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mrcspectr · 3 years ago

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wake me (when it’s over)

Summary: In which Marc Spector dreams and often fears the things he doesn't understand.

Title from Wake Me When It’s Over by the Cranberries.

Trying to forget something that you know, It hasn’t killed you yet, but you cannot let it go, I’m trying to exist, trying not to scream, How it does persist, entrapped inside a dream.

Inspired by this fantastic piece that’s been living rent free in my brain for a solid week now. You should absolutely go reblog it because wow.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: implied/referenced suicide, canon-typical violence, angst

He remembers the Duat, more than anything else.

He tries not to, really. Steven has been informing him, tirelessly, how unhelpful it is to look back on the past. That their time in death was quite long enough for the both of them to live through it all, he figures, and there's no sense in ruminating on the whole thing.

As if he needed the reminder.

The next time he had the body and some.. Alone time, he'd have to remember to get rid of all those self help books Steven had been reading.

They're not self help books, Marc, they're psychiatric textbooks on proven therapeutic methods of processing trauma. And while I’m at it, don’t even think about it.

"Personally, I liked it better when we processed our trauma with a talking hippo."

Would it kill you to take this a little more seriously?

"It might, actually."

Marc.

"I also liked it better when the tapes you listened to kept us awake, because now all they do is put me to sleep."

Marc!

"Okay, okay! I'm done, promise."

They were lying on the worn mattress in Steven's London flat, staring at the ceiling, a cassette tape turning on the bedside table beside them. It was the fourth tape in a set of ten, and they'd been at it for hours now.

Marc moved his head to check the clock radio; it read 2:03AM in a harsh, red light.

"Oh, no way."

Hey, what do you think you're-

Before Steven could think to stop him, Marc pressed down hard on the STOP button, the dull man's voice they'd been listening to since dinner coming to a halt mid sentence.

Thought you were done, hm? Clearly you're not done being a complete tosser!

Turning his head back up to the ceiling, Marc's eyes met Steven's miffed expression. There was a mirror fixed to the wood, enough to see his reflection down to his waist, so that he could see Steven's arms crossed over his chest.

They didn't need the mirrors to communicate anymore, not really. After spending so long not knowing each other, now they traded the body like an afterthought, having conversations out loud and sharing its voice until people on the street started staring.

It was as easy as breathing.

Posting the mirrors around the room was Marc's idea. It's not that he didn't enjoy the way they communicated now, he'd talk to him any way he could, now that he, well, could.

He just liked being able to see Steven's expressions sometimes, the way his whole face seemed to open up when Marc called him buddy. His look of concern when Marc was having a particularly rough day, without him ever having to say much of anything out loud.

Even now, when Steven was very clearly annoyed with him.

He had to keep from smiling. It would only get him in more trouble.

"It's time for bed."

We’re already IN bed. And sure, right when we were starting to make some real-

Marc can't help it now, and rolls his eyes. "You don't actually believe this crap works, do you?"

Doesn't really matter what I believe now, does it? Gotta try something.

The irritation on his face had melted away now, replaced with worry, his eyebrows knit together in concern.

"Hey, I'm the only one who gets to look like that."

Steven ignores the joke, which is surprising considering the nature of it, but Marc notes the measured focus in his tone.

Think you'll have another one tonight, then?

Marc sighed, pushing all the air out of his lungs until he felt his body sink further into the bed.

"I dunno, Steven. I told you, it's always random."

He'd been having nightmares for weeks now, ever since they came home. It was to the point where dread would creep in on him in the late evening, gnawing at the pit of his stomach until nightfall, reminding him of what was to come. He never went more than a few days without one.

Some nights he was pleasantly surprised, sleeping the whole way through with no interruptions. Other nights.. well.

How long's it been now?

"'Bout three days. I'm due."

Well with that attitude, it's no wonder we haven't got to the bottom of it.

"Steven."

I'm serious Marc, I've done all this research and you've made almost no effort to-

"Steven, I'm done talking about it."

Then how about you listen instead, yeah? Ever since we got back, it's like sometimes.. sometimes you're still there, Marc.

He looks away from him, closing his eyes against the cool fabric of the pillow. Sometimes it feels like the mirrors make it harder to hide, but it doesn't matter. Steven always sees him anyway.

Do you still think about all that? Everything that happened back then?

That's not what it is, not even close. The truth of it all, their childhood and all the pain that came with it, feels more like a dull ache now than a nagging wound. Ever since he shared it with him, let him shoulder some of the burden, it was much easier to carry.

He felt lighter, even.

Steven was convinced that, somehow, Marc still carried some of that blame, and he never could find the words to tell him just how easily Steven had scraped that feeling from his bones. How his insistence and his honesty had shined a light on all his darkest places, made him see himself anew.

No words ever felt like enough, so he doesn’t say anything. He hopes Steven understands anyway.

So he lets Steven think what he wants, because it’s easier than explaining the alternative.

It's easier than telling him about the fear that's replaced it. The way he can still feel his knees digging into the sand even now, how hollow he felt looking down at Steven's frozen body, hand reaching out to him.

Even though Steven is back with him, the way he was always meant to be, Marc remembers being in that place without him. Looking at an empty shell of the person who meant the most to him, and how it made him feel empty too.

How he was powerless to save him, and the only solution that made sense was to kneel down and join him.

It was a different kind of blame, a different ache. He was afraid, because now he'd tasted that loss and it clung to him like damp fabric.

Now he was just a man. No longer Moon Knight. No longer anyone’s fist. And it was a painful reminder at times, just what was possible to lose.

Marc?

His eyes snap open again, and he wonders how much time he's spent lost in thought. Only seconds, he hopes.

"Hm?"

You know you can talk to me, right? I mean, I shouldn't have to tell you that, but. Ya know.

He looks up at Steven, and the look on his face is so honest and endearing, he almost forgets the way it all feels. He makes it so easy to let go of things, and Marc is thankful, again, that he left that field behind for now.

Again, he can't help himself, and so he smiles. "Yeah, I know, buddy. I know I can."

Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've had the very smart, incredibly unique idea of actually getting some rest for once. Can’t believe you didn’t think of it. You should try it, sleep is conducive to learning you know, and I have a big day planned for us tomorrow, and-��

Marc groaned in mock exasperation, pulling the blankets over their head. He needed to hide the way his grin had started growing the minute Steven began prattling on again. It wasn’t just his, though, but one he was sure they shared.

He didn’t need the mirrors for that.

Good night, Marc.

“Night, Steven.”

He's there again, like he always is, but it's all wrong.

He's wearing the suit. He'd never worn it there before, had he? It was only ever that pale, threadbare outfit, the one he’d worn in the hospital all those years ago, picked out of some long buried memory he’d rather stay forgotten.

Wait.

The suit.

The suit?

Before he’d even opened his eyes, Marc knew it was there, wrapped close around his body. The way it always made him feel just a little trapped, a little claustrophobic. He could take it off any time he wanted, would will it away in a moment when his work was done, but he could never quite shake the feeling that he was suffocating in it.

His lungs constrict at the thought, breath catching in his throat.

When he looks down at himself, the crescent moon on his chest, the hood hanging low against his brow, he thinks the cloth wraps even tighter around him.

Maybe he imagined it.

Okay.

Breathe. Okay.

It’s fine. All I have to do is just. Take it off, right?

Back then, the idea alone was enough to send the armor slipping away into nothingness, waiting in the darkness of somewhere far away until he needed it again. But now, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times his thoughts echoed the word away, away, away, still, it stayed.

He takes a fistful of the fabric of the cape, pulls it as far away from him as his arm allows, jerking it taut. But it still doesn’t tear.

Panic began to settle just beneath his skin, on the edge of boiling over.

The smell of sand wafts over him, ancient and familiar. Looking towards the horizon, as far as his eyes can make out through their glow, sand dunes and a deep purple sky. The only sound the erratic beating of his own heart.

I’m alone out here.

“Steven? Are you there?”

Marc prods at that spot in his mind where he usually resides, but there’s no response, no presence but his own.

He feels hollow again, a ringing in his ears that he can’t seem to shake.

“Boy, are you gonna be disappointed.”

Marc is jolted back to his senses, turning to address the voice that spoke up behind him. Eyes widening, he sees.. Himself.

But it’s not himself, and it’s not Steven, either.

There were dull, heavy circles under the man’s eyes, but the bright intensity of his glare made him seem too alert, too focused. He wore a black jacket, collar pulled up flush against his neck, a flat cap arranged neatly on his head. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, but besides that, he remained still as stone.

“Not who you were looking for, hm? I mean, kinda. But not really.”

The man chuckles to himself, allowing him what felt like a pitying glance. They were on level ground but Marc still felt like he was looking up at him, somehow.

Marc decides at that moment that he doesn’t like the guy. At all.

“So when do you plan on letting me in on the joke, pal?”

He speaks up again, this time a little less teasingly than before.

“You don’t deserve it, you know.”

Marc blinks in his direction, not sure if he even heard him right. “‘Scuse me?”

“You. Don’t. Deserve. It. What you’re wearing. Do I need to spell it out for you?”

“I- wait a second. Do you even know what this is?” He gestures down at himself, cape billowing out behind him.

“Of course I know what it is, hermano, this ain’t my first day.”

His condescending tone is finally settling in now, and the heat of Marc’s annoyance is creeping up his neck, across his cheeks.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“Don’t I know it, boss. But I know all. About. You.” He punctuates every word with a step forward, making Marc falter a bit.

“Anyway, doesn’t matter who I am, we’re here to have a conversation, right?”

Marc throws his arms up in exasperation. “There’s nothing to even talk about, nothing to deserve here. It’s a-”

“What, a punishment?” the man spits it out, a bad taste in his mouth. Like he’s thought about this conversation, a thousand times, has predicted every answer Marc could give and picked it apart until he knew the flaws in it by heart.

Marc’s own heart starts racing again.

“Because you’re so good at taking those, right?”

Marc stands in place, says nothing. He knows he’s proving the point with his silence, but the words won’t come to him, the weight of the admission sitting in his rib cage. The man starts to pace around him, a wide circle carved out of the sand by his footsteps.

“Yeah, and that’s the whole problem with you, isn’t it? I am so sick of your self righteous bullshit. Your oh woe is me crap, it’s exhausting.”

“Who even-”

“You can’t just take something for what it is, find the point in it.”

Suddenly, he throws his hands out, shoves Marc back into the sand so hard it cascades out around them. He stands over him a moment, deep browns of his eyes seeming to blacken through his glare, and considers the way the cape fell open across the ground. The need to be close to it is so immediate, so blinding, he drops to his knees, pinning Marc to the ground along with it.

“You bury yourself so deep in shit that you can’t appreciate what’s been handed to you.”

Marc wonders, for a second, if this is what he looked like during all those fights. Frenzied, delirious, a quiet sort of hysteria. He understands now why people ran.

“G-get off of me-”

“Why? Isn’t this what you want? To keep this? Don’t you miss being the hero? You can’t protect anybody without it.”

He grabs a fistful of the cape in his hand the same way Marc had not long ago, gestures with it, knuckles sharp against the black gloves he wore.

“I know you think about it all the time.” He taps a finger of his other hand against his own temple, that ghost of a sneer playing across his lips.

“You may keep your secrets from everyone else, Spector, but you’ll never keep them from me.”

Without warning, he digs his fingers deep into the gauzy wrappings directly over Marc’s heart and pulls, hard. As the fabric rips apart with a sickening noise, he feels a searing pain burning across his chest, like the man’s taken his skin along with it.

And he doesn’t stop, taking piece after piece, scraps blowing away in the wind. Marc tries to reach up at him through his fury, pushing away at his face but it’s no use. Everything feels so heavy, so impossibly far away.

The burn is stronger now and Marc’s in agony, the pain consuming him so completely that when he tries to cry out, tell this man to please, stop, I’ll do anything, you can have it, no sound comes out.

Marc Spector is an open wound, heart exposed to the desert sands.

And he feels the man grip it tightly in one hand, squeezes it as he leans down to whisper in his ear.

“Now it’s my turn.”

Marc!

Someone’s screaming.

Oh, it’s him that’s screaming. How long has he been screaming?

It takes him a minute to come to, feeling eventually dripping back into his limbs. The panic takes a bit longer to subside, his whole body damp with sweat as he starts to regain his hearing.

Finally, he can make out the words leaving his mouth.

“Stevenstevenstevenstevenste-”

Marc, hey, Marc. I’m right here. It’s Steven.

He’s still in bed, but it’s a wreck. Blankets thrown across the floor, sheets tangled up and around his legs. He’s ripped his shirt off at some point, but it’s so soaked beside him that he couldn’t see putting it back on again. He’s not sure where the pillows went.

Breathing slowly returning to normal, heart beating steady in his chest, Marc reaches up, feels the skin intact there.

Letting out a shaky sigh, he looks up at the mirror again.

Steven’s expression is a mixture of horrified and pained. He wants to shy away from it, but Marc knows he won’t fall for that scheme anymore.

Marc. We have got to do something.

#AHHHHH OKAY HERE #mcu #moon knight #moon knight fanfiction #marc spector #jake lockley #steven grant #fanfic #mk fic

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

Text

The Get Ready Game

CW: Young children of rescued whumpee, referenced past child abuse, referenced past emotional abuse. CW for child’s trauma response/PTSD, Overcompetent Emotional and Logistical Support Oldest Daughter X 100, unhealthy coping mechanisms

@comfy-whumpee‘s Jax Gallagher successfully saved his children (and himself) from Savannah Marcoset. But Izzy, now nearly seven, remembers her mother very well still, and knows that if her father doesn’t yet feel safe, she shouldn’t either.

So she makes a plan.

---

Izzy finds her brother playing blocks in the living room, half-heartedly building a tower while his eyes are on the cartoon show playing on the telly. She glances side to side - Dad's at therapy, only left a little bit ago. There's ages of time before he comes back, and he’ll be all in his head and distracted but probably he’ll want to lay down, so if she wants to do this, she’d better do it while he’s gone.

“Jamie?”

“Hm?” Her brother doesn’t look away from the show, but he kind of tilts his head in her direction. He’s younger than she is, only four and can’t read yet. But he doesn’t have to, she can do the reading for them both. She reads at a high level, her teacher says. Izzy practices every single night, she’s the best reader in class.

She has to be.

“Where’s Grandpa, d’you know?”

Jamie points to the side. “In the, um, in the kitchen-”

“Sssshhhh! Quiet, don’t let him hear I asked.” Izzy puts out both hands, and now she has her brother’s interest. He loves having secrets with her, special kids-only things. It’s why this works, why she can teach him what they need to do, just in case, without him running off to tell Dad or Grandpa right away.

She goes quiet, listening. She can hear Alfie’s voice, low, murmuring. He stays home on the days her dad has to go to therapy, so Jax can go and then come back and lay down in his room without having to worry.

Grandpa will be talking, probably with some tea in hand, and he won’t overhear them. It’s perfect timing. Dad at therapy and Grandpa on the phone, maybe for a long time.

“Hey, Jamie,” Izzy says, keeping her voice carefully casual. “You want to play Get Ready with me?”

Her little brother brightens. Izzy isn’t the best at his kind of play, rough-housing or throwing things around, playing Daddy-and-Baby with the big soft dolls he’s given all sorts of odd names to. Izzy doesn’t like playing baby-holding games, and besides that she doesn’t like how loud he is about it. She’s too quiet, too prone to sitting very still or whisper-talking her way through pretend games about princesses that Jamie doesn’t find interesting at all.

But this game… this game, he likes.

He knows it’s important, even if he doesn’t know why. He knows his big sister is trusting him with big important things, and not being irritated by him or pushing him away. James scrambles up onto his feet, accidentally kicking his little tower of blocks over in the process. Both of them freeze at the crash.

Alfie’s voice rumbles through from the kitchen. “You all right in there, Jamie?”

“I’m good! I just knocked over my blocks, is all! Can I watch one more show?” Jamie pitches his voice just right, and Izzy’s proud of him. He’s learning all the tricks, and he’s doing it without having to be scared first, without it having to be something he has to learn.

“All right, one more,” Alfie calls back, and Jamie grins, giving Izzy an exaggerated finger over his lips. Izzy grins right back, one of her top teeth growing in still, one of the bottom ones flat out missing entirely, she only lost that one three days ago, wiggling it in class until it came right out. The two of them move out of the room and down the hallway, almost tip-toeing in their bare feet, listening to Alfie’s voice, on high alert for him to make his goodbyes.

They make it back to the bedroom Izzy still shares with her father - two twin beds lined up in there, and Alfie’s been talking about moving to get Izzy her own room, but Izzy never feels safer than waking up from a nightmare to still be able to hear her father’s gentle, deep breathing nearby. Jax’s bed has dark blue blankets and Izzy’s has a deep purple fuzzy one, plus special sheets she picked out herself with unicorns on them.

“Okay, Jamie,” Izzy says in her stage whisper. Her brother’s eyes lock on hers, hazel-brown like they all have, but Jamie has Jax’s hair color and Izzy’s short, spiky hair is the same deep chocolate brown as her mother’s, reminders she can’t escape, only try to cut off short enough that she can’t see it. “How does Get Ready start?”

Jamie’s smile widens further. He knows this one right away. “We meet in the hallway outside your room,” He says, very seriously. “Then… we come in here and find the Get Ready bag,” He answers, eyes already shifting to the closet, where it was the last time they played.

“Nope, not there.” Jamie looks at her, confused. “It’s okay, Dad did something in the closet last week so I moved the bag, just in case. I don’t think he found it, though, I hid it really well. Can you think of where I might hide it now?” She lilts her voice, slightly sing-song, like her teachers do at school.

Jamie looks slowly around the room, taking in every detail - the window with the curtains pulled to make it dim, the two beds with the table between them, a lamp. Dresser messy on top with things tossed there - receipts, interesting rocks that Izzy has found and kept and given to her father. Then he nods, firmly, to himself more than her, and points under her bed. “It’s there.”

“Are you sure?” Izzy asks, still in teacher-voice.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because… because, because you would want to get it fast if you woke up, and you can roll under your bed for hiding from Mom,” Jamie explains. He sounds very earnest, and Izzy smiles at him to reward him giving it so much thought.

“Go look and see if you’re right.”

Jamie walks over to her bed and drops down onto his hands and knees, looking underneath. He pulls out a stuffed-full old, raggedy-looking adult-sized backpack, a faded gray that might once have been black, some old band patches and button badges still stuck around the outside. “I was right! I was right, Izzy, I found our get-ready bag!”

His voice is too loud, and Izzy shushes him quickly, closing the still-open bedroom door. Grandpa won’t like it, they’re not really supposed to close doors to shut out grown-ups, but this is too important. “Good job, Jamie!” She says in a high sotto-voice. “You are right. So, if I wake you up and I say, we have to get ready, what do we do?”

“We grab our Get Ready bag,” Jamie answers, all seriousness, patting the top of the bag gently with one small hand. “And we hide, inside the back of the closet in the big box. Then, when it’s safe, we go outside.”

“Right. How can we go outside if Mom is in the living room, though?”

Jamie’s eyes go to the window, and he points. “We go out the window,” He answers, and when she nods, he gets a little braver and adds on. “There’s-... fire escape, out there. Like stairs made of metal. We climb down with our bag. You know how to unlock the window.”

“Good. Right, I do.” She’d had to work out the trick to the window over days when no one was around her, fiddling and messing and making her fingers ache until one day, she’d managed it just right. Child proof my butt, she’d thought, but then she knew she wasn’t as child-y as everyone else her age seemed to be.

Everyone else didn’t have to be ready for what would happen if their mother came back. Everyone else didn’t still dream about their father begging their mother to stop. Everyone else couldn’t still remember, a little bit, screaming-

Well.

Everyone else might not have a Get Ready bag, or play this game, but she did. And when it happened, she’d be ready. Even though she knows the grown-ups wouldn’t want her to do this, they’ll be glad when it’s time, when she does what her dad would do in her place and takes James and runs. He’ll understand, if she has to, and he’ll be proud of her for being ready. He will.

