#From when he was a kid. I think it sums up his strange personality well lmfao ☠️☠️

[peteytheparrot]

Sighs I got bored and wrote a prologue idea to FF and SIGHSSS…. I’m really gonna write this entire comic now aren’t I 😭😭😭 ITS FUCKING OVER BRO

[shunin-gumis]

Nagi Hachinoya Novel

Essence of a Bouquet

Track 03 - Healing that occurs when you awaken your Empath Chakra

Hideko "Everyone is looking much brighter now, a huge difference from when you had first joined. Can you sense your happiness approaching? Now, today we shall awaken our chakras together-"

Master Hideko seemed divine and full of love today as well, just like a Goddess.

Black cat avatar "Wow, today was a great gathering as usual! When Master Hideko awakened my sixth chakra, I felt a whole new world open up in front of me. Is this what they call a vision!?"

Nagi "It's cool that you managed to see it Norisuke-san."

Norisuke "Aw Negi-kun, you couldn't see it? I thought we'd be buddies who opened their chakras at the same time too…"

At the usual lobby in mahorova.

Norisuke-san was the person with the black cat avatar. Though he said it was a fake name. That's why I gave him a fake name too; "Negi".

This is our 4th gathering. Norisuke-san has attended every one so far, and always makes sure to sit beside me. Master Hideko's sermons were helpful, and I was happy that I was getting along better with Norisuke-san as time passes.

Norisuke "By the way, it seems like they'll be holding an offline meeting at their company building in two weeks. I think it'd be great if we could meet Master Hideko in the flesh…"

Nagi "That does sound great."

Norisuke "Right? …Oops, look at the time, I gotta go! See you at the next gathering!"

