#but no. you need to impress me with more than prose that's not actively distracting

[clonerightsagenda]

*giving myself a pep talk in the mirror* don't give the book a star just because it wasn't physically painful to read

[crumbledcastle28]

Joel Miller: Stay Down

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Word count: 3.2k

Summary: Joel thought he had grown accustomed to fear until he finds you covered in blood.

Excerpt: He swallowed, attempting to choose his words carefully. He had never been good with them, attributing his deficiency to a long line of likewise men before him. His brain poured for sonnets, poetry, prose that he had read in his insignificant time on this planet. Something to impress you, distract you, to take away that crestfallen look in your eye.

He couldn’t do it. He never would be. So, he used his mouth for something else.

Warnings: stitching of a wound, kissing, blood, blood loss, so much yearning, unestablished relationship, probably incorrect gun talk, Joel is scared of feelings.

A/N: This is me coping with the fact that we do not get more last of us in January. Also partially inspired by my favorite song maybe ever.

Pedro Masterlist

All my writing

Joel had found his hands becoming more and more susceptible to the cold as he got older.

They would crack and bleed, flaking dried skin within his decades-old gloves before November had even begun. This not only hurt like hell, but forced him to slow down and think about what he was doing to his body for once in his life. He had a harder time gripping the reins on a horse or fingering the trigger on a shotgun. Noticeably so. And living in a small town with a little brother foaming at the mouth to make old man jokes didn't help matters.

This is what led him to you.

He wouldn't call you a hoarder. Honestly, he would be the first to admit that you were one of the smartest people in Jackson. You had somehow become one of the most materialistically rich people in the town. You consistently managed to find the most randomly useful items on your patrols, things that people before the outbreak would never have even thought to miss.

Things like shoe insoles, ball point pens, Chapstick.

And luckily for him, lotion.

You never charged anyone for taking from what you had. Furthermore, you actively asked people if they needed anything. Even offering to scout around the area in search of specifics. Joel hadn't been around that kind of softness since...

Well, a long time.

This made him uncharacteristically nervous when he first approached your doorstep, but he knocked anyway. He had never in a million years expected to leave that house satisfied in more ways than one.

He blamed it on that stupid crinkle the skin underneath your eyes got whenever you smiled at him. He couldn't help but fall into your light.

This started a... friendship. Of sorts. He would come over when he needed you, and you would happily oblige. As time went on, the visits to yours became more and more frequent, frequent enough that the rest of the town seemed to be catching on. At least, that's what his brother had been hinting at through jabs and side comments.

"You smiled at me the other day, Joel," Tommy had said. "Actually smiled."

Joel responded with a gesture he was hoping Ellie would not pick up anytime soon.

Joel was...happy. Happy with the arrangement. He had a warm body – a fucking gorgeous warm body – to get his energy out with, and the woman inside the body seemingly had no issue with his lack of strings attached.

And yet, for some reason, this annoyed him.

There was some undetectable, bruised part of him that wanted you to…what exactly? Fight him on it? Confess your undying love for him? Pull him back into bed to cuddle?

There had to be either pheromones or crack cocaine in that honeyed floral perfume you always wore. You were beginning to drive him this insane. Unfortunately for him, the place he went when he was beginning to toe that line into insanity was always you.

Joel had checked the schedule posted in the main square, assigning every able-bodied person shifts of patrol. You had a shift earlier in the day, which usually kept you busy until noon. You would then shower, eat, and spend the rest of the afternoon doing whatever the hell you wanted.

Overtime, these mental gymnastics became muscle memory to Joel.

He huffed as he lugged his aching legs up your steps, their typical milk white now coated in an ugly muddy brown. Winter had begun, apparent by the puffs of Joel’s own breaths, and the snow in Jackson was trying desperately to keep up.

Joel balled his hands into fists as he planted both feet onto your porch, blowing into them quickly, before knocking three times. Spaced out enough, but not too much. He envisioned you smiling as you heard his signature knock, but cringed at himself internally, burying the thought instantly.

It fluttered back to the surface when he heard the pads of your footsteps somewhere in the house begin but extinguished itself when they dissipated.

He waited a few more seconds, the rational part of his brain saying that you must be in the middle of something, but the man part of his brain imagining you putting on your silky red robe he loved so much, only for him to take it off you so slowly it made his own fingers shake. He breathed in deep, the laundry detergent from his nylon coat mixed with the beginnings of December filling his nose, and cracked his neck while rocking back and forth on his heels.

His eyebrows came together when he heard another rustle, then nothing.

He knocked again.

Still, nothing,

He knew you were in there – he could hear you, clear as day, and he knew you could hear him – but for some reason, you weren’t coming to the door.

His much too weathered mind began to race, thinking of three possible explanations. One, you heard him knocking, and were ignoring him. Two, you somehow were not hearing him knock on the door. Or three, you for some reason were not able to get to the door.

Meaning, there was a possibility you weren’t alone in there, and not by choice.

“Y/N?” he asked loudly. “Y/N, are you in there?”

Nothing. A bit more rustling, maybe a slight groan, but nothing.

Joel’s fingers began to tingle, and it wasn’t from the cold. He knocked again, harder.

“Y/N, I know you’re in there,” he said loudly, “just…just tell me you’re okay.”

Silence.

He gripped the doorknob and jiggled it, hard enough for the wood to groan underneath his fingertips, but it was locked from the inside. He huffed, knocking again, his hot breaths now clouding his face. He felt an ache in his wrist.

He said your name one more time, hearing the beginnings of a voice he knew better than he should have muffled by the wood, and the door was flat in front of him before he could think twice.

He stomped his way inside, coating the ground with mud and snow, and his eyes darted around the familiar living room. His vision was tunneled, scrounging for the shape of you on the floor, draped over the couch, held at gunpoint. His heart pulsed in his ears.

You weren’t in the living room.

He stomped into the kitchen, the bathroom, the basement, nothing. All that was left was the bedroom.

There was no way in hell you were still asleep.

He practically sprinted to the room, preparing himself. He had seen what men did to women, the remnants of it anyway, and despite his state of denial, he could never in a million years handle the sight of you that way. In your own bed. In your own house. Likely one of your own friends.

He pulled open the door anyway, and was met with gold.

The room was dim except for the lamps you loved so dearly, spreading their warm, glowing, honeyed light across the room in streaks. He blinked his eyes to adjust, focusing in on your body on the bed. You were facing him, skin painted with similar golden streaks, highlighting the tears culminating under your eyes. You were sat crisscrossed, upper body totally bare, back slouched tightly, your body practically folded in on itself. Your right hand was pressed against your left shoulder blade, while your other was filled with wine-colored rags.

Blood-soaked rags.

His eyes met yours quickly, and despite their dampness, they still had that fucking crinkle.

You chuckled, your shoulders dropping up and down quickly as they always do.

“You know,” you said, voice curdled and tired, “if someone doesn’t answer the door, that’s usually them saying ‘leave me the hell alone.”

You chuckled again, this time finishing it off with a wince.

His hand slid slowly from the doorknob as he took a hesitant step towards you, his body tearing itself in half. One side begging to fold your body into him, bubbling you in a cocoon. The other, itching to tear whatever did this to you apart ligament by ligament.

Your eyes slowly drooped from humor to something like shame, like a kicked dog or a broken child, and he stepped forward again.

“Don’t,” you countered weakly. “Just…just don’t.”

You scooted away from him slightly, refusing to look at him, and applied more pressure to whatever was expelling that much blood from your shoulder. Pain was suddenly present in your face.

“You want me to leave?” he quickly countered.

You said nothing.

He walked to you, removing the hand you had pressed against your wound, and sucked in a quick breath.

“Probably the first time you’ve seen a revolver bullet in about twenty years, huh Joel?” you asked, chuckling once more.

He barely heard you.

You had gotten the bullet out, but it had sunken in deep. The skin around it was red and welting, so swollen that Joel had to guess you had already been working on it for at least an hour. He winced, imagining what kind of pain you were in, and the fact that you were dealing with it all yourself.

He swallowed grimly.

“Hand me that rag,” he said. He could tell how little strength you had left to fight him by how quickly the rag flopped into his hand.

He pressed it to the wound, and you hissed.

“Fuck Joel,” you whined, squeezing the covers of your bed so tightly your knuckles went white. He held his pressure, forcing himself to think straight.

He might as well have been feeling the pain in his own shoulder.

He finally eased his pressure, wiping away as much blood from the area as he could.

“You cleaned it pretty well,” he said softly, voice thick in his throat, so thick it was hard to speak. “But…it’s gonna need a stich or two.”

“Or seven,” you said, grabbing the first aid kit sat in the middle of the bed. You opened the bag with shaking hands, taking out the needle and thread. You attempted to begin threading the needle, but with your hands quaking so fiercely you only produced frustrated grunts and sighs. He moved to the front of the bed, the front of his body facing yours, and took the needle and thread from your hands, setting them to the side. He then held your hands in his, squeezing them slightly, before using one to tilt your chin up at him.

He sighed at the storm in your eyes.

“What happened?”

“Did you kick my fucking door down?”

“What happened?”

“I was stupid, that’s what happened.”

He sighed again. “You’ve never once been stupid.”

“Today I was.”

“How?”

“It’s how I always am.” Your voice cracked. “Thought I could pick some apples for Mrs. Lawrence down the street. She always talks about how much she loved that as a kid – a freshly picked apple. Went out too far. Felt a sudden burning in my shoulder and ended up having to take out six hunters all by myself. Six.”

A single tear dripped from your left eye, the gold from the lamps turning it to sunlight.

“I could’ve died. All for a fucking apple.”

You turned away from him again, and it took everything in him not to cup your face in his hands and turn you back to him. He had never seen you like this before. So… raw. Beaten. Trampled. Doused in self-hatred. He hated it.

And yet, he didn’t want to look away. He was slowly realizing that this was the part of you he had been desperate to see. Truth. Undercarriage. Weakness.

Human.

He swallowed, attempting to choose his words carefully. He had never been good with them, attributing his deficiency to a long line of likewise men before him. His brain poured for sonnets, poetry, prose that he had read in his insignificant time on this planet. Something to impress you, distract you, to take away that crestfallen look in your eye.

He couldn’t do it. He never would be. So, he used his mouth for something else.

Slowly, gentler than he ever had in his life, he brought his mouth to your cheekbone. You exhaled a prolonged breath, the heat of it cascading down the left side of his neck. It only prompted him to kiss you more, and more, and more. His lips traveling up into your hairline, across your forehead, down your nose, and finally onto your lips. His kiss there was tongueless, rather a soft press, and yet it meant more to him than any other one you had ever shared.

He could tell by your breathing that you agreed.

He pressed his forehead against yours, swallowing thickly. “I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t know…I don’t know what I would do if you did.”

Your stormy eyes turned into a sunrise, and Joel straightened his aching back to slowly remove his coat and boots. He placed them on the floor beside your bed, keeping his eyes on you the entire time. You watched him just the same, mouth propped open slightly.

He smirked as he set his things down. He then picked up the needle and thread while using his free hand to frame your face.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said, his thumb stroking your chin. “I promise.”

You nodded. “I know you will.”

His lips wanted to meet yours so badly it hurt, but he needed to stitch you. Quickly. For a wound as deep as the one you had, it should have been closed up hours ago.

He wouldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t.

He walked to the edge of the bed and turned you around, leaning you into him slightly to give your pretzeled back some support, and began.  

You were surprisingly unreactive when he first inserted the needle, taking it as delicately as he possibly could. It wasn’t until he began to tug the skin together that your body showed signs of pain.

“You’re going too slow,” you mumbled softly after he finished the second stitch. “Please go faster.”

His hands began to shake at your request. He didn’t blame you. Speed would make it hurt worse, but be over with quicker. He squeezed the top of your shoulder in response, threading the needle quickly and stitching over the center of the wound.

You let out a high-pitched whine, gripping onto the comforter at your side, and he couldn’t help but kiss the back of your neck.

He let your breathing steady, then stitched again, this time kissing your shoulder blade.

Another stitch, a kiss across your shoulders.

Another stitch, a kiss down your spine.

Another stitch, a kiss on your lower back.

After every stitch, he planted one. Something in him couldn’t help it.

He made his final stitch and cut the thread quickly, sealing it with a kiss on the side of your face. He tasted a mix of salty tears and heat from your skin. He watched your throat bobble as he moved away, finishing off the wound with a final cleaning. Alcohol and blood filled the air, along with undertones of sweat.

He had a feeling that last aroma came mostly from him.

He threw the needle and thread away into the small garbage can you kept near your bed before turning back to face you. You rested on the balls of your palms, leaning back to look at him as he walked back towards you. There was pain visible behind your eyes, he could see it, but they were coated in something else. Something somehow rawer than before.

“You should rest now,” he said, scruff evident in his voice from lack of use. He cleared it quickly. “You took a hell of a hit.”

You didn’t move. Joel moved to the first aid kit still sitting in the middle of the bed and used the (what had to be decades old) wet wipes on his hands. He tossed those as well, but you still hadn’t moved.

“There somethin’ on my face?”

You cracked a small smile. “Thank you, Joel,” you said quietly.

He hummed. “Don’t mention it.” He then leaned forward and scooped your body into his arms. You involuntarily rested against him, eyes fluttering already, but he set you down beneath your sheets and swiftly pulled them over you.

He laughed at your fight against your own exhaustion, pushing stray hairs away from your forehead. He pulled away from you, beginning to walk out of the room. A fierce grip pulled him backwards.

“Stay,” you mumbled weakly. “Please stay.”

He inhaled deeply. The sweet cocktail of your voice mixed with those words fucking inebriating him, so much so he was surprised he was still standing up straight. He felt physically winded.

He squeezed your hand. “I’ll be right back. Stay down.”

You smiled, loosening your grip, letting your hand fall back into the bed.

Joel walked quietly out of the room but would be the last to admit how he practically sprinted to your kitchen and scoured your cabinets like a man being chased. He found your pain meds, pouring two into his hand, and filling up a small glass of water. He gave a slow, silent jog back to your room.

He felt equally as winded when he caught the view of the setting sun between your windows, glazing over you like a statue in Rome he had once seen on a traveling magazine. The streaks of leftover tears were highlighted in the light, as well as a small crease in your brow.

That is what told him you were not quite yet out cold.

He brought the meds and water to you, tucking your hair behind your ear to alert you of his presence. You opened your eyes and practically inhaled the medicine before laying back down on your side.

Joel removed his shirt in a blink and tucked himself in behind you, ensuring your stitches were not firmly pressed against him, but pressed just enough to ease soreness. You curved into him perfectly, as he did to you. He wrapped his arm around your frame, taking your hands in his and massaging them gently.

You hummed. “Promise you’ll stay?”

He knew your voice like that better than any man in the world.

He pressed a final kiss to your shoulder. “I’m stayin.’”

Tag List: (if you would like to be added please let me know!)

@untitledarea @avengersfan25 @lexloon @daphne-turner @leeeesahhh

[lastoneout]

like real people do

Fandom: Pokemon Legends Arceus Rating: M Warnings: None Relationship(s): Professor Laventon/Captain Cyllene Word Count: 5,115

Summary:

During a late night at work, Captain Cyllene reveals to Professor Laventon that she's never been kissed. The two of them decide to do something about it. (A/N: This fic is only about 99% finished, but as it's been that way for several years now I figure it's time to stop keeping what I do have done all to myself. I've inserted explanations where the missing paragraphs are, so you should have all the context you need, there's just some missing prose.)

[The start was supposed to be something about two recruits getting caught making out and being punished for it, and then later that night, after everyone has gone home, Laventon and Cyllene are chatting and it comes up, at which point she says something about the recruits being careless or foolish, which leads into...]

"Yes, well," Laventon chuckles nervously, "the allure of such activities can pose quite the distraction at times."

Cyllene doesn't look at him, instead focusing on the papers in her hands, nimbly tapping the bottom of them against her desk and shifting them together so they fall into order with a satisfying thwhip, before placing them on the stack in front of her, all the corners lined up as uniform as soldiers, not a single page out of place.

"I wouldn't know," she says, the sentence as purposeful as her hands, not a word more or less than strictly needed in her usual clear, firm tone, though there is an unmistakable touch of something quite foreign to her voice—shame. 

Laventon's own embarrassment flares in response, and in his haste to correct his faux pas his words come in a veritable tsunami, starkly contrasting her concise reply. "O-oh, apologies Captain, I didn't mean to make assumptions! Enjoying things of that nature is far from a universal experience, t-theres hardly any reason to feel ashamed of not being interested, in fact, I'd say there's no reason at all-" 

"You misunderstand," she interrupts, "my inexperience is not due to a lack of interest on my part. There's simply never been anyone who reciprocates." 

That stops him dead in his tracks, his mind struggling with the idea that not a single person has ever found the Captain charming enough to so much as kiss, and before he can stop himself that doubt slips out. "Surely that's impossible-"

Her eyes at last meet his, her gaze sharp and cold, giving him the distinct impression that he's made an entirely different sort of blunder. "I don't make a habit of lying, Professor." 

"Of course," he agrees, calming his tone to hopefully convey his own honesty, "Of course, I apologize, that was insensitive of me. I've only ever known you to be truthful, I didn't mean to suggest otherwise."

Cyllene nods, silently accepting his apology. 

Still, Laventon has never been one to leave well enough alone—if he was he doubts he'd have lasted long in his line of study—and his disbelief fades into a strong flare of indignation, lashing out at the very idea that no one has ever deemed Cyllene worthy of their desire. "I just find it difficult to believe that you've faced such stark rejection," he continues. "Forgive me for overstepping, but anyone would be quite lucky to find themselves the object of your affection, Captain." 

A breath of silence passes between them as she searches his gaze, but before he can be sure of what she's looking for—or if she found it—her eyes drop to the desk in front of her and she politely replies, "That's kind of you to say." 

"I mean it! The people who have turned you down were surely fools. I wouldn't bother taking their misguided opinions personally."

"Indeed," she says, her tone barely on the courteous side of dismissive, and she stands, further signaling her disinterest in continuing this discussion. "Regardless of anyone's opinion of me or the reasoning behind it, I am incapable of fully understanding why a person would be so taken with desire that they ignore their duties, and even if I was, I doubt I'd agree. Aside from the separation of one's work and personal lives..." she pauses then, the first sign of uncertainty slipping past her ironclad control, "I imagine such activities would be better enjoyed when one has ample time to spend on them. Pleasure can be quite rare in this world, surely the haste and risk of interruption cheapens what I assume would be an otherwise pleasant experience."

Laventon nods, and while he knows it would be best to leave well enough alone, but the moment has left him flustered and anxious, and he can't seem to stop himself from rambling on in a hapless attempt to return to normalcy. "That is a fair point, though I can assure you, desire can be quite overwhelming at times, driving one to indulge in any spare moment they can.” He pauses, letting out a thankfully more composed laugh and shaking his head. “In truth, some even find the threat of discovery rather enticing in its own way.” 

"Again," she reiterates, her silent insistence that they drop the subject becoming decidedly less polite, "I wouldn't know." 

And yet, against all odds, he opens his mouth once more. "Well, it's not entirely impossible to change that, with the right help, of course."

Silence falls again, their faces both slowly turning red as the implication of his words settles over them, heavy and impossible to ignore. 

Laventon almost immediately wants to say something—anything—but the words at last refuse to come, dancing just out of reach as his mind sorts through the mess of emotions churning in his chest that only grow stronger and stronger with each passing second. 

He's embarrassed first and foremost, how could he not be, offering to kiss his Captain like some sort of lecherous fool? Even if he hadn’t meant anything disrespectful by it—he’s always been eager to make himself useful—it was still incredibly rude and he should absolutely apologize, but before so much as a simple “I’m sorry” can make it past his lips something else captures his attention, an enticing feeling disarmingly close to interest simmering under his remorse.

Would he be interested in acting on his accidental offer? Perhaps he would. Cyllene is quite beautiful, and a lovely person to boot. Even if it was just to help her gain experience, a friend helping a friend, kissing her...well, as he looks at her now lucky hardly feels like the right word. Perhaps offering in the first place was a senseless move, but backing out should she accept, that would truly be a foolish mistake indeed. 

"Forgive me, Professor," she starts, her words no less purposeful despite the uncharacteristic shyness weighing them down, "but do you mean to offer...?"

"Yes," he replies without so much as a moment's hesitation. 

"I see." 

Neither of them move, a strange, nerve-wracking, tempting feeling building in the air. Anticipation, like the crackle before thunder, or the second after one only barely dodges a pokemon attack. Unsafe, perhaps, but exhilarating nonetheless, and prone to leave one with a craving for more.

Still, despite his now quite ardent interest, the sense that he's made an ass of himself finally becomes impossible to ignore, and his practiced courtesy—as well as his desire to stay in the Captain's good graces—wins out. "Apologies, Captain, I don't mean to, t-there's no pressure, of course. I just, you deserve to experience things, if you'd like to, that is, and I- I'd be honored to be your first, or, uh- if you wanted me to h-help you-" 

Cyllene still doesn't respond, but that's not a yes any more than it's a no, so he firmly shuts his mouth, giving her the time and space she needs to decide.

And decide she does, just a moment later. "Alright." 

Laventon is too shocked to be anything but almost manically enthusiastic. "Brilliant! Well, there's no rush, of course, you just let me know when-"

"Now seems appropriate," she replies, seemingly ignorant of the contradiction of their setting—or, perhaps, it's more that she's stubbornly refusing to acknowledge it at all.

He almost points it out, but the building is empty and they're both nearly done with the day's work anyway, and he's far to taken to do anything but play along. "I couldn't agree more!" 

