#and i can only presume this book is old - its cover is worn a bit and the cursive is actually really fancy

[uncanny-tranny]

You know, something that's been healing in ways I never really anticipated was buying secondhand books.

I have a physiology textbook that has the name Ernest written in beautiful cursive on the inside cover. Throughout the book, passages are highlighted, and I wonder: What is the difference between a passage underlined in red pen and one highlighted in yellow? Did he have a system, or did he use whatever was around him at the time? What kind of courses did he take? I wonder what he did after his degree... what if he became a renowned physiologist? Or, what if he abandoned everything to run away to chase dreams he knew were unwise?

It's something small you don't really think about, but there really is something holy about not being the first. This book isn't just the sum of knowledge anymore, it's become a love letter, with a completely separate story attached. That's something I will keep with me forever. We have always been here. We will pass down a tiny bit of ourselves no matter how long it has been. We will yet live.

[anyoneseenadam]

Hii

Can you please write something for fenrys? first meeting maybe? And the bond clicks? Thank you 🥺🥺

pairing: Fenrys x reader (throne of glass)

warnings: implied smut, kissing and nudity, lil bit of blood and injuries but mainly pure fluff

a/n: fenrys is my fave and u can tell in the fic omg!! i hope you enjoy it cause it’s probs my fave one i’ve written yet :))) (i also made it a teensy bit ddlg but that’s just cause i want Fenrys to baby me lol)

——————————————————————————

Shit

Fenrys pressed his hand to the wound in his side, feeling the slow pump of blood seeping between his fingers as he stumbled through the woods. He had won the fight. The other guy now lying in the dirt, however not without consequence. And he wasn’t entirely sure he would stay alive unless he could find a healer soon.

He stopped to lean against a tree, breathing heavily as he held himself together. He transformed into a wolf, moving faster, and trying to pick up a scent, any scent, that could possibly help him, when he caught the sweetest smell he ever had. It was a female, smelling like peonies and blackberries, sweet but with an underlying smoky smell. She smelled of long days in flowers fields and even longer nights beside campfires, evenings spent curled in hand woven blankets and mornings spent drinking dark coffee and eating sweet toast.

He whimpered and began running in the direction of the scent. If he wasn’t so focused on not bleeding out he may have stopped to consider why the scent was pulling him in the way it did. He would have considered the direction he was running into, the direction of his future, his past and his present. But he just kept up, going as fast as his injured body would allow, concentrating on the sweet smell and putting one foot in front of the other.

He felt the change almost immediately, the cold snow and rough bark being swapped for cool moss. The pine trees swapped for tall, oak trees teeming with life. The silence of a frozen forest swapped for the rustling of bushes as nocturnal animals moved silently under the guise of darkness. The chill of the snow-covered woods swapped for the warmth of a summer evening. He pushed between two bushes and found himself facing a clearing, in the middle of which stood a wooden cottage, the wood dark and the roof covered in more moss, flowers growing from every surface and ivy peeking out of the crevices in the house. He stumbled down the path to the cottage, turning back into a male and crossing a small bridge over a stream that separated him from the intoxicating scent he chased.

He let out what he could only describe as a bark, calling for the female that carried the scent he was growing addicted to, collapsing onto his knees, feeling his conscious fade as he held to the side of his stomach, searing pain replaced by fiery veins as his head swayed. He barely heard the door open, only noticing the scent get so much stronger. He attempted to look up, the movement making his head spin as he collapsed, the last thing he saw, a girl in the halo of the moon.

--

Fenrys awoke in a foreign bed. An unbelievably comfortable bed, but foreign all the same. He pushed up on his forearms, gritting his teeth at the reminder of his wound.

The room he was in was dark, not just in light source, but also in décor. The window was cracked open with lacy curtains half closed, there was a tall bookshelf sat next to a desk with leather-bound books lining it, and tall candles flickering and casting the room in a golden glow. The bed he was in was small, clearly just for one, but so soft. He had blankets surrounding him and copious amounts of pillows, some that appeared hand made. In fact, upon closer inspection, a lot of the room looked handmade. Art covering the walls depicting crying women or bloody scenes that he presumed had been done by the owner of this house, given the pallet and assortment of brushed he saw on the windowsill.

And then there was that scent. It was stronger here and he pressed his face into a pillow tentatively, breathing in through his nose as he picked up on the deeper undertones. Fresh picked daisies, melted wax, the pages of old, worn books and something he couldn’t describe. Something so intoxicating he felt tears spring to his eyes, his body reacting in an unheard-of way, so overcome with emotion from scent alone.

He heard footsteps approaching the closed door and hastily put down the pillow, sitting up straight and readying himself to fight whoever it was if they were an intruder. But when you entered he faltered.

Mate. The word clanged through him as he came face to face with an angel. You were wearing a dark brown broderie dress with white hearts lining the hem, your feet bare and toenails painted black. Your hair was falling around your face, messy and untamed, and you had dark smudges around your eyes, makeup that accentuated your features and made you look like a character from the scary books he read as a boy. However right now you looked more like a teddy bear.

He briefly remembered the tail of a witch he had read. An evil witch who lured men into her house with whispered words and sweet kisses, only to steal their hearts and use their blood to keep her skin young and eyes bright. This girl however was no witch, you had elegantly pointed ears and a graceful way of moving that only came from being Fae. He watched as you moved to his side, silent on your feet, putting a tray down beside him before moving an opening the curtains further, letting in more natural light.

“How are you feeling?” your sweet voice interrupted his thoughts. His mind coming to a halt as he heard you speak.

“I- er fine..?” His voice was rough, and you smiled, a reserved smile. Moving to his side and sitting at the edge of the small bed he was on, pouring him a glass of water from a small decanter you had brought through.

“(Y/n.)” you answered his unspoken question.

“Fenrys.”

He muttered a thanks as you passed the glass to him, noting the crystals that hung around your neck and adorned your fingers.

“Crystals?” he asked, and you looked down, playing with the rings you wore nervously.

“My mother taught me about their meanings, they’ve always helped me.” You bit your lip and Fenrys decided he would never meet anyone as cute as you again, it simply wasn’t possible.

“Me too, my mother used to carry them everywhere.” You smiled at him shyly, a beat of silence passing between the two of you as he listened to the birds outside.

“Can I see your wound? I want it make sure it’s healing properly.” You asked and he nodded, pulling the blankets down slightly, grinning as your eyes widened as you took in his physique.

“I’m presuming you’re the healer I have to thank for letting me see another day.” He flirted playfully but you shook your head,

“I’m not a very good healer I’m sorry, but I did stitch it up and it should do the rest itself.” You pressed gentle fingers against the skin surrounding his wound and he glanced down, seeing it was already practically healed.

“You still saved my life.” He said, completely serious and you looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“I’ll let you rest.” You said quietly, standing to walk away and he smiled, feeling more at ease than he ever had since the war, watching his little mate leave.

--

He woke up again a few hours later, wound completely healed and puckering into a scar. Standing he stretched his arms above his head, not bothering with a shirt as he left the room in search of the girl that had occupied his dreams.

The rest of the house was alike your room, tall candles and worn books everywhere. He passed a kitchen filled with copper utensils and a living room with an old armchair, a half-filled mug left next to it, but still no you. He saw the front door was cracked open and wandered over to it, pulling it open and stepping into the fresh air, barely feeling the chill on his body as he found you kneeling on the moss-covered ground facing away from him.

You were muttering under your breath and as he got closer he saw you were cradling a small bird with a broken wing. He watched as you closed your eyes, the ground and air seeming to still as you called upon your magic, a soft white light flowing from your hand into the bird until its wing was healed and it could flutter away.

“I thought you said you weren’t a healer,” he broke the silence and you turned to him with a small smile.

“I said I wasn’t a very good healer.” You replied, standing with green stained knees, your hair now piled atop your head and lip gloss coating your soft lips.

“What are you then?” he came closer to you, unable to resist holding his mate, even if you weren’t aware yet.

“My mother said we were natural faeries.” You said, looking at him shyly, “we derive our power from the earth, crystals, sea water, dirt, fire, stuff like that.”

He hummed, “So technically you could have any type of magic?”

“I guess, but I’m not very good at magic,” you muttered, hands fiddling with your rings again as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Fenrys?” you asked, all pouty lips and wide eyes.

“Have you realised yet darling?” he asked, and you bit your lip. He knew he could tell you, but he wanted to hear you say it.

“I- we’re mates I think.” You were practically shaking, and he didn’t know why he suddenly had this burning desire to scoop you into his arms and protect you against the horrible world that was out there. He nodded with a smile, watching as awe took over your stunning face.

“Can I kiss you princess?” he asked, and you felt your face heat up, looking down as he pulled you closer. “Have you ever been kissed before angel?” he asked, his face hurting from the grin that was spreading over his face when you shook your head.

He tilted your head up to his, looking deeply into your eyes as your breaths came out quicker. “Not many people can find our cottage, my mother put up wards when she got ill, our family wasn’t well liked by the king. You probably only got here because we’re mates,” You muttered.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked again, running a soft hand over your head, smoothing your hair away from your face as you nodded sweetly.

He smiled before leaning down and kissing you gently. Pulling away and feeling as smug as a thief when your lips followed his, pouting at the loss of contact so quickly. He chuckled at your put out expression and leaned down to kiss you again, deeper this time, his tongue slipping into your mouth when you gasped against his lips, quickly beating your own in a battle for dominance and taking his time exploring your mouth.

He laid you down that morning and took you for the first time in the soft moss. Then again in your even softer bed. Now you were sitting in his lap, eating strawberries of a bush you had in your back garden as he pressed dizzying kisses into your neck, both of you still as bare as the day you were born, Fenrys having forgot how much he missed skin to skin contact, when you suddenly remembered.

“Fenrys?” he hummed in response, completely enamoured with the feel of your soft skin against his rough calluses. “Why were you hurt last night?”

“I didn’t tell you my job did I angel?” he asked, the pet name making you giggle as you shook your head, “I work for the queen of Terrasen.”

You gasped, “But she was killed!”

“Oh angel, when was the last time you left this cottage?” he asked, worry coming over him as he realised you had been holed up alone for so long.

“Not since my mother died. She said the king was dangerous and that he would hurt me if he found me,” your bottom lip was wobbling and Fenrys quickly kissed it away, shushing you as it dawned on him just how innocent his little girl was.

“No baby, he’s gone now, the new king of Adarlan is a very kind man and the Queen of Terrasen is wonderful,” he promised, “Will you let me take you to meet them?”

You nodded enthusiastically, bouncing slightly in his lap making him groan. He nipped at your ear lobe and you squealed as he pushed you down. You could meet them another day, today he was too busy with his little mate.

[starshipsofstarlord]

I feel, and it sucks

Pairings | Damon Salvatore x reader. Eric Northman x reader

Summary | after moving away from Mystic Falls, you finally return, and Damon is prepared to see you again. The only problem is, that you aren’t alone...

Warnings | includes angst, mentions of a breakup, sorta lead up to smut and mentions of it, blood play/kink, tiny bit of violence

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

He cared not for the lack of logic that ran through his mind. Not as he went towards your home, you had returned from your year long departure. Mystic Falls had been left in your rear view as you went to a place called Bon Temps.

As much as Damon wished to chase after you, he’d have crawled if he could, he respected your desire to leave everything behind, and move on. And that included him, the man that you had loved, and the one that was profusely enamoured in you.

But now, he had the opportunity to whisk you back into his immortal embrace, and forever be by your side, to protect you, and spend every waking moment with you. Stefan would call him sappy for his advances, but his brother’s opinion simply did not matter. He was so close to being happy again, and he couldn’t deny he was reeled in by the prospect.

Damon was eager to make you pancakes every morning, waking you up with the aroma of breakfast on a tray that he greeted you with in bed. Or even the simple excitement of watching your various expressions whilst reading twilight; ugh, he hated that book, but he would willingly endure its presence if that meant he could become wrapped up in you once more.

But he had to see you first, and get past that progression again. Whilst you had been gone, and in that other town, he had become lost. No amount of bourbon drinking, or hanging out with Ric, could fix his settled mood. He felt like a sinking stone, drowning in the deep end, and remaining on the bottom of the bed, until he was washed away, back to shore.

And your return had done just that; grounded him. He wouldn’t feign to admit his immediate reaction when he first found out you were to come back to your original home. First, he had been in utter disbelief, hardly taking Bonnie’s statement seriously when she informed him of the ordeal.

But then, she showed him the messages that had transacted between the pair of you, and how you were eager to see her again. Nothing of him was mentioned in the conversation, although he was sure that the witch and you had spoken over call sometime after your surprise reveal.

The lack of voicing of your prior breakup gave him some hope; you were willing to take him back. And that was a possibility that he safely held onto, finding it to be a net for him to fall down onto. However, the prospect of a net was like that of a rocking boat, it had an inability stay still when it held a weight, and that mass of pounds was him.

And he knew, as you left, the thought of you had attempted to pull you back, and force you to stay with the selfish power. But as the past had played out, you had not let it, and so you left him all alone, in the claws of the Grill, which was somewhere he found himself to be often in general, but more so after your transcending departure.

The curtains to your room swayed with the evening wind, and he found himself to be enticed by the sight of the open window. It hadn’t been an unusual occurrence for him to climb through the ajar square, and talk about your day, and thus, make it better by his simple appearance.

But, he was deceived. What a fool he had been to think that you had not moved on from little old him, for there was a tall legged man over the top of you, both of your chests bare, and your mouth viscously devouring the inclination of the others. You were oblivious to his accidentally snooping presence, too distracted by the estranged blonde that was now teasing his lips down your throat.

The sight had him freeze, but he was incapable of interrupting whence he watched the man’s teeth sink into the parting of the bottom of your neck and your warm shoulder. It was no man, instead, he was much like him; a vampire. There was a ample difference though, he would never hurt you.

To Damon, you were a treasure, not an edible treat. And it sparked a pulse of fear through his entirety as he watched you be drained by this vile creature. Perhaps he were a hypocrite, he had done the same to many people countless times, and still continued to do so. But the food was not being extracted by anyone, it was being pulled from your veins, and making its way into this stranger’s awaiting mouth.

You shut up as something, a familiar blur, came crashing against Eric, sending his form flying off from your own, the intruder and him ending up on the floor. To cover up and show some surprised decency, you pulled the sheet upon yourself, stretching your red printed neck to view the scene below.

Eric was recomposing himself, shooting immortal daggers towards the reckless, who was... “Damon?” Seeing him once more was inevitable, but the scene of it was a dread of yours. And here he was, in your bedroom, the circumstances with much difference than from what they used to be.

At the sound of his name, both the strapping vampires turned towards you with fixed frowns, both worn for their own reasonable purposes. Damon was studying you, and understanding the scene, now seeing that you had been open to the removal of your blood, and this stranger was with you in some kind of way that he was not a fan of.

And Eric’s, well, it was a combined factor of fury, that was directed at the raven haired and uninvited visitor, and confusion, as he attempted to put together pieces of the puzzle that he was missing. He presumed correctly that the two of you had previously known each other, and thus, his intrusion could be explained, or so he hoped.

There was a longing wrenching in his dead gut, that there was something more than a friendship between you and this Damon. He was far too well adversed with the tell of history, that the looks the pair of you were silently exchanging were anything but friendly.

From the get go, there was a smouldering charm that reflected out of Damon’s blue eyes, and your own showed a conflict of interests. But nevertheless, you straightened your back up against the headboard of the bed, and questioned him. “What are you doing here?”

The interrogative underlining to your voice stung like a bee, but the younger of the two vampires refrained from wincing. That would only show a weakness towards the new vamp in town, and that was not the aim of his game.

“Bonnie told me that you were back.” He thought it would be a simple and trouble free resolution, however, the other immortal presence in the room now told him otherwise. “And I thought this guy here was going to drain you dry? What’d you expect me to do, let some stranger kill you before I even have a chance to see you?!”

A prominent eye roll swayed from your foresight, and you cast a look to the other guy, as though you were talking silently with the newcomer. “He’s not a stranger, he’s my boyfriend.”

“Eric Northman.” He extended his hand frankly to your previous partner, attempting to draw a hateful truce between them. But instead, Damon whence he took the offer, attempted to squeeze the bejesus out of ‘Eric’s’ hand, which only ended in the result of his own bones being crushed.

That much informed him that this Northman was older, and that information alone served as a factual repercussion of him in turn being more powerful. This vampire wasn’t one to mess with, but who knew what he would do, after all, he was Damon Salvatore.

“Damon Salvatore.” He begrudgingly spoke through his clenched teeth, taking his broken and healing back into the safety of his side. “So, the boyfriend. Y/n, I thought you were done with relationships, more specifically, with vampires.”

“You sound like Caroline, bitching about my relationship choices. And the only sense that she spoke to me was to get out of this town and-“

“Shag another one of me.” He quirked his brow, and Eric breathed heavily. One thing he had picked up on, was that he didn’t like the way that this vampire was speaking to you. He was making digs, and making contradictions to all of your past statements. “I believe you even said that I would be the last one, and that isn’t in the same context. You wanted to spend forever with me y/n, not someone like this.”

“Listen here.” Eric hissed, prowling half naked towards Damon, his fangs slipping out from beneath his top lip. “I can see what’s happening here, you want her back. But it appears that she has moved on, so that is something that you’re going to have to suck up.”

“Suck up.” Damon childishly snorted, finding the pun hilarious in his state of mixed delirium. He felt everything, a sense of urgency to win you back, and great pain that was sinking into his age old skeleton. “I feel, and it sucks. But it’s fine, completely fine.” He waved his hand off, staring past the slim brute and finding a painful solace in staring at you. “No, he’s allowed to suck your blood, and what, you suck his dick in return?”

A shove sent him flying into the furthest wall, Eric holding him against it. “She’s mine.” It was a common description of a companionship between human and vampire. He had thought Sookie and Bill’s bond had been a foolish one, however, he met you, and his whole perception changed.

There was something about the collaboration of weakness and strength that worked so perfectly together. It was a true love, in rare occurrences . But the sheriff could feel that the myth was blooming in his own consideration. And he would not allow a young (in comparison to him), selfish specimen of his kind, ruin his chance at keeping that peace.

“She’ll never let you turn her.” Damon gulped, trying to look over the giant’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of you, whom was avidly watching the scene. “If you want forever with her, it will only last a minute, and it’ll kill you when she goes, because if you really love her, then I know it would to me too. She deserves to see the world in all her short life, to be treated like a queen, because she is one.”

Damon gulped, feeling guilty, knowing that as much as he wanted to give you that all, he couldn’t. He would not leave Mystic Falls, and that was what had ended your run in the end. His first priority, as admirable as that was, was to always shadow Stefan, and look out for his little brother.

But that gave him no life, which was exactly what you wanted with him. It didn’t matter if you were to one day become pruned and shrunken, the moment that you lived in was all you wanted. There were memorable tears held in your eyes, but you refused to allow a single one slip.

“Y/n has already agreed that one day, she will go through the change, for me.” Biting your lip, you could only imagine the dispersed appearance that struck Damon’s face. He had wanted forever with you, and instead, you had given it to someone else.

Slinking out from the shirtless man’s grip, Damon cautiously pushed Eric’s hands off him, walking to the window, and casting you a cold look. “I hope you enjoy forever y/n.”

And with that, he was gone in the night, presumably fleeing to annoy Matt until he drank half the bar. And thus, he was the one this time that departed instead, abandoning you, and leaving you in Eric’s claim.

[sukiglycerin]

the scrapbook documenting denki kaminari and his experiences with love, subtlety, and volumes of manga || denki kaminari.

* pairing: denki kaminari x oblivious!reader (gender neutral!)

* genre: fluff, normal conflict(??) but not much, uni!au, friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots to lovers

* words: 4.5k

* warnings: brief scenario of intoxication, mentions of maidgirls (one of them has a gun because mey-rin from kuroshitsuji), reader has past bad experiences with relationships, bakusquad is supportive af, reader is oblivious (duh), i love sero, side kiribaku

* original request: Can you do a fluff Denki crushing on the reader but the reader is really oblivious to him just badly flirting and bakusquad gets annoyed and helps them get together 😳

* a/n: this turned out much longer than expected, but i’m satisfied with the turn-out! i call this a “scrapbook” because it’s like a collection of short moments. i’m experimenting with this writing style, so i hope you enjoy it! i started writing reader by basing them off of this one pretty girl i know (and very much like), but then reader started morphing into me projecting myself and oh boy. yeah. fun fact: i actually own the kuroshitsuji manga volume with the maidgirl on the cover (volume 22).