She just can’t tell him ahead of time.

Izzy drops down into a crouch and hugs James tight. His hair smells like strawberry kids’ shampoo, just like hers does, and he’s very warm and his hands are always sticky, even when he hasn’t been touching any sticky things. “You remember very well, Jamie. Do you remember what’s in our Get Ready bag?”

She pulls back, and Jamie presses his lips together in deep thought, tapping on his chin in an overexaggerated ‘thinking’ expression. “Toothbrushes,” He says, finally. “Mine has Wally Lizard on it.”

“And?”

“And toothpaste, the kid toothpaste.”

She’d spent weeks and weeks getting enough - putting a little extra in a baggie every night, so that her dad and grandpa wouldn’t know she was taking more than she needed. There was enough now for she and James to last a while. “Perfect. What else?”

“Ummmmm…” He trails off, sitting on the floor and thinking about it. “There’s pull-up nappies, for me for sleeping, and underpants for both of us, and pants and shirts and Franken-puppy and Unicorn, and the black-and-white bear from the zoo-”

“Paulie Panda,” Izzy corrects.

“Paulie Panda. And also Monkey George. Um um um um there are juice boxes, and Monster Munch, and Jaffa cakes, and that thing with the nuts in I don’t like, and chocolate biscuits… Aaaaand books, and…” He stops and frowns. “I don’t remember what else.”

“No, that’s good, that’s better than last time. You’re doing great.” He puffs out his chest a little in pride, and Izzy smiles, settling down to sit with him, the two of them tucked in the space between the twin beds. “There’s also hair-combs, and some shampoo and soap in a bag I nicked from the shop.”

Jamie’s eyes widen, big as saucers. “You didn’t. That is taking, Izzy-bella, and taking without paying is wrong.”

“I gave them money for it,” Izzy says, dismissive, ignoring the prickle of guilt inside her chest, too hot and sharp not to feel at least a little. “I put some of Dad’s money on the counter when nobody was looking the next day. It wasn’t really nicking, I just didn’t want him to see me get it and have to explain. But also in the bag is… this.” She digs into a front pocket and pulls out a bunch of index cards scrawled with careful child’s handwriting, numbers and letters she had spent hours and hours on. “Do you remember what these are?”

Jamie looks down at them, cocking his head, then looks up and shakes it, side to side. His hair is longer than hers is.

“These,” Izzy says, “are the most important thing of all. These are our numbers. I’ve got about three where I remember them without even having to look, but I’ll get the rest, too. The first card has Grandpa’s phone number, and Dad’s, and it has Nana’s and Auntie Poppy and Auntie Georgia’s, too. Plus the number for Nana’s favorite shop, because her friend works there and her friend could help us get to her if she isn't home. For starters, I’ll say one that you know. We know that if-... that if Mom comes back, Grandpa will probably get-...” She takes a deep breath, tells herself to act more like a grown-up, forces down the panic and fear and worry in her chest, pictures it curled into a ball and thrown in the back of her closet to gather dust. I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid. “Grandpa could get hurt and not be able to help us. So, what do we do when we get out on the street or run away from here?”

“We, um, we find grown-ups, and we… we ask them to call 9-9-9, and tell them our names and our dad’s name, and we say, our dad is in danger and needs help. Then we tell them Nana’s name, or anybody else’s.”

“Good. Really good. What do we do if she gets us and takes us back to America?”

James swallows - this part scares him, just a little. He doesn’t remember America, not really. He was only a baby. And he remembers it being a fun place for a holiday, from the trial. But he knows Izzy is scared of America, scared enough to wake up at night crying because she dreamed about going back, and so he is, too. “We find a phone,” He says, very soft and very slow. “And we push the numbers 9, 1, 1. And that will go to people who will help us in America.”

“Good, good job, Jamie. What do we say when they pick up?” They’ve rehearsed this, over and over again. It’s the most important part of the Get Ready game.

“I say… ‘my name is James Timothy Gallagher, and I have been ab-... abd… I have been kidnapped.’”

“Perfect. And if it were me, I would say, ‘My name is Isabella Nicole Gallagher, and I have been abducted. I am six and three quarters years old and my brother James is with me and he is four, and we are English.’ Then what?”

“We say, um, we say our… our dad is Jackson Gallagher and he has been kidnapped too, probably, and he needs help. And Savannah M-... Mark-set-”

“Marcoset,” Izzy says quietly, sounding out each syllable for him.

“Mar-co-set… is who took him. Then… we wait for help to come.”

Izzy nods, and she rifles through the flashcards, scanning over the names and places and numbers she has carefully, painstakingly, been writing down while casually asking the librarian question after question. How to call emergency services in England, America, Canada, France, Russia, and the country Georgia. Her information, to hand to people, so she won’t have to repeat herself, is copied on six cards.

Under the flashcards, a photo of she and her dad and James that Grandpa took, at the park. It’s a photo where her dad is smiling, and he doesn’t look scared or upset or closed-off. Just happy, with them. It’s the photo she wants to have to show the police officers who she has to hope will help them.

It’s the photo she’ll have if…

“What do we do,” She asks, and her voice is thinner, trembles just a little. “What do we do if she takes him away and we get left behind?”

James crawls over to her in a flash and holds on, putting his arms around her waist and tucking his head under her chin. His hair tickles under her jaw. “We go all by ourselves,” He answers, in his high voice. “You and me, Izzy and Jamie. We go by ourselves, and we go find Nana.”

“Right.” Izzy closes her eyes against a rush of heat, of tears. “I-I have a card-” Her voice catches and she clears her throat. “Dusty in here,” She says, hoarsely - her grandpa says that sometimes when he’s pretending he’s not teary - and forces her racing heart to calm. Stop it. If Dad is gone, you have to be the grown-up, then. When she finally speaks, she manages to keep her voice slow, and even. No sign of her fears at all. “I have a card with Nana’s whole name and address on it, and which buses we take to see her. We can-... we can do it ourselves, all by ourselves. I know we can. But-... you have to be very good and quiet, so we don’t make anyone look at us and the bad guys can’t find us.”

“So Mom can’t find us,” Jamie whispers.

She nods, chin moving against his hair. “Right. We have to go very fast, and be very very quiet, so Mom can’t find us. But with our Get Ready bag, we have everything we need, if Dad-... if dad can’t help us. Okay, last question for our game and then we’ll be done. Do we tell Dad or Grandpa about Get Ready?”

“No.” Jamie answers right away, immediate. He knows this one. “Because, because they… might tell Mom about it.”

“Right. Even if they don’t want to tell her, she might be super mean and hurt them lots to make them. She used to hurt Dad until he would tell her things she wanted to hear, before, and she’ll be even madder now. But… if we don’t tell them about Get Ready, then they can’t tell her, right? So we can go find Nana before Mom does, and if Mom gets to Nana before we can, we have food and everything for a few days until the police officers help us.” Izzy holds him tightly, resting her chin against his hair. “I’ll take care of you, James. I promise, I won’t ever let her hurt you.”

“Dad won’t let her hurt us neither,” Jamie answers, but he likes the cuddles, and he doesn’t pull away. Izzy doesn’t hold him very often.

“No, I know. I know he won’t. But… if he can’t stop her…” Izzy sets her jaw, closes her eyes against the memory of the bright red spots layered over older scars around her father’s neck when his big black necklace first came off. “If he can’t… I can. I just have to be very strong, and very smart, smarter than she is even. I have to be smarter than all the bad grownups.”

“And I have to be quiet and brave.”

“Right. And you’ll be very good at it. I know you will.” She squeezes him, so tightly both of them ache, and then pulls back and away, shoving the backpack back into its hiding spot, opening the bedroom door. The two of them get back to the living room just as their grandpa’s phone call finishes in the kitchen, and by the time he comes back in to ask them what they want for snacktime, James is back building his tower of blocks, and Izzy pretends she’s been on the couch with her chapter book the whole time, sitting open in her lap.

She doesn’t realize she opened it upside down until her grandpa’s gone back in the kitchen to get their snacks ready, and she flushes, embarrassed at the stupid mistake.

Still, she’s… she’s pretty sure he didn’t notice.

Every time they play, James remembers a little more without her having to tell him. Maybe… when their mom comes for them… Izzy can save Jamie - and then get help to save her father.

And he'll be proud of her.

He will.

----

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whumpiary @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

#izzy fucking gallagher #child of whumpee #referenced abuse tw #freed whumpee #planning to escape #trauma response tw #child ptsd tw #child's trauma response #whump #unhealthy coping mechanisms #there is a reason izzy took me over in january #I love her #gradually taking back control #even if it's imperfect #by planning for the worst

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bigcats-birds-and-books · 3 years ago

Note

4, 5, 8, 13, 34? :3c

HELLO THANKS FOR ASKING!!

Referencing this post.

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

Full disclosure: I saw this question and promptly forgot every word I’ve ever known. What my brain came up with on the reboot was, “Honestly…~~feral~~ makes me lose my shit. You know shit’s about to get Real when somebody’s described as feral, and I’m always love feral characters.”

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

I don’t know if this counts as a Superstition or just a Neuroticism, but: The color’s gotta Match. Holy heck, does the color gotta match. I draft by hand in ink, and I change pen colors for different projects, in different notebooks, and they all have to at least kind of coordinate with each other, or else words stall out. Color Family is enough when it comes to notebook/pen combos, but if I try to change ink mid-project to a Slightly Different Hue, mid-drafting stream, Disaster Strikes.

For instance: When I was writing my superheroes stuff, I ran out of pens, and thought I ordered the Correct Refills, but the refills were Very Slightly Darker than the turquoise I was using, and it threw off my NaNo writing mojo for literally sixteen hours (until I got The Proper Pens). I had an existential crisis about it, at the time. It was bad.

Perhaps closer to counting as a superstition: I also must Begin A New Project With A New Month. I can’t just. Start a new project, whenever. I have to time it right, or Disaster. I don’t make the rules (I wish I made the rules).

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

Okay, so THIS is a wild question because, depending on how you interpret it, I have…technically…done both, in the same book? The one I just finished, actually: the whole novella is framed as a conversation in a café, so the only Actual Real Time Action is one character walking in and sitting down (and then facial expressions and one (1) notable coffee-out-nose incident), BUT the whole thing Is (one side of a) Dialogue.

On the flip side: there no dialogue-indicating quotation marks until almost 11k in, and by that point the narrator has told the story twice in its entirety. And: I didn’t do No Dialogue intentionally in the first drafting? Since it happened on accident, it couldn’t have been hard, right?

If I had to Pick One Intentionally, though, I’d probably go with No Dialogue to see if I could do it? Since I already loopholed my way into No Action. Dialogue is fun and relatively easy for me to write, usually, so it’d be a good Challenge Mode to try to Not. (…hm. BRB, making vague general notes for a Future NaNo, because it sounds like fun…..)

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

Difficult: POLITICS/government lol. I don’t understand it IRL and I have a hell of a time trying to translate it into fiction (which is…an Issue, for, say. Secondary World SFF. And, uh. Guess what I have several ideas for, stuck in the worldbuilding stage…).

Easy: Catch me adding SCIENCE to, like. Everything I write (even if it’s OOC for my narrator to know about). For instance: Birds? Feathers? Flight?? Love that shit, so anywhere it can go in, in it goes. Even if I don’t have the immediate knowledge to pull it off convincingly, I love learning about it, so I absolutely go down the research rabbit hole.

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go:

Mandatory. Seriously, if in general punctuation’s major purpose in life is CLARITY, whymst the fucketh wouldn’t you use an Oxford comma?? Why would only the FIRST item in your list get one? And commas are legitimately cute! So smol, and they have TAILS! What’s not adorable about that?

I also personally do my Best to increase the world’s total (properly-used) comma population at, like, literally every turn, in hopes that some of them will escape containment into the greater ecosystem and interbreed with native populations to increase species abundance.

Viva la Oxford comma!!

Thanks for the ask, friend!!

#text #answered #ask game #writing #ask meme #gosh i wish i had a coherent tagging system #rell #tide locked #ave oh

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amusedyan · 5 years ago

Text

Mamma Mia

“Are you going to invite your dad?” You look up from the drafted seating chart and the list that’s being compiled. The table is littered with post-it’s and address books, sheets of paper and pencils, even the odd photograph.

Aya, your soon-to-be sister-in-law, examines a photo- one of you and your mother on the front porch. You know that photo, your mother had just bought the house that you would grow up in, and she looks so happy, holding you on her hip.

“I don’t know.” You admit, wanting to drop the subject.

“It’s not every day your daughter gets married,” Aya grins, “you can’t tell me you don’t want to get walked down the aisle by your father.”

And it’s ridiculous, you’re a grown woman now, not a little girl hunched over her desk on Father’s Day, burning with envy as your classmates complain or chat about their other parent.

“I would if I had one.” You finally say, and thankfully that shuts Aya up.

-x-

Once the thought is planted, though, it doesn’t go away.

What would it be like to have a father to walk you down the aisle and give you away?

You turn over in your bed and close your eyes.

You’ve wanted a father before, of course. What little girl doesn’t?

Family is your mother- only your mother.

When you were a little girl, and you came home from school and asked “where is my Daddy?” your mother had faltered and said, ashamed, “you don’t have one”.

When you got older, your mother had said she’d been young and in over her head.

Your mom has never not been enough of a parent- and you feel guilty even now for wanting this one thing.

But you burn with that want.

-x-

You feel ashamed, going through your mother’s things in the attic. You have a spare key of course, and you know your mother’s schedule- she likes routine, and Tuesdays are her grocery days. There’s boxes of things up here- old clothes, photo albums, holiday decorations, furniture. In the back, under a sheet, next to the box of old china, though, is what you’re looking for.

Your mother is a journaler. She always has been- “I need to keep my thoughts straight,” she’d explained once. If there’s any clue to your father, it’ll be in her old journals. So you do the math and take the small stack of dusty volumes and leave, locking the door behind you.

Your heart pounds like you’re guilty, because you are, you’re a thief, you broke your mother’s trust and you did something horrible. You feel so guilty, in fact, that you can’t actually bring yourself to read the thing for a week. It just burns a hole in your vision wherever you put it, drawing your gaze to it like a magnet no matter where you put it. So you stow it away in a drawer for that week. When you finally get the nerve to read it, it takes time.

Your mother’s thoughts are personal and warm- she has doodles on the pages, and smudges of ink, or places where the pencil wore away and you have to take your time sussing out the words. You’re terrified that maybe this was all for nothing. Maybe there isn’t a name here, even, and you’ll just have to deal with that.

X/X/XX

I met the sweetest guy today! His name is Oboro, and he has such a nice smile, you wouldn’t believe it. I saw him walk into the store and my heart just jumped! I was trying not to be creepy about it, he’s so pretty, I just wanted to look at him, you know?

But then he came up to me and asked me on a date!

I can’t believe it- it was so easy to talk to him, this is going to be amazing!

Oboro? You jot down the name. It’s still a few months from when you could have reasonably been conceived, but it’s still a name.

X/Y/XX

Oboro took me out for dinner on the water. He’s such a nice guy, he let me talk and didn’t interrupt, didn’t act obnoxious at all! I had such a good time with him, and he wants to go out again!

Mom kept up with that, along with some doodles- unfortunately your Mom isn’t a very good artist, so it’s not very helpful.

After a few pages though, you frown.

X/YY/XX

Oboro introduced me to a couple of his friends today- Hizashi and Shouta. They’re an odd pair. I really wish he’d warned me that I’d be meeting them instead of just springing it on me on date night.

It was a little weird. Apparently they just got back into town, so I offered to leave so they could catch up, but they all wanted to hang out. So they joined us on the date. I mean, they’re nice, but yeah. Awkward. Hizashi is a bit like Oboro, cheerful, I mean. He doesn’t light me up the way Oboro does. Aizawa’s the odd one out, very quiet.

Hm.

You take a break after that, getting up to stretch and rest your eyes. You text your fiancée, eye the journal and your laptop. First names aren’t enough to conduct a search, you reason.

Then you sit back down.

More dates between the four of them.

Eventually Mom had warmed up to Shouta and Hizashi. They started hanging out casually, after assuring Oboro that it ‘wasn’t like that’. Apparently her boyfriend had laughed and kissed her silly, and told her ‘I know’.

But as the light faded and night encroached, the diary entries started changing. Instead of laughing accounts about her friends and boyfriend, they became jotted notes using, you assumed, surnames.

Aizawa picked me up from work.

Shirakumo was waiting for me at home.

Yamada offered to grocery shop for me.

Car stopped working. Shirakumo picked me up.

Date was crashed. Shirakumo was overjoyed.

Then there were missing entries. Nothing. For weeks.

One more, then the journal was over.

I’m leaving. I can’t take it anymore.

So…

It…it had to be one of them, didn’t it?

You closed the journal and turned to your laptop, your heart pounding.

Things were weird. So weird. What the hell had happened between the four of them? Had the relationship turned toxic? Had Mom fallen out of love? You wanted to ask her, but you were afraid of the fight.

First off, you googled Oboro Shirakumo. Mom referenced Shirakumo as the one she actually dated, so logically speaking, that had to be it, right?

Your first link was an article about an accident.

Young CEO critically injured in mugging, left in coma.

Oboro Shirakumo, founder of company Cloudbreakers was attacked last Friday evening on his way home from work. The attackers hit Shirakumo over the back of the head with what authorities believe is a pipe. The attack has left Shirakumo in the hospital with extensive brain damage, though doctors are noncommittal if the patient will wake up from his coma.

“In a time of grief such as this,” co founder of Cloudbreakers Shouta Aizawa commented on Sunday morning, “we, as a company, can only come together and hope for the best. Our hopes and prayers are with Shirakumo.”

Shirakumo still hadn’t woken up yet, and it had been years, and while that was tragic, that really answered a big question.

Shouta Aizawa.

So that just left Hizashi Yamada.

Their actual residence was harder to find- but you found articles about the historic houses that they’d bought, and from there you were able to just google that address.

But what do you say?

“Hi, I’m getting married and I think one of you might be my dad? Did you sleep with my mom? Or is Oboro Shirakumo just my dad?”

Worth a shot, right?

-X-

The letters were identical, except for who they were addressed to.

They were fairly formal, introducing yourself, explaining the circumstances, and, obviously your mother’s name- along with formal apologies for Shirakumo’s current state, and apologies about the circumstances and possible misunderstanding.

You sent them off two days later.

-x-

Your phone was ringing.

“Hold on babe, I have to take this,” you apologized, kissing your fiancée on the cheek. The sweetheart that he was, he just grinned and told you to take your time.

You excused yourself from the dining room and answered.

“Hey mom-”

“What did you do???”

You jumped at the volume, in the background there was something banging.

“Is someone at the door-”

“Did you write them?” Your mother demanded, still screaming. It was so loud, was she in danger?

“Mom what’s going on? What is that?”

“You called them- they found me, why? Why would you- AAAAAGUH!” You flinched as she started screaming. “GET OUT! LEAVE ME ALONE- JUST-”

“MOM?” People were staring, but you felt cold all over. Was she getting murdered? Do you stay on the line or call 911?

“You bitch! You think you can just do what you did? Hide like this?”

“GO! YOU NEED TO HIDE- DON’T LET THEM FIND YOU-”

The phone went dead.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #shouta aizawa #eraserhead #yamada hizashi #present mic #shirakumo oboro #yandere #yandere bnha #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere mha #yandere my hero academia #yandere shouta aizawa #yandere eraserhead #yandere yamada hizashi #yandere present mic #yandere shirakumo oboro

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muwi-translates · 5 years ago

Photo

Collar x Malice キャラクターCD ミニドラマ「二人きりの湯煙譚」

Collar x Malice Yanagi Aiji Character CD Mini Drama - A Hot Bath for the Two of Us

Spoiler free. Just a note that I used a Chinese translation as my main source, and did some light cross-referencing from the original audio. There might be some inaccuracies.