Cyllene gives him an odd, almost amused look, before coming around her desk slowly, each step closer making his heart race all the faster, until she's standing in front of him and his pulse is so intense he begins to worry he may pass out. 

Because goodness, she's far more beautiful than he ever noticed now that he's really paying attention, now that she's close, her face tilted up ever so slightly so she can maintain eye contact. He was wrong, he realizes, lucky doesn't even begin to cover whatever kind twist of fate has blessed him of all people with the chance to kiss someone like her. 

"As I said," she starts, her voice confident, yet quiet and intimate, a conflicting display that leaves him reeling, "I'm inexperienced, so I trust that you'll take the lead?" 

"Yes, of course. Leave all that to me." 

"Thank you. I'm ready when you are." 

Cyllene tilts her head again and lets her eyes fall closed, and while the angle is a bit wrong and there's a blush staining her pale cheeks he takes a moment to marvel at her nerve, envious that she can face something like this so fearlessly. 

He owes her no less than the same, he decides, and quickly brings a hand to her jaw to gently shift her face to the correct position before leaning down, his own eyes falling closed as his lips make contact with hers. 

It's slow, chaste—nothing more than a gentle bit of pressure—but his heart still skips a beat. She's warm, and so very soft, and though this isn't about him or a precursor to any other activities, he can't help the wave of desire that crashes over him, making him crave more.

He reminds himself to resist it. He's a gentleman—or at the very least a decent person—after all and Cyllene is his Captain as well as someone he considers a friend, he'd never risk ruining that bond by disregarding her consent. Besides, doing such a thing would sour the experience beyond salvage, and he already knows he wants to savor every second of this, commit it to memory so he can revisit it again as often as he'd like. 

His desire only grows at sight that greets him when he breaks the kiss; Cyllene's slate-blue eyes half-lidded as she gazes back at him, the blush on her cheeks far darker than it was before. 

Still, she's as honest as ever. "Interesting." 

"Interesting?"

"It wasn't at all unpleasant," she explains, "but I hardly think it's alluring enough to distract one at inopportune times." 

Even years later he'll struggle to understand exactly why he opened his mouth again, but that doesn't change the fact that he quickly replies, "Well, that was just a small kiss. The...distracting ones tend to be a lot more intense, to put it mildly." 

"I would assume they must be...still, I can’t imagine the difference is that profound." 

“I assure you, it is,” he chuckles awkwardly, face flushing, "though I must admit I’m not entirely sure how to describe it..."

Another beat of silence, and then, "Show me." 

"Oh!" he practically squeaks, feeling himself begin to drown in dual blinding panic and overwhelming desire to fulfill her request. "A-alright, as you wish. Just, uh, follow my lead, but do speak up if you want to s-stop, of course, and...feel free to- um, you know, take the reins, if you'd like." 

"Understood." 

Laventon keeps things simple at first, gently guiding her to move her lips against his while mostly closed, before finally parting his, heart hammering when she follows suit. 

He goes slowly, giving her as much time as possible to get used to things, but despite that less than a second after his tongue presses past her lips she lets out a shocked sound and jumps back, falling into a stiff stance nearly a full foot away from him. She tries to recover, or at least act natural, and nearly manages it, but the bright crimson blush coloring her face and the hand she's holding over her mouth betray her true feelings. 

"I'm sorry," he starts nervously, holding his hands up apologetically, "That's just um, how this s-sort of thing works..." 

"I know that," she practically snaps, letting her hand awkwardly fall to her side. 

He's not sure he entirely believes her, but either way he chooses to shoulder the blame. "Regardless, I should have warned you." She looks as if she can't decide if she agrees or not, so he continues, "Anyway, the last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable, Captain, and you've had a kiss now so, we can stop-" 

She shakes her head, some of her nervousness fading. "I don't want to stop. It was...simply an unfamiliar sensation, and it caught me by surprise."

"Are you quite sure? I don't want you to feel pressured-"

"I don't feel pressured, or uncomfortable, and I'm sure. If you're willing to continue, then so am I," she insists, starting to sound almost close to eager, and a fair bit more confident.

He nods. "Yes, I- um, I'm willing." 

Cyllene steps closer and tilts her head up once more, her stance more relaxed, though still guarded. "I'm ready." 

"Alright." 

This time Laventon tries to go even slower, to keep things progressing as naturally as possible, but in an apparent effort to maintain her composure she swings so far in the other direction that she hardly reacts at all when things move forward. It's undeniably awkward, leaving him feeling a bit like he's just poking at a statue, but soon enough she pushes past whatever is keeping her frozen and hesitantly moves in tandem with him.

It's still awkward, as she has no idea what she's doing, but the two of them have always worked well together and she's a quick study, and when she finally starts to get the hang of it the sensation that he lacked the words to describe begins to build up warm in his chest. It drives home how right he was, at least in his opinion, as even the slightest hint that she may agree to it would surely make the temptation to come do this with her at even the most inappropriate times incredibly distracting, to say the very least. 

And goodness soon distracting isn't even enough to cover it, because as the awkwardness fades and she becomes more confident, more bold—and almost desperate, needy, like she's waited her whole life for this moment and doesn't plan on passing up even a second of it now that it's come—his sense starts to leave him completely, the desire for more cementing itself firm in his chest. It makes his face burn and heart stutter and fingers flex at his side, barely resisting the urge to reach out, wrap her in his arms, and pull her close. If he can hardly hold his ground against that small temptation right now, knowing this was just on the other side of the door, waiting for him...heavens it would be like dangling water in front of a man dying of thirst. Far too cruel to even dwell on for long. 

Thankfully that train of thought is quickly swept away, because after a particularly arousing slide of her lips against his she suddenly tilts her head a bit more, letting herself get even closer, before reaching up of her own volition and gently resting her hands against his chest, her fingers hesitantly taking hold on his vest. 

It's almost overwhelming how instantly consumed by her presence he feels, and all at once he realizes that perhaps it's not just the kissing that he likes—though that is incredibly nice and she's becoming rather good at it unfairly quickly and it's sating his own baser needs exceptionally well—no perhaps what he truly likes is kissing her.

Just then, as if to convince him, she lets out a soft noise, something small right at the back of her throat, and leans in just a bit more, her fingers tightening their grip on his vest. It's beautiful, perfect, and for a moment the lustful desire gives way for pure, honest, burning affection. It's all the confirmation he needs. 

He likes her.

Oh, good heavens, he likes her. 

How had he not realized it before? They've known each other for years by now and have spent nearly every day together, surely he should have noticed that his feelings had drifted beyond platonic at some point. What point even was it? When had he started to appreciate her not as a coworker and captain, but as a companion? Someone he wanted around not merely because they share a common goal or mutual respect, but simply because it's her and things don't feel right if she's not beside him? Perhaps it all just happened so slowly, so naturally, that it hardly even registered until now, when it's finally right in front of him and impossible to ignore. 

Those people she spoke of, the ones who turned her down? They truly were fools. How could they not see how blessed they were? Laventon counts himself as fortunate just to share this moment with her, to be trusted so deeply that she isn't afraid to accept his help, to be able to stand close and truly take in how gorgeous she is, and yes, to kiss her, to hope that he's making her feel just as good as he does. To relish in it all, no matter how briefly, with a person he cares so very deeply for. If she even slightly returned these newfound emotions? He'd feel like the luckiest person alive. 

Pulling away is harder than it has any right to be, but when the time comes he manages, though he goes slowly, selfishly lingering in every last precious second until they're finally parted. 

"Do you understand now?" he asks softly, torn between staring into her eyes and gazing down at her lips, both sights overwhelming in their own way. 

Cyllene shakes her head, though he gets the distinct—and flattering—feeling that she’s chosen now to finally be dishonest. "It's...enjoyable," she explains, voice breathless and halting, "but I don't see how it's distracting-" 

Once again, he opens his mouth, caving to the desire to drag this moment out. "Well, admittedly, you t-typically get much- um, closer, than this..." 

"Closer?" she asks, a hint of urgency in her voice as she looks down at their bodies. They aren’t touching aside from her hands resting on his chest, but they’re still barely inches apart. 

"Yes." 

Cyllene wastes no time stepping forward until they're pressed flush against one another, forcing him to swallow nervously as his heart threatens to give out completely. "Like this?" she asks, meeting his gaze to confirm she hasn't misunderstood.

"Yes, s-sometimes or...almost." Because yes, often this is as close as couples bother getting, but no matter how much of her he has it's still not enough, and his eyes drift over to her desk beside them, though his voice one again fails him, as he's far too embarrassed with himself to explain. 

But she follows his gaze and puts the pieces together, and rather than be offended or embarrassed, she instead barely takes a moment to consider it before she steps past him and in one smooth movement hops up onto the thing, spreads her legs to make room, and yanks him close once more. 

"Like this?"

"Yes," he breathes, or tries to, anyway, it's become rather hard to pull in air past the overwhelming everything threatening to drown him completely. 

Cyllene lets the moment linger, her eyes dragging over his face, staring into his own eyes before drifting lower to his lips. "I can see how this is more intimate..." she admits quietly. 

"Indeed," he agrees, though as he continues his thoughts fight his attempt to put them into proper words. "I've found that the uh- the i-intimacy...it, well, a-accentuates the experience greatly." 

She leans a bit closer. "Would it be alright if I once again asked for your-"

"Yes," he interrupts, no longer caring how desperate he might sound. "I'd be happy to help." 

"Thank you." 

He waits with bated breath for her to close the distance between them once more, but she pauses, her gaze drifting up past his eyes. Her hand follows, delicately sliding along his cheek, tracing the edge of his hat before pushing past it ever so slightly, the tips of her fingers just barely grazing his curls. "May I...?" 

"Of course." 

“Alright,” she replies, before reaching up with her other hand to gently pull the knitted cap off his head and set it aside. 

Laventon flushes, feeling strangely bare without it. Not that he wears it for modesty reasons, it’s simply because he's always been more sensitive to the cold than the average person, but given the situation, he feels exposed and vulnerable. The feeling eases, however, when Cyllene's hands return to his head, one traveling up to run through his hair, the other cupping his jaw, her thumb grazing his beard. 

He can't suppress a sigh at the sensation, and he leans into her touch, letting his eyes fall shut. 

"Do you enjoy this?" she asks. 

He nods slowly, not wanting to dislodge her hands or discourage her touch. "Most people do." 

"I see." 

She continues her exploration, and she pulls her hand away from his hair before sliding it back through, this time grazing his scalp with her nails before making a loose fist and pulling ever so slightly. Despite how gentle it is he can't stop the small, appreciative whimper from escaping his throat, or his face from flushing bright red as it does. Thankfully she doesn't ask him to elaborate this time, though she certainly takes note of it, and she uses her grip on his hair to tug him into another kiss. 

This one is instantly far more heated than the previous ones, neither of them even remotely interested in going slow. Her hands move, wrapping around his shoulders, though she can't help but return to his hair, sliding her fingers up the back of his neck before slowly tangling them in the short curls there. It nearly makes him moan, but he swallows it back, only briefly concerned about how well she's pressing his buttons. 

The worry passes, however, as she next tightens her thighs around him ever so slightly, the pressure emptying his mind and cracking enough of his resolve that he finally touches her, letting his trembling hands come to rest on her sides, just above her hips. Even with the layers of her uniform between them he can tell she's warm and soft here too, but as good as it is it's not nearly enough, not anymore, and he can't stop himself from letting his hands slide a bit higher and then around to settle against the small of her back before using the leverage it grants him to pull her even closer. 

She seems to like it, breaking their kiss for just a moment to let out a soft, gorgeous gasp. He gets a quick look at her as she does, and his heart all but stops at the sight. In all the years they've worked together he's never seen her this disheveled before, her hair messy, face flushed, chest heaving, and it's so beautiful he almost—almost—wants to stop kissing her just so he can drink it in uninterrupted.

But then she closes the distance once more and he decides looking isn’t enough, no he wants to see if he can make it worse. Find out what she likes, exactly where and how to hold her, touch her, kiss her, and then dedicate all of Almighty Dialga's time to doing it right, giving her everything she wants until she's a shaking, trembling mess in his arms-  

All at once Laventon feels a familiar heat in his gut and tightness in his pants, and what little sense he has left breaks through the haze, his face burning as he realizes his body is well ahead of him on this one. Embarrassed panic quickly starts to overtake his mind as he prays to any god that's listening that she won't notice. Sure, it is only natural that he would find all of this incredibly arousing, but that's not what this is supposed to be about. It's about helping her gain experience, not his own idiotic lust, and he loathes the idea of her discovering how little control he has over himself and becoming uncomfortable—or offended—because of it. 

So he pulls away, faster than he probably should, but still slow enough that he can play it off as natural. Regardless she chases after him, her eyes only opening when that proves unsuccessful, and heavens, the look on her face—not offended or uncomfortable but confused, disappointed—nearly makes him cave and pull her back in. 

"Do you understand n-now?" he asks instead, thankful his breathlessness hides how nervous he is. 

Cyllene looks lost, her eyes clouded as they search his, and it takes her a long moment to process that this encounter is ending and actually answer his question. 

"This was...enlightening," she says, her flush darkening as she becomes more and more aware of how intense the two of them let things get. "I have much to consider..." 

It isn't a yes, but somehow makes him feel as if he's done a better job. “Well, I’m glad I could...be of service,” he replies clumsily, unsure of what else to say.

Her blush only grows more intense, and rather than respond she glances away and slowly loosens her hold on his vest. 

Laventon decides to keep quiet as best he can, as he’d rather not make things any more awkward than they already are, and instead he steps back and offers his hand to help her hop down from her desk. She takes it with a polite nod, and his heart skips a beat at the feel of her hand in his, the gentle pressure of her weight against him as she slides to the ground intimate in its own way. When she’s standing she turns her focus to her outfit and hair, hastily fixing both until she looks mostly presentable. He doesn’t bother putting his hat back on, as he feels more than warm enough without it, and simply shoves it into the pocket of his coat. 

Besides, the cool night air should help with his...situation. Speaking of which, he begins to panic anew, and in a rush to maintain some semblance of dignity, he hastily shrugs his labcoat off entirely, draping it over his arm and holding it close so the bulk of it hides his lower body from view. 

Cyllene gives him an odd look, but before she can put the pieces together he jumps in, “I suppose I should leave you to your night.” 

“Yes...and I should leave you to yours,” she replies slowly. “Thank you for humoring me, Professor. I appreciate your assistance, and your patience.” 

“It was my pl- or, u-um, I’m glad to help, truly.” 

“I also would appreciate your discretion regarding this matter.” 

“Of course! That goes without saying.” 

“Good.” 

Silence falls between them, and while Laventon knows he needs to leave, his feet refuse to obey him, followed closely by his mind, now once again caught up in his new-found feelings regarding Cyllene, namely how beautiful she is and how much he desperately wishes he could stay in her company a bit longer. Not even for lustful reasons--though that desire certainly hasn’t let go of it’s hold on him--no, he finds himself wondering what it would be like if they were a couple, if he was here not for...whatever this all was, but so that he could escort her home, or perhaps to their home. He’s not sure he could ever be so lucky, but the thought fills him with longing all the same. 

“Professor?” Cyllene asks, snapping him back to reality. 

“Yes! Sorry, I uh- lost my train of thought there for a moment,” he replies quickly, shoving away his useless fantasies. “Well, do take care on your way home tonight, Captain.” 

“I shall, and you as well.” 

“Certainly. Goodnight then, Captain.” 

“Goodnight, Professor.” 

He gives something between a respectful nod and a half-bow before making a combee-line for his office door, already planning to clean up and head home as fast as humanly possible, but he freezes in place when Cyllene calls out, “Professor, wait...” 

Laventon turns to face her, grasping onto the last of his composure as best he can. “Yes?” 

She takes a moment before responding, her eyes drifting to the wall behind his head, like she can’t quite bring herself to look directly at him. “If, in the future, I should...wish to gain further experience in this area, would it be alright if I once again asked for your assistance?” 

He nearly faints right there, only barely stopping himself from falling over or making a complete fool of himself by offering to immediately provide any assistance she might desire—either here or perhaps somewhere more private. 

“Of course,” he replies honestly, praying he sounds coherent, or at least not like the lustful fool he apparently is deep down. “I would be happy to help.” 

“Thank you,” she nods, finally glancing back at him. “Well then, goodnight...for now.” 

Laventon hangs on her last two words and all they imply like a lifeline. “Goodnight.” 

Cyllene nods once more before turning back to her desk, her hands nimbly gathering the last of her paperwork, and he leaves her to it, quickly ducking into his own office to do the same. 

He lets out a breath once he’s within the safety of his personal space and tosses his coat and hat over onto his kotatsu, no longer needing the protection they offer, but as he starts to close the door something stops him. He isn’t sure what, exactly, his mind is far too muddled to make sense of what he’s feeling anymore, but it leaves him standing there all the same, his shaking hand lingering on the doorknob. Perhaps it’s habit—after all, he tends to leave it open during the day—or perhaps there’s a finality to it that he doesn’t want to evoke, or...or maybe he simply doesn’t want to be parted from Cyllene just yet, even if only by a single door. 

He shakes his head, dismissing his racing thoughts and prying his hand off the knob, leaving the door cracked ever so slightly. 

[He then heads home and like Idk something something a few days pass and then Cyllene drags Laventon into a closet and makes out with him because she gets it now or something???? I genuinely cannot remember where I was going with the ending.]

[atinytokki]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Chapter 5: Return to the Maze

Usually Jongho would be suspicious of such consistent good weather, but for now he was simply grateful that the sea goddess had blessed their journey with clear skies and fair winds.

They were moving much faster than they had been last time they visited Maddox’s Island, despite travelling in a very roundabout way, and they had a rescue plan in place. Knowing the territory better the second time had its advantages.

When the sails were squared away and the crew could relax some, Jongho found himself in the captain’s cabin once again.

It had become the regular location for all their gatherings the past few weeks, something about occupying the space lending them confidence in their decisions.

Unsurprisingly, Mingi, Yunho, and Seonghwa were already there. Mingi and Yunho were in a quiet conversation off to the side, sorting through the remaining stacks of gleaming treasure, while Seonghwa sat on his bed reading something.

Naturally, Jongho was curious, and moved to peek over the eldest’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of what it was.

“This is Hongjoong’s...” he realised with a frown, combing over handwritten text that detailed their adventures from the birth of the ATEEZ onwards.

At the mention of Hongjoong’s name, Mingi and Yunho perked up and moved closer, pushing the gold aside. “That was his mother’s diary,” Mingi remarked in a quiet voice when he recognised the book from an encounter years ago, reaching forward and flipping back to the beginning. A wave of nostalgia broke over the group. “He just continued it with his own story.”

Seonghwa nodded and went back to the section he was reading. Events that had taken place before he joined them.

“Did he say anything about me?” Mingi said a moment later, clearing his throat nervously.

“Just that you’re loyal and attentive, and sometimes he thinks back to those days when it was just the two of you on the beach and realises those were the happiest moments of his childhood,” Seonghwa answered, reading off a page from over a year ago.

“Is there any mention of me in there?” Jongho asked quietly, masking his nerves by clearing his throat. He didn’t know what he was expecting to hear, but he hoped it was pleasant.

Seonghwa smiled softly and flipped until he found the passage of Jongho’s entry into the story.

“At first, I thought he was older than me,” he read in a soft voice. “Not from his looks or his manner, but his eyes. They’re the eyes of someone who has seen horrible things, and as soon as I saw them I wanted him to join us. I want to see light in those eyes, not just darkness.”

Tears gathered and Jongho slowly sat down and let the words wash over him. Some of that darkness lingered, and it felt like failure.

“See, he’s always loved you,” Seonghwa reassured the younger boy, who shook his head and chuckled in disbelief.

“Well, he met me in the middle of a nightmare, of course he took me in, I prophesied it...”

“But he didn’t bring you onboard because he thought you were useful,” Mingi interrupted firmly. “He did it because he thought you belonged here.”

Jongho pulled his knees up to his chest. It was chilling to think about, but from this side of the event, that sudden decision had been the right one. 

“What was his first impression of me?” Yunho piped up. Seonghwa was already turning to the pages that chronicled their introduction and began to read without hesitation.

“Mingi says I’m ‘collecting’ people, but I prefer to think of it as taking a chance on a likeminded individual. Perhaps the ATEEZ is Yunho’s second chance at life, the way it’s also become mine.”

A beat passed in agreement as they considered how true it was for all of them. Mingi nudged Yunho as if to remind him what he had said himself on the beach not long ago. Everything happens for a reason. 

“How about you, did he have much to say?” Mingi smirked, turning to Seonghwa and already anticipating pages of lengthy prose.

Seonghwa rolled his eyes fondly and shook his head.

“Oh, something about me being a thorn in his side, and plenty of other things from back then that he said to my face besides. Not much flattery, at least not until we reached an understanding. ‘I’ve never tasted fish seasoned so well in my life, a significant feat to have accomplished’.”

Together, they laughed at what Hongjoong appeared to consider high praise.

“He worried about me a lot,” Seonghwa frowned, sobering as he thumbed the pages. “I suppose I have been injured frequently, and I’m not one for combat. Even in such a private book, he shares his true thoughts very sparingly. But there is a passage in here that I think he’d want us to read— all of us, together. It feels like a message from beyond the grave. He wrote it that day we spent on the treasure island from what I can discern.”

The three of them pressed closer to look over Seonghwa’s shoulder, even as he read in a soft voice the words that were written in secret.

