#so I format the entire thing as a love letter to my boyfriend | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

combat-wombatus · 3 years

Text

Crimson Snow

Pairing: Hawks (Takami Keigo) x Fem!Reader

Genre: angst :’) (a lil bit of fluff thrown in here and there)

Warnings: mentions of blood, character death.

WC: 7.8k. am i sorry? no.

Summary: Childhood friends doesn’t always equal lovers in the future. You wished that was the case, but ever since Keigo disappeared, you found it hard to believe in love again.

(A/N): this was. i had to write this. it wasn’t up for debate. finishing this at 4am in the morning aldksjfhajshd. spent a grant total of 2 days brainstorming & writing this fic. not proofread at all. heavily inspired by the song 小幸运 by Hebe Tien. i strongly suggest you give it a try and listen to it as you read this :p (for all my chinese speakers out there...let’s see how you deal with this heartbreak :’) so yeah. i’m actually...really really proud of this fic. i tried a new format with this, and i think i kinda like it. also i left the ending up to interpretation if you don’t read the epilogue. enjoy!

credit for this au goes to @wafflesandkruge

here’s the link to the music :)

youtube

The one constant in your life.

The boy who’d always been there for you, through the dark days and the cold nights, holding your hand through it all.

The one who’d held you when you broke down.

The one who’d tucked you under his wings as the skies crackled with energy, rain pouring from the heavens, and told you that no matter where you went, he’d stay with you. He’d keep you nice and dry, snuggled close to his body as he shielded you from the storm.

The one constant in your life.

He’d left quietly in the night, not stopping by to say farewell.

In his place, he’d left a lonesome letter, tucked away beneath a boulder on your special hill.

“I’ll come back for you. Wait for me, okay?”

And from within that plain white envelope, a single red feather floated out, carried on the autumn winds, drifting aimlessly.

Almost as if it were lost.

And in that moment, you felt as if you’d lost a part of yourself, a little piece of your soul.

You weren’t sure you were ever going to get it back.

Years passed. You waited. There was no sign of him

Not in the skies, not on the land, and even though you’d sometimes see him in the reflection of the water, sitting next to you as you told him about your day, he wasn’t really there either.

I won’t give up on him.

I’ll stay strong.

He told me he’d come back for me.

Against the test of time, your resolve never withered. It only grew, strong as steel, taking over the crevices in your heart where he’d left his mark.

I’ll wait for you, Kei.

But please…come back to me.

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Your friend called out enthusiastically from her position on the couch. “Come look!”

“What?” You stepped out of the kitchen, only to be greeted by a familiar face, smirking on the TV screen.

“Look at him! He’s this new hero, and he’s only 18! (Y/N)! He’s our age! Isn’t he hot?” She pointed at his flickering image. “His hero name is Hawks!” Squealing, she turned to you. “Isn’t that so cool?”

You stood in shock, the glass of water that you had been holding slipped from your fingers and shattered onto the floor. Liquid pooled around your feet, soaking your slippers, but you made no move to step aside.

“Woah! (Y/N), are you okay?” She jumped off the couch, rushing towards you. “Hey, (Y/N)? He’s cute and all but…this is a little bit much, isn’t it?” She looked at you with concern, eyebrows drawing tighter when you didn’t respond.

“(Y/N) …what’s wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Shaking yourself from your daze, you averted your eyes. “Ahh, I’m sorry. Uh…I just, I never thought I’d see him again.”

“Wait, you know him?” Your friend looked at you, surprised. “(Y/N) …did he do something to you?” She asked softly. “If he did, I don’t care how cute he is, I’m gonna kick his ass to high heaven if need be. Someone like that shouldn’t be a hero.”

You shook your head, chuckling a little. “No…no, there’s no need to do that. It’s just…it’s been a long time, and I just didn’t expect to see him.”

“Ahh. Well, step out of that puddle! Come on, let’s grab you some paper towels.”

Hey!

It’s me, (Y/N). I…I saw you on TV today. You look…different. In a good way, I suppose. You’ve bulked up a bit.

You never used to smile like that though. Not like…like you were smiling for others. Seeing you smile for the camera, well…it made me sad.

But I’m happy that you’re ok. I think it would probably be hard for you to find me, since obviously I’m not on the news. So I’ll come find you instead, yeah? What do you say we catch up sometime?

I miss you. I’m in college now. I’m doing pretty good. You’re an overachiever, aren’t you? 18 years old and you already have your own agency.

Not that I’m complaining. Thanks for making it so easy for me to find you :)

So…let’s meet up sometime, when you have time? Maybe for some coffee? I know a quaint little place. It’s not too far away from your agency, three blocks to the right, turn left, and walk to the next intersection. It’s the corner shop. You can’t miss it.

I’ll wait for you there this Saturday, okay? I’ll do my work there. You can walk in whenever you have the time.

Your chicken, (Y/N)

Saturday came faster than you could prepare yourself. You checked your reflection repeatedly in the mirror, double-guessing your outfit decisions.

What if he doesn’t like it?

Is this too formal for a coffee date?

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Your friend barged into the bathroom. “I saw all the clothes on your bed! Are you going on a date?”

“Uh…just a meeting with an old friend. To catch up,” you explained.

She looked at you suspiciously. “Old friend…is it that guy on TV? Hawks?”

You grew flustered. “Err…yeah. If he got my letter.”

She looked you up and down, then dragged you into her closet. “Good thing I just went on a shopping spree last weekend then!” She pumped a fist excitedly in the air. “I’m giving you a makeover!”

Two hours later, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror once more. Your friend had put you through every single possible combination of outfits using both your closet and hers, and you had to agree that she had impeccable taste.

“Come on, you’re going to be late!” She shoved you out of the bathroom.

“I didn’t set a time!” You protested, laughing.

“Well, get your ass out of here! My boyfriend’s coming over!”

“So that’s the real reason you want me gone, hmm?” You teased her.

“Shush! Get out!”

Hawks was on patrol. You had been on his mind the entire week. Ever since your letter had reached his desk, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Thinking about you brought back happier times, and he wasn’t masochistic enough to give himself false hope.

No, it would be better for you to forget about him, and vice versa.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself. His body flew of its own accord, ignoring the sensibilities of his mind that screamed at it to stop.

Go back! The reasonable voice inside his head yelled.

Fly back!

His body refused to listen.

He found himself gently landing on a rooftop, right across the little café you told him to meet you at.

He even debated going inside. Just for a second. Just for a cup of coffee, to warm myself up in the chilly late-afternoon breeze, he told himself.

Then, he scoffed. Who was he kidding? If he went inside, he wouldn’t have the resolve to step back out before he saw you.

Shaking his head, he flew away as quickly as he could.

If he’d stayed a moment longer, he would’ve seen you walk down the street, humming a little tune to yourself.

Maybe then his resolve would’ve cracked.

Too bad he’ll never know.

Sitting alone at a table for two was an unpleasant feeling. Especially when you’re on your third drink, the waitress keeps eyeing you with pity, and you couldn’t concentrate on your work.

“Miss?” The waitress stopped by your table again. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re closing in 15 minutes.”

You checked the time on your laptop. Crap. It was already 5:15.

“Oh yeah, uhh, sorry to bother you!” You chuckle awkwardly. You quickly packed your books and laptop, dropped a $20 bill on the table, and hurried out the door. Walking home in silence, you tried your best not to feel too disappointed.

Maybe he just didn’t have time?

It’s ok. You’ll just ask him again, another time.

Another time.

You sent him countless letters. For the first year, at least. When he ignores all of them, you visit his agency in person.

As you walk through the glass doors, there’s a man sitting behind the reception desk.

“Hello, miss. How can I help you today?” He asks in the customary polite tone.

“I’m looking for Keigo. Hawks,” you answer, trying to hide your nervousness.

He looks at you suspiciously. “How do you know his first name?”

“We…we were childhood friends,” you tried to explain. “I…well, I haven’t seen him in a while.”

He took a closer look at you. “Can I ask for your name, miss?”

“(Y/N). (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

He sighed. “I’m afraid that you’ll have to leave the premises, Miss (Y/L/N). You’re not allowed to be here.”

What?

He hadn’t kicked you out before you told him your name.

“Why-” you started, but he cut you off.

“Miss (Y/L/N). I’m afraid that I have to ask you to leave, and don’t come back. Should I call security to escort you out?”

Holding back tears, you clutched your purse close to your chest and hurried out the glass doors, wishing nothing more than to shatter them into pieces.

You didn’t send any more letters after that.

Years pass. Every year on your birthday, Keigo gave you a feather.

“So I’ll always be with you,” he joked.

His feathers are extra durable, but time can wear down even the strongest things.

The last feather you got from him was ten years ago.

It can barely be considered a feather at this point, and you keep it in a special glass case so it can’t get any more worn down.

Ten years.

You’re turning 25 tomorrow.

Ten years of waiting around for him turned into ten years of watching him date other women. Ten years of hiding your pain every time another picture of him kissing a new girl graced the covers of the tabloids.

The first time, you cried yourself to sleep.

It wasn’t the last time.

Again and again, he breaks your heart.

By the third year, you convinced yourself to stop looking at the tabloids and the gossip sites.

By the fifth year, you scold yourself. You vow to stop crying over a stupid childhood crush.

By the seventh, you told yourself that you needed to forget about him. Step back into the dating ring, make out with someone else, and remove his presence entirely from your mind.

That didn’t work out.

Ten years.

It killed you to finally harden your resolve, but you told yourself that you couldn’t spend your whole life waiting for someone who was never going to love you back.

You’re turning 25 tomorrow, and you’re going to go on a date.

He’s watching you. He always is.

It makes him feel like a creepy stalker, but he can’t help it.

He watches you as you step into the restaurant, decked out in formal wear that looked amazing on you.

Going on a date. With someone who wasn’t him.

He stays on the rooftop, watching you through a window as you ate and laughed.

He wishes that he was the one making you laugh, that he was the one helping you order food from the menu, that he was the one sharing a dessert with you.

He’s selfish like that. It never does him any good.

He’s scared, really. Scared of commitment, tarnished by his time spent in the work program.

He sees you as the one thing in life that they can’t take away from him. You have this innocence, this purity that you always carry around with you, because you’re a part of a time when his life wasn’t so complicated.

He doesn’t want to shatter that illusion.

He never reached out to you because he’s scared.

He’s scared that he’ll break you.

He stopped sending you feathers, heart splintering every time your birthday comes around, hoping you’ll eventually forget him.

You don’t.

It’s not that you didn’t try.

No one else really interested you.

That is, until Masaki came along. He was bright, happy, always upbeat. He could find the words to cheer you up, to make a bad day that much better. He was attentive, caring, sweet.

He was everything that most people would look for in a partner.

And slowly, you began to open up to him too.

You fell into his embrace easier. You got a little happier when he came over for dinner.

You felt just a little safer when you were wrapped in his arms, a luxury you never thought you’d have.

Two years later, during a picnic date, he proposed.

You always had a love for picnic dates. Maybe because your first date, with Keigo, was a messy picnic affair during the spring, on top of a little hill where wildflowers bloomed and birds pecked at your leftovers.

“Stop!” You giggled, whipped cream smeared all over your cheeks. “You’re going to get it on my clothes!”

Keigo laughed, then popped another strawberry in your mouth. “You can wash that off later, silly! Just have fun!”

“It’s not fun when my clothes are all sticky,” you whined. “You try it! It feels gross!”

He smirked. “Oh really?”

Taking a strawberry, he dipped it in the container of cream you had brought, then stuck it down his shirt.

“Ha! Take that!” He gloated.

You stared at him in shock. “Did you just–”

“Yes I did! And it’s not gross at all, see?” He plucked the strawberry back out and shoved it in his mouth.

“Eww! Kei, that’s disgusting!”

“No it’s not, it still tastes like a strawberry! Mphm!” He chewed, licking his fingers.

He regretted that decision later, when bees swarmed the front of his shirt.

“Eek!” He shrieked, hopping backwards.

“Kei, take off your shirt!”

“It’s so sticky!” He yelped, trying to peel the front of his shirt away from his chest.

“I told you!”

“Hey, now is NOT the time for the ‘I told you so’ speech, okay?” He finally ripped his shirt off.

You couldn’t help it. You cackled.

“What now?” He looked at the bees feasting on his ruined tee.

“I told you so,” you teased him.

Taking one look at the devious glint in his eyes, you scooped up the picnic supplies and raced down the hill.

He followed, wings beating, taking off into the air. He reached you within seconds, tacking you to the ground.

“Hey, that’s not fair!” You struggled against him. “You know you’re fast when you fly!”

He looked at you mischievously. “And what about it?”

“You can’t race me like that when I’m on foot!”

“Who said we were racing?” His eyes locked on your lips. “I was just trying to catch up to you.”

You blushed, suddenly realizing how close his face was to yours.

“Kei–” you started.

“Can I kiss you?” He interrupted you, then quickly blushed. “I mean, only if you want to-”

You wrapped your hands in his hair, interrupting him with a kiss.

He tasted like the remnants of strawberries and cream, sweet honey on a beautiful spring day.

And it was a beautiful spring day.

Perhaps the last beautiful spring day you’d ever have, for the next spring, he was gone.

Beautiful spring days were few and far between. You’d learned that the hard way.

But today…you were inclined to think that it might be another one of those days.

Your boyfriend of two years had proposed on a beautiful spring day reminiscent of one long ago.

You supposed that this marked a series of firsts.

First date. First kiss. And now…a proposal.

You accept his proposal, tears in your eyes. He thinks that they’re tears of happiness, and in part, they are.

You don’t tell him that this was the one thing that you never thought you’d do. You feel like you’re betraying Keigo.

You have to remind yourself that he betrayed you first.

Half a year later, you have a wedding. It’s a small wedding, with only your families and close friends. You considered reaching out to Hawks’s hero agency, but decided to spare yourself the pain.

He’d moved on. So would you.

Unbeknownst to you, when the ceremony rolled around, Keigo was standing on a nearby rooftop, the wind blowing away his tears.

He couldn’t believe how beautiful you were.

He knew that he couldn’t have you, but didn’t you know that he was a sucker for pain? Watching you repeat the vows was like getting punched full-force in the gut, but the wind never returned to his lungs.

He felt empty inside. Something essential was missing, and he knew what it was, but he also knew that he couldn’t ever have it. Not if he wanted you to stay alive.

As the ceremony finished, he flew away into the sunset, and you caught a glimpse of his crimson wings, purely on accident. You shook your head in disbelief.

“Now I’m hallucinating too,” you muttered to yourself.

But no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself you imagined the whole thing, that final view made it so much harder for you to forget him.

Another year passed, and the seasons changed as they did. Spring flowing into summer, summer fading into autumn, autumn slowly drifting into winter.

Gradually, your new life engulfed you, the comfort of it all slowly draining away your doubts. Your husband was a good man. A faithful man. A caring man.

He held doors open for you and snuggled you on the couch. He played with your hair and made you breakfast in bed. He made it difficult for you not to love him.

You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to resist, anyways.

One night, you woke up in your shared bed, screaming in pain. Your lower back burned, almost as if you were getting branded.

Your husband woke up to the commotion. The bedsheets were stained with blood. Fresh, crimson, blood, all of it coming from you.

Whimpering, you laid limp as Masaki set you on your belly, trying to figure out the source of the injury. Taking a clean paper towel, he gingerly wiped the blood off of your raw skin, showing a tattoo emblazoned in gold ink.

Written in elegant cursive were three simple words.

Three words, but they hurt to look at.

(Y/N) …I’m sorry.

Your husband stared in shock. This didn’t happen. This couldn’t happen, could it? The only way someone got a tattoo like this was if their soulmate died, and, well…he was still very much alive.

He wasn’t your soulmate.

In this world, quirks weren’t the only strange thing.

Soulmates existed. But most never found out until it was too late.

When your soulmate died, their last words would be tattooed permanently on their other half’s skin in a bloody and painful process.

Their last moments would flash before the other’s eyes.

Nothing you could do. Nothing you could be sure of, until it was too late.

Fires blazed everywhere.

Building after building, it ate away at the crumbling city, tearing down everything in its path.

“Help!” A voice choked out, raspy from smoke intake. “There’s a beam—ugh—on my leg. I can’t get it off!”

A winged figure crouched on a burning rooftop, out of breath and utterly exhausted.

Backup wasn’t coming.

The whole city was burning.

Standing shakily, he sent the last of his feathers off to help the trapped woman.

“That’s it for me then, I suppose,” his smile wobbled slightly. “My work here is done.”

