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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

#ffcc #wincest #dean jr #my writing #this is again just sort of a collection of paragraphs #and it's--mostly what you asked for i think?#but mainly it's me musing about the unknowability of parents and children #so uh #that's what i was able to manage #hopefully i'll remember how to construct a story soon lol

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cryptidcircuslife · 3 years

Text

Hi unofficial compilation of Getting Away From A Place tips

this is tailored to a specific situation so please do your own research for stuff more specific to you

running away tips subreddit

Short Term Preparation:

These are the things you can prepare now if you have to get out fast and unexpectedly

Do not tell anyone about your plan other than those directly involved in helping you.

Make a plan for your cash. You don't want to access an account your family can access or freeze. Slowly withdraw money and hide it if it's at risk of being taken. Withdrawing it all the day you leave will raise a red flag and have you on camera (atm or bank), if you even have time. As a legal adult, you may be able to get away with this because you aren't doing anything against the law. Just make sure to do it before your family finds out about you leaving. When you leave, if you don’t want to be traced- don’t use cards.

For hiding paper cash- you know your house and its occupants best. Determine what objects you have that won't be thrown away or tampered with by someone, and if they have a hollow space, store it. I used to use opaque pill bottles, hidden pockets or bindings in notebooks, the linings of old dvd or game cases, water bottles, gum cases, (all of these put in clothing or backpack pockets), opening the lining of coats and backpacks and hiding it inside of that, inside of hygeine products like the hollow part of a deodorant stick. Inside old electronics. in the stuffing of a plushie. Underneath the insoles of shoes you dont wear often.

Even if your money isn't at risk of being taken, store some of it separately anyway for emergencies.

I heard the bare minimum for running away with no destination or job is $1k. Judge for yourself your needs.

Get a backpack. Waterproof/resistant is better, but any is good. Don't pack it yet, so you don't arouse suspicion. But test out packing it to see if everything fits, and unpack it. Modify some hidden compartments so that when you travel, you will have places to hide your IDs and Cash- it's necessary so no one steals it. You want to travel light, regardless of your situation, because packing and carrying a ton of stuff takes time and you don't always have time on the day you leave.

Get a secondary bag. I learned the hard way that a backpack doesn't fit everything you'll need. Especially with amenities, food, clothing, personal possessions.... A duffel bag, one of those canvas grocery bags. A tote. Something to hold by hand.

Packing lists for running away are surprisingly similar to emergency evacuation pack lists.

Clothes to pack: 1 short sleeve shirt. 1 long sleeve shirt. 1 pair of pants. 7 sock pairs. 7 underwear pairs. 1 jacket. Some winter gear if you can, because nights will always be cold especially if you are stuck outside.

Hygeine to pack: deodorant. toothpaste. toothbrush. floss. baking soda if you��ll be on the road for a long time. Special products you may need- cream for a skin condition, sunscreen. I recommend a small essential oil bottle as a bug repellent, and some have antibacterial properties to help you/your clothes not smell musty af, and they're safe on the skin.

Must-haves to pack: you should have your social security card and another form of ID, like a state ID or drivers license. Pass port if you have one, and birth certificate or a copy if you can. Your cash. A map of your state/region.

Valuables to pack: bring a few things to keep you entertained that are small. A small book, or a notebook and pen. Try not for anything too heavy or bulky. Any survival gear you may own (sewing kits, first aid, multitools, matches, lighters).

If you will be staying outside, get a sleeping bag. Thermal blanket for cold temps.

Food to pack: bring healthy nonperishable food. Junk food won't do much for you on the move. Go for granola/protein bars, dried fruit, meat bars, jars of nut butters, canned food. A water bottle. Bring all medication you need.

Stuff to wear on you: go for baggy and multi-pocketed stuff. Don't wear your favorite clothing if you don't want to be identified, and make sure they blend well into the environment. Grey is the most unnoticeable color, then black, then neutrals. If identification isn't a problem, only wear and pack your favorite things. Wear comfortable and travel safe shirt and pants. Wear a hoodie or tie it around your waist so it doesnt take up bag space. A hat. Keep some cash in a hidden pocket if you can. Wear comfortable sneakers you can move around in for a long time and is good for the weather of where you live. Keep your self defense on you - knives, pepper spray, etc. (and learn the laws for those in your area)

Note: Storing some of these supplies around or in hiding places won't be too weird. Keeping the 'valuables' in the backpack won't be too strange to anyone either. Keeping everything nearby so you can quickly dump everything in the bags and go is a good idea. But Do Not Pack the clothes until the day you leave. clothes are a warning signal for leaving. And you cannot let them find out about your plans, especially if you are in a dangerous place.

Last note: know these are flexible to you. You can add or change stuff, as long as you have the most important things.

Long Term:

These are the things you can prepare for better

Save as much money as possible. You can secretly sell things.

Research more about what you may experience, be that attaining financial independence or how to train hop and live on the streets temporarily. Look at other people's tips for running away, or their experiences. Research moving out tips. Research specific to your area or where you will be headed. Libraries, shelters, charities, support organizations, 24-hour restaurants and locations. Research ticket prices, gas prices, etc. Apartment search. Be sure to remove those from your history. Cleaning it entirely may be suspicious if someone monitors that.

Build a budget and a food plan for how you will use your savings on the road.

As an adult, if you manage to get hired secretly for a job in your target location, you can apply for housing there, too. You will get set move-in dates and can give dates you can start working that work with your runaway schedule.

If you're running away as a minor, you can't stay with friends. However, as an adult you can. If someone is trying to find you, you'll have to be careful still.

If you need to leave fake trails because someone might search for you, there are some excellent resources by people trying to hide from domestic violence. The main tips are leaving fake trails in cities far away from wherever you will be- job applications you have no intention of following through on, apartment applications, phone calls, internet searches, purchases, etc. These can go more in-depth.

If you will be tracked, figure out how to get a burner phone. These are pretty cheap, and so are their service plans. You may want to consider this anyway to pay for your own service if your phone is taken off the existing one. Write down phone numbers you want to keep.

Make sure you have the proper amounts of medications you will need.

Be careful with this one, but figure out if you have any smaller hard-to-replace valuables that you want to bring to your new life but can't pack for your method of travel or might get stolen. Only do this if you have a place you are going to, and are going to get a job and housing there. Make a plan with a trusted friend to hold on to a few things you cannot carry in your bags and arrange for them to be mailed or picked up later. Only do this with one or two things that are easy to carry, because you will need to get it to them somehow, right? dont do this if you don't have the methods or the time before your runaway day. A good example is that I don't want to replace my laptop but I can't tow it through town and across state lines on a train. my friend can take care of it until I am settled.

Tie off any loose ends that you need to. This can be waiting for a responsibility to be gone, waiting for a last paycheck, or attending something you wanted to go to one last time.

Delete old accounts, and eventually deleting your emails and social media associated with your identity.

Note: The best thing you can do with time is make your supplies as efficient as possible, and plan. plan plan plan.

Schedule your leave date. or a range of leaving dates. But know sometimes it can be unpredictable. Make it a day when no one is home- especially if it's a dangerous situation.

On Runaway Day:

Hopefully you have a small window of time where you are alone.

Make sure you’re wearing all your runaway clothes you have prepared.

Pack your backpack and duffel bag quickly.

Leave a note, even if you don't want to. This is important, because you don't want a search for you because someone thought you were kidnapped or murdered. This way, officials can pretty much ignore it since it was voluntary.

Don’t look nervous or afraid while you are out, since that’ll draw unwanted attention.

If you made a plan for someone to pick you up, or to meet someone, make sure they are punctual. Don't meet right in front of your house if possible. Go a few streets away or somewhere less noticeable. Again, make sure whatever you bring is easy to carry so you move fast and no one tries to steal it.

If unfortunately you have to leave very quickly and haphazardly, leave anything not immediately important to survival behind.

Buy your burner phone with cash. Add your written numbers to the contacts. Create your new email and social media from there. If you're hiding, don't take pictures of yourself. Don't use your real name or information. Keep private accounts, and don't interact with anyone who will give you away.

If you have other travel plans, make your way there. Head to your safe places, your shelter, wherever you have planned. You are in your new life.

Once You Are Out:

Take care of your immediate needs. Find resources for food, water, and shelter.

Start accessing any support resources, regardless of what your situation is. In a town I lived in, there was an LGBTQ+ resource center that had entertainment/food/clothing/education clubs/showering/laundry/other amenities and programs for both lgbtq+ and homeless youth. I also took part in a gift drive for a specific minority that I qualified as, which gave me a lot of food.

Start working towards your future goals. Start job searching, and from there being able to secure housing. Start making friends. build a support structure. i hope it goes well

Rebuild your supplies and closet when you have the location security to do so.

#runaway #running away #runaway help #runaway tips #running away help #running away tips #abuse survival

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quidfree · 4 years

Note

prompt: tdbk in a post-apocalyptic setting (HEHEH)

self-servicing AND a helping hand to a friend in need, we love a good strat

this got incredibly out of hand but i hope you enjoy!!

it’s been two months and five days since he last saw someone that katsuki lays eyes on him. two months and five days, and yes, he is fucking keeping score, why wouldn’t he be?

two months and five days is long. two months and five days is long enough that he’s taken up the habit of muttering to himself to fill the air, because dead silence makes him paranoid, always expecting sudden interruption, and he chooses to ignore the fact that muttering to himself is a quirk he might have picked up elsewhere. jesus. if deku, scrawny and asthmatic and perennially, psychotically self-sacrificing, is somehow still alive, he thinks he might be glad to see him again, just out of sheer disbelief.

there’s other people he’d be glad to see. perfect timing, for the zombie apocalypse to erupt right when he’d been on a summer internship in tokyo. to think the old crone had been bitching about it before he’d left- don’t get mugged on the underground, all that shit. like he was some hare-brained tourist. like people didn’t expect him to mug them. whatever. he thinks his parents are safer, out in a smaller city, than anyone has been in tokyo, tells himself it’s not blind hope that makes him explain the radio silence away. it’s statistics, and the geography of the outbreak, and the memory of his mother beating a would-be pickpocket over the head with her shoe until he passed out.

six months ago he’d first walked into his cramped rental flat in tokyo, barely the space to unroll his mat. six days later the pandemic had begun. slowly, first, confusingly, two weeks of shadowing jeanist to court and back while the news got increasingly weirder, and then by the third things took a turn for the fucked, and his parents were calling frantically telling him to come home stat, but by then it was too late. tokyo’s the new york of japan- in sci-fi movies it’s always struck first. the city was on lockdown before he could so much as book a flight out.

that was five months ago. by four and a half his phone carrier service had gone dead.

he doesn’t like to linger on anything, but he especially doesn’t like to linger on what happened between the start and the middle of it, the slow descent from incomprehending disbelief into hell on earth. he doesn’t throw the term around- not one for flowery prose. for the first while there’d been something almost rewarding to it, the whole survival strategy, him and the interns and lawyers at jeanist’s office taking scope of their resources and planning their ways out. now it’s been two months and five days since he’s run into anyone alive, he fails to see the bright side.

the media called them the infected, or the walkers, or some other dumb shit, but everyone knows they’re zombies. it’s some kind of chemical weapon- americans, if you ask him- that’s mutated them, but they’re zombies by anyone’s definition. lumbering, decaying, dead, very keen on extending the invitation. the first time he’d seen one up close- whatever. he’d killed it. he’s killed so many by now he’s lost count, and that’s not an exaggeration. these days he’s not so big on those.

the office had been overrun, in the end. some of the other interns, panicking. bitten. dead. jeanist had held them off while katsuki dragged hysterical staffers out of the window, and the last he’s seen of the man he was catching his unflappable gaze as the doors burst open and jeanist slammed the window shut.

they’d scattered. maybe he would have stayed on, tried the group thing out of a sense of responsibility alone, but there were too many subgroups for him to rotate around. he’d split off, eventually, cut his losses. sometimes he catches someone he recognises walking the streets, wonders when and how and what. he’s still never seen jeanist. he thinks probably he offed himself.

if it ever comes to it that’s what he’s doing. he has a gun ready for it. one bullet. in the apartment he’d stayed in for a while, some forensic doctor’s place, he’d studied the angle that worked best. straight through the temples, angled down.

then there had been that thing with the league. he doesn’t want to think about that, but he does, constantly, because that’s how he knows. two months and five days. the last person he spoke to was that fucking girl.

like zombies weren’t enough- criminals who fancy themselves cultists roam the streets in packs. it’s like every shitty blockbuster movie he’s never bothered to see packed into one.

two months. five days. there’s no way of communicating with the outside world. after he’d shaken off the league he’d had jack shit on him- lost his bag in the initial fight, and his apartment was a lost cause. in the end he’d made his way back to the firm, but that had been a literal dead end too. he’d managed to retrieve, of all things, his phone, skirting the streets around the firm, probably dropped in their original escape. it’s functionally useless but he’s managed to charge it once or twice, stare at old photos and texts that fail to send. he has nothing else of his own except the clothes he’d worn that last day with jeanist.

he’s remade his belongings, obviously. he’s competent, as it turns out, in apocalypses. somehow it doesn’t surprise him. he works out a routine. when he’d first found a hole to burrow himself in post-league he’d spent days just picking up patterns- when, who, from where, how. once he was entirely sure he’d gotten it down to a science he’d risked it back out, mapping the area out incrementally, one rotation at a time. two months and five days in he has it down to an art instead.

