#and every job wants 'just' a two page cover letter three references and for you to lick their shoes

[realasslesbian]

I swear this whole 'worker shortage' hysteria is actually just a ruse so that employers can justify raising their employees wages by 50c, if at all, and then pat themselves on the back for offering 'above award', meanwhile inflation eclipses wage rises and fills the boss's bank account

[viastro]

second life | xu minghao

ミ★ synopsis: in which jun and jeonghan pick out a book titled, Second Life, and find a message written to someone on the title page. it’s only then that they learn the untold story of two lovers who met at a library 35 years ago.

ミ★ genre: soulmate!au (kinda ?), multiple lives!au, fluff, light angst

ミ★ warnings: major character death (it’s not bad i promise)

ミ★ word count: 4,219

ミ★ pairings: xu minghao x female reader

ミ★ notes: hi guys! when i wrote this oneshot, i couldn’t think of any other published book, so i decided to reference @sunlightwoo​‘s series, Second Life, which is really good so make sure to check it out ! i’m going to be a bit busy these upcoming weeks because i have finals soon, and i also just got a job as a boba barista ! i’ll try to post a oneshot at least once a week, but we’ll see how that goes HAHAHA as always, make sure to give lots of love to minghao <3 i hope you guys enjoy this one !!

“Who would wanna go to the library over the amusement park? And why is it you instead of Minghao?” Jun rolls his eyes at Jeonghan’s questions as the two of them step into the city library. They bow their heads in the elderly librarian’s direction, before walking further into the pretty empty space.

“Minghao keeps telling me to read more cause he’s tired of me bothering him.” Jun mutters as his eyes trail across the numerous books on the shelves. Jeonghan purses his lips, before nodding his head in agreement, knowing that Minghao is on the verge of possibly committing homicide if Jun barges into his apartment one more time unannounced.

“This looks nice.” Jun says quietly to himself as he pulls out the story titled, Second Life. He opens the cover, only to tilt his head at the writing scrawled on the title page. Jeonghan raises an eyebrow at Jun’s confused expression, so he leans in close to check out what he’s looking at. 

for yn,

as a reminder for a fairly wonderful day. i hope for many more to come. 

affectionately yours, 

xmh

“I guess this book was donated?” Jeonghan asks, glancing down at the page to see that it was published long before the two were alive. Jun nods his head, and they head over to the front desk to rent the story. 

“Ah, no one’s checked out this book in a long time.” The librarian says softly, hand grazing slightly over the written words. Jun and Jeonghan share a glance, before turning back towards the elderly woman. “Do you perhaps… know the person who wrote that message?” 

She glances up at the two handsome men, seeing their curious expressions on their faces. The librarian lets out a smile, nodding her head as she stamps the sticker in the book and slides it back in Jun’s direction. 

“They were a beautiful couple. I was just a young girl starting my first job as a librarian when they first met here, actually.” Jun finds himself growing more intrigued, as does Jeonghan since the two appear to be holding onto the librarians every word. 

“Can we hear their story?” Jeonghan asks, and they watch as the librarian smiles, before nodding her head. She gestures for them to move towards the couches, and she walks out from behind the desk and sits in front of the two. 

“It’s a bit of a long one, if that’s okay.” The librarian warns, and Jun and Jeonghan shake their heads, telling her that it’s no problem. She lets out a sigh, glancing out the window to see the yellow rays from the warm, summer sun shine into the library. 

“It was a beautiful spring day when they first met.”

Fucking hate pollen, you think grumpily to yourself as you rub your nose in an attempt to hold back the monstrous sneeze that threatens to escape if you inhale one more breath of the spring air. You notice the library around the corner, and quicken your pace as you walk over to escape from the allergy infested air. 

Once you’re there, you practically rip open the door and jump inside the quiet building. You let out a sigh of relief once the door closes behind you, and you pause, realizing how loud you must’ve been when you entered the library. So you turn your head slowly, just to find the relatively young librarian standing there with wide eyes, and you let out a small smile. 

“I’m so sor-” The words die in your throat when you feel that familiar feeling in the back of your nose, and you quietly try to fight it back. 

god, please. I’m in the place that’s supposed to be quiet, so if you humiliate me and make me sne-

You let out a loud sneeze that resembles the sound of the large stampede of wildebeest that killed Mufasa in the Lion King, and it makes you want to shrivel up and die right in the entrance of the library. You wouldn’t mind, really. It’d be a peaceful way to go out, just right here. In this library. Actually, it’d be rather pleasa-

“Do you need a tissue?” You turn your head to see the young librarian holding out a tissue box from her desk, and you let out an embarrassed smile. Shaking your head, you lift up your hand to tell her that you’re fine, only to stop and turn when you hear the door open from behind you. 

A tall man walks in with long red hair that’s parted down the middle. He’s wearing a black turtleneck with a sheer blue button down over it. Running a hand through his hair, he glances up from the floor and locks eyes with you once the door closes.

Love at first sight. You never believed it, didn’t understand the concept, really. Even thought it was stupid. How could you fall in love with someone just from a first glance? 

So why is it that you can’t seem to be able to breathe as you stare up into his deep, brown eyes that seem to hold millions of thoughts as they bore into yours. Feeling heat rush up to your cheeks, you turn away first, and he quietly coughs into his shoulder. 

“Sorry.” You mumble as you step to the side, feeling embarrassed for just staring at the ethereal man with an awed expression. You’re sure that he thinks you’re weird, and you debate on ways to escape the library while also being able to handle your allergies.

if i just shove the pieces of tissue up my nose, then i won’t sneeze every five seconds. brilliant.

However, the thoughts come to a stop when you find his hand outstretched towards you. Slowly, you glance up at the man, just to find a small smile on his face as he stares at you. 

“Hi, I’m Minghao.” Biting the inside of your cheek, you slowly reach out and grasp his hand softly, letting out a grin when you do so. You watch as his eyes seem to twinkle in the sunlight, and you wonder how someone can be so ethereal as you say, 

“Hi, I’m yn.”

“This book is taking a rather tragic turn.” You mutter as you turn the page, and Minghao glances at you out of the corner of his eye. He bites back a smile when he sees you upside down on the beanbag chair, reading Romeo and Juliet as you do so. Letting out a breath he responds, “You’ve read that book three times already, you should know that it’s not a good story.”

Rolling your eyes, you close the book and shoot the pretty man a glare. Minghao giggles when he sees you grumble to yourself about him always attacking you whenever you pick up any work of Shakespeares. You don’t blame him, Romeo and Juliet sucks, but you read the story for entertainment purposes. 

“Always ruining my fun.” You complain as you move to the aisle to pick up another story. Minghao grins, placing his book down after marking his spot and following after you. 

It’s been three months since you and Minghao met at this library, and the two of you have been meeting here almost every weekend just to read together. You’ve discovered that Minghao is not only physically pretty, but his talent and personality is truly unmatched. While Minghao has noticed that you shine brighter than all the stars in the sky whenever you speak of a book you’ve come to love. 

Secretly the two of you have developed feelings for the other, but as always, neither of you have made a move.

“Are you going to pick out another boring story?” Minghao teases from beside you, and you shoot him a glare, “You stink.”  

Minghao smiles, about to poke fun at you again, only to stop when he takes notice of the young librarian standing at the end of the aisle, holding up two glasses of water. You turn to glance in the direction Minghao is staring in, and immediately grin when you lock eyes with Areum.

“Areum! Are you going to read with us today?” You ask as you and Minghao walk over, quietly thanking her for the beverage as you both take a sip. She grins, shaking her head, and you immediately pout. “Why not?”

“I’m still on my shift, and I know how much you two enjoy your time together.” Areum says with a wink, and you feel the warmth rising to your face in an instant, quietly cursing Areum for her comments about you and Minghao. 

Minghao clears his throat when Areum wiggles her eyebrows at him, and she smiles brightly at the two of you. “I’ll try and join you guys when I finish my shift, but just come to the front desk if you need anything.” 

You both nod your head and watch as Areum turns and leaves the aisle. Letting out a breath, you turn and pull out a soft yellow book from the shelf, before walking back over to you and Minghao’s designated reading spot in the back of the library. 

“What lame book did you get this time?” Minghao asks, and you scoff as you sit back down in the comfortable chair. You turn over so that you’re upside down, and he giggles at your strange position. “You’re lame.”

“Rude.” You grin at his response before holding out the book you chose, watching as the silver letters of the title reflect back at you. “It’s called, Second Life, I actually haven’t read this one before.”  

Minghao purses his lips at the unfamiliar name, and you turn the book around so that he can also get a good look at it. Nodding his head, he pulls open his book again, “It seems interesting.” 

“Wow, that’s the first time you didn’t call one of the books I chose, lame.” You joke, and Minghao chuckles. He shrugs his shoulders, turning to glance at you, only to find you already staring back at him. 

Feeling the air shift between the two of you, you turn away after staring at each other in silence, and open up to the first page of the story. Minghao bites the inside of his cheek, before looking away and going back into his book as well.

The three unspoken words are left lingering in his brain as he glances over his book to take a peek at you, only to look back down.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” You ask as you watch Minghao look through the numerous books on the shelf to try to figure out what to read. He halts his movements, turning to glance down at you. “Do you?” 

Shrugging your shoulders, you glance down at the book you hold in your hands as you recall what you felt the first moment you and Minghao locked eyes. The pretty man purses his lips, feeling his heart thump within his chest as he finally pulls out a book he decided to read. 

“I didn’t, originally.” Minghao begins, and you raise an eyebrow. He stays quiet for a second, debating on whether or not he should continue as you tilt your head to the side at his silence. Running a hand through your hair you ask, “What happened that made you change your mind?” 

Minghao turns towards you, and your eyes widen slightly when you take in how nervous he looks. He bites the inside of his cheek, rethinking his decision one more time. 

you can back out, there’s no reason to say anyth-

“Then I met you.” Minghao says softly, completely ignoring his rampant thoughts, and the two of you stare at each other in silence for a long time as you let his words soak in. He lets out a sad laugh at the shocked expression on your face, running a hand through his pretty red hair as he nods his head with a tight-lipped smile. “It’s okay, I understand-”

You take a step forward and wrap your arms around his waist, making the rest of Minghao’s words die in his throat. A smile forms on your face when you feel his arms tentatively wrap around your body, his hand moving to cradle your head. 

“You love me too?” Minghao asks, sounding breathless due to the shock of the feeling being mutual. You nod your head, closing your eyes when you hear his rapid heartbeat against your ear. 

“At first sight.” You mutter softly, and Minghao smiles at your words. He rests his cheek on the top of your head, and the two of you stay like that for a while in the library aisle. Books that are in your grasp now forgotten as you hold each other.

Areum glances up when she hears the doors to the library open, and lets out a small smile when she sees you and Minghao walking in, fingers intertwined as you both immediately head towards the front desk to greet the young librarian. 

“Hi Areum!” You whisper excitedly, and Areum greets you and Minghao with just as much enthusiasm. Minghao watches with a fond smile when the two of you begin to discuss any strange customers walking into the library, and Areum grins when she catches sight of this.

You and Minghao have been dating for six months, and still manage to come to the library almost every weekend. Areum is sure that the two of you have read every single book in this library by now, but she doesn’t question it. She enjoys your guys’ company. 

“I’m going to set up our spot, are you gonna talk to Areum?” You ask Minghao once you and Areum finish your conversation on the guy who walked into the library just to look for any dust. Minghao nods his head, and you shoot him a thumbs up, before walking over to the reading spot. 

“Did you need something, Minghao?” Areum asks as she begins to sort through the books atop of her desk. Minghao nods his head, glancing over in the direction you walked off to see if you’ll hear anything. She raises an eyebrow when Minghao pulls out a book from the pocket on the inside of his jacket, watching as he places it in front of her. 

“Second Life? Are you returning this?” Areum asks, and Minghao shakes his head. He purses his lips, before pointing at the book with his finger as he grabs a pen. “I was wondering if I could buy it. It’s the book yn was reading when I confessed to her, and I think it’d be ni-”

“Of course!” Minghao’s eyes widen slightly when Areum scans the book, having not expected it to be that easy.

“Really? Are you sure I don’t have to go through a process to get the book or like-”

“Nope, just pay the cost and the book is yours. It’s not a big deal.” Areum reassures with a smile, only to internally slap herself when she realizes she’ll have to order another one later in her shift. 

Curse Minghao and yn for being the most precious couple ever.

“Thank you so much, Areum.” Minghao says as he hands her money to cover the cost of the book. She grins, nodding her head as she hands back then leftover change. Once the transaction goes through, Minghao open the book to the first page and clicks the pen. 

“Are you going to write a message?” Areum asks, and Minghao nods his head with a small smile on his face. She watches as the words make their way onto the page, and she feels her heart warm when he places the pen back down on the table. 

“Thank you so much for letting me buy this. I’m gonna go head to the back with yn, are you gonna join us to read later?” Areum nods her head with a smile, and Minghao shoots her a thumbs up. He turns and walks to the back where you are, and Areum lets out a happy sigh. 

“Never thought soulmates could be real until I saw those two.” Areum mutters to herself, chuckling when she hears you let out an awe, most likely due to Minghao handing you the book as a present. 

“Maybe I should leave the painting to you, huh?” You say as you take a step back to stare at your canvas, and Minghao hums when he turns around from his own creation to take a look at yours. He lets out a smile at the numerous smiley faces and flowers you painted, thinking that the painting is rather endearing. “I think it looks nice.” 

You scoff with a playful grin, pointing over at his painting that numerous different colors, all splattered onto the canvas. You don’t understand how he was able to make paint splatters look beautiful, but this is Xu Minghao we’re talking about. The most talented man you know. 

“Says the reincarnated Picasso over here.” You joke, and Minghao rolls his eyes. He places his paintbrush into the cup and walks over to you, wrapping his arms around the back of your shoulders and resting his chin on the top of your head. 

“Yours is sweet, it speaks volumes on your personality.” Minghao explains, grinning at the excessive use of yellow. You squint at the painting, turning to glance up at your boyfriend, causing him to smile down at you. “Which is?”

Minghao purses his lips, glancing back at the painting once more to think about his response. He giggles, looking back down at you with a teasing smile on his face. 

“Someone who doesn’t know how to paint.” You reach out and slap his stomach, making him double over in laughter as you chuckle in response. Minghao lets out a happy sigh, finally calmed down from his joke as he stands back up at his full height. He leans over and presses a soft kiss to your lips, before pulling away and grinning. “I’m kidding, art is whatever you want it to be. I’ll hang this up in my room when it dries.”

You roll your eyes with a smile, watching as Minghao walks back over to his painting to start cleaning up. You watch as he quietly hums a song to himself, and you let out a content sigh, ignoring the pain in your head in order to enjoy what’s going on in front of you. Minghao feels your eyes on him, and he turns back to see you smiling softly at him. 

“Mmm, you’re staring again.” Minghao murmurs as he places the paint tubes back into their container. You shrug your shoulders, a sad smile on your face as you stare at your pretty boyfriend, “I just like seeing you.” 

Minghao pauses, a slight blush rising to his cheeks as he proceeds to continue cleaning up. You grin, before turning back to start cleaning up your area as well, grimacing from the growing pain in your head that you’re trying to ignore. Minghao turns and catches sight of the sunlight casting a glow on your face, and he smiles softly. 

“I like seeing you too, yn.” 

Areum walks over to the front desk, moving to check back in the books that were returned, only to hear the bells of the door. She raises an eyebrow, only to let out a smile when she sees Minghao walking in. 

“Hey Minghao! Where’s yn? The two of you haven’t been here for a few months.” Areum says cheerfully, only to feel her heart fall slightly at the sad smile Minghao sends her way. He bites his lip as he walks over and rests his hands on the top of the desk. 

His long red hair isn’t styled like it usually is, instead just laying over his forehead. She takes notice of the dark bags under his eyes, and the slight hollowness to his cheeks. Areum opens her mouth to ask if everything’s alright, only to stop when Minghao places the soft yellow book face up on the desk. She stares at the cover, and slowly looks up at Minghao, trying to see if what she’s thinking isn’t true when she locks eyes with the pretty man whose face always held a smile when he was in the library with you. 

“Yn’s gone.” Minghao mutters softly, thumb grazing over the letters of the title on the book. Areum clenches her fist tightly together at her side, refusing to believe his words. Minghao bites the inside of his cheek harshly, before pushing the yellow book he bought towards Areum’s direction. 

“It’s yours now. Thank you for the kindness you showed yn and I whenever we came here, I know she appreciated it a lot.” Minghao tells Areum, before turning around to walk out. Areum’s eyes widen slightly, and she walks out from behind the desk and stands right behind the tall man.

“W-why does this sound like goodbye? You’re coming back, aren’t you?” Areum asks, eyes frantically searching Minghao’s when he turns to glance at her. He reaches out and softly pats Areum’s shoulder, giving her a smile that no longer holds any light. “Maybe if my second life is kind to me, then I’ll be back.” 

And with that, Minghao turns and walks out of the library, leaving Areum to stand there, sadness overcoming her heart as she watches his figure slowly shrink until it disappears.

“His name is Minghao?” Jun asks once Areum finishes the story, and she nods her head, taking a sip of water to fix her parched throat. Jeonghan and Jun share a glance, before turning back towards the librarian. “Did you ever hear from him after that?” 

Areum nods her head again, letting out a small smile. “He sent me a letter from Singapore a few years after he left the library, but I learned that he got into a car accident a month prior to when I received it. He passed at an early age, but I’m glad to hear that he was doing alright. It’s been maybe, 25 years since he passed.” 

Jeonghan purses his lips, glancing at the book Jun grabbed. He leans forward in the seat, and Areum glances up at him. “We actually have a friend named-”

“I didn’t think you guys would actually go to a library.” The three turn to glance at the sound of the voice, finding Minghao standing at the doorway with a bright smile on his face. Areum’s eyes widen, and she slowly stands up from the couch in shock at the sight. 

It’s Minghao, she thinks to herself as she stares at him. His hair is now its natural shade of black, a contrast to his long red hair years ago, but it’s still a similar length. He looks up and locks eyes with Areum, and he tilts his head to the side, a smile still on his face as he bows in her direction. “Hello, I’m Minghao.” 

Jun and Jeonghan glance at each other when they see the shocked expression on Areum’s face, and the pieces of the puzzle slowly make their way together when suddenly the bell on the door rings again. The three of them glance at the door, and Minghao slowly turns his head, just to feel his breath get caught in his throat. 

Your eyes widen slightly at all the people crowded near the door, and you stop when you realize someone is right in front of you. You glance up and lock eyes with the prettiest man you’ve ever seen, and all the thoughts in your brain disappear at the sight of him. A familiar feeling floods your senses, one that you can only relate to the feeling of coming home. 

Unbeknownst to you, Minghao is feeling the exact same thing. Except he feels more emotional as he stares down at you, heart pounding against his chest when he catches the sparkle in your eye.

Areum’s mouth drops open when she sees the exact same scene she saw 35 years ago when you and Minghao first met. Her heart thumps against her chest, and she slowly raises her hand until it rests against her heart as she stares at the two of you. 

“You look familiar, have we met before?” You ask in a small voice, letting out a smile when you catch sight of the redness to his ears. Minghao clears his throat, smiling when he sees the brightness to your eyes. “I was going to ask you the same thing.” 

The two of you stare at each other for a moment longer, before you extend your hand in his direction. You tilt your head to the side with a shy smile on your face, “Hi, I’m yn.” 

Minghao bites the inside of his cheek, grinning when he reaches out and grasps your hand. He feels warmth flood his features at the contact, finding you both beautiful, and familiar. It’s as if he’s experiencing deja vu when he says, “Hi, I’m Minghao.” 

Jun and Jeonghan turn and look at the soft yellow book resting on the table, and Jun let's out a breathless chuckle. He runs his hand over the title, smiling when he looks back towards you and Minghao. 

“His second life. He found you again in his second life.”

[luminescencefics]

fade in, fade out - part two

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***

The Backstory

September 2006

In Nora Priestley’s fourteen years of life, she’s never lived this far away from the ocean before. It’s always been just right outside her window, a quick ten-minute trek from Thames Street until she reached the rolling dunes of Rejects Beach. Smelling the salt in her hair and feeling her skin grow sticky from the feeling of the ocean air was practically second-nature to her, but ever since she moved to the middle of nowhere Connecticut for boarding school, she’s never felt more disconnected from normality in her life.

Nora’s never really been a big fan of embracing change. She’d like to blame that on the fact that she’s never really had any monumental shifts to her tectonic plates so far in her short life, and she’s not quite sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.

It’s always been just her and her mom. A dynamic duo. A tag team of epic proportions. 

Growing up in Newport, Rhode Island could be worse, Nora thinks. She was lucky enough to grow up in a small coastal town where everybody accepted her in one way or another. Even though she was much different than the other kids her age, considering she spent most of her time alone while her mother worked, she never felt unhappy. Life was simple. Life was easy.

Nora and her mother, Shannon, lived in a small apartment in a renovated old colonial townhouse at the bottom of Thames Street. It was a third-floor walk-up, and in the heat of the summer when the humidity made the wallpaper begin to curl at the edges of her tiny paisley-coated bedroom, Nora had to sleep with her creaky window open with nothing but a thin sheet to cover her sweat-soaked body, the soft sounds of the rolling waves crashing against the shore lulling her to sleep.

Shannon Priestley was the ultimate leading lady in Nora’s life. She referred to Nora as her perfect mistake, because having a baby the summer she turned eighteen with a boy she thought would be her forever was the very definition of that phrase. But she handled it like she did everything else in her life—with grace and dignity, and nothing but a big gleaming grin on her face that always made Nora and everyone else lucky enough to be around her sunbeam feel that everything would be okay. 

With a one-year-old baby on her hip and a bright and shiny high school diploma under her belt, Shannon found a job listing to be a nanny for the Clemonte’s. Without a second’s deliberation, she packed up her things and moved to the tip of the state to Newport. 

The Clemonte’s were one of the wealthiest families in Newport, hailing from an impressive lineage of old money with an expansive estate of fourteen acres overlooking Ochre Point and the Atlantic Ocean. They were one of those families that named their properties, and when Shannon Priestley first stepped foot inside The Breakers mansion, she knew right then and there that her new bosses had very high expectations for her.

Shannon became the singular nanny to Warren and Jane Clemonte’s baby son, William. He was born three months after Nora, and even though Shannon felt slighted that she had to spend most of her days with another family’s child while her own was being watched by their downstairs neighbor, she promised to split her time evenly. And even though twenty-four hours in a day was never enough for Shannon, she made sure to spend most of it with Nora.

And Nora was always grateful for that. 

The second Nora was old enough to take care of herself, she started going to The Breakers after school so that her mom could walk her home. It was at that very moment when she had her first taste of ostentatious luxury, and from then on it never failed to amaze her. The other half certainly did live differently than Nora and her mother, and stepping foot inside the Clemonte’s mansion made that realization startlingly clear. 

This was when she first met William Clemonte. Nora always knew he existed, considering her mother would sprinkle in small anecdotes about him while doing other mundane tasks. “Willy was very quiet today,” Shannon would tell Nora on their walk home from Ochre Point to Lower Thames. “Mr. and Mrs. Clemonte want Willy to take piano lessons and learn Latin. How on earth is a seven-year-old supposed to handle that?”

To Nora, Willy was somewhat of a fictional character living behind the towering walls of The Breakers. She imagined him being a smaller boy, blonde with blue eyes and wearing some sort of matching ensemble sitting inside the thick walls of his mansion, overlooking the deep cobalt ocean through a grand wall of windows. But when she meets him one afternoon after her first day of second grade, she could not be any more wrong.

Sure, Willy Clemonte was a small boy, but he was by no means shy or scared of her. He took her on a tour through the grand halls of The Breakers, showed her all of the secret passageways built inside the walls from when the mansion was first erected back in the early twentieth century, and shared his brand new toys with her. 

But most importantly, he listened to her. He asked her a million questions about public school, about the world outside of his tall fortress, about the television shows Shannon let Nora watch after dinner, and the different kinds of popular music other kids their age were listening to.

“Wait, so *NSYNC isn’t just Justin Timberlake?” Willy would ask whenever Nora would show him what was inside her portable CD player (which was almost exclusively No Strings Attached until she reached the fourth grade). 

“Oh my god, Willy! *NSYNC is a boyband! Justin is just the best one,” Nora would scold right back, shoving the plastic headphones over his blonde head of hair so that the felt cushions would press against his ear, the vibrating thumps of “Bye Bye Bye” playing through the electronic equipment.

Whenever he would ask her about school, Willy was always shocked to hear how different her experience was from his own. Nora would tell him about the yellow school buses that picked up and dropped off her friends, she would show up to his house afterward wearing jeans and a pink Gap sweatshirt and he was always surprised to learn that kids could wear whatever they wanted during the day, and when she would come over on Fridays and tell him that her mother gave her a dollar for pizza day at lunchtime, Willy wished more and more that he could go to public school with her, too.

While Willy was nothing but sunshine and kindness, Warren Clemonte was the complete opposite. A cold and distant man, stern and grumpy with a perpetual frown on his face, he sent a terrifying chill all the way down to Nora’s bones until they rattled together like a hollow instrument. And one Thursday afternoon when Shannon was busy packing Willy’s bags for the Clemonte’s annual Christmas trip to Aspen, Warren caught his son running around the main hall searching through every nook and cranny for Nora’s impressive hiding spot. It was only once she heard the bellowing yells when she emerged from behind an old armoire in the library, peeking her head around the corner to watch Warren yell at Willy in the echoing hallway.

“What do you think you’re doing, running around when you’ve left your Latin workbook unfinished?” Warren demanded, his low voice bouncing off the thick walls.

“I’m sorry, dad. I was just—”

“—Just what? Playing around and avoiding your responsibilities? How are you supposed to learn anything if you spend all of your time dilly-dallying with that girl, William?”

Willy began to cry then, and before Nora could interfere, her mother was already ten steps ahead of her, entering the main hall and apologizing profusely while her daughter stayed hidden behind the old armoire, watching everything with regretful eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Clemonte. I was just packing for Willy, I didn’t realize he had run off. I’ll make sure it never happens again, sir,” Shannon said, placing a comforting arm around Willy’s shaking shoulders while his father stood barely five feet away, watching his wailing son with lifeless eyes. 

“Please do, Miss Priestley. William does not need any more distractions.” His voice held a clipped finality to it, and when he walked away and Nora appeared from behind the wall to approach Willy who was clutching her mother for dear life, she never understood how his father could just leave his son to fall apart in front of him like that.

That was the last afternoon Nora ever spent at The Breakers. 

Up until four months ago, Nora was almost certain that the entire Clemonte family had forgotten that she existed, and that treacherous afternoon with Willy nearly seven years ago was just a sad memory that could be tarnished for the rest of eternity. But when her mother comes home with a thick black and red folder, the words Townbridge Academy in capital letters splayed against the front page above a golden crest, Nora’s never been more confused in her life.

When she asked her mother what she was doing with a boarding school acceptance letter in her hand that Nora had never heard of before, the answer she received was definitely not what she had expected. Apparently, Mrs. Clemonte found out that Nora was planning on attending the public high school on Broadway Street, and apparently, she believed that she could offer Shannon a lending hand. Nora would like to blame it all on Jane Clemonte’s philanthropic tendencies, but a few phone calls and a faxed copy of Nora’s stellar transcripts later, Nora was appointed a lofty scholarship to attend Townbridge Academy in the fall. 

All things considered, Nora did not want to go. She liked her middle school friends, she liked being her own person, she liked knowing that her mom was only a twenty-minute walk away, and most importantly, she liked not having to be associated with a family like the Clemonte’s. She didn’t want to be seen as a charity case, and accepting the scholarship on Mrs. Clemonte’s behalf to attend a prestigious boarding school like Townbridge Academy was exactly that.

But when her mother sat her down and told her how amazing this opportunity was, and how much Nora could accomplish with a diploma from one of the best schools in the country, Nora couldn’t bring herself to say no. Especially when her mother held her close and whispered in her ear, “God, Nora, you can do all of the things I never could have done,” Nora knew that there was no way she could break her mother’s heart.

Because now, standing in her new dorm room with deep oak walls, a creaky polished hardwood floor, a red ornamental rug that smelled a bit like Warren Clemonte’s cologne, and a small twin bed nestled in the corner underneath a window overlooking the bleak green hills of Connecticut—Nora Priestley wishes she had told her mother no.

Before she can even wallow in her own self-imposed misery, the front door opens revealing an older man carrying a trolley holding a matching six-piece set of luggage. Nora looks down to the singular old leather suitcase she purchased at a surplus store on Spruce Street resting on the floor, comparing it to the monogrammed navy blue set with the gold letters ARW spanning across each piece.

The man begins placing each suitcase onto the floor without uttering a word to a very confused Nora, and suddenly the door opens wider, a pretty girl with strawberry blonde hair floating into the room. She’s wearing a white tennis skirt that rests a few inches above her kneecap, with a powder blue collared shirt cuffed at the wrists. For a brief moment, Nora wonders if her mother purchased the wrong uniform set for her, but when the girl lifts her eyes from her Blackberry and looks over at Nora, she notices a sailor’s crest embroidered on the right side above her chest with more initials, and she begins to breathe a little. 

