being goodbye. I’m sorry to have to leave you like this, though no amount of remorse could possibly appease my actions.

Your heartbeat had grown rampant, until your eyes read those words. It was then when it stopped altogether. Still, you continued to read.

I kept things from you like the fact that our encounter in the town’s square was all but coincidental. The truth is scary, and my truth would have turned you away from the beginning. It was selfish, I admit, but I do not think I could have endured such a loss. Forgive me for keeping you in the dark all this time, but I am beyond gratified for what you granted me in spite of that.

Maybe it might seem cruel. You are not alone in feeling that — never alone. But, we were never meant to spend every Sunday morning, or Friday evening, or Wednesday afternoon together to watch the waves float along with the hours lost reading to you; I knew this was not the end of your story, just mine. 

The books I have read over and over have imprisoned me in search of the “next best thing”. To my dismay, I thought I had run out of time to find it. But then you came along. You helped set me free by allowing me to live out a few more “best things” through the way you shared your life with me, unselfishly, warmly, kindly— You helped me move on.

I know you too will move on from this. I hope I could at least leave you with the tools and courage to find each “next best thing” in store. If not that, then this lighthouse, open to you and only you, and a myriad of good memories to ease our parting. I know in my heart you deserve nothing less.

I hope you find contentment somewhere in the sea or on the sand or in the stars, or perhaps somewhere in between.

Once you do, we will meet again within the Astral Plane, my love. I swear it. And if you miss me, just look through the telescope and find me woven in the spaces amidst Orion’s Belt.

Thank you. Again and again I thank you and it is still not enough. Thank you for you, for your warmth, for your salvation, for your smile, for your endless questions, for re-introducing me to the aroma of vanilla and patchouli but it was not as sweet as your companionship, for putting good use of the right armchair and the view from our window, for making the odyssey a little less lonely to read, and thank you for stepping into my lighthouse and my life.

Don't you see, it was you. You were my last, best thing.

with love and sorrow,

Jeon Jungkook

Before you got to the end of the letter, you were racing up the spiraling stairs, ignoring the burn in your tightened chest, how the air in the lighthouse had suffocated your lungs. The dizziness that blurred your eyes had not slowed your climb up the stairs, and the wetness of your tears now seeping into his letter.

You reached the top, The Odyssey greeting you on the chair Jungkook would have been seated in. Your breaths were staggered and warm, filling the mournful emptiness of the lighthouse. 

“Jungkook.” You whispered. You begged for a reply. The curtains were drawn over the window, like never before, and exposed a bronze plaque peeking out from the end of the fabric. You pushed the drapes aside to read what was engraved into the metal plate and the first page of The Odyssey that hung below it.

In loving memory of our beloved son, Jeon Jungkook. May he rest in peace. 1918-1942.

The note below read: 

The Odyssey

Jeon and ___ Lighthouse.

You pieced the puzzle together, finally. And with that, came the final picture, so beautiful and mesmerizing and everything you could have ever hoped for, and more.

“Jungkook.” You repeated as a bid of farewell, with a heart full of satisfaction and content, and Jungkook. You pressed the letter to your chest in hopes his words would mend your aching heart. 

And it was true, he was not your last best thing, only one of them. 

But he was undoubtedly your most cherished and beloved best thing.

[dustedmagazine]

Sleaford Mods — Spare Ribs (Rough Trade)

“Nudge It” and “Mork n Mindy,” two of the tracks the Sleaford Mods initially released from their excellent new LP Spare Ribs, feature barnstorming vocal contributions from Amy Taylor and Tor Maries, respectively. Maybe the decision to promote Spare Ribs with those tracks (and the videos in which the women strut their powerful, performative stuff) was motivated by the Sleaford Mods’ generosity of heart. The Nottinghamshire band may have wanted to use its increasing rep and visibility to tune listeners in to the young women and their bands: snotty punks Amyl and the Sniffers, and the proletarian pop experiment that is Billy Nomates. One likes to believe that the Mods walk it like they talk it. Resources are increasingly scarce, and if we’re going to make it as a collectivity, we’ve got to share what we’ve got. Or maybe there are other things at work. So much of the Mods’ music concerns — or rants and fulminates about — authenticity: the distinctions between real, intentioned speech and vapid online bullshit (“Blog Maggot,” “Tweet Tweet Tweet,” “Just Like We Do,” and so on); between real economic struggle and superficially convenient appearances of class consciousness (“Fizzy,” “Rich List,” “Carlton Touts,” and so on). The band’s hot-and-cold relations with the Labour Party and the much-discussed spat with Idles have only intensified the public imaginary’s association of the Mods with a sharp-elbowed working-class sensibility, grounded in lived experience. Taylor’s and Maries’ voices complement and accentuate that sensibility, with impetuous, youthful verve.

Sleaford Mods aren’t young men. They’ve been working at their craft for quite a while now, and as Jason Williamson and Andrew Fearn have noted, on recent tracks like “OBCT” (“I just fantasize / In a house three times the size of my old one…”), the terms of the game have changed for them. The fact that they might contemplate using their music to showcase younger, lesser-known talent means that the Mods have influential reach, and the forms of capital that go along with it. It’s great that the band has enjoyed such success; this reviewer is pretty delighted that more and more people are digging the Mods’ music. But what are the stakes of the social mobility the band is experiencing? They operate in an ambiguous space, and the songs seem aware of it. “Elocution,” another track from Spare Ribs, starts with Williamson speaking in a stilted, “cultured” tone, parodying artists who “talk about the importance of independent venues” so they can attract the audience and cred to “be in a position to move away from playing independent venues.” As Williamson notes, it’s not just what you say, but how you say it: “I’m no good with elocution / To get myself into the institution.” Which one? The Royal Albert Hall? Downing Street? The Executive Director’s suite at Lloyds Banking Group? If you want to gain access to the institution, you generally need to speak its language, with the right words and tones. 

A number of songs on Spare Ribs worry over the qualities of voice and its relations to identity: “Top Room,” “Thick Ear,” “Nudge It.” The Mods’ music has frequently foregrounded and thematized Williamson’s strong, East Midlands accent (see “Out There”: “Let’s git Brexit fooked boi an ‘orse’s peeenis”), its lack of polish and the social consequences of speaking that way. Of course, Williamson’s voice is compelling (and successful) exactly because his characteristic sprechgesang delivery — the runs of obscenity and the rough-and-tumble vernacular lyricism — carries the audible signature of region and class. The key to grooving with it may be understanding that the continued presence of that signature doesn’t limit or dictate the Mods’ real, material position. They have earned, through the force of their creativity and sweat, access to new places and social spaces. But even as some of their songs explore what’s newly possible in those spaces, the Mods remain deeply interested in the places from which they came. 

Two of the best songs on Spare Ribs, “Mork n Mindy” and “Fishcakes,” situate the listener in quotidian sites: a desultory cul-de-sac of rundown houses, a cramped and steamy kitchen. On “Mork n Mindy,” the band may be flashing on the 1980s, its toys and television shows, or they may be placing us inside of housing projects that haven’t been repaired or meaningfully updated since then. In either case, the environment is decidedly unhappy: dinner plates fly as couples fight, and the song’s most consistently worked image is the stink of dirty bodies, dirty rooms and industrial pollution. Maries’ terrific contribution to the song provides a narrative of downward mobility, of “crash landing” in a squalid apartment and the psychological and linguistic displacements accompanying that bewilderingly awful experience. Additionally bewildering is the song’s seductive pulse, and Fearn’s keen sense for when to drop in some Casiotone-quality beeps and boops. The tune is a lot of fun; the song is not. 

Fearn’s beats and basslines are as compelling as ever, and this time around, he builds on the music’s effect with a good deal more analog-sourced sounds. But his work on “Fishcakes” demonstrates the appeal of keeping things simple, even spare. A drone and an anxious throb quaver under Williamson’s singing. And Williamson sings on the track — not at all a new event on a Mods record, but his vocal turn on “Fishcakes” verges on vulnerability. Like “Mork n Mindy,” the song suggests retrospection, a memory of a lost Midlands. And as ever, the theme of austerity, and its effects on real lives, invests the lyric with potent poignancy: “Second-hand, but I don’t mind / Scouring the papers at Christmastime.” The sweetness and sadness of Williamson’s singing add to the mixed feelings evoked by the smell of cheap fish frying in cheaper cooking oil, by a long walk to work. At least there’s a job — but it’s a soul-sucker. That ambivalence is summed up in the song’s chorus: “And when it mattered, and it always did / At least we lived.” Little lives matter, working-class lives matter. Of course they do. But the “at least” and the need for its inclusion are pretty devastating. “Fishcakes” is the last song on Spare Ribs, and it’s both a wistful tribute and a gut punch. The Sleaford Mods can land one like no one else. 

Jonathan Shaw

[riaflicke]

The saying went something like, monsters are created not born. And that was exactly how Ria Flicke felt about the demon - or demons, plural, depending on the day - inside of her. It wasn’t always dark, but it was fed enough that it grew and grew until she didn’t know what it felt like to not have the darkness inside of her.

Some of the creation was self-inflicted. It wasn’t like she knew how to walk away from a bad situation or how to let the light win out, no, she let the darkness win and that was her own fault. Over the past few months of alone time and wrestling with questions and curiosities, she managed to figure out how and where the darkness was cultivated, fed and nurtured by the people that were meant to protect her.

AUGUST 17th, 2010, FAIRFIELD, CONNECTICUT (14 years old)

Move in day for Faircrest Preparatory School. Day one of one million of learning to be a spy. Mariana thought that it would be a good idea for Leon to drive Ria to move in. After all, he worked at Faircrest, and she thought it’d be good for the younger Flicke to finally get to know her father. 

Needless to say, it did not get off to a good start. Ria knew two things: her mother was cryptic about her father and the only way to get adults to pay attention to her was to be annoying. And she had lots of questions for Leon which meant she would be extra annoying. 

“Don’t put your feet up there,” Leon turned over to his daughter, who had perched her feet on the all white car dash. “You’re going to get it dirty.” “What?” Ria didn’t dignify him with even a glance, she instead focused on picking a scab on her calf. “Maria-” “Ria.” “Maria,” Leon huffed, “Take your feet off the dash or we’re not leaving this driveway… What did you do to yourself anyway?” “Fell off my bike.” “Don’t you know how to ride a bike?” Picking at the scab until she got it to bleed again (because it definitely made her dad cringe), “Yes. I let go.” “Why?” “It made mom freak out.” She finally moved her feet from the dash, pleased with the furrowed brow her father now had. “And why in the world would you want to do that?” Leon asked in a deadpan tone, clearly frustrated with his daughter’s antics. “It proved mom cares. Somewhere. She got worried.”

The frustration on Leon’s face morphed into one of pride, but in the blink of an eye it was back to neutral. “You’re already thinking like a spy. What has your mother taught you so far?” “Nothing, I’ve known for all of like, three months.” “Alright. Well, we have about six hours ahead of us-” “Joy.” “Don’t interrupt me, Maria. I can’t have my daughter not knowing anything about spyhood. You’re already starting Faircrest at a disadvantage.”

That spoke to the competitive side of Ria and all, but she thought that this ride would be a way to get to know the man she’d wondered about for years. “You’re going to spend six hours talking to me about spy stuff and not like… anything about me?” “I didn’t say that. Anyways, I’ll see you all year on campus, we have plenty of time to get to know each other.” “Ooookay. Weird, but, fine, talk to me about your spy life or whatever…” Her voice trailed off into silence.

Leon glanced over at her, “What were you about to say?” Chewing on her bottom lip, Ria was silent for a little longer before speaking up. “I wanted to ask you a question.” “Fine, ask it then.” “Do you love me?” The words sounded sharp to hide the fear inside. “I don’t know.” Sitting up straighter, the blonde’s face dropped, “How do you not know? I’m your daughter.” “We just met.” “So?” “So,  I need time to decide.” “Do you think you ever will?” “We’ll see.” And he wouldn’t. ‘I love you’ were three words he’d never say. “Fine… Tell me about this spy shit.” “Language.”

JUNE 8th, 2010, FAIRFIELD, CONNECTICUT (17 years old) Whether she wanted to listen to her father or not (spoiler: she didn’t!), Ria wanted to be top of her class. Success was something she could control. Success gave her purpose. Success made it all worth it. So as much as she hated Leon Calder with everything in her being, she kept note of all of his rules and the subsequent tests and trials in a tiny leather bound notebook. It was a pale pink, embossed with “Maria” on the cover - which she had since scratched up with pens and keys until it only read Ria.

With graduation on the corner - and a four year break from spyhood (her parents hated that one) on the horizon - she flicked through the pages, a walk down a very bumpy memory lane.

Rule 1: Control the conversation What’s it mean: - Have conviction in what you say - Stand by your words, even if they’re questionable - Don’t get stuck in webs of lies - Take pride in attention - good or bad - throws people off their game when you embrace an insult

Rule 2: Head not heart What’s it mean: - Don’t lead with emotions ever - Look at things logically bc that’s trustworthy, emotions are fickle - Tears are weakness - avoid at all costs!!!

8/30/10 - first week @ faircrest, dad got me a xanax prescription. told me it’s better to feel nothing than something. haven’t tried it yet 2/1/12 - (middle of soph. year.) - i think i’m addicted  4/29/14 - i’m graduating in 2 months. Idk how to feel bc i don’t think i’ve felt anything in four years. 8/2/14 - i don’t trust my own head

Rule 3: Don’t have a blindspot What’s it mean: - Falling in love means youre caught up in another person - Getting caught up in another person is a weak point - A lover will betray you or will be used against you - Lust =/= love, lust is ok.

11/1/13 - i don’t think ive cared about a single person ive slept with. like at all.

Rule 4: Know what you’re walking into What’s it mean: - Awareness is key - Evaluate every situation in full - ALWAYS keep your guard up or you’ll get backstabbed

12/21/10 - was @ home for christmas, dad snuck up behind me and threw a knife. i ducked in time. said i need to get better at awareness. Wtf.

After twenty or so blank pages, one page of the notebook had a few words written on it in all capitals. They were written more cleanly than the notes and scribbles of yesteryear, clearly written by an older Ria with stronger penmanship.

I THINK IM A MONSTER.

SEPTEMBER THROUGH NOVEMBER, 2020, ROSEVILLE, VA (24 years old)

The fires the year prior had been the first time that Ria remembered crying in over ten years. Something cracked inside of her as the buildings and all she’d used to ground herself started to fall and crackle apart. It was what pushed her to look inside of her. To know why she held so tightly onto the lessons and learnings from two people that couldn’t care less about her. It was what sent her to therapy. 

There were no diagnoses to be found, apart from a self-inflicted dependence on unhealthy relationships and her vices. She lacked the remorse and violence to be a psychopath, and she didn’t have the swings of anger that hallmarked aggression disorders. What was there instead was a shell, a guard that presented itself as sociopathy - but she knew what she was doing, she had remorse, that was where the questions began. How could you display every trait in the book but be ‘normal’ inside? 

The revelation of Blackthorne as a school for assassins had opened up even more of a can of worms, but she ignored it until the start of her third year, as she continued to try and understand what was going on inside of her head. Leon had gone to Blackthorne, yet the alumni didn’t seem to recognize his name. Something was up.

With the help of one of her Faircrest friends, Tobi, she was able to find more on her father. More on his employment records and his history. He’d begun going by his middle name after graduating Blackthorne, Leon Calder instead of Malcolm Calder. Hardly a criminal offense. He had a cross listing with the MI5 (expected, she knew her parents met in London) and a private agency ‘Atkinson Associates’. Further digging revealed it as a hitman agency, one that her father was still actively employed with. 

Once she had that, and access to the files of the company, she went to dig on her own - not wanting to pull anyone else deeper into the mess. The employee roster and files were what she really wanted. Clicking on her father’s, she read through the notes, feeling a gross pit building in her stomach as she learned more. Kill count: 117. Use for: High profile, quickturn jobs. Works both individually and with partners.

Noting that the word partners was linked, Ria clicked on it, skimming quickly over unknown names until she settled on the name of a former partner. One she knew too well. Mariana Alice Flicke.

“No…. no no no…” But she couldn’t stop, she had to know more about her mother. Kill count: 2. Use for: Track erasure and evidence destruction. 

She didn’t know if it made her feel better or worse that her mother was typically non-violent… Even if she condoned the violence. Blue eyes kept scanning the profile of her mom. Employment Terminated: September 30, 1995 Reason: Pregnancy.

“No wonder he hates me so fucking much.” She took Mariana out of the field, she took his partner away… But that wasn’t her fault! Hovering over the word pregnancy, Ria’s brow furrowed. Another link. There was no reason that needed to be linked. Everyone knew how pregnancy worked!

After a long stare off with the link, she finally clicked on it. The curiosity eating away at her. It pulled up what looked like an incomplete profile, one with nothing but the key statistics. And she didn’t even need to read them, they were ones she knew by heart. Name: Maria Grace Flicke Date of Birth: June 6, 1996 Start Date: To Be Determined.

She wanted to stop scrolling, but her hand kept moving, the answers were finally there. Whether she liked them or not. 

Current Status: 

Atkinson Associates Case study 001.:  Nature versus Nurture

- Developing the mindset of an assassin from day one - Utilizing upbringing to control later characteristics, thought processes, and disposition

None of her mania was an accident. It was all part of a bigger plan that she never wanted to be a part of. Each demon was planted inside of her by the people that were supposed to love her most.

And the only way she could deal with this was to let out an ear-piercing wail.

[sukiandthemarauders]

FIRELIGHT (Zuko x OC) C1

word count: 2,989

warning: just mature language :)

a/n: This is chapter one of Firelight, excluding the prologue, and it MERELY shows a glimpse of Zuko and Kai’s future relationship :D I’m just going to pretend that I’m not already planning a Sokka fic because I’m just starting this one so... ENJOY!

<- Prologue | Chapter 2 ->

Masterlist

____________

Chapter 1

_________

“So when are the losers going to get here anyways?”

Kailani playfully rolled her eyes at Toph’s comment, knowing fully well that the earthbender missed the rest of their friends as much as she did. And as she stood in the edge of Air Temple Island with Toph, awaiting the arrival of her friends, she could feel the ball of excitement forming in the pit of her stomach at the thought of having a full reunion with her friends once again.

Although there had been plenty of other situations that required the Gaang to team up, everybody seemed to be busy with their own particular occupations. Suki returned to Kyoshi island and had stayed in the Earth Kingdom for the most part to train more warriors, and Katara mostly stayed in the South Pole with her tribe as she taught in a healing school for waterbenders. Sokka and Aang were probably the ones who traveled the most—being involved in the world of politics—but the two boys particularly enjoyed the South Pole, for it was Sokka’s home, and where Aang’s girlfriend mostly stayed. Zuko was the loneliest, all alone in the Fire Nation that he ruled, but he made it clear that he’d never oppose a trip (or what he liked to call an extended detour) with Sokka and Aang, claiming that international affairs would best be taken care of if the Firelord was personally delegating.

