#if that fails then they do braille word searches

[breadandblankets]

Morgan D tier has a braille rubrix cube that sits on their bedside table, they solve it in the dark when they can't sleep

[lipstickstainz]

five times - s. r.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: A collection of the times Spencer says “I love you” without saying it, and the one time he actually does. Warnings: tooth rotting fluff Word Count: 2k, it’s a short one A/N: happy new year guys! since you wanted this to be fluffy, here it is! hope you enjoy! gif not mine.

Spencer didn't know what he had been expecting when Hotch had announced to the team that they would have young additions. He had assumed that the newcomer would be pretty serious so that he would be taken seriously, and that he would be very reserved at the beginning to get to know the team first and not offend anyone. But he definitely wasn't expecting you.

On your first day, you showed up to work in a knee-length summer dress and high Converse, which threw him off right from the start. While JJ and Emily always wore something office appropriate, you didn't seem to mind catching everyone's eye. With an infectious confidence and a big smile on your face, you introduced yourself to the others. While most of the team looked at you as if you were from another star - except for Penelope Garcia, of course, she was incredibly happy to finally know another colorful bird in the midst - Spencer liked that you stayed true to yourself. No matter what anyone else thought of you.

You went through life with an ease that was quite atypical of your profession. It almost reminded Spencer of Garcia, but only almost. You didn't have to look away when someone showed you photos of dead bodies. He sometimes caught himself worrying that the job would eventually take away your cheerfulness.

"'DO NOT TOUCH' would probably be a really unsettling thing to read in braille“, you said as you sat in the bullpen. Your desk bordered his, so Spencer only had to look up from his files to give you an amused look.

"Where did you come up with that?", he asked, a smile curling his lips.

You shrugged before looking at him. "I don't know. But it would be pretty disturbing, wouldn't it? How fortunate that it can't happen to me."

Spencer tilted his head. "Because you're not blind?"

"Because I can't read braille“, you replied with a grin, and he laughed out loud, drawing everyone's attention. Spencer smiled briefly at them and motioned for them to turn back to their work so you could continue talking undisturbed.

He leaned a little in your direction before whispering to you.

"Your head must be a wonderful place to live in."

-

It was incredibly loud and the air was too stuffy to be able to grasp a clear thought. But maybe it was just the alcohol the bartender was pouring out like Penelope had certain nicknames regarding Derek. But it also seemed to be Garcia's goal to get the entire team drunk on her birthday. She had round after round coming to your booth, repeating "one of you is dancing on the table today" several times. You were sure it would be Penelope herself. Or JJ.

You were enjoying yourself with Emily on the dance floor of the club. You were incredibly warm, which was probably 75% due to the alcohol you had already drunk. You were wearing tight jeans and a backless, loose top, and yet your skin was so hot that the clothes almost stuck to you. At first you had worried that Emily and you were too different to become friends, but one day she showed up on your doorstep after an exhausting case and stayed all night. It had bonded you together.

In a quiet moment, you looked to the others and Derek raised an arm, signaling you were ready for the next round of shots. You grabbed Emily's arm and, singing, you squeezed through the crowd toward the table.

"If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends“, you sang, and you dropped into the empty seat next to Spencer, who looked at you with amusement. "Make it last forever, friendship never eeeend“, you sang on, leaning back in Spencer's direction without touching him. When he tried to put his arm around you to pull you close, you pushed him away. "I'm sweaty and sticky, Spence. I don't think you're into that."

But Spencer reached for your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours before pulling you onto his lap. His breath brushed your face and you smelled the alcohol in it. "I don't care. I love touching you."

-

"There's a documentary about the formation of the universe and black holes in theaters tonight“, Spencer said. The team was on its way back from a case in Dallas, and while the others were resting or listening to music, you two were playing chess. Not that it was fair, but you liked the challenge and Spencer finally had someone to play with again. "I was wondering if you would like to join me. This case has been exhausting and I think we could use a distraction." He asked without looking up from the chessboard. His face turned glowing red, which you didn't notice because you were trying not to go checkmate in three moves.

You moved your queen before you looked at him. His shoulders were tense and he was breathing shallowly. Spencer bit the inside of his lower lip nervously. "I'd love to“, you smiled, and at your reply he seemed to visibly relax.

Spencer picked you up at home after you showered and got ready. You were wearing jeans and a loose sweater. Up until that point, Spencer had been sure you couldn't get any more beautiful, but when you hugged him with a sparkle in your eye and a warmth in your smile, he wasn't sure anymore.

"Origin of the universe and black holes?", you assured yourself as you stood outside the movie theater. Spencer nodded, his hands buried in his pants pockets. You smirked. "You have to promise me one thing, though."

"And that would be?", he asked as he paid for the tickets and put yours in your hand. You smiled at him.

"You have to promise me that you will tell me every one of your clever thought processes. I want to hear every comment you make, all right? Even if people around us complain."

It was the second time Spencer and you had done something together outside of work, and you enjoyed his company very much, which of course was partly because you'd had a crush on him ever since he'd once explained something to you about his case that you hadn't understood. Spencer had explained it to you as well as he could, and when you thanked him afterwards, he didn't know what hit him. No one cared about his clever anecdotes or explanations, and the fact that you had even thanked him for it made his heart beat faster. Just as it did now.