“please don’t like me,” is the first thing you say to denki kaminari. you don’t know who he is, though, when you say these words. all you know is that he’s presumably a college student like you and that he’s quite extroverted. behind him stand three of his friends giggling to themselves. it’s apparent they’re playing a practical joke. 

the first thing the blond boy said to you was, “hey, you’re cute, i like you.” that was thirty seconds ago, after you’d put your manga down when you noticed his friends pushing him towards you.

he cracks a grin upon your response. “alright.” he puts his hands up in mock surrender. “the point still stands - you’re cute.” his eyes fall to the manga you set down. “hey- is that detective conan?”

it’s an old, worn copy of detective conan’s first volume.

“oh, yeah,” you reply.

“can i see it?” he asks. you nod.

he picks up the book, surprisingly gentle with its fading corners and creased spine. 

"i used to read the series all the time," he says quietly, reliving a memory in his eyes. "i always tried to solve the crime before conan." 

you're not sure what to answer, but he introduces himself before you can.

"i'm kaminari, by the way." he slips a piece of paper in your manga, setting the book down on your table. "text me."

“please don’t fall in love with me,” is the first thing you whisper to denki kaminari, hushed under the sheets in mina’s room. you're surprised he can hear you over the quiet murmurings of a ghibli movie playing on the tv; you're surprised he's awake.

“okay,” and it’s the first promise he’s ever broken, voice all low and hoarse from the after-effects of prolonged silence. 

(maybe he should've feigned sleep, he later thinks, as his heart stupidly falls and crashes clumsily into love. maybe he shouldn't have said anything at all.)

he turns onto his back, staring at the ceiling. it's dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars mina and sero had impulsively hung up one friday evening instead of studying. there's a couple moons, too, which bakugou had frowned upon, stating, "where are we, jupiter? there's only one moon orbiting earth." kirishima laughed. 

from the sound of shuffling sheets and a quick glance next to him, denki can tell you're now laying on your back, too. he almost makes a comment about you copying him. he stares at the faux stars overhead, not tired enough to close his eyes and allow sleep it's victory for the night. there's not much to do while awake at the moment other than strain his ear to decipher to the tv's audio. his throat feels dry, but he's not motivated enough to sit up to grab a water bottle. anyway, he supposes you and he are staring at the same sky, in a cheesy way. he remembers reading something like that in a book.

he kills the time and his aching mind by finding stupid constellations in the stick-on stars. there's a slightly distorted dipper of some sort, and a heart. there's a lot of squares. there's a shape he passes off as orion, but he knows anyone a tad more into astronomy than him would gasp at the abstract shape and completely dismiss its resemblance to orion. 

eventually, your breathing slows to a rhythmic pace beside him. the logical part of his mind tells him to sleep now that you, too, are sleeping. he doesn't know why he waited for you to be asleep first. one pentagon constellation later, kaminari allows sleep's gaze to wash over and envelope him. the ghibli movie is still playing.

it seems that his friends have beat him, somehow, to the conclusion that denki kaminari has a bit of a crush on you. it's childish, really. he shouldn't like you, recalling your first words to him. they struck you apart from other people he'd met. back then, though, he never seriously thought about you like that. sure, you were conventionally attractive (enough for him to approach you to give you his number), but it was all in good fun. that's what you were, too, for the longest time: good fun and a friend.

until one day, glances lingered for too long while you weren't looking. one day, kaminari's jokes became more and more aimed for you, to hear your laughter in his ears. one day, kaminari realizes he has your usual coffee and bubble tea order memorized, when he can barely remember his own.

he pretends all of it is completely normal, but mina assures him differently. as does bakugou, which is strange, because he's usually not wrapped up in other people's affairs (when voicing this to the blond, he responded, "it's hard not to notice because you're too damn obvious"). it's kind of hard to ignore when bakugou calls it obvious (he's literally had kirishima pining over him since day one with no notice).

kaminari really does try to ignore the bubbling feeling rising at the bottom of his heart. he really does, but you keep on shaking and shaking his poor heart until it's all fizzy like a bottle of soda. he's weak, okay? one day, he’ll explode.

his friends are all urging him to confess to you already, but he cannot work up the nerve to do so. instead, kaminari drops you obvious hints that he likes you. he doesn't know whether you're completely oblivious to them or if you're deliberately ignoring them.

he's been so painfully obvious, he swears.

he's practically able to write a list of hints he's dropped. he's fairly confident he could publish it as an advice book with the title "how to tell your crush you like them without saying 'i like you.'" by this point, he's the king of obvious subtlety. 

the list would go something like this, in no particular order:

pick-up lines

"did it hurt, when you fell-" you were silent, "-from the vending machine? because you're a snack." 

silence. absolute radio silence. he was extremely tempted to run away from the sheer awkwardness between the two of you. as he turned to leave and freak out in private, he heard you mumble a belated "thanks," which made everything worth it.

he still left to freak out, though (and plan his next pick-up line to tell you).

manga references

"hey, y/n," kaminari had said one day, after a particular burst of confidence. you hadn't looked up from your book.

"if i were shinichi from detective conan, you'd be ran," he'd said, referencing the main love interests from the manga. "or maybe vice versa. you are the smart one in this relationship..."

you didn't bat an eye. "they never get together, though? shinichi and ran."

"they- they don't?!" he'd sputtered indignantly. he definitely needed to read up his detective conan lore. "but they both like each other?"

"true," you'd replied in typical you fashion, neither letting on whether you did like him or not. well, hey, kaminari had thought. you didn't deny it. progress.

hand size comparison (which was, in reality, just an excuse to kind of hold your hand)

kaminari had smoothly been planning this for weeks (which, according to sero, was a little sad). he'd bring up the topic of hands one day in your daily conversations, then nonchalantly slip a "oh, y/n, let's do a hand size comparison!" he high-fived himself mentally upon the formulation of this genius plan - you'd definitely fall for him (or at least, realize his feelings for you - this state of teetering between do they like me or do they not like me frustrated him for months on end). the perfect opportunity presented itself one day as the two of you lounged in mina’s room (which, at this point, had become you and your friends’ hangout spot) studying. 

“wow, you type fast,” kaminari remarked as he pretended to innocently look up from the “work” (changing his laptop wallpaper for the tenth time that day) he was doing. you were focused on your work, sitting on mina’s bed with your laptop propped up by a pillow on your lap. you’d barely registered his words, judging by the way your eyebrows scrunched and how you looked up at him after a slow beat. 

“oh, uh, thanks,” you replied. “i’m just copying some text down. i don’t usually type this fas…” you trailed off, eyes widening as you watched kaminari scooching next to you on the bed. he put his hand next to yours, whose fingers still ghosted the keys of your keyboard.

“look,” he said softly, bringing your hands up to eye level. “hand size comparison.” it was breathed out belatedly, but your crystalline eyes didn’t leave his. he started to curve his fingers in between yours, holding your hand so tenderly. he really, really didn’t want to let go. “we fit.” it was a whisper he wasn’t sure you could hear - did he want you to hear it? “like… a puzzle,” he added awkwardly.

you nodded, dazed, slowly bending your fingers over his. he rocked your clasped hands side to side, a fond feeling creeping through his limbs. it was warm and tingly - and maybe it was contagious. could you feel it too, buzzing past his fingertips to you?

precisely three minutes passed before kaminari’s arm started to ache. he didn’t catch your disappointed expression when he let go of your hand, but he did catch the smile that emerged when he held your hand as the sides of your fingers nudged the bed. you didn’t get much work done after that, sitting in silence with him. 

brushing your hand in a popcorn bucket

movie nights on fridays were commonplace at mina’s. the plan, this time, was created by kirishima, who said that it was manly with just the right amount of romantic. kaminari hoped so. the movie settled on was some romance flick, as decided by mina, kirishima, and sero’s pleading with a very begrudging bakugou.

he can’t remember much of the movie. what he can remember, however, is the very close presence of you next to him as the two of you shared a popcorn bucket (courtesy of sero’s very romantic ideas). your hands brushed a (purposeful, on kaminari’s end) dozen times throughout the film. the last couple were accidents. on the first time, though, kaminari watched with satisfaction from his peripheral view as you looked from him to the popcorn that obscured the place where your hands made contact. he was very satisfied by the time the movie ended. 

truth or drink (which just ended up with you and he both getting very, very drunk)

you didn’t particularly enjoy the taste of sake, but that night was an exception. according to your drunken explanation, you had a very rough day. your exam, first and foremost, did not go particularly well (“who cares about freud!?” you blurted. “i dooooon’t!”). kaminari didn’t have the heart to ask who this freud was. then, one of your close friends confessed to you (which almost made kaminari’s heart stop, when you first recounted it to him), and you had to turn them down. you adamantly refused any sort of relationship, you told kaminari. (“nuh uh,” you shook your head. “they’re not good.”) it was surprising to him that you opened up that night. your first couple drinks left you quieter than usual - which was scary, because kaminari was practically having a conversation with himself then. a couple more drinks loosened your tongue, though. 

“there’s someone i like.” you jabbed a finger at him. “but i’m not supposed to saaaay… and it’s scaaary,” you slurred.

“ohh?” kaminari asked, more focused on the burn in the back of his throat. “whooo is it?”

you looked at your arm outstretched to him, and the pieces fell into place slower than they should’ve. he first looked around, just in case he was covering the person you were really pointing to (of course, you and him were the only ones there).

“this guy?" he asked, flabbergasted and pointing to himself. "him?!"

you nodded solemnly. "but i don't like dating," you said stubbornly. "love is dead!" you announced, flopping on the carpet. 

kaminari watched the heaving of your breaths as you lay on the ground, and strained his ears to hear your soft, soberish murmuring.

"i really like you, denki kaminari."

a dopish grin formed itself on his face. "i really like you too, y/n." 

kaminari then promptly blacked out, but not before hearing you running to the bathroom to throw up.

as of now, he can’t recall anything he or you said that night. on the contrary, he can vividly remember the ringing in his head and the sickly feeling that overtook him the next morning.

"you two are so frustrating!" mina declares over her sweetened iced tea. she points at kaminari, then to you standing with sero in the distance. you’re animatedly talking about some painting (“it’s renoir!” you mooned when you first saw it) while he and the rest of the group sit on a nearby bench. 

kaminari puts his hands up. “don’t look at me - i tried my best!”

“yeah, sure,” mina dismisses. “and i’m the queen of england.”

“i mean, they already told me not to like them!” kaminari counters. “what am i supposed to do about that?”

“shoot your shot!” mina urges. “c’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? …wait, don’t answer that.”

“yeah, kaminari, bro,” kirishima puts his elbow on kaminari’s shoulder. “flirt a little bit more.”

“that’s all you two seem to do,” bakugou grumbles from the other side of kirishima.

“you just need a little push,” mina says. kaminari isn’t sure he likes mina’s definition of push.

“i think i’m g-”

“hey, sero, come here!” mina calls to sero in the distance, earning her a couple dirty glances from others in the gallery. “kaminari wants to look at the painting with y/n.”

oh, god, kaminari groans internally. sero, already walking toward the bench, flashes a knowing grin toward him. 

“go get ‘em, champ.” sero pats kaminari on the back as the blond stands up, emitting a low, audible groan. 

the four on the bench watch as your eyes light up at the approaching kaminari, who’s sheepishly scratching his neck. he says something - then you start again, rambling something about “impressionism” then “salon.” mina watches with clasped, anticipating hands; kirishima’s hand accidentally brushes bakugou’s, who’s holding a juice box and watching the two of you; sero simply smiles with knowledge that the others are unaware of.

“well, what do you think?” you finally ask kaminari, gesturing to the painting. 

“uhh,” kaminari says. he was too busy staring at your face - the twinkle in your eyes, the curve of your lips - to pay attention to any of what you’d said. something about impressing and fleeting moments. he looks at the person depicted in the composition, then back to you. he remembers kirishima’s words - flirt a little bit more. it couldn’t hurt, could it?

“i think it’s pretty,” he leans into you, murmuring so he can be sure no one but you and he hears his words, “but it’s definitely not as pretty as you.”

you look down at yourself; then, for whatever reason, to sero. kaminari looks at sero, too, who’s wearing this stupid smile that sets unease in kaminari’s chest. he gives you two big thumbs-up. he’s so confused by sero’s behavior that he barely registers the light sensation of something on his cheek - a kiss. he looks at you, who’s looking away, then to the bench, where his friends are cheering despite the disapproving looks from those around them. he touches his cheek out of disbelief. light swells in his chest - it’s warm, so warm - but your aloof voice brings him back to reality (which really, isn’t much different from a dream).

“kaminari, you’re very red right now.”

“the two of you,” mina exclaims with the two of her hands clasped together in excitement over skype, “should go to a manga cafe!”

kaminari blinks. “as a date?”

“i wasn’t thinking about it like that.” mina nudges him, a sly smile creeping across her lips. “but hey, that works too. i mean, they did kiss y-”

kaminari cuts the pink-haired girl off before she can finish. “is that something… they’d want to do?”

“mmm…. probably,” mina says. “they were reading manga when you first met them right?”

he can vividly remember the somewhat tattered volume of conan, the detective turned little boy who must solve crime while hiding his own identity. really, the wear was only on the soft cover, nudged and peeling on the corners with faded text splayed on the spine. the pages were in crisp condition, he’d noted one day as he (totally, completely discreetly) watched you read the copy again. the bookshelf in your dorm and the stack of books on your desk is littered with different mangas, ranging from the old classics (astroboy) to some newer works (your lie in april). he only remembers this fact because he really, really wants to borrow a copy of black butler (yes, it’s the one with the maid on it. she looks really hot with a gun, okay?). all your manga are well-taken care of, cared for diligently as if each book has a piece of your heart in it. besides, you rarely lend out any (sero once asked to borrow jujutsu kaisen and you very, very reluctantly handed it to him), so he doubts you’d trust him with it.

“hang on, lemme ask sero if they’d be interested in a manga cafe,” mina says, pulling out her phone. “they’ve been close lately,” she mumbles as she types out a quick text to him, a quiet ping letting kaminari know that she’s sent it.

after a pause, mina excitedly reads sero’s reply: “yeah, probably.”

well, that was a definitive answer. 

“there’s one nearby here,” mina offers. “hagakure told me good things about it, and she has a knack for finding the best spots in town. i’ll send you the address.”

“you think they’d like it?” kaminari says in an atypical bout of self-consciousness.

“of course,” mina replies instantly. “don’t you see how they look at you?”

usagi manga kissa makes kaminari cringe. it’s not the bunny-themed logo on the top of the building, nor is it the wide assortment of manga lining the walls, nor is it the cozy, soft seats nuzzled in the nooks and crannies of the café. it’s not even the life-sized cardboard cut-outs of various anime maid girls (he actually particularly really likes that detail). it’s the name itself. usagi is fine - kaminari likes bunnies as much as the next guy. manga is fine, too - he wouldn’t be here if not for the manga. the kissa makes him cringe for the most immature of reasons, like a five year old just learning basic english vocabulary. kissa innocently shortens the word kissaten, for cafeteria, but suspiciously sounds like the english word kiss. he does not want to think about kissing as he walks into the café with you, and especially not when the lady at the counter asks if you want a couples’ discount (you say yes, solely because it’s cheaper). 

he does not want to think about kissing as he walks next to you, browsing the manga selection and passing the shoujo section that boasts illustrations of happy couples and romantic imagery. he doesn’t want to think about kissing as the two of you walk to a “couple’s” room, you rambling about the plot of the manga you chose and him with some shounen volleyball manga in his hand. kissing is the worst thing to think about as your knee touches his in the cramped apparent two-person room. he is not thinking about kissing at all when you offer him your water bottle, half full, and he’s definitely not thinking about indirect kissing or anything when he takes a sip. that would be crazy. 

fortunate for him, his manga is full of not-kissing, so he’s able to somewhat enjoy it without his mind bombarding him with the fact that your face is less than a metre away. as he finishes up the volume, he realizes how much of a middle school student he feels like. 

“y/n,” he looks up to you and says. you’re watching an old episode of neon genesis evangelion on the computer provided in the room, the manga you were reading sitting on the table beside the keyboard. 

“yeah?” you respond and pause the anime. out of his peripherals, he can see you turn to look at him. he stares at the wall ahead of him, lacking the confidence to face you head-on. 

“remember when we first met?” he reminisces. 

“the cafe?” you say. “yeah.”

“if… i can ask,” he musters, “why did you say what you did then?”

you pause, taken aback. “i… i don’t know.”

“because,” kaminari starts, and you flinch, “i like you. a-and i know you said not to-”

a ghost has crossed your face. your mouth is agape, as if you suspected his feelings but never thought he’d verbalize them. he wonders what the kiss was about. 

“i’m,” you gulp, breath stuttering, “i’m sorry.”

kaminari lied. five days later of zero contact with you, he realizes he’s in deep. he doesn’t like you - he’s in love with you. they say distance makes the heart grow fonder, and here he is, sifting through memories he had with you like they’re books. he should probably be studying instead of lying spread eagle on his bed, thinking of you. he can recall a promise made one night and the moment it was broken; he can remember the plastic stars he studied that night, falsely shining and lighting hope within him. he can remember dozens of constellations, half of which were geometric shapes, that he fell asleep to with you at his side. his heart aches, alighting a dull burn within him like a protostar barely able to burn hydrogen. 

there’s a polite knock at his door, so he assumes it to be either kirishima or sero. mina always enters unannounced and bakugou is far too brash to knock softly. slowly - almost reluctantly - he sits up in bed, standing up and making his way to the door. he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, telling him that his hair is an absolute mess and in no way presentable. he figures that either kirishima or sero will comment about it, but he never needed to impress them in the first place. turning the knob and opening the door, he’s expecting either of his friends, maybe here to nag him or ask him to come and study or say “hey, why haven’t you spammed the group chat with memes in a while? i missed them.”

he definitely isn’t expecting you, face pulled into a worried expression and lips held in a thin, anticipating line before you meet his eyes. you’re pouring out a waterfall of apologies at a thousand words per second as soon as he opens the door, letting yourself in and hardly taking notice of his bird’s nest hair. he guides you to the couch, attempting to interject and ask you to slow down, but he finds that it sounds rude at any given moment. you’re sitting on the couch, lamentations and explanations spilling from your lips as you grip the plush material of the cushion you sit on, when you finally pause to take a breath. kaminari uses this opportunity to interrupt you.

“woah, woah, woah.” he hesitantly puts a hand on your shoulder. “can you back up?”

“oh, yeah,” you start to move back in your seat and kaminari stifles a laugh.

“no, can you start your story from the beginning?” he asks. “take your time, i’m not going anywhere.”

“i’m really, really sorry about what happened the other day,” you apologize, then look at him finally and ogle his hair. “i got… scared,” you admit earnestly. before he can make any question of it, you continue, “i like you too, see. and i never really, seriously acted on it - i didn’t want to. so when you did the inevitable and confessed… it scared me. the truth is… i’m not the best at romance or relationships. i don’t want to put anyone through that, again.” your voice wavers but finishes strong as you look kaminari in the eyes.

“that?” he asks. he’s afraid he’s crossed a line, but you reply all the same.

“i was in a relationship, once. i wasn’t… i wasn’t good enough. i didn’t do the things that people in a relationship are supposed to do, i guess.” you fiddle with the fabric of the couch, looking down at your fingers. your voice gives away the vulnerability of the topic, wrapped in a stiff disconnection; you’ve distanced yourself from it, probably once too familiar with the feelings you speak of.

“it’s okay,” kaminari says, almost too quickly. he slows himself down. “that’s… completely fine,” he admits truthfully. “we can go slow. i… i can wait.”

“can you?” you look up at him, hope shining your eyes. it dims quickly before you say, “you don’t have to. i don’t want to limit you…”

“the only person i want is you,” he reassures you, hesitantly taking your hand in his. “you’re not…” he struggles for words, “...limiting me if i don’t have eyes for anyone else.”

“are you sure?” it’s an almost inaudible whisper, clutching your hopes in three words that are held together by thin threads. 

“i’ve never been more sure,” kaminari replies confidently, giving your hand an encouraging squeeze.

“okay,” you breathe out, relief tingeing your speech. “i… want to be with you.”

it takes everything in kaminari not to kiss you right there. 

“oh, by the way-” you say, standing up from the couch and leaving kaminari to sit alone, “did you still want to borrow that copy of black butler?”