He couldn’t risk jumping off of the roof. His wings were stubs on his back, and only a single feather remained.

“That’s not enough for me to fly off, now is it?” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, if only you could see me right now, (Y/N). You’d be proud. Saved more than 500 people today, you know that?” He sighed, sitting down on the roof. “Lost count somewhere around there. You were always proud of me, weren’t you? The only one that believed in me when I told myself I couldn’t fly.

You’re the one that taught me to fly, remember, chicken? Those were the good times.

Look at me now. Talking to myself. Don’t even have the strength to fly down anymore.” He coughed into his hand, blood staining his palm. He grasped tightly onto a keychain around his neck, smearing the metal with crimson.

“I never did thank you. Guess it’s too late now.” He stared up at the sky, hues of orange and gold dancing across the horizon.

“Never did treat you right.” He plucked his last feather off of his back, twirling it around in his fingers.

“You were always too good for me. Too good for anyone, really.” He laid down on the roof, back no longer sensitive to the burning heat.

“I lost the right to love you a long time ago. I’ve got no business crying over you.” He chuckled bitterly. “But is that going to stop me?”

Letting go of the keychain and his feather, his hands went limp.

“(Y/N),” he sighed, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

The roof collapsed, the hungry flames licking at the bottom finally swallowing him whole. His comms fell out of his ear, the plastic melting in the heat.

A single red feather floated down to the ground, charred and blackened.

The only remains of his body they’ll ever find.

You were sobbing uncontrollably. Keigo.

He was your soulmate.

The boy you loved.

The one who’d abandoned you.

The one who you tried to forget.

He was your soulmate.

Your soulmate, who was dead.

“Turn…turn on the TV,” you whispered weakly. “Turn it on. I need to see.”

Masaki reached for the remote, flipping it on to the news channel.

“Earlier tonight, a bomb was detonated in Nagoya prefecture. Top heroes were on the scene, including Endeavor and Hawks, but their quirks are ill-suited to fight the conflagration. Endeavor has resorted to using brute strength to rescue people from the rubble, while Hawks hasn’t been seen since the beginning of the night. We are now reporting his status as MIA, and will continue to look for the Winged Hero, along with updating our reports on the status of missing civilians–”

You shut the TV off. You’d heard all you needed to.

Throwing on a mishmash of clothing, you sprinted out the door. Hailing a taxi, you hopped in before it had even screeched to a full stop.

“Hawks Hero Agency.” You told the driver, not bothering to mince your words. You hadn’t bothered to wipe all the blood off of your back either, so it was gradually staining your coat a deep crimson, a mocking parody of the way that Keigo’s feathers used to lay against his back.

His feathers that were burnt, charred, turned to ashes, no longer able to bring you the comfort they once had when they wrapped you in a warm embrace.

The driver looked concerned. “Miss, do you know what happened today? Hawks isn’t–”

“Yes, I know. Drive.”

You pressed your forehead against the window, breath steaming up the glass. It reminded you of one winter, when the two of you had been building snowmen, and your mother called you in for dinner.

“Kei, I have to go,” you tugged at his hand.

“Aww, (Y/N),” he kicked at an unfortunate stone with the scuffed toe of his boot. “Why can’t you stay a little longer? We haven’t finished his head yet.” He pouted.

“I can’t, Kei,” you tried to make him release his iron grip on your hand. “Mama’s gonna get mad.”

“Then I’ll make you stay!” He boldly declared, wrapping his little arms around your frame, tackling you to the snow-covered ground.

The two of you giggled, engaged in a tickle war, your mom’s voice fading into the distance.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N)!” Your mom yelled, marching over to where the two of you lay, tangled in a heap. “Do you want to get a cold?”

“No, Mama,” you said, slowly getting up and dusting the snow off of your parka. “I’m coming.” You turned around and poked your tongue out at your friend, letting your mom drag you back into your house.

Keigo sat in the snow for a while longer, not exactly excited to go back to his house.

Suddenly, an idea popped into his head.

He beat his little wings as fast as he could, half flying, half stumbling to your kitchen window.

Sneaking a peek inside, he saw you staring questioningly back at him. Not bothering to hide his mischievous grin, he puffed out a breath, steaming the window, took his little glove off, and started writing.

“D O Y O U W A N T T O F L Y W I T H M E ?” He painstakingly wrote out.

You shook your head, and his grin quickly dropped from his face. Looking down, he almost missed the words you mouthed out.

“I can’t read it!” You tried your best to sign. “It’s backwards!”

“Oh!” He tried his best to write the mirror image of what he had just written, making sure that you could read it from your point of view this time. You read his little message, a grin taking over your face.

“Y E S!” You mouthed. “YES, YES, YES!”

Quickly scarfing down your dinner, you waved a hasty goodbye to your mom, racing out the back door, only to get tackled into the snow.

“Come on, let’s go!” He took ahold of your hand. “Race you!”

“You can’t race me if you’re holding my hand!” You shrieked in delight. “Stop it!”

He paused, turning around. “Hmm. Well, maybe I don’t want to race you then,” he looked at you with a small smile on his face. “I wanna try something new!”

“Oh?” You asked, seeing the way his eyes lit up with delight. “What is it?”

“I wanna fly! With you!”

Giggling, he turned you around so that your back was facing him. He circled his arms below your armpits.

“Hang on!” He flapped his wings as fast as he could, kicking up a storm of snow around you. To his surprise, he actually managed to lift the two of you off the ground for around 3 feet or so. He wasn’t expecting it to work on his first try, but the two of you really were flying!

Sighing, you turned away from the window.

Happier times, you chuckled mirthlessly.

Isn’t it sad that I’m only remembering them now?

The car screeched to a stop at the front door to the Hawks Hero Agency.

You stepped into the lobby, the fluorescent lights blinding.

It’s the middle of the night, but they don’t seem to mind, you thought. Everyone was bustling around the place like it was normal.

The receptionist had changed since you’d last been here.

She spotted you and hurried over, most likely because of the blood staining your clothes.

“Miss, are you hurt?” She gave you a once-over. “Can I help you?”

You stared at her in shock for a moment. What were you here for again?

“Oh…uh,” you wrung your hands nervously. “I’m here for Hawks.”

Her expression of concern melted away into one of annoyance. “Another fangirl. This one appears to be married too,” she scoffed at the band adorning your left ring finger. “People these days…” she muttered underneath her breath, already hurrying back to her desk, where the phone rang incessantly.

“No. I’m not a fangirl.” You lifted your head. You might be in pain, but damned if you were going to let a stranger strip you of the remaining shreds of your dignity.

“I’m his soulmate.”

The way you said that phrase with such conviction made the lady pause.

“Soulmate?” She questioned. Girls had tried this trick on her before, but…when asked to prove themselves, they merely responded with “oh, it’s just a feeling,” or “I just know it.”

Never once had anyone said this phrase with such confidence.

“Yes.” You shut your eyes, defiantly holding back tears. “You have comms, right? What did he say before the comms died?”

The lady stared back at you, a pang of sorrow shooting its way into her heart. You weren’t joking around, were you?

“I…yes, yes we do. What’s your name, miss?”

You sucked in a deep breath. “(Y/N). (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

She stared at you for another moment, then quietly pulled out her comms.

“He said…” she choked a little. “He said, ‘(Y/N) …I’m sorry.’ We weren’t sure who he was talking about. We assumed it was a civilian he wasn’t able to save,” she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Oh God…”

Quietly, she choked out another question. “Was it…was he talking about…you?”

You didn’t want to reply. You’d heard enough.

The lady didn’t try to stop you as you ran to the elevator, your fingertip pressing the “up” button so hard it bruised.

Quickly looking at the directory, you found his office.

“420.” You choked out a pained laugh. “He always did like messing around with people.”

Collapsing against the corner of the elevator, you wrapped your arms around your knees and lowered your head. You felt so goddamn tired.

Why did it have to be you?

Why couldn’t he break someone else’s heart?

Someone who was stronger?

Someone who could take this in stride and move on?

Why did the universe choose you?

The elevator bell dinged, rousing you from your thoughts. You stood up slowly, a trail of blood staining the place where you once sat.

Crimson, like the trail of feathers he’d (perhaps intentionally) shed during that game of hide and seek.

You buried your face into your hands.

Goddamnit, Keigo! Why does everything have to remind me of you?

You made your way into his office, most likely the messiest of all the top pro-hero offices. Paperwork was scattered everywhere, jackets strewn across the floor. You even saw a shoelace string laying on the carpet next to his desk.

It’s almost as if he’d always expected to come back.

Stepping cautiously over the objects that littered the ground, you came face-to-face with a cabinet next to his desk.

Snowglobes. So many snowglobes.

Snowglobes occupied every shelf of the cabinet, and the glass doors made it easy to examine the contents.

You squinted closely at them. They were all…different angles of the same scene, you realized.

The snow park above your houses.

He’d had snowglobes made.

They immortalized the place where the two of you played all day in the snow.

The place where he first learned how to fly, gliding off the hills like a paraglider.

The place where he’d picked you up and learned how to fly with another person’s life in his hands, hugging you close to his chest, reveling in your warmth.

In the spring, it was the place where he took you on your first picnic date.

The place where the two of you shared your first kiss.

The place where he left you his goodbye note, tucked away under the grounding weight of a boulder you used to lay on, basking in the sun’s warmth.

He’d had 12 snowglobes made. Your lucky number.

12 different angles that showcased the same scenery.

Suddenly, your legs wouldn’t carry your weight anymore. You leaned back into his chair, still smelling faintly of his scent.

How can someone’s scent not change over 13 years?

You closed your eyes, and quickly opened them again when you saw a pile of letters on the corner of the desk.

You weren’t sure why they caught your eye. They weren’t anything special, really. Plain white envelopes addressed in plain black print.

You took a closer look.

That was your name on the envelopes.

You leaned closer, quickly shuffling through them all.

Each and every single one of them was addressed to you.

Each and every single one of them was dated a year apart.

Each and every single one of them was marked for your various addresses over the years, his handwriting steadily improving.

You couldn’t resist your curiosity. Taking a paper cutter, you tore through the seal of the earliest envelope.

A single red feather, beautifully preserved, floated out.

You stared in shock. He…he didn’t forget.

He never forgot.

He just chose not to send it.

Hurriedly opening the remaining envelopes, you acquired more feathers, each fresher than the last.

By the end, you had a pile of 13 crimson feathers, right next to 13 shredded envelopes.

You looked around, confused. Why hadn’t he left a note? Any note?

Did he…did he never write letters?

You knew that you had sent him letters.

Maybe they did throw them out as spam.

Your curiosity piqued, you pulled open drawer after drawer, but none of them held anything of personal importance.

Finally, you came upon the bottom right drawer.

It was locked, you realized.

You carefully place the feathers back in their respective envelopes. Sealing them up once again, you carry them in a stack, making your way downstairs.

The agency workers saw you with the letters in your arms, not sure if they should stop you or not. When you looked to the receptionist and murmured a quiet “thank you”, they stood their ground. If she was okay with you walking away like this, then there shouldn’t be a reason that they wouldn’t be.

The taxi driver who took you here was still waiting outside. Seeing you arrive, he stomped out his cigarette butt and opened the backseat door for you.

“Rough night, miss?” He looked at your back, pity obvious in his expression. “Do you want me to take you to a hospital with that?”

You shook your head. “They can’t fix that. Do you remember the way we came?”

“Aye, yes I do,” he stepped into his own seat. “I’ll take you there right quick, miss. Don’t you worry.”

As you rode back home in silence, you couldn’t stop thinking about the cabinet in Keigo’s office.

The feathers, folded away safely in the envelopes you were holding.

If he never forgot, why did he never reach out?

The car door slamming shook you from your daze. “Miss, you’re back home.”

You stared at the man, realizing that you didn’t have your wallet on you.

“Do you mind waiting a second? I’ll go get my wallet now–”

He shook his head. “I know where that blood came from. See here?” He rolled up his sleeve.

“Got mine when I was 22,” a melancholy smile framed his face. “Rare, right? I never did find out who she was.

But the hospital staff helped me that day. Looked for deaths around my age, and then when I tried to pay ‘em, they refused. Said ‘twas only the right thing to do. Now I finally get to repay the favor. Don’t you go tryna pay me now. Won’t ‘ccept it.”

He leaned back against the hood of his car. When you opened your mouth to object, he merely saluted you, hopped back into the driver’s seat, and drove off into the night.

You turned to your house. The lights were still on inside, meaning your husband was still up. He probably couldn’t sleep, not after what had just happened. You couldn’t blame him.

Stepping inside, you heard muffled sobs coming from the kitchen.

“Masaki?” You leaned on the doorframe. He looked up at your voice.

“(Y/N)?” He rose from the table. “You’re…you’re okay,” he wrapped you in a hug.

You cleared your throat. “…yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you hugged him back.

I’m okay, you tried to convince yourself.

“Where did you go?” He looked at you curiously. Finally seeing the envelopes in your arms, he paused.

“Babe?” He asked softly. “Did you…did you know him?”

You buried your face into his chest. “Yeah…yeah, I did.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked softly.

“Not really…not now…” you replied.

He patted your back lightly. “That’s ok. I understand.”

The rest of the night went by in a blur. The letters were scattered on your nightstand, your husband helping you into the shower. He’s changed the bloody sheets already, but the stains on the mattress were stubborn and refused to come out.

Crimson stains, in the shape of wings.

Days later, some people from the agency stopped by your house.

“Is there a (Y/N) (Y/L/N) at this address?” The receptionist from your earlier encounter knocked on the door.

“Uh, hi. Yeah, that’s me,” you answered, not bothering to change out of your bathrobe. Your complexion had grown waxen, face shallow. Your hair formed an unkempt nest, spiraling around your face.

She gave you a smile, pity etched in her face. It disgusted you, really.

All anyone ever gave you nowadays was pity. Pity cards from your coworkers, although you weren’t sure how the information leaked out. Pitiful glances from your husband, who insisted on doing all the chores around the house.

Pity, pity, pity.

“What is it?” You asked her.

“We have some…documents for you.” She waved over two guys, each lugging a large crate of…paper?

“Wait…all that? For me?” You were confused. There was no way that that bottom drawer, even if all it contained were letters, had that much paper in it.

“Yes, (Y/L/N)-san. It’s all for you.” The men dropped off their crates at your door.

“What’s going on?”

“These were stored in the records house. Hawks filed them. They were all addressed to you, so we felt that this was the proper treatment.”

“We’ll leave you to go through these in your own time.” She started down the steps. Then, as if remembering something suddenly, she paused.

“You know…he was a good man,” she smiled gently. “We all knew he had a secret someone. We just didn’t know who they were. I’m glad he found you. Hero work is dangerous, especially for top heroes like him.

I hope that you find joy in those letters.” She turned back and finished her journey down the steps.

You turned around and looked at the crates.

Found me?

You smiled bitterly, a brittle coldness taking over your heart.

He never really did find me, did he?

Sighing, you sorted through the crates, looking for the ones that were dated the earliest. You carried the oldest set of letters into the bedroom and tore open the first envelope.

Hey, (Y/N). It’s me, Kei.

I hope you haven’t forgotten about me. I mean, I’m not an easy person to forget, I suppose, but it has been a while. Three years, to be exact.

Three years can do a lot to a person.

I should know.

How are you doing? I hope you managed to keep Timothy alive. You were always prone to overwatering him.

I’m not sure how long cacti live, but…if you nurture something, anything can happen, right?

I’m a hero now. I’m sure you know. My debut was broadcasted all over national television. They just can’t resist making themselves look good, can they?

At least now I’m allowed to write. I hope you understand why I haven’t written to you in so long.

I didn’t forget about you. How could I? Even though we were only 15, how could I forget someone like you?

I missed you. I don’t think you understand how much. It felt so empty, living without you by my side. Like…like I wasn’t ever warm enough, even bundled in the tightest blankets. I was always missing you.

Sounds like a curse, eh?

But don’t worry. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I just wanted you to know that.

Yours, Kei.

Ripping open letter after letter, you realized that you held his entire life story in your hands.

Hey chicken. It’s Kei again.

Realized I’ve been treating these letters as a kind of diary. I guess it’s…therapeutic? Even though I know I’ll never send these. I don’t want to put you in danger, you know?

Do you remember when we were kids?

We had all the time in the world to do whatever we wanted.

I miss that time.

Not as much as I miss you though.

I check in on you every so often, but I make sure you never see.