Spencer looked at you, pleased. "We're the only ones at the movies, Y/N. No one's going to complain."

"Then you can explain everything I don't understand at your leisure."

You entered the movie theater and took your seats. He handed you the packet of popcorn. "You are my partner in crime. You are my favorite person."

-

"The exhibit was very interesting“, you said as you left the museum. It hadn't been your first visit, but visiting it with Spencer was a very different experience. You liked that he had something to say about most of the exhibits. "Thank you for being here with me."

Spencer smiled down at you. "Well, actually, I asked you to go here with me. So I have to say thank you."

"But I wouldn't have been here tonight if you hadn't asked me. So, thanks for that."

Your apartment wasn't far away, and with each step you hoped the evening wouldn't end just yet. As you stood in front of your apartment complex, Spencer nervously stepped from one foot to the other. "I had a really nice evening“, he confessed.

"Me too." If you didn't want the evening to end now, you had to take the plunge. "I'd never been on a date to a museum before."

Spencer's eyes widened and for a moment you feared you had misinterpreted everything. The looks, the stories and the touches. But Spencer stopped your train of thought. "Neither have I. Well, I had been to a museum before, of course, but it had never been dates, and I'm glad I was there with you“, he babbled, blushing, which made you smile. You liked that you could read his feelings from his face. "Um, maybe we can meet again tomorrow? For dinner? If that's not too much for you?"

You didn't answer him, but put your arms around his neck and gently pulled him down to you. In his face you searched for signs that he didn't want this, and when you couldn't find any, you gently placed your lips on his.

At first he didn't return the kiss, which you attributed to his surprise. He stiffened and it took a moment for the synapses in his brain to realize what exactly was happening. You were kissing him. And you had kissed him first. When his mind started thinking again, his hands settled on your waist and he pulled you a little closer to him to deepen the kiss. When you broke away from each other, he had a gleam in his eyes.

"I recorded a short film about quantum physics that was on TV“, you whispered, opening your eyes while he kept his still closed. "If you like, you can come upstairs with me and we can watch it together."

The short movie played as background music while you sat on your couch and kissed until your lips were swollen and your lungs were gasping for air.When he broke away from you for a moment, all he could do was whisper.  "I'm addicted to you."

-

You had tried to keep your relationship a secret, and had failed miserably.

It had taken a psychopath, a hostage, and an explosion for you to fall into each other's arms and for Spencer to kiss you stormily in front of the team. His fingers dug into your skin and would surely leave bruises, but you didn't care. You had escaped the explosion by a hair and Spencer couldn't help but thank all the gods and pull you close to him as you stood in front of him.

"I thought you had been in the building“, he breathed as he gently pushed you off of him to look at you. "I thought I'd lost you."

A tear rolled down your cheek, which he wiped away with his thumb. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, Spence." He pressed another kiss to your mouth before someone cleared their throat. The team stood just a few steps away from you, watching you, which was pretty embarrassing. Except for Hotch, everyone looked pleased and delighted, but you also didn't miss Hotch pressing a bill into JJ's hand.

"That's why you didn't want to go on that blind date I set you up with“, Derek grinned, putting a brotherly arm around Spencer's shoulders. "Pretty boy has a girlfriend."

Nothing ever felt so good as sharing a bed with Spencer after that day. You were half on top of him, he had his arm wrapped around you, and your legs were tangled under the covers. His fingers stroked your bare back and yours danced across his chest. He took a deep breath.

"Are you all right?", you asked, looking at him.

He swallowed. "I know we haven't been together that long and it's probably way too soon, but I almost lost you today and I can't keep it to myself any longer." Gently, he pushed you off of him and propped himself up on his elbow so he had to look down at you. "You're not just my favorite person, Y/N. You inspire me every day and you complete me in every way. You are the person I want to spend the rest of my life with." He put his hand to your cheek and you snuggled against his warm skin. "I love you, Y/N."

- tags below -

@mollygetssherlockcoffee​ / @averyhotchner​ / @ravenclawrandomness​ 

[the-hidden-writer]

brittle to the touch, bitter to the soul

AA3 spoilers!

Whumptober 2021 - Day 7

Freshly awake from his coma, Diego isn’t used to the new reality he has to live in.

Day 7: “My Spidey-Sense Is Tingling” Prompt: Helplessness/Blindness Fandom: Ace Attorney Words: 557 TW: coma, depression, referenced murder

(I apologise if there are any inacurracies- please point them out if so.)

brittle to the touch, bitter to the soul

Diego’s hands hovered over the board, his fingers unused to searching for the sensation of tiny bumps.

Before discharging him, the doctor suggested he learn Braille. And at first, Diego had been completely against the idea. He didn’t need to learn Braille! Sure, he couldn’t see a single thing, but his vision was sure to come back eventually.

Then the doctor told him it wouldn’t come back, and Diego just refused to learn out of stubbornness.

His stubbornness must’ve got him somewhere, because a few days later he was visited by some university students wanting to test their new prototype on him. Some sort of goggles hidden by metal to mask the complex machinery. If he accepted them, they would be his to keep for free as long as he sent the students regular updates on the standard of the mask and if there were any problems (which they expected to be many).