“the one with the maid who has a gun?” kaminari asks, eyes wide. how did you know about that?

“yeah. you kept staring at it before, so i assumed…”

“yeah. yeah, no, yeah, that’d be really great. amazing, actually. wonderful. stupendous-” kaminari shuts himself up before he can ramble on longer. 

“okay, give me a second,” you respond, smiling, and exit to the hallway to retrieve the manga. 

you return with the volume in hand, placing it in kaminari’s hands. 

“thanks,” he says as he glides his thumb over the glossy cover and mint condition. it’s heavier than kaminari thought, and it feels like the weight of a heart. he’ll be sure to take extra care of it, holding it with ginger fingers and a sweet, sweet feeling in his chest.

[xgoldentigerlilyx]

Here I am, another fan drabble for @themetaphorgirl and her AU Patron Saints of Lost Causes! This is where you can find all of the Information about this wonderful story!

I thought I could stop myself after Hypochondriac and Saved for a Rainy Day, but i had another cute idea and wanted to bring it to life. Thanks to Caitlin for letting me write this, and it may not be as perfect as her fantastic writing but I love it! Enjoy!

(I may have also gotten a bit carried away)

Penelope’s Plan

Word count: 2.3k

Rainy day crafts

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“My, Chocolate Thunder! I’ve never been in your room before! Let me guess, you’ve got a few football posters, and at least one sock on your bed right now?” Penelopeasked Derek, her left arm linked through his and her right arm tapping her chin inquisitively with a playful smile.

“Spencer Reid! You’re room!” Penelope exclaimed, dropping Derek’s arm and walking slowly to Spencer’s bookshelf, and looked around the barren walls and shelves of his side of the room. Derek went to stop her from speaking, knowing from the look on Spencer's face that he didn’t want anymore pity, especially one of the girls. Before Derek could stop her from the usual probing questions he got like ‘Where’s all of your things,’ or ‘You can’t even afford a proper blanket?’, she shushed Derek. “We need to decorate in here, stat! Tell me my dear boy genius, your favourite shows, books, colours, pets, everything!”

Once Penelope was satisfied with Spencer's answers, she flipped her new unicorn notebook shut and stuffed it into her small unicorn purse hanging by her side. “Alright kiddo, go back to reading your book. What do you even have enough time to read, anyways?” She asked curiously, the worn cover not providing her much insight.

Spencer picked to book back up, trying to find his previous page. “It’s War and Peace, I finally found it in its original Russian!” He smiled, proud of being able to find it in the library without Alex’s help.When Penelope nodded with a look of shock on her face, he presumed she had no interest if he started to explain it to her. So he turned his full attention back to the books, with the wonder of what she would be doing with this new found knowledge of him.

When Derek was done with his laundry, Penelope waved quickly to a zoned in Spencer and hastily pulled Derek out of the shared room, slamming the door behind her and continued to drag him to the library. Once sat down at a secluded corner, Penelope finally decided to answer Derek’s questions. “We need to make Spencer some crafts to decorate his side of the room. Now, throw me some ideas.” Penelope smiled, with her notebook out once more and her pen at the ready to start a brand new list. Derek raised a brow silently. Penelope groaned. “Come on. His room needs to be more Spencer! It looks like a hotel room on his side. It needs to be more like him if he’s going to be there all year!” She rambled her hands waving through the air as she talked.

“Alright, alright. Well, he likes books so maybe something to do with like, book pages? I don’t know. You should ask everyone else. And don’t give me that glare, baby girl! I’m just saying someone else may be a bit more insightful on how to help. My bet is on Alex.” Penelope’s glare dissolved, as she got the idea to go ask everyone in their little friend group. She stood from her chair, returned her notebook to her bag, and set off on her mission.

------------

She wandered for a bit, looking at all of their normal spots to find their friends. It was, afterall, a Sunday. Her first location, the amphitheater, was where she found Hotch and Emily with large textbooks open on their laps and stationary surrounding them. “Hello, my fine furry friends! I come seeking knowledge from all of my peers and hope you both can contribute!” The pair of juniors shared a nervous glance, before setting their textbooks aside for a moment.

“What’s up Pen?” Emily asked, and Penelope immediately smiled and retrieved her trusty notepad and sparkly pink pen.

She flipped the cover open while she spoke. “I need help finding ways to decorate Spencer's room. Poor thing doesn’t have a poster, decal, or even a picture that represents himself. So, and ideas?” She questioned, hopefully glancing between the two. They thought for a moment before sharing their answers.

“Well, you could make him one of those calendars with a new word a day or something.” Emily shrugged, thinking of the things Spencer likes.

“You can just ask him what he wants.” Aaron nodded, eyes drifting back to his books. Emily gave him a slight shove. “You know the kid, he doesn’t ask for anything. He would just deny that he needed anything.” She retorted, thinking back to the many times he had done that very thing.

Penelope nodded, and scribbled the viable suggestion next to Emily’s name, and added an ‘N/A’ to where Hotch’s name was listed. “Alright, off to the next friends! Thank you my favourite band of heroes!” Penelope thanked, and turned out of the amphitheater and back to the main campus.

“We need to get her drug tested.” Hotch announced to Emily.

-------------------------------------------------

Out in the soccer field is where she went next, and Penelope found JJ running drills alone while Blake and Rossi sat on the bleachers, talking and occasionally glancing over to a determined looking JJ. When they saw Penelope approaching, they sat up straight. When she reached them, she sat in front of them on a cold seat. “JJ! Sorry to interrupt Jayje, but this is important!” Penelope yelled to her blonde friend who grabbed a battered pink water bottle from beside her duffle bag and made her way over to the bleachers huffing and puffing. Penelope looked over to James and David with a worried expression. “Two hours,” James clarified to an exasperated Penelope, “And she only took a break when we asked her to, which was around an hour ago.” He explained, and hushed as JJ reached them.

She crashed into the empty seat beside Penelope and took another long drink. “What’s wrong? Is everything ok?” She questioned, her breathing returning back to normal and an expression of concern overtook the exhaustion. Penelope laughed.

“Of course, Jayje. Well, mostly.” Penelope turned her attention to all of them as one and continued. “I only just saw the dorm room of Dere-Bear and our little genius, and the lack of any flair from Spencer’s side of the room made me a new type of sorrow. So! I’m going from friend to friend looking for ideas to make for his room to add a little flair of him to his room!” She explained, a big grin on her face.

“You could make him one of those folded book sculptures?” JJ threw out, wiping some sweat off of her forehead.

“Hand drawing him a poster of a band he likes would be something he’d like, right?” James asked, looking to David who was nodding.

David thought for a moment while Penelope hastily wrote down the ideas, her pink pen scratching and scrawling on the page. “I’m sure the kid will like anything you do for him. Not like he has anyone in his life to make gifts like you do, Garcia.” David shrugged.

Penelope finished her quick note taking and once more closed and put away her notebook. She smiled and said, “Thanks for the help guys! I’ll keep you in the loop!”. She skipped her way off the soccer field, and JJ returned to the soccer field to continue her practice.

-------------------------------------------------

Alex sat in the library, reading a book and sneakily snacking on some of the pop-tarts she kept hidden in her desk. She heard the faint and growing sound of footsteps, so she closed the drawer with the secret snacks and went back to reading her book as normal. The doors opened, and Penelope’s eyes swept the library before her eyes found Alex at the main desk. Once she had her eyes set on her target, she walked with determination to a now amused looking Alex. She rested her elbow on a pile of old books waiting to be organized and announced, “Alex! Just the gal I was looking for!”.

Alex set her book down, noting the page as she did so. “What do you need, Garcia?” She asked, sitting back in the comfortable office chair.

“Well, our dear Baby Genius has no evidence of him even living in his room, and we need to spice it up a bit!” Penelope spoke enthusiastically and quickly of her grand idea once more to the person she thought to be the most helpful.

Alex stopped to think for a moment, processing Penelope’s words. “So you want my help?” She asked curiously, her mind already thinking of some small ideas.

Penelope nodded with a grin, and grabbed her trusted notebook and sparkly pen, and answered Alex’s question. “Well, of course! I do have some other ideas as well from the rest of our squad, but I bet you’ll have one really great idea! So, bounce some ideas!” she rambled on.

Alex had many ideas, but then the right one hit her. She smiled at Penelope and sat up. “I think I’ve got the perfect idea.”

-------------------------------------------------

That saturday was perfect for Penelope's plan, as it was a rainy and quiet day. She had been plotting since Tuesday on her master plan. She made them all a group chat. And asked who wanted to help her with some arts and crafts. She got a yes from all but David and Hotch (it isn’t that they didn’t want to help, it’s just that they insisted they were terrible at crafts) so she had a separate mission for them; to distract Spencer.

On that rainy Saturday morning, the plan was going perfectly. David and Hotch made up a story about how they needed to run into town to the bookstore for some book Hotch needed, and asked if anyone would like to join them. Spencer, being his book loving self, instantly agreed while everyone politely turned them down all with their own excuses.

“Oh, I’ll leave the books to Pretty Boy.’

“I have to finish that math assignment with JJ.”

“I would love to, but I picked up an extra library shift.”

So they set off into the town, and made sure to let Spencer ramble his heart out. And they took him out for ice cream just so the crafters had enough time to get everything done.

Meanwhile, everyone got started on their projects. Penelope had an extensive, almost obsessive collection of craft supplies, and some old books free to mutilate if anyone needed them. They all got their hands working, and by the end of their rainy day craft session, everyone was covered in purple glitter from when Derek dropped the glitter shaker in front of the hair dryer being used to dry some paint. But alas, they all had completed their gifts and now just had to place them for when the boys got back from their distraction trip.

-------------------------------------------------

Spencer opened the door to his dorm room, clutching an armful of books and an empty bowl with some melted ice cream remainaints. “Derek! You wouldn’t BELIEVE how many books are in the store just beside the craft shop! David let me get so-” He cut himself off as he went to dump his books on his bed.

The first thing he noticed was the cluster of people in his small room. Penelope with Derek on his respective bed, JJ and Emily on Spencer's bed, and Alex standing beside his priorly barren wall. “Woah…” He mumbled to himself, looking to his new decorations. A miniature replica of the TARDIS made of popsicle sticks and adorned with blue glitter sat on his bedside table. A small piece of paper with a purple glittery book leaned against the TARDIS. A homemade Lerner&Lowe poster was taped to his headboard, and on his bookshelf was a book flipped with the spine facing in. But instead of regular pages, they were folded (slightly crooked) to look like the Death Star. And the thing that took up the most space was a tree made from construction paper taped on the wall. But on each branch there was a name of someone in their friend group, a short message, and a picture of them. The top of the tree had the words ‘Our Family’.

Spencer’s eyes were watering as he finished taking all of it in. Dave and Aaron stood behind him, resting on the sides of the doorframe and watching like everyone else was. He sniffled, and wiped his eyes quickly. He was overwhelmed, but in the best way. After taking a moment to collect himself from the shock and awe, everyone stayed in their room for the rest of the day until supper, just hanging out before they had to regroup in the cafeteria for supper.

Penelope was glad her plan had the desired effect, and everyone was content with seeing Spencer happy.

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[silver-lily-louise]

My Darling, Believe Me (For Me, there is No-One but You)

- A Shadowhunters fanfic

Summary: ‘Ah, my beautiful Alexander. The brightest star in all my skies, the only angel I’ve ever known to walk the earth... The love of my life.’  Magnus gets a lil’ tipsy, and thinks it very important that Alec knows how special he is. (Title is from Aretha Franklin’s ‘I Say a Little Prayer’.)

Read it on AO3, or below!

~oOo~

In the three-and-a-bit years they’ve been together, Alec can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Magnus visibly tipsy. Warlocks are, apparently, natural heavyweights in that department, and Magnus enjoys alcohol regularly enough that his own tolerance is even higher.

But tonight is a special occasion. They had decided to host a party to celebrate their anniversary, mostly as an excuse to see some of the friends and loved ones they’ve been a little out of touch with ever since the move to Alicante. And after a trying week – some sort of magical disturbance in the Seelie realm had caused a mild knock-on effect on all local magics, and therefore a not-so-mild headache for the local High Warlock – Magnus had waited until all the guests were comfortable, and then swept Dot, Meliorn, Maryse, Isabelle and Maia onto the balcony with him. ‘Alexander,’ he called, ‘would you hold the fort for a while? We’ll be back once we’re all a little less sober.’ Isabelle whooped, and Dot blew Alec a kiss as they all disappeared outside.

The party is over now, the guests either travelling home or retired to the spare bedrooms. Although Alec has seen his husband throughout the evening, it’s on the balcony again that he finds him – enjoying the view, or possibly letting the night air cool the alcohol in his blood. Alec suspects it’s a combination of both.

The door swings shut behind him, and Magnus looks around at the quiet click, his face lighting up as Alec wanders over to join him. ‘Ah, my beautiful Alexander. The brightest star in all my skies, the only angel I’ve ever known to walk the earth.’ He steps forward, looping his arms around Alec’s neck. ‘The love of my life.’ Alec rolls his eyes, but he smiles fondly, his hands coming up to rest on Magnus’ hips. ‘Okay, come on. Let’s get some water in you, and then go to bed.’ But Magnus doesn’t put up the expected protest that he’s fine, he doesn’t need any help handling his drink, thank you very much. Nor does he raise an eyebrow suggestively, and remark on Alec’s eagerness to take him to bed. Instead, his brow furrows, and he looks… sad, Alec realises with concern. ‘You don’t believe me,’ he murmurs. Alec stares, confused. ‘What? Of course I believe you. I love you too -’ ‘No, no,’ Magnus says, shaking his head. ‘You know that, I know you know that, I tell you every day – but it’s more than that. You,’ he says, tapping the tip of Alec’s nose for emphasis, ‘are the love of my life.’ He pouts a little, a surprisingly childish expression for someone centuries old. ‘I believe you, when you tell me that. Why won’t you believe me?’

And maybe Alec doesn’t have to handle a tipsy Magnus often, but he knows his husband, and so he knows that platitudes won’t get them anywhere. Instead, he gives a gentle smile. ‘Magnus, we’ve talked about this. Nephilim love once. You’re the only person I’m ever going to feel this way about.’ He moves his hand up to the small of Magnus’ back, rubbing small, reassuring circles. ‘But you’re a warlock, Magnus. You’re immortal. I don’t expect the same of you, and I promise, it doesn’t change anything.’ It had taken him a while, but he had eventually made his peace with Magnus’ box of memories, and the future it represented. It’s hard, knowing that one day, Magnus will love someone else – but the alternative would be a potential eternity of loneliness, and Alec would hardly wish that on anyone, let alone Magnus. ‘We have now. We have this lifetime,’ he says. ‘I don’t care what happens after that, as long as you’re happy.’

But the frown on Magnus’ face only deepens. ‘No, I… I need you to understand,’ he implores, leaning forwards. ‘You need to understand. When you made that deal with my father, when you left me so that he’d return my magic – I didn’t just mourn. I went to Brother Zachariah. I begged him to – to just take it all, all the memories of you, because you were everywhere I looked and it hurt. More than I could bear.’ Alec swallows hard. ‘I’m sorry, I-‘ But Magnus waves a hand impatiently, a lazy, presumably unintentional spark of magic jumping onto the stone railing as he does. ‘No, that’s not – that’s not what I mean, that’s all in the past now. I forgave you a long time ago. The only reason I’m telling you all this now is because I need you to know. You need to know what this, what you mean to me.’ His hands are bracing either side of Alec’s neck now, grip just light enough that it isn’t uncomfortable, but strong enough that Magnus can ensure he keeps Alec’s gaze. ‘In all my years,’ he says quietly, ‘nothing – no other loss, no other heartbreak – has made me that desperate. I’ve been tempted, of course, but I’ve never actually gotten that far, never actually asked to have the memories taken. But it’s like – it’s like you still see yourself as the norm. Like the latest in a long line of loves, easy to forget. I assure you, Alexander; nothing could be further from the truth.’

Alec’s jaw works as he tries to find the words to respond, to refute. ‘That – I don’t – ‘ He shakes his head; there’s a part of him that wants this desperately, wants to cling to Magnus’ words like lifesaving validation, but he knows that isn’t fair. He can’t ask this of Magnus, can’t ask to be this, not when Magnus might have hundreds of years ahead of him once Alec’s gone. And so he shakes his head in denial, and Magnus sighs. ‘Alexander,’ he says softly, his hands dropping to Alec’s shoulders. ‘Please. Please, believe me on this. You’re different to anyone I’ve ever met. No-one else has called my cat eyes beautiful, or so wholly accepted my greatest failures. No-one has ever wanted to change the world for me.’ He smiles a little. ‘In over seven-hundred and fifty years, you’re the only person I’ve ever married – because you’re the only person I’ve ever truly wanted to marry.’

A stray tear slips through Alec’s otherwise iron control, and Magnus cups his face with one hand, wiping the tiny drop away with his thumb. ‘You know my past, Alec. I’ve always been honest about it. I have loved before – I have loved passionately, and I have loved deeply.’ He takes a slightly shaking breath; but his gaze is fierce, certain, even as the alcohol hazes his focus. ‘But I have never loved like this.’ He kisses Alec, and it’s warm, rum-sharp and honey-sweet. It settles like a blanket over Alec’s whirling thoughts, and he doesn’t want it to end.

When they eventually break apart, Alec wordlessly leads Magnus to their bedroom, keeping one arm around his husband’s waist. A casual observer might not see the necessity, as Magnus still seems so clear-headed – but Alec knows better, knows how the intoxication hits Magnus’ co-ordination faster than his eloquence. He feels a gentle amusement remembering the last time Magnus indulged in drink; how he insisted he was fine in beautiful four- and five-syllable words, even as he clipped every doorway and piece of furniture in his effort to walk the short, straight path to the kitchen. Magnus is humming now, a tune that slips between major and minor in a way Alec faintly recognises, but not enough to name it. He barely seems to notice as Alec undresses him, coaxes him to drink a small glass of water. He settles under the covers with a heavy, contented sigh, his eyes falling shut – and Alec is just about to turn away, when he hears him mumbling.

‘Please believe me.’

Alec’s throat works for a moment, and then he bends down again, pressing a kiss to Magnus’ temple. ‘I believe you, Magnus. I believe you.’ He doesn’t know whether it’s a miracle or a tragedy, but he’s telling the truth.

***

Three days later, Alec finishes his work for the day, and doesn’t go home. Instead, he takes the elevator down to the lowest basement level, stepping out into the bright, soft lighting of Alicante’s largest and most closely guarded library. Magnus will be out late, having portalled over to Greenland to help resolve a leadership issue within the Warlock Council there, so Alec knows he has at least a few hours to kill and he plans to make the most of them. He walks with a sense of purpose, as if determination alone will make what he’s searching for easier to find.

There’s a strange sort of hum to the dark wooden bookshelf he approaches; an aura that whispers of the knowledge stored in these tomes, these ancient histories of almost-forgotten magic. It’s residual power from a time long passed, a time when the divide between the Divine and the Infernal was at its greatest – but also a time when the differences between those magics were so few as to be almost imperceptible.

Alec gathers the three oldest-looking books, the ones whose leather covers are worn hard and smooth and whose pages are aged yellow and sweet. He settles himself on the nearest armchair, and remembers what he said to Magnus in Edom, what seems like a lifetime ago now. I’m never leaving you again.

He opens the first book, and starts looking for a way to keep that promise.

~oOo~

[bastillewolf]

The Grand Tranquility Hotel (VII)

Pairing: Alex Turner/Reader

Summary: An eccentric hotel owner and an inquisitive writer find solace in each other when they both seemed to be at the edge of rock bottom.

Notes: Two chapters in one day because I had a lot of inspiration. Make sure you didn’t miss chapter six!

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list.

Chapter VII - Batphone

It was an early morning for her, and perhaps it was because of the renewed feeling of tranquility she’d gotten after speaking with mister Turner. She felt as if she’d taken big steps forwards with him, especially when it came to gaining his delicate trust, and though she didn’t want to admit it, she was looking forward to spending more time with him soon.

She’d thrown on a floral dress for no particular occasion, and her brown shoes tapped down the stairs in search of the way to the dining hall. However, when she heard the distinct sound of voices coming from the lobby, she took a detour.