Toph had stayed in the Earth Kingdom, too (finding company with Suki), and had her metalbending students to teach. However, the Beifong girl decided that she would oversee the training of the metalbenders in the police force of the rising Republic City, which was why she found herself standing next to the airbender in the capital of the new nation Aang and Zuko were building.

While the rest of the Gaang continuously fought new threats and simultaneously trying to unite the world in a peaceful manner, Kailani had dedicated her efforts to the rebuilding of all four Air Temples. She had led the constructing of the damages, and adjusted all of the Air Acolytes that Aang sent her into their new homes. Along with the Acolytes were the flying bison and the ring-tailed flying lemurs that the Avatar had found, and she tried to make the temples as homely as she could for the native animals.

The goal seemed daunting at first, but Kailani was proud to say that she was successful in her focused task—even though the work kept her away from most of her friends for years. She had encountered Aang, Sokka, and Katara when they had visited her in the Southern Air Temple, and she might have kidnapped Suki and Toph on her way to the Eastern Air Temple for just a few days. But it wasn’t until her work was done at all four Air Temples that Aang had asked her to finish building Air Temple Island in Republic City, so he could visit Katara in the South Pole with Sokka (who had invited Suki along).

And so Kailani stood with Toph at her side, awaiting the arrival of her closest confidantes eagerly, so that she could enjoy and make up for the time that she had lost with them.

“You’re not going to be calling them losers when they get here.” Kailani teased in a sing-song voice, causing Toph to scoff.

“If you think I’m going to get all touchy-feely because we’re seeing our friends again, you thought wrong.” Toph spoke with a shrug. “Sure, I’m happy. But I’m not going to be crying bitch baby tears like you.”

Kailani dramatically gasped, feigning offense. “Watch it or I’m going to have to kick your—.”

Kailani was interrupted, for she found herself catapulted into the air by a stone with the slightest movement of Toph’s foot.

“Your sighted ass could never!” Toph shouted from below causing Kailani to let out a bark of laughter mid-air. As she manipulated the wind to make her fall graceful, the airbender caught sight of a familiar flying bison hovering over a large ship that headed in their direction. Allowing her lips to break out into a wide grin, Kailani grabbed Toph’s wrist, and pulled her to the edge of the shore.

“They’re here!”

Soon enough, the large ship stopped before the two girls, and Appa landed heavily beside it. Kailani didn’t wait a moment more before she jumped on Appa’s forehead, and began to caress his brown arrow.

“Appa!” She squealed excitedly.

“And Katara and Aang.”

Kailani whipped her head around to find the couple jumping off of the flying bison with their fingers interlocked. The girl immediately launched herself at Aang, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, and knocking him off balance with the force of her body weight.

“Aang!” Kailani murmured with a grin on her face. Regardless of the fact that he had grown much taller—taller than herself, in fact— she still looked at the Avatar as if he were her little brother, which was why she pulled away from the embrace, and forced his head down so she could rub her knuckles against his bald head. “Noogie!”

“Ow! Stop it Kai, I’m not twelve anymo—“

“You haven’t changed a bit, Kailani.” Katara spoke with a slight chuckle causing Kailani to release her grip on the humiliated Aang, and wrap her arms around the beautiful waterbender.

“Katara, it’s so great to see you!” The grey eyed girl enthused, always having a soft spot for the girl who had grown to be as close as a sister to her since they were younger. Being the only two girls for a while on their adventures allowed them to bond, and Kailani’s first hand witnessing of Katara’s compassion and kindness made her realize that there was no one better to be Aang’s girlfriend.

“I missed you, Kai.” Katara said with her signature motherly smile as she pulled away from the hug. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you since the Southern Air Temple two years ago.”

Kailani let out a sigh as she thought back to the last couple of years. “I’ve been good, albeit very busy. And it didn’t help that this one—“ she pointed her thumb at Aang. “—dumped the rest of his work on me.”

Aang let out a chuckle before gently resting his arm around Katara’s waist. “Sorry Kai. When Sokka told me he was going to the South Pole with Suki, I couldn’t miss the opportunity.”

“So that’ll be my fault.” Katara finished with a bashful grin, but Kailani only waved it off casually.

“Speaking of Sokka and Suki, where are they?” The airbender girl asked.

“KAILANI!”

As soon as the girl turned around, she was engulfed by a figure significantly taller than her. Her face slammed into his chest, and she groaned at the impact, but couldn’t help smiling at her best friend. He seemed to have come from his greeting with Toph, for the girl was walking their way from the location that Sokka ran from. While Katara and Aang gave a begrudging Toph a welcome hug (before Toph bended rock to come between them), Sokka pulled Kailani to face him at arms length with a wide grin plastered across his face.

“I can’t believe you’re finally with the Gaang again! While we’re fighting crime and saving the world, you always stayed at the Air Temples! But now we can have fun with you—“

“Where’s Suki?” Kailani interrupted causing Sokka’s jaw to drop, and snickers erupting from Toph, Katara, and Aang to sound beside them.

“You’re best friend is here, and the first person you ask for is my girlfriend?” Sokka accused in a characteristically dramatic tone.

Kailani slightly smirked. “Our girlfriend.”

“My girlfriend.” Sokka corrected swiftly while pointing his index finger to his own chest. “And you are a terrible best friend for that.”

Sokka and Kailani had been best friends from the moment he slipped and fell on top of her when he was helping her out of the iceberg. Perhaps it was because Sokka hadn’t been in the presence of someone the same age as him for years, or because they both felt the same responsibility when it came to their younger siblings (even if Kailani and Aang weren’t actually related). Either way they clicked immediately, and maybe even more than they had thought.

The two harbored a secret crush for one another for the first several months of their journey, but they soon realized that they were best as friends, and their ability to maintain their friendship after realizing their feelings only made them closer. Sokka later became involved with Suki (who Kailani cherished), and the airbender had... well, her Air Temple project.

“You’ve been a terrible best friend in many, many occasions, Sokka.” Kailani said with her eyebrows raised and her arms crossed.

“Oh yea?” Sokka challenged. “Name one time.”

“When you got us dragged into the spirit world by Hei Bai, when you forced me to drink that cactus juice, made Hawky poop on my head, not telling me about Yanchen’s festival, the New Ozai Society, or Gilak until after it was over, not visiting me for over a year and—“

“Okay, okay, okay I get it!” Sokka grumbled with a frown. “Suki’s still on the ship talking to Zuko about training his guards chi blocking with the Kyoshi Warriors.”

Kailani allowed her eyebrows to furrow. “Zuko’s here, too?”

“Oh so you care more about Zuko than your best friend—“

“Sokka.” Katara said irritated before facing Kailani once again. “Zuko wanted to visit Republic City in person, seeing as he’s been quite generous with the funds, and is its cofounder.”

“And he didn’t mind a little vacation from his Firelord duties.” Aang finished with a cheeky grin.

“I still can’t believe that guy runs a whole country.” Sokka said while crossing his arms and leaning against Toph.

“I can’t believe that Sparky hasn’t died of boredom with all that paperwork.” Toph responded. “All of that makes me glad I’m blind.”

Kailani let out a weak chuckle. “Was there a reason you guys didn’t tell me?”

Everybody—save for Toph—shared an curious look with each other before Katara spoke. “Is there a reason that he shouldn’t have come?”

“W-Well no, I suppose not—“

“Are those nerves I hear in your voice?” Toph questioned with a sly eyebrow raised.

Aang tilted his head in confusion. “Why would Kailani be nervous that Zuko’s coming?”

Katara wore a slight smirk on her face as she bored her eyes into Kailani’s grey orbs. “Do you like Zuko?”

Kailani, Sokka, and Aang’s eyes all widened, the latter two immediately turning to look at the airbender girl.

“It’s the scar isn’t it? That’s what got to you!” Sokka assumed while Aang seemed to be in a state a confusion.

“How long have you felt this way?” Aang asked.

“Oh I know, it’s because he’s hot!” Sokka turned towards Toph and Katara after he spoke and nudged them with his elbow. “Get it? Because he’s a firebender.”

“No, I don’t like him! How could I? I haven’t seen him in years!” Kailani finally announced, ceasing Sokka and Aang’s remarks, and she wasn’t necessarily lying.

Although Zuko had previously been their enemy, she remembered bonding with him after he joined them against his own father. She was quick to accept him after Toph declared that he was genuine with his offer to teach Aang firebending— which made the Prince grateful to her. But it wasn’t until she saw Zuko jump in the path of Azula’s lightning that was aiming for her that she began to feel something more for the boy.

However, after the war, Kailani was made aware that Zuko had reunited with his ex-girlfriend Mai, and thus she pushed aside any feelings she had for him, glad to at least have him as a friend. But soon after the war, she had begun her task of restoring the Air Temples, leading her to not see the new Firelord for almost six years now, and that was why she was nervous.

“And he’s not hot.” Kailani finished with a roll of her eyes. But as soon as she spoke, her eyes caught on two figures that headed there way from the ship, deep in conversation and unaware of the eyes glued to them.

Suki seemed to switch from Kyoshi Warrior to easygoing friend mode in a split second, for her furrowed eyebrows were quickly replaced with a cheery expression as soon as she spotted Kailani. Next to the Earth Kingdom girl stood Zuko in all his Firelord glory, wearing his nation’s formal attire, and his hair tied half up in a bun.

Kailani could’ve ate her words right there.

“You know, your mouth says something but your eyes say something else.” Katara whispered to the girl while Aang and Sokka walked away from them and towards Zuko.

“And your heartbeat says otherwise, too.” Toph teased. “Since I can’t really see your eyes.”

“Kailani!” Suki exclaimed as she catapulted into the airbender’s arms. Kailani let out a hearty laugh as she embraced the warrior, having found missing her bubbly personality, and her ability to make you feel like you could tell her anything.

“Suki, I missed you!” Kailani gushed with a grin. “I needed someone with the same alcohol tolerance as me! I almost died drinking with Toph.”

“Hey! It’s not my fault you’re a lightweight!”

“Kailani,” Katara said suddenly before linking her arms with the airbender. “let’s go see Zuko now.”

She knew that if she protested for any reason, her nerves would be confirmed to the two—now three— girls (even if Suki had no clue what was going on), and so she sucked in her words of denial and let Katara drag her towards the Firelord. She looked at Katara to see a cunning glint shining within her blue orbs, and then towards Toph who wore an extremely conspicuous smirk across her lips.

At least Katara was subtle.

“It’s rude to just pull me away from Suki.” Kailani said as she kept her eyes trained on a determined Katara. “We were in the middle of a conversation, you know.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind.” Suki spoke from the other side of Toph causing Kailani to snap her gaze towards to warrior. Why was she going along with it? She didn’t even know of the nerves wracking her whole body! But as soon as the airbender’s grey orbs met Suki’s, the latter girl winked.

Never mind, she definitely knew.

“I-It’s still not well mannered—“

“Kailani?”

Hearing her name come from the mouth of the guy she was so conflicted with seeing startled her, and Katara could feel—from only touching one of her limbs— that Kailani froze. Her breath caught in her throat at the sound of Zuko’s deep dulcet voice that was familiar, but she was unaccustomed to from not hearing it after half a dozen years.

The first thing she could make out was the vibrant amber of his eyes; eyes that were staring right back at her. The right eye was surrounded by his milky pale skin, and his left eye was still slightly smaller and in the center of his dull red scar that had stayed exactly the same from all those years ago. His lips were slightly parted in surprise, but it quickly became a small smile that danced across his face, gracing his features with a look of soft delight instead of his previously confused expression.

Kailani immediately straightened her back, and hastily pulled her arm away from Katara before bringing her fist and flat palm together, and bowing.

“Firelord Zuko.”

Firelord Zuko, really?— she thought— Everyone just called him Zuko, so now I look like an idiot.

Her train of thought was interrupted when Zuko clutched her hands with his own and lifted her from her bow. Her face burned in embarrassment, but Zuko only shook his head with a bemused expression.

“Please Kailani, we fought my sister and almost died together countless of times. It’s just Zuko to you.” He said with a ghost of a smile that seemed minuscule compared to the shit eating grin that appeared on Kailani’s face.

She placed her hands lazily on her hips and lifted her chin up. “You’re right. I’ve saved your ass too many times to count, and I’m a century older than you. I’m the respectable one of us two.”

Zuko’s smile instantaneously dropped. “You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m going to bow to you.”

Kailani’s arms were suddenly thrown around his shoulders as she let out a string of giggles, reminiscing about the playful banter they exchanged when they were teenagers. Zuko’s serious façade melted away into a smile, and he was quick to snake his arms around her waist, missing the comfort that her embrace brought him after being robbed of it for six years.

“Kailani.” Aang spoke, thus, breaking apart the hug that seemed to last long enough for Katara and Suki to smirk, Sokka to raise an eyebrow, and Toph to snort violently. Aang—however wise and old (though not physically)— remained painfully oblivious, for his eyes were looking over and passed Kailani’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

Kailani turned around to trace Aang’s line of vision, only to meet Aang’s eyes once again—except these were made of metal; metal that matched the rest of the statue of Avatar Aang that was constructed by Toph (courtesy of Kailani’s idea) on a lone island of Yue Bay. It was a pale blue green color, and Aang stood with a staff beside his elevated bent knee.

The airbender girl pulled her arm away from Zuko’s warm—and admittedly intoxicating— touch, and leaned her head on Aang’s shoulder as they stood looking at his statue.

“That’s Aang Memorial Island.” Kailani said with soft grin, and laced her fingers through Aang’s. “Happy eighteenth birthday, little brother.”

Chapter 2 ->

[sebastianshaw]

