#we don’t fuck with museum docents

[softlyfiercely]

Me: ☺️ hey buddy 😊 some people feel sad or scared when they see other people playing guns 🥺 so you need to not point your pretend gun at other people 😇 and only play right here with your friend okay?😌

Kiddo: points his pretend gun at fucking. museum employees

Me: 😡PLAY SOMETHING ELSE. 🤬 NOW. 😤

#I will go from Mary Popping to Bain in one fucking instant #we don’t fuck with museum docents #it was a gun-ish shape he made with magnet blocks #I don’t let him bring actual toy guns to the children’s museum

[arecomicsevengood]

THREE UNCIVILIZED BOOKS

If you ever come to visit me in Philadelphia, particularly if you are a visual artist of some stripe, odds are good I will invite you to visit the Barnes Foundation, home of some very beautiful paintings. A few months ago, I was with a cartoonist, looking at a piece by Pascin, maybe overhearing a docent providing commentary to a tour group, when the idiotic commentary of my own mind said to myself: Hey, didn’t a cartoonist do a cartoon biography of Pascin? Maybe there are copies in the gift shop. There were not, but once I was at home and googled I confirmed the cartoonist in question was Joann Sfar, and this book was published in the U.S. by Uncivilized Books. Months later, the publisher had a big sale on their website, and now that book is in my hands.

The comics biography is a much-maligned genre, for an number of reasons. One particularly egregious offense is telling the story of an artist via a style that gives no indication the storyteller cares about or understands the artist’s work. This, however, is a gorgeously drawn book. The affinity between Sfar feels for Pascin is clear, though pastiche is not attempted, there is still an understanding of the role of brushstroke, and characters struggle with the questions of art in a way that remains unsettled for the cartoonist. There’s a bit late in the book where two painters are discussing drawing from models, and how the goal is to capture the life and motion of a figure so it’s not like a photograph, and has a richness to it, but not to approach this goal the way the cubists go about it. It feels like this is a part of Sfar’s concerns as well, and he is choosing the looseness of a sketchbook approach, with varying materials, as his own way of achieving this aim. The page layouts are sketchbook-style, lacking the sense of forward momentum you get from a grid, but remaining well-timed in their progression across a sequence. To the best of my knowledge, it’s the only book of Sfar’s in English that’s in black and white, and we get to see his decisions unencumbered by color, as he focuses on textures, the body, nudity, eroticism.

The traditional structure of the biography is dispensed with, in favor of telling little stories that work as comics. There isn’t a narrative of cause and effect, of rising and falling fortunes. Rather, a man is who he is, throughout his entire life, and different scenarios illuminate what that means. Sfar really focuses on Pascin as a dude who is either having sex or is drawing women as a way of gratifying himself as an alternative to fucking. In doing so, he turns Pascin into a character, rather than a node in historical time. I am unsure if I favor this approach because I’m a fatalist about human nature and don’t think people change that much over a lifetime, or if I just think that’s what works for comedy and I prefer comedy to drama. Most likely these things are interconnected.

This seems to me the right approach for Pascin, both because a comic works well with cartoon characters as its subject, and because of what it is to be a painter. It has occurred to me, walking through the Barnes, or other museums, that if you are seeing actual paintings, you are seeing them absent a grand historical narrative. An art book, filled with reproductions, can break an oeuvre down into periods, showing examples of each. But in a museum, you take what’s on offer, whether it be sketches or a handful of finished works. It is the rare museum that features enough of an artist’s work a viewer can take in the grand sweep of a career. This offers its own correspondence to what it is to be a person: how a lover has a different perspective on their partner than a close friend would, and parents, coworkers, and casual acquaintances have their own individual takes. While a biographer might seek a full compendium of everyone’s shifting opinions, over a period of years, all this will lead a reader to is the inconclusive conclusion that such-and-such was “a complicated guy.” A portrait of the artist as someone primarily interested in women and their work might not satisfy a biographer, but it is not necessarily inaccurate.

Other artists (Soutine, Hemingway) get walk-on roles and they’re all presented as coherent characters - possessing a degree of psychological depth, but defined by their actions, and usually driven by base desires. Juxtaposing them against each other allows for themes to emerge without the book needing to lapse into narrative captions offering didactic explanations. There’s an episodic structure, and I enjoyed it from the beginning, but with each new chapter I felt like the book was getting better, cutting closer to its subject. It’s a very satisfying reading experience, and made me interested in reading more of Sfar’s work.

Another book I purchased from Uncivilized during this recent sale was Jesse McManus’ The Whistling Factory. Jesse recently gave a talk for the New York Comics Symposium I appreciated for a number of reasons. He is about the same age as I am, and he touched on having read as a kid some of the same black and white kids comics I wrote about in my article for issue 2 of But Is It… Comic Aht. (I still have copies available, if anyone’s interested.) While writing that piece, I had noted that there were similarities between how Jesse approached the cartooned shape and the shadows it cast and Scott Roberts did in his comic Patty Cake. My whole reason for writing that piece was that I feel like these comics were really under-discussed, because despite the nostalgic tendency in comics criticism, that primarily benefits superhero comics, and the comics I was talking about were never that widely-read. Jesse was totally disinterested in superhero comics that get discussed ad nauseam, and his perspective both feels unique to him and familiar to me.

Jesse McManus diverges from me by being very good at drawing, and he goes beyond a lot of people by making a system out of following the logic of squash-and-stretch, taking the Fort Thunder tendency to focus on characters moving in space and applying it to this Kricfalusi-derived shifting of forms. The interest in images-for-their-own-sake abuts an interest in language-for-its-own-sake, and they work in concert to create something just a few feet beyond the fathomable. So many comics are interesting because you can see the artist thinking on paper, but in McManus you see someone who’s been drawing so long that the brain is on paper so fully it feels like the unconscious mind is behind what we’re seeing. Objects seem to flow in and out of being symbols, with new meanings dependent on the context. If Uncivilized feels like a weird publisher because it’s not clear what exactly they publish, besides feeling like the farm league for D+Q, these books seem to take the name of the company literally, in very different ways, to put to paper things that feel half-feral, untamed.

The subject matter of the half-feral arises in Sam Alden’s New Construction, but in order to talk about what makes Alden’s comics interesting to me, I’ve gotta briefly digress: Recently I reread the first two issues of Adrian Tomine’s Optic Nerve, which Drawn And Quarterly published in 1995. In high school, I borrowed a friend’s copy of Sleepwalk, which collected the first four issues of the series, and enjoyed it, vaguely intending to buy my own copy of the collection eventually, and buying all the issues that would later be collected as Summer Blonde. Now I’ve got the first two issues, and I might as well try to find issues 3 and 4 so I can have a complete set of the series in single issue format.

By and large, when I read comics from the 1990s for the first time decades later, there are two reactions I have: “Wow, they don’t make comics like that any more. That was so good, and so strong, in a way I can’t imagine anyone attempting that now” - these are, generally speaking, works that are “edgy” or transgressive in some way: Seven Miles A Second, for instance, or Nurture The Devil (still trying to track down issue 2 of this) or Villa Of The Mysteries. Julie Doucet’s Dirty Plotte fits this bill. Paul Pope was likely not trying to be transgressive, but his P-City Parade is still impressive for how much of a game-changer its approach to visual storytelling would’ve been at the time, and has stuff in it any editorial or self-censoring impulse would blanch at today. In comparison, work that feels inoffensive  often feels sort of boring in a way it likely didn’t at the time: The comics of Michael Dougan, say, which I tracked down after he died, are well-told, but also seem like they benefitted from there not being as much competition at the time. Interestingly, this perspective feels like the opposite of what most people mean when they say work “didn’t age well.” I am not sure if my tastes reflect a hunger for the transgressive for its own sake as much as I am interested in how work reflects the time of its creation, and I remember the nineties well enough to know people were not so well-manicured in their self-presentation as they are in the time of social media. (Again, these things are likely interconnected.)

When I read Optic Nerve, it strikes me as work I liked when I was younger, that was made by someone who was themselves quite young at the time of its creation. One thing that makes the single issues interesting is the letter columns. Tomine was known for having good ones, as his work attracted a special type of weirdo that was comfortable offering their unprompted criticism to strangers. This is another aspect of the nineties which has fallen out of favor: All the criticism seems offered in earnest good faith, as opposed to today, where if someone tags a creator on social media when they’re offering criticism they will be called out for being a dick, people largely thinking of audience feedback within terms of a praise or trolling binary. James Kochalka has a letter in issue two, offering a take on Tomine’s work which has aged like wine, and I will reproduce it in in full:

…I’ve been enjoying your comics, but I’m beginning to find the critics tiresome. To me, it seems like you’re not particularly wise beyond your years. Your comics seem very much like they were written by a young person. You don’t seem particularly extra knowledgeable about what makes human beings tick… To me it seems like you’re as good you are simply because you work very hard at it. Sometimes it almost seems like you’re trying too hard, especially in Optic Nerve #1. It’s drawn with such rigidity. The pictures seem like they’re made almost entirely of vertical lines, with minor horizonals and very inconsequential diagonals and curves. To  me it seems like the stories don’t automatically call to be treated in this manner. Rather, it seems like your desire to appear “professional” is having a restricting effect on your drawing hand. Please, flow freely into your work.

Tom Kaczynski, the future publisher of Uncivilized Books, also writes in, saying “…I did find this issue to be bit awkward in execution. Some panels, it seemed, you were unsure of. I don’t know what is causing it. In the past, you seemed to have certain confidence in the line of the brush (especially on the “Smoke” story) which seems to be repressed under the tightened inks.”

I bring up these things to note that Sam Alden, similarly, was perceived as a young cartoonist for a minute there, and his stories in New Construction seem very well-observed in capturing young adults and subculture. He would’ve been a bit older than Tomine was. (These letters were written in 1995, when Tomine would’ve been 21, the stories in New Construction would’ve been made, I think, when Alden was in his late twenties.) Tomine’s work is about young people as somewhat repressed, lonely, aching to find their place in the world. Alden’s characters, a little bit older, have found comfort in subculture but are not necessarily great at navigating the world they’ve chosen for themselves, which might be harmful to them. Contained in the contrast between the two is a Generation X-er’s ability to enter into the world of professionalism, albeit with trepidation, as Tomine himself approximates the literary short story, and gets gigs doing illustration for The New Yorker, while Alden documents the sort of extended adolescence millennials fell into in the absence of other options.

Sam Alden is by no means unemployable: He worked on Adventure Time at the time he made New Construction, and his earlier comic Haunter is the sort of post-Fort-Thunder genre comic that might earn someone such a gig. The two stories in New Construction, on the other hand, are literary fiction: One, Backyard, follows a group of young people living together in a house in New Orleans, where one person has stopped speaking altogether, and now communicates only in barks, and has moved to the backyard. Everyone is accepting this in the manner of open-minded young people, doing the best they can, noting she seems a lot happier now. The other story follows two siblings, also living in New Orleans, who have gone through a traumatic with their parent in the past and are ill-equipped for the larger world, and are having an incestuous relationship. They are much looser in their visual approach than you see in a Tomine comic, with scanning and printing technology developing enough in the intervening decades that Alden can work directly in pencil. He really nails the texture of water at night. The elliptical quality to his comics seems oriented towards the visual, towards capturing a gesture or atmosphere, something that might be elusive if attempting to recall it later, making for comics that feel decidedly immediate. Alden self-released a book called Sledgehammer digitally at the end of 2022, and my distaste for paying for digital comics has prevented me from reading it. I should get over this. It’s probably pretty good.

We all need to find a way to negotiate the digital space. It’s funny that Uncivilized proprietor Tom K, as he is known in shorthand, shares a surname with the Unabomber. It’s less funny that the company’s website does not offer anything in the way of interior art previews to show what these comics look like, which is almost certainly a big part of why I didn’t read them until they were deeply discounted. Images are from Uncivilized Books included in this post partly to remedy this problem, although they of course have far more comics that I have not read and have no idea what their art looks like. The images from mid-nineties comics I highlighted are included as part of my general largesse.

#joann sfar #sam alden #jesse mcmanus #jess johnson #paul pope

[theliterateape]

Mistaken Ethnicity

by Don Hall

For most of my life I thought I was Irish.

At least mostly Irish. I was also bizarrely proud of the fact that I had some Cherokee and African blood mixed in the genetic soup but I was told and I fully identified as predominantly Irish.

I didn't embrace Irish culture. No deep dive into the history of the country nor an embrace of traditional foods or dance, music or literature. My early church experiences were defined by the midwestern values of my youth which, while sometimes contentious between the Lutherans and the Baptists, wasn't a lifelong war. I projected from the place of stereotypes—I gave credit to my Irishness for my drinking, for my seemingly pointless anger, for my stated inability to be psychoanalyzed (per the famous quote by Sigmund Freud).

Let's face it—race is a fiction created by faux scientists who needed some sort of justification for separating us into haves and have-nots. A belief in race is only slightly different from a belief in werewolves or faith in identity apart from biological reality. It's powerful but kind of silly when you look too hard. Culture? That's real stuff but more like a costume one chooses to wear. Ethnicity? Based entirely in reality but closely aligned with culture; not chosen but easily ignored.

Irish is not a race (cuz that's all made up) but it is both an ethnicity and a culture. I thought I was the ethnicity; I only claimed the culture when I found it convenient.

This fall my mother, who did one of those ancestry.com things, informed me we were not Irish. We're...

Welsh. At least we’re equal parts Welsh as we are Irish.

My identity has been compromised. I can no longer legitimately call myself Irish. I’m mostly Welsh and I don’t even like rugby.

So what? Ireland and Wales are both in the Anglo-Saxon family, right? How different could they be? The Irish are belligerent drunks and the Welsh are known to fuck sheep. Both really despise the English and for good reason (likely the same reason West Virginians despise New Yorkers). More to the point, I was never really Irish in any real sense. I identified as Irish but those were only words. It isn’t like I lived the life of an Irishman.

If I had lived the Irish life and fully embodied the cultural heritage of that specific ethnicity, would I suddenly have to stop because I’m Welsh? I don’t think so. I mean, I suppose if there were a job that required I be Irish and I told them I was so I could squeeze in, that would be crossing some sort of ethical line. My belief of Irishness doesn’t make me Irish any more than if I ran around with an Afro wig and used black slang would make me black or if I frequented my speech with Yiddish and wore a yarmulka would make me Jewish.

Identity is just another costume.

At our base, we really all are exactly the same creature. We all basically want the same thing and suffer in similar ways. We find joy in similar things and are all angered by injustice, dishonesty, theft, unnecessary violence (as we interpret them). We all gotta eat, we all need water to survive, we all need to sleep. The simple biology of humanity is the same with no regard for the costumes we dress it up in.

If I am hit by a car, lying on my back in pain, does the driver care if I'm Irish or Welsh? If I'm hungry and come in to order a hamburger and fries, does the kid at the counter give a shit if I'm straight or gay? If I wander into an art museum, does the docent volunteering her time stop to even consider if I am affiliated with a religious belief?

This is due in part because I don't identify as almost anything at all but some random dude. There a lot of random white dudes in the world so I blend in. I don’t stand out in a crowd and that’s on purpose. The costumes of race, ethnicity, and culture are double-edged and practically beg for assumptions to be made about us.

How you present yourself is your personal choice and expressing oneself with appearance is both very powerful and empowering. How you present yourself also carries with it consequences and the responsibility for the setting of those consequences belonging to he or she making the choices, not those who react to them. As I used to tell actors I worked with, the audience always gets it. If they don't, it's because you aren't communicating clearly.

Choose wisely, assess risk realistically, and blame no one else for the choices you make. The only solution to this set of circumstances is to reframe how we decide to perceive one another. Because, just like the choice to demonstrate as either Irish or Welsh, how I decide to perceive someone else is likewise a choice.

If I choose to assume that the homeless dude with no teeth who rummages through the trash and tosses it all over the street was once a pediatrician with three kids who no longer bear any responsibility for him, my reaction to him is changed. If I choose to assume that the black teenager with the Gangsta Rap t-shirt and gold teeth is an honor student who volunteers on Saturdays at the local animal shelter, my reaction to him is improved. The woman with the midriff t-shirt from Hooters and booty shorts has a PhD in biophysics. The guy with the Marine tattoo and the handlebar mustache councils young boys to understand their masculinity.

When I was a younger person I wanted to stand out. I wanted to be seen. I wore the costumes of the ostentatious and bold. I was loud and gregarious. I exaggerated my personal history to seem more noteworthy—not in a George Santos complete fabrication way but merely adding a bit of sauce to each truth. Which, I suppose, is a very Irish trait.

These days, I'm not inclined to be noticed for the costume but for what I accomplish. If you notice me, I hope it's because of the things I do rather the things I identify with, the way I carry myself rather than any assumption of ethnicity I may wear. Those are the things I'd rather notice in others.

I'm a lot of things mixed in there—musician, writer, carnival barker, cinephile, child of the eighties, Apple enthusiast, lover of most things Marvel, smoker—and, now, I guess I'm Welsh. A mutt in all ways like almost every other person on the planet.

Hey. I'm also single so maybe a sheep might look good right about now.

[jacensolodjo]

We don’t ask for much at my museum. We especially don’t ask for much in the 10 Stages of Genocide wing.

What we do ask is you not fucking go bouncing around, laughing and talking loudly like you’re on a bar crawl. 

We literally have a HUGE sign!! And if that isn’t a clue, then the fact that we have NO audio or video playing in that wing should be one when the rest of the museum is set up that way. The only thing I should be hearing in my wing is the soft gong and whispers. The only people allowed to raise their voice in that wing is a tour guide/docent. 

Otherwise one of these days I’m gonna treat y’all like you’re children and make you go into timeout in the hallway until you’re ready to give at least a modicum of respect in not only that wing but the entire museum. But you’re adults so act like it. 

#текст #Jacen's museum work

[tablestakesyogi]

Stacy & Ben: People You Can Count On

Pak Dave with Stacy & Ben Hitchhiking was one of the highlights of the PCT experience last year. You meet some characters when you stick your thumb out...most of them interesting and delightful. After a solo backpack trip through the Trinity Alps in mid-June, I found a ride from the trailhead to historic Weaverville, and headed straight to the town's universe level ice cream parlor (Crockett's UpNorth). After a big cone full of mint chip ice cream, I emerged with a sugar high and stumbled out to Highway 299 where I combed my hair and stuck out my thumb. This was a Sunday afternoon and there were lots of cars on the road; so I thought I had a good chance to catch a ride to Redding. Instead, all the nice couples in their SUVs rolled up their windows when they saw me, admittedly looking a little grungy after several days on the trail. The local Weaverville drivers hand-signalled me that they were just going a short distance.

Feeling the pain of rejection, I walked down the road after an hour or two, and stopped at the Weaverville museum which was filled with memorablia about Trinity County's gold-mining history. Well worth the time. The friendly docent suggested I try my luck at the east end of town so I walked down the road and stuck out my thumb again. I considered the pros and cons of visiting the Tangle Blue Saloon to ask the patrons for a ride, but figured this should be a last resort since riding with a guy who'd been drinking all afternoon might be riskier than meeting bears on the trail. And just then, a white station wagon with an American flag in the rear and graffiti on the side (Vote for Darla's Tacos) slowed down and a couple took a look at me. A woman was driving with her partner who asked where I was headed. I said Redding, but they were going only about ten miles down the road to Douglas City, so I declined the ride. I cussed myself as soon as they pulled away because I should have offered to pay for gas if they took me all the way to Redding. But then a miracle occurred. The car made a U-Turn and came back. The guy said: "If you pay for gas, we'll take you to Redding." I said: "Deal." It took awhile for them to clear their gear out of the backseat to find a place for my backpack and me. Then before we took off, the guy turned to me and said, "I'm Ben and this is Stacy and you're riding in SnowWhite. You aren't gonna pull any funny stuff are you? "Nope, I'm old and safe," I replied. After that security check, the conversation was fun and free-wheeling. They told me the story of how a friend had given them SnowWhite, a 2009 Mercury station wagon. While talking about how long they had been together ( nine years) and how long they had been married (6 years), they casually mentioned that both of them were bi-polar and that Stacy also suffered from schizophrenia. I told Stacy I liked her purple hair to which she replied that she didn't like orange or red hair. "Why is that?" I asked. "Because I've never tried those colors," she replied. To which we all roared with laughter. In a more serious moment, Stacy said that she loved Ben because he knew how to take care of her when the bi-polar and/or schizophrenia symptoms hit. In turn, Ben said that Stacy was his best therapist. "He's mine too," she said. "But she was planning to leave when I got hooked on meth," confided Ben. "Two months ago she told me I had two options, kick my meth habit or lose her," he said. "I stopped it cold right then and there. One of the toughest things I ever did, but Stacy's worth it. Even fucked up on meth, I was smart enough to choose Stacy. I've been clean two months now, and I feel clear and free." We all cried a little after Ben's story, and then high-fived him for his courage. Stacy found the cheapest gas in Redding ($5.81), we filled up and then headed to the airport where I found a flight back to the Bay Area. I regret that I don't have a pic of SnowWhite. Read the full article

#hitchhiking #TrinityAlps #TrinityAlpsbackpacking #Weaverville

[crescentsteel]

Keeping a Secret - Part 16

pairing: Tsukishima x f!manager of Sendai Frogs genre: fluff, crack, slow burn, sexual tension, angst, smut wc: 8.9k

a/n: 

Life has been utterly crazy again hence slow update but nevertheless, I still write. This series is not going anywhere until it's finished.