“Hi! You must be my roommate, I’m Nor—”

“—Where are the rest of your bags?” the girl interrupts, eyeing the old leather suitcase disdainfully. Nora’s fingers immediately fly up to her scalp and begin raking through her blonde hair, a nervous habit she’s tried her hardest to get rid of.

“I have a duffle on the desk chair, too,” Nora explains quietly, removing her hand from her hair so that she can point towards the old wooden desk that holds her mother’s duffle bag.

Nora watches as the girl’s piercing gaze shifts from her two flimsy bags to her outfit. And when Nora watches beady hazel eyes take in her old white tank top, her mom’s grey knit cardigan, thrifted bootcut jeans, and sandals from two summers ago, Nora’s never wanted to disappear more in her life. 

Before she can find the words to speak, Nora hears a shrill “Alyssa!” echo through the hallway, until a matching set of girls wearing nautical-inspired clothing and thick headbands are hugging the strawberry blonde-haired girl who just so obviously judged Nora a few moments ago.

“Who’s this?” one of the girls asks Alyssa, breaking away from their hug and looking over at Nora with interest.

Just as Nora reaches a hand out to introduce herself, Alyssa says, “Doesn’t matter. Let’s go, girls,” and the three girls spin around without even uttering a goodbye. 

Nora watches as they walk down the hallway, giggling the entire way as if they hadn’t singlehandedly just ruined her first official day away from home.

***

October 2006

The first month at boarding school is just a series of Nora playing catch up. While she thought going to public school and hanging out with normal people would be enough to prepare her for high school, three weeks in she’s never felt more lost in her entire life.

She’s one of the only students who doesn’t own a cellphone, she wears second-hand Sperry’s instead of fancy loafers with gold links on the front, her backpack is a maroon Jansport while most students opted for leather messenger bags, and when people ask her how she spent her summer, she’s gotten used to the wide-eyed look they give her when she explains that she scooped ice cream near the beach for tips.

Nora’s not naive. She knows that she’s referred to as The Scholarship Girl behind her back, she knows that Alyssa complains to her elitist friends about how dreadful it is to be forced to room with a girl who wears hand-me-down clothing, and she knows that adjusting to life at Townbridge was going to be the very definition of arduous. 

But she remembers what her mother told her—how Nora’s skin is thicker than she thinks, and no matter how different she is to everybody else, she’s still just as deserving of a top-notch education. 

Even though Nora was at the top of her class for most of her life, she still felt far behind the rest of her classmates at Townbridge. She spends the first few weeks getting very acquainted with the walls of the library, making the nearly twenty-minute trek from her dorm in Emerson Hall to Millikan Library across campus. Classes have only just begun, but Nora can’t afford to fall any more behind than she already has. So instead of making friends and signing up for various clubs and sports teams, Nora’s allowed her backside to practically mold into the stiff wooden chairs inside the empty library.

Nora would have completely forgotten about the First Year Mixer being held that evening if not for Alyssa and her friends getting ready in her dorm room. When she walks in still wearing her uniform well after classes have ended for the day, the three girls look at her as if she were crazy.

“Did you forget about the mixer tonight, Nora?” Grace, one of the twins, asks with a shocked expression decorating her pretty face. All three girls are wearing colorful Lilly Pulitzer dresses, passing along mascara and eyeshadow amongst themselves in preparation for tonight.

“Uh, no I was just—”

“—Making friends with the books again?” Alyssa sneers, earning a giggle from the girls.

Nora chooses not to respond. It’s just easier that way.

Walking over to her wardrobe, Nora sorts through her limited selection of clothing to find something appropriate to wear for tonight. She didn’t even want to be in attendance, but she’s figured that she’s probably spent enough time on her own, and that maybe, in the off chance that Townbridge has some normal students, she can make a friend or two.

The only two dresses she brought with her were a simple long-sleeved cream sweater dress that fell just above her knees, and a thin summer dress her mother bought her two years ago that was tighter and fell around mid-thigh. She goes with the sweater dress, deeming it the best outfit she has to just simply blend in. Once it’s over her head, she reaches for her thigh-high socks and brown boots she got as a graduation gift, slipping them on quickly. October has left a brisk chill in the nighttime air, and considering her jackets consisted of a worn-in winter parka and an oversized flannel she scored at Goodwill, Nora thinks this combination will be more than fine.

She reaches for the comb on her desk and begins to rake it through her knotted hair, smoothing out the kinks and leaving the strands to fall in their messy, wavy natural state. Just as she’s digging through her backpack to try and find her lip balm and mascara, she can’t help but overhear Alyssa gossiping to Grace and Erin loudly from across the room.

“Harry’s plane landed a few hours ago,” Alyssa gushes, plucking the blush from Grace’s hands and beginning to apply it to the apples of her cheeks.

“Oh my God, no way! You must be so excited, Lyss!” Erin squeaks, reaching for the lipgloss that Alyssa just used. Before she can even remove the lid, Alyssa swats at her wrists and tells her to pick another color.

“Have you been texting all summer?” Grace asks from behind the vanity.

Alyssa nods, readjusting her freshly curled hair. “Ever since he left the Hamptons in July, yeah. We’ve been messaging back and forth. He told me he can’t wait to see me tonight.”

“That’s so romantic, Lyss!” Erin says, and Nora tries her hardest not to roll her eyes. “I can’t believe they let him miss the first three weeks of school.”

“He’s Harry Styles, Erin,” Grace chides, turning to face her sister with slanted eyes. “He can do whatever he wants.”

Nora twists the mascara wand back into the tube before backing away from her desk, double-checking her outfit to make sure that it was suitable enough. Just as she gives her hair one last fluff, she hears Alyssa ask, “Are you really not going to do anything with your hair?”

Nora turns towards her with a sheepish look, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t own any styling tools so…” she lets the words fall from her mouth, watching the three girls in front of her look at her as if she had a second head growing out of her neck.

“You’ve never straightened your hair?! I’m sure Alyssa will let you borrow—”

“—Erin! Enough. Let’s go, we’re going to be late,” Alyssa scolds, ending the conversation abruptly. Before Nora can even shoot a smile in Erin’s direction, the three girls are already out the door, leaving Nora to walk to the Great Hall by herself. 

The problem with spending all of her time walking from her dorm to the lecture halls on East Campus to Millikan Library is that she seemingly forgot where every other building was. Trying to locate the Great Hall in daylight was already difficult for Nora, but now with the sun practically set behind the horizon and her sense of direction completely shit, she starts panicking when she’s walked by the dining hall for the third time.

An upperclassman saves Nora before she can have a full-blown panic attack in the middle of the quad, and with two minutes to spare, Nora finds a row with a few empty seats towards the back of the room. 

Nobody seems to have noticed her, save for the girls in the row in front of her who turn around when Nora’s boots jostle their chairs. She offers them a muffled apology, and just as quickly as they turned around to look at her, they swivel their necks to face the front again.

Nora sighs to herself, before lifting her head to hear the Headmaster begin his speech. After listening to him drawl about the mission statement and his expectations for the first-year students, Nora immediately wishes she never left her dorm room. She can feel her eyes begin to droop, and before her body can slump further down into her chair, the sound of a heavy oak door closing echoes throughout the Great Hall, and Nora feels her body springing upwards.

Headmaster Clayton pauses in his monotonous ramblings, and before the entire collection of students in front of Nora can turn around to see what the interruption was, a long body falls into the chair next to hers, and the Headmaster resumes his speech as if nothing ever happened. 

“Did I miss anything?” an impossibly British voice whispers in Nora’s direction, and she’s a bit surprised by the low timbre of it. She looks over at him and finds herself staring into green pools with a golden shimmer surrounding his irises. Nora’s never been captivated by a boy before—but the one sitting next to her with fluffy chocolate curls falling over his forehead, surrounding his ears, and ending at the nape of his neck might possibly be the first. His hands are shoved inside the pockets of an expensive-looking black trench coat, and his upper body is leaning towards hers as he awaits her response. When Nora notices his pink lips forming into a small smirk, she’s almost positive that she’s been caught staring at this boy for far too long.

“Uh, no. Not really,” she whispers back, scrutinizing the way her voice squeaked at the beginning of her sentence.

His smirk shifts into a full-blown grin, and Nora can feel her cheeks begin to burn. “Hm, sounds like somebody wasn’t paying attention in the first place.”

Before Nora can retort, the boy near her chuckles softly at her nervous expression. “Can’t say I blame you, love. Clayton’s a fucking fossil.”

Nora giggles, causing the girls in front of her to turn around again with a murderous expression on their faces. She stops abruptly, and after they’ve snapped their heads forward for the second time, she looks over to the boy on her left and finds him trying his hardest to stifle another chuckle.

He shifts his body so he’s no longer leaning in Nora’s direction, and she’s a bit saddened by the sudden distance between them both. 

Nora replays the interaction in her inexperienced, fourteen-year-old mind, wondering if the boy near her was just flirting with her. There’s no denying that she thinks he’s cute, considering she finds herself sneaking looks at him every few minutes during the duration of Headmaster Clayton’s speech just to get another glimpse of his soft hair and sunken dimples. And on more than one occasion, he catches her in his periphery, shooting her that charming smirk that never fails to make her cheeks blush. 

The moment Headmaster Clayton wraps up his speech and the rest of the students begin to stand, Nora turns towards the boy and finds that he’s already looking at her. Now that they’ve exited their row, Nora notices how tall he is, taking in his long legs clad in black denim, his even longer torso in a similar black shirt. The all-dark ensemble somehow makes him look older. Makes him look mysterious. Makes him look even more handsome—and suddenly Nora’s grown a bit nervous.

“I’m Nora, by the way,” she says, sticking her hand out for him to shake. He hesitates, looking between her face and her outstretched hand with a smile on his face, finding it incredibly cute that a girl his age would greet him so formally. 

Just before his hand can fall into hers, another hand claps him on the shoulder and he’s forced to look at the intrusion, his own arm falling back to his side. “Harry, my man! How was the flight?”

When Nora looks over his shoulder, she notices two boys greeting him warmly. She hasn’t really met anybody at Townbridge aside from Alyssa, Grace, and Erin, so she’s not surprised when she doesn’t recognize the two other boys infiltrating their small bubble.

But upon further inspection, Nora realizes that she does, in fact, recognize one of them.

Standing directly in her line of vision is none other than Willy Clemonte. Although it’s been seven years since Nora last saw him, there’s no denying that the sandy-haired, blue-eyed teenager in front of her is him. He’s practically almost the same height as his father now, towering over Nora in his khaki pants and a white cable-knit sweater. His hair still tangles in his eyelashes and his cheeks are still dusted with freckles, and Nora’s stunned at the sudden rush of memories that flood her insides.

He seems to have made the same startling realization as Nora did, because his eyes begin to widen almost comically, and a strained expression falls over his features. Before they can give away that they’ve been staring at each other, the boy from before, now known to Nora as Harry, spins around on his heels and gives her a small smile.

“Nora, right?” he asks, and she nods hesitantly. “Where are you from?”

“Uh, Newport,” Nora answers.

“Oh, wicked! So you must know Will, then?” Harry asks, seemingly oblivious to the awkward tension radiating from the two of them. 

Before she can respond, Will clears his throat and takes a step forward. With one last panicked look at Nora, he tells Harry, “Yeah, man. Her mom was one of our maids.”

“Wait, what?” Harry asks, confusion written all over his face. Nora’s surprised that she can hear it over the sound of her breath leaving her lungs from Willy’s comment. Sure, she knew that the last time they saw each other he was crying into her mother’s arms over a remark his father said, and sure, she didn’t expect them to resume their friendship as if nothing had happened.

But to blatantly lie about Nora’s mother, a woman who took care of him for years? Nora never thought that he would grow up to be so cruel. 

To twist the knife lodged into her chest even further, Alyssa and the twins approach the group with annoyed looks, all aimed in Nora’s direction. They seem to have overheard Willy’s previous comment, and before Nora can even defend herself, Alyssa reaches out and wraps her hand around Harry’s forearm as if she were claiming him in front of everybody.

“Yeah, apparently Townbridge is letting just about anybody in this year. Just ignore her, Harry, we all have been,” she says, her tone nothing but dismissive. 

Nora watches as Harry shifts his gaze from Alyssa to her. His green eyes fall down her body, and for the first time, he notices the loose thread at the hemline of her dress from overwear, the tear in her socks behind the knee, her brown boots that lack the distinction of a designer label. With one last look at her, he takes a step back, and Nora knows right then and there that she’s been condemned as an outsider. 

“C’mon Harry, tell us all about the rest of your summer in France! I want to hear all about it,” Alyssa enthuses, and without a second look, the group turns around and leaves Nora staring after them.

No matter how attractive she finds Harry, there’s no denying that his personality is undeniably ugly. And as she watches him wrap an arm around Alyssa’s shoulder, Nora thinks it’s quite fitting that they’ve both found each other.  

***

November 2007

Summer has always been Nora’s favorite season (living permanently near the ocean sort of makes that inevitable), but that summer after her first year, Nora’s never been more excited to be home. She missed her mom, she missed the beach, and she missed her normal friends who didn’t care that she wore sandals that were falling apart and shorts that were fraying at the edges.

When Nora came back from school, she begged her mother not to send her back to Townbridge for her second year. She told her how she couldn’t make friends, how everybody made her feel like a social pariah, and how she was absolutely miserable being so far away from her. 

“Oh, Nora baby,” her mother said, holding her close. “You know exactly who you are. You’re strong, you’re beautiful, you’re intelligent—and you’re so much better than those kids who make you feel like you aren’t.”

“You don’t understand, mom,” Nora said through hiccups, wet tears soaking her cheeks, “They hate me. All of them. They never even gave me a chance.”

“Everybody?” her mother asked. And when Nora just stared at her with her lower lip trembling, Shannon combed her fingers through Nora’s blonde hair comfortingly. “I’m sure there are people at Townbridge who are just like you. I just don’t think you’ve tried to find them yet.”

Even though she didn’t want to admit it, Nora knew that her mother was right. So after another summer filled with scooping ice cream for tips and spending every second of her days off at the beach reading romance novel after romance novel, Nora packed up her things for the second time—this time with another suitcase—and set off for Connecticut with higher hopes for her second year.

Things seemed to be turning around for her when she discovered that her roommate was no longer Alyssa Whalen. Instead, it was a girl named Lydia who lived a few towns over in Madison by the beach, just like Nora. They bonded instantly over their shared love of having sea-knotted hair and the feeling of having sand squished between your toes and letting your fingers wrinkle from wading through the briny water for too long. And when Lydia encourages Nora to sign up for the swim team with her, Nora’s grateful that she’s finally found a friend in this hellhole. 

Her second year is leagues better than her first, considering in the first three months, she barely had to cross paths with Alyssa and Harry. On the rare instances that they do run into each other, they simply ignore the other’s existence, and Nora doesn’t mind it one bit. It’s just easier that way, she supposes.

Halfway through Nora’s swim season, she turns sixteen and discovers that everybody around her is getting their license. Lydia’s parents bought her a used 2005 Honda Civic when she passed her driver’s test, and when she told Nora that she could use it whenever she needed, Nora felt bad lying to her new friend. Because once again she was playing catch up, getting her learner’s permit over the summer when everybody was already scheduling their exam, and with the way things were going, Nora wouldn’t be able to get her license until she was home again for summer break.

She also didn’t want to admit to Lydia that she couldn’t afford a car, and that her mother would never allow Nora to take her 1997 Toyota Corolla to campus. 

After swim practice one November afternoon, Nora leaves the Athletic Center with wet hair to head back to her dorm in Donahue Hall completely across campus. Normally, Nora walks with Lydia, but since it’s Friday and students who live in-state with a license are allowed to leave campus for the weekend, Nora’s forced to make the twenty-minute journey alone. 

With her gym bag slung over her shoulder, Nora begins to walk through the parking lot to head towards the footpath that will bring her through campus. The sky is awfully dark for four in the afternoon, and when she looks up and notices the menacing grey clouds, she kicks herself for not packing her umbrella before she left her room this morning.

Just as she’s almost in the clear, she hears a familiar giggle that makes her skin crawl. Living with Alyssa for one excruciating year has allowed Nora to recognize that sound almost immediately, and sheepishly she tucks her chin deeper into the neckline of her jacket, praying that her face is hidden as she walks past the group. 

When Nora reaches inside her half-zipped gym bag for her water bottle, she swears to herself when the strap detaches from the siding and the nylon bag falls to the cement. Making sure everything is strapped appropriately, she heaves the bag over her shoulder once it’s zipped up. As she swings her elbow to place the bag comfortably around her body, she doesn’t take into account her proximity to a particularly shiny black SUV—and just before she can escape the parking lot undetected, her bag smashes against the hood of the car, causing the headlights to flicker on and off and the alarm to blare piercingly through the space. 

“Hey!” Nora hears from behind her. When she turns she sees Harry jogging towards her, his brown hair dripping from the shower he just took. He’s wearing joggers and a Townbridge Academy Soccer sweatshirt, and when he reaches inside his pocket and reveals a shiny key fob, Nora swears for the second time knowing that the fancy car she just accidentally hit belonged to him.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” His voice is booming through the parking lot and it’s enough to make Nora feel incredibly small. When he finally presses the alarm button on his key and the blaring stops, she can hear his exasperated breaths in its place, and she’s not quite sure what’s worse.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“—I saw the whole thing, Harry!” Alyssa calls over from her spot across the cement, walking towards the pair of them with an accusatory finger extended in Nora’s direction. “She slammed her gym bag against your car.”

“It was an accident!” Nora screeches, feeling her face turning red. “My bag strap fell off and when I went to put it back on my shoulder, I bumped your car. Not, er, intentionally.”

Harry looks between the two girls with an annoyed expression on his face. “Just be more careful, yeah? It’s brand new.”

When Nora looks at the behemoth of a vehicle to her left, observing the shiny black exterior with the words Range Rover written across the front in chrome lettering, she can only imagine the outrageous price tag it has. Which is why she nods, apologizing one last time.

“Won’t happen again.” Nora begins to turn around on her heel, just as the air begins to get cooler and the slightest smell of rain can be detected in the distance.

“You’re walking all the way to Donahue in the rain?” Harry asks suddenly, and Nora begins to wonder how he even knows she lives in that building. She pauses, thinking if he or Alyssa or any one of their stupid friends lives in Donahue, and when she comes up with nothing, she turns around with a confused expression on her face.

“Uh, yeah. I don’t have a car.” Before she can feel the first drop of rain hit her skin, laughter erupts from the small group surrounding Harry and his car. Nora hides her face, wishing the ground would swallow her up. 

With one last gulp, Nora turns around and begins walking towards the footpath, shoving the hood of her flimsy rain jacket over her head. 

“Well, at least your hair is already wet!” Nora hears Alyssa call out from behind her, with more laughter following until Nora’s a safe distance away from where she can no longer be scrutinized by Harry and his rude friends.

As Nora reaches Donahue Hall with her tracksuit bottoms sticking to her legs like a second skin and her jacket completely drenched, all she can think about is how she’d rather walk another ten miles before ever having another conversation with Alyssa Whalen and Harry Styles if her life fucking depended on it.

***

A/N: Here’s chapter two! We’ve finally met Harry and Alyssa (yikes), so feel free to share with me your thoughts and predictions for the next part! High school is a funny time period to write about, and I’m excited to share the next part with you all. Look out for it on Friday, February 19th, which will be the normal update schedule. Until then, stay safe! x

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[funkwhistle]

Get Some Rest

Pairing: Dutch Van Der Linde x reader (no direct references to being female, but references to typical things a woman would do around camp etc)

Warnings: none, just fluff again

Summary: After Dutch’s injury, the pair of you seem to be a little closer than before...

part 1 

(Image is mine)

Get Some Rest

It had been nearly two weeks since Dutch had returned, injured, from the job. About a week ago, he left the tent for the first time, sitting by the trees to read another one of his books. His face had regained some of its hopeful colour and he seemed stronger now, although he still worked on disguising his limp as he walked through camp.

You hadn't spoken to him since you took his bandages off his leg, three days ago. The wound was healing nicely, although he'd most probably have a scar; it was a miracle he was alive anyway. Yesterday you'd found a book lying on your sleeping roll and, upon opening it, you'd seen the meticulous lettering of the book's owner - a certain Dutch Van Der Linde.

You'd been trying to get some peace and quiet for long enough to be able to read, but as soon as you had a minute to yourself it was dark or raining. However, you'd managed to read the first chapter over the course of yesterday and today, and here you were - sat by one of the rocks on the edge of camp, reading the book and debating whether or not to fall asleep.

“Come on!” Miss Grimshaw calling you back from your break shook the longing for sleep from your mind as you gently placed a ruined bootlace you'd broken last week into the book, marking your page for later. Then you stood up slowly, making your way back to camp, tucking the book into one of the large front pockets on your apron.

As you approached camp again, you caught the eye of Dutch, who sat, as usual, under one of the few trees that littered the landscape. While he looked at you, you could swear his mouth tilt up into a smile a little, but Miss Grimshaw's insistent calls prevented you from saying anything. Instead you smiled a little at you, before moving away. His eyes didn't waver from watching you as you walked away.

The afternoon passed without interest, you helped Charles groom the horses and prepare the stew with Pearson. Just as you were scooping a ladle-full of the stuff into your bowl, a familiar voice spoke behind you; “Mind getting me some dear?” Dutch stood behind you, holding his bowl carefully as you spooned some of the stew into it. Placing his hand on your shoulder to support himself, he leaned past you, grabbing some of the bread that was on a plate by the pot. While he was leaning you became aware of how close the pair of you were to one another, if you wanted to you could very easily kiss him now-

“You enjoying the book?” he spoke again, making you jump back into what was happening, the feeling of guilt at what you'd felt coursing through you. Dutch had been on your mind a lot over the last few days, ever since you'd helped his leg.

“I haven't managed to read much, but thanks for lending it to me,” you replied, nodding at what he said as he removed his hand from your shoulder. Strangely, when his hand was gone, you felt as though something was missing. However, you quickly dismissed the thought as you continued speaking, now walking over to one of the tables in camp.

“It's nothing, there's no need to thank me,” Dutch said, still smiling at you. “Come with me,” he moved away from the table where you'd normally eat your dinner with some of the girls to just outside camp. The pair of you sat in contented silence for a while, only the sounds of you eating interrupting the peaceful sounds of the desert. Your heart was fluttering again in your chest, you told yourself he was being kind for your help, nothing more, but your heart wanted, no needed, it to be something more.

“Well lo-” “Tha-”

You both started speaking at the same time, before both stopping. Dutch was looking at you again, it felt as though he could read the thoughts chasing themselves around your head as you stared back at him. However, your eye contact was soon broken as the sun began to shine awkwardly into your eyes, meaning you had to move your hand to shelter your face from the hot evening rays.

“I should get going,” you said, standing up and grabbing your bowls to wash them, and Dutch stood also, passing you his bowl.

As you grabbed the bowl from him, your hand skirted over his lightly, not heavy enough for it to be obvious but enough to make him glance down at you. Behind the stoic demeanor there was a glimmer of something in his eyes as he looked down at you, but you couldn't place the emotion

you shivered a little as the cool evening swept in and you realised you were still wearing your warmer clothes from the heat of the day. Dutch cocked his head at your reaction, moving closer to you and carefully, as though you were made of glass, pulling you closer for a hug, running his hands up and down your arms to generate some sort of heat for you. Shocked, you didn't move for a moment before putting the bowl on the crate next to you and resting your arms around him.

The pair of you stood there, content, for a while; every now and again Dutch would hum contentedly as you moved your hands hesitantly over his back. Your breathing matched his, chests rising as falling together as you leaned your head on him. And an unspoken happiness flooded the pair of you, that you were both here and both alive.

The perfect harmony couldn't last forever, for soon enough the sound of Arthur calling for Dutch rang through camp and Dutch moved back from you. Strangely, when he was gone, you felt as though something was missing from within you, as though being with Dutch filled a part of your heart you never knew to be empty.

“Dutch-” you started, but you were cut off by Dutch as he turned back to face you, his hands finding their way to your arms again, seeking the contact between the pair of you. At this, you nearly melted, the feeling of complete-ness filling you again. Stepping closer to you, Dutch cupped your face softly, running his thumb over your cheekbone as he leaned closer and closed the gap between you.

Time stopped. You couldn't reister what to do next, it was like you were kissing that boy again in Ohio, your brain couldn't comprehend what you were supposed to be doing until you felt Dutch's hand on your hip, pulling you closer to him. And then it was natural, as you moved with him, hands snaking up to the nape of his neck, standing on your tiptoes to reach him. His fingers moved over your hips, as though they had a mind of their own as he skated his tongue over the edge of your lips.

“Dutch!” Arthur called again, nearer to you than he was before and with more urgency in his voice. Dutch hummed unhappily against your lips, shaking his head slightly and muttering an apology to you before he was pulling away from your lips. Instead of moving away from you, however, he kept you close to him, letting you hear his pounding heart as he gently caressed your hair and replied to Arthur.

“Arthur, what do you want boy?” “Dutch! I just-” Arthur rounded the corner on the tent to see the pair of you, although Dutch was attempting to cover you from potential embarrassment, the two stew bowls gave it away. “Nevermind, it can wait,” he said, sneaking back around the tent, making Dutch sigh deeply and turn back to you.

“Now, where were we?”

A/N This is a part 2 to Get Some Rest 

Any requests would be welcome, surprisingly I write more than just Dutch :0

I’m also sorry this might not be quite right I’ve written it quickly so it might get a little love over the weekend

Here is part of a copy of Evelyn Miller’s book - An American Inferno

[wanna-do-bad-things]

Expecting.

Summary: Tired of dating for nothing, Henry laid everything out for her on that very first date. But when he gets everything he hoped for, there’s one thing left that he really wants.

Word count: 1683

Warnings: trying to get pregnant (no heartbreak tho, it just takes a lil time), fluffy baby daddy Henry

A/N: this was for @henrythickcavill, requested via my patreon. 

Forever tag list:  @luclittlepond |  @fcgrizi  | @henrythickcavill  |  @mitzwinchester  |  @mary-ann84 | @hell1129-blog  | @pensieve-foryour-thoughts  |  @agniavateira  |  @dancingwendigo  |  @living-in-the-darkness | @trippedmetaldetector |  @watermeloncavill  |   @justaboringadult   |   @madbaddic7ed   |   @ruthoakenshield  |  @omgkatinka   |   @iloveyouyen   |   @spursondele    |

________

Henry has been on cloud nine ever since she told him she was pregnant. Tired and mentally exhausted trying to find the right person, Henry had all but given up. It’s not that he was actively looking for a girlfriend, or wife in his case, but he did hope that when the right person came along, he’d just know. He’d feel it in his bones. He didn’t think it would happen like it does in the movies, where everything aligns, everything tastes better, music sounds better and he can breathe like he’s never breathed before. But he thought he’d feel something different.

She didn’t breeze into his life. She didn’t make him understand now why everything else hadn’t worked out. But what she did do was make him wonder how the hell he’d managed to feel so complete before when he felt bursting at the seams when he was around her. He’d laid it all on the table on their first date.

“I know this is a little full on, but I’m going to be honest with you. I can’t keep doing meaningless dates. If you’re not looking for something serious, something long term and possibly the end goal, then this date isn’t going to go far. You can leave, I’ll still pay for the bill, but I won’t hold it against you. I understand not everyone will be on the same page.”

Instead of pushing her chair back, grabbing her coat and bag and walking out of the restaurant, she pulled her chair a little closer, poured them both a drink and said, “so what colour theme are we having at the wedding and how many children are we having?”

She took an open interest in what he had to say, she challenged him on a few of his viewpoints just for a good conversation piece. They shared many of the same opinions and differed on a handful but nothing deal breaking or something that neither could get past. Henry understood that not everyone was the same and listening to her speak was amazing. He adored that they were on the same page when it came to values and their life.

As the weeks and months went on, he tried to trip her up. Tried to catch her out and see if she was just spoon feeding him everything he wanted to hear but no, it continued to flow almost perfectly. Henry took her on several vacations per year, she joined him on set, rode him when he needed his stress relieving and helped him with his lines. She was by no means a good actress, but she would try to put her feelings into it, try to give the script some sort of justice and helped Henry when he needed it.

They married three years later, with her joking that Henry would rush her down the aisle just so he could get straight to the baby making part of marriage. But it didn’t happen as quickly as either of them hoped. She came off her birth control and though they’d lose themselves within the sheets (or on the counter tops, table, against the hallway wall, the sofa, his gaming chair…just anywhere which could hold their weight,) as often as possible without wanting to take the fun out of sex and just have it for the sake of having a baby, pregnancy just wasn’t as easy to happen as they’d thought.

A year and half into their marriage, she’d began to draw up schedules, bought thermometers to check her temperature and downloaded several “trying to get pregnant” apps. She tracked her cycles, found the optimum times for having sex and had started to pitch it all to Henry when she realised she was two weeks late.