@sammysdewysensitiveeyes - I am going to do all of the ones you sent me, but a few at a time or the post would be MASSIVE and take days! So here’s the first three. MADELYNE PRYOR Maddie is absolutely a Brujah vampire. Brujah vampires rebels and revolutionaries, visionaries and philosophers, political dissedents and champions of the common man---or whatever their cause is. While they typically lean towards the downtrodden---whether it’s in vampire society or in general--- and fighting back against whatever the current status quo is, in theory a Brujah can be passionate about whatever it is they believe in, so long as it’s SOMETHING, so theoretically a Brujah could be a fanatical conservative as much as a radical Marxist. Brujah are often called “the Rabble” and the stereotypical Brujah image is that of a tough biker or gangster, but I think this misses the point of what they’re really about, which is being dedicated to some kind of ideal. That said, they are also a bunch of headcrackers who are not only willing to get their hands dirty and crack some heads for the cause, they’re EAGER. While many today have indeed degenerated into nothing more than rebels without a cause who just like causing trouble and starting fights for fun, many others still carry the mantle of warrior-philosophers into the modern nights, even if they’re more rare. So, why do I say this is Maddie? Well, Maddie is courageous as hell, first of all. It’s one of her most notable pre-Inferno characteristics, she’s brave as FUCK. Secondly, she cares about others. I remember one story in which her plane had crashed in a snowstorm and she devoted herself to the safety of her passengers above all else, even Scott, if I recall correctly. And let us not forget that her first death was not Inferno, it was willingly sacrificing her own life so that Forge could use her soul in a spell to seal away the Adversary and save the world. And one of her final conversations before that was with a news crew, advocating the acceptance of mutantkind. Maddie is brave, she has a temper, she believes in justice and the rights of the outcasts and rejects, and she can also be violent and take vengeance too far. That’s all very Brujah. I can absolutely see her as like, an Anarch den mother to new vampires or an independent vampire who gives help to those on the bottom regardless of what sect they’re in, Anarch or Camarilla or even Sabbat, but is also ferocious and should not be crossed. Which...is also very Brujah, as is the fact that their clan weakness is their tempers and passions can push them over the edge into Frenzy twice as easily as other vampires. The powers of the Brujah are Potence, Celerity, and Presence. Potence is super-strength and Celerity is superspeed, neither of which is very specifically “Maddie” to me, but Presence is a psychic ability with which a vampire can charm, entrance, and inspire hypnotic awe or dreadful terror. And I think that’s a good nod to her psychic abilities as a mutant, especially her scary factor. CATSEYE So, Catseye obviously has to be a Bastet, which are the werecat breeds in “Werewolf: The Apocalypse”. She also would definitely be a Feline werecat. Feline werecat that sounds repetitive but being “Feline” with a capital F in this context means born as a cat, rather than a human. See, wereanimals in WtA aren’t made by biting, they’re born. Some are born human, and will undergo their First Change sometime after adolescence, others are born as animals and will grow up as such, until their First Change between the ages of two and three years old (since animals mature faster). The latter often have a TON of adjustment to make, because they have to learn not just how to be a wereanimal, but a human. Because regardless of what state they were BORN in, all wereanimals will have a human form, an animal form, a hybrid form, and a giant-size version of their animal form. So you’ve got people turning into critters...and critters turning into people, who have to learn to walk and talk and wear clothes and stuff like that so that they can move through human society when they have to. It’s a perfect fit for Catseye! Each Bastet has a “Pyrio” meaning a classification of their general personality and what fields they’re likely to pursue and be talented in: Daylight - open and direct, they tend to be diplomats, warriors, lawgivers, and protectors. Twilight - questioners and seekers, they tend to be detectives, lawyers, spies, or mystics Night - often withdrawn and reclusive, they tend to be assassins, scholars, scientists, and practitioners of dark magics. I think Daylight because she was a fighter and she tended to strike directly, she was much more charge type than an assassin. I mean, she tried to jump right on top of Magma while Magma was IN HER FIRE FORM, Catseye is not a planner, and I think Daylight just fits her very open and innocent personality. I see her definitely being a warrior! A warrior cat, if you will ;) So that leaves...what breed Bastet is she? Because there are multiple types of Bastet, each reflecting a different species of big cat. For Catseye, I have narrowed it down to Simba (lion), Khan (tiger), Bagheera (leopard), or Bubasti (the ancient Egyptian kyphur cats). The Simba are the most proud and arrogant of the Bastet, they want to rule over the others and see themselves as the ones who are going to put things back into order. Unlike most Bastet tribes, which are solitary like most big cats, Simba live in Prides like real lions and there is a strict pecking order of respect. and dominance. I don’t think that Catseye wants to rule other people or sees herself as the one who has all the answers, but I do think she is, well, a cat, and is a proud vain creature who overestimates herself (but in a way much more endearing than Fabian or Empath) We also see from the way she worked so well as a team member in the Hellions that she’s a social animal, and she understands hierarchy and takes orders from Emma. She also grew up in canon having the fight to survive, so having to fight to avoid being picked on ---as the strong will do to the weak---by other Pride members as a kitten would fit. The Bagheera are the wereleopards, both strong and wise, renowned for both their mystic insights and their ferocious tempers. They’re curious, scholarly, and enjoy/seek new experiences to learn from, which I think fits the fact that Catseye was, according to Emma’s notes, ferociously intelligent. She seemed dumb to others because of her simple speaking style and not understanding a lot about the human world, but that’s merely because she was new to it; according to Emma, she was a genius, and the fact she learned to speak as well as she did IN A MERE YEAR according to said notes is a testament to that. And I don’t think you can teach a cat anything unless she WANTS to learn, so I see Catseye not just as very intelligent (if frequently NOT very clever; see aforementioned jumping on Magma, she’s obviously very overconfident and impulsive) but also eager to learn and very, well, curious! I think the Bagheera balance of being hot-tempered warriors but also curious and wise fits Catseye, though she’s not quite “wise” yet due to her youth! The Khan are the weretigers, and like the Simba, they’re very proud creatures who see themselves as Gaia's most perfect creations and as such obliged to protect all who are lesser. Khan are straightforward and action-oriented, not clever schemers. Whatever one of these Bastet do, they do it with full-tilt vigor, whether it be fighting, romancing, hunting, studying, or even contemplating. They throw themselves into all tasks with a mighty passion, and their bodies, in any from, bristle with vitality. Their weaknesses, such as they are, come from being too trusting or too sure of themselves. Which fits Catseye because, well, I’ve already covered her overconfidence, and being too trusting, well...she trusted Emma as her mother, and Emma was just using her as a tool, a weapon in a war that Catseye among all the Hellions understood the least, even if Emma ended up loving her deep down in the end. Finally, the Bubasti. Shy and secretive yet the most social of the Bastet; like the Simba, they live and work in groups. Bubasti are defined by the fact they are extremely hungry, both mentally and physically. Physically, they carry a curse of always being starving no matter how much they eat, and mentally they’re just always thirsty for knowledge, devouring books and research just as they do food. Catseye wasn’t ever gluttonous for food that we saw but she was ferociously intelligent and learned a lot very fast, as discussed, and also was more social than most big cats, as also covered. Bubasti are also ALWAYS very skinny, which Catseye also was; she’s listed as being six feet tall but only 120 lbs, she was rail thin (I picture her as like, skinny but very sinewy, like a ballerina, and I also headcanon that once she started getting enough to eat, she’d develop a more Amazonian physique) She’d need a racelift to be a Bubasti, as most are Egyptian and all are dark-skinned. The other Bastet types I described are also mostly of the ethnicities from the same lands their feline form originates from (ex: tigers are from China and India) but have white members too due to breeding with colonizers. I can’t pick which I would go with for her, really, which is perhaps also fitting since Catseye’s feline form in canon was inconsistent too, sometimes looking more like a lion, a panther, or even a lynx depending on the artist. PYRO In DnD, my first thought for him was a Genasi. Genasi are half-genie or have a genie somewhere in their family tree. Genies in DnD come from The Elemental Planes, so each genasi will reflect which plane their ancestor came from--Pyro of course would be a fire genasi.  Nearly all fire genasi are feverishly hot as if burning inside, an impression reinforced by flaming red, coal- black, or ash-gray skin tones. The more human-looking have fiery red hair that writhes under extreme emotion, while more exotic specimens sport actual flames dancing on their heads. Fire genasi voices might sound like crackling flames, and their eyes flare when angered. Some are accompanied by the faint scent of brimstone. Also, while genasi will typically have birth names common to the people among whom they were raised, some will choose to assume thematic names like  Flame, Ember, Wave, or Onyx. So a guy born as St. John Allerdyce and later calling himself Pyro, basically! If you want to take out the fire theme, he also works fine as a human, but like, where’s the fun in that? My other choice for him would be a half-elf. He’s tall and gangly and just a bit too-thin yet somehow not unhealthy for it like a human would be, but didn’t inherit the elven beauty and just kind odd instead---honestly like I love how Pyro is kinda, as you had Shaw unkindly put it, horsey-faced in Byrne’s art? He’s not UGLY but he’s distinct, and I’m always here for a character than doesn’t blend in with the other bland supermodel faces, and I also like the idea of a half-elf who DIDN’T get the whole ethereal look thing. My first thought for his class was rogue because of his villain status, but then I realized...no, he is a BARD. Think about it. Bards retell history in the most captivating way, or they make up their own equally hypnotic stories of tragedy or romance, battles or woe or bawdy humor. They *are* journalists and romance novel writers just like, just they do it with music instead of with writing! And like...they probably DO write them down first, I bet he takes notes in battle to turn it into a good song later! Also, he may have been a bad guy in canon, but...he’s so not a rogue? Like, Pyro was not a stealth and cunning guy, he blasted everything with fire! So yeah, he’s totally a bard! As a non-wolf werebeast, he’d be a Celican werecat. The Celican are descended from now-extinct European lions, but they don’t look like it---they look like oversized domestic cats, with as much variation in patterns and colors, though black and white are common. I see him as a great big ginger tabby though! Of all the tribes, the Ceilican have adapted best to the modern world. Most of them favor sports, music, mass media and, psychology, so I think his being a journalist would fit very well.  Most Ceilican have a natural aptitude for technology, too; no other tribe is as comfortable with computers and mechanical devices as they are, so he can totally be typing up his stories on his phone and laptop! He’d also be more likely to be a Homid, meaning born in human shape, so he grew up with tech. As mentioned, the cats who claim Twilight  as their Pyrio are “questioners and seekers, they tend to be detectives, lawyers, spies, or mystics”  andI feel like a traveling journalist fits this well. I think that the predilections of the Twilights also suggest an interest in justice ---lawyers, detectives---which I do think Pyro has, given his allegiance with the Brotherhood. Speaking of that, all werebeasts, whatever they are, serve Gaia, the Earth Herself, mother of all living beings, in a holy crusade. So in that sense they’re all good...but from a HUMAN perspective, they’re often not, since a lot of werebeasts, either as groups or individuals, see humanity either as a blight to be wiped out, or as something they’re just not concerned about. Like they wouldn’t hunt us for sport, but have very little care if we’re hurt or killed as collateral damage in their battles against the Wyrm (the big threat to Gaia) and I think that works well with his Brotherhood status. There's a definite cunning bent to this tribe, a mischievous spark that ignites either playful games or malicious villainy (and frequently both), giving even the most laidback among them a very divided and unstable nature, and like...that seems Pyro to me, he can be anything from just kind of a lovable rogue to REALLY FUCKING DANGEROUS AND WILL KILL YOU WITHOUT REMORSE they’re also EXTREMELY passionate creatures, and fire is typically tied to passion or used to represent it. Emotional drama draws them like ants to sugar, so I’m thinking that’s how werecat Pyro became inspired to start writing romance novels. The Celican are a hidden tribe, believed to be wiped out, but actually they were just hanging out with the Fae for a long time so everyone thinks they’re extinct now, even though they’ve re-emerged, which I think also works well with pyro having been literally dead for awhile and now is back. Here’s the weird part about the Celican.  Each year, they must forget who they are and become someone else. Physically they are the same person, but mentally they’re someone new. While I don’t like the idea of Pyro losing himself, I think this could be a great way to incorporate every version of Pyro into one character---the standard 616 guy we love, the chaotic Duggan dumbass, the bad boy from the XMCU, the manic pyromaniac from X-Men Evolution, all of them have been different “lives” of the same guy. Finally, all Celican prefer using blades over guns just because they think blades have more “style” and despite the fact Pyro technically uses ranged weapons in a sense (basically a self-powered flamethrower) I think he’d agree that STYLE IS IMPORTANT given his love for making shapes out of fire in combat even when there’s no need to do so. Celicans are flamboyant and they like to wear stuff like punk and pseudo-medieval fashions, and while I wouldn’t describe Pyro’s style as either of those, he is def a snazzy dresser who takes bold risks! I’m not sure what werewolf tribe would fit him best, but he would be a Galliard. Galliards are the storytellers and bards of the Garou (werewolf) society, tasked with using their voice to call their people to battle and inspiring them to greatness, as well as the keepers of Garou history through oral tradition. That’s right WEREWOLF BARDS! Something that works for both a werecat and a werewolf is Pyro being raised by his gran. A wereanimal parent is not always going to be around, they’re off fighting the Wyrm, so while it’s ideal for the child to be raised by the pack, a lot of times they’re raised by Kinfolk (the human and animal relatives of a wereanimal) or even a completely human family. If they’re being raised by non-Kinfolk relatives, they probably never get told what they are and their First Change is a huge surprise! Which like, translates pretty well to the awakening of a mutant power. For “Vampire the Masquerade” I think he’d be Toreador or Brujah. Brujah because I could see him getting politicized due to his time was a wartime journalist, wanting to stay neutral at first but becoming more and more radicalized the more he saw until he was forced to take a stand, and his passion in his writing inspiring a Brujah to Embrace him. He then saw how the Camarilla (the ruling “government” of vampire society) was very much all about the elite making the rules and enforcing them on those they deemed “below” them, literal bloodsuckers acting as metaphorical bloodsuckers to boot, etc., and becoming, like many Brujah, an Anarch instead, standing against the “Ivory Tower” as they call the Cam, and instead championing the ideals of undead egalitarianism regardless of how old or young or powerful or weak you are. The Camarilla allow the existence of the Anarchs so long as they don’t get out of hand, but will also hold them to Camarilla laws; the Anarchs don’t consider themselves Camarilla, but according to the Cam they are! I can see Pyro having OPINIONS on that. Alternatively a Toreado was inspired by his romance novels---the Toreadors are the artistes of vampire society, and it’s common for them to Embrace someone whose talents they feel should be preserved forever. And before you say he’s not good enough for that---Toreadors are fickle and shallow creatures, given to becoming obsessed with some new favored muse or protege, then dropping them in a few months times and moving on to the next hot rising star they’re now convinced is the true genius, then doing it all over again. I could absolutely see some Toreador, easily swayed emotional creatures that they are, always seeing thrills and passion and human feeling, getting enchanted by his romance novels, which are all about high-drama and exaggerated emotions as well as opulent and descriptive surroundings, that’s total Toreador bait, that’s TOREADOR CLICHE CENTER, and they swoop in and Embrace him and he thinks he’s so special and chosen...and then they ditch him, much like how he was used as a test case, leaving him on his own in cutthroat vampire society, which likely embittered him a good deal. This might lead him into Anarch-y but conversely it might instead make him support the Camarilla, since the Camarilla have strict policies about who is allowed to Embrace childer, and how many, and under what circumstances, whereas the Anarchs believe it’s a personal choice, which probably results in a lot of cases like Pyro. Or he might think that it should be a personal choice still, but resent his sire for treating that choice as irresponsibly as they did, you could go a lot of directions with this! Also! Maybe when he’s cast off by his Torrie sire, he has to seek help from Maddie the Brujah and that’s how they meet! Hope you enjoyed! More coming tomorrow! EDIT: I could also see a Toreador Emrbacing Maddie because she looked like their lost love and then likewise abandoning her, Toreadors are super emotional but those feelings, as convincing and deep as they seem to the Toreador who are ruled by them, aren’t real and don’t last, so that would be...typical. But I would prefer to pick her clan based on who she IS , no reproduce the clone story that stripped that from her, though that could be her Brujah sire’s reasoning too.

[satinwulf]

✦ ▓ AND WHO GOES THERE? oh, it’s just [ SANSA STARK ]. some say [ HER ] resemblance to [ AHN HEEYEON ] is almost uncanny, but the [ TWENTY-SIX ] year old has been in the capital for [ TWENTY-SIX YEARS ]. many suspect that they are the notorious [ ASSOCIATE ] of the [ STARK ] family: perhaps that has made them [ RESERVED ] && [ CIRCUMSPECT ] of late, when they used to be so [  WHIMSICAL ] && [ SANGUINE ]. during the daylight hours, [ SANSA ] can be found working as a [ FASHION DESIGNER & BOUTIQUE OWNER ], but when night falls over king’s landing, they are best remembered listening to [ THE ARCHER BY TAYLOR SWIFT ]. may the gods be with them in these dark streets. ( mowgli. twenty-four. cst. she/hers. )

STATISTICS.

full name:  sansa  elethea  stark.

moniker / nickname: princess,   sans.

gender && pronouns: cisfemale,      she / hers.

dob && age: december 23,   1994.     26.

zodiac sign: capricorn.

ethnicity: korean.

sexual orientation: bisexual.

romantic orientation: biromantic.

mafia affiliation: associate  to  the  stark  family  via  familial  ties   -   sansa  does  NOT  partake  in  anything  further  than  simply  being  known  as  a  stark.

occupational history: former  socialite  turned  fashion  designer.      current  owner  of  the  satin  wolf,      an  upscale  boutique  featuring  her  designs.

financial status: sansa  comes  from  wealth,      but  has  also  amassed  her  own  funds  through  her  business   -   albeit,      it  is  easy  to  do  so  when  you  don’t  have  to  pay  rent.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

face claim: ahn  heeyeon,   ‘hani’.

height: five feet,   eight  inches.

physical build: tall  and  slim;   sansa  is  not  very  toned  nor  muscled,       her  body  is  very  much  so  smooth  lines  and  long  limbs.

eye colour and shape:  brown,      almond.

hair colour and style: currently  strawberry  blonde,   formerly  many  different  colors,    as  sansa  expressed  herself  through  having  it  dyed  previously.       it  is  often  worn  straight  and  down  when  she  isn’t  working,      and  pulled  into  a  messy  bun  when  she  is!

usual expression: stoic.

accent and speech style: sansa  has  a  very  soft  voice,       very  saccharine  and  sweet  by  its  very  nature.        she  has  no  blatant  accent,     and  speaks  often  in  run  on  sentences.

distinguishing marks / characteristics: any scars, tattoos, piercings.

clothing style: very  street  chic  but  also  dependent  on  the  occasion   -   she  dresses  for  the  life  she  wants  to  have  and  live.

jewellery and accessories: earrings,   necklaces,   hats,   scarves   -   any  and  everything  is  on  the  table  when  it  comes  to  accessorizing  the  perfect  outfit.        sansa  never  considers  herself  fully  dressed  without  her  apple  watch,      earrings,      and  a  silver  wolf’s  head  locket  necklace.  

FAMILY:

father: eddard stark.

mother: catelyn stark,      nee  tully.

siblings, if any: robb,      arya,      bran,      rickon.

extended relations: hoster  &  minisa  tully,     edmure  tully,      brandon  stark,      lyanna  stark,      benjen  stark.

significant other(s): none,   currently.    formerly  a  fiance.

children: none.

household pet(s): a  female  merle  great  dane  named  boleyn,   “bo”  for  short.

FAVOURITES.

colour: blue.

weather: a sunny,   but  cool  fall  day.

food item:  red  velvet  cupcakes.

beverage: peach lemonade.

time of day: mid - evening.

television genre: drama.

PERSONALITY.

hobbies: painting,     baking,      reading   -   and  occasionally  writing.

pet peeves: sansa  loathes  loud  chewers,      people  who  refuse  to  put  effort  into  their  outward  appearance,      and  people  who  think  ketchup  and  ranch  go  on  everything   -   or  anything  at  all.

phobias: spiders,      rats,      snakes.

allergies: penicillin.

mbti type: enfj,    the  protagonist.

enneagram type: 4w3,      the  enthusiast.

positive traits: whimsical,      sanguine,      clever.

negative traits: reserved,      circumspect,      fretful.

morning routine: up  by  seven,      morning  walk  with  her  dog,      shower,      breakfast,    begin  work  by  nine,      sharp.

beauty routine: multi - stepped,   always  beginning  with  primers  and  concealers.        sansa  is  a  bit  of  a  makeup  enthusiast;      even  if  she’s  just  at  home  working,      she  prefers  to  have  some  level  of  it  on,      as  she  feels  it’s  yet  another  creative  and  artistic  outlet   . . .    even  if  it  is  just  for  herself.

sleeping habits: sansa  has  always  been  a  heavy,      deep  sleeper,      even  as  a  child.        she  can  fall  asleep  in  the  blink  of  an  eye,      and  be  out  for  hours  without  even  a  hint  of  discomfort.        she  used  to  be  the  person  who  was  up  all  night,      and  tended  to  sleep  all  day   -   now  she’s  asleep  by  8:30pm  most  nights  and  up  by  7:00am.

living space && home: a  high  rise  loft  apartment,      kept  impeccably  clean  and  decorated  in  a  modern  contemporary  style,      with  many  hues  of  gray  and  light  pastels.

all  the  king’s  horses  and  all  the  king’s  men  couldn’t  put  me  together  again,      ‘cause  all  of  my  enemies  started  out  friends.

sansa  attended  king’s  way  college  and  graduated  with  a  bachelor’s  degree  of  fine  arts,    having  majored  in  fashion  design.        her  graduation  present  was  the  satin  wolf,      a  boutique  of  her  own  to  showcase  her  designs.        it  is  located  in  neutral  territory,      and  operated  by  staff  hand  selected  by  sansa  herself.  

the  death  of  hoster  tully  was  a  sad  affair  for  her,      and  yet,      sansa’s  grief  was  also  met  with  a  sense  of  relief.        that  with  her  grandfather  no  longer  pulling  strings,      the  pressure  of  being  brought  into  a  life  she  did  not  want  might  wain.

it  is  her  intent  to  never  become  involved  further  than  she  is  currently  with  any  of  the  syndicates,    even  her  own  family’s.

dancing  under  lights  since  she  was  seventeen.     her  brain’s  flooded  with  ketamine,     high  from  every  party,      low  from  self - esteem;     it’s  selfish  but  she  never  sleep.       honestly,      she  needs  a  little  sympathy.

the  socialite  daughter,      beautiful  and  charming,      always  interested  in  the  next  party   -   the  next  event.        sansa  had  a  penchant  for  attention,      late  nights  spent  out  drinking  and  dancing  even  when  she  less  than  legal;      it  made  her  feel  happy,      feel  free.        it  was  a  way  to  forget  that  things  could  be  dark  and  grim   -   to  forget  that  her  parents,      her  siblings,     nearly  everyone  she  knew  was  involved  in  a  lifestyle  that  made  her  stomach  curl.       so  she  danced  and  partied,      smiled  wide  for  pictures,     found  a  boyfriend  that  enjoyed  the  same  things  she  did   -   one  who  wasn’t  interested  in  what  her  family’s  name  could  do  for  him   . . .   or  so  she  thought.        when  he  asked  her  to  marry  him,      she  cried  tears  of  joy,      and  things  were  perfect.        just  like  they  always  were  for  sansa.