I’m ashamed to record it, but I must have done something to make Seonghwa convinced I want him gone. I’ll admit, I’ve kept my distance and concealed my thoughts on the subject, but I don’t know what I’ll do if he leaves me alone. I’ve come to realise in this safe haven, far away from the ghosts and shadows that lurked at every corner, that I need him.

I broke my most important rule, to never fully trust anyone, because even the most unlikely can betray you. He decided to try and patch up the hole in my heart and without even knowing it, I’ve started depending on people again.

A feeling wells up inside when I see the faces of those who have become so much more than friends to me. No matter how hard I fight it down, it’s there consuming me until I admit the truth behind why I fight every fight that comes my way when I’m so, so tired of trying.

They’re my family. I love them so much, it hurts, and if I could hold onto all seven of them forever, I would do it. There’s no guarantee we’ll ever be whole again when we set out from this place, and I should never have invested so much of myself in them, but I was defenceless and if I have to have one weakness— let it be this group of brightly shining stars who guide me to better places, even as they think I’m the one guiding them. Let it be this twinkling treasure I’ve found, the value of which can never be compared with all the riches in the world. 

They’re everything to me. Until all our debts are settled, they’ll never know, but one day I’ll have the courage to tell them.

When I’m with you, I’m home. 

The silence after was almost reverent. Like they’d been communicating with the dead, the group dare not breathe for fear of disturbing the moment.

“We knew,” Yunho finally whispered, voice thick with emotion. “We knew without being told.”

Jongho glanced over at him and slung an arm around his waist, pulling him further in to their warm little huddle.

“Hey,” he chuckled wetly. “Now he has told us.”

The contemplative silence was broken by a knock on the door and Yujin’s appearing head.

“What is it?” Mingi demanded, quickly wiping his eyes and returning to his cool professionalism.

Yujin tensed and tilted his head toward the window. A familiar island shrouded in mist had grown closer while they were distracted with the past. It was time to move on.

“We’re here.”

... 

Establishing an exercise regimen after a serious injury was always difficult, but doing so in secret in the cramped belly of a navy warship was much more difficult, Hongjoong found.

There were moments here and there on their voyage southeast to respond to enemy ship sightings that the lucky prisoner wasn’t guarded in the business and activity of the day, which he used to his full advantage.

It was always better to trick the opponent into thinking he had him down for longer than he actually was.

Gingerly, Hongjoong lowered himself down from where he’d been hanging from a ceiling support beam and pulling his weight up and down for as long as he could, smiling at his own perfect timing and then wiping the expression clean before the steward entered with the morning meal. 

He wasn’t in the shape he wanted to be in yet, but he felt marginally less useless this way.

“Chowder again?” Hongjoong beamed teasingly and sat up straight as Doh scooped up some of the soup and waited for the prisoner to open his mouth again.

“No complaining,” the steward muttered as he spooned the food in carefully. “You’re worse than the men. I told them and now I’m telling you; we’re at sea now, with no idea how long the food will have to last. No more delicacies until landfall.” His chastising sounded like Seonghwa’s, and suddenly Hongjoong needed to change the subject again.

“Let me do it,” he insisted with his mouth still full, swallowing and repeating himself until the steward relinquished the spoon. 

Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t manage to get the slop onto the spoon and the spoon up to his mouth without help, and immediately his mood was soured.

“Don’t be upset,” the man scolded him softly when tears gathered. “You’re healing still.”

The reality was that exerting himself immediately before the meal was certainly not helping him control his own limbs and his own exasperation was making him quit before he should have. 

“Steward.” Hongjoong gave him a look and sat back. “I managed to sail alone over five thousand nautical miles in a boat I built with my bare hands, whilst wounded and starving, as an eighteen year old, and came back stronger. Forgive me for being frustrated if I can’t lift a spoon without my hands shaking.”

Doh gave him a once over before placing the bowl to the side and offering his advice.

“If that’s the case, you may want to consider whether your problem is physical or psychological.”

Hongjoong scoffed, but the creeping suspicion in the back of his head was inclined to agree. “What, are you saying I don’t want to get better?”

“I’m saying I think you’re scared,” the steward explained after a hesitant pause. “Of what might happen when you do.”

It had been months since he’d seen a friendly face. More importantly, since any of his friends had seen him alive.

Assuming he escaped the Crow, what then? Assuming he miraculously found the ATEEZ, what would he do next?

Would things just go back to normal?

No, they thought he was gone— they thought he was dead. Things would never just go back to normal.

Presumably, they had moved on... without him.

Silent for the remainder of the meal, Hongjoong let the steward feed him and thought about what kind of changes that Park mentioned might have taken place.

Surely nothing too drastic... nothing that would cost him his friends...

If Seonghwa was alright, he must be looking out for the others. That much, Hongjoong could be sure of. 

The steward, too, was quiet as he gathered his things and made to leave. Hongjoong stopped him just before he reached the door.

“Why are you helping me?”

This wasn’t the first time Hongjoong had needed to charm the pants off someone to get away with his plans, but despite the steward’s kindness, he was clearly a shrewd man who knew much more than he let on.

“The Admiral will need you in good shape,” he answered readily, but there was something in his eyes that told Hongjoong he had him exactly where he wanted him. Time to start making his move.

“Can you do me a favour, Steward?”

Doh cocked his head but his face didn’t change. He was open to suggestion.

“Perhaps.”

“Keep the surgeon away from me,” Hongjoong nearly whispered. If the surgeon came back intending to conduct experiments on him, he’d very quickly lose any surprise fitness and it would be back to square one.

The steward narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“He... makes me uncomfortable.” 

That much was both believable and true. And so the steward bowed his head in agreement and left the room, and Hongjoong was left to lay back and exhale slowly.

He had gained an ally.

When the steward reached the quarterdeck, bundled against the winter winds bearing down on them, Admiral Kim was waiting for a report from him.

“Can he walk?”

Doh paused to decide how much to tell his captain, then smoothly delivered a half-truth.

“With help.”

“Bring him to the quarterdeck,” Kim ordered, eyes cast on the horizon with a sickening air of immense confidence. “I want to see what he’s worth.”

...

Like an ocean wave crashing into the shore, Wooyoung threw himself into Yeosang’s arms.

Not until he was assured that he wasn’t dreaming did he withdraw from the embrace. “How are you here?”

“I was assigned as navigator,” Yeosang explained, laughing in amazement. “The better question is how you ended up here. Weren’t you looking for San?”

All the air went out of Wooyoung and he hunched in on himself, the action cautioning Yeosang to tread lightly. “I was tracking him,” Wooyoung admitted quietly. “But I was pressganged onto this bucket of bolts with no way off in the foreseeable future—”

He was interrupted by Woosung clearing his throat. Having forgotten he was there, Wooyoung beckoned him over with a sigh for introductions.

“Yeosang, my brother Woosung.”

If Yeosang had been amazed earlier, he was astonished now. “The same brother you always talked about?”

“You talked about me?” Woosung teased with a wicked grin on his face for once. Wooyoung jabbed him in the ribs and nudged Yeosang into the wardroom so they could catch up in peace. 

“I’ve been meaning to escape,” he told him quickly. “So it’s a good thing we ran into each other when we did. Now we can work together.”

“Except for the fact that we don’t know where we’ll end up,” Yeosang pointed out as he sunk into a chair. “I’m not keen on running straight into enemy territory.”

“Unless San is there,” Wooyoung corrected him quickly.

“It’s still suicide,” Yeosang warned softly. “All I know for now is that we accompany the Crow from Panhang to intercept the Haemin fleet.”

“The Black Crow,” Wooyoung groaned as he was reminded, pulling up a chair opposite Yeosang. “What if the Admiral sees us? Don’t you think he’ll jump at the opportunity to kill us off? It shouldn’t be too difficult to frame as a casualty of war. I say we jump ship before we reach Panhang.”

“He won’t while my father is with him,” Yeosang insisted. “Father may hate me but he doesn’t want me dead, that would mean the end of his family name.”

Wooyoung thought back to the last night they’d seen one another, the lantern light bouncing off gentle waves in the harbour, the dark scowl on the Head Navigator’s face.

“How... how have things been between you?” He asked hesitantly, not expecting anything good.

“It’s over between us,” Yeosang scoffed. “I’m not speaking to him unless I have to.”

And hopefully, that day would never come.

“Wooyoung, I...” Yeosang began again after a companionable moment of silence. “I have bad news.” There was no point in putting it off.

His voice was witheringly soft, and he looked like the slightest noise could put him over the edge.

Under the table, Wooyoung’s legs began to shake. Not trusting his voice, he simply nodded for Yeosang to go on.

“I went to see Seonghwa’s coronation at the palace, and he told me about the execution. He told me, well... he heard that...”

“Hongjoong’s dead, isn’t he?”

Because if Wooyoung couldn’t say it out loud, he would never begin to accept it.

Yeosang simply exhaled shakily and inclined his head ever so slightly like the weight of the world was upon his shoulders. He didn’t want to accept it either.

Wooyoung knew he had pessimistic leanings due to his upbringing, but there had remained a spark of hope in him. When he considered how many people the information came to him through, or when he considered Hongjoong’s own confidence that he would make it out alive... it didn’t seem possible that he could live in a world where this was the truth.

He couldn’t live in a world without him.

The feeling that rushed in on receiving the confirmation of his worst fears, fears that he had pushed to the far corner of his mind to avoid dealing with, was a strange and disquieting mixture of pain, loss, and relief.

Relief that he could drop his head into his hands and shake with tears without being bothered for it. Relief that he was no longer waiting on bad news to catch up with him all while running away from it. Relief that he wouldn’t have to deliver such news himself.

“How could this happen...”

Such an undignified end after everything he’d survived already. Wooyoung wished he had been there.

“I don’t know,” came the hushed and helpless answer. “I can only hope Mingi, Yunho, Jongho, and San are safe and far away from this war like Hongjoong wanted them to be.”

Hongjoong had told them to save themselves, and they had ended up on a warship anyway.

Those agonising days in the prison at Namhae drifted back into memory while Wooyoung dried his eyes. 

The wind on the beams continued to blow while Yeosang settled down, gently taking Wooyoung’s hands in his and inspecting them. There was a cold emptiness inside now that the message had been relayed.

“You’ve healed,” he noticed aloud, voice soft yet discernable over the outside gusts. 

Wooyoung nodded and shifted to get a better look at his friend. “Have you?”

Yeosang startled and almost pulled away, but Wooyoung kept his grip on him. “I— yes, you know I did. Nothing was broken.”

Still he couldn’t escape Wooyoung’s knowing eyes. Not after everything they’d been through.

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted after a moment. That much he could promise, now that they’d found each other. 

...

The ever present fog made it difficult, but Yunho kept his eyes peeled for ships. Regardless of what colours they were flying, they were enemies, and that meant caution was of the utmost importance.

The plan was relayed to the men who waited, ready to cast off at a moment’s notice, and the four officers set out for the beach. The maze would be a hindrance to deal with, but it was better than docking at the town on the other side of the island and potentially being spotted by soldiers.

The shore batteries had been bombarded by Mingi’s counterattack on their last visit, which made them a perfectly unsuspecting vantage point to keep watch from.

Jongho scaled the stone steps of the bell tower, half of which was decimated, and borrowed Yunho’s spyglass. “I’ll put up a flag if I see anything,” he assured them. “No flares. Don’t want to give away our position.”

Although loath to leave him alone, it was best to finish the mission quickly, so the other three hurried down to the tree line and fought their way through the vines until they reached the entrance to the maze.

“Far right path,” Mingi instructed immediately, remembering how Hongjoong said he got in last year. The maze was only slight less well kept than it had been in Seonghwa and Yunho’s memory, occasional branches jutting out at awkward angles and bush roots stretching across their path. 

It sent a strangle tingle down their spines to return to such a memorable and significant place under wildly different circumstances.

The wrought iron gate was unlocked but closed when they reached it, and Seonghwa rested his hand on the bars before pushing gently and hoping it wouldn’t squeak. Eyes widening, Seonghwa suddenly threw his arm out and pressed back into the shrubbery. Yunho and Mingi followed, confused but obedient, until he explained.

“Soldiers in the courtyard.”

“Now what?” Yunho groaned. “We can’t risk gunfire if we don’t know how many are inside.”

“There should be a secret library somewhere on the third floor,” Mingi wracked his brain for a solution and took a step back to scan the building in front of them again. The top was just visible over the towering greenery.

“There!” He exclaimed, grabbing Seonghwa’s arm. “A sunroof. We can rappel down.”

Seonghwa sighed but nodded, watching intently and waiting for the soldiers to go back inside for dinner. 

It was only about ten minutes, but it felt like longer. Listening to their idle conversation was mildly amusing until the men dropped off into silence, but soon they had shut themselves into their hall and the courtyard was free.

“Here,” Yunho grunted, throwing the rope until it latched on to a ceiling tile and handing it to Mingi, who looked surprised. “You suggested it!” 

Begrudgingly, Mingi grasped the rope in his hands and began to climb, Yunho and Seonghwa following silently.

They had to mind the windows, but made it onto the roof safely, Mingi popping open the sunroof panel and securing the rope to the inner latch while he waited.

After a thorough scan of the inside, what appeared to be a bedroom, all three lowered themselves stealthily, only breaking face when a figure in the room startled and tipped over in his reading chair.

“Maddox? It’s alright, we’re friends of Hongjoong’s!” Mingi panted, holding out his hand. 

“Mingi?” The older man hissed in disbelief as he peeled out from behind the chair.

“Yes, it’s me. We’re here to rescue you.”

...

“It’s Lucky.”

“Look! There he goes.”

“The lucky prisoner...”

Hongjoong ignored the hushed whispers all over the main deck and the way the freezing wind nipped at his nose, but tilted back his head and let it toss his hair. It didn’t matter what they said.

Even a sea breeze that stung your cheeks was a sea breeze, and no one could take the moment away from him.

Byun was at his elbow, a guilty sort of tension emanating from him as he guided the prisoner up to the quarterdeck where Admiral Kim stood and looked down his nose at the both of them. A man Hongjoong assumed was Head Navigator Kang stood to his left. From his familiar features and general air of displeasure, he had a feeling he was correct.

“So I hear you need my help,” Hongjoong smirked, voice quiet but deadly.

Kim just scowled at him, white-rimmed lips pressed firmly together until he snatched the charts from Navigator Kang, rolling them open and casting his eyes away.

“Our spies report mass shipbuilding behind Haemin borders, but none of our fleet have encountered more than two ships at a time,” Kim explained, indicating the locations of the attacks on the map.

They were all lined up along the trade routes, concentrated to the east around the rim of the nearest Jaecho colonies.  

As Hongjoong moved to get a closer look, he enjoyed the way the Admiral visibly became irritated by the jangle of his chains.

He was no longer bolted to the floor but his arms were still restrained and as much as Kim was annoyed by the sound, he wasn’t stupid enough to unlock the cuffs and risk an escape attempt.

“Their strategy is to wear you out with unpredictable strikes along the islands,” Hongjoong surmised as he inspected the charts. “If one ship goes down, it’s replaced by another. They won’t form ranks like you, they’re much more... surreptitious.”

“Then why focus on the colonies? They made it all the way to the capital once, why not march in again?” Kim bit out, yanking the map back over to his side of the table. Kang gently collected it, as if afraid in his anger the Admiral might shred the thing.

“To spread you thin. To wear you out, starve you, frustrate you,” Hongjoong listed off. “Safe access to trade routes and supplies is vital— I should know!” After all, he was usually the person disrupting them.

“So you’re saying we should engage their puny boats in the east instead of strike their homeland and end the war in one fell swoop?” Kim challenged, stepping closer and waiting for the prisoner to back down.

He didn’t.

“Unless you want to lose your territory, yes.”

The two stared each other down and no one else dared move, not even the anxiously hovering Byun whose idea the entire encounter was, until a bird appeared on the horizon and landed atop the rigging, a case attached to its leg.

Lieutenant Park climbed up to retrieve it and handed it to the Navigator, ending the standoff.

“A messenger bird with correspondence. A convoy of Haemin ships has been sighted just south of the colonies,” Kang reported, passing the scroll to the Admiral. Not even glancing at Hongjoong, he began orders. 

“We have the heading, it’s time to move.”

There was a suppressed exhilaration that bubbled up inside Hongjoong when the Crow went underway.

It was that feeling he missed, when there’s one rope between you and the ocean— you and death.

He was joined by Park while he stood at the railing, reaching his chained hands down to feel what misty spray he could.

“What is it?” Hongjoong finally asked when the lieutenant had gone an uncharacteristic full five minutes without talking.

“I saw it in the correspondence...” he muttered nervously, eyes on the Admiral’s back to make sure he wasn’t paying attention. “Our enemies aren’t just interrupting trade and taking over island colonies.”

Hongjoong pulled back and looked at him, confused. Park was shaking his head helplessly but delivered the bad news nonetheless.

“They think Prince Seonghwa is with us, and they’re looking for him, to- to kill him.”

...

Due to the trust he had gained on the Haemin ship over the past few weeks, San almost felt sad to be leaving them soon.

Almost.

When land was only a few hours off, he concocted a sleeping draught with supplies from the infirmary and told his translator it was medicine for a patient. It was a strong enough brew to knock out his guards long enough for him to swim to shore.

Regardless of how he felt about his imprisonment, San wasn’t a monster. He ensured that all his patients were cared for in the meantime, working tirelessly to lower fevers, hack off limbs, and clean wounds. They would all survive in his absence, and he didn’t leave until he was sure of that fact.

Except for the loneliness, it almost felt like being home. Why he had ever considered leaving the ATEEZ back in the day was a mystery to him now. All that pain and regret from his previous trip to these parts had washed away long ago.

San didn’t know where along the road he’d lost his purpose, but he needed to return to the road to get it back, wherever it ended up taking him.

This cramped, stinking warship was not the right place.

He had hoped for so long that his mysterious pursuer was Wooyoung, and that Wooyoung would find him. And then he had gone too far, farther than he could follow. If he was lucky, perhaps Wooyoung hadn’t given up on him yet.

Sudden noise from the main deck prompted him and his translator to join the soldiers outside.

“Land,” the man told him redundantly as they watched the speck grow larger.

San knew it well.

It was Maddox’s Island.

...

Introductions were quick, and without even knowing why, Maddox was instructed to pack his things as quickly as possible.

“Why didn’t you just use the door?” He scoffed as he shoved some loose change into a bag. “Hongjoong has been here once, he should’ve showed you.”

Silence penetrated the room and slowly Maddox turned around, noting his absence.

“Where is he, then? Hongjoong?”

“Killed by Admiral Kim,” Seonghwa told him, solemn and ice cold in his delivery. “A few months ago.”

Maddox needed to sit down again.

“But he— he wasn’t...” he shook his head to collect his thoughts. “He was on his way to find Eden, Kim should never have gotten his hands on him.”

“Actually...” Yunho sighed. “We did find Eden. We were on our way back to the mainland because of Babylon, who I think you’ll remember.”

Maddox’s face darkened, even as his eyes betrayed his distress, like he didn’t know who to blame for this. “You came here for me?” He suddenly realised, brows raising halfway to his hairline in shock.

“It’s what he would have wanted,” Seonghwa explained. “We’re breaking out as many of his friends as we can find and starting fresh far away from the Navy.”

“Well, I certainly won’t keep you waiting,” the older pirate scoffed before collecting a few more of his things and glancing at the rope still hanging from the ceiling. “I suppose that’s also our way out.”

“The soldiers won’t spot us that way,” Mingi explained as Yunho and Seonghwa headed up, motioning for Maddox to follow and then bringing up the rear. With practiced ease, they descended the side of the tower and made their way across the courtyard.

“We make for your ship?” Maddox asked in a whisper.

Mingi nodded. “It would be ideal to get out of here without anyone even knowing.”

Just as he finished speaking, the boom of gunfire blasted to their right near Jongho’s position. Mingi grasped his gun and searched frantically for the decimated bell tower.

A red flag was hanging.

“So stupid,” he chided himself through gritted teeth. “How could I forget to check?”

Before anyone could stop him, he barrelled ahead and raced to the tower, hoping against hope that he would reach Jongho in time.

The disorienting fogginess of the maze slowed him down significantly, and by the time he reached the shore there was an unconscious Jongho, being dragged away by enemy soldiers.

“Hey!” Mingi screamed across the beach, aiming his weapon. “Let him go and I won’t kill you.”

The soldiers looked surprised to see him and debated with each other in a foreign language. Mingi realised with a jolt that they were from Haemin. He clicked off the safety but hesitated.

I should just shoot now.

Jongho had been dropped in the sand and Mingi’s hairs stood on end. Where were the others? Had they fallen so far behind?

He was out of time.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers drew his gun and fired.

Unable to move completely out of the way in time, Mingi dodged to his right even as the searing pain of a bullet grazing his face sent him to the ground.

Blood was pouring into his eye, so all he could see was red that wilted into consuming black and the flashes of pulsating with pain.

Through his remaining eye, he watched Jongho be rowed away onto an enemy ship while he was left for dead.

...

San expected to be sent to his battle station where he could drug whoever happened to be guarding him at the time and slip away in the chaos.

Instead, he was led down to the brig again with some of the other prisoners to watch through the portholes as a pair of men rowed out to investigate the island themselves.

What he gathered from the others was that their captain thought the island looked to be deserted or destroyed in some other battle and assumed no one would be there. 

A very foolish move, one San should’ve expected from the incompetent drunkard. In this world, it should always be shoot first, ask questions later.

For a good half hour nothing happened, until a red flag went up in one of the bell towers and the action began in earnest.

To San, it was a relief.