**Please don’t move this translation or claim it as your own.**

---

It's been a few months since I started dating her. Even though she’s walked, ate, and shared time with me, she rarely says anything self-indulgent so as to not be a burden to me.

Her being able to say things like “I’m happy as long as we can be together” makes me glad, but I want to spoil her more. I just want to see her happy.

Thinking this way, I invited her to go to the hot springs.

---

This is amazing.

When I made the reservation, I heard that there was a room with an unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean, so I decided to book it. Looks like it was the right decision.

Ah, yes, it’s okay to put the luggage there.

What a strange tea sweet. These are cat-shaped manju, right? They’re cute. If you want to, you can eat my one as well. It’s alright, help yourself. You like sweet things, don’t you?

[Teacups being placed down]

Ah, thank you very much.

Here, the hostess boiled some tea for us. It’s hot, be careful not to burn yourself.

Hm? We look like we get along? Yes, I’m always being taken care of by this one. I haven’t been able to return the favour, so I’m taking advantage of this opportunity to relax a little.

What? I look like a reliable husband? Ah-- no, we’re not---

… They left...

I didn’t expect to be mistaken for a married couple. But it’s not like it’s a bad thing. It makes me happy. It would be more depressing if they thought we were siblings.

Nn? I used to treat you like a sister before? Heh, yeah, you could say that. But right now, I’m seeing you properly as a woman. To the point where I feel proud for people to think we’re married.

Haha… you’re delighted as well?

Aah, I was going to say that we weren’t married yet but--

Eh, ‘yet’ means ‘some day’? Well, yeah... you’re right. I’m seriously considering things about you. That’s why I invited you to travel--

… Hey, why are you laughing? Come here, don’t run away. You... you’re having fun watching me panic, aren’t you?

Good grief… If you tease me too much you’re going to regret it.

Hm? There’s an outdoor bath outside the room?

This is really luxurious. And it looks like it can fit two people--

---Ah, I remember the brochure said that there’s a room with an open-air bath. It must be this then. Well, how to say it, there’s a lot of different types of baths in the public area, since we’re already here, why don’t we go have a look?

---

Ha...

First it was getting mistaken as husband and wife, then it was an open-air bath attached to our room, what’s going on? Is my rationality getting tested? Before becoming her lover, it was easier for me to stay calm. Recently I feel like I get so riled up when it comes to her.

She’s way too cute in the first place that it’s bad. That expression she made when she heard that we looked like we were married was so happy that it makes me all shivery.

Just discard all the distractions and keep calm as usual.

I don’t want to suddenly get all intimate and trouble her. I was a little worried that she might be nervous about staying here when I invited her on a trip, but she looked so excited. She even said that being able to spend more time with me made her very happy. So I want her to enjoy herself with peace of mind.

---

Ah, don’t run off. I just came out. I threw away all the distra-- no, I enjoyed myself.

Did you enjoy it as well? That’s good. You must have been in a rush to get out. Your hair’s still a bit wet.

No, if you leave it like that you’ll catch a cold. Don’t move.

It’s not a big deal, don’t worry about it. As a lover, it’s a privilege to be able to do something like this.

You want to help blow dry my hair? It’s not long like yours, so it’ll dry out quickly by itself anyway.

…Alright, I’ll let you do it next time, don’t get mad. But I’d rather spoil you than be spoiled. Men are creatures that want to look cool in front of women. Especially if it’s a woman that they like.

Okay, that should be enough.

What do you want to do now? There’s still time before dinner. Do you want to go back to our room?

… Ah, the souvenir store? Yeah, we’re going to look at different places tomorrow, so we might as well go and see.

---

Nn? This manju… the ones we had in our room?

It looks like the white one has white beans, the black one has red bean paste, the kitten has sesame and the tiger one has purple sweet potato. Shiraishi would be happy to get these. You want to buy these?

If you’re thinking about the others in the office, we should buy something else for Sasazuka. He’s not really good with Japanese sweets. Besides, I feel like he’s been having too many donuts lately. Even though I told him to cut back on the fried food.

Haha, you agree?

Hm? Found something good?

Is this… baked donuts? Low oil, low calories… He’ll probably complain about it, but let’s get it. The only thing is that this doesn’t look like a hot spring specialty at all. Well, I don’t think Sasazuka would care.

Is there something you want to buy?

The local mascot character goods? Speaking of the mascot, I heard Enomoto got some Date Masamune merchandise from Sendai. He told me pretty enthusiastically that it’s a good conversation topic if you show it to a girl. Enomoto aside, I think mascot goods and I are a mismatch, but if it’s you, it would be cute. What does the local mascot look like?

Ah… I was thinking about why there were so many cat themed things here, so this is why. If you want that plush toy, then I’ll buy it as a present for you.

I can at least do this much. Anyway, I also want to create some memories of our trip.

Nn? Buy a pair? No… well, isn’t that… isn’t it embarrassing?

It’s not that I don’t want to, but just thinking about my age… Ah, is it a bad habit for me to always think about that?

I know, this is a part of enjoying a trip. It might be hard to keep it with me all the time, but I’ll cherish it.

I’ll go pay for them then.

---

Hah… It’s hard to sit still and do nothing except eat during dinner, is it because I always have the chance to cook? As expected, food made by professionals tastes different. Everything tastes good. I should take the opportunity to study it.

Oh, if I get any better you won’t be able to catch up? Heh, really… you praise me too much. If it’s about cooking, yours is delicious as well.

You carefully prep in advance, and I can see that you put your heart into it and you think about who you’re cooking for. The presentation is different from mine too, it’s quite unique. Even your packed lunches, you cut carrots and turnips into flowers, right? When you see a packed lunch like that, all the feelings you put into it immediately jump to mind. Naturally, it makes people smile.

Heh, I’ve been teased by Enomoto about it too. Now, every time I feel a little happiness in life, I realize that it shouldn’t be taken for granted. Even being able to go on a trip with you, to drink and eat side by side and talk about the future like this is all thanks to you.

Hu… It’s not just flattery. To me, your existence is so special to me, I’d be embarrassed if you don’t understand.

You’re the same?

I see, we’re the same.

You carried out your own justice, even though you were scared of coming into contact with Adonis. I’ve always been watching you do that from nearby. Being strong isn’t everything, it’s because people are timid and fragile that they want to be strong.

That’s what you taught me. You’re the one who pushed the stagnant me forward.

I’m really grateful to you.

….Your face… isn’t it getting a bit red? I let you drink with me, but you don’t hold your alcohol well. It’s better for you to stop.

No, I can drink alone, I can’t have you keep drinking with me--

Hm?

You feel like there’s distance? You’re lonely?

Ah… my bad, it was my fault-- no, you didn’t do anything wrong.

Really, you didn’t.

To be honest-- I always wanted to touch you like this. I don’t know how you see me, but right now, I don’t care. Men are much simpler than you think. If two people like this are alone and touch each other, it’s easy to lose control of your rationality.

Hey, don’t provoke me like that.

I want to cherish you. Aren’t I always saying it? I’m always conscious of suppressing my desires because we have such a big age difference. But when you touch me, those limits start letting up… So today, I don’t want to be unreasonable--

…! Hey... hugging me all of a sudden like that is unfair.

Hah? Why would I not like it? It’s the opposite.

You might not believe it, but I’m surprised at how I’m feeling as well. Really, at my age, I didn’t think I’d lose myself like this.

Don’t make that expression. I’m sorry that I made a lonely memory.

But, if we push past those limits, will you know when to stop? You’ve… experienced it before, uh… I don’t want to force anything. I’m self-conscious enough to put up precautions so that doesn’t happen. I hope you understand that I’m thinking of you.

I actually want to touch you more. I talked a lot, but the truth is I don’t want you to be disillusioned.

I want to be cooler. I’ve fallen for you that much.

You…

If you say something like “If it’s Yanagi-san you can do whatever you want”, do you understand how much that’ll stir me up? You already said it, how am I supposed to restrain myself?

Alright, I admit defeat.

You’re just too darn cute.

Are you going to take responsibility for making me lose my composure?

[Kiss]

I couldn’t say it before, but the open-air bath outside… do you want to get in together later?

What, are you being hesitant now? Where did all that boldness from before go?

I’m being mean? Didn’t I warn you properly?

Besides, you’re the one who broke through. You always show me your feelings through your word and actions. Age aside, even with my personality, it’s hard for me to show how I feel about you expressing your love for me. You might feel uneasy if you doubt that we share the same feelings, so today I want to express myself well.

I don’t plan on letting you go at all.

Even if I searched the whole world, I wouldn’t be able to find another woman that can make me lose myself like this. I’m not exaggerating. You should believe in yourself more.

The moments where you’re gentle, when you’re angry enough to scare people, when you seem reliable but also a little careless, when you work hard and when you’re stubborn, when you surprise everyone by doing something bold, I love all these things about you.

But the most important thing is that you, who loves me so much, are just so cute.

It’s embarrassing? You’re always telling me things like this so straightforwardly.

If I lose my composure, I won’t be apologetic about it.

[Kiss]

Why would I be worried if the woman I love tells me she loves me? Of course I’d be happy.

It’s not fair if I’m the only one who’s opening up my heart. I want to hear you too.

It’s still a long time before morning. Tell me how you feel, just to me, with your voice.

#otome #drama cd #otomate #collar x malice #collar x malice unlimited #cxm #mytranslations #drama cd translation #yanagi aiji

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smallestclowninthecircus · 4 years ago

Text

Tma season 2 notes baybeee

I made myself take several breaks so I could give my frie d who is listening to it at the same time as me a chance to catch up. Honestly just posting them so I have them saved somewhere but whatever.

ep 41: real graham wrote keep watching before he was replaced. Jon feels like he's being watched. But they werent replaced by things related to the eye. It's the web that's on the box that replaces them. Endless hallways and doors to nowhere. I bet nicholas will have ideas what entity this relates to. If it even does. They're like the tunnels in the one with the builder guy. Tunnels closing in etc. Also like the cave diving one. He's assuming it's just one

ep 42: so 100 gecs? (IM SORRY I LIKE 100 GECS BUT LMAO) so there's some entity related to music right? There's the piper episode and the 27 w/ the calliope. Ah yes, this season is gonna be the season of Paranoid!Jon

ep 43: section 31? fucking books. god no. smashed lights? cult lady did that. covered the lights too. she mentioned a spooky clown doll. thats not random.

ep 44: is this that same circus that got mentioned before? it is! the pipe organ! pop off organ! pipe off! mouth on the stomach! yes! mouths in unusual places my beloved!

ep 45: antiques! like that one ep!

ep 46: every time books get mentioned i sigh. hhh sus smells. it got brighter. I get the vibes occasionally that the dark and the eye are sorta at odds with eachother. GRRR BARK BARK LEITNER. ayyy ex altiora. entity go brr. which entity do we thing it is? my guess is The Dark. The book buyer's name is Mike. He has scars? Electricity? The childhood friend of the guy who got it later on perhaps? The Vast? its formatted like an entity idk. This happened before the other one. He got trapped in the wood carving. a win for the web lol spiders go brr

ep 47: did i hear spiral? ITS THE NOT THING FROM THE EPISODE WITH NOT GRAHAM "it didnt move, it shifted" is like the exact same sentence as before. ay john's starting to remember. the laughing woah thats weird. is "michael" one of the entities? "you make it seem like theres a war" supports my theory that theres a struggle between a couple of the entities. I said i thought it was the eye and the dark i believe but im not sure. its whatever entity michael is vs the worms? what did nicholas say the worms were again? The Corruption? still dont know which one michael is tho.

Had to take a break after that episode. smth about the quality of michael's voice makes me feel like im gonna slip into one of those states where it feels like nothing is real, so i got a nice cold glass of water.

ep 48: jesus ok this one's kidna corny. you're telling me love made the crowd go away come on now. Ur losing it big J. also shouldnt it be more sus that "sasha" is so unaffected by the worm incident/ finding of gertrude's body

ep 49: haven't we heard hector's name before? oh is he the crime guy? fucking jared... so it's a throat? chompa chompa. (it's just a little bit hot) the good part about these episodes is that we know whoever's telling the story isn't gonna die. even if it's a close call, they're not dead. hotworth? ok not jared keay. it bothers me how theres so many repeated names, can they not come up with other names? "sasha"'s computer is breaking... sus. Elias our favorite weed man! jon ur so paranoid lmao

ep 50: robert smirk, at it again. this is like that one episode with the old dude who locked his door. who said idle beforehand? was it smirk? fingertips. thats so weird lmao. bahahah tim

ep 51: simon fairchild. im sure jon will mention the name at the end i cant remember where we've heard it. this is just like the cavediving episode. a hand? there was a hand in the last one right? the scalpel! and an eye thing. she's trying to throw them off.

ep 52: thats the guy from before! with the hearts! god i hate this guy writing the statement hh. lights blowing, and brackish water. we know how this ends but its still tense. rainer? reigner? rain man. we've seen him before

ep 53: pls not a leitner. oh boy mans scratched out his eyes. rip skelly. why would gertrude have had this statement off the books? jon stabbed himself?? bruh im? big man are you okay

ep 54: cockney boys! ayy its our favorite delivery men. she cut out their eyes. she knew that the eye was a thing?

ep 55: oily residue like the retirement home!

ep 56: worms? no. spiders?? bruhh. aaah yelling :(( aww martin anyways yeah i called it about paranoid!jon he needs to take a nap and drink some hot chocolate and calm down for once please

ep 57: just remembered, i think theres an entity called The Lonely?? This feels pretty lonely idk. fairchild, lukas/ lucas, some spooky place in norway idk. "sasha" knew he was recordinig hmm suspicious cmon jon figure it out. Sasha and tom. hm sus. for records sake i feel liek i should note here that I did have it spoiled to me simply that that's not sasha, but thats really all. i assumed it was like the thing that happened to graham in S1

ep 58: i feel like i recognize the name eustice (?) wick. someone please tell me im not just watching jon's descent into madness over the course of this podcast. im hoping it isnt so but, (and pardon the dsmp reference) im getting real wilbur vibes from this one.

ep 59: oh dear ok account from the fielding house. swirling designs? Spiral time? oh boyy. oh wait! 6 inch hole in the middle! is it not a spiderweb type design on the table? thats what i had assumed but that description sounds more like a spiral thing. cobwebs is a Web thing. ayy nicholas was right! the box goes in the table! the place that she kissed him was burning. Raymond is an avatar of The Web and agnes is the burning one. Lightless Flame! Why did she save him? i guess she was against this guy eating ppl or wtvr but why was she at the halfway house then? I think she's like michael.

ep 60: the eye go brr

ep 61: breacon and hope once again. tom. sasha's boyfriend. vampires sleep in coffins. the guy just walking in seems similar to the mind control of the vampires

ep 62: bones! its that one leitner. is this mother keay? the mom of gerard? this is what happened to her right? her skin was found on hooks? oh yeah thats what i thought the pages are made of skin. yeesh. The End!! sounds like an entity. phrased like one, and i think i remember it. are the people trapped in the pages? or... kept?

ep 63: eaten by the darkness! cavediving episode! (just like eaten by the sky) did my brain make up one called The Vast? it feels like it should be one, and all these episodes have some similar description about their feelings when they do whatever chosen hobby they have. ok now this one kinda feels like the dark. lights going out and all that. ok so not really a The Vast thing, its more of a Dark thing. feckin smirk gah.

ep 64: dice! the death guy! the death game thing! the person tricked somebody else into becoming death and then they were immortal? but if the egyptians wanted to kill him or punish him or whatever couldnt they just kill him? it worked in the end when he had the person giving the statement stab him, that did the job and actually killed him

ep 65: finally jon is actually acknowledging something is wrong.

So we know Mary Keay was revived most likely with the book by gerard.

Gertrude was way more aware of the entities than Jon. mary keay referenced The End openly and she cut the eyes out of her magazines and all that which makes me think she was aware of The Eye

ep 66: please not buried alive pleeaase not buried alive. lukas of the tundra? didnt we hear the name lukas before? she wanted it to be difficult to find important files because that way bad people couldnt find them?

ep 67: agnes... the girl in the hilltop house? agnes poppin off!! he's really not gonna question how she knew where he lived?? oh no D: the tree. were they the ones working on the house? aww they kissi- OH DEAR. why did she kiss him? it seemed like she cared about him? also she could kiss that other dude on the cheek and he was fine, but maybe it was cuz she was younger? lightless flame go brrrrr.

ep 68: oh god books. yup its bitchboy leitner. mans said "this seems supernatural, its a werd book!" bruuh.

ep 69: heh nice. aw cmon jon listen to martin. gahhh spiders. is that the class we heard about in the other doctor one with the teeth apple? some kind of psych class? oh dear. fucking spiders. aaaah. web do be goin brr. it's like the girl in the homeless shelter! who made the guy leave and she took his bed.

ep 70: is this gonna be the book that mary keay had? Most likely a leitner no matter what. Oh boy latin. Why did it start in latin then become old English? I'm guessing people put them in the book? He cant burn it. Phrophecies go brr. He says eh it's a decade in the future it's fine. Its gonna have changed. Ayy called it. Just accept it, it's a magic book. His death is getting closer. Leitner didnt make them but just collected them? Gertrude burned the book! She burned them down there so no one would know.

ep 71: oh boy tunnels. Our favorite thing /s. is The Buried a thing? Idk this seems pretty buried. Oh dear he's trapped here isnt he. "Not enough space to move, never enough to breathe" is that from the computer episode? With the guy who uploaded his consciousness? Somebody living down there. Hmmmm. Guesses: tom, sasha's boyfriend. Gertrude herself? (Though I doubt it)

ep 72: sweeney todd moment. Meat. The slaughter? Idk we'll see what the supernatural part is. Meat is meat. Similar to the slaughterhouse episode. Is it fucking Jared I swear to God it better not be. Hooligan teenagers, you know how it is. Meat is me lmao. Is the kid gonna be in the freezer. Ok that's good. OWW. Oddly textured candles. Made from people? Human fat or smth? Tom from the meat processing plant!

ep 73: outer bay shipping. Bet it's a subset of breacon and hope delivery. The Dark go brrr. Uh oh mans is gonna die. Leo or whatever. Cult ppl go brr. The people's church of the divine host. Who is the divine host? Is it reigner or whatever his name is? I dont think Jon can quit tbh. Probably an anonymous tip but from who?? One of the entities?

ep 74: fucking teeth hhh. I dont know which entity is related to teeth. Spiral. Isnt the spiral an entity. It feels like it could be related to many things idk. Yeah this sounds like the spiral. Heart attack at 29? Jesus... michael! That's kinda what I was thinking. Sasha goin in the tunnels. Hmm sus. They move the floor. Wack. Bet its tom.

ep 75: Man with a lightning scar. Has one of the leitner books. The childhood friend of the one who first introduced us to leitner. Oh my god that sounds terrifying. Michael crew.

ep 76: scalpel? Hmm spooky. NotSasha... think jon think.

ep 77: another double! NotThem, The Stranger. Not related to the table?

ep 78: what was that at the beginning? Question mark?? Oh boy more NotThem. Decker... what is the deal with the table. Does it contain the creature? Fucking Michael. Bitchboi himself.

ep 79: yes pop off martin. Ugh fucking Michael just leave man. I hate that dude. New person. Hmm. No idea who it is.

ep 80: shitener himself! Ok sir tell us the entities. Ayy The Spiral. Ok we know what that one is. The Eye is the beholding! Oooh. The Stranger. Did elias just kill leitner? Popping off honestly.

#Neptune tma notes

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if-the-crown-fits-translate-it · 4 years ago

Text

Discord pt 89

[Date: 17/03, 12.53 PM GMT - 17/03, 02.33 PM GMT]

[This conversation was going on in #arg, partly simultaneously to another in #general2.]

Maxwell: “Give me one sec I’m gonna go check on the buds....

Maxwell: “....you guys

We might have a slight problem

Or well it’s a big

Bad

Problem

Jack the Observer: “Right.