Nagi "See you later."

~~~~

After logging out of mahorova, I couldn't help but feel liberated. I head towards the living room, wondering if there was anyone there. I was feeling so elated I skipped my way there.

Ryui "The hell you prancing around for. Some of us are trying to watch TV here."

Toi "You look like you're in a good mood Nagi-kun, did something good happen?"

Toi and Ryui were watching television in the living room."

I bow slightly in apology for interrupting them, and look at the screen myself.

…Apparently it was some news about some fraud company getting exposed.

Ryui "Lately there's been some shady business going on, something to do with fake spiritual goods and techniques and what not."

Nagi "Ooh that sounds scary."

Toi "Isn't it unforgivable!? People and spirits alike, we all just want to be happy. I can't believe there are people taking advantage of others' good will to try and make money off of them."

Nagi "Yup. It's unforgivable."

That's right, everyone is searching for their happiness. That's why we give it our all everyday.

That's why, after I test it out a bit more, I want to share this with everyone at HAMA Tours. About Master Hideko's power, and how great Secret Energy is.

Ryui "Claiming that your dead kid is suffering, that your ancestors require a memorial service urgently… People who take advantage of other's weaknesses and make a whole business scam out of it ought to get the death penalty."

Toi "Yes… I'm sure God is watching over us. Right…?"

Toi and Ryui were talking about spiritual business scams.

Meanwhile, I-

'If only I had access to Secret Energy back then…'

Then maybe I could have been of help to Minemori-san. I couldn't help the feeling of regret that welled up as I remembered her face.

The autumnal sky was clear that day, and left a deep impression on me.

Nagi "Huh?"

I came by the laundromat as I usually do, but it was closed right now. Even though it was normally open at this time. I found it strange, so I went around the back and pressed the intercom button.

Mrs.Minemori "Ah… Hachinoya-kun? The shop's closed today… no, we'll be closed for the time being."

She was crying.

I rushed to her immediately.

Nagi "What happened?"

That's when I learned.

That her husband was hospitalized after falling off a ladder and breaking his hip. That the bluebird they took care of flew out of the window and never came back. That someone had scammed them out of a large sum of money by using the name of their disowned son. They had reported it to the police, but it didn't seem like it would be resolved any time soon. This series of unfortunate events had turned their life upside-down overnight

Mrs.Minemori "The shop has been struggling lately… even if we turned it around now, we'd still be in debt…"

Nagi "……"

Mrs.Minemori "I was thinking that maybe it was time I closed up shop…"

Minemori-san, who was always so bright and smart, seemed very frail right now.

I couldn't bear to see her like that, so I couldn't help but blurt out-

Nagi "My kidney."

Mrs. Minemori "What?"

Nagi "I'll sell one of my kidneys, so please use that money for your store."

Mrs.Minemori "What in the world are you saying child!? We're really ok, so you should just run along! You have a part-time job to head to don't you?"

Not wanting to worry me, she gives me a brave smile. As if trying to convince herself, she keeps repeating that they'd be ok, and closes the door on me.

Nagi "Are you pleased with this?"

Customer "Wow! It's so cute!"

Whenever I make a bouquet for a customer, I receive a bright smile. A face of "happiness".

It was raining outside. I'm sure it was raining where the laundromat was at too.

Someone like me, who has no family nor money… the only thing I could do was tie some flowers together, and send it to them.

Nagi "Senpai, could you take the cost of this bouquet off my pay?"

Pink roses, baby's breath, and lily of the valley. With my knowledge on flower language, I hoped it would provide them some strength, even if only a little.

Even for just a moment, I want them to remember the scent of happiness.

Nagi "Muuun…."*

I already have enough happiness, that's why, I wanted to give it back, no matter how little. That was my wish.

Nagi "I'm sorry for bothering you again."

Mrs.Minenori "Oh Hachinoya-kun, what am I to do with you… I told you, we're alright…"

Nagi "Actually, I-"

I've lived with unhappiness every step of my life.* That's why I'd be ok even if I can't be happy. That's why, I wanted to give my happiness to these two irreplaceable people instead. Because they were kind to even someone like me-

Nagi "I was the child that was abandoned here back then."

With this bouquet, let me protect the both of you and your store.

Notes

Flower Language for the flowers Nagi picks for the couple (taken from Japanese websites for closer accuracy to original intent) Pink Roses: Gratitude Baby's breath: Happiness Lily of the Valley: Return of happiness

*'Muuun' is the sound he makes when he's instilling his happiness energy/thoughts(念) into the flowers, literally.

*Nagi literally says "My existence is like unhappiness itself" but that sounded a little off so I changed it. What he means is he's been unhappy all his life and is used to it already.

Part 1 / Part 2/ Part 4 / Part 5

[o-sachi]

─── A Letter for @i-am-so-strange ✦

If you have received this, it means you signed up for Sachi's Selfship Event !

ATE JEIIIII. You're one of my bestest friends on this platform and I absolutely adore the fics/analyses that you make. You don't know how much I love our questionable thirsting threads. They make me giggle and kick my feet. TO MORE THREADS!! Anw, thank you for requesting!

✉️ Attachment: A special request???

Surprise. It's a normal matchup.

Okay, maybe this wasn't what you were expecting, but Barou just popped into my mind as I was reading the info you gave me. (Spoiler: it's not just because you both like cleaning and consider it a hobby lolol).

To preface things, I genuinely find Barou to be like the best potential boyfriend out of the bunch. I know he seems rough around the edges, but he's a completely different person to his s/o. He's a lot softer and kinder to them.

You complement each other in a way that your bad traits slightly mirror his and your good traits are almost the same. Does that mean it exacerbates the bad traits? Not really. But it does help you understand each other better and it helps avoid you from projecting it on to each other (everyone else though, not so safe haha).

Like you don't even bat an eye at each other if either of you say something a little too blunt or harsh. It's just another Tuesday for the both of you.

I feel like y'all would judge people together (HAHAHAHA)

You two debate a lot about a variety of things. Even ordinary arguments about your relationship start sounding like a debate... Part of him NEEDS to win, but another is really into how you articulate yourself (secretly simping).

As a person who isn't afraid of speaking his mind, Barou admires the same trait on you. He loves a woman who is brave enough to stand up for herself or do what is right. Not a lot of people can do what you do.

Doesn't compliment much, but he will definitely compliment you for your courage and independence. He needs that in a partner.

Barou most definitely likes smart people. Intelligence is a strength of its own. He just loves your brain; he loves the ideas and thoughts that it comes up with. He also thinks that your job is cool. He doesn't know anything about law, but he'll pretend to understand and nod as you explain things to him.

He liiiiiikes it when you play the piano for him.

You enjoy cooking and cleaning together (wow domestic bliss?!?! HAHAHHA). You do it very systematically too. Not that you explicitly talked about it, but it kinda happened on its own. That pretty much sums up a lot about your relationship—systematic.

You like trying new food together, whether by buying it somewhere else or trying out a new recipe.

He subtly supports your hobbies by buying you books or figures. Most of the time though, he listens to your rants. You know he's listening because he asks relevant questions.

He genuinely thinks listening and giving your full attention to the other person is a sign of respect. And he respects you. So, if you're talking, all his attention is on you.

I feel like he has a strong tolerance for alcohol, so if you do decide to get drunk, he can easily take care of you. Sure, he'll grumble a bit, but he's surely doing it out of love <3

He'll agree to play games with you as long as you go bowling with him. He won't go easy, but at least he has someone to play with.

He doesn't mind driving long stretches. It's quite calming for him and with you as his passenger princess, he can listen to you speak even more.

You two travel a lot and he (reluctantly) agrees to be the model in your photos. He prefers that you two take photos together, but sure, if you insist.

You two have the exact same dislikes, especially being disorganized. It makes him feel queasy to see a messy place or have his tasks all over the place.

Although, I feel like he's good with kids (yk cuz his sisters). So he makes up for the fact that you don't like 'em.

You two plan things together so well. Like I said—organized and systematic. Dates and travels are so easy when both of you are working on the logistics and whatnot.

I'm not making this up but I genuinely saw Barou as the type of guy who likes the simple look on women (he's the type of guy that says natural is better and would complain about makeup...) So he really loves how laid-back and classy you look.

HE DIGS THE CORPORATE STYLE.

You two already spend a lot of time together. He can only stand you, honestly. He'd rather be alone completely or be with you. No in between.

You can expect sooooooo many acts of service from this man, mostly the domestic stuff—cooking, cleaning, taking care of you when you're sick. If you ask him to come over, he'll do his absolute best to get there asap. If you ask him for a favor, he'll do it without a second thought.

He's so whipped for you, but will never admit it out loud.

His gifts usually come in the form of food or clothing... or something really practical. Perhaps the only "non-practical" thing he'd give you is a bouquet of flowers.

Waaaa idk I got a lot of inspiration writing Barou for you. LIKE IT FITS SO WELL???

Thank you for participating. I hope you like it :3

Want to participate? Give this a read.

o-sachi © 2024 pls do not translate/copy/reupload my work on other platforms.

[honey-minded-hivemind]

I had a pretty exciting dream a day or so ago. To sum up the dream/its plot, it went something like this:

Thirteen Year Old Reader Ends Up In A Town Haunted By A Murder Ten Years Ago... Everyone Suspects One Man Of The Crime... But, Reader Believes He Is Innocent, So Sets Out To Prove It...

Or in other words, a small town mystery starring Reader, and the man (mutant) who they believe is innocent (if not intimidating and anti-social), Victor Creed, or Sabretooth.

The dream went something like this:

Reader, a kid on their own, ends up accidentally in a small, sleepy town surrounded by woods, water, and mist. They end up being taken in by a nice family, who try to help them get back on their feet. When they mention to Reader the murder that happened ten years ago, they say that a child had been murdered, but their murderer, nor their body, had ever been found. But, the town suspects someone of having done the wicked deed... A recluse, living in a house in the middle of the woods on the outskirts of town, who always seemed "off".

Reader is still curious, though, and somehow, they, and the family and a new friend, end up having to do business with this strange recluse... When they enter the house/small business, Reader tries to stay out of the way of everyone, but they watch (eavesdrop) on the conversations between people. Until they come face-to-face (well, face-looking-up-to-face) with the possible culprit himself. A large, giant of a man, with long hair and sharp teeth and sharper nails. Reader had heard a bit of what he'd said, to another person and to the family they're with, and from what they could piece together-

He didn't do it.

Sure, the huge, intimidating, scary man is standoffish, cold, teasing, and against people. But, Reader believes he didn't commit the murder. They aren't sure why they think that (is it instincts? Subconscious knowledge? A sixth sense?), but they are convinced of the idea that for all his traits and formidable nature, that he was not the one to do it, or a person who would go after a defenseless child. Reader has a small conversation with him, where they bluntly say they don't think he did it. And the man is- silent. Calculating. Then he sends then off, mentioning he'll be seeing them again.

Reader spends their days exploring the quiet town, going through the stores and investigating for any clues as to who did the deed, and where the body might be hidden. That leads them to some places they shouldn't be (abandoned waterway, clearing in the woods where they found blood and evidence, deep part of the woods by Victor's house), doing their best to figure out the crime. And they DO find some clues, such as the type of person it would have to be to do the crime (right-handed, knows how to navigate forests, possibly a hunter/nature expert, must have known the child and/or their family and their schedule). But it still isn't enough to catch the culprit...

They slowly interact with Victor/Sabretooth in small doses. Usually when they're in the woods and he heard them, so went to see who it was. The small moments of talking reveal to Reader that while the man has a dark sense of humor, doesn't like anybody in town, and has likely committed a crime before, he has a soft spot for (or just won't hurt) kids. Reader also finds out he has an estranged sibling, a brother, who he has tried to make amends with, but who is... hard to convince (yeah, he's talking about Logan. Guy is still obsessed/protective of his baby sibling, who still has amnesia and thinks he's a crazy lunatic). He also slowly gets to learn a little about Reader from these talks, learning they don't have a family/parents (the one they're staying with is helping them, though), they're a bit odd compared to other children, and they truly, utterly believe he is innocent of the crime. Safe to say, he starts to secretly grow attached to them (new sibling/child/cub/pup/runt) (he isn't replacing Logan, he's just adding one more person to the amount of people he cares about. Which he can count on one hand. Take that, alcoholic b*stard blood-father!)

And after awhile, when Reader might be in danger of being the murderer's next victim (because they got too close to finding out who it was/brought up the murder too many times), Victor/Sabretooth steps in. He may not like the town or people, but he DOES like Reader, and no child deserves to have their murder unsolved or body not properly buried. So he sets to tracking down who did it, even while some of the town police snort and say he couldn't possibly catch who did it, because he should know who it is (they're saying it's him). He sees a picture drawn in the dirt, by Reader, who was drawing him and themself, and that resolves any doubts he has. It doesn't take more than a day to track down the body, kept in an old, rusted bunker/freight in the woods west of his house, and he can't stand to look at the damage done to it. The way the body is rotted and bloated and caught in a frightened pose. But then, he catches cloth, with the scent of the murderer... And he hunts them down, dragging them to the police. The man who did it was something like a banker/baker, who was a serial murderer who had hidden in the town. Suffice to say, he is supposed to sent off to a maximum prison...

But Victor/Sabretooth takes care of him before that can happen.

(It's a bloody ordeal, leaving gouges and lashes and cuts for each child thean killed, each life snuffed out before its prime. And for the fact he was planning to off Reader, Victor decides to tear off chunks of flesh, eating some, doing everything he can to make the monster pay and writhe in agony... And when the man is finally dead, bloodied and unrecognizable save for his teeth and basic features, he drags the body back to the police station, a sign and threat...)

And that concludes the dream...

If it continued (a part of it did, portraying how Victor viewed Logan and their brotherly bond/blood), Reader would have ended up being taken with him (forced adoption), and Victor would have set out to find Logan... Who finds the Reader, smells Sabretooth on them, and promptly takes Reader with him and tries to go to the X-Men. Which Victor is having none of, and goes to hunt them down (at least his runt likes the cub, that means there won't be too much jealousy)...

Bonus:

Reader, looking up at the behemoth that is Victor/Sabretooth, with a few dark stains that might be blood:😶

Reader: I think you're good😌

Sabretooth: 🤨

Sabretooth: What?

Reader: Yep. You're not bad, just antisocial

Sabretooth: Wha-? Kid, I've killed people. I've EATEN people. How the f*ck do I look child-friendly?😠

Reader: You're just like a big cat😊😁🐱🦁🐯

Sabretooth: 👀

Sabretooth, internally: Okay, I'm keeping this one-💕🧡

[kidney9-9]

Not Today Mister - Chapter 12

Aizawa x Reader Warnings: Cursing

-

Aizawa was not a dumbass.

He knew when Hizashi was hiding something from him. Especially if it was something concerning himself. Hizashi was over here, acting like a fool, trying to get Aizawa to not question him about everything.

“SO! You definitely have a lesson plan for tomorrow, right? We should go over it together. Maybe we can do matching classes? You know, like we both are there for the class and make the lessons for both yours and mine combined, wouldn’t that be great.” Hizashi rambled, chuckling as he stared off to the side, avoiding eye contact with Aizawa.

“Not happening.” Aizawa interrupted him before he could continue.

“Aw man, why? It would be fun for the kids, and we could get an earlier lunch break.” Hizashi sighed, shaking his head, but still refusing to stare in his direction. Aizawa was getting sick of it.

“Hizashi, look at me.” He demanded and instantly Hizashi looked at him, guiltily. Aizawa could tell too, how guilty Hizashi felt about something. He needed to know.

“Tell me what you did.” Aizawa groaned, slamming his hand down onto the table, causing Hizashi to flinch.

“No. You’ll get angry at me.” Hizashi answered.

“Tell me.”

“No! Never.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll let Nemuri know what you think of Mirko. You know they’re friends.” Aizawa threatened, a knowing smirk appearing on his face once he saw Hizashi started to sweat heavily.

“But… and…” Hizashi stumbled over a few words. Aizawa watched him expectedly.

“What was it, you said? Her thighs can choke you to a happy death?” Aizawa muttered, almost continuing but paused as Hizashi coughed suddenly.

“Shut up, don’t say that here!” He whined, shaking his head.

“Well?” Aizawa asked, irritated.

“…I shouldn’t still. If I do and this backfires, an unknown person will hunt me down and do… certain things to me.” Hizashi brought up, remembering the threat on the phone. Must’ve been one of your friends, and the voice sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure.

Aizawa looked puzzled and annoyed at his friend, then groaned quietly, wiping his hand across his face. “Whatever.” And he walked off. Hizashi sighed in relief.

But then he turned around and the smallest tilt of his lips came up to form a strange smile, “Nemuri will love to hear about what you think of Mirko…”

Hizashi chokes on his spit, coughing horribly loud before he stands up and shouts, “NO!” And Aizawa shrugged, as if he didn’t really care and continued to walk away.

Hizashi started to rush towards him, still coughing as he struggled out, “Dude – stop, stop! I’ll” He coughed, “I’ll tell you!”