False hope is a dangerous thing. It shatters your soul into pieces, and when you try and piece them back together, it cuts your heart so badly you wish you’d never started.

But, you see, you’re like a drug for me.

I can’t seem to stop myself. No matter how bad it hurts, I…I still come back.

You wouldn’t know, of course.

I suppose there’s a reason it hurts when you stare into the sun.

I’m already broken, yeah? I don’t want you to break with me.

The thing is, I know you’d want to. I know we promised we’d always come back for each other. We promised we’d always be here for each other.

But some promises were meant to be broken.

You can’t be here for me, birdie. You’ll get hurt.

That would hurt me more than anything else, (Y/N).

So for my own safety, and yours…

This is the last time I’ll write to you.

I have to move on, or else those pieces of my soul?

They’re already in splinters, but if I keep going like this, they’ll be nothing more than powder, and I don’t think I could go on like that, yeah?

I love you, forever and always.

Kei.

Ha. Guess what.

What I said in the last letter?

A fucking lie.

I physically. Can’t stop.

The thought of not writing to you breaks me more than the thought of never being with you, and that’s a milestone I never thought I’d be able to pass.

So here I am again.

You’ve already heard my entire life story.

I wish I could be there to hear yours.

I saw you tonight, standing on your balcony. You know, the stars were so bright tonight. Reminded me of your eyes the first time I flew with you around the whole field, yeah?

Sparkling. You never stop sparkling, do you?

You know…do you ever wonder who your soulmate is?

I know that the world is cruel. I know that we don’t know exactly who our soulmates are until one of us dies.

But…do you ever think about it?

Who’s out there, just waiting for you?

Because I do.

And sometimes, when I’m at rock bottom, I’ll imagine that we’re soulmates.

I’ll create scenarios in my head. We’d be happily married. I’d spoon-feed you ice cream.

We’d play tickle wars with my feathers, have pillow fights, binge TV shows.

We’d watch horror movies, and you’d hide your face in my chest the whole time.

But…those scenarios always make me feel worse after I wake up. Because they’re not real.

And I…I so desperately want them to be real.

But you can’t always get what you wish for, yeah?

Going on a big mission soon. Undercover. Cool, right?

You’d be proud of me, I think, if you saw me.

I have to go now. But I’ll come back safe for you, yeah?

I know you won’t wait for me. I want you to wait for me, but…I know it’s not in your best interests. Probably not in mine either.

Sometimes I try and convince myself that it’s okay to be selfish. I want what I want, and you only live once, right?

But then I realize that you’re the one I’d be putting in danger.

And that’s when I realize you can’t ever stay with me.

It’s okay. I’ll watch from afar.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop loving you.

Yours,

Kei.

You put the letter down and rummaged through the second crate, desperately trying to find the last letter that he wrote.

Hey birdie. Long time no see. Ha.

13 years and I still can’t forget about you. Doesn’t seem normal, does it?

I’m convinced that we’re soulmates, but then again, I may have convinced myself. You know…I used to hate the idea of soulmates. Sharing your life with another person, seen as incomplete without them?

Sharing my soul?

Bunch of crap, right? I like making my own decisions. Wasn’t ever much of a rule-stickler. But…you know…I’m starting to warm up to that idea.

But only with you.

And that’s why I’m convinced that we are, in fact, soulmates.

You don’t know how my heart breaks every time I see you. Manual is a good guy. I know he’s treating you well.

That’s the only reason I’m letting you stay married to him, really. If it was anyone else, I would’ve busted their ass.

But…you deserve someone like him. Someone who can give you their all.

Someone who, if you date them…they won’t lead you into danger.

Soulmates are a finicky concept, yeah?

So…I guess we’ll never know ‘till one of us dies.

Yours,

Kei.

Epilogue

Rainy winter days were the saddest days of the year.

Especially today.

Strolling through the park, you held a black umbrella in one hand and clutched a glass case tightly in the other.

You stopped in front of a marble headstone.

“Hey there,” your voice cracked.

“Miss me?”

A whistling wind, scattering powdered snow and frozen rain across the landscape, was your only answer.

“Kei, I–” You collapsed onto your knees, uncaring of whether or not the cold would seep in. It couldn’t get colder than your soul now, anyways.

“I…I didn’t go to your funeral.” Tears rolled down your cheeks, leaving a silvery sheen in their wake. “There were too many people and I…I couldn’t handle it.”

“But…Kei…” You choked out an ugly sob. “Why didn’t you send me the fucking letters?”

“I don’t care how dangerous your work was. You can’t get anywhere without taking risks in life, Kei!” You screamed at the marble façade, willing it to crumble.

“You can’t–”

“You can’t make my decisions for me!”

“I should be the one who gets to choose who I love!”

Your screams attracted the attention of several bystanders, who quickly averted their eyes and walked away when they saw your distraught state.

“You shouldn’t have tried to choose for me!”

“And now–”

“You’re dead, Kei! What am I supposed to do now?” Your tears pooled on the frozen ground, marking little dents in the snow.

You slammed your fists into the ground, the glass case in your hand cracking.

Another ugly sob made its way out.

“Kei–” you whimpered.

The glass shattered, splintering into thousands of tiny pieces, each fragment glittering like diamonds.

Slivers found their way into your palm.

Crimson blood, the color of the worn-out feather freed from its enclosure, splattered the snow-white ground.

“Kei,” you whispered, carefully placing the feather on top of the chiseled marble.

“Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy.”

Masterlist

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downtonabbeyrevisited · 3 years

Text

Season Two Episode Two

Following a typically chaotic opener, Episode Two of Season Two strikes a far more sombre tone. The arrival of Henry Lang as Robert’s valet brings the first of this episode’s three plot points that address the impact of WW1 on the mental health of its soldiers. There is nothing funny to say about either shell-shock or suicidal ideation both of which are vast, complex issues that, for my money, Downton Abbey isn’t the vehicle explore in (because they require more time and depth than the pace of the plot in Season Two affords) and it certainly isn’t my place to make light of them in this rather irreverent corner of the internet. So I’m going to have a go at treading a fine line here. Forgive me if I stumble.

Lang is clearly in the grips of something awful and yet in an attempt to avoid the indignity of having maids in the dining room, he is bumped up to footman duty. He struggles throughout, culminating in him depositing his cargo on Edith’s dress. Mrs O’Brein has firmly taken Lang under her wing, recognising that he is struggling and offers him assurance and comfort that she has never gifted to Thomas.

Across the Village, Lieutenant Edward Courtenay is in the hospital having been blinded by gas. The use of gas (both chlorine and mustard) had a devastating impact on soldiers in WW1 but was also the root of the development of Zyklon B. Frtiz Haber, a German Jewish chemist, enabled chlorine gas to be used a weapon in WW1 and his research was later developed into the Zyklon process which was used by the Nazis to murder millions, including his own family. This is only one of a dizzying number of appalling ironies to be found in the World Wars but as I said last episode, I’m not a military historian so I’m going to leave it there. Edward had plans to return to the country after his graduation from Oxford to pursue the simple life (although one gets the feeling that his idea of the pursuit of a simple life will still be one that is very well upholstered). Thomas has taken it upon himself to read Edward’s letters to him and together with Sybil is helping him to adjust to living life with a different set of parameters. But growing pressure on the hospital’s limited capacity means that he is to be transferred elsewhere. All three voice their dissent at varying volumes to Major Clarkson who falls back on the very real backlog of wounded men. After Edward has died, Major Clarkson, Isobel and Sybil talk about a renewed need for the Abbey to become a convalescent home, an idea that has been bubbling under the surface for a while now. Meanwhile, Thomas has been left on his own to process both Edward’s death and the implications of witnessing a lack of support given by his own physician to those with depression.

The usually reliably jovial Mrs Patmore also has a more somber episode with her pursuit for the truth about the death of her nephew Archie. Robert finds that he has been shot for cowardice. Not only does this mean that her family is in mourning but they will now have to navigate the stigma and undue shame that came with having a relative die in this way. So entrenched in British life was the derision levelled at those who were shot for cowardice or desertion that it was only in 2006 that pardons were offered by Britain for 309 of those that were executed by firing squad during WW1. I know I said I’d leave it there with the military history, but that felt like an important bit of context.

We are now in 1917 and Matthew is still in the same trench that he was in 1916 (a detail I hadn’t actually noticed until I got the screen cap for this) so it looks like his strategy of downing tools mid-fight and continuously popping back to Blighty for important plot developments isn’t really paying dividends. Perhaps the addition of William to the ranks will help him? William certainly seems to think so and if the speed at which he moves through the various stages of his ‘relationship’ with Daisy is any indication of his tactical prowess, the British Front will not only be well within Germany’s borders but will be breathing down Russia’s neck in a fortnight. In any other episode, this would certainly get the award for oddest relationship dynamic but Sir Richard Carlisle exists.

Sir Richard makes his debut at Downton, having been introduced in name only in the previous episode. He and Mary met at Cliveden which is a regular haunt of mine, giving me hope that one day I too will from a strategic alliance with a newspaper magnate. He may know how to talk his way around a boardroom but he is lacking in the sartorial department. Whilst Sir Richard manages to avoid catching fire in his tweed, Lavinia is not free from the heat as he threatens her with his connection to her uncle. He may not know much about navigating the niceties of Downton, but at least he has cottoned on to the fact that any major disagreement should occur under a specific tree. Whilst Mary’s signature move is weeping into her gloves, Sir Richard’s is grabbing women by the forearm. A female friend of mine told me that one of her favourite things about the pandemic and the compulsion to keep 2m away from anyone (and not just emotionally) is that she has not been ’steered’ by a male hand on her lower back since 2019. It turns out that she can enter and exit rooms just fine on her own and I get the impression that Lavinia could get the gist of Sir Richard’s rage without the vice like grip of a man probably about twice her age.

Twinned with the ’tree of emotional conflict’, the ‘platform of romantic uncertainty’ provides the backdrop for Sir Richard’s proposal of marriage to Mary which is a declaration that really feels like it should come with a series of well-formatted charts. Mary’s heart, however, is still very much with Cousin Matthew. After being counselled by Carson in a type of conversation I cannot imagine her ever having with her father, she is on the verge of coming clean with Matthew. But in the second round of Lavinia vs. Mary, Lavinia declares that she ‘could not go on living’ without Matthew and Mary winds her neck in.

Also having a romantic entanglement this episode is Edith. Drake, previously of dropsy fame, has lost his farm hands and Edith turns up to offer her help in a wildly unsuitable trouser and heeled boot combo. But she soon gets down to it by pulling up a tree stump and flirting in a barn whilst a rather lovely border collie looks on (I’m currently trying to talk myself out of getting a border collie and this incident has done nothing to help things). After showing Drake that she can drink from a bottle like literally every single other human on the planet, the two share a kiss and some highly awkward dialogue that only slightly resembles ‘Carry on Downton’.

Whilst Edith is more than happy to crack on in a barn, Mr Molesley is much more backwards about coming forwards. Apparently having predicted the creation of ‘The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society’, he figures that a book is the perfect kindling for romance when you exist in a glossy depiction of the past. Sadly neither Elizabeth nor her German garden can lure Anna from Bates who is fast shaping up to be schrodinger’s boyfriend. Anna proceeds to make some odd analogy where she compares Mr Bates to her moon-based child, revealing a rather unhealthy amount of codependency in that particular relationship.

Romantic declaration of the moment

Again, it feels like anyone but Sybil and Branson should get this but I am an agent of chaos and here we are. Branson defends Sybil’s will to work and has ample opportunity to see her shine in her chosen field. The admission that she will not be returning to her old life is a little chink of light that Branson basks in.

Expressive eyebrow of the week

I nominate Carson’s entire face when he realises that he has taken on too much and goes an impressive shade of red. As Carson frets about spoons, sauce, and something I can’t quite fathom, he starts to resemble a man who is re-arranging the deckchairs on the Titanic. Carson’s battle to get a cork out of a bottle and knocking into chairs is a warm up to his rather dramatic collapse which is accompanied by a pretty disturbing groan. Sybil springs to action and he is soon efficiently ensconced in his own quarters.

Wait, what?

“I got a lot done on the train” Clearly Richard was on a train that was unencumbered with the wifi issues that plague the Pendolino.

“It takes a good deal more than that to shock me.” Mary’s shock-o-meter is a pretty odd instrument. It is unresponsive to corpses of diplomats but goes into absolute meltdown at the notion that she might have to live in a cottage.

“Let's hope my reputation will survive it.” I’ve not checked (and I categorically never will) but I would put money on the fact that someone has created a rarepair out of this.

“How can Matthew have chosen that little blonde piece?” Is Lavinia blonde? Women’s hair is not really my forte but I would have thought she was more akin to Tim Minchin than 1998 Justin Timberlake.

“I believe in this war. I believe in what we are fighting for.” William seems to have a better grip on what all of this is about than I ever did in high school history. The ‘A’ that eluded me is heading his way.

“I thought he might've died for love of you.” How I love snipey Thomas. It’s good to have him back. To borrow a quote from Bottas (another man who is currently living a life in which his destiny is his own demise) ‘traditions’.

“Fold it in, don’t slap it” The more season two goes on, the more I think that Moira is just an amalgamation of some choice elements of Julian’s kingdom.

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grittyreadsfic · 3 years

Note

do u have fic recs that are relatively long? i’m going on a trip and need to kill a loooot of time. preferably no tknp if possible.

*cracks knuckles*

oh hell yeah i do-some of which are actually queued up to post soon, so normally i wouldn't include them since i try not to double rec but honestly they're all too good not to mention so!

i also recently did a long fic rec list but honestly i love to share my opinion (i'm also gonna spare you me rereccing my entire mcstrome rec list since i've been on a big kick for them lately, but the next next one, burn the straw house down, i've never been a natural (all i do is try try try) are all 35K-80k and incredible)

i think the shortest fic i specifically rec on here is maybe 32k, and the longest is 130k, and i tried to give you some variety of pairings, teams, and overall vibes, but i promise they're all great!

i'll know it at the hook by lotts is the ever iconic zach hyman/willy nylander enemies to benefits to boyfriends fic that i reread with an embarrassing frequency. there's also a very lovely podfic by annapods if you like audio formats (i'll also add that filtering their fics by word count gives you SO many phenomenal options, they're one of my favorite writers of all times and they have a handful of different pairings in fics that have at least 15-20k)

there was an old lady who lived in a shoe (series) by shoshanah-ben-hohim is a series, but you can honestly skip the shorter fics and just read the two bigs ones (like 70k and 130k each) if you're not vibing with them while traveling. it's sid/geno and alex galchenyuk/olli maatta, but it's about a handful of the russian players smuggling children out of the country for safety. it's some pretty heavy stuff, but honestly the best fics i've read, well, ever. if they're not your usual thing i really recommend you give them a try

slip under the tongue into translation by lighthousetowers is one of the all time best leon draisaitl/matthew tkachuk fics-the pacing and the evolution of their relationship is so perfectly executed and feels so organic, and it's as much of a love letter to language as it is a love story in general, and it's just so wonderful

here there be dragons by theundiagnosable is actually...not fic? it's orginally hockey fiction, so it's a calgary flames team made up of entirely ocs, but theundiagnosable is THE hrpf writer as far as i'm concerned, and the story is so so so wonderful, just a great look at found family and mental health and finding where you belong, and i really think it's worth the read

yours through endless time by symphony7inamajor ( @symphony7inamajor ) is a kyle connor/mark scheifele regency au that is just. so delightful and full of emotion and twists and everything that i, an avid fan of jane austen and historical romance, absolutely adore about the genre

sure thing by bitter_leaf ( @dylancozns ) is an absolute gem of a nate bastian/mikey mcleod fake dating au. the trope is a bit of a twist in it's execution, and it's just. everything good about fake dating, about friends to lovers, about miscommunication, it does perfectly and wonderfully, and i cannot stress enough how much i love it

the not so thrilling life of succulents by sheesusnat is the brock boeser/morgan reilly fwb fic you didn't know you needed. it's charming and fun and the author makes the pairing work in a way i never knew they could

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wickedgamesoyaoya · 3 years

Note

Hi Jan🖤 For the 900 follower event, can I request a Horror piece with Tendou. Quote 13 please in written format👉🏻👈🏻

Thanks love 🥺

TW: Murder & Possessiveness!

Children are taught at a young age to ridicule those who do not fit into the quixotic mold designed by society. It has become a checklist of sorts, and if one box remains empty – it is as if the entire person is flawed. Those who adorn facial features that do not conform to the idealistic beauty standards are ostracized – shamed for not meeting the unrealistic standards bestowed upon them at birth. The bullied are taught to despise themselves – and it is that self hatred that blooms into something quite terrible.