until  one  night  a  few  months  ago,      when  she  and  her  fiance  were  leaving  a  club   -   drunk  and  stumbling,      clinging  to  his  arm  with  practiced  ease    . . .   when  two  rough  hands  that  weren’t  his  pulled  her  away.        into  a  darkened  alley,      where  accomplices  met  and  held  her  at  knife-point.        they  wanted  to  know  about  her  father.        her  uncles.        her  mother,     aunts,      grandfather.        stark  plans,      stark  anything   -   gravely  voices  that  wondered  how  many  pretty  pennies  they  could  get  if  they  just  took  her  off  the  streets  now.       held  her  until  they  paid,      and  maybe  they’d  just  kill  her  anyways.       the  rough  brick  of  the  building  at  her  back  digs  into  unmarred  skin,      leaving  it  scratched  and  red   -   prick  of  a  blade  just  centimetres  away  from  the  flesh  of  her  neck,      threatening  to  cut  it  open  and  leave  her  bloody.

she  can’t  figure  out  where  he  is,      the  man  who’s  supposed  to  love  her   -   seemingly  vanished  into  thin  air  the  minute  things  had  turned  sour.        sansa  is  convinced  of  the  worst,      mascara  tears  trailing  down  her  cheeks,      because  this  must  be  it.        the  end  of  it  all.

reprieve  is  the  sight  of  one  man,     then  two,      crumpling  to  the  ground.        a  familiar  face  appearing  in  the  dimly  lit  alley  as  the  knife  at  her  throat  clatters  to  the  ground  and  her  freedom  is  given.        alive  but  shaken,      sansa  hasn’t  been  the  same  since.

i  used  to  be  a  darling  starlet  like  a  centerpiece.       had  the  whole  world  wrapped  around  my  ring.      i  flew  too  closely  to  the  sun  that’s  setting  in  the  east,       and  now  i’m  melting  from  my  wings.

returning  to  a  normal  life  post  incident   -   post  trauma   -   has  been  easier  said  than  done.        now  reclusive  in  nature,      stowing  herself  away  for  days  in  her  high  rise  loft  apartment,      sightings  of  the  eldest  stark  daughter  are  said  to  be  few  and  far  between.        she  no  longer  frequents  her  own  boutique,      working  instead  from  home  and  through  various  intermediates  to  ensure  everything  is  well  controlled;      sansa  only  appears  when  it’s  absolutely  necessary,      when  business  requires  a  gentle,     steady  hand  and  cannot  be  managed  from  afar.        

custom  designs  are  still  available,     but  often  very   hard  to  come  by.        sansa  is  incredibly  selective  with  who  she’ll  meet  in  person  with,      and  thus,      only  those  who  can  guarantee  her  trust  have  been  able  to  get  them.

sansa  does,      however,      outfit  most  of  the  stark  syndicate  in  gear  that  is  both  fashionable  and  functional.        including  safety  measures   &   fabric  a  little  more  durable  than  most.        this  is  generally  the  extent  of  what  she’s  willing  to  do  for  the  syndicate,      the  idea  of  being  involved  in  violence  is  absolutely  terrifying  to  her,      especially  after  everything  she  went  through  without  even  being  more  than  a  child  of  known  members.

she  still  is  unaware  of  her  ex-fiance’s  involvement  in  the  attempted  abduction   -   if  he  was  working  along  with  the  men,      or  if  he  was  just  cowardly  enough,     uncaring  enough  to  have  let  her  be  pulled  from  his  arms.        she  hasn’t  spoken  to  him  much,      outside  of  ending  their  relationship  as  a  whole,      the  truth  isn’t  worth  the  extra  pain  it  may  cause,      or  so  she’s  convinced  herself  for  now.

wanted  connections  !!     i  may  send  some  of  these  into  the  main  after  a  bit  if  they  aren’t  filled  just  because  i’m  #needy.

judas    . . .      this  would  be  sansa’s  ex - fiance!      i  did  write  it  off  a  tweaked  and  modernized  version  of  her  relationship  with  joffrey  but  it  definitely  doesn’t  have  to  be  him.         their  relationship  was  seemingly  picture  perfect   -   and  likely  too  good  to  be  true.         they  were  frequent  party  and  club  attendees  together,      and  truly,      was  based  off  of  the  fact  that  being  together  was  akin  to  the  high  that  came  with  endless  drinks  and  fun.        ideally,      he  would  have  just  been  using  sansa  to  hopefully  siphon  information  or  even  to  gain  an  in  to  the  stark  family   -   the  possibilities  are  endless  and  i’m  ??   here  for  them?       sansa  romanticized  the  fuck  out  of  him  and  their  relationship,      ignoring  any  and  all  warning  signs  until  things  went  bad  the  night  of  the  after  club  incident.        essentially  she’s  ghosted  him,      aside  from  mailing  back  his  ring  and  a  letter  telling  him  it  was,      in  very  few  words,      over.      the  finer  details  are  very  much  so  up  for  discussion  and  interpretation  so  y’know,      run  wild.

white  horse   . . .      whomever  saved  sansa  from  the  alley   -   no  gender  requirements  because  we  love  equal  opportunity  ass  kickers  in  this  house.       they  had  at  the  very  least  an  acquaintanceship  with  sansa  in  the  past  and  after  their  act  of  heroism,     sansa’s  sort  of  attached  herself  to  them  in  a  very  idealized  way?      not  necessarily  romantically  but  very  clingy,     she  doesn’t  want  to  be  a  burden  but  also  it’s  very  hard  for  her  to  not  instinctively  shift  into  thinking  of  them  as  her  protector  and  she  just  needs  and  wants  to  feel  safe   . . .   all  of  the  time.        taken  by  dacey  mormont.

pink  pony  club   . . .     sansa’s  #squad.      their  relationship(s)  may  be  slightly  strained  from  sansa  shifting  into  recluse  mode,    but  ultimately  they  would  be  the  people  she  spent  the  most  time  with  previously.      dancing,    studying,    coffee  dates,    all  of  the  close  friend  things.      bonus  points  for  friendships  from  childhood  to  now,    because  we  all  need  the  montage  of  childhood  sleepovers  to  sansa  showing  up  at  their  house  at  6:00  in  the  morning  because  she  can’t  sleep  and  she  brought  coffee,    also  do  they  have  time  to  talk  about  how  she  can’t  stop  shaking  and  she  just  needs  a  hug.

also  if  you’ve  made  it  this  far,      ‘sup  i’m  mowgli  and  i  told  myself  i  wasn’t  allowed  to  join  the  discord  until  i  finished  my  intro  because  i  have  the  attention  span  of  a  goldfish  and  it  still  took  me  all  day   ??     anyways,     i’m  gonna  be  sneaking  myself  on  in  there  soon  but  y’all  can  feel  free  to  also  just  add  me  @  mohglee#0602  ty ty <3

[arecomicsevengood]

FAMILIAR FACE

A city is made up of the people who live there. The collapse of a relationship can feel like a tectonic shift reshaped the landscape, as entire blocks are avoided for their associations. Communities congregate in physical locations, but as cities change, and spaces that were once frequented close their doors, social groups disperse; parallel to that, as we live more of our lives online, discontent grows with the sites that once facilitated communication. Myspace was abandoned, Tumblr is dead, comments threads are dried up, message boards shuttered. In between casual migration and the collapse of various internet channels, there are many people I once considered friends I now have no idea how I would ever contact.

Michael DeForge’s Familiar Face makes resonant science fiction from conflating things originally designed to mirror one another. Intentional mirroring of the physical world into the digital one allowed for the latter to supplant the former. The world of Familiar Face goes a few steps further, past the supposedly intuitive, tactile interface of a tablet, into anthropomorphized devices, whose faces take on the ranges of emojis and speak to their users with an undercurrent of manipulative intimacy. The human relationship to technology is already complicated, a mixture of dependence and resentment of that dependence. These feelings are familiar to people in romantic relationships that have begun to sour. Such recurrence wasn’t a part of the technology’s intentional design, but it is a similarity that emerged just the same.

Familiar Face is a book about the end of a relationship. Its narrator is an unnamed woman, whose live-in girlfriend at the beginning of the book is named Jessica Jha. That she is named while our protagonist is not makes Jessica’s existence and subsequent disappearance the force the book revolves around, its tone defined by yearning. She is the “you” the captions refer to, the subject of constant address. Most of the book is told in narrative captions, although there are also scenes of dialogue between our narrator, off-panel, and her tablet, as she tries to use the device to find out information on where Jessica has gone.

The main conceit of the book has the entire physical world ordered according to the logic of an operating system. An entire city can be updated overnight, reconfiguring its map, redesigning bodies. From a certain rationalist point of view, this premise may seem like surrealist nonsense, but  for something so implausible, it still feels palpably immediate. In an era when it seems impossible to imagine the future in any real way because of the high amounts of instability that define our present, it feels like the only possible science fiction that can be made. It’s not a commentary on how technology has changed what it means to be human. It’s implicit that a change has already occurred, making a world where conscious bodies are now subject to the whims of technology, and while other humans exist somewhere behind that technology, direct communication between us is impossible through the mediating scrim.

The great tragedy of the book is that some might not even attempt communication with the people close at hand. Perhaps this comes from internalizing the rules and assumptions of labyrinthine protocols, maybe it’s a personal failing. We rely on technology to maintain our social relationships, and keep track of our memories for us, though our dependence diminishes the strength of our recall, and the quality of our relationships. Our narrator’s assigned role within the system is to review complaints made about the system, though she has no agency to do anything about them, and many of these complaints do not take place within the same futuristic world, but rather are stories with historical settings. One complaint comes from Jessica’s perspective, about her relationship with the narrator. It is implied the optimization of the world that left our narrator so bereft was to Jessica’s benefit.

Despite the dispiriting nature of the book’s underlying themes, it’s all rendered with DeForge’s characteristic playfulness, sense of humor, and sheer storytelling verve: I’m pointing out a lot of plot developments and thematic resonances up front, but DeForge gets to them in due time. It’s far from joyless. The design sense is fascinating as ever, with narration providing a guide rail for some pretty abstract drawing. Traincars here look like individual teeth, their roots curved to wrap around the fat tube of its intestinal-looking track, while the whole of the book is depicted as if drawn an isometric perspective where the mathematics of the grid has been replaced by wiggly gelatin. The colors are bright, the book’s dystopia is far more visually alluring than our own.

There’s also a complicated feeling of hope to be found in the book’s depiction of politics. An emergent theme in DeForge’s work over the past few years (dating back at least to his 2016 issue of Frontier) has found the alienation, present from the very beginning, curdling into disruptive political action. It’s still somewhat cynical, and there’s an awareness of the silliness of leftist discourse, but it seems to indicate a real world hope. What manifests in the book is the sort of dreams and desires one can admit to among one’s comrades, a sort of half-joking embrace of insurgent anarchism which, when enacted victimlessly on paper, is the only possible catharsis in the world depicted.

Updates are not the sole province of software, they’re also the form news takes in the age of the social media feed. These developments can upend our lives overnight, in a very similar way to what’s found in the world of Familiar Face. In the weeks since the book was published, COVID-19 has become a pandemic, and the infrastructure that made up the global economy has collapsed along with most of the ideological assumptions behind capitalism. As we are all being told to remain in our homes to distance ourselves socially, people I used to see every day it is now plausible I will never see again. You are familiar with all of this, you are reading these words on the same device you can read the news. You could probably read a digital copy of Familiar Face on a tablet as well, it’s probably the easiest way to do so.

The physical book seems designed with the approximate proportions of a handheld device in mind, with endpapers depicting an array of smiling faces one would find in a pop-up menu to use in place of words. The operating system the narrator uses communicates via weird triangular word bubble shapes that emerge from it, and give way to pages of triangular panels.

The experience of reading it reveals the presence of consciousness similar to a romantic partner at the end stages of a relationship. Both familiar and alien, remaining inscrutable while readily apparent, it is completely capable of being devastating. There is an almost holographic immediacy to how all of the elements reflect each other as they reflect our own world back to us. It is the first great comic of 2020, and you might have missed it, as the amount of comics Michael DeForge releases made it very easy to miss one in the endless scroll of marketplace churn, and it might seem difficult to track down a physical copy of the book now, in our new and fearful landscape. In whatever absurd eventual moment its message is able to find you, it will be affecting.

[fulgensun]

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻.

repost,  don’t reblog

BASICS.

full name.   Tidus pronunciation.    Teedus nickname.  Ace, Star Player, Jecht’s son gender.  Male (he/him) height.   5′9″ or 175 cm age.  17-18  &&  20 in ‘Will’  zodiac.   His true date of birth is unknown, so we can’t be sure. if we follow the trend of also Zidane and Squall etc DOBs, Tidus would be born on October 10th and be a Libra. but given he’d be the most dysfunctional Libra ever I personally doubt it ahah I headcanon him being born on July 19th, the day FFX was first released, so his zodiac sign here would be Cancer. spoken languages.   Common Spiran which is the same language spoken in his Zanarkand, tiny bits of Al Bhed learnt during the pilgrimage.

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

hair color.   Dark blond with brown roots. As a child, he had light-brown hair. eye color.   Sea-blue irises, the same as his mother’s. skin tone.     Quite tanned, mostly the result of hours spent outside - probably practising under the sun. Actually, he isn’t fair-skinned even as a child - nor his parents seem to present a particular pale tone of skin which may have genetic reasons involved, but teen/adult Tidus would still be more tanned than he himself looked like as a seven-year-old boy. body type.   He has an athletic built, which comes from his years of swimming and blitzball practice. He’s a little underweight for his height and age, though. At the age of seventeen, Tidus’ muscle form is already very defined and toned. accent.  Tidus present a rather funny and child-like sounding accent most of the time - or when he’s not being too serious or firm; for example, his original dub has him ending sentences in --SSU, which is a very informal and friendly deflexion, also used by very young people. That makes it sound like he sometimes changes words in a rather playful manner (in the japanese dub), which would simply translate in him just sounding very informal. voice.   He has a very sharp voice, that leans on higher tones when he’s relaxed or excited. When more serious, instead, he tends to drop some tones in his voice pitch, but he doesn’t really notice it, and when he does it doesn’t bother Tidus.  dominant hand.  He is right-handed, he’s seen throwing the ball in Blitz with that and he is also seen mostly kicking the ball with his right leg too. posture.   He’s an athlete, swimming agonistically has proved to make back muscles stronger and firmer, so standing correctly straight comes as something natural and effortless to him. Still, Tidus tends to slouch forward very often when he sits, it’s very rare to see him sitting straight anywhere when he’s made wait long periods of time or when he’s particularly bored. In those cases, he really looks nothing like the athlete he is -- as he props his weight whenever it feels more comfortable. scars.   Nothing major or too visible like his father, the few scars he’d have would mainly be the result of the most physical Blitz matches he has attended or just peculiar and tougher battles fought during the pilgrimage. tattoos.   // birthmarks.   // most noticeable feature(s).   His vivid eye-color, probably the contrast between skin tone and hair color too; weird clothes for Spiran standards.

CHILDHOOD.

place of birth.  Dream Zanarkand. hometown.   Dream Zanarkand. birth weight.   7 pounds. birth height.   Around 20 inches. manner of birth.   Natural birth. first words.   The common ones all toddlers learn first, or his own name. siblings.   // parents.  Unnamed mother and Jecht (father) parental involvement.   His mother would difficultly care and hardly give proper attention to the young Tidus whenever her husband was home from work; she was still a very docile and gentle figure to the boy, a composed yet often distracted kind of mother. She’d often cater all her strengths and attentions to Jecht, sometimes ignoring or neglecting the child’s cries or pleas till her husband would make her notice at last; as a child, Tidus simply didn’t notice this side of her or chose to forget about it, thinking instead his father would keep her away from him on purpose to monopolize her affection - a fact that did add to his childish reasons to hate Jecht. His father would be home for way less time than Tidus’ mother, because of his work. He was a rougher and brusque type of parent and despite loving his son, he could never express it clearly nor found a way to show him. Still, his father was somehow the one who sparkled in Tidus his sense of competitiveness and his passion for blitzball, no matter if the man would often verbally belittle his weak son’s poor attempts with a ball – that’s the type of father Tidus has believed to know. Still, Jecht was involved in his growth, the novel even reveals it was him who taught Tidus how to swim as a child. Once Jecht disappeared and was believed dead by his fans and city, Tidus’ mother fell chronically ill and depressed, ceasing to care or tend to her son. She died of sheer heartbreak shortly after Auron came to Zanarkand to become Tidus’ guardian. 

ADULT LIFE.

occupation.   Ace Player of the Abes Team back in Dream Zanarkand; Guardian when brought to Spira; post X-2, Tidus returns being a Blitzball player (most likely playing for the Aurochs) and quickly regains his once-lost fame and popularity. current residence.  Verse dependent. Dream Zanarkand before the events of FFX. Right after X-2, Besaid, but it is heavily implied he left the island to move to Bevelle a couple of years later his return, living near what’s called Mika-Road, the recently built street which leads to the new blitz stadium. close friends.  Yuna, Wakka, Rikku, Auron, Kimahri, Lulu. A part of me really wants to add Clasko to this, too, while he’s obviously not as close as the others for Tidus. relationship status.   Canon-ly speaking, in a relationship with Yuna. financial status.  I’d say, he’s in the financial middle class. Considering Spira’s hierarchy, nothing can really top the clergy, the monks, the priests and priestesses, not to mention the ex Maesters which I would consider the higher class. As Blitzball is considered an integral part of Spira, but it is not a humble job, that’s the class he would be part of. driver’s license.   Dream Zanarkand had cars and all but I guess he never got a license back there, and that kind of stuff just don’t exist in Spira; he has the chocobo riding license, haha, directly earned it through Calm Lands weird races. criminal record.  By Spiran Temple standards and teachings, he’s accused of heresy for having entered the sacred Cloisters when still not a guardian twice; he’s also accused of having conspired with Al Bhed and joined their insurrection back at Home, and of having interrupted an important Yevon wedding in the holy capital. He’s also accused of having opposed and most likely killed warrior monks during the wedding crash, not to count Guado guards in Macalania and Home. He escaped prison and became a ‘most wanted’, too, with a bounty on his head. Plus, opposing Yunalesca and Yu Yevon could be associated with blasphemy. He did partake in the murder of Seymour, a Maester of Yevon, not to mention the fact Spira did believe Tidus and the others had killed Kinoc too. I guess the accusations all fell with the following crisis of the Temple and the disappearance of Sin but… vices.   Being too loud, daydreaming, being too impatient. Pride.