he moved regularly for the first month post-league, avoiding anywhere that seemed inhabited by zombies and people alike. can’t trust anyone, and besides it’s way too much of a liability having other people around to get themselves bitten. he can look after himself, but he’s not signing up for charity work. by the second month he’d found his current address, the top floor of a mid-rise apartment complex in meguro city. apartment complexes are risky, but this one’s door locks are still functional, and once he’d cleared out the ground floor and made the rounds to check for stragglers he’d wagered it about as secure as it could get. the stairs are a bitch, but the zombies don’t like them either, preferring to straggle in lobbies, and for another thing the height is convenient. the roof’s close by for a way out, and it gives him a good view of the surroundings.

the apartment itself is nothing special. residential. he picked the cleanest one, which also meant the one half-moved out in a hurry. he pretends like he thinks the owners got out but he spotted a suitcase with their name abandoned in the elevator. the guy was a teacher at the university. the woman was in sales. it’s decent for a tokyo flat, two bedrooms, a bathroom, good kitchen, nice living area. the fridge had been full of expired goods, but the shelves had some cans in them- soup, rice, beans. pots and pans. he’s been working through the floors of the place one room at a time taking inventory, lugging the useful shit back up. nothing beyond the strictly practical- he takes food, medecine, clothes, someone’s watch once, binoculars. he’s not making a home for himself, just stocking up. he sleeps with his bag on his back, the essentials locked and loaded. the gun was an apartment find too.

his biggest problem is transport. he recognised this early on, because so could anyone with half a brain. tokyo’s teeming with public transports overrun by the undead, cars abandoned on the streets, but the actual streets are packed day in and day out. whatever movie said zombies hate the sun was full of shit, because as far as he can tell the only time they actually react to the weather is when it rains. all night and day they’re shuffling in tireless motions around the city, gaining numbers. there’s a rhythm to it, sure- they’re more sluggish at night- but it’s an incessant flow. he can’t drive a car, has found no convenient manual stored nearby, and google went and croaked on him when the electricity did, so there’s no way he can just take advantage of a lull and jump in. by the time he’s figured out how to get any given vehicle to start he’ll be surrounded. even if he could find a way in, there’s no way out- driving through streets packed with zombies is a doomed exercise, especially given that half of the cars in the city are busted or low on fuel.

his current plan involves boats. he’s not sure if zombies can swim yet, but they don’t like the rain so he’s betting no, and even if they do they’d fare no better than a human at climbing a boat from the waters below it. if he can make it to tokyo bay somehow- at least off the coast there’ll be room to manoeuvre. but he needs to figure out the basics of ship-operating first, and also to relocate his supplies nearer to the bay somehow. if he ends up on the open seas he’ll need the food to last him the journey.

so he’s been doing this. rounds, collecting shit. taking inventory. scoping the streets out. he spends the nights planning, the early mornings reading. there’s no power in the building. it’s freezing. six months since his internship, winter rolling in. if he gets to tokyo bay the waters will be frigid, but the sea doesn’t freeze over.

his biggest concern at the moment is hypothermia, if he’s being honest. he’s collected every fucking duvet in the building, it feels like, but there’s only so much he can bury himself under. he’d be warmer if he didn’t insist on bathing in melted snow, but he went so long without washing in autumn that he fucking refuses to waste the opportunity. he smells like some ridiculous apple berry blast bullshit because he’s cycling through shampoos, but sometimes he thinks he’s only sane when he’s brushing his teeth in the mornings so he’s not about to let up on the hygiene.

three and a half months ago he was meant to be back at school. he has no idea what’s happened to his classmates. most of them were home for the summer. he thinks yaoyorozu was abroad. lucky her. kirishima was the last he heard from, all suppressed terror, and even now it makes him feel sick to think about it, because he knows full well the asshole was scared for him. sometimes he thinks about what it would have been like facing this shit as a group, but he never dwells on it. he’s better off alone.

he’s cold. he’s tired. he needs to get to the nearest library, because no one in the building has shit about boats. he doesn’t want to leave the building yet, but he needs a book. can’t go into this shit blind, not without knowing what he’ll need once he gets there. and besides he needs to stay sharp on the streets- get back into the swing of it, literally. one month since he moved in and he’s barely seen a zombie in the rotting flesh. the doors have been holding up, and he’s far up enough that none of the regulars outside can smell him, decide to unionize and break the door down.

he’s had an assortment of weapons, since the start of this. most effective was the gun, also a heavy chair once. his trusty hockey stick had snapped on his way into the building, a month ago, leaving him to fend the last three tenants off with goldfish bowls and doors to the neck. he’s found a sturdy baseball bat since that he’s claimed as new weapon of choice, though never used. he takes this, when he goes. the bat, the backpack that never leaves his back, the longest coat he can find in his collection. not the heaviest, despite the biting cold, because that restrains movement, but the longest, to minimize contact. hat and gloves for the same reason. balaklava just for the cold.

the apartment is empty as he winds his way down, footsteps loud, and it’s dusk- just late enough that the zombies are slower, though not late enough that it really makes a difference. it’s be too dark if it were; he’s trying to save flashlights for real emergencies.

the setagaya library is the only actual library near him, as the maps inform him, but too far to risk. in the address book he finds a local bookshop three blocks away, and it’s there that he heads, already cold to the bone as he grits his teeth and locks the complex door assiduously behind him. there are zombies just across the street beginning to moan in his direction. he ignores them, breaking into a jog.

maybe because their blood doesn’t flow to their brains, maybe because their muscles are deteriorating: zombies aren’t incredibly fast or incredibly intelligent. what they are is resilient, and single-minded. but outrun them and outsmart them he can, and so he does- runs the paths he’s memorized, sticks to corners and shadows and scales ladders and crosses rooftops and just about manages to get to the street in question without even having to swing his bat.

once he gets there, though, he gets swinging. the bookshop is in an unfortunate position, and there’s an entire group parked in front of it. he lets them spot him first, so they break off in his direction, then climbs onto the overturned truck they’ve shifted to and springs back down into the doorframe of the bookshop, kicking the door in before they can register his itinerary. he slams it shut just before a greying hand scratches at it in outrage, heart pounding a steady tattoo, then glances around rapidly. no sign of life, but that means nothing.

there is, then, an unmistakable jingling sound from the very back corner of the room, behind rows and rows of antique-looking books. keys, or metal on metal. movement.

company, katsuki thinks, between anticipation and trepidation. his bat sits comfortably in his hands as he raises it.

jingling, closer, and he moves in on instinct, breathing feeling loud as he brushes past the anthropology section. he can just about see around the corner when a sudden sixth sense makes him whip around, bat swinging down heavily, and just in the nick of time- wood connects with metal, hard, knocking him back a pace as his teeth snap together from the impact, but he’s swinging again in self-defense just as there’s a sharp intake of breath and his brain catches up- red, white, painfully familiar. the bat makes an aborted spasm.

“bakugou,” shouto todoroki says, in disbelieving tones, crowbar lowered but not dropped. katsuki gapes.

“am i fucking hallucinating?”

the crowbar lowers further.

it is him, unmistakably. maybe with someone else he would have hesitated longer, but todoroki's hard not to single out. his red-white hair is tousled, long behind his ears like he's absently tucked it and forgotten about it, and he's grimy, smells sour and dusty, but it's him. katsuki's own hands stay gripped around the bat, their gazes playing some odd symmetrical game as they catalogue each other for the same exact thing- looking for bite-marks. todoroki's less covered than katsuki is, but there's blood on him, old, dried. too old for recent bites, anyways. inconclusive.

"what are you doing in-" todoroki starts, maybe having concluded that there's no way to assess his status with the layers he has on, but then his frown twists. "oh. your internship?"

which answers katsuki's own question, sort of, because now that he thinks of it enji was on that high-profile murder case in the high court. still- still, his brain is stuck on the incongruity of it, shouto todoroki in the apparently living flesh, and it's been two months and five days. he just keeps staring.

"i came for a book," is what leaves his lips, eventually, rough, and his voice sounds hoarse with disuse. it jars him into action, moving past todoroki on auto-pilot, because somehow he can't quite register his presence, doesn't know where to begin. he wasn't factoring this into his day.

it's dark inside, books hard to discern, so he gets his flashlight out, hits it against a shelf so it alights. there's a section on travel near the back. nautical travels of the eastern seas. useless. a map book of the japanese seas- maybe. he mechanically slides it into his bag. his fingers feel rigid. he's still cold. what the fuck is shouto todoroki doing holed up in a bookstore? where is his father? how long has he been here? what is he doing, alive, talking, walking, in the apocalypse, ambling into katsuki's routine with a crowbar in hand?

he can't see or hear him at all. now he's back here he can tell the ringing was rigged up- tiny trap-wires set around the store, what looks like fishing wire with bells attached. smart. of course it is. he's losing his mind. where has the bastard gone? is he even here? it's fucking freezing in the bookstore. where does he sleep? he hadn't looked starving. actually he hadn't looked anything- just blank as usual, barring the surprise. fuck! he's been staring at the same book for a good thirty seconds without registering the title.

beginner's guide to boating. miraculous. he nearly breaks todoroki's kneecaps when he sees his legs appear silently next to him.

"fuck! don't sneak up on me, you asshole!"

"boats," todoroki says. "that's your plan?"

it makes him flare hot with something like rage, because he doesn't fucking want input on it, doesn't want to be told odds, and it has him on his feet, slamming todoroki back into the opposite bookshelf within seconds.

"mind your own damn business!"

todoroki seems mildly startled at best, shifting a little so a book isn't digging into his neck, and for a moment katsuki is distracted by the scalding warmth of him under his arm. he doesn't know when he last came into contact with a living body. it's disorienting. he thinks probably it was the senior partner who fell down the stairs, minutes before the zombies swarmed the lobby, pulse skittering frantically with fear.

he drops todoroki, steps back. two months five days. maybe he's gone a little crazy.

whatever! whatever. he's fully functioning, he has his book, he's leaving. he's going to be off-schedule at this rate, times gone muddy with distraction. even without touching him he feels like there's residue warmth on his palm, making the rest of him shiver by contrast. if the zombies could have just gotten properly active in summer...

he's halfway to the door when he remembers- again- todoroki is actually there, watching him inscrutably from the bookshelf, swaying a little on his feet. despite himself he turns to stare back. he doesn't know what to- this wasn't in the plan, he doesn't know. he's going anyways.

it's because he's staring-cum-glaring at todoroki that he sees his eyes widen, and then he's leaping forwards on instinct as the window in the door shatters, decaying arm bursting through as loud moaning suddenly fills the dead silence.

"shit!"

"it's because there's two of us," todoroki reasons, in a tone like he's annoyed with himself for not realising this, which would make katsuki feel marginally better about his own stupid lack of thought if he wasn't so pissed. he'd counted on the zombies losing interest on his presence once he was out of sight, but the smell of two live humans in close proximity would obviously keep some of them near.

"is there another way out of this place?"

"back entrance, but it leads into a dead-end alley," todoroki retorts, suddenly functioning, eyeing the creaking door as thumping intensifies from the other side. "there's a way to scale onto the drain-pipe above but it wasn't made to take two people's weight."

"shit," katsuki curses, feelingly. "where's the drain-pipe lead?"

"roof. i don't know if either of us could scale it fast enough for the other to follow before they get there."

katsuki looks at him, crouched calmly stacking something or other into a loose duffel bag, rusty crowbar by his feet, then looks back to the groaning door. his gut tightens with a sort of pissed off fatalism.

"how long 'd it take you to get to the roof? five minutes?"

"i could do it in three, maybe less," todoroki estimates. "it's slower with the frost."

three minutes. katsuki hoists the bat higher, takes a step then two back from the door.

"fine. go. i'll follow."

"bakugou-"

"it's the most logical fucking plan of action," katsuki snaps, eyes still on the door, adrenaline spiking. "if you get up there before i get outside i can make it to the drainpipe before anyone nabs me. i can hold them off for three fucking minutes. and you're the one who knows the way up. you go."