Diego had taken the offer without a second thought.

But, nearly a month since he was discharged, he started to realize that the mask was very uncomfortable to wear at night. However, he needed things to read- things to do.

Usually he’d play his saxophone. He was lucky enough to find it among the few of his old possessions that were kept, and his fingers found the notes without fail. He’d always joked to Mia that he could play the thing with his eyes closed. He’d never expected that statement to be put to the test.

Soon enough, however, he realized he’d need to find a job. What little of his funds that remained was getting depleted pretty quickly, so he needed to do something fast. And there was only one thing he knew how to do.

(Well, two if you counted being a top-class barista, but he did not feel like he would be great at customer service. He was pretty sure he hadn’t smiled once since waking up, and it was a massive drain of his energy just to get up in the mornings.)

A lawyer.

But being a lawyer required a lot of reading, so he started to learn Braille.

He tested himself by trying to read sentences with his hands alone before using the mask to check his answers. After multiple attempts of getting the simplest of sentences wrong, Diego threw the mug of coffee in his left hand across the room. 

It shattered against the wall and Diego let out a choked sob of frustration.

Mia was dead. He should be dead. What was life without her? He was blind, he couldn’t read Braille, and even with aid he could barely see the streaks of dripping dark coffee that had stained his wall.

What had become of the great Diego Armando? Was he supposed to be this pitiful husk of a man?

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t cry. Not yet.

Taking a few deep breaths, he cast aside his Braille learning board and removed his mask.

Diego Armando shouldn’t be in this state. This shouldn’t be how he was doomed to spend the rest of his days; a sickly, weak, helpless man. Like he had been for five whole years.

Mia died while he was asleep. Phoenix Wright let Mia die when he was asleep.

...He needed a new job.

And more than that, he needed a new name.

[minaslittleone]

Fission & Fusion (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5

Summary: How did the refined and proper Wilhemina Venable end up working for two coked-up tech bros out of the back of a van?

An origin story of sorts, dedicated to the amazing @lucyintheskywithxanax who has developed such a beautiful and nuanced depiction of Mina. This was inspired by her incredible story “And I failed to climb the mountain”.

Word count: ~2500

Professor Thompson was not surprised that she had to go searching for Wilhemina the following evening. Part of her had hoped that the young woman would have been waiting for her, a sign that she was allowing herself to accept the genuine support proferred to her. That was not to be. It was only natural, she supposed, as she made her way through the concrete wasteland that served as the hotel's parking lot, that after a lifetime of being belittled and dismissed, of being told she was nothing but a burden, that Wilhemina would find it difficult to accept help. To even believe that the offer of help was genuine.

The older woman shook her head as she raised her her hand to knock on the door indicated by the disinterested girl working reception. The world, and people, really could be so cruel.

When her initial knock went unanswered, she tried again slightly louder this time. Again she was greeted by only silence.

"Wilhemina." she called out, as she knocked for a third time. "Wilhemina, it's Professor Thompson. Can you let me in dear?"

In the beat of silence that followed, she could feel Wilhemina's indecision - her pride balking at the idea of reaching out to accept the tender care that her heart so dearly yearned for. For now, pride relented.

There was a jangle of keys as nervous fingers fought against the lock and deadbolt. The door eased open a crack to reveal Wilhemina, shoulders curled in on themselves, head bowed, face obscured by a curtain of red hair and supporting a significant portion of her weight on her cane. Her form fitting dress from the previous day had been replaced by black leggings and a loose fitting faun jumper which dwarfed her slender frame, sleeves extending well past her wrists where her fingers toyed anxiously with the cuffs. As the older woman eased the door slightly further ajar she couldn't miss the way Wilhemina flinched, obviously uncomfortable with any kind of physical proximity.

"Wilhemina?" the older woman coaxed. Glassy brown eyes peaked from beneath swollen lids, tentatively meeting her gaze. As she did her long hair shifted just enough to reveal the array of grazes decorating her right cheek and temple, chronicalling the previous night's events like braille across her skin. Wilhemina fought against the instinct the pull away as the older woman gently lifted her hair to inspect the damage. And as much as she hated allowing anyone to bear witness to her weakness she couldn't help but wonder when she had last been touched with such tenderness.

And maybe that was what gave her the courage to recount the events of the night before, those soft, caring touches that spoke more than words ever could, that whispered insistently that she deserved so much more. From the grinding weight against her fingers to the sickening crunch of her skull on the concrete, the smell of stale alcohol and tobacco, and the taste of dispair as calloused fingers rifled through her book bag and located the money that was supposed to be her lifeline. And more than all of that, the shame of laying sprawled out on the concrete unable to move.

Eventually the sound of the steal capped boots had disappeared into the distance, apparently deciding she wasn't worth any further humiliation. You're too ugly even for that, her mother's voice cooed. Slowly, she had managed to lever herself from the ground, bracing herself between her cane and the wall. Her trembling fingers had finally managed to overcome the lock but all too late. She stumbled across the threshold, collapsing onto the bed, curling in on herself in a futile attempt to prevent any further pain.