SEX & ROMANCE.

sexual orientation.  Heterosexual romantic orientation.  Heteroromantic preferred emotional role.   submissive  |  dominant  |  switch preferred sexual role.   submissive  |  dominant  |  switch (?) libido.  Average for his age and curiosity, I guess. A little above that if we consider the novel. turn on’s.  // turn off’s.  // love language.   He’s anything but subtle when it comes to relationships and partners, even to a fault sometimes. He is a deeply affectionate boy despite the way he was raised, so he likes to prove it physically: hugs, hand-holding, pecks, kisses - love and tender signs and gestures, little favors and gifts, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. On a darker note, I guess it’s to be expected given his fear of loss and abandonment, but his love language is sincere nonetheless. relationship tendencies.   He was and is still seen as a charismatic boy. At home, he’d have many fans and girls fawning over him at every given occasion over him (and his bond with Jecht) - and while the attention is something that did fuel him, sorta, I bet it was something that was seen as a way to get into first relationships. Maybe even out of fear of solitude. It changes once he leaves Zanarkand for good, I guess his devotion for Yuna speaks louder than any other word.

MISCELLANEOUS.

character’s theme song.    X hobbies to pass time.   Swimming, playing blitzball, cooking and eating, reading Al Bhed primers, practising fighting and time-related spells, napping, daydreaming. mental illnesses.   Anxiety disorders, fear of abandonment. physical illnesses.   // left or right-brained.   Right-brained. fears.   Loneliness, to disappear, abandonment, silence. self-confidence level.  It’s a rollercoaster... it goes from high to low depending on both situation and mood. vulnerabilities.  To be considered weak, or too emotive. Also... Yuna?

tagged by: ......... i stole. ohohhhh tagging:  @painsrequiem​  @sunstolen​  @sabazio​ / @exciofides​  and whoever else

[katherinemacbride]

WORKING ON/WORKING THROUGH/WORKING WITH a mix for connective listening broadcast notes

WORKING ON/WORKING THROUGH/WORKING WITH

Katherine MacBride

Hotel Maria Kapel

Ja Ja Ja Nee Nee Nee

10:00 01-05-2020

https://jajajaneeneenee.com/jn/shows/working-on-working-through-working-with/

BROADCAST NOTES 

solidarity actions

Support

Minimal vierteen euro voor iedereen. Een eerlijk loon.

https://www.voor14.nl

Donate

The Voice of Domestic Workers COVID-19 Emergency Response Fund: In light of the current COVID-19/Coronavirus outbreak in the UK, migrant domestic workers are encountering further prejudice and precarity - both with clients cancelling their services and ‘live in’ Migrant Domestic Workers being asked to vacate their work places and homes. Like other precariously employed workers many of us exist without savings and are at the mercy of our employers who provide income and housing as part of the conditions of our work and our visas. https://www.thevoiceofdomesticworkers.com/post/covid-19-emergency-response-fund

Indonesian Migrant Workers’ Union: Most of the members of Indonesian Migrant Workers’ Union, one of Casco’s long-term and close-collaborating communities, are in a dire situation. They have lost their jobs as domestic workers and consequently their means to buy food and, likely soon, to keep their homes. Once again the community shows how powerful they are in organizing to support each other by arranging and distributing weekly emergency food packages. Yet this cannot be done without donations from anyone who has the room to do so. Please donate to R. Saptari. NL93 INGB 0006 3903 55. (via Casco newsletter)

CRIP FUND is an ad-hoc care collective pooling money for chronically ill, disabled, and immunocompromised people living in the United States in serious financial need during this ongoing time of love, coronavirus, and apocalyptic joy & pain. With your support we’re hoping to support your real hope of collective care. Crip Fund will privilege people who are immunocompromised and/or disabled* in need of in-home care; Queer/Trans/Black/Indigenous/People of Color (QTBIPOC) in financial need will also be prioritized. 

*”Disabled” here is cross-disability cultures, and may include: those experiencing chronic illness, those on immunosuppressive meds, bone marrow or solid organ transplant recipients, inherited immunodeficiency, HIV, and other immunocompromised people, those with physical disabilities, cognitive disabilities, mental health disabilities, Autism, neurodiverse people, D/deaf, Blind, DeafBlind, and many more whether or not someone identifies with the word “disability” or is recognized as “disabled” by the Medical Industrial Complex.

a mix for invoking connective listening

I wrote that this was to be a mix for invoking connective listening. The word connective often makes me think of Juliana Spahr’s Poem Written after September 11, 2001, which is one of two poems in her book this connection of everyone with lungs. Juliana often writes using looping rhythmic repeating lists, adding one element each round in poems and prose about environmental politics, settler colonialism, unlearning white feminism, extraction, warfare, and writing. In Poem…the list scales out before scaling back in. It crescendos around here (in flow but not force, because she uses the silence of microscopic air particulates to hit the final impact later):

as everyone with lungs breathes the space between the hands and the space around the hands and the space of the room and the space of the building that surrounds the room and the space of the neighborhoods nearby and the space of the cities and the space of the regions and the space of the nations and the space of the continents and islands and the space of the oceans and the space of the troposphere and the space of the stratosphere and the space of the mesosphere in and out. 

Differentials in death rates from COVID-19 indicate that “we are” not actually “all in the same boat.” Some of this is to do with the long term effects of air pollution: “we” breathe the same air while “we” do not breathe the same air, while every cell of every “we” contains bacterial DNA whose ancestors breathed the “air” into b(r)e(ath)ing.

This mix for connective listening includes music of forms where listening to the others sounding around you while you improvise together in relation to a context, a social purpose, or a shared task is especially important—music made as a way of manifesting togetherness together. Of course there is much to say about what happens when such forms are indeed recorded but I won’t address that here. 

I’ve been thinking with a section of Eileen Myles’ book The Importance of Being Iceland:

All the churchgoers were singing the same hymn not the same notes or tunes. No organ tone set the pitch so they would find it instead among themselves. People were literally singing their hearts out. When the organ was introduced in the 30s some of the older people stopped going to church because the idea of everyone singing the same tune at once seemed “obscene” to them, it offended their Icelandic sense of religiosity, or privacy, or just their understanding of what being part of a community could mean. The radio also upset the applecart with the same songs played over and over with those same versions and the same notes. It’s amazing to think about what the radio might have upset. I’m getting this from all sides. I heard about this singing, and then I read about it, and finally the book I read was co-written by a composer that my friend Mark studied with. These rediscoveries are not accidental. There’s an imprecise mourning needed to see where we are now. I think it’s like the species rediscovering itself. learning to be stubborn in our awkward speaking and hearing.

F told me about the way her friends would organise a collective ritual to connect to their language that, like their land, is endangered. After a time certain older people would arrive at a state where they could access parts of the language that they didn’t know in their everyday state. Certain younger people would use their mobile phones to record what the certain older people were saying. The community would send the recordings to the anthropologists at the university and the anthropologists would analyze the recordings and add any new words to the dictionary of the community’s endangered language so that certain older people and certain younger people could continue to fertilize their language when they spoke it together.

Eileen follows the turf churches radio applecart with a description of a singing form called Kvaedaskapur. The distinguishing characteristic of the singing was a variable voice, which always sang the poem with differing melody…Typically the Kvaedamadur denies authorship. He (or she. There were female Kvaedamur too) didn’t steal it. He just didn’t write it. Maybe the implication being the poem just kind of grew…

In the darkness of winter the singing would generate a sonic connectivity between the singer and the listeners who would also actively keep the song alive. The singer drops his energy at the end of the line but several people in the room come in (vocally) and sing the end of the line for and with him. They hold him up so to speak.

connecting messy links

I haven’t included fragments of Taraneh Fazeli’s text in these notes because it was a working document shared to be spoken since she was in bed sick at the time of collaboration. Instead I’ll share this link to a text she published a while back — http://temporaryartreview.com/notes-for-sick-time-sleepy-time-crip-time-against-capitalisms-temporal-bullying-in-conversation-with-the-canaries/ — and these words she wrote about the text I read from in the mix: In “Labour of Love: To curate is to care,” Taraneh Fazeli thinks alongside Lisa Baraitser, Tanya Titchkosky, Stefano Harney, and Fred Moten. Additionally, her text emerges from a working on/in/through with the many folks who have been a part of her traveling exhibition “Sick Time, Sleepy Time, Crip Time: Against Capitalism’s Temporal Bullying” which addresses the politics of health and care. (Note: “crip” is a political reclaiming of the derogatory label cripple by disability activists.) Based in an ethic of care emerging from disability justice that values interdependencies and dependencies, artworks within counter the over-valorization of independence in American society and examine how racialized global capitalism has produced debility in many populations while, at the same time, creating bureaucratic infrastructures that support very few people. At the core of the project is the pairing of artists with community groups organized around creating or sustaining alternative infrastructures of care, such as groups of young single mothers at Project Row Houses, women recently involved in the carceral system at Angela House, and refugees and asylum seekers via Lutheran Family Services. Excerpts from the text are specifically rooted in collaborations with Cassie Thornton, Park McArthur, Constantina Zavitsanos, and the Young Mothers. 

Panelaço, Flamengo, Rio de Janeiro, March 2020

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TvDSXLeijuk

Panelaço is the Brazilian word for a pot banging protest. Mobile phone recordings of people protesting against Jair Bolsonaro’s pandemic response by banging pans from their apartments window and balconies. Compiled by O Globo news service and uploaded to YouTube.

Repente, CPTM, São Paulo, May 2019

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOBjc4PbVKM

My friend G once described relationships to me in terms of a dynamic equilibrium over who plays the tambourine while the other sings. Of course sometimes everyone can sing and sometimes everyone can play the tambourine but taking turns means everyone gets a change to breathe. Repente is a form of music from the north east of Brazil where two singers have a battle of improvised lyrics on a theme, often political, usually funny. While one sings the other holds the beat on a tambourine. 

Yelli water drumming, 2011

last video down on https://face2faceafrica.com/article/the-liquindi-water-drumming-of-central-africa-reserved-for-women-hunters

I was looking out for a video I half remembered of a man playing the water in a very kitschy-beautiful way. I couldn’t find it but I learned about this shared drumming practice done by Baka women in Cameroon and Gabon. 

Cloth waulking in South Uist, 1982

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0CmGJ5dwBuk

Waulking is a process of textile finishing where woven wooden cloth is soaked in urine and beaten on a table to soften and shrink it. In the Outer Hebrides in Scotland waulking was done by hand to tweed cloth. This work was done by groups of women who would sing and chat while they waulked. It’s a call and response form with the caller holding the rhythm of the collective movement, meaning that song structures had to be somewhat loose and open to improvisation according the situation on the table, in the room, in the moment. When this video was filmed, the waulking was probably being performed for the camera in a university effort to record the practice while there were still women alive who carried it. Waulking is done today as a form of cultural reenactment or historical research by practice rather than as a living tradition.

Women gathering mushrooms, The Music Of The Bayaka: Volume I, 2007

I wrote Louise: I’ve been thinking a bit this week about this recording of women singing while they collect mushrooms in the forest. I’ll try and find if for you, have only found it mixed with something else so far. What I like is that the women sing in relation with their environment, so that different species in the forest sound at different parts of the sonic spectrum and don’t cut over each other, producing a sonic environment/composition where everything has a place but together co-creates very beautiful music. This way of singing without dominating others feels very special. I’m thinking about this in relation to the birds I am hearing, wondering if they are making more sound with the reduced traffic because they feel more space, or if the more space is just in my perception, but for sure there is some more space happening somewhere.

Toumani Diabaté plays the kora, 2007

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8luhdxS2KuM

Ballu Tundu, Orgosolo (Nuoro), 1969, Musica Sarda Vol. 3

Sardinian confraternity multipart singing occupies a space that is remote from any concept of concert music; it is in fact a living musical practice through which collective relationships are represented and enacted. It is a major element of the social life of several villages through which many people—both locally situated performers and competent listeners—‘think about who they are’ and ‘the world around them’. (Confraternity Multipart Singing: Contemporary Practice and Hypothetical Scenarios for the Early Modern Era, Ignazio Machiarella)

Lampedusa, Toumani and Sidiki, Toumani Diabaté and Sidiki Diabaté, 2014

We were very shocked - Sidiki and myself - while we were recording in London in November 2013 and we watched on TV that more than 350 people had died in the sea trying to arrive in Europe by boat. Since them many Lampedusas have happened. Nothing changes. I don’t know the solution. I don’t know how to do but I think we must talk about it. This is why Sidiki and I composed the song, to talk about it. (http://shufsounds.com/interviews/2015/5/8/toumani-and-sidiki-diabat-interview)

Huku ine Ronda (originally by Chartwell Dutori), played by Gift Mugwidi, 2012

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKbfUEhjuH4

Gift Mugwidi makes and plays mbiras and sells them in Mbare Musika in Harare. Someone he knows films him playing them in cars and uploads the videos to YouTube. I found his name and a basic education in Zimbabwean chimurenga music deep in the comments. 

Sa Ugoy ng Duyan, sung by Mimi Jalmasco and Wendy Caballero, mixed by Louise Shelley, London, April 2020

Louise wrote me: Katherine if it’s ok please can you read this before playing the audio, thank you. What you will shortly listen to is a recording of a Filipino lullaby sung by Mimi Jalmasco and Wendy Caballero who are two members of The Voice of Domestic Workers in London. Over the past 8 years I have been a volunteer with this organisation, they are a self organised support, education and campaign group, by and for migrant domestic workers. The passion in their politics in inescapable - their collective labours focus on care and support for each other, to get justice as workers for each other. Their precarity like many others is increased at present, whilst they re-organise and figure out what to do, what needs doing and how to do it, their work continues in their employers households. This is a song from their homes, from their childhoods, from their early motherhoods that they now sing to the children they work for and to each other and now to you. The recordings were sent to me to be shared here, they are mixed with the sounds of listening in my own flat with my back door open onto east London in isolation in April 2020. This invitation to them was also a way to move money from the arts in solidarity with their struggle and also very simply to share their voices, their energy, their beautiful song to soothe but also to awaken you, to 11.5 million migrant domestic workers in the world. 

thanks

Thanks to: Radna and Arif at Ja Ja Ja Nee Nee Nee for hosting the broadcast; to Miriam, Rik, and Annelien at Hotel Maria Kapel for supporting the residency where this began brewing; and to the contributors Louise Shelley, Taraneh Fazeli, and Mimi Jalmasco and Wendy Caballero from The Voice of Domestic Workers.

[benes-diction]

full name.  Celia bas Benes (formerly Celia kir Benes) pronunciation.  SEE-lee-yuh bahs Beh-nehz (SEE-lee-yuh keer  Beh-nehz) nicknames.  ‘Marshmallow’. ‘Little Bear.’ height. 4 fulms, 11 ilms age. 20. Will be turning 21 soon. zodiac. Gemini. languages. Common Eorzean, Garlean, Ala Mhigan sign language, Garlean sign language, bits and pieces of Hingan.

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

hair colour.  pale, white-blonde. eye colour.  Pale blue, but appear violet in most light. skin tone.  On the pale side of fair. body type.  Petite and waifish, often appearing underweight. accent.  Currently not applicable, as Celia doesn’t speak. However, if/when she does undergo surgery to change that, Celia may be able to replicate the Ilsabardian accent she’s used to. dominant hand. Right-handed. Slightly ambidextrous.  posture.  Generally good, if formal at times. Stiff when upset or angry. scars. One large and rather gruesome scar, stretching horizontally across her nose and right cheek.  tattoos.  None. most noticeable features. The signature Benes-blue eyes, especially in times when the light changes their color, and her facial scar. One might also note her height, considering she is incredibly tiny for a Garlean.

CHILDHOOD.

place of birth.  The Garlean capital, under the watchful gazes of medical professionals. hometown.  The Garlean capital. birth weight / height. Smaller than normal. manner of birth.  Premature, with some difficulties. Celia was born relatively healthy considering the early birth, but the delivery posed a threat to her mother’s life. Luckily, both survived. first words.  No truly spoken words yet, but her first signed word was ‘cookie.’ siblings.   Cato (deceased), Solina, and Caius, all older than she is. parents.  Lucius mal Benes, and Theodosia cen Benes, both alive. parental involvement. Celia’s mother was a constant presence in her life, and Theodosia went out of her way to build up Celia’s confidence and remind her that an inability to speak should not hinder her goals. Lucius, although more distant, was equally involved in subtler ways. Coming from a family that was very lacking in physical and verbal affection, Lucius didn’t dote on his daughter quite as much as he would have liked to, but he kept a close eye on her. He paid close attention to her interests and would leave small gifts for her. Most of Celia’s fonder memories of him are just the two of them sitting quietly in his study, she reading a book while he worked.

ADULT LIFE

occupation.  Formerly a medicus in the Imperial army, now technically unemployed. Self-proclaimed freedom fighter and novice adventurer. current residence.  Mainly Ul’dah, although Celia travels between the city-states as needed. She has a permanent residence in Shirogane in the form of an apartment, courtesy of her sister Solina’s wanderlust. close friends. At least three, if not more. Celia hesitates to consider people close friends, as she unknowingly expects them to hurt her or leave at some point. relationship status. Wholly and happily devoted to her lover and tol, Arduro Vocitus. financial status. Cut off from her family’s wealth, Celia generally lives off the income of her companions. She manages the finances to make sure they’re all able to live comfortably. driver’s license. Celia has a chocobo, but no license. She is, however, certified to operate several magitek devices. criminal record.  None, at the moment, although it’s likely that she would be convicted of treason. vices. Sweets and candies and various other sugary snacks. And being a mean big/little sister to her friend the Doman Dog (see also: The Hingan Catte, Hayabusa.)

SEX & ROMANCE.

sexual orientation.  Asexual romantic orientation.  Panromantic. preferred emotional role.  submissive | dominant | switch  |  unsure  preferred sexual role.  submissive  |  dominant  |  switch |  sex repulsed libido. Practically non-existent, although she’s slowly gotten curious about it as she’s gotten more comfortable with her tol. turn on’s. Unknown currently, but she’s more drawn to people who show kindness and compassion. Gentle giants. turn off’s. Willful ignorance and uppity attitudes. And people who disagree with her. love language. Quality Time. relationship tendencies.  Shared treats and time. Low maintenance. She is always worrying about her S/O and is the kind of girl to fall asleep waiting for them to get home. Unwavering trust. Celia tends to be shy with her romantic affection, but there will never be a doubt that she’s committed.

MISCELLANEOUS.

hobbies to pass the time.  Reading, watching theatrical performances or people, playing with her Canis Pugnax puppy. Sparring with Arduro. Shooting targets. mental illnesses. PTSD, CPTSD. Very, very mild depression. physical illnesses.  An abnormality in her vocal chords, preventing her from speaking.  left or right brained. Right. fears. Forgetting her loved ones. Losing sight of her morals. Insects. The open ocean. Explosions, and by proxy, sometimes fire. Someone grabbing her hands without her permission. Her older brother Caius. Blonde-haired men resembling her brother. self confidence level.  Minuscule. The only thing she takes confidence in is her intelligence... which is sometimes drowned out by her lack of common sense. vulnerabilities. Her voice--or the lack thereof. And despite her slowly coming to believe otherwise, Celia is incredibly sensitive to people who make her feel worthless. There is an equal chance such feelings will make her withdraw, or cause her to lash out in the cruelest way she can think of. 