"i know," todoroki says, which makes katsuki glance back at him, finds his face set with nothing but fixed determination. "i was going to say to give me your bag. it'll make it easier to climb."

there's something about this that makes katsuki's head briefly thud with something like a pounding headache, lungs gone tight, but he refocuses, blinks away the dizzy spell. the last fucking thing he wants is to give the bag away, but unless the plan goes as hoped he's dead anyways, so there's no point in arguing.

he shrugs his backpack off, slides the gun out, shoves it into his back pocket. todoroki fastens the straps around his shoulders without comment, then turns and runs, not wasting any time. it makes something in him-

the door breaks in.

there's five of them at least, the ones from before. the first one goes down with a direct hit to the head, skull caving in with a crunching sound, but he has to retreat immediately, make them spread out of their pack formation as he zig-zags back through the rows of books. they're slower than humans but not slow, breaking into a fast paced shuffle after him; he turns a sharp corner, doubles back as fast as he can to catch a second one from behind. crack, snap. the one in front lunges back before he can swing again, sending him running back; he jumps onto the seller's counter, dodging an arm, then brings the bat down full-force onto the zombie's neck. three. there's another one nearing the broken door, the other two circling back to the front at the commotion. he jumps over the counter, ducking under an arm, knocks into the nearest bookshelf with all of his weight, sending it sprawling towards the door, books flying and frame landing awkwardly across the doorframe. it doesn't block entry, but it befuddles the would-be incomers.

there's an arm grabbing his shoulder; he dodges a gaping mouth, bat spinning to hit at the rotting jaw, once, twice, bones splintering decisively on the second hit, but the last straggler is on him and the others are crawling in through the door. he runs, down to the back of the store, nearly trips over todoroki's traps himself as he goes, miraculously jumps clean of them as his pursuers stumble. it gives him the seconds to jump up to the back portion of the shop, grab a nearby chair and throw it at the advancing huddle, knocking them back a step, then turn sharply into a row, sprinting down to the back of the room where the emergency exit sign hangs half-broken. it's closed, likely behind todoroki, but he slams through it before any of the zombies near, staggers at the sharp gust of cold air that hits once he's out. the sun is nearly set, casting a red haze over the alley, and there's a pack of six zombies right beneath the glinting drainpipe, still trailing after todoroki's scent, moaning around the corner signalling backup. fuck.

there's a loud scraping from above, then todoroki's head appears over the edge of the roof, something grey and unwieldy in his hands; a satellite dish comes falling down, catching speed as it goes. it hits the pack dead-centre, crushing two of the zombies into pieces on impact, others reeling backwards in confusion, and he doesn't have the time to question his odds four-on-one. he runs in while they're still dazed, beats one into the wall, head splattering, turns and swings into the second as it zeroes in on him, head collapsing inward and drenching him in blood. the other two are too close to hit; he twists, jumps back, curses, eyes the alley entry where others have scented blood. fucking- no, two on one, god, he's not dying two on one, not after the bullshit he's been through. he kicks heavily into the one's chest, just missing the hand trying to nab his ankle, which sends it knocking into the other, and like that they're just aligned enough that he yells and slams the bat through the first one's head, in three rapid blows, hitting the one behind it on the third as bits of skull go flying. it's not enough to take it out; he hits again, manic, and it gets him on the second go. then he's scrambling to the drain pipe, mindful of the others closing in, shoves his bat down the back of his shirt and under his waistband before he throws himself at the drainpipe.

"brace against the wall," todoroki calls, almost in the moment he does so, hands slip-sliding on the damp pipe as his boots hit concrete; there are arms nearing, outstretched, but he bunches his stomach and drags himself up, feet first then arms, side of his arm scraping heavily against the wall as he moves almost horizontally upwards, fingers clenched around metal. the fucking gloves are no help; he pauses, braced and shaking with tension, to rip his gloves off with his teeth, one hand then the next, dropping to the floor below as his bare palms hit the freezing metal.

he's so cold it hurts, but he's halfway up the wall. methodically he moves. one foot. other foot. one hand. other hand. stomach muscles, straining, arms pulling. up a fraction. then another. then another.

"wait," todoroki says, closer than he feels, and he glances up for the first time, finds him an arm and a half's length away. "you'll slide at the top."

"then what the fuck do you suggest i do?" katsuki bites, half a yell, too strained to scream. todoroki leans, heavy, arms outstretched.

"do one more. then take my hand."

katsuki wishes he could spit on him. todoroki's expression has gone tight like he knows what he's thinking, like he's not sure katsuki won't let himself fall all the way down rather than put himself into the uncalloused hands of shouto todoroki.

the pipe creaks. katsuki moves up, ignores the way his blood boils, eyes the outstretched hands. he can hear todoroki breathing, hot against the cold air.

"drop me and i'll turn you."

he braces. one hand leaves the pipe, and for a godawful moment he's grasping at nothing. their hands connect, rearrange themselves; todoroki has a death-like grip on his wrist. his foot slides. the second hand is thrown rather than extended, and todoroki's eyes flash alarmingly as their fingers brush and miss, but he doesn't fall, hangs there by an arm for a heartbeat, jolt like he's dislocated his shoulder before his boot catches something and he shoves upwards, todoroki grabbing hold of his hand and yanking full-body at him.

katsuki falls over the top of the roof in disjointed movements, the both of them half-hitting each other as momentum carries them down, lands with an elbow in todoroki's stomach and a hit of tile to the jaw.

his head spins; he shoves up immediately, falls back down when his arms protest, adrenaline pounding hysterically. his limbs are shaking with belated exertion. todoroki is still holding his wrists, punishingly tight, his breaths heavy nearby. his body is still hot beneath him.

he scrabbles backwards, onto his knees, todoroki dropping his hands and dragging himself up to his elbows. for a moment they stare at each other, panting loudly.

he wants to yell at him but the words don't come. two months, five days. it's not even todoroki's fault, really. he was living there unperturbed. there's a flush of exertion over his cheeks now, and maybe he's just gone crazy what with the constant thinking about unbeating hearts but he feels a little obsessively interested in the visible flow of blood beneath his skin, wants him pink all over if that'll prove him living a minute longer.

he shakes himself, exhales in a burst.

"are you all right?" todoroki asks, and up close katsuki realises his voice is hoarser too. in the shop he'd been too dumbstruck to register it, but it's there beneath his normal cadence, a scratchy undertone. he hasn't spoken in a while either. something about it-

all right, he'd asked. unbitten, he means. katsuki shakes his head.

"we need to get going."

he hadn't meant the 'we', but he thinks at some point when todoroki's fingers dug into his arm hard enough to pierce flesh the message had gotten under his skin too. they're not fucking splitting up now. of course they're not. this isn't model un or a baseball match; it doesn't matter that the guy drives him insane. and this is todoroki, too- excruciatingly hyper-competent at every challenge life throws at him. if there's anyone less likely to rely on katsuki for the next however-long until one of them is forced to shoot the other, he hasn't met them.

"where?"

"my place. 's not far. how d'you get down from here?"

"the next building over has a fire-escape."

"fine. let's go then."

todoroki hands him back his backpack. he hits his bat against the wall to shake some bits of bone and flesh off, eyes unfocused on the task. he thinks desensitisation is the word. it's maybe the third or fourth time he's fought them off without registering anything about them once. usually he gets stuck on some detail or other, schoolgirl shirt or smile wrinkles. freckles. proof of life. there's that movie he watched once with kirishima and the rest of them, some kind of sci-fic thing, and at the end when the monsters come the dad shoots his whole family dead to spare them. turns out it's the military instead, come to rescue them. kirishima had cried.

questions pile up in his throat. he forces them down.

they jump from the rooftop to the next with relative ease, the gap narrow, his foot just catching on the edge before he rights himself. the fire escape is solid where the drain pipe wasn't. he wonders how in the fuck todoroki ended up here, in some old bookstore.

he's gotten good at scaling shit. he thinks in another life he'd have made a top-grade gymnast, or a superhero. when he'd broken out of the league's hold he'd made a spiderman worthy leap onto a clothes-line.

they make it back to the apartment as the sun vanishes, late, and because they're late his perfect scheduling is off, leaves them facing a pack of easily a dozen zombies swarming around the doors. there's another way in through the side, but it requires forcing a door open that he doesn't have keys for, and that means an entry-risk.

"i'll clear a way to the door," he says, hoisting his bat higher. "you keep them off my back."

todoroki follows his gaze, nods.

they advance in the dark, close together, and it's bizarre having someone breathing down his neck after so long, makes him on edge, expecting a bite that never comes. when the first zombie starts turning their way he breaks into a run, brings the bat down fast and heavy so it connects with a sick thud, flashlight clicking to life where he holds it between his teeth. it blinds one zombie long enough that he gets it too, and then it's chaos, flashlight swinging drunkenly as he batters this way and that, fighting off the clawing arms with irate kicks and loud swearing. if there's one thing he fucking loathes about the apocalypse it's how touchy-feely everyone is, all endlessly grasping hands and drooling maws straining for a piece of him. it makes his skin crawl, which makes him see red, which makes him go through fights like this, all furious movement, too keyed up to feel afraid. he never goes into a fight expecting to lose.

behind him, around him, wet crunching and moans track todoroki closing the pack; in off-beat synchronisation they move their way through the group, dropping bodies as they go. he's by the door before he knows it, light catching the heavy glass, switches the bat to one hand as he drags out the keys. the first time he'd gotten in the door had been open; his luckiest find since was the functioning key, sealing him out of harm's way. he's efficient with it, no fumbling, has it in and open in the time todoroki exhales sort of shortly as their backs connect. bakugou yanks the key out in the same movement he grabs blindly at todoroki's collar with his bat-holding hand, hooking a finger to swing him through the door and diving after him to slam the door shut on a wrist, bone snapping and the hand falling limply to the floor as they put their weight on the door for as long as it takes him to lock it again.

todoroki's crowbar is sopping red, guts in his hair; he casts a look around, doesn't even ask if katsuki thinks the door will hold, if katsuki has thought of their scent luring zombies in. most people would have.

he has, obviously. thought of it. that's why he lives on the top floor. the scent doesn't linger. doesn't matter if there's two of them up there. the door holds for as long as the stragglers press up against it, but as soon as they're out of sight the zombies will drift again.

they make their way up the stairs. he's warmer now, purely from the exercise. heat rises. another reason he lives at the top. doesn't feel like it when he's freezing his ass off at night, but he knows his science.

they make it to the top floor in silence, and he pushes his door open (unlocked, this one, because by the point anyone reaches him up here he'll be long gone), goes for the camping lamp on the floor, trudges along with it in hand. remembers his houseguest.

"kitchen's there. there's a bathroom. two rooms. living room. no power or running water but i have some water in the bathtub if you want to wash."

"it's nice," todoroki says, and the worst thing is he sounds like he means it, almost politely. it makes katsuki stop dead to look at him, struck again by how unreal it all feels, but it almost feels reassuringly normal, staring at todoroki in disbelief. in the bad lighting he looks otherworldly, even despite the filth and zombie gunk he's covered in, all half-lit and angelic like something out of a hazy dream.

"i can't fucking believe it's actually you, half 'n half."

it escapes him unthinkingly, but it's true, and besides that it has the unforeseen consequence of making todoroki's composure fracture, shoulders rising and falling on a mute laugh, exhausted wryness in the tilt of his head. for a split second his gaze is dizzyingly and uncharacteristically frank, almost intimate.

"the feeling is mutual."

if the moment stretches he might do something wholly deranged; he rolls his aching shoulder, gestures to the bathroom.

"you go first. you reek."

todoroki says his thanks to his back as he retreats.

he returns to routine. strips, despite how fucking cold he is, wraps his shoulder tight enough that it hurts, rubs alcohol onto the more worrying cuts and scrapes. drags some bedding to the second room, then drags himself to the kitchen, shivering, mentally redoing his maths, then pulling out his notebook to jot down the edited stock. pauses, hesitates. in the margin under the date he writes: found half 'n half. it's not a diary, but he feels like he should make note.

todoroki appears silently in the doorframe, wrapped in a towel and scrubbed red, and there's something reassuring about how clean he looks, balanced out by how disturbing it is to see him so casually bare. he's barely glanced up at him that he drops the towel.

"the fuck-"

todoroki just turns in a neat 360, then wraps himself back up. katsuki snaps his jaw shut, ears burning but head clear. no bites. right. the previous times- whatever. reluctantly he stands and turns. when todoroki eyes his boxers he glares.

"you don't think you would have noticed if i got bitten on the dick today?"

he's not entirely sure todoroki won't fight him on it, but he concedes after a moment's assessing stare, shifts from foot to foot.

"you can have some of my shit to wear," katsuki says, pointing to the wardrobe he's requisitioned. "some of it's too big. should fit."

todoroki just nods, follows suit.

he wonders, as he scrubs himself down with a bucketful of water, teeth chattering and bath-tub still half full, if todoroki was always so goddamn quiet or if he's traumatised or some shit. the guy was always the annoying silent type, but he doesn't remember him this monosyllabic. habit, probably. what does he know.

he dresses, layers up, shoves his dirty clothes with todoroki's in the basket. when it fills he'll dunk the whole lot into a tub of his used water, but until there's that many dirty clothes he leaves them out.

todoroki is sat on the couch wrapped in blankets and wearing someone's dad's heavy knitwear, illuminated by (of all things) a gas lamp that katsuki had found but never managed to light. so the asshole has matches.

"you hungry?" katsuki asks, really only to make him speak. todoroki nods, counter-productively, but he's talking next.

"don't waste your food on me."

"shut up, asshole," katsuki mutters, on instinct, fatigue setting into him. jesus. the martyrs he's surrounded with. "you can make the next grocery run."

todoroki only looks at him longly, but he follows him into the kitchen, eats the cold soup without complaint. he likes cold food, katsuki thinks, then stops at the thought. he has no idea how he knows it. it feels like a memory from a different life. he likes cold food. like that matters.

it's not very late, though it's pitch black out. he goes to bed early these days to make the most of the sunlight. he's not sure what to do with todoroki, though rationally that's not his concern.

he can't find it in himself to ask the obvious questions. it's partly because he doesn't want to hear the answers and partly because he doesn't want to have to give his own. it's not like they were fucking bosom buddies before this all went down- he's past hating the guy, despite how unbearable he finds him, would call them something adjacent to friends under duress, but it's not like they make a point of hanging out outside of class. and todoroki's a terrible conversationalist, always.

even so. two months, five days. he wants to talk, if only for the pleasure of getting to call him a superior bastard, if only to know that he's still the same confounding weirdo whose face he wears. it's not even the words, really- he wants to hear a pulse beat near him, to catch alert eyes on his, to watch his chest rise and fall. alive.

he can't believe the asshole stripped naked like that. pale flesh all over, but not that diseased grey tint, just regular winter cold, like the inside of a peach. bruises and scratches littering his limbs. nasty half-healed scar like someone had tried to gut him with a knife.

his lips are peeling when he licks them. he found vaseline in someone's drawer but he uses it sparingly. whenever he goes outside his lips crack to the point of blood. against the glow of the stove he can see only half of his new flatmate where he sits surveying his newly clean crowbar.