People are starting to be required to go back to offices which is crazy to me. I don't have it in me anymore to commute for 4 hours when I have been working at home for like almost three years now. It just doesn't make sense. This capitalist society is truly shit. (Ugh sorry for this. I had to let it out)

I'm putting up my ko-fi again for tips. I know that a lot of you have been generous but the return to office really sucks cause more expenses and if you feel like tipping, I'd gladly appreciate it.

tip jar

Part 15 || Part 17 || masterlist

‘Miss L/N, 

This is Tsukishima Kei and I would like a follow-up regarding  our next steps   for the draft we should be working on at the moment. Our last meeting did not provide much information on how exactly we’ll proceed with this collaboration so would you kindly update me?

It would greatly help our institutions if we start as soon as possible. So do reach out when you’ve finally decided on the course of action to take.

Regards, Tsukishima Kei

Tomizawa Site Museum, Docent’

He gives the draft a second read yet still can’t decide if he should send it already or not. It’s okay, right? It doesn’t sound too formal, does it?

He blows out a disgruntled breath and removes his hands from the keyboard. He doesn’t know how many times he’s rewritten this email but he knows it has taken up a good chunk of his afternoon. He knows how to write a proper fucking email but he’s finding it extremely hard to write a decent one to you. 

He’s never addressed you formally, nor sent you a sanctioned message so he’s having a trying time attempting to form one. 

He removes his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose. He needs to get a grip. This is not supposed to be hard. It’s just a follow-up letter, which he’s done several times for various organizations and institutes on behalf of his colleagues. So, having difficulty with this simple email intended for you doesn’t make sense. 

At the rate this is going, his affiliation with you will span for, God forbid, a year. He needs to get used to you and be normal around you. Triple guessing of emails should not be a frequent occurrence. In fact, it shouldn’t be an occurrence at all. 

This email should have been sent without drafts. It shouldn’t have had revisions, as it’s only a simple follow-up.

So he presses the send button then closes his laptop, lest he thinks about the damned email more than he already had. 

—

You put all your folders and books on your desk with a loud thud then lean back on your chair before you stretch. Just a little more push for today then you can go home and resume on your readings for next week’s classes. 

You open your laptop and check your emails before you go - a routine you developed to make sure you don’t miss any task prior to going home. You had set a personal rule that you wouldn’t be bringing work home anymore, and finish your assistant tasks in the university. Only school work is allowed to be done at home. That way you have a healthy boundary between the two and you wouldn’t get confused interchanging your respective responsibilities.

You almost call it a day as you hit the bottom of the unread emails, but you see a sudden Tsukishima Kei’ right before the last email.

About time he sent you one. You were starting to think he got cold feet and decided to give up the position he was aiming for. It’s not far-fetched for him to give up on something that is too much work so you thought of it as a possibility. It’s all that it is though - a possibility, since his name is right there in your inbox with the subject line, ‘Conference Paper Update.’ 

You open the message and as you’re reading it, you can’t help but laugh in your cubicle. What the hell is this email? It’s so unnaturally formal but also passive aggressive at the same time. Tsukishima’s ability to be polite with hostility is so astounding that it’s hilarious. 

You gather your stuff but before getting up, you shoot him a quick response.

‘To Tsukishima Kei, Tomizawa site museum docent,

I thought you’d grace my proposal with a second look with your expert eyes on the topic. Since you have kindly reached out, I’m ready to hear your thoughts on my drafted outline. Looking forward, 

Miss L/n, 

Teaching Assistant, Tohoku University

You lock your phone then drop it inside your handbag as you start your walk back home. It’s not yet dark and today you get the rare chance of watching the sunset while on your way to your apartment. 

You actually don’t remember the last time you’ve seen one and actually paid attention since the attention you can give is pretty limited. 

But today, you let yourself be taken by the seemingly serene view as you’re positively certain that once the paper for the conference takes off and your class requirements pick up again, this lull will cease to exist. 

So you slow your steps and get lost in each of them, wondering if this is it - if this is everything you wanted. Tsukishima once asked you if you’re currently happy, and you answered yes. It wasn’t a lie, but now that you actually ponder, you begin to ask what being happy means.

You pass by one person after another, their silhouettes dimming your frame until you’re almost near your place, and yet you couldn’t answer your own question.

What you’re only certain of is that you’re at peace. Despite the deadlines and the meetings that keep you up, you’re at peace.

And right now, you couldn’t ask for more.

Life certainly has treated you well after you got the new job. Better apartment, loving boyfriend, solid career - you would be crazy if you’d still complain.

You smile a little as you reach for your keys and open your door. You wriggle your shoes off and get in. You take off your blouse and coat and leave yourself wearing only your bra and skirt as you look at your fridge and check if you have some leftovers.

You want to learn how to cook but never get past anything more complicated than frying because you’re always busy. You don’t know where Kuroo learned to cook because as far as you know, he’s just as busy as you are. 

And no surprise, there’s nothing good enough to satisfy your yearning for good food. When you’re alone, you just eat out before you even reach home. But you haven’t been home this early so your brain just skipped getting take-out. 

You close the fridge then get your phone. You’ll just get food delivered since you’re not really up for the two sad sausages left in your fridge. 

When you open your phone again, you have two new emails - Tsukishima’s response and an assignment query from one of your students. You open their emails and as you read them, you’re on the fence whether you should still respond or not. Your mind is already on dinner. Should you order pizza, sushi, something Chinese maybe? Or fried chicken.. Hmm. 

You shouldn’t respond to work emails anymore so you close them. You open your browser instead to check for the food you had in mind so you can decide which you’ll order. Is Kuroo doing anything tonight? Maybe he can come over. 

As you choose between chicken and sushi, the two unanswered emails keep knocking on the back of your head. You sigh indignantly then get back to answering the emails. There’s just two of them anyways and they only entail short responses without much thinking required. 

You’ll shoot Kuroo a message as well. Actually, you’ll do that first. You bite your lower lip as you construct a rather perverted message knowing that he’s still at work. 

You smirk as you send it then go back to the wonderful promises of deep fried chicken wings, smothered in something probably unhealthy but delicious as hell. 

You spare Tsukishima the sarcasm and give him a rather short response telling him that you’ll go over his revisions some time. 

Which would be better, garlic parmesan or honey barbecue?

Last email to respond to then you can order both, and probably some dessert. You send a curt response to your student and call it a day for the second and final time. You close everything work-related and browse at the chicken wings’ menu you were eyeing before you decided to tend to your emails. Ooh, spicy cheese sounds interesting. You lick your lips as you place your order. You hope that Kuroo indulges your invitation  and drops by later because you know you’ll be ordering a lot and he’s like your human trash can for food.

You’re about to check out your order when you see in your notification that your student emailed back. You groan then decide to ignore it because your brain is seriously already on the sweet, savory wings that could’ve been on your way already if you didn’t read any of their emails. 

You slide up the notification when your eyes caught some parts of the email your student sent you. 

‘... not Tsukishima’

Your brows crease together, thoughts of food leaving your head as you open up the email with trembling fingers.

‘Miss l/n, I think you responded to the wrong person. I am not Tsukishima.😄’

You reread the message with wide eyes, the right one twitching at its corner as you think of  the possibility of you sending that inappropriate message you supposedly sent to Kuroo, to Tsukishima.

Nah. Nope. 

That’s highly unlikely. You texted Kuroo, not sent him an email. You’re not an airhead to not recognize that you’re writing on the wrong messaging platform. That’s just very improbable to happen. You probably mixed up your student and Tsukishima because you went on autopilot from how concerned you are between which flavor of chicken wings will taste best.

To confirm and rid yourself of unnecessary worry, you open your message to Kuroo first. 

You hear a ticking sound in your head as you read your message telling your boyfriend that the deadline is until next Tuesday.

You press your lips together while the corners of your mouth are harshly turned downward. A soft whimper comes out as you  shake your head with disappointment and disbelief from your own screw up. 

You type a quick text to Kuroo even though he still hasn’t answered your mistaken message to him. 

‘Come over with food. Please. I’m home already.’

If he doesn’t come over and give you food, you’re sure you’d be too distraught to order for yourself and end up skipping your meal. You don’t want to tell him about the email mishap over a text. You’d rather have him there. He’d sure laugh like a fucking idiot right in your face but he’ll know what to say so that you both are laughing over it.

You let out short, panicked breaths before you open the Sent folder in your emails. Maybe there had been some type of divine intervention and you actually didn’t press the send button. Maybe nothing reached Tsukishima in the first place and you’re dreading for nothing. 

In a split second, whatever wishful thinking you had quickly disintegrates as you open your email to Tsukishima. 

‘Came home a little early. I just took my blouse off and thought maybe you want to do my skirt yourself. Or not. We can leave it on. Your call.’

You don’t know which you want to do first, scream or pull your hair out. You do both at the same time but they provide only minute relief. You look at the recipient details again.

[email protected]

Fuck. He’s even using the museum domain. How much more inappropriate can the situation get!

This is precisely why you should follow your own rules about scheduling your tasks. 

You chew on your bottom lip excessively as you tap your left foot frantically. You put the wonders of your brain to work and quickly search ‘How to unsend an email.’ Tsuksihima still hasn’t answered so there’s a chance that he hasn’t opened it yet and you can still retrieve it. 

You carefully read the instructions you found and follow them step by step. Then you pace around the kitchen for some amount of time, waiting for something, anything that will notify you that you got back the perverted message. 

You haven’t been getting anything so you take it upon yourself to ask Tsukishima himself. You delete the shameful email you sent him from your own folders because you can’t stand it having it archived somewhere accessible to you.

You want it gone permanently and never to be seen nor read again. 

‘Hey Tsukishima, 

I haven’t gotten anything from you yet. Did you receive my email?’

You hurry to your living room then sit down aggressively, hoisting your legs up and resting your chin on one knee as you tap your phone against the cushion. 

A few minutes later, your phone vibrates, which you immediately lift up to check. Your eyes skipped his stupid formalities and eye for his actual answer to your question.

‘I didn’t receive anything. I must have missed it completely. Can you send it once more?’

The breath of relief you exhaled was the biggest one you’ve ever let out. Your phone drops on the floor but you just let it. You haven’t really tried that function but now at least you know. Still, this is a large reminder not to work when you're already home.

Actually… no. You can still work if it’s urgent and is needed as soon as possible. Not only that, you’re also just human and sometimes you make mistakes. It’s just that this mistake is utterly deplorable and it must never ever happen again. You shall not sext your boyfriend anymore when you’re doing work-related matters. 

If Kuroo knows what you’re thinking right now, he will most likely say you’re wrong and what you should do is stop doing work-related shit while sexting him. 

You knead your digits against your temple before picking up your phone to respond to Tsukishima and mark this whole disgraceful event done. 

‘I’ll go over the edits you sent. I’ll contact you again soon.’

Another big sigh comes out from you before letting your back fall against the cushion of the couch. So much for an early out. 

That was exhausting, but in retrospect, it could’ve been worse. You could’ve sent the lewd message to your student and although they might not report you, you will be the talk of the campus. You will be that perverted teacher who sends obscene messages to her students. 

The very thought of that makes your skin crawl with horror. 

At the very least, it was Tsukishima that you sent it to and you managed to unsend it before he got to read it. You make a conscious decision to let go of what happened and focus on what you were doing earlier again - think about food, dessert this time because you already asked Kuroo to bring dinner. 

No need to worry about it anymore since you solved the problem already.

—

Tsukishima didn’t realize that it’s already past his working hours. One of the researchers just passed by to remind him to go home already because it’s only the two of them left in the office. 

He complies with a nod and starts gathering his things. He usually doesn’t stay longer than he should in the office, but he did tonight. It isn’t deliberate though. He just lost track of the time and didn’t notice his colleagues leaving one by one. He has no training today too so he’s not pressed to leave as soon as he can. 

Although, he should go now because the office administration will not like him clocking out beyond his working hours. 

His coworker went ahead, which is good news to him because he won’t have to endure small talk on the way out of the building.

His day was peaceful and so was his ride back home. He gets inside, gives Akiteru a brief wave before climbing the stairs to his room. He puts his bag on his desk and grabs his phone before sitting on the office chair he just bought to make his reading at home more comfortable. 

He takes a deep breath and lets it out just the same. 

He was hoping you’d have already read the revised draft he sent and start moving forward. He’d also prefer to know how you’d want to proceed with the paper already, but you sent him a sort of dismissive response. Did you not like his work or found it lacking? It’s very disconcerting. You’re usually very particular with schedules. 

His eyes drift to the side and perch on the Spinosaurus figure you gifted him many moons ago.

Who the fuck is he kidding?

He’s not perturbed about your response or lack thereof. What’s bothering him is that particular email he’s most absolutely certain is not for him. 

He hopes you know that you’re an idiot. You’re the idiot of the fucking century. How the fuck would you make that mistake?

Why would you use your email to send such messages?! 

You were always organized so he didn’t expect such a grave erring from you. If he didn’t know better, he’d think you purposely sent him to it. 

But he does know better so he’s certain that it was nothing but a mistake. There is just no way that you deliberately sent him that. It must’ve been for Kuroo. Although for the life of him, he really can’t think of one single reason why you would use your mail, your work email nonetheless, to send such things.

His day has been anything but peaceful after he read that. His eyes were glued to his screen, reading the contents of it and trying his utter best to dispel the visual that came with it. It just wasn’t right for him to imagine things despite the indecorous thoughts that the message spurred out of him. 

He didn’t know how to react. Should he respond saying that you sent it to the wrong person? He knew he should do so but he didn’t want to address it. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the sexual message at all.

So when you emailed back again asking if he received anything, it was the most perfect opportunity to deny that the email existed. If he made you believe that he never got it and he tried hard enough to forget it, it would be as if it didn’t happen. 

And he did try hard to forget, as hard as the bulge scratching the crotch of his pants.

It was the most humiliating thing, having an erection at his workplace from a message that wasn’t his to read. That’s why he unknowingly stayed beyond his hours. It took him a while to calm himself down, doing more tasks that are supposed to be for tomorrow so he doesn’t think about you with nothing but a skirt on. 

He’s never seen you wearing a skirt. Even at university, you were always wearing pants or shorts. He’s not a pervert but he thinks you have nice legs and thighs - plump and full at the right places. 

You’d definitely look good in an office skirt - the one that hikes up when you sit down. He’d trail his fingertip along the softness of your flesh, ghosting them from your legs up to the hem of that skirt that hugged your hips like sin. 

Shit.

His eyes refocus on the toy figure he’d been staring blankly upon as he forcefully drags himself out of his improper daydreams.

He’s very aware that this is not right, and yet his cock is straining against his pants once more. It took him hours to push away his corrupted reveries and yet it took mere seconds of effortless and undevised thoughts to bring them back. 

It’s a painful itch and, oh, how tempted he is to scratch it so he’ll finally be free of it. 

He glances at the door and checks if he closed it. If not, he'll stop this madness right away. Not surprisingly, he did close it. He always does when he gets home. 

He stands up brashly and sits on his bed instead, resting his palms against his soft mattress as leans back a little.

He lets out a shaky breath as he comes to realize that he’s yielding to the vile temptation that’s bound to demean him after. Yet, he can’t ignore it nor push it away. Its presence is palpable, lingering and luring him with the sultry images of you right there in front of him, situated between his thighs. 

He shuts his eyes, solidifying your almost clad form in his imagination. You give him that up-to-no-good smile as you place your palms gingerly on his shoulders. Your elbows cover your nipples erotically, teasing him even in his self-induced imagery.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, trembling from his heavy need to touch the mirage he’s created.

You nudge his thighs apart with your knee as you anchor yourself on his bed, strands of your hair cascading down his cheek. Then you hike your knee up, grinding against his painfully swollen crotch.

He skims his palm against his groin, his dick rock-hard against the fabric of his slacks. God, this is humiliating but he couldn’t give a shit from how absorbed he is in his own fantasies. 

He prides himself for always being in control but control be damned when every suppressed desire he’s had of you since you left is raging irrepressibly on him.

There were countless times when perverted thoughts of you fulminated to invade his sanity. Frankly, if it didn’t hurt thinking about you, he would’ve surrendered to it a long time ago. That was the only thing that stopped him from getting himself off from thinking of you.

His lustful thoughts of you should've been gone by now. He shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be making him unzip his pants while images of your mischievous grin melts to a coy smile, batting your lashes and further beguiling him as you trail your eyes down to his cock. 

‘Do you want this?’ your voice in his head is a soft whisper, unsure yet evidently luring him further in to lose himself in this fantasy. 

He’s no longer losing to the temptation. He completely yields to it as he turns you around, making you sit on his lap while his cock twitches against your back where the fabric of your skirt thas hitched up. 

He flattens his palm against your naked back and slowly runs it down with his fingers ghosting your skin. 

You roll your hips back, his breath getting heavy from how your ass is gyrating against his cock. He can stay like this, palming his cock while imagining you grinding against it to make himself cum. But no, he won’t. You’re too vivid in his mind for him to climax in such a pathetic manner. 

He grips your sides so he can lift you up and align his cock on your entrance. 

His fist bobs up and down his arousal slowly, winding himself up as he thinks of your pussy swallowing his length full. 

You breathe out the most delicate whimper, clenching your fingers on his thigh as he begins bouncing you on his shaft. He can never forget how you sound when he’s fucking you. It’s something he doesn’t have to make up in his head because he knows exactly how. 

Just as you have trouble keeping your mouth shut on a daily basis, you’re the same in bed - vocal and loud. 

He tightens his grip on his cock as he quickens his pace, your addictive moans filling his head as you look over your shoulder and meet his eyes.

‘Tsukki..’ Fuck. He missed it. He missed hearing you call him that. It pushes him on the edge as he remembers the crisp sound of your voice pleading his name while you look at him with eyes blissed out in pleasure. 

He grabs your waist then pulls you to lean your back on his chest, your head landing on his shoulder with your faces only inches apart. He can feel your huffs against his lips as they almost touch but not quite. 

He grits his teeth as he lifts his hips up a little, his orgasm fast approaching as he pumps his cock frantically. Any self-control he had was long lost as he recalls how your eyes begged for him, how your mouth gaped open as he slammed his cock repeatedly into you, how much you enjoyed all of it.

His rough hand is not comparable to how soft and wet he can get you, but his imagination is enough to make up for it. 

‘Tsukki, please..’

Fuck! He squeezes his member, reliving how your pussy clamps up around his dick as you come undone, panting heavily from how good he made you feel. 

Seconds later, he feels the warm trickle of liquid in his knuckles as his cock twitches from his orgasm. He leans down to kiss you but before he can, you start to fade away.

He flutters his eyes open, his lids heavy from how immense he was in his forbidden fantasy. That was the most vivid erotic scene he’s ever conjured with imagination, and yet, the humiliation that comes with it is several times greater than the pleasure it gave. 

As his breathing evens out, he clenches his jaw in chagrin. 

He just reached the lowest of low.

–

You almost rub your eyes as you reach your destination but you remember you’re wearing mascara so you stop yourself from doing so. You had to wear makeup again to cover up the fact that your brain is still not in its full capacity and that it shows on your face.