He’d sat there before her, waiting for her to reach the main part of her big presentation of why looking at their baby making schedule would be most effective when he’d watched the blood drain from her face and her scramble out of the room, roughly slamming the bathroom door closed and lock it before he’d been able to fully understand what had just happened. He’d heard things dropping onto the floor, things being torn open and as he’d stood nervously on the other side of the bathroom door, his hand on the wooden surface, listening carefully for anything which could give him an idea of what had happened, he’d finally heard the little sob that came from her.

“Are you ok?” He’d asked softly, not wanting to refer to her by any pet names, instead addressing her by her name. She hadn’t replied for a moment or two, just the sound of her soft cries filling the room in which he couldn’t access until she’d finally slid the lock open and he found her sitting on the floor, surrounded by torn open pregnancy test boxes and four tests sitting in front of her, letters boasting PREGNANT 4+ WEEKS on each of them.

Henry hadn’t wanted to go too crazy. He’d wanted this for too long and didn’t want to curse anything by purchasing anything too early. He’d gripped her hand, their fingers locked together, tears falling from his eyes as he’d pressed their hands to his lips as his eyes had remained fixated on the screen during her scan, watching as their two babies wriggled around for them. Watching as their tiny limbs stretched out and they flipped themselves around in their little bubble of comfort.

With each passing week, Henry ensured that he took care of any of the big jobs, needing her to take it as easily as possible. She hadn’t wanted to completely give up their workouts, and he’d make sure that he was there to observe each one, with a personalised plan specifically for pregnancy. They scoured the websites for the perfect nursery set up. With the babies genders remaining a secret, pots of neutral paint sits in the room. Dust sheets are down ready to catch any splatters of paint which hadn’t made it onto the walls. Tins of light colours are waiting to be applied and Henry has changed into his “DIY” clothes which are sweatpants and a loose, though still fitted for him, cotton tee shirt.

Most of the walls will be a pale grey to match the carpet, but there’ll be soft mint greens, duck egg blues, pale yellows scattered around the room in forms of cuddle bears, artwork and books that he wants to read to them. Two rocking chairs have been placed, and tested, and he already looks forward to sitting in them while reading to the two of them as they have their feed, much like he’s already done with her sitting beside him, their joined hands pressed to her large bump as he’d read some of his favourite childhood stories to them so that they would already recognise his voice. She’s due in one months’ time, and only now does he feel confident enough to begin to paint and assemble everything he’d bought.

She’d caught him in the middle of their living room two months ago, the boxes emptied out and him checking every screw, every nut, bolt and piece against the assembly instructions to ensure that everything was there, fully prepared with the phone and laptop beside him to make all the forms of contact needed to get the right parts sent out. “I’m not leaving it until last minute to then find out something is missing, or wrong or damaged and it’s too late.”

He’s strolled around the house with the double pram, telling her he needed to break in the wheels. He’s practiced for what felt like hours closing the pram and re-opening it again. Getting it in and out of the large car which he bought for the babies in mind. He’s tested numerous ways of picking up the baby carriers and how to get them in and out of the car with ease. He’s completed a baby first aid course and made sure he’s bought enough things to baby proof the house.

“You have some explaining to do.” She says, waddling into the doorway of the nursery, holding up some of the baby outfits he’s purchased.

“Look at the little cape though.” He grins, putting down the paint roller and tray before he’s even applied the first stroke. He walks over to her, his hand instinctively going to her belly as the other touches the cape of the baby vest which reads “my daddy is superman.”

“And this?” She holds up a mini Chiefs kit.

“I don’t make the rules around here. It’s law that they should match their daddy.”

“But what if they choose to suppo-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Henry cuts her off with a wag of his finger, “we don’t have none of that negativity around here. Absolutely not.” It takes everything she can muster not to crack another smile and to try and keep her expression as neutral as possible but the stern look upon Henry’s face makes it more difficult to do so.

“You can’t wait for this, can you?” She asks him as she sinks down into her rocking chair and slowly goes back and forth, sighing contently to get the weight from her swelling ankles and sore feet.

“Lumberjack beard, bags under my eyes so big I could do a months shopping in them and endless stories of ‘so yeah, my kid pooped today’ conversations. I can’t wait.”

“No dad bod?” She questions.

“I’m a daddy now, and I’ve got a body.” You sure are daddy, she thinks. If she weren’t suffering from her aching hips, she’d be wanting to climb onto his lap and ride him. He looks far too good right now.

“Yeah you have, now let me see that body of yours get to work….on this room. Not on me.” She says, holding up her finger and lifting a leg up as though that could stop Henry from covering her body with his own, “you’ve done enough.”

“Well, you know what they say… it helps to speed things along…”

[seokiloquy]

Pumpkin Spice - Miya Osamu

AU: Regular, coffee shop(?)

Server Collab (Linked)

Tags/Warnings: GN Reader, swearing, time-skip spoilers

Word Count: 9.2k+

Working at a cafe in the middle of the busy streets of Tokyo’s business sector often led to many customers in need of a nice brew and in association, tips. Lots of tips that often fell into your pocket at the end of the day. The pay was good enough and made up for the moderately long commute from your campus that you spent sleeping on the train. On top of that, your boss was the nicest and most supportive old woman in downtown Tokyo. 

The interior of the cafe was soft and homey in comparison to the reflective silver exterior of the building outside. Seats with red vinyl cushions filled the open area leading to the wooden top counter that you worked behind, mixing up whatever ludicrous drink they asked for. The customers loved you. You loved the money. It was the best.

It was sunny that day, people were smiling for once as they walked to work for once. The traffic was light, people weren’t running late, and to top it all off you had just gotten an email that morning with the mark for your latest assignment, a perfect grade.

“We’re closing.”

“Like, just for today, right?” you asked Juri, brows furrowed as a disbelieving smile pulled on your face as if you were being pranked. She gave you a sad look. “Right?” you repeated, pouring in a measured amount of coffee beans into the espresso machine.

“(Y/N), I’m so sorry,” Juri gasped. “The building owner jacked up the renting price and I just can’t afford it now.”

You reached behind you for the counter, gripping it tightly between your fingers as you pulled yourself closer to slump onto it. A dull ache began to grow right between your eyes. “Don’t apologize, Juri. There’s nothing you can do. I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s a lie,” she spoke after a moment, skating over the thin ice that froze over your conversation. “You can spend more time studying now at least, university gets harder in your final year.”

“University’s the reason I needed this job though.” You walked around Juri’s stout form, reaching for the coffee machine, grabbing hold of a mug and readying yourself for the freshly pressed beans. “I have to pay for it somehow.”

“(Y/N), darling, maybe a three shot espresso isn’t the best thing to have right now.”

You gave the old woman a sour look over your shoulder before shooting back the mug of dark bean soup. Immediately, your tongue tried to escape your mouth. “Oh god, you,” you gagged momentarily. “You were right. That was horrid.” An uncomfortable shiver ran over your shoulders and through your spine.

Juri’s wrinkled hand came to rest over the black strap of your apron that hung desperately to your shoulder, squeezing it tightly to the point of bruising. She pulled you down roughly and flicked your forehead with her nail. “Stupid,” she chastised. 

Walking to the sink, she grabbed the mug you held and rinsed it out before handing it back to you, filled to the brim with cold water. She rubbed your back, encouraging you to suck back the water to rid the bitter taste from the corners of your mouth. “If you want, I’ll write up a letter of recommendation for your resume.”

“I’m not sure whoever would hire me would take the time to read it, no one uses reference letters anymore. But thank you, I’d appreciate it.”

She smiled, making the wrinkles on her face shift slightly. “Anything for you sweetheart. Besides, you’ll need every advantage you can get with your horrid cooking.”

On your last day of work, Juri sent you off into the dark streets of Tokyo with a notebook filled with homebrew, baking and cooking recipes —the last two being one’s you have never and likely never will touch— and a container of cookies that she had made that morning. 

The book, in and of itself, was innocent enough. A relatively mute earthy colour palette that made flowery designs from one edge to the other. But, you knew there had to be some secret spells of torture within the pages, or just something that you’d injure yourself with.

Not even a day later, far into the night, a sugar-covered cookie was left forgotten on your table as you scrolled through job listings on your computer, occasionally getting distracted by the scantily clad fictional characters that promoted a game on the edges of the webpage. You reached for the cookie, shooting your eyes back to the list and scrolling.

Your dorm was rather modest, more like a small apartment when compared to some of the other dorms on campus though. Which admittedly saved you money and made it more expensive at once. With your own kitchen and modest living space attached to a bedroom and bathroom, you successfully managed to isolate yourself from any other students in the building for just an extra fee. Luckily, having a kitchen meant that the school didn’t supply you with food, saving you money, but also leaving you starving since the only recipes you had in your head were for coffee. Moment’s spent in your kitchen alone with a grumbling stomach sometimes made you wish you were roomed with another person, or had taken the university's food plan. Curse your late teenage pride. 

The walls were off white, surrounding a room filled with mostly dark furniture —namely navy— and reflecting the light that came off your computer screen. They made large shadows against your floor and walls. Your two fingers swept along the mousepad, moving the dry list up your screen. You bit into the cookie, quickly scarfing it down and clawing for another, mumbling to yourself as you skimmed over all the nanny jobs, and full-time positions. Corporations that would likely not give you enough pay were quickly forgotten, also.

The neighbours above you were playing study music rather loudly, letting the smooth sounds seep through the walls gently, it made you want to sleep, they probably had an essay to work on. You sighed, rubbing your eyes before sparing a glance at the time displayed in the corner of your screen. 1:32 am. Swallowing down the tired taste in your mouth, you swiped your fingers harshly against the pad, entirely too tired to do any more thinking and letting the loading screen of the website choose your job for you. You threw your head back, slumping into your seat with a worried wince, desperately hoping that you wouldn’t regret it.

You squinted at the top result of the most recent listings. “Huh.”

The black uniform wearing man scratched his head through his matching, logo crested hat, making it shift slightly to reveal his dyed hair underneath it. You sat silently on the plush stool at the counter as the older man —he couldn’t be much older than you, could he?— skimmed through your resume lightly before reading the reference letter Juri had written for you. The sweater he wore tightened at each opening, puffing out into what looked like a cozy crewneck. Definitely not the most common uniform for a food establishment, but you wouldn’t complain, it was starting to get colder. He rested his elbow on the counter-table, turning the top of his stool to face you directly.

“You’ve never worked in food before?” 

The open-concept space of the man’s restaurant/cafe seemed to close in rapidly, making the light brown tables and decorations blend in with the white walls and red seats. The colours spun in your vision, blurring all your surroundings except for the tall, hunched man in front of you. He seemed to pop off the screen of your static vision with a halo of light surrounding him. You blinked rapidly, mentally shooing away the loopy visions. There wasn’t enough sleep in your system. That and it felt like you were about to be penalized. 

Noticing his intense, stoic eye-contact, heat from your stomach rushed up to your cheeks and ears. He had pretty, grey eyes. Your lungs vibrated under your sternum as you tried to suck in enough air to speak. A bashful smile crept onto your face as your fingers fiddled together, occasionally dragging the pad of your thumb over the length of your nails.

“If I’m being honest, I’ve never been very good in the kitchen. Juri, my old boss, wouldn’t let me help her with baking the pastries because I would always burn myself. I’m working on it though.” That was a lie, a total lie. You weren’t working at it at all. You continued, laughing at yourself, “Because of that, Juri always had me doing beverages. So when I saw you were looking for a barista, I applied.” Well, that was only a partial lie.

The silver-haired man chuckled lightly, “I received your request for an interview, your request, 5 minutes after I posted the listing.”

Biting your lip, you reached for a napkin from one of the dispensers as you forced yourself to maintain eye contact. He seemed to enjoy watching your fingers fiddle with the limp piece of paper. You coughed, “Is that a good thing? Cause my desperate self is in need of a job. I’ll even risk burning my hands off if that’s what’s needed.”

He laughed again, taking the black, curve-rimmed hat off his head and set your papers down next to it on the sleek wooden counter. “(L/N), relax. I am looking for another barista, I had my previous one go work at our second location because it’s closer to home. So I’m short-handed and know only the basics about coffee, and with winter fast approaching I need help.”

You ripped the tissue paper in your hand in half before compiling it and stuffing it quickly into your pocket. “Does that mean I’m hired? Cause I need to pay for my tuition.” He watched, an amused smile pulling at his face, he stood up gesturing for you to follow him. With an awkward grin, you followed his silent instruction. 

The rectangular counter you were sitting at wrapped around the back corner, creating a two-metre space walkway that led to the bathrooms and cut off an unlabeled wooden door from being easily accessed by customers. You followed his steps, watching his black Adidas sneakers step over the lines of the large wood floor panels. He opened the wooden door, gesturing you inside, before pulling a box off of the shelf that sat against the back wall and dropping it onto the counter next to a sink. Pulling out a cozy-looking crewneck sweater with a proud and yet desperate smile. 

“This is the kitchen and break room,” he said, throwing out an arm to the rest of the large space, before walking back over to you, sweater and cap in hand. “Can you come in tomorrow? I can show you the ropes.”

“I’m sorry Miss, but we don’t have that drink here, it's not the season yet.” You smiled apologetically at the older woman who was digging through her bag in frustration. You hated telling customers little white lies, the feeling dug at the sides of your stomach each time you had to. It was becoming more frequent with October fast approaching.

“I’m sorry too,” she replied, letting her purse drop onto the counter with a smack. “My daughter has been nagging me all day to pick up one of these drinks and no one has it yet.”

You flexed and clenched your fist underneath the counter before adjusting your cap to try and give the woman a confident facade. “We’ll be getting the ingredients next week, so hopefully she can hold off until then. For now, would you like some onigiri? They’re freshly made.”

“Please.”

After ringing up the woman’s total and sending her out the door with a wave, you turned to your co-worker with an anxious grin. Taichi scoffed in response, openly laughing in your face. “You have to stop lying to our customers!” he berated with a lopsided expression.

“I know, I know! But I hate seeing them annoyed or upset. I can’t help it that they keep asking for a drink that we can’t make!”

The 1st year university student (who you quickly found out went to the same school as you) chuckled, leaning against the onigiri display. “What are the ingredients for it anyway?” he asked, watching you rest your hip against the counter next to the cash register.

“One cup of pumpkin puree, half a cup of sugar, half a teaspoon of pumpkin spice seasoning but that’s optional. That’s to make the pumpkin sauce. Then you need a quarter cup of pumpkin sauce, two ounces of espresso, eight ounces of milk, and then whipped cream and cinnamon on top,” you listed, staring off onto the floor.

“You have that memorized?” Taichi asked rhetorically, mouth hanging open.

You crossed your arms. “I’ve been working as a barista for over 3 years now. You start to remember things.”

Taichi lifted his hat, taking a moment to ruffle his straight cut black hair before setting it back down on his head. “Well, you can just ask Miya to order some, right?”

Snapping your finger, you sent the younger boy a finger gun with a pensive look pulling your eyebrows upward, “I hadn’t thought about that.”

On your next shift, after an early morning lecture about the global economy and stock market (which you tried not to sleep through), you walked into the break room to find your silver-headed boss curl over the edge of the small round table in the corner of the room while sitting on the old futon next to it, hair tousled in an oddly pleasant way. His hands moved quickly as he scribbled into the papers before him, the tight grip on his pen making his muscles flex slightly in his arm, that was made visible by his rolled up sleeves.

You quickly looked to your shoes, trying to calm your breathing down. “Um, Miya,” you called lightly, trying not to startle him. Nearly dropping the pen in his hand, he looked up. “Sorry,” you said, pulling your hands into the sleeves of your uniform.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m almost done,” he said, watching your fidgeting hands. “Did you need something?”

“Pumpkin sauce.”

He gave you a strange look, nose scrunching as a single eyebrow lifted. “Pumpkin sauce? Oh right, that’s a thing isn’t it?” Miya said as if just remembering the time of year, looking away from your wiggling fingers to the empty kitchen across from him.

You gulped. “Yes, for pumpkin spice lattes. A lot of customers have been asking about it.”

He raised the other eyebrow in your direction, trying to strangle down a teasing laugh. “You lied to the customers didn’t you?”

“I might have told a little white lie so they wouldn’t get upset.”

Miya sighed, holding eye contact with you for a moment, before signing the last sheet of paper in front of him with an entertained smile. He looked back up while gathering the papers into a neat pile. “I’ll get an order in by next week.”

“Thank you.”

Why did you ever decide that philosophy was a good thing to take in university? Seriously. What were you thinking? You stared at the empty document before you, blinking tiredly as you groaned.

 Aesthetics. The first unit that your professor chose to discuss for a university-level because it’s likely the easiest to discuss. The essay itself was more introductory than anything. The instructions were to write an essay about how aesthetics and attraction to particular aesthetics are created, how society plays a role, and finally, your own personal stance.

You clearly remember glaring at the young professor when she said she wanted to gain a deeper understanding of each student. That’s for high school, you thought, mentally going over the three years of university you’ve already suffered through. Then again, maybe an easy grade. The only downside was that even though you’ve gone through nearly a decade and a half of school, you’ve never been good at writing an introspective piece.

“Professor Suzuki, How introspective should it be exactly?” you had asked her after the lecture had finished.

She gave you a sharp pointy smile with a light, slow shrug. “However much you think is needed. But I do want to learn about you and your experiences.”

Your brows were pinched together tightly, as you tried to understand. “So like an attraction autobiography?” That's deeply concerning. 

She never did give you a clear response after that. Dancing around the direct answer you needed to hear. She must’ve been a high school literature teacher at some point.

A self-deprecating chuckle escaped you, making the younger boy who was lazing about on your couch turn his attention away from the tv. “What crawled into your pants?” Taichi asked, pouring the last remains of your chip bag into his mouth.

“I have to write about stuff for a philosophy essay.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of an essay?” The empty chip bag crinkled loudly in his hands as they folded the plastic messily.

You scowled at him. “If you’re going to be a smart ass you can stop eating my food and go back to your dorm.” Standing up from your kitchen counter, you scanned the junk-filled counters, eyes landing on the small carpet patterned notebook that sat sadly on the corner edge.

Taichi ran up from his seat, pleading for you to not send him out, claiming that his roommate was mean and hogged up the whole space. You partially ignored him, letting his yapping ring numbly in your ear as you flipped through Juri’s old recipe book.

“Wanna help me make cookies?” you asked, turning your head his way and effectively cutting off his rambling.

He paused, letting his bottom lip hang open before snapping it shut in a cautious sneer. “You’re deciding to bake? I’d rather risk getting bullied by my roommate. Bye.” He ran out of the dorm. Ran. 

“God, my baking skills don’t warrant that kind of a reaction, jeez,” you huffed to yourself, slamming the notebook shut. No longer in the mood to experiment in the kitchen.

“Did the new rice come in?” the blond asked, letting his whole torso lie flat on the short table extension of the main counter.

The light click of a plate resonated in the empty restaurant. “You’re lucky,” the grey-haired one said, monotone response making the other look up to the large, meat-filled onigiri waiting for him on the porcelain plate. “Fresh shipment just came in this morning.” At the entrance of the building, the bell attached to the door sang lightly as it opened. Notifying your entrance, while a cool autumn breeze rolled past you. “Speaking of shipment. (L/N), the pumpkin sauce came in!”

You unravelled the scarf around your neck as you walked, giving your boss a large grin that made him gulp slightly. “Really? That's amazing, Miya..” The blond, noticing the other man’s reaction upon your entrance, spun in his chair, making his honey brown eyes meet yours. “There’s t-two. Two of you?” The scarf you had taken off sat limply in your hand as you stared off blankly at the two identical men.

“(L/N), this is my brother. You can call him Atsumu.”

The blonde sent you a small vibrating wave and a smirk, leaning his elbow against the counter as he tilted his head in your direction. With tightened brows and a tight, awkward smile, you nodded in response, bowing as your hand began to grip your colourful scarf a bit tighter. The blond followed up his brother’s introduction. “If you’re gonna call me Atsumu, you might as well address him as Samu.”

“Samu?” You questioned.

Over the table, ‘Samu’ smacked his brother with the black cap from his head. Hitting his shoulder with a loud smack before facing you. “Osamu is fine.”

You nodded hesitantly before bowing again. “Call me (Y/N), then. The both of you.” Facing your silver-haired boss, who still gripped his black baseball cap tightly between his fingers, you pointed to the back room with a meek smile. “I’m gonna go put my stuff down. Sorry for being a bit behind. I was up late working on an essay.”

Osamu nodded. “Sure thing, I have a new recipe for you to try out when you come back out,” giving you an understanding smile before ushering you off to the back, watching the folds of your jacket move with each step. He gulped. As soon as your back fell behind the door frame's edge, he weaponized his flimsy hat again, making the older twin howl as the top button hit his temple.

“What was that for?!” the fake blond screeched.

Osamu sent him a deadly glare. “Don’t flirt with my employee. They’re too young for you.”

“We’re the same age, Samu,” Atsumu teased, as he dropped his voice a couple of semitones. “I don’t see you restraining yourself.”

Atsumu left Onigiri Miya with a number of small bruises running along his hairline that morning. Though, he refused to leave without sending you a request to watch his upcoming game. “I want to have everyone watching,” he said, forgetting to even tell you what you’d be seeing, leaving his younger twin to take the burden.

You sat on one of the red plush stools, swinging it side to side and Osamu stood on the other side of the counter, onigiri filled plate in hand. He wore a hesitant grin as he set the plate down in front of you. Then, he started talking as he walked around the counter. “They’re slightly different than the ones I usually make so they look a bit weird, but we had the ingredients so I thought I'd play around with the different flavours.”

The store was empty. As expected for an early Saturday morning. It was also windy outside, making the inside of Onigiri Miya feel that much warmer as the howling wind ran loudly against the glass wall of the entrance, occasionally making the polyester awning above the entrance flap around like paper.

You gave him an encouraging smile as he walked around your seated form, nearest hand brushing over the length of your shoulders through the black sweater. A chill ran down your spine as his hand fell from the end of your shoulder. He sat down beside you, spinning the stool to face you head-on, much like how you both were during your interview. “I’m sure they taste great. What are the fillings?” you asked, reaching for one-half of the two pairs of onigiri on the plate.

“Well, since the pumpkin sauce came in, I figured I would play around with it a bit,” he said, reaching for one of his own.

Once you bit into the centre of the rice ball the smooth sweet flavour of the sauce rolled over your tongue. The orange sauce dyed the rice on the inside, making the colour soak in the individual grains. You let the flavour sit on your tongue for a moment. “Were you going for a sweet onigiri?”

Osamu chuckled a bit. “Kind of. I made the other one more savoury though.”

You looked at the other slightly misshapen onigiri on the plate, then up at the maker of them, meeting his eyes with a kind supportive smile. “The choice is yours,” you said, taking one off the platter and taking a large bite out of it. “But I think they’re both pretty tasty.”

“Really?” he asked, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning toward you in earnest. “Not too sweet or bland?”

“They’re perfect. Just like the chef who made them," you complimented happily.

Osamu flushed slightly, trying to pout as he chewed away at his onigiri. "You don't have to be so nice, they still look a bit lopsided."

"Does the appearance of the food really matter? I thought the taste was the biggest factor," you teased lightly. Whenever you made a brew for a customer, most never really cared if there was a cute design sprinkled on the top, or if the layers were visible from the side of their plastic cup if they took it to go. All you ever focused on was the taste, and when the 7 am rush comes through, patrons are typically too tired to even care about the look so long as they get their dose of coffee in.

"Do you never look at the exterior of things? Most consumers judge their first impressions of things based on their appearance. Like book covers."

You furrowed your brow. "I've never really thought about it. A lot of the books I read are digital now so there's no need for a fancy cover."

"What about people then," he prompted, leaning further forward, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him. His normally grey eyes seemed to hold tints of the honey brown from those of his sibling. "Have you ever... let's say, been attracted to someone based on their appearance alone?"

Your gaze shot back and forth between his eyes and the fringe of his silver lightly brushing over his eyebrow before finally settling on his left, blown out pupil that started more directly at yours.  "Maybe subconsciously." It came out in a light whisper.

The bell at the entrance rang, a ragged, tired looking suit-clad woman wobbled in. Eyes blinking slowly as she waved her hand in the air. "Light roast, double shot espresso with whipped cream! I am running late!"

You shot out of your seat, knocking off Osamu's hat by the brim with your own, before grabbing a mug from over the counter and rushing to the mixtures. "On it!"

"Thank you," she panted, handing her card to Osamu to ring up.

Your head and shoulder twitched as you bounced on your toes outside the glass wall of Onigiri Miya. The wet concrete and frozen air of the early morning made the idea of curling against the polished glass with your face tucked into your scarf all the more tempting. Another silver tickled your spine.

Groaning you spun around to face the golden brown and red streets. Wind carried the dry leaves over their drowned sibling until falling into a puddle themselves. You closed your eyes, trying to redirect the heat in your body to your hands that were tucked into your pockets, clenched tightly.

Something cold lightly smacked against your nose and eyelids.

Cracking your eyes open, your lashes pushed against a brown decaying wall that blocked out all the light of the early morning. When it was away, leaving a cold residue behind, the light made your squint.

“You're here early,” the silver haired man said, tossing the old leaf over his shoulder before pulling a collection of keys from his coat pocket and gently tucked you out of the door with his free hand. Opening it up, he placed the keys into his back jean pocket.

“Did you just give me a face mask with an old leaf?”

“Sure did,” he said, matter-a-factly. “Why are you here so early? You’re not a morning person.”

You followed him through the glass door, letting him take the responsibility of flicking off the lights as you pulled your coats and scarf off. “You said today was your brother's game, I didn’t know what time, so I figured I'd be here a bit early.”

Mouth open, Osamu stared at you without blinking, as if searching for a joke. “You know most post games happen in the evening right?”

“So I’m here early for nothing then.”

The two of you walked through the empty restaurant, coats slung over your arms as you conversed.

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” he teased, hanging up his coat on the hanger in the back, lifting the bottom hem of his shirt slightly. “You get to work.”

“Yay,” you yawned, reaching for your uniform sweatshirt.

“For money.” He added.

He had trouble making you laugh throughout the morning, only receiving yawns and frustrated pout in response as you made coffee for all the equally tired customers.

You’ve never seen a volleyball game before, only ever having tried to play during gym class in high school. On top of that, you never understood the rules, but you blamed that on the phys ed teacher rather than your own inability. 

The live recording of Astumu’s game was being played on multiple sports channels. It got pulled up on the large screen of the tv that sat against the wall 30 minutes before the game even started. Osamu stood with you and Taichi —who had made it to work at a reasonable time to watch the game—, explaining the rules and positions over layers of customer chatter, as he made onigiri in view of the game instead of in the back where he normally worked. He pointed to the screen.

“That’s Hinata in the opposite hitter position. He pretty much does the same thing as Bokuto,” he shifted his arms angle to point to the duo-tones haired player on the screen. “An outside hitter.” Then, facing you, he watched as your nose scrunched in thought.

“What makes them different, then?” Beside you, Taichi nodded along, handing a customer a plate of onigiri.

“Their orientation with the setter,” Osamu replied. Before letting out a loud cheer, fist clenched and elbow tucking quickly into his side as his brother scored another point.

You let out a loud, exasperated laugh, shaking your head slightly. “There are a lot of rules and stuff you want me to memorize.” On the other side of the counter, a girl came up to stand in front of you, asking for a pumpkin spice latte. “Sure thing. Taichi, ring her up for me would you?” you asked, making your way to the coffee machines that sat along the length of the counters, continuing to talk to Osamu. 

You looked at the available ingredients. “We’re gonna need more pumpkin sauce.” 

“I’ll order it. Is it that confusing?” He asked, following you to the machines.

Mug in hand, you gave Osamu an unsure look as you reached for the whipped cream, stretching your arm only to knock it farther away. “A little? But at least their mascot is cute.”

“The black jackal?” he laughed, taking hold of the whipped sugar and placing it in your open palm, to which you smiled in thanks. He quickly diverted his gaze, staring at the blank walls as he bit inside of his cheek. “Didn’t even bother to listen to me ramble then, too busy gushing over the cute mascot. I thought visual exteriors weren’t important to you.”

“Oh shut up, I was listening,” you scoffed haughtily, smacking Osamu’s shoulder as you walked past his tall figure to give the girl her mug. “And he was interacting with the young fans, it was cute.” You looked at the clock. “It’s 6:30, I’m gonna take my break. I got an essay to write.”

Taichi laughed mockingly. “Good luck. We’ll hold down the fort.”

Osamu watched your back as you walked away, adjusting his hat as he turned to face the upcoming customer that had just walked in.

“Bake at 450? Oh, that's Fahrenheit? Why, though? Okay, got it. Oh shit, did preheat it too much then?” 

Juri, as lovely a lady as she is, had terrible handwriting, or terrible in your opinion because you couldn’t read it. Whether it was a letter, or note for an order of cookies and bread, the intricate curls of her connected lettering always made your brain feel like it hit a brick wall. Holding the book in your right hand, you used the other to carry the tray of separated butter cookie dough and hooked your foot underneath the oven handle to pull it open. Still glaring at the writing, you slowly lowered the metal tray onto the racks.

“Hey, (Y/N)! Can—”

“Fuck!”