"what's in the duffel?"

he'd have bristled more at the invasion, pragmatic though it is, but todoroki only shifts obligingly to raise it to his lap.

"medical kit- bandages, aspirin, tweezers, needle and thread. three water bottles. instant noodles. biscuits. matchbox. a city map. a change of shoes. a space blanket. my wallet. wire. rope. an alarm clock. a mechanic's manual." he pauses, feels around, drags out a glass bottle. "this."

it's vodka, of all the things. katsuki half wants to laugh.

"you drink now?"

"kept me warm," todoroki shrugs. which is, maybe, all there is to it. maybe not.

"i'll run you through inventory in the morning," katsuki says, if reluctantly. best todoroki knows what they have on hand, despite how little he feels like letting him into his notebook. it's not like he's deku, writing down his little feelings all over it, but it feels revealing anyways, for todoroki to know what he's been tracking.

there's nothing else for them to talk about without heading into dangerous territory. todoroki packs his things back into the bag, careful, and katsuki is sick of his own weird emotional breakdown, doesn't know where this sudden needy cloying bullshit is even coming from.

two months five days, his brain says, chipper, and then offers to rewind the days preceding that. he hisses through his teeth before he remembers he has company.

"i'm going to bed. 's fuck all to do without wasting light. stay high up if you want to go exploring."

todoroki has gone back to muteness, because he only nods as katsuki glowers at nothing in particular and makes his way back to his room, unhappy at the sight of his diminished bedding. it's not like he's actually able to use the whole apartment's bedding anyways- too unwieldy, too heavy, whatever- but the three duvets and two quilts had been working well enough to insulate him against the chill, and with two sacrificed he's resigned to a night of tossing and turning.

fuck his life. he thinks maybe the reason he's been having these fits of weirdness across the days is just fatigue. between the nightmares and the cold and the actual zombie break-ins over the past six months he doesn't think he's managed a single night's good sleep beyond the times he's blacked out. he feels untethered, at times both more and less emotional than he's used to being.

no surprise that having a real life human being around- and one that he knows at that- is making him almost ill with conflicting urges. part of him wants to lock todoroki out in a cold sweat and never lay eyes on him again. part of him wants to cut him open and grab at his beating heart just to confirm he's not alone. the rest of him lies there wondering what the fuck is wrong with his brain.

he lies there for maybe an hour trying to get to sleep, but his mind has kicked into overdrive in the way that it does every goddamn night nowadays, replaying scenes he didn't even notice in the moment. one of the zombies by the bookstore had barely reached his shoulder. when he'd washed his bat there had been bits of an eye clinging to the base.

he's too busy being cold and annoyed and possibly hysterical to notice the soft footfall until it's close, jerking up on instinct to brandish his bat, but he can tell by the moonlight filtering in slivers through his blinds that it's todoroki, if the lack of shuffling hadn't given it away.

"what the hell is wrong with you?"

"i didn't mean to startle you," todoroki says. monotone, but in an off way, almost dreamy, like he's asleep. it makes katsuki's skin prickle with foreboding; he stares at the little he can see of his face, alert now.

"then what do you want?"

"you sound cold," todoroki says. still in the doorframe, unmoving. he wishes there was more light.

"it's the middle of winter, jackass, of course i'm cold. can you fuck off?"

"my father is dead," todoroki says, completely unprompted, voice not changing in timbre in the slightest, and it makes katsuki's heart jump before he sits fully upright, trying harder to make his face out.

enji todoroki, gone. he guesses he'd known that on some level, for todoroki to be roaming around like a ghost, but it doesn't compute. jesus. maybe todoroki's actually fucking lost it since. he imagines two months and five days tracking back to losing his father, feels that gut-punch of paralysis in his stomach.

he's so caught on processing it that he doesn't even register todoroki is climbing into the bed before he's halfway under the sheets.

"what the fuck are you doing?" his voice half-breaks on it, rising in sheer disbelief as he jerks violently back, because seriously- there's insane and there's insane, and he's starting to suspect todoroki is so out of it he'd snap his neck in his sleep.

todoroki has the audacity to shush him, distracted, and it takes katsuki actually grabbing him hard by the shoulder, braced to hit at the slightest flicker of intent, to stop him in his tracks.

"hey, asshole, i'm talking to you! are you out of your goddamn mind?"

where he's stopped now todoroki's one eye catches the moonlight, big and dark and eerie. he blinks slowly like he's coming out of a trance.

"oh, i-" he pauses. his pulse is sluggish under katsuki's hands, skin fire-hot. feverish, maybe. shit. feverish, very possibly. he'd had no layers in that shitty bookshop. "sorry."

he says it like he's not sure he means it. katsuki doesn't let up with his grip.

"how long you been sick, icyhot?"

"sick," todoroki repeats, processing it. his gaze sharpens. "days. i think maybe- what day is it?"

"wednesday. thirteenth."

"six days, then," todoroki says, quiet. their gazes catch, more consciously now. "i'm fine. the adrenaline helped."

"sit still," katsuki warns, and then pulls up quickly, shrugs his backpack off, digs out the medical kit. he has a decent stock of medicine in the apartment, enough that he only hesitates a beat before pulling out the advil bottle, unscrewing the cap to fill it. he knows the dosage by heart. "drink."

he nearly drops the whole bottle when todoroki just obediently sticks his mouth to the rim of the cap instead of taking it himself, hot breath fanning over his fingers as he drinks. it makes his own pulse go skittering with discomfort when he fills it a second time, brandishes it back. the cap is sticky and wet when he screws it back on; todoroki is still half-sitting where he told him to when he's done his bag up and slid it back onto his back.

"why'd you tell me about your dad just then?" katsuki asks, despite himself, if only to fill the silence.

"did i?" todoroki asks, on an exhale, visible eye swivelling to him. "i don't know. i was thinking about the cold, i think. he wasn't cold in the end."

he resists the urge to check his temperature. probably it got worse once he tried to go to sleep, all the residue adrenaline gone. it can't have been peaking all day, or they'd have never made it out in the first place. and it's not from a bite. just a fever. he's medicated. he'll sleep it off.

"i'm not crazy," todoroki informs him, suddenly cool, not so hazy. "just sick. i could hear you tossing and turning. that's why i came."

"why're you in my bed?" katsuki shoots back, on the edge of combative, not really. maybe he's a little relieved. he's a lot pissed off, even though he knows todoroki probably genuinely didn't realise what a state he was in the last week, might have actually been trying to make sense of his fluctuating mood himself. no shit he'd been so weird when they first ran into each other.

"i'm not sure," todoroki admits. "it seemed important at the time."

this makes him want to laugh, though he doesn't. the cracked-open raw part of him that still smarts loudly whenever he thinks of jeanist thinks he missed him somehow.

"glad we solved that mystery. get out now."

todoroki makes to move, stops when they're facing each other, blue eye white-pale on his. "actually i remember now, i think."

"i swear to god, half 'n half..."

"you're cold," todoroki repeats, factual, then back to floaty. "and i couldn't hear..."

he doesn't expect him to do what he does, which is why he doesn't stop him when he puts a too-hot palm directly over his heart, doesn't even pull back when he pushes, knocking him onto the bed.

"todoroki-"

"it's fine," todoroki says, scratchy, sweat-warm. he slides onto his own side in a heavy, graceless motion. face to face, half an arm between them, palm stuck to his chest. "it's fine."

it's the scratchiness that wins him over, or maybe the fever flush of him. todoroki may be fucked in the head but he's not, which is why he knows full well he's being insane by not shoving him out. it's just that on some extremely uncomfortable and deranged level he gets it, because he's been tracking his pulse like a shark since they first ran into each other. there's something less insane beneath it too, pragmatic acknowledgment that it is actually a great deal warmer when there's body heat to share, but he knows full well he'd have toughed it out, six months ago, sent him back to bed and spent the night half-awake in spiteful resignation.

it's six months later, though, and somewhere along the line he's been rewired wrong. he thinks it's not unlikely that he's just this desperate for a full night's sleep.

it doesn't really matter why, though. he lets him stay. in the morning if todoroki is back to himself he'll see right through whatever he says, and on balance he doesn't fucking care.

he's so fucking tired. two months and five days, six months and three. the last time someone touched him for more than a second without trying to kill him it was a crying intern, this bespectacled guy whose name he'd never bothered to learn choking on his own blood as he clutched katsuki's wrist for comfort. before that he thinks it was his mother, exchanging their usual routine of brusque ruffling before he got on the train. he hasn't cried since the start of this, but he feels like crying now, hot throbbing behind his eyes. he sucks in a breath, forces it down. time and place. he's said it like a mantra since the start, like there's ever going to be one.

todoroki is fast asleep, but his hand's still there. his fingers have curled into the wool.

two months and five days, he thinks again, remembering other hands, clutching his face, pinning his arms. that's changed now, he realises. still marks the date, but not the last time he's spoken to someone.

ten minutes, thirty seconds. he reaches to pull the covers higher over todoroki's shoulders, feels his stomach constrict when his hand brushes medicine-sticky lips in passing.

maybe todoroki can sail. that's a rich kid thing to do. he'll have to ask in the morning.

he falls asleep within fifteen minutes, forty seconds of todoroki, and doesn't wake until the sun rises.

#qui ecrit #deandra #tdbk #qui repond #prompts #bnha #mha #lashawn beyond is living rn #todobaku #apocalypse au

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mandoalorian · 4 years

Text

Shopping with Maxwell Lord

READ PART TWO HERE

DAY FIVE: Shopping with Maxwell Lord [This is the one I really wanted to write for myself and my own self indulgent needs!]

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added!)

Permanent: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes

December Writing Challenge: @mandos-blaster @silent-and-resigned @valentinasubmarina

December Writing Challenge Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Warnings: allusions to sex, mention of orphanages and losing parents, Maxwell really wants a baby...

Word count: 2.7k

Rating: PG-13

Maxwell stood there, front and centre of the living room, in front of the television, frowning. A crinkle in between his brown eyebrows and his arms crossed over his chest. "Max?" you asked, looking at him with bewilderment. He didn't reply. "Max, can you move? I'm trying to watch A Christmas Carol." Maxwell sighed, moving out the way and slumping on down on the couch next to you. You continued watching the black and white movie for only a few seconds before tossing your head back and pausing it. "What?" you asked Maxwell and he narrowed his eyes.

"What?" he repeated, his tone almost accusing.

"Why are you so miserable?" you asked him and he shrugged, looking away from you and back at the paused TV. "Hello? Cat got your tongue?" you quizzed, causing him to roll his eyes. "Talk to me."

"I just-" Maxwell took a deep breath. "I hate the time of year. I mean, since meeting you, it's been better. It's been so much better but still… it still feels tainted by my past." he revealed. You wrapped your arm around him and lay your head into his lap. He found his fingers smoothing out your hair, bringing him a sense of comfort and belonging. "I don't know what to do."

You thought for a moment, glancing back at the paused television and back up at your boyfriend. "You remind me of Scrooge." you said out loud.

"Excuse me?" Maxwell asked and you giggled, reaching over to grab the remote and press play on the television.

"Ebeneezer Scrooge from A Christmas Carol," you clarified, pointing at the character on the television. "He was always miserable around Christmas. He made his business associate work in the cold and he never gave to charity… but then three ghosts came to visit him and he changed into a better, kind hearted and more generous man."

"Wow," Maxwell scoffed. "You really know how to make me feel better." he said sarcastically and you slapped his arm playfully. "I don't see the resemblance. I give to plenty of charities and I never make my employees work in the cold… and what is he wearing?"

"Maxie," you laughed. "It's set like, 100 years ago. Listen, I think you're wonderful. You give so much already. And I love you no matter what but… Christmas in particular is a time for giving back. Helping those who are less fortunate than ourselves. I think it could really bring you a kind of happiness. It'll keep you occupied and-"

"You have something in mind, don't you?" Maxwell sighed and your lips curled into a grin.

"Maybe…." you smirked, your eyes sparkling with excitement and desire. Maxwell loved to see you happy.

"Okay, what is it?" He asked and you sat up, taking his hands and giving them a gentle squeeze.

"When I was in the city the other day, I saw that the orphanage have been asking for donations. They're saying they'll accept anything. They just want the children to have a Christmas they'll never forget." you explained and Maxwell nodded. He was one of the biggest investors for the orphanage in DC. As a child, he knew how it felt to feel left behind. "So Max, what if we give them a Christmas they'll never forget?"

"Send more money?" he asked, already reaching for his checkbook.

"No. No that's...not what I meant." you shook your head.

"Well what do you propose?"

"Shopping!" you beamed and Maxwell sighed. "C'mon, it'll be fun." You grinned, pulling him off the sofa and wrapping your arms around him.

"It's Christmas Eve, the mall is going to be chaos." Maxwell shook his head in dismay.

"We are going shopping Maxwell." you said sternly. "Trust me on this one."

You pulled him over to the lobby and passed him his winter coat, scarf and gloves before swinging on your own faux fur jacket and wooly hat. "You can make up for this tonight." Maxwell told you, playfully smacking your ass as you opened the front door. You laughed and rolled your eyes before taking your boyfriend's hand and pulling him outside.