You see, people are not born monsters – they are merely products of their environment. And so, the innocent blood that is shed by the supposed ‘monsters’ cannot be attributed to a single person, no. Responsibility should be ascribed to those who have created the monster – not the monster itself.

It was your overwhelming hatred towards society that drew you to the ‘guess monster’ at Shiratorizawa Academy. Tendou Satori, both adored and despised by his colleagues, was under the impression that he was the monster that mothers warned their children about. To others his features were ghastly – repulsive even. But to you… he was the closest thing to an angel. Your interest in the volleyball player increased the more you observed him, but what you craved from him was conversation… to taste his lips… and to claim him as your own. Love gnawed at your heart every time he slipped away from your vision. You wanted him so damn badly and yet you could not approach him. Not as you were.

Despite your incompatibility with the male, one day you were overcome by the need to destroy the distance that existed between you. In an impulsive move, you approached the red head during lunch, refusing to allow another minute to be wasted.

“Hello Satori.” The greeting was purred out seductively as you trailed your fingers down the fabric of your skirt, pretending to smooth out any wrinkles.

“Oh hi!” Astonishment crossed his visage when he realized who was addressing him. He could barely believe that the most popular girl in school was here – at his locker, speaking with him. It was almost too good to be true. Was he being pranked? A cautious glance was then tossed over his shoulder, he expected to discover a camera man or some snickering females. But there was no one. “How can I help you?” The question was filled with cheer, and the way his eyebrows raised with his smile twisted a knot in your stomach.

He was smiling at you…just for you.

“Go out with me.” The command fell from your plush lips before you could second guess yourself. Confidence shimmered in your eyes as you rocked yourself onto your toes. The action granted you additional height, limiting the distance between your face and his.

There was no way he would reject you, right?

“Are you sure you want to go out with me?” A bandaged finger was pointed at his chest, adding to the inquiry. He must have misheard you. Maybe you wanted him to help you with Wakatoshi? That would make far more sense.

“Yes, why else would I go out of my way to see you, my sweet Satori? You’ve had my attention for awhile now. I was just too shy to approach you.” You elected to articulate the explanation slowly, with additional emphasis on his name.

The middle blocker found himself entranced by your voice, and the flirtatious bat of your lashes had banished the concerns he held originally when you approached him. The poor soul, so desperate for love… he should have been more cautious. He should have sensed the danger that would come packaged in a relationship with you.

But he didn’t. At least, not until it was too late.

The beginning of your relationship with Tendou was filled with exploration. Your desires were poured out in one stroke, and he complied with your every request. Within weeks you were exposed to everything precious to him – to his weaknesses and strengths. The more you learned, the greedier you became. He consumed your every thought, and soon love became intertwined with obsession.

Now, you could handle his commitment to volleyball. In fact, you altered your own schedule to match with his – attending every game and practice. Watching your boyfriend destroy the confidence of the opposing team flooded you in exhilaration. You derived the strangest pleasure each time he successfully blocked the opposition. Maybe it was merely happiness that increased your heartrate. Or maybe it was something else all together.

It was months into your relationship when you realized his love for you would not match yours – no, not as you were. Luckily enough, an opportunity presented itself to you. The arrival of a new student served as the answer to your prayer. A beautiful first year student who supposedly found interest in your beloved boyfriend.

“Oh, you have received another love letter, my darling? How popular you have become.” The bitterness hanging onto your tongue was disguised as humour. Adding to your façade, you gently skid your fingers across his cheek.

“Yeah! I guess so.” Scratching his head, the red head furrowed his brows at the envelope in his grasp. “I just throw them out usually. But they keep on comin’.” He lifted his shoulders into a shrug, aiming to showcase his indifference towards his secret admirer. He knew how jealous you could become and was hoping to lessen your insecurity. Not that it worked.

“Mhmm. Aren’t I ever so lucky to have you all to myself?” Capturing his cheeks on either side with your fingers, you guided his face to yours, to apply a rough kiss to his mouth.

You didn’t blame him at all for your insecurity, it was your fault. Love requires change, and you have stayed the same. The problem wasn’t him; it was you.

When Tendou received a message to meet you outside after dark, he presumed you were in need of some affection and was eager to satisfy you. However, the location point for your meeting plagued him with concern. It was ten at night – why the hell were you at a graveyard?

It took him fifteen minutes to reach the destination, and an additional five to find you inside the cemetery. From his original position he could only make out your figure from behind, but as he proceeded closer, his heart sunk into his stomach.

“Hi babe. Are you doin’ okay?” The tremors in his voice matched the fear alarming inside of his head.

Excitement bubbled to life inside of your core as you spun around to greet your boyfriend. The sight was enough to bring the volleyball player to his knees, though a smile remained etched into his features. Paralyzed, Tendou stared at his girlfriend, wondering how he got it so damn wrong.

“Peachy, honey. I am peachy.” Blood decorated the blade within your grasp and laying at your feet was a limp body. The messy coils of the lifeless body were drenched in crimson.

It almost looked like paint.

The thought brought a hysterical whimper to sound within his throat.

How strange that he spent his entire life under the impression that he was the monster written about in fairytales. Little did the world know that monsters did not look like him. No, the true monsters were dressed in plain clothes, with angelic features that could fool God himself.

“Baby, I’ve changed for you. Don’t you see? You’re no longer alone. We’re both monsters.” Tossing the weapon aside casually, you stepped closer to him before kneeling down to capture his hands in yours.

“I don’t understand…” A pained smile stretched across his mouth as his eyes dropped to the sticky substance now transferring to his skin. Deranged in your own illusions, you found his expression to be quite elegant under the moon’s blessing.

“You finally see me, my love. Ah. It feels so good to be seen.” Streams of liquid flushed your cheeks. The adrenaline pumping through your veins had placed you on a high that you could not get enough of.

“You’ll never be alone now, my sweet Satori. It’s you and me forever.”

A/N: cliffhanger because I want ya’ll to feel uncomfy LMAO Hope you liked this though!

General taglist: @haikyuufairy @newfriendjen @lvoejimin @moonlightaangel @gyozaaaaa @byun-nies @thevillagehiddenintheinternet @graykageyama @bloody-bella @amberalisa @yourstarvic @swoonhui @rajablast @chocolaterumble

#tw murder #tendou angst #tendou x you #tendou x y/n #tendou x reader #tendou fic #haikyuu imagines #storytime with jan ❤️

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lnarizakis · 4 years

Text

if ghosts could even love

masterlist

pairing: yamaguchi tadashi x fem!reader x tsukishima kei

foreword: hi! this piece was definitely out of my comfort zone, but really fun to write! this is an angsty guardian angel au. it is another attempt at angst since the only thing i’m pretty much decent at is fluff. so here i am, continuing to practice angst! this is also one of my first attempts at “aesthetic formatting,” so please go easy on me, hahah. thank you to @doughnuts-5ever for beta-reading! i hope you enjoy!!

word count: 1.6k

look out for: themes referring to death, mentions of suicide and manga spoilers, unrequited love, angst

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Warm air hit his face, and he was instantly met with a blinding light that shines even through his eyelids that he has to squeeze his eyes more shut than they already were. He couldn’t breathe, but he felt as free as an angel flying in the sky. Perhaps he was one. It seemed like a dream—to be up in the heavens, lying on the clouds; but when he opened his eyes ever so slowly, the pink and white and purple and yellow surrounding him like a flurry made him realize that he most definitely was not on Earth, but maybe, just maybe, he was in Heaven.

“Welcome to Heaven,” a voice boomed in his head, but it didn’t ring in his ears, shaking his being like all his mortal fears did when he was still alive. He’s...dead? But his soul felt so alive, he couldn’t possibly fathom that he was actually dead.

“Your good intentions on Earth did not go unnoticed,” the voice rang again. He looked around for the source of the message, but all he could find within the vast space of clouds and sky was himself— or, at least, what he thought was himself. He attempted to look down at his feet, but there were no feet in sight. It was just his soul, the empty ghost of what was once a former pinch server, captain, student, and best friend. “You are allowed to look over one person on earth for the rest of their life. You must have choose wisely; you are to watch over this person for the rest of your life. Who shall you choose?”

Without hesitation, he spoke out loud (if ghosts could even talk), “My best friend, Tsukishima Kei.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

A flurry of bright colors covered his entire vision, and they turned darker and darker as they mixed with one another. The blizzard vanished before him, and he stood in front of his best friend, who sat at the edge of his bed. The lights of his bedroom were turned off, and through the closed blinds of the single window he could see that it was nighttime.

The ghost of a former friend leapt towards Tsukishima, in an attempt to hug him, but passed through his body like the spirit he was. There was certainly no way he could make contact with him at all. Tsukishima leaned forward, hands covering his face to mask his pained expression. As he groaned into his palms, the door to his bedroom slowly creaked open, revealing the shadowed figure of his older brother.

“Kei, are you okay?” He made his way towards his younger brother, only to be stopped by a stern “Leave.” Kei didn’t even turn around to look at his brother’s retreating figure.

“Tsukki, I’m right here,” the ghost called out. He was met with no reply—he was only a soul, after all. Tsukishima coudn’t possibly hear him. From behind his bedroom door, both Kei and the ghost could hear the older brother tell Kei that Tadashi’s—whoever that was—family had planned for his funeral to be the following week. A funeral? The soul made his way to reside next to Tsukishima’s hunched form, comforting him in any way he could.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

On the day of the funeral, Tsukishima showed up in a loose black suit and a tie. His head hung low, not wanting to partake in any second of this moment. The ghost thought he looked nice. As he made his way towards his best friend’s grave, Tsukishima made eye contact with a girl around his age whose tears for the deceased had already stained her cheeks for everyone to see. She turned towards Tsukishima, and the spirit who accompanied him felt a pang of familiarity in all the corners of his otherworldly body. Something about her just looked so, so familiar. Her name was on the tip of his tongue (if ghosts could even have tongues). There was no way for him to remember who she was.

“Hi, (L/N),” Tsukishima said, walking towards the girl. She wrapped her arms around his torso, but he made no movement of hugging her back. She sobbed into his chest, heaving out words she didn’t know she was saying. From behind the tear-stained girl, the mother of whom the ghost suspected was Tadashi joined the two and held out an envelope in front of Tsukishima.

“It’s for you,” she commented, as Tsukishima accepted the letter. The girl, whose name the ghost learned was (L/N), let go of her hold on Tsukishima and stood by him, watching him open the letter. He pulled out a sheet of paper that looked like it was impulsively ripped out of a math notebook on a lonely Thursday night. The handwriting looked familiar to the ghost, as if he had written out the message himself, but he had no memory of writing out a depressing suicide note like that. Tsukishima’s eyes slowly scanned the letter in front of him, but it was hard to read the ink towards the bottom of the paper that began to mix with the salty tears that dropped from his chin.

(L/N) held out her own letter, telling Tsukishima that she received one from him as well. She allowed him to read it, and the contents of it shocked him. His eyes widened, not believing a single thing Tadashi had written or her. The ghost’s best friend turned towards (L/N), who still looked ethereal as ever despite her puffy eyes and ruined makeup. She choked back a sob as she nodded, squeezing her eyes shut to keep more tears from letting out. Tsukishima looked at the ground, mumbling out, “I never knew.”

She said it was okay.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Several days later, it seemed like Tsukishima’s life returned to normal. In fact, it seemed livelier than usual, like an array of colors lit up his whole world. Maybe it was because he started dating (L/N), whom the ghost had come to know as (Y/N), brightening up his darkened canvas with the new warm colors in his life. Maybe dating her was his way of coping with his loss.

It hurt the ghost terribly, for her beauty had stirred his ghostly heart to begin beating once again. The ghost could see the way her laugh brought shades of yellow into Tsukishima’s life, and how her smile shined a pure white wherever she went. Whenever she hugged Tsukishima from behind to surprise him, or whenever she grabbed both of his hands to show him her support, shades of pink and red were splattered onto the canvas of his life. It seemed to the ghost that because of his death, a new beginning came for Tsukishima.

New feelings (if ghosts could even produce the merest of feelings) also rose within the ghost himself as he too began to fall in love with (Y/N). These feelings, though, were so familiar despite only having known her for several days; it was like he had been in love with her before. He felt so at home with these feelings—it was like falling in love with her was what he had always wanted; what he had longed for as an empty soul.

What the ghost had come to realize was that he was Tadashi and that he used to love (Y/N) while he was alive. He didn’t know what to do with this new information—or perhaps old information, and that he was to inevitably learn this—but he knew what to make of it. Tadashi had to understand that he never told (Y/N) how he felt, resulting in these feelings of his still burning alive even after his death on Earth.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

(Y/N) clung to Tsukishima’s side just like how a similar someone did to him while he was still alive. It was almost like she was a replacement for him. She was so constantly around him that it seemed like Tadashi was not only watching over Tsukishima, but also (Y/N). He observed her every quirk and learned all of her expressions. Tadashi knew just how in love with Tsukishima (Y/N) was, but the boyfriend himself couldn’t see it.

Tadashi could vividly remember one rainy Thursday afternoon, an instance in which he was so pained to be so in love yet so out of reach for (Y/N). Through the open blinds of the one window of his bedroom he could probably count each rain droplet that was stuck to the glass in the time the two were cuddled up on Tsukishima’s bed. He was fast asleep, tired out of his mind from the busy morning he had. (Y/N), though, was awake but slowly falling into a deep slumber in the warmth of his arms. Tadashi could remember her eyes—oh, her eyes—that were so in love with the boy in front of her, and he knows that if he were still alive he could give her the same kind of affection that she gave him. It hurt knowing, and it hurt that he could only imagine.

It hurt Tadashi’s soul seeing (Y/N) so in love with Tsukishima. It hurt knowing that he was in love with his best friend’s girlfriend. It hurt how he could never tell (Y/N) he loved her (if ghosts could even fall in love). Even while he was still alive. Oh, how he loved her while hew as alive. She made him feel as free as a bird up in the sky and as alive as a raging fire whose sparks crackled and flamed up in the night. It was so ironic how now, as an angel so free up in the heavens, he felt trapped inside a cage. Trapped, because he could never escape the longing he felt of livign someone who could never love him back, and the suffocation he felt knowing that he could definitely treat her better.

Tadashi laughed (if ghosts could even laugh). How selfish.

#haikyuuwritersnet #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #tsukishima kei #tsukishima #kei tsukishima #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei x reader #kei tsukishima x reader #yamaguchi tadashi #yamaguchi #tadashi yamaguchi #yamaguchi x reader #yamaguchi tadashi x reader #tadashi yamaguchi x reader #ummm so yeah sorry i killed yamaguchi :(#if there are some parts u would like me to clear up lmk #cadekagi

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charmedseoull · 3 years

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Greta Garbo and Uemura Naomi in Imprints (For the Boys in the Back) by Anna(arctic_grey)

I am entirely in love with the writing of this fanfic. This could be called a commentary or an analysis or an essay, but I don’t entirely give a damn about the specifications. Fuck it, this is a love letter, an appreciation, and understanding of Imprints (For the Boys in the Back) by Anna (arctic_grey). I wanted to leave a comment on their works, but a comment would not do justice to the absolute love and adoration I have for their writing. Thus, I chose to do this instead. Enjoy.

This analysis is a part of Charmedseoul’s Slice of Namjin side project, which documents Namjin (Kim Namjoon x Kim Seokjin) fanfiction with unique writing styles and complex themes. You can find Imprints and Magnitude’s Fanlore page here.

Disclaimer: This is a 18+ work with adult content such as sexual activity. You are responsible for the content you consume, please be aware of that. This analysis contains spoilers for the work as well.

Here are the trigger warnings the author provides: depression and mental health issues, few brief references to suicidal thoughts, discussions of infidelity, self-destructive behavior, consensual sex under influence.

Imprints (For the Boys in the Back) begins with struggling actor Kim Seokjin and his self-destructive behaviors after a messy breakup. He ends up with a one night stand that grows into something more with Kim Namjoon, a successful producer in South Korea. The story follows Jin’s personal growth and their budding fuck-buddies turned boyfriends relationship.