Hit us”

Maxwell: “The buds

There’s more

And the ones from yesterday....they’re opening up and blooming”

Jack the Observer: “Unfortunate. But not surprising.

...”

Maxwell: “what do I do”

Maxwell: “I’m....gonna have a nap...”

Jack the Observer: “Rest well, max

We’ll... work on it”

Maxwell: “Thank you”

[People discuss possible ways of getting rid of the buds that had been brought up the previous day.]

donti (e): “FLOWERS USE PHOTORECEPTORS TO KNOW WHEN TO BLOOM

wear hat 24/7 so no light?”

Maxwell: “I almost always wear my hood but I don’t know if that’ll help

It grew from last night”

donti (e): “if light is hitting the bud its not enough,,,”

Maxwell: “There’s more buds and some are starting to open”

donti (e): “oh no...”

looks like we have til the 20th to figure things out, if that speeds anything to go by”

Maxwell: “I think little leaves may be forming too although they’re very tiny...”

donti (e): “max.. we got this.. you can trust that we'll help you”

Jack the Observer: “Does it hurt to touch?”

Maxwell: “Not really it just feels sore, I can’t feel my hair touching it but I can feel my hands on it

It’s....weird...”

donti (e): “... are you feeling the BUDS or like, the feeling of bUDS being touched

like,,, do the buds have.. nerves

or is it more like you can feel it bc its physically attached to you”

Maxwell: “I think i can feel it cause it’s attached to me like I can feel my hood on em...

It’s not super noticeable but I can still feel it”

donti (e): “alright thats good so theres,, not any nerves that are based on sense of touch,,, thats good thats good”

Maxwell: “Isn’t it technically though?

Since I can feel through em a bit”

LLyr: “is it like how you feel nails?”

Maxwell: “Like if something touched them I could tell cause I would feel it...”

donti (e): “or like hey someone is punching my backpack type of feeling”

Maxwell: “More like a skin thing....”

Jack the Observer: “Like if someone touched your fingernails you can feel it”

donti (e): “uh oh...”

Jack the Observer: “Even tho ur nails have no nerves”

donti (e): “nerves,,,”

Jack the Observer: “And you can cut fingernails safely”

LLyr: “hm. thats not good.”

Jack the Observer: “If there are actually nerves in there. That’s more complicated.”

Maxwell: “Yeah....”

[This means that cutting the buds out is not an option anymore]

Maxwell: “.....”

[But perhaps cutting the buds out could be done as a last resort?]

Maxwell: “Please no”

donti (e): “max, its up to you, would you rather have to keep the laurel or have it be cut off as a last ditch effort”

Maxwell: “I don’t know neither is a good option—”

[Methods of potentially slowing the buds’ growth are discussed instead]

donti (e): “we can also try like,,, straight up trying to freeze the buds off”

Maxwell: “I’ve been outside in the freezing cold a lot cause I’ve been to go to school in person some days and it hasn’t done a thing”

donti (e): “.... im talking colder than that. artificial cold.”

[Were the flowers like spring flowers then? Could they be destroyed by intense heat?]

Jack the Observer: “I feel like anything hot enough to melt metal should not be getting near Max’s head.

Might just be me /s”

LLyr: “no i’m with you there 3:”

Maxwell: “Also if this wreath does have nerve endings that will not feel nice”

[donti (e): “max try the light thing for now... and take a hot bath later”]

Maxwell: “I actually had one yesterday....

donti (e): “did it help at all?”

Maxwell: “It didn’t do anything”

Maxwell: “Maybe it would help if we know what’s gonna bloom from them....?”

fetch: “mona's got hella farmers almanacs and gardening books

somewhere on the bookshelf in the living room, so you can nose around over there”

Maxwell: “But there’s so many different flowers...”

Jack the Observer: “They’re unlikely to be very delicate.”

Jack the Observer: “I would say check early spring flowers. Snowdrops and the like.”

fetch: “also before yall ask yes I've accepted the fact that it is in fact a circlet and not matted hair and no I don't want to talk about it”

Mothbo: “Totally understandable Fetch”

Jack the Observer: “Uh huh.

Very cool, fetch.”

fetch: “what were you expecting?”

Maxwell: “If they’re flowers...did page ever say what his flower was? If this is meant to be like a new circlet maybe it’ll be that”

Jack the Observer: “Oh! That’s a good idea actually

Let me check”

fetch: “page liked freesia flowers”

Maxwell: “Hm...I looked at the meanings and white ones mean innocence and yellow mean friendship...sounds fitting”

https://www.gardenia.net/plant/freesia-single-white

Found more stuff on em

Maxwell: “They require minimum maintenance....”

Maxwell: “They don’t all look like freesias though....I can barely see but the inside seems to be a different a flower? Hold on ima try to find which one it is”

Maxwell: “I think I know which one it may be...”

Maxwell: “I think they may be marigolds”

donti (e): “... i see”

Maxwell: “I don’t think it’s the average one though”

donti (e): “huh. whats up”

Jack the Observer: “Marigolds are usually quite large. If they do end up growing in, it would be quite the sight.”

Maxwell: “Calendula

Or pot marigolds...”

donti (e): “it says overhead watering is bad, but once again, bath. so these are probably way more sturdy”

Maxwell: “I’ve always liked them....”

donti (e): “ah.”

Maxwell: “They can be used to treat different things so they can be helpful for survival

https://www.gardeningknowhow.com/ornamental/flowers/calendula/common-calendula-uses.htm”

Jack the Observer: “So a mixture of what you like and what Page likes.”

Maxwell: “Funny....”

donti (e): “... yea”

Jack the Observer: “It is, a little bit. But it makes sense.

Maybe you should make a memory list for yourself, by the way.”

donti (e): “so guessing from what we've already notices, the flowers that are budding do not have the same characteristics as their natural counterparts”

Maxwell: “Says the plant can tolerate a lot of conditions...

A memory list?”

Jack the Observer: “Marigolds are quite sturdy.”

donti (e): “but the other flower isnt”

Jack the Observer: “A memory list is a list of things you’d want to remember if you were wiped, given to someone you trust. For example, Marcus couldn’t remember his name or his sister right away when he took the circlet off. And there’s some speculation that it could help you “snap out of it””

Maxwell: “Hm...”

Jack the Observer: “Some people have made them already.”

Maxwell: “Do you have a list of things I should add to it perhaps? Knowing me I’d forget important things to add heh....”

Void: “not to distract from the current convo, but have yall checked the doc recently? (please Internet connection let me send at least this message)”

donti (e): “! whats wrong with the doc?”

fetch: “the doc is fine?

trust me I'd know if something was wrong”

jaynoblade: “i can't see anything that's really changed? just a bit of an update to include baroness in the court”

donti (e): “yea,”

fetch: “Yeah, thats all I been doin

Adding baroness, and all we know about her”

Void: “just. about sunflower seeds? well maybe not”

fetch: “:?”

Maxwell: “Seeds?”

fetch: “no clue what you're talking about bud”

Maxwell: “.....lemme check”

fetch: “I mean sunflower seeds are a good snack”

Maxwell: “Where do you see that?”

[This is the referenced doc change, written by fetch:]

#on:discord #by:maxwell #by:fetch #if the crown fits

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solynaceawrites · 4 years ago

Text

Wires [3]: Bearers Of

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M Fandom: Devil May Cry Relationships: Dante/Original Female Character(s), Implied Nero/Kyrie, Implied Vergil/Original Female Character(s), Implied Lady/Trish, Dante/Lirael Thorne, Dante/Lir Characters: Dante, Morrison, Nero, Original Female Character(s), Lirael Thorne, Lir Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Violence, Gore, Dark, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Serial Killers, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Summary: In Red Grave City, a serial killer stalks the streets. Lirael Thorne, recently transferred from Fortuna and looking for an escape from her past, winds up on his trail. Hunting him with her veteran partner, Dante Redgrave, they try to piece together the wires that bind the three of them together. In a race to catch him before he leaves more victims in his wake, the things thought buried will come to the surface, tearing lives and comfort apart.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

“It is much, much worse to receive bad news through the written word than by somebody simply telling you, and I’m sure you understand why. When somebody simply tells you bad news, you hear it once, and that’s the end of it. But when bad news is written down, whether in a letter or a newspaper or on your arm in felt tip pen, each time you read it, you feel as if you are receiving the bad news again and again.” — Lemony Snicket

»»————-　⚜　————-««

“Sure, I know her.” The waitress pops her gum, handing the grainy photograph back to Lir. “Comes in every Friday like clockwork, doesn’t tip, takes a new man home with her when she goes. She in some sort of trouble?”

Dante smiles charmingly. “You could say that. She wouldn’t have happened to pay by card, would she?”

“You’ll have to ask Joan. The bartender? She handles the tabs.” After a moment, the waitress bats her lashes, reaching out to place a hand on Dante’s arm, and Lir resists the desire to throttle one or both of them. “I can keep you company while your partner talks to her.”

“Who am I to say no to a pretty lady?”

He cuts his eyes to Lir. With a snort, she turns sharply on her heel, trying to keep her irritation from showing on her face, adding lady’s man to the list of ways she’d describe him. It’s far from the worst, but the bright giggles that follow her to the bar have her wondering if pig would be better. A woman emerges from the back as she claims a stool, pretty with her dark eyes and darker hair, and if she weren’t on duty, Lir might have considered leaving her number. Which probably only makes her slightly better than Dante, a fact that has her reaching into her pocket for her badge to buy herself a bit of time to settle.

“What can I get ya, sugar?” the woman asks.

“Are you Joan?” With a raised brow, the woman nods, and Lir holds out her badge. “I’m Detective Thorne with the Red Grave Police Department. I was hoping you’d be able to answer some questions for me?”

Joan studies her badge. “Detective, huh? Sounds like your questions are gonna be heavy enough to warrant a drink. What’s your poison?”

Against her better judgement, Lir replies, “Vodka sour, with Chopin if you’ve got it.”

With a smile that seems a little more than flirtatious, Joan gets to work. Lir watches her deft, slender hands scoop ice into a strainer before adding the vodka and sour mix and shaking, and that coy expression is still on Joan’s face when she sets it in front of her. “On the house for the city’s finest.”

“Thank you.” Lir takes a long drink, closing her eyes as her tongue comes alive under the bittersweet flavor. Then she slides the photograph of Jane Doe across the bar. “Your friend said that you might know her?”

Joan studies it, bracing her arms on the bar and giving Lir a very good glimpse of her cleavage. “Mm-hm. That’s Sophie. Pays with her Amex, likes a frozen margarita with sugar instead of salt on the rim. She the body they pulled from the alley yesterday?” Lir shrugs, and she sighs. “Shame. She was a sweetheart.”

“I heard the opposite.”

“I’m sure you did. She tips for the service she gets, and Lacey’s usually too busy flirting to pay attention to her tables. Never did me wrong, though, and most of the girls here will tell you the same.”

“I have to say,” Lir watches her sharply, “you seem awfully calm for someone who just found out there was a murder next door.”

Joan looks back at her steadily for a long time, not saying anything. When she finally does speak, her voice is quiet, “Don’t get me wrong, Detective. I’m pissed as hell about what happened to her. I read the papers, y’know? So I know that she was . . . If I could find the bastard, I’d wring his neck myself. But I’ve got to trust you to do it, and me crying won’t get you any answers. I’ll do it after you’ve left.”

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

Just like that, the tension is gone, the warm smile sliding back onto Joan’s pretty face. “No hard feelings. You can make it up to me later, if you want.”

“Maybe. Anything else you can tell me?”

The way she catches her plump lower lip between her teeth has Lir vividly imagining what it would be like to do that herself, and she breathes deeply to push the thought away. “Nothing unusual happened last night, not that I noticed. Sophie came in, sat at her table, ordered her drink. She was with some friends, but they split up to dance for a while, and I didn’t see her again until she paid her tab. We get pretty busy on Fridays,” she adds apologetically. “It’s easy to lose track of people.”

Lir takes another sip of her drink. “Did she leave with anyone?”

“If she did, I didn’t get a look at him. But it wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing against her, people can do what they want, but she knew the effect she had on others.” Lir thinks of the face on the slab, beauty made sorrowful by death. “Give me a moment, and I’ll get her last name for you.”

“That would be great, thanks.” As Joan moves to the register on the back counter, Dante slides onto the stool next to her, and Lir eyes him irritably. “Get anything from your witness?”

“Nah, she was too busy cryin’ to talk,” he replies. “Drinkin’ on the job?”

Before she can reply, Joan is back, and she hands a folded piece of paper to Lir. To her pleasure and amusement, not once does she look at Dante. “Here you go. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, Detective.”

Downing the rest of her drink, Lir gives a little salute and heads out of the club, Dante at her side. She ignores him for the moment to unfold the note, a small grin breaking tugging at her lips as she reads over it; there’s a name on the top half, which she tears off to give to him, but on the bottom is a phone number and Call Me written in an elegant, looping script. “Sophie Marons,” Dante recites. “Wonder if there’s a connection to Simon Marons.”

“The lawyer?” Dante exhales slowly, and she curses. “Shit. Draw straws to see who makes the call?”

“Nope,” he drawls. “Your lead, your visit. Let’s go.”

Lir frowns at him, an expression that’s becoming more and more common the longer she works with her frustrating new partner. Her mother used to warn her that her face would get stuck eventually, and she’s starting to wonder if that’s true; at least he’s not sending her off alone, which she wouldn’t really blame him for but would still be angry over. And he turns the volume on the radio down once they're in the car when he notices her pulling out her bottle of aspirin and popping one into her mouth. It looks like he wants to say something and thinks the better of it. Good. The less she has to talk to him, the better. The drive to Marson & Co. passes with only the harsh strumming of rock and the quiet purring of the engine, and their silence persists into the lobby, where Lir speaks briefly to a receptionist, and in the elevator ride up to the seventh floor.

Dante whistles when they step off into an office that sprawls over the entire floor. Glass windows that stretch from floor to ceiling on three of the walls give a stunning view of the city, allowing plenty of sunlight in, and it glows over the interior decorations: a large oak desk, numerous shelves full of books, a sitting area, a bar set next to the elevator. It’s the office of a man who wound up rich and, as the figure behind the desk stands, Lir takes a look at him and decides it was probably inherited. Simon Marsons is as immaculate as the space he occupies, his suit pressed and his salted hair pressed back from a hairline that’s only starting to thin, a lavender handkerchief folded into his coat pocket and diamond cufflinks glittering at his wrists. Lir walks towards him, her boots thudding dully on the polished tile floor; up close, she can see the vibrant green of his eyes and that his teeth, when he smiles, are too even and straight to be anything but bought.

“My apologies, but I’m afraid I’m not open for visitors today,” he says, his voice pleasant yet oily somehow. “If you leave your name with Mary, I’ll try to—”

“Simon Marsons?” Lir cuts him off curtly. “I’m Detective Thorne. This is my partner, Detective Redgrave. Are you related to Sophie Marsons?”

His tanned face goes ashy. “Sophie? She’s my daughter. Has something happened to her?”

“You might want to sit,” Dante advises him, not unkindly.

Marson’s legs go out from under him, and Lir watches with embers of sympathy as he collapses into his grand chair. “Please,” he says, his voice shaking. “Where is she? Was she hurt? I knew I should have called when she didn’t show up for work yesterday, but I assumed she was sleeping off a hangover . . . Which hospital do I need to go to?”

Lir takes a deep breath. “Is your office always open on Sunday?”

“What? Yes, yes, I have a number of clients, and Saturday and Sunday are when I go over all of my notes. Please, Detective, Sophie . . .”

That ember sparks to a dull blaze. Speaking quietly, Lir says, “I’m sorry. We found her yesterday morning.”

A low keening erupts from Marson’s throat. It’s not unlike the cry of a wounded animal, caught in a trap from which it cannot escape and too weak to continue struggling, and Lir thinks of the fox her father had snared one year after it killed their chickens and her mouth fills with the heavy taste of iron. Dante steps around her, his own face displaying a hint of discomfort. It’s oddly reassuring to realize that he probably hates these visits as much as she does, the transformation from detective to confidante and terrible messenger that is a cruel necessity of their job. “When was the last time you saw your daughter, Mr. Marson?”

The man mumbles something incoherent, and the two of them share a look. “Sir?” Lir presses.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, his voice choked. “You’ll have to . . . Mary will know. I’m sorry. Excuse me, I can’t . . .”

Lir exhales slowly. “Okay. Thank you. I’m going to leave my card. Please call us if you think of anything.”

He buries his face in his hands, and she slides her card onto the desk before heading back to the elevator. Once inside, she leans against the wall, and even Dante looks tired, the hollows under his eyes dark and deep. “Never gets easier, does it?” he mutters.

She shakes her head. Outside, she turns to him, her mouth dry and her limbs heavy. “I’m goin’ home. I need sleep. You?”

“Can’t argue that. Want a ride?”

The idea of him knowing where she lives makes her skin prickle uncomfortably, which is strange, given that they work together. Still, she points to the road. “I’ll catch a cab. See you in a bit.”

“Mm-hm.”

Lir leaves him there, feeling his eyes boring into her back as she hails a taxi and slides inside, nearly slurring with exhaustion as she gives the driver her address. She dozes on the ride, woken by the cabbie tapping the glass partition between them, and she fumbles to pay and tip before heading into her building. It’s quiet inside, warm in a stuffy sort of way, which makes her more drowsy. Another short trip in an elevator, and she’s at her door, which she unlocks with trembling fingers and kicks shut. Too tired to bother showering, Lir strips as she walks to her bedroom in the back, where she manages to pull the curtains closed and set an alarm on her phone before collapsing into bed. Behind her closed eyes, visions of Sophie Marson’s body linger, chasing her into her dreams.

In them, she is once again in the morgue. The lights overhead flicker as she stares at the slab in the middle, upon which rests a form covered by a white sheet, and her breath frosts in the air around her and chills her lips. As she stands frozen, the thing under the sheet moves, pallid fingers poking from beneath to curl over its edge and push it slowly down, and a low whine locks in her throat, the remnants of a scream she cannot voice. Creeping, unhurried, the corpse of Sophie Marson sits up, her pale hair spilling limply over her shoulders; when milky eyes focus on her, Lir twitches. But she’s paralyzed, her legs unresponsive no matter how desperately she pleads with them to work.

A low rasp falls from the corpse’s mouth, which forms soundless words. With every attempt it makes to speak, air whistles from it, barely audible over the thrum of the air conditioning, until, at last, it stands on trembling legs, bracing itself on the slabs as it clambers towards her. As it draws closer, the whispers take form: “You saw . . . you saw . . . you saw . . .”

No, Lir tries to shout, no, no, I didn’t see a damn thing. There was nothing to see! Just you, dead on the ground, and if something else was there I had to ignore it because things like that don’t exist!

Grasping fingers reach for her. The murmurs take on a fevered rhythm, rising in pitch and volume until they devolve into a shrill ringing, those dead eyes bulging as its hands land on her face—

Lir snaps up with a strangled scream, reaching to grab and shove and fight. Yet there’s nothing there; just her room with unpacked boxes cluttered around, and she hunches over and presses her palms to her cheeks, fighting to get her panicked breathing under control. The ringing cuts off, then starts again. Cursing, she fumbles for her phone, finding it buried under the covers, and jabs to answer it, fear making her bark into it. “What?”

Dante’s voice comes through the receiver. “Sorry to wake you, sleepin’ beauty, but Marson’s at the station to make a statement and Morrison is liable to rip you a new one if you aren’t there soon.”

“Fine, just . . . Wait, there?”

“Yeah. I’m outside.” Startled, she darts to the window and peers out, seeing Dante parked on the street below, leaning on his car, looking back up at her. He waves as he says, “Better get your ass in gear, Thorne.”