Maxwell was right. The mall was chaos, but luckily everyone was in a world of their own, too focused on getting their last minute Christmas shopping in before the big day tomorrow. "What's the plan?" he asked as you analysed the map of the mall, trying to figure out the most efficient route.

"We get toys and clothes and…" you looked up at Max. "100 kids live in that orphanage. We're going to do the absolute best we can for them, okay?"

"Okay." Maxwell agreed and you took his hand.

"Okay," you confirmed. "Let's go."

The first stop was a department store. It was bustling like you had never seen before. You and Maxwell both decided it would be best if you split up and went your separate ways before reuniting at the main entrance with your shopping. Taking control, like he always did, Maxwell told you to pick up toiletries while he'd look at the children's clothes.

You found yourself grabbing bubblegum flavoured toothpaste and princess pirate toothbrushes and washcloths, mermaid bubble bath and astronaut shower gel. You were practically pushing everything you could find into your shopping basket, trying your hardest to ignore the heaviness and the way your arm ached from the weight of it. You grabbed some fruity fragranced body spray for the slightly older girls and some deodorant for the preteen boys before heading to the checkout.

Maxwell Lord in the children's clothing section of the busiest DC department store was something else. He was surrounded by pink fluffy cardigans made for two year olds and onesies with little trains printed on them. Maxwell was someone who had a key eye for fashion, and while you were someone who wanted to grab everything you could, Maxwell really valued the quality. He strutted over to the designer brand section and picked out a dozen pairs of cashmere socks, winter UGG boots, Gucci jackets and white, frilly, made in Milan dresses.

But then his eye caught on something. It wasn't designer, it was a small, pale yellow babygrow with the words "Daddy's little princess" embellished in pink glitter writing. It was the smallest thing he had ever seen and he was enamoured. He stared at it for a few moments, before it was snatched away by a middle aged red faced woman with her hair scraped back into a ponytail.

"Hey!" Maxwell shouted, spinning around and pointing his finger at the woman. "That's mine." he frowned, angry that she had taken the last one.

"Finders keepers." she snarled.

Maxwell tore his hat from his head and removed his sunglasses. "Do you know who I am?" he quizzed bitterly, his hand taking place on his hip.

The woman gasped, her mouth parting slightly. "Oh- oh my god," she said with shock dripping from her tongue. "You're! You're Maxwell Lord! The King of Infomercials!!! I just seen you on the television in the electronics department!"

Maxwell smirked, satisfied with his reputation and influence he had over people. "Yeah, that's me. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to need that uh…" he didn't even know what to call the babygrow, instead gesturing aimlessly towards it.

"Okay!" the woman beamed, "But could I get an autograph and a kiss on the lips?"

Maxwell's frown deepened. "What?"

She scrambled around in her purse for a pen and handed it to him, rolling up her sleeve. "Sign me!"

"On- on your arm?" Maxwell asked and she nodded eagerly. Maxwell removed the lid and swiftly signed his name over her skin before handing her the pen back.

"Oh wow," she blushed, fanning herself before pouting her lips.

"Yeah, not happening." Maxwell sighed. "I'm not kissing you." The woman knotted her eyebrows together and straightened herself up, but before she could retort, Maxwell snatched the babygrow from her arms and ran to the elevator. "Nice doing business with you!" he grinned, waving his arms and running away."

After paying for the goods, you and Maxwell met back up and made your way, this time together, to the toy store. "Reminds me of when I was a kid," Maxwell smiled at the memory as he took your hand and looked up and down the shelves in awe. "My dad would take me here every year to pick out a new toy for Christmas. It was one of the only times we got to spend with each other." You hummed, leaning your head into his shoulder. Maxwell grabbed a few stuffed animals and threw them into the shopping cart. "I can't wait for the day I have kids." he announced.

"I thought you didn't want children?" you asked, your voice soft at the thought of your boyfriend being a father.

"I thought for so long I didn't want kids…" Maxwell admitted.

"I think you'd be an amazing father," you told him, squeezing his hand, only making his smile grow further. "Hey, we should get a few of these new electronic train sets! And the new Little Mermaid Barbies! What do you think?"

"I like how you think." Maxwell replied, pressing a kiss into your forehead as you picked out the dolls.

It was around 2 p.m. on Christmas Day. You and Maxwell had just finished your dinner and you had slipped into a fleecy elf dress you had purchased at the mall a day prior. You revealed yourself to Maxwell who was laying on the sofa watching the television has his stomach settled from all the food he had enjoyed.

"Check me out!" you grinned, giving him a little twirl, the bells on your elf hat jingling. Maxwell's jaw dropped as he drunk in your appearance.

"Where on God's great earth did you get that?" he asked, looking slightly mortified.

"The costume department at the mall!" You laughed. "I thought I could wear it for when we visit the orphanage. Don't worry, I got you a little something too so you don't feel left out." You presented Maxwell with a full body Santa Claus costume. "Ta da!"

"Not a chance." Maxwell sighed.

"Come on!" you growled playfully. "I'm sure the kids would love Maxwell Lord giving them presents, they'd be star struck. But Maxie, they're kids. I think they'd love it even more if the presents were delivered by Santa Claus." Max grimaced, knowing you were absolutely right. "Please." you pouted, fluttering your eyelashes.

Maxwell sighed again, this time deeper. He could never deny you. "Fine," he grumbled. "I'll get changed and then we can go."

You squealed excitedly, kissing his cheek. "I love you so much Maxie," you said, and Maxwell felt a blush creep over his cheeks. "I just know you're going to be a great dad one day."

"My back hurts." Maxwell moaned as he adjusted the sack of presents over his shoulder. You chuckled, shaking your head as you carried bags of clothes and toiletries of the orphans.

"Proud of you," you assured him. "Almost there."

You practically melted when you saw the delight of the screaming children hurry over to your boyfriend and wrap their tiny arms around him. "Ho ho ho," Maxwell bellowed and you watched with complete adoration as he dropped the sack of presents and interacted with the children. "Have you all been good this year?" he asked and the kids screamed in affirmation.

"Santa Claus!" A little girl gasped, reaching her hands out and making grabby fists. "I thought you weren't coming this year." she admitted, her eyes glossy. Maxwell kneeled down so he was level with the child.

"My elf told me how good you had been this year," Max smiled, pointing at you. "What's your name darling?"

"Maxine," she smiled and you saw Maxwell soften.

"I like that name." Maxwell replied, pulling her into a hug. "Merry Christmas Maxine."

"Thank you Santa, will I see you next year?"

Maxwell looked at you and you nodded your head. "Of course, as long as you be a good girl, I'll come back next year."

Maxine grinned, before hugging Maxwell tighter, refusing to let go. Just then, a boy who you estimated to be about thirteen or fourteen tapped you on the shoulder. You spin around with your best elfish smile, but frowned when you saw the magazine he was holding. It was a tabloid with your face on the cover. You winced at the bad angle. "You look like Max Lord's girlfriend." he deadpanned.

Maxwell's head snapped towards you and the boy and he strolled over. "Well well well who is that beautiful lady?" he asked, taking the magazine from the boy and checking it out.

"Max Lord's girlfriend." the boy replied. "Your elf looks like her."

Maxwell pinched your cheek. "This elf? No, not a chance." Maxwell laughed and you gave the child an apologetic look. "This lady in the magazine is far too beautiful to look like my head elf."

You weren't sure whether you should feel offended or not. Little Maxine gasped, racing over. "You can't say that!" she squealed. "What about Mrs Claus?"

You smirked, leaning into Maxwell. "Yeah Santa, what about Mrs Claus?"

"Uh- well! Mrs Claus… I do love Mrs Claus very much and she's at home baking Christmas cookies so I better be on my way… but it was lovely to meet you all!" Maxwell waved and you stifled back a laugh.

"Please don't go." Maxine cried, hugging Maxwell's legs.

"Be good and I'll be back next year." Maxwell promised, patting her on the head.

"Promise you'll come back?" Maxine begged, tears in her eyes. You wondered how many times little Maxine had asked a parental figure to come back to her and been let down. Maxwell wondered the same, his heart breaking at the thought.

"I promise." Maxwell affirmed, raising back to his feet and placing a hand on the small of your back.

"Merry Christmas everyone! Enjoy your presents and remember to be good children. We hope to see you next year!" you said farewell with a cheery smile and the children waved back.

When you got home that evening, you slid out your elf shoes and took off your hat. "Can you help me get out of this dress?" you asked Maxwell, holding up your hair so he could reach the zipper.

"Actually…" Maxwell trailed off, biting his lip. "Maybe you could wear it for bed?" he suggested with a smirk.

"An elf? Really Max? You want me to be an elf?" you laughed in disbelief.

"Could be fun." he shrugged and you rolled your eyes, opting to leave the elf dress on as you clambered into the warm king sized bed, watching Maxwell as he got undressed. "Oh I almost forgot," Maxwell said, reaching into the bag from the department store yesterday. "Close your eyes." You followed his instruction as he dived into the bag and took out the pale yellow babygrow he had fought for. He padded over to the bed and sat down, placing the outfit in your hands. "Open."

Your lips parted slightly as you took in the embellished words 'Daddys little Princess'. You glanced back up at your boyfriend and gave him a questioning look. "I'm confused." you admitted and he took your hands, rubbing circles into your skin.

"I really want a kid," he whispered, looking into your eyes. "I know you do too, and when we've talked about it I've always shut you out but… damn it, I really want one. Do you think… I mean. What do you think-"

You cut him off by pressing a kiss into his lips and holding him tight. "Okay," you nodded, your voice croaking with all the pent up emotion, rubbing your nose against his. "Let's have a baby." you smiled and Maxwell grinned, pushing you into the bed and climbing on top of you.

READ PART TWO HERE

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #maxwell lord #max lord #maxwell lord x reader #ww84

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pellicano-sanguino · 3 years

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I know I missed Halloween as an excuse to post something vampire related. But whatever, I have a horrible flu and have been on sick leave, so I have time to write a bit. Let’s talk about vampires.

Actually, this time I’d like to give spotlight to characters that are an important part of vampire fiction but, in my opinion, don’t seem to get the love and respect they need - the donors.

First, terminology. As far as I know, there isn’t any officially accepted terms to use for fictional people whose blood the vampires drink. To tell the different types apart, I’ve usually been using the following.

Victim: When the vampire’s feeding is fatal or they use force/violence to get blood from an unwilling human.

Host: When the vampire steals blood from an unknowing (and therefore still non-consenting) human, such as sucking blood from people who are asleep or under hypnosis. Feeding is not fatal.

Donor: A human who 100% willingly volunteers to let a vampire drink their blood.

Ever since vampire fiction took a turn away from being seen as purely horror, the romantic possibilities of stories involving vampires have given us more donor characters. Which I am very happy about, since out of the three types, the donor is the most fascinating. All animals hate parasites and humans are no different. It’s always interesting to see what can make a person overcome this very basic instinct to hate and/or fear parasitic creatures.

Back when I wrote vampire stories of my own, I would often name the donors Charity, so much so that instead of calling this character type “donors” I referred to them as “Lady Charitys.” I thought, that giving something out of your own body, your own living blood cells, was the ultimate form of charity. I still have a lot of fondness for donor characters who give blood out of sympathy for the vampire. The Self-Wounding Pelican that I named my Tumblr account after is a symbol of this ultimate charity.

Because I have such a high opinion of donors as noble and altruistic folks, I am disappointed when vampires in fiction look down upon them or call them ugly names, like how in True Blood the humans who go to vampire clubs to offer their blood are called Fang Bangers. I know it’s because some of these humans do it because they have a fetish for it, but even so, they are giving you their blood, a portion of a living liquid organ that they themselves also need to live, expecting nothing in exchange and you speak of them like they’re prostitutes. Not cool.

Pure altruism isn’t the only reason for a person to become a donor. I’ve often seen one time donations done out of desperation between a human and their vampire ally when they are against a common enemy and the vampire only stands a chance to fight if they’ve had some blood.

One type that I’ve rarely seen but is rather interesting is blood being used for bartering. Human wants something from the vampire and rewards them with some blood. The only example that comes to my mind is Vampire Winter by Lois Tilton, a post-nuclear story in which a group of humans are stuck inside a shelter and make a symbiotic deal with a vampire who is unaffected by the radiation and so can go out and fetch food and supplies for the humans. Interesting scenario but unfortunately the book isn’t very good besides this part.

When I was younger, and couldn’t order any book I wanted from the internet, I was limited to books that I could find at the stores and at the library. The book store had one small shelf that had cheap English language paperback romances with supernatural themes. Great literature these were not, but I bought several to satiate my hunger for vampire stories. They introduced to me the concept of romantic donation. That you don’t donate blood because of charity, battle tactic or in exchange for something, but because you love the vampire and blood drinking is just one form of intimacy, in a “I am all yours, my heart, my body and my blood” sort of thing.

I am a sucker for a good, sappy romance, but I’m sure I have already whined a million times about how much I hate the trope of combining blood drinking with sex. As a concept, I don’t think it’s bad. Done well it might work. But pretty much every time the human/vampire pair decide to have sex while the blood drinking happens, blood just becomes meaningless addition. It’s like the author wanted to write a smutty scene and describes the sex in Great Detail but then almost forgot to put any blood drinking in their vampire story and hastily slapped a short description of it in the middle of the sex. Blood drinking can definitely be intimate and sensual, but way too many writers are more interested in writing the sex.