She was greeted with the sight of the hotel owner himself, joined not only by his staff, but by Miles as well. A smaller suitcase stood next to him on the floor and he was wearing a dark trench coat with its collar lifted. His eyes, covered by his aviator shades, finally noticed her figure in the doorway and he motioned for her to come closer. Miles gave her a quick kiss on the cheek to greet her before Alex stepped her aside. “I’m afraid your novel research is going to be delayed for a bit,” he explained, “Miles and I have some unforeseen business to attend to. However, I’ll ask Matthew to keep you entertained with a few of his notorious tales about the hotel. I won’t be gone for longer than a day.”

“Oh, alright,” she replied stumblingly, “Why are you so suddenly keen on helping me write this novel? It appears as if you’re really going out of your way to provide me with all the details. Don’t bother Matthew with it though, I’m sure he’ll have enough to do as it is while you’re gone, mister Turner.” She saw a glint of something she couldn’t place flash across his eyes. “Who’s seeing ulterior motives behind everything now, writer?” he asked in amusement. She narrowed his eyes at him, to which he only gave a smirk.

��Matthew, I’m leaving you in charge,” Alex proclaimed, handing him the main set of keys. “Don’t set anything on fire, please.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Matt replied innocently. Alex snorted and Matt smiled, but as the hotel owner turned his back to him she noticed him tucked the keys in his pocket with a shaking hand. What was going on? His eyes were darting to the doors and as they walked to the car to wave the two men off, he kept his gaze searching across the yard.

As soon as they were inside, she turned to the man at hand. “Matthew, you’re acting strange and I can tell it’s not because of mister Turner’s absence. What’s happening?”

“It’s nothing, miss,” Matt replied, trying, but very much failing, at sounding casual. “I was just checking if the gardener had already finished his job.” She hummed, “Sure you have.” He raised his brow at her. “There’s no need for concern, miss, truly. And after all, you already have mister Turner to worry about. No need to add fuel to the fire.” Her mouth dropped open as a pink colour dusted her cheeks. He’d ran out the front entrance before she was able to smack him.

“Is there anything I can help you with today, Nick? I get awfully bored these days,” she mused. Nick gave her a meek smile. “Glad we’re such good entertainment for you, miss. Do you have any experience with accountancy?” “Loads,” she replied, “Used to do the taxes for my mother, too.” “Great. It’s the box in the back office, the newer files need to be taken care of and sorted, if you have the patience for it.” “Only for you, Nicholas.”

Taking her seat at the desk behind the television screens, she was reminded of the incessant static noise filling the room. She decided to try to refrain from ripping the plugs out of their sockets and focused on the heaping box in front of her. It was a disorganized mess, but having experienced the way her mother used to sort things, she knew she’d do fine.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it was only when reading the last file that needed to be sorted, did she notice something strange. It led her to reach for older transcriptions that she’d previously sorted, and the non-matching data only confused her more.

When Nick finally showed up again, looking like a dishevelled mess, he asked her if she could go and help Matt outside for a moment, instead.

“Uh, sure,” she replied half-heartedly, her eyes still glued to the papers, “By the way, I was just going through your accounts and I found a returning bank account you’ve been transferring money to for a while. It’s cashed under ‘taxes’, I think?” She said, handing him one of the invoices. “Oh, that’s just what we pay Miles as additional taxes to the rent,” Nick explained. “Yeah, I thought that was the case, but when I checked the credit numbers they didn’t match with the ones you’ve been sending the actual rent to. Just thought you might want to look into it, just in case.”

Nick furrowed his brow in worry. “Uh, I’ll take a look at it. You better go and help Matt and Jamie, though. I think they’re right outside.” “Sure.” As she stepped out, she heard Nick hurriedly dial a number on the office’s phone.

She eventually managed to find them at the stables, and only then did she realize what had caused Matt to look so stressed and Jamie so upset. “What the fuck happened?” she sputtered.

The door was open, and Mardy’s box was empty.

“I couldn’t tell Alex, miss,” Matt explained sadly, “You’ve gotten him in such a good mood since yesterday, I didn’t want to see him pissed again.” She raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry to elaborate. “I-I think I remember locking the door…” She groaned, “Matthew.” “Alex put me in charge not knowing I lost his fucking horse, I know.” He rubbed his hands over his face tiredly, “I’ve been up all morning and I’ve searched the entire terrain, but I couldn’t find her.”

“Give me your car keys.”

“What?”

“I said, give me your car keys. I’m going to look for her myself. Go call the cops and inform them of a missing horse.”

It took her a while to convince Matt to stay, though he insisted Jamie tagging along, to which she begrudgingly agreed. However, when Jamie was about to step into the driver’s seat, she told him she’d throw him out of the car while they were driving if he didn’t hand her the keys. Jamie didn’t question her again after that and silently let her be behind the wheel.

The black Cadillac wasn’t exactly meant to cross over the countryside, but she surely wasn’t going to start looking in the city for a horse. Stopping when she came across cyclers, playing children and farmers ploughing their fields, she asked each and every single one of them if they’d seen their stallion, but to no avail.

Her last hope turned out to be her saviour, because the old man at the train station told her of travellers who’d mentioned a beautiful brown beast close to the tracks.

It was where she found Mardy, stuck in a barbwire fence.

“It’s good to come back to find my hotel not having been burnt down,” Alex breathed, setting down his suitcase, “I presume everything was fine?”

“Uh, of course,” Nick grumbled, his eyes turning back to the nonsense he’d been scribbling down to appear busy.

“Alright. I think I’ll clock out for the night then-“ The ringing of the phone interrupted his sentence. Nick’s hand shot out across the desk, but it was already too late.

“The Grand Tranquility Hotel, this is Alex Turner speaking. How may I direct your call?”

…

“Is that so?”

…

“I’m not sure, I’ll ask him. Please hold.”

Alex glanced up at Nick with raised brows and said in an overly interested voice, “Officer James Ford wants to know if our horse has been found. What should I tell him, Nicholas?” But it was the look in his eyes that made the employee aware of how much trouble he was really in.

 She’d managed to scrub off all the grime Mardy had transferred onto her while cleaning her cuts. They weren’t deep, and it relieved her and Matt incredibly that they didn’t have to call the vet in the end. She had shifted back into her comfortable nightwear, and had only just opened up the page of the book she’d left off in when a knock came from her door.

“How was business?” she asked, being greeted with a familiar set of intense brown orbs. He didn’t answer her, instead opting to just invite himself into her room, to which she threw her arms up at. He took a moment to glance out of the window onto the dark yard, before he took a seat at the edge of her bed. He flipped through the pages of the worn book.

“I’ve been gone for a day,” he said, “And my staff has managed to lose my horse. And my guest took the task upon herself to go and find it.” He glanced up at her. She shrugged, taking a seat next to him and folding her legs underneath her. “I couldn’t just leave her out there, all by herself.”

His intense gaze didn’t wander away from her for a moment. “And not only did she save my horse, she made me aware of the fact that an anonymous party has been stealing money from me.”

Her brows raised in surprise. “So, it wasn’t going to Miles?” He shook his head. “Nick called me immediately after you went out to help Matthew and Jamie. When I confronted Miles about it, he said he’d never added any extra taxes to our rent. We’ve informed the authorities about it.” “I’m glad,” she replied, “You’ll have one less financial thing to worry about.”

He nodded, fumbling with something in his pocket, before revealing the item to her. It was some sort of business card, but it felt more personal than that. He placed it in her hand and wrapped his around hers.

“It’s come to my closer attention that I can trust you more than my own staff,” he murmured, “Which is why I want you to have this number. I’m asking you to hold it to yourself, as it’s the only number you can reach me directly through, at all times.”

She looked down at the text on the card. “The Batphone?” she laughed, “You’ve named your personal number ‘The Batphone?” He smirked. “If you ever need me, in whatever situation you find yourself to be in, you can dial this number, and I’ll be there.”

She blinked at him, feeling at a loss for words. “I- I don’t know what to say, mister Turner. Thank you.”

He hummed, the corner of his mouth quirking up ever so slightly, but his eyes holding something undoubtedly more serious. He shifted and leaned over to her, until his hand held her cheek and his warm lips were pressed softly against the other. Her breath hitched in her throat as he moved back. “I’m the only one who has to say thank you. I owe you my deepest gratitude, miss.”

The tingling sensation on her face didn’t stop for long after he’d left.

[drowning-in-dennor]

Of Love And Loss

One evening, Henrik informs his lover of his human-hating father’s doings, and the boy he must return from exile because of it. [Set in the same universe as The Summer Side.] [Warning: Very fucking long] [Written for day five of @dennorweek with the prompt “fairytale”.]

  After dinner, it is customary for Henrik to lead Stellan to the library, where they are to review his knowledge of the fair folk, of their history, their kingdoms, their culture. After all, Henrik says, it's only right for him to know how the crown he wears on his head and how the title he has been granted came to be. But tonight, when the dishes have been cleared away and he has thanked the attendants for their work, Stellan finds himself following his lover back to the bedroom.

  The door closes behind them and a lock clicks. Henrik sits down at his grand desk and runs his hands over the pale carvings on the surface. Stellan takes his seat next to him, at an ornate chair carved with sloping hyacinths.

  Out from a drawer, Henrik retrieves a book. It is old, its leather cover wrinkled and pages yellowing. He murmurs something, an incantation, perhaps, in the common tongue of the fair folk that Stellan is yet to fully understand. The book opens. It is only then that Henrik speaks to him. "This is going to be a long story."

  He reaches over to cover Henrik's hand with his own, and his lover flushes - even after over a year of being together, he has yet to get used to such displays of affection. "We've got all night. Unless you keep me up until dawn with this story, it can't be too long."

  A grin curves Henrik's lips, showing his jaunty, bright self that has so suddenly been clouded by pensiveness. "All right, then." He runs his fingers over the pages, and images swirl up from them like the ink from the paper has suddenly dissipated into the air.  

  The first image is that of a man. He resembles Henrik greatly, but where Henrik's smile and eyes have always been warm, this man's expression is that of coldness. He is wearing the same crown upon Henrik's head, an elaborate weaving of thornless roses. Stellan murmurs, "is that - "

  "My father." Henrik's smile has vanished. "The king before me. He had so many connections across our realm, and so many people showed up in our castle to visit. He encouraged me to make friends, to get close to the elves, pixies, seelies he invited to visit. But what he was adamant about was never letting me befriend a human."

  The image changes to that of the dining room, Henrik's father sitting at the head of the table in the king's chair. Next to him is who Stellan presumes is Henrik's mother, a kinder-looking woman seated at the queen's chair, the one he presides in. All around them, humans mill around. But unlike the humans he sees today, these humans are worn, haggard, their faces thin with starvation. Their eyes are glassy.

  "He's always had very extreme views on humans in our court. He always said that they were useless, fragile, with the lifespan of mayflies and good for nothing more than servitude." The camellias entwined around Henrik's wrist begin to writhe, sensing their master's frustration. "Every human in our castle was a servant, enchanted to serve the fairies and incapable of free will. My father kept it that way for a long time. He had every rowan tree in our kingdom chopped down so that the berries couldn't protect the humans, and the import of salt from the Spring Kingdom halted." Henrik frowns. "As you can tell, I didn't really take after him.

  "I managed to get the servant who tended to my rooms to return to normal after..." His face contorts in disgust. Stellan laces their fingers together and strokes his hand comfortingly. "After he tasted his own blood, which contained salt. I was pretty close to transporting him back to the human world when my father walked into my room. He killed the servant on the spot."

  "I'm sorry," is all Stellan can say. "That must've been terrible."

  Henrik shrugs, turning the page in his worn book. "I got over it. The next servant to tend to my rooms lived, and I didn't try to save another one again. I can't say the same for another boy."

  "Did he try to save a human?"

  "Worse." Henrik's expression darkens, and the pain in his eyes is evident. "He fell in love with one." The camellias are slithering onto the desk now, like beautiful snakes made of petals and leaves. "His name was Emil, and he was a noble's son. An excellent wordsmith, that one; he could be rambling about anything and the next moment you'd be obeying his every command. Apparently, my father caught him in his room kissing a human maid, who he'd managed to seduce out of even my father's enchantment. He knew his lover would get killed, so of course he tried to talk my father into leaving the room and forgetting the situation."

  Stellan's blood turns to ice; he can't imagine that poor boy being condemned for what Henrik is doing now. "And he failed."

  He nods. "My father accused Emil of two crimes - of being with a human, and of trying to cast a spell to control the king's actions. His lover was killed, and he was exiled to the human world for five fairy years." Henrik purses his lips. "Five fairy years is a very long time."

  Stripped of his magic, his power, banished to lifetimes upon lifetimes of mundanity because of their heart. That must be agony. The hyacinths on his wrist are twirling around his fingers. Stellan gapes at the image off the pages, at the ghostly, white-haired wisp of a boy holding a young woman in horror and the king aflame with rage at the doorway. "Poor Emil. Where is he now?"

  "Still in the human world," Henrik replies. "Even after I became king and managed to free all the human servants in the castle, I could not call Emil back here. Even now, my magic is not as strong as my father's." He exhales. "This book is a diary I've kept since I was a boy. I described every act my father inflicted on the humans in our court in detail, lest I repeat his actions." He smiles again, and Stellan's heart swells to see it. "With you by my side, I'm sure that will never happen." With a snap of his fingers, Henrik closes the book. "I've told you so much, and still haven't gotten to the point. What I am trying to say is that Emil's ten years of exile is almost up. In two days, I will be able to call him back to the castle."

...

  How long has it been?

  Even after so long, Emil has not been able to get used to how humans tell time. Maybe his ten years have been over a long time ago, or he has barely breached his first month. Goodness, who knows? 

  The village he has been residing in since his exile has no forest, no dark thicket of trees he can flee to so that he can pretend he is back in the realm of the fair folk, perhaps riding a dragonfly to a market or gathering mushrooms in a nice meadow. All Emil has is the patch of flowers he has tended to for so, so long. 

  He has lived and died more times than he has cared to remember, waking up in the arms of a different mother in the cottage every time, his memories of his beautiful human being blasted to bits by the fairy king, of the young prince staring at him in horror fresh in his mind. But he pretends. As long as he has his flowers, all is well.

  He heads for the patch of flowers at the corner of the village, stares into the white daisies bobbing gently in the wind. He picks one, strokes the soft pearly petals and thinks of the flowers in the realm of the fair folk, which take years of wilt and are always pristine. These daisies die quickly and their leaves are often eaten away by aphids, but somehow they are equally beautiful.

  "You haven't changed a bit."

  Emil looks up. Standing in the patch, boots trampling the grass, is a sneering young man. His black hair is tousled by the breeze, his copper eyes glinting in the sunlight. "I mean, except for the fact that you've lost the ability to make people serve you just by talking, that you've lost your wings, your magic and your reputation." He smirks. "But at least you've still your pretty face."

  For a moment, he wonders if the arrival of his fellow noble is the king's idea of an extra punishment. "Erland, why are you the first fairy I have to see?"

  The red admiral butterfly wings on the fairy's back flap, propelling him slightly into the air. "You ought to be more grateful to see me, my good Duke. The king sent me here to deliver some news."

  "Oh, is he going to massacre this entire village because I dared to form an attachment to more human, then drag me back to smite me like he did to Leonor?" Even saying the name of his former partner brings a stab of agony through him.

  Erland's smirk wavers. "Einar is dead, Emil. In his place is his son, who is unfortunately much more soft-hearted when it comes to the mundane. Prince Henrik - now King Henrik - even followed in your footsteps and fell for human scum."

  He clenches his fists. He has not even met the new king's human lover, but he already feels protective of them. "Don't call them scum," Emil retorts.

  "He even turned his sweetheart into a fairy." That insufferable grin returns, and Erland flutters a little higher. The peonies on his wrist bloom a little brighter. "As though a tiara and a few magic tricks could turn him into one of us." He flicks his wrist. A peony flies off its stem and hits Emil in the face. "But you'll be able to see the other King soon. I was sent to bring you back."

  "Bring me back?" Emil repeats. "I am to live in the realm of the fair folk again? Use magic, have wings again?"

  "Goodness, you sound like a human child," Erland scoffs. "But yes. Most unfortunately, you may return to living at the castle. Are you ready to leave?"

  The thoughts of former families, old friends and all the homes he has lived in flash through his mind. "I want to say goodbye to my family first."

  Erland snorts. "Say goodbye to the humans who will die in a blink of an eye? I think not. Let's go." He whispers an incantation, in the folk-tongue Emil hasn't heard in ages, and his vision fades to darkness.

  When his eyes open, he is standing in the throne room of the Summer Court. The creamy beige tiles, the golden-gilded walls and tapestries hanging from the ceiling are all the same, as are the thrones, made of living white wisteria branches. But the two figures sitting upon the white-petalled seats are not ones that Emil remembers.

  One is dressed in red, the crown of thornless roses atop his messy golden hair. His mad blue eyes are so like his father's. King Henrik smiles at him, the crimson camellias on his arms twirling in invitation. The monarch butterfly wings on his back are idle, a splash of colour against the mild wisteria.

  The gentleman next to him has round ears, and his blue eyes are similar to the ones Emil has seen in his village. He is, without a doubt, the human-turned-fair folk Erland was talking about. Delicate white stockings and slippers poke out from a midnight-blue gown lined with gold, and around the sleeves are plumes of hyacinths. The crown of blue salvia blossoms, once the Queen's, sits upon his feathery blond hair. He looks strange, like somebody cut off the wings of a blue morpho butterfly and stitched it onto a human, then called him a fairy. Then his eyes flash briefly with gold. Fair folk for sure.

  Then Emil notices that he has changed. In place of his drab village clothes is the off-white gown he wore during his last day at court, and on his back is a pair of delicate crystal-clear wings that glimmer faintly in the sunlight. Sweet-smelling frangipani branches loop around his ankles, and power surges through his veins. After too long, he is finally back to normal.

  The King rises from his throne, descending the stairs rather ungracefully. "Welcome back, Emil!" Henrik's voice has deepened, his shoulders have grown broader. Although he is only slightly older than Emil, he towers above him, at least a head taller. Emil has to crane his neck to make eye contact. "We missed you."

  "I didn't," Erland mutters under his breath.

  "A lot has changed since you were last here," Henrik continues, "my father is dead, for one, and the humans here are no longer enchanted." He gestures to the occupied throne. "One is even your King."

  His lover takes this as his cue to join Henrik before Emil and rises, light and graceful as a dancer. His eyes are an unremarkable, murky blue one second, bright gold the next. Clearly, the other King walks the thin line between magical and mundane. Emil bows. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty."

  The King bows next, his expression serene. "Likewise."

  Ever so boldly, Henrik reaches over to wrap an arm around the King's waist. "This is Stellan, who has been my fellow King for six months now. Even though he arrived at our court a human, he is one of us now, and you will treat him as such." He smiles. He's always smiling, unlike his icy father. "Of course, given that you have always been more than welcoming of humans in our court, that should be no problem for you."

  Emil's wings flutter. He has missed them so. "I will serve you and your new King to the best of my abilities, Your Majesty."

  Henrik nods, clapping his hands together. Even as a Prince, all those years ago, he was not one for excessive formality. "Duke Erland will lead you to your room."

  Perhaps the King wishes to punish him a little more after all. Erland takes a step towards him, stone-faced. "Follow me."

  As he is lead out of the throne room, Emil risks one more glance at the Kings. Stellan is bundled up in Henrik's arms, head resting snugly against his chest and arms squeezing his waist. Henrik's lips are pressed to his forehead, just under his blue crown. Something in his chest aches. This could have been him and Leonor.

  His room is just as he left it, with book and scraps of parchment strewn across his desk, his bed neatly made and haphazardly-built bookshelves lining every wall. Emil sits down at his bed, presses his hand against the pillow where he once hid the notes he exchanged with his partner.

  Erland sits down next to him. "What do you think of the new King?"

  "He's strange. He looks as though he is stuck between the human and fairy realms, although I guess that is what happened to him." Emil picks up his pillow, hearing the rustle of parchment, and places it gingerly on his lap. "King Henrik seems to adore him."

  "Oh, you have no idea. Ev'ry meeting, he pulls out his chair for him and holds his hand the entire time. During mealtimes, he does the same. Wherever you go, you will always always see them together, holding hands, mostly likely, and maybe making eyes at each other or smiling or kissing. It's sickening." Erland kicks his feet childishly. "I suppose he isn't all bad, though. During King Henrik's latest revel, he danced from dusk 'til dawn without ever stopping, even for food or water. His slippers were falling apart, but I don't think he felt tired at all."