It was then that Aizawa slowed down and glanced over to him, interest in his eyes. “Yes? What do you have to tell me?” He twisted with his words, making Hizashi laugh nervously.

“There’s this girl who wants to talk to you.” He worked out anxiously, gulping down his unnecessary fear. Aizawa wouldn’t really tell Nemuri any of that, but Hizashi didn’t know that.

“Oh.” Aizawa let out.

“Yeah?” Hizashi nodded back, grinning slightly.

“That’s it?” Aizawa raised his eyebrows at him, a bit confused at why that was the only thing that he was going to say.

“Pretty much.” Hizashi summed up.

“Huh.”

Hizashi wondered why Aizawa didn’t ask who or why, but he figured out pretty soon it was because Aizawa simply did not care about it, just like anything else.

He was such a grumpy man most of the time and Hizashi argued with himself in his head about whether or not he was doing the right thing by leading Aizawa to the interrogation room, the next hour after their conversation.

Hizashi texted Aizawa to meet him there, and he was still waiting by the door when he texted you to go ahead to come over.

You got there before Aizawa did, thankfully and the two of you shuffled into the mini room connected to the interrogation room.

Hizashi was pretty anxious, as he was still hoping for Aizawa to show up.

“So…” You were the first to speak up, glancing over to him awkwardly. You had your hands together, fumbling your thumbs and you also looked a bit nervous. Hizashi smiled at that, finding it cute that you were nervous for his friend.

“He’s a good guy.” Hizashi responded, then clarified, “Shouta, I mean. He’s a really good person. I don’t know anyone that’s considered ‘better’ than him.”

You felt yourself flush slightly, “Yeah, I got that sense from him, since he’s a hero and a teacher. Practically saving lives every where he goes.”

“I’m also like that – but he takes it more seriously. He really puts his effort into everything because he cares. He’s always been like that but after our close friend died back in high school, he got more intense.” Hizashi explained, making you look up at him.

“How so?” You asked gently.

“He took things to the next level with his training. He wouldn’t stop to take care of himself and even now he gets lost in these sorts of things. He forgets to take care of himself when others are in need – which is generally most of his time. He only considers his free time is when he’s sleeping.” Hizashi continued.

“I noticed that he sleeps a lot, I usually find a couple sleeping bags in the rooms he uses here.” You giggled, but then you brought up, “But he should be taking care of himself, that’s important.”

“You’re right. I have to remind him sometimes, and if you want to be in his life, you’ll need to as well.” Hizashi thought it was important to say that and you nodded.

“I’m good at taking care of people and things. I can do that.” You shrugged, “And I’d be happy to… since I like him. Fuck it feels weird to say that to you.” You cursed, causing Hizashi to laugh hard.

“I never thought I’d hear you say that word! You’re such a goody two-shoes. The opposite of him.” He kept laughing, shaking his head.

You pouted back, “I say it sometimes!”

“In the time that I have known you, you have not said anything like that. By the way, your friend is really freaky. I’m kind of into that – but still what she said was uncalled for.” Hizashi brought up the phone call he had with Aya.

You gape at him, “Oh no, what did she say?”

“Something about stuffing my fingers down my throat if I hurt you. But I’m not going to hurt you! And neither would Aizawa, he’s a good man.” Hizashi laughed.

“What’s going on in here?” A voice called out from the doorway. You bit your lip when you realized it was Nezu – who had been staring at you suspiciously.

[ponds-of-ink]

William Afton X Reader One-Shot: “Valentine’s Daze”

This is my answer to a writing prompt @dovewingkinnie put out, since it got my writing brain spinning.

This is my first time with this sort of “properly putting someone into Mrs. Afton’s shoes” thing, so uh.. Sorry if I missed a key thing here.

(Also, to clarify: This is my personal William specifically, though the timeframe’s obviously a bit skewed here. Guess this should be considered a very alternate timeline?)

The sunrise painted a rosy-orange sky as you pulled into the Freddy Fazbear’s parking lot. It was pretty quiet in the parking lot, save a few employee cars around the back. “Looks like the managers aren’t here yet,” you thought to yourself as you neatly parked your own car. “Either I’m earlier than I thought or something really bad happened to one of them.”

You exited your vehicle and strolled to a push-handle door. Your shoulder shoved the door open. Casual chatter greeted you as you stumble inside. “...I’ll let our Showtime Spotter know,” a man said, finishing a conversation while entering the room. You locked eyes with each other, but only for a moment. “What’d you want to tell me, Johnny?” you asked, your voice showing a hint of concern.

“Well, I just got off the phone with Henry,” Johnny explained, leaning against the doorframe. “William’s had a rough night, so Spring-Bonnie’s not going to be ‘live’ today. He’ll be on Valentine’s Program B when we hit Showtime.”

Your eyes widened. “How did William have a rough night?” you questioned while hanging up your winter jacket on the coat rack. “Last time I saw him, he was playing Skee-Ball with some of the older kids– And they were all having a great time!”

“Well, something must’ve come up after you left,” Johnny shrugged. “Henry didn’t get into detail about it, but that’s a given with him. That guy can keep secrets even after he’s dead and buried.”

You nodded reluctantly as you opened the employee closet. Yeah, that summed up Henry pretty well (for better or for worse). You slipped on your red vest and put on your name tag. “I think I’ll have a chat with Will once I get the main guys started,” you decided, donning your special ‘Stage Manager’ cap. “I know he’s had a rough night, but I think he’ll still be up for a chat. It’s not like he’s having a sick day or anything.”

“I guess,” Johnny muttered as you walked out into the main area. “Just don’t push the guy, all right? He already has enough trouble trying to talk with you on a good day.”

You stopped a few yards away from the show stage. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you said slowly, furrowing your brows.

As you prepared for your job, you thought back to yesterday. Everything was pretty good. Business was booming, not many kids broke the rules of Freddy’s, and the arcade machines didn’t need any last-minute maintenance. The only thing that was strange was a little chat you had with Spring-Bonnie. Err, well, whoever was playing him at the time. He and some other guy had just wrapped up this one segment and you pressed the Showtime button to close the curtains. Both of them snuck to the backstage while you followed behind. However, for whatever reason, “Springy” didn’t change straight away. He just sat on the bench outside his dressing room, fiddling with the large Valentine card prop.

Of course, being the social person you were, you sat down beside the guy. “What’s up, Springs?” you asked, not entirely sure whether or not to address him in-character. “You, uh, nervous about giving that card to your special some-bunny?”

Springy nodded glumly. Even his eyelids drooped.

“Well, I could hold onto your card for you, if you like,” you offered, scotching a bit closer to him. “That way, no kid can snatch it and try to read it before your some-bunny does.”

Springy’s ears raised. He gently hugged your arm, then gave you the note. “Take good care of it,” he instructed in that goofy voice of his.

“I will,” you answered happily as Springy left to go change. “Glad I could help!”

So, you kept that prop in your hands for the rest of the day. Even as William gave confused glances over his shoulder– Which, come to think of it, probably meant that there was some miscommunication between “Springy” and William about the card. That, or you were supposed to give it to him for safekeeping. Oops.

But what was done was done. You gave that prop to Johnny by the end of your shift. And, knowing him, he would probably clear things up with William and give you a rundown by the time you hit your lunch break.

You now stood near the Showtime button, using the sight of two men opening the front door to refocus your attention. Henry and William had finally made it, though you could tell it wasn’t without coaxing for one of them. Henry immediately made his way to the tech room while William lingered at the front entrance. As expected, the latter looked more run-down than usual. Hair just barely combed, tie sloppily put together, dark rings under two reddish eyes.. Almost like a teen girl trying to go to school after a bad rejection, if that wasn’t too insulting of a comparison.

Hoping to cheer him up, you gave him your best smile and waved at him. You waited for him to wave back, but all you got in return was a forlorn glance and a heavy sigh. He was clearly not in the mood for friendly hellos.

So, you kept your mouth shut and played aloof. Only your eyes followed him as he squeezed his way past the arcade machines and trudged into the backstage area. “Poor guy,” you thought as a muffled conversation played out between him and some other employee. “Maybe I should hold off on that conversation until he feels better. He looks like he’s just lost the chance of a lifetime or something.”

Thankfully, Freddy’s managed to keep your mind busy once customers actually came in. You kept an eye on the main robots once Showtime started, ready to report things to the tech crew in case Freddy’s eyelids got uneven or Chica’s beak slacked in the lip-sync department. The only thing you managed to catch so far was one of Bonnie’s guitar strings preparing to come loose during a huge solo. At least that could be fixed while Fredbear and Springy talked it out.

Speaking of those two, it was soon time to hear what Valentine’s Program B was all about. As soon as those two settled onto the stage, you hit the Showtime button. The two huge purple curtains pulled back to reveal a golden bear and an equally yellow bunny. After an off-screen announcer relayed his “it’s a top of the hour check-in!” spiel, the two robots sprung to life. “Say, Springy, you look mighty down,” Fred-Bear noted, turning his body more towards the floppy-eared bunny. “Did the card-givin’ not go well?”

Springy’s body jittered as a cartoonish sniffle played over the speakers. “She didn’t even answer the door!” he exclaimed in a choked voice (though the robot didn’t quite convey that properly). “I stood there for ten minutes, but she never came out! I guess she was out with some-bunny else. Some-bunny more handsome, probably...”

Your eyes widened. Did that mean that all your card-holding efforts was all for nothing? Your blood boiled as Fred-Bear tried to comfort his heartbroken co-host. “That two-timing snake,” you fumed, crossing your arms and tapping your foot. “I’m almost glad nobody showed up in some put-together lady rabbit costume and tried to be this make-believe crush. Why, if I were Fred-Bear, I would’ve marched up to that snooty bunny’s door and–“

You took a deep breath. Now was not the time to get too invested in a simple Valentine’s Day skit. If this feeling of absolute second-hand betrayal lingered, then you’d have to go straight to whoever played Springy yesterday and apologize. Hopefully, whoever that was would completely understand.

As you pressed the button a second time, your eyes scanned the rest of the building. Some children in the audience were bummed out, but most of them were ready to join the rest playing in the arcade area. The adults chattered with each other or followed behind those rambunctious go-getters. Meanwhile, some distance away from all this action, William and Henry talked things out. “Maybe I’ll get the chance to talk to him after all,” you mused to yourself, observing their body languages as best you could. “He looks like he feels a bit better.”

A couple more hours passed. Families came and went. Songs played from the show stage, then fell into fifteen minutes of silence. Spring-Bonnie and William still moped, but at least William was recovering a bit faster.

By the time it was lunch break, you had almost forgotten the frustration you felt earlier. You cheerfully straightened your hat and strolled backstage. “Well, Johnny, I’m all set for some good Freddy’s food!” you called out, removing your vest and placing it on the bench. “Whatcha got?”

“Same old, same old,” Johnny answered, returning from a smaller room with a plastic menu. “Salads from the salad bar, pizza, maybe even some dessert if the kids didn’t eat it all.” He stopped in front of you, then looked down at the menu in his arms. “By the way,” he resumed in a more nervous tone, pulling out a large and frilly envelope, “Will wanted me to give this back to you. Turns out the card wasn’t just a prop.”

You lightly grabbed the envelope and inspect it. Your heart skipped. This was the same card that you held for all those hours. And.. it was yours all this time? “Can I open it?” you asked, your voice twinging with surprise and confusion.

“It’s yours, so I don’t see why not,” Johnny reasoned nonchalantly, shutting the menu. “In the meantime, I’ll get your usual ready. Have fun ‘stealing’ from Spring-Bonnie’s valentine.”

You rolled your eyes as Johnny proudly left the room. Then, after you collected your thoughts, you undid the red wax seal on the envelope. With some gentle tugging, you pulled out a smaller sheet of rosy-pink paper. Your fingers quickly unfolded the note. You skimmed the message at first, but then your eyes stopped. The only words that were on the page were:

“Please meet me back at Freddy’s. 7:00 PM sharp. I have something to ask you.”

Though there was no signature, the handwriting made its messenger clear to you. You gingerly rose up from your seat and peered into one of the dressing rooms. “Hey, Johnny,” you spoke up in a shakier tone, “where is William, anyway?”

“Think he’s out there playing Skee-Ball,” Johnny replied, tapping his pen on the table in thought. “You, uh, got a question to ask him?”

“More like I’ve got an apology to make, but yeah,” you corrected, inching your way out of the dressing room. “Just let me know when my lunch is ready, I guess.”

“Sure thing,” Johnny answered in a warm tone. “Break a leg!”

You just bobbed your head and left the backstage altogether. Your heart thumped as you navigated the large sea of children and adults. You gathered your nerves and your thoughts as best you could. All you hoped for was that William wasn’t too mad at you.

When you finally arrived at the Skee-Ball section, you beelined for the messy-haired man rolling a 250-point shot. “Not bad,” you commented, trying to keep a casual tone as you lined up at the machine next door.

A murmur of “Thanks” was the only reply you got from him.

“The highest I’ve gotten is a 500,” you explain sheepishly, fooling with the pink paper still in your hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever managed to toss anything into that big one in the middle. It just.. eludes me, I guess.”

William bowled another skee-ball while you talked. It only fell into the “gutter”.

“Guess that sums up how I am with.. certain hints, huh?” you asked weakly.

William glanced down at the letter, then looked at you with wide eyes. “I... suppose,” he replied thoughtfully. “But that was my fault, really. I shouldn’t have trusted Spring-Bonnie to do something I should have just done myself. The intentions would have been much clearer there.”

Pleasantly surprised by getting an actual answer, you smiled a little. “So, just to be clear,” you spoke up with more boldness, “you were the guy who played Spring-Bonnie yesterday, right? Not one of the other actors?”

“Yes,” William confessed with a faint chuckle. “I thought my melodrama on-stage would have make it obvious, but I guess not.”

Your face burned as everything sunk in. “Sorry about not reading your note, then,” you apologized, looking down at the colorful carpet. “I had no idea, I—“ You cut your own words off as a new thought entered your mind. “I hope you didn’t sleep in the car all night because of me!” you gasped out, putting a hand to your mouth.

“I only waited one hour,” William assured, picking up a skee-ball and slinging it into a 250-point hole. “After that, I just drove home and ate a carton of ice cream on the couch.” He paused, his rosy face flushing even more. His upper teeth dug into his lower lip. “That last part was not supposed to be said aloud,” he added shakily, tugging at his tie. “I know I look like I do that often, but I..” His voice trailed as he inspected his unkept shirt. He attempted to finish his sentence, but his words turned into flustered syllables as he tried to straighten his outfit.

“Hey, it is Valentine’s Day,” you reasoned, scooping up one of the remaining skee-balls and tossing it for him. “I’d be doing something like that too just for the fun of it. I’m sure all this work at Freddy’s would help me burn some of the food off.” You glanced back at the still-embarrassed man. “You think we can still do the whole Freddy’s thing tonight?” you inquired, letting the poor guy return to his game. “I could ask run the buffet myself, if nobody else wants to. I got training on how to run a chocolate fountain.”

William stepped in front of his arcade machine. He gulped. “I would like that,” he answered with a wavering smile. “My only concern now is that I might make a fool out of myself if the buffet only contains desserts.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” you chuckled as you pull out a spare Faz-Token from your pocket and slide it into your own Skee-Ball machine. “If we play some Skee-Ball for a couple of hours, I think we’ll both curb the risk of loose seams.”

“You may only need a couple of hours,” William quipped with a snarky smile. “I might need a few days, and that’s being generous.”

This sparked eight minutes of banter and bowling between you two. You kept at the high praises and modest Skee-Ball scores, he prevailed with low self-blows and surprisingly good scores. A few of older kids, thinking that it was an intense tournament, started chanting for their respective favorite.. Until their parents picked them up, that is. At least their cheers built up confidence in the both of you as you kept playing.

As you both collected your tickets, you noticed Johnny standing beside you. “Hey, so your lunch has been ready for five minutes now,” he explained awkwardly to you, eyeing both you and your potential date. “Same with yours, Mr. Afton.”

“Thank you, Johnny,” William responded politely, reaching over to shake his hand. “We will be eating our lunches shortly.”

You noticed Johnny giving William a knowing wink as he walked away. “So, I guess it’s a date,” you smirked, rolling up your tickets into a makeshift ball.

“I guess it is,” William agreed, neatly folding his and putting them in his pocket. “Are you all right with the time still being 7?”

“Are you all right with a dessert buffet?” you questioned back rhetorically, nudging him in the shoulder with your elbow.

William stifled a giggle as he straightened his tie. “Sure,” he answered as confidently as he could (though his red face and timid posture told you otherwise). “Just be prepared for a Spring-Bonnie buffet scenario come to life.”

”Don’t try to talk me into it further!” you laughed as you walked away. “Spring-Bonnie’s my favorite!”

“Let’s hope I don’t change that!” William called out in his best Spring-Bonnie voice, just barely audible amid the clamor of ringing arcade games and chattering kids. You looked over your shoulder to see him waving before hurrying to his own lunch station. As you neared the salad bar, one thought stayed in your mind: This date night was definitely going to be one to remember.