Professor Thompson's fingers were back at her cheek, tenderly chronically the array of scrapes and bruises that were beginning to blossom across her pale skin. How hard had she hit her head? Did she lose consciousness? Does it hurt if I push here? Any blurred or double vision? Any other injuries? Her hands? Her knees? Her back? No. All just bruised, like her ego, and her heart.

Wilhemina remained fascinated by the cuffs of her sweater throughout Professor Thompson's assessment, fingers picking at small imperfections in the fabric. By the time she raised her eyes the older woman was already moving busily around the room collecting her meagre possessions into her discarded book bag. "Have I missed anything dear?" Wilhemina could only shake her head dumbly in response though her confusion must have permeated her features for Professor Thompson quickly added "If you think for one moment I am letting you stay here on your own Wilhemina, after what happened, you are very, very mistaken".

The older woman slung the sum total of Wilhemina's possessions easily over her shoulder, before extending her hands to the younger woman to help her to her feet. And for once Wilhemina felt no pity or judgement in the gesture, only genuine care.

It felt good to let go for a moment, she thought, as she allowed herself to be escorted to the older woman's car. To hand over the reins, even if momentarily, to someone who genuinely had her best interests at heart. She had always been independent, self-sufficient, mature; garnering praise from countless adults for how grown up she was ever since she was tiny. There had been other words too - bossy, control freak, frigid bitch - a need for order and precision in the small parts of her life that she could control. But she was so tired after trying to hold it all together on her own for so long. Because in reality she wasn't in control at all.

Wilhemina jumped as the driver's side door opened, having not really registered that Professor Thompson had disappeared, let alone returned. The older woman shot her a sympathetic glance in apology for having startled her before starting the car and pulling out of that god damn parking lot.

Not long after she found herself seated at her professor's kitchen table, a warm mug of sweetened tea once again pushed into her hands whilst the older woman cooked. She managed to only feel slightly guilty about that. The room reminded her a lot of the woman herself, no frills and practical but with an undeniable warmth, full of mismatched crockery rather than complete sets, as if each piece had been hand picked for its bawdy colour or intricate pattern. Like her office, Professor Thompson's home seemed a little worn around the edges in the best of ways, it spoke of memories and a life well lived. From the rings on the wooden table from endless hours of conversation over tea, to the dings in the plaster from exhuberant grandchildren the house could not be further from the modernist sterility Wilhemina had become accustomed to.

The next thing she knew a steaming bowl of stew was being placed in front of her and the older woman was joining her at the table. "I hope you don't mind, dear, I know it's nothing very fancy" the older woman added as Wilhemina stared fixatedly at the bowl in front of her. Don't be so rude you ungrateful idiot. "No of course not, it's smells wonderful, it's just that I don't think anyone has ever cooked anything for me before. Thank you."

The older woman paused at that, spoon left resting against the side of her bowl. "Surely your mother did, at least?" Wilhemina scoffed at that, the very idea of Fleur Venable undertaking a task a menial as cooking was almost amusing. "No, my mother never had much interest in cooking, especially when she could pay someone to do it for her." A wry smile passed over the older woman's face "Maybe I should have listened when everyone told me to go into private practice rather than academia, it certainly seems to have worked out well enough for your father. Though I don't think I would have found much contentment in commercial law, I don't think I would have been particularly fond of spending my professional life making rich people richer."

"I don't think it brought my father much contentment either, though that might have been living with my mother" Wilhemina muttered, drawing unapologetic laughter from the older woman. After that the meal was finished in comfortable silence.

Wilhemina was about offer to help with clearing the table when something fuzzy brushed against her leg drawing an embarrassing squeak from her, which she quickly clamped her hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle. "Oh it's alright, my dear, it's just Miko. Hello my sweet boy" the older woman cooed to the grey tabby cat rubbing affectionately at her ankles. "Oh I know sweetheart, I missed you too."

Miko, seemingly satisfied that he had greeted his mistress appropriately, took that moment to return his attention to Wilhemina, who's anxious gaze flicked between the cat and his owner. "Oh I'm sorry my dear, you're not allergic are you?" the older woman asked in response to Wilhemina's obvious apprehension. "No, I'm just not very good with animals" Wilhemina replied as Miko began sniffing at her ankles.

"He likes it if you scratch behind his ears" the older woman suggested.

So, slowly, Wilhemina allowed her right hand to unfurl from it's safe home in her lap downwards towards the inquisitive feline, or at least as far as her spine would allow. Miko craned his neck upwards to bridge the gap, first sniffing at her fingers before quickly beginning to nuzzle against them. Hesitantly Wilhemina began to trail her nails along the cats scalp, concentrating her ministrations behind his ears as his owner had suggested. She was rewarded by purrs of contentment, as Miko nuzzled into her hand with increased vigour. She couldn't help but smile at that.

Soon after Miko raised his front paws onto the bottom railing of the chair in an effort to get closer to Wilhemina, and began nuzzling into her thigh in earnest.

"What is he doing?"

"Oh don't worry, dear" the older woman replied. "He's just saying that he likes you. Well I suppose to be more correct he's transferring his scent onto to you to claim you as his, just in case any other cats get any ideas."