You didn’t get much sleep again last night. You stayed up late in the office cause it was a Friday night and you had to check a lot of essays from the class you’re assisting with. 

There’s still some time left before the conference so you should be able to get your coffee.

You remove your seatbelt then turn to your boyfriend to give him a soft peck on the lips. “See you later,” you bid listlessly. When you see his face, he’s feigning displeasure with a small crease on his forehead. 

“That’s it? Not even on the lips?”

Your features wrinkle a little from disbelief because he was just saying a while ago that he was going to be late. “You’re the one who–”

He suddenly grabs the back of your head, his fingers weaving through your locks as he slants his head to capture your lips. You moan in shock, effectively knocking your sleepiness away and surprises you further when he parts your lips with his tongue. 

Your lids fall close on their own from how fast you’re getting swept from his consuming kiss. Your hand finds the collar of his suit to pull yourself closer to him. You can skip coffee if he doesn’t stop kissing you like this.

Then he peels away from you, a whimper of protest escaping your mouth before you open your eyes. You look at him, lips still agape as you try to recover from the passionate kiss that caught you off guard.

He chuckles then tugs your chin lightly. “You look like you want to continue. Sorry, Kermit. I have to go now.” Then you hear your side of the door unlock.

Your parted mouth opens wider as you gasp with annoyance. You punch his arm then scowl at him. “Fuck you, Kuroo.” You hiss before opening your door.

“Would love to if I wasn’t running late,” he winks at you with that gloriously provocative grin of his as you get out of his car.

You groan audibly not only because he deliberately turned you on just as he’s about to go, but also cause your brain is not coming up with anything to get back at him.

Just as you slam the door close, you hear his rich laughter enclosed in the confines of his car.

You roll your eyes and as you turn away, you hear the car leave.

‘Kuroo Tetsurou, you stupidly sexy dickhead.’

You already told him before not to do smutty stuff that will turn you on in public. You’re not exactly the subtle type when you’re horny so it’s a no. Your workplace is also not the place where being even just slightly horny is allowed. 

He’ll probably argue later that it’s just a kiss but the both of you know that it’s meant for something more. No thanks to him, you’re currently a little bothered in between your thighs. 

Damn that email three-way mishap. You were so unsettled by it that when Kuroo’s hands were getting a little frisky during his last sleepover, you told him that you just wanted to cuddle while watching. 

You pout as you remember his lips sweeping gently down your nape with his fingers trailing gingerly on your sides. 

You straighten your back and glance back at the road where the car was just at. The caved corners of your mouth turn up as your frown ceases.

It truly is aggravating and yet, you can't be angry at him because you actually like it too. You like that he can’t get his hands off of you when you’re together. You like how he always makes you feel wanted and desired. 

You get your phone then double check if it really is him you’re texting before you send your message. You can’t have a part two of that grievous mistake from last time so you double check. 

You said you won’t sext him again during your work shift but you just can’t help it.

‘If you won’t fuck me later, don’t bother coming. 

Also, please bring dessert. I’ll (try to) cook dinner.’

“Aren’t you going to come inside?”

You flinch when you hear Tsukishima’s voice beside you. You turn to him and quickly hide your phone back in your pocket. 

“H-how long have you been there?”

Did he see you in your stupor? You pray that he didn’t because you’d rather not have him watch you in your lewd haze that Kuroo caused. 

Tsukishima thinks twice before answering. He saw you get out of the car, obviously irked, then to his confusion, you stared at the road with a certain longing right before you smiled all to yourself and got your phone. 

That latter hints him that it’s probably Kuroo and you two had some ongoing internal joke that of course, he knew nothing about. It was a drag to watch, particularly when your eyes glistened with yearning on the empty road. 

You looked at him like that before, but he’d rather not reminisce about such things. 

“For a while now. Do you usually stare dumbly at the streets?” He pauses then remembers when he caught you staring at their house many nights ago. He sneers as he adds, “Oh, right. You stare at houses too. Why did I bother asking?”

The smile that takes form on your face is crinkled while your eyes are squinted with rancor as you pass him by to enter the auditorium. His eyes betray him, traveling down to your ass on their own accord before he can stop himself.

He whisks away the memories of last week and peels his eyes off of your curves that were the subject of his shameful night alone in his room. Thankfully, you’re wearing slacks so he’s able to easily erase the image off of his head. Instead, he turns his attention to the event that’s taking place as he follows you inside.

A few days after the email incident, you invited him to attend a conference on Interdisciplinary Academic Research and Innovation. It’s a good idea, but he’s a little self-conscious because it’s just you two. He knows that this is nothing but work for you, but he keeps asking himself if this is really okay. Not for you, but for him. 

He has never been this mindful when he went with you to random restaurants before, even though he should have because that’s not something he was supposed to. 

Yet in this professional setting, he feels so uneasy when it shouldn’t be an issue. Even if his colleagues or yours see you two together, there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it because you’re just doing this for your respective careers. 

Even Kuroo probably knows this, and yet, he feels like he’s doing something wrong. 

He watches you give curt nods to other attendees. He’s not sure whether you know them but they’re very cordial towards you. You even approach some and greet them. How typical. Wherever you go, people are always fond of you. 

You don your best smile then bid them goodbye as you find seats for the both of you. Then he figures it out - why he feels guilty being here with you. He thought he poured his attention on the upcoming conference the moment he got inside but it immediately went back to you. 

He likes it - being with you. He feels it staunchly, clawing at him beneath his impassive exterior. He’s enjoying this because he gets to be with you.

He berates himself mentally, giving himself a strict lecture even though he already conditioned his mind before going there not to think as such. 

His feelings for you have no place on the surface. The most important thing he’ll get from today’s activity is how to bury them, bury them somewhere far and deep that you won’t even notice. And if he’s lucky, he won’t notice himself too.

You turn around and grin at him, pointing at the seat beside you so he’d sit there. He fights off a sigh then goes to where you’re at. “I could’ve just gone alone here,” he remarks quietly as he sits down. You seem incredibly familiar with the setting so he doesn’t see the point of you accompanying him. 

“It’s my first time too,” you speak in the same volume he does. “I usually just run errands for the professor I’m assisting when we attend. I’m also still in my first year so no conferences for me yet. This is my first time actually attending for myself.”

Yeah. That’s good. He likes your self-serving answer. He wouldn’t like it if you went there to accompany him. He doesn’t need to be babied by you.

“People seem like they know you,” he repositions himself so that you’re at a reasonable distance from his face. He doesn’t like how close your face is while you whisper to him. 

“Tohoku has lots of connections in the academe so…” You pause, then look around before looking at him again with a quaint smile. “You get it.”

He only hums in agreement then looks at the pamphlet that serves as the conference’s line up for the presentation. He looks at all the titles of all the authors who are presenting today and they all have accomplished credentials attached to their names. 

He’d be lying if he doesn’t admit that he’s a little fazed. He thought Fujita-san was just being nitpicky about his qualifications to be a researcher but he realizes that it wasn’t personal. Looking at the roster, he’s the only one who has no academic title. Yours is not as prestigious as the ones on the list but at least you have one. He’s just a regular employee at the museum who occasionally helps out with research. 

He exhales deeply and puts away the pamphlet as the conference begins. He can’t have himself doubting his own capabilities. It’s a bad habit that he just can’t completely put down. Every time an opportunity bigger than himself presents itself, he shuts himself down and deems it impossible. 

He’s fine. This is just a conference and he’s not going to do the paper alone. You have experience here. You can do the framework and he’ll fill in the necessary knowledge for the paper. 

If there’s anything he can rely on, it’s his intellectual capability. So his lack of credentials is not a detriment. 

He focuses on the several presentations for that conference, finding the topics refreshing because they’re totally distinct from the usual research topics he works with at the museum. 

Each presentation lasts about twenty minutes, fifteen in one instance, but they’re all concise and straightforward. They end before the presentation gets boring. He also finds the Q&A after their respective topics refreshing. 

He didn’t take part in them of course. He just liked listening. He’s merely an observer, not an actual participant. It’s best to just sit back and take notes.

That is until a man went up with a powerpoint that’s titled ‘Kinaesthetics and Kinetics of Serving Techniques in Volleyball.’

He knows that Sports are also a subject of academic discourse but it’s his first time hearing about it firsthand.

Among all other presentations, this one grips his attention the most. It explains how it used physics in recording and measuring the force of a jump to drastically improve a player’s serving technique.

When it ends, he measures the room and assesses if he should engage in the discussion. Deciding that there’s no harm in it and he could benefit in taking part in the discourse, he raises his hand.

The speaker smiles then gestures a hand at him, letting him know that he can speak. He nods politely and almost stands up if not for the soft thump on his arm. The presenter’s eyes swerve past his face and land on where he’s looking at as well. 

Slumped over his arm is you - eyes closed and cheek squished against him. 

‘Incredible,’ he thinks to himself as he tries to mask a reticent facade. How fucking incredible. This was your idea and you had the gall to sleep. Right when everyone’s eyes are bored onto him. 

—

You slowly open your eyes when you hear footsteps. You bring your knuckles over your mouth and yawn as you slowly open your eyes.

You see gray drapes and people in semi formal attires walking past you. You immediately put your hand down and chuck the yawn away as fast as you can. You yank the disorientiedness out of your system as you turn side to side to look for Tsukishima. You don’t process how embarrassing that little nap was just yet. You can’t dwell on the glances some attendees are throwing at you as you stand up. Your priority is looking for Tsukishima. Did he leave already? He didn’t even wake you up! He could’ve at least done that before leaving. 

You want to be mad but can you blame him? No one wants to be associated with someone who takes their nap at an academic conference.

Ahh, you really should’ve gotten your coffee first. You were so distracted by Kuroo and Tsukishima earlier that you just went straight to the auditorium without your coffee.

When the lady started talking about forensic accounting with that very very soft voice, she practically lulled you to your sweet nap. 

You should call Tsukishima. However, you pause midway from getting your phone cause you remember that you don’t have his number.

You sigh and decide to just call it a day. You’ll email him when you get home about when your next meeting will be. By then, you’ll get his contact number just in case you need to reach him like you do right now. 

“Y/n!” A familiar face approaches you, someone you met from Shokei university who’s also a teaching assistant. You like this girl because she has that high energy that you can vibe with. You’ve seen her around many times and you’re always comfortable talking to her whenever you two are in the same area. 

“Hey!” you greet back, hoping that she’s there to catch up and not let you know that she saw you napping. 

“It’s nice to see you here. I initially thought you were with your professor because you always are.”

Ah, thank the heavens. It’s not about your nap. “Yeah. I’m here on my own. I wanted to really listen this time instead of running around for the professor.” You don’t want to divulge your conference plans with anyone outside your department just yet so you keep that part hushed. 

“That’s so nice. I’m alone too but here for my department head’s stead. They wanted someone from Shokei to represent them.”

You stifle a giggle because even though she’s not saying it, you know that she’s not exactly happy with the professor she’s working for. You’ve met the man and you wouldn’t be happy if it was you too. 

“By the way,” she pulls you to the side then whispers. “That guy beside you earlier was so nice!”

Guy beside you? No one else was sitting beside you other than Tsukishima, but you doubt she’s talking about Tsukishima because he’s never nice. 

“What guy?”

“Aww, what a shame you haven’t met him.” She glances around to see if anyone’s listening before leaning in. She pulls an awkward grin with the lower corners of her mouth tugged down. “Everyone kinda saw you asleep a while ago.”

Her taut smile reflects on your face, except yours is mixed with embarrassment already. “Really?”

“The guy with glasses beside you raised his hand to ask a question during one of the presentations. He seemed to have no idea you were asleep beside him until he was about to stand up.”

You can already imagine Tsukishima’s enraged and scandalized expression. 

Wait. She said he was nice. That doesn’t add up. You can’t imagine how he’ll be nice in that kind of situation where you put an unnecessary added spotlight on him. 

“I thought he was going to wake you up. But instead, he carefully guided you back to your own seat then got the mic and started asking the speaker like nothing happened. What a gentleman,” she narrates with a look of awe and respect towards said gentleman who you can’t imagine to be Tsukishima. 

“Are you sure he had glasses?”

She nods with an unfaltering smile. “Yeah, and blonde too!” Based on the physical description alone, you are certain that she is indeed talking about Tsukishima. 

“You should say hi when you still see him around. I think he left already? Not sure, but yeah. Anyways! I should go back to Shokei now. I have Saturday class.” She flashes you a bright smile and waves prior to heading out for the exit. “Bye!”

You wave back at her with a smile as well, although it’s a thrifty one cause you’re now slowly taking in that you slept through the latter parts of the conference and that the attendees saw you do it.

What’s even worse is you’re with Tsukishima. You often jokingly make a fool out of yourself but you rarely get embarrassed. But with today’s incident, you’d have to have a skin as thick as a diamond to not be embarrassed by it. Why is it that you have to be with Tsukishima when you undergo that public humiliation.

You hope that none of your direct affiliations caught you. It’s not the best image especially since you’re carrying the Tohoku name. Some are also aware that you’re the program awardee because you do a lot of errands for the professor that involves meeting associates from other universities. 

On the bright side of things, the day wasn’t completely wasted. You did learn something from today’s agenda. You were taking notes in your phone on the structure of the presentations you liked. Basically, you got what you needed. 

It will do you better to forget about what happened and move on. 

The next step now would be to do a site visit at the museum. Tsukishima knows that. You just have to schedule when he’s available for a tour - a private one because you’d like to see some parts outside which are currently under construction. You saw some off limits area last time and you need to showcase in the paper how they plan to expand further the glacial landscape that they currently have. 

Your current brainstorming is interrupted when you see Tsukishima by the exit, his eyes already on you before you even meet his. In his hand is a cup of coffee as he seems to wait for you to approach him.

It’s a confusing sight for you can’t tell why he’s there. He looks like he’s been waiting for you, but why outside? Did he purposely wait there to see you shamefully exit the auditorium? If so, he doesn’t look the part. His eyes are rather empty than they are mad or scornful.

You’re not sure if you should apologize for sleeping or tell him off for leaving you alone there. When you reach him, he extends his arm and hands you the coffee he’s holding. 

You look at the cup of coffee, bewildered even though he’s obviously giving it to you. How can you not be? It doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t he be pissed?

He averts his gaze down to his side then mutters under his breath. “If you don’t want it, just say so.”

“Oh, uhh. Sorry.” He must have been holding it out for you for a while now. You carefully get the hot coffee from his grip. “Is this for me?”

Of course, it is. He offered it to you, didn’t he? Why are you asking the obvious?

He most definitely cannot believe that you actually fell asleep in a conference. He’s aware that you can take a nap anywhere, but he’d like to think that you choose where. Apparently, he was wrong. 

He wanted to wake you up earlier. He really did. He knows he shouldn’t be ashamed because he’s not the one caught sleeping and it didn’t seem like you two knew each other anyway. You didn’t introduce him to your acquaintances before the conference and he’s fucking glad for it. At least, he was able to pretend like he was a stranger when everyone else saw you sleeping. 

However, he couldn’t wake you up for two reasons. 

First off, it would’ve been more embarrassing for you if he woke you up right there and then. You’d be on the spot immediately. So instead, he let you continue on your ridiculous nap and took the attention of the room when he continued on with the Q&A part of the presentation. 

Secondly, he knows you need it. You were as stubborn as a mule when it comes to getting the right amount of sleep. That probably still hasn’t changed so he let you have a few minutes of it. He was fully awake at the entirety of it so he can cover for whatever you missed your nap. 

Still, during the peak hecticness of your project before, you were able to hold it together and never slept in any classes. Not even in bus rides to and from official game matches. He’s deducing that you most likely forgot to have your coffee which seems to be your lifeline back then. 

After the conference officially ends, you showed no signs of getting up any time soon and that would’ve been the perfect time to finally wake you up. However, he didn’t. 

He didn’t because of something so trivial and shallow - he wanted to get you coffee. 

He didn’t want to have coffee with you. He only wanted to give it to you because he knows that you would love it. However, it seems foolish why he’d want to do something for you so he didn’t know how to tell you without feeling uneasy and self-conscious. He wouldn’t want you to think he cares that much because he shouldn’t.

Despite the obvious confusion in your features, you bring the cup to your lips. At the first sip you take, he reckons he did the right thing. Your lids fall close and as you bring the cup down a little, a small smile of contentment dancing on the corner of your lips. You sigh then slowly open your eyes with the same smile still there, except you’re looking at him. 

“Thanks, Tsukishima. I was dying to have coffee. You even got it without sugar.” 

Why wouldn’t he? He knows very well that you don’t like sugar in your caffeine. 

But he doesn’t say that. All his focus is on fighting off the stupid trinkle of pride and satisfaction in him. It’s ridiculous how gratifying it is to see you smile from his small gesture.

“Everyone could tell,” he retorts right away so you don’t think too big of him.  

You bite your lower lip as embarrassment colors your features. “Sorry about that.” But then you aren’t one to dwell on such things so easily pick yourself back up. “Where did you get this?” You raise the coffee again and take a long sip. 

“There’s a café nearby,” he answers blandly.

“Do they have cake?”

He remembers seeing some displayed on a cabinet glass near the café window but he didn’t get a closer look so he just shrugs. “I guess.”

“Nice! Let’s get one - something strawberry is to your liking, right?” You ask, looking very pleased as if you know exactly what he wants. He does like it, but he’d rather not have it with you. You should also know better than to ask him to go with you on a Saturday. 

“I can’t. I have training.”

Your eyes glisten with excitement as you seem to remember that it is indeed Saturday and that he’s still also a professional athlete beyond this career endeavor. But the elated surprise quickly passes and dims as you look down and smile thriftily. 

“Of course. How silly of me to forget.” You lick your lower lips before you meet his gaze with a smile more polished than it is sincere. 

You raise the coffee to him then nod. “Thanks for this morning and the coffee.”

He remains silent as he comes to realize that this is the first time Volleyball was mentioned between the two of you, and it wasn’t even brought up explicitly. 

He feels the abiding discomfort, as if you two just came across something that both of you were unknowingly avoiding. You had small broaches of the past from your previous interactions, but none that involved Volleyball. There was no reason to bring it up. You don’t seem interested in the Sendai Frogs anymore and he doesn’t want to blabber about it as well. 

If there was something he truly was guilty of from what happened from the both of you, it’s that he knows he’s a primary reason why you quit the team. That guilt is once again ignited when he sees your bright semblance minutes ago dulls down just by the mere mention of training. 

He thought he’s been manageably careful handling himself around you, but right now, he’s certain he’d been somehow comfortable. The mention of the training was a slip-up, something he shouldn’t have mentioned. 

“Right.” Without saying goodbye, he turns around and leaves for the gym. He’s already bad at consoling people, more so when he feels just as bad for it. Besides, there are just no words for the situation. No apologies or discussion of any kind will change anything so it’s better to just ignore it until it goes away. 

Volleyball is now something isolated from you. What once was a constant shared experience between you two is now taboo.

—

If there was one thing you truly regret, it wasn’t falling for Tsukishima. It’s that you left the team hanging when they needed you the most - all because of some heartbreak you had from the guy. 

You did not expect it. It just happened. You started developing feelings for him and even though you can say that you could’ve avoided it, you know that that’s not true. There was absolutely nothing you could do to stop it. When people fall in love, it is never in their control. What they can control is how they choose to act based on such feelings. 

You chose to abandon people who relied on you without a word. 

Even at that stadium where you hid to watch, you chose to be a silent spectator when they needed the support before the game and after losing. It never sat well with you so they became one of the things you buried in the past along with your certain affair with Tsukishima. 

You always knew that it was a selfish move, but with the wound no longer besetting you, you wish that you did things differently. You could’ve done better and that’s what’s causing the tempestuous disquiet nagging on you when the Sendai Frogs was subtly brought up. 

You did well trying to forget them until now. You even forgot that Saturdays are training days. Almost four years of being a manager - that’s more or less 200 Saturdays when you woke up early to go to the gym. In just six months, you forgot that. 

For the first time in those six months, you wonder. How is everyone doing? Did the starting line up change? Is Shiro still scared of Tsukishima? How are Kyoutani’s blocks? Is Coach still on him for it? Are they still in Division 2?

A lot of things can happen in six months and as your curiosity builds up, you can’t help but want to find out. 