Easily, he overpowered the guard and forced the draught down his throat, collecting the supplies he’d lain out in the infirmary while everyone was distracted, and preparing to lower himself in one of the longboats while the returning spies rushed their new prisoner on board.

Something deep inside told San to turn his head before he pulleyed down, and so he did. In a lightning flash, his heart dropped.

The unconscious body was Jongho’s. San didn’t know how or why, but it was him.

He didn’t question for a moment whether to abandon his plan. San threw off his bag and ran towards the chained figure.

Escape would have to wait.

...

Taglist: @serendipityunho @celestial-yunho @atzjjongbby @89staytinyzen21

A/N: I’m very close to the finish line of the semester, so I’ll be back in my usual swing in the next week or so, no worries :) There’s some shifting going on this chapter, and a lot of action is about to go down next time hehehe so stay tuned and let me know what you thought!! Happy birthday Wooyoung and Happy Thanksgiving ;)

← Previous | Masterlist | Next →

[shutupvan]

An experience in coquetry.

Let me put this sweet, swift, sharp love into prose to close a chapter that simultaneously typified what 2019 was to me and what 2020 will likely be. 

Since Thomas, Spyro was the first person I’ve fallen for. 

I realised in July 2019 (the last time I saw Thomas, hopefully ever in this life!) that he had not left me heartbroken. He had just left me broken. I came to terms with how toxic and dysfunctional that relationship had been - and that his cruelties had outweighed his kindness in large measures. I gained insight into how little I respected myself, how unhinged I was, how badly I thirst for love and attract people who feed me vinegar and say this is love! this is love! and I drink it thinking it’s wine.

I asked Spyro out two months after that epiphany. I fancied him - I was intrigued and wanted to know him. I just wanted to understand more of who he was, and that, after all, is what dating is. Things ended with Thomas back in 2018 (ended for him, I had continued to pine for much longer), and my mother had been pushing me for so long to ask Spyro out. I kept telling her that I hadn’t been ready. But after having the rose-tinted glass shattered on what Thomas and I were I didn’t want to waste any more of my time licking wounds. So I asked Spyro out in Septemeber 2019. It felt incredibly good and brave. I didn’t have any expectations - and it felt like a really wonderful ‘Year of Possibility’ milestone. To go into dating without crazy thoughts of ‘this is the one I’ll marry’ or ‘this is The One for me.’ I just wanted to know him as a complete person.

There was a lot I liked about him. A lot that was dreamy. He was forthright, he was kind, he was intelligent, he was witty, he was extroverted, he was handsome. He was very attentive. It was the first time I’ve dated someone with the same religious beliefs as me while also having a similar outlook on life as me (messy, painful, shades of grey). After the third date, he referred to me as his girlfriend. On the fourth date he was telling me how serious he was, he knew what he wanted and didn’t I, too? And I was ravenous for that kind of commitment, I jumped into it like a cool pool because Thomas had kept me in a desert for so long, refusing over and over to validate our relationship until long after it was done and he could use that against me as yet another weapon to hurt me. 

I don’t need to write about falling in love with Spyro here. I have a whole tag outlining that experience. I don’t need to dwell on the good moments because they were what they were, and they were lovely! He is the second person I’ve kissed and felt something. I had been so terrified of kissing Spyro (I remember the panic attack that persisted during the entire third date, the shaking and the babbling and the sitting three feet away from him) because I liked him so much and I was scared that I would kiss him and feel nothing. That he would become another corpse. And that would confirm that Thomas was the only person I’d ever feel a single thing for. I couldn’t bear it. 

But we kissed and it was right, it was fluttery, it was good! I wish I had kissed him more when I had the chance, even though I never let the chance pass me by. And it was life after death - I could learn to love other people and I was loveable. It was nice to pursue as much as I was being pursued. 

When Spyro said I love you for the first time it felt too soon for me. I had been planning on saying it before he left for Europe at the end of December, or even once he had gotten back (likely the latter). He still didn’t really know me and I didn’t know him well enough to use a word as heavy as love. I had this moment where I stopped him (he broke away from the kiss and said, “Can I say something-” and I knew he was about to say it. And I said “Wait. Stop.” I made him pause while I paused the TV behind us. I considered at that moment saying, not yet, not now, it’s too quick! It’s not supposed to be that quick. I had told my parents in the days before that things were moving too quickly and their protests had been ‘don’t you discourage him, his intentions are pure, don’t do anything to distance him,’ followed by my dad’s fucking timeline of when we would get engaged and married, which was a load of pressure I had not even touched on. But I knew, because I’ve refused to say I love you once before many years ago, that if I did that to him now it would be the seal of death on us dating. I had been thinking about it, I had been falling in love with him, but I wasn’t ready to say it. But in the moment, instead of expressing any of this, I said I love you too. It wasn’t a lie, it was just premature.

Love for me is never a spark - love is like the sun rising. Slow, gradual, gradients of pink until it blazes. A daily occurrence. The persistence to rise even in clouds, even in haze, even when you don’t want the next day to begin. Love isn’t just a feeling. It evolves from the feeling and becomes a purpose, it becomes your soul’s greatest drive to lay yourself down for the other. It is more than a feeling. It is attention, trust, loyalty, honesty, mutual growth and support. It isn’t just a dizzy feeling that makes your heart sing (but you would hope that feeling is mixed in there too!) 

When Spyro was in Europe, he cheated on me. He called me at the start of January to tell me. He had been out in Budapest, drunk, dancing with a girl and made out with her. Immediately following that phone call, I was in shock. But I wasn’t at all surprised. Wasn’t surprised he had done it and wasn’t surprised I had been cheated on. It was like, oh, there we are. It was bound to happen to me, of course, it was. We give and receive the quality of care that what we think we deserve - Thomas had taught me that.

He really relishes being out drinking and dancing and nighttiming. Not occasionally, pretty regularly by what he kept telling and showing me. To the point of unconsciousness. To the point of no consequence. Where he has an excuse for behaving in exact opposition to his moral code. Where he had an excuse to make me uncomfortable. When I mentioned it to him before the break up he got very self-defensive. But he later said it is his way to quell stress. And I know what that really means: his way to numb himself from dealing with facing himself. 

I have a long list of things I’ve used to numb myself in the moments where I cannot bear to confront myself - alcohol had been one of them and recently I slipped into that the day he returned from Europe, putting off dealing with the bad by getting drunk and feeling good. I’m off drinking for a while because of it. Getting drunk to let off steam is the stupidest thing in the world, it leaves you feeling worse. Cutting yourself to purge your anger, starving yourself to make yourself feel smaller, masturbating just for a continual dopamine ride, scrolling mindlessly through social media or binging Netflix is a dysfunctional way to avoid looking inward - to distract or to numb. None of those activities are bad in themselves (mm..perhaps self-harm being the exception) but using them as a coping mechanism to avoid dealing with your broken ego is problematic. And I have literally spent 2018 and 2019 working on no longer doing any of those things.

Anyway, I knew that him drinking to the point where he felt out of control (we all prefer that feeling to mastering ourselves) meant that he was not ready to be in a relationship. I had known this from the beginning, to be frank. You don’t seek an escape from ordinary life and your ordinary self, if you’re at peace with yourself and the person you're in a relationship with. I mean, unless you’re dating very casually and just want to fuck around, in which case drink and party away. That lifestyle isn’t even a big deal - most people I know in their twenties would prefer to be out partying, getting drunk, or getting high, spending money carelessly, than to do the opposite - planning with another person, setting life goals, investing in somebody else’s wellbeing and self-care as well as your own. 

He told me that he hadn’t ever been in love with me - that he had said it because he feared that I was going to end things with him. He said other things I’m not going to write down because they were too hurtful. I don’t understand why he spelled this out when I had simply given him the option of breaking up. I could analyse this until the cows come home but I don’t see the point to it. I think it boils down to this: he desired to be in love, he wanted to be in a secure and serious relationship, to live up to this idea of who he is supposed to be impressed upon him from his family and church. And then the other side of him that is not ready to give up living selfishly and singly. If he wants to continue living selfishly, I don’t begrudge that of him. I just wished he wouldn’t have committed so fast. Over the course of our dating, he had commented that the relationship would get in the way of him going out with the boys, always jokingly. But he feared he was missing out on something by setting out on a serious relationship. Whereas I know that I’m not missing out on anything I did in 2017 and prior. I am glad the distractions are over with. 

Likely, this was a big part of why he wasn’t into me. I am far too homely, too desperate to do the things that give me meaning and connection and purpose. Maybe he wanted those things from me at first before realising what that would mean parting with. He said he felt no spark with me, but I’m not sure if I believe that. If that’s the case, he lied continuously throughout the dalliance. I think he was searching for an excuse. I knew from the moment he told me that he kissed somebody else that it was his way of sabotaging things, his excuse to leave the relationship. He needed to invent a reason. I think it was less about the spark, more about us not being compatible with what our values are and where we both are right now in life. In that respect, I agree with him - we have not clicked together as two people are meant to when they want to partner up to do life together and tackle the heavy, hard things together. On paper, it would have looked perfect!

I also realise my own faults in this: I was so possessive with Thomas, but this time I was too passive. I have become so afraid of conflict that I would rather betray my own intuition. That I still have so much anxiety leftover from Thomas that I can’t yet date. I’ve already journaled a lot about the week leading up to Spyro and I  splitting up, so I won’t write about it here. I know my faults. I know where I lacked self-awareness. I treated him pretty rough in the last week. I kept spiralling back into everything that had happened last time - convinced he was manipulating me or trying to play mind games. But I don’t think Spyro is that kind of person. I think he fooled me because he was fooling himself. 

This is what I took away from it all:

1. I will be going to see a therapist. Making the appointment today. If I hadn’t had this experience with Spyro then I would never have realised that I actually need a therapist, or had the guts to see one, or considered myself worthy of care, considered my issues worthy of help. So I’m actually very grateful to him for this.

2. I should be more explicit when I start dating someone, right from the outset. I should spell out my damage and insist I that things move slowly with communication at key points. I need to suss out their values and their life goals before I even consider prising my heart open. 

3. I need to keep being brave. I am still so glad I asked him out and I’m glad for every moment with him. I’m glad we had this short-lived little love affair. It was a perfect way to end 2019 (such a gorgeous year it was), to fall in love during spring, to practice what it means to love. I’m injured from it but I know it will be fine - it just meant it wasn’t supposed to be! I’m glad it wasn’t dragged out. It opened up a door for 2020 - the year of the inner child. I have so much work to do with my inner child. I have so, so much healing to do in order to excavate my own defence mechanisms, my flaws and my faults. It was excellent to start the year having another person hold a mirror up to me through some heartbreak. I know that this relationship was for my higher purpose and I am grateful.

As always, I wish him the best but I wish myself better!

[kitsuningtonshippoknockoff]

A Chat in the Basement

This little fic is about a hypothetical meeting between Kit and Lawrence, some time after Kit and Ren have settled into their relationship.  Gore and insanity warnings apply, and also this probably needs beta reading but I really wanted to get it out.  Enjoy~

-----

Kit knows from experience that waking up to an utterly livid stranger staring you straight in the face whilst you’re strapped to a chair with rope and duct tape is a disorienting experience. He is, however, disinclined to engage his empathy.

“W-wha—”

“Why were you following Ren?”

“I… who are--?”

“Answer.  The question.”

The basement really is a marvelous setting for interrogations.  The lighting is nice and sinister, and although they’ve thrown out all Strade’s old tools except The Knife, Ren thought that it might be nice to get a new set to actually use as intended.  Kit agreed.  Very useful.  Very symbolic.

And so the walls are covered in perfectly innocent tools that look very, very scary in dim fluorescent light.

The man is still stuttering.  He is, the more lascivious part of Kit notes, a very attractive man in a sort of bishonen lumberjack way. This makes Kit angrier.  He and Ren have very similar tastes, so Ren would probably find him attractive too.  That makes him even more dangerous to Ren.  Ren needs to be protected from beautiful danger.  Especially beautiful danger that smells so… off.

Kit sighs through his nose, teeth clenched behind his lips.  His fox ears are lowered, and his tail twitches.  He’s sitting on a chair turned backward, as if he’s a school guidance counselor about to “level” with a problem student.  The knife (The Knife) he pulls and puts to the man’s throat is not standard issue for guidance counselors.  The man whimpers and tries to pull back.

“You were following Ren,” Kit says, “Not just both of us.  It was Ren you were after.  My Ren.  My perfect, beautiful Ren.”  Kit’s voice takes on a slightly dreamy, distracted tone.  “Maybe a human wouldn’t have noticed you, out in the dark, but I did. I think Ren did, too.  He’s been… edgier than normal.  We used to like going out at night, you know?”  He fixes the man with a glare, and when next he speaks his tone is like flint. “But the last few times you’ve been out there with us. And you were watching my Ren.”

“Your…? I—no, that’s not what I—”

“Do not lie to me,” Kit hisses, teeth bared.  “Do not lie. I’ve been a liar all my life and I know a lie when I smell it.”  The choice of words was deliberate, though leaving room for plausible deniability, and Kit is interested to see a quick flash of anger (panic?) at the word ‘smell’.  So.  He knows then.  Kit wasn’t sure, because some smells that are obvious to him go completely unnoticed by humans.

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to follow him,” the man says, “I just—I wanted to find him again, just once, to talk to him, but—you were always there.”  His tone, still tremulous, turns slightly accusatory.  “Why were you always there?  Who—who are you?  What’s—what’s this thing on my neck?  Where am I, you can’t--”  

Kit lets loose a shriek, teeth bared, incisors gleaming.  It’s deeper than a real red fox’s scream of aggression would sound, but it’s just as inhuman—almost but not quite human-- and it has the desired effect.  The man cowers as best he can, wide-eyed and silent.  Kit leans back.  His expression is nearly blank but threatens a sneer.

“Sir,” Kit says, “You do not get to tell me what I cannot do.  Not here, not now.”  He pauses. “Alright.  You say you wanted to talk to Ren.  I think that is bullshit, but let’s pretend I do not.  What did you want to talk to him about?  And why couldn’t you do it while I was there?” He leans forward.  “What couldn’t you say to Ren in front of his lover?”  Again, a pointed choice of words, and Kit is fascinated to see�� pain.  Hurt.  This man feels excluded, does he?  Well, Kit will have to impress upon him the fact that Ren chose Kit once he’s done asking questions.

“Ren is—was—we were—are… were friends once.  Or… maybe we still are?  I… don’t know.  The last time we talked we… had a problem.  He had a problem.”  The volume of the man’s voice has been dropping steadily as he speaks.  Kit is annoyed.  “His path split from mine,” the man finishes in a whisper.

Yes, Kit wants to scream, His path split from yours and joined with mine he joined with me he’s part of me I’m part of him and you don’t get to have him you don’t get to tear us apart you don’t get to have him Ren is mine, mine, MINE—

Kit takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.  He lowers the knife; he doesn’t trust himself with it.

“Why am I here?” the man whines wretchedly, “Please, I didn’t—I wasn’t going to hurt any—I wasn’t going to hurt Ren!  I was going to be careful, all I wanted was to talk!  I wanted to know why he l-left me, and then never... never talked to me again… not even online…” Kit opens his eyes, and for a brief moment makes eye-contact with the man before his eyes dart back down to his shoes.  It’s not enough to set up a hypnotic bond, but it is enough for Kit to feel a sudden, unwelcome surge of fellow feeling.  Even terrified, taped to a chair, and alone with an enemy, this man still feels the pain of losing Ren.  

Kit can relate.  He does not want to.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the first time the man shows defiance.  His brow furrows, and he staunchly refuses to look up.  Kit grunts irritably.  “Sir, I spent some time rifling through your pockets before you woke up.”  At that the man does look up, shocked, and Kit grabs his face with both hands.  He worried the man’s eyes would dart away before he could get a hold of him, but sure enough the man’s eyes dilate and he relaxes slightly.  Whatever this man is, he’s susceptible to Kit’s hypnotism.  Of course the current situation isn’t ideal for giving orders, but it should make him a little more cooperative.

“Now then,” Kit says. He keeps his voice low and even, pleasant.  “When I looked through your pockets, I found a few things that most people would not be carrying.  Drugs, but not anything I’ve seen on the street before.”  A small flicker of confusion appears in the man’s eyes.

“Then how do you even… know they’re drugs?  I… I make medicine…”

Kit leans back, keeping eye contact.  Strictly speaking, he doesn’t have to keep from blinking, but he still tries to do so. The burning of his eyes is a small price to pay for not letting this fucker out of his sight.

“Did you know,” Kit says, “That the word ‘drug’ is derived from the Dutch word ‘droog’?  It literally means ‘dry’, but in this context it was dried plants that people referred to.  You know, plants used for… medicinal purposes.”

As he’s speaking, he notices the man relax even more.  Bingo. As Kit thought, this topic of conversation genuinely interests him.  Figures; the strange herbal blends he had on him could only have been made by someone who had taken time to study this stuff.  That makes the charm work better.  Even though the man still has every reason to be terrified, he might be a little more honest this way.

“And we all know,” Kit continues, “That the words ‘drug’ and ‘medicine’ used to be interchangeable. So I do believe you, sir, when you say you make medicine.  But the dose makes the poison, as they say.  And you can understand why the thought of you--” poisoning my Ren, my Ren, if you did that I’d kill you “—doing something like that to Ren would make me unhappy.  Even if it wasn’t a fatal poison.”

“No…” his captive says, frowning.  “It’s not… I didn’t have any poison with me.  I can make poison.  But I never mix it up with anything else unless…” he trails off.  Oh, for the love of Kuma Lisa, the fucker is blushing.

Wait… what?  

Why would anyone blush when they were talking about poison?

Kit’s eyes flicker down to his captive’s red-stained shirt, the gory elephant in the room.

“I wasn’t going to poison Ren,” the man continues before Kit can press that point, “I might… I might have asked him to… drink something with the herbs in it—” it is all Kit can to to keep from clawing this creature’s throat out, biting it out, make him bleed drink his blood—“But I—I would have drunk some too.  So we could—so we could talk to each other without being nervous.”  The man looks down.  For a moment Kit considers grabbing his face again, but he restores eye contact himself. “Ren and I both get nervous.  And we… don’t always… make good decisions.”  His brow furrows.  “Why do your eyes make me feel better?  Your eyes are like… my medicine… like looking down into the water…”

Oh, ew.

“Limpid pools, I’m sure,” Kit says drily “Listen—"

“Not pools,” the man interrupts.  “Like… a river.  Not the river but… they flow.  When the light shines against them, like a sunset… or moonlight… glitters on the current…” the man shakes his head, obviously trying t clear it.  “I think I hate you.  I hate you for hurting me.  For tying me up.  And… I hate you because you have Ren, and I don’t.  But I could keep the river in your eyes forever.”

Oh, ew, ew, ewww.  The only reason the man managed to get that overwrought little prose-poem out is that Kit is speechless with (mostly) revulsion.  His charm makes people think better of him, so it’s not like it’s the first time he’s hypnotized somebody and they’ve started getting gushy.  But this is the first time it’s happened with someone he actively loathes and vice versa.  And he’s pissed off with himself for being almost flattered by what amounts to someone saying ‘I would tear on your eyes and keep them on a nightstand if I ever got the chance’.

Maybe it’s hypocritical to get creeped out by that when Kit and Ren have mutually pledged to eat each other’s heart if one of them dies before the other, but there are things you do with your boyfriend that you don’t do with anyone else, and romantic dismemberment is one of them.

Kit runs a hand through his silvery hair, and his tail swishes behind him.

“So you mean to tell me you were stalking Ren on the off chance you could get him alone so that you could get high together and… what?  Talk things out?”

The man smiles a hesitant, hopeful smile.  He’s blushing again.  It’s uncomfortably endearing.

“You understand,” his captive murmurs.

“Let’s say I do,” says Kit. “Now, let’s take a minute and think about how I fit into all this.  Or rather, how I don’t.”  He takes the man’s face in his hands, thumbs just below his eyes.  His captive doesn’t resist at all, gazing back levelly.  “Would you have killed me to get Ren alone?”

“Only if I had to,” the man says calmly.  “I didn’t plan on it.  I had something to knock you out.  Special medicine.  You wouldn’t even have woken up with a headache.”

“But if you had no choice, you would have killed me,” Kit says, “Is that true?”

The man shrugs as best he can tied up.

“I hated you even before you did this to me.  Because Ren loves you, I think.  And… I want Ren to love me.  Only me. I want to be the only person Ren needs.”

There’s that unwelcome consanguinity of spirit again.  Kit grinds his teeth.

“But I didn’t really have a plan.  I thought maybe I could just take him from you.  I didn’t need to kill you.”

For a moment, everything is still.

Then there is blood, and screaming.

When kit is done the man’s clothing is considerably more tattered, and his eyes are huge and terrified. There are four raw, bleeding claw marks on his right cheek, and fang marks in his shoulder.

“Listen to me,” Kit coos, pulling back and licking the blood off his lips.  He cradles the man’s head, forcing him to look at his eyes again. Kit wonders if it feels terrible to want to approve of your kidnapper.  He hopes so.  “Listen, Lawrence.  Oh, don’t look surprised, of course I know your name, I rummaged through your wallet.  Lawrence, you have to understand,” Kit smiles with all his teeth, “That the only way to take Ren from me is to kill me.  Because Ren and I are not two separate people.  We are one pair of lovers.  Yes, lovers.  I do not exist without Ren. ��By definition, taking Ren away from me nullifies my entire being.  It is more than death to lose Ren.  It is worse than death to lose Ren.  So much worse that I really don’t have words to describe it.” He laughs.  The laughter goes on a little longer than he intends, and the dim lights shine off his red-stained teeth as well as his eyes.