Taichi let himself in, turning the corner of your kitchen counter to quickly pull your hand away from the immense heat source. You clenched your teeth tightly, airy and painful laugh falling through your grimace. Dropping the notebook, you wrapped your hand around your left wrist, squeezing it tightly as Taichi helped you stand up. An endless series of insults left you, directed at the large cubic fire instrument.

“Okay cold water, here we go.” Taichi then left your side to finish tucking in the metal tray, silicone glove on his hand. He turned back around to see you hunched form leaning over the running sink, choppy breaths flying out of you. “Why are you baking?” he scolded.

“Oh, I can’t bake now?”

“You’ve never been able to bake.”

“Oh screw you, dude. I’m trying to learn a new skill.”

“Learning how to kill, more like it.”

Hand still stuck under the cold running water, and pain still crawling up your arm like red ants deciding to feast on your flesh, you slowly turned your head to face the younger boy, smacking your lips. You glared, “Why are you here, Taichi?”

The new university student dug his socked toe into the tiled floor of your kitchen. Pursing his lips and sending you a pair of finger guns as soon as he met your glare. He lowered them when you didn’t laugh. “I was hoping you could take care of my closing shift tonight? I have a group assignment due tomorrow and no one did any work.”

Spinning your head and torso uncomfortably to look behind you, you stared at the clock on your wall. You bit your lip. “Taichi, your shift starts at 6.”

“Uh, ya.”

“It’s 5:30.”

“Uh-huh,” he continued, barefaced, as he tucked his hands into his jean pockets.

“You're working here and waiting for the cookie timer to go off.”

Taichi nodded, moving his feet to look at the oven counting down. “Okay, got it. Do I get to eat some of them?”

You sneered at him as your blistered hand throbbed painfully at the movement of you grabbing your things, notebook included, in haste. “If they don’t kill you.” 

“Osamu! I’m so sorry for being late!” You yelled rushing through the main door and startling a few customers. You ran towards the staff only door unravelling the warm scarf from around your neck and letting your jacket fall off your shoulders as you went. 

Osamu’s eyes followed your frazzled movements, chuckling lightly as you kicked the wooden door open. He yelled through the door as you changed into your cozy uniform. “Calm down, (Y/N). You’re not late. Taichi called in too, so don’t worry.”

You poked your head through the door, brows pinched in the center before slowly walking up to stand next to him. “So I’m not late?” you asked, adjusting your hat. 

The customers had gone back to their individual activities, typing away at their computers or reading whatever book in hand or chatting over a simple brew and snack Osamu had put together for them. You looked out the front window, the sun was already beginning to set over the darkening leaves, letting a warm glow pour in through the glass to cover every surface inside the cafe despite the temperature outside being the opposite.

The evening was spent with both of you helping the late-night customers with their requests, often having to dance around each other's forms with a light ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’ to notify the other.

“Thank you both. Have a good night!” the last customer called, waving, as they walked through the door.

Osamu waved back as you collected the mugs and plates that were left at the tables, taking them to the back room. “I’m gonna wash these up then take my break. Is that alright?”

“No problem, we probably won't see anyone else for the night so I can handle it.”

The door swung shut behind you. 

When you turned on the tap hot water poured out quickly, and without thinking much of it, you stuck your left hand under it. You flinched, letting out a strangled yelp before switching the water to cold, letting it wash over somehow forgotten burn on the back of your hand. You sighed at your own stupidity, grabbing a dirty plate. Luckily the dishes were quick to clean, the light music you set up on your computer beforehand helped. Before you even realized, the dishes were washed and dried, and you could get some work done on your essay.

You sat down on the couch futon, blowing cold air onto your burnt hand that you switched tabs on your laptop. The constant yawns escaping you only seemed to make lying on the slightly deformed seat way more tempting than trying to get some school work done. 

“Can’t do beauty standards, everyone’s gonna do beauty standards,” you yawned again, taking your fingers off the keyboard and turning your eyes away from the bright screen. Your eyes burned as you closed them, leaning your head back against the back of the folded futon. Another yawn. “Maybe books covers?” you breathed slowly. “Hmmm.”

On the other side of the door, Osamu wiped down the table seats and counters until they were spotless, letting the red vinyl and wood patterns shine through uninterrupted. As he cleaned the glass front, squeegeeing it to crystal clear perfection, Osamu watched as the last bit of sunlight that bounced off the top of the buildings across the street disappeared. It suddenly looked a lot colder in the streets.

Hanging up the damp towel, he made his way into the backroom, flicking off the lights in the main area as he walked through the door. “(Y/N) how’s the essay going?” he trailed off, catching sight of your curled up body lying sideways along the old couch, laptop continuing to play a soft tune.

You had one foot off the couch, touching the floor, and another resting on the wooden armrest. The open legged sweats you often wore were crunched up at the knees. Your torso was twisted so you were partially on your side and your hands were pulled into your chest. Mouth slightly parted, Osamu could hear your small breaths as your chest rose and fell.

He chuckled, walking over to your side, and glancing slightly to your screen. The essay you had been rushing to complete was left open, unfinished. He closed the computer, tucking it into your bag, pulling out a small notebook to make space. The bookmarked page fell open as he set in down on the table. With a curious huff, he read the recipe over.

“Huh, simple enough.”

As he reached to gently shake your shoulder in hopes to wake you up, he caught sight of the burn that ran along the back of your hand. Huffing, he lifted his hand, put the book back in its place  —tucked between your laptop and the side of your bag—, and walked over to where the first aid kit was.

A scratchy hum was the first noise you made upon waking up. Bleary-eyed, and drained of energy, you slowly blink up to see your hand being gently wrapped in a soft cloth-like bandage. You squinted up to the black-clothed man as he fastened the bandage together.

“Did I really fall asleep?” you asked sadly, voice slightly hoarse. “I have to… write.”

The light in the room was dreadfully bright, making you squint as you tried to look at Osamu’s face. All his features were hard to see, leaving only his hair as an anchor point for you to admire as the light bounced off of it.

He said something, but in your delirious state, all you could make out was the smooth deep hum of his voice reverberating in your head like a slow waltz. You hummed again, letting out a lethargic ‘nice’. Your eyes shut again, and you drifted off to his low, breathy chuckle. An unconscious mumble followed, but you were too tired to hear his immediate response.

“Come on (Y/N),” he cooed, massaging your shoulder gently. “Time to wake up.”

Another incoherent mumble bubbled out of your mouth as Osamu tried to sit you up. Your head bobbled as you moved to be upright, falling backwards before he could catch it. Chuckling at his own mistake, he stuck an arm out, curling his hand around the back of your neck to bring it forward again. As he cradled your head gently in one hand, he used the other to continue prodding at your shoulder.

“Okay, sleepyhead. You gotta wake up now.”

There are those moments where people wake up and they think they see an alien, or shadowy figure at the edge of their bed. Those scary figures that seemed to carry a negative connotation a majority of the time. Most people, if they were to wake up, eyes fuzzy, and see a silhouette immediately before them they would very likely think the same, flail about, and duck for cover. You were not most people.

Eyelids hanging millimetres away from shutting, you gazed drowsily at the blurry from before you, tired mind trying to put together the dark shape as your body swayed back and forth. Falling forward slightly to get a closer look.

Osamu grunted slightly, catching your limp weight. The hand he used to rub your shoulder had now made its way around your back, lifting you from a different angle. His other hand still protected your neck from strain, holding your head closer to his chest. He looked down at your hazy gaze, perfectly timed with your own sudden need to lean upwards.

A near chortle of a huff forced its way out of Osamu’s nose, painting your cheek in warm air as your eyes shut fully. The feeling of your lashes dancing against the bridge of his nose tickled, making his shoulders scrunched up slightly. His grip tightened, pulling you ever so slightly closer. The light scent emitting off of your hair washed over him like a wave of fresh air, and the heat radiating off your body felt like a warm blanket on a cold night. There was a light tug at the end of his sweater as you wrapped the fabric gently between your fingers. Tough dried from being parted in your sleep, Osamu could feel the malleability of your lips as they pushed against his.

This one last surge forward, you let your arms relax, falling almost entirely limp in Osamu’s arms as you pulled away.

He blinked slowly, trying to look at the colour of your eyes between the slits of your lashlines.

Another warm hum left you was your head curled into his shoulder. “Cute.”

Osamu scoffed quietly to himself, laughing as he shook his head. “You never stop lying.”

Osamu liked to think he was a nice brother, a good brother, the best even. He kept his twin out of trouble, made sure he didn’t get injured and protected him from bullies. All for the payment of letting Osamu torment him for all eternity with repeated punches and kicks. Osamu liked to think he was a nice brother, but he wasn’t.

“Assumu, shut up or I’m gonna punch the daylight out of you.”

“Vulgar. That’s a new one, Samu. Try me.”

Hinata grabbed hold of the blond twin’s forearm as he made taunting motions to his brother, pinning it down onto the table. The smaller red-head cried out for the two brothers to stop, calling for Bokuto’s aid.

“Ya, both of you stop it. I’m trying to eat here.”

From behind his white mask, Sakusa let out an exasperated sigh, brushing a hand through his wavy hair at the part. “Would you all calm down?”

Atsumu teased out a laugh as he settled back into his seat between Hinata and Bokuto, who both happily went back to eating their donated snacks. The blonde leaned his elbows onto the counter and bounced a leg beneath him as he looked up to his uniform wearing brother. 

“So,” he drawled, smirking at the grey-haired man. “You kissed (Y/N). While they were asleep no less. Doesn’t that seem kind of rapey to you?”

Osamu groaned, ripping the black cap off his head before throwing his arms into the air. “I didn’t force it! (Y/N) was hardly even awake, definitely in some sort of dreamscape, and then just kissed me.” He groaned again, knocking his forehead into one of the coffee machines, making it rattle lightly.

“Damn,” Atsumu replied, finally relenting his mockery and reached for his own onigiri. “Guess I lost my chance then. Do you know if they even remembered it though?”

Setting down his hat, Osamu walked around the counter, pulling up a chair from one of the tables to sit with the four teammates, making them spin in the stools.

“No idea. I just drove (Y/N) back to the university dorms with Taichi’s help.”

Bokuto’s muffled voice spoke up, as he tried to talk through his full mouth. “How is Taichi doing anyway. It’s been a while since we’ve seen him.”

Osamu grimaced at the visible mushed rice poking out between the duo-toned man’s teeth. “He had a project to finish, that’s why (Y/N) was here last night. Overall he’s been doing good though.”

Hinata swallowed his last bit of onigiri, turning the top of his stool to face the older man more clearly. “When will we get to meet (Y/N), then? We could probably see them both at the same time.”

Osamu scrunched his nose up, digging his face into the palms of his hands and let out a tired, run-down laugh. “Hopefully soon if I don’t get arrested for sexual misconduct.”

Sakusa glanced at the drink orders that were written in chalk against the side wall. “Hey Atsumu,” he switched the subject. “Can you make me a pumpkin spice latte?”

Sighing, the owner of the restaurant got up from his chair and walked back to the coffee machines he had earlier abused with his forehead. “I can give it a go, but it definitely won’t be up to (Y/N)’s standards.”

Sakusa just waved it off, not caring.

“I mean, they’re still bad, but at least they’re better than last time.”

You stopped your slow typing and let out a puff of hot air. “If you actually helped maybe you’d be eating better cookies.”

“Hey hey, no no no,” Taichi laughed, munching into another dry cookie from the pile. “You’re the one that wanted to learn a new skill.”

You threw your head back into the soft couch of your living room and grabbed one of the throw pillows from the corner, shoving your face into it to muffle your angered scream. Running out of air, you dropped the pillow into your lap, shutting your eye tightly as you panted for air.

“Here,” he said, stuffing one of the burnt biscuits into your open mouth. “Eat a cookie.” 

Taking the box of poorly made cookies with him, Taichi stood up from the wooden bench at your kitchen counter and made his way to flop down onto the other side of your couch. He stuffed another straight into his mouth as he kicked his slipper clad feet onto the coffee table right next to your laptop.

“So, What’s got you all wound up? It has to be more than these cookies.”

“I,” you paused, taking a large intake of decaying leaf air into your lungs through the open window. You got up, wiping your hands on your well worn sweats, and shut the window lightly, so the only thing coming in though it would be the view of red leaves. The palms of your hands dug into the window sill. “I need to get this essay done. It’s due in two days.”

“Not buying it. Keep going,” he said, flicking his finger in a circular motion in the air.

You sighed, still looking at the old piles of leaves in the courtyard outside your dorm. “My baking skills still suck, this essay is due in two days, and I still haven’t written the personal reflection portion of it.” You spun around and leaned against the window, challenging Taichi’s disapproving expression.

He tsked, sucking in the air. “There’s something you're not telling me. What happened?”

You quickly diverted your gaze to the top corner near the exit. Your nails made a clicking sound as they flicked against each other. “I, I can’t.”

“(Y/N),” he strained.

“Nope.”

“(Y/N).”

“I can’t.” You played with the bandage on your hand.

“(Y/N). You’re lying to yourself.”

“I’m gonna get fired.”

Taichi stood up from the couch, stalking over in your direction, meaning to pin you into the corner. He stood tall in front of you, arm crossed as if he were a principal. “(Y/N), what happened?”

“I kissed our boss.”

“You did what?”

You squeaked uncomfortably, thrashing your arms about and shaking your hands to calm your nerves. Head thrown back, you yelled. “I kissed Osamu!”

His arm dropped. Taichi threw his back into a curve, spinning around as he laughed wildly in sharp honks. “That’s amazing!” he squealed, throwing himself onto the couch and kicking his feet into the plush armrest.

“Shut up, I could get fired!”

Taichi, gasping for air, sat up from his fit of giggles and sighed. “Okay, what the hell happened?”

You puffed out an annoyed gulp of air and waddled over to the couch, slumping into the open space next to him. He leaned forward, beckoning you to talk.

“I was half awake, delirious after trying to write an essay about fucking aesthetics and attraction of all things. Osamu tries to wake me up, and I plant a big one on him before falling asleep again.”

Taichi laughed, happy to hear your tale. “That’s what happened yesterday? I just thought you were overworked.”

“I was!” He smirked, watching you squirm around. “Don’t take it out of context, you know what I'm talking about.”

“Fine, fine.” He relented and reached for the half-empty box of cookies, holding it in your direction. “Eat one. You need it.”

You frowned as you bit into the over-salted cookie, swallowing it as fast as you could before the taste settled in your mouth.

“Besides,” He said, grabbing another for himself. “I don’t think getting fired is something you’ll have to worry about.”

Long night shift. The sun had fully set, making the neighbouring stores’ exterior decorations glow in all their spooky glory. You shivered as you yawned, feeling cold air run over the length of your shoulders underneath your sweater.

With a spray bottle and damp towel, you swiped down all the counters, really digging into the coffee stains that were left by an overworked mother and her grumpy toddler. For the umpteenth time that night, another yawn tore it’s way out of you as you walked toward the sink behind the counter to wash the dirtied cloth. You kept your bandaged hand out of the hot water, doing your best to just use the one.

After ringing out the both you grabbed one of the clean mugs from the counter, stalking over to the coffee machines to whip up something for yourself. You yawned again.

“Tired?” From the backroom, Osamu emerged, hands tucked neatly behind his back.

“Hmm? Oh ya. I’m whipping up a pumpkin spice mocha of sorts. Don’t want to fall asleep again.”

Osamu coughed and leaned against the counter next to you, setting down a small box that you didn’t bother to look at, too busy with your coffee. “Ah, right. Do you mind making one for me too? I’d like to be coherent, tonight. I’ll grab some fresh onigiri too.” He smiled at you.

Trying to beat the heat that was quickly climbing up your neck to try and darken the colour of your cheeks, you bit your lip and poured all your focus into the orange-hued liquid in front of you. Behind you, Osamu reached for the freshly made onigiri from the chilled display case. You could hear the fabric of his sweater shuffle as he bent down to pull it out. You reached for the whipped cream with your eye tightly sewn shut.

“Got it,” he said as you turned around with both mugs in hand.

Once in the back room, you set down both mugs onto the table, before sitting down in one of the corners of the futon, letting him take up the other half. Osamu sat down slowly, pushing the second onigiri your way. “Eat up. You can restore some energy.”

You thanked him before taking a bite from the rice ball, it was filled with spicy salmon. Smiling, you took another bite.

Osamu took a sip from his coffee, trying to lick off the leftover whipped cream from his upper lip. It looked like a small mustache, and you laughed.

“Enjoying the food, over there?” 

You chuckled again. “It’s great, but. Jeez, you have a mustache.”

Osamu grumbled, whipping the top of his lip with his thumb. “Here,” he said, grabbing the small box off the table and holding it out to you. “These are for you.”

Setting down the half-eaten Onigiri, hesitantly took the box between your fingers. You gave him a confused look as you brought it into your lap. Lifting up the attached paper lid, you found yourself staring at a small collection of cookies, iced and cut to look like the adorable black jackal mascot from his brother's team.

“I saw the recipe in your notebook that...night. I wanted to make you something as an apology, and you said that the mascot was cute.” You looked up to see him scratched back of his head, staring pensively into his mug before glancing up to meet your eyes. He flinched back, pursing his lips and racing to look at the mug again.

“You don’t have to apologize, Osamu. I initiated it.” you reached into the box, pulling out one of the cookies and took a small bite out of the jackal’s ear. “I didn’t hate it either.”

You chuckled in embarrassment, watching from the side as his ears turned a rosy colour. Taking another bite from the cookie, you leaned forward a bit, trying to catch sight of his pink cheeks through his hanging fringe. You prodded.

“I did call you cute too, remember?”

Your fingers danced over your laptop’s keyboard.

I don’t often find myself thinking about the way aesthetics affect my opinions. Looks, trends, and opinions are always evolving and changing. I don’t have the capacity to keep up with such superficial things in the same way a majority of people do. Though, on a rare occasion, I will find something endearing enough to call ‘cute’. /

Outside your window, you could see the last few leaves fall off their branches. You sat down, curled up on your dorm’s couch as you saved the final copy of your essay, nibbling away at the cookies that sat on the table next to you, pumpkin spice latte in hand.

This is now the longest thing I’ve written thus far, and so the next few I write will be short cause I’m lazy. 

Once again, this oneshot is part of a fall themed server collab, the masterlist is linked at the top, so I recommend that you give all the other stories a read, I would appreciate it. -Bacon

Posted: 25/09/2020

[sahbibabe]

A Growing Awareness

A Growing Awareness

Soulmate AU

Sephiroth/Fem! Reader

Reno offers you a job that requires your mercenary skills, requested by Rufus Shinra personally. You neither want to do it or obey his every whim.

Sephiroth is vulnerable, if only for a few moments, and allows you in, but you would never have known otherwise.

SO, [NAME], WE HAVE A proposition for you."

Reno, ever flashy in his nice suit, and Rude, who was carefully pouring you tea after refusing to allow you to do it, had cornered you in your shop sometime after closing. Sephiroth had made good on his promise to escort you, and told you in very simple terms that he would be back again to continue your conversation. If he came into contact with the two Turks, however, there would be bloodshed, you had no doubt; death was the last thing you wanted these days.

"Thank you, Rude," you said, thanking him when he handed you your cup of tea. He nodded imperceptibly at you. "What kind of proposition? I'm afraid there's not a lot I can do for you."

Reno grinned. "See, that's the thing--there's plenty you can do for us. You see, I've been digging up some of your old files--"

You went rock solid. Slamming the tea cup down on the table, you fixed him with a look that could curdle blood, mouth pulled into a firm line, daring him to continue. You felt Rude, beside you, spook just a little. "How dare you."

"--and I found out some very interesting tidbits about you. Would you like to hear them?"

"Do I even have a choice?" You sneered. Your amicable nature had taken the back burner and the mercenary was taking its place, ready to spill blood and cut throats. "I assume you're going to tell me anyway."

Reno produced a thick manila file from inside his blazer, slapping it down on the rickety table with an audible smack. There were red sticky tabs labeled on the parts he thought were important, yellow ones and blue ones and green ones that you didn't know the meaning of.

"[Name] [Surname]," he began in a mocking tone, flipping to your diagnostics page. "Twenty-three. Female. Originally born in Sector Two, moved to Sector Seven at nineteen. Daughter of [M/Name] and [F/Name], head Shinra executives."

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Stop."

"Form occupation: mercenary." His tone got more sardonic the more he read. The more he got closer to the information you tried to forget about for hours at a time, that never ceased bothering you every waking moment. "Charted casualties: six thousand. Known kill count: fifteen thousand. You were a busy woman, weren't you?"

"I said stop."

"And here's the interesting part," Reno hummed, flipping to another red tab, another part of your life that killed you to relive. "After a week in Hojo's lab, you suddenly retired. Packed up and shipped out to Sector Seven without any prior word otherwise. Set up a little tea shop. No one looks twice at the blind woman, except you aren't blind and you aren't as innocent as you make yourself out to be."

You couldn't take it anymore. You were across the table and wrapping your hands around Reno's pale throat, fingers digging into muscle and the hard cartilage of his esophagus, eyes boring holes into his own. Rude tried to pull you away, but you held fast, some supernatural strength rooting you there, threatened.

"I said, stop it," you seethed, ignoring the feel of scalding tea seeping into the skin of your abdomen. You would have burns there, later. "Shut the hell up and tell me what you want. There's no reason for you to educate me on my past."

When you finished speaking, you released him roughly, slowly reclining back in your chair when Rude released you, relieved you weren't going to lunge at his partner again.

"Sorry, [Name]," Rude began, no doubt referring to the giant imprints of his hands that would be left on your hips from his pulling you away from Reno. You hadn't even realized how hard until the pain set in, brutal and aching. "I'll get you a potion."

"No need," you huffed, pulling your shirt away from your stomach. The skin was already raw and hot; you guessed second degree burns by the feel of it. "Either you get to talking, Reno, or get out and never come back."

He was still rubbing his throat, red hair downcast over his eyes, and you made out the imprints of your fingers around his neck like a suffocating ring. You felt somewhat guilty about it and felt the urge to apologize, but the smug smile on his face made you take it back and want to give him a nice shiner in the eye.

"Fine then. President Rufus. He wants you to reinstate your merc services." He leaned back in his chair, though he kept a hand on his baton, you noticed. "He has need of your skillset."

"What?" You mocked, mimicking the tone he had used on you before. "Turks not good enough for the mighty Rufus Shinra that he has to hire a retired mercenary?"

You relished in the irritation beginning to show on Reno's face.

"Look. It's three million gil a gig. Take it or leave it. As for your answer, you have a few months before you'll be needed. I'm sure you can come up with a good one by then."

In short, you couldn't tell them no, and you were going to be seeing Rufus Shinra earlier than you had intended, which had just gone from never in a million years to right in a few months. Unless you wanted your life ruined, you had to go. Had to obey, like a dog.

"Get out," you hissed. "Get. Out."

Reno smirked and waved for Rude to stand, the both of them heading to the door.

"You have my card if you make your decision early."

Once the damned Turks were out of your building, you flipped the open sign to closed and began tearing your shirt off to let the burn breathe. You left it somewhere on the stairs and fumbled for your first aid kit, pulling out a sanitary wipe and burn gel that Tifa had helped you procure at an insanely cheap price.

"Damn," you cursed, feeling the scissors drop from your fingers. You instead ripped the packet of burn gel open with your teeth and spread it across your stomach generously, laying back on your bed and sighing in relief when the powerful sting of the burn went away in a rush of cold. "Much better…"

"Three million gil is a lot of money. You should take it."

You jerked upwards with a shriek, nearly shoving the first aid kit on the floor in your haste to cover your chest. Your shirt had been padded, so you hadn't worried too much about wearing a bra, but now you could very well say that you were regretting that decision now.

Sephiroth sat in the same chair he had before, one ankle crossed over his knee, an insanely long katana balanced on his thighs. He didn't seem particularly bored, or as if he had been waiting long. His cat-eye stare was fixed on your face, watching, waiting for an answer; he didn't even look down at your breasts once. You weren't sure if you should be disappointed, relieved, or both.

You swallowed thickly. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough." He gave you a shrug that seemed entirely out of character for him. "I see you were burned."

"I spilled some tea," you explained quickly, eyebrows furrowed,"but… What are you doing here? I didn't even hear you come inside--"

"I used teleportation materia." He leaned over and plucked a red orb from your letter drawer, rolling it between his fingers. "Your turn."

You huffed and, seeing he wasn't going to look at you in an intimate way anytime soon, went to the bathroom to pull on your robe. It was one you had splurged on at Aerith's urging, saying it was soft and comfortable. You had slept in it on many occasions, sometimes when the weather got too hot or the sun lamps were too concentrated.

With your back turned in the threshold of the bathroom, working furiously at the knot you had tied into the belt, you wouldn't have noticed those green-blue eyes admiring the panes of your back, darting from the back of your neck to the dip in your spine near the hem of your pants.

You finally got the belt untied and pulled on the robe with a grimace, adjusting the tightness so you wouldn't have the fibers sticking to the burn gel. You probably should have put gauze on it or something, but in your panic at seeing Sephiroth and being half naked, you had forgotten all about it.

The robe hung open as a result, but you could easily hide your chest by crossing your arms. When you were satisfied, you turned back and began picking up the burn gel and supplies, tucking them away in the first aid kit.

"You aren't going to take it?"

"Take what?" You asked.

"The Turk's offer."

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" You brushed hair away from your face and sat down parallel to him, reasonably positioned on the edge of your bed. "What Rufus Shinra wants, he gets. He'll make my life a living hell if I don't."

"You could always leave," Sephiroth suggested. "Leave Midgar. I doubt he would follow."

You smiled sadly and looked out your window where Seventh Heaven's lights glowed brightly. You could pick out Tifa and Cloud sitting on the steps, pointing towards Jessie and Wedge who were encouraging Biggs to guzzle a drink. You even saw Marlene and Barret sitting outside as well, but you weren't able to tell what they were doing.

"I can't leave." You stroked the soft cotton of your robe idly. "Even if I wanted to. I have friends here… Friends I consider family. I couldn't leave them like that. It wouldn't be right."

"Then you would have to take the offer," Sephiroth concluded, uncrossing his legs. He left his sword on the chair and approached you, standing uncomfortably close. You edged back and leaned against the window frame to allow him to see outside as well. "Rufus Shinra will go after them if you don't."

"I know. He's smarter than his father, I'll give him that."

"Smarter and nearly twice as clever." He shook his head. "What that Turk said--is it true?"

"What part?" You hummed, watching as Wedge approached Cloud and began talking animatedly. You would get nothing out of being dishonest; he had heard everything, after all. The least you could do was be honest. "The mercenary thing, or…"

"Both. The mercenary part, and Hojo's experiments."

He sounded testy, like he was weighing his options and those options rested on what you told him.

"The mercenary part is simple." You looked at him from underneath your lashes, somewhat startled by the intensity he was looking at you with. You had almost thought he had pilfered your personal files, but it seemed not. He knew as much about you as you did him. "I worked as one for about nine or so years, racked up an ostentatious kill count. Got sick, went to Hojo, and he screwed everything up. I left, he never pursued, to make a long story short. I doubt he even knew what he was doing. He only wanted a test subject."

"I see." Sephiroth went quiet, seemingly content with that answer. "You didn't have to tell me. So, thank you. [Name]."

You couldn't help the butterflies that erupted in your stomach at the sound of your name. It was better than you had imagined it to be. "It was a long time ago. It bothers me sometimes when I don't talk about it."

"Of course. Most things do."

When you looked up, you caught that glimmer in his eye--that spark of life and consciousness that he had never seemed to have before. An awareness of the world, you had to guess, or an appreciation of reality, as if he had come out of a long sleep and was just now seeing things for the first time.

You had to wonder what it was like to be a SOLDIER, to live in that mindset for so long that you couldn't distinguish between yourself and the weapon that you had become. Cloud had certainly struggled with it, but he had Tifa; Sephiroth had no one, would not allow himself to be vulnerable to you in that way. He seemed to be slowly coming out of in all on his own, that dangerous aura receding to allow something genuine and almost pure to rise to the surface: thankfulness.

But with that self awareness came problems. You had to face the bad things you had done and the things you would still do before you ever came to terms with your new existence. You would know; you had spent two years curled up in one of Merle's apartments, only eating, drinking, sleeping, and despairing over your previous actions. The people you had killed.

So you decided to make him an offer, even if he wouldn't accept it.

"Hey," you said, your voice a whisper. Any louder and it might break the silent peace that had developed in the room. "If you want to talk about it, I'm here. I might not know much about SOLDIER stuff, but…" You shrugged awkwardly. "I'll be here."

He didn't smile, but you could see a miniscule grin on his face, just the tiniest pull of his lips. He didn't acknowledge it, though, and continued looking out the window until you slumped against the sill with a yawn, eyes heavy lidded and hazy.

Sephiroth helped you to your bed when you stumbled, pulling the blankets over you when you flopped down onto your pillow with a groan at the pull of the burn on your abdomen.

As you closed your eyes and tried to force yourself to sleep, you felt the feather soft brush of lips on your cheek, felt his breath on your ear as he whispered.

"Thank you."

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 9

AO3

Beta reader as always is @thesnadger

Filing systems are discussed.

Someone has been poking around.