Part 15 || Part 17 || masterlist

taglist (those crossed out can’t be tagged)

@ameliaxo @suikrem @akaashisslave @tsumurai  @loving-unicorns106 @flairlust @geektastic84 @anaiss97 @berna-dette @just4readingfics @suteorra @xxekitten69xx @simp4tsukkii @music-is-all-i-need @keshinslittlegirl @raspberrysunshinebby @iminlovewhaikyuu @pdiddy11 @lightyagamami @sailorscout1902 @lovershaikyuu  @expectonothinfromme @finnydraws @namelessidentity @hqbeesun @yatoatyourservice @mrkozume @suzuyamitsuki @celestialarchiveshq @yongboxerrr @gomenpudding @kutiekoge @fizzfrick @flamingosis @korean-bbq @ihaterainbowsprinkles @red-lint @backtonormalthings @borpcorp @lonelyheartxn @venomouscreatures @lucyrocks86 @shawtiie @honestlysora @sunanyaa @my-dream-universe @mysteriousparker @kaieoh @softpeachysoul @millenialfanfictionaddiction @5sausefandom @jeanbabygirl @just4readingfics @sabrinakishi @joyhdh @heyitsmeyuhh @all-in-the-fandoms @amine-amina @jiungsfav @bl3333h @itachoo @cheeseriz @tsumoooo @ireokhenantto 

#tsukishima x reader #tsukishima angst #tsukishima fluff #kuroo x reader #kuroo fluff #tsukishima x smut #haikyuu x reader

[girinma]

ok its finally time to finish this post. my review of every charleston tourist attraction i’ve been to. and warning obv this is going to mention slavery because its the reason for the city.

The Hunley - pretty good but with a hint of pro-confederacy. which is wild because the sub was clearly a union traitor. it killed more confederates than union soldiers. the conservation part is wild with how clean and new they can get things. i like that you can get hit by a train trying to get to the little museum. very neat and id recommend looking at it.

City Market - neat and you should look at it but like it’s not an activity. you just buy tourist things there. 

Fort Sumter - overpriceeeeed. i get that its falling into the sea but like guys. i don’t think we can save it. i like that the national park service openly takes the union’s side but its just not that impressive. they never rebuilt the fort after the civil war so it sucks compared to other forts from the period. like ive been to fort mchenry. also you can walk to it from fort johnson but they dont let you on the fort unless you pay for the boat ride. i hate it.

Fort Moultrie - another fort but this is where the story leading to the SC flag took place. i like that they set it up to look like a bunch of different time periods. interesting history but i didnt pay attention a ton because i got a sunburn :(

Old Slave Mart Museum - give them more funding and this could be incredibly valuable. they only have a sliver of the property (just the auction area) so it’s small, but there is only a little bit of wall paragraphs from the late 00′s. The docents were fantastic but they are carrying the place. very interesting because it focused on the domestic slave trade (due to the time it was open) which is in general not spoken about due to the rape and human breeding. it’s worth going to but i can also imagine an even better museum if they were given more resources.

The Pink House - it’s next to the slave market so you see it but its just a house... i get that its the oldest but it looks like all the other ones.... its pink.

Gibbes Museum of Art - it’s art museum. i think its a decent collection and i like their modern pieces. art museums are good. idk what else to say about it.

Magnolia Plantation - expensive... i haven’t done any of their tour things because they cost extra and sell out early. it’s a decent garden but i’m spoiled and have been to longwood... it’s no longwood. DO NOT try and go to the native american mound it is not labelled you will walk into the woods and have to guess what it is. there’s lots of gators tho which is fun. imo not worth the money.

Boone Hall Plantation - the farm events are really cute and fun but seasonal so im going to focus on the plantation side. i have. so much to say. much less than magnolia plantation, as everything is included with entry. this is where most of the bricks in charleston came from and thus still has a row of brick buildings which the slaves with a trade or working in the house were allowed to live. boone hall is wild because they will mention a fucked up detail and go past it without any discussion. the brick houses were inhabited by descendants until the 1950s. like the plantation was sold in the 30s and theyre like oh btw it comes with sharecroppers :) they live in the front yard of the property. there also used to be 3x as many brick houses until a hurricane in the 80′s destroyed them. the house is boring because its from the 30s but also the tour feels very much like it’s still in the plantation wedding/southern charm :))) whitewashing vibe. i think this is where the reynolds/lively wedding was? the place is sugarcoated but the physical space and the story you can put together is worth the cost of admission. if you having a wedding here youre evil though like there’s no way around it.

Charleston Tea Garden - they grow tea here and i think its tasty. not much to do, they have a tour around the farm and you can see where they process the leaves. 

Angel Oak Tree - i KNOW its a super old tree but i do not care. its just a live oak theyre everywhere. everyone shut up about it. its free at least.

South Carolina Aquarium - it’s a very good local aquarium and i recommend, but it’s no atlanta or baltimore aquarium. they have the tallest tank in the US but i dont think the viewing windows properly showcase it. good collection that’s atlantic focused and a modern design with good flow-through. the sea turtle hospital is also really nice.

Lighthouse Inlet Heritage Preserve - fun little walk to see the lighthouse slowly succumbing to the sea. there’s centralia vibes with the asphalt grafitti which is fun to walk through. there’s no parking though so you probs cant go during tourist season.

Cat Cafe - 10/10 No Notes. actually i do have notes i dont understand why they have a whole bar in the back when you dont use it because youre in the cat room. events i guess? idk i feel like if they had a side entrance you could have the bar run as a bar in the evenings and just lock the cat room so people don’t bug them when they’re not working.

#im using tumblr as a blogging not microblogging platform with this one.

[grantyort]

Prelude V: Space Mission

April 11th 2018

Sean: Alright, you can open your eyes now! We’re here!

Daniel: The Oregon Museum of Science and Industry? We drove an hour for this?!

Sean: Oh quit complainin’! Brody got us early access. Besides, you haven’t even seen the inside yet!

Daniel: I thought you were taking me to Aweso-land. I need to grab the new Powerbear merch before it sells out.

Sean: Don’t you have enough toys already?

Daniel: You can never have enough.

Sean: (sigh) Dude, have some self-control! You’re bleeding Claire and Stephen dry!

Daniel: You’re just jealous cuz they like me better.

Sean: (rolling eyes) Yeah… you got me.

[A man approaches them at the entrance to the museum]

Docent: Hello, are you Sean Diaz?

Sean: That’s right. And that’s my brother Daniel. We’re here for the tour.

Docent: Roland Chambers at your service. Mr. Holloway has arranged a private showing of the new Human Innovations Exhibit here at the OSMI.

Daniel: Ah yes jolly good, ol’ chap.

Sean: Ignore him.

Roland: For the next two hours you and your brother will have unfettered access to the new wing of the museum. Explore at your leisure. I hope it will be an enriching experience for you both.

Sean: His mind could use some enriching.

[Daniel punches Sean in the arm, Sean feigns injury, then smiles.]

Roland: I’ll be taking my leave now. Good day.

Daniel: Toodle-loo to you! (to Sean) That guy was so cool. I wish I had a butler!

[Sean pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long, exasperated sigh]

Sean: Alright enano, you ready for the best birthday ever?

Daniel: Yeah, yeah. Let’s just get this over with.

[The brothers enter the museum and begin to explore. Daniel’s attention is immediately drawn to the futuristic sports car on display]

Daniel: Hey Sean, check this out!

Sean: Man, what I wouldn’t give for a car like that.

Daniel: Maybe you’ll get one on your birthday.

Sean: Yeah right. Maybe if Claire and Stephen won the lottery.

Daniel: What about Mom?

Sean: (scoff) I’ll be lucky if get a card from her this year.

[They poke around the rest of the exhibit. Daniel begins to take pictures with his phone]

Sean: What are you doing, enano?

Daniel: Just taking some pics for Chris. He loves this kind of stuff.

Sean: We should bring him back a souvenir.

Daniel: Yeah totally! Remind me when we get to the gift shop section!

Sean: You do realize that’s not part of the exhibit, right?

[Sean and Daniel come across a modern statue in a display case. Daniel examines the contours and the statue and stares quizzically]

Daniel: Hey Sean. Why don’t statues ever have clothes on?

Sean: I guess people didn’t really care back then.

Daniel: So everybody would just walk around naked?

Sean: Yeah, it’s a... liberated lifestyle or something. Brody talked about it in his article.

Daniel: That’s so weird, but kinda cool. Maybe we should try it. I don’t think grandma and grandpa would mind.

Sean: Dude are you kidding?! Claire freaks out if you show up to breakfast without pants!

Daniel: Yeah, I guess you’re right. Oh well.

[After wandering off from Sean who is busy reading the inscription underneath a steam engine, Daniel returns wearing a Roman style war helmet]

Daniel: I’m Julius Caesar! Ruler of Rome and inventor of the Caesar Salad!

Sean: Dude! Put that back before you break it.

Daniel: Ugh you’re no fun! Here put this one on!

Sean: No.

Daniel: Please Sean? It’s my birthday!

Sean: Oh okay, but that’s the last time you get to use that today.

[Sean reluctantly dons the helmet.]

[The brothers approach the center of the exhibit and see the centerpiece: A giant space capsule. Daniel rushes over to read the inscription.]

Daniel: Wow it says here that Franklin Chang-Diaz was one of the first Mexican-Americans to ever go to space!

Sean: I don’t believe it. You actually learned something.

Daniel: Shut up. Anyway, think he’s related to us?

Sean: Sure. Technically, all Diazes are related.

Daniel: Awesome possum! Oooh look at all the lights! I bet astronauts went to the moon in this thing!

Sean: It’s probably just a replica. (He touches the outside of the hull and focuses) Yep. Made in Taiwan.

Daniel: You’re such a buzzkill.

Sean: Why don’t you go have a look inside?

Daniel: But it’s roped off.

Sean: Since when do you care about rules? Just do it!

Daniel: What if someone catches us?

Sean: There’s no one else here. I won’t tell if you won’t.

[Daniel nods and vaults over the rope. Sean follows]

Daniel: Aw man it’s tight in here. Watch your head, Sean!

Sean: (hitting his head) Argh fuck!

Daniel: So much for cosmic awareness.

Sean: That’s not what- never mind, just sit down.

[Daniel switches his Centurion helmet for an astronaut helmet]

Daniel: Oooh What’s this thing do?

Sean: I think it’s one of those prerecorded tours. Why don’t you plug it in and find out?

(Daniel puts in his earbuds, he hears the sound of a rocket propulsion system)

Daniel: Okay! You be mission control!

Daniel: (mimicking static) Diagnostics check complete. Houston are we a go, over?

Sean: Uh yeah sure. Everything looks good here. We launch in T – 5 seconds. Why don’t you count us down? Over!

Daniel: Five, four, three, two, one! Blast off!

Sean: (saluting) Godspeed, Captain Diaz.

[After the ignition sequence ends, the brothers emerge from the capsule. Daniel has a big smile on his face]

Daniel: That...was... AWESOME!

Sean: You might not have been the first Diaz in space, but you’re definitely the youngest.

[They explore the rest of the exhibit, finally exiting through the gift shop]

Sean: (annoyed) Of course, they have to have a gift shop at the exit.

Daniel: Are you kidding? This is the best part!

[Daniel begins rummaging through the various toys and souvenirs with glee. Sean motions apologetically at the clerk.]

Daniel: Think Chris will like this one?

Sean: (shrugs) You know him better than I do.

Daniel: (looking at toy dinosaur) I think he’ll like this one better. Mar-T-Rex needs a friend.

Sean: (looking at a tacky keychain) Five bucks for this piece of junk? No thanks!

Daniel: (holding a shirt with print an elaborate rocket schematic) Wow! Look at this!

Sean: It reminds me of your old one. I think might be time for an upgrade.

Daniel: Really?

Sean: Yep. It is your birthday after all.

Daniel: Wow, 100% cotton and It’s only $12.99.

Sean: (sarcastically) What a steal.

Daniel: (whispering) Psst Sean. You distract her while I put this in my bag.

Sean: (under breath) Dude!

Daniel: Relax, I was just kidding!

Sean: Good. We don’t need a return to your klepto-phase.

[The cashier looks over absentmindedly then goes back to her phone]

[Sean approaches the counter, goods in hand]

Cashier: (monotonously) Do you have a museum membership?

Sean: Uh… no sorry.

Cashier: That comes out to $21.35. Will that be all for today sir?

Sean: Yeah thanks.

Cashier: (monotonously) We hope you enjoyed the tour. Please come back soon.

[Outside the museum]

Sean: So birthday boy, how’d I do?

Daniel: Well I did spend my last birthday with a bunch of religious nutjobs so… compared to that I’d say, a solid 9.

Sean: Well the day is still young, enano! Let’s see if we can’t get that up to a perfect ten!

#life is strange #life is strange 2 #captain spirit #sean diaz #chris eriksen #daniel diaz #lis2 #captain spirit ww #prelude

[adrenaline-roulette]

I am flesh and I am bone

Here’s a little sneak peak of Chapter Three for I am flesh and I am bone. I won’t give too much away, but just know we’ll be getting a few time jumps this time round, and things will be hotting up between reader and Ahk...  This goes out to @thisheartbeatsonlyforyou  (I hope you like it!)

This is just the first two pages, as you probably know by now, there will be heaps more when the official chapter comes out.

And I just want to say how sorry I am that it has taken me so long to get any kind of an update out for this fic, but just hang in there, it’s coming soon I promise!

Pairing: Ahkmenrah x Reader Warnings: Language 

Chapters One and Two here so you know what’s going on!

Sneak peak to chapter three (title is coming, but I don’t wanna give too much away)

Things were changing, or should you say, things had changed. When you returned to school the following week, your friends no longer wanted anything to do with you. At first, you thought perhaps it was just so they could talk about the weekend’s party, without rubbing it in that you hadn’t been there. Of course, this was fine. However, as Monday wore on, and not a single person had so much as said hello to you, it occurred to you that perhaps things had changed more dramatically than first assumed.

You allowed this to go on for a few days, not wanting to be the person to cause conflict within your friendship group. Though one evening, as you sat at your desk, finishing off your homework for the day, it occurred to you, that there was no friendship group anymore. At least, not one which included you. This startling realisation had caused you to burst into tears, falling back to your bed where you cradled your pillow to your chest tightly. The people you had known for years, the same people whom you called your best friends, they no longer wanted anything to do with you. But why? What had changed in such a short period of time?

Once your tears had calmed, leaving only a stinging sensation now, you crawled off your bed, in search of your phone. You had to know what had happened. You deserved to know the truth at the very least, right? Finding your phone, you find the person whom you had once contacted the most, pressing call and waiting for the number to dial.

“Hello?” Amber’s voice flows through, and you almost cry again at just hearing her voice. It had been nearly an entire week, and in that time you had missed her voice more than anything.

“Amber, its me.” You practically whisper whether for your own benefit or hers, you were unsure.

There’s a pause down the line, and you can hear her fumble with the phone for a moment, before pressing it to her ear again. “Y/N? What’s going on?”

At that, you laugh, you can’t help but! “What’s going on? That’s what I wanted to know!”

“What do you mean?” Her voice is testing, almost as if she were about to spit fire and start a fight if so prompted.

“What have I done? What did I do wrong?”

There’s that pause again, only this time there’s no movement for her end. The pause comes from Amber attempting to find the right words to explain the situation to you. “Things changed at the party. And, well, you weren’t there to experience them. We’ve all grown up now Y/N. But you haven’t.”

“You’ve grown up? What? In the span of less than a week?” You cry out, before biting down hard on your lower lip. You weren’t sure if your parents were still awake, and if they were they wouldn’t like knowing you were on the phone so late.

“Yes! A lot happened at the party alright? But you wouldn’t know that would you? No! Because you were too busy at that bloody museum!” Her voice is pinched, and you know there’s more where that outburst came from.

“You know I make plans! One weekend a month you know that I’m not free.”

“Yes, I know. Everybody knows! You go to the museum to study, so you can go to a good college and be the best of the best! We all know you’re the smart one in our group! Fuck man, you always have been! But you don’t have to remind us all that you’re going to be the one to succeed while the rest of us fail!”

It’s your turn to pause now, sucking in a deep breath and squeezing your eyes shut. “I never meant it to come across that way Amber. I promise.”

“I just don’t understand what is so special about that museum? What information is there that can’t be found in one closer to home? Or hell, even online?”

Your eyes fly open, and for the first time you’re left without any answers. Aside from the obvious, displays coming alive at night. What was it that kept drawing you back? The information that Rebecca provided you was something you could easily source via a phone call, or email. The displays themselves, while they provided a great source of conversation, held the same information as what could be found on Google. Your heart hammered in your chest, pounding against your ribcage like a jackhammer. You knew the real reason you kept coming back, but it was hardly something you could share, at least not fully. “The- There’s this guy there…”

Amber squeals shrill loudly, and you have to pull the phone away from your ear to prevent yourself going deaf. “No fucking way! Y/N! You never said anything about there being a guy? Fuck dude, if you had, I mean, I never would’ve questioned you! Who is he?”

She’s babbling now, and you feel as if the weight of the world has been lifted off your shoulders. How long have you been hiding this? How long have you been wanting to tell someone? Two, maybe three years at least? The final question is what stumps you. How the hell are were you supposed to explain to her that the guy you were interested in, and who was the soul reason you kept returning to the museum, was a thousands year old Egyptian Pharaoh? Oh right, you couldn’t! “He’s a young docent. He’s nineteen, comes from Cambridge, and is studying ancient Egypt, like me.”

MASTERLIST

Taglist:  @lana-isabelle​ @polarcrystall​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @ryeosomnia​ @thenewnightguard​ @stfuchaase​ @rjwinterfell​ If you want to be added for when the official chapter comes out, let me know!

#ahkmenrah x reader #ahkmenrah fanfiction #rami malek fanfiction #rami malek/ ahkmenrah #ahkmenrah x y/n #rami malek night at the museum #Night at the Museum #night at the museum fic

[lokisasylum]

tw // child abuse

Reading what happened to that little girl---A BABY, really hurts. And it hurts knowing that cases like this come up on the news when its already too late.

Even in my country there have been several cases of children being abused and killed during quarantine. Some cases got the justice they deserved, some... are still in the works.

But what still fucks me up inside is when someone takes the initiative and reaches out to get help for that child and it gets ignored.

When I used to work as a museum docent guide, one of the (many) things they never teach you about that line of work is that you’ll become an unwilling witness/spectator to such scenarios regularly.

What’s worse? There’s not a damn thing you can do to help, because the law and  even your own workplace rules will PREVENT YOU from helping them.

There’s one case in particular that still lives vividly in my mind after six or more years since it happened. And to this day it remains as one of my greatest regrets.

There was one day in particular where we had “full house”; lots of visitors, locals and tourists alike. The galleries were very packed.

I was assigned to one of the larger galleries that day and it was around 2:35pm when a large group of American tourist came in for the 2:00pm tour (we used to have 2 tours that were free of charge for the first 25 people to join. One at 11:00 AM and one at 2:00 PM).

I remember that most were adults or seniors, but there was this one couple with 2 little girls (1 older and 1 younger). And you know how kids are, they get bored pretty quickly so they start to run around and play.

But in that particular large gallery there was a tile on the floor in one of the hallways that had cracks (from previous tremors) and I was afraid that one of the little girls would get hurt or trip. So I went up to them and as gently as possible told them: “Sweetheart, be careful okay? I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

The next thing i know the dad is right next to me and grabs the eldest of the two girls roughly by the arm, proceeds to drag her away to a corner to aggressively scold her even to a point where I saw his fist brush dangerously close to her face. I tried to quickly apologize and tell him that they hadn’t done anything wrong, that I was just looking out for them (as I would do for anyone), but the GLARE he sent me, made me step away.

I don’t know what he was telling her, because at that moment he was whispering in her ear (in a not-so-fatherly-matter)... but whatever it was, the SCREAM of terror that the girl let out and the way she was trying to get away from him told me that there was something horribly wrong there. And when I looked back towards the mom she was SHAKING (I hadn’t even noticed that she never took off her sunglasses while inside the museum) and clutching the youngest daughter against her chest. Like she was protecting her.

I immediately went to my boss and superiors to report the situation and what I had seen... you wanna know what they told me?

“Unless the little girl or the mom herself verbally asks you for help, there’s nothing that you can do for them and we won’t interfere. If you want we can assign you to a different area so you don’t have to see that.”