Now presenting the analysis of the use of historical figures Greta Garbo and Uemura Naomi in Anna(arctic_grey)’s work Imprints (For the Boys in the Back):

In the first chapter of “Imprints (For the Boys in the Back)”, Anna introduces the two historical figures Greta Garbo and Uemura Naomi to reflect the main characters of Kim Seokjin and Kim Namjoon. They each represent the two main characters’ initial desires and hopes for the future, but as the story progresses these things change. Greta Garbo and Uemura Naomi are Kim Seokjin and Kim Namjoon’s beginnings. Through their relationship, these two characters change each other and alter the course of their lives. They reject the comfort of Garbo and Naomi for the comfort of each other, definitively defying what they believed in the beginning of the series. The Imprints and Magnitude series offers alternatives to their lives and gives a realistic resolution that is able to resonate with any reader who has felt broken or lost. Imprints and Magnitude hears them.

Greta Garbo: Lavish, glamorous, compelling, and renowned. She was one of the greatest motion picture actors of the 1920s and ‘30s with her subtlety and restraint. Garbo carried an air of sophistication and richness that was insatiably desired by the public.

Greta Garbo is everything Jin wants to be at the beginning: sophisticated, surrounded by wealth, and explicitly independent. However, Jin craves affection and partnership. For him to live a life without a partner after the pain of his past relationship would doom him to misery. Jin is in pain. He is broken, a shattered glass mirror with an empty reflection that needs its pieces picked back up and glued together. He rejects his needs because they’re complicated. He was hurt deeply by someone he trusted. To fix all of that takes so much more than a comforting word or reassuring hug, it takes consistent gentle and attentive attention which many do not care enough to give. Even though he’s told his other friends about his pain, he’s still closed off. He puts up barriers and only Namjoon attempts to break those down with that consistent, gentle and attentive attention. He is the only one whose patience does not run thin. Jin tries so desperately to be like Greta Garbo, completely unbothered by the world and his wants. He isn’t Greta Garbo though. He’s Kim Seokjin. He needs to heal and at the beginning of the story, readers themselves aren’t acutely aware of that.

Uemura Naomi: Ambitious, independent, driven, and well-loved. He was one of the greatest Japanese adventurers as he became the first man to reach some of the Earth’s most remote places alone. Naomi scaled mountains and traveled relentlessly. When he was not adventuring, he was giving public lectures and sharing his warm personality with the world.

In the beginning of Imprints, readers aren’t too aware of who Namjoon is. The story is told from Jin’s point of view where he promptly calls Namjoon an asshole after their first rendezvous. Readers do get to know Namjoon better throughout the story though, catching on small quirks about him that they grow to love. Namjoon is like Uemura Naomi with the goal to do work, in his chosen field, by himself. Namjoon is already successful from the song “Hey Cutie” and grows more successful as he produces more music. He’s content with his success, focusing on it. Jin changes that. Jin enters Namjoon’s life suddenly, broken and confused about love. Namjoon is no savior. He had no intention to change Jin, only adding his own experiences and healing to the conversation. Unlike Jin, who grew resentful and emotionally unstable due to his breakup, Namjoon grew from it as a person. He came to accept what happened and let go of his past relationship. He’s then able to provide Jin a push to grow, diverting from his own path of solo adventures like Uemura Naomi. Namjoon departs from the role he was playing in his life as a mountain man and begins a path with Jin.

Each of these historical figures were known for being alone. Garbo closed herself off from the public and lived her life lavishly without ever marrying. Naomi scaled entire mountains and landscapes by himself, capable of accomplishing solo ventures deemed impossible. Both Namjoon and Seokjin were alone in the beginning of Imprints (For the Boys in the Back), but then they found each other and departed from their associations with these historical figures. They’re not alone anymore. They’re together and meant to be together. They’re healing.

Seokjin and Namjoon are no longer Greta and Uemura. They aren’t these lonely figures who found great success by themselves then died alone. (There is nothing wrong with dying alone by the way.) They’re human and need other people. It’s a startling refreshing take on love and relationships using a set up with historical figures. The message hits all the more with the context behind who these two were.

And that’s why I love it.

Author’s Note:

The Imprints and Magnitude fanfiction series, written by an author who had no intention to ever be documented, analyzed, or a part of this side project is one of my favorite works in both professional and casual literature. It’s an automatic recommendation to any who ask. Its writing style flows easily off the paper, detailed and emotional and incredibly personal. In literature stuffed with attempts to mean something, Imprints and Magnitude attempts no grand pompous message. It’s simple. It excels in its meaning whether intentional or not. I love works like that. I love works that feel intimate with the author’s closest thoughts. I love works where an author bleeds into the words and pages. It absorbs emotions in a raw way that can not be replicated in professional published works often. That is because published works have limitations. They have deadlines and people to make happy with the proper words and formats. Fanfiction doesn’t do that. Fanfiction is free to do what it wants. There are no restraints. It satisfies my intense craving for a work unleashed and unedited by publishers and institutions. It satisfies my intense longing for literature that’s different. I just want one person’s closest and deepest thoughts stitched together with words and phrases and sentences and paragraphs and laid bare for the world. Imprints and Magnitude gives me all of that and a cute love story with a message that sticks to me like gum. This series retaught love, relationships, and letting go to me. I needed that, especially as I continue to grow older. Thank you to the most wonderful Anna for being the one thing I’ve wanted for so long.

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#bts #bangtan sonyeondan #imprints (for the boys in the back)#imprints (for the boys in the back) by anna(arctic_grey)#fanfiction #fanfiction analysis #analysis #ao3

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thewebcomicsreview · 4 years

Photo

It’s Homestuck’s birthday, which means another Homestuck 2 update.

Man, trying to have something exciting for Homestuck fans happen on 4/13 has been really slick marketing, because it gets everyone excited and you see an increase in fanart. I couldn’t tell you what, say, Penny Arcade or Gunnerkrigg Court’s anniversaries were, but every Homestuck fan knows the importance of 413 because it’s built into the story itself.

Anyway, here’s Janey, and here’s Jake wearing a shirt that you can either buy now or will be able to buy soon. Marketing.

JANE: Assassinations, open warfare, so-called "revolution," and where has everyone gone? JANE: They've ABANDONED me. They've taken our precious son. And now...

That’s not really true, Jane. Your friends haven’t abandoned you while people try to kill you! Your friends are also actively trying to kill you!

It’s a decent joke, but how the hell are Steven King novels even a thing on this planet? Maybe Rose had some.

DIRK: I'm slurping this shit up like it's a piping hot bowl of udon. DIRK: Itadakimasu.

Homestuck 2′s Dirk is dramatically more of a filthy fucking weeb than Dirk was in the original Homestuck, and that’s a high fucking bar.

JANE: Two can play at the hostage game. That loathsome daughter of theirs should fit the bill nicely. JANE: Then those naughty rebels will cease this unruly tantrum, and do what they are told.

This is another instance of Homestuck 2 sanding down the whole “civil war” thing that I didn’t even think about until they called attention to it. Vrissy is not only a member of the rebellion, her adoptive parents are commanders who the God-Empress of Mankind personally hates, and she just kind of casually went to human high school with her only concern being the dead clown and apparently she is only now in any danger.

Oh, this is cool! A wide panel with two separate dialogs underneath! I had to admit I was kind of hoping for an anniversary [S], but I’m happy with a twist on the standard format. It looks nicer than the x2 updates from Homestuck 1, too.

VRISKA: 8ecause there's no way I'm saying Harry Anderson every time. That's like... 8 whole letters too long. VRISKA: From now on your name is just Harry. HARRY: o... k?

Hm. First Vriska Classic renames the new Vriska to Vrissy, and now Harry Anderson has been demoted to Harry. I sense a pattern, and suspect “Tavros Crocker” will not be called such much longer.

Also, stealing people’s names like that seems very Thief of Light-y, but let’s not get into that just now, even if the last update hinted at a connection between Harry and Heart, which is all about identity. I’m doing this liveblog during my lunch break no time for classpect shit.

VRISKA: If I had to 8et, I'd say you're the thing that pup8ed after a 8ar8aric act of human sexual intercourse 8etween John and some Lalonde or other. HARRY: ok. HARRY: ew.

Hm. Vriska knows Harry’s last name is Egbert, but it’s interesting that she assumes his mom is a Lalonde and not one of the literal planet full of human women, but no one in Homestuck seems to care about the NPC humans so it’s a safe bet. Also I don’t like how hard we’re pushing the line that Harry came out of a person’s vagina and not some slime. I’m suspish.

VRISKA: There WERE no humans on Alternia, okay? There were no humans, and no human "musicals", in my entire UNIVERSE. HARRY: it sounds like a horrible place. ): VRISKA: Yeah, it 8lew so un8elieva8ly hard.

Heh.

But now he's not so sure. Ever since hearing that one of his dad's old friends had turned up, that border between past and present has felt fainter by the minute. And as they talk, he begins to think that Vriska seems so much... fresher. More real. An actual, authentic, bona fide god from another universe. Harry can’t imagine his dad even talking to someone like her, let alone punching her in the face.

One of those file-it-away-for-later moments, but Harry is able to sense that the canon Vriska is “more real” than his dad.

HARRY: right now i'm in my mom's house with my girlfriend, her boyfriend, and another god damn version of my girlfriend, and all of us are probably now on the run from the fucking GOVERNMENT!!!!

Though he also seems to think Vriska Serket and Vrissy Maryam-Lalonde are alternate versions of each other, which is actually not true, both literally and personalityways.

Harry is not even able to mention the thing he was about to mention, because at this exact moment his phone starts ringing.

BECAUSE JELLICLES CAN AND JEEEEEEELLICLES DO JELLICLES DO AND JELLICLES CAN JELLICLES CAN AND JEEEEEELLICLES

HARRY: oh fuck.

I think Harry Egbert has the worst taste of anyone in his family and that’s a high fucking bar

VRISSY: It's Something about the W8y she Looks at him. VRISSY: The Rest of us too. VRISSY: Like we're not even Real. TAVROS: Yes,, this is good, VRISSY: Ever since she showed up, it's 8een o8vious that Nothing Here M8tters to her.

Another, much more obvious reference to the realness attribute of Candyland.

VRISSY: I'm not worried a8out Harry Fucking 8nderson right now! VRISSY: Hell, I'm so Unconcerned that I think I'm going to start just calling him Harry from now on! It'll Save Everyone a lot of Valua8le Time! VRISSY: Listen Tavros, Vriska will get 8ored of Harry in a Heart8eat! VRISSY: That's the whole point!!!!!!!! VRISSY: She shouldn't 8e w8sting her Time on someone like Him! VRISSY: SHE SHOULD BE T8LKING T8 ME!!!!!!!!

That both Vriskas decide separately to demote Harry Anderson to Harry is a funny gag. Also, between this and the start of the conversation where Vrissy was obsessed with how she appeared on social media, someone needs to be the most important person in the room at all times, which is a trait both Vriska’s have in common with each other, and also in a way with Aranea, so there’s perhaps a classpect aspect to this but we don’t have time for that!

JOHN: HELLO SON! JOHN: I AM JOHN: SO JOHN: VERY JOHN: PROUD OF YOU!!!!!!!!

There it is

JOHN: heh. two vriskas is NOTHING. JOHN: when i was your age i lost count of all the vriskas i had to keep track of. JOHN: it was probably some preposterous number.

I’m pretty sure John never encountered any alternative-timeline Vriskas in Homestuck.

Hey, it’s Rose and Kanaya!

Individually, they each represent immeasurable gains for the rebel faction. The rebellion's stratagems have never had a fiercer bite; their uniforms have never looked so fucking sharp. But it is together, united, that their true strength is made apparent. Their bond, a union of love between troll and human, is not only a foundation for the rebel cause, but an integral symbol of its purpose.

D’aw

ROSE: I don't understand what's going on any more than you do, and I'm sorry. ROSE: I'm sorry!

Rose panicking like this feels....weird?

I like the detail of Jade’s pawprint gloves. Also, she seems to have gained a headband as Rose lost hers. Only one hair accessory allowed in this comic, this ain’t no fucking Touhou.

JADE: THEYVE TAKEN YIFFY!!!!!!! D:

Oh thank Christ, no one knows what the fuck Jade is talking about. For a minute there I thought we were about to learn Jade and Dave had a daughter named Yiffy and I was about to walk into the sea.

#Homestuck #Homestuck 2 #Homestuck 2 Liveblog

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 4 years

Text

book blogging #1: Dr. Tatiana’s Sex Advice to All Creation

by Olivia Judson, published 2002

Question: what do you think of when you think of books that are “fun” to read?

For me, a lot of speculative fiction comes to mind. Recent books that I found fun include Space Opera (Catherynne M. Valente), The Beautiful Ones (Silvia Moreno-Garcia), and everything by Sarah Gailey that I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. Though I haven’t gotten ahold of it yet, I’m pretty sure Gideon the Ninth (Tamsyn Muir) is going to be spectacularly fun as well.

These are books that aren’t necessarily my favorite stories of all time, but they have been some of my favorites to read. They’re all propelled by zany premises and whirlwind plots, enjoying themselves way too much for anyone to ever stop and worry about the parts that don’t make that much sense. When Sarah Gailey says “I have a crew committing a heist while riding hippopotamuses, do you want in?” I don’t ask questions. I just say yes and go along for the ride.

But there’s one major anomaly that always comes to mind when I think of books that I’ve had fun reading, and that’s David Sax’s The Tastemakers: Why We’re Crazy for Cupcakes but Fed Up with Fondue. It’s a 2014 work of nonfiction, and as the title suggests it’s an analysis of popular food trends and the forces that power them. The Tastemakers isn’t what this blog post is actually supposed to be about, so I won’t go into too many details, but suffice to say that I was engrossed despite the fact that I know pretty much nothing about the world of culinary trends or foodie fads - or cooking in general, if I’m being totally honest. But there’s something really delightful about learning things that are entirely outside your wheelhouse without having to worry about the material showing up on a test later.

Given that I’m posting this on a blog with relatively few followers and that this is a write-up of a very niche book that was published eighteen years ago and could not be further from trendy, I’m well aware that anyone reading this is probably already at least passing familiar with me and what I do, so you folks might be saying, “Hang on, Makenzie. Are you seriously trying to say that this is outside your wheelhouse? The title on your Tumblr has been “Ask The Sex Witch” since 2015. You’re a whole sex educator, for fuck’s sake!”

Well, yes and no. Judson is a real-deal evolutionary biologist and gets into some pretty serious science in this book, which is pretty wildly different from what I usually do. I talk to people about sorting out their likes and dislikes, their boundaries, their sense of personal sexual autonomy, and so on. Although I definitely advocate for introspection and self-examination, I rarely go looking for answers far beyond the individual level. Judson asks big biological questions to figure out how some truly peculiar-looking behavior evolves: Why is it worthwhile for some animals to fight to the death trying to fuck? What’s up with some species of insects eating their mates? And who, pray tell, is engaging in the noble art of penis-fencing? Clearly, this is a totally different ball game on many levels.

(Speaking of ball games, did you know that the male shiner perch’s testes completely shrivel up over the winter? That’s rough, buddy.)

Offering sex advice to humans is hard enough, but Judson - writing as chipper sex advice columnist Dr. Tatiana - easily offers education to an impressively vast variety of species. The framing device of the book is a charmingly weird one. Each segment opening Dear Prudence-style, with a short letter from an animal badly in need of advice. The first chapter, for instance, begins with a query written by a stick bug called Twiggy (aww) wondering how to get her boyfriend to stop having sex with her after ten continuous weeks of intercourse. (Answer: Girl, he’s not gonna. Apparently that’s how he stops any other stick bugs from getting it in.) For the final chapter Judson mixes it up by formatting a discussion about the pros and cons of asexual reproduction as a hectic daytime talk show, complete with microscopes to view the tiniest guests and seating that offers both saltwater and freshwater tanks for aquatic audience members to sit in, like something out of Zootopia.

(I haven’t seen Zootopia and the only thing I know about it for sure is that in one scene there’s a DILF-looking tiger, but I’m pretty confident in the assumption I’m making here.)

Judson does an admirable job of providing pretty comprehensible explanations for a lot of evolutionary science, and while I did have to power skim through a few segments that were really beyond my grasp, it did make a pretty lively read out of the biological pros and cons of producing sperm bigger than your own body. It’s not exactly a book that’s difficult to put down, but I had a perfectly pleasant time reading it in the moments between doing anything else - eating a meal, resting in bed, getting some sun in my backyard - and even learning a little while I did so. I fully intended to use Dr. Tatiana as a break between the two installments of N.K. Jemisin’s Dreamblood duology, and it has served that role magnificently.