I think I should write a little about some of my favourite donors and why I like them. So, here goes.

Youko from Hana wa Tenbin to Asobu

David Attemborough voice: “...and here we see the rare species... the schoolgirl vampire... as after a long awaited feeding... she angsts about her donor...”

In this manga vampirism is a medical condition, that requires a person to drink blood or suffer failing health. It also happens to be a gender-bending story, because people with the vampire condition are born as neither male or female and will turn into one when they reach maturity and their sex will be determined by whether they drank more female or male blood. Why, Japan. Why. And what will happen if a person drinks 50/50 both types? Will they become the Androgyne of the Alchemists?

Something like this?

Well, to be fair, the manga handles the whole fantasy sex change gimmick relatively well (=doesn’t turn it into a tasteless comedy). It’s a relaxing “girl transfers into a new school and befriends people” kind of story. The new student, Youko, soon discovers the secret of the vampire character, Shuu. After becoming aware of her new friend’s condition, she immediately offers to become her donor. In a rather pushy manner.

I admit, I usually dislike the “extrovert bugs an introvert until the latter accepts their friendship” trope, because a lot of them feature very obnoxious and rude extroverts that cross boundaries and are complete emotional fuckwits and I’m just supposed to handwave their behaviour because aww look at them smiling so cutely and wanting to be your frieeeeend. Youko is definitely an extrovert and Shuu is an introvert, who takes some time to grow to be genuinely fond of Youko. But somehow they make the “extrovert pushing friendship to an introvert” thing work. I don’t know, Youko is just... not obnoxious or socially clueless. Behind her sunny personality, you can tell that whenever she follows Shuu around and pushes into her company, it’s because she is concerned for Shuu’s health. And she knows when it’s ok to cross certain borders. Like when Shuu locks herself in her room out of stress and anxiety, Youko climbs in through the window. Which is a lovely reversal of a vampire entering a sleeping victim’s room via window.

So, what are the blood drinking scenes like? They usually go like this: Shuu begins to feel unwell. Youko metaphorically slaps her with a metaphorical rolled up newspaper and is all “Shuu, for fuck’s sake!” (but more politely). And then Shuu's like what am I going to do with you (or should I ask, what are you going to do with me?) but drinks some blood anyway (and likes it). Youko bandages her wound while Shuu angsts.

I love the blood drinking scenes between these two because I like both characters. Because Shuu isn’t a supernatural creature, just a human who needs to consume blood to stay healthy, there is no power imbalance between them. The blood drinking scenes are very realistic and earthly. Though there are some scenes where Shuu drinks blood from the neck, usually an arm is the chosen spot and that is much more realistic (also, I like how it makes the vampire bow down like a knight kneeling in front of her lady). Shuu bowing down to drink Youko’s blood shows the natural power balance of a vampire-donor relationship: during a donation, the donor must be in complete control of it. And donors need the respect they deserve.

Because of the magical sex change nonsense, one of the story’s conflicts is that Shuu is developing feelings for Youko but if she keeps drinking Youko’s blood she’ll end up becoming a woman and so has smaller chance of the feelings being mutual since the majority of women are into males. The series ends before we get to see them confess or anything, but I was happy that Shuu came to the conclusion that she wouldn’t try to become a man for Youko. She's like, screw it, I like Youko and I like her blood and I'm not giving up either. If that turns me into a lesbian, so be it. It’s not just my wish to get a lesbian romance instead of a het one, I think it would have been disappointing if Shuu had rejected Youko’s help as a donor just because Youko is female and she’s trying to become a man. I do understand why Shuu hesitated, though. In a heteronormative world a woman who is only romantically interested in women has a small dating pool and I can’t blame Shuu for at least considering using her chance to do something about it.

Kei from Akaiito (アカイイト)

I was once invited to a vampire themed party and I went dressed up as Kei, my favourite donor. I was the only donor in a sea of vampires and vampire hunters. Unfortunately I have no pics of my costume.

Akaiito is a visual novel that doesn’t actually have vampires, but it takes place in a universe where all supernatural creatures can increase their magical powers by drinking blood, so for me it’s close enough. The main character, Kei, belongs to a bloodline that was the result of breeding humans like cattle to produce the highest quality blood in the world, to be offered as sacrifices to gods. End goal of the game is: monsters and evil gods are after you, do not die, ally yourself with a side character of your choice and have some vaguely yuri-ish scenes with that person.

Superficially Kei doesn’t seem like that interesting of a character. She’s a very basic insert-self-here generic heroine. A lot of people might find her frustrating to play as, since she is pretty helpless against the monsters thirsting after her blood, having no combat training or magic skills herself. I get it, she may seem like an old fashioned damsel in distress who needs the help of others to survive. But as much as I like badass female warriors who can defend themselves, I think sometimes it’s interesting to consider a situation where a person is made seemingly helpless and they need to find other ways than their own power to survive. Kei has no weapons or magic. But she has a blood meter.

The blood meter is more than just a life bar. There are several points in the game where the visual novel gives you the opportunity to have Kei donate blood to a friendly monster or goddess who are her allies against the main villain. You need to be careful how much you give, because the blood meter is also your life bar - lose too much and you get a bad ending (the game isn’t particularly spooky despite its supernatural elements, but the bad ends where Kei describes dying in first perspective are kinda unsettling). By powering up her allies Kei can increase her chances of surviving. Some good endings require you to give blood generously, because if you don’t, your allies won’t be strong enough to defeat the big bad. Or they are strong enough but use up so much power in the fight that after victory they crumble to dust in your arms.

The reason Kei is one of my favourite donors is that her blood and the donating process are made into such an integral part of the story. Unfortunately, a lot of vampire stories don’t really give blood any meaning as a plot element. Also there are a lot of lazily written blood drinking scenes, where it just sort of happens and there’s little attention given to what the donating means to the donor and the vampire, what they think and feel about it, what kind of things led to them into the blood drinking scene. A lot of the time blood drinking just sort of happens, unceremoniously.

That is not the case in Akaiito. The scenes that lead up to the blood drinking scenes are as interesting as the scene itself. Kei narrates her thoughts and feelings to the player constantly. If you decide to make an ally drink Kei’s blood, we see Kei first come to the conclusion that this is an act she wants to take, she explains to herself why she thinks it needs to be done and she then proposes the idea to the ally and they discuss the subject before agreeing upon it. It’s kind of sad that I have to be this excited about characters just talking about blood drinking, but as I said, a lot of the the blood drinking just sort of happens with little details given about the characters thoughts and feelings.

I want to describe one blood drinking scene in particular, since it’s one of the most memorable blood drinking scenes I’ve ever read. Being chased by what she fears to be a hostile monster, Kei runs madly through thick woods and not seeing where she’s dashing, ends up falling off a cliff. Before she reaches the bottom of the cliff, Yumei, a local guardian deity materializes and tries to slow her descent. But Yumei is a rather young and weak goddess, appearing in daylight takes an enormous amount of her divine powers and she’s unable to stop Kei from falling, though she does soften her landing slightly.

So Kei falls. Tragically. The screen goes red and you hear the sound effect of Kei’s body slamming to the ground. Her vision gone, Kei coughs blood from her crushed insides and panics when she can’t see Yumei anymore. Yumei speaks to her to calm her down, telling her that she’ll try her best at healing her. Despite her agonizing pain, Kei comes to the conclusion that as she is now, Yumei won’t be able to save her and will perish under sunlight. So she advises Yumei to drink her blood because otherwise they will both die. The situation being as dire as it is, Yumei doesn’t hesitate and follows Kei’s advise immediately.

The tension in this scene comes from the characters. Kei and Yumei are very close and that emotional bond makes this scene both touching and absolutely horrifying. The story is told from Kei’s point of view, so I can only imagine how Yumei felt. First to realize that she won’t be able to save the person who is closest to her heart. And then to hear that suggestion, which she has to rationalize as the only option they have to come out of this alive. How does she feel, stopping her healing efforts and leaving mortally wounded Kei waiting while she kneels down on all four like some wild animal and laps the blood from the dirty ground. The blood that Kei just spat out from her crushed insides. Spat out! From her crushed insides! This is the most painful blood drinking scene I have ever read and it’s not even a violent one, it’s between two characters who love each other and it’s consensual but damn is it painful because it hits me right in the feelings.

Kei coming to the solution on how to survive her accident is the kind of writing that I love in Akaiito. The blood drinking scenes have emotion and rationality behind them and they move the plot in some direction instead of being there just because the makers of the visual novel wanted something to work as a substitute for sensual scenes (which I hear some people say they are). For Kei, her blood is a big deal. She has a limited blood meter and what she does with it can save her or kill her and everyone she loves. The Blood of Sacrifice is definitely powerful.

I don’t really have a good conclusion about donors and I see I ended up writing more about the donation as a scene than donors as persons. Oh well. I am feverish and rambling. I will say this bottom line: In order to be well written, a blood drinking scene needs to be either beautiful or interesting, preferably both. Let the characters talk about it even out of the actual scene. Make it meaningful for the plot. Bird of Charity has spoken. Now to get more ibuprofen.

#vampire #donor #blood

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woobie-wan · 3 years

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I know my experiences of poverty doesn't fit the global narrative people have about Canada. And this actually did make things tougher in some ways. Poverty is something our society either pretends doesn't exist or that when it does it's a consequence of personal failure always. For a nation that claims to be more secular than America we really do have that Protestant Work Ethic locked down. People literally get mad at you for being poor. The microaggressions are real.

There were no school lunches or breakfast programs. I just ate a peanut butter sandwich almost every single day. Sometimes I got an apple or a piece of cheese with it. I never got milk/chocolate milk like the other kids (your parents had to pay for that). I never got to have pizza on pizza days though often my friend gave me her crusts. On days when we couldn't scrape together a lunch to send with me my mom kept me home 'sick'. One year I missed 90 schooldays. I barely avoided being held back a year.

We did have to rely on the cult for charity. We got boxes of food from the church. Whatever the powers that be thought we were worthy of. Sometimes it would include a massive package of off-brand macaroni and cheese which is something I now cannot stand the sight of. I am grateful for being kept alive, but church charities (even the non-cult ones) really did not have sufficient education in nutrition - or at least, they didn't in my experience at that time. And no one should have to eat no name mac and cheese made with water for a month straight. Maybe my parents could have afforded a bit more at the grocery store if they weren't giving 10% of their income to the cult haha. But you have to pay to be a 'good poor', too.

I still love Christmas. Not only for remembering Jesus, but because my mind associates it with a rare experience of abundance. All the charities come through for Christmas, and the extended families came through with absolute feasts. Christmas is where I want to live forever because Christmas means never being hungry or lacking.

I put plastic bags in my sneakers in order to be able to wear them in winter or during slushy days. And I'm still very grateful for a local charity that specialized in winter coats and snowsuits for the needy. So important. Though, the poor kids could always recognize each other because we all had the same coats. 😂

My teacher expected my science fair projects to be typed but like who had a computer with a printer in 1989? (All my rich and upper middle class classmates is apparently the answer). So I painstakingly transferred words onto my bristol board with a pencil. I don't even know what this was called - you could get these clear sheets with a bunch of typed alphabets on them and then scribble over them with a pencil to transfer the letters, one by one.

I was frequently bullied and criticized by my teachers for all kinds of dumb shit. For my desk being sloppy. For being dirty. One thought I was giving her attitude when I was actually squinting to see the chalkboard because I needed glasses. Others treated me as though I were lazy or stupid when I was just hungry. I did have a few nice teachers, too! One art teacher gave me a whole big box of prismacolors, which, at the time, was beyond my wildest dreams.

We did get a free wooden ruler, a pencil, and an eraser from the school board/government. Such socialism! Much wow.

I was lucky that in the 90s grunge became popular so I could get through highschool pretending my hand-me-downs were an intentional look, but of course I would have preferred to be able to have new clothes sometimes. It must be even harder for poor teens today with the pressure of instagram or whatever.

What is my motivation in writing all this out? Not sure. I guess I just want to bear testimony against propaganda. Canada has a lot of class struggle and people suffering from institutional failure and neglect today also. We aren't the more woke America.

When systems are failing, it's the systems that need changing. It's uselessly cruel to blame the individuals who are at the mercy of said systems for those systemic failures.

Right now I have a shot at entering the middle class. I'm trying not to stress myself to illness over it but let's be real. I'm still hungry in a way I don't think food alone will ever satisfy.

#canada #poverty #exmo #classism

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wickedsingularity · 5 years

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You Make It Feel Like Christmas [One-shot]

wickedsingularity’s Christmas Stories 2019 Masterlist

Fandom: MCU Pairings/characters: Steve Rogers x reader (but not really), Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Wanda Maximoff, James Rhodes, Clint Barton Words: 4382 Warnings: Nostalgia, off-key singing, kissing

Summary: (Very very loosely based on Neil Diamond's song with the same title.) Steve usually runs off on missions during Christmas, not feeling very much like celebrating a modern Christmas. It's just not him. But this Christmas there is nothing for him to do, but hang around. And he can't help but find the holiday spirit again.

It was that time of year again. All the shops were decorated in some way, the grocery store was filled with Christmas themed food and candy, either with added Christmas spices or holiday-themed wrapping. Everywhere there was someone collecting for some kind of charity, preying on people's Christmas spirit or guilt to be extra generous. Christmas music was blasting from every speaker, there were Santa's everywhere with the "Ho Ho Ho!" and Christmas cheer.