Because according to the shitty law system, if the abuser is someone close to the victim (family member, mentor, ect) and they are present at the time of the allegations. The abuser can easily manipulate the victim into lying/denying the abuse even with evidence because what matters is the “verbal consent”.

I could have lost my job and the abusive dad would still walk out free. And the only advise my superiors recommended for those types of situations was to turn the other cheek and ignore it.

This is what “justice” looks like when it comes to cases of neglect and abuse towards children. ‘If you don’t cry out for help, we won’t help you’, but they forget that there are those who don’t have a voice of their own to ask for help.

I still think about her from time to time and still feel the same anger I did that day, knowing that I couldn’t help her. I wonder if she found her voice, if she spoke out, reached out to her teachers or someone else. I wonder if she got away from that situation before the pandemic hit.

I hope she and her sister are far away from him. I hope they are living much happier lives.

#not bts related #child abuse awareness

[essaysbyciara]

Old Habits Die Hard| Part Two: Just Be Good To Me

 Yahya Abdul-Mateen II x Dave East x Y/N Fic

SYNOPSIS | PART ONE: DAYS BEFORE

Warnings: Language, Lightweight mentions of sexual situations, brief marijuana use 

Y’all. I’m so overwhelmed by the love I’ve received for this story. Thank you to everyone who read, liked, commented and/or followed me on here. Taglist is STILL OPEN. *squees from joy*

JUST BE GOOD TO ME

Your finger traces the tattoos that dart up and down Dave’s back, the smoke from his blunt curling around his head as he leans back to inhale. The box fan on top of the dresser can only do so much as you push the sheets down to your knees so your torso can catch a quick cool down. You love watching the sweat trail down Dave’s spine. You try to catch each drop before they hit the mattress. 

“I forgot your bougie ass don’t smoke.” You crawl behind Dave, wrapping your supple legs around his waist. Your arms prop up your body so you can get a better look at him as he takes another pull. Dave instinctively starts to caress your left knee with his free hand. Your skin feels like cotton candy to him. You taste even sweeter. 

“You’re gonna stop calling me bougie...” You chuckle gently as you plant gentle kisses on Dave’s shoulder.  

“You know I like messing with you. Chill.” Dave lifts himself off of the bed. He still isn’t used to your love language. You pout as he walks up to his dresser to grab his phone. You try to weaken the feelings of dismissal but Dave catches your body language change in his mirror’s reflection as you lean over the bed to grab your clothes from off the floor. He realizes it was a mistake to walk away from you. 

“Yo. Come here.” You answer Dave’s command, lifting up the sheets to wrap them around your body like a towel. “Fuck the sheets. Come here.” A mischievous grin covers your face. Dave elicits confidence and freedom from you like never before. You walk over to him, hips swaying to the beat of the bass that’s blasting holes throughout the atmosphere outside. Before you can even get within an inch of him, Dave picks you up and sits you on top of the dresser. He kisses you so deep that your legs can’t help but to swing open like a broken screen door. The bass cranking from one of the cars outside sets the pace for your next round with Dave. 

“Fuck…” 

“My bad, Y/N. These potholes ain’t no joke up here.” Yahya’s not-so-smooth driving wakes you up from your slumber. You look down to witness the silent quivering  pulsate from between your legs. This isn’t the first time you’ve dreamed about Dave since you accepted his friend request a few days ago but the closer you were to getting back to Philly, the more intense they became. You grab Yahya’s hand to assuage your guilt. He smiles. Unlike Dave, he needs no help deciphering your love language. 

“It’s okay, babe. I needed to wake up. We’re super close to Aunt Jerri’s.” 

“Should I be scared about meeting your family? You made it seem like they’re gonna cut me if I don’t come correct.”

“Aye, they might.” You tease Yahya. Your left hand starts to caress his inner thigh. “They won’t mess with you. Aunt Jerri always got the family in line, I’m sure. She loves you already and she’s the biggest test to pass.” 

“Good. I really wanted to leave the lawyer that I am back home. Where should I park though?” 

You reorient yourself to the surroundings to direct Yahya to the back street behind Aunt Jerri’s house. You already see the smoke billowing from the barbeques on the street and hear the little ones’ laughs and screams. You also see all of your Dad’s brothers on the back porch playing spades and they’re already at peak shit-talking form.  “You know how to play spades, right?” 

“Don’t let this Berkeley degree fool you, Y/N.” The vibrations from your phone break up your laughter. You open your phone to see an Instagram notification from Dave. You set up post notifications to track him, lying to yourself enough to believe it was to keep tabs on Dave so you wouldn’t run into him at the block party. Your heart knows the truth. He just posted a picture of him and his cousin Pardi posted on his porch. He and his boys are outside ready to play. 

“Is that my Y/N!” 

“Hey Uncle Ro!” Uncle Rodney -- or Ro --  was a barrel of a man who always wore his Sunday best even in the hottest of the weather. He was a preacher at an Pentecostal church who could drink the rest of the family up under the couch. He pulls you in for a hug. You try not to soak in the smells of sweat mixed with Christian Brothers emanating from his body. 

Yahya trails behind you with his hands inside of his pockets because of the growing fear quaking his bones. The spades game has suddenly stopped in its tracks and your other uncles -- Trace and Larry -- and Mr. Reed, who has always been like an uncle to you, start to ice grill Yahya down to his socks. Your Dad must have sent a bat signal from heaven for his brothers to stand tall on his behalf. 

“Y/N! Y/N!!!!!!! Heyyyyyyyyyyyy!” Aunt Jerri breaks up the detente at just the right time. She hugs you with so much force that your eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “And look who we have here, huh? You must be Mr. Yahya. He looks so much like T doesn’t he, Trace….” 

Trace doesn’t respond, still acting as a stand-in for your father. 

“Yahya, baby, don’t let them scare you. Bring your ass in the house.” Yahya feels relieved as Aunt Jerri drags him by the hand into her house to meet more of your family. You follow right behind. 

“Trace, you can relax. The dude bought bags of ice. He’s aight with me,” says your Uncle Larry. Trace doesn’t respond, instead throwing down a ten of spades that erupts the entire table. 

“Run up to the store right quick, Quaadir.” Dave passes a ten dollar bill to his nephew. 

“No, nigga.” Quaadir folds his arms and sticks out his lower lip like it’ll change Dave’s mind. Quaadir is not old enough to be on the corner but he’s talking like them.

“Yo, Pardi. Your son think he brolic. You hear him?! Nigga, what?” Pardi only looks at Quaadir and he quickly changes his mind. “He picking all this up from his moms, man.” The porch erupts in laughter. 

Dave needed this laugh. Especially after seeing your engagement pictures with Yahya. 

It wasn’t what he was expecting to see when he requested to follow you on Instagram. You looked happy and at peace. The paintings inside of the art gallery where you took your engagement photos looked to be showing their approval of your impending union. Dave couldn’t front: you two looked good together. 

You and Dave didn’t go on many dates during your two-week romance. There wasn’t enough time and the time you did have only found you mostly under Dave’s body. The only official date you two went on was when you took him to the Anthropology and Archaeology museum located on the University of Pennsylvania’s campus. He watched you grow in excitement at every exhibit, reading every placard and hanging to the museum docent’s every word. He saw your joy and felt honored to witness it. 

He felt the opposite of joy as he read one of the captions under your pictures. You called Yahya “your favorite discovery.” Your nickname for Dave was “favorite”. You were Dave’s favorite and he lost out on you and that hurt like hell. Nevertheless,  he couldn’t stop scrolling down your Instagram feed. He wanted to see pictures from last summer and of the body,  face, smile and the style of the woman who caused him to want to make an entire course correct on that thing called life. He saw that you still had it all. Asking Ariel was such a waste of time and being at this block party was triggering as all get out. 

People always talking ‘bout reputation… I don’t care about those other girls, just be good to me … ooooooo

“Just Be Good To Me” cascades down Reed Street in a way that you’ve never heard. You missed this place and this time during the summer when everything stops to allow the neighborhood to bask in delight. It was a feeling you desperately needed last year after you decided to ditch a week in the Bahamas and a week of recuperating at home to spend two weeks at Aunt Jerri’s house. Truth be told was that the Bahamas once had a man attached to it but that fell through. 

That’s what led you to go after Dave. 

“It’s hot at Hades out here, my Lord.” Aunt Jerri fans herself as she sits on her stoop overlooking the busy street full of barbeque grills, babies splashing inside of kiddie pools and a DJ blasting everyone’s favorite R&B of the 80s. 

“Rodney! Rodneyyyy! Boy, toss me a Lime-A-Rita. It’s lit cityyyyyyyy!”

“Mom! Who on Earth taught you about anything being “lit”?!” Ariel’s embarrassment grows at her mother’s attempts to be cool. 

“Oh, I’m hip! Too hip to be a square, eyyyy!” She sways ever so gently to “Square Biz” by Teena Marie. 

“Ari, leave her alone! Uncle Rodney, don’t indulge her please.” You sip on your Hennessy with ice because, unlike Aunt Jerri, you were free to indulge. Yahya holds you from behind, sipping the last of his Heineken in between fits of laughter. Your Uncle Trace passes another bottle to Yahya as a peace offering and as an official welcome to the family. Your Dad must’ve sent a message to Trace to stand down. Your yellow sundress with a thigh high split up to high heavens is cooling you off as the heat rises from off of the asphalt. 

“Y/N … you don’t tell Rodney what to do! I do! Let me be great!”

“You got it, Aunt Jerri!” Yahya kisses your right cheek and grips you tighter. He feels right at home and you’re so relieved that he’s here. 

“You know what I need someone to get? More paper plates. Run down to the store, Trace.”

“You got it, Sis.” 

Trace’s fashion sense was stuck in 1996; Ghostface Killah and Raekwon would be so proud. Trace was -- and still is --  feared, revered, loved and lusted over. He was the Dave of his time, his roster of women certified. Truth is that he could still build one, Trace capturing the attention of all of the 40-plus-year-old women on the street as he walks down to the store. He still had it. 

“Yo, Trace!” Dave hops up from the steps of his Aunt’s house to show Trace some love. Trace got Dave an overnight warehouse job years ago and he’s been indebted to him ever since. 

“Peace, king. What’s good?” Dave wants to ask Trace about you but last time he asked someone else in your family, it didn’t end the way he planned. 

“Shit, Trace. Just waiting for the street lights to come on so we can really get it in out here. You at Ms. Jerri’s crib? Everybody up there?” 

“Yeah. Everybody. You remember my niece, Y/N? She came up too.” 

Dave’s mind screams every expletive known to man. He wonders if you came up with you-know-who but asking Trace would open up old wounds and expose a decision that Trace explicitly forbade him not to make. 

Dave was Trace 2.0 and Trace knew it. He didn’t want that for his niece so when he saw Dave flirting with you at last year’s block party, he made it a point to pull Dave to the side to ask him in not-so-nicely terms to knock it off. 

You worked all the way around that threat with the help of Aunt Jerri. 

Aunt Jerri encouraged you to “remember that you’re on vacation” and that “what goes on here, stays here.” She saw the way you looked at Dave. It was the same way she gazed at your Uncle Terrence when she first met him. You were beyond smitten, turned on by the way he walked and talked. Dave could hem you up and pick you up. He oozed confidence that almost crossed into obnoxiousness. You wanted him and couldn’t hide it and Aunt Jerri encouraged to “have some fun with all of that.” She vowed to keep your secret from your Uncle Trace. You didn’t know it would turn into two of the most passionate weeks you would ever have and subsequently the worst heartbreak you ever felt. 

“Yeah, I do.” That’s all Dave could muster up to say as he feels his heart boil over. He daps up Trace, sits back down on the steps and opens up Instagram. 

Yo. You up here? 

Taglist: @yoursoulstea​​ @harleycativy​ @twistedcharismaaa​ @dorkskinneded​​ @need-my-fics​ @ghostfacekill-monger​ @writerbee-ffs​ @chaneajoyyy​ 

#yahya abdul-mateen ii x reader #yahya abdul-mateen ii #dave east #dave east fic #fanfiction #old habits die hard

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Remnants, Epilogue

I couldn’t wait, so here they are! The first epilogue is with children, the second is without--I know some people love the fluffy kid life, but some people don’t want that. Either way, life with Ahkmenrah is sure to be sweet : )

Part I,  Part II,  Part III,  Part IV,  Part V,  Part VI,  Part VII,  Part VIII,  Part IX,  Part X

Tag List: @kitkatcronch  @kpopperotp12  @seafrost-fangirl  @sassystrawberryk  @perfect-rami  @txmel   @limabein    @rami-malek-trash   @underworldsheiress and  @sherlollydramoine 

Warnings: Light, fluffy smut and saccharine sweetness in Epilogue 1; full-out smutty smut in Epilogue 2

  Epilogue 1 (with children)

Ahk: Part-time docent and stay-at-home dad

You: Professor of Anthropology at NYU

Home: Brooklyn, NY  

It was Christmas Eve and a heavy snow had been falling throughout the afternoon. Ahkmenrah still had not tired of watching the white flakes, well, in today’s case it was more like the white streaks, fall from the sky. 

“Look, Y/N! The street is gone, completely white!” Ahkmenrah nearly spilled his hot chocolate as he tapped on the foggy windowpane, nearly pressing his nose against it to get a better look.

 You looked up from your book and smiled at his enthusiasm. He certainly made a pretty picture framed in the large, bay window of your home, the Christmas tree’s lights casting flickering shadows over his body, along with the orange-warm cast of light thrown from the fireplace.

 In fact, the lights seemed to highlight just about everything you loved about your husband’s body, so you slid your bookmark into place and laid your book on the coffee table.

 “Hey, Ahk,” you said in a voice that he knew quite well by now.

 When he turned to look at you in answer, he was wearing a grin that you knew quite well by now.

 “Yes, my queen?”

 “I have a really fine view of the snow from right here. I think you should come take a look,” you suggested.

 Ahkmenrah amplified his wicked grin by adding a quirk of his eyebrow.

 You patted the seat beside you.

 Ahk moved away from the window and with what could only be described as sauntering, made his way to the sofa.

 You laughed at his exaggerated movements before throwing your hands over your mouth to stifle your giggles.

 Ahkmenrah listened with a look of slight horror on his face before whispering, “I don’t think they heard us.”

 “They were impossible tonight,” you groaned in a controlled whisper.

 Ahkmenrah grinned as he sat his mug on the end table and took a seat next to you.

 “I think they love getting presents just as much as their mother does.”

 “Speaking of gifts,” you said with an arched brow as you straddled your husband’s lap.

 “I don’t know what’s gotten into you this week, but I am more than okay with it,” Ahkmenrah said as you kissed him and swiped your tongue across his full, bottom lip.

 “You just look so good, Ahk,” you said, your lips and tongue teasing him now. “And smell so good, too,” you added as you kissed along his jaw line and started sucking on one of his sweet spots on his neck behind his ear.

 Ahkmenrah grasped your ass, massaging it through your leggings before snaking his hands under your sweatshirt, moving to rub your lower back.

 You worked his neck with the expertise that comes with being with someone for years, with knowing all of their proclivities. You continued kissing his neck slowly, licking and sucking your way from one side to the other. By the time you were closing your lips over his earlobe, he had unhooked your bra and was working both of your nipples to peaks with his fingers.

 You released his earlobe and sat back to pull off your sweatshirt and get rid of your bra. You never got tired of the way Ahk’s eyes drank you in, his hands cupping your breasts and lightly massaging them, his bottom lip tucked in by his teeth as he looked from your chest to your face.

 “I want you. So much, Y/N,” he said.

 You smiled seductively, asking, “How do you want me, my king?”

 “Just like this. I want to watch you fuck my cock, right here on our sofa while the snow covers the streets.”

 You moaned, low and guttural, and ground your center into his bulge. Ahkmenrah’s eyes closed and he grasped your hips, pushing his own up just a little to give you even more pressure.

 And then you both heard it. The thump of little feet hopping out of bed and the tell-tale slapping of running on the hardwood floor in the upstairs hallway.

 Your exclamation of “Fuck!” was echoed by Ahkmenrah’s of “Shit!” as you scrambled to adjust yourselves. You just ducked back into your sweatshirt as your twins come tearing into the living room.

 “SANTA!” they both yelled simultaneously.

 “Try again, kiddos,” you said scooping each of them up, knowing Ahk was in no state to stand at the moment. He had his head flopped back on the couch and his palms pressed into his eyes.

“Look around and tell me what you see?”

 “DADDY!” they, again, yelled simultaneously.

 “Does daddy look like Santa?”

 “No,” your little girl said as she giggled and bopped at your chin. “No face fur!”

 “That’s right you said,” smiling. “Daddy does not have face fur. And speaking of daddy, wave goodnight. You know that if you don’t stay in bed until morning, Santa’s magic won’t work.”

 The twins waved and said, “Night-night, daddy” as you carried them back up the stairs. Ahk waved from the couch and said, “Listen to your mommy and go to sleep, little ones.”

 That would be a Christmas miracle.

 After a solid twenty minutes of kisses, hugs, assurances that Santa was on his way, and tuck-ins and retuck-ins, you were backing slowly toward the door. Once you reached the door, Ahkmenrah slid his arm around your waist and you rested your head on his shoulder. Your twins were sleeping, back to back, their dark curls mingled together.

 No matter how many times you put them in their separate beds, they always ended up together, so you didn’t fight it tonight. You honestly did not know how Ahkmenrah did it day after day.

 When you told him you were pregnant, he insisted he wanted to stay home with them. He didn’t want to miss a moment of their childhood and considering the two of you had waited awhile before having children, he was ready to tackle the role of being a father to the best of his ability. He stayed on as a docent at the museum, usually working on weekends and over the summer once the university let out.

 You and Ahk had gotten married within a month of his becoming mortal and then spent time travelling while you worked on publishing as much research as you could. When NYU offered a position, you happily took it, feeling like things had come full circle.

 Ahkmenrah was the kind of father you knew he would be—he doted on your children but also made sure they were kind, well-mannered little humans. His regality was a central part of him, and although he wouldn’t be leading a nation, he would make sure his children would become the best versions of themselves.

 Ahk took your hand as you shut the door, leaving it open just a crack. He led you down the hall to your own bedroom, and as soon as you shut the door, his lips were on yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, his hands back on your ass to squeeze you against him.

 You moaned, breaking the kiss and starting to giggle.

 “You don’t miss a beat, do you, love?” you asked through your smile.

Ahk returned your smile, his eyes filled with warmth.

 “I love them so much, Y/N. It feels as if my heart cannot get anymore full. But then I look at you and realize that you’re still mine . . . mine to talk to, to listen to, to take care of, to watch, to touch . . .” he finished as he reached up to cup your face and to trace his thumb over your lower lip.

 As much as you knew Ahkmenrah loved you and your children, you couldn’t help what came out of your mouth next. “I still sometimes wonder if you made the right decision.”

 “Of course I did,” Ahkmenrah said, a seriousness settling over his face as he stepped back to really look in your eyes. “What on earth makes you think that I could be unhappy with my decision?”

 “You gave up immortality. Your parents. Your tablet. Your freedom.”

 Ahkmenrah moved his other hand to your face to cradle it between his strong, soft hands. His answer was a whisper while his eyes burned into yours with his intent.

 “I have—everything, Y/N. Everything. Besides, children are not young forever. Can you imagine how much fun we will have when they are grown, and we get to rediscover ourselves again? Yet another thing I will get to experience with you. Please, do not ever think I have regrets.”

 Tears filled your eyes and your lips began to subtly tremble as you said, “How would you feel about having everything + 1, at least I certainly hope it’s only one this time.”

 Ahkmenrah’s mouth fell open and his eyes filled with tears. “Are you serious? The gods have blessed us with another child?”

 “Sure. The gods . . . or because you still can’t keep your hands to yourself,” you said, teasing your husband.

 “I am sorry, my love, but—who just seduced me, like one half hour ago?”

 You laughed, and you swiped at the tiny tears that had pooled at the corner of your eyes. “Like it was that hard.”

 “Actually . . . ” Ahk said pulling your hand to the front of his joggers.

 You laughed again and when Ahkmenrah joined in you noticed the tiny lines that had formed and stayed at the edges as they crinkled with his laughter. Your husband was aging, and he was even more beautiful than on the day you first met.