"I don't think anyone has ever claimed me as theirs before" Wilhemina whispered, fingers still threading tenderly through Miko's fur.

"Well Miko certainly has and so have I" the older woman replied, "and we both happen to have excellent taste."

Wilhemina could only reply with a small, trembling smile.

"Now come on dear, you've had quite an eventful few days and I doubt you slept much last night"

Wilhemina nodded and allowed herself to be escorted up the stairs towards the guest room, Miko following closely on her heals.

The room which Professor Thompson showed her to was already bathed in warm light from the bedside lamp and her book bag had been placed upon the quilt covered bed.

"Now the bathroom is just across the hall, dear, and I've put out fresh towels for you. If you need anything during the night my room is just down the hall, ok?"

"I'll be ok, but thank you" Wilhemina offered the older woman a shy smile.

Professor Thompson made to leave for the night before turning back unable to stop herself. "Forgive me asking dear, but haven't you heard from your parents? Surely they must be worried where you are?"

Wilhemina did not share her certainty. "I haven't checked my phone." Perhaps childishly she didn't want to check, because until she did she could cling onto the slim hope that maybe her parents did want to know where she was.

"You should check, my dear" the older woman coaxed. "I'll give you some privacy, but I'll be downstairs if you need me"

"Actually" Wilhemina blurted before the courage abandoned her, "would you stay?"

Professor Thompson took a seat on the bed beside her as she rifled through her book bag for her cell phone. One missed call. She almost couldn't believe it when her father's cell phone number blinked back at her on the LCD screen. With trembling fingers she retrieved the voicemail.

"Wilhemina, I understand that your mother can be difficult but surely all this fuss isn't necessary. If this was about making a point, you've made it, you can stop with this childish fit and the two of you can discuss this like adults. Honestly Wilhemina, you know I don't have time for this right now, the McMahon case goes to trial in less than a week, I have better things to be doing with my time than be refereeing some petty squabble between you and your mother. Just sorted it out."

Professor Thompson killed the voicemail halfway through the pre-recorded list of options, they certainly didn't want to listen to the message again.

"I'm so sorry, dear, I shouldn't have pushed you to check."

Wilhemina shrugged. "If I'm honest with myself, I didn't really expect anything different. I just hoped that maybe, I don't know..." she sighed. She did know, she had hoped that for once her parents would show ounce of love and affection, or even just anything more than apathy. Anything to indicate she was more than a burden or the fulfillment of a tickbox in the game of life.

"You would have thought that by now I would have stopped getting my hopes up" Wilhemina muttered, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks.

"Never" the older woman asserted. "You get your hopes up because you care and you have such a capacity for love, which makes you so much more than either of them will ever be."

She reached up tenderly to wipe the tears from the younger woman's cheeks, careful to avoid to avoid the dark purple bruising now staining her right cheek.

"Besides, their loss is my gain and you have a place here for as long as you need it"

[unknownquery]

Misery Business

Chapter 1: That's What You Get

Read on AO3 | Next Chapter

Katsuki had always been careful. Cautious, maybe not, but careful. His moves were calculated, his anger directed. He had kept his secret for two years at UA, which is why he was so pissed at himself for getting caught. For getting himself pulled into the fucking teacher's office. He sat, arms and legs crossed, on the opposite side of the table from Aizawa. Aizawa who was staring him with that dead-eyed-but-somehow-stupidly-intimidating gaze. He wanted to look away, but given his current situation he knew that would only make things worse. He needed to be able to see Aizawa's mouth.

"How long have you had trouble hearing?" Aizawa asked placidly.

'Fuck.' Katsuki thought. Of course Aizawa had figured it out. Observant bastard.

"Since middle school," he admitted reluctantly. Back then, it had just been a mild inconvenience. Missing a word here and there, difficulty with volume control. Nothing he couldn't handle.

"And you never got it checked out?" Aizawa asked, looking unimpressed.

"I did, they told me to go easy on the quirk, to wear earplugs and shit," Bakugou sneered.

"And you didn't." It wasn't a question. If he had, he wouldn't be in this mess.

"Nah. Needed to be able to hear what was coming during practices and exams. Didn't expect it to get this bad," He shrugged, hoping to come across as cool and unaffected. In reality he was terrified. Failing to disclose something like this could get him expelled for putting himself and his classmates at risk. But if he had disclosed it going in, they might have disqualified him from the hero course. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. He decided to take his chances.

"You realize...could...you." Aizawa said.

Damn it. Bakugou hadn't been paying attention. He did not want to have to ask-

"Can you repeat that please?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"I could expel you." Aizawa's lips moved firmly.

Bakugou nodded. He was aware.

"I don't want to do that. But you need to take care of yourself. I'm calling your parents." He turned towards the window and picked up the phone.

Bakugou clenched his jaw. His mom was going to be so pissed.

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

Izuku ran his hand across the Braille display attached to his laptop.

"Schematic for high frequency amplification."