Am I recommending this book to you? Not exactly, unless you’re extremely interested in evolutionary theories that are nearly two decades old or a science fiction writer looking to give your non-human characters some thoroughly non-human sexual habits. I’m not supremely interested in making recommendations with the blog in general, unless someone specifically asks for them; I’m hoping this will be more like writing up my personal thoughts about books and then hurling them into the virtual void like messages in bottles. If they wash up on your shore and you read them and come to the conclusion that this is something you, too, would like to read, that’s pretty rad. I love that for you! But it wasn’t necessarily my intent.

Strictly speaking, I didn’t even recommend this book to myself. In 2019 I tried to stay pretty intentional about my to-read list, really whittling it down to stuff that I actively wanted to engage with rather than anything that sounded vaguely not awful. I was hoping to keep that trend up in 2020, but like many other things that are much more serious, this whole pandemic situation has scuppered those plans a bit. I get most of my books by borrowing them from the public library where I work, and that’s been closed for nearly two months. Unlike many book bloggers I’ve observed I don’t keep a massive stack of unread books around at all times, so I’ve really been relying on the kindness of friends to keep me supplied in these trying times.

My friend Paige slipped me Dr. Tatiana’s (along with the aforementioned Dreamblood books and several volumes of Kurtis J. Weibe’s comic series Rat Queens) in exchange for some books I lent to her, because we all have to look out for each other in These Trying Times. I trusted her good taste, despite having no idea what the book was about and more than a few reservations.

At other times I think this book might have sailed right over my head - not to sneer at the so-called soft sciences, but there’s a reason I gave up on my childhood dream of marine biology and got a sociology degree instead - but right now, as I’m finally adjusting to the slower pace of life in quarantine and remembering how to focus, I’m finding that it fits my needs. It’s unlikely to live on as an all-time favorite, but it’s something to do and gives me an occasional excuse to gasp and tell my roommate something absolutely wild, like the fact that spiders have two penises and that the dual arachnodicks are located on their faces, on either side of their mouths.

My basic understanding of evolution is that change rarely happens based on logic or reason, but by finding something that works and then sticking to it, no matter how improbable it may seem. When male elephants get horny they apparently develop an insatiable bloodlust and piss so constantly their penises turn green (yikes!), which is definitely not the most practical way to do things, but evidently it’s been getting the job done. Getting through quarantine has been sort of like that, has it not? A lot of behavior that might not be the most intuitive but is somehow enabling ongoing survival, like occupying myself with books that I might not have given a second glance in the halcyon before times.

That’s totally the same thing, right?

Right.

A note about the appearance of this book:

I’ve been talking a fair amount lately about my dislike for what I see as pretty transparently romanticized materialism in a lot of book blogging spaces, with an emphasis placed on acquiring and showing off as many pristine books as possible. I don’t own this book, and it looks like ass. It looks like Paige stole it from a library in North Carolina, which would not be shocking. When I noticed the large brown stain in the corner I jokingly asked if she’d dropped it in coffee, and she unflinchingly confirmed that yes, she had.

#bookblr #in which makenzie is a book blogger until she forgets about it

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lumosinlove · 5 years

Text

Solntse

part xiii

(BIG shoutout to @asktheboywholived for brainstorming with me and giving me new inspiration to start to finish this fic! Credit to TT for some truly amazing ideas that went into this chapter :)))

Also a TRIGGER WARNING for this chapter: Mentions of rough/unsafe sex

Thank you guys so much for being so patient. I decided to split this chapter up so the wait wouldn’t be as long. Love you guys!)

Remus was slowly learning the streets of New York. He was slowly learning what good coffee tasted like. He was getting to know Sergei and his family. He was getting to know what it was like to watch Sirius make eggs in the morning and eat them together right from the pan with pieces of toast to mop up the runny yokes. Clothing optional.

What he was not learning, was how to use the credit card Sirius had folded into his hand with a kiss.

“Is mine, so is yours.” He had said, and looked so positively happy while saying it that Remus had just kissed him back.

“Are your mine, too?” He had murmured against Sirius’ lips.

Sirius’ gaze had turned stupidly soft. “Most yours.”

It wasn’t that he wasn’t trying. Here he was, walking the snowy streets, Christmas shopping. Trying. Trying to Christmas shop for Sirius. He didn’t even know what stores to start in. Everything seemed impersonal, expensive, and, honestly, stupid. What would a watch or a new pair of shoes really mean to Sirius, who—as Remus had now seen—had so many of each? He lasted a couple hours of uncomfortably entering a few high-end stores before he found a cute looking cafe, ordered himself his second cappuccino of the day, and turned to the internet, desperate.

Looking up ‘gifts for boyfriend’ was equally unhelpful until—

Gift an experience! Tickets to a concert, or a favorite meal with a special dessert ;)

The site was sketchy and badly formatted but they had a point. Sirius didn’t need expensive things, especially not from Remus. Why would he want to remind Sirius of all the other impersonal gestures he’s probably received?

And…Remus hadn’t cooked for…he didn’t know how long.

“I used to love to cook.” He said aloud, and instantly flushed.

“Sorry?” The guy next to him said, removing one headphone.

“Oh.” Remus tried for a smile. “No, nothing. Sorry.”

He drains the last of his coffee, orders a scone, and begins to look up recipes, then backspaces and adds the word, Russian.

Sirius has work until the twenty-third, which is fine, but Remus isn’t above making it hard for him to leave for the office every morning for a week leading up to his vacation time.

“Have a good day today.” Remus says as he lazily palms his already hard cock through his boxers. “Come home soon.”

Sirius glares at him through the mirror as he buttons his shirt with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.

“Mean.” He tries to say through the toothpaste in his mouth, but all he succeeds in doing is dribbling it onto his shirt. He groans, throwing his hands up and sends Remus a look that practically says, see? Look what you made me do.

“Oh no.” Remus says flatly, then grins. “Guess you can’t go.”

Sirius disappears into the bathroom and reemerges a few seconds later sans toothpaste and shirt. He crawls over Remus where he’s splayed out on the bed and his bare skin is hot where Remus locks his hands around the small of his back.

“You so bad, Remushya.” He presses wet, sloppy kisses all along Remus’ cheeks. “So bad.”

“Do something about it.” Remus presses up against him.

Sirius laughs into his neck, breath hot. When he bites gently, Remus preens into it. “I’m need go, late, Remus.” But he presses a line of kisses up Remus’ neck instead. “Most late…”

Remus sighs and throws his arms around Sirius’ neck, rolling them until Sirius is on his back with Remus above him. “Okay. But come home soon.”

Sirius presses a last lingering kiss to Remus’ lips. “Be home for three weeks after today.” Then he promptly reaches right into Remus’ boxers to get a warm hand around him. “Give you everything.” As he watches Remus’ eyes flutter shut, he grins. “Or maybe nothing because so mean this week.”

Remus’ eyes flash open. “Sirushya.”

Sirius starts to laugh but Remus kisses him hard, too much teeth and tongue, and perfectly.

Sirius is late for work.

Overall, Remus feels pretty great about his Christmas present for Sirius. He’d practiced making Piroshki. He remembers googling pictures of it while cradled against Sirius’ chest. It wasn’t so long ago, but it was before everything. Before the first ‘I love you,’ that now felt more natural to say than it was to breathe. It felt like a different life time.

He doubts he’s anywhere near as good as he could be, but they tasted alright to him. The real struggle was hiding the smell and leftovers from Sirius when he got home. Sirius had raised his eyebrows when he suddenly started coming home to fresh trays of chocolate chip cookies every night, but he hadn’t complained.

The other part of the present was a clean bill of health he’d received from the doctor’s. In the end, Sirius had went separately because of his work, and he’d gotten his results yesterday. Remus had pretended his hadn’t arrived yet. Seeing the worried look on Sirius’ face had almost broke him down into confessing, but he held out. For the surprise. For the happy, hot, Christmas sex the surprise surely promised.

It’s Christmas Eve, and Remus banishes Sirius to the living room, which really isn’t much help given that it and the kitchen are practically the same room. In the end, he shoos him into their bedroom instead, turns on the television for him, and shuts the door tight so he can cook in peace.

The only problem is that Sirius keeps opening the door a crack and calling out to Remus.

“Not understand! Why am I hide?”

“Stay!”

Remus grins when he hears Sirius splutter. “Not dog, Remus!”

Remus fights off an eye roll because, honestly, he’s almost finished with the recipe. “No peaking!”

“Peaking? What peaking?” There are a few beats of silence. “This…this sex thing?”

“Watch your show!”

“Not fun without you. Cold bed.”

Remus presses a palm over his eyes, smiling helplessly to himself. He wants to abandon the food and march into the bedroom right then and there, but it will be better like this.

When he doesn’t respond, he hears a grumble and the door click shut again.

It doesn’t open until the Piroshki have been cooking for ten minutes and the butter and meat filling start to smell incredible. Remus is so intent on watching them, making sure they don’t burn, that he doesn’t even hear Sirius until he’s standing right behind him in the kitchen.

“Remushya.” He whispers.

And when Remus jumps, turning around from the stove, he tries to look mad, he really does. But Sirius’ eyes are a little wet, even though he’s blinking hard through it, and he has the soft smile on his face that Remus likes to think only he gets to see.

“You were suppose to stay—“

“Smell like home.”

Remus softens at that, setting his phone down with the timer on it. “‘rushya…”

Sirius blinks from the stove to him, laughing wetly. “Rushya?”

Remus walks forward, skirting the island. “It works doesn’t it? Just sort of slipped out.”

Sirius pulls Remus in, ducking so their noses brush. “You make for me?”

“Happy Christmas.”

“счастливого Рождества.” Sirius tucks his fingers into Remus’ hair. “Baby, Happy Christmas.”

They eat on the couch, Sirius chewing seriously with his eyes closed and making ridiculous noises. He keeps giving Remus little thumbs up and Remus sits there with what he knows is a hopelessly fond smile on his face.

“I’m glad you like them.” Remus crumpled his napkin and set his plate on the coffee table. “I…you know, I tried looking in all those stores for you. For clothes.”

Sirius’ eyes light up. “Oh my god, I’m pay to see.”

Remus shoves at him, laughing. “Shut up. Anyway, nothing was working. And I loved to cook, so…” He shrugged. “I’ll make it for you whenever you want.”

“I’m…make you egg?”

Remus laughs. “Right. And tea.”

Sirius sets his own plate down and pulls Remus towards him until he’s straddling his lap and Sirius can tilt his chin up for a kiss. “Is good trade!”

Remus tilts his head from side to side, like he’s considering it, and then snorts at Sirius’ offended sound and kisses him.

“Hey.” Remus mumbles into Sirius’ lips, eyes falling shut when Sirius bites gently at his bottom on.

“Hey, I’m kiss you now.”

“I have another present.”

Sirius’ eyebrows go up. “Can’t get better Piroshki, Remus.”

“I bet I can.”

He gets up, running into the kitchen for the silverware drawer. “Sorry, I thought we’d be at the table!” He grabs the envelop and pads back into the living room. Sirius wastes no time in pulling him back into his lap.

“Okay.” Remus settles back on Sirius’ thighs, giving him room to hand Sirius the envelope.

Sirius frowns at it for a minute, turning it over. That’s when he spots the name and company logo of his doctor’s office. Remus can feel his entire body still.

“Remus, this…” Sirius’ voice trails off.

Remus can’t help the sudden bubble of emotion that lodges itself in his throat. He holds his hands close to his chest and nods quickly. “Yeah. It is.”

“Is gift.” Sirius looks from the envelope to Remus, eyes hopeful. “So, is good news.”

Remus can only nod.

Sirius lets out a long, shaky breath and puts the letter aside without another glance. Instead, his hands find Remus’ hips, large palms hitching his shirt up and pressing up his back. He smiles a little, dimples appearing. “I’m…shiver little bit. Wrong word.”

Remus touches their foreheads, trailing his fingers down Sirius’ jaw and neck. “Why are you shaking?”

“Excitey.” Sirius makes a face. “No, wrong end…Is not like happy, no?”

Remus laughs so hard he thinks he would have ruined the mood if he hadn’t been sitting snuggly on Sirius’ lap.

“Not laugh!” Sirius turns his head to nip gently at Remus’ ear.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just—” Remus gasps a little, laugh fading into a smile as Sirius kisses gently at his neck. “It’s funny hearing the word ‘excitey’ in a regular context.”

Now that Remus thinks about it, as he runs his hands over Sirius’ shoulders, he is shaking a little. A fine tremor beneath his skin. “Love, you are shaking.”

Sirius pulls Remus closer. He’s not laughing anymore. His eyes are dark and warm. “Because want.”

Remus’ breath punches out a little at that. He presses closer to Sirius and kisses him, licking slowly into his mouth, the warmth like a preview of what’s finally, finally to come. “I want you, too.” Remus says, and leans forward until Sirius is pressed back against the couch. “I’ve wanted you—”

Remus’ phone rings. It vibrates against the glass of the coffee table and both him and Sirius freeze. Sirius, being the one facing the room, sees the phone first. His eyes darken in an entirely different way.

“I’m get him out.”

Remus’ protests are cut short by Sirius laying him gently to the side, his large palm passing over Remus’ hair, before he scoops up the phone and accepts the call.

“David.” His voice is low, his accent making the ‘v’ sound almost like a snarl. “I’m tell you before.”

Remus holds his breath. From this close he can hear the general tones of David’s voice and snippets of their conversation.

David says something that sounds like he’s cursing Sirius out for being Russian. And Remus is distracted, for a moment, by the anger that fills his chest at that. He stands, ready to take the phone straight from Sirius’ hands and give David some choice words of his own, when—

He stops. David is yelling now and his voice is loud enough to hear clearly.

He stares at Sirius’ back, his broad shoulders. The hair curling at the nape of Sirius’ neck.

He finds himself thinking about how well he knows Sirius. How quickly Sirius has become the largest, most important thing in his life. How he could pick Sirius out of a crowd by his back alone. How he’d know Sirius anywhere. How dependent he’s allowed himself to be on him.

He thinks about David. How David couldn’t do any of that. How he doesn’t know the freckles that pattern Sirius’ back, or how Sirius takes his tea in the morning. How he wouldn’t know Sirius if he was standing right in front of him.

Only maybe he would.

Because Remus is sure he just heard David call Sirius by name.

One Year Earlier

Sirius hated parties. He gripped his champagne fluke tighter and gazed hesitantly around the room. That wasn’t completely true. He hated English. He hated how fast people spoke English while at parties. He’d been in the United States for nearly a year and a half and still needed his translator in meetings. He should’ve brought Barry along as his plus one tonight.

This was how parties usually went for him. He was invited for the good work he did, for his status, and a polite conversation was attempted. When the other party figured out he could stumble through little more than a hello, how are you, and a this party is beautiful, by himself, they nodded awkwardly and left him alone.

He should’ve brought Barry.

Sirius sighed and sat down on one of the huge, dark blue velvet couches. He looked up at one of the large televisions that Mr. Carrow had installed in his apartment for New Years. The ball was dropping in New York City, Carrow’s wife had explained to him, only somewhat kindly. She had talked obnoxiously slow.

“Oh, David adores the ball drop. He’s always trying to convince me to go, but,” she laughed, shaking her head and one diamond clad finger. “Heavens, all the people, Mr. Black. Americans are wild.”

Sirius had nodded. He was too slow to respond though, too busy trying to place the word heaven in context, trying to sound out the word convince in his head.

“Most nice.” Was all that he managed, the same sentiment he had used to her earlier, when complimenting her home.

Her smile had wavered and she’d walked off with the excuse of wanting more champagne. He’d been alone since then, the past hour and a half. The clock read 11:45.

Sirius watched the television. People were drunk and screaming, dressed in clothing that was in no way suitable to the New York winter outside. It didn’t look very impressive. It didn’t even look very fun.

The couch dipped heavily next to him as someone sat down—or more like fell—into place beside him.

Sirius straightens up, preparing himself to smile and nod, all the while not being able to understand a word of drunk English. He doesn’t look over, doesn’t want to be the one to initiate anything.

“It’s hot in here.”

Sirius has to look over then because the voice isn’t gruff and slurred, but young and—well, a little slurred. The boy it belongs to is young, too. Sirius would guess that they’re about the same age even, which takes him even more off guard.

The boy is also staring at him with expectant, sleepy eyes that are—Sirius doesn’t know the word for that color in English but he wants.

Sirius nods, licking his dry lips. “Hot. Yes.”