Furious with him, she hangs up and stalks to her bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. Then she grabs a fresh change of clothes, tugging them on as she follows the trail of dirty ones she’d left earlier to her boots, which she slams her feet into. Keys, wallet, badge, gun, Lir grabs all of them from the table next to the door, then she leaves, choosing the quicker option of the stairs at the end of the building hall. Dante straightens as she emerges, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh, and she glares at him as she yanks open the door and slides into his car, vindicated by his, “Hey!” when she slams it fiercely. It’s his turn to scowl, climbing behind the wheel, and he cranks the volume up to near painful levels before putting the car in drive and pulling away from the curb.

Tired of his dickish behavior, she turns the knob back down and snaps, “How the fuck did you find my apartment?”

He scoffs. “We’ve got personnel files.”

“For emergencies!” Lir shouts. “You don’t just go into them whenever you feel like it!”

“If you’d just told me—”

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” she seethes.

Dante slams on the brakes, yanking the car into a parking spot and turning to glower at her. “You’ve had a fuckin’ chip on your shoulder since we met. Like it or not, we’re partners, and that means I need to know where the hell you live in case somethin’ comes up, like it did tonight.”

“I could have gotten there on my own!”

“Yeah, sure, and Morrison would’ve reamed your ass out for takin’ so long. Shit, I had to call you four times before you answered your goddamn phone. You think he’d have stood for that?” Lir merely shakes her head, and he throws his hands up in frustration. “What the hell is your problem? Jesus fuckin’ wept, you’d think I’m the biggest prick you’ve ever met—”

“Because you are,” she says curtly. “You’ve been ridin’ me since yesterday, havin’ me run your errands—”

“Oh, so you’re above goin’ to the morgue—”

“—acting like I don’t know my head from my ass—”

“—or dealin’ with reporters—”

“What is with you?” she cries, exasperated. “I get it, you idolize Sam Spade, but do you need his fucking sexism along with the outfit?”

Dante closes his mouth, staring at her intently for a moment, and she realizes that, in their arguing, they had each leaned in, as if to intimidate the other. Then he grins, slowly, and this one reaches his eyes, melting the glaciers there. “You like Humphrey Boggart?”

Thrown by the question, Lir can only blink at him. “Uh . . . I guess? I watched his films a lot as a kid, so . . . What does that have to do with anything?”

“Got a favorite?”

“What?” He’s still watching her. With a groan, Lir slumps back into her seat. “I dunno. Marked Woman, probably.”

Dante nods solemnly. “Bette Davis was a babe.” He continues speaking as he eases them back into traffic. “Look, Thorne—”

She huffs. “Can you just call me Lir like a normal person, for the love of God?”

“Lir,” he amends without batting an eye. “Me ridin’ you? Sorry to break it to you, but Red Grave is a beast of its own. Maybe you were good in Fortuna. Hell, your record says you were. Here? You’ll get eaten alive if you aren’t careful.”

“What a load of shit,” she mumbles.

Dante sighs. “You know somethin’ else? It’s been buggin’ me since yesterday, and the only reason I haven’t suggested Morrison take you off the case is because I’m worried you’d get yourself killed if I couldn’t keep an eye on you. You’re too eager to prove yourself.” Lir bristles, but his next statement, spoken flatly with no hint of emotion at all, has a faint prickle of fear creeping up her spine. “You look an awful lot like our victim. If this guy’s gonna go serial . . . Well, you’d fit his profile nicely.”

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc dante #dante #dante sparda #dmc oc #lirael thorne #lir #dmc fanfic #dmc fanfiction #writing #story #myfic #wires

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petaldancing · 5 years ago

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fic: this’ll do for now

fandom: spy x family characters: anya, loid and yor summary: Four times Anya receives a toy, and one time she asks for something else. 4k words. read: on AO3 or below

notes: written for yuletide 2019 for penguinzero! i was inspired by a fan observation that Anya has quite a number of toys that appear throughout the different chapters (from a post by batneko on tumblr!) the toys referenced here all appear in the manga, but there are only overt references made to Chapter 8.5 (Extra Mission!) if you're wary of spoilers.

-----

“What are you doing, Anya?”

Papa’s using that tone again, the one where he’s trying to understand what she’s thinking. Too bad he’s not a mind reader. Heh.

Anya lets go of his hand to run up to the storefront and press her face to the wide window. Her gaze is fixed on the toys splayed across the polished shelves. There are puppets, and porcelain dolls, and even toy cars, but she won’t be distracted. She points a decisive finger to the glass and shouts: “I want that!”

Her chosen subject is a round, yellow chicken-looking doll that’s half-hidden behind a big teddy bear. It’s ugly and she already loves it.

Papa stands next to her and leans forward to get a better look at it. “You already have a doll, don’t you? Why would you need another one?” This question is accompanied by a clear and crisp thought, ‘What did those parenting books say? If you give into your children’s demands easily, they may come to disregard your authority and lose respect.’

“I respect you, Papa," Anya responds immediately, nodding so as to reassure him. “If you buy me that toy, I’ll respect you even more and listen to what you say.”

Papa raises an eyebrow, not in surprise, but in doubt.

Anya's finger remains glued to the window even though her feet are starting to hurt from tip toeing to peek through the storefront. She's determined to make a good case for ownership of the ugly chicken: "I need it to protect me when I get scared at night. It looks tough, it’ll be able to fight off any assa- assassi...”

“Assassins?” Papa corrects her. “You’ve been watching too much of your spy cartoon. People like assassins and hitmen don’t exist. You don’t have anything to be worried about.”

Papa’s being a bad liar again.

Before Anya can tell him he’s wrong, she notices him reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet and her eyes widen with hope.

“I suppose I could get it for you. You’ve been working hard to prepare for the academy’s entrance exams, after all,” he explains as he enters the toy store, the old wooden door creaking.

While Papa pays at the counter, Anya bounces over to Chicky (yes, she’s just given it a name) and pulls it into her arms, snuggling into the sweet-smelling fabric of its body. She starts to sing the Bondman theme song, already imagining the life-threatening missions she’ll have with Chicky as her sidekick.

As they walk out the store and down the street leading back home, Anya’s singing fades into the sound of the city bustling around them. She picks up the worry in Papa’s thoughts and goes quiet to listen.

‘I mustn’t make this a habit. If Anya keeps getting what she wants, she’ll end up taking these things for granted.’ It is sharp and pointed and makes her flinch.

Anya stops just then, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. It's late in the day and there aren't many people walking about, but those that do walk pass look between her and Papa with curiosity and concern.

"What is it now, Anya?"

She hugs Chicky close to herself. It’s all soft and smooth and new, and smells like fresh flowers. She doesn’t remember having anything like this in the orphanage. It makes her happy yet lonely.

“This is Papa’s first gift for me. I’ll always treasure it!”

She waits, and when Papa doesn't say anything, she screws her eyes shut and tries to hear the words inside his brain.

Nothing—it's blank for once.

When she opens her eyes, she sees that he's stretched out his empty hand to her.

“Alright, Anya. Come now, Yor is probably waiting for us to have dinner,” he says as she takes his hand. They resume their journey down the familiar street, passing the baker’s and the tailor’s and the post office, all the places she's come to recognise as part of her new home.

As they cross the road and catch the orange sun setting behind the town hall, she hears Papa’s thoughts stir. Faintly , she catches his mind echoing: ‘Mustn’t make this a habit.’

It is a warm and soft thing now, like the feeling of her hand curled in his.

Anya doesn’t remember what happened. Now, she’s crying and crying in the middle of the living room as Chimera droops in her hands, the beans inside it spilling out onto the floor around her. She’d been playing spy and villain with Chimera (she was obviously playing the part of the world’s Top Spy) and spun her around and now there was a torn hole in her side!

“Anya has blood on her hands now,” she hisses through hot tears, remembering that this is what the person on TV said in a similar situation.

Mama runs over from the balcony where she was hanging out the clothes to dry. “Anya, you’re not hurt are you?” She squats down to put a gentle hand against Anya’s wet cheek.

"I want a new Chimera!" Anya wails, letting go of the toy to bury her face into Mama’s blouse and rub her snot against her. Chimera is old and tattered from getting thrown around by other kids in the orphanage, but it was also there, buried under a pile of trash, that Anya found her. She knows Chimera is special, that she can’t just go to the toy store and buy a new one, but what else is she going to do now?

As Mama wraps her arms around her and pats her head, Anya begins to calm down. Her tears subside into controlled sniffs.

"Now, now, Anya. There's no need for a new friend. We just need to mend her and she'll be as good as new,” Mama says as she stands, hoisting Anya into her arms.

Anya rubs her puffy eyes. "You can fix her?"

“Of course! Needlework is something I can proudly say I’m an expert at.” Mama smiles. ‘I have a lot of experience stitching myself up. Stitching a doll shouldn’t be much different. Perhaps it’ll be easier.’

Anya thinks that Mama can be just as cool as Papa sometimes.

And so, they carefully pick up Chimera’s insides from the floor and collect them in a rice bowl. When this is done, Mama goes into her room looking for needles and thread. As Anya sits on the sofa, she can hear Mama rummaging through her weapons in her closet, and through the wall, her thoughts: ‘Needles… needles… Ah, there we go. Have I sterilised these yet? I’ll just make sure Anya doesn’t touch them, just in case.’

Anya does not offer to help Mama when she comes back out, holding a short needle in her hand along with a spool of thread, and a bag of cotton wool.

Mama takes the rice bowl and what’s left of Chimera to the dining table, where she sits and begins work. Anya hovers next to her and watches as she threads the needle with skill and quickly sows up the huge hole. When the hole becomes a small tear, she pours the beads back into Chimera’s body with Anya’s help. Anya holds onto Chimera while Mama does the finishing touches, including stuffing her with more cotton wool so that she stands taller now.

“Tadah!” Mama grins when the operation is over. “She’s as good as new now.”

Anya receives Chimera with a big hug. “Thank you Mama!”

“Chimera is one of a kind, so we’ll take good care of her. If she gets hurt again, just bring her to me and I’ll fix her up,” Mama says as she packs up her first aid kit for dolls. “And Anya, don’t think about throwing away things even if they may be a bit broken. Sometimes, all they need is a little love.”

‘This is what Loid would do, right? Try to make life lessons out of everyday incidents,’ Mama’s thought bubbles in the air.

Anya blinks twice before asking: “Are you trying to teach me good values like Papa?”

“Ah…. you'r always so sharp,” Mama concedes with a laugh. At this moment, the front door opens and in steps Papa, holding that briefcase he carries just for show.

“What’s all this? I heard Anya talking about me,” he asks as he closes the door behind him and removes his hat.

“Chimera had a little accident, but I’ve fixed her and even added a little extra stuffing.” Mama holds up the needle and cotton to show him.

“Ah,” Papa hums. ‘Hm. The cotton she’s using it’s the sort that’s particularly good at absorbing blood. Do they sell this high quality stuff at the pharmacy now?’

“What is it, Loid?”

A practiced smile appears on Papa’s face. “I was thinking how great it is that you could help solve Anya’s problem.”

“Yes, I want to be someone Anya can rely on too, you know.” Mama pulls at her fingers nervously. “I’m always worried about whether I’m playing my part well enough.”

Before Papa can open his mouth, Anya interrupts by holding Chimera up to her face and cheering in a squeaky voice: “Mama is strong and fast and good with needles! I feel safe when she’s around!”

“There you have it.” The corner of Papa’s lips crooks up slightly.

“There you have it,” Mama repeats, and her hands, which she’d been gripping tightly, loosen just so.

For some reason, there are always bad guys to fight whenever Anya goes out with Mama and Papa. Today, they went to the aquarium and stopped a villain from stealing an important penguin. Even on day-offs, Papa has to work.

Then again, bringing her out to the aquarium to look at fishies and talk to the neighbours—that’s work too, isn’t it? It’s his job to make sure they’re an ordinary family, so even Sundays are work days. Mama and her had lots of fun today watching the dolphin show and petting the stingrays and looking how sharp and pointy the shark’s teeth were (Mama really liked that), but all Anya could hear was Papa thinking about his next mission.

It’s the end of the day now, and she should be in bed, but Anya wriggles out from under her covers and pokes her head out of her room. The hallway is really dark and only from the far, far end, can she see a small crack of light coming from underneath Papa’s door. She decides to bring new recruit Penguin along with her, just in case she gets ambushed.

She tries to stealthily creep up to Papa’s door, but it’s a bit hard since Penguin is much less graceful. Before she can even peek into Papa’s room, he notices.

“Anya? It’s always polite to knock before entering someone’s room.”

She puffs up her cheeks and does as she’s told.

“Yes, come in.”

She pushes the door open and steps into Papa’s room, tugging Penguin in behind her. It’s a very normal-looking room. She frowns at this. Where are all the fancy spy gadgets? He must have hidden them somewhere.

“Did you have a bad dream?” Papa puts his book aside and straightens his posture in his armchair, resting a hand on his knee.

“No… I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking.” Anya twiddles her thumbs. “Papa, are you tired from work?”

“What are you talking about? I had a day off today with you and Yor, didn’t I?” he says with hesitation.

“Well, you were tired from work and you still said to go out with us,” Anya tries a different approach.

Papa thinks, ‘Which was also part of Operation Strix to begin with, and ended up crossing with another mission. Work never does end,’ but says, “Which was a good way for me to take a break from work.”

Anya sways on the spot, trying to process the same voice speaking two different things.

“You don’t need to be worried about me, Anya. I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.” Papa stands up and opens his room door, gesturing for her to follow him back to her room. She pulls Penguin along as they walk back, and the distance feels much shorter now with Papa now walking beside her.

“Would… would you quit your job if it gets too tiring?” Anya finally works up the courage to ask as he lifts her back into bed and tucks her in. Penguin gets the same treatment shortly after.

“You know, Anya, just because something is tiring doesn’t mean it isn’t worth doing,” Papa answers. He’s sitting on the edge of her bed, chin tucked and eyes looking down. ‘I chose to do this. I’ll see it through till the end, so good people like Yor and Anya can live in a peaceful society. As for what happens after...’

Papa suddenly turns to look at her. “Is this about your homework? You need to stop lazing around or you’ll get another Tonitrus. I’ll help you with it tomorrow.”

Anya nods slowly, feeling better to know that Papa will be around, at least, until he completes his mission. “I’ll do my best, Papa. Just like you.”

Instead of thinking about how lonely it’ll be when Papa finally completes his mission, Anya focuses on how cool he is.

He stays with her, not saying anything else, until she finally drifts off to sleep.

“Anya, are you getting tired?”

Mama extends an open hand down, offering to take the shopping bag Anya is dragging against the pavement. They’ve just finished a shopping trips at the market and Anya had volunteered to help carry some of the groceries home. Mainly a big bag of peanuts. Mama’s getting better at buying stuff now. She’s been observing what Papa cooks for dinner and memorising how the packaging looks like.

“My feet and arms are tired,” Anya says, her knees wobbling a bit. The sun is especially hot today.

“It must be from all the punching training we did today, huh?” Mama remarks cheerfully. She points to a bus stop up ahead where a couple of people are standing. “Let’s take a bus back home then.”

As they walk under the shelter hand-in-hand, Anya thinks back to their training session this morning. Mama’s trying to teach her how to block punches and dodge attacks now. She could only do it for fifteen minutes and had to take a nap after that, only to wake up just in time to accompany Mama out.

Anya stares at her hands and makes them shake for dramatic effect. “Am I a weakling, Mama?”

“Of course not!” Mama pauses to think. ‘Though I don’t remember it being so difficult to learn self defense when I was her age. Maybe it’s because I had to pick it up under different circumstances.’

“But I’m not getting stronger,” Anya mumbles.

“You’re getting good scores for your tests and quizzes, aren’t you? It’s not just about brute strength. Being smart is a strength too.”

Well, that’s because she’s figured out which students in class are good at what subjects. And because Papa’s new rule is that she can only watch TV after she does a bit of studying on weekends.

Mama raises an arm to flag the approaching bus. As it rumbles to a halt at the bus stop, Anya catches the colourful advertisement painted on the side. It’s for a new toy that she’s never seen before. A robot! And it looks exactly like the ones that appear in Bondman.

“Look! Look at that!” She grabs a fistful of Mama’s skirt to get her attention.

Mama tilts her head to the side, staring at it as they line up to board the bus. “Do you want that toy?”

“Yeah. What do I need to do to get it?” Anya asks as she hops onto the metal steps of the bus door and rushes to get a seat next to the bus window. She’s learned, from when she used to be stuck in the lab, how she always got a reward for doing something the grown-ups wanted. The outside world didn’t seem that much different from the lab in some way.

Mama sits down next to her after paying for the bus fare. “What do you mean, Anya?”

“Can I get Mr Robot if I get a Stella?”

‘Wouldn’t that be a long ways off?’ Mama doesn’t say this aloud, but Anya narrows her eyes and frowns when she hears this complete lack of belief.

Mama doesn’t notice. She adjusts the groceries in her lap and cranes her neck to look out the window, checking where they are on the bus route. “Well, we could get off near the toy store now and see if they have Mr Robot there already.”

Anya opens her mouth in surprise. “But I didn’t do anything to get it!”

“Well, I don’t think I need a reason to make you happy,” Mama answers simply, a kind smile touching her lips.

"R-really?" Anya asks again, just to make sure.

Mama pauses and think: ‘Loid might nag at me for spoiling Anya. But if it’s something that can cheer her up, I’m sure he’ll understand. She's been less energetic these days, and he's noticed too.’

"Your Papa likes to give you rewards for working hard, but I don't want you to feel as though you need to do something in order to get what you want. Or do something just because you think that's what someone else wants." At this, Mama's expression shifts. She continues to look outside, but her eyes seem far off, like she's thinking about deeply about something. But just like that one time with Papa, Anya can't read anything from her mind. It's a quiet stillness. All Anya can hear are the thoughts of the old granny at the back of the bus, worrying about whether she left the stove on.

It's after two zebra crossings and one traffic light before Mama turns to her. "I want you to be able to be who you are, not what others want you to be," she whispers as she brushes Anya's hair back, taking care to avoid her horns. And when Anya works up the courage to listen out for Mama's thoughts, she hears her say: 'I didn't have that choice, but at least, this is a role that I've grown to like more than I thought I would.'

“Mama… I think having a good heart is a strength too. Maybe that’s what I should try to be good at,” Anya says in soft realisation.

Mama gives her a smile just then, and she looks radiant under the rays of the sun shining into the bus.

“You’re absolutely right.”

"Chimera, Chicky, Penguin and Mr Robot all reporting for duty!"

Anya throws them all onto her bed and salutes them. Outside, the evening rain is falling hard and the only thing she can see from her window are the raindrops splattering against it.

"Listen up agents, we're up against a diabo.. diablo.. diabolic enemy today. It's—"

A flash of lightning suddenly appears in the window, followed by a deafening crash of thunder that rocks the air. Anya dives under her covers with a loud yelp. The movement causes Chimera to roll off the bed. Anya is too busy shivering under her blanket to pick her up.

She hears the door of her room slam open, and two pairs of footsteps rushing in. When she pokes her head out from beneath her hiding spot, Papa and Mama are standing next to her bed. Mama’s hands are crossed behind her back and her eyebrows her knotted in concern. Papa scans the room with a quick snap of his head.

“Are you okay, Anya? It sounded like…” Papa begins. ‘No, I was overreacting. Anya is safe. Probably just scared from the thunder.’

“Like something bad happened,” Mama completes his sentence. ‘Oh thank goodness, now I just need to keep my knives without Loid or Anya noticing.’ Her arms remain glued to her sides, twitching slightly as she tries to adjust the hidden weapons behind her nightgown.

Anya pulls the blanket off her head and raises an accusing finger to the window. “Yes! It’s that!” She casts a glance at all her toys on the bed and clears her throat to say, “They’re all… they’re all scared.”

“They’re scared?” Papa asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, they’re not used to dangerous situations.” Anya folds her arms across herself and nods sagely.