“These locks haven’t been replaced in years,” Sasha mumbled. She was on her knees, gently poking and prodding the old padlock that secured the storage house’s back door. “Should be easy work, but it may take some time to avoid breaking it.” Unrolling a bag, Martin could see thin, metal tools with different heads and lengths.

Jon and Martin kept themselves pressed low against the wall. Every once in a while, Jon would check his phone for any warnings from Tim, careful to keep the light covered with his hand. Martin kept his eyes and ears trained on the woods nearby.

It was largely useless, as Martin couldn’t see shit. There was security to that, in a ‘he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him’ sort of way. The others hadn’t been concerned about things like night vision goggles or cameras. Something about wealthy families being tightfisted and how Martin’s salary was a miracle. In the dark they would be secure, unless a bear chose to join the party.

With every second that ticked by, tension grew in Martin’s stomach. The tiny clicks of Sasha’s instruments were an alarm in his ears with nothing to cover them. His eyes wouldn’t adjust in the thick dark surrounding them, and eventually he screwed his eyes shut to stop his vision from shifting and swirling.

“Ha!” Sasha said, setting the lock beside her and stowing away her tools. “Okay, careful now.” With a gentle pressure, she turned the handle and pushed open the door. The three waited, listening for any disturbances in the darkness of the storage house. When nothing happened, Sasha motioned for the others to follow inside.

“All right,” Jon said, his voice low. “Based on the outside, we should head to that side area. The far door should go into that room connecting to the front entrance.”

“Should? Didn’t you check this place out before?” Martin asked, his voice jumping up a register.

“Of course we did! But as mentioned previously, getting inside was-”

Sasha said with gritted teeth, “We can go over our planning abilities later. We need to get moving!”

Martin continued forward but added quietly, “Wow, very reassuring.”

From both of his companions, he earned a resounding “Shut up” that would’ve hurt if it weren’t for their perfectly matching inflections.

Keeping their torches off, they let the wall lead them to the entryway. Through it, a few windows to their left were just visible by the small amount of light that periodically entered with the turning of the lighthouse beam. With this small illumination, Martin could make out the edges of large shelving units.

Sasha and Jon set themselves to work, taking thick blankets out of their packs and hanging them over the window frames. “Don’t worry, we tested these with our phone lights.” Sasha said, covering the last window. She hesitated, then added, “Well, probably best not to point your torch directly at them, but otherwise they should be fine.”

With their torches (mostly) safe to use, Martin could now see the room in full. Tall bookshelves sat in several rows facing the entryway. In the nearby corner was a small set of drawers. The wall was lined with filing cabinets, and all the way in the back right corner sat a small number of wooden crates.

Martin pointed in the direction of the crates. “I’ll check those out, unless either of you want crowbar duty?” In response, Jon slipped between the bookshelves. Sasha smiled and waved her tools toward the cabinets. He sighed. “Right. My fault for volunteering.”

Before heading over, Martin went to the drawers up front and found some nails of different sizes, perfect for covering his tracks. Pushing them into the wood with a crowbar would be slow going, but it was better than risking the pounding of a hammer in the middle of the night.

Sasha swore as he walked by. “Some of these are locked. It’ll take some time if I try to open them all.”

“Do what you can with the unlocked ones for now. I’ll look for some sort of catalogue,” Jon said, and Martin heard what he judged to be the most academic sniffle. “If these people bother with a proper filing system.”

Sasha snickered. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the Lukases have thrown everything around willy-nilly just to vex you.”

“And yet it would still be better than our own archive. If you ask me, Elias prefers the mess of it, as if it helps us any for him to know where everything is.”

“God, you’re bringing this up now.”

On his way to the crates, Martin peeked at Jon who was scowling at the shelves. “So, what, you just have to ask him where anything is? What happens if you can’t reach him?”

Jon grimaced. “You spend several hours getting stabbed with the edges of old, misfiled reports on haunted petunias.”

Sasha laughed, and Martin continued to the back corner, accepting that he must’ve missed some inside joke. Bending over the first crate, Martin braced himself on the side of its lid and checked for labels. All he found was a small series of letters and numbers.

“Fuck.” He straightened and went for the bookshelves, walking back and forth along them to scan for anything obvious. What would a file directory look like? A bound book? A file folder?

After a couple of frustrating minutes, he heard from the other side, “Try looking for a binder. Easy to remove and change organizational data. I haven’t found anything on my end yet.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Martin replied, his face burning. “Not exactly familiar with this sort of thing.”

With new direction, he located a low shelf with several binders, and tucked between two dusty tomes was his target: page after page of a coded file system with labels and descriptions, split into different storage types. He let the others know, and Sasha looked through them until she found something of interest in the cabinets.

Flipping through the pages, Martin located the proper entry and walked back over to the crates.

It was some personal belongings of an N. Lukas, some long dead relative. Nothing jumped out as important, so he dismissed it and went to the other crates. He had to climb on one to get a proper look at the one sitting on top of it. Checking the entry, he huffed out a small sound of curiosity and slid the crowbar out of his bag.

“Found something?” Jon said, peeking from behind the shelf.

“Yeah, I think so. Time to learn about my predecessor.”

With as little sound as he could muster, Martin slid the crowbar under the wood and used his weight as leverage. It was difficult from where he stood on the other crate, but eventually there was a sharp crack. Everyone froze, but after a moment of nothing they returned to work. Carefully pushing the top, Martin peered inside.

The contents were sparse considering the size of the crate. A sturdy leather jacket was neatly folded in a corner. A stack of documents in a file folder were held together with a red rubber band. Finally, in a small plastic bag, he could see a worn wallet and a mobile phone.

“There we go.” Opening the bag, he took the phone to examine. Dead, of course. He turned it over to check the charging port. “Does anyone have a charger for this? It uses one of the older universal ones.”

“Check in my bag. I’ve almost got this,” Sasha said, hands still busy with their lockpicking.

Digging through the pack, Martin found the charger and plugged it into a nearby outlet. It would be a few minutes before Martin could learn its usability, so he started flipping through the banded-together papers. There were some school transcripts, job and school applications, and other documents that felt strange for a family to be holding onto, but Martin couldn’t judge sentimentality.

Tucked in the back of the file was a newspaper clipping from the date of Evan’s death. It was as Martin had heard before: cause of death was an “unspecified congenital heart problem”; died on his way home from work; found by his mother on the day of; vague mention of a nameless fiancée.

He checked the phone again, which seemed to be charging at a slow but steady rate. Another crate would have to do in the meantime. With its lightweight cargo, Martin managed to move it to the floor and check the one underneath. Nothing of interest, same with the one stacked on top in the corner. He enlisted Jon in lifting it up off the one below, then checked for the latter’s entry in the book.

“Oh thank goodness,” Martin breathed, feeling a weight lift off of his shoulders. “It has to be in here.” Removing the lid, he found himself staring at a treasure trove of what the entry had referred to as Peter’s “personal collection”, a vague term for a disorganized mess.

The items varied wildly, thrown across each other with no care or preservation. Some of them were, to Martin’s untrained eye, seemingly precious artifacts belonging on display in a museum, not rotting away in an old crate in the middle of nowhere. Many were books bound in different styles. He tried to be gentle with the older ones as he looked across the covers and set them aside one-by-one. If any of these items were lost in a bet like Simon’s, the person involved must still be kicking themselves.

He almost missed it. In the corner of a book, Simon’s neat, tiny signature was etched into the leather. The urge to open it made Martin’s hands tingle. He took off his scarf and wrapped it around the sketchbook, placing it carefully inside his bag. Curiosity had pushed him far enough that night. Whatever might’ve been going on with that book, Simon was threatening enough for Martin to use extra caution.

Using his crowbar, he lightly tapped a nail into the already-made hole. It wouldn’t be strong under scrutiny with the splintered wood, but from the outside, it looked good as new.

A small hum came from between the shelves. “Anything interesting?” Martin asked.

Jon coughed. “Possibly. Information on some of the industries the Lukas family are involved in. The list is… extensive. I think they might’ve also destroyed the local fishing economy, but that’s just conjecture on my part.”

Sasha sighed from the cabinets. “I’ve found a little on the lighthouse, but nothing on its origins. I can’t even find where the Lukas family would’ve purchased it from. However-” She waved a sheet of paper. “Turns out, Simon Fairchild made an attempt at a joint ownership of the place years ago. Rejected, of course, but I wonder what he wanted from it, besides another nice view.” She took a quick photo of it and replaced it in its file.

Martin enlisted in Jon’s help once more to re-cover the crate of Peter’s collection with the other crate. As they finished, the phone beeped from the floor, and the two swung around at the noise. “Okay, okay,” Martin jogged over and swiped at the screen. “Shit, of course.”

While it hadn’t been wiped completely, all email, phone, and text messages had been erased, along with any photos or videos. No record of Evan’s days at the lighthouse, or why he had come back in the first place. Shaking off the disappointment, Martin looked through Evan’s contacts.

His many, many contacts.

Sure, he had been a popular guy in school, but he’d spread himself out in the years away from the little town. It took all of Martin’s will not to scroll quickly through the myriad of names. With the sheer number, it seemed Evan had resorted to leaving notes on them. To avoid mixing people up? Most likely, considering he had at least four Daves listed.

Evan had kept track of a lot of people. Many had clearly been his friends from his little notes about them. Where he met them, or who he knew them through, or little things that Martin could only assume were inscrutable inside jokes.

The mere thought of talking to Evan had sent a younger Martin running. The intimidation factor had been so strong in the moment. It felt stupid now, and Martin sat for a moment to take in the volume of people who hadn’t let something like fear stop them from talking to a genuinely nice person.

It was no time to regret dumb social decisions from his teen years. He continued scrolling until a contact jumped out at him. Cheesy little hearts trailed after the name.

Naomi Herne.

He looked up at Sasha, who was thumbing through the binder. “Sasha, could you check something for me? A name, Naomi Herne. I think it might be Evan’s mystery fiancée.” He noted down her number along with Evan’s just in case.

“Sure thing,” Sasha said.

Martin finished scrolling and failed to find any other pertinent names. The fact they hadn’t been erased felt odd, but when no explanation came to him, he turned the phone off and placed it back inside the plastic bag. Along with the stack of documents, he dropped the bag back into the crate, sealed it shut and climbed back down to the floor.

From behind him, he could hear Jon back between the shelves, mumbling to himself. His phone camera’s flash reflected off the finished wood of the bookshelves. Martin was about to ask Jon about his findings, but Sasha made a noise of recognition.

She focused on an entry, then walked over to one of the cabinets. “Huh. Guess not everything is locked.” She sifted through the folders and slid one out to browse its contents. It was heftier than Martin had expected.

Sasha’s eyes grew wide. “Oh. Ms. Herne was very busy.”

“What?” Martin walked across the room to read over her shoulder. Sasha’s current focus was… a restraining order?

“What the hell?” Sasha said. She flipped through some more papers. “There’s… there’s location info. Looks like they’ve been keeping tabs on her. And here, some kind of documentation of her movements in town months back.”

The wheels turned in Martin’s head. “They didn’t want her in town. Maybe she-”

There was a small thump from the bookshelves, and Jon ran toward the windows. “We need to go. Now!” Jon hissed, pulling down a hanging blanket.

“Shit.” Sasha looked at Naomi’s file and placed it in the drawer, shutting it tight. The three of them grabbed the blankets and stuffed them into their bags, and through the window, Martin could see the smallest hint of light near the street. Sasha slipped toward the exit. “Quick, out the back door!”

Doing their best without light, the three snuck down the hall and out from where they had come. Martin heard the door across the hall being opened just as they slipped outside. Jon was quick to slap on the padlock, and the three bolted into the dark wood.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Martin gasped, refusing to look behind him. He heard footsteps close by, and from near his shoulder he could hear Jon’s hoarse, quiet breath. “If we go this way, I-I think I can keep us off the road.”

“As long as they didn’t see the blankets get torn down, there won’t be any other signs we were there,” Jon said, managing to get a bit ahead of Martin despite his shorter stature.

“You’d better be right. Sasha, was there another meeting point?” Martin asked.

No one answered, and Martin’s blood went cold. The only steps around him were Jon’s. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Should we go back?”

Jon hesitated, then said through his own panting, “If something happened, w-we can’t stop now. It’s possible she ran in another direction. Going back wouldn’t be of any help. We need- we need somewhere to wait and hide. Once we have that, I-I’ll text Tim something innocuous in case something happened outside.”

Martin felt sweat running down his neck under his many layers of clothing. From where they were, he charted a course in his head. “Okay. I think I know a way to avoid town altogether.”

Using the distant beacon of the lighthouse as a reference point, the two ran through the forest. Every once in a while Martin would make a sharp turn, causing Jon to stumble after him. Trees jumped into their path, slowing the pace considerably, and after a few minutes the ground began to dip downward.

There was no running on the slope without risk, and Martin slowed them both down to stop and listen for the sound of pursuers. As they waited in silence, holding back gasps for air, Martin could feel tiny scratches on his cheeks from branches that had caught him unawares. The only sounds were the screeching of insects and the beating of his own heart.

“Okay. No more running, but keep moving down,” Martin said, willing the blood in his ears to be still.

--

The sun still had some time before properly rising, but exhaustion slapped Martin in the face as he stood on his front porch, fiddling with his keys.

“...You really think this is a good idea?” Jon said, straining to keep his voice low while still maintaining an appropriate level of incredulity. A yawn crept in at the end, lessening the effect.

Martin shushed him, unlocking the front door. “They have no reason to look down here. The woods are thick, and the path I took us through is weird enough that we could’ve gone in any direction. If anyone ever was following us.”

Jon grumbled and checked his phone again. He had texted Tim once they touched the stone-covered beach with no response, and grew visibly more worried with each passing minute.

“You all have plans for this sort of thing, right?” Martin asked, one hand on the door. “Covered your bases?”

Swallowing hard, Jon said, “Y-yes. I’m sure Tim and Sasha are fine. They’re resourceful people.” He checked his phone one more time, then stuffed the phone in his pocket. “I have full confidence in them.”

Tim had been right. Jon was a terrible actor, avoiding eye contact and letting his voice falter when he should’ve kept strong. Of course Jon was worried about his friends.

Martin cleared his throat. “Good. I’m sure we’ll hear from them soon. If we managed to escape, there’s no way Sasha got caught.”

It took a moment, but Jon took in a deep breath and nodded. “Right. We’ll hear from them soon.”

Martin ushered him inside and toward the stairs. “Mum is a heavy sleeper, but still, be quiet please. We’re heading to the attic. She can't get up the stairs on her own, so there's no risk of her finding you.”

They walked up the steps and kept a slow pace across the upstairs hall. Martin pulled a rope at the end, releasing a ladder he just barely caught and set against the ground. Jon crawled up and into the small space.

“I’ll be right back,” Martin whispered. “Gonna stuff some things back where they’re supposed to be.” He left to replace his supplies into their proper drawers and boxes.

After most of his things were put away, he took the sketchbook, still wrapped in a scarf, and slid it into the drawer of his nightstand, underneath his small notebook of poetry. He would have to figure out a good delivery method another time, when he wasn’t exhausted and filled with dread.

Before returning to the attic, he checked his own phone. He had also received Tim’s warning text, a simple “Time to go!”. It didn’t look like a message sent under duress. If Sasha had gotten into trouble, Tiim would’ve been around to help, and vice versa. Chances were they had all made it out okay, and the other two were being careful on their way back to their hotel.

Martin climbed up the ladder to the attic. “Any news?” he asked, pulling the ladder up behind him.

From the other side of the room, Jon faced away from him and knelt in the corner. “They’re fine. She took a different route and met up with Tim. They’re at the hotel now.” There was a tremor in his voice.

Martin’s heart squeezed in his chest, and he shut the small trap door. “That’s good. Are you doing okay? I know it got bad at the end there, and-”

Jon stood and turned. His face was contorted with confusion and fury, and clasped in his grip was the limp, dusty skin of a seal.

Every muscle tensed in Martin’s body as all but the thing in Jon’s hands faded from sight. Martin barely choked out, “Why-”

“You’re going to explain what this is doing here. Now.”

[thepulta]

A/N: Written because I have nothing to do with my life except stare at the turtle tank that now inhabits my desk, play Sunless Sea, and write fanfic. Probably a sub-canon piece too because idk about Fitzroy willing his shit to the rest of the crew; I just made that up on the spot. Maybe we can assume it wasn’t a whole lot.

If anyone is reading the Westlie-Series who isn’t on the Pyrrhus already, this is about three weeks? after they left Port Prosper together. There was an Incident of Self Sacrifice on behalf of the captain because @nicktosaurus​ likes murdering beloved NPCs in dramatic and horrible ways. We had the chance to save him while running away from the Glorious even though they started shooting up the whole island while Fitzroy was getting surgery, Selmer fucked up his roll and Capt’n died. Cue horrified drama onboard the ship as we picked up Selmer and got the fuck out of there without even our dead Captain’s body. We also had like three days of fuel left. Aaand scene:

-=-

No.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Marion slammed the door to the engine room. Selmer hurried after her. Lizzie had already vanished. Elijah stood next to the stove, possibly making tea, but his hands were shaking; he grabbed a cup, put it on the counter, grabbed the kettle, put it back down, picked up the cup and filled it with water; poured the water out and filled up the kettle. Owen had already left, vanished.

No.

Westlie stepped into the hallway, holding out a hand to steady herself against the wall as she made her way to the map room.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no.

She stumbled inside, locked the door, and slid down to the ground, her back to the rest of the Pyrrhus. Everything was numb. Westlie opened her mouth, out of air. Was this what fainting felt like? She had to breathe. Breath, Westlie, breathe.

I can’t. She dug her fingers in her hair. I can’t breathe. I can’t feel anything.

Fitzroy is dead.

Her soul screamed in anguish.

No. No. This wasn’t real. This was a bad dream, a nightmare. She’d stared too long out the window. Selmer had stared too long out the window; he had to be wrong.

But there still wasn’t Fitzroy on the ship - sleeping or up and about. There was no careful, courteous gaze. No knock on the map room when she put a book away too loudly. The last time he’d been up and about - Westlie laughed bitterly through her tears - it was past midnight and he’d knocked briefly on the door, letting himself in to find her knee-deep in charts. Westlie remembered smiling when she looked over her shoulder, seeing it was him. She’d caught herself after in surprise; she’d never done that to anyone. Maybe Morgan. But he was welcome because he simply looked over her notes and pulled out another book. And that was bitter. Stars, it was bitter. She had so much to learn. She had so much to learn.

Westlie covered her mouth with her sleeve and screamed into it, shoulders shaking as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Fitzroy, what do I do? Tell me what to do. You’re the captain. What do I do?

Books. She always had books.

Westlie stumbled to her feet, drunkenly leaning on the bookshelf as she blinked her way through the tears. Charting, charting, charting, navigation; biology, maps, one of Fitzroy’s journals; she scrubbed her eyes. Some books on the Queen’s fleet, a small book on the Glorious - shame, they could have used that - charts, charts, charts, navigation, diagrams of engines, diagrams of boiler rooms. Bediveres, Altanis, Molochs, Parsivals, Miscllaneous Reclaimed engines. She pulled a few of the books off the shelf onto the ground. Please, please, please, please, please let there be something. Abnomalies, a study of gravity, propultion, engineering, boilers, repairs, navigation, navigation, navigation, Pellinores, Pellinores, Pellinores, engines, repairs. Westlie cried harder as she knelt in the chaos, scanning the last row of books. Repairs, repairs, the Glorious, a series of notes in Fitzroy’s handwriting titled “Cargo Purchase and Sale References”, Pellinores, shipyard references, exploration of the reach, dangerous encounters in the reach, history of the reach, old captains, old engines, dead engines, engine scavenge log. Nothing on crew and captains or reviving dead men.

She’d never felt so helpless.

There wasn’t a hole in her heart, she wasn’t lonely, it was a hole in her stomach that made her want to hurl until there was nothing left; an abomidable chimera of grief and fear. Westlie pounded the bookshelf, feeling the tears drop off her chin into her lap. She should have done something. Anything. Should have stayed behind with Selmer, should have fought the Glorious off. They could have found a better doctor. They should have saved him. Fitzroy deserved to be saved. He deserved to be alive. Westlie sobbed harder, sinking against the bookshelf. All of them had failed, and now Marion was without a father, Westlie was without a teacher, Owen was without a job, Selmer and Elijah were without a friend.

At some point her eyes ran out of tears and she still cried until they burned. She didn’t remember anything else except waking up in the pile of books, every bone in her body aching. There was only a soft fungal luminescence outside the window. The Pyrrhus was deathly quiet, the engine hushed like it too was mourning its Captain.

Oh they were almost out of fuel too.

Westlie hurt too much to feel anything. She stood, facing the desk, her body wanting to sit but immobile. Her eyes felt dead. Without thinking she turned around and unlocked the door, slipping into the open hallway. It was too open, she felt exposed, but too lethargic to care. She made her way to the cab room. All the readings were fine if a bit low. There was some comfort in checking the pressure gauge, something she could touch; something she had control over.

Westlie opened the door to the catwalk of the engine room and looked down. The engine itself hissed softly, the coal bin was almost empty. Marion was curled in her cot, Selmer and Lizzie nearby. Westlie watched them for a second, then shut the door again. She walked down the hall to the now-empty cargo hold. The beds where the tiny family slept were still up, otherwise it was empty. Down to the crew quarters. Her bed was empty in the corner. Owen and Elijah were on the opposite sides of the room. The first sleeping, Elijah awake and... doing something by candlelight. Westlie couldn’t quite see, nor did she care. She turned away without being seen, hesitating before Fitzroy’s cabin.

She hated herself for standing there, for just staring at the handle with her dead eyes and empty soul and finally, like a ghost was moving for her, opening the door and stepping in.

It looked like he left it. It looked like he would come back any moment. There was cold coffee on the desk from at least two days ago after their escape from New Winchester. Someone made the fucking bed. There were book out, his reading spectacles on the nightstand. Westlie felt the tears well up again her but it just made her eyes burn worse. There was blood on the floor by the bed. She should clean that. Later. Tomorrow. She stepped to the far side of the room, making a circle around the stain in respect for the dead, and picked up the book by his nightstand. “Captain’s Log: Nov 1903 - ____”

She couldn’t take it. Westlie bit her lip to keep from letting out a sob as she grabbed the book and fled, still carefully to keep her footsteps hushed and not let the door sound. She escaped back into the map room, locked the door again, and sank down like earlier. She hated herself for opening the book. She hated herself for skipping most of Fitzroy’s neat, precise scribbles and going all the way to the last few pages. They were shakey and succinct.

.

            Difficulty breathing from gunshot wound. Aid must be administered but our only chance is a homestead. Lustrum is too far; suggested course for Father Apollyon.

.

[Blood dotted the last entry from a coughing fit.]

              Set my will in order in case of surgery failure. Pyrrhus command will be passed to Westlie; I trust the crew to help her. Estate portions for the rest of them; Selmer might forgive me for my lack of trust when he can easily support his mother. Documents filed in letters for London. May I be remembered as a good man if I do not live.

.

Westlie set the book down and covered her face with her hands. Fitzroy you fool. Fitzroy you FOOL.

Why didn’t he pick Elijah? Elijah deserved it. Kind, loyal Elijah. She couldn’t see Selmer or Marion taking command, but Elijah would do alright. She could follow him. But her?

Westlie felt the overwhelming urge to cry for the fifth time that night; truly overwhelming because a few tears leaked down her cheeks despite her puffy eyes. She was new, quiet, incompetent, and hotheaded. The crew didn’t trust her- for fuck’s sake she’d lost the battle with Marion over that fucking smoke shell. And Marion ended up being right; if they’d fought the Glorious would they have come out in one piece? Westlie let out a bitter laugh. She might as well die with Fitzroy and pass it to someone else that way.

Why Fitzroy? You knew I wanted to be a navigator. You knew I was good at it. You must have figured I’d never be a good captain. My father is a monster. I’ve done horrible things. They’ll look to me for guidance and I have empty palms and a checkered past. You put me as First Mate because I was good at paperwork and good at numbers. I’m nobody’s friend. Not even Lizzie’s. Why would you let me lead?

Why did you let me come with you?

If Fitzroy was there in the room with her, Westlie would have punched him. Lost her temper, told him to fuck off and check his pipe for honey; she was incapable, she was absolutely not ready. He was her captain but he was wrong.

But he was her captain.

Westlie tossed the book onto the earlier pile by the bookshelf and curled against the wall. Damn him. Damn him for dying. Damn him for jumping in front of Selmer. Damn the Glorious. ... She had to listen didn’t she. That was his order. Not only his last order, but his dying wishes. Who could refuse that? She would just... have to be as much like Fitzroy as she could remember. Westlie laughed a little bitterly. Well she knew who not to be like; she could start there too.

It was stupid. The whole thing was stupid. She was stupid. Stupid death, stupid timing, stupid her, stupid decision. The situation bared its full weight on her and she couldn’t even tell it to fuck off because she couldn’t muster the strength to be angry. She didn’t want to fight; she was tired of fighting. She’d gotten her hopes up and the world had put her in her place. She would always, always be alone. Westlie balled herself up tighter against the wall and cried herself to sleep a second time.

[darkagcs]

💀  * [ benjamin wadsworth + cismale + he/him ] —— have you met oliver garcia-moreau? they are a twenty-two year old junior currently studying history. they live on decker house, and word around campus is that this gemini is adaptable + intelligent, as well as neurotic + insincere. i wonder if they’ll make it out alive. switching languages mid-conversation. piles of half-read books. cigarettes held between trembling fingers.

well this took fucking forever but HEY GUYS!!!!! admin dana here to with her idiot genius child, oliver.

𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

(tw: somewhat detailed emotional abuse, brief reference to physical abuse)

if you ask oliver where he’s from, he’ll basically short-circuit. born in serbia (in the good ol’ days of FR yugoslavia) to a mexican-french couple, and with a childhood spent moving all around the world thanks to his mom’s job as a diplomat, he doesn’t really have much sense of cultural identity.

on paper, being a diplobrat was pretty cool; by the time oliver hit puberty he was fluent in four languages, proficient in a couple more, and had already seen more of the world than most people do in a lifetime. not only that, but he lived only in the nicest houses, got the best education and was driven around in fancy cars, all expenses covered.

still, there were some downsides. some are obvious, like having to say goodbye to your friends and basically restarting your life every three years. others most people don’t think about, like how stressful it can be for a seven-year-old to attend political events where he’s required to behave perfectly or face the consequences.

no matter how many times his mother harshly told him to just suck it up and power through, oliver always panicked before attending any event of that sort, both because of how overwhelming being around so many people could be but also out of fear he’d screw up and make his mother angry — which he always found a way to do. still, with time (and his mother’s scoldings and slaps and pinches) he learned: he was not to speak his mind; when asked how he was doing, he was supposed to lie and say he was doing great, sir, thank you. he was to speak only when spoken to, and his interests — especially the most eccentric ones — were to be kept to himself.

as time went by, he mastered the art of socialising. he learned how to read any room, to charm anyone, to talk his way out of anything. he learned what people wanted to hear and how to say it. but most importantly, he learned how to hide his real self. he crafted a mask of perfection, presenting himself as the princely, polite young man his mother demanded he’d be — but still not one good enough to satisfy her. 

she controlled every aspect of his life. if she didn’t like a friend he’d made, she’d forbid him from seeing them again. if she didn’t like a book he was reading, she’d make a show of tearing it to shreds. if he didn’t behave as immaculately as she wanted him to, she’d lock him in his room without dinner. but she always justified her own behavior. “you must learn how important image is,” she’d tell him. he’s still trying to unlearn these teachings.

for years his life was nothing but this cycle; moving to a new country, creating a new persona to match it, making some friends, saying goodbye, rinse and repeat. it was both tedious and exciting, and oliver hated it even if he’s grateful for so much of it.

he’d only been to the united states a couple of times before he decided to go to college there. there was something about america that just seemed normal. he applied to holloway on a whim; getting into college really isn’t that hard when you’re a rich polyglot with recommendation letters from world leaders. what is hard, as it turns out, is living life on your own when you’ve never had to do anything for yourself, and never got to decide what your next move is going to be. not only that, but being on his own has made him realise he doesn’t really have any idea who he is or what he wants.

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

always proper and polite.

very persuasive, especially when it comes to authority figures.

great at reading people but only as long as he’s not emotionally involved, at which point he overthinks every little thing and is unable to get a clear image of what’s going on.

comes across as confident, but is insanely insecure with major imposter syndrome.

can come across as a pretentious asshole, not realising how privileged he is and far removed from most people’s reality his life has been.

at his core, a big nerd who’s incredibly passionate about his interests (especially history) but only lets that side of himself show with select few people.

king of overthinking. his thoughts’ thoughts have thoughts.

desperate for a purpose and/or direction. wants to make life count for something. feels completely lost and has no clue at all about what to do with his life.

acts like an extrovert because he’s been conditioned to do so, but is really more of an introvert and rarely shares his real feelings so he’s like an open book where 80% of the words have been censored out and another 10% is in a dead language.

actually pretty easy to get into his bed, though his princely vibe might make it seem otherwise. desperately craves human connection/doesn’t get attached easily/is afraid of commitment so really he’s more than fine with casual sex (though he’s the type to make them both coffee the morning after or leave a note for the other person instead of just leaving without a word).