[disappearinginq]

Show Recommendations: 

Star Trek Strange New Worlds: I love this version of Star Trek, this is like straight up fanfiction (the GOOD kind) come to life. It still addresses social issues, but instead of being dark and miserable, it’s very much hopeful. There’s time traveling, there’s body swapping, Spock-Made-Human, a MUSICAL episode. Jim Kirk shows up in a couple episodes, and I didn’t think I would like former Vampire Diaries actor playing him but I delightfully mistaken. They give Nurse Chapel and T’Pring personalities, all of the characters bring something to the table, and there’s like...next to nil romance. Spock and Nurse Chapel and T’Pring are about as close at it gets to romance, but it’s done well enough that I don’t mind. Also, I never thought I would love any captain as much as I love Kirk, but Pike is DANGEROUSLY close to becoming my favorite. 

Joe Pickett: game warden in BFE Wyoming with his wife and two daughters. Decidedly darker as far as themes go, but it’s weirdly non-graphic with sensitive subjects in a good way - like there’s no swearing, no nudity, and the second season deals with rape and murder but you see neither of them actually take place. Animals are clearly CGI’d when they get injured. But I love Joe himself - he’s one of those Will Always Do the Right Thing even to his own harm. He’s a childhood abuse survivor, and second season is like whump central for him - he gets shot with an arrow, severely concussed, field medicine, delusional in woods by himself on he the run from some psychotic backwoods type. AND - one of the only modern shows that has an adopted kid who is just IMMEDIATELY a part of the family. (Looking at you, Yellowstone, with serious judgement). You like the characters you should, you hate the characters you should, and everyone plays their roles really well. 

Justified: City Primeval - half the fun of this is that Raylan’s daughter is Timothy Olyphant’s real life daughter. Raylan is still his “Are You Serious Right Now?” dead pan self. Only two episodes so far, but I maintain if you liked the first series, you would like this one. 

Vienna Blood: This is probably my favorite out of the recommendations (other than Strange New Worlds but this is a very different vibe). It takes place in Vienna, Austria, in the early 1900′s and it follows Max Liebermann and Oskar Rheinhardt as they investigate various murders/crimes. Max is a psychoanalyst, Jewish, and English when all three are not good things to be at the time in Vienna, and Oskar has to make sure Max doesn’t kill himself with some of his plans. 90% of their interactions can be summed up as: 

Oskar: MAX, NO.  Max: MAX, YES. 

I think 99% of the people who watch it ship Oskar and Max, but I think Max leans a little more towards aro/ace than anything else and Oskar tolerates his BS. Oskar figures out very quickly he cannot prevent Max from doing Dumb Things, so he tries to make sure Max does the Least Dumb Version of Dumb Things. They try and set up romance for Max, but it’s pretty background and not much comes of it - and I actually only remember him kissing the woman he likes once? But there’s three seasons, 6 episodes each, 3 storylines told in two parts. 

[aarghhaaaarrrghhh]

A Summer in a Pioneer's Neckerchief/Лето в пионерском галстуке - Chapter Six

Chapter Six - Conversations about the Personal and the Indecent

The carousels by the children’s dorms had become the unspoken meeting place. Yurka went there after lunch, or dropped by when he had an hour free, or in the evenings before the disco, and after a little time had passed, Volodya also appeared there. Yurka liked to sit on the carousels, rocking back and forth, looking off into the emptiness in front of him and think about anything. He liked it when Volodya sat beside him and also looked silently into space. Sitting like that, together, while watching the kids and listening for their shouts, there was something at the same time essential, unusual, simple and natural in it. Yurka felt comfortable, like when with his grandma at the playground in his childhood.

But more than anything else, he like the last few evenings, when, after rehearsals, having given the fifth troop over to Lena’s hands, for her to spend time with them until lights out, Volodya and Yurka would make up horror stories for the kids. Once they even missed the time for lights out, when they were meant to go tell these very horror stories.

The first week at camp had come to an end announced Mitka’s voice over the morning radio broadcast, as though the pioneers did not know that themselves. Yurka remembered that day very well. They were sitting on the carousel and Volodya asked him, indicating on his face:

“Where did you get that scar?”

Silence reigned on the playground; it was quiet hour for the whole camp. Yurka, as usual, ran away from it, to which the responsible counsellor merely reminded him should dive into the bushes should he see anyone on the path leading to the dorms. The thing was that sometimes, some counsellors checked that children were not left alone. But there was nothing for which to fault Volodya, he and Lena had switched so that she was on duty during quiet hours, while it was him during discos. It was thus at that moment.

Yurka instinctively touched his chin and felt around with the pads of his fingers for the old scar beneath his lower lip.

“It was some hooligans who harassed me. There were three of them, and, as it happened, only one of me! So, uh…” he faltered. Yurka had told everyone this version the story of how he had gotten his scar. In it, he was a courageous little boy, who, at the cost of his own broken, bloody lip, fought the bullies off the street. But for some reason, he wanted to tell Volodya the truth. “You know, in reality, I took a tumble off a swing when I was eleven. I was swinging really high, I wanted to show off in front of the girls who lived nearby, they were walking nearby at the time, I let go and… To sum up, I did a wonderful somersault, flew off the swings, scraped my nose two metres through the dirt and smashed face-first into the sandbox. I split my lip so badly that it took fifteen minutes to stop the bleeding. My dad even had to give me stitches! So, there you go.”

Yurka was sure that Volodya would think him a fool and a braggart, and laugh at him, but he simply smiled kindly:

“So, you have a memory of a brief, free flight. A Karlsson.”[1]

Yurka could not hold his smile back: This Volodya is rather strange on the whole, too kind and understanding. Even Yurka himself would have taken some kind of schadenfreude from the situation, but Volodya did not.

“We have a Karlsson, Sanya, while I’m–”

“Gagarin?”

“Chkalov,[2] at most. I didn’t fly that far, after all,” replied Yurka and looked searchingly at the counsellor. “Well? Now that I’ve shared my secret with you, share yours!”

Volodya bent his eyebrow in surprise and nodded:

“Alright, ask.”

“Why did you really join the counsellors? It’s clear that you don’t particularly like looking after children.”

“Hm…” while he thought about his answer, Volodya absent-mindedly poked at the bridge of his nose, adjusting his glasses. He sighed and blurted out, as though learnt by heart, the sentence, “It’s a good way of gaining useful experience and – Yura, don’t argue – getting a character reference for the Party.”

Yurka snorted. A week ago, at the first line-up, he would have believed that the ideal Volodya – his whole self a proper Komsomolets – would need nothing but his good name, but now…

“Twenty-five – that’s a reference![3] And if you’re telling the truth, surely that can’t be all? Just a good reputation?”

Volodya faltered and sorted his glasses out again, despite that they were already in the right place.

“Well… not quite. To be honest, I’ve always been very shy, it’s difficult enough for me to get along with people, to communicate, to make friends. But with children… My mum works as a preschool teacher, she recommended me to become a counsellor. She said that if I want to learn to find a common language with people, it’s best to start with children – they don’t have inhibitions.” He fell silent again, and Yurka thought that if he went to adjust his glasses again, then he would have to slap his hand. You’re actually more useful. I mean, you’re better at finding common ground with them.”

Yurka proudly squared his shoulders, but immediately lowered them:

“It’s our shared service,” he said. “I also don’t like playing around with the really small ones, that’s to say, I don’t know how. But to help you, well… Anyway, remember! Yesterday after dinner, I stomped over to the troop and saw Olezhka. He was sitting on the square all alone, crying, I approached him and asked what was going on. It turns out that all this time, the kids have been teasing him for his lisp, and now that he has almost the main role, the teasing has become… he says he can’t cope with it. The poor wretch is already embarrassed and then on top of that he hears from the other kids stuff like ‘How on earth do you mean to perform when you lisp so badly!’”

“Is that a direct quote? Who from?”

“I don’t know who. I only understand every other word from Olezhka and then he was sobbing as well, I couldn’t make out half of it. To the point, Volod, I’ve thought about it, and it’s true, he really does pronounce all these words badly, like ‘partisans’, ‘battle’[4] and so on…”

“A lisper in the main role…” repeated Volodya moodily. “Of course, it’s not the main role, there’s just a lot of lines… But he asked for it himself and I thought, on the contrary, that it would give him self-confidence. We need to come up with something, but we can’t take the role away from him, Olezhka would get so upset, so we should try, uh… Got any ideas?”

“I do, that’s what I wanted to talk about! What about, before he learns all the words, we rewrite his script so that words with the letter ‘r’ are as few as possible?”

And they began their rewrite, swapping words with ‘r’ for synonyms. The work was not much, but it turned out to be so complicated for them that over just one day they had not got very far at all, and they understood that they would need more time. Then, Volodya asked Yurka whether he would not mind if he tried to get him out of quiet hours, but on one condition – that during these times, Yurka would not move even one step away from Volodya.

Yurka was so delighted that he jumped up on the carousel:

“Of course! Of course I want to!”

Not only would he no longer spend two hours wandering around the place, not knowing what to entertain himself with, but this time would be just him and Volodya, privately! Why would he even ask – the answer was obvious. But his joy was quickly extinguished as he recalled Olga Leonidovna’s stern voice and her reprimands: “A child must always be occupied with something, and a counsellor must always know where and what he’s doing.” But his counsellor was Ira, not Volodya. Yurka wilted. Giving the blockhead Yurka leave to get out of quiet hour? As if! It was completely impossible, why would Volodya tease him with it?

“We don’t have much script to go through,” Volodya was thinking aloud the whole while, “but it is very complex and responsible, an important role on the whole. There’s no time at all for an imaginative reworking, we need to hand it in to him as quickly as possible! Think about it yourself, how many hours do we need? Six to eight as a guess, but where to take them from? Not from rehearsal times, nor from my work time with the fifth troop either.”

“Yes but a script is a script. Even if they give the go-ahead on the rewrite, giving me leave to go is another story entirely,” Yurka soured completely.

“I shall reveal what to you is probably a secret, but in our camp, there are children who are let free during quiet hour. An incredible business. In my camp no-one was ever let free, but, clearly, times are changing. The, you were given to me not as an actor, but as a helper, and here, help really is needed now. They can’t bar you from competitions, communal work or the disco, they also can’t stop you from writing during rehearsal – I need you.”

“I feel like, all the same, it won’t work out.”

“I’ll have a little chat with the older counsellor, and ask Lena to support me; she works with me, she sees and knows everything,” Volodya, of course, noticed the shift in his mood and patted him cheerfully on the shoulder. “It can’t hurt to try. We’ll see what kind of diplomat I am.”

By the next morning, at the staff meeting, Volodya asked Olga Leonidovna for permission to take Yurka out of quiet hour. But getting it turned out to be oh so complicated.

Later in the day, as he walked towards the playground after lights out, Volodya, accustomed to speaking quietly beneath the windows of the fifth troop, almost shouted:

“Picture it, Yur, for a half hour this question was discussed by the whole staff of counsellors, I just barely persuaded them. Olga Leonidovna did not agree right away, but it was actually clear that she wasn’t particularly against it – when she’s against something, thunder rolls across a clear sky – but she asked for an opinion from the elder counsellor, and from the rest as a formality. They nodded, they also agreed, and it’s not surprising – is it not all the same to them, who helps me rewrite the script” At that point, Irina jumped in with some rubbish about how, on the contrary, public speaking will benefit Olezhka, supposedly it will prompt him to try harder with the speech therapist, she says! I almost fell out my chair – it’s rubbish and rubbish is dangerous for Olezhka! And she very well may actually think that and go on worrying about it, but it’s not like that. She’s throwing a spanner in the works!”

Up until then, Volodya had not been able to make peace with her. He had tried to apologise several times, but Ira, would put an end to the conversation without letting him say his piece. Volodya was confused and more than once confessed sadly to Yurka that this discord with Ira upset him greatly. But at the meeting, no matter what Irina might have said, Olga Leonidovna turned out to be more sympathetic to Olezhka’s problem and gave Volodya permission.

“For real?! I can officially stay up?!” Yurka could not believe it.

They sat at the playground as normal. Yurka kicked along the ground in joy and spun the carousel. The dandelion blossoms had been gliding along the ground up to then, only rarely raising higher than the knee and floating into his nose. Now, disturbed by the wind, they rushed about the air in a mad swarm.

The same time, as though a team, the guys kicked off and stopped. The blossom caught in Yurka’s throat, he fell into a coughing fit and, blinded by the tears welling up, blinked stupidly and began to take a look around and was awestruck by the beauty of the place. It was as though he had seen it for the first time. On the ground, dandelions circled about like broken white umbrellas and lazily settled on the grass. Umbrellas on the ground, and in the sky there also floated umbrellas - not far from the camp was an aerodrome. White aeroplanes flew over Lastochka every day and from them sprung paratroopers, opening their parachutes and descending, as they learnt to land. To watch that was unreally beautiful. And how had Yurka not noticed it earlier?

Having looked around, he understood that everything in this place was beautiful and Volodya was very beautiful. Especially today, now, when he told him this wonderful news and suddenly, gleeful, ruffled and ruddy, bgean to laugh so contagiously that Yurka also began to giggle. He had never seen Volodya so happy. Yurka, most likely, had never himself been so unaccountably happy – they had given him permission to leave quiet hour and that meant that now they could be together for as long as they pleased. And from that time, every free minute, they spent on the script rewrite – it needed to be finished quickly and given to Olezhka to learn.

But something always got in their way. Almost the whole day fell through because of that Yulya from the fifth troop, who desperately wanted to go back to her parents. It was a shame about the time, but Yurka tried to treat her problem with understanding. After all, he himself very much disliked camp on his first season. Yurka truly did not know what he was doing there and why he had been sent there; he thought that he was being punished, and he too had blubbered as he changed his opinion on the camp to the diametric opposite only at the end of the season. But Volodya’s Yulya was struck by such hysteria that it took both counsellors, the pedagogue Olga Leonidovna and a nurse to calm her down. By the evening, Volodya was worn out so badly that Yurka let him go to sleep rather than have their sit-around.

The second lost day was Parents’ Day. It was doubly offensive that it passed by so quickly a confusingly. After all, to tell the truth, Yurka looked forward to it no less than all the other kids. It was like as soon as his mum gave him a hug, the troop concert had already begun. No sooner had they gone walking around the camp than it was lunchtime. No sooner had they played that game where you run through a tunnel formed from two rows of people joining their hands over an aisle than they were being fed again. No sooner had his mum, in a team along with the other mums, got into a Chinese skipping rope competition – adults against girls, than it was time to say goodbye.

It seemed to everybody, adults and children alike, that they hardly managed to exchange two words with their relatives, and Yurka was no exception; he only discussed the theatre. He wanted to share his happiness that he had got to know this wonderful guy Volodya and forged such a strong friendship that he did not now know how he could get through a day without him. His mum would, most likely, be glad at such news – finally her son was coming to his senses and getting along, not with some little punk, but with a proper Komsomolets. But Yurka kept his mouth shut, abashed, not knowing how to properly convey his feelings, or in general how to characterise them.

But what else to talk to his mum about? How the food was filling, but not very tasty? As though she did not know herself what it was like at camp.

Before taking a seat on the bus, his mum gave Yurka a peck on the cheek and cautiously asked:

“Have you made friends with any of the girls yet? I’ve not been acquainted with any of them…”

“There’s Ksyusha, I asked her to danse,” replied Yurka, awkwardly pointing at Zmeyevskaya. He began to feel very uncomfortable. His mum had never spoken with him about girls before.

Towards the evening, it was now him who was burnt out. Yurka, of course, did not go to sleep, but he had neither the desire nor the energy to pore over the script. He and Volodya simply sat on the carousel and rambled on together about everything and nothing.

However, over the course of the time spent together, they had managed to truly befriend one another and sometimes even shared private things. But often they did not ramble and instead laid out the notebook and some paper across a knee, bent over them and began a brainstorm. At least, they tried to begin one.

“So… ‘war’, ‘war’…” Volodya thoughtfully gnawed at his pen, enunciating each sound and almost savouring the ‘r’, “’war-r-r…”

“’Battle’, ‘conflict’,”[5] Yura gave out a couple of synonyms and yawned monstrously.

They sat around for a long time that day. The sun beat down particularly hard; Volodya hid himself in the shade of the bird-cherries growing next to the carousel and would not even stick out his – as Yurka was convinced from time to time – good-looking nose. Yurka himself kept his favourite imported red cap on the whole day. His forehead got sweaty, the strap pressed uncomfortably into the back of his neck, but Yurka stubbornly persisted through the discomfort, afraid that he would sunburnt even in the shade.