 Ahk grew serious again and whispered, first against your lips, and then, after he dropped to his knees, against your abdomen, “Thank you. Thank you.”

 You ran your hand through his dark, curly hair, your fingers scraping along his scalp and savoring the feel of the thick strands between your fingers.

 “I love you,” you said, causing him to look up at you, his eyes dark, but still luminous in the dim light of the bedroom.

 “Care to show me how much?” he asked with an impish grin.

 You smiled and tugged on his shirt to pull him up and into a searing kiss.

 * * * * *

 After you had made love with the sound of the snow lightly tapping its icy fingers against your window pane, your mind drifted back to the night you had first met Ahk; as he lay with his head on your chest, his body as close to you as he could get, you traced over the freckles that spread across his shoulders. You had never seen such sadness on such a beautiful face before, and you knew that you would remember the first time you had looked into his intense eyes. You sometimes wonder if you had really fallen in love with him on the spot—seeing him as a relic, be damned. From that moment on, he seemed to possess you, every decision you made after that night was in consideration of him.

 You decided there were worse things in the world to believe in than love at first sight, or perhaps your memory of meeting him was corrupted by the intensity of your feeling now. Either way, you loved the man who gave up everything and became your husband.

 And then you were overwhelmed with an intense feeling of happiness as you realized that this was what you had never dared to hope for with your once-king. In that moment, you realized it was finally, finally okay to allow yourself to believe this was real. Your life with Ahkmenrah was real.

 You blamed the hormones because crying was not something you were often prone to, but what you thought were silent sniffles immediately woke your husband.

 His sleepy eyes, large and full of concern, were suddenly in front of your face, his hand grasping your cheek and wiping at the salty trail.

 “My love, what is it? Please tell me what is wrong?” he said, a desperation in his voice.

 “I’m just so fucking happy,” you said, a choked laugh escaping as you sniffed.

 Ahkmenrah bent his head in exasperation.

 “You scared me!” Ahk said, sighing, but smiling now.

 “I just realized that everything we have right now is exactly what I never let myself believe I could have. It was just a little overwhelming in that moment. It’s so damn cliché, too! Girl gets what she wants. Cries tears of joy.”

 Ahkmenrah shifted so he could pull you to him, your positions now reversed as you laid on his chest and listened to his heartbeat. You held on to him and he ran his fingers up and down your back.

 Ahkmenrah asked, “Do you remember when we talked about the Cult of Hathor? I said I had a temple built for the five days of celebration?”

 “Yes.”

 “Well, what if we honor that tradition? It can become something we do every Christmas—we each list the five things for which we are the most grateful. Nothing elaborate. Just us, remembering our gratitude.”

 You sat up and kissed Ahkmenrah, deeply, fighting back more tears. You kissed him until you chased away those tears, then you looked at him, your eyes locked on to his.

 “This is why I love you so much. You remind me how to live my best life every single day, Ahk.”

 “Did I or did I not make that promise to you on the roof of the British museum as I missed my first sunrise in 4,000 years?”

  “You certainly did! I wonder why you did miss that sunrise?” you said in a teasing voice.

 “Because all I wanted to do was look at you.”

 “Do you remember what else you said to me?”

 Ahkmenrah furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head.

 “Kiss me until I cannot breathe.”

 Then there it was: that million-dollar smile that still made your heart feel full to bursting.

 “Well, will you?” Ahk said through that smile.

 “Of course,” you said as you moved to capture his lips.

 Your husband’s arms tightened around you, and as you kissed each other, you poured your mutual gratitude for one another into that kiss, both of you later drifting off to sleep as the snow continued to fall feeling so secure and so well-loved.

      Epilogue 2 (without children)

Ahk: Dr. Ahkmenrah Fharrow, Archeologist

You: Dr. Y/F/N Y/L/N, Anthropologist

Current Dig Location: Egypt

Home: Cambridge, UK

 The sand of the dessert swirled around your tanned legs. It didn’t seem to matter how much sunscreen you wore, a life in and out of the dessert definitely darkened one’s skin.  

 You smiled as you walked up to the dig, and saw that your husband, dressed in a loose white shirt and khaki shorts, his boots scuffed and worn, was lecturing a group of new archeologists.

 He looked so handsome, especially with the salty-grey hair that had begun to encroach on his temples.

 A student asked a question, and Ahk grinned before saying, “That’s a question best answered by the most beautiful anthropologist in the world.”

 Despite shaking your head and rolling your eyes, a smile snuck its way across your lips as you joined your husband down in the dig site.

 “Huh. Guess I need to add that to my author bio, Dr. Fharrow.” you answered, listening as the students giggled in the background. “So, what was it that you were inquiring?

 You spent a few minutes fielding questions before Ahkmenrah closed the session.  

 “Alright, off you go. It’s time to learn for yourselves, but remember, your tools are your friends. I don’t want to see anyone hacking away at another 6,000-year-old artifact thinking it’s ‘just a rock,’ Jamison.”

 The students all laughed, giving Jamison a good ribbing as they scattered and began chattering excitedly as they split up to find an area to excavate.

 “Hello, my queen,” Ahkmenrah said, kissing you.

 “I missed you, too,” you said, moving closer to him and tweaking his chin. “I especially missed this face.”

 Ahkmenrah grinned and kissed you again.

 “Does this mean you secured our grant?”

 “You are the world’s leading authority on ancient Egyptian artifacts, Dr. Fharrow. I didn’t have to work that hard at convincing them to give us money.”

 “It probably wasn’t considering you are the world’s leading Egyptian cultural anthropologist, Dr. Y/L/N.”

 “All thanks to you, my king,” you said smiling at your husband.

 “No—I had nothing to do with creating your talented and clever mind, my love. And don’t forget, I would have never made it through school without you because I still can’t write worth a damn in English.”

 You laughed and said, “We do make an excellent team.”

 You stepped to the side, Ahk’s arm still around your waist, and surveyed the dig. It had taken you and Ahk such a long time to wade through the 100s of global applicants who applied to join you on a dig to finally unearth the Temple of Teti.  

 “Are you tired of sand and dirt yet?” you asked.

 “What? You don’t want to share a tent with me anymore?”

 “Oh no, trust me. If I could erect one in our house to keep up permanently, I would. There’s something about the dessert that brings out a rather . . . lascivious nature in you.”

 “I’m pretty sure that’s just you, love.”

 “Mmm,” you replied, as Ahkmenrah nuzzled your neck, not caring a bit if you tasted like sweat.

 “What do you say we—”

 “Dr. Fharrow! I think I found something!” a student called excitedly, waving.

 Ahkmenrah huffed, “Probably another conspicuously shaped rock.”

 You giggled and gave your husband a light smack on the ass as he headed toward the student.

 It had been almost 20 years since the night you entered Ahkmenrah’s exhibit and ended up falling in love with a 4,000-year-old pharaoh.

 Sometimes, when you were feeling insecure, and would ask him if he had any regrets, he gave you a look that practically radiated love and said he had never dreamed of anything nearly as great as the life the two of you built, together, each of you free to make choices, the two of you always working as a team, the end goal always, always to be happy.

 You both spent a long time building your careers and reputations; you worked hard to help Ahk get through school, but he had such an enthusiasm for it, it made you ridiculously proud to know you helped him chase a dream that he chose for himself. You insisted that he could choose to do anything, but he wanted to honor his culture, his people, and most importantly, his parents. He realized that a piece of paper could give him the authority to tell their story, and in turn, his own story.

 Together, you were going to leave a legacy that would honor his culture.

 * * * * *

 Every time you and Ahk returned home from a dig, you had a small party with your closest friends to catch up on each other’s lives. The two of you owned a nice country home not too far from Cambridge, where, when the both of you decided that you’d had enough field work, you’d enter into the classroom. Both you and Ahkmenrah kept in close contact with the university that Ahk considered his alma mater two times over.  

 Ahkmenrah slid the lock on the door after the last few friends left. You were gathering wine glasses and tumblers and then loading them in the dishwasher. It had been a great evening full of laughter and rich conversation, and it just happened to be a nice, clear night so you all could enjoy some time on the patio that Ahk had built himself.

 You loved to dress up for these parties as a contrast to your normal desert get-ups, so you had chosen to wear a black, silk jumpsuit, cut just right to accentuate your curves. You caught Ahkmenrah watching you all night, and now, you felt him before you saw him, pulling you back into his hips, his hands sliding around your waist, his breath sweet from the wine and warm on your neck as he hissed, “You dared to tease your king all night? Look at you,” he breathed, sliding his hands up to ghost his fingertips over the top of your breasts.

 You swallowed, audibly, as your eyes closed of their own accord. You loved playing this game with him; wearing something pretty, sexy. Giving him “the look,” sitting too close, light touches; it was reminiscent of your stolen night together in the city and it was as if neither of you had ever forgotten those moments that led up to your first night together, as if they had become part of the prequel to all of your acts of intimacy.

 Your skin prickled with goosebumps as Ahk continued his ministrations, sometimes lightly touching, sometimes squeezing, his lips now attached to your neck near your pulse after he had pulled your hair to the side. He sucked and swirled his tongue until you were practically mewling.

 You pulled out of his grasp and pushed him back into the kitchen island, kissing him deeply, passionately. Ahkmenrah’s hand buried itself in your hair, while the other reached up to grasp the side of your face as he slid his fingers into your hair on that side, too.

 He pulled back and looked at you, his eyes intense, but amused.

 “Do you want me, my queen?”

 “I’ll want you, even after my bones have turned to dust,” you whispered, your lips ghosting over his.

 “I love you so much, Y/N.”

 “Show me.”

 Ahk reversed your positions and pressed you into the kitchen island. He removed the straps of your jumpsuit from your shoulders, letting it slide from your arms and catch at your waist. You had not worn a bra, relying only on what had been sewn into the jumpsuit and Ahkmenrah could not ignore how quickly your breasts were exposed to him.  

 He palmed them, massaging them both while you closed your eyes and let your head fall back. You leaned back on the counter, proffering your chest to your husband.

 Ahkmenrah worked your nipples, first with his fingers, slightly calloused now from his work at the dig. He traced featherlight circles around your nipples, causing goosebumps to appear all over your breasts and arms. As your nipples hardened, he bent to catch one in his mouth, sucking gently and then teasing with tiny flicks of his tongue. He kissed across your chest, open-mouthed, sloppy kisses, and repeated the teasing to your other nipple. You gripped his hands and slid them over to the sides of both of your breasts and squeezed them around his face, loving the way his stubble scratched at your skin.

 Ahkmenrah groaned before stepping back and yanking the rest of your jumpsuit down. He grinned when he saw your tiny black underwear.

 “Those hardly qualify as a garment,” he said as he picked you up under the thighs and set you on the counter top.

 “Oh, I think they are serving their purpose,” you said as you took in the way his eyes darkened when he saw them.

 Ahkmenrah narrowed his eyes before he reached up and pulled up on them, tightening them so your outer lips were spilling over the edges. He licked along them, teasing you unmercifully, sliding his tongue over your clit, but it was just covered by enough fabric that you couldn’t really feel anything.

 “Please,” you groaned. “Just take the damn thing off.”

 Ahkmenrah laughed, his lips still on your clit over the underwear, teasing. He loved when you begged.

 Ahk loosened his hold on your underwear and began to lower them, lightly kissing places around your hips as he gained access. You were propped up on your hands, watching him tease you and trying not to just squash his arrogant head between your thighs.

You gave his curly hair a good tug, which earned you another arrogant smirk, before he fully removed your underwear.

 “Like usual, you can dish it out but you cannot take it,” Ahkmenrah said between kisses to your inner thighs.

 “Yes—I admit it. I’m a bully. A bully who wants to come, preferably on your smartass face,” you said while spreading your legs, forcing him to either stop or move closer to your core.

 Ahkmenrah chuckled again before taking pity on you. He spread your outer lips and hummed in appreciation at how wet you were. He leaned back in and flicked his tongue across your clit. Your thighs quivered a bit in response and Ahk set a steady pace of licking and sucking until you were groaning and panting a chorus of yeses that ended with a guttural groan of Ahkmenrah’s name.

 “So fucking beautiful when you come, my love,” Ahk said as he pulled off his shirt and unbuckled his belt.

 He didn’t even bother taking off his pants, only unzipping enough to reach in and pull his hard cock out. Because of the height of the island, he had to climb up to actually fuck you. Just as he was about to slide into you, he banged his head off one of the low lights over the countertop.

 You started laughing as he rubbed at his head.

 “I forgot to warn you about that considering it was my head that got bonked the last time we did this—oh! Oh, fuck, Ahk!”

 He had slid into you, ending your recollection of the last time the two of you got carried away in the kitchen. His cock felt like it was made for you when he was buried inside your heat to his base. It felt so goddamn good each and every time he entered you.

 Ahkmenrah’s teasing of you had actually gotten the best of him and he held nothing back as he fucked you, steady and hard. You gripped the edge of the counter that was above you and bucked your hips to meet his thrusts, clenching your walls around him and moaning, lost in the heat of your passion.

 It didn’t take long before Ahkmenrah grunted and pulled out, jerking himself off over your abdomen. His eyes were on yours, waiting for them to open again.

 You smiled, knowing he was watching you. You slowly opened your eyes and met his.

 “I love seeing you like this,” he mumbled as he reached out to trace a finger through his come, leaning down to bring it to your lips.

 You wrapped your lips around his finger and sucked, swallowing what he had proffered.

 “Careful, old man. Don’t start something you can’t finish,” you said as you patted his cheek and wiggled your naked self off of the island and reached for a paper towel.

 “I think you are forgetting something. You’re the old one.”

 You stopped dead in the midst of wiping his come off of your stomach and slowly gave him a look to rival that of Medusa’s famous gaze.

 Ahk laughed, deeply and happily, then dropped off the counter as he zipped up his pants. He was still laughing as he moved in to give you a kiss, but he was met instead with the paper towel and caught only the cold remnants of his come, not your warm lips.

 “You. Are. Dead,” he said, his brows raised, his face locked in an expression of surprise.

 You laughed, loudly, and took off for the bedroom, holding onto your breasts as you jogged down the hall and then up the stairs, squealing as you heard his thundering footfalls behind you.

 You were both laughing and panting as he tackled you onto your queen-sized, fluffy, white bedding. He had your wrists pinned above your head as you attempted to work your legs free to try to gain the upper position.

 The sound of rain suddenly slamming against your large bedroom window made you both stop and look out at the weather.

 Deja vu overwhelmed both of you as you returned your eyes to one another’s. The rain slapped against the window as Ahk quickly removed the rest of his clothes. This time, you made love, and it was an echo of that moment so many years ago when you were brought together by a rainstorm just like this one, but a thousand miles away in a city that never sleeps.

 Your lovemaking was so much sweeter this time with both of you knowing one another’s bodies so well. But what truly made it sweeter was that you knew when you fell asleep, Ahk would stay right there, his breathing, even and deep, and he would be there, bathed in the golden light of the morning.

 It was clear Ahkmenrah’s thoughts were twisted with yours as he looked into your eyes when you came; he watched the way your lips moved as you said his name, both of you coming in an intense, trembling mess against the backdrop of the rain.

 You were the best choice Ahkmenrah had ever made, and even though the remnants of his past felt further and further from him as time passed, he didn’t mind. Because every lost remnant was replaced by a moment like this with you.

#Ahkmenrah #ahk #ahkmenrah fanfiction #ahkmenrah imagine #natm ahkmenrah #ahkmenrah x reader #female reader #rami malek #rami malek character #NATM #ahk x reader

[tortoisesshells]

further thoughts on The Alienist, 1x07 & 1x08

(once more, with feeling): for chrissakes, Laszlo

is it possible “the alienist” refers to the fact that Laszlo Kreizler’s defining trait these past few episodes is alienating everyone around him??

I’m on board with squeamish TR, as a characterization choice, just saying.

I really, really like this conversation between former-Captain Connor and Byrnes. At times, the dialogue in this show is … clunky? But this conversation was great as characterization of Connor - a bully, who’s not so scary without his department behind him - and Byrnes, who’s been lurking portentously in the background, but this does so much to convey how Byrnes was able to run the city PD with such an iron grasp. “We serve the rich, and in return they raise us above the primordial filth. And God help us if we don’t keep our end of the bargain … So long as they have money, we do their biddin’.” there’s that social commentary I was looking for!

This whole sequence at the Natural History museum was … better than expected. Like, yes, it’s still the 1890s, but the docent quickly and efficiently trashes the idea the murderer could be a plains Indian and turns the accusation of brutality back around on white Americans.

Y’know, Laszlo deserved that dressing-down from Miss Crawford. He is high-handed and even if he considers Cyrus a friend, he treats Cyrus as well as he treats his other friends. Which is to say … not all that well.

& I suppose that apology was … a start.

I’m starting a petition: hire John Schuyler Moore a bodyguard, so he stops getting the shit kicked out of him, or drugged, or kidnapped. Contribute now to save this Gilded Age dork (who has more money than you or I) from the slings and arrows of life.

Bravo, for making JP Morgan even more despicable than I’d been expecting this show to do.

ah, yes, the obligatory “I’m so glad I’m mentally ill in the 21st century” scene

Oof. It’s clear that Laszlo’s trying to take what Cyrus's niece said seriously, but he’s so completely emotionally illiterate when it comes to Mary. Joanna Crawford’s telling him that his “kindness and progressive ideas” still create and maintain inequality somehow translates to Laszlo telling Mary she can and should live an independent life in the same high-handed way as he says … well, everything. Not acknowledging her own opinions and not asking her questions. God, Mary, you should have thrown that boot at him.

I am thoroughly appreciative that John doesn’t doubt Sara when she says Laszlo hurt her, nor does he let Laszlo off the hook.

FOR FUCK’S SAKE LASZLO. I get it, he’s cracking up under the strain. He’s nearly gotten his friends killed. They still have no idea who the killer is. But his response to people calling him on these things is … to lash out. Not a good look, Dr. Kreizler.

Laszlo has been a real shit these past two episodes, so this doesn’t wholly seem deserved, but, at least in one part of his life, Laszlo appears to have internalized what people have been telling him. Laszlo pulls his head out of his ass! Treats Mary like a normal person would treat a friend! Asks her to join him for dinner, lets her make her own choices! stammers about Aida!

*tea-kettle noises*

on a serious note, though, major props to Q’uorianka Kilcher for having no dialogue and still upstaging everyone. In a role that’s, hmm, underwritten - and there’s a lot to be said, critically, of the only recurring woman of color being literally silent because of trauma-induced mutism - she’s fantastic and compelling.

How many times can I watch that 30 second scene of Mary arranging flowers and lighting up the whole of the house? Asking for a friend.

John: Love resides in the heart. Laszlo: Nonsense. The heart is simply a muscle. Love isn’t a mystery any more than cholera. John: Cholera is a disease!

That’s it. That’s the show.

“hacked off a few too many limbs at Gettysburg” It’s amazing how much pathos this show packs into throwaway lines, and then never revisits.

ugh, this guy at the BIA. American atrocities committed against Native Americans: “boys will be boys”. 

John Schuyler Moore is the emotional heart of the team, and you can’t tell me otherwise.

There’s a lot of good dialogue between John and Laszlo this ep., not only well-written but good characterization of the two of them. It’s been lacking the past few episodes. John turning Laszlo’s line of inquiry about what being in love feels like around on him in a much kinder way than Laszlo really deserves, but hey, at least Laszlo appears to acknowledge it.

Sarah’s jaunty navy and white jacket + atmospheric smoking on the paddlewheeler is a Good Good Look

I appreciate, very much, that we’ve paused the murder investigation to take potshots at Fig Newtons

I would have watched an entire episode just about the Marcus and Lucius Isaacson’s trip west. Nay, a movie.

This show’s attitude towards, hmm, crime and brutality is fascinating. On the one hand, the murders driving the plot are grisly and perpetrated against children who the system has turned its back on. On the other hand, the lens of the investigation passes through asylums and prisons where inmates are clearly abused; through the worst poverty of the Lower East Side of Gilded Age New York; through an Indian School in an Army fort out West; mentions the violence in Chicago during the Haymarket Riot. It talks about how society creates these individual monsters, and enables them, but shies away from Gilded Age United States society and government as monstrous itself for letting such horrifying things happen in the name of progress or making money.

oooh, yess, my favorite trope. “if I don’t make it, take a message to my loved ones for me.” 

john you absolute idiot you were convinced laszlo hurt sara literally five minutes ago and now you think sara could possibly be in love with laszlo??? jfc. 

my god, the look on John’s face while Laszlo tries to rationalize being in love. This is it, John Schuyler Moore’s the longest-suffering member of the cast. I’m calling it right now. 