Tagged by: @cherrytart-ffxiv

Tagging: UHHH. @arcurisrilanox @thedarkestdragonknight @catte-bard AND YOU. Feel free to ignore this, if you’d like. I have no idea who to tag for these things. \o/

[meltypes-blog]

peadpod mchanzo week day 3

[mr. krabs voice] day 3, give it up for day 3! Also, this is a college au because I’m weak for those and young mchanzo is cute

3. Secret Admirer | ao3 link |

Jesse normally wasn’t the type to get flustered. His mama had told him that since he was 4, his three defining characteristics were cute, charming, and shameless. Growing up in a loving and accepting family had given him the right ingredients to bake into that particular mix, but when his mama passed ten years after, and the collectors came after his Pa’s farm, those particular traits rotted and left a bad taste in his mouth. Cute and charming didn’t get him out of the orphanages quick enough, so he ran. At 17, before his new dads swooped in and grabbed his ass out of the fire, his gang buddies described him as quick, deadly, and reckless. It showed in his steady trigger finger, the unnerving accuracy of his aim, the lopsided smiles and toothy smirks. But all the swagger and confidence from his misguided teenage years were particularly missing from his mug shots; a single heist inevitably gone wrong, most of his ‘family’ dead yet again, and half a missing arm later were enough to sober him entirely.

His new dads….they tried not to define him. When they got to him, he was hollow. Quiet. Sad. As hardened war vets, they’d seen some shit, so they knew a little bit in dealing with what Jesse had gone through. They brought Jesse home with them after a grueling two years in court, though Jesse never did get a clear reason why. Gabe told him that he’d seen something in Jesse. Jack joked that he was blind, so he just went along with whatever Gabe saw. They helped heal him by letting him be, doing the opposite when his mistakes hit him hard and left him gasping at night, and encouraging him to believe in himself just as fervently as they did.

Now, at 24, GED under his belt and close to graduating with a bachelors in investigative journalism, Jesse had proudly improved upon his mama’s words. Cute turned into roguishly handsome, his shamelessness transformed into easy-going confidence, and his charming demeanor- well, that was a welcome fixed trait. But despite the fact that no one had ever called Jesse smart aloud, he wasn’t dumb. Any smart person could see that there was more to the man than a cowboy hat and smiles, and that you didn’t get a prosthetic arm and criminal record by riding a horse (unless, of course, you were a bandit from the 18th century). Even dumber people didn’t know what to make of Jesse, most of the time caught off guard when it turned out he wasn’t a complete idiot. In conclusion, no, Jesse didn’t think he was desirable in the long-term, romantic sense of things, despite his many trysts and conquests, so he put it out of his mind.

At least, that was the case, until the fourth flower delivery.

“Again, Reeha?” Jesse asked, face hot as she dropped a sunflower in his hands. “You’re not doing this as a joke right?”

His RA leant against the open doorway of his dorm with crossed arms and snorted. “I’m a college student, Jes. Flowers are expensive. If I wanted to prank you, I could just put a bucket on your door.”

“Zero points for creativity.” He responded, thumbing the back of the card attached to it. He flipped it over, getting significantly redder at the note.

Fareeha snickered. “What’s it say, loverboy?”

Jesse knew she wasn’t going to leave until he told her (she hadn’t for the last two deliveries) so he cleared his throat and read. “‘You are as brilliant as when the sun rises, you bring me warmth as its beams do. Your smile is just as bright. Thank you for existing.’”

“Aw, Jesse.” Fareeha gave him a genuine, wide smile. “Whoever that is has really lost it over you.”

His chest fluttered. “Nah, this is- it’s a joke. Someone here has just got a sick sense of humor.” He looked back to her. “Do you have any idea who it might be?”

“Jes, half the people on this floor are pretty much into you,” she responded, rolling her eyes. “It’s the cowboy hat, probably.”

Jesse chuckled. “Yeah, sure. Wait ‘til I bust out the chaps, that’ll get everyone hot and bothered.”

“It sounds genuine, though,” she said, frowning at his tone. “You’ve just gotta put your degree to use. Do some investigating.” She clapped his shoulder and stood up. “You’re good at that.”

The wheels in Jesse’s head started turning. “Do you know who puts ‘em on your desk?”

Fareeha shrugged. “Satya brings them in from the mailroom, and I’ve asked her who delivers them there, but she says she doesn’t know. Just that there’s a sticky note to have them brought to you.”

“Huh.”

After a bit more brainstorming, Fareeha waved her goodbye and left Jesse in his door, flower clutched in his good hand. He went inside, thumbing the soft petals gently, a plan developing in his head.

He was going to find whoever this was.

“Maybe they do not want to be found.”

Jesse snorted into his coffee. He and Hanzo were seated in the campus coffee shop, taking a break from an especially grueling math homework session. Jesse had first met him in his second semester Research Writing class, which, much to Jesse’s surprise and Hanzo’s embarrassment, the other man was failing. Their professor had insisted Hanzo visit Jesse for tutoring (which, up until his junior year, he did as a work-study student), and the two hit it off. The pair (sometimes with the addition of Hanzo’s younger brother) met up regularly for study sessions, finding that they worked well together despite their differing majors.

Jesse raised his brows. “Then why do they send them in the first place?”

“Perhaps they get off on buying flowers for cowboys,” Hanzo smirked.

“Gross Han,” Jesse laughed, wrinkling his nose. Hanzo smiled and Jesse felt his insides warm, a pleasant syrupy feeling in his gut.

This….thing he started feeling for Hanzo wasn’t a new development. He only needed to spend four months in Hanzo’s presence to become infatuated, though he ignored it for the most part, reasoning that shallow appreciation for an attractive man was nothing worth exploring. Then the man got a haircut, pierced himself up, changed his major to what he was actually passionate about, and Jesse’s heart was a goner. What he felt was honestly too childish to be called a crush and the other option scared the hell out of him, because even after knowing Hanzo for 2 years, he still had trouble figuring out if the man was seriously flirting or not.

“But really,” Jesse continued, “it seems a bit….I don’t know. Weird.”

Hanzo raised a brow. “You do not enjoy the attention?”

Maybe if it was from you, Jesse thought unhelpfully. “‘S not that, it’s just….I never thought I’d get romanced like this. Flowers.” He chuckled. “What’s next, chocolates? A full bouquet?”

Hanzo’s eyes got that strange glint in them Jesse had been noticing lately. “Is that something you would like?”

“Oh, hell no, that’s a bit much to be coming from a stranger,” Jesse said. He leant forward. “You got any idea who it could be?”

Hanzo’s face fell flat. “You have many admirers, Jesse. Many find you attractive, you know this.”

“You sayin’ I’m good looking?” He teased, smiling at Hanzo’s eye roll.

“I am saying,” Hanzo smirked, “Many people lack taste.”

Jesse barked a laugh. “Right where it hurts, Han. Your aim is unerring.”

“You just make it too easy,” he replied. “Speaking of,” he tapped his notebook, “we should finish these equations.”

Jesse groaned. “Easy for you, Mr. Math Major. Some of us are better with words than numbers.”

“Oh, I am well aware of that,” he chuckled. “But why you would choose a math course for your last elective if you hate it so much is beyond me.”

Jesse just smiled. “I like a challenge.”

The fifth flower arrived during Jesse’s investigation. He made his way down to the dorm mailroom, deciding to ask Satya herself if she knew anything essential.

She scoffed at Jesse’s question, putting her cell phone down. “Why would I keep the sticky notes? They are trash once their duty is fulfilled.”

Jesse sighed. There went his first lead.

“Okay,” he said. “But did you get a look at the handwriting? Was it neat? Messy?”

Satya considered the question. “Well….all of them were written in capital letters.”

“Hm.” Jessed hummed. “And….no one else gets flower deliveries?”

“Not that I have seen, no.” She smirked slightly, picking her phone back up. “It seems you have a secret admirer, McCree.”

He sighed again, pink in the face. “Seems that way.”

It didn’t help much, but he thanked her anyways, heading out into the hall. He closed the mailroom door behind him and exhaled, exasperated. He didn’t really think that asking about the sticky notes would help, but it was the first thing that came to his mind to check. He stepped forward- and almost tripped when he realized there was something on the ground in front of him. His heart pounded when he bent down to look closer.

“No way,” he breathed, picking up the single pink rose. He straightened quickly, looking to his left and right, trying to catch a glimpse of someone, anything, but the hall was empty save for himself and the dorm event bulletin board. He looked to the card and laughed softly.

“They did not have red ones, so I hope you are fine with pink. It reminds me of the times you are silly, blushing and happy. I wish you many more moments like that.”

Jesse would’ve written the secret gifts off as insincere if they’d called him sexy or complimented his ass, but the notes were always heartfelt and profound. The first, paired with a camellia, had regaled his beauty, declaring that “the depths of which are rivaled only by that of the oceans.” The second, attached to a sweet smelling gardenia, paid homage to his intelligence; “an incomparable mind” and “a smart mouth to match a smart man.” The third came with a red carnation, calling him kind-hearted and wonderful; “you inspire me to be my best.” The strangest part was that each delivery had happened in the span of a single month, each floral arrival erratic and unpredictable. The timing made little sense too: February was three months ago, and his birthday was in December. Jesse brainstormed the motivations himself but decided that they were 100% genuine, the other option being that it was an elaborate prank before grad. Most of his friends were too busy with finals or too short on cash. Jesse trudged back to his room, placing the flower in the same vase near the window as the previous ones and the note in the small ornate box on his desk that held the others, deciding to enact the next part of his investigation the following weekend.

Now, Jesse usually liked Genji, considered him a brother even- but right now, he felt like throwing him to the wolves. The green-haired bastard was cackling loud enough to draw the attention of almost everyone in the coffee shop to their small corner; he found Jesse’s floral predicament particularly funny. Jesse looked to Hanzo for help, but the man just gave him a toothy smile and shrugged.

“So, you have no idea who it could be?” Genji asked, after having calmed. “Not a single inkling?”

Jesse’s eyes flitted briefly to Hanzo (he immediately squashed that hope down, Hanzo didn’t seem like the flower giving type) before he turned to Genji. “I wouldn’t be askin’ for your help if I did, ninja.”

“Some investigator you are,” Genji snorted.

He pointed to him. “Hey now, I just haven’t finished looking around yet. I’ve got a plan.”

“Oh? Do tell.” Hanzo spoke, sounding amused.

“Well,” Jesse started confidently, settling back into his seat,” it’s gotta be someone on campus right? And the flowers gotta come from somewhere. So I sussed out the location of every flower shop in the area- which there are three of, by the way- and I plan on bringing the notes and asking around. They’re bound to know something.”

Genji hummed appreciatively and Hanzo balked.

“How do you know they didn’t order them in advance? Or that they would remember their patrons?” Genji gave his brother a weird look at the question while Jesse chuckled.

“No one has the time for advanced orders during finals. Plus, it seems like these gifts were a last minute kinda thing, because there’s no pattern to the delivery times. And if my hunch is right,” Jesse leaned forward conspiratorially,” it’s probably someone I know.”

Hanzo’s face seemed to go through a myriad of emotions before smoothing over into a blank expression. “You truly are intelligent, then.”

“I know,” Jesse grinned cheekily, feeling proud.

Genji let out a choked noise at something and stared incredulously at Hanzo. Then at Jesse. Then back to Hanzo.

“Jesse. You really can’t guess? Really?” Genji’s eyes were pleading.

Jesse furrowed his brow. “If you know something I don’t, the help is appreciated.”

Genji muttered something in Japanese and stood up suddenly, grabbing his bag. “No. I don’t know anything, apparently. If you will excuse me, I’m going to go somewhere else before I throw up.” He turned a devious smile to Hanzo, who sat uncharacteristically frozen. “I will talk to you later, brother.” Then he was gone.

“Well, that sounded foreboding,” Jesse commented to a strangely flushing Hanzo. “Did you catch what he said under his breath?”

“No,” Hanzo answered quickly. He stood up too. “I- I have to go. Satya needs my help with a project.”

“Oh.” Jesse sat back disappointed. “Okay. See ya later, then.”

Hanzo gave him a tense smile before he hurriedly departed. Finals week, Jesse decided, was a bitch.

The sixth flower was thankfully delivered in person.

He woke up that morning feeling motivated, ready to find the mystery person behind the roses. His trip to the first floral shop wasn’t what he expected, considering it closed down 5 years ago and sat on the side of the road as a sad, dilapidated building (thanks, Google)- but he wasn’t deterred. The second shop, however, didn’t yield satisfactory results either. He showed the owner the notes, and much to his embarrassment, she said that they didn’t even use the same cards or ribbon as the ones the stranger gave him.

“Whoever it was probably made them themselves,” she said, eyes twinkling. “That’s so sweet!” Jesse mechanically nodded his agreement, said his thanks, and left feeling flustered at the situation all over again. Handmade note cards. Maybe they really didn’t want to be known.

So found Jesse on his way to the last floral shop- Bastion’s Bouquets- and losing all semblance of hope. He pushed the door open, bell ringing overhead, and was instantly assaulted by the sweet aroma of flora.

Flowers ranging from roses to calla lilies to desert flowers crowded on shelves that stretched to the ceiling. Long vines and leaves from medium sized palms and ferns leaned over Jesse’s head as he traversed deeper into the store, reaching the counter. It was colorful, and wonderful, and Jesse began to wonder if he was in the wrong line of work at the sight of a bright pink bougainvillea trailing along the wall behind the cashier’s desk.

“Howdy,” he called to the empty space in front of him, resting his hands on the wood. “Anybody in?”

A clatter of noise and a curse responded. Then, in a strange accent:

“Be right out!”

Jesse took to looking around as he waited, exclaiming in pleased surprise as he found a small bird hiding among a gorgeous display of hyacinths. It chirped quietly as it settled in Jesse’s outreached hand and fluffed its wings. Jesse cooed and it tilted its head, chirping louder as he rubbed a finger down its back.

“Ganymede, stop begging for attention. The name is Torb, what can I do for you, son?”

Jesse turned to find a short- very, very short- man behind him. He had a mechanical arm, a fake eye, and was wearing a pink apron with the store name and a cartoon robot on the front. Jesse immediately liked him.

“Ah, well, ya see,” he muttered, struggling to get the notecards out of his back pocket with his prosthetic, not wanting to jostle the bird. “I got- aha! I got these cards along with a bunch of different flowers over the past month and was wondering if they were ordered from you, or if you remembered who ordered them.”

Torb took the cards from Jesse’s hand, sifting through them. His ears grew hot as the short man chuckled and raised a brow at him.

“Sounds like someone really likes you, eh?”

Jesse cleared his throat, cheeks flaming. “I mean, it could be a prank. Haven’t gotten rid of that possibility.”

Torb laughed harder and handed the cards back to Jesse. “I, for one, think you should throw that thought out the window. What were the flowers?”

Jesse told him and Torb rubbed his chin.

“Well,” he started. “We do carry all of those.”

Jesse felt a surge of hope.

“But carnations, camellias and roses are popular ones, and we haven't sold any sunflowers recently. I would remember that.” He gave Jesse a sympathetic look. “‘M sorry lass, I can’t help you there.”

Jesse’s stomach plummeted and he sighed. Ganymede chirped softly and flew away to the back room, probably to eat or sleep. He looked at Torb imploringly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Are there any other flower shops around here that have the same selection you do?”

Torb shook his head. “Afraid not. Otherwise, we would be out of business.”

Jesse nodded and said his thanks, ready to give up when Ganymede came flying back out, a small slip in her talons. She landed on Torb’s shoulder and dropped the paper into his open hand.

“Ah! That’s right, it almost slipped my mind!” He said, reading through it. He looked back up to Jesse with a toothy grin, waving around what looked like a receipt. “Seems I was wrong. There is one other place that carries the same selection we do, though it only orders a small amount from our stock.”

The supermarket. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

Jesse had walked by the flower freezer in there every time he shopped, but he never paid it enough attention for its presence to register in his head. He ran hurriedly from Torb’s shop to the market a few blocks over, hope swelling. It was getting late, the sun almost finished setting, and he knew the store was going to be closed in a couple of hours. He would get in there, and he would- well, he would look and- huh.

Jesse slowed to a jog, coming to a stop in front of the store. He frowned, realizing he had no plan. What would he do? Rather, what could he do? Too many people went in and out, and it’s not like a chain market would take note of each customer that bought sunflowers. He swallowed, feeling his hope shatter yet again.

He could….stake the place, he guessed. But his admirer obviously knew what he looked like, and loitering was still considered a crime. He was about to walk inside, maybe buy some booze and drown in it, when a voice ripped him from his thoughts.

“Jesse?”

He turned to his right to find Hanzo, looking as attractive as ever in his dark jacket and jeans, with a comically stricken expression on his face.

Jesse wondered what was wrong, until his eyes zeroed in on the package in his hands, and he sucked in a breath.

A bouquet of roses.

Hanzo held the flowers in a tight grip, an entire bouquet of expensive red roses, and Jesse, tired and emotionally charged at the sight, blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“You get off on buying flowers for cowboys?”

Hanzo turned red and made an audible noise in the back of his throat, taking a step backward, away from him.

He’s gonna run, Jesse suddenly realized, and he raised his hands in apology, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat at the relief he felt that it was him, at what this situation had come to.

“Hanzo,” he laughed, slightly breathless, and the man took another step backward. Jesse took a large step towards him and fought down another laugh. “Hanzo, wait.”

“I did not think you would find my affections funny,” he said, looking and sounding hurt.

Jesse sobered instantly, realizing what was at stake, and took those last few steps to reach him. “Hanzo, wait no, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just- this whole time?” He reached for Hanzo’s free hand. “You could’ve just talked to me, hon.”

“I am not good with words,” he responded, looking anywhere but at Jesse. “I know it is childish, but Genji told me that you had never had a serious relationship before, and with you leaving in two months for that job in Gibraltar, I just….”

He sighed, searching Jesse’s eyes. “I wanted to make sure you at least knew that someone cared for you, in that way….still cares.”

Jesse’s heart pounded and he gripped Hanzo’s hand tighter, not knowing what to say. He had Hanzo right where he had wanted him since he first saw him, and he was speechless.

“Okay, here’s the thing.” Jesse decided to lay it all out. “I’ve been in love with you for almost a year now, and if you’re willing, I’d like to try. Gibraltar or not, I’ve been absolutely hopeless for you. If you’ll have me.”

Hanzo lowered his burning face and heaved a deep, shaky breath. Then, he looked up and pressed the bouquet to Jesse’s chest, a small smile making its way onto his face. Jesse held the flowers there with his prosthetic, face burning.