Despite the heat, the work went well: in that quiet hour they got more done than in the previous two days put together. But there was a lot left. Yurka was tired, his neck and arms were numb – he had been sitting for half an hour almost without moving. But he did not regret it: this work felt more important for him than some horror stories. Cracking his neck, he stood up from the carousel and began to walk around it, stretching his aching back.

“Yes, ‘battle’, that’s good,” muttered Volodya without taking his gaze away from his notebook. “’With the aggressor’…”

“A battle with the aggressor, with the Nazis, with the adversary… Sounds a bit strange.”

“And they all have an ‘r’ or an ‘s’ sound,” agreed Volodya.

“The occupation!”[6] it dawned upon Yurka. He paused and pointed his finger dramatically upward.

“Precisely!” Volodya looked up from the papers, glasses sparkling, and smiled. “Ah… no, wait. An adjacent sentence has ‘the occupation’, we can’t take it from there.”

“Why not? Come on, let me have a look.” Yura flopped into a seat next to him and snatched up the notebook.

Volodya moved closer to him and tried to take a look at the pages. He reached out with his pen, meaning to use it to point at the text, but Yurka, not thinking, kicked off and the carousel began to rotate. Volodya lost his balance and fell onto Yurka so hard that the hard brim of his red cap painfully jabbed Volodya in the forehead.

The pages slowly fell to the ground and scattered apart on the light breeze. His gaze following them, the counsellor looked down at his feet and blushed.

“Oh,” he whispered. Just as he cast his gaze downwards, Volodya understood that for almost a minute he had been holding Yurka by the knee and he sharply withdrew his hand.

“S-sorry.” Yurka also began to feel uncomfortable for some reason. He coughed, embarrassed, and casually turned the cap backwards.

“How strangely you wear it.” This remark, as well as the airy tone put on by Volodya, sounded silly.

“I don’t wear it like that. Well, that is, I am wearing it like that, but it’s hot today and now I had to, so that you… well so that you don’t bump… well…” he completely faltered and then abruptly changed the subject: “And what, you don’t like it?”

“Not at all, it looks good on you. Your fringe is sticking out so funnily. It’s a cool hat, really! And those jeans you have are cool too, and the polo shirt. I remember, you were dressed amazingly for the disco… that you didn’t go to.”

“Oh yeah, it’s all imported.” Yurka was so proud of himself – he never doubted that his clothes weren’t outstanding.

“Where are you getting this wealth from?”

“I have relatives who live in the GDR, where they bring them from. But this hat here isn’t German, by the way, it’s American.”

“Awesome!” exclaimed Volodya.

Flattered and pleased with himself, Yura started to tell him in detail about the origins of his favourite imported things. True, his jeans were not technically American, but rather Indian, but he was not going to specify that.

“You know, it’s not just the clothes that are rad over there in Germany.”

“Yeah, I know, the technology and the cars as well. Somewhere in a magazine I saw such a cool motorbike!” Volodya’s eyes widened.

“In a magazine… Yeah, they have magazines there like there’ll never be in the USSR.”

“Oh, be for real! I tell him about a motorbike and he’s going on about magazines. We’re not very alike.”

“You just haven’t seen them and don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re so-o-o great!” Yurka conspiratorially raised and lowered his eyebrows.

“What then, huh?”

“I won’t say.”

“Yura! What’s with the preschool antics? Say it.”

“Ok, alright, I’ll say, but it’s a secret, alright?”

“Komsomolets’s honour.”

Yurka narrowed his eyes at him:

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“In spring, my uncle came to stay with us and brought some stuff: clothes, naturally, make-up for my mum, something for my dad and magazines. Well, normal magazines, only they were in German, with clothes and household stuff. So it went. In the evening, I was sent off to sleep, while they stayed in the kitchen. Mum left soon after, and my uncle stayed together with my father. My room, as it happens, is close to the kitchen, you can hear conversations there very well… And by that point they were, ah, hammered, and they began to talk really loudly, so that I could make out every word. I just lay there, listening. It turned out that my uncle also brought my dad some magazines, just, ahem… of another kind. And then, when I was home alone, I found these magazines.”

“What was written in them? Something anti-Soviet? In that case, it’s dangerous to keep magazines like that at home.”

“Not at all! I don’t yet know German well enough to read fluently. Besides, there wasn’t any text, just pictures. Photographs.” Yurka leaned in so close to Volodya that his lips almost touched his ear and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Of women!”

“A-a-ah… Um… Well yea, I know that such magazines exist…” Volodya withdrew an arm’s length away from Yurka, but Yurka practically nestled up to him and spoke hoarsely right into his ear:

“They were with men… You know, with men! They were–”

“Yur, don’t, I understand,” Volodya moved away again.

“Just picture it!” pronounced Yurka in a rapturous whisper.

“I can picture it. Can we change the topic? This isn’t appropriate for pioneer camp.”

“Surely it interests you?” Yurka was thrown into confusion.

“I’d be lying if I said it was of no interest at all, but… it’s not for nothing that it’s banned, it’s very, very indecent!” Volodya stood up and walked a couple of steps away.

“Listen, there was something I didn’t understand there, Volod.” Yurka became animated again. “I saw something unusual… Hey, you’re older and must know. I just want to know whether that stuff there really was photographed or whether it’s, I don’t know, some kind of drawing–”

“Yur,” Volodya darted up to him and whispered in his ear, “it’s called ‘pornography’. You’re at camp, I’m a counsellor, and the counsellor has told you that you must not look at that stuff, it’s a depravity!”

“So you don’t look at it and I don’t look at it, I just wanted to tell you what was there. Explain, is it just not right, or impossible, or is it maybe not real?”

“For crying out loud, Yura!”

“Hey, Volod… are you my friend or what?”

“Your friend, of course,” Volodya blushed and turned away.

“Then tell me… There’s how it normally is – that’s all clear.” Yurka began to ramble anxiously. “But a few of the photographs there showed him– with her– not there, but– you know, in that place– you know, what you sit on!”

“A chair?” Volodya might have been joking but his face was not merely serious, but angry.

“Quit it! I just want to know, is that possible to do or not?”

“’Quit it’?” Volodya venomously mimicked him. “Yura, you’ve crossed the line. That’s all, we’re changing the topic! Another word and I’ll leave and Olezhka will have to ‘entew into waw with the aggwethor’, and I’ll tell him it’s all because of you!”

The conversation was cut off by a klaxon, signifying that quiet hour had ended.

“You need to go anyway…” mumbled Yurka resentfully.

***

At the afternoon snack, as he half-listened to the excited gossiping about the upcoming game of capture the flag, Yurka was focussed on just one thing – regretting how he had asked Volodya about that. Volodya would not even look in his direction and if his gaze fell by chance on Yurka’s corner of the canteen, the counsellor’s facial expression alternated from serious to repulsed. Or was Yurka imagining it? Everything seemed to be something imaginary to him – for example, that he and Volodya had become real, truly close friends. But now, his reaction, the ice in his normally warm voice proved that between them might be whatever they pleased, only not friendship. A strange sorrow gripped Yurka. They did not even seem to be fighting. So they had an argument, what nonsense. It was nonsense, but now Yurka felt hurt and ashamed.

Sad and lost in thought, he headed to rehearsal, stoking the cinders of his shame along the way: It’s my fault. What an idiot I was! Asking a Komsomolets those kinds of questions. And not just any Komsomolets, but one as sheltered as him. And what for? It would have been better to ask the kids from the street. Maybe they would have laughed too, but they would also have found it interesting! Even if Yurka had spoken about that, in the first place, it was a very personal topic, which meant he had shared something personal with Volodya, or, more accurately, tried to share. What did he, Konev, a regular blockhead who hung out with any old hooligans, have to do with an elite like Volodya? And now he pushed him away and shamed him, and then, just to make sure, hit him with that look. He was not aiming for it but struck upon it; Yurka trembled.

He recollected all this and stopped halfway: Why did I ask him about that in particular? What for? So that he’d roll his eyes or so that he’d explain? And he even says he’s my friend! Uh-huh, as if! A liar, he is, not a friend! Friends don’t like that!

In the open area by the stage, it was busy as always. Girls from the second troop were drawing some kind of map on the asphalt with chalk, while the big-eared Alyoshka Matveyev hung around them, giving them some advice and slipping them chalks.

“What’s that you’re making?” Yurka hailed him.

“What do you mean? We’re preparing for capture the flag. Look, we’re drawing a map for the main headquarters. Olka had this great idea – in the main headquarters will be our intelligence operation, and we’ll mark on the map what we find out about where each troop is.”

“The disco is tonight; the map will get rubbed out under everyone’s feet.”

“It’s nothing, tomorrow we’ll just go over it in outline. It’s faster doing it like that than starting from nothing,” rambled Alyoshka. “Don’t you want to join our intelligence gatherers?”

“No, I don’t.”

As soon as Yurka turned away and took a couple of steps towards the theatre, Alyoshka suddenly appeared behind him and grabbed his shoulder.

“Konev, give it a think.”

“Alyosh, no-one in the main headquarters will take me, I’ll be with my own people. Now let me– go, mind your own business…”

“Why wouldn’t they take you? They’ll take you, if you ask. Aks them, Yur! You have such long legs, you run so fast…”

Alyoshka obstinately minced along behind him, intending to either trip him up or grab him by the elbow. Out of breath, stamping and wheezing, he was in general trying to draw attention to himself by any means possible.

“Alyosha, you’re too much!” groaned Yurka. “Alright, I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah? And what else?”

“Give me some chalk.”

“Here,” Alyoshka offered him the box and Yurka took one.

“Thank you. I won’t go. I’ll be with my own people.”

“Then why the chalk?”

“I don’t have much calcium in my system, I’m going to eat it. Oh, they’re calling you, do you hear?”

“Yeah? Who? Oh, Olya. Well, I’ll be off, and you’ll give it some more thought.”

Could he have been mistaken to refuse the intelligence gatherers? If he were running around the field the next day, he might find a way of staying with Volodka. After all, he would be nervous that some plump little Sashka would slip into a ditch and break his arms, legs, and the ditch itself. Of course, the second counsellor would not leave Volodya alone, but it was perfectly accurate that he would also need Yurka, perfectly accurate, perfectly!

I don’t need him! protested Yurka’s pride. You run around fussing like Alyoshka, and it’s all the same to him. I didn’t try with those stupid horror stories and with the theatre for myself, and he just grouses and lectures. That does it! I’m not going anywhere any more. Not a-ny-where! Rehearsal least of all. He shouldn’t have glared like that, let him deal with his own stupid play himself, I’m not going anywhere! and he did not go. He turned around on the porch and stomped back through the dancefloor to the tennis courts, where according to the timetable, the first troop was getting ready to play.

There were all of two courts, plus tables for table-tennis. The first troop, headed by Ira Petrovna, was present in almost its full capacity – apart from Masha and the PUK girls. Some were playing badminton, some were rooting for them and some were simply hanging out in the chain-link box of the court. Yurka loved to lean back on the fence, rocking about the wire rhombi and watch the others play. But that day he did not plan to cheer others on, he was planning to beat everyone and take out his anger on the shuttlecocks.

Having spotted him from far off, Vanka and Mikha waved in synchronisation, inviting him to join their team. Yurka was a top player, while those two could neither play nor fight back properly; only those who liked losing joined their team. Yurka was not one of them, but he did not ask the other kids if he could join them, he silent grabbed a racquet and served. The shuttlecock flew over to his opponents and struck Ira Petrovna on the forehead.

“Sorry!” cried out Yurka.

Expecting Ira Petrovna to start having a go at him, he cautiously made another, ‘clean’ serve, but the counsellor cheerfully winked and turned away.

After that scene in Volodya’s room, Ira had been avoiding Yurka, and when they happened to be doing something together, she became quieter than water and lower than grass. Yurka, naturally, was not going to tell anybody about what he had seen, but, judging by her angelic behaviour, Ira thought that he was capable of chicanery and blackmail.

Yurka sulked to himself, Who does she take me for? but he gave no audible hint of this. Ultimately, this state of affairs suited him: the counsellor had stopped baselessly making him out to be a culprit and a scapegoat, and in all, a fragile and awkward peace, but peace all the same, had been established between Yurka and Ira Petrovna. The same could not be said for her relationship with Volodya.

No sooner had Yurka remembered that that into his imagination burst and blossomed in all its colour that repulsive scene at the theatre – Ira’s white face, shaking hands, tears of rage in her eyes and Volodya glaring angrily opposite. Oh, Ira Petrovna won’t forgive him, not something like that… sympathised Yurka and spat right there with annoyance – again he was thinking about Volodya!

Volodya was everywhere, even where he could not be. At that moment he was definitely occupied with the actors in the theatre, but it seemed to Yurka as though he caught a glimpse of his figure over in those bushes.

Ira continued. Yurka waved his racquet around, not to return the shuttlecock, but as though chopping the sunbeams up into pieces. The beams remained safe and sound, but Yurka, sweaty and dishevelled, satisfactorily killed the midges.

Their team kept score. For almost the whole game, Vanka and Mikha stood on the spot, while Yurka jumped around like a madman, and before sending the shuttlecock off on its game-winning volley – perhaps into Ira Petrovna’s forehead again – he turned and once again saw Volodya amongst the bushes.

This time it really was him. Pensive, with a timid smile upon his lips, Volodya drew up to the cage around the court, but, stopping a meter away from the entrance, did not decide to go in. Instead, stepping up behind Yurka, he stopped by the wire mesh and put his fingers in between the metal rhombi.

“Yur, why didn’t you come?” he asked quietly, but Yurka caught it.

Without looking, he sent the shuttlecock back and pressed up close to the cage and looked Volodya in the eye with a challenge.

“It’s not like I have a role anyway, what would I do there?”

“What do you mean, what would you do?” Volodya looked at him sadly, but, after shaking his head, gathered himself and explained in his accustomed ‘counsellor’ tone, “Olga Leonidovna gave an order – whether you have a role or not, you have to come to each rehearsal. You help me and I put in a good report for you.”

“Go and give a report, what does that have to do with me?”

“Do you want to go home already? They’ll kick you out in the blink of an eye, you know.”

“Kick me out for what? I’m playing with my troop and, by the way, with my counsellor. Ira Petrovna’s got my back.”

 Whilst waiting for a response that didn’t come, Yurka tapped on the toe of his tennis shoe with his racquet, looked off to the sides and stomped over to the bench to take a glass of boiled water. Volodya headed after him.

“You’re upset with me,” he guessed and lowered his gaze guiltily.

“As if!” snorted Yurka. “I’m not upset. I just understand that with you I can talk about far from anything.”

“That’s not true! Say what you want!”

“Uh-huh, of course,” Yurka turned around and started to drink his water.

“Oh, what’s with you? I… you know what, Yur?” Volodya pensively laid a palm against the wire, which quietly rattled. “I’ve also seen those kinds of magazines.”

“Oh yeah? Where did you get them?” Yurka turned back around and stared unconvincedly at him.

“I study at MGIMO,[7] there’s guys there whose parents are diplomats, sometimes they manage to get a hold of–”

“Where?!” Yurka practically shouted. “AT MGIMO?!”

“Yes. Only, I’m begging you: not a word about the magazine to anybody! Yura, this is very serious. If even the single stupidest rumour about such a thing comes out, I’ll be booted out.”

“Come off it, there’s no way!”

“There very much is a way. A classmate who was carrying that magazine around with him fell victim to it. He was expelled within a month.”

“But if it’s so easy to get kicked out, how did you get in? Are you a cheater, huh?”

“As if! You think you couldn’t do it yourself?”

“It’s not something on my mind, breaking in there is almost impossible: the competition is large, and it’s enough pain as it is having to be ‘ideological’. There’s the approvals you need to gather: from the Komsomol council at school, from the Komsomol district committee, from the district committee for the Party, you need to go to all the interviews…”

Volodya nodded as he listened, while Yurka continued to enumerate, ticking off on his fingers, how much he would need to do, where he would need to be a member, how many times and in which ways he would need to participate, where he would need to go. He suddenly stopped short – who, besides Volodya, could get in there?”

“Well… To be honest, I only got in by the skin of my teeth,” he smiled modestly, once Yurka deigned to finish. “The medical board turned me down, get this, because of my sight. I argued with them – the military commissariat accepted me, I’m good enough for the army, but here you won’t take me on to study? Really, the story is quite long and uninteresting.”

“And how is it – studying there, is it hard?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s easy, the main thing is that it’s interesting. Almost every day I drop by the guys in the dorm, they organise such fun gatherings.”

“Do you all drink tea?” Yurka recalled Volodya’s outrage and frowned.

“There’s everything at these gatherings,” replied Volodya, whispering.

“Including depravity?” Yurka squinted.

“How dare you, we’re Komsomoltsy!” Volodya gave a stern look but immediately smiled, “Okay, alright, I’m joking. There’s everything: Préférence,[8] girls, port wine, uncensored literature.”

“Hang on, port? You have alcohol as well?” Yurka whispered now too. “Where do you get it? When my neighbour got married, they couldn’t even get a bottle of vodka for the wedding, they drank spirits that my dad stole from work.”

“It’s me that calls it port,” Volodya began to explain. “My coursemate brings it. He lives in a village in the oblast and they distil an outstanding moonshine there. For some, the taste reminds them of cognac, for me, it’s port. This prohibition can’t end soon enough. It’s scary for Mishka, he’s putting everything on the line.”