The boy doesn’t seem to mind the short response, but he does notice the accent and smiles a little dopily. “Are you from Russia?”

Sirius notices the boys accent, too. He nods, and tries to find the right word. Relief floods him when he comes up with, “England? From here? London?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m…Exactly?” Sirius questions.

Remus blinks sleepily at him, thinking hard in his champagne muddled state, then his eyes light up. “You…You are correct?”

“Ah.” Sirius nods. “Yes.” But Sirius doesn’t have a lot of time to feel pleased for himself because suddenly the boy is tilting forward a little, his eyes slipping closed. “Hey.” Sirius catches him gently by the shoulders and the boy’s eyes fly back open. His pupils are dark and blown and Sirius frowns at him. “You okay? Not look okay.” He glances at his own drink, set on the table in a hurry. “You drink?”

The boy shakes his head. “Water. I don’t drink while I’m working.”

“Working? Is party.”

The boy sends him a desperately sad look, one Sirius can’t quiet interpret. His eyes flit all across Sirius’ face, landing on his lips for a few long moments, then dragging back up to his eyes. “You’re very nice.” Is all the boy says, then closes his eyes again and bows his head a little. “Fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Sirius tightens his hold on the boy, supporting him as discretely as he can. His eyes find the mostly empty balcony, everyone having come inside to get ready for midnight. Sirius tilts the boy’s chin up with gentle fingers. “Hey, I’m—I’m take outside. Help.”

The boy nods. “That sounds nice.” He lets Sirius support most of his weight as they walk towards the open terrace doors. Sirius can already feel the bite of winter from here, but it feels nice, especially with this boy so warm in his arms. London is busy below them and he lets himself pretend for just a second that they’re here together. Maybe that they will kiss at midnight. He knows that’s the tradition. He pretends that they never want to be parted, and that maybe this boy loves him—

It’s just a second. He’s had some champagne. He figures he can allow himself a second.

“You not drink?” Sirius asks again. The question sounds stupid being repeated but he doesn’t know how to translate his are you sure.

The boy shakes his head firmly again, then winces at the motion and lets it loll onto Sirius’ shoulder. “No. I…No.”

Sirius nods, suddenly feeling a little uneasy, but the boy just sighs and ducks his head beneath Sirius’ chin. Sirius’ chest catches with the warm breath on his neck. “‘m sorry, this is so inappropriate.”

Sirius doesn’t know that last word, but he catches the “sorry” and so he hesitantly places his arm around Remus’ back. “Most okay.” He rubs small circles. “I’m—I’m think you go? Home? Not feel good, go home.”

“Can’t.” Remus mumbles into Sirius’ skin, lips brushing his neck. “He paid for the night.” And then, softly. “What’s your name?”

“Sirius.” Sirius says. “What’s your name?”

“Remus.” He—Remus—looks up at him then.

Sirius smiles gently at him. “Hi.” He wants to ask what he meant that he was receiving money tonight. He looked down at Remus’ outfit, but he didn’t seem to be a waiter. He was dressed in a simple suit, one that was clearly not tailored to fit him but nice all the same, the lines clean.

Remus blinks. “Hi.”

“Remus! There you are, boy.”

Sirius looks up to see David leaning against the doorframe, two flukes in hand. While he instinctively pulls Remus closer, Remus straightens up like Sirius burned him.

“Hello, Mr. Carrow.”

“I see you’ve met Sirius here.” David comes closer, pushing one of the glasses into Remus’ hands and settling Sirius with a hard gaze. “Looking a little cozy.”

“I wasn’t feeling very well. Sirius offered to help me outside.”

“Is not feel well.” Sirius says because, suddenly, everything is making perfect sense. The money. Mr. Carrow. “Remus—go home?”

David laughs, hardy and cruel, and tucks Remus roughly beneath his arm and out of Sirius’. “God, Sirius, listen to you stuttering. I think you don’t understand.”

Sirius feels hot annoyance prickle beneath his skin. “I’m understand.” You’re taking advantage of this boy who feels like he has no choice. You’re a sick fuck. Sirius has heard, through Barry’s translation, the horrible things David says about his wife to his friends. He’s suffered through many dinner parties while working this project, all of them having after dinner drinks where things have been said about people’s partners that make him sick to think about, not to mention repeat. He knows exactly what’s going on. He vows right there to never work with David again, no matter how much it pays.

David almost scowls. Almost. Sirius can see it play at the corners of his mouth before he jerks it into a smile. “Very well. It’s about time for everyone to head to the after party, anyway. You should maybe go home yourself, Mr. Black. It will be too loud for you to understand anything.”

Sirius looks back at Remus who has barely looked up since David got here. He may seem Sirius’ age, he probably is, but right there, on the balcony with the snow beginning to fall, he looks young and fragile. And Sirius may only know his name, but he feels a wild sort of protection flare in his chest as David drags Remus out of view.

Remus looks back once, and Sirius feels that look settle heavy in his chest.

Sirius doesn’t forget about him, not even when its been almost nine months and he comes across David again at a convention. He saw David’s face and thought, Remus, before David even brought him up.

“A good time, I’ll tell you that.” David grins out of one corner of his mouth. “You can fuck him like an animal and he’ll be as loud as you want. Never complains. Can send him on his way right after with a limp and not even then.”

Sirius makes a split second decision for the sake of those eyes, whose color he can’t quite name yet. They remind him of warm sand of Miami and…something sweet. He smiles to himself at the thought and lets David take it as a smile at the disgusting joke he just made about Remus’ ass.

“Ask him for Remus’ contact information.” He says to Barry in Russian.

Barry shoots him a vaguely alarmed look. “I didn’t know you were interested in…that kind of operation.”

“I’m not. I’m interested in keeping someone who is kind safe.”

Barry’s eyes soften some at that and he relays the message.

Later that night, Sirius has set up a meeting at a hotel in London. Suite twelve.

#solntse #sirius black #remus lupin #thank you guys for being so patient with me #more is to come #<3 <3 <3 #the marauders era #sirius x remus #remus x sirius #wolfstar #wolfstar au #russian!sirius #callboy!remus #wolfstar fic #harry potter #writing #harry potter fic #wolfstar angst

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marril96 · 5 years

Text

The Distance Between Us

Chapter 5: Working Girls

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: The time has come for your first tutoring session.

Editor: @cherrypierowena

It was Friday when you next spoke to Rowena.

She seemed intent on avoiding you all week, and you happily returned the favor. The less you saw (and heard) of her, the easier it was to pretend you weren't stuck being tutored by her for the entirety of this semester.

What were you thinking, saying yes to that?

You were an idiot.

Just as the last bell sounded, and you were on your way out, happy to start your weekend, the devil herself had to — just had to — walk up to you and say, "Tomorrow. Quarter past three."

You blinked as if you'd just been maced. "What?"

"The tutoring," she said a tad slower, in an overly exaggerated tone, as if you were dumb. "That thing you're making me do? Remember?"

You rolled your eyes. "You agreed for the same reasons I did. I'm not making you do shit."

She returned the eyeroll, which somehow managed to look even more dramatic, more exaggerated. You wondered if it hurt to twist her eyes like that. And if it did — good.

"Whatever. You coming tomorrow or what?"

Did you even have a choice?

The sooner you got it done, the better.

"Where?"

"My house," she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It kind of was. The way Rowena was, she wouldn't be caught dead with you — alone — in public.

"Sure," you say.

"Need directions?" she asked.

It was your turn to give her the are-you-dumb look. "I've been there countless times."

"Just making sure," she said, shrugging nonchalantly. "Don't want you to get lost."

Olivette, who was standing beside her, snickered.

Rowena smirked.

Nice. Already off to a great start.

"Don't you worry about me, sweetheart," you said condescendingly. Two could play this game. "Just make sure you're home when I get there. Busy girl like you, don't want you to stand me up."

"I won't, darling," she replied in the same tone. "I cleared me schedule just for you."

"How sweet."

"That's me."

Yeah. Sweet as diabetes.

Olivette pulled her arm, heading for the exit.

"Don't be late," Rowena said over her shoulder as she followed her.

"I would never," you shouted after her.

After the way she acted, you were tempted to. Badly.

*****

It was three o'clock sharp when you showed up at the MacLeod residence. Much to your disappointment, Crowley was out, doing whatever it was that he did on his own. Probably something not quite legal. Or moral.

You didn't ask.

You didn't care.

Just before you left the house, he sent you a message giving you his honest, heartfelt condolences. How sweet of him.

You hated to admit it, but it was oddly comforting. If anyone knew what it was like to study with Rowena — to be around Rowena for more than a few minutes, all alone — it was him.

Rowena opened the door dressed in something sparkly you thought she only wore to school to stand out.

Apparently, it was her regular attire.

Who would have guessed?

"You're early," she said in greeting, seemingly surprised.

"Hello to you, too," you said.

She scoffed and moved aside to let you in, then closed the door behind you.

The MacLeod house was small but comfy. The kind of house that made you feel right at home as soon as you walked through the door. Aside from their mother's, the MacLeod kids had two other bedrooms; Rowena had her own, and Crowley and Gavin, their younger brother, shared theirs. Not much space for a four-member family, but they made it work.

"Mother's at work," Rowena said. "Fergus is out. It's just you and me. And Gavin."

"Cool," you said.

Their mother was always working. Two jobs, you thought Crowley once said. Bills needed to be paid, and kids were expensive.

"Gavin won't bother us," Rowena said.

"Whatever."

You didn't mind the kid. From what you saw of him, he was a lovely little boy. A complete contrast to his sister.

She took you to her room. It was small, but somehow felt like home. The bed was by the wall in the middle, surrounded by a desk with a laptop on top, a large closet, a dresser, and, much to your surprise, two big bookshelves filled to the brim with books, hardbacks and paperbacks alike, all in seemingly pristine condition.

You would never admit it out loud, but you were impressed. You'd expected something more… pink. And sparkly. Maybe a few pictures of loser kids like yourself hanging on the wall, with targets painted on their faces in sparkly pink gel pen. The popular girl stuff.

Maybe she had those in her closet.

"It's just a room," Rowena said when she noticed you staring, a touch of smugness, of pride, in her expression.

You blushed. "Your books…"

"Aye, I've my own wee library."

A bit more that wee, it was. There were so many books!

"Don't touch anything," she added. "You can look" — she didn't seem too thrilled with that idea, either, but at the same time, she liked to be the one to impress — "but don't touch. I don't want you to damage the books."

You had to roll your eyes. "That's my sole purpose in life — damaging your books."

"For all I know, I might be," she retorted. "You seem like the type."

You cocked up an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"We wouldn't be in this mess if not for your damage."

Really?

Really?!

"You could've refused," you reminded her. "We both know why you didn't." Because little miss perfect wasn't so perfect after all. "Don't put your shitty record on me. I'm not the one bitching out the teachers."

At least when you did it, you did it out of earshot, around your friends.

If anything, Rowena could learn a thing or two from you.

Her cheeks flushed as red as her hair. "If you weren't such a failure, Mr. Shurley never would have blackmailed me!"

Maybe so.

But still…

"Maybe he doesn't like you."

God knew you didn't. Half the school didn't. Just because her group let her into their little circle didn't mean the entire popular scene liked her.

You'd heard the things they were saying about her behind her back. All the names they called her. The jokes they made about her.

Everyone knew the only reason she was popular, that she was someone, was that Olivette felt sorry for her. The same reason Lucifer started dating her Junior year.

Hell, you were pretty sure Rowena knew it, too. She couldn't not know.

But she put up with it. Because popularity was everything, even at the cost of dignity.

Being on top mattered more than anything. More than family. More than the people she'd trampled on her way there.

Despicable.

Rowena scoffed, looking at you as if you'd just suggested having live snails for dinner. "He loves me!"

You snorted. "Sure. Everyone loves you."

"People with taste do."

"Yeah, 'cause you're so lovable."

"Totally am."

As lovable as a splinter.

"Now, are you here to be rude or to learn?" she asked, changing the subject. "I've had to cancel plans to meet with you, you know. I don't want to waste my time."

You were the one being rude?

Typical Rowena.

"So sorry you can't make out with your asshole boyfriend for an extra hour this afternoon," you said sarcastically.

She rolled her eyes. "What I do with my time is none of your bloody business! But if you must know, I was supposed to go shopping with Olivette."

So she was in agreement with Lucifer being an asshole.

Interesting.

"My deepest apologies," you said mockingly, earning you another eyeroll.

Books, notebooks, and supplies were on the floor, on a neat pile beside the bed. You lowered your bag containing your own stuff beside them and sat down Indian style. Rowena joined you.

"When's your make up test?" she asked.

"Thursday," you said. You thought Ms. Hanscum would give you more time, but guess not. You had a tutor now. She expected results.

You expected another F.

Rowena sighed. "Well, let's see what it is you're struggling with."

How about everything? you thought sourly.

"This was in the test," she said, opening the textbook and pointing a perfectly manicured fingernail at the pages in question. "What exactly is it you don't get?"

You slid the book over to you, scanned the pages meticulously. So many numbers and formulas. Odd formations of numbers and letters that made no sense. Solved example problems that looked as strange as a foreign language. Questions you didn't — couldn't — understand, let alone solve.

You blushed as if caught doing something awkward.

This was embarrassing.

"Everything," you mumbled under your breath.

Rowena frowned, confused, curious. "What?"

You swallowed. Breathed in deep and hard for courage. "I said everything!" She blinked. You sighed. "None of this makes sense to me. Might as well show me hieroglyphs. I'll understand as much."

As if it wasn't embarrassing enough that a mean girl like her had to tutor you, you had to admit to your ignorance out loud.

This was fine, you told yourself. Totally fine. If she laughed at you, if she told her friends what a complete and utter idiot you were, so what? Wouldn't be the first time you were made fun of.

You could handle a bit of bullying.

You'd handled it before.

Go at it, Rowena, you thought. Do your worst!

Instead, her hard expression softened. No trace of a smile lingered on her mouth. No teasing glint in her eyes.

She looked… concerned.

What was going on?

"You really understand nothing?" she asked. Her tone was genuine, no mockery in sight.

"Yup," you said timidly, face falling to the open book between the two of you.

"Why didn't you ask Ms. Hanscum to explain?"

What was the point? You still wouldn't get it. Also…

"So you and your friends can laugh at me?"

Rowena looked appalled. "I wouldn't laugh at you."

"Sure you wouldn't." Just like she hadn't looked around at people who'd failed with a smug look on her face. Just like she hadn't stood aside as her friends teased and bullied and mocked people, and laughed along with them.

She was about to respond, but shut her mouth just in time. Good. You weren't in the mood for excuses and lies.

"Why don't we start with the first lesson?" she asked, changing the subject back to the topic at hand. "If you get a hang of that one, the other two will be easier to comprehend."

"Sure," you replied. You weren't expecting much; if Ms. Hanscum, who'd spent years earning her degree, couldn't teach you, you doubted a mere high school girl could.

Still, it was worth a try.

You could use the extra credit, and plus, you'd promised Sam you'd cooperate. Rowena had apparently told him she had no patience for slackers. You didn't particularly care what she thought, but at the very least, you could prove her wrong. You could work hard and do your best. Make her earn her extra credit and clean record.

"Okay, so you see this problem?" Rowena asked, pointing to a set of numbers she'd written down on a piece of paper.

"Yeah."

You wished you didn't.

You had a feeling these numbers would show up in your dreams tonight. And every night after that.

Math was a bitch.

"Do you know how we got 3?"

You shrugged. "Nope."

She might as well have asked you to translate lettering from ancient artifacts.

Rowena sighed. Not quite happy, but not exasperated, either. "Let's look at it differently. What's something you like?" She looked around, lost in thought. "Money?"

"Sure."

Everyone liked money, you supposed.

She grinned. "Great!"

Was that genuine joy on her face?

"Say you have one hundred dollars. I borrow you twenty. Sam borrows you five. You want to buy a… DVD."

That was one expensive DVD.

"What kind?" you asked.

She frowned. "What?"

"What kind of DVD? Like, which movie?"

"Gone with the Wind?" she suggested.

You made a face. "I'd never buy that! Especially not for that much money."

"It's a bloody classic!" she exclaimed, outraged.

Well.

Somebody loved old movies.

"Don't care," you said. "It's old, needlessly long, boring, and, uh, did I mention old?"

Rowena looked as if you'd just admitted to murdering her entire family in cold blood.

"Make it Mean Girls. It's symbolic, at least."

She scowled. "Fine. You want to buy Mean Girls."