Laszlo, u little shit, stop teasing John about being jealous.

shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitSHITSHITSHIT

oh, no. mary, no.

#polkaknox watches the alienist #polkaknox talks

[renegade2026]

TOM HARDY SAVES THE DAY (NO, REALLY)

One of the most intense actors of our time agreed to take us on a motorcycle tour of his hometown—and then the day spun way off-script.

ERIC SULLIVAN AUG 7, 2018

We're at the first stop on Tom Hardy’s literal tour down memory lane, and he’s already causing trouble. The caretaker of St. Leonard’s Court, an apartment building in the leafy London suburb of East Sheen, comes out to the driveway to say that a tenant has lodged a noise complaint. Hardy leans back in the saddle of the offending source, a Triumph Thruxton fitted with a not-so-subtle 1200cc engine. “Must be hard for someone who’s home at 3:00 p.m. on a Tuesday doing fuck-all, innit?” he says to the caretaker, who’s already in retreat. Then, overriding his knee-jerk snark: “It won’t happen again.”

“I’m the youngest person to own a flat on this block,” Hardy, forty, tells me, sounding both proud and bemused. He bought the place fifteen years ago, moved out six years later, and now uses it as a crash pad for out-of-town guests. He didn’t choose the location for its social scene, if the few geriatric residents shuffling by are any indication. Rather, he was the prodigal son returned: He grew up in the upper-middle-class community, the only child of Chips, an adman and writer, and Ann, an artist. His parents still live nearby.

“Ready for the five-dollar tour?” he asks. Our plan is to trace the path from what he calls his “privileged bourgeois background” to the upper-upper-class town of Richmond, where he now lives with his wife, actor Charlotte Riley, and their child, his second. (He also has a ten-year-old son with assistant director Rachael Speed.) The journey is short in distance—a little more than two miles—but ultramarathon-long in life experience.

“Behind the Laura Ashley curtains, there was naughtiness and fuckeries!” he begins like an overenthused docent. I point out that’s a line he’s delivered many times to many writers. He shrugs. “It’s easier to say that than to go deep-sea diving into it.” To Hardy, a fiercely private man and a reluctant public figure, the canned story serves the useful purpose of making an unsuspecting person feel like they’re getting to know the real Tom. “Should we fuck off?” he asks as we pull on our gear. Except for the beat-up jeans, his five-foot-nine frame is covered in black, from his helmet to his motorcycle boots. We get on our bikes and fuck off.

Five minutes later, just past the prep school he attended as a boy, Hardy spots a commotion, and we pull over. A woman, blood covering her face, lies faceup, half on the sidewalk and half in the street. A few bystanders are crouched around. As Hardy approaches, he says, “I know her.”

It's Mae, the mother of one of Hardy’s childhood best friends. [Some names have been changed.] He drops to one knee and takes her hand in his. Someone in the crowd tells us that Mae tripped while walking her dog. She’s slipping in and out of consciousness.

“Mae, it’s Tommy,” Hardy says. “Squeeze my hand. Keep talking to us. Can you open your eyes?” She moans. He tries out a joke. “Are you Canadian?” he asks. She manages a word: “No. ” He says, “Not even a little Canadian?” She doesn’t reply. By the time the ambulance arrives, Mae is responding, but barely. Shortly after, her son Albert pulls up on his bicycle. When he sees his mother laid out, he bites his fist. Hardy wraps his arms around his friend, both to comfort him and to keep him at a safe distance.

The paramedics load Mae onto a stretcher, and Hardy asks if they can bring Albert, too, then asks again to make sure they remember. They say yes, but they’ll first check Mae’s vitals.

After the ambulance doors close, Hardy turns his attention back to Albert. “Your mom took a whack to the forehead. But I’m not concerned immediately, ’cause she’s responding better than when we arrived. And ’cause they’re not rushing off. You settle in at the hospital, and then we’ll meet you.” Albert protests, but Hardy stops him. “I’m one of your best mates, and I love you.” He slips money into Albert’s pocket. “Just for now,” he says. As soon as the ambulance leaves, bound for Kingston Hospital, he calls Albert’s wife.

For the half hour we’ve been here, Hardy has not stopped moving. He’s talked himself through each step as if checking off boxes on a crisis to-do list. Suddenly, he turns to me and considers our circumstances. We began the day as writer and subject, but that dynamic dissolved the moment he saw Mae. “There was no interview here,” he says. “We find ourselves in a situation where we needed to put everything on hold.” A smile cracks across his face. “Welcome to my neighborhood. I told you there’s always something to find behind the Laura Ashley curtains.”

Private Tom and Public Hardy: These are the two sides that define him. That his time is split between work life and family life, and that his obligations toward both are sometimes at odds, isn’t unique. However, his steadfast struggle to separate them is; he’d be thrilled if never the two should meet. But they do, with increasing frequency, in ways that are beyond his control.

Public Hardy may be an accomplished actor in the U. S., but in his home country he’s a national treasure. In June, he was awarded the title Commander of the Order of the British Empire, which, while not as prestigious as knighthood, is on the same scale. In February, Glamour UK named him the sexiest man of 2018. Madame Tussauds in London recently displayed his likeness reclining on an oxblood chesterfield couch, one arm perched atop the back cushion like an invitation. (“Cosy up to Tom on his leather sofa and feel his heartbeat and the warmth of his torso in what is surely the hottest seat in town,” hypes the wax museum’s site.) He tells well-worn anecdotes to keep Private Tom concealed, and he’s always on alert.

We meet for the first time the day before the accident, at the Bike Shed, a motorcycle club and café in Shoreditch where, last year, he spent his fortieth birthday. It’s Hardy’s favorite place in London—not surprising, as he’s an investor in the company, which plans to open a location in Los Angeles soon. Every few minutes during our conversation, he nods hello to yet another bearded, inked-up passerby. He’s wearing a loose T-shirt and cargo pants with enough pockets to fit all the world. Brown fuzz dusts the crown of his head. A copper beard stippled with gray blankets the lower half of his face.

He answers my first question—how he’s doing—without missing a beat: “I’m tired.” He’s been working a lot, mostly on Marvel’s Venom (October 5), in which he plays the title role, a reporter named Eddie Brock whose body is hijacked by an alien symbiote. Venom has remained one of Spider-Man’s best-known foes since he first appeared in comic-book form in the late eighties. At times, he’s an outright villain; at others, including in Hardy’s hands, he’s more of an antihero. He can’t discuss the plot, but he says the tone of the movie, directed by Ruben Fleischer (Zombieland), is “dark and edgy and dangerous.”

The three-month shoot, which ended in January, took him to Atlanta, New York, and San Francisco, where the movie is set. “I see America by where the tax breaks are,” he jokes. Next, he headed to New Orleans to play a syphilitic Al Capone in Fonzo, directed by Josh Trank (Chronicle). That crew went hard: nineteen hours a day for six weeks. The day they wrapped, he flew home, threw on a suit, and attended the royal wedding with Riley. (All he’ll say about why they landed the coveted invite is that “it’s deeply private” and “Harry is a fucking legend.”) The work wasn’t the hardest thing; it was, he says, spending such long stretches away from his family.

Yet workwise, Hardy has arrived at what you might call a stakes moment, one that’s twenty years in the making. At the dawn of his career, after landing just two small roles, albeit in big projects—Band of Brothers and Black Hawk Down—he scored his first major part, as the bald, asexual villain in 2002’s Star Trek: Nemesis. But the movie tanked, snuffing buzz over his excellent performance. Five years of forgettable films and a few distinguished stage performances passed before Hardy played lead roles that fully showcased his talents: the homeless drug addict with a heart of gold in the BBC’s Stuart: A Life Backwards (2007), for which he shed nearly thirty pounds, and the most violent inmate in Britain in Bronson (2009), for which he packed on fifteen pounds of muscle.

Physical change is just part of Hardy’s exacting, chameleonlike transformations. “One can embellish with flair or an accent,” he says. “But ultimately you need to ground the character in some form of recognizable truth.” Hardy will talk your ear off about acting theory— Stanislavsky versus Adler, presentation versus representation, the use of clowning and mask work. “I’m a complete geek about it,” he says. But those seams don’t show. At his best, Hardy so thoroughly embodies a character, in both body and spirit, that he all but disappears.

Take a scene from 2015’s The Revenant. Hardy plays Fitzgerald, the coldhearted fur trapper and the target of revenge for Leonardo DiCaprio’s Glass. One night, around a campfire, Fitzgerald makes a veiled threat to a suspicious travel companion. He never raises his voice, but it’s as if he’s ripped out the man’s heart. Hardy’s performance earned him both an Oscar nomination and, after losing a bet with DiCaprio over whether he’d receive such recognition, a tattoo on his right arm that reads leo knows all.

His knack for magnetic unease can inject a blockbuster with edge: Mad Max: Fury Road, Inception, and, most notably, The Dark Knight Rises. But aside from Fury Road, whenever he’s assumed the lead role—Lawless, Warrior, This Means War, The Drop, Locke, Legend, Child 44—the results have come up short critically, commercially, and sometimes both. Venom is Hardy’s most visible role yet.

“Sounds like a lot of pressure, doesn’t it?” he half-jokes. But he says he’s not concerned about box-office returns; as always, he’s consumed with building a good character. He admits he knew little about Venom when he first read the script. “So I spoke to the only person I could really trust in this environment: my older boy.” His comic-book-loving son “was a huge influence on me doing the role.”

Hardy prepped for the movie for more than a year. He undergoes a rigorous process to shape each performance, complete with its own argot. A script is a “case file,” to be “unpacked” via “investigation.” He often begins by using personalities, both real and fictive, as lodestars toward which he guides his portrayal. The voice he developed for Al Capone in Fonzo is based on Bugs Bunny’s; to prove it, he plays me a clip of the raw footage on his phone. Sure enough, he sounds like the cartoon rabbit with a severe case of vocal fry. In Venom, the dual roles of Eddie Brock and Venom reminded him of three wildly different traits of three wildly different people: “Woody Allen’s tortured neurosis and all the humor that can come from that. Conor McGregor—the überviolence but not all the talking. And Redman”—the rapper—“out of control, living rent-free in his head.” Those are not details he revealed to the execs at Sony, which is producing the movie. “You don’t say shit like that to the studio,” he says.

“IF THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST SONY, THAT’S NOT MY FUCKING BUSINESS. IT'S IRRELEVANT.

“If the odds are stacked against Sony, that’s not my fucking business,” Hardy says. “It’s irrelevant.” He burnishes an image of himself as a creative lone wolf, and in the third person no less: “Tom is very mercenary when it comes to work. I cannot give a fuck what the writer, or the director, or Larry in Baltimore thinks about my choices.” (He later clarifies the perspective shift: “Sometimes I talk in the third person because it’s a lot easier to see myself at work as a piece of meat. So when Tommy says he doesn’t give a fuck what you think, it’s only because I give too much of a fuck, and it gets to a point where it stifles me.”) But it’s hard to square his claims of artistic purity with the occasional very non-lone-wolf detail like, “Market research shows that the biggest fan base for Venom is ten-year-old boys in South America.”

If this movie does well, there will be sequels. And if Sony builds its cinematic Spidey universe, Hardy may well appear in those, too. Beyond those commitments, he’s vague about his post-Fonzo plans, most of which don’t involve acting. “What I’d like to do is produce. Write. Direct,” he says. Through his production company, Hardy Son & Baker, he’s working on the second season of Taboo, a moody period drama set in early-1800s London that he stars on and cowrites with his father. The first season was a mixed bag—its premiere ranks as one of the most streamed episodes of any BBC show, but historians criticized its accuracy and U. S. viewers met its FX airing with indifference—yet his stature is such that the BBC green-lighted the second season. He also optioned Once a Pilgrim, a thriller by a veteran of the Parachute Regiment, the elite airborne infantry of the British army; he’s considering directing the adaptation.

Hardy’s future looks rosy. And yet, more than anything, he feels worn down. Physically, sure: He’s walking with a limp. He says he tore his right meniscus on the set of Venom, but he doesn’t know how it happened. “At the end of a job, I normally end up on the side of the road,” he says. “And then carrying the toddler around on my shoulders. . .” He lets loose a two-note cackle. “Things get in the way of looking after yourself.”

But the fatigue is also mental. Maybe it’s because the growing demands of the job, especially the time spent far from his wife and children, are beginning to outweigh its diminishing gratification. When I ask if being forty has changed how he feels about his career, this time he answers in the second person. “You’ve summited Everest. It’s a miracle that you’ve made it anywhere near the fucking mountain, let alone climbed it. Do you want to go all the way back and do it again? Or do you want to get off the mountain and go fucking find a beach?” He tugs his left temple so hard that it looks like the skin might tear. “What is it that draws you to the craft? At this age, I don’t know anymore. I’ve kind of had enough. If I’m being brutally honest, I want to go on with my life.”

After the ambulance leaves with Mae and Albert, Hardy suggests that we stop at a few places on our way to the hospital. Not for my benefit, but for his friend’s. “Albert needs to be alone with his mum and his thoughts,” he says. “He’s going to be taking care of her, so it’s important he pays attention. Sometimes, when there are other people around, that’s hard to do.” Hardy isn’t trying to swashbuckle; he’s thinking of how to best help two loved ones. And, apparently, a guy he just met: Looking me up and down, he says, “We’ve had a bit of a shock ourselves. We could use some sugar.” We set out for a refreshment stand in a nearby park he first came to as a toddler with his mother to paddle around the kiddie pool, and then as a teen with Albert and others to play rugby.

When we arrive, the stand is closed. As we get back on our bikes, a father walks by carrying his son, a chubby boy with an explosion of straw-colored curls. “How old are you?” Hardy asks the boy. “He’s two,” the dad beams.

“When will you be three?” Hardy asks.

“July,” the toddler says softly.

“That’s really soon!” he says. “You’re a bit older than my youngest, who’ll be three in October. Oh, you’ll be a big boy by then. You’re already a big boy. Do you want to sit on my bike?” The boy buries his face in his father’s chest. “I appreciate I’ve made you feel nervous. This is what I will do: I will disappear,” he says, which could double as his two-sentence acting manifesto. He revs his engine over and over. As we depart, the boy watches Hardy, his mouth agape.

We cut into Richmond Park, a twenty-five-hundred-acre expanse that’s equal parts polished and untamed. When something catches Hardy’s attention—stags in the brush, a view of the Thames, a tree with knotted bark—he raises two fingers to his eyes in a V, then points so I see it too, like I’m his Dunkirk wingman.

We pull over at a dead end. With our engines rumbling, Hardy tells me that his parents moved to this part of London to enroll him in the best schools they could afford. The area is among the wealthiest in the UK, but it’s also an economic patchwork where council houses sit blocks away from mansions. “Growing up, you mix and mingle. You can sit in the shit if you want to, or you can make something of yourself,” he says. “Or you can end up under too much pressure and fading out young.”

As a child, Hardy had a strong relationship with Ann, but he butted heads with Chips. Father and son made up years ago, and Hardy resists going into detail about their difficult past. “My father was the most wonderful of teachers in a world that can be cruel,” he allows. “He treated me like an adult, as opposed to changing his persona for his child. There was no filter. Do you understand? No filter.”

In his teens, Hardy wobbled. “The centrifugal force in my life is a natural disposition to not be happy with the way I feel,” he says. That, combined with a robust contrarian bent—“Nine times out of ten, when somebody says, ‘Don’t do that,’ my instinct is to say, ‘That has to be done’ ”—got him into a fair bit of trouble. He hung out with the wrong crowds; he fought in school. “I grew up in the neighborhood being a dick,” he says. “I’ve learned and will continue to learn from being a dick. To try and somehow chisel myself into being a human being so I can respect myself when I look in the mirror. And that’s a procedure that will go on until I die.”

Starting at thirteen, he struggled with alcoholism and other addictions. He still has a soft spot for those with similar demons. In April 2017, when two kids riding stolen mopeds were T-boned at an intersection and tried to run, Hardy, who lived nearby, apprehended one of them. The Sun headline sums up how the press covered the incident: “Tom Hardy Catches Thief After Dramatic Hollywood-Style Chase Through Streets Before Proudly Saying, ‘I’ve Caught the C**t.’ ” He disputes the details of what was reported— “It wasn’t much of a chase; when I found him, he was in fucking rag order”—but that’s beside the point. The tabloids missed the real story: After the incident, he tracked down the kid he turned in and got him help. “He must stand accountable for what he’s done,” Hardy tells me. “But he’s got issues, and he’s in a bad way. Do we just give up on a sixteen-year-old?”

As a boy, Hardy was given second, third, and fourth chances. Along the way, he discovered that acting offered an outlet for his baneful discontent. He attended one drama school, then another, got kicked out twice, and was cast in Band of Brothers before he graduated.

Still, for years, he questioned his chosen path. Hardy even signed up for a Parachute Regiment training course—but never followed through. “Oh, mate, I did so much backpedaling,” he says. “The reality is that where I belonged was not there. The last person defending the realm was Mr. Hardy.” He calls the decision to back out “one of my biggest regrets. I wonder what life would’ve been like. I would’ve loved to have served and been useful.”

In 2003, at twenty-five, Hardy cleaned up with the help of a twelve-step program—he calls it “my first port of call”—and he’s been sober ever since. “It was hard enough for me to say, ‘I’m an alcoholic.’ But staying stopped is fucking hard.” Sitting on his Triumph, at the center of the place that held all the risks and possibilities that would define him, Hardy sounds almost wistful.

We take off through the park. He rides with his legs bowed out, his left hand resting on his knee, and his right hand holding steady on the throttle. When he rips on a vape pen, white plumes swirl around his head and dissipate into the damp air.

We head to Richmond. The town sits within the borders of Greater London, but its roots are as much in the countryside as in the city. Generations of famous Brits seeking refuge have called it home: Queen Elizabeth I liked hunting stags in the park; Charles I relocated his court here to avoid the plague; Mick Jagger lived near the Thames with Jerry Hall, who, though now married to Rupert Murdoch, apparently still co-owns the home they shared.

We stop at a café around the corner from Hardy’s place. The wall between us that crumbled upon seeing Mae—or seemed to, anyway—is fortified just as quickly. When Private Tom reaches playfully for my stack of questions and I instinctively pull them back, he casts a leery eye. “I see I’m not in the circle of trust,” Public Hardy says, when in fact I just got booted from his.

“Can I get a double espresso?” he asks our waiter.

“For sure,” the waiter says. “By the way, big fan. I always know if you’re in a movie, it’s going to be a good one.”

“Thanks. But don’t put your money on that,” Hardy says. “I’ve got to be crap at some point.”

“I would say you’re one of my top three best,” the waiter says. “Action actors,” he clarifies.

“I think I’m a bit too old now for action.”

“Except for the next Expendables,” the waiter jokes.

“I’m tempted to ask who the other two are,” Hardy says after the waiter walks off. “I showed great restraint. Great restraint.” He might claim that the opinions of others don’t matter, but this is driving him crazy. “Who are the fuckers?”

When the waiter returns, I ask. “Mark Wahlberg,” he says without delay, as if he were waiting for the question. Hardy, stone-faced, says nothing. “And Matt Damon.”

Finally, Hardy speaks. “Can I give you this?” he says, handing over a plate, any plate, just to send the waiter on his way. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Thanks, man. Good company.”

He deals with this sort of thing all the time. “I’ve crossed the line of being a public figure. And I accept that means to a certain degree I’m public property,” he says, “even though I project an image of myself to them,” acknowledging Public Hardy in all but name. Most people he meets are lovely. But “the downside of being overt is you invite darkness,” he says. “It only takes one person to cause real harm.” He defends himself as if someone has called him out. “That’s not being paranoid. That’s just facts.”

“THE DOWNSIDE OF BEING OVERT IS YOU INVITE DARKNESS. IT ONLY TAKES ONE PERSON TO CAUSE REAL HARM.”