“Well, then they could come and stay with me for the night,” Mama offers, which makes Anya’s eyes widen. Her mouth gapes as she thinks of what to say next, without making it obvious that she’d be jealous if Penguin got to sleep next to Mama instead of her.

Another lightning strike appears in the window and Anya’s shout is one second faster than the ensuing thunder. Her body immediately jumps off the bed and flies into Papa and Mama, hugging them around their knees.

"I'm scared,” Anya reluctantly admits, her cheeks squished between their legs.

“Rain and thunder and lightning are all normal, torrential weather conditions, Anya,” Papa explains. “You’ll be safe as long as you stay indoors, I promise.” As he pauses, he thinks, ‘I definitely won’t let her go out on her own in such weather. Even if she doesn’t get struck by lightning, there’s a high chance a tree could and if that were to fall on Anya...’

“I don’t want to be shocked or squished!!” Anya wails out and clutches onto them even tighter.

“That won’t ever happen,” Mama says in a calming voice. ‘I’d redirect that lightning strike in a jiffy. It shouldn’t be too hard.’

As awesome as that sounds, Anya jumps as she hears another boom of thunder outside and she continues crying. “But I’m scared!”

“Okay, okay. What can we do to make you less scared?” Papa lowers himself onto his knees and holds out his handkerchief for Anya to blow her nose into.

As soon as she's done wiping her face against the cloth, she comes up with a great idea. She raises her eyes to look at both of them. “I want Papa and Mama to stay with me tonight."

It’s Papa and Mama’s turn to widen their eyes. They exchange shocked looks with each other.

“Wouldn’t it be alright if it was just me?” Mama points at herself.

Anya holds her right palm up to Mama’s face. “No.”

“Alright, Yor. You can head to bed. I’ll stay with Anya,” Papa sighs.

Anya holds up her left palm up to Papa’s face. “No.”

While their faces balk with insult and confusion, Anya stands up on her bed and claps her hands together. “I won’t be able to go to sleep without both Mama and Papa!” she declares.

‘The last time I slept next to someone was with Yuri when we were still children. I miss those times,’ Mama thinks fondly. ‘Oh, but Loid is different from Yuri, he’s…’ Her face goes a little red.

‘This is still part of Operation Strix, isn’t it? Keeping Anya happy and safe so that she’ll continue to do well in school. Come on, Twilight. It’s not a difficult request. Yor is...’

Anya pats the empty space on both sides of her bed, looking at both Mama and Papa expectantly. Mama steps forward first, even as Papa raises a hand to stop her.

“I’m fine, Loid. To tell you the truth, I’ve always found it comforting to sleep with family. I’m sure that’s all Anya needs right now.” Mama uses her hands to flatten the material of her nightgown before lying down next to Anya. Anya doesn’t know where Mama's weapons have disappeared to. She tries not to think so much about it.

‘Comforting?’ Papa thinks. ‘Twilight never experienced anything like that growing up.'

Anya stares at him, and her shoulders begin to droop when he doesn't move.

Sometimes, Papa is too cool.

She turns away from him to lie on her side and close her eyes.

'But... Loid Forger must know what that’s like. He's supposed to be the perfect family man. He is.'

The next moment, Anya feels the mattress sink as Papa sits down on the bed. He doesn't relax quite as much as Mama, but allows his back to lean into one of Anya’s fluffy pillows.

When the next thunderclap rolls around, Anya hunches into Papa’s side and feels Mama’s hand soothing her back. She breathes in the smell of Papa’s shampoo and Mama’s handsoap. The last thing she hears before she falls asleep is a soft song humming in her ear. It makes the thunder seem like a small noise in comparison.

----

When Anya wakes up the next day, she knows that she is safe, like she's been wrapped up warm and toasty and no one can hurt her ever again. She cracks her eyes open to see Mama and Papa's arms curled over her, barely touching.

‘This’ll do for now,’ she thinks before falling back asleep.

#spy x family #loid forger #loid folger #anya forger #anya folger #yor folger #yor forger #*fic #(this precious found family!!!! lies down)

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

Note

oooh those prompts are GREAT 👀 if you're taking them, 45 - svelte?

Vic is the second winner of “saw a prompt list I didn’t actually intend to post yet” today, haha. Hm... I give you:

CW: Teenage child of recovering whumpee, brief kleptomania, SERIOUS mommy issues, referenced intimate whumper/captivity and referenced abuse

Jax Gallagher (referenced) belongs to @comfy-whumpee

She’s only in the classical section of the shop to browse - or she tells herself, anyway. It’s a tiny bookshop with music in the back, everything crammed together on shelves and stacked on tables. The music - records and CDs, for the kind of people who still seek them out - is organized loosely on a set of tables in cut-off plastic crates, and she spends some time flipping absently through Alternative, Pop, and Rock before her eyes shift to Instrumentals.

She likes these little shops - they smell like dust and old books, two scents she has known only in the safest places in her life. She has three paperbacks already crooked in one arm, two sci-fi stories and then a true story about a woman in the states kept captive for ten years.

She has a bunch of these books, they pile up under her bed, hidden carefully away in a long flat box, underneath some other things she isn’t hiding. She reads them at night, alone, sitting up with a torch under the covers, trying to understand the immensity of there being others out there who have lived this way.

Not that she remembers much - but some.

Enough.

None of the books talk about the people like her - the children, who go to a new world in the end, and they have stories but their privacy is respected, and so Izzy searches for the children as best she can between the lines written by their parents or by the ghost-writers or by true crime authors that never spoke to them at all.

She finds a mention, here and there, of things she knows as well as her own breath - the crying, the quiet, the fear.

Try as she might, though, she ends up in the Music section. And then in Instrumentals. And then... Classical.

Izzy Gallagher flicks through hard plastic CD cases, barely seeing the names. Always the same, a person with an instrument, a tree, a landscape, meaningful words, a list of songs on the back.

Then she stops. She finds what she refused to tell herself she was looking for.

Her mother, years and years ago - nearly fifteen years ago, her mind supplies. She stands with her violin in hand on a pristine, polished white floor, in a room with white walls and ceiling. There’s a skylight and sunlight pours down onto her mother’s hair, wild untamed dark chocolate brown, a riot around her shoulders and down to her waist.

There are plants everywhere, in white pots - lush green leaves that brush against her skin, frame her like a saint’s halo, paint her in such deep colors she seems like a Renaissance painter’s muse. Her mother smiles, bow drawn against strings just so, and her eyes are on the camera, bright and wide and so very blue.

She’s beautiful.

Izzy picks the CD up, almost against her will.

Savannah Marcoset, reads the swirling script across the front. Along the bottom, the word Bella.

She’s gorgeous- svelte and with the slight color to her skin set off by the brilliance of the natural light, the green of the plants clustered all around her. She had the photo taken in the sunroom, the bright white room Izzy remembers best because it was the only place she and her father could feel alone, and free, before. It was Jax’s room, and here is her mother standing in it, violating it. Taking even this small piece he was allowed to keep for himself, and forcing her way into it, like she did into everything.

She’s never let him be weightless, she has always given him things to drag him down into her orbit, forced him to live captured by her gravity. She marked him with scars, left him with night terrors, forced on him the two children he could not leave behind.

Even in this, her music, the songs are all for him, about him, inspired by him, in some way. She named this CD after a daughter she was hiding alongside the man in the house. Izzy would have been a year old, she thinks, when this album came out.

A year old, silent baby hidden in silent spaces by a father threatened to teach her to stay quiet.

Savvie, though, is here endlessly lovely, utterly awful, hiding it beneath the beatific smile. She’s beautifully soft in her thin white shirt and skirt, angelic-sweet. Somewhere just out of sight, though, is a man begging for himself and his daughter to be found. And he won’t be.

He’s never found.

He had to find - and save - himself.

In a sudden burst of energy, she slips the CD into the waistline of her pants, tucks it against her hip and abdomen, covers it with the billowing fabric of her own shirt. She could pay for it, of course - she should pay for it, but she... can’t. She can’t make herself.

Instead, she walks with the CD jamming its corner into the space where hip and thigh meet, hoping it looks casual and natural. Her pulse races, she barely hears the total for the three books as her blood rushes in her ears. She digs out the money to pay, gets change, doesn’t know how much.

She keeps waiting to hear them yelling, running after her, stop, thief! But no one does. No one chases her. No one stops her from curling up on a bench, knees up nearly to her chin, staring down at the little booklet included with the CD. Flicking through page after page of her mother, sitting in her practice room, standing near the rose bushes, laughing with her head thrown back.

Izzy shivers with uneasy memory of the sound of that laughter.

She thinks she will take the CD home and hide it, in the flat box under the bed, with all her other reminders of the way she was born to be a block of concrete dragging the person she loves most under the water, to force him to drown.

She thinks she will take the stolen music home.

Instead, she finds herself snapping it in half, dropping it in a wastebin, tearing the images of her mother into tiny pieces, a trail of breadcrumbs leading her back to a house that was never home.

In an album named for her daughter, every single song is about him, instead. Izzy is not jealous.

She is only so, so sorry to be here giving him no escape from her scars.

#izzy fucking gallagher #poor jax #savvie marcoset #referenced torture #referenced captivity #kleptomania tw #(brief)#child of whumpee #identity issues #referenced abuse #recovering whumpee

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damienthepious · 5 years ago

Text

oh, well, this is unexpected. Not a tuesday offering because... well, it’s not about that. Casey, Sky, & Ria, y’all are. partially responsible for this one. i love you sorry for the angst.

Mirrors Keep Our Reflections

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: n/a

Characters: Sir Damien, Sir Damien’s Father, Original Male Character

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, (as usual i do not know how to tag), Damien's family, (i am mildly unpacking damien's father), (also i have given the boy a sibling), (whom i love now), (and... whooops.... uh), Implied/Referenced Character Death, (at least twice over actually), Loss of Parent(s), Family Dynamics, Siblings, Grief/Mourning, Angst

Summary: If there had been a third child, he would have been named Ferdinand.

Notes: Whoops. Context: there's a patreon bonus guide to the second citadel thing that talks about names and naming in the 'verse, and apparently it is very common for children to pick a new name for themselves. Combine this with certain headcanons I have about Damien's family and you get.... a mess. Title from Domino by Squalloscope.

It is a cruel anniversary for all three of them. Aaron is unsure what their father thinks Damien will accomplish in his studies today, but neither of them argue when they are each assigned their tasks before their father locks himself away again with his holy texts.

Aaron is unsure as well, if their father is mourning, in this way, or if there is some other answer he seeks in the words of the Saints. It doesn't particularly matter, he decides, if it means that he and Damien will be left to mourn on their own, in peace.

When Damien's shoulders sag over his own reading, when he rubs at his eyes, Aaron steps up beside him, reaches forward, and closes his book.

"Aaron-"

"Come down by the pond with me."

"But father said-"

"A few minutes, Damien. Clear your head, give your poor scholarly eyes a rest, inhale some air that isn't half composed of dust."

His brother glances back down to the closed book again, guilty and reluctant, and then he scoots his stool back. "… Alright. Only for a little while."

The walk is short, and though the day is oppressively hot, the shade and the breeze are cool enough to guard them from the worst of it by the water's edge. Damien settles on the moss with a sigh, and he closes his eyes for a long moment as Aaron stares out over the glassy surface of the pond, watching the lines rippling out behind the family of geese on the far side.

"Do you… remember much about her?" Damien asks, after what seems like quite some time. His voice is very quiet, and when Aaron blinks and glances towards him, Damien still has his eyes closed, though his expression is tight and anxious.

After a long moment, Aaron sinks to sit beside his brother. "… less than I once did," he admits, and Damien opens his eyes so that he may watch Aaron's face instead. "Less than I wish I did. Memory is an unreliable creature. If you look away from it for too long, it will transform, or decay. I remember… I remember that she had clever eyes, a rare smile but easy humor… I do remember that she enjoyed mornings just the same as you, Damien."

Damien's smile is noticeably watery, but it is genuine. "Did she shove you from bed as I do?"

"When I needed a good shoving," Aaron grins, "yes."

"I wish-"

Damien's words come too fast. Too abrupt, and they cut off into the silence of the thrumming hot day just as quickly.

"I know," Aaron says, when the silence has drawn long. "I wish too. I miss her, and… and I miss the man that father was, when she was still here."

"Was he… was he-"

"He was still himself," Aaron says gently. "But- happier. Less unyielding."

"I think… I cannot help but think, how it could have been, if-" he inhales sharply, his brow furrowing. "The four of us, together. Or- the five, I expect."

"Five- ah." Aaron presses his lips together for a moment. "Right."

Aaron, and Damien, and-

Their parents would not have named them as they did, of course, if they were not anticipating a third with which to complete their reverent set.

"Another brother," Damien says, both sad and wondering. "We could have had another… another piece to our family. Some brave little boy we never had the chance to know-"

"You cannot know what another child would have been like, Damien. Simply because father would have named him Ferdinand does not mean anything about who he would have been. Or she, for that matter. A name such as that…"

"A name such as ours?" Damien asks, one eyebrow raised and his lips pursed into a pout.

Aaron eyes his brother in return, considering, and then he nods. "A name such as ours. The more I think on it, the more I know that it is a wretched thing to do. If we had another brother, if they named him as they clearly planned- likely he would toss the name on the next fire as soon as he was old enough to choose one for himself. Saints know how often I've been tempted to do the same."

"You- you have?" Damien asks, obviously incredulous, his eyes wide, and Aaron attempts to keep his expression only wry.

"It's only... it's quite a lot for any child to live up to," he says. "You understand that, don't you?"

"I... I suppose so... but- but you do live up to your namesake! You are steadfast, sturdy-"

"Damien-"

"Resolute! And if you can live up to your name, certainly if I work hard enough, study long enough-"

"You shouldn't have to, Damien. Neither should I. No child should. If we had another in our family, it would be kinder to leave them free of such a weight.

Damien frowns, a delicate web of incomprehension. "Are you... are you going to change yours, then?"

Aaron looks aside, sighs. "I haven't decided. It's... it is a heavy weight, but... it means so much to him."

And their father's good humor is the unsteady framework upon which their home is built.

"... what... what would you even change it to, if you did?"

"I could change it to Damien, simply to annoy you," Aaron says with his wide, easy grin.

"Aaron. I am being serious."

Aaron laughs. "I could simply change it to Ferdinand myself, and then you could take a turn as the elder brother."

Damien huffs. "That," he says stiffly, "is not how that works. And besides- if you were Ferdinand, that certainly would not solve your problem. Your very first point was that bravery would be an equally heavy burden."

"That is true," Aaron says with a sigh. "So. Not another Saint name, then."

"Obviously not," Damien agrees. "That would limit you quite severely." He pauses, his uncertainty so poorly concealed that Aaron can't help but smile again. "Did... clearly you have put some thought into this... did you have any potential names in mind? Any that were not in jest?"

"Any..." Aaron echoes. "I suppose that is just the issue," he says slowly. "If I were not Aaron, I could be anyone."

"But were there any anyones in particular," Damien insists. "Come now, I don't think you would have brought it up had you nothing already in mind!"

"Perhaps I had some trouble, summoning potential names to my own mind. Perhaps I was far more curious to hear your suggestions," he says, tilting his head with a grin. "You are much quicker with this sort of game than I, after all.

"Oh!" Damien clasps his hands together, grinning, and then he schools his expression, his brow furrowing as he considers this task for a long moment. "You could be... hm, perhaps Lucan? No- Rience! Or perhaps Owain, or Claudas, or Balan-"

"Evaine is rather elegant," Aaron murmurs, and his face is very still as he watches the equally still water.

Damien pauses. "Wh-what was that?"

Aaron says nothing for a long moment, and then he stands, his easy smile spread across his face again. "It's past time we returned you to your studies, I think."

"But-"

"I will thank you for indulging me, and beg your pardon for distracting you for quite so long," he says. "But we should... we should return to where we belong, Damien."

Damien stares up at him, still unsure for a strange, stretched-out moment, and then he reaches a hand out so Aaron may help pull him back to his feet.

They do not speak, on the walk back to their home. They do not speak of names ever again.

They do not see another cruel anniversary together.

If there had been a third child, he would have been named Ferdinand. Unlike his namesake, Damien who will be Pious has only one brother, and his name was only ever Aaron.

After Aaron dies, Damien's father mourns this newest cruelty by packing up what remains of their lives and taking young Damien to the realm where death looms the closest. He takes them to the Western Wastes, the woods of death themselves, and there Damien's father proselytizes. The names of the Saints on his tongue, surrounded by death and nonbelievers. Their names, again and again, and echoed in and echoing his family, in his son who never was, in his son who no longer is, in his son who is not enough.

When Damien is old enough to choose his own appellation, he thinks of Aaron.

He thought of Aaron in the water, as well. He thinks of Aaron often, though he is discovering to his sorrow that Aaron had been right, about memory, and transformation, and decay. He remembers that easy grin, still, and sturdy embrace, but he has forgotten the precise pattern of his freckles. He has forgotten the name that he whispered like a secret beside the water. He has forgotten moments small, and large, and they have left him so easily that he will not even recognize their lack.

Damien could choose another name, but once beneath the water his namesake reached within him, and helped him breathe.

Damien could choose another name, but once a boy named Aaron had a brother named Damien, and Damien does not wish to be anyone else.

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #sir damien #uhhhhyeah.

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froppy-the-frog · 5 years ago

Text

Electric Love- Kaminari Denki x Jiro Kyoka

So, I have never written fanfiction before. But then I read this beautiful fic by shikastemari and honestly I was so inspired by it that I wanted to take a crack at writing my own. Please go read their writing because it’s so good ahhhh. So, my fic shares a similar premise/situation to their fic- Kaminari asking Jiro for help playing guitar for the school festival.

Note: Listen, we all love Kaminari for the flirtatious, hilarious, friendly loser that he is. The boy does not excel at school, but he does actually possess knowledge regarding the arts (literature, art, etc) and I think we all need to remember that. So, I personally headcannon that while he sucks a school in a traditional classroom environment, he actually really enjoys reading classic literature, has quite a broad vocabulary, and writes down his favorite quotes in the notes app on his phone. I also think he really would enjoy indie rock and pop. Idk he gives off those vibes imo. Jiro prefers rock music I think, but she is listens to a lot of different songs and constantly is recommending songs to people that she thinks they would like. She is very shy but also really enjoys calling Kaminari different nicknames.

Anyways.

This story takes place sometime before the school festival where they throw that concert. Also, idk if you’re supposed to use character’s last names or their first names, so I did a mix. Also, there may be some spelling errors and grammar errors. Please forgive me if that’s the case. Fic title inspired by this song.

Word count: 4,948

Part: 1/? Idk I might write a sequel if I feel like it and/or have time

Warnings: fluff, maybe some angst?