He sighed. Not what he was looking for. Izuku had been searching for papers for an hour with no success. It was time for a break. He took a deep breath and crawled his fingers up onto his laptop keys, listening to his screen-reader through the single earbud in his left ear as he tabbed to his email window. During their final year at UA, students in the Support Course were expected to take requests from students in the Hero Course as part of their weekly assignments. Izuku's specialty was acoustics and audio augmentation, which was admittedly pretty narrow and he often didn't have anyone come to him for help. Regardless, he checked his email inbox every day for requests. He scanned the new messages.

"Homework assignment for-" Nope.

"Your order from-" Not it.

"New Student Request." Bingo. Izuku listened to the satisfying electronic pop as he selected the message.

"Message from: Present Mic" the robotic voice read. Izuku smiled. Present Mic was one of his favourite staff at UA. He had introduced him to the support members at his previous agency, and helped him get a supervisor for his senior project. Izuku switched to his Braille display and started reading.

"Hello Little Listener! I hope that your week is going fantastic. Just wanted to give you a heads up that Aizawa is sending you a student from his class today for support gear. It's an emergency order, sorry about the short notice. I know you have walk-ins today so I told him you could help. He should be there around 11:00. Let me know how it goes."

Eleven o'clock. Izuku reached over to touch the watch on his left wrist. 10:59. Good thing he had opened the email, or he would've been totally caught off guard. The student could be there any moment. Right on time, the bells on the Development Studio door jingled as someone walked in.

"Is anyone there? I'm here for the audio specialist." The person said, slowly and slightly uneven. "I'm Bakugou Katsuki, from the Hero Course."

Izuku went cold. "Kacchan?" he whispered hesitantly.

[brownandtrans]

Did you know?

You can now add alt text to every photo and GIF you upload to a post with your Tumblr iOS or Android app. This feature isn’t yet available on the web broswer version of Tumblr.

How this helps disabled people

People with vision impairments such as low vision and blindness may use screen readers in order to access the internet, or just have trouble distinguishing images. That’s why you’re encouraged to write a short description of your image in your submission. Then a screen reader program can read the plaintext of a post out loud for them, or it can translated into braille on a refreshable braille display.

How do you add ALT text to your image?

Easy-peasy. When you add an image or GIF to a post or reblog on Tumblr in the iOS or Android app, you’ll see a meatballs menu (●●●) pop up in the lower right-hand corner of your image or GIF. Tap it, then select “Add alt text.”

If you’re not on mobile, you can’t add ALT text but you can include an image description in the body of the post.

What’s the difference between ALT text and an image description?

Alt text tells people what is in an image, such as text or basic essential details. If an image fails to load, alt text will display in its place. Search engines also index alt text information and consider it a factor when determining search engine ratings.

What is an image description?

An image description gives more details than alt text and allows someone to learn more about what is in an image that goes beyond alt text. Alt text gives the user the most important information while image descriptions provide further detail. For example, alt text tells someone that there's a puddle on the floor, and image description tells someone that the puddle on the floor is in the middle of the floor and it's orange juice.

Features of image to describe

When composing image descriptions, it may seem difficult to decide what to include. Here are features that can be included in image descriptions- write about these when applicable:

Placement of objects in image

Image style (painting, graph)

Colors

Names of people

Clothes (if they are an important detail)

Animals

Placement of text

Emotions, such as smiling

Surroundings

What not to describe

Likewise, there are some things that should be left out of image descriptions. These include:

Descriptions of colors- no need to describe what red looks like

Obvious details such as someone having two eyes, a nose, and a mouth

Details that are not the focus of the picture

Overly poetic or detailed descriptions

Emoji

Multiple punctuation marks

Length of text

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but there’s no reason to write them all out and leave the user waiting for the descriptions to end. It is strongly recommended that alt text be 125 characters or less to ensure compatibility for popular screen readers. Image descriptions can be longer, but I recommend keeping them the length of a tweet, or about 280 characters.

So now what?

Now that you know what it is, please use image descriptions and ALT text to make your posts more accessible! Yes, this even applies to selfies- if there’s no description at all, Blind people won’t even know that your post is a selfie!

Here’s an example of an image description for a selfie: "[ID: A photo of a masculine person with brown skin and short hair. He’s wearing a green shirt and jeans, and smiling and making a peace sign while standing in front of an ice cream tuck. /End ID]"

[thecipherlegacy]

Quinn and his adopted daughter with either the insecurity or scar one?

Gladly! How about a mix of both?

So, once again this one takes place during the time the Sith Warrior(Mavasha) is missing during the KOTFE events. (That is the only time Cathilia truly showed that she cared for her father when she was a child)

The lovely Cathilia belongs to @midnight--siren​

Hope you like it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Raising three daughters wasn't easy alone. Mavasha's disappearance surely made the family life a lot harder for Malavai, but it brought their adopted daughter closer to him. Cathilia had been tailing him like a puppy since their matriarch vanished when she used to want nothing to do with him. 

Most days this was favorable, he loved having a day to relax surrounded by his young children, especially since his suspension. He was considered not stable enough for his job, so lately the only times he truly felt whole were the days he would crash on one of the couches from sleepless nights with all three daughters curled up with him. 

But, there were times when it got difficult. He didn't always know exactly how to calm their sorrows or explain things the way their mother would. He wasn't force-sensitive so he wasn't able to explain that to them well either. Sometimes he felt like he was failing them, and Malavai Quinn never took failure well. In those times he'd look out at the stars and just beg for his wife to give him the strength he needed to keep going. To keep working, to keep searching for her, and to keep being strong for their kids. 