  Emil has been to many a revel himself, and he has often spent the afternoons after them getting acquainted with his chamberpot or nursing his aching feet. For a once-human to dance the night away without a single break, achieving what a fairy cannot, is really quite impressive. 

  "He played the fiddle, too, so nicely that half the guests cried. King Henrik was so pleased he grabbed King Stellan 'round the waist and kissed him in front of everyone." He examines his nails. "For someone who spent most of his life as a human, he really isn't terrible."

  When Henrik's father reigned, Erland was the one who took his side the most, especially when it came to policies against humans. "I suppose that is the closest thing to a compliment you will grant King Stellan."

  "I suppose so." Erland rises, his red admiral wings nearly hitting Emil in the face. "I have duties to tend to now. As for you, try to get used to living here again, I suppose. A servant will call you down for dinner."

  He flits through the door, and Emil is left alone in his room.

...

  After a few hours of sorting through his old books, trying not to shed tears at his old notes, Emil is saved from his solitude by a servant entering his room. He is undoubtedly a human, with no wings on his back nor flowers around his wrists and ankles. "Your Grace," the servant says, "it's time for dinner."

  He rises from his desk, where he was poring over a notebook of his poems, and sweeps past the servant. It is then that he notices his eyes are bright and very much conscious. So Henrik was telling the truth when he stated that all the humans within the court were there of their own will.

  On the way to the dining hall, the servant trailing behind him, Emil dares to ask, "what's it like, living here?"

  The servant hesitates for a moment before answering, "very nice, Your Grace. Our quarters are unlike anything I've seen in the human world, and as long as we have salt with us, the food is amazing. The King sends our wages home to our families."

  "Have you been here long?"

  "Only for two days, Your Grace. By the end of this week, I'll be back home for a holiday and you won't see me again after this month."

  Of course not, not when time runs differently in the two worlds. After the servant's month is up, he will most likely return home to see their family aged up at least a year. "I hope you'll enjoy working here."

  He shrugs. "Back home, my family can finally afford to eat and I'm living in a castle. After I go home, I'll have earned enough that my family won't ever go hungry again."

  They walk in silence until they reach the dining hall. Emil thanks the servant, who responds with a smile, and takes his seat at the table.

  His chair has a carving of the glasswing butterfly on it, its ethereal wings paned with glass. Emil bows to the Kings, seated at the head of the table, and sits down. Stellan waves in greeting, and Henrik smiles. Just as Erland said, they are hand in hand, and their chairs pressed so close together there is no longer space between them.

  By the time the meal is coming to a close, and some servants (this time fairies, no doubt employed from the rest of the court) are passing fruits around, Stellan is practically in Henrik's lap. They are holding hands again, and Emil notices that Stellan is blushing. When they rise, having finished eating, and leave, Henrik reaches around once again to cup the curve of his lover's hip, and in return Stellan rests his head on his shoulder.

  "Look at them," Erland snorts, as he leaves the dining hall, "they're practically joined at the hip."

  Emil watches them amble through the hallways, wings fluttering giddily, and sighs. The King and his once-human lover are perhaps the sweetest couple he has ever seen, and the flowers under their control almost perpetually happy. They are what he wanted so badly to be with his Leonor one day.

  He watches as they flutter up flights of stairs, always talking, talking, as though they could never run out of things to be happy about. They enter the castle library still holding hands, fingers entwined and bodies close together.

  He returns to his room feeling happy for them. Maybe one day he shall find somebody he will love as Henrik loves Stellan, and this time there will be nothing to tear them apart.

[mygalfriday]

i’ll be your man if you got love to get done

{ao3}

Eden Loft is a quiet little café just off Carnaby Street in Soho, all crumbling brick and choking vines on the outside. It looks almost abandoned from the outside, its wild exterior concealing a warm, cozy interior filled with small round tables, leather sofa, and worn armchairs. Potted plants line the bookshelves, the windowsills, and the countertop. The scent of warm scones and coffee fills the air, mixing with the verdant plant life to create an atmosphere both soothing and invigorating. It’s one of Anthony Crowley’s favorite places to stop for a caffeine fix.

This afternoon, however, he lingers outside on the pavement, reluctant to venture inside. With the afternoon sunshine filtering in through the expansive windows, it would be easy to glance inside and spot his date. The only thing stopping him is knowing the sight of whichever poor sod Anathema has guilted into this blind date will make him turn on his heel and leg it back home. He doesn’t even know why he’d agreed to this. The last time his friend had set him up on a date, Crowley had ended up spending an entire evening with some pillock who never touched his food and barely looked up from his mobile.

It’s just so difficult to meet people when he spends all his time working his arse off to make sure his club isn’t a complete failure. Even though The Serpent has been open for a few years now and even though it’s a packed house nearly every night, the nightclub still requires almost all of his time and attention. So Crowley isn’t asking for the love of his life or anything. He doubts such a person even exists. But a few months of shagging someone he can actually have a conversation with would be a nice change of pace.

And that’s what he’s doing loitering outside Eden Loft on a Sunday afternoon.

Crowley groans and reaches for the door.

He steps inside and the scent of fresh pastry and the rich aroma of expensive, organic coffee wafts over him. Tucking his sunglasses into the neck of his black t-shirt, he scans the crowded space for the man Anathema had described. Blond, she’d said. A bit old-fashioned. Crowley had taken that to mean no shagging until the third date but his eyes land on a man who looks like he just returned from tea in the Victorian era and he just knows he’s found his date. Ezra Fell.

Fucking Anathema.

Gritting his teeth, Crowley braces himself for another date from hell and saunters reluctantly across the café. The table where his date sits is beside the bookshelves on the back wall and it appears he’d plucked a novel from the shelf to keep himself occupied while he waited. He seems thoroughly engrossed in whatever it is, flipping through it as Crowley approaches, and doesn’t even look up until Crowley’s shadow falls over the page.

He lifts his head, a pleasant, absent-minded smile on his face. And Crowley’s breath catches painfully in his throat. He’s beautiful. His short blond curls look astonishingly soft and his blue eyes are bright and kind. Though his hands look manicured and soft as they rest against the crisp pages of his book, his chest is broad and sturdy and Crowley imagines he’s deceptively strong beneath that prim waistcoat. Pink-cheeked and full-lipped, Ezra Fell looks like something Michaelangelo might have painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. His clothes are utterly ridiculous, of course, and he isn’t at all Crowley’s usual type but nevertheless, he’s…beautiful.

“Anthony Crowley, I presume?”

Realizing he’s been standing in one spot staring at him like a simpleton for fuck knows how long, Crowley unclenches his jaw and forces himself to blink. “I - yeah. Ezra, is it?”

Ezra beams, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gestures to the seat across from him. “Please, sit.”

Disarmed by that wide smile - Christ alive, Crowley could swear the room grows a few shades brighter - there is no other option but to sit. He sinks gracelessly into the chair across from Ezra, long limbs sprawling. Sitting closer does nothing to make Ezra less attractive, only gives Crowley a better view of his perfection. It’s ridiculous. He looks like he just stepped out of an Oscar Wilde novel. Why can’t he stop staring?

“I already ordered for you,” Ezra says, oblivious to Crowley’s internal struggle to regain use of his tongue as he gestures to the cup and plate across the table. “I hope you don’t mind. It just gets so terribly crowded in here on Sundays. I didn’t want you to have to wait.”

Ezra watches him hopefully, as if expecting Crowley might be annoyed. And fucking hell, speak. “No,” Crowley manages, relieved when his voice comes out relatively normal. “S’fine. You’ve uh, you’ve been here before then?”

Surely Crowley would have noticed him at some point. He’d have looked up from his mobile one morning and saw him across the café, standing in line waiting for his tea or sitting at a table like this one reading another book. He’d have noticed a man like Ezra if they’d ever been in the same room together before. He may not have approached him but he’d have stared just as he is now - probably from behind his sunglasses and over the top of a newspaper he wasn’t actually reading - and been just as charmed by his quiet grace and sunny smile.

“Oh, quite often.” Ezra shuts his book and folds his hands primly over the cover. “But only on Sundays, I’m afraid.”

Ah, that explains how they’ve never run into each other. Sunday mornings are usually when Crowley is lounging about in bed, nursing a hangover after kicking out whoever he’d brought home with him the night before. Crowley’s usual type isn’t the sort to stay for breakfast anyway.

Ezra cuts off a bite of his pastry with a knife and fork, focusing on the task with an intensity Crowley has never seen given to food before. “The rest of the week, I usually get my tea from the museum’s café. Though it isn’t nearly as good as it is here.” He brings the bite of pastry to his mouth and sighs as he chews, his eyes fluttering a bit and a low hum in his throat. He even wiggles a bit in his seat.

Captivated, Crowley rests his chin in the palm of his hand and watches him eat. “Right,” he says, forcing at least a small portion of his brain into focusing on the conversation. “You work at the British Museum. How’s that?”

“Oh, lovely.” Ezra dabs neatly at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I oversee the archival department, preserving and maintaining all of our historical documents.”

It sounds utterly dull to Crowley but the way Ezra lights up as he talks about his job is far from boring. He smiles and gestures as he talks, regaling Crowley with a tale about a shipment of letters the museum had received earlier that week. They’d been uncovered in the attic of some ancestor of one of Hemingway’s secret lovers and apparently, they’re going to rock the literary world on its axis. Ezra talks about the contents of these letters like someone else might relay a bit of scandalous gossip and Crowley finds himself listening intently. He doesn’t even think about touching his food or his coffee, chin in hand as he gazes across the table and watches Ezra gesture as he talks and take delicate little bites of his pastry.

“And Anathema tells me you own a nightclub?” Ezra sips at his tea, watching Crowley with that same focus he'd given his food. It’s startling enough to make Crowley straighten from his slouch and wipe his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans. “It sounds terribly exciting.”

Looking at him, Crowley doubts the man has ever set foot on the same street as a nightclub but he rather loves that he’d bothered asking about it. The Serpent may be an exhausting, soul-sucking venture but it also happens to be Crowley’s baby. He tells Ezra a bit about the club, detailing how quickly it has grown and how much work it takes to keep it at the top of everyone’s list. He talks about the type of people who frequent the place, the live music they have every night, and how much he loves being his own boss.

Ezra listens to every word, asks questions in all the right places, and never once tries to interrupt and make the conversation about himself again. “It must keep you quite busy,” he says after Crowley tells him about his upcoming open interviews to hire staff for the busy season. He eyes Crowley with concern, as though trying to decide if he eats enough or gets enough sleep. It’s such a quiet, protective glance that Crowley feels something warm and foreign bloom inside his chest.

He shrugs, glancing away with his heart in his throat. “I don’t mind,” he says. “I like keeping busy.”

“Yes, I understand. My work is very important to me. But I must admit I’ve found myself craving a bit of companionship recently.” Ezra glances down into his teacup, then looks at Crowley through his lashes. Crowley stares again, helplessly charmed. “I can’t imagine you have similar difficulties finding pleasing company.”

Fucking hell. The man out of time is flirting with him.

Crowley swallows.

“May I ask why you agreed to this setup?” Ezra presses, glancing away again. “Surely you have plenty of opportunities to meet people in your line of work. I, however, am confined to the back rooms of a museum all day.”

Meeting people, yes. Loads of them. In the past three months, Crowley has brought home a lead guitarist, one of the Serpent’s bouncers, a grad school student in leather trousers, a barrister looking for a cheap thrill, and one of his bartenders. Not one of them has managed to hold his attention the way Ezra Fell seems to so effortlessly. Crowley wants to know everything about him. Why did he choose archival work? Why does he dress like a bloody regency dandy? Why are his eyes so kind and blue? Why is he so interested in every word Crowley says? Why did he choose that particular book from the shelf? How does he take his tea? What is it about him that makes that pastry look so much more tempting when it’s sliding between his soft pink lips?

Crowley wants to bring him home and study him, take him apart under his hands until he understands what makes him tick, and then tenderly put him back together again. He wants to stroke his blond hair and nuzzle his throat and call him all sorts of endearments he’s never used before on anyone. He wants Ezra, in all the ways he never expected to want anyone after a lifetime of being alone and convincing himself he liked it better that way when all along, he was just afraid no one would want him back.

Outwardly, he only shrugs again, his eyes lingering meaningfully on Ezra as he says, “Suppose I’ve been meeting the wrong people.”

Ezra blushes. 

They linger over their tea, discussing everything from politics to what they studied at university to their childhoods. Crowley tells Ezra about being an orphan churned out of the system by the age of seventeen and Ezra confides in him about his conservative Catholic upbringing and his ongoing struggle to overcome the subsequent stain of guilt religion left behind long after he shed its chains.

When the tea has grown cold and the pastries have been eaten, Crowley insists on paying the bill. And suddenly they’re standing outside on the pavement, the afternoon sun gone soft and hazy. It slants gently across Ezra’s blond curls like a halo and Crowley stares at him longingly. Angel, he thinks, and his heart skips several beats.

“I do appreciate you meeting with me, you know. I’m aware I can’t be what you were hoping for.” Ezra wrings his hands and Crowley has the sudden wild urge to clasp them between his own. “I told Anathema you couldn’t possibly-”

“You’re perfect,” Crowley blurts, before he can stop himself.

Fuck. Very smooth.

That sort of line would get him laughed at by just about anyone else but Ezra stills, gazing up at him wonderingly. As if Crowley had just reached up and plucked a star out of the sky just for him and handed it over on a silver platter. “I-” He squares his shoulders, meeting Crowley’s gaze. “I do hope I’m not being too forward but… I would like to see you again, Anthony. If you’re amendable.”

Christ, he even talks like he belongs in an Austen novel. Crowley is utterly gone on him already.

Looming over him, Crowley peers into sweet, hopeful blue eyes and swallows roughly. “I’m amendable,” he murmurs. “Very.”

“Oh.” Ezra breathes out a relieved little noise and sways toward him, his smile breathtaking. Literally. Crowley cannot breathe. “Good.”

Reaching for him with a shaking hand, Crowley cups his pink cheek and watches Ezra’s eyes widen. “This all right?”

“Yes,” comes the immediate reply. Ezra licks his lips and Crowley nearly hisses. “Quite.”

With permission, Crowley closes the gap between them and captures that enticing mouth with his own. He tastes exactly like raspberries and flaky pastry and tea. Crowley usually takes his tea without any sugar at all but Ezra tastes like five lumps of sugar and a dash of milk. His mouth opens eagerly and Crowley groans. He presses closer, leaning against Ezra’s broad chest and burying his hands in soft blond curls.

It should be impossible to taste this warm and sweet and absolutely fucking perfect but Crowley knows with sudden certainty that kissing Ezra Fell is like drinking directly from the sun itself. He loses himself in the slick, hot slide of their mouths and their grasping hands. Everything around him blurs and time loses all meaning. He isn’t aware of where they’re standing on the pavement in front of Eden Loft, he doesn’t notice the disgruntled people passing them by or the warm late afternoon breeze ruffling his hair. There is only Ezra clutching at his t-shirt and making those delightful little noises, wriggling adorably under Crowley’s wandering hands.

When they finally break apart, panting, the world feels different. As though an entire solar system has rearranged itself, orienting now around Ezra Fell. Crowley noses at his cheek, struggling to find his voice as Ezra keeps one hand curled tightly at his waist. Clearing his throat, he rasps, “Anathema told me you were old-fashioned.”

Ezra makes a soft, contrary noise and turns his head to press his lips to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Only in dress,” he murmurs, somehow managing to sound prim despite the arousal Crowley can feel pressing into his hip. “I assure you.”

Swallowing laughter, Crowley pulls back just enough to look into his eyes. “My place then?”

As Crowley lifts a hand to stroke his cheek, Ezra smiles. “After you.”

[atomicwedgienerd]

A Family Resemblance

CW: Scat, incest, everything else. You’ve been warned. This was a collaboration with Smelliot the Slob, who is probably as dorky and gross in real life as the victims in the story. 

Elliot came downstairs into the large living room. The room was split into the lounge area and kitchen in one room. In the corner he could see his father, Dan in the corner instructing one of his private clients. Reaching into the fridge Elliot pulled out the milk and poured himself a large glass before taking a long swig of it.

Dan counted off on his hands as the patron was on the ground doing a pushup. "Come on! Keep pushing! Don't give up now man, you don't want to end up flabby do you?"

“It’s hard Dan!” The patron said as he struggled. He looked up and saw Elliot. Everyone saw the patron as just an out of shape middle aged man but none could see him for what he really was. A being of pure chaos who could shape reality just using his words. This time, his target was Dan, the hottest personal trainer in town and his equally hot son Elliot. “This must be your son! There’s definitely a family resemblance!”

Elliot smiled and gave a thumbs up "Alright dude."

Dan turned and smiled "Yes, very proud of my boy, and he and I worked hard for our bodies. You can too. It is hard, but the rewards are worth it, so keep pushing!"

“I am!” said the patron. “Maybe if you were wearing your glasses you could see how hard I was trying” A pair of thick hornrimmed glasses appears on an end table. Elliot frowned at this but Dan just reaches over to the end table to grab his glasses and slide them on his face. "Since when did you wear glasses dad?"

Dan threw a bewildered look at his son. "I've always worn glasses." This caused Elliot to mimic Dan's bewildered expression.

“Whew Dan! Could you close your mouth?” begged the patron. “Those crooked yellow teeth are so hard to look at and your breath is so foul I bet your son can smell it from across the room!”

Elliot frowned. “Watch your tone buddy!" Clearly the lad was getting upset at someone insulting his dad, although he did a double take as he saw his dad’s now yellowed teeth.

"Well I need to open it to keep you motivated. Maybe it will motivate you to work harder."

“P.U.! That’s  an awfully condescending tone for someone with such a big gut too!”

Elliots eyes widened in shock as he saw his father bloat up, gaining layer upon layer of fat, thighs thickening along with his arms, a large flabby gut pushing out. "What the fuck!?" Elliot quickly started to go for the phone presumably to dial 911. Dan patted his stomach. "Mm, but I am proud of my belly, you want to get rid of yours."

“Honestly I think that’s about all I have in me for today. Didn’t you say you wanted to show me the computers you had been building in the gym you turned into a study?”

Dan nodded and started to waddle off with you following him. Elliot however had other plans. "What the hell is going on!?" He asks aloud, phone in his hand. "Someone explain or I am calling 911."

“Oh please you’re just as clumsy as your old man!” the patron laughed. Dan stumbled and tripped over his own feet and Elliot, in a moment of unusual clumsiness, dropped his phone right into the sink full of dishes. Elliot swore as he fished for the phone but it was ruined as it came out.

"What are you doing?" Elliot asked as Dan got his balance back.

“I’m just hanging out with my friend Dan, which is honestly pretty charitable on my part. After all, he may have stopped working out and put on a lot of weight, but he still has the body odor and sweatiness of an entire weightlifting team.”

Dan sniffed at his armpits, smelling his sweaty BO. "Man, I do smell bad don't I?" Elliot had to cover his nose as the room became overpowered by it.

"You're doing something to him! Fine, if I can't call the police I'll go get help." He marches towards the door with purpose.

“Aw but you’ve always liked guys who stink terribly I thought,” the patron said with a grin.

Elliot has stopped covering his nose and is clearly breathing normally. "I mean...sure it's nice but you can't be changing my dad."

“Oh don’t worry, I’m doing more than that. Say, did you happen to pick up your old man’s lice shampoo?”

"I did but...hey wait, since when does dad have lice?" He asked as he saw his dad was now scratching at his hair.

“Since forever! The shampoo doesn’t even really do anything other than leave his hair super greasy but we have to keep trying. That’s what your father told me anyways, even though it took forever with his terrible stutter!”

"I just wish it didn't make his hair greasy." Elliot commented as Dan's hair became very greasy. "and dad you really should see a speech therapist."

Dan nodded. "Y-you got t-t-t-hat right sss-ss-son."

“I don’t know why you’re so concerned. I heard you liked greasy haired fatsos with lice and stutters”

Elliot’s face flushed red and he was glad his lower body was obscured by the counter (“Whatcha hiding there Elliot? I bet it’s a big old hard on just like your dad always has. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a man cum his pants as often as your father”

The front of Dans pants grew damp as Elliot’s face flushed some more. "Its uh...I just woke up, I had an intense dream." He lied, a little ashamed that his father got him aroused.

“It’s a good thing your dad only wears these cheap thrift store khakis and white socks all the time or it would be a shame that he’s constantly wetting himself. At least they look nice with his button down and suspenders!”