By filtering which parts of himself become public, he’s mostly okay with the balance of Private Tom and Public Hardy. Except, that is, when it comes to his children. “I will pose for you, and photos of me and my wife are fine,” he says. “But if someone takes a photo of my kids, all bets are off. I will take the camera off you and beat the fucking shit out of you.” His voice contains no hint of exaggeration. “That’s the one that hurts. My kids didn’t ask for what my job is.” He pauses. “There’s something that really upsets me about the imposition of a grown-up world on a child.”

When we spoke earlier about his relationship with Chips, he said he was working to become a better father by learning from the mistakes of his own. “In trying to protect my children, I’ll probably give them their own dose of problems,” he told me. “But I don’t want them to go through what I went through.”

At Kingston Hospital, we make our way to Mae’s room. She’s feeling better, but dried blood still cakes her face. She and Albert don’t know who or what to expect next, or how long it will be. Hardy asks what she remembers—“Hit the pavement,” she says. “Made a nice sound”—and what still hurts. We unload snacks we brought, and then we wait.

The three relax into a familiar rhythm. Age has smoothed but not erased the boys’ mischief and the mom’s sass. Hardy jokes to Mae, “All right, lovely, want salt-and-vinegar chips with a side of infectious disease? Pick up a little souvenir?” She smirks.

Hardy squeezes some sanitizer onto his hands and rubs it, then reaches for a chip. “Don’t do that,” Mae says. “Wipe off your hands first. It’s not for eating.”

“It’s better than eating disease,” Albert weighs in. “I’d rather be sanitized to death.”

“I’m gonna take my chances,” Hardy says.

“How’s your mum and dad?” she asks.

“Very good, actually,” he says. “It was my mum’s birthday last week.”

“Twenty-one again?”

“I’m glad to see you’re cracking jokes,” Albert says.

“Me too,” Mae says.

When she leaves the room with the help of a nurse, Hardy turns to Albert and delivers a dose of optimism: “She’s walking, mate. That’s a good sign. The next thing we’re going to get is an X-ray, or maybe a CT scan if they’re concerned about bleeding or swelling in the brain. They’ve got to check all the boxes.”

Once Mae is back, Hardy steps out to talk to the nurse without saying why. “Is he using his celebrity powers?” Albert asks me. “Not the first time I’ve witnessed that.” He laughs, then quiets. “But it’s a nice tool to have.”

Hardy returns without explanation. A few minutes later, the nurse comes in. “She’s going to be seen next.”

Like that, Mae is at the top of the list.

Though Hardy is coy about how much he played the fame card, it’s clear his job here is done. As we say goodbye, Mae pulls him in close. “I want you to know that I have plans to see Venom,” she says. “You’ve done something that’s close to my heart. You know I’m a sci-fi freak.”

“You’re gonna enjoy this one,” Hardy says. “This one’s just for you. And for my boy.”

Hardy wants to exert control over his world. The brutal irony is that the more successful he becomes, the more the world controls him. But as we walk out of the hospital, I suggest that while his celebrity might feel like a burden, in the instance of Mae and Albert it was . . . He finishes my sentence: “Perfect.”

At the exit, an orderly chases us down. “Tom! Tom Hardy!” We stop. “I just love your movies. Can I take a picture?” Two more fans follow. He smiles as they gather around in the hospital parking lot and start snapping selfies.

This article appears in the September '18 issue of Esquire.

https://www.esquire.com/entertainment/movies/amp22627852/tom-hardy-venom-fonzo-september-cover/

#tomhardy

[5hfanfiction]

this isn't allowed

Wattpad @ longerr_hours check out my stuff !!!

So i was writing something else, but i never really write from lauren’s pov, and like… kinda wanna go back to what im good at? Lmk whats up w this please im insecure and need compliments to survive :))))))

“Camz…” Lauren says softly, hands still tangled in brown hair, softer than she imagined it would be, lips swollen and eyes shut. Her forehead is barely leaning against Camila’s but she can feel her there and it’s enough to disable her ability to move away.

“I know… just… give me a second,” Camila replies, breath warm and soft on Lauren’s mouth.

She doesn’t know who leans in first but they’re kissing again, and it’s rough, and harsh, and Camila is maneuvering so that Lauren’s back is against the door now and- Camila’s hand is locking it, good that’s why she dragged her over, - and fuck, fuck, how did they get here? How did this happen? One minute she was joking about a crush and the next she was -

“Fuck, Camz,” Lauren moans out lowly when strong, sure hands find her waist under her shirt and a body pushes harder into her own.

Fucked. She was fucked.

-

Lauren always knew who Camila was. Everyone had always known who Camila was but like, Lauren liked to think she paid extra close attention to her in a way that wasn’t necessarily creepy, just curious.

She was beautiful. She’d been transferred to the school during Lauren’s sophomore year and she saw what all the other horny teenage boys saw, a goddess.

Warm, welcoming eyes, a kind smile, a body to die for, Lauren knew crushes on strangers weren’t a thing of rarity, but hell it was like love at first sight.

She never really interacted with Camila and that was the problem. She’d never had any excuse, and reason to see the girl and it kind of sucked, but for the most part she as able to keep her mind occupied with people who were an actual possibility.

Eventually it happens though.

This is how it happens. Lauren used to work in a volunteer program at the Museum of Fine Arts in the city. She’s 18 now and done participating in the docent program, but she’s 18 now so the instructor needs volunteers to chaperone the trips.

That’s how it happens.

“So you can do it?” Mrs. Levine asks, eyes staring into Lauren’s with a desperate plea that the black haired girl couldn’t refuse.

She keeps her on edge still though, hoping she’ll offer something to repay her but realizing, hey, why the fuck would she do that, and deciding to just nod.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she all but squeals, running to her desk to grab the forms needed. “Camila is going to be so excited, she was worried she would be all alone with the twenty-”

“Wait what? I thought you were going?” Lauren interrupts, eyes widening and trying not to get too excited at the possibility that what she’s just heard is true.

“No, no sorry but I can’t because of testing this week,” Mrs. Levine replies with a shrug and a look of nerves, hoping Lauren won’t change her mind now. “Mrs. Cabello will be the other chaperone, I hope that’s okay?”

Lauren doesn’t hesitate to nod this time, and can’t wipe the smile off her face as she makes her way to the parking lot.

-

“Okay we have half an hour, everybody can go grab coffees but meet at the station by 8:15, okay?” Ms. Cabello announced as the group of sophomores got up and ready to head out.

“Actually I think some girls are in the bathroom?” Lauren points out quietly to the young teacher, not wanting to sound like she’s calling her out but worried about accidentally leaving her little sister behind. “They went like a while ago, I can go see if they’re still there if you’d like?”

“Oh,” Camila sighs out in surprise, turning her head towards the bathrooms, where, sure enough three girls are filing out and jogging to catch up to the group that looks to be departing on Camila’s command. “Shit I didn’t even- shoot! Shoot I’m sorry I don’t think I’m suppose to swear with you,” Camila says looking anxious and talking a little too loudly in a way that Lauren thinks is adorable.

“It’s fine, I am 18 after all that’s why I’m here,” Lauren reassures and Camila lets out a sigh at that.

“You’re right, yeah, sorry again still,” she replies, looking to be sure that the girls caught up before grabbing her umbrella. “Thanks for catching that, I’ve never like, chaperoned myself and I guess I’m kinda nervous for this,” she explains and Lauren almost coos at her nervous eyes and soft smile.

She’s glad she’s never had Camila as a teacher, she thinks she’d be head over heels by now if that were the case.

“It’s cool, I only noticed cause it’s my sister and her friends,” Lauren explains, “and hey you did the attendance pretty well, seemed like a natural to me,” she says with a grin, half kidding but half trying to really reassure Camila who looked too nervous for her liking. It works when Camila lets out a laugh.

“Well you caught onto those girls so I guess I’m lucky you were sent to help or I’d already be down three,” Camila replies.

She’s sweet.

She’s always heard Mrs. Cabello is the most amazing, caring teacher in the school but she’s like, she’s really sweet. They walk to the train stop together, stopping for coffee on the way and they talk the whole time. Lauren’s never had conversation flow this easily before, especially with someone so pretty but it does and it’s amazing.

Camila tells her about her favorite movie is Gone Girl even though Ben Affleck is a huge douche, and how she claims her favorite book is Les Mis but she never actually finished since it’s too long and that answer just makes her seem educated, about how she loves Taylor Swift despite the bandwagon hate and she listens to Lauren tell her about herself too.

It’s just small talk, Lauren knows this but it feels like they get along too nice.

They bond over the art too. Lauren has been to the Museum of Fine Arts so often that she stopped appreciating how beautiful everything was, but Camila brings a new light to it in the way she sees things. Not to mention she’s the most damn fine art this place has seen in years and Lauren doesn’t want to seem like a nerd but she has to make that joke and Camila laughs so hard it’s totally worth it if it seemed inappropriate.

It’s a good day an when it’s finally coming to an end Lauren can’t help but be upset. BUt the way Camila says goodbye makes her think this isn’t over yet.

-

It’s little interactions that build Lauren’s crush into something more. She didn’t know if Camila would ever again give her a second glance, but she does. She notices her in crowds and makes sure to pay her some attention.

Run in’s on the stairs, smiles in the halls, unnecessary greetings from Camila whenever she walks past her class (which is adorable, right? That Camila stops in the middle of teaching to yell a “hello” to Lauren as she strolls by [especially since the only reason Lauren ever walks by her class is when she’s looking for her attention, she doesn’t even have a class in that wing]).

Lauren sees her a lot and it’s like, sometimes she forgets about Camila, but after a tuesday where she happens to see Camila like six times, Lauren can’t seem to get the older girl off her mind.

She knows Camila is a teacher, and like 26 and like, way out of her league (Keana said she’s not but Lauren is convinced), but she can’t help but feel like they clicked in a way that could lead to more.

She doesn’t have any hard evidence though so for about a month she sticks to the small moments that she gets.

Something happens in May.

It’s small, but it’s bigger than anything else and it gives Lauren all the hope she needs.

“Hey you,” a voice greets Lauren from behind as she glances into the window of an empty classroom. “What’s up?”

(It’s Camila, and she just said “hey you,” that’s the first thing that Lauren thinks is like, hella gay.)

“Oh, hey, not a lot, yourself?” Lauren gives like her rehearsed response to that questions because Camila catches her off guard and Camila is so cute and wow.

“Not a lot,” Camila shrugs back, leaning on the wall next to Lauren. “Are you going next week?” she asks and Lauren takes a second to think before remembering the field trips.

(something in Camila’s eyes looks excited at the thought of Lauren going maybe, but she supposes that isn’t hard evidence.)

“I can not,” she replies and she has to hold in a smile at how saddened Camila is by that. Lauren isn’t worthy. “Senior sign out day? Remember? As much as I’d love to go to the museum with y’all again I can’t really skip my last day of high school,” Lauren teases earning a laugh from Camila who looks less sad than a second ago.

“Right,” Camila responds with a nod. “We have to go some other time then,” she continues.

(that.)

“Anyways, what, if I may ask, are you doing outside this classroom?” Camila continues leaving Lauren to linger on the invite for plans?

“Oh, well you see, no paper towels in the bathroom so I was gonna try to steal some,” Lauren explains, shrugging and, Camila grabs her hand, gently, not interlocking fingers or anything like, gay like that but like, she’s holding it, and

“Mr. Gold should have some,” she explains half heartedly as she pulls Lauren towards the mans classroom right down the hall.

(Lauren would just now like to point out that a. She knows where Mr. Gold’s room is, why is this lady guiding her, and b. This lady is guiding her !!!! by her hand !!!! she’s !! holding !! her !! hand !!!)

She pulled her in and it was empty and she pointed to the paper towels and let Lauren go.

Lauren grabbed some, still shocked by the contact but Camila’s eyes raking up hr body when she turned back around were a thing she wasn’t expecting. Sure, her ass looks nice in these jeans but like, it’s so obvious.

Camila blushes a darker shade of red than she’s ever seen before when she realizes she’s been caught but Lauren doesn’t say anything, she levels her with eye contact and, there’s a moment. It’s something, Lauren doesn’t know what it is but it’s something.

She thinks Camila might like her too. Maybe.

-

Camila’s boyfriend died a year ago. It’s May 11th and it’s the anniversary and Lauren didn’t know that until earlier that day, but she thinks that’s why she ended up sneaking by Camila’s class all day hoping to get a glimpse. She finally doe in the end.

She was in her pajamas, something Lauren had noticed her doing lately and something that maybe makes sense now. She was in her pajamas and it was the end of the day so students weren’t there, but the lights were off and Camila was just, she was just sitting.

Lauren doesn’t know why she feels like she’s welcome to help but she thinks Camila looks like she needs a hug and she thinks she could be the person to hug her.

“Camila?” Lauren says quietly once she’s somehow found herself in the entrance of the classroom.

(They’d started first name basis a few days after the paper towel incident, Camila had told her she felt too old and that they were friends,not teacher and student since technically Lauren never had her).

She hadn’t meant to see Camila at all and she doesn’t know what she’s doing but when Camila looks up and there are tear streaks on her face and a look of need in her eyes, Lauren doesn’t hesitate to make her way over and envelope the lady in a hug.

She doesn’t say anything. She lets Camila fall apart in her arms and maybe part of her wants to get Mr. Mendes, she knows the two are close friends and she knows he might be able to help. But the other part of her knows she can’t let go of Camila right now, knows that she can’t be left for even a second, sos eh just holds her and lets her cry.

“He killed himself,” Camila finally says after a long while of crying into Lauren’s shoulder in silence. “Everybody knows it happened, nobody really knows how but… he killed himself,” Camila explains and, Lauren has never really been good with words. “Don’t say anything, you don’t need to… thank you for being here right now,” and Lauren thinks it’s amazing that Camila finds a way to reassure her while she’s the one in need of comforting.

It’s emotional and sad and Lauren is crying too by the end of it, but they sit and hold each other for what feels like hours.

-

They get closer. Obviously after something like that happens, the people involved get coser. So Lauren finds her crush turning into something thousands of times stronger and she’s terrified.

Camila doesn’t let her stay scared for long.

“Hey,” Lauren greets, it’s her last day of classes and while all the other seniors are out partying, celebrating the end, Lauren is sitting in Camila’s classroom, waiting for her to get back from the field trip. “How was it?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started,” Camila exaggerates as she struts into the room and plops down on her chair. “Cynthia chaperoned instead of you and she drove me fuckin’ insane.”

“Sorry to have abandoned you,” Lauren starts as she makes her way over to perch on the edge of Camila’s desk next to where she’s sitting. “Next time, I swear I got you next time.”

“Can we not bring the kids next time either? It’d be fun just to go us,” Camila suggest and Lauren smiles ten times harder thn she should.

“I guess it’s a date,” she replies and wait she shouldn’t have, they flirt kind of but like its more indirect and she shouldn’t have, “wait I didn’t-”

And she’s cut off by soft lips hitting hers. So much easier than she ever could have imagined.

It’s sweet and gentle and Camila is firm but so so soft and she’s loving and caring and she tastes like vanilla and Lauren is in heaven as her lips push against hers.

They kiss for a long moment, the best moment Lauren’s mind has recorded thus far in life and, it’s nice. She almost forgets that breathing is mandatory until Camila leans back to suck in a deep breath, almost immediately wrapping her hands around Lauren’s waist to pull her down and closer to her.

“Camz…” Lauren says softly, hands still tangled in brown hair, softer than she imagined it would be, lips swollen and eyes shut. Her forehead is barely leaning against Camila’s but she can feel her there and it’s enough to disable her ability to move away.

“I know… just… give me a second,” Camila replies, breath warm and soft on Lauren’s mouth.

She doesn’t know who leans in first but they’re kissing again, and it’s rough, and harsh, and Camila is maneuvering so that Lauren’s back is against the door now and- Camila’s hand is locking it, good that’s why she dragged her over, - and fuck, fuck, how did they get here? How did this happen? One minute she was joking about a crush and the next she was -

“Fuck, Camz,” Lauren moans out lowly when strong, sure hands find her waist under her shirt and a body pushes harder into her own.

She likes kissing Camila. She can’t believe she’s doing it, she’s wanted to for a while, a very very long while but she can’t believe she’s doing this.

“I don’t think I should be doing this,” Camila breaks away for a breath to say but her words lose their meaning when her hands find residence on Lauren’s ass and her lips fall to her neck, sucking deep and hard and in all the right ways.

“Don’t stop,” Lauren replies to the statement because she feels like she should but Camila wasn’t planning to and- this could get messy.

“Wait, wait, Camila,” Lauren interrupts, pulling away from a pouting Camila when a certain thought enters her head. “I don’t… I know you’re still upset over everything that happened with.. I mean,” Lauren hesitates, not knowing how to broach that topic. “I don’t want to take advantage of that at all.”

“Lauren,” Camila starts, moving away slightly and grasping the younger girls hand. “I’m over him in the way that I need to be, it’s just.. It’s sad to lose anybody you love, even if you don’t still love them in the same ways. I’ve liked you since you called me out on missing those girls in the bathroom, sure I’ve been emotional lately but, this has been my goal since I saw you, the deep stuff? That all needs to wait, I’ve waited this long to kiss you please, please let me do it again,” Camila pleads and Lauren has never lunger for something more quickly in her life.

They kiss until Lauren is sure her lips are going to be swollen for years and her neck is going to be so bruised that all the make-up in the world won’t make a difference. It feels good. Kissing Caila feels better than anything she’s ever done so she can’t stop.

She thinks she wants to do it more.

“I’m never going to get enough of you,” Camila is the one to say it as she’s leading Lauren over to her desk and jesus christ the girl agrees wholeheartedly.

So this is how it starts. Lauren can’t wait for it to continue.

#UPDATE #AU #camren #submission #this isnt allowed

[obscurelocalstranger]

Oh! I forgot to tell y’all, the ghost was back at work the other day.

Smol uh catch up, if you don’t know: I work at a “historic village” museum and we have like about six buildings set up as different little museums (a doctor’s office, an old timey store, etc etc) but they’re all pretty much original old buildings that we’ve restored.

So apparently I’m the only one to ever experience the ghost that’s in the doctor’s office (it’s a real office where like people were operated on and shit, back in the horse and buggy days), and the first time I was in there putting some artifacts away and in the separate room we added on as an apothecary (because we just had too many things to show off really (and it used to be the main office also but this was all like years and years before I worked there)), there was like a loud clanging banging noise? So ofc I go in there to see what happened and these two big heavy mortar and pestle sets are just knocked over on the floor! And I’m there by myself and like even if there were like a draft or something coming through, there’s no way anything could knock over those things without some considerable force. So yeah unexplained thing number one. Very spooky.

And so since then I just announce when I’m in there, just in case, you know? Like “hi I’m just locking up for the day” or “just here to put some things away, don’t mind me”or whatever. And the other day I was going around to lock up all the buildings and I noticed that, because the business next door to/half in front of our lot is a bakery, the entire like grounds outside pretty much smelled amazing, like the best cookie baking smell. So that was really super pleasant and I was thinking about how nice that was. And I get to the doctor’s building and I knock and go in and start to say “hello just locking up” and like before I can even get anything said, all I can smell is like death. Just imagine the worst thing you have ever smelled and then imagine like something else died on top of it 3 days ago in the hot sun. Bad. And I said out loud because I was already talking to the air in there like “oh wow that’s horrific. Was the tour that bad today? Everyone’s gone now it’s okay” and like as soon as I said that the smell was gone. It just went away and everything was as normal. WHAT THE FUCK THO

OH OH AND like I had gone in there in the morning to put away some things and it was fine then so it’s not like oh something had died in there or there was any reason for it to smell bad. And like it smelled like amazing cookies outside so it’s not like oh there was general funk in the air and you couldn’t smell the bad smell from outside, even at the door. It was super weird.

So yeah the ghost did not like retired teachers coming to tour I guess? That’s the only group we had through that day. I can’t help but wonder now if like someone said anything while they were in there or like if anything else weird happened during the tour. I didn’t know to ask the docents at the time but maybe I can ask tomorrow. 

#even if you don't believe in ghosts like that's fine but this shit is weird #like idk there's no reason for either of these things to happen the way they did #and if any of our buildings were gonna be haunted it's got to be the one where statistically someone probably died #thank god it's not the schoolhouse tho I am not here for creepy child ghosts thanks #work blogging