During this dialogue, Yurka’s offense disappeared. He forgot about it so quickly that it was as though neither it, nor the discord, nor even the cause of their arguing had never happened. It was like they, candid as always, were now talking about the same things as always, and at the same behaved and looked as they usually did: Yurka was unkempt and enraptured, Volodya was tidy and a bit haughty. There was only one difference: the fence, almost as tall as the sky, drawn up between them.

“Shall we go to the rehearsal, Yur? Afterwards, I’ll tell you anything you want,” suggested Volodya. His face lit up and the furrows in his forehead smoothened out. “Just let Irina know you’re going with me.”

Yurka nodded. He ran over to Ira, excused himself while giving the side-eye to the gym instructor hanging around nearby, placed his racquet on the bench and exited the court.

“Does this mean you abandoned everyone there to come look for me?” he inquired when they turned off from the main plaza towards the dance floor.

“I left Masha in charge of the main stuff. She’s of course great, but she won’t be able to do the rehearsal, and we need to work really hard today. There won’t be any activities tomorrow.”

“Right. It’s capture the flag tomorrow,” Yurka was upset. After all, that meant that today, because of the preparations for the game, they would not get to be together, just the two of them: after rehearsals, Yurka would be occupied with sewing his shoulder strap[9] and in the evening, an inspection of the first troop’s formation and songs was planned. The next day, all the staff and children of the camp would be wholly and entirely swallowed up from early morning until well into the night by the vast game. Nevertheless, Yurka was mistaken not to go be an intelligence gatherer in the headquarters.

[1] Karlsson-on-the-Roof, a children’s book character invented by Astrid Lindgren, the author of the Pippi Longstocking books, who has a propeller on his back that lets him fly.

[2] Valery Chkalov, 2.2.1904–15.12.1938, a famous pilot, somewhat similar to Amelia Earhart, whose most famous feat was a non-stop, 63-hour and 5475-mile long flight from Moscow to Vancouver via the North Pole in 1937. He died in a plane crash the next year.

[3] I believe this is a reference to grades; in the Soviet Union and Russia, students are graded by numbers rather than letters, with 5 being the best and 1 being the worst – I would need to check how many subjects a student Volodya’s age would be expected to have grades in, but I imagine a sum score of 25 is equivalent to straight-As. That said, I’m also not sure that all of a student’s grades get “summed up” in this way, but if he’s not talking about grades, then I have no idea.

[4] In Russian, bor’ba

[5] In the original Russian, Volodya is reflecting on the word bor’ba ‘struggle, conflict, combat’ and Yura suggests boj ‘fighting’ or bitva ‘battle’

[6] This time, the word in contention is vrag ‘enemy’, for which Yurka suggests nedrug ‘foe’, neprijatel’ ‘adversary’ and finally, zakhvatchik ‘invader’

[7] Moskovskij Gosudarstvennyj Institut Meždunarodnyj Otnošenij ‘Moscow State Institute of International Relations’, the most prestigious university in Russia for studying politics.

[8] An apparently very complicated card game popular in Russia

[9] Capture the flag was a more intense game at pioneer camp, called Zarnitsa ‘Heat lightning’, where everyone would wear two shoulder straps, which represented a kind of health bar for each player.

[octarineblues]

ok im gonna make a list with my good omens post season 2 immediate thoughts, (making separate posts is just not sustainable for now). so to sum up, with az and crowley thoughts first:

i hope crowley and aziraphale are doing alright 😭 in my head they are

Let Crowley Have a Nice Nap and A Cuddle

seriously, someone give this demon a break, he was doing his best the whole time and things just kept piling up. for az too, but crowley was much more aware of his emotions throughout this whole thing, it must have been exhausting

i think az's decision made sense for him, we as fans are just used to seeing good omens heaven in way less positive light. he's going to have such a bad time really soon :( (i hope fandom is being nice to az)

this season made crowley seem right a lot more than az in response to many different issues, especially in the miniepisodes. which is a choice, and i'm not sure how i feel about it, but crowley was right!! many, many times!! and it does show that az has a lot more to learn/accept about heaven, and prepares us for his final decision. so it makes perfect sense but i wish things were different aaa

(its also that there was a lot of time between hiob & between the resurectionists & the 1941 theatre one and you could see less development in az's characyer that i could hope for. and crowley's character too - he seemed to be doing relatively well from the start. i guess it makes sense if you want to tell the stories while keeping their charavters consistent with first season, but.)

(also, i am obsessed with the Job episode, more about it later)

that time when az says he's going to protect gabriel till the end!! yesss

also - crowley was pinning hard this whole time, it was so angsty, i feel so bad for him

the way crowley warms up to gabriel is actually so touching

but he was so angry sometimes it was almost difficult to watch, i think it was a good reminder that crowley is a demon, actually

why was crowley homeless??

you were right you were right i was wrong you were right 🎵🎶

crowley is so good with protecting the humans, he just does that instinctively a lot of times

tbh crowley's modern look is pretty fucking good. and his heaven look. obsessed.

i will be projecting so much on crowley

bonus: A FEZ

ok and now everything else:

this whole season was so queer 🧡

maggie and nina grow with the season as characters and as friends/pre-relationship couple and i love them so much

nina being the only person to recognise how weird everyone was being was so funny and so good and i am in love (platonic)

maggie is also amazing and her giving the finger(s) to the demons was an absolute delight

many mixed feelings about shax, but her banter is spot on

im not sure how confident i am about uriel's bookkeeping skills but she's delightful

the jane austen gag was perfect

im sure this has been said many times, but gabriel x beelzebub shippers from 2019, how do you feel?

hiob minisode:

absolutely obsessed, love that they used it

god seemed different than in first season but closer to what i understood god to be like from the book

the book of hiob (and the song dzieci hioba by kaczmarski) was right there at the beginning of my own experience with learning how to question/criticise the church so i am. of course not being objective about the episode. but it feels so personal. it's weird that it happened twice.

az eating made me so uncomfortable 😶 i think i know where they were going with it? but i did not like watching it

hiob's kids were pretty spoiled (especially ty tennant), in the book of hiob as i understand they were supposed to be as good as their dad. which is a strange hang up of me to have? but here we ar

now, good lady, simply turn to your husband, reach into his robes... h-higher - SITIS

the kid who was like, can i be a blue lizard? absolute mood. im glad she got her wish

ok thats it for now? i think? i hope its understandable, its well after after midnight for me. here's gonna be more Thoughts tomorrow, most likely, and might one day make them into proper posts even?

overall, i loved this season so much! (also, i think im gonna rewatch the whole thing very soon)

[mojaves]

know, meet strange, and loss for sebastian 👀

it feels like you reached into his brain and picked out the perfect questions for him. i am going insane already thank you

Know: How well does your OC know themself—their wants, their goals, their motivations? Do they engage in any sort of self-reflection? Is there anything about themself they willfully ignore?

as much as he likes to think he knows himself, he really doesnt - outright refuses to acknowledge that he's mentally and physically exhausted most of the time, ignores his body when it's in pain, and on the off chance he decides to pay attention to it, he won't do anything about it. and it's entirely because of 1] how he was brought up, with his father convincing him from a VERY young age that expressing discomfort, or really any emotion, and getting injured was a sign of Failure and a Weakness. so he basically grew up terrified of trying to get to know himself in any capacity. and 2] arasaka taking advantage of all of that, because they knew he would completely ignore any injuries he may get in a fight and just keep going until his whole body falls apart, which is. absolutely terrifying for anyone having to witness that. to say the least. to sum all of That up, he's pretty much been on autopilot for most of his life, not once stopping along the way to make sure he's alright. but when he gets divorced, and later nearly killed + leaves arasaka, things finally start changing for him. VERY small steps of course. but it finally happens. eventually. one day.

Meet Strange: What's the most memorable way your OC has ever met a new person? Was it a good experience? Bad experience? Just plain weird? How's their relationship with that person now?

basically every single time he encountered the assassin arasaka hired to kill him. which happened a lot more often than you'd expect. from an assassin. whose sole purpose. is to kill seb. and while it wasn't a good experience by any stretch. it wasn't Bad?? either?? because. for starters, gets him out of the base he works at so he's not just doing paperwork 24/7, more exercise, every day he wakes up alive is a fun surprise, and whatever happens after that is a bonus. plus he gets to occasionally encounter a pretty guy who wants to kill him. the bad [multiple very bad injuries for both parties, sleepless nights worrying he's going to die, emotional, mental, physical exhaustion. to name a few] far outweighs the good. but. the prettyboy part of it makes it juuuust a little more bearable. so. to answer the first bit. good. bad. AND weird!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and you'll never guess what happens next [you cant] [many years later they end up getting married] [if you can believe it]

Loss: Is there anyone important to your OC who has passed away? How did they handle the loss?

oueriughrasfkujghagdghdsgdsghg this one is killing me dead on the ground. kieran, one of the gang's netrunners, died while on the job and seb did NOT handle it well. even a little bit. big breakdown followed by barely talking/moving for an entire week. bc kieran was like a son to him, like a younger brother, who reminded him SO much of his own brother, which explains why seb was always so protective of him. he's not home anymore to keep his own brother safe. and then he couldn't keep this kid safe either, in the end. am i going to chew live wires now?? you bet i am!!!!!

[mlobsters]

supernatural s7e21 reading is fundamental (w. ben edlund)

i recognize the name kevin tran but i have no clue who he is. another question soon to be answered. the cello playing not super obviously fake, good job everyone!

the classical music overplayed action dudes setting up gear and getting settled in dark and industrial setting, very reminiscent of... something. maybe it's a general action movie trope. but thinking of nessun dorma in the sum of all fears (one of my favorite usages of music in a movie). anyway. it's a vibe. and not one this show usually has. i like it

DEAN That sound like somebody saying, "No, wait – stop," to you? SAM Uh... Yeah. Yeah. DEAN Yeah. [shrugs] Oh, well.

all right then. did lightning daddy zap the kid some juice

meg livin it up

DEAN So, what? We start the storm heard 'round the world?

maybe i'm just sad but, oof. this better not be something to feel guilty about again

same, sam, same.

DEAN All right, so big daddy chomper lands here, he grabs himself some Dick…

they're really ramming the Dick jokes down our throats

DEAN Rufus' cabin, then? SAM Yeah. DEAN This time, I'm doing the shopping.

thank you for all the little domestic moments lately, show

literally busted out laughing. got the sad, sad trench back on. staring out the window. is it raining?

are dean and sam both forgiving and forgetting cas?

CASTIEL Will you look at her? My caretaker. All of that thorny pain. So beautiful. MEG We've been over this. I don't like poetry. Put up or shut up.

i'm with sam. okay.

CASTIEL If someone was going to free the Word from the vault of the earth, it would end up being you two. Oh, I love you guys. DEAN Oh. Uck. Okay. All right. Okay.

laughing at the transcription but he totally said uck

this sam confusion over megatron/metatron thing is making me laugh but it's so ridiculous. speaking of ridiculous, leaving the word of god on the floor to go bicker with meg, sam. he knows better, c'mon

MEG We both call, who do you think Cas will come to? I'm guessing me. You heard him – thorny beauty, blah, blah. I'm the saint who stayed with him. He owes me. His words. SAM Yeah, what about what he owes us? MEG Well, work on him a little. Maybe he'll start crushing on you, too, hot stuff.

this kind of feels like ruby 2.0, what they're doing with meg

DEAN No, I want you to button up your coat and help us take down Leviathans. Do you remember what you did?

CASTIEL We live in a "sorry" universe. It's engineered to create conflict. I mean, why should I prosper from... your misfortune? But these are the rules. I didn't make them. DEAN You made some of them. When you tried to become God, when you cut that hole into that wall.

tell him, dean

FEMALE ANGEL A demon whore and a Winchester… again.

okay addressing the ruby of it all out loud

SAM Meg, where did you get that? MEG A lot of angels died this year.

that was a good one

KEVIN So, these Leviathans – these monsters are real. And angels with wings? SAM No. Uh... no wings. No anything. DEAN No junk. Junkless.

okay.

COMMERCIAL We know you're hungry. Why not enjoy Biggerson's homemade pie bar? It's like a salad bar but with pie.

i'm there

awkward family road trips

CASTIEL We were assigned to watch the earth. Often, it was boring. The wars were very boring and the sex – you know, the repetition.

okay again

KEVIN This looks like a sex-torture dungeon. Is this a sex-torture dungeon? DEAN picks up a scythe. DEAN No, this is not a sex-torture...

this is some episode

CASTIEL (to sam) You seem troubled. Of course, that's a primary aspect of your personality, so I sometimes ignore it.

don't hold back, cas

CASTIEL The weight of all my mistakes, all those lives and souls lost, I... I couldn't take it, either. I was… I was lost until I took on your pain. It's strange to think that that helped, but – SAM I know you never did anything but try to help. I realize that, Cas, and I'm grateful. We're all grateful. And we're gonna help you get better, okay? No matter what it takes.

schmoopy music and all, looks like we are forgiving and forgetting

DEAN Oh, I don't know, man. What can I say? You've been chosen. And it sucks. Believe me. There's no use asking "why me?" 'Cause the angels – they don't care. I think maybe they just don't have the equipment to care. Seems like when they try, it just... breaks them apart.

can't get mad at a shark for being a shark?

SAM Here. “Leviathan cannot be slain but by a bone of a righteous mortal washed in the three bloods of the fallen.” Uh... It says we need to start with the blood of a fallen angel. CASTIEL Well, you know me. [He holds out a small bottle.] I'm always happy to bleed for the Winchesters.

mmmk

[thelordofshrimp]

general history of werewolf vampire beef as is typical to this genre 👀? or if no general history then friend group history even though you've for sure talked about it before

okay so there is no established widespread vampire-werewolf beef in this au which is atypical of most paranormal worlds but i simply cannot be bothered.

HOWEVER

there is beef amongst the vampires and werewolves we know (and love) for mildly different and infinitely more complicated reasons which i will happily go into

(learning from my last post and putting it under a cut)

so will, being a couple of years older than nico (funky little vampire aging slowly), went to school with reyna and thalia and that general age range, a little ahead of jason and nico and the others. they all end up in a similar peer group because they're only a few years apart, but anyone who's been to american public high school can tell you there is a world of difference between a freshman and a junior, so the two groups did not interact a ton.

now, will and his paranormal peers weren't super close to begin with, just because of the way social circles work and the fact that reyna & thalia had been in the same paranormal after-school group (like the kid version of bingo night) for AGES, while will joined later on, but that isn't the reason they don't like him.

teenage will solace went through a pretty rough rebellious phase, but his rebellion had nothing to do with loud music and strange clothes and everything to do with his identity as a vampire. (ironically enough, going through a loud-music-strange-clothes phase would have probably made thalia like him more, and her friendship might have helped will get through what was to come. oh, well)

even though the paranormal folk are generally pretty hidden from the rest of society, there are humans who are aware of them and, by extension, humans who wish they weren't around, so anti-paranormal propaganda exists in very small amounts, most of it targeted towards vampires and werewolves (because those are the scary ones for people who don't know how powerful sirens can be). this wasn't the only reason will started resenting his supernatural side, but it certainly didn't help.

most of the issues will has with vampirism as a whole can be summed up in one word: octavian. will's cousin is, by all accounts, the perfect vampire: just dramatic enough to pull off a cloak and just greasy and conniving enough to not lose his ties to Nosferatu. he's bloodthirsty and mildly disdainful of humans while never going so far as to actually say that he thinks he's better for having fangs, and the older generations of vampires, many of whom wish the humans would show a little more fear "respect," eat it all up. octavian is everything they want him to be and will, unlucky enough to be born with a shred of empathy, is disappointing by comparison.

when will turns sixteen, he politely declines his first feed from a live donor and nearly throws up in his mouth watching octavian readily take that opportunity. sure, nothing octavian does is technically wrong, by human or vampire standards, but his personality is so repulsive that everything he does seems wrong by association.

very shortly thereafter, will starts voicing opinions he's held for a few years— that drinking blood from a live donor is gross, that drinking blood in general is gross and he wouldn't do it if he didn't have to, and, eventually, that being a vampire is gross, he wishes he weren't one, and he would be just fine living in a world where everyone was human, because "monsters don't add anything to the world, all we do is take and take and take, and we'd take until there was nothing left if that didn't mean we'd starve."

these are the words of a very upset teenager who hasn't figured out who he is, who he wants to be, and what to do with everyone else's opinions of him. they come from a lot of confusion and hurt and they're not directed at anyone else he knows (except for maybe octavian), they're directed at the part of Will that he doesn't know how to handle yet.

the only problem is that those words are said within earshot of a lot of people who are not Will. he rages against himself and in the process makes a lot of people, reyna and thalia especially, believe that he dislikes them for being paranormal, too. some of the sirens and witches and "less monstrous" paranormal folk are able to shrug it off, but werewolves and vampires hold a similar place on the monster scale, and hearing someone who is supposed to understand your situation better than other people say that he wishes none of you existed hurts.