“Lawrence, I get the idea that you’re not the most stable bloke around.  Hey, it’s OK; as you can see, I’m not really the picture of mental health either!”  He laughs again, but manages to stifle it into a brief giggle.  “I have had a really, really shitty fucking life.  I have a feeling that’s something we’ve got in common. So part of me doesn’t blame you for wanting Ren.  Ren is like every soft, slow day in late summer rolled into one beautiful being.  Ren is like a fire that heals you instead of burning. Ren is like the blood that flows in your veins… but cleaner.  Right?” He leans down to lick Lawrence’s cheek, and Lawrence flinches.  There is something wrong about Lawrence’s blood, something sick.  Kit feels drunk on blood and rage.

“But you can’t have Ren. No, never.  Even if you kill me, I’ll still be there, waiting inside him.  And one night, maybe when you’re lying beside him, or even if you’re in another room, I’ll just crawl up out of Ren’s mouth, I’ll slither out of his eyes, and I will hurt you, Lawrence.  I’ll hurt you and I’ll keep hurting you.  I’ll claw and shred and eat every soft part of your body, Lawrence.  I’ll stick my claws in your brain and shove splinters in your dreams.  Being dead won’t stop me.  Being dead won’t make me gentle.”  He presses his face close to Lawrence, dimly aware that he’s panting.  He hopes Lawrence can smell the rotten blood on his breath.

“I would do anything for Ren,” Kit hisses, “Anything.  Anything to make him happy.  Anything to keep him safe.  I would kill you.  I would kill myself.  If I thought Ren wanted it, I would hurt myself.  I’d let you hurt me, if Ren asked.  I would let you stick your fingers under my skin and rip my tendons apart with your teeth.  I’d let you slice my muscles to bits with your weak little human fingernails.”  Lawrence is panting too, lost in Kit’s eyes, in his words.  “Can you say the same, Lawrence?  Can you love Ren enough to let yourself be destroyed?  No.  No, you couldn’t, not even if you wanted to.”  Kit leans back.  He lets his hand trail almost tenderly down Law’s throat just below his collar to his chest, where tattered fabric sticks to gore.

It was bloody even before their little conversation.

“I killed you,” Kit says. He sounds less unhinged now, the bloodlust slowly starting to fade.  He’s just kind of irritated.  “Knife right between the ribs, right into your heart.  It was a good kill.”  He glares at Lawrence, fox ears lowered.  “I took you down here.  I was gonna burn you,” He’s gratified to see Lawrence go pale, “But then you started breathing.  And fuck me, what am I supposed to do with that?”  He paces a little.

“I don’t know if burning you would work.  I don’t know if that would somehow make you stronger, or whatever, like salamanders.”

Lawrence blinks, still frightened but also confused.

“But amphibians need to stay w—”

“There’s a mythological creature, shut the fuck up,” snaps Kit.  “I mean, not even mythological.  They exist, like kitsune do.  You know Ren’s a kitsune too?  Well he is.  And he’s mine, and I need to keep him safe from you, and all I can think of to do that right now is to keep you locked up, except…” Kit sighs.  He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and is immediately annoyed to have another parallel with Lawrence.

“Ren is smart.  And Ren lived in this house with a serial killer—yes, yes, right surprising, I know—and he is probably gonna figure out I’m keeping someone down here.  And I really don’t know how he’s gonna feel when he learns it’s you.  He never… he never forgot about you.”  Lawrence looks up sharply. 

“Yes.  Ha.  He’s mentioned you.  He’s never forgiven himself for flaking out; just too scared to try talking to you again.  And as messed up as Ren is, I’m… not sure he’ll hate you as much as he’s supposed to.”  Kit stares into the distance, as if the basement wall holds some secret.  “I know he doesn’t hate me like he should.”

Lawrence watches warily as Kit walks over the basement sink and washes the blood off his hands.  He grabs a towel from a rack beside the sink, wets it, and proceeds to clean Lawrence up a little.  The captive does his best not to flinch, which isn’t much.

“I am telling you all this because you might get your conversation after all, and I don’t want there to be any miscommunication.  We’ll figure out what to do with you.  Might be he’ll want to keep you, and I... I want Ren to have what he wants.  I’d-- I’d do anything for him.  If that wasn’t clear.”  Kit tosses the washcloth into a laundry hamper without looking.  Then he flicks Lawrence’s collar with a claw, causing a little red light on it to flicker.

“Don’t try to get away.  I’ve set this thing to kill you if you try to leave the basement.  And while that might seem like something you’d just get over, let me assure you that electrocution ain’t fun.”  Kit sighs. “Woulda been so much easier if you just died when you were supposed to…”

“Yes,” Lawrence says softly, eyes downcast. 

Kit hadn’t been expecting that.

Kit thinks hard about that ‘yes’ as he walks up the basement stairs, and is troubled.

[j-k-notrowling]

Untitled

Hi there! Spoilers up front: this is a gratuitously long-winded “thank you,” not an Ask (also I’m 31 and don’t know how to Social Media so apologies if this is the wrong page/tab/link/widget).

--(oh actually it’s a blog post now because of course I can’t send an “Ask” this stupidly long see? wasn’t kidding about that Social Media thing...)--

I started writing my first book in the Fall of 2016. Before that I’d only written songs. One day I got an idea which didn’t fit within the usual rhymes or rhythms. I tried and tried, but kept on hitting a wall. In addition, I was fed up with the whole “business” of music—the fragile egos, the politics of being in a band, all that. One morning I sat down at my HP desktop computer (again...31) and opened up a blank Word document. I stared at it with murderous intent for a long time, but nothing happened. So I grabbed the nearest book off the shelf (Crash by J.G. Ballard), opened it, and began to type out the first paragraph, copying the sentences line by line. I wanted to see what it felt like — my clumsy fingers pecking at the keyboard, observing how the words fell into place with a musical cadence and tempo almost prophetic, as though the ink were destined to dry in this exact form upon the page, the machinery of its tumultuous birth and impeccable design skillfully concealed. I paused and looked out the window. There was a squirrel on the deck, I remember. And then I saw it. Not outside but inside my own head, behind my eyelids. The song, the one I’d been struggling to write, I saw that it could be a story. I saw it had a clear beginning, middle, and end. I saw a world of characters opening doors to other worlds, other stories, other characters. This was life-changing shit. Suddenly I was a little boy at my first baseball game, drinking my first ice-cold Coke, surrounded by old men chain-smoking Marlboro Reds and muttering dirty words I’d never heard before about the [EXPLETIVES DELETED] on the opposing team. I’d discovered a fire fueled by the psychic anarchy of its own discovery, a Moebius-strip of dramatic invention, a repository for all the pop-cultural turds floating around inside the cracked porcelain toilet bowl of my skull. I wrote prose every night after work. I never thought about what I was doing. I never once stopped to check word counts or page counts. I never thought about sticking to an outline, making sure my story adhered to a specific plot structure, none of that. I wrote like a man in love. Delirious, overheated teenage love. Wear-my-ill-fitting-letterman’s-jacket love (is this also A Thing™️ in Canada?). Stupid stupid stupid love, naive and hormonal and precious and retrospectively mortifying. I’d turn off the world, turn on the music, sit back and watch the words sashay straight into my lap. It took 2-3 months before the ruthless scourge known as Self Doubt farted in my private elevator. Am I doing this right? How many words are in a book, anyway? How many pages? How long is this going to take? Is this an effective way to impress women and/or get laid? Am I writing a novel or a novella? The fuck is “flash fiction”? Are you allowed to write actual books in Microsoft Word? Does it matter that my free trial version of Microsoft Word expires in 30 days? They’re bluffing, right? And so on. I compared my own writing with that of authors I admired; subsequently, I couldn’t get out of bed for a week. I watched 40+ hours of “Kitchen Nightmares” reruns (it’s. the. same. fucking. formula. every. single. episode.) and nursed my shame with bowl after bowl of strawberry ice cream. To think — I’d TOLD people about this fool’s errand, and sooner or later I’d have to show them precisely how awful a writer I was... I turned to the Internet for advice. At first, it seemed like a godsend. There was such a litany of knowledge, so many pro-tips and life hacks and proven formulas for success. This was how I stumbled across your channel. I found other channels which offered more straightforward “DO IT LIKE THIS YOU FUCKING IDIOT” instructions, but I still enjoyed yours the most. I lol-ed at your jokes. I remember a few videos where you spoke highly about All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr, which remains among the most achingly beautiful books I’ve ever read. Also you’re Canadian, and you guys just generally Human better than we (Americans) Human. ...and here my troubles began. See, the more I tried to adhere to word count goals, the more I tried to properly organize the scenes on my Scrivener™️ virtual cork board, the less I enjoyed the actual process of writing. So I tried other things, based upon other writers’ suggestions: cut the adverbs, write in the morning, write at night, write during your lunch break, write an outline, stick to the outline, write x amount of pages per day, write x number of hours per day, spend x amount of hours drafting and x amount of hours editing, etc. But nothing I tried made me feel confident in my writing. I started actively hating it, to be honest. I dreaded the cursor and the infinite white void. Then I would watch more writing videos and feel guilty about my lack of ambition, my inability to accomplish simple tasks. It’s only a few thousand words, dude — just get in there and do it. Eventually I would. I’d grumble and feel miserable and stay locked in my little writing dungeon all night, ignoring my friends’ texts and phone calls, and the next day I’d hate everything I wrote, trash it, and start over. Then, when I had no more writing left to hate, I started hating myself. The words in my head turned malignant, putrefied into spongy, black tumors. I’d spend all day at work consumed by thoughts and ideas and goals! goals! goals! for my book, then I’d come home and stare at a blinking cursor and wonder why I was such a worthless failure. I couldn’t write the way these other writers did, no matter what I tried. But I still wanted to write. Needed to, in that yearning, terrible way I suspect you understand. I don’t know why The Internet subconsciously invites us to flay ourselves before total strangers, but it does. So I will. Shit got Dark™️, Shaelin. I gained 50 pounds, started living like a hoarder, stopped hanging out with my friends, stopped leaving the house altogether. I kept the curtains closed so my neighbors wouldn’t see the piles of empty take-out boxes stacked up on the kitchen table. I traded the pleasures and contradictions and beguiling enigmas of women for the 24-hour neon distraction of cheap porno. My cat Maggie, basically the only friend I had during this time, got cancer. I watched her suffer and waste away because I couldn’t bear the thought of putting her to sleep and coming home alone to an empty, filthy house. Eventually she died and I hated myself even more for not being able to save her. I wore the same pair of pants for six months. I’d go to work and sit at my desk all day and do absolutely nothing (I was the accounting manager at a small company, technically my own “boss,” so I got away with this for a shocking, frankly heroic amount of time). Then I simply stopped going to work. And I kept torturing myself with those stupid goals and word counts, never happy with the end result, resigned to feel like a failure every day. I remember watching your “Spill the Tea” video back when it was initially posted. Watching it now is eerie, because you describe exactly what I was going through, what I was feeling. Like, to the “T” (see what I did there? #WordPlay #LitPuns101). I’d never experienced anxiety/depression before, so I didn’t really understand what was happening to me. Not that it mattered, because by that point the damage was done. I couldn’t recognize and isolate the real problem. I’d given up. Even though you said a lot of things in that video I desperately, desperately needed to hear, I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to listen to you, because you were one of Them™️. Your eyes were bright and your voice sounded friendly and encouraging, but your name wasn’t McCarthy or Pynchon or DeLillo or Nabokov. You were just a kid. What could you possibly know that I didn’t? In January of this year I called a local psychiatric hospital and told them I was planning to kill myself. I never harbored any true intentions of doing that, but I figured they’d offer me a nice three-week vacation in a padded cell. Considering the circumstances, it honestly seemed like a relief. I ended up quitting my job, selling my house, and moving back in with my parents 300 miles away. I started seeing a therapist once a week (still do, for the record). So far I’ve lost 30 pounds of the 50 pound surplus I acquired. I kept watching your videos, even though I was no longer in the market for writing advice (#JustHereForTheSnark). You kept me lol-ing through some bad days and weeks and months. I’d listen to you talk about problems with the writing community and nod my head like an old woman in church (#ShaelinSermons™️ #SheTeachesANDShePreaches), but I still hadn’t made the connection with my own issues. I swore off writing completely, went back to playing music. Cover songs in coffee shops and family restaurants. It was fun for awhile. I genuinely felt happier. But my story was still an old pebble poking around in my shoe...calling out, issuing playground taunts, drawing hairy cartoon dicks on my forehead while I slept. About a month ago I stared down another blank page, my first since experiencing that fun-sized nervous breakdown earlier this year. I closed my eyes and heard your voice in my head. “You can do whatever you want.” I had no goals, no arbitrary quotas to meet. I wrote a few lines, stopped, fixed a couple things I wasn’t satisfied with, and then went on with my day. I thought about what I’d written, sure, but I didn’t worry or spend the whole day stressing out. The next morning I read over what I’d done, and I didn’t hate it. I thought it was actually pretty good, funny and off-kilter and a little/lotta fucked up. So I sat down and wrote some more. Took some things out, re-worded stuff, dressed up the bones in silver and pearls. Addition and subtraction. Before I knew it, I’d finished a whole page. Then another. And then the hair on the back of my neck stood up, because I remembered: This is how it felt at the beginning. Back when I was young and love-struck and writing only to catch those moments of pure levitation, that devilish tickle, that rush of blood propelled by my own wild heart. It’s been a rough road, but I finally found what I’d lost. I figured out how to write again and enjoy it. And ultimately, the best writing advice I received didn’t come from McCarthy or Pynchon or DeLillo or Nabokov. It came from a young woman in another country with a camera and a nose ring and a big tapestry and bigger dreams which run parallel to my own. So thank you. Thank you for taking time out of your busy life and braving the Steaming Pile™️ that is The Internet to offer words of empathy and encouragement to complete strangers. Thank you for the wisdom you share. Thank you for being who you are. Know that tonight the stars shine brighter as a result. They do for me, at least. (Also I’m sincerely sorry about the absurd length of this “Ask” wherein no actual questions were posed and nothing substantial was communicated beyond a simple yet torturously delayed “thank you” kthxbye #longlivethenewtapestry 

—Justin)

[documentaryfilmnapier]

Documentary Research:

Our documentary is about the imposter syndrome; therefore, our first port of call was to research the syndrome in greater detail.

As a group, we each went off and did our own research, which would help inform our approach to the topic. I found out that imposter syndrome is more than a feeling of anxiety or self-doubt. Someone who deals with it feels like a fraud, they feel like any success they have is due to luck, and they are undeserving of their accolades. The Harvard Business Review description of the syndrome is very eloquent. "Impostor Syndrome is a collection of feelings of inadequacy that persist despite evident success. 'Imposters' suffer from chronic self-doubt and a sense of intellectual fraudulence that override any feelings of success or external proof of their competence."

After this research period, we all felt more prepared going into the next stages of production.

Finding our Focus:

Initially, we wanted to explore the imposter syndrome as a whole, delving into the philological side and gaining a real insight into how the syndrome manifests. And then, we were going to interview several people who have dealt with the syndrome and explore the feeling of exile and isolation the syndrome causes. Then we hoped to bring all the interviewees together, along with the phycologist, and have a round table discussion about the imposter syndrome and convey that these feelings of exile are untrue as many people feel the same way. As a group, we recognised that this idea was unfeasible in the 8 minutes we had for the project; however, this was the style of approach we wanted to take for the documentary.

When trying to find people to interview, we had fantastic access to Emily's friend Heather. Heather was Emily's original inspiration for the project, and Heather was willing to be interviewed. Alexander also spoke to his brother, who is currently studying acting, and mentioned that imposter syndrome was quite prevalent among actors due to embodying characters and method acting. Alexander also said that his lectures had told his brother that he had imposter syndrome and others in his acting classes. Therefore, we had excellent access to another interviewee and potentially others. We noticed a pattern among university students developing the imposter syndrome, which was also backed up by our research which stated that the syndrome is most common amongst academics. Therefore, as students, we had a keen interest in how the syndrome affected and developed in university students.

However, this plan kind of fell apart; before our treatment were still gathering interviewees and toying with the idea of making the documentary solely about Heather. When we mentioned this in class, Sana told us that we did not have enough people to interview, and it would be in our best interests to do the documentary on Heather. After class, we discussed the project and decided to move forward, focusing on Heather's story. At the time, Heather was not entirely comfortable having the whole documentary about herself; however, Emily spoke with her several times, and Heather came round to the idea.

Having decided the documentary would be about Heather, we scheduled a meeting with her as Alex, and I had not met her yet. This meeting went well; it was a very informal chat to discuss several topics we thought we might cover in the documentary. From the interview, we found out some very interesting things. Firstly, Heather disscussed her transition from high school to university, where she recognised imposter syndrome development. Heather went to Baldragon Academy, which was ranked one of the top ten worst high schools in Scotland. At school, she was considered a gifted and high achieving student, having achieved A's in her advanced highers and was only six people in her year to go to university. After high school, Heather went to Edinburgh University to study law, one of the most prestigious courses and was plunged into a world full of privately educated people and immediately felt inferior. She felt like a fraud because when it came to uni assessments, she was getting C's and her peers were achieving A's and felt her place on the course was undeserved. However, one day, Heather watched a YouTuber who was also a law student, and they discussed the term imposter syndrome, which is how she first found out about it. Heather mentioned how overwhelming the syndrome can feel, and she suffers from anxiety. On several occasions, she has gotten to the point where she has emailed her lecture to say she is quitting the course because the feeling of indecency have gotten so bad. She talked about extracurricular activities she does to help distract from university pressure, including singing in an acapella group. From the interview, we gained a lot of insight. But I could tell Heather wasn't too comfortable delving too deep into some of the more personal aspects of our conversation, which only to be expected as it is the first time we have met Heather, and she bound to be nervous. Therefore, we need to have future follow up interviews to make Heather more comfortable in our presence.

Additionally, we have looked at other short documentaries to help inspire our stylistic approach to the documentary. The ones which I found and watched include:

Meet the Reclusive Artist Who Creates Detailed Models of 1960's America: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VvRWx51Cbyc&list=LL&index=3. What I liked most about this documentary was the way it incorporated its archive images. They are placed amongst the models, denoting that they are part of the artwork because his experiences have influenced his art.

A Young Woman Struggles to Stay Afloat in the Rough Waters of Her Life: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_F-QmEqmAVU&list=LL&index=4 What was most influential in this documentary was the way the film depicted what it felt like to have depression. Therefore, the films visual language was impressive in this film and gave us a lot to think about when it comes to our approach.

Can You Hear Me Now: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PB86pd_VRgc&list=LL&index=6&t=104s This documentary gave me a lot of inspiration when it came to interviewing approach. It isn't a standard question-answer interview; it's more of a traditional style of the interview, which has then been rewritten into a form of lyrical prose which the interviewee reads aloud. And I thought the camera style of the interview matched perfectly with the narrative arc of the interview. At the begging, we only see the man mouth or the top of his head, and as the narrative progresses and the narrator lets us in more, the more we see of the narrator.

Virus: Inside the minds of the music community: https://vimeo.com/250953592 Similarly to Can You Hear Me, this documentary gave me a lot of inspiration in terms of visuals and interview approach. Especially in terms of capturing B-roll and recreating element, such as when the interviewee is writing songs or playing music.

There have been many others that I have watched during my research processes, but these four were the most influential.

Moving forward, as a group, we need to bring all the research we have done together and start to create a more formalised plan and approach to how we plan on filming and editing the documentary. This means creating some form of storyboards, schedule and interview method.

[verdigrisprowl]

Apr 11 - Cubs Baseball Game

Prowl and Soundwave go on a date. They take their holomatters to the first* Cubs home game of the season. They enjoy themselves greatly, confuse a human, get hit in the face with a baseball, and abandon a rental car like lawless beasts.

*First in the universe they visit. Differences between the first game in the universe they visit and the first game in this universe are entirely coincidental and have nothing to do with the fact that the mun couldn’t stream an early afternoon game the day before due to work.

ItsyBitsySpyers 6:33 pm ((hey so like show me what you mean)) VProwl 6:33 pm ((but i finally got it set up so I don't have to move it. 😔 ItsyBitsySpyers 6:34 pm ((afterward then)) VProwl 6:35 pm ((WELL. are we ready to go??)) ItsyBitsySpyers 6:35 pm ((ye)) VProwl 6:35 pm ((... at what point do we want to start them. like, at the entrance gate, or??)) ItsyBitsySpyers 6:37 pm ((yeah, in line or at the gate or whatever it is, so soundwave can ??? at security measures and prowl can get his gift)) VProwl 6:37 pm ((okay!)) VProwl 6:38 pm ((... i know whenever i do one-on-one streams either we try to do it asterisked and i slip into prose anyway, or we try to do prose and i slip into asterisks anyway, but i don't remember which)) ItsyBitsySpyers 6:38 pm ((it's usually the former)) VProwl 6:39 pm ((so we should just start with prose, then? ItsyBitsySpyers 6:39 pm ((might as well lmao)) VProwl 6:39 pm ((thank u.)) VProwl 6:42 pm It was more crowded than Prowl expected it would be.

No, that was a lie. He'd expected it to be this crowded. It was more crowded than Prowl HOPED it would be. They weren't even inside yet and there was already nearly too much motion for him.

He was soldiering on, though. They'd gotten all the way from his projector—left in a rental car in a parking garage (and THAT had been an adventure and a half)—across several blocks of Chicago to make it to the entrance. He'd survived the throngs of humans in the street heading for the stadium, and he'd survive the front gates.