Pairings: Jiro Kyoka x Kaminari Denki

Outside sources referenced/used: Practice; The Learn’d Astronomer, Prometheus Unbound, Electric Love

Kaminari Denki had had enough of today. His last class had ended for the day, and honestly it wasn’t a second too soon. Everything today had been an absolute train wreck- between the ungodly amount of homework the teachers has assigned for over the weekend, the absolute bs that had gone down in third period between Bakugou and Midoriya that resulted in a singed classroom and a broken door, and the thunderstorm that had been booming on and off throughout the day, Kaminari was ready to scream into a pillow. Walking out of the main campus building, Kaminari pushed his headphones over his ears, pressing shuffle on his Spotify playlist adequately named ‘jams for when ur ready to lose ur goddamn mind xD’. This was the beginning of the short walk from the main campus building to the dorm building where he lived during the school year. It was overcast. A gust of wind pushing his honeyed blonde hair back, bringing with it the smell of impending. Great, Kaminari thought to himself, another thing ruin today. Kaminari absolutely loathed the rain, or really, any sort of water-electricity and water don’t exactly mix well. His foul mood festered as he quickened his pace, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, and he felt a few drops of water hit his forehead. Yep, definitely is gonna rain tonight, Kaminari thought to himself. He was so looking forward to bursting into his dorm and falling face first on his bed. Unfortunately, this dream would be a nearly impossible task, at least without being interrupted, as he lived in a dorm building with all of the other students that attended UA. UA, despite being the most prestigious hero-training high school in all of Japan, still had its fair share of the typical shenanigans that teens get into-drama, gossip, flirting, Mariokart tournaments, pranks, impromptu dance-offs, etc. Kaminari normally was totally ready to get insert himself into whatever social situation was going on in the common spaces. He considered himself to be a pretty gregarious, easy-going guy. He really liked hanging out with the other heroes in training. They were great to banter with, and he especially loved playfully flirting with the girls. But tonight, he wanted none of that, only hoping to slip unnoticed into his dorm so he could scream into his pillow. After a few minutes of walking, Kaminari reached the entrance of the dorm buildings. He scanned his ID and the door buzzed, signally it was unlocked so he could enter. Taking a deep breath, he mentally prepared himself for whatever was going on in the common areas that laid between him and his final destination, before he entering the common room. Luckily for him, the common areas were actually pretty empty for once, and Kaminari sighed a breath of relief. Everybody must have just gotten back and were probably in their rooms. Elevator or stairs? He quietly asked himself. Hm, less chance of running into anybody else in the stairwell. So with his book bag over his shoulder, he made a beeline through the common room to the stairwell door, opening it, and started his ascent to the third floor. He cast his gaze down at the steps as he climbed so as to avoid eye contact with any other soul he might encounter in that stairwell. He was lost deep in his ruminations, so it wasn’t a surprise that he didn’t register hearing footsteps from another person who was descending the stairs.

“Hey!” A waving hand appeared in his face suddenly, catching Kaminari off-guard. He accidentally took a step back in surprise, missing the stair beneath him, and falling on his ass on the stair landing.

“Kamimari! Holy shit! are you okay?!” The sound of boots pounded down the steps then Kaminari felt warmth next to his shoulder where somebody was kneeling next to him.

“Ughhh” Lucky for him, he had landed on his ass and hadn’t hit is head.

“Holy shit Kaminari, I knew you looked out of it today, but Jesus, this is a lot, even for you.”

Regaining a bit of his senses, Kaminari sharply snapped back “What the hell do you mean by that?! And what are you doing here in the stairwell leading to the men’s wing, Jiro?” Normally, he wasn’t the type to get super angry, but he had just fell on his ass in front of Jiro, one of his closest friends. His face flushed red, a stark contrast against his honey-colored hair.

“Whoa, chill Denki. This isn’t like you. Listen, I didn’t mean for you fall backwards, I just wanted get your attention, Megawatt. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m fine” he said, getting up and brushing himself off. Well, so much for avoiding people.

Jiro stood up from kneeling and took a step back from Kaminari. “Well, anyways, I was in the male’s wing ‘cause I was actually looking for you. You said earlier this week that you needed help with the guitar, right?” she asked earnestly.

“Well, yeah... but right now really isn’t a good time. I’ve had the shittiest day and I don’t think I can handle any more failure...”

Jiro stopped and blinked, looking upset. “Denki... what happened today? Was it about third period? Really, you didn’t incite that incident, I was only kidding-” She asked earnestly.

“It’s nothing!” He snapped, his face turning a darked\r shade of vermillion. Jiro looked surprised and hurt by his reaction, and Denki immediately felt bad. He stiffened, and looked down, softening his tone. “I just...need some time to let off some steam. You know, get into a better headspace, recharge. I want to be left alone right now.”

“Oh, okay... well, if there’s anything I can do to help or you change your mind, you know where I live.” Then she reached out to gently touch his arm, startling him. He looked up, caught off guard by this. His felt his heartbeat quicken, and he prayed that she couldn’t hear it. Jiro added “Stop by. I mean it.” Denki mumbled a quick thanks to her, and not looking up, made his way up another flight of stairs to the third floor.

He flung open the door to the hallway in the men’s wing. He trudged down the hallway, finally arriving at his dorm. His hand went to his pocket to get his key only to hit fabric. SHIT he thought. I must’ve dropped it in the stairwell when I fell. He swiftly spun around to retrace his steps only to turn and bump right into Jiro, knocking both her and himself to the ground.

“Watch it, Sparky! I mean, Shit... sorry.” Jiro quickly scrambled to her feet, red faced and stammered “Look, I didn’t mean to- listen, so you, uh, dropped your keys and- I uh- just- here” She tossed Denki’s keys onto his lap and quickly ran down the hallways towards the door to the female wing.

Denki sat there, blinking, just trying to comprehend what had just happened. Shit, that had really just happened. Jiro looked really embarrassed. All she was trying to do was help him out. Denki felt awful for not only having snapped at her in the stairwell but then having knocked her to the floor. His thoughts shifted from anger from the day’s events to determination to fix things with Jiro. Rising to his feet, he unlocked his door, and quickly changed into some more casual clothes. He grabbed the guitar that was propped against the wall and slung it over his shoulder, taking note to also bring the sheet music for the song he was learning. With that, Kaminari headed out of his room and toward the female wing. When he got to Jiro’s room, he hesitated a brief moment before knocking. Does she even want to see me after having been so rude? Only one way to find out.

Kaminari knocked on the door and waited. “Yeah? Who is it?” An icy, familiar voice from rang out from behind the closed door. “Um, uh, it’s me, you know, Denki Kaminari, your friend.” He heard footsteps, then the door unlatch.

Jiro opened her door enough to stand in the doorframe. “Yeah?”

“Hey Kyoka, I am here to for some practice. I wanna be ready to impress everybody for the school festival!” He flashed a bright smile at her, and she rolled her eyes.

“Alright Sparky. C’mon in”.

Denki walked in, looking around at her décor. Band posters plastered the walls and tons of different music equipment peeking out from every available nook and cranny. “You know Kyoka, I still can’t get over how cool your room is. It really looks like a music store or somethin’”

Jiro scoffed “Well, it’s just some stuff to help set the vibe. Gotta keep it rockin’” Jiro sat on the edge of her bed, and gestured for kaminari to come over. He plopped himself down on the floor in front of Jiro and took off his jacket. “Alright Mr. Jammingway, let’s start off with some warm-ups”

“Awww, Kyoka, do I have to? I wanna get jamming!”

“Dude, you wrists and fingers are gonna get so sore if you don’t warm up. Besides, even the legends like Jimmie Hendrix and Eric Clapton would warm up before playing. You’re not any better than them, so shut up and get started”

“Aww okay. I wouldn’t want tendinitis or anything.”

“Let’s start off with getting you tuned. Your guitar I mean.” Jiro got up and went over to her electric keyboard, and started off with a low E. Kaminari tuned his guitar string to match, and followed suit with the remaining strings. After getting his guitar tuned, he cracked his knuckles and stretched out his digits and rolled his wrists around to loosen them up. He then started on some warm up exercises, practicing picking and strumming.

Jiro smirked as she sat back down on her bed. “Wow Sparky, you actually listened to me. You have been warming up before you practice”

Denki stopped and looked up at her, grinning. “’Course, why wouldn’t a listen to a talented rocker such as yourself? I’m not completely obtuse.”

“You are though most of the time. I swear, there’s lots of cobwebs in the brain of yours” Jiro said followed by a laugh.

Kaminari frowned. “I’m really not that dumb. I swear. I’m just not so much a math-science-logic sort of guy. I’m more of a Whitman sort of guy”.

Jiro looked at him, puzzled. “A what?”

“You know, Walt Whitman, the poet? Here, lemme look up a poem real quick-” Kaminari reached over to his jacket and took his smartphone out of the pocket. He tapped quickly and scooted closer to Jiro and began reading aloud:

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, we ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I was sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars

They sat in silence for a moment before Denki spoke. “That’s probably my favorite poem by him. I really just, I don’t know, I feel like it was almost written about me in a way. But I guess that’s the great thing about poetry-it reminds you that you aren’t alone in your human experience”.

Jiro was quiet. She hadn’t expected such a deep philosophical sentiment from the same guy who regularly and non-ironically used the word ‘yeet’.

“Um-“ Jiro started, but Denki interrupted her “Heh, sorry. Let’s get back to practicing. I am having problem with the barre chords. I just can’t seem to get my fingers to do that.”

Jiro snapped back to reality “Oh, yeah, barre chords are hard. If the song only had barre chords, you could use a capo, but since it has other non-barre chords, unfortunately ya gotta learn them the hard way. So,” She reached over to the wall and unhooked the electric guitar, bringing it down to her lap. “what you’re gonna do is take your pointer finger like this” She put it across all six strings “and then roll it to the side so the bony part is up against the strings. You’ll get a cleaner sound and it won’t hurt as much.”

She turned to look at Kaminari, who was staring at her, his eyes glistening under the fluorescent light. “Um, so, uh, why don’t you give it a try Denki?” She watched as Denki tried to copy her hand position but it was clear he was struggling.

“Nah, more like this” she showed him again on her guitar, and watched as he hopelessly tried to copy her hand position. She scooted off the bed and knelt in front of him. She took his hand and moved each of his fingers to the correct placement. She looked up from the neck of his guitar, close enough where he could feel her exhales on his face. His heart thumped loudly in his chest and he prayed she could not hear him. Jiro continued, “…See, like this. Try strumming now.” Blushing, Kaminari strummed downward, and a clean sounding chord rang out.”

Jiro sat back and smiled. “See? You got it! Try it again, upward stroke this time.” Denki repeated, and let the chord ring out fully. He grinned at Jiro.

“Thanks Kyoka! You’re a really good teacher.” “Jiro began an attempted at denying it, but Denki cut her off “Jiro, accept a compliment! You’re good at teaching and you’re even better at playing. You really are talented.”

Jiro stayed quiet for a few moments, then stood up. “Well,” she exhaled. “You seem to be progressing really well. I think that if you keep up with the practicing, you should be ready for the school festival by the time it rolls around. I say let’s call it quits for the evening. She looked out the window over her balcony. Attempting to change the subject to distract herself from blushing, she said “Looks like it stopped raining.”

Denki put down the guitar and stood up. “Yeah. Hey Kyoka?” She looked at him, and he continued “Wanna go for a walk in the courtyard? I know it’s probably a bit wet out still from the rain, but it’s always really refreshing to be outside after a rainstorm.”

Jiro thought about saying no, until an idea struck her. “Yeah, sure thing. Lemme grab my jacket and shoes real quick.” She grabbed her jacket and slid on her boots, then they both headed for the door. They both reached for the door handle at the same time, accidently touching hands for a split second before yanking their hands back.

“Oh! Um, sorry” Denki stammered, turning slightly red as he tensed up.

“It’s all good; don’t worry ‘bout it, Sparky.” She smiled reassuringly at him, and his shoulder relaxed. They walked next to each other, heading towards the stairwell. Descending the stairs then walking through the common area, they headed towards the exit.

Unlike earlier, there were students from 1-A now sitting on the couches surrounding the TV, watching some sort of rom-com. Ochaco, Tsuyu, Tokoyami, Mina, Midoriya, Iida, Todoroki, and Momo were spread out over the couches. Uraraka turned around when she heard their footsteps and called out to them.

“Hey Kyoka! Hi Denki!” She grabbed the TV remote and hit pause. “You guys want to watch “A Cinderella Story” with us?”

Mina chimed in “Tokoyami, Iida, and Todoroki haven’t seen it before, which an absolute crime. Can you believe it?! it’s an absolutely iconic movie that defined a generation”.

Todoroki’s eyes widened “Its a crime?!”

Momo laughed. “No Todoroki, figure of speech. And well mina, maybe that’s a bit of an overstatement, but seriously, Jiro, Kaminari, it’s a good movie. We started it only a few minutes ago, so you haven’t missed much. Bakugo, Sero, and Kirishima are in the kitchen working on dinner for everybody.”

Iida added “We extended the invitation to the other students to join us for this screening, but most of them either went home for the weekend or are studying.”

Tsuyu added “We stopped by Jiro’s room to ask you to join us, but it sounded like you guys were practicing for the festival, so we decided not to interrupt, ribbet.”

Denki responded “That was real cool of you guys. Jiro and me are gonna go for a quick walk, but we’ll join you afterwards. Its one of my favorite movies”.

Mina laughed from the couch. “That’s a surprise, Kaminari. I wouldn’t peg you as the rom-com type”.

Denki shook his head and grinned “A movie with hot girls, humor, and happy endings? What’s not to love? Anyways, we’ll be back.”

Uraraka waved and said “Alright, have fun! We’ll see you guys soon!” Denki waved back then he and Jiro headed outside.

When they got outside, they walked for a few minutes, saying nothing. The air was still, and the streetlights softly illuminated the sidewalk, slick with water. Jirou and Kaminari walked closely side by side, unconsciously syncing their strides, only a few inches between their hands that swung loosely at their sides. Kaminari finally broke the silence. “Isn’t it nice out? I don’t like thunderstorms much, but I love the air afterwards. It has a weird feel to it, you know? Its… I don’t know how to describe it. I guess it almost feels like it’s a liminal space of sorts, like between good and bad weather.”

Jiro looked at him confused. “You don’t like thunderstorms? You literally have an electric quirk. I would’ve thought that you would love them.”

Denki laughed, and put his hand on the back of his neck. “Aha, yeah, not so much. Water and I don’t exactly mix…”

“Ah, that makes sense. Well, every time there’s a thunderstorm, it reminds me of you ” Jiro replied. Kaminari felt a hot blush spread across his face and he was grateful for the dim lighting to disguise his embarrassment. Jiro looked away from him quickly as to also disguise the blush that was creeping across her face. Silence once again befell them and the continued walking.

Is now the time to bring this up, Jiro thought to herself. Well, she thought, might as well give it a try. Jiro broke the silence to say “Hey, so I, uh, well, so I came across this song the other day and I think you might like. You like indie rock and that kind of music, right, Jammingway?”

Kaminari was surprised. “How did you kn-”

Jiro laughed. “Dude, your Spotify playlists are public. I’m always looking for new songs so I sometimes randomly listen to other people’s playlists. Plus, you give off that sort of vibes. Anyways, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Denki smiled sheepishly as she continued “so I came across this song that I think you would like. You got your phone on you?”

“Of course. What kind of teen would I be if I didn’t?” He laughed as he pulled his smartphone out of his jacket pocket, unlocked it, then handed it over to Jiro. She walked over to a nearby bench, brushed off the water, and tapped the bench, inviting Kaminari to come sit next to her. She pulled a pair of earbuds from her pocket, plugged them into his phone’s headphone jack, and then handed Kaminari one earbud. She put the other one in her own ear, then hit play. She closed her eyes, and Kaminari followed suit, listening to the beginning of the song.

“Candy… She’s sweet like candy in my veins…”

He was very aware of how close they were sitting together, how her arm was resting against his, her warm breath on his skin, his knee touching hers.

“Baby, I’m dying for another taste. And every night my mind is running round her, Thunder’s getting louder and louder”

He blushed hearing the lyrics, wondering if she thought this way about him or if it was just the style of music that reminded her of him. If it was the first of the two, would that mean…?

“Baby, you’re like lightning in a bottle! I I can't let you go now that I got it! And all I need is to be struck by your electric love”

The chorus hit, and he got it: it was because it was about electricity. I mean, he thought, that’s kinda a shallow connection to me, but a connection nevertheless. At least she thought about me…

The song ended, and Jiro turned to look at him expectedly. “So… what do you think? You like it?”

“Yeah, “he laughed. “That is a great example of the kind of music I like. Guess I have a pretty predictable music taste.” He ran his hand through his hair.

Jiro frowned “Nah, I just know you, dude. What did you think of the lyrics?” She hoped that he had picked up on the general message so she wouldn’t have to explain it…

“Yeah, I see why you thought of me. ‘Cause of the thunderstorm metaphor used. I have an electricity quirk. You said earlier thunderstorms remind you of me. It’s a superficial level metaphoric comparison.” He saw her face change under the dim streetlight, and he quickly clarified “Superficial in the sense of like not like ‘uh you’re soooo superficial’ but more like it just being a surface level observation, like not skin deep, you know? Sorry. I do like the song though, and” he took a deep breath and touched her arm gently. “I’m glad that you think of me. You’re a good friend, Kyoka”.

Jiro’s heart sank. Dammit, she thought to herself, I really am gonna have to explain it. “So, um, I guess like I saw the lyrics as a sort of way to describe how I feel about you. Like how earlier you read that poem to me and said you said you thought it described you. I feel like this song really captures how I feel about… well, how I feel about you.”

Denki took a moment to process what she had just said. Please oh please oh please I hope he picks up on what I’m trying to say she prayed.

Kaminari’s face broke out into a grin. “So, I think I catch your drift.” He paused, then said “Are you familiar with the work of Percy Bysshe Shelley?”

Jiro shook her head “I don’t see how this connects Den-“

“Shh, lemme continue, Earbuds. Percy B Shelley, English poet, husband of Mary Shelley who authored ‘Frankenstein’, real cool guy. Anyways, he wrote a play called ‘Prometheus Unbound’ which was like his response to the story ‘Prometheus Bound’ which is like an ancient Greek play… sorry, tangent. Yeah, so there was this one line I read that I wrote down in my notes…somewhere…” He bit his bottom lip as he scrolled through all of his notes on his phone. “Ah, here it is. It reminded me of how you make me feel” He read out loud:

As in the soft and sweet eclipse,

When soul meets soul on lovers' lips,

High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes are dull;

So when thy shadow falls on me,

Then am I mute and still, by thee

He leaned forward and softly placed his lips against hers for a few seconds. Then, they broke away, saying nothing. Kaminari leaned back and looked up at the sky, smiling to himself. I finally did it, he thought.

Jiro’s thoughts were racing 100 kilos an hour. THAT JUST HAPPENED OMG what do I do now ahhhhhh. Okay, get it together, Kyoka. She reached out and took his hand. She gave it a light squeeze, and joined Kaminari in looking up at the sky. A few softly glowing specks of light glimmered amongst the dark clouds that filled the void. Jiro leaned her head on Kaminari’s shoulder, and he leaned his towards her in response. Their gazes directed towards the sky, thoughts intertwined, sharing warmth from each other’s touch, they stayed in this seemingly infinite, gentle moment.

A few tiny drops of water descended from the sky, bringing them both crashing back to earth from the sky. Kaminari turned his head and kissed the top of Jiro’s head. “I think it’s time to head back, Kyoka.” he whispered, making no attempt to get up.

Jiro rotated her body to face Kaminari, delicately placed her hand on his cheek and pulled him close, meeting her lips with his. “Okay” she softly responded.

Both of them reluctantly broke apart and stood up, and began leisurely strolling towards the UA dorm building. Suddenly, lightning bolts instantly zagged across the sky above, followed by a deafening boom that echoed through the air. The clouds above broke open, and hard droplets raced to the earth below, aggressively soaking the world in a layer of water. Kaminari grabbed Jiro’s hand and pulled her forward as he ran towards the entrance of the dorm building. He fumbled for his ID, only then realizing he must have dropped it somewhere.

“Jiro… I can’t find my ID. Do you have yours?” Jiro’s hand instantly went to her pocket and pulled out her ID. She quickly pressed it against the scanner on the wall, the door buzzed, and they were able to quickly enter into the dry, brightly-lit common room. They were dripping wet, but grateful to be out of the storm.

Everyone was still watching the movie in the common room. Tsuyu was the first to notice their return; she picked up the remote that was laid on the coffee table to pause the movie. “Looks like you guys got rained on, ribbet.”

Jiro didn’t know how to respond, so she was relieved when Kaminari answered for them. “Yeah!” He smirked. “It really just started downpouring out of nowhere, no warning or anything! Guess good ol’ Zeus decided one rainshower today wasn’t enough” He caused a few of the other students to chuckle.

“Oh, Kaminari” Iida tossed a lanyard at Kaminari. “You dropped your keys and ID here in the lobby. Try to be more responsible next time.”

“Thanks Iida” Kaminari mumbled, turning a shade of crimson.