"Perfect," you said with a sugary-sweet, diabetes-inducing smile on your mouth.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. Her favorite thing to do, it seemed. "You get to the store, and you find out it's on sale."

"I love sales!"

"Everybody loves sales! Anyway, the DVD you want…"

She went on a long, complicated explanation of prices, tax, sales, calculations, and formulas. At first none of it made sense, just as it hadn't back in Ms. Hanscum's class. But the more she explained, the more details she provided to the imaginary scenario with money and DVDs, it started to settle in.

It took a good ten minutes, but by the time she was done, you understood the problem.

And when she gave you a few problems she'd made up herself to solve, same structure with different numbers, you did it.

Correctly.

Soon the two of you moved on to other lessons. Rowena was surprisingly patient. You expected her to scream and shout and call you names. Instead, she explained everything thoroughly, five times if she had to. She didn't talk down to you. Didn't make you feel dumb for not knowing things that came naturally to her. Didn't rush you or chastise you for taking too long to solve the problems she'd given you.

She spoke softly and kindly, and gave you time to think solutions through.

She was, dare you say, better than Ms. Hanscum herself.

"I think that's about enough for today," Rowena said.

You looked at your phone, eyes going wide at seeing the time.

Two hours had gone by in a flash.

"Yeah," you agreed. "That was way too much math for one day."

Rowena giggled.

It was cute, you found yourself thinking. A strangely cute little sound.

"Would you like to come over tomorrow?"

You blinked. "To study?"

"What else?"

"Isn't that a bit… soon?"

"Your make up test is Thursday, right? It's better to prepare really well." She shrugged. "Not saying you have to. It's just a suggestion."

You didn't want to.

You never wanted to see these numbers — any numbers — again.

You especially didn't want to see them that soon.

But…

Rowena was right. The more you prepared, the more you studied, the better.

It wasn't like you had anything planned, anyway. Sunday was a boring day.

"Okay," you said after a moment of thinking it through. "Same time?"

"Aye."

"It's a deal, then."

"Don't be late."

"I'll be here at three again. Three fifteen sounds a bit weird, to be honest."

She made no response to that. Merely shrugged as if it didn't bother her. "Says you."

"I'll be going, then," you said. "Say hi to Crowley for me?"

"Whatever," she replied, annoyed.

You took that as a yes.

The first session went rather well. You hadn't tried to kill each other and you'd managed to learn a thing or two.

Maybe having Rowena MacLeod as a tutor wasn't so bad after all.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @gaysnakess @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @ruthieconnells @evil-regal-vampiress @collectorofsecretsandsouls @angel-e-v-a @melisandre02 @a-queen-and-her-throne

#rowena #rowena macleod #rowena x reader #spn #supernatural #spn family #fanfiction #my fics #high school au

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benmitchellshearingaid · 4 years

Text

Okay so I keep wondering why Phil’s exit from the square was just a shot of him looking at Dennis, so I wrote a little thing if he were to come back. Not set at a particular point, but sometime after the boat party. Callum is out of hospital, Ben is considering BSL and a cochlear implant

Without Question

Phil is back. Ben is struggling. Callum is concerned with just how many bizarre events have become ‘normal’ in the Mitchell household. (2766 words) (AO3)

Callum walks in on a screaming match.

A few months ago, he doubts this would have been a particularly unusual sound in the Mitchell household. Sharon and Denny, with the former unable to contain the teen’s anger. Ben and Louise bickering about everything and nothing, through sly jabs and snide remarks. Phil and anyone who dared look at him the wrong way. Ben and Phil, the latter taking cheap shots at his son’s insecurities. Ben and Lola, biting at each other over Lexi. Ben and Jay, squabbling like siblings over nothing of importance. Ben and- well. Ben.

But this was not a few months ago. Things had changed. Phil and Louise were long gone. Ben’s hearing aid sat disused on the bathroom windowsill. Sharon was at Ian’s and Denny was dead. Sure, there was the odd bit of lip from Lexi, but nothing more than the cheeky remark. What Callum had walked in on was vicious, engulfed in fury, and… almost entirely one sided.

“-just like that, ay? Turned against me without question? Should’ve known, really. I mean, why was I stupide enough to trust you to get the job done in the first place?” The voice was too familiar for comfort. Abrupt, with a naturally accusatorial tone. Phil. “I. Can’t. Hear. You.” From behind the door, where Callum had frozen in place, he heard Ben speak, quieter than the Mitchell patriarch. His voice was a little shaky, though Callum doubted it was knowingly so. He couldn’t help but notice the difference in how the younger man had begun speaking since the incident. He’d never draw attention to it, of course, would never let Ben know there was a difference. But it was there.

Ben was, and always had been, a self-proclaimed shit talker. He remained so, but the sly, default tone he had relied on, since Callum had known him, was gone. No longer effortless. Ben seemed to take more care in trying to force his force to maintain a normality and had lost it in doing so. Briefly, Callum thought of their calendar in the kitchen (made by Lexi at school), with the date of Ben’s cochlear implant operation circled in three rings of colour (an addition also made by Lexi, following Ben’s appointment letter). The thought was quickly cast away, as the shouting resumed, pulling Callum back to reality.

“Oh, of course. Always a drama with you, aint there?” The elder Mitchell scoffed. “Tell me, have you even been to see your brother? Denny is dead, but of course, you losing your fucking hearing aid takes priority.” Callum had heard enough. “If you would just stand fucking still for a minute, I can lip read!” Phil is about to shoot back some retort when Callum swings open the door. It takes Ben a moment to follow Phil’s eyeline from where he leans on the table. Callum places a hand on his shoulder, partially to let him know who’s there, partially because he wants to drag Ben out of the house and to the Vic where they can pretend Phil doesn’t exist, and drink with Jay and Lola until the night grows dark. He resists the urge to do the latter of the two.

Callum is careful to turn Ben’s head towards him before he speaks. For Ben’s sake, he’s almost glad the younger man can’t hear the tone in which his father scoffs at the display. “You alright?” He circles Ben’s shoulder blades lightly, moving subtly forward so he’s closer to Phil than Ben is. “Yeah… yeah. I’m fine,” Ben’s gaze flicks back to Phil a little too quick for comfort. “Well, aint this cosy. What, me and Lou leave for a month, and suddenly you’re letting in the strays?” Callum ignores Phil’s comment. Instead, focussing on the way Ben’s brows draw together as he attempts to follow his father’s words. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here Phil.” Callum makes an effort not to be taken aback by his own retort. “And, if you’re gonna yell at him, at least keep your head still so he can understand you.”

“You don’t tell me where I can and can’t be in my own home.” Phil turns his attention from Ben towards Callum, and it sends a shiver down his spine. For a man approaching sixty, he does well to carry an essence of ‘I could beat you senseless before you knew what was coming’. “Oi, leave him alone dad, he aint part of this,” Ben’s tone is calmer than it had been, more hushed, but firmer. “I sure remember him being part of this when my own fucking flesh and blood had a barrel to my head!” Phil takes a step forward. As Ben goes to do the same, Callum intercepts, shoving Ben back as lightly as he can.

Silently, he makes a note to bring the whole ‘barrel to Phil’s head’ thing up later. In the lives of most people, threatening your father with a gun in east London would’ve been a significant occurrence. Then, he reminds himself of all the Mitchell dramas he’d seen and heard about in his two years on the square and figured a gun to the head was probably a common greeting by their standards of ‘family’. “Like I said, it’s probably not a good time for you to be here.”

Phil shakes his head, glaring at Callum as he does so, seemingly expecting him to back down. He doesn’t. “Pathetic.” He makes an effort to speak clearly, an act that should be out of fatherly love, but that leaves a sour taste in Callum’s mouth. “Hiding behind your pig of a boyfriend- you really know how to pick ‘em, ey son? One dead, one beats you into hospital, and now him? Good to know yo-” Phil doesn’t get to finish that sentence, as Ben launches at him, held back only by Callum who anticipates the move before Ben gets the chance to do something he’d regret. He’d gotten used to that, these past weeks.

“You say whatever the fuck you want about me, yeah? But you don’t get to stand there and say shit about him. You understand?” Callum wonders if Ben knows he’s screaming. He wouldn’t be surprised if the whole square could hear him. “I’ll say what I like when you choose him over your whole fucking family!” “I aint choosing him over my family, cause he aint making me chose. I’m choosing him over you, cause you’re the only one trying to make me choose!”

With a frantic jingle of keys, the front door swings open. Callum doesn’t go to move. “What the bloody hell is goin’ on in ‘ere?” Jay’s voice sounds through the corridor and into the living room. Callum grabs Ben’s hand, knocking twice onto the palm. Following their first BSL course last week, they’d come up with tactile signs for the people they saw most frequent, realising it was going to take more than a few lessons to communicate fully. An L shape for Lexi, tapped twice on the palm. Two knocks for Jay. Two quick strokes of the index finger for Lola. A peace sign tapped once for Stuart, twice for Kathy, and three times for Ian- they’d lost interest and creativity rapidly in the formation of their language, finding other activities far more entertaining.

“I can hear you two mouthing off from the funeral p- Phil?” From the corner off his eye, Callum watches as Jay takes in the scene around him, a little uncertain of how to react. “We’ll finish this later,” Phil looks Ben up and down, clearly disgruntled by the new appearance. “Nah. We won’t,” Ben retorts, and Callum can’t help but feel a slight pang of pleasure in the words.

As Phil heads towards the back door, the entire room appears to relax. Callum doesn’t have to look at Ben to know his shoulders drop, the furious expression that had been on his face dissipating. Jay grabs his shoulder. “What the hell was that about?” Jay paused for a moment. “You alright? Lo’s gonna be back from the school run any minute.”

Ben shrugged Jay’s hand away, hands reaching up and running through his hair. He let out a somewhat bitter laugh. “I… I need a fucking drink mate.” Ben doesn’t wait for any kind of response before stalking past, into the kitchen. “Why do we only have gin and tequila? Who the fuck does the shopping in this house?”

Callum didn’t think it was the best time to remind Ben that he’d already consumed all of the cans they’d bought for the weekend. There was a time and place, and that certainly wasn’t after his on-the-run father had shown up out of the blue to berate him for not properly killing the ex-fiancé of his sister. Especially not when Callum walked into the kitchen to find Ben had already begun measuring out, and downing, a shot of tequila, his face twisting as he did so. “Never did like the stuff.” In spite of this, he began pouring a second measure.

Callum slid his arm around Ben’s waist, moving his head by the chin to get his attention. Whatever was left of angry, frustrated Ben, screaming at the top of his voice, and launching at his father, was gone. Instead, replaced by a tired Ben, bags around his eyes, expression holding no pretence of forced contentment. It was a part of Ben Callum knew few had seen, and that the majority that few had lived under this roof. Most knew him as the furious Ben, desperate to be a Mitchell protégé. Some knew him as the snarky, but emotionally compromised son of a vindictive man who was trying to be better than the last. Few knew him as he was now, exhausted and vulnerable. Callum had known him as all three, but this was the Ben he knew how to handle the least. The Ben that looked lost and conflicted, the Ben that filled himself with self-hatred and pity. The Ben that was so easily demolished by Phil, and often struggled to pull himself out of bed in the morning.

“That’s not gonna help.” Callum said, though that wasn’t quite why he’d came into the room. “Oooh, agree to disagree on that one.” Ben threw back the fluid like it was nothing. Callum had seen him drink worse, so to him it probably was. He recalled a particularly rough night less that a year previous, in e20, when Callum and Whit had walked into the bar, fingers laced together. Callum had watched as Ben had noticed their presence, ordered and downed six shots of whatever was strongest, before heading off with the closest willing participant. He cringed a little at the memory.

“Ben.” He turned Ben’s head again, with more care than before. Ben rolled his eyes, but didn’t object. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine, Callum. Just fantastic.” He reached for the bottle again, but Callum was faster, manoeuvring up to place it on a shelf just out of (Ben’s) arms reach. “Well that’s just unfair, babe.”

“What happened?” Callum rests his weight against the counter, waiting for Ben to respond. In the other room, Jay potters around, seemingly resetting whatever damage Phil had done to the contents of the sitting room.

“Oh, you know, the usual Mitchell reunion. He shows up unannounced at the kitchen table when I come in to get a cuppa, starts shouting his head off about this and that, not listening to the fact that I can’t fucking hear ‘im. I mean, it’s funny, really. He’d been here ‘bout 20 minutes before you showed up, I aint got the slightest what he was yabbering on about half the time!” He sees Ben sneak a glance at the bottle, but seemingly decides it’s not worth the humiliation of having to climb on the countertop to reach it. “Though, I mean, I can guess. The usual, you know. Never could get anything right, could ‘ya? Not even asked about your sister, ‘ave you? Suppose you haven’t done anything to correct the mess you’ve made? And that ‘friend’ of yours. I mean ‘friend’ Cal? That part I fucking saw him say. It’s been fucking years, and fucking ‘friend’. Like he doesn’t fucking know? Or doesn’t know your fucking name- I mean, he used to do the same with Paul, too. ‘Friend’ or the ‘flouncy one’ that’s what he fucking used to call him, even when he died! That’s how he fucking told me, my ‘friend’ was dead and- and I just-”

Callum moved forward, wrapping arms around the younger man, and burying his face into the top of his hair. Ben had a habit of doing this. He stopped himself from sharing so much, that when he let out a little it all just came flooding like a tidal wave, but Ben was still in armbands. Ben wasn’t crying. Callum had found that crying was not something Ben allowed for himself when there was a chance anyone else would see him, and Jay was only in the other room. His breaths were shallow, shaking slightly under Callum’s embrace. It took him a minute to return the gesture, eventually melting into Callum, both of their weights pressed into the kitchen counter.

“I just… why can’t we have normal families? You know, the type of dad’s who’s first instinct is to ask how you are when they’ve not seen you for weeks, not to have a go about you not hiring a decent hitman?” Ben chuckles a little as he spoke, a small comfort given the situation.

Callum made a point to lean back before he spoke again, choosing first to stand in the embrace for a moment. “What did he mean ‘held a barrel to my head’? You didn’t actually, right? I mean, this is London, not Texas.” Callum didn’t quite anticipate the confirming nod Ben returned. “You have a fucking gun? What if Lexi finds it, Ben?” “Correction, I had a gun. It’s probably somewhere in the Thames now,” there was a forced nonchalant tone to Ben’s voice, the tone he’d used back before Christmas, while trying to convince Callum that work was the reason he was stressed, rather than the family murder plot he was involved in. “And I’m not stupid, Cal. I kept it at the car lot, well away from Lexi.”

In spite of himself, Callum was unable to stifle a laugh at the pure bizarreness of the situation. “’Ey, I warned you from the start, the Mitchell’s love a little drama.” Ben flinched a little at his own words, as though he was forcing himself to make light of a situation he didn’t particularly enjoy. “You not curious why?” “Go on then, enlighten me,” Callum decided he could go along with Ben’s charade of suddenly being fine for now, if it meant Ben had distraction. Even if temporary. “Keanu was the only one who knew where you were. And dad had a gun-” “Okay, I’ve gotta ask, how many guns do you all own?” Ben’s smile was a slightly unsettling response. “-A gun pointed at his head. He thought your sorry mug was a lost cause. I told him he either puts the gun down till we find you, or I shoot.” “Just like that?” “No question about it.” “Ah, that’s both sweet and creepy.” “That’s where I live, as you well know.”

Callum is about to lean down into a kiss when the front door swings open with a distinct bang. Grabbing Ben’s palm, he signs an ‘L’ twice, and gives two strokes of the index finger. “Perfect timing, as always,” Ben mutters, rolling up on the balls of his feet to kiss Callum’s cheek, before pushing himself off the countertop, and into the hallway, as Callum follows in toe.

Lola stands in the doorway, slipping off her shoes, while Lexi babbles on about the fight she had with Masie in her year, who’s far too stupid (Lola scolds her lightly) to dare make fun of Lexi for failing the spelling test. The (second) youngest of the Mitchell clan briefly greets them all, before running upstairs to change from her uniform so she can go on her bike with Mia and Bailey.

Cautiously, Lola watches her go, a feigned calm expression on her face. She doesn’t speak until she hears the slam of her daughter’s bedroom door, and when she does, it’s a panicked hiss more than anything else: “Did I just see Phil walking round the back of the square?”

#eastenders #idk what this is but i like d the idea so just went with it. fanfic usually isnt my thing but hey might as well #ben mitchell #eastenders fic #ben x callum #callum highway #actually wrote something

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