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎

(tw: illness?) partially deaf on right year from a bad case of meningitis when he was 13 that also left him with a slight limp. he absolutely hates it, despite it being nearly imperceptible.

learned spanish and french simultaneously while growing up, but feels more comfortable with spanish than any other language and usually speaks it when talking to himself. if he’s around other spanish or french speakers he might switch language for a few words in the middle of the sentence.

so much anxiety!!!!!!!!!!

really bad insomnia.

straight-A student now that he’s in college and studying something he’s truly passionate about, but was actually not very good in high school and mainly got accepted into holloway because of his background.

so bi it hurts.

mom friend energy. if he’s truly your friend, he’ll make sure you’re doing okay and taking care of yourself.

has superficial knowledge on an incredible amount of different subjects.

addicted to caffeine.

weed turns him into a conspiracy theorist.

an absolute mess. can’t handle the most basic house chores. won’t remember to do laundry until he’s down to his last shirt, changing the bed sheets takes him hours, can’t even boil water.

fascinated by old stuff and doesn’t care much for technology. barely even uses his phone. has auto caps on and texts like a grandpa in general.

awful driver with an awful-ler sense of direction.

actually not as rich as he sounds?? like he has money, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not like... yacht-owning levels of wealth. his family mostly just led a luxurious life without having to pay anything for it thanks to his mom’s job, so he finds money to be a confusing concept.

have you read the raven cycle? because not to be super embarrassing but a certain dick gansey might give u a sense of what im going for here. (also sprinkle some amy santiago in there)

HERE is here connection page, HERE is his pinterest board and HERE are some stats.

[shiveringpinkala]

voyage to the heart’s land

so, i wrote a fic for @renelemaires because i’m not good at headcanons as was initially requested, but i can do this apparently. sending happiness and good vibes your way!

voyage to the heart’s land; renee lemaire after the war w/ vague hints of baberoe, renee/gene and possible future renee/gene/babe. 2969 words.

Renee left Belgium two years after the war ended.

She loved her home, but the magic of the forests and memories of running around the city square in the blush of youth no longer held the easy charm that she associated with those times. And so, one day, in the height of July’s peaking summer, she pulled out an old atlas of her father’s – yellowed at the edges, curls crinkling on the front of most pages, one corner missing and taking a chuck of the Soviet Union, Egypt and Newfoundland with it – and looked for something new.

 She bookmarked Morocco for the language and Portugal for the ocean, but stopped completely when she reached the United States. Jagged borderlines between oddly shaped provinces and big – so much bigger than Belgium, bigger than Europe – and thought of Eugene. She traced her fingers down the neatly labeled Appalachian Montagnes, bypassing the likes of Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia and sweeping over until she landed on Louisiana; little dots pointing out the towns of New Orleans and Baton Rouge. She tapped idly on the image and thought of the Eugene’s low voice and rough accent, the weary determination in his eyes. Her hands stilled.

 Louisiana is was then.

 Her mother kissed her cheeks at the train station. Her father tucked a riot of bills in her pocket and when she tried to protest, only said to write when she reached America. The subsequent journey took her out to England and then to an ocean liner setting sail for New York. She spent every waking moment she could on deck, drinking in the spray of ocean air and watching contentedly as an Irish mother of four tired to corral her children unsuccessfully.

 Once she landed in New York, she asked the nearest shop owner – a plump, friendly woman with a thick Polish accent – where she could find a telegraph office and was given an escort in the form of the woman’s ten year old son who delivered her to her destination with a gap toothed smile. She sent her message; carefully relaying the address that was postmarked on the envelope of the single letter Eugene had written her a year earlier, hoping he hadn’t gotten the urge to pick up roots as well in the time that had lapsed. From there, it was off to the currency exchange station, and then to a hotel. She spent two days in New York, enjoying the rush of bodies and movement despite herself, listening to the array of languages and marveling at the lights that never seemed to dim. On the third morning, she ventured to Grand Central Station and caught a train headed to Philadelphia.

 The ride was surprisingly short, but it was also dark and her next train wasn’t due to leave until the morning, but – to her surprise – when she stepped onto the platform there was a giant hand-written sign with her name on it in blocky letters. She blinked, caught out and cautiously approached the strangers huddled around it. One of the men, short and solidly built, braced on a pair of crutches, beamed when he spotted her approach and waved her over.

 “Hello?” She asked, still confused. The pretty – and lone – woman standing beside the man in question rolled her eyes at the man’s enthusiasm and held out a hand of Renee when she got close enough.

 “Ignore him,” she said, waving a hand at the man’s indignant bark, “I told him that no woman in their right mind would want to walk over to a group of strange rabble without reason, but he insisted,” she smiled, “I’m Frannie.”

 “Renee,” she answered bemused, “as you know, apparently. How did –”

 “Babe sent us,” the man said, accent broad and unfamiliar, but not unappealing, “Doc told him you were coming and he told us.”

 “Babe?” Renee asked, looking at Frannie to see if he was being serious.

 “You’ll meet him when you get down there,” he said, “My name’s Bill. Guarnere. I served with the Doc. And this here –” he looked over at the person holding the sign and then whacked at the legs peeking out underneath it with one crutch, “— put that down, ya idiot. There’s a lady present. This is Ralph Spina, one ‘a Doc’s fellow medics.”

 Ralph lowered the sign with her name and sent Bill a caustic glare, then looked back at her and nodded. “Nice ta meet you, ma’am.”

 “Renee is fine,” she smiled at the trio, unduly charmed, “it’s nice to meet you as well.”

 Frannie stepped forward and looped an arm through Renee’s and pointed at her bags, “Ralph get those, will you? Right this way, honey. No friend of Doc Roe is spending the night in some roachy motel. You like Italian? I was thinking ravioli or gnocchi, maybe.”

 Renee dropped the protest that she could carry her own luggage when Ralph picked it up immediately and followed in Frannie’s footsteps without complaint. She thought about Eugene and this Babe person arranging for her to have a welcoming party and let the bickering chatter between the three American’s envelope her in gentle waves.

 The dinner was amazing (“Now that rationing’s lifting, makes getting the right ingredients easier.” Bill laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at Ralph, and their other friend Joe Toye, who only rolled his eyes at Bill’s bombastic tone, “No more Army noodles here.”) and the company even better as they told her endless stories about what seemed to be every single man they’d served with. At some point, she realized she was laughing so hard that tears were actually welling in her eyes and the salt in them felt like a cleansing of some kind. Like a layer of heavy silt had been washed from her soul. She fell asleep on her borrowed bed that night with a smile on her face.

 To repay their generosity, she woke up early – not difficult as her internal clock was a mess from slipping between time zones so quickly – and made a somewhat augmented version of her mother’s waffles and homemade hot chocolate for everyone.

 Frannie took a sip while the boys ate seconds – or in Joe’s case, thirds – and said: “That was really good. If everything you make is this good, you should sell it. No point in giving heaven away for free.”  

 Renee thought about lazy mornings making bread with her mother in the kitchen of their old house. Kneading the dough, watching it rise and the whole house filling up with the smell as it baked. Regular cooking had never been something she’d had much patience for, but baking was something else entirely. She’d always found a peace in the careful measurements and methodical movements; her mind could wander away and rest from its troubles. The look on someone’s face when they took a bite was only a bonus.

 She stared down at her hands and thought, for the first time in a long time, that maybe there was something special about them.

 “Maybe,” she murmured and enjoyed the contentment of a job well done.

 Frannie and the boys saw her off hours later. “Write, you hear,” Frannie said, hugging her tightly, “I need more women in my life that’ll understand my pain.”

 “I am a goddamned joy and you know it,” Bill argued, but also pulled Renee into a one-armed embrace. “Tell those idiots to write too, ain’t like they don’t have pens and paper in the swamp.”

 “I will. And thank you,” she directed the last at the whole group, who waved away the gratitude with mumbled protests and continued waving as she stepped onto the train.

 This one took her to Charleston, down through rolling green hills and farmlands that gave the country some space, opening up into long tracks of fields that both reminded her of home and was nothing at all like it. It was only a stop over this time, but the hour of rest came with polite men and women, an ocean view and accents that were similar to Eugene’s. The leg after took her down to Georgia where she drank an ice-cold Coca-Cola from a Soda Fountain in the rail yard and watched a group of kids played a game right in the middle of the street with a ball and stick; jeers and cheers filtering into the open door of the Fountain. From Savannah, the train took her all the way to New Orleans.

 New Orleans was like stepping into a different world. Music seemed to be infused in the air around her from the minute she got off the train; slow saxophone’s and staccato snares, trumpets whisking a melody away into the melting summer breeze. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, taking in the atmosphere. She walked around some of the city; wandering into the French Quarter and marveling at the architecture and listening to accented French coming in fits and stops from the residents who tipped their hats at her as she passed. Eventually, she found herself in a kind of civic center and asked for directions to the town that Eugene had written to her from. The kindly older man working there, showed her where it was on a map and arranged for her to get a cab down.

 The bayou, as she learned the whole area was referred to, was almost like something out of a fairy tale. Swamps, running into jungle forests and moss covering everything from the trees to the roofs of the houses half-hidden from the road. The cab dropped her off at a little general store/café that the driver in question assured her would be helpful if she was looking for someone in particular.

 A few curious eyes lit on her when she walked into the open aired restaurant, but the stares were without hostility and her purpose was quickly deduced correctly because a kind looking woman with wild grey-touched curls in a faded red dress came up to her with a smile.

 “You look like a woman who could use a hand,” she said, eyeing the suitcase and bag at Renee’s feet, “I’m Bea, what can I help you with, sugar?”

 “I was told that you could help me find someone?” Renee asked.

 Bea’s eyes widened and she whistled lowly. “Honey, that is some pretty voice you got there. As for help, I know just about every person in this neck of the woods; and if I don’t, then they ain’t here. Who you looking for?”

 “Eugene Roe.”

 A fond smile settled on Bea’s lined face. “That boy got popular in Europe,” she commented and then led Renee over to one of the wrought iron tables in the café. “You sit tight and I’ll give ‘im a call, alright?”

 Renee thanked her and sat there, nerves suddenly erupting her stomach as she waited. It had been so long and she had basically invited herself. Maybe he’d be cross? But no, why send a welcoming committee in Philadelphia otherwise? She drummed her knuckles on the table and was only interrupted when Bea set some iced, amber colored liquid in front of her; condensation beading at the tall glass.

 “Sweet tea,” Bea explained, “It’s a staple down here. Best get used to it, if you’re staying.”

 Renee took a drink, flavor bursting across her tongue. The coolness of it hit her and relaxed some of the tension that had sprung up. “It’s good,” she said, a little surprised.

 “Glad to hear it,” Bea replied, grinning. She patted Renee on the shoulder and then twirled away to serve another customer.

 When Eugene finally arrived, it took Renee a moment to recognize him. Gone were the worn green army fatigues, and in its place was a pair of denim jeans and a button up checked shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His black hair was a bit longer and his skin had lost the deathly pale hue that she got used to seeing in Bastogne, warming to a pale caramel under his home’s beating sun. She couldn’t stop the smile from lighting up her face at the sight and stood up, so that he could see her better.

 Sure enough, he spotted her and froze in the middle of the café before a more subdued, but no less genuine version of his own, smile crossed his features. He resumed his walk and when he was standing in front of her and – after a moment’s hesitation – gently pulled her into his arms. The breath she’d been painfully holding in her lungs gave way, and she breathed in the woodsy citrus kick of his aftershave as she held on.

 “It’s good to see you,” he said into her hair, before pulling away to look at her.

 “Vous aussi,” she said which softened his smile into loveliness.

 “These your bags?”

 “Oui. They are.”

 “Well, okay then,” he reached down and picked them up, “I got the guest room made up,” he stopped for a moment and then shrugged, expression sheepish, “unless you’d rather stay at an inn? Your choice, o’ course.”

 “Your guest room is fine,” she said, following him out of the café, where they waved goodbyes to Bea, who hassled them into agreeing to lunch the next day, “as long as your friend doesn’t mind?”

 A series of emotions flickered over his face before settling into rueful. “Edward don’t mind; he’s the one been fretting about pillows or some such since your wire.”

 The last knot of anxiety loosened in her gut at that. “Then lead on.”

 Eugene’s – “Gene, I insist.” – house was a medium sized bungalow set back a little way from the dirt road and surrounded by a sparse, moss ridden wood with the nearest neighbors half-a-mile down the road. It was sweet and Renee found an instant kinship to the large dormer windows and wide porch that extended out from the house.

 “It’s not much,” he said, almost sounding apologetic.

 Renee refrained from saying that any standing building was stunning to her now, no matter the size or color or shape. “It’s beautiful,” she told him honestly.

 They were greeted at the dog by a floppy eared beagle whose whole hindquarters wriggled when Renee leaned down to pet him. “That’s Rex,” Gene said, rolling his eyes good naturedly at the pup, “wandered into the yard one day and never left. Ain’t much of a guard dog, as you can see.”

 “He doesn’t need to be. He’s lovely exactly the way he is,” she said, laughing when he took a chance to lick at her cheek.

 Gene led them into the house. Renee took in the cozy decorating, lacking a bit in the way that most male driven houses did, and was examining a series of photos on an end table when the last resident of the house came bounding around the corner, stopping abruptly when he saw her. He was as Bill had described him – skinny, redhaired, eyes too big for his ugly mug – though she would argue the ‘ugly’ descriptor; he had a sweet, open face that put her at ease immediately.

 “Hey,” he said, practically vibrating in anticipation, giving her a half-wave from his place in the doorway and biting his lip, “you must be Renee. It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

 “Enchante, Edward. I’ve heard much about you.”

 “You have? From – wait, Edward?” He looked over at Gene who was deliberately turned away, though Renee could see the hint of a pleased grin on his face. “Really, Gene; Edward?” He turned back to Renee in a mild huff. “Call me Babe, everyone does.”

 “Babe,” she agreed, noticing that some of the stiffness in his frame had disappeared in the wake of the mix-up. Probably, that was Gene’s intention all along.

 “Right. Are you hungry? Gene was making some kind of stew thing –”

 “It’s jambalaya, Babe, you know this.”

 “— before Bea called. It’ll make your senses wish they’d died, but it tastes amazing.”  

 Renee nodded. “I’d love to try some.”

 She sat at the dining table as Gene and Babe worked seamlessly around each other in the small kitchen, and rather than feeling awkward or forgotten, both men managed to include her in their ritual, making her feel as at home for the first time since the bombs began to fall. Babe, in a similar vein to Bill, gave her all the gossip about town, while Gene corrected the most outlandish claims the redhead made (“It did not try to eat you, Babe.” “It wanted too – I could tell, stared at my leg like it was a rack of ribs.” “It was an alligator snapping turtle not an actual gator.” “Well, what he hell’s it got alligator in its name for then, huh? Huh Gene? Answer me that!”) with a well-rehearsed fondness.

 The jambalaya was as Babe advertised it – amazing, but eye wateringly spicy – and was finished off with powered French pastries Gene called beignets. Gene asked about her journey and she indulged them with the story, making sure to thank them for setting Frannie and the others in her path.

 “Bill says that you two must write him sometime. He was quite insistent,” she said teasingly.

 Babe snorted. “Sure. Tomorrow I’ll send him a telegram: Dear Bill, screw you, Love Babe.”

 She laughed and Babe grinned all the brighter for it. Gene shook his head, but his eyes kept bouncing between them with a contentedness that Renee was glad to see he was capable of. It made the restless, inadequate feelings in her heart go into hibernation. A tranquil hush came to a rest in her blood. Whatever may come, she thought she could be herself here. Perhaps even be truly happy.

 It was a something to look forward too. A gift.

 And she intended to enjoy it.

[chibivesicle]

Golden Kamuy chapter 224-226: Pirates, serial killers and a killer rabbit’s much awaited backstory.

For the sake of time, I will combine my summary of the past few chapters that I missed while I was traveling and I don’t want to break it into smaller bits.

Chapter 224 had a color cover featuring none other than our favorite solitary wildcat sniper Ogata.  I personally love the retro look for this!  It looks like a classic comic from the 1960s with the odd color scheme and the handwritten shaded boxes.

The one box highlights the “100″ in Ogata’s first name as the kanji hyaku and the rest in latin letters. 

The text refers to “Come on, Let’s Go! On wildcat Ogata’s sure-hit express! (one step forward!).  Thanks to discussions on discord the phrase is in reference to the cat moving and delivery company in Japan, Yamato transport aka 黒ねこ (Kuroneko).  A huge shout out to tsurumineko for translating the pun based on their “target hitting/sure hitting” level of service.  I was previously familiar with the company in part due to my love of cats and noticing it everywhere when I’ve visited Japan.

Here is the official logo with a mom cat carrying a kitten and their official HQ (from wikipedia).

I can’t help but wonder if this implies that Ogata is a very reliable character in regards to performing his duties or that he hopes to one day make sure bring his own “kitten” home.  Will Ogata be the one to take Asirpa back home to her kotan, Huci and her family? Either way, it implies that Ogata will get the job done, just like Kuroneko will deliver that package on time for you!  He’ll snipe that target, he’ll get that info, he’ll make sure your mission is a success etc.

The retro look also makes me think of comics like these:

Batman works a bit outside of the law and has that dark edgy feel to it and Ogata also wears a cloak!  Plus, look at the style of Batman and Robin, they’ve got quite the build just like our GK boys do.

Anyways, the cover is a combination of Kuroneko delivery and Batman.

Chapter 224 starts at the Uryu river as Asirpa is lighting a fire to attract a swan to it so that they can have it for dinner.  For some odd reason, Noda chooses to rehash the Asirpa is going to kill a cute/beautiful animal for dinner.  She pulls Sugimoto’s head when she sarcastically replies to him that they will gently grab the swan. . . .

I don’t understand this need to return to early Sugimoto-Asirpa humor.  Shiraishi has returned from pooping and a swan approaches as the two of them freak out upon noticing the other.  I personally find Shiraishi’s concern valid - swans are total assholes, so I’d also want to be upset at a swan at close range.

Asirpa beats it and they begin to prepare it for dinner in a temporary shelter as early on in the manga.  This is a repeat of when they first started working together and ate the deer that Sugimoto failed to shoot.  The three of them in Asirpa’s tent cooking some dinner.

Keep in mind Sugimoto didn’t want to eat the otter head etc etc and he still has issues with things beyond brains.

This time Asirpa really highlights the need to give it the Inaw offerings and place the head in the river.

Sugimoto still can’t eat animal heads and still looks awkward.  However in contrast to chapter 25, after eating Shiraishi begins to explain what he’s observed from Heita’s belongings.  He explains to us in a flashback what Heita told them about gold panning.  He knows now that gold from different rivers looks different so there is a way to identify where it came from.  And now, we get to see Shiraishi shine as he begins to help them lay out a new strategy for finding the gold without the skins.

He first off explains what we already know about the “Noppera-bou incident” which I find interesting based on the fact that he uses Noppera-bou - I wonder if Shiraishi thinks someone else killed the 7 Ainu men and Wilk was moving the gold, but not involved as Wilk told that to Sugimoto.

Shiraishi points out there may be people who know where the gold is hidden - and since supposedly Wilk moved it all by himself, he wouldn’t be able to move it that far. 

He then continues to state, they just need to find the region where the gold dust was from and look close by.  Sugimoto is not convinced by Shiraishi’s line of reasoning at all.  He has a look of total annoyance and he’s like - “we” can’t identify a hidden gold dust stash etc.  I’m disappointed that Asirpa simply chimes in that he’s an idiot as she eats the swan head that Sugimoto wouldn’t.

Shiraishi has to remind them what they learned from Tanigaki back when he was injured and recovering with Huci at Asirpa’s kotan.  Part of the gold was taken from the stash by Wilk and the boat capsized on Lake Shikotsu.  Therefore, they know where a sample of the gold is.  As soon as Shiraishi reminds them of what they know from Tanigaki, he catches Asirpa’s attention and she takes him seriously.

She then summarizes where he’s been going with this - they likely won’t have the skins so they need another game plan.  Bravo Shiraishi!  He has created a plan B for them, better than Sugimoto’s “um maybe we will sweep in and steal the skins from Hijikata or Tsurumi . . .”

Sugimoto immediately rejects Shiraishi’s plan on the fact it is too hard and whines about it.  Asirpa at least has a well thought out and rational reply that the lake is too deep, so they can’t get the evidence.

This leads into a flashback with Heita and our pirate convict at Lake Shikotsu the previous year.  We get a “typical” reveal of his character as he’s completely in the nude about to dive into the cold spring water.  Boutarou the Pirate’s real name is Oosawa Fusatarou and this reveals some of his background as a talented swimmer and diver.

He’s got some rather unique eyebrows - reverse Koito ones and he reveals that he’s going to dive for 35 minutes.  He then uses special breathing techniques to get as much oxygen into his system and he’s got large feet, webbed hands (due to cell death not occurring between his digits during fetal development btw) and he became a convict by drowning people and stealing their stuff.

By having a rope tied to his ankle, Heita can signal to him when his time is up and he can come up from his deep free dive.

The chapter then returns to Shiraishi pointing out that Heita and Mr. Pirate already found the gold.  This means that Shiraishi took the time to look at all of Heita’s samples and that they know the location and it is linked to one of the still remaining convicts.

Shiraishi then reveals that he knew that there was a guy who was intense, physically robust and pushed himself to the limits - so if he could dive to find the gold - he would be the most likely to succeed. The flashback shows that he was able to dive down to Wilk’s canoe and that Heita found at least 4 locations for the gold dust.

With the list of rivers, it means the gold dust found in the canoe can be traced to these four rivers: Toppu River, Saru River, Sorachi River and Shiriuchi River.  I have labeled each of those rivers on the map of Heita’s description of rivers that can be panned for gold and included a few cities for reference.  In yellow is the current approximate location of Asirpa, Sugimoto and Shiraishi on the Uryu river.  The rivers where the gold dust is from are in magenta.  The Toppu River is the closest one to them and the Sorachi and Saru Rivers are reasonably close.

The only river that is further away is the Shiriuchi River fairly close to Hakodate.  Google maps has the Shiriuchi River labelled as the Chinai River (I checked with translator GlassHouses for clarification - apparently it can also be read as the Chinai River and there is one located in Shikoku - thanks for the help!) so if you try to find it in English it won’t be labelled correctly.  Lake Shirotsu is the large lake on the map just next to my arrow pointing to Sapporo.  Only put on a few cities for easy reference, Otaru, close to Asirpa’s kotan, Ashikawa and Kushiro. 

The chapter then ends with Sugimoto holding the list of rivers as his eyes are white.  He figures if they head to those rivers, since the pirate knows where the gold is from they just need to catch a pirate [and skin him].  Stop looking so well murder-y Sugimoto.

The tag line at the end states that every river eventually leads to the sea . . . I guess this must be true in Japan perhaps, but if you live in a basin, or in the Great Lakes region of North America the lake does not lead to the sea . . . . but I digress.  This likely has to do with the pirate reference or something.

Recall that in 223, Hijikata is the one who remarks that Boutarou the pirate is making his move.

with the end of 224, it is confirmed that Boutarou is another faction entering the quest for the gold. 

Quick observations and predictions from this chapter.

1.) Ogata is about to become a key player based on his color cover (if you don’t already get that Ogata is important).  Momma cat needs to take her kittens home.

2.) Shiraishi has laid out their plan to look for the pirate.  This may lead to an alliance or Sugimoto just trying to skin him based on the ending page.  I personally think an alliance with Asirpa-Sugi-Shiraishi and Boutarou to be the most interesting. . . .

3.) Hijikata is not surprised by Boutarou’s move to enter the quest.  He was working with Heita and now we know he will likely have his own faction as well.

4.) Based on my map, some of the parties will need to visit each of these rivers in order to gather information.  With the much farther away Shiriuchi River, it takes the cast close to Hakodate.  I can see this being key in future events involving Hijikata (due to his historical death during the Battle of Hakodate), Koito, since he was kidnapped in Hakodate by Tsurumi with the help of Ogata, Tsukishima and Kikuta.  It seems like some sort of confrontation at Hakodate is in the cards.

Chapter 225 - Another convict enters the story.

So chapter 225 starts out with a clear reference to the infamous serial killer, Jack the Ripper who targeted prostitutes in Victorian London and was never caught.  Oh yay, another serial killer - just my fav type of convict. [rolls eyes] The chapter title slums seems to refer to the slums of Sapporo where alcohol and prostitution were the few releases and the area was ripe with disease and violence. 

An older woman is walking back to the inn of her client, he’s a much taller man wearing a western style of dress and a top hat.  The woman is chatting away, she explains that she used to come from a wealthy family in Nagoya, since she’s in Hokkaido, it either implied her family was on the losing side during the Meiji revolution or that her late husband was on the losing side sent up to Hokkaido.

She’s clearly flush with drink and she turns to notice that he may be Japanese based on her “Huh? You’r Japa . . .” as he then grabs her by the face and proceeds to slit her throat and then cut up her body.  As she struggled we get to see her hand pulled his jacket open a bit revealing yet another tattoo - so yep, another convict.

The following morning shows Sapporo police officers trying to keep the press away from a covered corpse, the woman covered with a straw mat.  A member of the press is confirming what happened with a very suspicious looking police officer. Apparently, there was prostitute who was killed in the same location within the past month or less e.g. indicated by the 31st of last month (we don’t know how far into the current month things are).  The man is revealed to be a criminal inspector and he has a shaded face and interesting wrinkles under his eyes.

From the start, this criminal inspector seems to be quite tall compared to the reporter.  The next page reveals his identity as he’s trying to get a scoop on the story by bribing the inspector with food.  The inspector’s face is covered as he simply tells him to shut up as he turns away.

The action then shifts to the temple where Hijikata and Co. are staying as we the readers are reminded that the man is Ishikawa Takuboku, the reporter who meet up with the group back when they had their photos taken before Abashiri in Kitami.  Most of the group went to the photo studio with Hijikata while Shiraishi went off to the red light district with Takuboku instead as they hung out with sex workers and got very intoxicated on Hijikata’s money.  The drunken Ishikawa blurts out that Hijikata is going to buy up newspapers to control the press.

Shiraishi knew that the Russo-Japanese war resulted in sales of papers but Ishikawa revealed that the change was due to the addition of pictures!  Hence part of the reason why having a photo of Asirpa will be important to his Republic of Ezo plan.  Again this exchange between Shiraishi and Takuboku-chan illustrates that Shiraishi is a pretty observant and smart guy.  He’s def aware of more things than people give him credit for.

He’s finally back reporting to Hijikata and asks for more spending money.  Unfortunately, he’s trying to get money from Nagakura who is having none of this and reminds him bluntly that if he wants money it needs to be information not printed in the papers.

Ushiyama makes a comment on how gruesome the murders are and wonders if the man has some issue with whores.  Ishikawa comments that it is “unfortunate” since he hopes the man is apprehended quickly since he currently has a prostitute in the area that he is rather fond of.  Wow, way to show how you care about women trapped in sex work Ishikawa . . . that the were likely sold into but I digress.

The English translation has Ushiyama refer to sex workers as whores, and Ishikawa’s use of prostitutes implies a little more respect, but maybe not since he’s concerned his current interest in Sapporo may get his fav woman killed and he won’t be able to sleep with her any more.  What is clear is both men seem awkward in their opinion of how women in sex work should be perceived.

This is clear based on Nagakura’s reply to Ishikawa’s statement that he hopes he dies in a ditch.  Hijikata completely ignores the info and just asks Kadokura if there was a convict in Abashiri who fits the description for the current killer.

Kadokura doesn’t reveal the name of any other information about the killer.  Clearly, this information will be revealed when it becomes relevant and Hijikata is concerned that if this man is a convict and he is making such violent headlines that Tsurumi and his men in the 27th will certainly realize that they should investigate as well.  It seems after Abashiri, Hijikata is taking Tsurumi as seriously as possible as well as the arrival of Ariko into his group after he was beaten up by Usami.

Hijikata’s reference to the 27th hunting the possible convict leads to another mallard flying.  The final part of the panel shows Ogata aiming at the duck.  Ogata fires at the duck.

The duck flies on, but Ogata simply exhales as he works the bolt with his left hand.  He’s looking smug yet determined again.  We don’t seem him exhale like this frequently, but it does remind me of his “I shot the woodcocks” proud face or a focused “hmmph”  this is what I expected look.

The final panel shows two tail feathers from the duck fall to the ground both having been shot by Ogata.  It is clear that Ogata is pleased with his progress on re-learning how to shoot ducks with his left eye.  He’s making good progress - I’m not sure if we will get to see him make a successful kill in the manga or if Noda will keep it for a big reveal scene where he makes an amazing shot.

There are two ways to look at this i.) Ogata knows he’s getting better and he’ll let others see that he can still snipe and that he’s still a sniper.  ii.) Ogata gets better, but publicly doesn’t want others to know he’s back to “normal” and uses his injury as a way to hide his regained sniping ability as his wildcard.

Both of these can be advantages for Ogata - everyone assumes he’s a sniper and forgets about all of his other skills.  Or he makes others assume he’s weaker and than uses that to defeat them - an obvious sucker is Sugimoto - Sugimoto would look at one-eyed Ogata and think, “well if I can get close enough to break his arm again I can totally finish him off . . .” as Ogata then snipes Sugimoto again . . . (okay, not likely to happen just like that but you get my idea).