“You said that you wouldn’t take a bouquet from a stranger and I was actually going to give these to you in person, when I found the right thing to say.” He pressed himself closer to Jesse. “I do not have a card this time, so I apologize.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Jesse breathed, moving his hand to the small of Hanzo’s back, the roses crinkling between them. “What were you going to say?”

“I love you, too.” Hanzo leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Jesse’s lips, and Jesse brought him even closer, closing his eyes, Hanzo and the scent of roses overtaking him.

After he and Hanzo made their way back to the dorms, the roses (a bit crumpled, but still whole) found their way into the vase near the window, the other flowers pressed safely into a textbook. And when Jesse finally left to Gibraltar, Hanzo sent him off with his seventh- a snapdragon that Jesse snuck in his carry-on. The message on the notecard was pretty much the same as the last one, but it didn’t make him feel any less flustered and happy.

I love you. Come back soon.

[crappyfics]

1-800-EXO-LINE

Author’s Note: *sighs* Watch me post this for the third time because I still haven’t figure out how to make it appear in the search page. Well, I hope this time around it works and that you all can enjoy this piece. 

Hello and thank you for calling EXO, where a friend is only one call away. If you know the extension of the party you are trying to reach, you may dial it at any time. Or if you prefer, choose from the following menu options:

To know more about EXO, press 1.

To request an EXO friend, press 2.

If you would like to speak to a representative, stay on the line. An agent will assist you shortly.

I heard his laugh from the other end of the call. I imagined the man was actually having a relaxing time talking on the phone as he cooked his dinner and told me how his day went. It wasn’t the first time we spoke on the phone, nor the last. He called the hotline every week and sometimes oftener. And every time we spoke, my favourite part was when he laughed because it meant my job was well done. Sometimes, he made me laugh and I knew it was his way to reciprocate for my service.

“So what happened after the meeting?” I asked inducing him to keep on talking. Clients always needed a little push to keep going. And for as much as I was used to doing it, I knew that, with him, the questioning was no longer part of my job but my ugly curiosity.

“Well, not much happened. I came home from work right away,” he said and I could sense the change of tone in his voice. After all, I knew him quite well due to so many calls.

“You didn’t go to the gym this time?” I asked.

“No,” he said. After a brief pause, he continued. “She called me again,”

“Do you wanna talk about it? I’ll be here to hear it all if you want to.”

She. She was the one who broke his heart. She had no name, he had never mentioned it. It was never tricky to understand when he was talking about her because it was almost as if I heard a capital S and H whenever he spoke. He told me so many things about Her that I sometimes felt like I knew her personally. However, I could not find in myself a characteristic feeling towards her. I could feel nothing for her, not even anger. My job wasn’t to feel anything, it was to listen to what others felt. He felt good when he spoke to me and that is why he always called me back, that was all that mattered.

“I rather you tell me how was your day,” he said. “I bet it’s much more interesting than She.” a faint laugh was audible from his side.

“I’m sure you didn’t call to hear about my day,” I sighed. “We don’t usually do that.”

“We don’t. But I have this feeling I’ve known you for so long yet I know nothing about you. Yet, you know almost everything about me.”

“Almost everything?” I asked in a tone of a joke. “I thought you had told me it all already.”

“I guess you’re right.” he laughed making me smile with the sound of it. “I guess only my name is still a secret.”

“You sound like a John,” I said and immediately I heard his loud laugh blast on my phone. “Did I get it right?”

“Not even close. But I am happy that you at least gave me a name.”

“That’s not exactly what I have here on my phone, but if you prefer it that way, I’ll gladly save your number under that name.”

“It makes me feel special,” he joked.

We talked some more. Once he was done cooking we hung up the phone. I assumed he was going to eat his dinner, he then would watch some tv or scroll down on his social media and then go to bed. I honestly had no idea but sometimes I liked to imagine what he was doing when he wasn’t on the phone with me. I knew he worked at a firm downtown and that he took the subway on weekdays because the traffic was too chaotic to have to deal with. I knew that he went to the gym after work and sometimes he would exercise on the weekends if he felt like his mind was too busy thinking of things he shouldn’t. He hung out with his friends almost every Thursday but at times he would call me to fill me in. I liked that he always found a time to speak to me and to reassure me that he was doing fine and that it has been a while he didn’t cry.

The hotline was open for people to talk and find in others the support of an outsider. For as much as it sounded weird, that’s what we did, we supported our clients by hearing what they had to say. Sometimes, they didn’t say anything and just cried. It wasn’t different with the fake John. He liked to talk, he was very outgoing and bright, I knew. But at times, he would think of She and would cry on the phone as we spoke. I never judged. I could never. And for over three months, as we talked frequently, he wouldn’t cry anymore and just call me to catch up and crack some jokes before he could go on with his evening shenanigans.

Once again, it was raining but it was nothing unusual for mid-October. Though the fallen leaves sounded crunchy with each step, I had no time to appreciate my walk outside because of how late I was. Rushing through the streets, avoiding bumping into the people that were passing by, I walked on the fastest pace I could. The sun was setting soon but I could not see the beautiful colours in the sky because the dark clouds took over. I arrived at the bistro quite panting and in need of a tall glass of water.

“Mr. Kim is waiting for me,” I told the hostess who welcomed me at the entrance. She checked the screen in front of her spotting the table where he waited for me. She walked me there and before she could leave I asked for the glass of water.

“You’re late,” he said watching as I took off my coat and put it around the backrest of my chair. Right after, a waiter came with my glass from which I almost chugged the water.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I said and he didn’t bother looking up at me from the menu he held in hands. “I couldn’t find a cab so I had to walk. And have you seen how busy are the streets?”

“Y/N,” the man in front of me sighed dropping the menu on the table and now giving me the attention of his eyes. “I really want you to get that job at my father’s company, but you won’t give him the best impression if you’re always late.”

“I know...” I sighed. “I need to get myself together. I can’t screw things up in front of your dad. Thank you again for giving me this opportunity, Minseok. You’re an angel.” And the man smiled shyly waving his head slightly always so understanding. “So... how’s it gonna be?”

“I’ll pick you up at your place on Saturday at 8pm. There’s a dress code, it shouldn’t be a problem right?” I waved my head reassuring myself rather than him. “Good. And don’t be late, or else...”

“I won’t, I promise.” I smiled noticing that the waiter was back again and this time to take our orders.

We talked over some great food and I felt at ease again. Ever since Minseok offered to help me get a job at his father’s company, our meetings became a little more frequent as he prepared me to conquer his father’s interest. The idea was to take me to the company’s party as Minseok’s guest and get the chance to talk to his father and as smoothly as possible make him invite me for an interview. Minseok would make great comments about me and from there we would see where it goes. I had high hopes and so did he, that is why we thought this plan would work out just fine.

Since I moved out of my parents’, life became really tough. I never intended on moving out because I knew I couldn’t afford to live away from my family’s financial support. But when things went down between my dad and me, I had no choice but to pack my bags and move away. The first half of the year, I had enough funds to pay for a semester of full-time studies and continue what I had just started. But soon I realized that once that money was over, I would not have enough to afford another semester, neither my rent, my groceries, my bills... Hence the jobs I’ve been taking here and there but never anything permanent. It was when I found out about EXO Hotline. It was a fixed pay and the job was quite easy. Sometimes, it would get a toll on me for having to listen to strangers cry over the phone, but I could take it just fine if it meant I was making some good cash. Although it was helping me pay my bills, it wasn’t enough. I had to look for something bigger that would actually allow me to finish school even if it was part-time for the next 3 years.

When Minseok guided me through the entrance doors, I knew that there was no turning back. Not that I wanted to give up, far from that. But I was scared because all those people in the reception hall were suffocating me with their good looks and expensive attire. I knew that once I made it into the company, I would be looking just like them really soon, but first I needed to make Minseok’s father give me his secretary contact so I could send in my resume.

“Come, I’ll introduce you to dad.” he offered his arm for me to hook mine around it. We graciously walked towards the old man that talked to other men around his age.

“Minseok!” we heard him say when we approached. His father hugged him warmly and then Minseok greeted everyone else with firm handshakes. He then turned back to introduce me to his dad.

“I’m Y/N. It’s very nice to meet you, sir,” I smiled as I shook his hand politely and he did the same.

“It’s always nice to meet Minseok’s friends.” I was glad he didn’t use the word acquaintance but he gave Minseok a knowing smirk. The kind of smirk that says ‘you are more than friends’. Which wasn’t true, we were nowhere near that. Although, I wouldn’t be the one to tell him otherwise because I needed the job and, yes, judge me, but at this point, I wouldn’t mind letting him jump to conclusions if it meant I was getting hired in the end of the day.

But this story isn’t about how I pretended to be in a relationship to get a job. Because Minseok did the honours to tell his father we were nothing more than friends. This story moves on to what was happening around us while we were too focused on the old Kim.

Minseok thought it would be best to let his dad continue his conversation with the investors. We would take a walk, look around, and then be back soon to actually put our plan into practice. So far, everything was going great. His father seemed to like me, and I sure seemed to like the champagne the caterers were serving.

“Hey, I just spotted some friends from the 10th floor. We should go talk to them,” Minseok said. So we walked towards the two men and the girl that chatted cheerfully as they sipped from their drinks.

Minseok greeted them informally showing how close the three of them were. The girl seemed to be the date to one of the boys but she also greeted Minseok in an informal manner yet quite shy revealing to be just an acquaintance.

“Guys, this is Y/N. Y/n, these are Junmyeon, Sarah, and Sehun.” they smiled then offered their hands for me to shake. Each one in their turn greeted me back with nice-to-meet-yous.

And last but not least, Sehun shook my hand and smiled just like the others. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”, he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Though Minseok took too long to introduce us.”

Then he laughed. And I knew that laugh. I knew it very well, although, it sounded different when there wasn’t a phone separating the two of us. Now that voice that I knew, unexpectedly, gained a face and a name.

To be continued...

[sunlitpeony]

voice meme || ane

Bold what applies to your muse, italicize situational ones. Feel free to add your own suggestions and carry it on.

► ACCENT “country” │ “backwoods” │ “sailor” │ “noble” │ foreign speaker  | an accent that sounds a bit similar to standard Doman and may be confused with it to the uneducated ear

Ane’s accent is thicker and more pronounced than one might hear in more populated areas of Yanxia, leading some to guess that she is from somewhere further away from the capital. While Western individuals may not know the difference, those native to the Far East will know she is not native to Doma but instead grew up there -- someone who came to be taught Common and the Far Eastern languages by someone who speaks with something like the Kyoto Ben. Since she was young when she came into Ishi’s care, her accent and speech have taken on those same characteristics, namely being markedly soft and polite, but there’s a hint of something else in her pronunciation that suggests she was born elsewhere in Othard.

► ELOQUENCE educated │ uneducated │ doesn’t use conjunctions │ shortens words │ just makes up their own words! │ old English │dependent on mood or setting  |  simple word choice

While from Yama Ane still spent far more of her life in Doma proper, and as a result her speech patterns often more closely resemble the language of the Far East rather than her home village. She never uses conjunctions, lending her a rather formal and elegant way of speaking even in casual conversation. Her word choice is often fairly simple, but since living in Ishgard she has adopted some of their more flowery, grandiose speech.

► TONE loud │ soft │ room volume │ high pitched │ low pitched │seductive │velvety │ speech impediment │ abrasive │ gruff │ shrill │ booming │ matter-of-fact │ toneless │ husky │ gravelly │ breathy │ nasal │ barking │ chatty │ condescending │ musical │ suave │ world-weary │ brash │ authoritative  |  teasing  |  kind

Generally quiet and soft-spoken, Ane hardly ever raises her voice -- and if she does? you have certainly done something to deserve it. She has a very honest and straight-forward way of speaking and is not wont to mask how she feels. At times her gentle speech can sound more tired, but there’s seldom a moment where her accent does not sound pleasant to the ear. Like most she can be chatty, bossy, or even teasing; she quite likes to make others laugh.

► HABITS refers to self in third person │ incorporates different languages/terms/sayings │ uses gender-specific terms │ adapts to audience │ changes pitch around animals or children │ shifts tone when lying │ gives others nicknames │ uses terms of respect towards others

Ane is absolutely the kind of person to have a voice for pets and little ones, having already dedicated a way to address Aymeric’s beloved cat, Mandragora. Until told otherwise she will address people with polite titles, and the nicknames she does bestow on others tend towards terms of endearment only. If she cannot think of an equivalent for a Common translation, she may express herself with her native tongue instead.

► VOICE REFERENCE

From the beginning I have imagined something like Asami Sato’s performance as the black-haired woman for how Ane sounds, right down to how softly she speaks and how deeply emotional and empathetic she is. I am including a sample clip here, but please know that it will contain spoilers for the final episode of the anime Death Parade.

tagged by: I STOLE IT tagging: anyone else who is also a thief at heart

[interrogatormentors]

Event Six: Golden Infidel

After perigees of trial and error, Eridan finally felt he’d gotten a handle on Head Admin duties. The stress never decreased, and more often than not Eridan found himself reaching for a drink at the end of the day to take the edge off, but having someone at the end of the worknight to talk to helped more than Eridan cared to admit. No matter the time, no matter what far reaches of space the Reichenbach found itself in, TA responded to each of Eridan’s various messages. Eridan had to wonder if TA actually liked talking to him, or if the capital-H-Helmsman was just bored. God, the idea that he may actually have stumbled onto the Imperial Helmsman, a veritable wiggler-tale creature, terrified Eridan to no end.

Still, he’d take support wherever he could get it, and right now he had bigger fish to fry. As Head Admin, he took responsibility for organizing any and all docking requests, maintenance queues, and inventory logging. The task weighing down his shoulders at the moment took the form of a simple email in his account which had exploded into a lurid, glittery graphic whose symbol seared itself into his eyelids.

“By decree of Her Imperial Condescension, Empress of the Alternian Empire, your ship is formally ordered to attend mandatory Fleet Inspection event. Ships of the invited will go through rigorous examination, while crews are encouraged to mingle aboard the HBC Condescension. Coordinates attached. This message designed and approved by the Department of Imperial Public Affairs.”

A computer generated tyrian-pink lipstick kiss signed the bottom of the invite or order or whatever this abomination of color actually was, along with the sign of the Empress herself. Eridan had tried to find an explanation for the sudden Fleet inspection as he scurried over the entire Reichenbach getting everything in order, and found none. Whisperings of rebellion crawled through the empire, but none of the rumors possessed any substance. They never mentioned names, and no descriptions of a certain secret heiress ever reached Eridan. Despite their tempestuous parting, Eridan couldn’t bring himself to look forward to Feferi’s inevitable culling once she finally surfaced.

Rebellions didn’t matter. Trolls didn’t matter. Only the health and safety of the Reichenbach mattered, and Eridan finally managed to get everything in its proper place by the time of the inspection. Even with the stress of the event, perhaps he could even make some connections aboard the HBC Condescension to make his life easier.

Two hours into the event, and Eridan had spoken to approximately two trolls, who spoke to him more out of a respect to his caste than to his actual position. This fact insulted him more than anything, considering how much time he’d spent taming his hair back and moisturizing. “So you weren’t expectin’ an inspection either, huh?”

The teal next to him wrinkled her nose. “You can say that. My bet’s on the Empress looking for rebellion ties. Why else would she call back an interrogatormentor ship?”

Eridan covered up his apprehension by taking a nervous sip from his drink. He’d noticed the interrogatormentors too-- a cerulean and an enormous seadweller cutting their way through the crowd in silent tandem. “Any ships in range got called back. They ain’t special.” His eyes met the cerulean’s, and his acidic digestive pouch twisted up in six different knots. “You think they’re lookin’ for rebels? In the fleet? Maybe you got a few flirtin’ with the idea in wigglerhood, but they’d be stupid to think rebels actually care about anybody past Ascension.” His lip twisted up into a half-snarl before he schooled his face back.

The teal laughed. “I like you. It’s too bad that naivety’s going to get slammed right out of you. What’d you say your name was?”

Eridan’s eyes hadn’t left the pair of interrogatormentors, who’d started to move towards them as casually as two sharks circling a baby dolphin. “I’m gonna get some air,” he said, ignoring the other troll’s derisive remark about recycled ship air.

The invitation to mingle aboard the Empress’ Imperial Battleship hadn’t explicitly forbidden wandering around, but Eridan couldn’t help but check over his shoulder every few seconds all the same. The interrogatormentors hadn’t followed him out either. Eridan tried to reassure himself that he needn’t worry about them. He had nothing to hide. Any ties to a rebellion now had severed themselves sweeps ago, and he harbored no treasonous leanings now. If they asked him anything, he could say with confidence he didn’t know what the rebellion was planning or who led the charge. Feferi’s name didn’t need to come up. So why did he feel so terrified of the prospect of investigation?

Eridan didn’t meet any other trolls as he wandered further and further, the walls losing their ornamental gilding and becoming more utilitarian as he walked on. The HBC Condescension had started out as nothing more than a personal cruiser according to legends, building itself up into elaborate palace halls around the ancient helmsman at the core.

Eridan jumped as he heard something up ahead of him, fins swiveling in an attempt to pinpoint the noise. He crept around the corner, still holding his drink glass in a shaking hand. It sounded like someone spoke off in the distance, a drone that almost held a melody in words he couldn’t quite parse. As Eridan walked onward, the sound became more distinct but no less identifiable as actual words. Eridan’s brow furrowed as he heard a word he almost understood, until it clicked.

As a devotee to history, especially military tactics, Eridan had amassed more than his fair share of old books and scrolls. At one point, Alternia had had two main languages, High and Low, with the Low comprised of dozens of lowblooded tongues all mashed together in the enslaved warm population. Over time High had become Common, with only a few dialects surviving while Low had faded away with time. Eridan had only seen Old Low Alternian written down once, in an ancient tome bound in clawbeast skin that he still hadn’t fully translated by the time he joined the Fleet. But he knew those words, written down in a column of shaky letters in a section of heretical hymns, although he’d never imagined he’d hear them sung aloud.

“He carries all our pain And one day his strife is forgotten However, we are forgiven.”

Eridan knew at this point, he’d gone too far into the ship. If someone spotted him at this point, he’d earn a trip to the interrogatormentor’s brig regardless of rebel ties, and yet he found himself entranced as he kept going. It took him time to translate the words in his head, but the process made itself easier as the disembodied singer repeated the droning mantra like a prayer, over and over. Eridan closed his eyes as he walked, picturing the words in front of his head, sounding them out and pairing them with the sounds he heard.

“Our kin are separated by color of blood. We are without love or virtue. However, we are forgiven.”