It was all so much. So different from what he was used to.

Steve had been in the modern world for a few years now, and he felt very caught up with technology and history and social protocols, but there were some things he just couldn't wrap his head around.

His first Christmas out of the ice, he'd spent alone. He had been invited to Tony's Christmas party, Thor had asked if he'd want to come visit Asgard, Clint had said there would be room around the table for one more. But from the moment the first Christmas advertisement came on the television, it was all too much for Steve.

He didn't have much when he grew up, except his mom. And later, Bucky. They never had many decorations, except a very worn old Santa carved from wood that his mom had gotten for her grandpa when she was a child and some homemade garlands and maybe a candle on Christmas Eve. They never had a tree because of his allergies. The table was never overflowing with food, but his mom always managed to make whatever they had a little bit more special. He was always sicker during the winter. His asthma acted up in the cold weather, he caught every head and chest cold or stomach bug that was going around at school. But it was the spirit that Steve remembered. The smiles on his mom's face, the way she lit up when he had drawn a snowman or Christmas tree for her to hang on the wall.

That spirit was what made it Christmas for him. And that is what he missed.

He felt like the world had lost that. It was all colours and noise and forced cheer and everyone running around needing everything to be perfect. Steve just couldn't connect with any of it. So, he politely rejected all the invitations he'd gotten every year since the ice. He gladly took all the missions that came up during the holidays, letting someone else have the time off to spend with their family.

But this year, there were no missions, no emergencies, no crisis, no world to save. It was the first Christmas at the newly built Avengers Facility upstate New York, and there wasn't even anything to do with construction or furnishings he could help with, Tony had made sure everything was done before they moved in. He looked for something to do everywhere, paperwork, research, anything, but there was absolutely nothing.

"Come on, man, cheer up! It's Christmas!" Sam said, slapping Steve's back one morning a few days before Christmas. They'd just come back from their morning run and was heading for the kitchen to get something to eat before showering. Steve had told Sam some of his feelings about the holidays. "If you can't get the feel of Christmas, then at least enjoy the time off."

"Yeah..." Steve muttered, quickly opening a water bottle and downing the contents so he didn't have to say anything else.

"Hi, Steve," a cheery voice came from the counter. Steve was on the chaise, the newspaper spread out on the table, and he had been completely immersed in a story about a mysterious murder in Washington, wondering if he could go help solve it. He snapped his head up and saw her there. She was about to make herself some hot chocolate, judging by the smell of warming milk from the saucepan on the stove. He hadn't even heard her come in.

"Hi," he said, closing the newspaper and folding it up.

"I'm so sad," she said, chopping up a bar of chocolate.

"Why?" Steve's heart hammered in his chest. She shouldn't be sad, she was always so happy and this was her absolute favourite time of year. What had made her sad? "Do I need to punch anyone?"

But there was a small smile on her face as she put away the last small piece of the chocolate bar and poured the chopped bits into a bowl. "You know very well I can punch anyone into the next century myself," she winked before she pouted. "There's no snow yet." Then she turned to the microwave and put the bowl in, setting it for 30 seconds.

Steve breathed out in relief, it was nothing serious. "Oh."

"Forecast says there's no chance of snow this year." She checked the warming milk, before taking the bowl out of the microwave and stirring. "Christmas needs snow." The bowl went back into the microwave.

"I suppose," Steve said quietly.

He watched as she continued to warm up and stir the chocolate several times. He had to admit it smelled delicious. She checked the milk again and nodded, turning the heat off. She poured the melted chocolate into the saucepan and stirred carefully for a while until she dipped a finger into the mixture and tasted. "Perfect." She expertly used the knife to create some chocolate shavings from the last bit she had saved, and then pulled out a bag of marshmallows, a can of whipped cream and two large mugs. Both mugs were filled and decorated, and then she walked over to Steve and gave one to him.

He took it with a questioning look up at her.

"Looked like you could use some." She shrugged and smiled, and then left with her own mug of hot chocolate.

Steve stared after her and only turned his attention back to the mug in his hand when the heat became a tad too much for his skin. He looked at it and marvelled at how beautiful she had made it, with slowly melting marshmallows, a perfect dollop of cream and some chocolate shavings on top. He took a sip and it was creamy and sweet, but not too sweet. He was pretty sure he had never tasted hot chocolate that good in his entire life. But it didn't surprise him that she was this good at it.

She loved Christmas. Everyone knew that. She had her presents planned and bought months before December, she started decorating the second Halloween was over, sometimes even before. She played Christmas music from the middle of November. She made bite-sized Christmas candy for the entire team and then some every year. Everything Christmas was her.

Steve padded back to his room, the mysterious murder in the newspaper totally forgotten. He passed Natasha on the way and she raised her eyebrows at the mug in his hands but didn't say anything.

Later that day, after dinner and some weightlifting where he and Sam spotted each other, Steve was ready to get to bed. But apparently, he had collected some plates and cups in the last few days, so he gathered them all and padded quietly towards the kitchen to put them in the dishwasher.

There was a bit of noise as he set the dishes down on the counter and there was a muffled sound. He snapped up and looked around towards the living area. The television was on, but the screen was blank, only the logo bouncing off the edges. Steve walked carefully closer and glanced over the back of the couch. She was there, sleeping, head resting on the arm of the couch. Wanda was sleeping with her head on the other arm, a blanket covering their legs. On the coffee table, there was an open and empty Blu-ray case. The inside was covered with teasing summaries of Christmas movies, so Steve guessed the girls had been watching one.

The remote was threatening to fall out of Wanda's hand, so Steve carefully took it from her and turned the television off. But the Scarlet Witch woke up. "Captain?" Her voice was scratchy.

"Just turning off the TV," Steve explained.

"We fell asleep. Didn't catch the end of the movie." Wanda sat up and yawned, the blanket falling to the floor. "I'll wake her up."

"No no!" Steve hissed. "As long as she's sleeping, let her."

Wanda smiled knowingly but agreed. "Okay." Then she grabbed the blanket and pulled it over her. "Goodnight, Steve."

"Goodnight."

As soon as Wanda had left, Steve took a moment to admire the sleeping form on the couch. She looked so peaceful, the glow of the Christmas tree that no one pulled the plug on at night made her look almost angelic. Steve pulled the blanket up a bit more and tucked her in carefully. The urge to kiss her washed over him, but he had no right to do that. So, he backed away and went to finish putting the dishes away as quietly as he could.

The next morning Steve decided to skip his morning run. It was wet and cold outside, rain hammering on the windows, and he just didn't want that. He decided to make himself a nice breakfast instead, and then he could get some exercise done in the gym later.

Natasha, Sam and Rhodey were already there in the kitchen when Steve came in. He did a quick detour to check the couch, but it was empty.

"Enjoy your hot chocolate yesterday?" Natasha asked, setting down her spoon in the bowl of cereal.

Steve hummed absentmindedly as he grabbed eggs and a pack of bacon from the fridge.

"She makes really good hot chocolate, doesn't she?"

"The best one I've had, I think," he replied, still too focused on the task at hand to hear the suggestive tone in Natasha's voice. Sam chuckled while he emptied the carton of orange juice and screwed the lid back on, but he stopped abruptly at the sound of very off-key singing coming up the stairs. This finally got Steve's attention too, he recognized the voice.

"You will get a sentimental feeling when you hear, voices singing, let's be jolly, deck the halls with bou–" She stopped short as she reached the top of the stairs, mouth open mid-word and eyes wide. She hastily pulled the earplugs out, the faint sound of Brenda Lee still singing coming from them. She looked like a wet cat, hair plastered to her head, her running clothes almost soaked through. "Sorry!" she apologized sheepishly, reaching into a pocket for her phone to turn off the music.

"You really can't sing, babe," Sam said amusedly.

"I know." She grinned. "I usually don't sing out loud either, but..."

"Christmas music," Rhodey finished for her.

"You actually went outside in that weather?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah, can't tell how much I'm sweating if it rains." She walked over the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water and downed almost half the content. "Besides... If it's not going to snow for Christmas, then I'll damn well leave as much of my sweat out there as I can."

"You better get changed before you catch a cold," Steve said, adding bacon to a frying pan, trying very hard not to stare at her.

She glanced at what he was making and licked her lips. "Okay. If you make some of that for me too? I'm starving."

"Of course." Steve grinned.

She grinned back and hurried down the stairs again with the rest of her water.

Sam and Natasha began cleaning up after themselves and then left too. Rhodey was only halfway, having read the news on his tablet while he ate. He turned his attention back to the tablet and the slices of fruit he had left when Steve started humming.

"What was that?" Rhodey asked.

Steve stopped stirring the scrambled egg batter and looked up. "What?"

"Were you humming that song?"

"What song? No." Steve frowned.

Rhodey just nodded slowly. Then he pressed the lock button on the tablet, and grabbed it and the bowl of fruit and left the kitchen too.

Steve shook his head, no idea what the other man was on about and poured the batter onto a second frying pan. He began humming again to the melody of Rockin' around the Christmas tree and flipped the bacon before he started gently stirring the eggs.

It was a few minutes before he heard the humming himself, and he promptly stopped, a little shocked. He didn't start up again, but added some more bacon and quickly whipped up more scrambled eggs batter, getting it cooking.

Just as he was about to turn the oven off and get out the bread, she came back. Her hair was still wet, but he could smell the shampoo on her, even through the bacon and eggs.

"Smells delicious," she said and grabbed a couple of tomatoes from the fridge.

"Hope it tastes as good as it smells," Steve said, filling up two plates with the eggs and bacon and a few slices of toast.

"Impossible to muck up bacon and eggs. Do you want tomatoes on yours?"

"Sure."

She chopped quickly and expertly, and they were soon sitting on either side of the island, eating breakfast. Every once in a while, she would hum something Steve thought might be a Christmas song, but he couldn't be sure. But he found that he liked listening to her, even if even her humming was off-key sometimes.

"Do you have everything ready for Christmas, Steve?" she suddenly asked. They hadn't talked at all since they sat down and Steve enjoyed the silence with her. They had always been good friends and there had never been an awkward silence between them, so he wished she had let the silence continue rather than ask that question. He didn't want to bring her down.

He chewed overly long on a too-small bite of bacon, before deciding on an answer. "I'm as ready as I need to be."

She frowned. Then she set her elbows on the counter and leaned her head in her hands, looking up at him. "I've noticed that you've never been around for Christmas before now. I've also noticed that you always jumped at the chance of taking a mission at this time of year. Just tell me to shut up if I'm being too nosy. You're not a Christmas person, are you, Steve Rogers?"

He sighed. Shoved the last of the eggs onto his fork, but set the fork down. He didn't want to lie to her, but he didn't want to sound like a grinch either. "I used to love Christmas. Way back when. But now... it's... so much."

She chewed her lip. "Yeah, I know what you mean. But you shouldn't let all the flash and hustle and bustle get to you. Don't let that control your Christmas. Just let it be what you want it to be, take what you need to make it a Christmas you enjoy. I just love the music and the lights and the snow. I can't get snow this year, so apparently, I compensate by torturing you guys with my singing." She chuckled.

"It wasn't torture!" Steve interjected. She just stared at him, her lips a thin line, until Steve broke into a grin. "Yeah okay, it was bad. But you have fun with it."

"That I do."

Christmas Eve arrived. Sam and Wanda had a big dinner planned, and the entire facility smelled of delicious food almost from the crack of dawn. Steve woke a bit later than he was used to, last night he had gotten the urge to turn off his alarm. He laid in bed for a little while, smelling the start of the feast, and started to look forward to it.

The sound of rain spattered on the windows, and he thought back to the conversation he'd had with her yesterday. She had mentioned snow again, she was clearly very upset that there was no snow to give her a white Christmas. He wondered if he could do something about that.

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know, where the treetops glisten and–" He stopped abruptly. That was a song he used to sing with Bucky and the rest of the Howling Commandos during their off time fighting HYDRA. He hadn't sung or hummed a single tune since the ice and now he had done both in less than a day. He shook his head and climbed out of bed.

He was starting to enjoy not having anything to do. He'd thought he'd go mad with it, he thought he always needed some conflict or fight to resolve. But with everyone else hanging around the building, there was always someone to talk to. And he found himself gravitating more and more towards her.

Steve had had a crush on her for a long time now, but he hadn't allowed himself to let it become more than that and had been happy just being her friend. But seeing her now, with all the Christmas around, the one thing that made her so unbelievably happy, he couldn't help it. Around lunchtime, she'd curled up with Natasha on the couch for another Christmas movie and her famous hot chocolate. She'd slipped Steve a cup too, with a finger on her lips and don't tell anyone.

Rhodey, Clint and Vision had joined them at some point, and about halfway through, Steve had asked if he could sit down. She'd grinned and patted the space next to her on the couch. Fighting a blush, he sat down and lost the fight with the blush when she pulled the blanket she had curled around her legs over his legs too before leaning back into Natasha.

When the movie ended, she had stretched her legs over Steve's and she was completely snuggled into Natasha's side.

"Nat!" Sam's voice came from the kitchen area.

"What?"

"Now that the movie is over, Wanda says you have a recipe for a glaze that is to die for."

"I told you that in confidence, Maximoff!"

"I'm sorry, but Sam's just won't turn out right. Could you help us?"

Natasha sat up and threw the blanket off of herself. Then she glared around at everyone. "If you ever mention this to anyone, I will kill you."