He wasn't going to be very talkative until he was seated, though. ItsyBitsySpyers 6:50 pm Speaking of survival, Soundwave wasn't so sure he'd made it through the rental car driving intact. Being on the road again was fine by him, as he'd recently taken to the occasional quiet drive via holomatter. It was the being on the road IN SOMETHING ELSE WHILE SOMEBODY ELSE DROVE part that bothered him. Not only did he have to let someone else transport him, he had to trust that Prowl knew how to operate a human car as a human, and after seeing how well most mechs did at that...

The crowd didn't bother him as much as it did Prowl, partly because he wasn't actively listening to everyone in the area. A few people here and there, just to get an idea of what humans attending baseball games talked and thought about, but not the entire crowd.

He kept picking at his avatar's dress while he waited, irritated by the odd mix of textures, and glanced over at Prowl.

Nudge? No need to answer out loud. VProwl 6:55 pm Prowl started, but then nudged back. He's doing alright, as long as he mostly looks down. He's got their tickets in one hand—legally purchased, but made out of holomatter paper—but with the other reaches for Soundwave. A handhold would be nice, even a squishy one.

The line is diverging into two streams. Prowl looks up, sees one says "bags" and one "no bags," and moves them into the "no bags" line before looking back down. Just a metal detector, and a turnstile, and then they'll be in. No problem. ItsyBitsySpyers 7:06 pm Soundwave's more than happy to deliver that handhold, though it takes him two quick tries to get his hand lined up right. It's the pinky finger that's throwing him off. He only has a fourth finger when the deployers are docked, and seeing as they aren't right now, it's sort of awkward.

He watches people separate based on what they're carrying - strange, but not altogether unfamiliar; there were subspace scanners at many of Harmonex's higher-class venues to make sure nobody had brought in loose weapons and the like - and gets so distracted by the wide variety of backpacks, bags, purses, and other containers he forgets to keep moving until someone barks a cranky order at him.

Already marking the human's face down in his files with the intent of delivering some minor retribution after the game, Soundwave moves forward and - and what is THAT? Is that a metal detector!? How did they know to watch for Cybertronians? Where's Prowl? Did he--?

Oh. On the other side. Because holoavatars. That ItsyBitsySpyers 7:08 pm look like humans. Right. Okay.

He walks through with his head held high, silently daring the thing to go off, and has little time to celebrate its failure to identify him as an alien before bumping into a collection of metal rods with his midsection.

Scowling - not that one can see it behind the 3/4ths mask on his face - he turns to see what other humans are doing and notices them pushing the rods into a kind of spin as they walk through.

All right. Whatever this ritual is looks harmless enough. He'll get it right and come out the other side dusting himself off.

[[He is approved for attendance.]] VProwl 7:11 pm If it helps Soundwave feel better, Prowl didn't get through the turnstile any more gracefully than Soundwave.

A nod of acknowledgment to Soundwave's statement. And they're in! ... Late. He can already hear the announcements. Damn. Security took much longer than he expected. He finds a radio stream to listen in on, comms the link to Soundwave, and looks around for the promised magnets.

There—someone with a bag full of them is handing them out. He snatches two, consults his internal map of the stadium, and heads down the hallway toward their section. Come on hurry, they've missed six—seven whole pitches. ItsyBitsySpyers 7:16 pm Soundwave's only been human once before, and there was a lot more sensory data to go on at the time. He stumble-rushes after Prowl to the magnets, trying not to get too close, and toward their seats, tatters flapping a little, not any help whatsoever because he doesn't know how to determine where to sit.

At least he can hear what's going on while Prowl looks. Thank you, radio stream.

Are they close? Tell him they're close. He can smell the sweat and ooze of the humans all around him and it's disgusting. If he can get into the open air, that'll help. ItsyBitsySpyers 7:18 pm [[What is on the Dee Ell?]] VProwl 7:18 pm They're close. Here's their section—see, it says 131 over the doorway—and outside they go—

Prowl stops dead.

There are so many humans in this stadium.

There's. There's so many. And they're all wiggling.

Prowl's processor fritzes out. It takes him a moment before he can shake himself out of it, bow his head, lower his baseball cap, and power through to their row and seats. Here. Here we are. Wow. There are—there are so many humans here. "Disabled list. It means they're too injured to play and are currently in the process of healing." ItsyBitsySpyers 7:20 pm Soundwave nods, trying to get past everyone's legs with as little physical contact as possible - thank you for being a barrier, dress - and gets himself as comfortable as he can.

Here's a hand, and now he's watching. VProwl 7:21 pm Prowl takes the hand; and with the other, fiddles with his baseball cap, trying to figure out how to adjust it so that he can look at the field but block out the humans on the far side of the stadium. There. Okay. Only a few hundred moving things, this way. ItsyBitsySpyers 7:24 pm [[What are the audience rules? Do we need to do anything?]] ItsyBitsySpyers 7:25 pm Oh! Pirates!

...They're less scraggly and peg-leg-y than Earth media has led him to expect. VProwl 7:26 pm "There are often chanting and clapping rituals at these games, led by prompts on the big screens." He points at the two theater-sized screens over the left and right field seats. "I don't know the words, but they tend to repeat. If one starts, listen for the first cycle, join in on the second cycle, and stop when the h—rest of the audience stops." VProwl 7:27 pm "Otherwise, standard audience protocol applies. No jumping onto the field with the professionals, no throwing objects, et cetera." "... If a ball comes into the stands, we're allowed to keep it." ItsyBitsySpyers 7:28 pm Ohhh, chanting. He wonders if the humans are capable of making the stadium tremble, like the crystals did. Obviously the building won't sing, but...

[[...Isn't that theft?]] VProwl 7:30 pm "It's not theft because the players give permission. They keep a stock of spare balls so that they can afford to lose many and still have a surpl—" Leans forward. That ball ALMOST came into the stands. "... Like that. If that one had been a little higher and gone into the audience, whoever caught it could take it home." ItsyBitsySpyers 7:31 pm Soundwave watches Prowl lean and nods again. Something to try to do, if it happens. Though Prowl might catch it first, being that he calculates trajectories much, much faster.

[[He sees. Thank you.]] VProwl 7:32 pm What's going on, Lester. One player's already on base and you walk another? Tsk. "Mhm." ItsyBitsySpyers 7:33 pm [[Oh!]] Polite clap. [[Most impressive, fleshling.]] VProwl 7:33 pm He sighs before the home run has even landed, he can tell where it's going. Shouldn't have walked that last guy, Lester. VProwl 7:34 pm At Soundwave's reaction, though, he suppresses a laugh. "It is impressive, yes—but that's the visiting team. It's—not common to applaud for the visiting team. Unless the visiting team is your preferred one and you've shown up to show allegiance to them." ItsyBitsySpyers 7:35 pm [[But he HAS performed well. Should his victory not be acknowledged?]] VProwl 7:36 pm "Baseball is very factional. Most commonly, fans choose a team and root for their success—and root for their opponents' losses. A good performance by the enemy team is perceived as a blow to your preferred team." "You're right, he did perform well—but by performing well he put the Pirates three runs ahead of the Cubs. And this is a stadium full of Cubs fans." VProwl 7:41 pm (Meanwhile, the unusually astute man behind Prowl is wondering who the woman in front of him is talking to. The person she came with, the one in the tattered dress, isn't replying. She doesn't seem to have a headset in, so it's not a phone call. What's going on here.) ItsyBitsySpyers 7:42 pm Oh. So not unlike the sports games on Cybertron, then. Importance on the level of a miniature war. Which probably means shouting matches, threats, and brawls between audience members.

He glances around to see if anyone's aiming anything dangerous at him. Doesn't look like it. Just in case, he'll boom something Worf once shouted through his avatar to convince the other humans he's not on the opposing faction.

"DEATH TO THE OPPOSITION!" [[Is that better?]] VProwl 7:43 pm (The unusually astute man behind Prowl starts at the shout, and spills his beer in his lap.) VProwl 7:44 pm "That's a bit more in the spirit of it, yes. Although death threats are a bit extreme for most hu—local sporting events." ItsyBitsySpyers 7:45 pm [[...Mild pain?]] It doesn't have the same ring to it. VProwl 7:45 pm "From what I've seen, they typically wish unpleasant sexual encounters on their enemies." Well, the Cubs have a chance to catch up now. That's something. ItsyBitsySpyers 7:46 pm He leans back in disgust. Who would wish that kind of thing?

[[He injured the batter--? Is he to be on the Dee Ell now?]] VProwl 7:47 pm "No, it's not a severe enough injury for that. If a batter is struck with a ball but not injured, they get to proceed to first base for free." ItsyBitsySpyers 7:47 pm [[They pay for the bases they go to?]] VProwl 7:47 pm FIST PUMP. First run. All right. Probably an error. "... 'For free' in the sense that they didn't have to earn it through hitting the ball." ItsyBitsySpyers 7:49 pm [[Oh. Of course.]] Someone feels dumb now. [[What happens if a different player is injured? Are more bases given for free? What if it is an enemy player?]] VProwl 7:50 pm "If they injure their own teammate, they just have to deal with it— YES!" ItsyBitsySpyers 7:50 pm NOW he claps. And chuckles softly. Dancing. VProwl 7:51 pm ((oh my god those dances are killing me)) VProwl 7:52 pm "Oh! Yes, look." Points. "You saw that ball go foul, into the stands? The audience gets to keep it. Notice it didn't get thrown back." ItsyBitsySpyers 7:55 pm [[He has another qu--]] ...Someone is staring at him. He can sense it. He twists one way and then the other, trying to identify the human responsible, and settles on the one with the wet lap.

Ugh. Couldn't they have waited until they were somewhere else to do their leaking?

Still, they ARE staring, in the way that usually means someone is trying to work something out. And it occurs to Soundwave, roughly an hour into this date, that he has only said one thing out loud the whole time.

"...Question," the avatar grinds out (not in his voice) as he turns back to face the field. "Why swing high? Low flights: difficult catches." "Yes. Foul ball: seen." ItsyBitsySpyers 7:55 pm That one's closer to them, but not close enough. He hopes one will come their way. VProwl 7:58 pm Oh, speaking out loud, now? "You mean to make the ball go high? It's easier to catch a pop fly—IF it lands inside the field—but, if the ball doesn't go as far and lands in the infield, it's much easier to throw the ball to first and get the batter out that way. But sometimes they do hit them low, depending on what tactics they're going for. If they think it will be unexpected, or if the team on defense is expecting a long shot and has drifted back from their usual position." VProwl 8:02 pm (The unusually astute man with a soggy lap has concluded that the reason he couldn't hear anything out of the person in the dress earlier is because she was speaking too low to be heard. And no wonder. Well, he supposes he's happy for her that she's got the courage to speak up now. Can't be easy with a voice like that.) ItsyBitsySpyers 8:05 pm "More strategy than expected, this."

He sits up. Did the Cub humans get both of the people running for bases out? It looked like it to him, but he can't be sure, as he doesn't know the rules as well.

"Two?" VProwl 8:06 pm "It's all about strategy. ... Strategy and athleticism. Mainly strategy." Mainly to Prowl, anyway. "Two—out at once? Yes. It's called a double play." ItsyBitsySpyers 8:09 pm "Strategies planned before game?"

If Prowl were playing, he could see there being meetings involving precisely how fast to throw, how, and where, with specialized information on each player. Humans were a little less skilled. And by a little, he means a whole fragging lot.

"What term, two bases acquired?" ItsyBitsySpyers 8:10 pm He shakes his head. A little more and the enemy would not have caught that. VProwl 8:12 pm "Yes—they might choose who's playing in what positions based on what they know about their opponent's strengths and weaknesses—what kind of balls they swing at, what kind of throws this pitcher uses—even whether a human prefers to use his left or right hand features in a team's strategies. Of course, the actual tactics will evolve in real time as the game plays," Prowl says. "Two bases is a double." ItsyBitsySpyers 8:13 pm ...Huh. Maybe he isn't giving the players' leading tactician enough credit. They're still no Prowl, but that's better than he expected to hear. VProwl 8:17 pm (The unusually astute man has just about convinced himself that the women in front of him are a couple of lesbians, and that the one in the pants is teaching the one in the dress about the game. He's got a cousin who's a lesbian, usually one of them knows the guy stuff, right? right. definitely. And then she says "human" and he's got no idea what to think anymore.) Prowl points. "That's why you don't want to hit low. It's much easier to scoop up and throw to a base." VProwl 8:19 pm While the players are switching for the next inning, Prowl takes the opportunity to admire his magnets. Wow. Look at them. With schedules and everything. ItsyBitsySpyers 8:20 pm Soundwave tries to peek without getting much closer. Even through the avatar, he dislikes the idea of being near them. Never know what they might do to him.

"One home, one glove c... pocket?" VProwl 8:22 pm "... Glove pocket?" A puzzled look, before he figures out what Soundwave meant. "Oh! No, I keep them in my..." He pats his lower leg and tries to think of the appropriate human equivalent. "... Ssssock." (The unusually astute man leaves to get another beer. Or two.) ItsyBitsySpyers 8:25 pm Ah, yes. He's pretty sure he's seen Prowl take magnets out of that general area before. How much room is there in his, uh. Sock? Are the magnets just crammed back to back in there? He'll have to have Prowl show him some time. When he can see Prowl in person and not just by avatar.

Soundwave hears the man moving about behind them and waits until he's gone to whisper.

"Where going, human behind Prowl?" Who or what is Nuveen and why do they have their name on a huge display, he wonders. VProwl 8:28 pm "Probably to get food. It's common, but not necessary, to eat at baseball games. Traditional foods include peanuts and cracker jacks. On special occasions they sell hot dogs for a dollar." Prowl wouldn't know about the name on the huge display, he's got his hat positioned so he can't see the opposite stands, much less the displays. ItsyBitsySpyers 8:29 pm Fun fact: Most humans can't make a mask look horrified. Soundwave is a pro with some eight to twelve million years of experience under his belt, though, so he makes it work. (It's mostly body language.)

"DOGS?" VProwl 8:31 pm "Er—yes. They're ground up into tube form and served on grain buns." Prowl looks around, spots someone a couple of rows ahead biting into one, and points. "Like that." ItsyBitsySpyers 8:33 pm "But dogs: pets..."

Soundwave follows Prowl's pointing hand oh so slowly, not at all ready to see... something. A tube of meat and blood and clumps of fur, maybe.

It doesn't look as horrible as all that, but he still can't believe it. A dog tube. He's only too happy to be distracted by the broken bat piece that's gone flying. VProwl 8:34 pm "They're apparently both pets and prey. Or maybe the pet breeds are different from the prey breeds." ItsyBitsySpyers 8:35 pm "Request: Do not inform Ravage." VProwl 8:36 pm A puzzled glance, but Prowl nods. "Sure." He wonders if Ravage would be disgusted, or overly delighted. ItsyBitsySpyers 8:36 pm Knowing Ravage? He'd borrow money from Soundwave and go into hot dog manufacturing with a holoform of his own. ItsyBitsySpyers 8:38 pm Boo, enemy faction playing again. At least the Cub humans are staying ahead. Only by one point, but one point is one point. Quiet huffing. The human didn't even check to see whether or not the hit was valid before running off. VProwl 8:39 pm A side glance. "Hm?" ItsyBitsySpyers 8:40 pm "Bad... bunt. Small movement. Running anyway." VProwl 8:40 pm (The unusually astute man returns. He's got a beer and two hot dogs.) "Oh. Yes. Generally the batter runs as soon as he knows he's hit the ball because the time he would waste checking to see if it's good might prevent him from reaching first base safely." VProwl 8:42 pm He leans forward, frowning. He's worried about that runner on— Oh, and that's exactly what he was worried about. Tsk. ItsyBitsySpyers 8:43 pm Soundwave immediately turns to see if it is the same human coming back as the one who left. He's not disappointed. Not by that, anyway.

He looks from the man's face to the hot dogs and back up, then shakes his head. "/Shameful,/" he declares. "No apparent value, label: 'man's best friend'."

Back to the game. "What missed?" VProwl 8:45 pm He stares at the woman in the dress, jaw dropped, until she turns away. ... What? ItsyBitsySpyers 8:46 pm Groups of 15 or more? Hmm. How many are they, between them? Five constructicons, Prowl, himself, seven deployers... damn. That's fourteen. VProwl 8:47 pm Prowl nudges Soundwave. "Don't shame them for their culture. If they want to eat dogs, that's their prerogative." He turns back to the man. "Sorry. We, uh—don't eat dogs in our country." And turns back to the game. VProwl 8:48 pm (He continues standing there, jaw still dropped. What??) ItsyBitsySpyers 8:51 pm Soundwave accepts the nudge but folds his arms. He still can't believe it and he won't apologize himself. That kind of thing is exactly why he has difficulty trusting mechs who want him to be their 'friend'. At least Prowl isn't like that.

"How many, in-ings? This, evening now."

He jerks his chin toward the sky. It's dark. How late do they mean to keep playing? ItsyBitsySpyers 8:52 pm And is promptly socked in the face by the ball flying into the crowd.

In his defense, he tried to catch it. He just... forgot he didn't have feelers in this shape. VProwl 8:53 pm "Nine innings total, unless they end the ninth inning with a tie. Then, they keep playing until they finish an inning with the tie broken. We're in the bot—" SCRAP. "I'm so sorry! I wasn't looking at the field, I didn't see it coming—are you all right?" VProwl 8:54 pm That's what he gets for looking away for a second. ItsyBitsySpyers 8:56 pm Yes, he's fine. He's fine. There's a fat crack running up the cheek of the mask, and he's just sort of got his head tilted back and resting on the back of the chair, quietly staring at the sky, but he's fine. It's just an avatar.

...He slowly picks the ball off his lap and hands it over without moving or saying anything else. VProwl 8:57 pm He gently takes the ball. And then gently pets Soundwave's head. "Can you still move?" ItsyBitsySpyers 8:58 pm "Affirmative." He'd just like not to, for a moment. Y'know, lest he take the ball back and hurl it at the batter with deadly force. Which he's pretty sure Prowl wouldn't want. "Who, batter now?" VProwl 8:59 pm Oh, they already switched pitchers. That's... early. "Uh..." He squints. "... Brault. He's got a .400 average." ItsyBitsySpyers 9:00 pm Good. The Brault human isn't the one who needs finding and injuring. "Meaning?" VProwl 9:00 pm "Well. He doesn't anymore." VProwl 9:03 pm "Meaning that this season, so far, he gets a hit forty percent of the times he comes to bat. Total hits divided by total at bats. One of numerous commonly-tracked statistics. An average batting average is .255. A .500 is considered spectacular but is usually a function of good luck." ".400 is very good, but it was derived from the only five at bats he's had this season, so it's too small a sample size to be truly representative." "Now he's .333." ItsyBitsySpyers 9:07 pm Okay. Okay, he'll sit up now. Move his jaw around a little beneath its cover. There's clapping, and he wants in on-- aw. It's over.

".255: small percent. That, sad. Prowl: better." Just in time to see that hilarious little twist-up of legs. Another huff. VProwl 9:07 pm (The unusually astute man has been staring dolefully at his hot dogs for over an inning.) ItsyBitsySpyers 9:08 pm Good. Be guilty. Friend-eater. Ah, nicely done. VProwl 9:09 pm "Twenty five point five percent? Getting a hit one every four at bats? No, that's very good. I have an unusual advantage, but even I don't know if I'd have the reflexes to achieve that in actual game conditions." ItsyBitsySpyers 9:11 pm "Why not test?" He motions to the avatar. It's a human, isn't it? Surely they could find a way to get it into a game. VProwl 9:12 pm A look at Soundwave, and then back at the field. (He's learned not to look away too long, it's perilous.) "Why? No. Why, though?" ItsyBitsySpyers 9:13 pm Soundwave throws an arm over his face as soon as he sees the ball heading loosely in that direction, just in case. It's unnecessary, this time.

"Prowl doesn't know." Shrug. Drops his arm and nods at the good hit. A double, as Prowl called it. "Test provides answer." VProwl 9:13 pm "YES! ... Sorry." ItsyBitsySpyers 9:14 pm "Apology: unnecessary. Good play." VProwl 9:14 pm "It was." And a two point lead! How nice. ItsyBitsySpyers 9:14 pm Swaying a little to the music. VProwl 9:15 pm ... He's making it hard to want to watch the game instead of him. ItsyBitsySpyers 9:16 pm If it helps, the music's stopped now, and so has he. VProwl 9:17 pm (Despite his harrowing experience, the unusually astute man has worked up the nerve to eat his hot dogs.) ItsyBitsySpyers 9:17 pm And a sudden startle.

"Why booing?" Soundwave hears eating. He turns to give the unusually astute man another quick stare before looking back at the crack of a ball being hit. VProwl 9:18 pm "If the audience disagrees with the umpire, they often boo." "HA!" This is a good inning. ItsyBitsySpyers 9:20 pm Well, now they have good reason to cheer instead. Twice the points! Whatever prize awaits the victor of these games will have to be a good one, if they can keep that up. ...That's a good question, actually.