One day he was out on the balcony of their home, looking out at the sky as he usually did. After finishing a short glass of liquor he went back inside to find his daughter Cathilia sitting on the couch. "Why do you look at the sky so much?" She asked as she watched him clean the glass and put it away.

"Looking at it reminds me that your mother is still out there." He said honestly. "It’s like I can feel her, I just can't reach her." Once the glass was spotless he joined the little one on the couch. That’s when he noticed that she had covered half her face with what appeared to be mud. "Cathilia, what did you do to your face, dear?" He asked and began to try and wipe it away. 

The little pureblood turned away with a grumble. "No." Was all the girl said in return. She didn’t seem to expect him to notice the brown dirt on her red skin.

Her father now looked concerned "Well, you can keep it on your face if you so desire, but at least tell me why you've covered your face in filth?" 

A long silence came before the answer as she brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. "It covers my scar" she muttered into her arms with a sad look in her eyes. 

It took Malavai a moment to recall her scar. He saw his daughters every day and the scar on Cathilia was part of her. He never considered that she would be bothered by it. In hindsight, why wouldn't she? The poor girl got her face burned by a Hutt during a rough time in her life. The scar holds more mental pain than he could imagine.

"You don't need to hide your scar, Cathilia" he assured her, though he didn't really know what to do to help her, he was going to try his best regardless.

She frowned deeper. "It makes me ugly." She told him. That was what got Malavai kneeling on the ground in front of her so he could look her in the eyes. Hearing one of his own children say something so cruel to themselves wasn’t something he would stand for.

"I never want to hear you say that again. There are many words I can use to describe you, but ugly isn't one of them. And scars? Scars do not make someone ugly." 

Her bright fire-colored eyes looked back into his blue ones "But…"

"None of that" Malavai stood briefly to get a wet cloth and came back to start cleaning up her face, which she reluctantly let him do. "Scars are just our stories. When something happens and you get a scar, it becomes part of you. It’s a piece of your life that helped you become the person you are now."

She looked at her father in confusion "A story? But scars don't have words" the girl corrected. At that, he gave a small smile.

"My dear child, of course, they do. You got this wound by standing up for yourself to someone bigger and stronger than you." He wiped the top of the scar clean "right there it tells me you're Brave" then the middle part of the burn scar "and here, Strong" the rest was wiped clean and Malavai brushed his thumb over it as if he were reading braille. "And right here I see powerful. My girl, you are beautiful, and I know that anytime someone sees this face, they will know your worth." He put the rag on the table and watched as the little girl touched her scar sadly.

"You mean it?..." she asked. Malavai nodded and pet her hair softly.

"I do" he replied. And just like that she leaped from the couch and was hugging him tightly. He held her close and sat back down with his daughter in his lap. "My strong daughter. You are so much like your mother…" 

A small sniffle was heard from the girl and her breathing caught a little in her chest. The silence deafened him for a moment before she finally spoke again. "did mom have scars?" She asked.

Malavai nodded "Indeed, and I always admired their beauty."

She wiped her eyes and looked at Malavai. “You did?” She asked. 

Malavai wiped away her tears “I still do, and I admire yours just as I do hers.”

“You do?” was her next question. Her father answered that simply, by giving her scar some small kisses. She sniffled one last time then tried to stifle her laughter. “Daddy! Stop!” She weakly demanded and tried to shove the man away playfully. 

“Only if my daughter feels better” He threatened “Do you?” Of course, her little smile answered that for him. Something so simple worked so well. He had to log that away somewhere to remember for later. 

“Thank you..” Cathilia mumbled softly as she wiped her cheek of her father’s ‘germs’ and giggled a few more times. Her father gave one final kiss to her forehead before speaking. 

“Of course. Now I saw your sisters playing down in the training room with 2V-R8, why don’t you go join them? I’ll be there in a moment.” Malavai told her. The young one nodded and hugged him one last time before jumping off the couch and running down to the training room. He watched her disappear through the doors and sighed contently. “I think I’m getting better at this parenting thing” He assured himself as he looked at the sky one last time and left to join his girls in the next room.

[sinfullystanning]

Ten Things I Hate About You

Matt Murdock x Reader

Genre: Lots and lots of angst

Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, swearing

A/N: This takes place after the events at the end of The Defenders. Yes, the movie mentioned in the story is “Ten Things I Hate About You” which I absolutely love.

Summary: After being presumed dead for months, you find out that your boyfriend is very much alive and it drives a wedge between the two of you bigger than death did.

It was Wednesday. A few months ago, on a similar Wednesday, you’d been huddled in a police station with Karen and Foggy, waiting for Matt to come back. The problem, of course, was that he hadn’t. You tried your best not to think about it, but all you can see when you close your eyes was them coming back, the tiny reunions breaking the tension that been threatening to choke the other families and friends that were in the same room in the Harlem precinct with you and your friends. Jessica first, then Luke, then Danny and Colleen, and then nothing. Your eyes had been glued to the empty doorway, waiting for Matt to limp in the way he always did, every single night without fail. He promised that he’d always come back to you, but that night he’d broken that promise. You’d waited, still as a stone, waiting for him to make a dramatic entrance, the way he always unintentionally did. Even when your ears heard Karen’s quiet sobs, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from that doorway.