The chapter then shifts to an unnamed village along the Sea of Okhotsk.  This is a vague descriptor, and as my map indicates it can be along this entire coast of the northeastern part of Hokkaido.  Yay!  The panel is quite simple as it shows a dead horse laying down.

The final panel shows Usami looking down upon the horse.  Stares down at the horse as his eyes are white around the iris. As his head shifts a little to his left.

It is clear by the next page that Usami is the likely cause of death for the horse.  A random man yells “Who did this?  Who killed my horse!” as it shows Usami shuffling off rather quickly to avoid being caught in the act of horse murder.

Tsurumi is then outside of a shop that sells newspapers reading a newspaper with great interest. He then speaks to Kikuta who is nearby, telling him that the murders in Sapporo appear to be the work of an escaped tattooed convict.

He orders Kikuta to go to Sapporo to look into the convict.  And that he should take Superior Private Usami with him.  Wherever Tsurumi is along the coast is unclear, but Tsurumi seems to think staying on the eastern coast will allow him to find Asirpa from that area.  Plus, he has sent Tanigaki in search of them as well. . . Kikuta replies yes sir rather calmly in a typical Kikuta fashion.

Usami walks up behind him with completely black eyes when Tsurumi tells him to take Usami with him. . . Kikuata can’t be too happy wit this as his reply is hesitant . . .” . . . yes, sir . . .” as he gives him the stink eye. 

Usami then speaks up highlighting that he really doesn’t want to go with Kikuta.  This is quite bold from a superior private, but Usami seems like he can get away with this in front of Tsurumi and Kikuta almost smirks as he feels the same way.  Tsurumi doesn’t even turn to reply to Kikuta, he simply replies that Usami will be of use to him in Sapporo and Kikuta looks curious as to in what context Usami will be helpful.

Tsurumi figures that Hijikata’s group will also move there to investigate due to the newspaper coverage and that they should avoid them if all possible.  Tsurumi doesn’t want them running into each other. 

This is interesting as Kadokura is currently in Hijikata’s group and can easily recognize Usami so that may come into play.  Usami beat the crap out of Ariko so he’ll be tied to the situation.  Ogata is back with Hijikata for now and has a previous work history with Kikuta and there is enough information for the two of them to have some sort of showdown/reunion etc.

With somewhat erratic screen tones behind Usami and a equally creepy font he declares that running into Hijikata’s group is fine.  He concludes that Ariko will be a useless spy and that he will just kill them all and steal everything - problem solved.

And with that Usami gives off super creepy vibes at 110%.

He and Kikuta don’t get along at all - when they were chasing after Toni Anji which required a well thought out plan he was useless and whiny and Kikuta couldn’t take it and also trusted Ariko to succeed.

When they were chasing Asirpa off of the ferry - Usami’s solution was to simply kill Huci and Kikuta was clearly appalled by how Usami’s mind seems to work.  It was clear when Usami beat up Ariko that Kikuta was both hurt and torn about the entire situation.  This likely is setting up some sort of disagreement between the two men.  Kikuta is a sauve, sexy man, who appears a bit cocky at times but he gives off a vibe of really caring for others and avoids harming others who are not involved in things.

The next page reveals that indeed both groups are hunting down the convict in Sapporo.

Hijikata has brought his entire entourage.  He leads the group followed by Ushiyama and Nagakura.  Kadokura, Toni, Kantarou, Kirawus and then Ariko follow behind.  Ariko looks back at Ogata watching them from a distance and taking up the rear as he prefers.

Kikuta leads with Usami behind, his face partially obscured by his visor of his army cap - Kikuta is too sexy to every wear a hat and mess up his excellent hairstyle.

It is interesting that even when you zoom in a bit, Ogata has his blank expression as Ariko nervously looks back at him.  He was nervous to see Ogata and he likely thinks Ogata is onto him as a spy or maybe even thinks that Ogata is still working for Tsurumi.  

It looks like Kirawus is watching Kadokura - I wonder if he’s onto Kadokura playing dumb.  The two of them may get drunk and joke around, but I think Kirawus has been watching both Kadokura and also used him to get closer to Hijikata.  I think both of these men are carrying secrets that will be important as time progresses in the manga.  I just can’t shake the feeling that Kirawus knows more about the Ainu murders and I have a theory that he keeps his forehead covered b/c of some scar or something from the incident where the 7 Ainu men were murdered.

The next page has present day Tsurumi thinking of something disturbing based on the screen tones around him and it reveals a flashback, in Meiji 28 (1895) and back in Tsurumi’s home area of Shibata, Niigata.  The flashback starts with someone asking Tokushirou, Tsurumi’s first name, about how the battlefield was.

The next page reveals Tsurumi talking with a man who appears to be his martial arts teacher for jujitsu.  Tsurumi tells his teacher that he observed something interesting in war.  Despite the vast amount of training that soldiers underwent before battle, most of the men actively avoided trying to kill the enemy soldiers.

Tsurumi goes on to state that during the American Civil war troops went to great lengths to avoid killing each other (as the nature of a civil war that split families apart at times) and he spends the rest of the page discussing that most humans will really try to avoid killing each other, even in the case of war.

This really is the heart of one of the major issues of GK.  What happens to men who go off to war and the actually kill others?  How do men do this and how to they move forward (or in the case of many of the elite men of Tsurumi’s 27th) how do those men get sucked into killing and do all of the dirty deeds for him.

This gets at the concept of how a person can be turned into a killer and be able to go to great lengths to kill and in this quest for the gold - who can serve Tsurumi best.

After perhaps working or training with his sensei, Tsurumi has changed into his uniform and is telling children nearby (perhaps students of the dojo) to be careful of Master Takeda’s horse is ill tempered (confirmation of the identity of the man he was just talking to) and that it may kick them.  The fact that Usami killed a horse in the present time and then there is a flashback about a horse seems to indicate this will be something to do with Usami’s past.

A voice then calls to Tsurumi, calling him Mister Tokushirou, indicating a person familiar enough with him to call him by his first name but with respect.

This flashback now has revealed not one, but two people close enough to Tsurumi to use his first name either as a senior, his sensei and this unknown yet clearly younger person.  Tsurumi responds, that he recognizes who the person is - revealed to be a younger Usami.  He tells him that he’s gotten taller again, and then calls him by his first name, Tokishige.

Usami is blushing as he looks at Tsurumi before he replies yes, still blushing with black eyes as it reveals that he is Usami Tokishige, 14 years old. This means Usami was born in 1881.

Of course the editorial tagline mentions that he is yet another of the boys pining for Tsurumi.

Chapter 225 ends with several things as the main points:

1.) The next convict is a serial killer and is in Sapporo.  This will lead to a likely encounter between Hijikata’s group and Kikuta and Usami.

How will this showdown happen?  I’m hoping that Kadokura notices Usami and tips off the rest of the group and KIkuta and Ogata catch up.  They seem to be more morally centered members of the 27th concerned about others who can get caught in the crossfire.

2.) The manga is back to the concept of the ability to kill, what makes a killer? what makes a murder? and what makes a soldier?  Tsurumi wants men willing to go into the depths of hell with him to accomplish his goals.

Tsukishima will see this to the end - he’s officially dead on the outside and inside after his Koito confrontation.

Nikaido is losing all of his humanity to be a test subject for a new and improved solider.

Usami has clearly had a vibe that something is totally off with him since he was first introduced.  The fact that Koito was groomed by Tsurumi when he was 14, means that Usami’s age and blush shows that he was a previous and older Tsurumi fanboy.  The chapter ends with the idea that Tsurumi likely was involved in grooming him.

Usami is clearly a great soldier and killer for some of Tsurumi’s goals - this chapter is making it clear that Usami is “special” in the context of murder.  Or that he lacks some sort of moral compass or control in regards to murder and killing.

3.) That criminal inspector at the Sapporo police department is shady as all hell.  He could be the convict in disguise - and he’d fit the trope of the murderer working in the police so that he can’t get caught.  Or he’s a total red herring.

Chapter 226 -Sacred Ground

The chapter starts out with a brief update on the status of the Asirpa-Sugi-Shiraishi-Vasily group.  They are stopping by an Ainu kotan and Sugimoto notices another dog that looks exactly like Ryu, but isn’t Ryu.  Shiraishi is the one to remark that Ryu stayed behind as Tanigaki gave Cikapasi Nihei’s rifle so he won’t be going anywhere.  Interestingly, Sugimoto remarks that he hopes that Cikapasi and Ennoka treat Ryu well so he “let’s go” of his attachment to the rifle and move on. 

This is an odd remark from Sugimoto, since he himself needs to move on from a lot of stuff ~ he can see it in a dog’s life but not his own.

This leads to a key comment from Asirpa about Ainu dogs, that their loyalty towards owners can be a bad thing since they get jealous and ill tempered.  A Japanese man owned one and the dog was well treated but he ended up scolding it due to poor behaviour and went hunting without the dog.  The dog’s reaction to rejection was to kill of off the man’s chickens . . . Shiraishi then comments that people will do the same thing for the love of another.

The following page is the title page with the title and a young Usami and Tsurumi. Based on the fact that we know Usami is very loyal to Tsurumi and he has killed for him - I think it is clear the story about the loyal dog is Usami and Tsurumi is the man with the chickens. . . oh great - this chapter is surely getting to the root of his creepy vibes!

Usami tells him that he’s there even on a day to not train even though after he performed housework and chores to help his family he is more than willing to walk 2 hours one way to come to that very spot on the dojo grounds.

Usami’s face is completely shaded so clearly something dark is tied to that place.

The next page reveals that Usami refers to that spot as “our sacred place” as the wind dramatically blows by as Tsurumi looks at his back.

This leads to a flashback in the flashback, 2 years earlier so 1893, showing Usami’s family.  He’s 12 and he appears to have his mother and father, an older sister, younger brother and another younger sibling on his mother’s back as well. 

His father asks him if things are going well at the dojo and with his training.  He replies that Mister Tokushirou told him he’s the most talented of all the students that he’s seen there before.  Therefore, at the age of 12 he was comfortable enough to call Tsurumi by his first name - san! 

This catches the attention of his older sister and his mother as they look at him in shock and awe, his mother stopping her mending of clothing while his sister blushes.  His sister asks excitedly “Mister Tsurumi Tokushirou = Tsurumi Tokshirou-san?” followed by her having a teenage fangirl moment over him while his father looks on with shock and concern.  His mother confirms that he’s got to have talent since his father was talented too . . . I guess this implies that Tsurumi’s father was a well know ladies man and it is clear that Tsurumi is also seen as a ladies man in the area.

So, Tsurumi is clearly a charismatic, charming and a confirmed ladies’ man and is the 4th son of another man who was also very well known and must have been an important samurai family.  Usami is happy that his family are glad to hear he’s attracted the attention of an important local man.  Their family is large and it looks like since his mother is mending clothes they aren’t the richest family but they must come from a more noble/samurai background than some of our other cast members.  It looks like the Usami household is a happy and fertile one.

Clearly, Tsurumi is interested in getting to know Usami and some time later, Tsurumi is working the water wheel that his family uses to pump water for their rice paddies.  Tsurumi clearly is doing some sort of research into him and he seems to realize that using the foot powered water wheel leads to the develop strong legs.  Usami is explaining how hard the work is based on their location etc when he is interruped by another young boy.

This other boy is introduced as Takagi Tomoharu another 12 year old boy.  He really reminds me of Sugimoto a bit, that slightly messy hair and friendly look.  He clearly is another Tsurumi fanboy.

Tsurumi also calls him by his first name and asks if his father is doing well and the boy responds excitedly as Usami silently smiles with his eyes closed in the background having Tsurumi’s attention focused on another person.

Sometime after school, Tomoharu tells Usami to stay over at his house since they have training at the dojo and they can go to school the next morning.  He then adds that Tsurusumi will be at the dojo that evening!  This immediately gets Usami’s attention and he runs to the dojo yelling “Hurry, hurry!” so Usami is excited by this!

The next page shows the dojo and both boys want Tsurumi’s attention to train with each of them and Tsurumi just smiles back, again Usami’s eyes are closed.

Sometime later it shows Tsurumi in winter leaving the dojo - we don’t get the full conversation, just that Tsurumi is responding to something that Usami said. Usami will be graduating - I guess based on his age primary school - and Tsurumi who’s face is obscured asks if he will keep training at the dojo.  Usami responds with his eyes closed again stating he will have to help his father work on their family farm so it may not happen.

Tsurumi then turns and looks at him in a very friendly way telling him to continue at the dojo to become much stronger - he’ll be able to surpass Tsurumi as well based on his skills with time.

Tsurmi then states he won’t be able to visit the dojo soon, with the impending Sino-Japanese war he’s about to go off to (with Tsukishima) and finally Usami opens his eyes with concern in them as well as light in his eyes.  Usami is clearly worried about Tsurumi leaving.  All of a sudden his friend appears interrupting him and Tsurumi again telling him to go home together.  Again we don’t know what else Usami was going to say to Tsurumi . . .

The winter gives way to spring, when the school year ends and another one will begin.

We get a scene where Usami is able to pin Tomoharu down and someone tells them to stop for the day . . . maybe Tsurumi maybe not.  It is clear that just like Sugimoto’s friend Toraiji - Usami is the natural martial artist while Tomoharu will always lose to him.  Tomoharu is sulking in the dojo and Tsurumi has to ask him what’s wrong so that he and his sensei can lock up.  He reveals that he’s never been able to beat Usami before he leaves.  Tomoharu then cases after Usami who is waiting outside for him.

It looks like he told Tsurumi that he’s leaving and Tsurumi got him to approach Usami to tell him about his departure to high school? in Tokyo.  However, Usami is not surprised as he already knew his friend was leaving and tells him that he really doesn’t want to spar with him one last time.

Usami from a very dramatic angle tells hi that he doesn’t want to lose on purpose b/c he’s worried about his feelings . . . and before he finishes Tomoharu yells his reply that he shouldn’t, that wouldn’t be a real friendship, it would end it.  Usami has light and sparkle in his eyes as he says his lines and his friend sounds like a passionate young Japanese man with fighting spirit.

Tsurumi tells him that he will watch their match in the corner of the yard - the sacred place which Usami will say to Tsurmumi 2 years later. . .

The next two pages are a montage of memories of Tomoharu with Usami as he thinks to survive alone in Tokyo requires him to defeat him.  It seems that Tomoharu really enjoyed his time with Usami - but I really get the feeling that Usami just tolerated him.  It really does have this vibe of a one sided friendship, I could even see him staying over at Tomoharu’s place just to be closer to the dojo and by extension Tsurumi.

Tomoharu cries as he knows he’s fighting hard but still ends up defeated by Usami.

This scene is very much like the Sugimoto’s flashback in chapter 35 - courtship.  He met Toraji at his burnt down house on his wedding day and he attacks Sugimoto who promptly defeats him.  With his eyes full of tears, Toraji refuses to give up and goes for another round with Sugimoto as he roundly defeats him again.  This clearly is linked back to Shiraishi’s comment about humans and the people that they love.  Yes, Sugimoto is a dick to show up, make Toraiji upset, beat him and then congratulate him on his marriage which only makes Toraiji more annoyed.

Yet, in their second round ends with him declaring that he may have lost to Sugimoto in kendo and judo, but he won in the battle for Umeko’s heart. . .

This is clearly a parallel with Usami and Tomoharu and this is linked to Sugimoto.

Anyways back to 226.  Tomoharu despite being defeated pulls on Usami’s shirt and states that he’s not done yet.  The next full page panel shows Usami’s reaction -

full on murder rabbit!!!  He’s gained the white along the edge of his black pupils as he’s drooling, his veins are bursting and his entire face is contorted in rage/anger/i don’t know what else.  I call him a murder rabbit based on a nickname that the lovely Merdopsuedo came up for Usami a long time ago.

She calls him the The Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog, based on the rabbit that lives in the cave and kills many men in an excellent scene requiring the use of the Holy Hand grenade of Antioch in “Monty Python and The Holy Grail”.  This flashback has confirmed all of our fan jokes and theories and was a much better nickname the previously proposed one of “Thumper” the rabbit from “Bambi”.

Tomoharu only gets a glance of his face as he raises his foot before he firmly kicks him in the throat with his bare heel.

This action is enough to even shock Tsurumi!  We see Tomoharu make his last gasp for air as Tsurumi, the man who watched his family die in Vladivostok, perhaps killed by his own actions or those of Wik, Kiro and Sofia.  Tsurumi is a broken and twisted man by this point before he even heads off to the Sino-Japanese war, but Usami’s actions have completely caught him off guard.  He thought he was helping out with a teenage issue and he’s just resulted in the death of Tomoharu by accident.  Look at those wide open eyes, sweat on his forehead and those stress lines!  Tsurumi is completely shocked.

It is clear a man who has seen terrible things like Tsurumi (as we don’t know what his spying and previous military service was like) he is shocked by Usami’s violence that he uses as he clearly struck a killing blow on his friend.

And with that the chapter ends!

Wow!  Usami’s backstory is clearly revealed to be super creepy as I was always afraid of.  At the age of 12 he killed the boy who on the surface appeared to be his best friend.

Final thoughts on chapter 226

1.) Usami may be a natural born killer rabbit who always wants to please Tsurumi.  Chapter 227 will likely further explain why that part of the dojo is sacred to both of them.  Sei Kobiyama also mentioned on twitter that due to both Tsurumi and Usami practicing jujitsu/judo indicate they both came from samurai families.

Tsurumi has alluded to the fact that his family was once wealthy when he was young and we know he’s the 4th son and they lost the wealth.  It is clear based on Usami’s families reaction to him the Tsurumi family was well known.

Usami is clearly not in a wealthy household that has to work very hard to survive, yet has a connection to samurai habits and culture.  This may be a link to chapter 225 referring the the slums of Sapporo and how the murdered woman was from a once wealthy family that lost it - likely a pre-Meiji era samurai family.

Is Usami jealous of Tomoharu?  Or does he want Tsurumi’s attention all to himself?  What motivates him?  He seems off the entire time before he kills Tomoharu so I think there is more going on than we realize just yet.

Does this information from Sei Kobiyama imply that since Sugimoto and Toraiji also practiced kendo and judo that they were also from poor samurai families also fallen on hard times in the Edo area?

2.) I believe that Usami and Sugimoto are supposed to be compared in some way with this flashback.  Both men are talented in judo and when they kill both men are demon or animalistic in the way that they fight and kill.  Yet, one killed his crybaby best friend while the other one as far as we know was unable to save his friend.

Noda has kept away from Sugimoto’s past and his unresolved issues surrounding Toraiji and Umeko for a long time.  This may lead to the reveal of more of Sugimoto’s past and what really happened when Toraiji died and Sugimoto clung to his dying body, giving up the sled for Tsukishima at Mudoken.  It keeps alluding to a potential situation where Sugimoto is either indirectly or directly related to the events that result in Toraiji’s death.  And keep in mind in the flashbacks his nickname is Tora-chan or Tiger.  If Kiro is Tanigaki’s tiger, we’ve discussed that Toraiji is Sugimoto’s tiger . . .

Sugimoto currently has a broken wrist and maybe he will have to rely on Asirpa, Shiraishi and Vasily his non-friend, not-enemy-ally.  I think Usami may be a link to more background into Sugimoto.

Keeping that in mind, I suspect that Kadokura will lead to more background into Ogata as his father would have been a contemporary of sorts with Koito and Hanazawa, but on Ogata’s mother side.

Well that is all I have for now with the chapters!  I’ll work on getting a few more meta up hopefully in the next few days including as long delayed cover analysis and some Koito meta!

[tessatechaitea]

Cerebus #15 (1980)

If the story so far had revealed that Cerebus has a vagina, I could make a hentai joke here.

The first time I encountered hentai was at an anime convention at a Red Lion Inn in San Jose in 1994 or 1995. I went to the convention by myself because I had recently fallen in love with the cartoon Sailor Moon and wanted to get some Sailor Moon LaserDiscs unless it was actually Sailor Moon dolls I wanted. It was so long ago, how am I supposed to remember?! They had a room where they were showing movies and one of the movies I watched was Sailor Moon R: The Movie. It was subtitled which was great because then I had the story memorized for all the times I watched my non-subtitled LaserDisc. But that wasn't the pornographic anime I saw! I don't even remember what that was but I watched some tentacle fucking movie late at night in a dark room with a bunch of other sweaty nerds. I didn't know that was what was going to happen though so I didn't have my dick in my hands like the other guys probably did. I was as shocked as anybody when they first find out that cartoons where women get fucked by tentacles exist! I mean, how many penises does an alien need?! I grew up thinking the little gray aliens had zero! That Red Lion Inn was the same one where I played in a couple of Magic the Gathering tournaments. Being in a dark room with a bunch of horny anime fans was less awkward and uncomfortable than playing Magic the Gathering against Magic the Gathering fans. Most of them probably couldn't believe they were actually playing against such a cool and handsome dude. It really threw them off their game when I would say things like, "Yeah, I've touched a couple of boobs. I attack with my Serra Angel." I know what you're thinking: "Anime, comic books, and Magic the Gathering?! This awesome dude must have owned every single Stars Wars figure too!" Aw, you're too kind! I'm blushing! But obviously I never owned Yak Face. "A Note from the Publisher" is still being published so I guess Dave and Deni are still married. In his Swords of Cerebus essay, Dave Sim discusses "Why Groucho?" It seems to mostly come down to this: Dave Sim enjoyed the characters of Groucho Marx as a teenager and memorized a lot of their lines. He also mentions Kim Thompson's review of Cerebus in The Comic Journal (the first major review of the series) in which Kim praised Sim's ability to make his parody characters transcend the parody to become unique creations of their own. This review gave Sim the confidence to put Groucho in the role of Lord Julius. Which worked out so well that Sim later adds Oscar Wilde, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Margeret Thatcher, Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Woody Allen, Dave Sim, and the Three Stooges into the story. I'm sure I'm missing some but I can't remember every aspect of this 6000 page story. Was The Judge also a parody of somebody? Was the Regency Elf based on Wendy Pini? I don't know! I'm sure I'm missing a lot of references in Cerebus simply because I haven't experienced all the same knowledge sources as Dave Sim. Just like I'm missing a super duper lot of references in Gravity's Rainbow because nobody in the history of ever has experienced all the same knowledge sources as Thomas Pynchon. I've been reading Gravity's Rainbow (for the first time but also the third time because I'm basically reading it three times at the same time. You'll understand when you read it) and I'm surprised by how funny it is. I don't think anybody ever described it as funny or else I'm sure I would never have stopped reading it multiple times prior to this time when I'm actually going to finish it. Although I suppose when I read Catch-22, I had done so on my own so nobody ever told me how funny that book was either. But for some reason, Catch-22 lets you know it's going to be a funny book pretty quickly. Gravity's Rainbow is all, "Here is a description of an evacuation of London which is just stage setting because, you know, the bombs have already blown up, but it makes people feel safe. And after that, how about a scene where this guy makes a bunch of banana recipes for breakfast. Is that funny enough for you?" Oh, sure, there are some funny moments like when that one guy pretends a banana is his cock and then some other guys tackle him and beat him with his own pretend cock. But there's a gravity to the scene that doesn't lend itself to the reader thinking, "Oh, this is a funny book!" But if you make it far enough, you start realizing, "Hey! I'm not understanding this!" So then you reread the section and you start realizing, "Hey! I'm laughing at this stuff! This is pretty funny!" Plus there are a lot of descriptions of sexy things that I'm assuming are really accurate because Pynchon is obsessed with details.

Anyway, I was supposed to be talking about Cerebus, wasn't I?

A Living Priest of Tarim crashes Lord Julius' bath to scold him about a party Julius is giving in a fortnight (which is the amount of time your kid has lost to a video game). I don't know why the priest has to declare he's a living priest. You can tell that by the way he's shouting and foaming at the mouth. Although this is a Swords & Sorcery book so I suppose there are many dead creatures that also shout and foam at the mouth. Sometimes I forget I'm reading a fictional book and wind up ranting and raving about stuff that I'm supposed to just assume is fine. Like when I read The Flash and nothing in it makes any sense at all because The Flash should never have any trouble stopping crime or saving people from natural disasters. The comic book should be over in two pages. Even the writers, at some point, realized how ridiculous Flash stories were and decided the only way to make them believable was to have The Flash battle other super fast people. But that just meant Flash stories basically became bar-room brawls. Two people with super speed fighting is the same as reading a story about two people without super speed fighting. Boring! Some writers even decided that maybe a telepathic monkey would make things more interesting and I suppose telepathic monkeys make everything more interesting so kudos to them. I was going to go on a long rant about telepathic monkeys but then I realized how much I love the idea of telepathic monkeys so why should I create an argument against them? More telepathic monkeys, please.

This made me laugh out loud. Not as much as the chapter in Gravity's Rainbow where the old woman forces Slothrop to eat a bunch of terrible candies. But then it isn't a competition, is it? I mean, I guess it's a competition for my time which is why I haven't written a comic book review in a week or more. Blame Thomas Pynchon for being so entertaining (and also Apex).

Baskin, the Minister for Executive Planning, has come to let Lord Julius know what the revolutionaries have revealed while being tortured. The only bit of useful information was one prisoner's last words: "Revolution...the pits." Cerebus immediately assumes "the Pits" is a location and not a summation of the prisoner's feelings about revolution which led to torture which led to his death. Cerebus, being the Kitchen Staff Supervisor, begins an investigation into The Pits. His first step: threatening the Priest of the Living Tarim. Which makes me realize I transposed the word "living" in the previous encounter with the priest and went on a digression that makes no sense to anybody who has read and somehow remembers that particular panel. I'm sure they were scoffing and snorting and exclaiming to their pet rat, "What a stupid fool loser this Grunion Guy is! Living Priest of Tarim! HA! Ridiculous! What a moronic mistake! He has made a gigantic fool of himself!" I don't know that the almost certainly imaginary people who called me on my mistake as they read this have a pet rat but I do know there almost certainly isn't another imaginary sentient being in the room with them. Cerebus learns that The Pits are Old Palnu that lies under current Palnu. It was destroyed in a massive earthquake long ago and the new city built over the top of it. It's like a Dungeons & Dragons module but with a lot less treasure.

This scene reminded me that I need to finish rereading The Boomer Bible: A Testament for Our Times (which is what it was called in the 90s but is just as accurate for today).

Cerebus and Lord Julius engage in another typical misunderstanding (it's not hard when only half of the people in the conversation care about making sense) which ends up with Lord Julius deciding that the location for the Festival of Petunias will be The Pits. This complicates Cerebus' job of not allowing Lord Julius to be assassinated because the assassins are most likely housed in The Pits (along with their giant snakes (*see cover)). Lord Julius, Baskin, and Cerebus descend into The Pits to find a suitable location for the Festival of Petunias. In doing so, they wind up in a trap and confronted by a masked revolutionary of the "Eye of the Pyramid." Which is odd because you usually have to murder at least a dozen kobolds and several goblins before you reach the room with the boss in it.

Typical unbalanced beginning level module. A giant snake as the first encounter!

Cerebus manages to defeat the giant snake by crashing it headfirst into a wall. The wall winds up being a key support structure and the roof collapses. Everybody makes it out alive but the masked revolutionary evades capture. He will be back next issue to ruin the Festival of Petunias. Aardvark Comment is still just a mostly standard comic book letters page. I'll probably stop discussing it until people start criticizing Dave. Right now it's just "This comic book is great!" and "Keep writing, Dave, and I'll never think ill of anything idea you espouse!" while Dave replies, "I owe my fans everything! I can't wait until I can stop feeling that way and start jerking off onto my art boards and selling those as pages of Cerebus!" Cerebus #15 Rating: A. Good story, good Lord Julius dialogue, good Living Priest of the Living Tarim scenes. I wholeheartedly endorse this comic book and Dave Sim. No way a guy with a sense of humor like this is going to go off the rails, right?!

[keyofjetwolf]

BOOK PAGES YES PLEASE

Oh Show, you do know what I like. Let’s do this, as I of course must.

First thing’s first: FUCKING NUMBERS

326, I’m not immediately connecting with anything and a quick search of my previous liveblogs didn’t turn anything up, but it’s a number, so.

Ahh, BUT THEN

What is this? Why is it jotted in the corner without any seeming connection to anything? Why is it threepeated? And surely it has nothing at all to do with the Mystery Shack’s address WHICH WE WERE JUST VERY EXPLICITLY SHOWN

NO SURELY NOT

This looks like a fancypants formula table for smart people, of which I am not one. No hope in fuck of knowing what that’s saying, but that writing off to the side?

I feel like I SHOULD be able to make that out (unlike the bulk of the text on the second page). I CAN’T THOUGH AND IT’S INFURIATING. I can get what I think is “in the time without” around the middle, but the rest is completely eluding me. Just that, though, makes it sound like maybe we’re dealing with either time travel or alternate dimensions/realities. Also the word after “without” keeps looking like “menus” and that just can’t be right. A WORLD WITHOUT MENUS WHAT INSANITY IS THIS HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW IF YOU WANT TO GO TO A RESTAURANT WITHOUT SEEING THEIR MENU FIRST

Anyway, yeah, I should be able to get more from that, I feel, but can’t right now. Hrmph.