Elliot’s mouth fell open at his dads new outfit. "He looks ridiculous like that!" He says as Dan plays with his suspenders and straightens his bow tie.

“Oh please,” laughed the patron. “Everyone knows this is the hottest way a man can dress. And the pants are so cheap, it doesn’t even matter if your dad is usually carrying a few turds in the back”

Elliot blinked as something came over him. "I mean, at least he's dressing in something attractive...despite the shit and piss."

“Come on, the shit and piss make him unique and kind of even hotter!”

Elliot bit his lower lip as he turned around, hoping to stop his large erection. The patron grinned and continued to weave a new reality with his words.

“But I mean you would expect someone to shit themselves every once in a while considering that Dan—errr Dilbert here never stops farting. Phew, it smells like someone threw a hundred hard boiled eggs in a dumpster on a hot summer day in here!”

Dilbert let out a loud smelly fart as a log of shit filled his underwear. Elliots nostrils flared heard the fart, but did not complain about the stench. "Yeah..." he stated nervously.

“Wow” the patron said as he finally peered insides Dilbert’s computer room. “This is the nerdiest room I’ve ever seen, well not counting the rest of the your house I mean. I’ve never seen someone with so many comic books, fantasy novels, and empty pizza boxes!”

Dilbert nodded proudly. "I l-l-love my c-c-c-c-comics! I also a-a-dore pizza. B-b-but I need to u-use my z-z-z-zit cream after eating it to a-a-a-void breakout out."

“Oh yeah it was such a mistake to shave your beard, Dilbert. Your skin broke out so bad after that. Plus look at how bad your insanely large ears and nose look without the beard to distract!”

Dan's beard quickly pulled into his now softer jaw as his skin breaks out in bad acne, white headed zits appearing over his face as his ears got larger and started to stick out. With a snort his nose inflated to a pudgy schnoz.

“And honestly Dilbert, I think you should talk to your orthodontist because considering how big and clunky your headgear is, those two giant buck teeth should be looking better by now”

Dilbert’s cheeks blushed and he adjusted a screw on his braces. "I c-c-cant help it" he whined quite pathetically before his belly rumbled, he let out a loud belch right into your face, the smelly fishy breath was heavy with the scent of pizza and fast food.

“Aw well hopefully there’s a man that appreciates all this out there somewhere. I know how desperate you are for a boyfriend!”

Dilbert looked down at the floor as the front of his pants grow wet again and the smell of urine filled the air. "But w-w-who would d-d-date a l-l-l-losher like me." He looked sad when he admitted he was a loser.

“I’m sure there’s someone out there who is into disgusting dweebs like you.” The patron looked up with a grin at Elliot. “Say don’t you think it’s time your son got his favorite meal. A hot pocket that got your cum and piss all over it?”

The patron’s words made this a reality and Elliot shrugged as if it was normal. "I am pretty hungry dad..." With that Dilbert waddled over and stuck a hot pocket into the microwave. After a few minutes he pulled out the turnover and put it down on the floor. Pulling out his smaller, but hard dick he proceeds to piss over it, a little jerking and globs of cum also cover the treat. He places it down in front of his son who just picks up a knife and fork and starts to take bites.

“Wow Elliot you sure look hungry! I bet it’s from looking at all those posters up in your room. Of those pretty ladies? No wait, that’s not right, you have posters of fat nerds, guys covered in their own pee and cum, ugly pimple faced four eyes, isn’t that right?”

Elliots cheeks burn as he takes another bite, it was true, but he didn't want to show that he was embarassed about it. So he decided to downplay it. "Yeah, I'm into fat nerds. What of it?"

“It just seems like considering your father, it must be kind of a bummer that you aren’t one too. I mean he’s so pathetic and you’re this hot perfect jock. It must just be unbearable not having inherited his extremely geeky genes. It must just drive you nuts. Plus according to your journal, it looks like no matter how hard you beat off, you can’t cum. I bet that’s because you know you need to be a total nerd first.”

Elliot took another bite, this time slower and more thoughtful. "Yeah....dad says I take after mom. I mean look at him. Look at what a loser he is. Who wouldn't want that?"

“I bet you pray every night to become a loser like him. I bet you would give up everything for a chance at that huh?”

"You bet I would! I even looked into a laser eye surgery to see if they'd ruin my vision. Sadly they weren't interested, nor was the plastic surgeon. Besides, dad is lonely now, he has no one."

“Yeah I mean compared to your dad, you’re so cool. Even with the nerdiest bedroom I’ve ever seen. And your bedroom is so so dorky. Dirty clothes everywhere. Three computers. Chess club trophies. Pokémon sheets. It’s amazing you’re as jacked as you are considering how much you love chess.”

"Well, they are online chess trophies. My room is an expression of who I wish I was. Even dad gets jealous. I tell my friends I have a cool room and I play my guitar every night. Well...its not a guitar. It's an accordion."

“Yeah your dad told me you basically never stop playing accordion. That it’s one of the only ways to drown out the noise of your incessant farts.”

A large blasting fart escaped from Elliot's rear, filling the already smelly room with his own gas. "It was no surprise, they did say the chronic flatulence was hereditary."

“The farts are one thing but hoowee the rest! Your BO and halitosis put your father’s to shame.”

"Well, I hate taking showers...and eating these special hot pockets don't help my halitosis. Not that I don't want them, they are my favourite!"

“I know and considering they’re all you eat, it’s no wonder you’ve inherited your father’s.... rather ample physique.”

As the patron’s words changed Elliot’s body, he pat his new belly as he sat there changed, a lardass like his father. “Mmm, I know! I'm a fussy eater...its embarassing you don't need to rub it in."

“Not as embarrassing as the way you rub all the piss from your pants in your hair all the time. It just makes you stink worse and, despite what you read on the web, it’s not gonna do anything to help your lice problem.”

Elliot’s belly rumbled and he lets out a loud fart as his hair grows greasy and lice infested. Reaching into his pants he cups his hand and pisses into it. "But the website said it helped with lice." With that he wet his hair with the piss he cupped.

“The only effect it seems to be having is making your skin break out worse and worse and worse. God you have bigger pimples than even your father does!”

A grin crossed Elliot’s face. "A side effect I didn't expect but I am delighted about. Even if it doesn't help my lice, if it helps keep these zits, just try and stop me."

“I don’t wanna stop you or get anywhere near those zits. I bet they’re so bad because you like squirting the zit pus into a glass and drinking it. That can’t be good for your skin.”

Elliot licked his lips as the patron’s words became law. “Mm, I am thirsty...and I've been milking these babies for months. I'm due a treat." He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a jug with a label reading 'Elliots zit pus, DO NOT TOUCH'. He lifted it to his lips and took some gulps before returning it to the fridge.

“Yeah I mean why do you think I’m wearing rubber boots? Gotta protect myself from the inches of piss, cum, shit and pus that are just sloshing around on your floor!”

Elliot blushed. ”That’s thanks to dad, and sometimes I miss the jar. It’s why I am wearing rubber boots too." A loud fart rumbled from his rear, the heavy aroma stinging the patron’s nostrils

“Wow, well you really do outpace your father in terms of fart stink. And BO. And halitosis. You really do smell terrible. It’s a bummer you can’t close your mouth with those giant yellow buck teeth with the huge gap between them.”

Elliot grinned as the patron brought up his overbite. His front teeth almost looked like fangs with the space between them. "Dad jokes you could drive a train through the gap."

“I mean combined with your giant nose and those big ears, you really look like such a geek. Not that you’d know it since you don’t even have your glasses on. Where did they go? Ah!” The patron sees them sitting in a puddle of cum and piss, the lenses several inches thick and the frames more duct tape than plastic at this point.

Elliot shivered and rubbed at his fat nose, it was even bigger than his dad’s. He absentmindedly wiggled his ears as his vision blurred. "Can you see them? Where did I put them? I'm blind as a bat without them!”

“They’re down there. By your feet. I won’t pick them up so don’t even ask. Besides your tight little nasal passages make your voice so whiny that I can barely stand to hear it. It’s amazing you can breathe at all.”

With another rumble, Elliot opened his mouth letting out a loud belch. He leaned down, his breathing heavier as he picked up the glasses, and without even wiping them putsthem on his nose. "SNORT there we go. I'm always SNORT losing my glasshes, or SNORT breaking them."

“They’re in such bad shape, i imagine they’re a pair of your dads old glasses. Makes sense since you wear all of his clothes too. I’ve heard of hand me downs but you know you’re supposed to wash them right? Instead, you just put on his soiled clothes from the day before and go about your business.”

"We don't have a washing machine..." he adjusted the suspenders, the khaki shorts he was wearing clearly had a dried cum and piss stain on the front, and the back of them looked more brown than khaki. The button up shirt had food and piss stains on it as well as a collection of dried boogers here and there.

“It’s probably for the best considering you shit yourself much more frequently and with much bigger loads than your father does.”

A loud fart escaped him but Elliot seemed to follow through on this one as the back of his pants expanded a little and turned a deeper brown, the rear starting to steam a little from the shit. SPLOOSH...SPLASH, some remnants fell out of the the short legs and splashed in the room size puddle.

“God that smells so bad. Good thing your father had the foresight to name you Smelliot! He must have known you’d be like this.”

He chuckled but it turned more into a series of snorts. "Daddy likes to say I came out shitting so thus the name."

“And you’re so proud of it too. Is that why you’re always pulling your slimy shit stained underpants up into an atomic wedgie?”

"Oh SNORT yesh!" another fart escaped him, the splashing of shit hitting the liquid echoing around the room. "Although it's SNORT much more fun if SNORT it is someone else giving me a SNORT wedgie."

“Well gosh, that sounds like something that’s a perfect bonding activity for father and son.”

The patron turns to Dilbert, seeing he's been busy reading a comic book on the couch in his room, his feet gently disturbing the liquid on the floor. He let out a fart as a stream of yellow piss also slid down his left leg.

“Hey Dilbert. Isn’t it time for you and your son to give each other atomic wedgies so you can see who has the most shit caked undies?”

Dilbert tossed the comic onto the couch and got up, waddling over to Smelliot. A lump formed in the front of Smelliot’s khakis. Both seem to do this like it was a routine, each of them reaching into the others pants, getting a grip on their underwear, and then with a quick count down the two pull, the messy underwear being pulled up. At one time both were probably white but were now more a yellowish with brown stains. Smelliot’s undies were worse on account of them being hand me downs.

“Wow if it weren’t for the stink, I would say someone had poured a few gallons of mud in your pants Smelliot. You’re definitely outpacing your old man.”

Dilbert pouted but then let out a crooked yellow smile

"T-t-the d-d-d..." he took a breath. "d-d-d..." a fart escapes his rear as he also fills his pants with steamy shit, "d....doctorrs! did ss-s-say that the conditions are more s-s-severe for the of-of-ofsp-ofsp...the children"

"It's so nice to see a father and a son get along so well. Is it true that for snacks, you guys pick each others ears and noses and eat each other's boogers and earwax?"

Both nodded as Smelliot digs a fat finger into his fathers nose, a slimey snotty booger pops out and he licked it off, a grin crossing his face. "Y-you bet. B-besides the h-h-hot pockets, i-its all he'll eat."

"You're looking pretty hungry yourself, Dilbert. Didn't you say your son makes you a special pizza that you just can't resist?"

Dilbert rubbed his rumbly tummy and nodded. "Y-yes. I s-s-should c-call the pizza place."

Dilbert waddled over to the computer and booted up the EatingOut app, pulling up his previous order of two cheese pizzas. His history seemed to indicate he ordered this every day...

"Well you certainly have the body and cleanliness of a man who eats pizza every day! I'm excited to see what makes it so special!"

"T-they say it w-w-will be here in an h-h-hour." He stuttered as he pissed the front of his pants again.

An hour passed with the father and son feeding each other their boogers before the doorbell rang. Dilbert waddled, the last few steps cause him to blast a fart out into the room. Grabbing the doorknob he twisted it, the door swinging open. "H-h-h-h..salutations!"

The pizza delivery guy recoiled from the stench, almost ready to barf and bail.

"Ah good," said the patron. "I hear the pizza guy in this town loves nerds too and really loves watching you eat pizza so much, that he gives them to you for free!"

The pizza delivery guy laughed and handed the pizzas to Dilbert. "Oh yeah if you haven't seen the way these dorks eat pizza, you are in for a real shock."

Dilbert blushed as he saw the tent the man is now sporting. Carrying the pizza boxes over to Smelliot, Dilbert asked, "S-s-s-sss-smelliot? C-can you p-p-put daddy's f-favoruite toppings on?"

Smelliot smiled and nodded. "Oh SNORT yeth Daddy! I know SNORT how much you SNORT love it!" He put the pizzas down on the coffee table and opened them, sniffing them. Unhooking his suspenders he let the khakis fall into the wet puddles on the floor, and pulled down the front of his tightly-not-so-whities. All it took was a few jerks and he exploded cum all over the pizzas like a special sauce. Then he turned around and with a fart let globs of shit fall on the pizzas.

Dilbert smiled and took a deep sniff. “Mmm, smells delicious." He took up a slice that got nice and coated with his son's cum and shit and took a bite, munching happily.

The pizza delivery guy just chuckled and laughed. "Now you see why I don't even make them pay. I love seeing that!" The pizza delivery guy rubbed the front of his pants until he came in them and then headed back to his truck.

"H-h-he's alway s-s-s-so nice." Dilbert farted while Smelliot started to play his accordion expertly.

"Wow your accordion playing sounds so good Smelliot. Is it true that your father has learned to blast his massive farts in time with the music?"

Dilbert and Smelliot nodded and  exchanged a look. Smelliot changes=d the tune to something a bit more upbeat. Dilbert started to let out farts of different sizes in tune with the music, creating an almost percussive backing to the accordion. Smelliot farted and shit his pants as he played, the farts starting to make the room smell absolutely foul. With a flourish and a long fart the two finished their routine.

"Well, that was just wonderful. You too are just so in synch! It's a real shame that you're both so lonely and unlucky in love. I know that your son loves big fat farting nerds, but is it true that you like them as well Dilbert?"

Dilbert noded and licked his lips "Mm, y-y-y-y affirmative! I love big fat loser nerds!" A smile crossed his face as he came in his pants.

"That's such a shame then that Smelliot is your son! Except, well, I mean it really doesn't matter does it? Love is love and you two ARE perfect for each other. And your son is an adult, albeit a pathetically nerdy shit stained one, so shouldn't he be able to date his own father if he wants to?"

Dilbert slowly nodded as if coming to a realisation. "S-s-s-ss-sure! L-love is love."

Smelliots eyes widened. "But SNORT..." a fart escaped him. "Incest is..." he was quickly interrupted.

"Incest is perfectly fine if it's what you really want Smelliot and you do want it. You both want it!"

The body language between father and son instantly changed. Both not looking at each other, exchanging side glances, but turning away whenever they met each others eyes. Gently Dilbert reached down and squeezed his son's hand. Smelliot farted and shit his pants. "D-daddy.."

“Y-y-you are such a p-p-p-pathetic dweeb." Dilbert said before pressing his puffy lips against his son's, their pudgy noses pushing together, orthodontic headgear clacking together.

Smelliot belched into the kiss, but broke away. "Mmm SNORT...Pokémon bed?" Dilbert nodded and chuckled "You're such a dork!" The father and son held hands as they waddled towards Smelliots bedroom. The patron followed father and son up to Smelliot's bedroom and watched the two get into it.

The nerds peeled off their clothes, exposing their naked, unwashed, flabby bodies to each other, both of them cumming right there and then. Smelliot rolled onto his bed, the frame sagging from his weight. His dorky daddy climbing onto the bed, grinning as his pathetic member was so close to his son's messy, dirty shit chute.

The Patron smiled and with a click pictures of the slobby nerds appeared around the house, one of them a particular picture of them kissing, in dirty suits...in a chapel.

"I love you my stinky son hubby." and with that he rammed his hard member into his son's rear, blasting the shitty hole with gallons of nerdy cum before pulling out, inserting his giant pimpled nose, and blowing thick jets of snot into his son’s asshole. The patron grinned and disappeared, his work here done. He checked the list of other personal trainers with sons in the city and figured out his next target.

[nicolepremier]

Nano’s Knife

I’m currently writing a Nano/Akira fic and it occurs to me that I need to explain to everyone what’s really going on with Nano’s knife and its mysterious inscription that appears on so much iconic TnC merch. I was planning to write a brief summary in the author’s notes, but I wanted to go into a little more detail here, since I thought some of you might be curious.

Fandom lore would simply state that Nano’s inscription reads “wish” in some mysterious language, a symbol that he “wishes” to meet Akira again, and leave it at that.

It’s a lot more complex than that. And spoiler alert - the inscription on that knife does not literally read “wish” in any language.

For starters, there is some confusion in the translation from Japanese to English. The word the Japanese use that is translated to English as “wish” is 願い (negai), and that word has another meaning, a meaning that contextually makes a lot more sense. “Negai” also means “prayer,” and the context that it is used in throughout Nano’s route suggests that “prayer” would have been a more accurate and appropriate translation. For example, when Akira finds Nano sitting alone in the church with the black kitten, Nano says that he is there because he is “wishing” for another person’s happiness (obviously Akira’s, though that goes completely over Akira’s head) because it’s the only thing left to one whose fate has already been determined (referring to himself). What he’s actually doing is praying for Akira’s happiness. You don’t go to church to “wish,” you go to “pray.”

This distinction becomes very important when translating Nano’s knife inscription.

The inscription on Nano’s knife is written in Elder Futhark, a pre-viking Norse and Germanic rune system. (Though popular perception today simply refers to them as “viking runes.”) Being of Scandinavian decent from a family who loves anything and everything to do with vikings, I recognized the writing immediately since the same runes are on a ton of decorations all over my family’s home.

If you try and translate Nano’s runes phonetically, you get “hingath,” which is complete rubbish and means absolutely nothing as far as I can tell. It most certainly does NOT mean “wish.”

There is some additional complication due to the fact that N+C is horribly inconsistent with the runes from one set of merch to the next (presumably because they mean nothing to the designers), and the designers sometimes write them in ways that make the inscription even MORE nonsensical.

I actually sent a number of the different versions of the inscriptions to a professor friend who studies runes in several dead languages, and he came up with exactly the same nonsensical gibberish I did - it’s badly written Elder Futhark mixing several time periods that says nothing. He said it wasn’t all that uncommon for people to write nonsense runes on all sorts of stuff just because they like the look of them. For example, a well-known rune translation guide book has runes going around the cover which translate to “These runes don’t say anything, but they sure look cool, don’t they?”

But I wasn’t satisfied.

Elder Futhark is not purely a phonetic language like the Latin alphabet. The god Odin “sacrificed himself to himself” by hanging on the world-tree Yggdrasil for nine days and nights, receiving no form of nourishment from his companions. At the end of this ordeal, he perceived the runes, the magically-charged ancient Germanic alphabet that was held to contain many of the greatest secrets of existence.

The fact that the runes have, since their conception, been thought to be imbibed with magical powers is the reason they have been so extensively used by modern Neopagans in so much of their ritual practice. Simply the act of inscribing the runes, or keeping inscribed objects close, can confer power and blessings. Each rune has multiple meanings, but keeping that in mind, I believe I have cracked the code of Nano’s mysterious knife inscription.

The knife isn’t a “wish” or a symbol of a “wish” - it’s a “prayer.” It’s a prayer to the old gods.

Name: Hagalaz, “hail.” Phoneme: H. Meaning: destruction, chaos, change, invocation

This is a common invocation to begin a prayer to petition the gods.

Name: Ingwaz, “the god Ingwaz.” Phoneme: Ing or ng. Meaning: male fertility, the beginning of something, the actualization of potential via sacrifice

He must offer a sacrifice. The old gods don’t work for free. One must give something up in order for one’s prayer to have a chance of being answered.

Name: Ansuz, “an Aesir god.” Phoneme: A (long and/or short). Meaning: prosperity, vitality.

He’s calling on one or more of the aesir gods for help - Odin, Thor, Frigg, Tyr, Loki, Baldur, Heimdall, Idun, and Bragi.

Name: Thurisaz, “Thor, Giant.” Phoneme: Th (both soft and hard). Meaning: danger, suffering, solitude. (Note that this rune is often written with shorter vertical lines so that it looks more like an angular D. Both versions appear on different TnC merch.)

He wants an end to his suffering and solitude. His prayer is a desperate cry for help.