reyna and thalia and the other werewolves in their teen paranormal group distance themselves from will, who is also doing his very best to "act human" as much as he can.

as he gets older, as he gets out of the mental hell that is high school and the wilderness of teenage hormones, will calms down. he learns to acknowledge his vampirism with grudging neutrality that eventually turns into acceptance. he starts engaging with the adult chapter meetings more instead of showing up, sitting in silence as far back as possible, and then leaving as soon as official business is over. he makes friends in the group, most of whom weren't in his grade during school and therefore didn't hear the things he said. he regrets some of the words he used and knows that his opinion of himself and the paranormal world has changed, but he won't just forget that there was an expectation put on him that he still resents.

baby steps add up, and will gets a job where he willingly discloses that he's a vampire to his employer. he shows his fangs to a non-vampire, a human, in a public place (admittedly after said human had already seen his fangs by accident). he spends time with other paranormal folk outside of chapter meetings and lets himself enjoy being around people who are also different instead of wallowing in self-hatred.

none of that does anything to change how reyna & thalia see him. his friends might not know, but they remember what he said, how he said it, and who he said it to. that kind of thing isn't so easily forgiven, especially since none of them have talked to him in years. they're not particularly interested in reaching out, and he hasn't made any efforts to mend bridges, either, especially since they weren't friends to begin with.

to their credit, reyna & thalia don't bring it up around anyone who wasn't there. they haven't forgotten, but they don't see the point in dwelling on the past, since he seems like he's grown out of it for the most part. they won't pretend to like him, and they'll explain when jason asks them why, but there's no point in keeping a high school feud alive. will, for his part, understands that he is not and probably never will be their favorite person, but a part of him still isn't okay with the thought that they want him to be more like octavian. if he had talked to them all those years ago, back when he first started feeling pressured to 'be a better vampire,' they would have told him he didn't need to be.

[sapphosremains]

Okay well my joke was a thin and weak co-opting of his work for humour but he does write some super interesting stuff in this area!

I have a love hate relationship w him - he writes really interesting things and has really interesting theories, but i think overestimates their importance. For example he once wrote a book called 'things hidden since the foundation of the world' and just idk bro do you really know all that. yk. He's a philosopher, theologian, literature critic, general muser on everything you can think of.

His big theory is the theory of mimesis: essentially that all of us only desire things when others desire or have them (eg a toddler only wanting a toy because another kid has it), which ykw makes sense for some stuff and is a cool theory. A lot of people have done really cool stuff with this theory - a great example is by Iwona Janicka who wrote 'Queering Girard--De-Freuding Butler' about how we can interpret Girard's theory of mimesis to explore how we take on gender roles as we grow up. I'll admit her analysis of Butler's work was somewhat lost on me as my gender theory is amateur to say the least, but I'm working on it.

Now his second theory is the scapegoat mechanism. I've stolen this great explanation from here because it explained its links to mimesis in ways in which I have forgotten too much to do!

The scapegoat mechanism is what arrests mimetic violence and, at the same time, lays the foundation of a renewed social order. This profoundly strange idea is the point of greatest conjecture in Girard’s theory. In a mimetic crisis, as reciprocal violence escalates, all order breaks down. Everyone is obsessed with visiting violence on their rivals. If this continues, everyone will eventually be killed or dispersed. Girard speculates that many societies ultimately destroyed themselves in this way. Yet in some cases, a scapegoat is found, and peace established. 

The idea is that the object of mimetic imitation switches from the cycle of violence towards mimetically heaping blame upon a single target, arbitrarily chosen by the community. The individual may be selected because in some way they stand out as being different: perhaps they are an outsider, or are sick, or have a physical disability that marks them out. In any case they are a person whose death shall not be avenged. As mimetic desire at this point is chaotic and uncontained, it spreads quickly between individuals and converges on different objects. Thus, the group’s desire to end violence converges on this single person who is to be blamed for causing all the trouble. The victim is soon universally blamed for the crisis and hated for it. The sum of the community’s desire for vengeance is unanimously projected at this single victim. The group unanimously declares them guilty and collectively murders the victim. This act of lynching unites the community in peace.

Obviously it's all much deeper because he's written a ridiculous number of books and articles about it. I will say that not all of them are good. I think some academics get to a stage where they've got really famous and then they just start like saying things? He just says things sometimes and I'm like babe where is your evidence? Where is the link? You can't just say that and expect everyone to go yeah that checks with no reason?

Big thanks for basically all the recs and the conversion of me from anti-Girard to love-hate-Girard to @ladymacbethgf I cannot take the credit in any way!

Anyway so that is how René Girard is a big fan of desire and violence!

Anais Nin, Little Birds originally published: 1979

[totouchthcstars]

Look who just woke up- is that DAVID DUCHOVNY? No, I must have been mistaken, that’s FOX MULDER from X-FILES. I heard they are THIRTY-EIGHT and stuck here just like everyone else. Even in the 20’s, he still gives off an LIGHTS FLAOTING THROUGH AN OPEN DOORWAY SO BRIGHT YOU CAN NOT LOOK AT THEM; UNKNOWN OBJECTS HOVERING IN THE NIGHT SKY; NOT KNOWING WHOM TO TRUST ANYMORE BECAUSE EVERYTHING SEEMS TO BE A GREAT CONSPIRANCY; BEING DRIVEN BY THE IDEA THAT HIS SISTER IS STILL ALIVE SOMEWHERE; SUNFLOWER SEEDS AND SEALED FLIES SCATTERED AROUND ON A DESK  ;impression. But here, they are working as a FREELANCE REPORTER. They’re known to be quite ENTHUSIASTIC & DETERMINED, but have a tendency to be ECCENTRIC & PARANOID on their bad days.

Gender/Pronouns : he/him

How long have they been in Sydney :  in reality, 3 years. In his fake life,Mulder was born in Sydney

Which suburb do they live in? Tba

Personality description : The best way to describe Mulder is, well.... eccentric. A workoholic. He is standing up for his beliefs, even when it makes him an outsider or does create conflicts, either with people he does work for, or, well, people in general. Maybe also he does want to concince everyone the conspirancy theories are true, and that the goverment can not be trusted. He also thinks othere are foolish for easily accepting what society tells them. Another thing is that Mulder just can't let things go. The best example is the case of his sister. Even after so many years, it is easy to bait Mulder with hints about her dissappearance, or with stating she might actually still be alive somewhere at this point...

Memories of their real life : Mulder does remember most of his canon now, like his sister vanishing/ being abducted, his work for the FBI and later having Scully as his partner, how the goverment is trying to cover up the existence of aliens and other things and his conatnt fight to uncover the truth, the later death of his mother, his own near-death experiences, ect.

What was their fake life like : 

To sum things up, Fox had been the odd kid as well during his childhood in Sydney. While aliens and sci-fi stories were nothing he could obsess over too much because it was not well-known in the 1920's, he was still convinced that things did exist that the eye would not see. Not in a spiritual way, more…. he was soaking up stories about strange encounters in the outback of Sydney like a sponge, for example.

Mulder's father worked as a journalist, and was always busy, being a single father, which did not exactly Fox to find friends as a child. That, and, well, most likely the fact that he did often argue with people about odd things - even his teachers - claiming that his views and beliefs were the right ones. Although, most likely, the fact that Fox had no motgher to look after him was also another part of the whole issue.

Later, after school and college, Mulder became a journalist as well, and his colleagues would also describe him as odd, which leads to him working alone 99% of the time. Up to the point when his memories eventually returned, Mulder had always been searching for his purpose in life.

theme song: Heather Alexander - Rejected

Quote: “We send those men up into space to unlock the doors of the universe, and we don't even know what's behind them.”

personality type: Fox Mulder's personality type is INFP, also known as the "theory type" (a person who is fascinated by the mysterious and unusual).

[therainscene]

I’ve seen parallels between Virginia Creel and Lonnie pointed out a bunch of times, but have we considered a parallel between Virginia and Joyce?

Both mothers brought their sons to doctors at the Hawkins lab in an attempt to “fix” them:

Don’t worry, I’m not trying to imply anything sinister about Joyce here! She genuinely meant well -- Will was suffering and Owens was her only option. But the end result was much the same: both boys were reduced to test subjects, and ultimately did not benefit from their time at the lab.

It’s all very reminiscent of old-fashioned attitudes about homosexuality as a mental disorder in need of “fixing”. I’m sure many of the doctors and parents involved in such oppressive practices “meant well” at the time, too.

This is one of the more insidious forms that homophobia can take: not as something overtly hateful, but disguised as concern. It’s an excellent recruitment tactic for bigots: fence-sitters who don’t understand the issue but don’t feel hateful either are introduced to hate in terms that come across as reasonable and kind.

Recruitment into larger, harmful movements is a major theme in Stranger Things. Will’s possession in S2 hooked him up to the Upside Down’s hive mind; the Flayed in S3 conglomerated to form the fleshy Spider Monster; and Chrissy’s murder in S4 incited a Satanic Panic witch-hunt.

The Mind Flayer itself reflects this theme, too, being a single entity made up of what appears to be millions of tiny particles. This symbolizes the power of societal attitudes like homophobia: they’re eldritch horrors in their own right, shambling emergent properties greater than the sum of the individual brains constituting them. They can’t be reasoned with or defeated by any one person.

Being a supportive parent to an LGBT kid in the 80s (or 50s) must have been incredibly difficult in the face of such a specter; the only information they typically had access to was, itself, homophobic.

The mothers of the various queer-coded children in the show -- Virginia, Karen, and Joyce -- are excellent illustrations of how parents deal with this struggle across the spectrum, and the effect it has on their kids.

Virginia embraced the 50s hive mind and unquestioningly trusted the advice she was given by Brenner and society: that her son was broken and in need of fixing. Henry claims that she despised him, but I think he’s an unreliable narrator; it wouldn’t surprise me if Virginia genuinely wanted the best for her son. She was just concerned.

Not only did her approach completely fail to make Henry “normal”, it also made him angry. He cut her out of his life forever -- a tragically common ending to the relationships between queer children and their parents.

Karen desperately wants to be a good mother, but she trusts the 80s hive mind more than she trusts her children. She frequently assures Mike that she’s there for him if he needs to talk... but her words ring hollow, as though the person she’s really reassuring is herself.

Mike approaches her for hugs when he needs comfort, but he never opens up. I don’t think he trusts her, and I can’t say I blame him -- it’s a coin toss as to whether she’d listen and understand, or dismiss his feelings in favour of pressuring him to join the hive mind.

Mike has been left adrift with his confusion in the sea of heteronormativity and he’s at a loss as to whom he can turn for help.

Joyce ignores the 80s hive mind altogether and trusts her son to tell her what help he feels he needs from her. Will doesn’t always know the answers to those questions...

...but she actively listens and makes an effort to help him figure it out. As we saw with the Hawkins lab plot, she makes mistakes sometimes, but she’s also unwavering in her advocacy -- she took precisely zero shit from the doctors there.

Will still struggles with internalized homophobia, but he’s got the support he needs to deal with it. His line at the end of S4 -- “it’s strange, knowing now who it really was this whole time” -- warms my heart, because this is him acknowledging that the problem is with homophobic attitudes, not his identity. He’s gonna be okay.

Incidentally, this is another nail in the coffin for the idea that Will’s character arc is about being accepted: Joyce (and Jonathan) are already operating at peak acceptance! There’s nowhere else to go!

If anyone is in need of acceptance... it’s Mike.

[shorkbrian]

I swear I ain’t in it for the money, but I can’t stop thinking about sugar daddy shoto. Maybe he sweeps a cute little college kid or barista of their feet, just something fun and casual. But this man starts falling harder, needing a way to lock them down to him. Money isn’t quite cutting it anymore, so he decides fucking a baby into her would do the trick. Shoto would push her down into the mattress, large frame twisting her into a sweet mating press. This way they could stay together forever and Shoto would have absolutely no problem providing for his sweet family <3

but fr tho I feel like Shouto is NOT the type for kids.

Mans will tolerate them when they babble or wave at him, but he very actively Does Not Want them.

Always uses condoms, and even though he’ll threaten not to, it’s never a legit thought in his mind to cum inside. Shouto doesn’t want to be a dad.

-----

You’ll be sittin on a park bench, fading sunset dark and pretty in front of you yet all you can do is cry. There’s not really any people around so it’s not like you’re bothering anyone - you hadn’t wanted to cry in your shabby apartment (half the cause of your worries) just in case you received a noise complaint.

“Are you alright?”

A somber, smooth voice is heard. You’re swiping at your tears quickly as you look up, trying to laugh off your state of distress. “Oh, haha, yeah I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” It’s hard to smile with your puffy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.

The man in front of you frowns, hands in his coat pockets, scarf draped around his neck. “You don’t look fine. Mind if I sit?”

He’s already claiming the spot next to you on the bench before you can say a word, turning to you with a passive expression. “Why are you crying?”

And that’s all it takes to have you breaking down all over again, tears streaming down your face. Just one person offering to listen to the heavy burden you have to bear.

‘’M sor-sorry...” You sob, wiping at your eyes with frigid fingers, successful in doing nothing more but smearing tears around your face.

“Here.” The man’s taking off his scarf, gloved hands offering it you.

“I ca-can’t use your sc-scarf sir.” But he’s insistent, pressing it into your hands up by your face.

“I’ll just get another one. Keep it, you’re in need of it more than I am.”

The kindness makes another fresh bout of tears roll down your cheeks, but this time you're able to dab them away with soft fabric as you sniffle.

It takes a moment for you to calm yourself. When you do, you can finally engage in conversation with the man.

You tell him about your job hours getting cut, how you’ve been turned down or ignored by every single place you’ve applied at for a second job. How you’re barely affording to wash your clothes - you have to hang them or drape them across things in your apartment because you don’t have the money to pay for a dryer cycle.

And to top it all off, you’re still short on rent, despite how you scrimped and saved and even forced yourself not to buy groceries this week - you’ve gone hungry for the past three days.

“You haven’t eaten?”

You glance up at the man and his incredulous expression, shaking your head. “I’ve been trying to save money, I thought I could afford my rent if-”

“What kind of food do you like?” The man is pulling out his phone, swiping and tapping immediately. 

“Thank you, but I’m not-” looking for charity is what you want to say. Plus, you shouldn’t accept favors from strange men.

But the handsome man is waving you silent. “I’m cold, plus I’d like to grab a bite to eat before I head home. I don’t like eating alone though, you’d honestly be doing me a favor.”

You take a moment to process. Is he telling the truth? He sounds like an honest guy.

“Seems like the only place open around here is “Joe’s 24 hour Diner”.... You mind burgers?”

So that's how you end up in a booth opposite the man (”Shouto” he had told you as you both headed to the diner), munching away at warm food. It tastes so good, you hardly have time to worry about the man watching you as he eats.

You’d been shocked at his looks the moment you’d seen him in the light of the diner. Pretty two-toned hair, different colored eyes, perfect skin, expensive clothes. Why was he even talking to you? It’s obvious the two of you led very different lives.

“How does everything taste?”

“Delicious.” Is your response, and Shouto seems pleased, nodding before taking another bite of his meal.

Maybe it’s stupid... but you feel weirdly safe with this man. He doesn’t seem to bear any ill-intent towards you, nor has he made any comments about your body or let his hands or eyes stray. He seems like a gentleman.

Conversation flows easily between the two of you, even sharing a few chuckles at times. He’s some fancy rich businessman, you learn, and you share about your own life, laughing at the comparisons. Shouto can’t fathom growing up in a house with less than five bedrooms and a personal servant.

He asks for your number, and you’re hesitant in giving it - he surely can’t be interested in you? But he seems so sincere, it’s hard to say no.

When the two of you part ways, Shouto gives you a wave, “Hope to see you again soon, and under better circumstances.”

“You too! And sorry for being such a mess and stopping your walk-”

Shouto shrugs, cheeks beginning to pink from the cold air as you two stand outside the diner. “You needed help. I like to assist.”

-----

The next morning you wake to find an atrociously large sum deposited in your Venmo account by none other than a Shouto Todoroki.

Immediately, you’re calling him. “It’s too much, we just met. How can you give away that much money to some low-life?”

You hear him sigh on the other end of the phone. “You’re obviously struggling. I was wondering what your hours are this week, perhaps we could talk about this over dinner? Or lunch, if that fits better with your schedule. I’m flexible.”