Eridan opened his eyes just in time to stop in front of a door, its frame reinforced in the characteristic manner of a helmsblock to seal moisture in to preserve biowires and living tissue. Eridan swallowed hard, grip tightening so hard on his glass he heard the glass creak. All highblood dinnerware needed reinforcement, but his apprehension definitely put the construction to the test. Despite every instinct screaming at Eridan to back away, to walk right back to the gathering of disgruntled ship captains and crew, Eridan placed his palm on the door’s scanner. The door opened.

The smell hit Eridan first, rotting flesh and damp that nearly had him retching as he looked up at the tangle of wires and remnant of troll strung up in the helming harness. The source of the song came from above, speakers connecting the Helmsman to the ship. Eridan couldn’t find a sign of life in the old psion’s face, silver-streaked hair hanging over his red and blue eyes glazed over like a corpse. Eridan wondered if the battery even had arms and legs at this point, considering the black, necrotic tissue creeping down from the forearms completely hidden in a snarl of devouring biowires.

As Eridan stood there, transfixed in horror and disgust, the speakers’ volume started to dim. The Helmsman stirred, head slowly rising from its slumped position as his lips began to sound out silent syllables. Over the next few seconds he managed to speak up, the speakers going silent as the Helmsman took over the song with a voice like shards of glass scraping up against each other. The psion blinked, first with his blue eye and then his right, and it took a few tries to blink moisture into his eyes like a normal troll. He stopped singing, and spoke.

“You took your time, Eridan.” The Helmsman took a heaving breath, and Eridan swore he could hear the creaking of his lungs. “Ah, I forgot how much I hate this meat sack.”

Eridan set down his glass on a console, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. Despite the smell and the disgusting sight, he felt a twinge of something akin to pity in the back of his head. This really was the troll he’d played poker with and talked to for these past few perigees. “You were expectin’ me? Surprised you got two pan-cells to scrape together, lookin’ like that.”

The Helmsman laughed, a horrific grating sound that trailed off into wet coughs. “As am I,” he said, choking a bit. Yellow blood dribbled down his chin, and a biowire snaked across his face to clear it. “I asked for you. It was an idle request, but the Empress continues to surprise me in her benevolence.”

Eridan squinted at the Helmsman. “Seems like the most benevolent thin’ for you is a funeral pyre. Why’d you wanna see me?”

The Helmsman closed his eyes. “I do not want to die,” he said, and something about the strained tone to his voice didn’t ring as true. “I get to see the stars. I have been blessed with eternity and power beyond comprehension. But it is lonely, here. Speaking to someone, to you, has reminded me of this.”

Eridan felt his hand lifting outside his control, until he made contact with the decrepit troll’s cheek with a damp pap. He rotated his hand before the gesture could get misconstrued, grasping the old troll’s jaw as he looked him over. The Helmsman’s skin felt like damp sandpaper, threatening to flake off and peel away at any moment. “Eugh. I mean, I ain’t anythin’ special, but if you’re lonely I could stick around for a bit. I don’t think anyone’s gonna miss me for a bit. What was that song you were singin’ about, anyways?”

The Helmsman managed to open his eyes again, lips parting to speak. He looked behind Eridan’s shoulder, and his eyes went round just in time for someone else to announce themselves.

“Singing for your new buoy-toy already, battery?” The voice sent chills down Eridan’s spine, and he stayed frozen with his hand on the Helmsman’s face. “Hope you don’t mind bein’ an object lesson, guppy.”

A cool hand touched down on Eridan’s shoulder, and he glanced off to the side just long enough to see long, tyrian-painted nails that popped against the myriad of golden rings adorning the hand of none other than the Empress herself. He tried to come up with an explanation, a plea, anything, but gasped instead as the prongs of a golden trident pierced through him. An instinctive shriek of pain caught in his throat, his entire being paralyzed by pain he’d never experienced before.

He choked on his own blood as the trident lifted, sweeping him off his feet and tearing through his gut as the Empress lifted him with ease. As his vision went black Eridan remembered hunting freshwater shallows with Feferi, pulling crayfish from their murky dens and impaling them on his fingers. He’d watched them squirm, antennae wriggling and legs kicking as if they had any hope of surviving before popping them into his mouth and crunching through their chitinous shells with his teeth. Eridan’s right leg spasmed, kicking out once, and he saw nothing more.

[freakyfeline]

Through my eyes

 I am particularly happy with this prompt so I decided to share it here. Also I’ve been wanting to write a Sci-Fi AU for ages, and finally here it is.

****

Title; Through my eyes

Fandom: Yuri on Ice Type; science fiction AU Characters; Viktor Nikiforov, Yuuri Katsuki, Yakov Feltsman. Summery; Yuuri Katsuki had just graduated and moves to Tokyo in order to find a job at a national Robotics company, but after a few setbacks he ends up becoming apprentice to one of the most well-known engineers of the field; Viktor Nikiforov. It all seemed to good to be true until he discovered a secret that will shake the very fabric of his reality and existence.

*****

A traveller come all the way from the small town of the northern regions to the heart of the country; Tokyo. The city was as urban and metropolitan as one can imagine, with its towering edifices and large advertisements screening on a loop. The streets were clean, owing to the low-level robotic machines which were left autonomous to tend to the public service. Hologram screens appear in front of restaurants and shops to mark the opening and closing time.

Another wonderful feature about the city is the people. There was a woman in smart dress as she walked to her car while her servant-robot followed her in tow burdened by her grocery bags. Servant-robots were commonly used for those who could afford them, and they would perform the daily domestic chores. They were the closest to a humanoid shape, however they could not be endowed with artificial intelligence due to the law conventions made by the board of the technological development and science committee.  However there was an increase of percentage among the population who had prosthetics and despite of the fact that even these alterations were heavily restricted; the boundaries between robotics and humanity seem to be decreasing at an alarming rate.

Tokyo became one of the leading countries in technological development of Robotics and so a hub of people from all over the world were here trying to take part in the great movement, and Yuuri was one of the many. Yuuri Katsuki was a twenty-four years old and a fresh post graduate who was ready to kick-start his career. The RPC was the leading organisation that specializes in making robotics and it was because the Japanese post-graduate received an invitation of an interview that led him to leave his hometown and travel to the capital. However, he was too nervous and unconfident during the interview and he ended up not being chosen for the job. It was as though life was mocking him for aiming up so high.

Such a great opportunity seemed one that could never come again, so he was quite shocked and surprised when he received a video call from one of the most influential engineers in Robotics, Viktor Nikiforov. Yuuri was sitting on a balcony; smoking a cigarette and thinking whether he should ditch yet another pointless interview, when an autonomous voice interrupted his thoughts. Reluctantly he walked to the living room and pressed on the giant touch screen, when a hologram panel popped up and Viktor appeared on screen. It was hard to imagine the confusion that Yuuri felt by this strange turn of events, especially by the fact that the man who had been an inspiration to him his whole life had just offered him a job as an assistant.

Viktor worked at the RPC Company as he was one of the most important key factors of this technology. The company is a manufacture of robots that can perform mundane, dangerous or undesirable duties; from house-keeping to building constructions and waste management. The Russian scientist worked on researching and developing new technologies as well as improving existing ones, but all that bulkhead of research was reserved only to the company. In fact RPC had strict policies on keeping all of its information from leaking out, so Viktor could not even work these projects outside the company’s complex. However the silver haired man had other personal projects that he wanted to work on, and Yuuri was assigned to assist him in this job.

The Russian scientist was greatly interested in neurology, in fact he had a degree in medicine and continued specializing for a diploma, but somehow he turned the page to engineering. It was a mystery as to why he made such a sudden change, but from this experienced he developed an interest in a chimera of engineering and medicine. He was no longer interested in manufacturing machines that served to replace undesirable jobs, but also to use his talents for other departments that would have bigger impact on people’s lives. His initial interest was in working on neurological diseases however there was an article about Viktor that questioned his reasons for suspiciously and abruptly leaving St Petersburg and moved to Japan. Yuuri was no med student; he studied biology but his major interest was engineering, so he was initially unsure of how he was able to be any help. Luckily it turned out that he was more straight-forward than he thought; mostly involving in sorting the data of Viktor’s research in coherent and systematic way, filing and doing reports. It was a long way from becoming a full-fledged engineer, but it was definitely a good start.

Yuuri was sitting in the small office/laboratory room of his boss’s apartment. He was observing a machinery prototype which would be worn by the leg to machinery. The function of this prototype was to help children with cerebral palsy to be able to walk straight. His job was to test it by touching one of the fibres and observe how long it takes to react. The aim of the experiment is to mark the delay between the contact and reaction. At first everything was going smoothly as he tested and marked the timing down on the journal, however without warning, there was a wild electrical spark coming out of the prototype and it exploded, making Yuuri fall off his chair. With the shock, the Japanese apprentice trembled all over feeling the electricity running through him. He tried to call out but he could hardly speak, so with little strength that he had he tried to get up, but he was too weak. In the semi-conscious state he was, he looked at his arms which were blackened, but even more terrifying thing was that he saw bits of metal under his skin and his hands too had skin scraped off and exposing a grey second layer. Before he could process this strange effect, his world became black and he lost his consciousness.

***

The white curtains bellowed and flapped with the white breeze.  Its sound awakened him to an unfamiliar white room which was sterile and clean. Yuuri found himself bandaged and tended; and felt level of warmth and comfort by the fact that the older man took care of him. However that pleasant thought was interrupted by a memory which came back with a flashing vengeance.

He remembered the metal under his skin, and he felt a terrible thread looming over his body like a death sentence. With a kind of fervent panic, Yuuri started removing the bandages and gauze, exposing the burned and blistering flesh. No matter how much he stretched his skin between his fingers to find that metalled layer, he found none. Viktor nearly shrieked when he walked in and saw Yuuri exposing his injuries like that. He quickly ran to his side and grabbed him the wrist to make him stop.

“Are you crazy? You’re going to get infected!” Viktor cried out in panic. In that moment Yuuri had noticed the round and puffy redness around the other male’s eyes and thought; was he crying? Was he crying for me?

Yuuri was confined to the bed for another day until his boss made sure that his injuries were healing well. Slowly and painfully the Japanese assistant was on his recovery, and the blisters were starting to deflate and the pain subsides, eventually he was able to continue work as before. As he was filing his employer’s messy cabinet, a kind of shock overtook him. It was as though someone had just grabbed him and shook him really hard. Then a he saw his skin being burnt and revealing a metallic plate underneath, then there was noise in his vision and the image froze and started fragmenting into red yellow and green patterns.  It must have happened in a few seconds, but it felt much longer than that, leaving the Japanese man utterly confused.

One might think that such an occurrence was a freak incidence that would happen only once, however he was having the same strange shock sensation along for a few days and frustrated as he was it was time for him to ask Viktor about it. The Russian man was always attentive and friendly with him, but he tended to ignore everyone else. Yuuri found it flattering, but he thought of it as nothing more than a quirky characteristic of his personality. When the quiet assistant asked the Russian engineer about these strange occurrences, he felt quite disappointed that Viktor dismissed it as nothing more than a temporary after effect of the accident that he experienced. It made Yuuri feel somewhat more suspicious, because the silver haired man was dodging the questions and avoiding the topic altogether. Viktor was definitely hiding something and whatever it was, the Japanese assistant was determined to find out.

On a particular uneventful day, Yuuri was working alongside his boss, biding his time until he found the right opportunity. Viktor who was cheerful and completely unaware of these plans, moved around the kitchen to make lunch.

“We don’t have milk”, the silver haired scientist remarked with a frustrated and slightly annoyed tone. He closed the fridge and smiled at Yuuri “I’m going to get some, be right back” and with that he dashed off. Normally he would have sent Kio, his servant robot, but since ‘she’ had a malfunction, he had to do these chores until he fixed her. 

It was the perfect opportunity; Yuuri stood up and watched him through the window to make sure that he left the building, then he sped off to the laboratory, almost falling flat on his face when he stumbled into the IM-26, a machine built for cleaning and for those who cannot afford a servant-robot, but in this case it served as a temporary replacement. Normally, Yuuri would not have access of the office unless Viktor was there, but he had managed to ‘borrow’ the card key when the older man wasn’t looking.  He felt a tightening feeling around his chest as he walked to the office. With a slide of the card and a click, he opened the door and started looking for any clues that could help him in his quest. The room looked like an ordinary office; with a bookshelf (because he loved some of the old fashioned things), but he also had a book storage machine lying on the oak desk. It was an eyepiece that was worn like glasses. It managed to project holograms of books and with the help of a nodule on its side; it could turn the page and zooming functions.

The light bulb lit green, which meant that he had been using it, so out of curiosity Yuuri wore the eyes piece and flickered to see what was Viktor was reading. The truth, hit him harder than he ever imagined. It was a newspaper article about a young Japanese apprentice named Yuuri Katsuki, twenty-five from Kyushu, who died in a car accident.  The Japanese had been working as an assistant of Viktor Nikiforov for two years. In that moment Yuuri was unable to breathe, he took off the eyepiece and thrown it on the desk, gasping for air. His knees gave way but he held tightly on the desk like a shivering leaf. He had no idea how long he stood there, trying to process the discovery; the mere existence of another Yuuri meant only one possibility that he…it could not be true, it was against the rules, but then again what did he really know about Viktor?

Slowly he walked out of the office and went back home not being able to face the older man. He felt so devastated that as he walked through the streets, he found himself no longer captivated by the beauty and the charm of the city. Instead he felt it was a gloomy and oppressive, because he admired the avant-garde technology that this century had brought forward, only to discover that there was always a consequence to such advancement. Yuuri felt sickened at the mere concept that he was not what he thought he was. He could not acknowledge this new information because if he did, then he would have to face the reality of his existence. If he really wasn’t a human and he was a copy of someone else then what about his memories, where they his own? Or did Viktor add the previous Yuuri’s memories into his own? And if all of this was true, then what was his existence? Was he merely living as a substitute? Was there anything about him that is individual to him, or was he just an empty shell? Does he only live to serve for the purpose of the one who created him? He felt furious about Viktor because he felt like he was created as nothing more than a play toy. No matter how important that human Yuuri was to him, he should have never attempted to play God. The Russian engineer had completely neglected of Yuuri’s own feelings and his own consideration in the matter. After all, he might be a machine, but he was also a living, sentient being and as such he should have had some reclaim and saying on his own life. He should have known the truth right from the start. 

There was a ping sound and Yuuri picked up his cell phone and when he pressed the button, an autonomous voice started detailing him of the missed calls that he received from Viktor, but the deluded android dismissed them and continued walking. It did not matter where he ended up just as long as his legs kept walking on and on and on until he felt too tired to keep going. The sun was already making its descent and the skies darkened above his head. A few heavy droplets of rain started falling, until gradually it increased to a downpour. He did not know why or how, but he found himself in the street where Dr Feltsman lived.  The middle-aged Russian professor mentored Viktor when the younger scientist was studying in University. Dr Feltsman had been retired for many years and so he currently lived as a hermit in order to dedicate himself solely to his research. The old professor was never a people’s person so it came to no surprise that he preferred to live the rest of his days alone in company only to his projects.

Yuuri quickly ran up the stairs to the apartment block and pressed the buzzer, but there was no response. It took several buzzing before there was a grouchy response from the other end,

“What?”

The android felt a bit timid as he cleared his throat “It’s me Yuuri”, or a copy of Yuuri, he thought silently to himself.

There was a click and the door was let open for the apprentice to enter and walk to the second landing. He knocked on the door but he found it open so he slightly pushed it gently

“Hello?”

“Come in” came the response from within the living room.

Yuuri walked in and smiled softly, realizing that this was the first time that he had been in the professor’s house.

“What reason do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Yakov said emerged with a cup of coffee in his hand, his tone sounded too polite, almost sardonic.

“I have…something to ask you about”, Yuuri responded, realizing that he had come here without plan to talk about what had come to pass.

“Sit, I’ll make coffee”, the professor stated as he put down his coffee mug and went back to the kitchen. There was complete silence except for the ticking of the clock. It had been a long time since he saw an old fashioned wall clock and he couldn’t help but being curious, because a man who was so dedicated in technology, he had very little of such in his apartment.

Dr Yakov remerged with another cup and placed it into the apprentice’s hands “Sit” the older man ordered as he himself sat down on the couch. Yuuri did as requested and found a place on an armchair. There was a silence between them that seemed to stretch to no end. The android Yuuri had no idea where to begin or what to say to the older man. It was most likely that he was going to reveal Viktor’s secret, but he needed someone to talk to about it.

“ I…I’ve heard…well read…about an article…an article of someone named Yuuri Katsuki…” speaking softly, those words  were incredibly surreal to him as he said them.

“Ah…I see” Dr Yakov responded, contrary to expectation, there was neither shock nor sudden revelation on his face, it left Yuuri feeling very puzzled.

“Y-you you knew?! The deluded android uttered in a startled manner.

The professor groaned and then he raised and then slumped his shoulders in a relaxed pose, or was it defeat? “I did not approve it, but that damn fool does what he wants anyway!” he growled and angrily rubbed the back of his neck.

“-Did you…did you try to stop him?” Yuuri staggered, feeling utterly confused about this whole situation. Considering that if the other Yuuri had lived or Viktor would have been stopped, then he would have never existed.

“I argued with him for weeks to stop to this madness...but as you can see” The old professor explained. There was no need for him to specify, Yuuri’s own existence was proof enough of what had come from that decision.

The android could not help wonder if he should feel disdain or anger towards the professor for trying to stop him. As he thought about it, he realized that he wasn’t in fact angry with him, in the end he felt agreeing with him. Even though this was about his own existence, it was not right. 

“But know this kid, Viktor was a reckless and selfish idiot, but he had passion. The two biggest passions in his life merged into one. His apprentice and lover Yuuri Katsuki and his work, and you are both of these things into one. I am not saying that what he did was right, he did break the law and playing a fool’s game. I am sure you’re wondering about your own life right now, but I thought you should know what you mean to him. You mean everything to him”

Yuuri felt devastated at those words, because at that moment he felt too angry with Viktor to sympathize with him.

“I don’t know what to do” Yuuri pressed his hands against his face, feeling despair building inside of him.

“Have you talked to him?” The professor asked.

The android shook his head and replied, “I can’t see him at the moment”

There was a long pause, which then was interrupted by the older man suddenly standing up and walking away, but a few minutes later he came back with a pillow and a cover.

“Here” he said, conveying in only few words, Yuuri understood that the professor was offering him to sleep here for now and he appreciated it. He stared emptily at the pillow, but he knew that he will not be able to sleep. It was strange to him how he realized that he really did not need these basic needs, he was just programmed to. That thought created a gnawing feeling inside of him since everything that he believed, felt and experience wasn’t genuinely his own, then what was his reality? Was he going to be simply a clone? Or could he be a man of his own?