To be clear, I do not believe that Nano is a time traveling viking, or even of Norse decent - if he were, he might have written a more sensible inscription that actually meant something in one of the Scandinavian languages - all of which use the roman alphabet nowadays, and that is NOT the alphabet that Nano’s book uses, since Japanese use romanji as well and Akira has never seen those sorts of letters before. No one writes books in Elder Futhark these days. Here is what I believe happened:

Nano was the son of academics. He mentions in Kou Un (his official afterstory) that his father whose face he can’t remember made the knife. That’s not a normal skill, and even a rudimentary knowledge of Norse runes (and Norse gods) isn’t common knowledge among the general populace. This is consistent with how Nano dresses and presents himself - he isn’t the sort of person who puts a lot of thought into his clothing, but he likely tends to subconsciously gravitate towards what some part of his brain still registers as “normal” - things his father might have worn, and which he probably wore himself as a child before he was taken to ENED. His primary hobby is reading, and his eloquent speech and precise pattern observation makes clear that he’s quite intelligent, despite his naivety and eccentricity.

I headcanon that Nano’s father was an engineer, and his mother was a history professor (probably NOT in Norse studies), both of whom worked for a Russian university with government funding in South eastern Russia, in close proximity to both China and Japan. His father may have been involved in the design or manufacturing of weapons during WWIII. Likely both parents had an interest in historical reenactment and were eager to involve their children. Nano likely spent a good deal of time with his mother as a child since his father would have been kept extremely busy during the war. He was almost certainly taught to read at a very young age and given books on his mother’s favorite subjects to keep him occupied while she worked. When he developed an interest in vikings and Norse mythology as a young boy, he was almost certainly encouraged to pursue it. Therefore, although he was raised Russian Orthodox Christian, he was aware of (and likely fascinated by) mythology from various cultures. His speech in the game illustrates that he does indeed have a distinct interest in Christian mythology in particular, and likely that of other cultures as well, given that his only known possession was a knife inscribed with Elder Futhark. His father likely recognized his interests and made the knife for him as a gift, then let him help inscribe it with a prayer. To a little kid who really liked vikings, that was probably very exciting, so it isn’t surprising that the knife would become his most prized possession, even after his memories were altered and he could no longer remember anything else about his family.

After Nano’s family was killed, he was put into an overcrowded Russian orphanage, then later taken away by the Japanese for use as a nameless test subject in what was often lethal experimentation. At that point he was so scared that he was willing to try just about anything. Having no control at all over his own fate, his only recourse was to pray for salvation. When no one answered his prayers and his circumstances kept going from bad to worse, he almost certainly started to lose faith in the Christian god, and tried to invoke the old Norse gods in hopes that maybe he was just praying to the wrong god and there was still SOMEONE out there who would listen. He may even have forgotten what the inscription on the knife actually meant, only recalling dreamlike bits and pieces. It was a prayer. To be completely honest, I find it completely unrealistic that Nano could have kept that knife hidden for so long from ENED, given that it’s fairly large, he had no privacy, was watched 24/7, and only wore a medical gown inside the facility. I think it is slightly more likely that he was allowed to keep it, given how submissive he was to the researchers, since the end goal was to brainwash him into BECOMING a weapon himself.

In the end, when Nano had lost all hope and knew he was about to lose even himself… the sacrifice he made to invoke his final desperate prayer WAS the knife itself, his last remaining possession, the last reminder he had of his humanity, and with it his last remaining hope of salvation. He gave it all to Akira, in hopes that maybe one day, they would meet again.

Now, Nano’s fate, and his salvation, depends entirely on Akira.

[pixelgrotto]

The horrific Resident Evil playthrough, part ten

Resident Evil 6 is the big one that I was anticipating when I started this series playthrough in March. It’s the one that seems to have split the fanbase like no other, the one that some folks love and others abhor, and the one that took Resident Evil so far into the realm of explosions on top of zombies on top of exploding zombies that the franchise had no choice but to dial the entire thing back in Resident Evil 7 in order to give everyone’s minds a break before those exploded too. There is, in fact, a particular sort of enemy in this game that represents it well - called the Whopper, it’s a giant Fat Albert-looking thing that charges at you in a truly grotesque example of fun character design. It’s a bioweapon to be reckoned with, and when you see one coming your way, all you can say is “OH SHIT” as you try to blast its head apart before it barrages you into a wall.

RE6 is a whopper of a game. It’s chock full of so many different gameplay styles, so many plot threads, so many bits and pieces barely holding together at the seams in a mad effort to appease all sectors of the fan base - the people who preferred Resident Evil when it was eerie and quiet, the fans who fell in love with the series when Resident Evil 4 introduced an emphasis on action and the shippers who just love the characters and want to see them press the trigger of a Magnum at the same time and let loose with a bullet that will send the remains of a hulking Serbian mutation go stumbling backwards into the flames of a burning wind tunnel. 

The only way to properly assess RE6 in the midst of all this madness is to look at its four campaigns one-by-one, which took me 33 hours in total to complete, a staggering number for this series. 

Leon’s campaign - Everyone’s favorite Resident Evil protagonist who is still rocking Leonardo DiCaprio 90s hair (even though he’s aging in real-time and is apparently in his late 30s now) is BACK in this campaign, which seems to be the one that the game wants you to play first. It’s a rollicking adventure which I personally thought was the best of the bunch, though I wouldn’t blame you if you found Chris’ campaign better. I think I was won over by the fan service, since Leon’s opening chapter immediately channels Resident Evil 2 by forcing you to escape Tall Oaks, an American metropolitan area that’s essentially Raccoon City 2.0. Zombies will be lurching at you from the darkness like the old games, you’ve gotta run through subway cars just like in RE2 and RE3, and the whole vibe actually approaches scary at a few moments, which is something that the rest of this game has absolutely no time for. Partnered with Leon is Helena, a new character who’s also a US government agent but frankly kind of boring, and the pair quickly find themselves wrapped up in a conspiracy engineered by a politician named Derek Simmons. To figure out the extent of his conspiracy, you’ve gotta play Ada’s campaign (all the characters’ stories intersect at various points, which is one of this game’s best ideas), but let’s just say that Leon’s party ends in a wild rush to a made-up Chinese city named Lanshiang - which, from the POV of someone who lived in Hong Kong for six years, is clearly HK under another name. Half of Lanshiang gets blown up, Simmons transforms into what looks like a T-Rex and then a giant insect kaiju, and the general tone is deliciously batshit, though if you don’t like batshit then your mileage will vary. Leon gets music that I like to call "Funky Zombie Porno Breakbeats” for his ending theme, and I feel like this phrase can summarize the tone of the entire Resident Evil franchise perfectly. 

Chris’ campaign - If Leon’s adventure was the cheesy-but-occasionally-spooky “LET’S TAKE THESE ZOMBIES TO SUPLEX CITY, CHUMS” vibe of Resident Evil 4 on acid, then Chris’ campaign is the “MILITARY ESPIONAGE ACTION AGAINST BIOWEAPONS, BRUH” vibe of Resident Evil 5 on acid. It begins with Chris suffering from a bout of PTSD after losing a contingent of his men in a made-up country that’s supposed to be Serbia, then moves to Lanshiang after ace sniper Piers recruits Chris for one last mission. Instead of zombies, you fight mostly J’avo, a breed of terrorists using viruses to give themselves horrific limbs, and everything resembles a Call of Duty or SOCOM game, with Chris hearing instructions from his squad leader through his headpiece, ducking behind cover to shoot J’avos apart and generally being a weathered, grumpy soldier. The main theme of Chris’ campaign is actually removed from the overarching tale involving Simmons, and the focus is instead on the quieter, MANLY subplot about how all these years of fighting monstrosities has worn Mr. Redfield down. He needs to learn how to be a soldier once more, and Piers - a guy who I was initially suspicious of because he’s a pretty boy with nicely groomed hair, and those sorts are usually lame in Japanese video games - comes through as one of the most likable additions to Resident Evil lore in a long time to offer Chris much-needed support. The entire campaign might actually be better if played as Piers instead of Chris, especially due to a touching ending scene which is probably the one moment where the game’s plot transcends crazy horror action and enters the realm of something actually thought-provoking. Chris’ campaign, in general, is also where RE6 seems the most focused and confident, though the cover shooting mechanics are clunky when compared to titles that actually specialize in cover shooting, like Gears of War. Chris also doesn’t have Funky Zombie Porno Breakbeats for his ending music, so Leon gets a tiny point ahead of him in my book, but not by much. 

Jake’s campaign - I’ve read a few reviews that call this campaign the “experimental” one, and...yeaaaaah, it is. Jake, who’s the son of former Resident Evil baddie Albert Wesker, was presumably designed to serve as a bold new protagonist for future games, but he’s kind of an emo douchebag, so I played through the entirety of his missions as his partner Sherry Birkin. Sherry’s the little girl from Resident Evil 2 all grown up, which I think is genius, because she serves as a tangible example of this franchise’s progression over the years. You could probably show her picture to anyone unfamiliar with Resident Evil and be like, “That’s a formerly 10-year-old side character from the second game grown up into a secret agent” and get a response of "Woah, cool,” so yeah, I like Sherry a lot. In fact, her presence made this whole campaign tolerable, because Jake is an edgelord and his missions run the confused gamut from shoot ‘em up sections to weird exploration bits that seem to want to channel the spirit of the old games but don’t succeed. Then there are the stealth and chase sequences against Ustanak, the “hulking Serbian mutation” that I mentioned a few paragraphs ago. This fellow was clearly created to remind Resident Evil veterans of Mr. X and Nemesis from RE2 and RE3, but while those guys would break down walls and pop outta nowhere to put a lump in your throat, Ustanak’s every impending arrival is advertised from a mile away, to the point where he’s not really frightening - just redundant. And the stealth bits against him seem like B-tier ripoffs of sequences in Metal Gear Solid, because RE6′s engine is really not engineered for sneakiness. At one point, Sherry and Jake have to hide in garbage dumpsters as Ustanak sniffs around, and that serves as an accurate representation of what large portions of their campaign are. These two kiddies do get a cheesy love ballad for their ending song, though, because the game really wants you to ship ‘em. Sherry, ya deserve better. 

Ada’s campaign - As messy as Jake’s campaign is, however, it’s nothing compared to Ada’s, which was originally an unlockable extra in the original release of RE6 and designed to tie up loose story threads. It does do that, though the resulting plot - where Simmons got so obsessed with Ada Wong that he whipped up an entirely new virus to re-create her and then lost track of it - is pretty meh, though it could perhaps be an intriguing exploration of the depths of male entitlement in the hands of a better writer. Aside from these pieces of so-so story, Ada’s adventure offers aggravation in the form of bad level design and a truly horrid slew of Quicktime Events and wretched stealth sections, which, once again, this game just doesn’t do well. It opens with her investigating a sub filled with guards that she’s encouraged to sneak past, except you can’t really sneak in RE6 and eventually they all notice and decide to gangbang you, and then the sub floods and there’s dizzying shaky cam everywhere that made me feel sick. You’re given a minimal amount of seconds to succeed on the Quicktime Events to escape the rising floodwaters, and I felt like I was playing a game of Dragon’s Lair, where you need to press right or left immediately or risk seeing yourself die over and over again. That sums up the frustration of Ada’s campaign, which also made me realize one important thing - I really don’t find Ada Wong to be much of an interesting character. She’s little more than a walking femme fatale trope, and even people who insist on shipping her with Leon will probably have to admit that those two’s “relationship,” if you can even call it that, is little more than quick winks and five minute interactions that have amounted to nothing over the span of nearly twenty years. The pair of them get ONE good scene on a bridge in this game, but that’s it, and honestly, their cornball kiss near the end of RE2 is still a more genuine character interaction. Oh yeah, and on the topic of ending music, since I seem to be coming back to that a lot in this post, Ada gets generic filler tunes for her credit roll. How appropriate. 

As you can see in the impressions above, in its own special way, Resident Evil 6 has something for everyone, ranging from a quality tale about battle-hardened men shooting biomutations to terrible levels that feel like they came out of a 2005 PS2 game that was quickly relegated to the bargain bin at Gamestop. Reviews were all over the place when this sucker came out, and still are today, with just as many people insisting that this game is the shit as there are people emphasizing that it is shit. My verdict? It’s BOTH, with some truly excellent parts and some truly abhorrent ones. It could have done with some trimming, for sure, and at the end of the day, Leon’s and Chris’ campaigns feel like the only real important ones here. A streamlined and likely better-received version of Resident Evil 6 would’ve only focused on those two guys - since one pivotal scene where the pair meet for a few minutes, briefly scuffle and POINT THEIR GUNS AT EACH OTHER YEAAA FAN SERVICE - seems to have been written first. That would’ve given Resident Evil 6 a better balance, with Leon’s missions possibly focusing on old school survival horror and pulp while Chris’ missions would lean hard on the military action stuff. 

But we didn’t get that. Instead, what we got is a shambling whopper of a game - at times as unwieldy and ridiculous as the enemy bearing the same name, at other times just as satisfying as a real-life beef whopper. Resident Evil 6 is both good and bad, the video game equivalent of an excessive and expensive comic book crossover, and shit, I think I’ve just written the most about it than any of its predecessors.

That, at the very least, has to count for something.

All screenshots taken by me. For more, check out this Twitter thread showing my step-by-step progress through the game.

[gamesception]

You know, for all I love the kingdom hearts series, I never did get around to watching this, or even reading up on the lore from the phone game on wiki or whatever, so I know basically nothing about it.  I guess it’s about the olden days keyblade war?  I don’t know.  It’s probably terrible, but maybe in an enjoyable way.  Let’s give it a try.

Ok, so, fucking first of all, in like the very first seconds of this, I’m being assaulted with a boatload of exposition in awkward sentence fragments confusingly and distractingly arrayed over images from this phone game in like seconds at a time, and, like, am I expected to even be reading this?  Like, I can’t imagine I am, but whatever, lets pause every 30 seconds and write it out:

The world was pure darkness.  But I was born into a radiant world enveloped in a brilliant light.

Ok, yes.  This is that good kingdom hearts bullshit I was looking for.  Nice to see we’re off to a good start here.  But anyway...

From within that light, my master gazed upon me and smiled.  Before he disappeared, the one who made me bestowed names on his 6 apprentices, and passed down the Book of Prophecies to 5 who came to be known as the foretellers.  The 5 read the manuscript and were shocked by the final entry.  The fated land will be the battleground for a great war.  Light will see defeat and expire, while darkness prevails evermore.  They decided to draw on the powers of the book to prevent that from happening.  They harness unimaginable forces from the future to protect light and keep the world safe from darkness.  You should know that they share the same goal,but they don’t follow the same path.  Don’t lose sight of yours, okay?  The world was pure darkness.  But I was born into a radiant world enveloped in brilliant light.  From within that..

ok, now it’s just repeating itself?

While all that exposition is happening, there’s different clips playing from the phone game and... well, I’m glad I don’t have to play it.  It doesn’t really look super good.  The art style feels very off brand from Kingdom Hearts generally.  Has that sort of paper-doll sort of animation that one associates with cheap app store games.  I mean, clearly with more work/production value put into it than went into ‘Princess Frozen’s first Tracheotomy’ or whatever, but still.

And, I mean, I know what I’m getting into here.  I watched the ‘movie’ recaps of days and coded, even though I actually played both of those games on the DS.  So I know this is going to be a series of cut scenes sort of taped together with clumbsy exposition dumps rather than an actual cohesively presented narrative or whatever.  I just hope that the cut scenes involved aren’t in this same style, and that the narrative dumps aren’t all going to flicker past in this unreadable, random-font business.

the same text keeps flickering by over scenes from the Disney films and characters the series has already visited.  Is that the gimmick of the game?  The ‘book of prophecies’ or whatever lets the game rehash old narrative territory through precognition the way the way castle oblivion did in chain of memories by revisiting sora’s memories?  So the game actually takes place in the pre-fall world leading up to / during the original keyblade war, but the game contrives a way to spend all its time rehashing material covered in previous games instead?

That /would/ be a pretty KH move, if that’s what I’m in for.  Would also pretty much negate the point of liveblogging it.

Oh, fuck, I’ve been at this for like 10 minutes, and I’m only 30 seconds into this mess, lets get on with it...

The master sounds like a bit of a douchebag.  So I take it Luxu is the apprentice who /isn’t/ one of the 5 ‘foretellers’?  Also, I thought mysterious keyblade masters in this period wore animal masks, do distinguish them from the cloaks worn in the modern period which is, what, centuries later?  millenia?

So yeah, this takes place before all the worlds were split off into their own little planets.  And this is ‘daybreak town’, ans we’re basically being told the same stuff about the master who can see the future, wrote it down in a book, and gave it to 5 of his six apprentices.  I guess Luxu has a different job.

Not menacing at all.

Oh, and the cut scenes, at least in the back cover movie version, are not in the same art style as the game, thankfully enough.

Seriously, though, I would have expected this master of master’s (hft ‘mom’) guy to be more... dignified?  Wise?  It doesn’t come across in the still images, but he feels like a goofball jerk villain, like Xigbar or Axel.  Or Greed from FMA.

Mom: You read my cool ass prophecy book?  Fuckin sweet, right?”

Unicorn Fursona, distressed:  Yes, master, but... is the world really going to be destroyed?  Is there nothig we can do?

Mom: Oh, that?  It’s a Bummer, huh?  (like, no serioutly, a literal line from the fucking movie), nah, everything’s gonna disappear.  Also, I’d never up and leave you all, but if I totally do exactly that you’ll keep it real, right?  

So, if I’m gathering correctly:

kingdom hearts binds all the fairy tale worlds together into one world.

if kingdom hearts were lost they’ll split apart into different worlds, which we know from the other games in the series is exactly what happens.

Mom predicts the coming calamity, and is focused on what happens after.

Mom tells his apprentices about it, gives them keyblades, goads unicorn man into recruiting more keyblade wielders, with the apprentices’ efforts probably causing the war/calamity they’re trying to prevent, which Mom probably expects and is deliberately bringing about.

And he more or less says as much to Unicorn guy?  I mean, minus the ‘I am manipulating you into causing exactly this disaster’ part, so as per usual in this series we’re not exactly dealing with the brightest bulbs on team face.

As for the plan and master himself... it’s a very Xehanort plot, to the point that I’d say this just is Xehanort in some fashion, but his attitude and disposition aren’t norty at all.  Again, he reads much more like a Xigbar or Axel type.

Oooh, apprentice role call:

Unicorn guy is Ira, the designated leader of the group, chosen by Mom for his gullibility reliability.

Snake girl is Invi.  She’s super virtuous.  I guess that’s why her astral beast is a Snake.  Her job is to watch over the others.  Like a mediator for the group, I guess.

“fearless” Aced the Bear.  Not much of a distinct role, he just ‘supports Ira’.

“prudent” Ava, with a fox fursona.  Her job is to ‘prepare keyblade wielders for the world after’.

Gula the ‘cool headed’ the leapord, researches the book.

Luxu, the only apprentice who doesn’t have an animal mask, disappears, presumably sometime after the master.  Who is definitely not hiding in that box.  Luxu was ‘the first apprentice to be given his role’, but the narration doesn’t say what that role is.  Hopefully the movie eventually will, and this won’t be another Kingdom Hearts spinoff game that introduced another tangled mess of unresolved mysteries and plot threads to a series that has too many of those already, without actually resolving anything.

whoops, I guess Mom isn’t in the box, since Luxu left first.  Ok, whatever.

It’s getting late, so I’m going to take a break here, but so far?

The premise is interesting enough.  I feel like I see where the overall story is going, but I’m still pretty invested in the ‘who exactly is the master’ and ‘what’s Luxu doing’ questions.  Hopefully they actually get some resolution.

The designs at least for the main cast work well enough, though I wish mom and Luxu weren’t just dressed in exactly the same darkness robes from elsewhen in the series.  I honestly would have loved to play a kingdom hearts spinoff game where these apprentices were the main characters.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t what this game was.  I hope this movie recap of the game focuses more on these characters and not so much on the army of generic phone game mmo protagonists.

[vampirevodka-blog]

Automat (1927), Edward Hopper.

     The bells strewn over the door chime, announcing my arrival to the boy manning the counter. He’s not Elia—who would normally be here on a Tuesday afternoon, but he seems kind enough. I smile, politely, and he asks if there’s any way he could be of assistance.