It’s a few days later, days spent questioning yourself, questioning his intentions, before you see him again, both of you deciding to meet for lunch to further discuss... whatever had just happened.

“Was what I gave you adequate to cover your rent?” Are the first words out of Shouto’s mouth after you greet each other.

“Yeah, more than enough-” You squirm. “But I need to ask.... why?”

“Why?”

“Why me.” 

“Oh.” Shouto’s expression clears. “That’s easy. I told you a few days ago - I like to assist. I’m quite lonely, and it feels nice to use my money on someone other than myself. I think providing for someone brings me... I wouldn’t quite say joy, but... contentment.”

You contemplate his answer for a moment. 

“Well... you saved me with my rent, I don’t really know how to thank you.”

The man leans forward. “Well.... I know it might be a bit sudden, but how would you feel accepting me as a.... benefactor of sorts?”

“You mean like a sugar daddy?” Is your immediate, blurted response. You want to slap yourself for speaking before you have the chance to think about your words, but luckily Shouto just lets out a light laugh.

“If you’d like to call it that. I’m willing to provide financial assistance for you, in exchange for companionship, if you’re willing to give it.”

Your face heats up as you drop your eyes, fidgeting nervously in your seat. “I don’t feel comfortable with a... a sexual relationshi-”

“That’s perfectly acceptable.” Shouto cuts you off before you can continue. “I wasn’t trying to insinuate a contract of that nature. I’m thinking more along the lines of accompanying me at meals, sharing experiences with me, providing company and friendship to a lonely man. If it seems that we’d like to progress further than that after we get to know each other, well, that will be addressed then. For now-” Shouto meets your eye, dipping his head a smidgeon so he can look at you directly. “All I ask for is a simple, non-intimate bond between two people.”

This is crazy.

And yet you accept.

The situation may be wild, and completely absurd, but you’d be a fool not to say yes.

Shouto is charming and handsome, respectful, courteous - you could go on and on about his positive qualities. He just seems like a sad, lonesome man swallowed by work and responsibilities, too stressed and busy to put the effort into making friends the conventional way. 

-----

Months pass by.

You’re eating at every meal, sated and never going hungry. You’re able to move into a new place, one that doesn’t smell like cigarettes and sits right next to a railroad.

Clothes aren’t a worry anymore, you have your own washer and dryer in your new apartment (Shouto offered to buy you a house, or a penthouse at the least, but you couldn’t justify it to yourself). You’re able to afford new things, and pretty dresses, shoes that are comfortable and fashionable and that fit.

You no longer have to wear clothes down until they have holes in them. You’re able to go to the doctor’s when you feel sick, able to pay for health insurance.

Life is good.

Shouto is a personable man, serious, but he can be rather funny and even crude at times.

The doubt and thoughts of “Why is he doing this for me?” and “I’m not good enough for this.” plague you, but Shouto always seems to catch on, reassuring you that you’re exactly what he needs - a friend.

And you’re more than happy to be that.

You think sometimes, that even if he wasn’t paying you, you’d still like to be friends with Shouto Todoroki.

Until he starts acting weird.

“You should just stay at my place. I have more than enough room,, it’d be easier for both our schedules. We’d get to see each other more often.”

“Uhm...” You don’t really know what to say. You like your freedom, and having your own place where you can walk around in your (expensive) underwear without being bothered.

“I think it’d be nice, don’t you? We could have breakfast every morning, you wouldn’t have to worry about traveling to and fro, we could spend more time together. We don’t see each other nearly enough.”

He’s pushing, insistent. How are you supposed to tell him no? He’s paying for your entire life. Plus, it wouldn’t be that bad to actually live with him. Shouto’s an amicable man.

So you move in.

“I bought you a few things, they’re on your bed.” 

Shouto’s striding into the kitchen where you’re making coffee, buttoning up his shirt as he comes closer. You’ve found that the man likes to sleep in nothing but boxers, shrieking and flushing an embarrassing shade the first time he’d come to wake you up with a sweet “welcome” breakfast in bed.

It’s taken a while to adjust, but you finally feel that you’re fully settled in.

“Oh, you really don’t ha-”

“I wanted to. I went through your closet - your clothes are nice, but your underwear seemed to be lacking.” He’s so matter-of-fact.

All you can do is stare at the back of his head.

“Could you pass me a spoon please?”

-----

Shouto had splurged on expensive, fancy lingerie. 

At least eight different sets were laid out on your bed. It was overwhelming. It also felt.... a bit intrusive? They were all in your size, in a complementary color for your skin tone. 

Weird.

Not as weird as the onset of Shouto’s casual touches.

You’d be reading, or drinking tea and watching cars race by on the street so far below, and Shouto would come up behind you, caress your sides before intertwining his fingers with yours on one hand. He did it as if it was a normal thing, but it felt anything but normal.

Or you’d be on the couch together, and Shouto would shuffle closer until his large body was pressed to yours, almost curled around you. The faux-cuddling was a bit more off putting. How do you tell him no?

The touches became more and more intimate, Shouto’s gifts more and more frequent until you weren’t even spending a penny, the man taking care of everything.

The arrangement was beginning to make you uncomfortable.

Shouto’s bi-colored eyes seemed to always be on you, tracing the shape of your body, watching you move, or breath, or sit. It was distracting, and you felt bad for feeling this way towards the man who’d pulled you out of poverty, but it was so unnerving.

He seemed to notice.

“You’ve been so stressed these past few days. Is something wrong?” Shouto’s rubbing a hand into your shoulder, hovering over you at the dinner table.

“No?” Is all you can manage, wiping your hands on your napkin as you finish your food.

Shouto frowns. With a sigh, his hand drops from your shoulder and the man leaves your side, heads toward the kitchen.

You clear your plate from the table, following after him so you can wash it and put it in the dishwasher before you head off to get ready for bed. 

But Shouto is rummaging in a cupboard, pulling down two wine glasses to accompany the bottle of wine that’s standing proud on the island.  It’s your favorite, a sweet wine that Shouto knows you like, always brings it out when he decides to drink whisky or bourbon after dinner.

He pops the cork and pours you a glass while you finish with your dishes, handing you the glass when you turn away from the sink, pressing it into your hands. “Let’s relax a little bit, it’ll be good for both of us.”

You’re fine with that, knowing that a little wine won’t hurt you, especially when it’s of such fine quality. You’d never dreamed that you’d be able to taste such richness in your lifetime, spend frivolous amounts of money on wine and fine eateries. Yet here you are.

Shouto pours himself a glass, barely a sip filling the bottom. The man raises it to his lips and takes a swig, grimacing a bit in his flat, unexpressive way. You giggle a little.

“Too sweet?’

The man nods, setting the glass back down. “I’m not entirely sure how you can stand to stomach it. But if it makes you happy-” He shrugs, before pulling on of the bar-stools out from under the island so he can sit facing you, long legs stretching out before him.

You look at him, and he looks at you, and then you take another sip of wine to avoid the awkwardness.

“You’re distancing yourself from me.”

The accusation is quiet, Shouto’s eyes focused on your fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass.

He’s always been straightforward with his words. “Is there a reason you keep drawing away?”

The wine disappears from your glass, sliding down your throat and settling in your stomach. You fill your glass again before speaking, struggling to find the right words without upsetting your... benefactor.

“Well, Shouto... I don’t really know how to...” You trail off, hoping Shouto will say something, change the subject, say it’s alright and move on to something else.

But the man stays silent, eyes appraising you.

Taking a deep breath, and another gulp of sweetness, you try again.

“Sometimes the closeness... like, physical closeness? Makes me, well, uncomfortable.”

Hopefully, that would satisfy his curiosity for now. That wasn’t the only reason you’d been avoiding Shouto seeming distant, but you didn’t think sharing the others would result in anything good.

Said man accepted your response, dropping his eyes to his lap as he mulled it over. More wine was consumed, glass re-filled. You felt nervous.

“You’re saying that my touch isn’t something you’d prefer.”

Biting your lip, you soften at his confused expression, at the hint of sadness swimming behind his eyes. “Kind of. I don’t mind you Shouto, you’re really kind, and you’re good company, and a wonderful friend. I just don’t think the.... the intimacy is for me.”

Shouto raises his head, stares at you with those pretty eyes, lips parted as he comes to terms with your words. 

“It sounds like you don’t trust me. I would never hurt you, you know this.”

You scramble to assure him. “I do! I do trust you, and I know you wouldn’t.” (at least you hoped) “But I guess I just... Coming into this agreement I wasn’t ready for that type of... thing. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

The man rises, shakes his head as he steps closer to you. “Don’t worry, I remember our first conversation about that aspect. I see that for you, that type of relationship would only begin after you really cared for the other person, trusted and wanted to see them happy, am I correct?”

“Oh, Shouto-” You rush. “No, I care for you, and I trust you, and of course I want to see you happy. I think it’s just, y’know, my last relationship like that went really bad, and it sucked. I don’t want to go through that again.”

Shouto nods, understanding. “I see. You don’t have to worry about any of that with me then.”

A smile crosses your face, and you feel relived that he accepted your rejection with grace and understanding instead of violence or anger. “Thank you, it means a lot to me.”

The mood of the room shifted, from tense and uncomfortable, to easy and light, and you poured another glass of wine, laughing a little at how worried you were about the conversation with Shouto, only for it all to turn out fine.

“I’m going to go drink some of the liquor that’s kept in my room. I could mix a few drinks for you to try, you might like how sweet they are. I know hard alcohol isn’t quite your thing.”

You beam a smile, nodding your head eagerly. Before, you’d feel apprehensive about going into his room with him to drink alcohol. But with the conversation the two of you just had, you knew - things would be fine.

-----

The room was spinning and you felt giddy and light. You were definitely tipsy.

“You can lay down on my bed, you’re getting wobbly on your feet.” Shouto had offered, and you’d gladly accepted, flopping down onto his comfy bedspread with a laugh at how the motion made butterflies rise in your tummy.

Shouto leaned against his dresser, swirling whiskey in his glass as he watched you, a half-smile across his face. You smiled back, before closing your eyes, a little bit tired as you realized that you might be a bit more than just tipsy.

Shouto had mixed quite a few drinks for you, and you’d drank each one eagerly, impressed with how little alcohol you could taste in each one. You don’t remember how many you had, but it didn’t really matter.

The next thing you know, hands are on your waist, scooting you further up the bed so your legs no longer hang off the edge. Cracking open an eye, you’re met with the visage of red-and-white, eyes soft and warm as they regard you, Shouto’s face tinged a bit pink from the few drinks he had consumed. The man had never been too good at holding his alcohol.

When those hands started to slip beneath your shirt, you wiggled like a little worm, not really comprehending the situation. Maybe it was a dream.

Your shirt was discarded, then your pants. It felt much more comfortable now, and you mumbled a “thanks” to the man helping you settle for bed. He was so nice, Shouto took such good care of you. You still kind of couldn’t believe the turn your life had taken with him, the good luck pushed into your path.

Someone was kissing you.

With a grunt of surprise, you kissed them back, meeting their feverish pace and trying to keep up, soft lips puckering and pushing against your own with intent. Kissing felt good. You liked kissing.

Then a hand was cupping your face, stroking tenderly over your cheek before it began sliding down, down your neck, into the valley between your breasts, trailing over your bra. It felt funny.

Pushing back for air, you gasped when the hand on your chest started squeezing at you, eyes flying open with the startling, sudden sensation.

Shouto was hovering over you, lips puffy, panting as he stared at you with lusty eyes, an uncharacteristic look on his face. This... this wasn’t supposed to be like this. You knew. Hadn’t the two of you just talked about something... important? Was it important?

You didn’t feel panic until a hand cupped your sex, feeling your skin through your panties.

This wasn’t right.

Alarm bells were ringing, dull and far away, but you didn’t think that Shouto should be touching you in such a way. you should be going to bed.

“Mm, Sho, can you stop?” But your words felt funny on your tongue, and Shouto didn’t stop. Maybe he didn’t hear you.

His hair tickled your chin as the man bent to mouth at your tits, pulling the cups of your bra underneath them so he could feel your hot skin, let his saliva drag slick and wet against your chest. 

Your hands instinctively rooted themselves in his hair as you gasped again, not expecting such a move, tugging lightly at his head to pull him up. Shouto just groaned, teething gently at your breasts and not moving an inch. His hips were grinding against the bed though, as he stood between your spread legs.

Before you knew it, your panties were gone, bra clumsily unclasped and discarded, and you were completely bare. Shouto was undressing before you, struggling with the buttons on his shirt before giving up, easily ripping the fabric of his body with one tug, grumbling.

You didn’t feel so tipsy anymore.

“Shouto, what’re we doing? We shouldn’t be doing this, we need to stop-”

“Stay down.” Was his firm command, a hand splayed across your naked chest and pushing you back into the mattress as you tried to sit up. It made you breathless, the growl in his voice, the dominance emanating from the man. You stayed still.

“This’s gonna make us a stronger couple.” The man slurred, eyes dark and hands wandering, effortlessly keeping you pinned against the bed as he ground his hips forward against the edge. You were getting scared.

“Wait-”

You fell silent as one hand pushed down his pants, his underwear going with them, pink cock bobbing free. He was so pretty down there, and it made sense, all of him was pretty, but you suddenly realized the weight of the situation, what was happening.

“Shouto, no, oh my god. We gotta stop right now, we’re drunk, we’re-we’re-”

“Don’t care. Not gonna let you hide away from me this time.” Shouto shook his head, taking his cock in one hand and giving it a long, slow pump, flushed tip weeping precum and wetting his hand.

“No, no, this is wrong. I don’t want this, I could get pregnant!” You cried, beginning to panic for real, pushing against the one strong hand anchoring you to the bed.

Shouto just chuckled, letting go of his cock to crowd against you, getting up in your face to press a wet finger to your lips, the salty taste of his precum threatening to slip into your mouth unless you kept it shut. “Shhh, shh. If you stay nice and still, if you do what I say, I’ll use a condom.”

You couldn’t believe your ears.

“You’re gonna listen to me, you always do.” The man nodded to himself, once again dragging his cock against the bed between your legs, as if he couldn’t stop himself. “Or else I’ll fuck you raw.” The finger was pulled from your lips, only to be wagged teasingly in your face. 

You couldn’t believe how he was acting.

“Be nice.”

Shouto tapped your nose with a neatly manicured finger, before groaning as he heaved himself upright, red cock bobbing against his stomach, desperate for attention. The man gave you a look, as if to say “don’t move” before he took his hands off you, heading for his dresser.

Once you saw him pulling out a strip of condoms, you were on your feet, stumbling toward the door.

Although panic had sobered you somewhat, you were still struggling with the effects of the alcohol, so your reaction time was maddeningly slow. Slow enough that you weren’t able to truly fight against Shouto when he grabbed you from behind toned arms wrapping around your middle and heaving you into the air, only to throw you back on his bed.

You were almost sick on the bedspread, world spinning and stomach protesting, but you were able to calm yourself.

But then Shouto was on you, flipping you onto your back, a soft hand pressing against your throat threateningly. 

“You want to have a baby? Want me to cum in you so you’ll get all fat with kids? Hm?” He was so intense, almost choking you, straddling your waist and keeping you pinned. It was too much

You were able to manage a tearful, desperate “No!” despite the hand around your throat, and Shouto backed off, releasing the pressure to instead stroke his hand against the sides of your neck.

“Stop acting like this, it’s the next logical step for us. You said you cared for me, wanna make me happy. This’ll make me happy. I won’t be like the last guy.”

His cock was pressed against your stomach, and you could feel it twitching. Shouto clambered off of you, letting go of your neck so he could grab the condoms he’d tossed on the bed before snatching you up.

“Do what I say and I use these.” He waved them in your face before tearing one off, beginning to open it. 

You stayed still, gazing at him blearily, limbs feeling fuzzy, mind feeling the same.

The condom was rolled onto Shouto’s cock, the man spitting into his palm and giving the latex a few rubs to make it slick before reaching for you.

He dragged you to the edge of the bed - the perfect height for him to fuck you - and you didn’t fight, terrified of his threat. You couldn’t stand the thought of a baby.

(You didn’t know, but neither could he)

“Wanted to do this since I met you.” Shouto mumbled, pushing your panties to the side with a few fingers so he could guide his tip to your hole. “Want you so bad.”

You didn’t know what to think of this side of Shouto. This unreserved, uncareful, slurring mess of a man that loomed before you, gaze dark and wild, limbs everywhere as he groped and squeezed and appreciate the shape of your body.

But he must’ve gotten impatient, because then he was pushing inside.

It hurt, stinging pain rippling up your back and you keened, causing Shouto to pause. One of his hands darted down to wrap around your calf, hauling it up on the bed so he could lean forward and press it to you chest, sinking his cock a few inches deeper.

“You’re gonna take it.” He hissed before messily kissing you, pressed so close together that it was hard to breathe. “I’ll make it feel good after you do.”