"Duly noted," Steve said.

Dinner was a huge affair. Sam, Wanda and Natasha had made a magnificent feast and everyone was too full for comfort after, just half lying half sitting around the room after. There were some old Disney specials on TV, but no one really paid much attention. One after one, they retired for the evening. Steve was soon the only one left with her. She just laid across the arm of the couch, staring at the Christmas tree.

"I really wish there was snow, Steve," she said a few minutes after everyone else was gone. "I know there aren't any proper snowy Christmases anymore, the climate being what it is, but this year I just... Really wish there was snow."

Steve didn't say anything. He just laid a hand on the leg that was stretched out next to him. She moved up and leaned towards him, snuggling in under his arm, one of her hands making a fist on his blue shirt. Steve laid his arm over her and she made a sigh of content.

For a long while, they sat like that. It was the most relaxed and comfortable Steve had felt in... well, for as long as he could remember. The room was beautiful in the half darkness, Christmas lights and the last bit of the candles on the dinner table the only lights. It was a perfect moment. And it came to an end when she pulled away and sat up.

"I should go to bed."

"Me too."

"Thank you for sitting with me for a bit, Steve."

"Anytime."

"Goodnight."

"Night." He watched her walk away, thinking hard. Then he came to a decision. He fished his phone out of his pocket, scrolled through the contact list and pressed the name he was looking for. It rang for a few seconds before they answered. "Tony, it's Steve. I need a favour."

I woke early on Christmas morning, I hadn't slept all that well because I'd had too much for dinner. But I stayed in bed for a long time, not wanting to leave the warm comfort of it just yet. From the sound of it, no one else was up yet either.

After a while, I turned around to look out the window. I knew there would be no change, there was no chance of it, no one could pull off a weather miracle. I only knew one person who could change the weather, and he could only conjure rain and thunder. Not snow.

It was just as wet and dreary today as it had been for the past few days.

Like I had told Steve several times now, I really wanted snow. I don't know why it felt so important this year, why I wanted it so much. But I did. I didn't let it ruin my Christmas spirit though. There were too many other things to enjoy this time of year. Which is what made me jump out of bed. I would make hot chocolate for everyone to wake up to.

I got dressed in something a bit nicer than my completely worn out Christmas pyjamas and hurried off to the kitchen. But as I opened the door to the common area, I stopped dead. My jaw dropped, I couldn't believe what I saw. The entire, gigantic room was covered in snow. It really looked like someone had torn off the roof during a heavy snowfall. It was on the Christmas tree, the couches, the counter, the cabinets, the table, the chair, the television, the side tables, the floor... Everywhere. And a lot.

I squealed and ran inside. It wasn't wet or cold but still felt like real snow. I grabbed handfuls and threw it in the air, squealing and laughing.

"What the hell is going on?" Clint's voice came from the hall and others joined in.

"What is this?"

"What happened here?"

"Snow!" I screamed and fell to my knees, almost crying with happiness.

Rhodey, Natasha, Sam, Clint, Vision and Wanda were standing by the door, looking around in amazement. Then Steve came, he stopped by the door and leaned on the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, a small smile on his lips.

"Steve?" I asked, he looked too smug to be allowed. "Did you do this?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I hopped up and walked towards him. "You did this."

Everyone turned to look at him, but he just shrugged.

"I told you I wished for snow, and then this happened. You did this."

"Tony and I did this," he said. "I called him after everyone went to bed last night, and... well." He gestured with his head to the room.

I felt tears prick at my eyes. "Steve... This is the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me."

"Let's start opening presents, guys," Sam suggested and herded the others towards the snow-covered Christmas tree. "Leave those two to it."

"I can't believe you did this for me. You even said you're not that into Christmas anymore."

Steve pushed off the door frame and took one step towards me, standing so close I had to look up at him. I could count the lashes on him if my sight wasn't blurred by tears. He laid his hands on my face, thumbs wiping at them as they fell. "Someone seems to be changing that for me."

I swallowed down a sob. "Steve?"

He just smiled. Then he moved closer and his lips were on mine. I faintly heard someone whooping from across the room, but right at that moment, I didn't give a damn about anyone else, or the snow, or Christmas, or if all the aliens in the galaxy decided to invade Earth.

I'd had a crush on Steve for as long as I could remember, and it had just grown over the years. I felt like maybe he was interested in me too, but it seemed like none of us ever wanted to take that extra step. Whatever had changed his mind, I was very grateful.

Steve's lips moved agonizingly slow against mine, and they were so soft, so sweet. My heart was beating wildly in my chest, my hands reaching for his t-shirt, grabbing fistfuls of it.

All too soon and what felt like years later, I had to pull away for air. My eyes were still closed as I breathed heavily.

"Can we just...?" Steve asked, and I opened my eyes. He was gesturing to the hall, and I nodded. He took my hand I followed him out of the common room. The door closed behind us and then Steve stopped and turned to look at me. It looked like he was leaning in for another kiss, but then he spoke instead. "I hope I didn't cross any line doing that?"

"The kiss? You did. But I'm glad you did."

"Oh good."

"I've liked you for a long time, Steve," I started. "I just didn't know if I should..." I shrugged.

"I've felt the same way. But these last few days really opened my eyes."

"To Christmas?"

Steve laughed. "Yes, that too. But mostly you. Seeing you do Christmas. I think I'm falling for you." His hands were on my face again, and the way he looked at me brought the lump back in my throat. His face was moving closer, my heart beating faster and faster the closer he got. I was feeling a little dizzy.

"I wonder..." I whispered.

"What?" The word fanned his breath over my face.

"If you'll still like me when Christmas is over." I blinked rapidly, wanting to close my eyes but also never stop looking at him.

His lips were so close to mine I could almost feel the words against them as he spoke. "I know I will."

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lubbuthedigitalnomad · 4 years

Text

A PERFECT PLACE

Happy Bob Marley BD (it was Feb. 6), Tibetan New Year (Feb. 12) and Valentine’s Day week! I hope you and yours are happy and healthy. Communications from America say that things are a little less crazy now that the election is over. That’s good. Even the most pro-American Asians were thinking we went a little wacky!

With any luck, folks in the USA will continue to take deep breaths and calm down. With a little effort, things will become less hateful and more loving as both the reds and blues start to realize that working together is the only way things will ever work at all. With that sentiment in mind, this week’s 1000 words are from the Fearless Puppy On American Road book, and about a time and place that remembers the more beautiful part of the American experience.

Once something changes, it can never go all the way back to what it was. In many ways, that is a good thing. We can preserve some better parts of the life we already had while allowing room for new and improved ideas. Insisting that both those new ideas, and the parts preserved from the old, are employed as actual improvements that benefit the vast majority of us has become the non-negotiable, essential responsibility of each and every citizen. Like it or not, it seems we will have to stay actively, consciously, and intelligently involved in order to insure success.

Please be well & stay well. Love, Tenzin and the Nepali Crew

FEARLESS PUPPY WEBSITE BLOG

FEARLESS PUPPY ON AMERICAN ROAD/AMAZON PAGE

REINCARNATION THROUGH COMMON SENSE/AMAZON PAGE

FEARLESS PUPPY ON AMERICAN ROAD WEBSITE

Rural Vermont

Helpfulness. Tribalism at its best. Everyone works together on everything. Lives depend upon each other in temperatures well below zero.

Hitchhiking is no longer just getting from here to there while barely knowing my host. Nearly every ride establishes or increases a friendship.

More cows per square mile than people, more open space than cows, and more forest than open space. Pronounced seasons and cycles. Cold, white winters. Muddy springs. Vibrant green summers pulsating with life that knows it only has a few months to do what needs to get done. Rainbow autumnal foliage so brilliant that guests come from continents away to view it. Streams clean enough to drink from.

Eggs come from happy chickens — not from the cruelty of large “animal production” warehouses.

Everyone waves hello to anyone driving by.

There’s always time to speak with whomever you meet at the General Store or Post Office. There’s always time. No hurry. Life comes first. Being is more important than doing (once the doing gets done).

The only store in town is the size of five closets but has everything — food, hardware, videos, clothing, beer, and more. A giant empty cable spool acts as a table around which to enjoy coffee, home- made donuts, and the company of neighbors. A best friend makes maple syrup. Everyone grows incredible gardens.

I have spent a lot of time with four other people and five beers staring into the open hood of a pickup truck that was not in need of repair.

Wood keeps you warm three times — once when you chop it, again when you carry it in, and the third time when you burn it. Overflowing abundance lives here. Some folks want more. Few need more.

Theater groups that produce professional-quality plays thrive in the forests of nearby vest-pocket towns.

The purity and clarity of omnipresent Nature rubs off on its human inhabitants. Crime, violence, and assorted hatreds appear only in newspapers and on TV stations. No one here has seen those things in person.

The Town Treasurer has a sign on his office explaining, “It’s very hard to get away with anything in a town this small.” Live and let live. If it hurts no one, it’s legal.

Resourcefulness is a way of life. Anything you need can be built from left over parts of things that you don’t need anymore. If you don’t know how, someone will show you. They’ll be happy to help — even happier if you bring a beer to say hello and thank you.

Deer hunters and trout fishermen deny slaughterhouses and corporate supermarket chains their abuses and profits. Unprocessed foods, hard exercise, low stress, clean air, and clean water deny the medical industry their profits from unnecessary surgery and drugs.

Awe inspiring natural beauty excludes land developers and their profit-over-people motivation. Their concrete and steel are not welcome here. The industrial decay that would lead to profits for a large assortment of unethical folks in fancy suits is denied entry by the conscious decisions of simple, intelligent farmers in overalls.

There will never be a Wal-Mart or a crack house here. There are many guns. They are never used for anything but hunting food. People are constantly helping each other to build a barn or house, dig out snow and mud, care for the children, cook, clean, weed the garden, and feed the animals. Anything that can be done at all is usually done by a group, even if it’s actually a one-person job. Folks enjoy each other’s company. Except in the most extreme circumstances, everyone deserves inclusion.

Parties get thrown together instantly for no other reason than that someone feels like being the host.

On a Tuesday, my friend Mike told me that he was having a party at his house on the following Saturday.

“What’s the occasion, Mike?”

“The occasion is that I just came up with the bright idea of having a party. I’ll get out a side of venison and buy a keg of beer. Tell everyone you see to tell everyone they see. If anyone wants to bring more food and drink, that’s good. If not, we’ll be fine with what we’ve got, I figure.”

“OK, Mike. I’ll get everyone but the assholes informed.”

“Inform the assholes too, buddy! Who knows? Maybe if they got invited to more parties, they’d figure out how to act better and wouldn’t be such assholes.”

It was hard to argue with Mike’s logic, but then again it is hard to argue with much of anything in a clean, friendly village.

During those years of having a home community and base station, a lot of work got done elsewhere. Rest time there made hitchhiking across nearly every inch of road in Northeastern America possible. I probably hitchhiked as many miles regionally during this period as the number of miles that were traveled in all the previous cross-country trips. Each full month of whistle stops working for environmental groups and charities included many towns and cities. It included talking to independent business folks all day about various causes, sleeping wherever possible, and celebrating whenever plausible. At the end of road tours like that, staring at mountains in between long naps was more of a necessity than an option. It is a lot easier to burn yourself up on the road when you know that a perfect place to revive is waiting for you.

The focal points of the road binges included Greenpeace, Citizen’s Awareness Network, and self-organized efforts to help support a Mexican orphanage, raise awareness and funding for American homeless folks, and help the victims of a very severe African famine. The results varied. My little part as a team member in the environmental efforts worked consistently for over a decade at each. The orphanage and homeless projects I organized worked minimally. The famine relief effort worked very well. It involved a governor, two senators, labor unions, school systems, businesses, major league sports teams, rock bands, and more. Thousands of people in the Northeastern section of America gave massive help.

This is a short chapter, but it covers a long period of years. Eventually, my good friend who allowed me this cabin in paradise had to liquidate his properties. This put me back out on the street at age fifty. But for a while, my life was as close to normal as it had ever been. It included long term friends and neighbors.

Those years seem to have gone by very quickly.

About the Author

Doug “Ten” Rose may be the biggest smartass as well as one of the most entertaining survivors of the hitchhiking adventurers that used to cover America’s highways. He is the author of the books Fearless Puppy on American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense, has survived heroin addiction and death, and is a graduate of over a hundred thousand miles of travel without ever driving a car, owning a phone, or having a bank account.

Ten Rose and his work are a vibrant part of the present and future as well as an essential remnant of a vanishing breed.

Follow him on Facebook, Doug Ten Rose

Travel Adventure Books can be an excellent gift to your friends and family, buy from Amazon.com

#traveladventurebooks #keepreading #kindlebooks

The books Fearless Puppy On American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense by this same author are also available through Amazon or the Fearless Puppy website, where there are sample chapters from those books. Entertaining TV/radio interviews with and newspaper articles about the author are also available there. There is no charge for anything but the complete books! All author profits from book sales will be donated to help sponsor an increase in the number of wisdom professionals on Earth, beginning with but certainly not limited to Buddhist monks and nuns.

If you missed the Introduction to the new book that will be titled Temple Dog Soldier, or would like to see several chapters of it that are available for free online, go to the Puppy website Blog section. This is a book in progress. You will be reading it as it is being created! Just like you, I don’t know what the next chapter is going to be about until it is written. As the Intro will tell you, this is a totally true story — and probably the only book ever written by and about a corpse journeying completely around the world!

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