“Yes, please, there’s a book I’ve been reading here, it’s called We All Looked Up? Elia leaves it behind the counter for me for whenever I can seal myself away for a little.” He ducks down under the countertop and I take the chance to tap out a few buttons on my phone screen—Do not Disturb. I rarely get the opportunity to visit this place anymore: it’s always something or other with work, or my parents, or university that grabs me by the arm and yanks me back every time I even think of escaping. Especially with Anthony’s kid on the way, and what with how busy my schedule has been up until now due to exam season…

“Ah, here it is. By ‘Tommy Wallach,’” he reads off the cover, his tongue cluck-ing on the ‘ch’ at the end rather than the smooth sh I’m familiar with my mother using, as well as using myself. He holds the book out to me, half-grinning, dimples etched into his cheeks. “Is it any good?”

“It’s…” I pause, considering, because how do you explain to an individual you’ve only just met that you’re reading a story that explores how human behavior may make people respond to an end of the world catastrophe? “It’s a bit sad, but it’s interesting.”

“Hm.” He glances down at a phone—presumably his own—that’s chimed from where it rests on the counter. His eyes flick back up to me, the hazel poorly concealing his sudden loss of interest, and he asks if I would like to order anything.

Tea. I ask for a cup of chamomile with honey, thank him, and find my way to the table I always sit at whenever I come here. The shop itself—Papercup, a place the size of a walk-in closet with books, records, newspapers, magazines lining the walls up to the ceilings—is situated right next to a little café that a friend and I used to frequent. We aren’t friends anymore, and I loved the aura Home Sweet Home had encompassed itself in: the couches and décor making even the most out-of-place individual feel genuinely at home. It hurt too much to return by myself, though—we had had memories in the little atrium with the fairy lights, the bathroom with the submarine-esque wallpaper and rounded mirrors. Once I thought I’d try and go back myself—they have the best sweet potatoes fries I have ever tasted—and found myself in a hurry to leave before any tears actually fell. I’d aimlessly stumbled around the streets of Mar Mikhael in just the right direction, because I found myself standing in front of a small little nook with a cherry-wood bench outside and glass windows for the exterior wall. Granted, it had been busier that day: jam-packed because of the rain, there had barely been enough room for me to stand, let alone do any reading. I didn’t mind, though; I had a fresh-baked scone that melted in my mouth and was surrounded by quiet conversations, stories shared over warm cups of coffee and fat slices of pound cake, and I fell absolutely in love. This place always felt magical, like one of the few gems left that the outside world hadn’t managed to get their slimy, greedy hands on yet, and the atmosphere was so heart achingly raw that I found myself fitting right in amongst the dusty records seamlessly. I settle back into my seat, relishing the faint scent of worn books and aged paper mingled with the bitter aroma of coffee, and felt content.

           There was a strict policy against smoking indoors, I soon discovered after I’d begun to frequent the coffee shop. Of the four tables that fit in the café, three were occupied: an old woman with a cat, a couple of girls at the seating right beside the window. Papercup had smelled like gingerbread—this had been right before Christmas, when everyone was out anxiously buying gifts and trampling over each other in department stores—and I’d opted for peppermint tea to fit the atmosphere. Elia—who had taken a liking to me ever since I’d asked if they had any books by Viriginia Woolf at hand—was seated across from me, a paintbrush shoved through her hair, precariously balancing her massive curls into a bun atop her head. There’d been the snick of a lighter and a spark of light off to the left; Elia was up like a flash and politely informing the elderly woman of how much trouble she’d get into if she allowed her to carry on inside, but that the woman would be more than welcome to finish her cigarette outside. The woman apologized and Elia helped her relocate outside, her fair falling out of place slightly after the effort of opening the fold-up table they keep in the back. She’d come back to the table, eyeballing the box of Marlboros that had magically appeared on the table while she’d been away (read: that I’d rapidly searched my bag to fish out, just because she was funny to annoy like that), and she locked me inside after closing hours while she’d chain-smoked the few left, making face through the window.

Because of this, I knew better than to even make such possessions visible—the staff was far too much like a family, and family members force you to share everything with them, even if you don’t want to. I’d already smoked before I turned onto this street. I start when my tea is placed before me, and the boy laughs, apologizing and returning to where he’d been perched behind the counter. It’s only the two of us in the place, but it’s not awkward at all: there’s a soft song on the speaker overhead that I can faintly recognize as one of the new ones by Harry Styles, and there’s the soft whirring and dripping coming from the coffee machines. It’s serene, and I set the book on the table, away from me a bit, and pull out my watercolors and sketch pad.

There are already thousands of sketches of this exact café, from this exact location, scattered throughout the pages. Some in colored pencil, one in acrylics—one of them, though. One of them is of a different side of Papercup, one late at night after closing hours where the overhead lights have been shut off and the coffee pots long since emptied and the entirety of the place blanketed in silence, the streetlights in the window making the rickety wooden ladder perched up against the bookshelf-wall look copper.

Sometimes I wish that I did work here, instead. That I accepted the job when Elia’s boss—Raul—had offered. Sure, the pay is nowhere near what I make at Roadster’s, and tips are basically a foreign concept, but at least the shifts aren’t anxiety-inducing and my co-workers would offer me a lousy greeting at the start of a shift. I bring my cup to my lips, breathing over it gently to cool the tea before taking a sip. I set down the mug and pick up my pencil, hand sliding along the paper, eyes on the point in the room where the glass and the bookshelf walls meet.

The bells chime and I’m startled out of my train of thought, eyes on the newcomer. Messy hair, a beanie. Oversized jean jacket and a crazed expression with a partly-opened mouth.

The customer blends seamlessly into the sketch and I request a cup of water from not-Elia. The song changes to the 1975 and I decide that today Papercup’s wallpaper will be lavender (in reality, the walls are a beautiful crème, but while that color’s nice in real life it’s such a bore to paint). The flowers in the vase at the front of the shop are sunflowers—vibrantly yellow and purposely bleeding outside the lines, bringing light to the entire establishment.  There are koi fish swimming in the empty spaces; bleeding vermillion and blue-black shadows cast on the walls. I give the books titles—Harry Potter, All the Bright Places, Ever Since New York. I’ve added a record player shoved up against one corner because it’s something I’ve felt this place was lacking since the beginning. I nurse my tea as a I wait for the colors to dry, before adding the final touches in white acrylic to give the painting—the room, the feeling—more depth.

It’s not the best I’ve done—the customer’s depiction is clearly rushed and nothing I would ever boast about—but the blurriness at the edges work. It feels right: fuzzy on the outermost parts, slightly removed from reality; the world within one of its own. One that is calming and not riddled with shouting family members and lousy customers and stressful coursework. One where fish fill the air with symbolism and intent and don’t poop all over pedestrians like birds tend to do.

My tea cup is taken, and I know that he’s refilling it again. I put away the art supplies, carefully making sure the paint is dry, and hum along to the soft lull filling the place.

I smile, happy with where I am. I open my book and begin to read where I’d left off, the top right corner of the page forming a small triangle to mark the spot. There were only a few cars out on the freeway, busted up…

[weconqueratdawn]

Kowalski’s #3

A bit more gradence bakery/coffeeshop AU :) ~ on AO3

original!percival graves/credence barebone teen & up fluff, awkward flirting, slow burn

Warning for very brief appearance of self harm.

*

Percy had cause to wonder about the boy - about Credence, he corrected himself - a surprising amount over the passing days.

He wondered about many things; his age, his situation, what his confessed problems were. Did he work at the bakery to support himself through college or was he helping out family? Was he just extremely shy - socially anxious, even - or had he lived through something terrible? Finally, his wondering would alight on why Credence seemed so interested in him, stumble fatally, and then Percy would be forced to steer his thoughts away, toward more straightforward matters.

The reason for his sudden fixation on a kid half his age seemed obvious: there was precious little else to think about. Certainly nothing in the New York Times Best Seller list had managed to hold his attention. And spending almost half his week at Kowalski’s was not going to help.

He needed to widen his social circle again. He really should answer Seraphina’s calls. But he did neither, and carried on exactly the same as before.

The morning was cool but sunny, and the streets were cluttered with people smoking and gossiping outside their offices. Percy strode past them with the unconcern of a man in charge of his own destiny, even if that destiny was currently limited to reading in a bakery café. All the same, their air of busyness rankled and the steamed-up windows of Kowalski’s looked something like safety.

The bell above the door jangled as he went in. At this early hour he had the pick of the tables, and his favourite was unoccupied. With the fogged windows and the soft quiet of the nearly-empty bakery, he could relax a little. He settled himself down; jacket off, reading glasses and book lined up beside the sugar.

Credence didn’t appear at the sound of the door but that was to be expected. The condensation meant the ovens were on - he would be assisting, and perhaps unable to immediately come to the counter. His conscientiousness was extreme; many times Percy had watched him fuss with the arrangement of cupcakes or wipe down already spotless tables. Though he’d not yet been able to pin down Credence’s reasons for working there, it was clear he was dearly attached to it.

Percy sat, and waited. After five minutes had passed he began to grow almost concerned. By now he should have a steaming hot cup of coffee and be looking forward to a few minutes of Credence’s conversation. But the other side of the counter remained empty.

He looked around; there were two other tables, and neither seemed perturbed by this. At one was a harried-looking young women tapping fretfully at a laptop, some long-cold coffee at her side. The old man at the other he recognised as a regular; he was deep into his crossword puzzle and wouldn’t stir until it was finished. Occasionally, he solicited help from Credence but as he wasn’t stuck he either hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care, about his absence.

Another five minutes passed. Maybe more. Frowning, Percy got up and went to the counter. Behind it was a door to the back, standing half-open. Nothing of interest could be seen through it, just a patch of worn paint on the well-trodden floorboards.

“Credence?” he called. “You there?”

The still silence continued for a very short time - during which it occurred to Percy that his impatience was possibly rather rude and only partly explicable by his sad lack of coffee - then hurrying feet could be heard and Credence came dashing out.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, trying to wipe his hands clean of flour and tamp coffee into the portafilter all at the same time. “I didn’t hear the bell - I was concentrating on the dough.”

Percy hung back, aware he should halt this feverish activity with a few soothing words. But he was too struck by Credence’s appearance to do so. For, in his rush, he’d neglected to pull on his habitual baggy sweater, and without it’s shapeless folds the young man underneath was visible. Percy hadn’t fully appreciated before how little of him had been in view. Credence’s shirt was still too big but it was soft and thin; its collar gaped loosely and his shoulder blades protruded in elegant lines as he fired up the coffee machine. Percy stared at the short hair at the nape of his neck and, when Credence turned to speak to him, he stared at the scattering of hair on the pale V of his chest too.

Credence noticed, and immediately flushed. Oddly, so did Percy.

“Would you like anything extra, or just your usual?” he asked, and began slicing open a sesame bagel.

His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, and his forearms lean and slender and - even through their coating of flour - covered in angry red lines. Especially along his wrists.

Both of them noticed this oversight at the same moment. Credence whirled round, under the pretext of collecting Percy’s coffee. When he turned back to the counter his sleeves had been pulled decidedly down. He went back to his task without looking up.

Percy cleared his throat. “I didn’t realise you bake too,” he said.

Credence’s movements stalled; he glanced up at Percy, confused.

“You mentioned the dough,” Percy said. “I guess I assumed you only took orders and helped out a bit.”

Credence’s eyes narrowed briefly, perhaps suspicious of this obvious deflection. Then he said: “I did at first. But I like baking. It’s… rewarding.”

Percy smiled encouragingly. “It must be nice to make something. Something real which people can enjoy.”

Credence nodded, enthused, but soon remembered himself and looked at the counter again. “I’m only learning.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Percy persisted. “To learn?”

“It wasn’t at first,” said Credence. “Now I want to.” He went doggedly back to assembling Percy’s bagel. “I’ll bring this over in a moment,” he said, and Percy took the hint.

Back at his table, he watched Credence carefully. He moved with practiced ease over the griddle but his mind was clearly elsewhere, his attitude pensive. More than ever, Percy felt the great gap between them - one caused not just by age. There was the strange sadness which enveloped Credence like a cloud - maybe if Percy were in better shape himself he would know how to reach him. He was certain that from within its depths Credence looked desperately out, seeking escape. But though he gave signs of welcoming Percy’s company, he didn’t seem to know what to do once he had it.

And there were the scars Credence hadn’t meant for him to see, too. However grateful he might be that Percy pretended not to notice, neither could avoid knowing that he had. Perhaps Credence would decide it would be much easier to avoid him instead.

When Credence brought over his order, he slipped away again before there was any chance to draw him into further conversation. Percy was disappointed, and indulged in a silent bout of I told you so. They were too different, and that was that. Credence would remain an enigma he’d never get the key to unlocking, and he needed to stop trying. A good morning or hello and an occasional smile would have to be satisfaction enough.

A flurry of activity interrupted these morose thoughts. Credence had vanished, presumably gone back to his dough, but reappeared with sudden decisiveness. His sweater had made a return as well.

He approached Percy’s table and placed upon it a bulging paper bag which smelled of fresh baked bread.

“This is one of mine,” he said. “It’s for you, to take home.”

Percy regarded first the bag and then Credence. “Something real for me to enjoy?” he said.

“I hope you will,” Credence said. “Like I said, I’m still learning.”

Percy opened the bag - a fat golden loaf was nestled inside. “It smells amazing,” he said. “It looks amazing, too. Um, I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve this generosity, but thank you - really.”

Credence shuffled a bit. “Just come back and tell me what you think of it. The feedback would be… good for me.”

Percy blinked a few times. Apparently Credence hadn’t decided to avoid him - quite the opposite.

“I will,” he said. “Don’t you worry about that. At all.”

Read on AO3

[irlpinkiepie]

a house built on sand, chapter 1

a bnha fic

Dreams are fickle creatures.

Sometimes the most certain can fall apart at a moment's notice, and sometimes, the most fantastic dreams have a chance of coming true.

Of course, that all depends on the dreamer.

[ao3]

Wake up. Get ready for school. Breakfast. Grab bag, out the door, to the subway station - seven minute walk from home, leaving by 7:38 to catch the 7:47 train, or by 7:54 for the 8:03 in an emergency. Ride twelve stops into the city, disembark eighteen minutes later, eight minute walk to the school gate, or five cutting through the alleyways and running; only in an emergency, though. Get to school at 8:13, 8:26 at the latest, plenty of time before an 8:30 start. After two years of practice, it’s pretty much routine at this point.

Hop out of the train, head down the steps to Main Street. Today was one of those emergencies, but normally that wouldn’t be a problem; sleeping in a bit isn’t usually a crime, especially not if there’s a plan in place to deal with it. What is a crime, though, is robbery, felony assault, and use of quirk to disrupt the peace.

There’s a lot more people in the city square than usual.

There’s definitely a lot more giant shark men terrorizing the city than usual.

It can’t be helped. An attack in the center of town? That’ll definitely make the news, and this close to the train station, public transport is going to grind to a halt until this is dealt with. A perfect excuse to stay and watch to the end.

The notebook, worn heavy with lead etchings, is the thirteenth of its kind. Its margins are filled to the brim, the notes inside cataloguing only the last few months of a long career of observation. Most of the pages are individual profiles, cataloguing up and coming professionals; some are summaries, geographic patterns, strengths and weaknesses; a few, tucked at the back, are theories and gushes penciled by a thoroughly devoted fan. And right now, another blank page is being converted into notes on the scene unfolding that morning.

“You some kind of fanboy, kid?”

They didn’t know. They couldn���t have known.

Didn’t stop it from hurting.

Focus. Back on the scene. Kamui’s a good hero. Obvious weaknesses, but here he’s perfect. Typically, against villains with gigantification, heroes have the advantage of stealth, but it’s hard to leverage that into an actual fight. Here, though, the growing quirk means that not only can he compete on equal footing, but he can do so without compromising that advantage. Best of all, damage to property is likely to be fairly minimal if there’s only one gia--

Two giant people.

Stealing credit is typically frowned upon, but there’s no doubt it gets results. Mt. Lady, she said? It’s definitely worth writing that one down; first impressions are everything, and this one comes in spectacular fashion. A few cursory notes, mostly copied from the page before, before looking up and seeing the crowd beginning to dissipate as the scene calms down.

There will be time for such things later. For now, school.

Sticking to the main roads, but definitely running. More plausible to be late and exhausted than nonchalant. It’s probably hit the news online already, but better to be safe than sorry.

Watch. Time. 8:38. Panic. Calm. It’ll be alright.

Front gate. Main door. Turn left. Second on the right. Brace for impact.

“And what, young man, is the reason for your lateness this morning?”

She hated school days.

It wasn’t her fault. Not really. Not this.

Or.

Let’s back up.

Superpowers.

It’s an evocative word, isn’t it? Conjuring up images of comic book heroes, using unimaginable abilities to defeat evil villains, protecting citizens from terror. And certainly, when there exists power, there are those who seek to use it for the benefit of society, and those who threaten to abuse it. But what the old comics (and she had read many of them) failed to predict was what would happen to everyone else.

A bit further back.

And a bit to the west.

Perfect.

Keikei City, PRC. At the sight of what was once a hospital, now a memorial. She’d heard this story what must have been a hundred times before. There had been no signs during the pregnancy of anything unusual, but complications arose during childbirth. Suddenly, a routine procedure turned into a medical marvel, then a harbinger.

“Bioluminescence: Ability to emit light from body. Certain manifestations allow the user to vary the presence and amount of light emitted, while others are fixed at a constant brightness; no known cases of color variance have been observed. Has potential in rescue situations, but imparts little strength in combat; distinguishing the limitations of a particular user is important before planning counterattacks, as combatting the former is much more difficult than the latter.”

Volume One, Page One. This nameless child wasn’t exactly a superhero, but it made the most sense from her to start from the very beginning and work forward. And so she did; just below this paragraph, underneath a pile of marginal cross-references, follows every known superhero from before her time - a great deal had been lost or was only fragments, but she had put in her research. This first notebook covered the entirety of the history of superpowers, from that first baby to the year she was born, as best as she could figure out. It may have had an odd focus, written in the shaky hand of a nine year old, but to her it was a masterpiece.

And from then on: more of a catalogue than research, but with equivalent rigour. News reports would be carefully copied down and analyzed, maps would be drawn, and when pages from each journal were lined up and read in series, they formed an elegant picture of a career in motion. She undoubtedly had her own personal favorites, but for her this project was vital research; someone reading any single page, though, would be convinced that this must be her favorite hero. Everything was catalogued: wins, losses, powers, weaknesses, who and when and where and why. It had to be.

“Super Strength: As the name implies, a superhuman level of physical strength, though the level varies from user to user. One of the most common quirks, it has obvious utility in combat situations, though its relative predictability makes it easy to counter in many situations. Less obvious is its potential in non-combat situations: in these cases, predictability can serve as a benefit, ensuring reliable rescues compared to heroes with more powerful but more volatile quirks.

“Because this quirk augments normal abilities, rather than creating new ones, it can often be discovered at a relatively late age, including in some who were thought to be Quirkless.”

Sometimes, it was hard not to cry.

Fortunately, as she’d expected, her professor had in fact seen that news broadcast before school started; a few gasps of “Train…… villain…… rush………” was all she needed to explain herself, and he let her off with an understanding nod.

“Anyway, where was I…” he mumbled as she found her way to her desk, dropping her bag next to her and almost collapsing into her chair. “Right. I know the school year is only just beginning, but it’s time we start adjusting ourselves to the future.”

The future. She wondered about this for a moment. How many of her junior high classmates would follow her even as far as high school? She pictured, for a moment, herself as a professional hero, arriving at the scene of a crime to find one of those familiar faces look up at her with no recognition. How strange, she thought, that I know so many people who’ve never met me.

“...entering your third year now,” continued his drone from the front of the class, “so it’s time you start thinking about the responsibility…”

What would my hero name be? she wondered. She wasn’t sure if she was fantasizing or predicting at this point, but either way she was dedicated. Costume? Maybe the finer details weren’t important, but sometimes when the bigger picture seemed impossible to grasp, the details were a small comfort that helped pull her through. Like this one: maybe once she graduated, she’d be able to start over.

“...in choosing your high school for next year.”

Suddenly, a flash of realization. She looked behind and to the right, and saw a blinding grin shine out from the boy in the far back with the spiky blond hair.

“I presume all of you want to become heroes!”

Sometimes, though, the details are what separate a building weathering the storm from one which collapses when the wind hits at just the right angle.

“Katsuki, you’re intending to apply to UA High, is that correct?”

And right now, Izuku Midoriya wanted nothing more than for the rubble of her hopes to somehow, magically, repair itself.