“Well…” Jiro began “I am going to go change into some dry clothes. Be right back.”

“Oh, Jiro!” Uraraka called out. “Dinner should be done by the time you are back! So don’t forget to bring your appetite! Also, this is a pajama party so wear your pjs!” Jiro smiled and left for her room.

Kaminari watched her as she left the room, smiling to himself. He heard somebody clear their throat, and he snapped back to reality. “Well, I will probs go change too. Don’t want to catch a cold or anything. That would be pretty tragic. Also, I’ll bring some M&Ms for everybody. Be right back!”. Kaminari smirked as he left the common room and climbed the stairs to the third floor. He couldn’t have asked for that to have gone any better, except minus getting rained on. But Kyoka… she really kissed him, huh. He wanted to talk to her about what had happened outside, but he didn’t want to complicate anything yet.

Kaminari got to his dorm room and unlocked it, quickly changing into some comfy pj bottoms and a t-shirt, then he grabbed the bag of M&Ms, the lanyard with his ID and keys, and walked towards the female wing. He got to Jiro’s door and knocked, and waited for a response.

“Yeah?” Her voice rang out from behind the door.

“It’s me”.

A minute later, the door opened, and Jiro stood once again in the doorframe, this time, wearing a pair of pajama bottoms with a tank top. “Hey Megawatt, you ready to head back down?” She spied the bag of M&Ms in Kaminari’s hands. “Bruh. M&Ms are actually my favorite candy in the world.”

Kaminari smiled. “I know. That’s what I was thinking when I got them. You gotta share them with everybody else though too”.

Jiro pouted “Aww, alright Sparky, I will. I’m not gonna be happy about it but I guess sharing is caring. Let’s go.”

They walked together towards the stairwell door, and before going through, Jiro stopped suddenly.

“So, before we go join the rest of the gang, Sparky, um, can we quickly maybe talk about what happened out there? You know, before it started raining...”

Kaminari responded “I would love to, but I really really want to watch the movie with you and the others, so maybe let’s put a pin in that for now. Don’t worry” he paused, and gently placed a kiss on her check, causing her to cheeks to flush pink. “We’ll talk about it. Tomorrow maybe?”

Jiro smirked, threw her arms around his neck, and smashed her lips against his before saying. “Alright, whatever you say, Mr. Short-Circuit. Let’s grab some tea or something when we do. You know, make it a date.”

Kaminari’s brain whirled, but he managed to respond “Yeah. Tomorrow at 1?”

“Yeah, sounds good. Stop by beforehand though so you can practice guitar more. Ya gotta be able to shred for the festival.”

“Course.” Kaminari said. “I gotta keep up so I don’t look idiotic next to a hardcore rocker such as yourself”.

Jiro smirked, opening the door to the stairwell and bounded down the stairs to the floor with the common areas. Kaminari smiled, following her into the common area to join the other students.

#kaminari denki #jiro kyoka #kaminari x jiro #kaminari denki x jiro kyoka #my hero academia #mha #mha fanfiction #kamijirou #kamijiro #jirou kyoka

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365daysofsasuhina · 6 years ago

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[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Two Hundred Twenty-Seven: Miniature ___ ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Best Years of Your Life ] [ AO3 Link ]

If there’s one thing Hinata is a fan of...it’s tiny things. She isn’t even really sure why...she just likes them. Always has. When she was little, she collected the miniature versions of Beanie Babies. Polly Pocket was one of her favorite toys, along with any teeny models of anything she could get her hands on. Little figurines, small animals, tiny dollhouses...the smaller, the better.

Even her handwriting is small. Neat and curvy, she even dots her i’s and j’s with tiny little hearts. During her doodling phase, there would be tiny little drawings along the sides of her assignments and notebooks. Then she got into things like knitting and crochet, and took to creating smaller and smaller versions of the projects she would find in books or online.

Even her height caps out relatively short in high school. By the time she’s a senior, she’s still only five feet four inches. Of course, she also has a rather curvy build, but that doesn’t bother her at all. She’s the shortest of her friend group, and earns herself the nickname pixie.

She loves it.

“So...what are we making today?”

“Huh?” Looking up from the cookbook she’s skimming through, Hinata gives a small start. She...sort of forgot she was in Home Ec class...whoops. They have a bit of a free day, and as always that means cooking with Sasuke. But though she’d started reading with the intention of finding something to make, she got a little...lost. A bit of a daydreamer, her focus isn’t always the best. A sheepish smile pulls at her lips. “Um...I dunno yet. You wanna pick?”

“Eh, I’m no good at it.”

Lips pursing thoughtfully, she absently flips through a few more pages before perking up. “Ooh...what about this?”

“Hm?” Glancing over, Sasuke grimaces just a hair: it’s a dessert. He still doesn’t like sweet things all that much.

“What?”

“Brownies?”

“Mhm! See, they’re supposed to be like, um...s’mores!” She turns the book to him, letting him see the picture right side up. “You make a graham cracker crust first, in the bottom of the pan. Then you make the brownies on top! Once those are done, you put a whole bunch of miniature marshmallows along the top, and broil them so they get browned. Doesn’t it look good?”

“Eh, I guess.”

Hinata gives a pout. “I still can’t believe you don’t like s-sweets.”

“They’re okay, I guess. It’s just easy for something to be too sweet, y’know?”

“No such thing!”

“Says you.”

“Well...we’ll make something savory next time,” she promises, turning the book back around. “I just...really want to use the marshmallows…”

“Oh yeah?”

“They’re so cute and tiny!” Hinata brings hands to her cheeks, smiling and going a bit pink. “Don’t you think?”

That earns a small snort of amusement. “Never really thought of food as cute before, no. But uh...I guess?”

“They are! Fluffy and soft and small…”

A grin softly curls Sasuke’s lips. The more he gets to know Hinata, the more he learns about her little quips and quirks. And so far, they all add up to a sweet, soft girl. Much like the marshmallows she’s so excited about. “All right, you win. They’re cute.” Like you.

...he...he did not just think that.

Jolting a bit as he realizes the thought, it thankfully goes unnoticed as Hinata turns to start gathering ingredients. Gripping over his mouth with a hand, he takes the opportunity to fight back a flustered flush. Darn this girl…!

“So, do you want to make the crust?”

“W-? Huh?”

“The graham cracker crust! It’s super easy,” she assures him, smiling. “You just need to melt some butter, and crush the graham crackers, mix them together...a-and press them in the pan to bake!”

“...sure.” Schooling his expression back to neutral, Sasuke does as asked, referencing the book as he goes. At least she has one thing right, it’s pretty straight forward. Using a ziplock bag, he smooshes the crackers with a rolling pin before mixing them into the butter. It actually...smells pretty good.

All the while, Hinata works on the brownie batter, humming idly to herself. Every so often, Sasuke gives her a glance from the corner of her eye, watching her go. A lot about her reminds him of his mother. Whenever she’s in the kitchen, she gets just as jovial, no matter what she’s making. It’s so boringly domestic, and yet...something about it brings a subconscious smile to his face.

“Ready to put it in the oven?”

“O-oh, uh...yeah.” Hurriedly getting it all packed into place, Sasuke puts the pan in, setting a timer.

“Okay, once that’s done we can do the brownies, and then the marshmallows!”

“So...we have marshmallows?”

“Mhm, right here.” Hinata shows the bag, which is...open. At his perked brow, she goes a little pink. “I...might’ve eaten one. Just to see if they were s-stale!”

“...and?”

“And, um...they’re fine!” She takes out another, squishing it between a thumb and forefinger with a giggle. “Nice and soft!”

Amused, Sasuke takes one as well, giving it a squish before popping it in his mouth. Almost immediately, he cringes at the pure sugary taste.

“W...what’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, forcing himself to swallow. “It’s just, guh...sweet.”

“You’d never survive a week at my house, I’ve always got sweets around,” Hinata laughs, indulging in another marshmallow.

“I dunno how you stand it. It’s just...too much.”

“Well, the taste changes a lot once they’ve been broiled, and along with the brownie and the cracker crust. Maybe that’ll be more your style?”

“Maybe.”

The timer dings, and once Sasuke fetches the pan, Hinata carefully spoons out the batter, smoothing it with a spatula and ensuring it’s nice and flat, with no splatters on the side. “There we go…!”

Then...more waiting.

“Here, you pick something for next time, okay?”

“Uh…” Accepting the book, Sasuke starts idly flipping through the pages. In truth, there’s...not a lot in here that isn’t sweet. “Maybe we need something other than baking, huh?”

Hinata blinks. “...you...probably have a point.” She moves to the little bookcase of cookbooks. “Anything look promising to you?”

He has no idea. Picking one at random, he flips a few pages before coming to a halt, eyes going a little wide. “...that one.”

Looking over his shoulder, Hinata brightens. “Baked Parmesan tomatoes…?” They look really easy to make. “...do you like tomatoes?”

“Yeah, they’re one of my favorite foods.”

“Ooh, aren’t there cherry tomatoes…? The little ones?”

At that, Sasuke gives her a glance. First miniature marshmallows, now little tomatoes? “...you have a thing for small stuff?”

The accusation makes her go pink again. “Well, I...s-sorta. I just think small stuff is...is cute!”

His prior thought nearly comes spilling out, and Sasuke has to clench his jaw shut before it tumbles out of his mouth. “...all tomatoes are good.”

“Then we’ll do this one next time! I’ll bring some fresh tomatoes from the store the next time we have a lighter day. If it was summer break, I could bring you some from my garden!”

“...you grow a garden?”

“A small one, yeah! I love plants, too!”

Is there anything this girl doesn’t love? “I’ve never grown anything...no idea if I’d be any good at it. Mom keeps a flower garden, but nothing you can eat.”

“I’ll have to bring you some!”

“...I’d like that.”

There’s a small, growingly-awkward silence, and then they’re blissfully interrupted by the timer. “...o-oh! Time to, uh...add the marshmallows!”

“...yeah.”

Carefully taking out the pan, they marvel at the two layers they have so far. “Okay, set the oven to broil, and I’ll add the ‘mallows!”

With everything in place, they put the pan back in, door cracked to make sure nothing burns. Soon enough, the smell of caramelized sugar wafts out, and Sasuke surprises himself at finding it pleasant.

“Okay, all done!”

...it looks glorious.

By then, they’ve drawn onlookers, and Hinata doles pieces out for the rest of the class. They take their own last, Sasuke looking at it curiously before taking a bite.

Hinata waits for a verdict.

A few seconds of chewing pass, and then he swallows. “...not bad. I like the bitter brownies, helps balance it out.”

“Yeah, I put in a bit less sugar to try to balance it out!”

“...you did?”

“I thought you’d like them better that way,” she replies, beaming.

He blinks. “...thanks.”

Once all is said and done, they clean up just as the bell rings. “Oh shoot, I need to get to practice, can you…?”

“I got it,” Sasuke assures her. “Get going.”

“Thank youuu!” Taking up her bag, she dashes out of the room with the others.

Left alone, Sasuke considers the bit of a mess, eyes lingering on the mini marshmallows.

...he’ll have to remember that.

.oOo.

Back to the Home Ec AU! I...love this one a lot xD It's so gosh darn cute. Give it up, Sasuke - there's no resisting how stinkin' adorable Hinata is. You're as good as gone, my boy. Just give in and submit to the cute! Anywho, I got more to get done tonight, so...that's all for now! Thanks for reading n_n

#sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #best years of your life [ au ]#365daysofsasuhina

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iamalivenow · 6 years ago

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“Take a vacation with me.” Aziraphale looks up from the counter, too busy doing inventory to possibly have heard that correctly. No, certainly Crowley, his friend Crowley who was currently leaning against his biography shelf in a way that was going to result in either him or the shelf meeting the ground in short order, couldn't possibly have- No. Certainly not.

“I'm sorry?” “Take a vacation with me, Angel.” He looks very charming, what with the lean and the new sunglasses that frame his face just so- “Who's going to watch the shop?” He asks, flipping a page in his ledger over without writing down so much as one number in it. “And after everything, so soon-” “Yeah but anyway.” Crowley pushes off of the shelf which does teeter, but not far enough to give Aziraphale a migraine he wouldn't be able to overcome for hours. “Come away with me.” “...Where?” It's just common sense this- knowing these sorts of things ahead of time. “Surprise.” He smirks. Certainly, he wasn't this temptable before. “Who's going to water your plants?” Crowley leans on the counter, elbows digging into his ledger, and he pulls his glasses down his nose, just a bit, until Aziraphale is staring into yellow and orange and gold. “I don't water them, I spritz them.” “Of course you do.” Aziraphale clears his throat, places one hand on the ledge and attempts to tug it free, but Crowley's weight is firmly on it, and crinkling the paper too. “Who's going to spritz them then?” “They'll survive a few days without us.” So it's an us now? “And what if- what if She needs something or- Or perish the thought, Gabriel feels enough guilt to apologize.” “Is that a very Gabriel thing to do?” It only takes him a moment to recall his entire life, from creation to this very conversation, and no, he concludes, it's not a very Gabriel thing to do. “She could need something.” “She can find you anywhere. Come on, Angel.” Crowley leans even more forward, definitely ruining the page his elbow digs into. “Run away with me.” He stares into his friend's eyes, and then in microseconds looks around the shop, the few customers in the stacks a bit further in, the way the sun comes in through the window and lands right on the singular plant Crowley gifted him two weeks ago, for his shop technically re-opening. It sits on the counter, never too far from reach and its own spray bottle sitting just beside it. There's an entire world in this one singular moment. He thinks of every excuse he could make. Not many come to mind, just four, which are, in order:

He was called to head office because he had to officiate the body he currently inside of.

Anathema and Newt actually invited him and only him over for a picnic, and he didn't want to hurt Crowley's feelings.

He had promised Adam a lesson in the celestial bodies and divinity, just in case.

He didn't want to leave the shop again so soon.

Crowley's right eyebrow arcs up in that way that only Crowley's right eyebrow can and Aziraphale, after thinking his choices over every carefully, nods. “A break could be nice.” He says and tries to imagine himself not getting dizzy. “I'll swing by tomorrow then.” And then Crowley, never to be outdone by anyone, even himself, takes Aziraphale's hand in his and runs his lips over Aziraphale's knuckles. “Say noon?” Aziraphale has to psychically stop himself from saying the word noon out loud. “Lovely.” The Bentley rips down the street, and one of his non-customers tells him that they make a very cute couple. It's very hard to imagine being not dizzy when he is, without a doubt, most assuredly dizzy.

…

Aziraphale sits in the passenger side of the Bentley and stares at Crowley's reflection through the windshield. He looks so in awe, so proud of himself, face absolutely alight with joy, that it's hard to look at what's actually past the windshield. “Do you like them?” Crowley asks after what must have been a short eternity, and turns to look at Aziraphale head on. “Utterly remarkable.” He says and pretends to be preoccupied with the stars all around them. “Hung them myself.” Aziraphale turns now, to look at him fully, to try and tell if it's a joke or trick or some other demonic wile. But something in his voice makes it sound like he's being sincere and serious. Maybe it's the softness, or the way Crowley pulls off his glasses and the way his eyes look just a little sad. “Superb job.” Some part of him, in the back of his mind, is rather confused. Normal angels didn't get to do something so important, even principalities didn't baring a few exceptions, and maybe right now in this moment when he is inches away from his arguably sad looking best friend isn't the time to, finally after six thousand years, start wondering who Crowley was before his fall, but it certainly does seem to be the only thing his mind can really rest on. “Ah- You know.” Crowley smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes. “Barely any effort.” “They are-” Aziraphale forces himself to look away from the spectacle and look at the stars. They really are remarkable, glorious blues and reds and yellows and whites hanging in just the perfect pattern to make them look random. But he can see the little patterns, here and there, a little face just obscured by a star cradle and a little love heart tilted on its side. “They're resplendent.” And then, struck by a fit of brazenness, he reaches out and takes Crowley's hand. Gives it a squeeze. When Crowley smiles this time, it most certainly reaches his eyes.

…

Aziraphale is enjoying his vacation tremendously. It's all very curious, the life forms this far from earth are not fully developed yet, perhaps not under Her immediate vigilance yet, so every interaction leaves them marveling in awe at the angel and Aziraphale would be lying if he wasn't succumbing to pride. He was enjoying his vacation immensely. Crowley showed him oceans that were so many different colors, and filled with so many wonderful things that it's almost tempting to just move here, leave it all behind, and just lay in the sand with his best and very funny and lovely friend, who clearly had very good taste in vacation destinations and very good taste in planetary creation. This was undoubtedly the best vacation he's ever had. And it still wasn't enough to get him to stop wondering. If he would be home, he would be pouring over thousands of texts, maybe even risk a trip to the home office and ask Gabriel or Uriel or Michael outright. Certainly, they owed him a favor of some kind. Or maybe they would want him to leave so quickly they'd just blurt out an answer and eject him. His feelings wouldn't even be hurt. On the other hand, he could ask. “The only shame- The only shame.” Crowley gives a short sort of laugh beside him. “With the underdeveloped species business. No alcohol yet.” But it does seem very rude. “Some wine right now would be phenomenal,” Aziraphale says in a way that he hopes sounds invested in the conversation. He wouldn't want to be asked, if he was in this situation. “I'd kill for a margarita.” Crowley sits up, sand trailing off of his back. Aziraphale stares because it really is a wonderful back and it doesn't have any scars above the shoulder blades or below the shoulder blades or anywhere on his lower back either. “Well-” “We could always go back.” He says offhandedly. “I can buy you a margarita. No murder required.” Not that he would in the first place. He is rather nice, for a demon, isn't he? What angel was nice? There had to be at least a few. Right?

…

He comes back home a week later with a tan. “It suits you.” Crowley insists who's still the same shade of skin he was when they left. “Really, it does. Brings out your eyes.” Aziraphale smiles because that's so very easy to do. They come back late, sun already set, and Crowley, ever the gentleman, walks him to the door of his shop. It looks fairly unlooted, everything right where he left it. Aziraphale's plant just as shiny and healthy as it was how ever long the vacation had lasted for. He does walk over and mist it all the same while Crowley is very busy leaning against the door frame. “Would you like to come in? Spend the night catching up on all of those missed margaritas?” “I would, but I've not yelled at my plants for a while.” “Ah. And that's... very important. Yelling at plants.” “How are they meant to grow otherwise?” Aziraphale glances at the plant on the counter. It seems to have been doing just fine on it's one, no yelling required. “Right, of course.” He nods slowly. “Good night then?” “Good night, Angel.” The second the door closes behind him he has three bibles open, and starts the arduous cross-referencing because, surely, there's an answer in here somewhere isn't there? There simply must be.

…

“Do you remember?” “Does it matter?” Does it- Does it matter if the demon he had been spending his life with used to be an archangel? Does it matter that Raphael's name had been shunted aside and forgotten by everyone who wasn't looking for it? Does it matter that Aziraphale spent a month of his time pouring through texts and books and scrolls trying to find an answer to who hung those resplendent stars in the sky eons ago? Does it really matter that if Aziraphale knew then, at the garden, that everything probably would have been so very very very different between them? “No. Suppose not.” They're in a lovely park, sitting on a picnic blanket and watching humans walk by. They have chilled champagne and little blueberry tarts that Aziraphale got from this tiny bakery in Ireland. He had leaned in to ask Crowley, shoulder against shoulder, lips just a few tiny spaces away from Crowley's ear. “The name thing- the name thing is weird, isn't it?” “Hm?” “Yours and, well.” Crowley waves a hand, curling his wrist. Oh- Oh, yes. “A bit.” He leans away, body flushed as he stares at Crowley's long pretty fingers. “Crowley is a good name.” “I think so too. Obviously. Otherwise-” “Why would you have picked it?” Crowley laughs and turns his head and kisses Aziraphale. Thank everything good and awful and altogether neutral in the entire wide world that he doesn't actually have to breathe.

#good omens #full fic #writing #long post #aziraphale #crowley

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