"What prize, winning? Trophy? Currency?" ItsyBitsySpyers 9:22 pm "...Losers not terminated, correct...?" ItsyBitsySpyers 9:22 pm After the things the little baseball robots have told them, he's a little concerned. VProwl 9:28 pm "No, no. Nobody's terminated. I don't know that there's any particular reward for winning an individual game, though. Each team plays 162 games per season. The teams that win the most games enter an end-of-season tournament, and the winners of that tournament are recognized as the overall winners of that year. I don't know if there's any reward for being the winners other than the fame. There might be a trophy." ItsyBitsySpyers 9:28 pm !!! SINGING. VProwl 9:29 pm He pings Soundwave the lyrics. He knows this one. ItsyBitsySpyers 9:29 pm BIG APPLAUSE. VProwl 9:30 pm "They sing that at every baseball game in the middle of the seventh inning." ItsyBitsySpyers 9:30 pm "...Every game? All teams?" He's totally distracted from this talk of tournaments and possible trophies. VProwl 9:31 pm "Every game, all teams. They sing America's theme song before the first pitch, too, but we got here too late for that." ItsyBitsySpyers 9:33 pm He missed a group sing? Unacceptable. He can miss a few pitches, but missing that many people sharing music? Awful.

"Next time, faster driving, walking."

...Oh, right. What were they talking about before that?

"End-of-season tournament - that, watched before, correct? These humans: winners." VProwl 9:33 pm (The unusually astute man hears "America's theme song" and chokes on his beer.) "It should be less difficult to get through the gates at future games. This is the first home game of the season, that draws a larger crowd." Prowl nods. "Yes. Last year. The Cubs won. It was a fantastic game—and the first time they'd won the tournament in over a century." ItsyBitsySpyers 9:35 pm Automatically, because he's accustomed to Frenzy hastily chugging his energon and choking on it like every other day: "Suggestion: Drink slower."

"Soundwave recalls. Enjoyable time. This, too." VProwl 9:36 pm (Why is she listening to me, wonders the man who's been listening to her.) ItsyBitsySpyers 9:37 pm Bobbing to the whooping and pointing out of where objects are. It's hard not to do a little dancing in his chair when good hits happen and bits of songs are playing. VProwl 9:37 pm (And why has she said the names "Prowl" and "Soundwave," wonders this very astute man.) ItsyBitsySpyers 9:37 pm (Primarily because nobody told her - him - whatever, to think of a human name.) VProwl 9:38 pm "You like it, then?" Well—there was certainly visual evidence of that. The bobbing and dancing and all. But still. Confirmation! VProwl 9:40 pm "... When did they make four more runs?" He really has been paying more attention to Soundwave than the game. Oops. ItsyBitsySpyers 9:42 pm "Multiple doubles, good hits" he says, pointing at the field. He sends Prowl a quick summary of the last several... what are they called? Turns? Rounds? Throws? Never mind. They've been doing well, is the point. "And, affirmative. Exciting without bloodshed." "Another!" He wants to see someone take three, though. Can they do that? VProwl 9:44 pm "Oh, thank you." And Soundwave's paying more attention than him. Heh. "Yes—that's why I like it. It's, it's all—math and tactics and competition. There's so much strategy inside it. Strategy and statistics, that's all the game is. But, if you miscalculate—nobody dies for it." (The unusually astute man quietly picks himself and his beer up and shuffles out of his seat. He's gonna go make a call.) ItsyBitsySpyers 9:46 pm He's SO entranced, in fact, that he hasn't even noticed quite how cold it's gotten. Granted, his avatar isn't as sensitive as Prowl's is post-patch, but that's usually the kind of thing he pays attention to.

"Prowl knows games: ping-pong, tennis? These, also trajectory, hitting."

...Now where's he off to, that fleshling? More dog eating? VProwl 9:48 pm Prowl quietly shut off his thermal sensors sometime around the second inning. "I know them, yes. But they're far less complex. Less players, less numbers to analyze." ItsyBitsySpyers 9:49 pm Ohh. So not enough to entertain with.

"What else liked, then?" Hah. That human didn't even get to stand on the first base. VProwl 9:51 pm "Among e—local sports? Just baseball. But I don't know them all." ItsyBitsySpyers 9:53 pm "Call Eject, if alive. That, own main reference source."

Damn. They got a point. VProwl 9:54 pm "Maybe. I crossed paths with him a couple of years ago." VProwl 9:55 pm (The unusually astute man shuffles back to his seat. He'd called the police to report that he'd seen a couple of Transformers. At the Cubs game. Lesbian Transformers. In disguise. As humans. The police dispatcher told him to enjoy his game and find a designated driver.) VProwl 10:00 pm He saw that one! He's paying attention to the game again. Huffs. And the batter comes back out just to be cheered at again. Charming. ItsyBitsySpyers 10:01 pm He deserves it. VProwl 10:03 pm "... I didn't— I mean— I expected you'd... enjoy it on my behalf, but not... /enjoy/-enjoy it. What do you like about it?" The seventh inning stretch, obviously, but other than that. VProwl 10:06 pm "Oh—the game is probably going to be over after this half inning, by the way." ItsyBitsySpyers 10:08 pm "Prowl's, crowd's excitement: infectious. Strength displays - there, broken bat. Music. Humans running, chasing, catching, sliding - these, interesting activity choices. Safe athleticism, no death. Also amusing." "...Cub humans not allowed other half? How known, true point total?" VProwl 10:09 pm And that's the end of the game. Prowl stays in his seat, but many humans start to get up. "Oh—and they have a winning song." As Soundwave can hear. ItsyBitsySpyers 10:10 pm He's recording it. And listening to the human being interviewed. He formed a conjunx contract? How pleasant for the fleshling. VProwl 10:11 pm "The true point total isn't as important to them as just knowing who's going to win. If the team in the bottom half of the inning is leading, then there's no reason to play the bottom of the ninth, because no matter what they're still going to win." ItsyBitsySpyers 10:12 pm Irritated huff. "Data still incomplete." But he supposed he could understand why people who didn't focus as much on that wouldn't care. "What now?" VProwl 10:16 pm "Incomplete, yes—but at that point, the data from the bottom of the ninth would be useless anyway. The pitcher wouldn't work as hard because he'd know that nothing he did could change the end of the game, so he might as well throw easy pitches in order to save his arm strength for future games. The batters would slack off for the same reason. There's no strategic benefit to putting real effort into the bottom of the ninth when the game is already decided, so it would be impractical to make the players play and then judge them in any way based on that performance. It would only skew the statistics by throwing in junk data."

He looks around the stadium, then quickly back down. "... Let's wait for it to clear out a little. So we don't have to go through as large a crowd." ItsyBitsySpyers 10:19 pm Now that was a better argument, and one he could accept, if after a few seconds' thought.

"Acceptable. Reasoning, request both."

He scoots down in his seat, intrigued by the feeling of a flat surface on a flat back, and picks at the beading on his dress again. Why the holomatter generator insisted on giving him this fancy mess of a clothing item instead of something more practical, he'll never know. He didn't even go this ornate at the gala.

...Can he have Prowl's hand? With the one not busy pulling off decorations that fizzle out as soon as he 'drops' them, that is. VProwl 10:21 pm He can absolutely have Prowl's hand. Prowl's not doing anything with it.

He lowers his voice. "Careful, someone might notice." (Luckily for them, the unusually astute man has already joined the shuffle heading home.) ItsyBitsySpyers 10:26 pm "Date: pleasant. Gratitude given." He'll take it and - well, he doesn't have lips. That's why he had to program a mask in. He'll bump the hand against the mask's lips, and that'll be close enough for now.

And then he'll look over for a second before looking back at his holoform. Oh, right. "Apologies." Soundwave will just. Sit on his hand. Which is odd for him, without deployers attached. "Question: If this, repeated, perhaps suitable modifications: human fuel? Many surrounding eat, drink." Pause. "NOT dogs." VProwl 10:29 pm "Thank you for coming. I enjoyed it." He takes the opportunity to brush the back of his fingers against Soundwave's—well. "Cheek." Masked cheek.

"Do you mean holomatter fuel? Or modifications that would allow us to eat? I don't particularly feel the need to, but—if you want to, we could find a way." ItsyBitsySpyers 10:34 pm Soundwave leans into the brush while it's there, sighing. It's nice to be able to do things like this without worrying if Smokescreen or Starscream or Pipes or... he doesn't know. Confektor, or somebody like that, can see them at it. Not counting the unusually astute but now absent man with the soggy lap and the hot dogs of guilt, that is.

"Holomatter fuel. Real human fuel: unappetizing." VProwl 10:35 pm "So we're going to be Odo?" A half smile. "I don't know how the current holomatter animation tools handle liquids, I've never looked into it. It should be possible to make foods, at least." ItsyBitsySpyers 10:40 pm "Prowl only." He pulls the other hand out from under his leg to hover a pointing finger just over the general area of where the police decal would be. "Soundwave not officer. Damar, perhaps. Less high grade."

"...Before then, face problem: fixed. Promised." Can't convincingly eat food when you don't have a mouth or mobile parts to eat it with. "Next question: Return rental car trip required? Parking garage coordinate message not possible?"

Somewhat guilty head duck. It's still sort of awkward, Prowl, he's sorry. VProwl 10:42 pm "... Well. I guess if we just abandon it there and send them a cryptic ransom letter-like message telling them where to pick it up, they could hardly stop us, could they?" To be fair, trying to figure out exactly how much pressure to put on the petal to get it to travel at the correct speed without jerking had been... a trial. He wouldn't mind not doing that again. ItsyBitsySpyers 10:45 pm "...That, agreement?" He couldn't tell if Prowl was just asking or if that was his way of saying he wouldn't mind going along with the plan. Just in case: "New alias, next time."

"...What alias, this time?"

NOW he thinks about the fact that he doesn't have a name picked out for this human shape of his. It's a little late. Somewhere, a beer-soaked man probably knows exactly who he is.

That's going to be awkward if his alternate ever hears about it. VProwl 10:50 pm "Oh, why not. We can find somewhere without security cameras to bridge the holomatter generator out."

He has to think a bit to pull up the file with his alias. "... Eileen A. Rodriguez. 872 Rivendell Drive, Akron, Ohio, 44313. I used a random generator to produce the information." ItsyBitsySpyers 10:56 pm Prowl, actually breaking social rules and an established contract? And here he thought tonight couldn't get any more enjoyable.

"Farewell, Eileen. Rental location: final known paperwork appearance." If he'd had his visor on, he might have added an image of a random gravestone for humor's sake. As it was, all he could do was examine their surroundings to see how empty the place had gotten. "Quieter now. Come. We go, bridge home. There, trajectory calculations shared?" ItsyBitsySpyers 10:57 pm He wanted to let Prowl show off a little. Maybe talk about the really exciting ones, the pitches that went badly or balls that connected but didn't fly where the players hoped. VProwl 10:59 pm "Let's walk back to the car, I've got to leave the keys with it." He might not be following the expected contract but he's going to pay his fine and he's not going to make the job hard for whoever comes to pick up the car. "And then yes. Let's head home. I'll show you a bit of the game from my perspective." ItsyBitsySpyers 11:04 pm Oh well. Can't bend a lawmech /too/ far without completely breaking them. Key depositing it is.

"That, acceptable. ... If walk not too long." He's noticed how cold it is now, by the way. "Cities: different, this height. Also, overheard: Chicago city contains enormous preserved legume. Perhaps that, near here?"

After a few light claps to show his satisfaction with the plan, he stands and offers a hand up. C'mon. Time to get off this freezing mudball and into a nice, toasty apartment. VProwl 11:06 pm "I haven't heard about the legume. If you want to track it down, we can?"

He takes the hand. All right. Time to go home. ItsyBitsySpyers 11:07 pm "...When warmer."

And off they go.

[nachtgraves]

a++ kuzuhina: maybe the same ship with #4.“I’m flirting with you.”?

Oh my god I am so sorry this took forever and a half BUT I FINALLY FINISHED IT. I experimented with writing a thing told mostly through texting so hopefully it still flows pretty well? It was an experience, I tell you. Also. I apologize for the awful title for this but it was literally the best I could think of.  And I probably should have used time stamps but I’m a dumb and hope extra spacing gives the same effect?

Title: Mis-Texting Could Possibly End in Kissing  // AO3Word Count: ~4200Warnings/Tags: PG. Told through texting with interspersed prose, high school au, hope’s peak still exists, but no despairs, some typos are intentional and let’s pretend the others are too, real minor angst. Hajime is non-italics, Fuyuhiko and the two instances of Chiaki are in italics.

[ughhhhhh][im so bored][she wont stop taking][talking*]

[That’s kind of the point of a presentation]

[nooneasked for ur sass]

Hajimedoesn’t know how it happened, but he and the infamous ‘baby-faced yakuza ofHope’s Peak High’ are texting buddies.

Well.

Maybethat’s not entirely true. He does know how it started, at least.

[heypres][its kuzuryuu][souda gave me ur number][wat do we need for teh fair agian?]

[Sorry, youmight have the wrong number]

[oh][ur not nanmi?][fuck][souda is dead][sorry]

[Noworries. Mistakes happen][But, by Souda do you mean Souda Kazuichi?And did you mean to text Nanami Chiaki?]

[yeah][who r u??]

[Chiaki’s a close friend. Ournumbers happen to be really similar. Hers ends in a 1 instead of a 2]

[ohthanks][srry for the mix up]

[Don’tworry about it. Happens fairly often :p]

Hajimedoesn’t hear back from the stranger for a few days and quickly forgets themix-up even happened. He hadn’t been lying when he said that such thingshappened fairly often, especially since Chiaki was voted as class rep. (She hadbeen so surprised and happy, Hajime thought a new VR game system was announced).Chiaki and him and found it quite amusing and it wasn’t much trouble to fix themistake usually. But one afternoon, he’s cleaning up his room and finds apacket of papers that look important by the large scrawling over the front pagein Chiaki’s loopy handwriting, reading: ‘SCHOOL FEST BUDGET’. He also knowsthat Chiaki wasn’t going to be home for hours, since her school festival wasthis coming weekend and she’s been staying back to organize, plan, and dowhatever it is class representatives do for events like that.

[Hey you left a packet of papers atmine. School fest budget?]

[Chiaki?]

[Goddmannit did u foget to chargeyour phone again?]

Knowingthat if the packet were important, Chiaki would be freaking out (she always putso much pressure on herself, especially since she became class rep), Hajimestares at the packet in his lap. He could run to Chiaki’s high school, butdoubts he would be let in since it was almost sundown and Hope’s Peak High wasone of the more prestigious secondary schools in their district. Hajime himselfgoes to a regular public school a short walk from their neighbourhood.

Staringat his phone, as if it was going to give him an answer, he finds one as hescrolls through his messages. He still has the short conversation from thestranger from Chiaki’s class. It’s worth a shot, at the very least.

[Hey this is Chiaki’s friend HinataHajime. I still had your number from when you mis-texted me and I was wonderingif Chiaki was nearby? She’s not answering her phone]

[yeah][why?]

[I think she forgot something at myhouse. School fest budget?]

[yeah][she thought she lost it][shes asking if u can drop it off at her place][her phone is dead]

[Yeah I cando that][Thanks]

Laterthat night, Hajime is attempting to complete a history essay due the nextmorning when he receives a text. His phone is plugged in by his bed, on theopposite end of where his desk is. He literally jumps at the distraction,hopping into bed and lying back against the pillows propped up against the headboard.

[Thanksfor dropping off the packet.]

[No prob][You need to remember to charge your phone]

[I know. (*_ _) ][How did you have Kuzuryuu’snumber, by the way?]

[The miss-text a few days ago.Figured it was worth a try]

[Thank you. You really saved me.]

Threehours later, it’s inching closer to midnight and Hajime hasn’t returned to hisassignment. Chiaki is not impressed.

[Doyour work.]

[I’m takinga break]

[(￢_￢) You’ve been ‘takinga break’ for three hours. Stop procrastinating and finish your homework.]

[You’re notdoing your homework]

[I finished my homework. I’m makingsure all the plans for the school fair next month are in order.

You’recoming to it, right?]

[Yeah][If I’m not stuck wiht tuorting…][Tutoring*][Can’t you help???]

[You know I’m not that much betterthan you. Sonia helps me.]

[Give me hernumber?][I’m desperate a tthis point]

[That’sa breach of privacy.]

[Chiakiiiiiiiiiii][Please?][I’ll do your Japanese hw next time?]

[No.]

[JapaneseAND math?]

[Tempting.But good night, Hajime.]

[Chiaki][Chiaki][Chiaki come back][Chiakiiiiii][What kind of friend are u?]

It’stimes like this Hajime sometimes wishes he was closer to some of hisclassmates. He’s not a loner, but he’s definitely a drifter of sorts. He has peopleto talk to and sit with at lunch, but rarely does he spend time with hisclassmates outside of school or for non-school related activities. Because ofthat, he’s not close enough to anyone to randomly message them at close tomidnight for homework help.

Justas he’s trying to figure out a solution – since it’s far too late to actually do his work like the goodstudent he only sometimes is, his phone goes off. And this, is the true startof everything.

[cmon i’ll pay u][and by pay i mean not break ur fucking teeth with my fist]

[Wrongperson?][Hopefully, at least]

[fuck][sorry][yeah][i meant to text the person above u in my message list thing]

[Everythingokay?]

[yeahjust some shitty hw]

[You too?][I have this awful history essay due tomorrow]

[historyis whatever][math is killing me]

[Math isn’ttoo bad][At least there’s always just one answer]

[historyand english u just bs tho]

[But it’sso subjective][Everything depends on something else]

[wannatrade then?]

Andthat is how Hajime found himself a homework buddy. Kuzuryuu is good at Englishand history, while Hajime’s strengths lie in math and science, and the both ofthem were pretty good at Japanese. One night of texting back and forth, helping(dipping into the realm of ‘academic dishonesty’ on occasion) with theirrespective assignments. They say goodnight close to dawn, but Kuzuryuu had stayedup long after his homework was complete and waited and helped Hajime until hewas done as well.

Fromthen on, Hajime would find himself texting back and forth with this boy he’snever met. At first, they exclusively went to the other for homework help, buteventually Hajime would send Kuzuryuu a short text about something funny that hadhappened (a cat attacking some dumb kids that were trying to taunt it) andKuzuryuu would send him a rant about something that annoyed him (old womenthinking that he’s younger than he is or a police officer asking if he’s losthis parents) and it snowballs into them casually texting throughout the day,particularly during boring presentations that no one, including the personpresenting, cared about.

[Payattention and stop distracting me]

[potnd kettle][stop looking at ur phone during class]

[Shush][I’m bored too]

[fuckinquit the holier than thou then][i can ignore u][nd u can be bored alone]

[Youwouldn’t do that][Who’d you distract if not me?]

[plentyof pple][ur lucky i deign to talk to u]

[Yeah][I’m sooo grateful]

[ushould be]

[Stilldoubt that you could ignore me]

[fuckintry me]

[Is that achallenge?]

Kuzuryuulasts all of until the end of the school day. Hajime can be quite theannoyance.

[jfc ur gonna break my phone]

[I win :D]

[uwin a fist to the face when i see u]

[Are wegoing to meet up then?][So eager to see me :P]

[Kuzuryuu?]

[I’m sorryif I made it weird]

[nahi had to hide my phone fr a bit][ur the one who sounds too happy bout gettinghis face smashed]

[You’re tooviolent][How do you have firneds if you treaten to hurt htem all the time?]

[nicetypos]

[Hush. Atleast I use proper grammar most of the time]

[yshould i waste my time with shit like that?]

[Forlegibility][I got to go][Got phys ed :/][Save me]

[ihope u have to run laps the entire time]

[You areevil]

Hope’sPeak��s festival comes and goes one weekend. As usual, it is a busy event due tothe school’s prestigious standing. Hajime, as promised, visits Chiaki’s class,doing an interactive murder mystery café of sorts where customers are givenclues with their orders to figure out the murder of a prop set up in the centerof the classroom. He finally meets some of Chiaki’s classmates whom she’stalked about and apparently she’s talked to them about him in return. However,and though he won’t admit it to anyone other than Chiaki if hard pressed, hekeeps his ears open for the name Kuzuryuu and is disappointed to realize thathis texting buddy was nowhere to be seen.

(“Kuzuryuu?We sent him to go advertise with Koizumi and Saionji,” says Sonia. “Do you twoknow each other?”

“Uh,he mis-texted me once,” Hajime replies. He redirects further questions awayfrom him and towards what they used to make the neon pink blood for the fakecrime scene.)

Hajimemay have lingered around for a bit until he couldn’t justify staying and beinga distraction any longer. By the time he leaves to go back home, he’s exchangednumbers with a few of them with vague promises to meet up some time and hangout. Even as he leaves the school, weaving past the steady stream of peoplestill entering the premise, his eyes roam for individuals advertising forChiaki’s class. He returns home to his books and TV without having met aKuzuryuu.

[You guysdid a good job at your school fest]

[uwent?]

[I promisedChiaki]

[u2 datin or somthn?]

[God no][We’ve known each other forever]

[doesntmean u havnt dated]

[Ew][She’s practically my sister]

[heardu got numbers frm some girls in my class]

[Oh yeah][Are Sonia and Mioda always like that?]

[annoying?][obnoxious?][preppy?]

[Haha][Your class seems really cool]

[seems][u dont see them 5 days a week]

[I bet your classmates have thingsto say about you too]

[maybe][but they wouldnt live for long if they say anything]

[Hahahawhat are you, the yakuza?]

[Kuzuryuu?]

[uhavent looked me up?]

[Why wouldI?][And you’ve never told me your first name]

[uwouldnt need my first name][but its fuyuhiko]

[You’re not pulling oneover on me are you?]

[i go to hopespeak idiot][sonia’s a motherfucking princess][nd y woud i joke about that?]

[You’re not going to send people after me for makingfun of you, are you?]