Name: ??? This odd triangular being has appeared in my dreams every night for weeks.

THAT IS NEVER A GOOD SIGN

It gets more interesting though:

WELL DOESN’T THAT CONNECTION LOOK FAMILIAR

No, I’m so thrilled I made it ahead of being told it. NOT BY MUCH BUT BY ENOUGH. Here’s a continuing thought though. Assuming I’m right (I think I must be) and it’s those glasses SPECIFICALLY that have triggered Three Exclamation Points Of Alarm in whoever’s writing this journal — and with the note that they’ve been dreaming of this pointy Monopoly mascot they certainly seem like they’re human and discovering and researching this shit rather than, say, creating it — then the author has to be someone who KNEW those glasses, and presumably the person attached to them.

There are a few possibilities, but if we rule out that the author is Stan — which it’s my instinct to do as he seems more interested in profiting from the weird shit than understanding it, but as I say that, it’s very possible that even if this is where he’s come to, it doesn’t mean it’s where he started — then I THINK the author is likely to be whoever Stan is … missing, or regretful of, or angry about, or any of these or all of them. The person that I suspect owns the glasses and who also likely owned the room we just found. That they wrote this journal and recognized their own glasses as a symbol in this dream thing, AND I ADMIT IT: THAT’S WORTH THREE EXCLAMATION POINTS

It now makes me want to look more closely at all the symbols, and fuck, we’re already intensely picking apart minute shit. All in.

The glasses, we’ve done. Going counter clockwise from there:

– a broken heart? Maybe more accurate to say a scarred heart? An old emotional injury of some sort, long ago and healed perhaps, but still lingering. (Stan maybe and the room owner? AM I MAYBE BEING TOO SENTIMENTAL AND READING TOO MUCH INTO IT I DUNNO) Or maybe it’s a new injury? The first instinct when seeing a heart is romantic love, but honestly the show is doing a pretty great job of exploring all the DIFFERENT types of love that are just as huge and important, and it’s very possible this is a furtherance of that.

– The More You Know Star. Could be a shooting star, so some sort of astronomical event? Is it representative of something flashy or bright? In truth, the first thing it puts me in the mind of is Mabel’s sweaters. Which, if I’m right about all these symbols and they’re elements needed to summon the Illuminati’s Mens Warehouse, I just want to say how hilarious it is to me that one of Mabel’s sweaters was FORETOLD.

– A Llama.  IT’S A LLAMA I’M NOT SURE WHERE ELSE TO TAKE THAT. A pet, maybe? Mabel would have a pet llama if she could, and we all know that’s true. Maybe it’s a poor drawing of the random fucking goat that keeps turning up in episodes. THEY’RE BOTH RUMINANTS

– Talk to the Hand. The symbols on the front of the journals. Did the journal writer not also find that odd? Or did the symbols on the covers come after, perhaps?

– Mark the Question. YES ALL I HAVE ARE QUESTIONS AS WELL. It looks like the symbol for the Mystery Shack though?

– ICE. Wow, that word will never be the same again. Ice, though? Ice? IS THIS A SUMMONING RITUAL OR A HOUSE PARTY (still look at that dapper geometric shape, por que no los dos).

– Fish Pac-Man. OH SHIT THAT’S THE SYMBOL ON STAN’S FEZ HOW AM I JUST SEEING THAT I AM A FOOL. Again, the author didn’t react with surprise to that, so perhaps Stan hadn’t worn the fez yet? Or the fez didn’t yet have that symbol? WHAT IS THAT FOR BY THE WAY AND I FEEL I’VE ASKED THIS ALREADY BUT WHY A FEZ

– A tree. Well golly goshums, I’ve no idea where you’ll find one of those in the Pacific Northwest.

– Creepy Star. I HATE ONE-EYED THINGS ON THINGS THAT SHOULDN’T HAVE EYES AT ALL. A summoning symbol, though? It’s practically the triangle already. But also not quite — representative of how he’s almost here, but not all the way? There are so many (SO MANY) triangles in the Mystery Shack though. I’m not positive we’ve seen this, but I’m also not positive we HAVEN’T.

Also near the symbols we have the note:

Ten symbols! What’s the significance?

Already gave my opinion on this, but restating: IT’S HOW TO SUMMON THE TRIANGLE MAN THIS IS BASICALLY A RECIPE

Finally for that page, we have this, which I think says something like “mysterious power”. I can’t figure out the first word exactly, but I think it’s functionally along those lines.

Page two doesn’t have much since, as I said up top somewhere, I don’t think we’re supposed to be able to read the bulk of the text. But we do have another, more simple drawing of the figure

which manages somehow to be even creepier, and

“HE’S IN MY WALLET!” with a sketch of a … negative twelve dollar bill. MM KAY. There’s also the fact that the words aren’t the same as on our money. “Semper Vigilantem”. There may be some extra letters cut off of the end of the second word, but by itself, Google is able to translate it for me, so perhaps not. Google says it means “Always Watching”.

WELL

WELL THEN

Then we have “Curia Infan” and what is DEFINITELY some obscured letters/words. “Curia” by itself seems to refer to a government seat or court. “Infans” looks to be a root that could mean “infant”, “childish”, or “foolish”, which could perhaps indicate something to do with Dipper and Mabel? “A little child shall lead them” kind of thing perhaps?

“Infans” can also mean “speechless”, which has another sort of creep to it. Always watching, never speaking. Certainly I’m seeing a lot of eye imagery (INCLUDING GLASSES), but no mouths anywhere.

Oh, but hey, remember that bit about the $-12 bill? A mem’ry stirs. A memory from WELL FUCK ME THAT’S CONVENIENT twelve episodes ago:

AND WHAT’S THAT I SEE

SO DEFINITELY THIS SHIT IS ALL CONNECTED

I JUST DO NOT KNOW HOW. But President Woodpecker Fucker is wrapped up in it somehow (even if he perhaps doesn’t know).

Oh, extra question coming to me: How did the journal author HAVE one of those bills?? Just IN THEIR WALLET. It sounds casual enough that it should just be there, but …?????

ANYWAY I HOPE YOU ALL WANTED A FULL HALF OF MY LIVEBLOG TIME TODAY TO JUST BE THIS POST

(I’m completely unspoiled for Gravity Falls and watching it for the first time. Please don’t confirm or deny anything in this post, give me hints or cautions or suggestions about future episodes, or try to explain anything going on. That includes if I should’ve been able to figure it out from previous episodes, or if there’s no answer at all. Spoiling the experience only ruins things for everyone!)

[2dtcnjspring]

Emphasis/Focal Point

Focal point

Focal Point refers to the area of an artwork that demands a viewer’s attention. This is usually the subject of the artwork.

Intelligent placement of focal points can positively affect the overall composition of an artwork. Creating focal points in your artwork is one way to be in control of how your artwork is viewed.

There are very few artists or designers who do not want people to look at their work. Impasse centuries when pictures were rare,  Almost any image was guaranteed attention. Today with photography and the abundance of books, magazines, newspapers, signs, social media, the Internet, etc. all of us are confronted daily with hundreds of images. we take this abundance for granted, but it makes the Artist job more difficult. Without an audience is attention, any message, any artistic or aesthetic values, are lost.

How does the designer catch a viewers attention? How does the artist provide a pattern that attracts the eye? Nothing will guarantee success, but one device that can help is a point of emphasis or focal point. This emphasized element initially can attract attention and encouraged if you were to look further.

Even in purely abstract or non-objective patterns, a focal point will track the viewers eye and give some contrast and visual emphasis. There can be more than one focal point. Sometimes secondary points of emphasis are present that have less attention value than the focal point. These are called accents. However the designer must be careful. Several focal points of equal emphasis can turn the design into a three ring circus in which the viewer does not know where to look  first. interest is replaced by confusion: when everything is emphasized, nothing is emphasize.

Édouard Manet,

Berthe Morisot with a Bouquet of Violets,

1872. Royal Academy of Arts, London, England.

There are several devices that artists can use to ensure that subjects are seen in an artwork.  These subjects become the focal point(s) in the imagery.

EMPHASIS BY CONTRAST One way to create a focal point is through the use of contrast. Any type of difference in imagery will result in that element becoming a focal point. Difference or contrast can come in many different forms.  Color, value, texture, shape, and form can all create contrast.  By combining elements, you can increase the contrast that is created, thus strengthening the focal point.

Very often in art the pictorial emphasis is clear, and in simple compositions, such as a portrait, the focal point is obvious. But the more complicated the pattern, the more necessary or helpful a focal point may be in organizing the design. As a general rule, the focal point results when one element differs from the others. Whatever interrupts overall feeling or pattern automatically attracts the eye by this difference. The possibilities are endless:

-When most of the elements are dark, a light form break the pattern and become the focal point.

-When almost all the elements, whether light or dark, are vertical, a diagonal element is emphasized.

-In an overall design of distorted expressionistic forms, the sudden introduction of a naturalistic image will draw the eye for its very different style.

-When many elements are about the same size, similar but unexpected smaller ones will become visually important.

-When the majority of shapes are rectangular and angular parallelograms, round shapes stand out.

This list could go on and on, many other possibilities will come up. Sometimes this idea is called emphasis by contrast. The elements a contrast with, rather than continues, the prevailing design scheme becomes the focal point. Color is an element often used to achieve emphasis by contrast. A change in color or a change in brightness can immediately attract our attention.

Ceri Richards,

Major-Minor Orange Blue, screenprint, 1970.

John Baldessari The Duress Series: Person Climbing Exterior Wall of Tall Building/Person on Ledge of Tall Building/ Person on Girders of Unfinished Tall Building 2003

EMPHASIS BY ISOLATION A variation on the device of emphasis by contrast is a useful technique of emphasis by isolation. Whenever one object or element is separated from a group it becomes isolated and in turn, becomes a focal point.

John Trumbull, The surrender of Lord Crornwallis, oil on canvas, 1787-94. Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven, CT.

In the painting by Eakins the doctor at the left repeats the light value of the figures in the operating arena. All of the figures in this oval stand out in contrast to the darker figures in the background. An extra emphasis is giving to this doctor at the left by isolation.

Thomas Eakins, “The Agnew Clinic” 1889, Oil on canvas, 6′ 2 1/2″x10′ 10 1/2″

Something to think about is that a focal point place too close to an edge will have the tendency to pull the viewers eye right out of the picture.

Placement

Objects that are placed in the center of the picture plane or near center, will naturally become a focal point. Most of the time, a focal point that is not exactly center is preferred. By placing an object or element just off center, you can create a focal point through placement without affecting the aesthetics of the work.

Judith Beheading Holofernes 1598–1599. Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Antica, Rome

The placement of elements and the design may function in another way to create emphasis. If many elements point to one item, our attention is directed there, and a focal point results. A radial design is a perfect example of this device. Just as all forms radiate from the convergent focus, so they also repeatedly lead our eyes back to the central element. The central element may be like the other forms in the design, but the emphasis results from the placement, not from any difference in character of the form itself. Radial designs are more common in architecture or the craft area than in two dimensional art. In pictures perspective lines can lead to a point of emphasis and the result can be a radial design.

The placement of the most famous apple of all time is also near the center of the composition below. This is a busy, crowded painting and the passing of the Apple takes place at the intersection of the tree trunk and the lines formed by the arms of the Adam and eve. The composition has an equal balance to the left and right of the focal point and the key element is emphasized.

Lucas Cranach the Elder, “Adam and Eve” 1526, Oil on panel, 46 1/8x31 3/4″

CONVERGENCE

A fourth way to create a focal point in artwork is to use implied lines to direct a viewer’s eye to an object or element. This technique is known as convergence.

Mary Cassatt, The Letter, oil on canvas, 1890-91.

DEGREE OF EMPHASIS

A specific theme night at times call for a dominant even visually overwhelming and focal point. Do use of a strong visual emphasis on one element is not unusual.

In the graphic design of newspaper advertisements, billboards, magazine covers, and so on, we often see an obvious emphasis on one element. This can be necessary to attract the viewers eye and present the theme or product in the few seconds most people look casually at such material.

The very large scale X in the example below is also a bright white against a dark background that is primarily photographic. It is an immediate focal point, attracts attention to the page, and also conveys an idea of the theme of the article. A focal point, however strong, should remain related to any part of the overall design. The X is visually dominating, yet is related to other elements in placement and character.

In general, the principle of unity and the creation of a harmonious pattern which related elements is more important than the injection of a focal point if this point would jeopardize the designs unity.

THE UNUSUAL Another way to create a focal point in artwork is to introduce an object or element that is unusual to the scene. This object will stand out and demand attention thus creating a focal point.

ABSENCE OF A FOCAL POINT A definite focal point is not a necessity in creating a successful design. It is a tool that artists may or may not use, depending on their aims. Many compositions have an ambiguous emphasis, and different viewers will see different elements at the most important.

Robert Weaver, To Be Good Is Not Enough, When You Dream of Being Great, Poster advertising classes at the School of Visual Arts, New York.

A definite focal point it’s not necessary in creating a successful design. It is a tool that Artist may or may not use, depending on their aims. And Artist may wish to emphasize the entire surface of a composition over individual elements.

Mark Lombardi, George W. Bush, Harken and Jackson Stephens c. 1979-90, graphite on paper, 1990.

Sometimes the artist theme might such as the absence of a focal point. And Andy Warhol painting there are a hundreds repetitions of precisely the same image with no change, no contrast, and no point of emphasis.  But the repetitive, and relieved quality is the basic point and dictated the design. The painting contains a serious comment on our taken for granite daily lives. The design reflects life today, where we are bombarded with insistent and strident repetition of the same commercial images over and over. On a lighter note, it may also be commenting on the remarkable similarity of taste in every can of the beef noodle soup!

Some art forms by their very nature rule out the use of a focal point. Woven and printed fabric Generally have no focal point but consist of an unstressed repetition of a motif over the whole surface. A focal point on draperies, bedspreads, or a upholstery might be distracting. Including a focal point is provided by the design of the garment. Since the focal point is such a common artistic device, sometimes attention can be gotten by simply not using one. Consider a quilt, generally there’s no dominant element in a quilt. instead we are intrigued by the pattern of compelling items, with similar emphasis. Attention is dispersed throughout the grid of the quilt rather than on one particular focus.

_________________________________________________________________

What Kind of Focal Point do the following works have?

Allison Elizabeth Taylor,

Hank

, wood and wood stain on panel, 2007. James Cohen Gallery, New York

Zak Prekop, Untitled, oil on canvas, 14 x 18 inches, 2010. Courtesy the artist and Shane Campbell Gallery, Chicago, IL

Michelle Grabner’s paper weavings

Henning Bohl

Michele Abeles, plant, hand, paper, table, lines, numbers, archival pigment print, 26 x 31", 2009. Courtesy the artist

Nick mauss, Untitled, ink on paper, 26 x 19", 2007. Courtesy the artist and Gallerie Neu

Vlatka Horvat, To Go On (Around) (12), collage mounted on book binding board, 10 x 8", 2010. Courtesy the artist.

Darren Bader, part of installation for MOMA PS1 stairwell, dimensions variable, 2007. Courtesy the artist.

Homework

Emphasis and Focal Point Create 1 large scale image and you will have a couple options on how you can approach this assignment that utilize ONE of the Emphasis/Focal Points devices discussed in this lesson.

If you decide on making this a more hands on project, you will create it by putting together two pieces of bristol paper OR computer paper (depending on what you have available). 

If you decide on making your project completely digital, your minimum dimensions will be 11x17″.

This project must be collage heavy (whether digital collage using Photoshop and/or Illustrator OR hands on collage OR both) and be primarily black and white (very little color allowed - think back to Ellen Gallagher’s work). Additional materials used are limited to black and white magazine clippings, printed material, photographs, paint, ink, markers, micron pen and or graphite.

Make sure to activate the background and fill the white of the page in an interesting manner.

Charline Von Heyl’s work for further inspiration:

Charline Von Heyl collages

STUDENT EXAMPLES:

[mister-tom-a-dildo-lover]

Hey can you please do Harrymort where Voldemort and Harry have to work together to help everyone because muggles find out about magic and the are jealous/angry/scared ? Please? Thank you.

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Harrymort

Tags: Canon-Divergence at the end of HBP so Dumbles is dead, Post-Graduation but Voldy is still alive and the war was still going and the Ministry wasn’t overtaken, it’s 2014, Bad!MuggleGovernments, Muggle leaders shoot themselves in the feet and the common muggle population take the side of magic, The Enemy and I have a common Enemy so we’re buds against them now, Drama, Murder, Dubious Morals, References to Sex, Hogwarts Professor Harry, Triggers for guns and bombs I suppose?, Violence, Prejudice, 

All he could really say about this shite was that it hadn’t even been a muggleborn who had been the cause of everything. As they’d grown up in the muggle side, they knew how to get by and what to avoid. But of course a Pureblood would consider themselves too good to learn about the muggle world. This was why Hermione insisted on all magically-raised children attending muggle Studies, even if the class was behind the present times back when they were still in school.

The ironic bit was that Lucius Malfoy had been the whole cause of this. On some ridiculous, self-directed plan to find Harry on his own and present him to Voldemort during the summer, he’d been caught by the CCTV on the street nearest to The Leaky Cauldron.

Arabella Figg had been the one to alert the magical side of the new events by sending Harry a rushed letter full of terrified words that barely made any sense. Thankfully, she’d attached a clipping from a muggle paper where it pretty much spelled everything out as photos of Lucius Malfoy covered the front page, the date prominent on the bottom corner, showing empty space one second, and then showing the blond wizard a second later.

MAGIC REAL! WIZARDS LIVING AMONG US EXPOSED!

It all started with a rushed order that every family ‘hiding’ magical people, should turn them in, or turn in any evidence they had of the existence of magic. The order had gone out three days in advance of a sudden flooding of law enforcement all over Britain. Permission had been granted for them to ransack every home no matter the inhabitants, and search for proof of magic. And if any was found and hadn’t been given up already, it would be confiscated and the entire household would be put under arrest.

Claims of treason against the Crown were being thrown about in Britain!

The clipping Mrs. Figg had provided him with also had a list of the villages where wizards were known to live in the UK. There had already been a plan set in motion to extract the muggles from the villages and if the magicals refused to cooperate, then the muggle law enforcement was given leave to use lethal force.

Harry, by the time he’d received the letter, had only had less that twenty-four hours left to get those villages evacuated lest the muggles started dropping bombs or raining bullets down on the innocent people living within.

And the thing was, he wasn’t working for the Ministry. He wasn’t an Auror. He was a bloody DADA Professor! He was trying to teach the children to protect themselves from Voldemort and his ridiculous, terroristic faction! Being an Auror wouldn’t have helped them in the least. And it wasn’t his bloody job to save everyone anyway!

Still, Harry remembered the emergency assembly he had to call. He wasn’t the Headmaster or the Deputy Head, but he still had a certain level of power as Gryffindor’s Head of House. And when he’d set off the magical alarms, he knew he’d need a good reason for it.

All 1,017 students had gathered in the Great Hall, clad only in their PJs and housecoats, and looking tired as hell. He’d felt bad, but knew there were more important things going on than getting a full night’s sleep.

He had the memory of that night stored in a cupboard now.

“I know it’s late and you want nothing to do with being awake now, but I need your help. Thanks to Lucius Malfoy stalking me about London on 3 August, in search of my place of residence, the muggle CCTV caught him doing magic near The Leaky Cauldron. And it raised questions in the government, and they proceeded to poke around that area and found the entrance to Diagon Alley, even if they can’t get in yet.”

He remembered the tired faces becoming more awake as they processed what he had been saying.

“Eventually they realised they needed more information and if these people doing magic were walking among them so easily, then they must be living in Great Britain for however long. They have made it mandatory for all muggles to give up anyone or anything magical that they know of, or risk prison time. They have been taking into custody all wizards they find, plus their possessions. Front page news two days ago showed Lucius Malfoy’s face and a list of all the villages in Great Britain that wizards are known to inhabit. The muggle inhabitants are being escorted out as we speak and the government plans to use lethal force if the magicals do not turn themselves in when the order is given at five this afternoon.”

There had been a deathly silence following his words. He could tell those not Pureblooded understood how dire the situation was. And his fellow teachers did as well. Snape looked ready to spit fire.

“For those who are still confused over why we have to worry, think of it this way. Muggles have weapons called bombs that can do mass damage in little time. They’ve used them in the World Wars. Think of a single Bombard Maxima powerful enough to blow all of Hogsmeade up and leave nothing but bricks and ashes behind. Muggles have access to these weapons and they are currently an option. There are now 7 Billion humans on Earth. Magical humans only make up 1% of that. They outnumber us, and that’s why they’re evacuating their people from of the villages. They are very willing to destroy their own land if compliance isn’t given.

“I need all of you to send these pre-written letters to your parents warning them to pack up their things and come here. All of them. I don’t care if your family is Dark. I don’t care if there are Death Eaters among the lot. Right now, I’m sad to say hat muggles are the enemy now until further notice. All other countries are also taking up arms against magicals. There is no more time us to be at each other’s throats over differing opinions. We can’t afford that now. I will be heading to Diagon Alley to get The Daily Prophet on this immediately. No shield is strong enough to withstand a bomb let alone many. As Hogwarts is Unplottable, it is the only safe place other than Gringotts, left in our immediate community. And you’ll have a better chance being allowed in here than in there.”

He’d left then, not even taking a moment to explain to McGonagall everything. They’d had their own evacuations to do.

And, for the first time ever, Harry had to do something he never thought he would willingly do. He opened up the link between he and Voldemort and called out to the man as hard as he could mentally.

The high-pitched whisper of Voldemort’s mind had permeated Harry’s own. It sounded almost mocking in a sense, despite the shock ringing true in it.

How lovely to hear from you, Harry. The way he said Harry’s name had always made Harry feel strange and this time was no different. To what do I owe the rare pleasure of your company?

Your minion fucked us all over, was Harry’s response.

As they were connected emotionally as well as mentally, Voldemort could feel Harry’s urgency, and his teasing bled away instantly. What happened?

Persisting in telling your minions that muggles are no threat to us is what lead to Malfoy Sr. of all people, exposing us and now they have endless amount of our people in custody, but also their possessions, and they are planning on open fire in any way possible, on all the villages our people reside in once the muggles therein are evacuated. The operation will begin at five this afternoon. And this all leads back to your minion not being bloody careful while stalking my arse through London!

Voldemort was silent for several moments. Enough time for Harry to make it through the Floo in his office, to The Daily Prophet Headquarters. He had a love-hate relationship with the place, but if needs must.

You are already begun to plan, Voldemort noted, sounding interested.

Everyone to Hogwarts. I don’t know how the other magical communities are going to handle this, but this is how I’ve decided to. You can either join us or not, but the offer was extended to the children already, and they’ve been told to tell their families with letters I’ve written up for them.

You’d work with me of all people?

Better you than being blown to bits. You lived through the Blitz, you should know how bad this situation is! You should know that we do not have time for petty squabbles right now!

Voldemort went silent for several more moments, which allowed Harry to burst into the Chief Editor’s office without warning, frightening the man inside in the process.

I will see you soon, were the Dark Lord’s parting words.

And that had been that.

The enchantments on Hogwarts had been strengthened and extended even further just to be on the safe side. And all roads leading anywhere near the mountains were quickly overrun with plant-life and hidden. Hogsmeade had been evacuated and bespelled to look like a common forest. Voldemort had been the one to do that bit of magic and admittedly it had been fascinating.

Several people added their power to Hogwarts’ Ward Stone. Not only was the magical of the former Heads within it, but joining them now were Harry, Voldemort, Snape, Flitwick, Hermione, and Kingsley for added protections.

The crisis hadn’t been fully averted as some couldn’t be reached no matter how hard they worked with the House Elves and Owls to alert everyone. And as Harry predicted, several villages were no more and hundreds of magical beings were dead.

Oddly though, may of the common muggle population felt that the governments were overreacting to the revelation of magic. Many were enraged over their homes being ransacked and destroyed. In only a month of time, extremists arose on the muggle side. A faction if it could be called that considering how large it was.

More than half of the known world wanted things to go back to normal. Wanted magical people and creatures to be freed. Wanted law enforcement to stop being the very things they claimed magicals to be. And that was Terrorists.

Numbers were rising by the day. 4B+ people agreed with this line of thinking. That was more than half the humans alive. And that had been the most shocking to the magicals all over the world.

The unfortunate part was that despite so many speaking out, the governments had the weapons of mass destruction on their side, so insurgency wouldn’t do much without the firepower to back up their words.

It had all gone to shite. And Harry could only imagine what was being done to the capture magical beings. He’d seen some muggle films before. He knew it wasn’t good.

The only other somewhat decent thing in this, was the fact that Voldemort couldn’t gloat about muggles being horrible when it was obvious that it was mostly the governments, and those who were religious nutjobs behind this trauma. The fact that more than half the muggles didn’t agree and were vocal about it, had stunned many of the magical population all over the world.

It was a chance Harry used to impress upon the people of their community that ever group would always have bad eggs, but that shouldn’t reflect on the whole group.

Day 227 since magic had been exposed because of one pompous twat(who had been taken to task very painfully or so Harry’s heard). That was two hundred and twenty-seven days of their community living in constant unease and fear over what could happen. Jobs having to be maintained from the safety of Hogwarts. The castle magically expanding itself to fit the most of Magical Britain’s people.

Fifty thousand people under one massive roof. The poor House Elves. The amount of work involved in the upkeep of the castle. The amount of spontaneous classes on household magic so that everyone could contribute to the best of their ability without anyone being overworked.

Most of Diagon Alley was gone save for some buildings left standing in the rubble. The mumggles still couldn’t get in or see what happened, but the devastation was heartbreaking.

And through it all, Voldemort was up Harry’s arse nonstop. Wherever he went, the man was not far behind. Literally. Always around Harry. Some rubbish about them being the only true leaders of their community. Kingsley wasn’t even considered as a Ministry representative in the Dark Lord’s mind. Voldemort didn’t care for him at all.

Voldemort had been annoying for many reasons before. Now all Harry could think of was his snakey shadow that stalked him all the time. More annoying than bloody murder!

Day 283 of being cramped inside Hogwarts. In so little time, beliefs and assumptions had been challenged. Misinformation had been corrected. Harry had learned more about Voldemort’s goals and the truth behind many of his actions. Dumbledore apparently had a habit of thinking he knew everything and therefore didn’t consider much else beyond his choices or assumptions in the long run.

Basically, the old codger had been wrong about a lot of things.

That didn’t mean the Death Eaters as a whole were okay though. Most were still prejudiced arseholes and needed to have said arses kicked repeatedly to rid them of their idiotic traditions, but it was nowhere near as bad as Harry had been lead to believe, and seemed like it could be reversible with enough work.

And if Voldemort was going to flirt with him so much, it truly seemed like reversing this shite was possible.

Harry didn’t fancy himself the saviour everyone had always wanted him to be, but the opportunity to mellow Voldemort out couldn’t be passed up. If there was a way to calm down the Dark Lording a bit and make him less inclined to violence for the sake of cruelty, Harry would be thrilled.

Besides… he was kind of into the slender, serpentine appearance. The forked tongue and slittled eyes were pretty arousing.

“Who knew it would take muggles and bombs and a planned, world revolution for this to happen?”

Voldemort’s chilly hands massaged the bare skin of Harry’s lower back, the differences in their body temperatures making gooseflesh pop up all over the younger wizard’s body. It was a good feeling though, and Harry snuggled closer as his body warmed up with interest.

“You’re still a cockwomble, but a more tolerant one now.”

“Brat.”

“Wanker.”

Voldemort rolled them over so he could be on top. His slitted pupils didn’t contract in the least with the shift of lighting hitting his face. It was kind of ominous and also really fucking hot. “You have your list of marks prepared?”

“Yes,” he groaned. “I know whose block I’m knocking off in the morning.”

After enough time, they finally were able to make a full list of all the British leaders set on enslaving the magical population. As with everything, not everyone in the government was a terrible person. It simply took time and effort to separate the good from the bad. Weeding out the rotten roots so to speak.

While muggles had guns and bombs, they couldn’t really build anything to sense when magic was being used, so there was still a chance to overthrow them. But Harry had argued, at least for Magical Britain, that they should only kill off the people that absolutely deserved it, and imprison the rest. More than half the muggle population was on their side anyway. In the meantime, those who had been wrongfully imprisoned would finally see daylight for the first time in 345 days. Magicals and muggles alike.

Further action would have to be sorted out later. For now, this was the best plan they had to return to the relatively safe world they’d formerly been living in..

“No entertaining notions of grandeur, Voldy. We’re moving on from that entirely.”

“If I agree will you stop calling me that?”

“No. But I’ll go down on you more often.”

“Then you have my word, my soul.”

Trying to use romantic terms to get on Harry’s good side. “Flattery will keep you in my bed.”

“If I recall correctly, this is my bed in my room, my soul.”

“Details, details.”

Tomorrow would be the tension and the danger, but for now, they could relax for a little bit.

A/N: This got away from me so quickly! Took some time but I finally did it. I can see this happening in a sense.