[ur entertainingfor now]

[Oh ha ha][Glad I amuse you]

[Wait][Oh my god][Is this you?][[image]]

[u got somethingto say?]

[No][Just][Not what I was expecting]

[think carefullybout ur words hinata]

[I thought I wasentertaining?]

[toys can getbroken]

[Now that’s uncalled for][I didn’t even say anything about how adorable you look]

[HINATA]

[It’s true though!][You can’t call a hit on me for being truthful]

[just shut up][y did i tell you to look me up][yd u look for pictures?]

[Curiosity][We’ve been talking for a while now and we don’t even know what the other lookslike]

[Kuzuryuu?][Did you know what I looked like?]

[bein cautious isimportant]

[Omg you looked me up][What horrible pictures did you find???]

[[image]]

[That’s from Chiaki’s fb!]

[not that hard]

[I TRIED TO FIND YOU ONFB THOUGH]

[securitysettings]

[Oh][Point]

It’snot too long after that Hajime receives a friend request from one KuzuryuuFuyuhiko. He hits accept almost embarrassingly fast and proceeds to exploreKuzuryuu’s newly unveiled profile with the eagerness of a stalker given an inchand taking a mile. There’s not much to explore, the other boy doesn’t seem touse the website very much, which honestly does not surprise Hajime though hecan’t help but feel a little disappointed.

[The last time you were active onfb was almost a year ago][And it was a profile pic update][That you didn’t even upload??]

[soudand sonia hacked my account][sonia was offended my profile pic was like 2 yrs old][koizumi has a fuckton of pics of ppl][nd i was 2 lazy 2 change it]

[It’s agood picture of you]

 [thanks]

Uponadding Kuzuryuu, Hajime’s flooded by friend requests from Chiaki’s otherclassmates and ends up talking semi-regularly with them. Kuzuryuu and him stilltext each other practically daily, to the point Chiaki comments on it whenHajime is over at hers to help her complete co-op achievements for a game she’syet to 100 per cent.

(“Youand Kuzuryuu seem to really get along.” Chiaki glances pointedly at Hajime’sphone as it buzzes several times, Kuzuryuu’s name flashing on the screen.

Hajimeshrugs noncommittedly, and is oddly relieved that the game finishes loading andthey’re thrust into a horde of mutant creatures.)

Evenhis classmates notice he’s on his phone a lot more often during and betweenclasses.

(“Gota girlfriend, Hinata?”

Frowning,Hajime shakes his head, “No, why?”

“You’realways on your phone texting and smiling down at it.”

Hajime’ssure his face has never been more red and when, moments later, he gets a textfrom Kuzuryuu complaining about the apparent Souda-Sonia-Tanaka love trianglethat should just turn into a threesome, he realizes his face does indeed moveon its own.)

[Oh my godhelp]

[what’dyou do?]

[Gave into peer pressure and wentto a goukon with some classmates -_-][I’m hiding in the bathroom][But I’ll have ot go back out there][:c]

[urnot drinking r u?][ur not 20]

[A yakuzaheir is against underage drinking?]

[udidnt answer]

[No one’sdrinking][We’re at a karaoke place][But htank you for caring c:]

[shutup][u dont usually go out w/ ur classmates]

[Yeah][Some of them have been teasing me about a girlfriend so I mostly just went sothey’d shut up]

[girlfriend?][u said u nd nanami werent dating]

[We’re not][They think you’re my secret girlfriend]

[?]

[Apparently I smiled while textingor something][And I’ve been on my phone more often][And you’re the only person I really text during class so]

[oh]

[Yeah, funny right?][Wonder what they’d think if they knew I was texting buddies with the heir tothe Kuzuryuu clan lmao][Though some ofthem already give me shit for being close to Chiaki just cuz shegoes to Hope’s Peak][They think you guys are snobby elitests just cuz you go to a prestigiousschool and we’re just public school kids][But you guys arent tat different][Just different talents and families][Woops sorry][Didn’t mean to get all ranty][Ugh I gotta go][Can’t hide here forever]

Afterthe goukon, which wasn’t horrible but neither was it all that enjoyable, Hajime’splunged into preparations for his school’s culture festival and upcoming exams. He’s barely had timeto text Kuzuryuu other than short greetings and the occasional tidbit from hisday that the other boy would find amusing. He misses their daily conversationsand when he finally has some down time, the day before the culture festival,he’s holed up in his room and on his phone while he catches up on TV shows onhis laptop.

[Hey longtime no chat][I’ve finally got free time again!]

[yea][school stuff?]

[Yeah][Every teacher decided to have everything due weeks early so we weren’toverwhelend when finals come around][Kill me -_-]

[shouldnt u be spending ur free timew/ ur gf stead of talking to me?]

[What?]

[ugot a gf or whatvr after that goukon][didnt u?]

[No?][Where’d you hear that?]

[therewas a pic on fb][u were tagged][it showed up on my feed]

[I haventbeen on fb recently][Lemme check]

[Oooooh][Yeah no][I wasn’t even aware this was taken][And the comments are baseless][I barely spoke to her][There was no ‘chemistry brewing’]

[shescute tho]

[Yeah Iguess?][Objectively][But not really interested][She doesn’t go to my school][And we met for like five seconds]

[datingimplies getting to kno eachother]

[Yeah but][Idk][Just nothing clicked?][And I wasn’t even looking for anything going to the thing either so][What about you?]

[watabout me?]

[You thinkshe’s cute][She your type?]

[no]

 [Am I notgetting more than that?]

[i’mmore into a dif set of anatomy]

[?????]

[shesnot a he]

[Oh][OH][You’re]

[homo]

[Oh]

[ifthats a problem u should delete my number]

[NO][Not a prob at all][Sorry][Just surpside][Supreied][SURPRISED][Fuck][I’m sorry]

[usaid that alredy]

[Well I am][Could have responded better]

[couldaresponded worse][so][not a prob?]

[Coursenot][That’d be stupid for one][And hypocrtical for antoher]

[hypocritical?]

[I’m bi][Or pan][Idk][Still nto sure about the difference tbh][Nd I have a friend who’s ace]

[nanami?]

[I cannot divulge something that isnot mine to tell]

[she let it slip when we werecleaning up after culture fest][sonia and mioda bugged her bout if u two were dating][hanamura wanted to know bout ur sex life]

[Hanamurascares me][And yes to Chiaki being my ace friend]

[hanamurascares everyone][u basically gave it away with ur notanswr answer]

[Shedoesn’t care][But I still didn’t actually confirm or deny][Because that would be rude][(◡‿◡✿)]

[fuckoff][dont u dare start using those kaomoji things like nanami]

[(。・ω・。)][( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)][*｡:ﾟ+\(^‿^✿)]

[imgonna block u]

[(◕‸◕✿) *pout*]

Theydon’t re-visit the topic of sexuality again and settle back into their frequentback and forth texting. Hajime’s still teased at school but once he finallycaves and lets his classmates know that he is not texting a girl, but a boyfrom Chiaki’s class at Hope’s Peak, all interest in his affairs are lost.

Winteris fast approaching and with that comes the school culture festivals foreveryone other than Hope’s Peak, who have their festival earlier because no onewould go to any other school event if Hope’s Peak is allowing outsiders to touraround. Hajime’s class decides what to do rather quickly since no one’s allthat interested in putting too much effort, but Hajime still ends up being runragged with the rest of his class in the last minute preparations.

[I hateculture fests]

[culturefest?]

[Yeah][My school’s one is coming up][My class is doing a butler/maid cafe][Because we are simple public school students who don’t have the resources forpink blood]

[I was kidding][Your class’ murder cafe was the best thing I’ve ever seen][Thouhg I admit I had high expectations since you guys do go to Hope’s Peak]

[it was nanami’s idea][nd hanamuras a creep but good cook][nd sonias gotta 1up everyone nd dished out money so we could go way overbudget]

[Haha][But it was great][I had a lot of fun]

[Btw][Your birthday’s coming up right?]

[no][y?]

[Is yourbirthday not during the winter?]

[itsin aug]

[But yourname is FUYUhiko]

[ndmy sis is natsumi but her birthdays in march]

[But][That doesn’t make sense]

[blameour parents]

Hajime’sculture festival comes and goes. It goes fairly well in his opinion, even ifhis butler uniform ended up shrinking in the wash and it was too late to fix. He’spretty sure his pants were borderline indecent with how tight they were and thefact that he had felt far too many eyes on his ass and crotch region during theday was not comforting in the least. No real disturbances occurred though, other than when Chiaki came by and was recognizedby video game enthusiasts and Hope’s Peak admirers.

[thoughtu were doing a butler cafe not a host club]

[?????]

[[image]]

[Where didyou get that???]

[ihave my sources][could u not find pants that werent 3 szies too small?]

[It shrankin the wash okay][But oh god][Did I look that bad all day???][Kill me]

[udidn’t look bad][how many ppl asked u out this time?]

[None??][Though now I know why girls kept giggling when I turned my back][I don’t know if I can show my face at school again]

[theywere prob giggling cuz u have a nice ass]

[Ha ha]

[urnot ugly idiot][i bet tons of girls are crushing on u at school][nd guys][im surprised ur single]

[Shut up][If it’s a surprise anyone is single it’s you][You’re funny, snarky, smart, and really attractive][And you pretend like you’re relaly grumpy and antisocial][But when Chiaki talks about school and you come up you’re always taking part][And the fact that you’re secretly really toned][Like seeing those beach pictures on Koizumi’s fb][Oh my god][And your eyes][If they look that gorg in candid photos I don’t want to imagine in rl][And I’m just this normal whatever][Mediocre in every way]

[Uh][Pretend I never said all that?]

[didu fb stalk me on other ppl’s fb?][nd ask nanmi to spy on me for u?]

[No]

[Maybe][No to the spying][Maybe I would ask about you though?][I’m sorry]

[ur not mediocre][wanna talk about pretty eyes?][and secretly toned bodies?][if u wore clothes that didnt swallow u][ud be batting away pple who wanna date/fuck u][nd ur eyes are the ones that are gorg and unique][u have any idea how many times ive thought of wanting to see em in person?][nad how nanami talks about u all the time][i knew of u before the whole mistexting crap][but as nanmi’s annoying notboyfriend][and now i get hwy she praises u so much][anyone would be lucky to go out with you][ur stupidly nice and considerate][but also a sarcastic little shit u cant hate]

[You don’t need to say nice thingsto me just cuz I made a fool of myself just now]

[imflirting wth u dumbass]

[Oh]

Hajime is typing…

Hajime is typing…

[uever gonna finish ur reply]

[I’mpanicking][Give me a break][I don’t know how to respond]

[fine][go on a date with me?][ y ( ) n ( )]

[How did Inever realize how dorky you are]

[fuckinjust anser or ill punch ur stupid face]

[Maybe I’drather you kiss it]

 [andi’m a dork?][fucking loser]

[Shut up][You didn’t say no though]

[ustill havent answered me]

[You first]

[fucku i asked first]

[I askedsecond]

[HINATAI S2G I WILL SHANK U]

[I’m sorry][I default to annoying when im embbarsed and dont know waht im doing][I want you to kiss me. I want to kiss you][So yes please]

[yesor no woulda been fine][dork]

“…”

“…”

“…”

“What?”Kuzuryuu finally snaps.

“This is a lot harder in person,”Hinata laughs weakly. And it really is. Especially because Kuzuryuu is even cuter in person and Hajime didn’tthink that could be possible. Also, the skinny jeans and casual button downcombo he’s sporting makes it hard for Hajime to look anywhere at the boy’s bodywithout blushing. He’d been so excited to finally meet up, expecting to fallinto conversation as easily as they do while texting, but one look at Kuzuryuuwaiting by the entrance of the movie theater, scowling at everyone who’d lookat him, had wiped most of the vocabulary in Hajime’s brain.

“Younever shut up when we text,” Kuzuryuu grumbles.

“It’snot my fault you’re even cuter in person and I forgot everything I wanted tosay.” Kuzuryuu scowls but he also turns redder than before. “See! If you canstop being so adorab—”

“Hinata,I swear if you call me c-cute or a—that, again you’ll wish I sent Peko afteryou.”

“Peko?”

Kuzuryuugives him a look that is equal parts fond and exasperated and a littlebewildered. “You could have found so much about me just from a few google searches.”

Hajimejust shrugs and looks down at his feet, “Yeah, but I’d rather get to know youby actually talking to you.” When he looks up, Kuzuryuu’s facing away but notenough to completely hide the fact that his cheeks and ears are tinged a darkpink-red, especially since Hajime’s got a 22cm height advantage. Hajime grins.“C’mon, we’re going to be late for the movie.”

Whenhe reaches forward and grabs Kuzuryuu’s hands, he files away the squawkingnoise the shorter boy emits as he tugs him along towards the movie theater. Inall honesty, Hajime wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about the movie they saw –he believes it was an action flick – since Kuzuryuu decided to pay back the handholding with a game of gay chicken that led to some intense public displayingof affection. They’re lucky the theater was mostly empty and they chose seatstowards the back. Hajime’s mental notes of Kuzuryuu by the end of the movieinclude several points relating to the plushness of Kuzuryuu’s lips, the factthat Kuzuryuu’s palate is quite the sensitive spot, and that Kuzuryuu has totry extremely hard to remain quiet.

[prakashswamy]

No Dhinam Oru Padhigam hymns or Swamy(po)ems… 

No NhAladiyAr or Avvai KuRaL interpretations… 

No Swamystery, BeenThereSeenThat, Swamyverse or SwamyView blog posts…

No SwamyQuotes… 

No Swamygraphy pic stories… 

… 

No New – in the past 4 days…

Not No More… Certainly not yet..!

Heh.. Heh.. Heh… 

… 

Anyway, despite no new – agmark original – content from Swamy,

the sky didn’t fall… 

the sun still promptly came up on east, shining at dawn… 

the birds still chirped merrily and flew around merrily… 

the strays keep finding many a hiding place in the concrete & steel jungle of compassionless humans to beat the boiling summer heat… 

the juicy news loving Indians somehow don’t seem to be bothered about the second coming of the loudest news anchor of them all, with his own channel now… 

the rain still doesn’t seem to be convinced that NammaChennai makkaL are worthy of at least a drizzle (when a downpour is the dire need)… 

the Americans – more than half of them, at least – still can’t believe their most unpopular President of all time (who they elected democratically only a few months ago) is running the nation like an arrogant game show host, making the unofficial, self-declared big brother of the world aka US of A, the butt of jokes, day after day… 

the other crazy despot ruling the rogue nation bordering the other big brother of the world hasn’t yet pressed that dreaded button, to ignite judgement day

the sad state of Tamilnadu that has lost its leader a few months ago and somehow trundles along miraculously as a headless body, is yet to wake up to the reality that there is practically no one around to fill her haloed position…

… wait a minute… this post itself is kinda like one of Swamy’s Nano blogs.. So, is he already back to what he does well – Write! That too, after a hiatus of just four days! Ha.. Ha..

So, since the post has anyway started flowing, why not explore this thought stream a little bit more and expand this to a Micro blog (don’t worry, this won’t be a Macro blong).

The reason why Swamy started writing this post is a truly humbling one. Despite having thousands of followers – all Social Media platforms combined, that is (he isn’t a celebrity after all – & he’ll never choose to be one, knowing how much he abhors BAUHumbug Template Living by the human herd), not one of them – yep, not even a single follower – seems to be perturbed about the absence of any posts from Swamy, in the past four days. Whoa! 

While a complete lack of response or reaction of any kind should be expected in this superfast paced world with a gazillion distractions, it had a telling effect on the person who continues to craft his ideas, thoughts, perspectives in the form of social media posts.

By asking himself “What’s the Point!” and contemplating the many possible intellectual explanations (ah, that bloody busy free mind is in action again) – in silence, if course – Swamy was had an awakening – that “he doesn’t matter!“

While Swamy’s hymns, blogs, quotes, photos, comments, reflections, reviews, reminiscences, quips, jokes, clarifications, pointed answers & pertinent questions may resonate with a few fellow humans and may even matter to a few more, they might as well be from anyone else. Some random X, Y or Z, on social media!

Humans need information as much as they need oxygen.

Just as air – polluted or not – is everywhere, providing the necessary oxygen for people to breathe, content too is everywhere, providing the information – necessary or not – for people to consume.

Without information – useful or not – the mind can’t be active, since it needs information to keep churning thoughts.

If the mind isn’t active, there’s no individual identity.

Without the “i”dentity, there’s no existence. For anyone! 

As long as a creator (crafter) offers content (output),  in any form that a human being is familiar with (books, speech, art, music, etc), s/he will have fans / followers who will – passively, in all likelihood – await the next output from her/im. But,

In a world where quantity overwhelmingly outmaneuvers quality in pretty much everything, it really doesn’t matter who offers the content.

There’ll always be someone else. In fact, a lot more than one – for any type of content. 

That awakening really jolted Swamy out of his “I craft original content” stupor!

Because, it doesn’t really matter. At least not in the present reality – however much unreal it is. To anyone – friend, follower, fan or some nondescript human who stumbled across the original content, because big G (oh no, not the Creator G, but the Searcher G) led him/er to it. As soon as he stops crafting content, his fans / followers will always find some other source – who may or may not even craft any original content at all.

So, “What’s the Point?,” in creating anything, if it doesn’t matter at all!

Fact is – as hard it is to swallow, as any hard fact – only Content rules. And will continue to. Content creators just come and go. 

Lord KrishNA came & went. BhagawadgitA lives on. 

Gautama, the Buddha, came & went. DhammA, his path to nirvAnA, lives on.

ThiruValluvar came & went. ThirukkuraL lives on. 

Poets of the three Thamizh Sangam era came & went. The Sangam poetry collections like PadhiNenkeezhkaNakku live on. 

NhAyanmArs & AzhvArs came & went. Thirumurais & Dhivya Prabhandham live on. 

VAlmiki & Kambar came & went. Their RAmAyaN(am) live on. 

Adi ShankarA came & went. His bhAshyams, slOkAs, Stotrams & six paths of worship live on, as are the mutts, JyOthirlingA & Shakthi peetams he has created. 

AruNagirinhAdhar came & went. Thiruppugazh, VEl & Mayil viruttham live on. 

MahAkavi BhArathi came & went. His poetry & prose live on. 

ArutprakAsa RAmalinga VaLLaLAr came and went. Thousands of ThiruvAsagam hymns live on.

PAmban SwAmigaL came & went. His KumArasthavam & many other mantrA like hymns live on. 

Paramahamsa YOgAnandA came & went. His “Autobiography of a YOgi” and the KriyA yOgA path he taught live on. 

Swami SivAnandA came & went. Hundreds of his books, offering amazing insights into the magnificent spiritual culture of BhArat live on. 

Bhagavan RamaNa Maharishi came & went. His “Who am I” self-enquiry and “AksharamaNamalai” and “ULLadhu nhARpadhu” live on.

KAnchi ParamAchAryA came & went. His “Deivaththin Kural” & many unrecorded, deeply insightful discourses live on.

Swami RAmA came and went. His path-breaking teachings, demonstrations and books – including the phenomenal “Living With The Himalayan Masters,” – that opened up the mystical world of Indian spirituality to the materialistic western world live on.

Osho came & went. Hundreds of his enchanting books – including “The Book of Secrets,” which expounds Lord ShivA’s teaching to DEvi Shakthi on the 112 ways to self-realization, and the myriad techniques he taught for self-realization live on.

Agastya muni, Pathanjali, AvvaiyAr, Aristotle, Plato, Rumi, KALidAsA, Kabir, Nietzsche, Whitman, Vivekananda, Tagore, ThyAgarAjA, KannadAsan, ChinmayAnandA, Watts… countless siddhars, saints, poets, realisd beings and masters came and went. The content they left behind, lives on.

The list of great content creators – of past & present (including Swamy’s Master Sadhguru) – is pretty long, varied & impressive. And only their content – spoken, written, sung, performed, taught, transmitted – will live on. May be, forever. This has happened without fail, from time immemorial and will undoubtedly continue to happen, until there’s no time left (oh yeah, we’re a truly stupid species, endowed with one extra sense than other beings, that are very capable of crafting the total destruction of the only planet we inhabit in this incredibly vast, still expanding, universe). 

Humbled by this rude but real awakening, Swamy assured himself that he will continue to craft – and share – agmark original content. Of different kinds. As long as he can. Knowing full well that it’s his content that will live on. Not Swamy himself, who – the person(ality) known as @PrakashSwamy – will be consigned to the flames at some funeral place, when he must ease out of the mortal form, in which he remains trapped, in this lifetime. And that’s the only point of creating anything. For any creator. Perhaps, including “The Creator” of all creation that was, is & will be there!

Thank you Lord, for letting me realise that “I” don’t matter. Thanks to the awakening I had, the brand Swamy rests lightly on my shoulders now, with a lot lighter head than before! And with your boundless Grace guiding me for the rest of my existence, may valuable content continue to flow through me, if I’m worthy of being your instrument. PraNAm _/\_ 

Be Joyful & Spread the Cheer

~Swamy

@PrakashSwamy

You’re welcome to cherish other Swamy blog posts (Swamystery, Been There Seen That, Swamyview, Swamyverse, Swamygraphy), Quotes (SwamyQuote) & Poems (Swamyem – including 200+ #DhinamOruPadhigam hymns), leave a comment and share it with your social circles.

You’re also welcome to stay connected to Swamy (@PrakashSwamy) on Social Media.

~Swamy | @PrakashSwamy 

What’s the Point! No Dhinam Oru Padhigam hymns or Swamy(po)ems...  No NhAladiyAr or Avvai KuRaL interpretations...  No Swamystery…