Eventually, Foggy put his hand on your shoulder, wanting to comfort you, but you hadn’t wanted comfort, no, you wanted your boyfriend, safe and sound. Even if your brain and heart had stopped, your body knew what it wanted and you’d barely felt it as your body got up, managing to keep steady as it exited the room slowly making your way down the hallway until a cop grabbed your arms, saying something about how you needed to stay for questioning that you didn’t hear over the rushing in your ears, you’d brushed him off but when you were almost in sight of the precinct door, you’d been stopped again, this time by more officers. They were saying things like how they knew how you must feel right now but you had to stay and how Matt would want you to be safe and that’s when you snapped and the screaming started.

It didn’t stop either, what the cops had probably been hoping was a single cathartic scream was the opposite of that because once the dam opened, all the pain, rage, and grief that you’d kept pent in from the night that you first found out that Matt was Daredevil came pouring out. Every night that he came home safely, he put those emotions at bay, building your dam higher, the nights that he came home half-dead putting thin cracks in your composure, but tonight he’d managed to demolish it completely. You barely remember what you’d said, but I particular line stuck in your mind: “IF HE WANTED ME TO BE SAFE, HE’D BE HERE!” You struggled against the officers that were trying to calm you down until Luke eventually had to step in so you couldn’t cause any more damage. Claire had sat you down in a room talking you through grief or something, you remember none of it, and you’d eventually wrangled your storm to remain internal. Hours that felt like days later, and you were leaving the precinct, pushing away Karen and Foggy when they tried to reach out to you, your feet leading you to the last spark of hope in your heart.

Logically speaking, if Matt had just gone to his apartment instead of the precinct, the others would know that he was alive and someone would have told you, but you weren’t thinking logically. So when you finally felt your key scrape the lock of Matt’s front door, you threw the door open, calling for him, letting useless hope fill your voice before finding the room the same as when you’d left the night before. And so you’d filled the room with your tears.

That was months ago, however, and eventually, you’d come out of the room when you’d run out of days you could take off of work. Without Matt, however, you had a gaping hole in your life that you didn’t know how to fill. Wondering, not for the first time, what Matt would do, you’d found yourself at Clinton Church on a Wednesday. You’d only been inside a handful of times, with Matt as you weren’t particularly religious yourself, but now it felt like there was nowhere else to be. Tentatively, you’d walked in, the sanctuary mostly empty, a few people knelt in the pews, eyes closed tight in prayer. You’d made your way to a vacant pew, sitting down, eyes scanning the room, for what, you didn’t know. As you sat, however, you found yourself feeling something, a sort of peace that the outside world, your friends, and three different grief counselors, hadn’t been able to even begin to make you feel. You felt a tear run down your face, splashing down onto your tightly clasped hands in your lap. You closed your eyes, unsure how to proceed when a hand touched your shoulder, and you opened your eyes again, blinking away the tears in them, swiping at your cheeks to hide the evidence of your grief to see Father Lantom sadly smiling down at you. Seeing him reminded you of Matt, you’d met the man a few times for lattes in the church basement with Matt, and Matt had told you plenty of stories about the old man from his childhood. Now, seeing him broke a dam that you didn’t know existed and you wept as the priest’s expression softened in understanding and took a seat next to you, holding you gently as you cried.

***

Today is Wednesday. Every Wednesday, you came to Clinton Church for midday mass, a routine that had helped you get back on your feet better than any therapist, then coffee in the basement with Father Lantom and you’d talk, about God, about life, and sometimes, on your good days, about Matt. You’d light a candle for him in the front of the sanctuary and pray for his peace, wherever he was. Today, however, a different priest gave the homily, and so you venture to the Church basement alone, looking for Father Lantom or someone who might have seen him. He wasn’t in the usual room where you two usually met, so you decided to search for his office. Unfortunately, you had no idea where that was and eventually found yourself lost somewhere in the various passages under the church. Just when you were about to give up and try and retrace your steps in an attempt to find somewhere familiar, you heard a noise. You weren’t sure where exactly you were, but as you headed towards the sound you found yourself in a stone hallway, that if you didn’t know better looked like some kind of crypt. You heard it again. The sound was closer, you cautiously made your way down the hall, stepping lightly and silently, the way Matt had taught you in the event that you were ever trying to hide from someone. Then you saw the shadow, just around the edge of the stone partition to your left. With a deep breath, you rounded the partition, expecting to find someone who could help you find your way back to the sanctuary, or maybe knew where you could find Father Lantom. That’s why what you did find felt like a lightning bolt to the chest.

“Matty?” His name barely a croak as it slipped past your lips. He’s sitting on a bed, more like a cot than a proper bed, one leg stretched out and the other hanging off the edge like he’s ready to get up at a moment’s notice. A braille Bible lies on his lap, but his head raises at the sound of his name. He’s not wearing his glasses and the sight of his beautiful hazel eyes alight and alive leaves you speechless.

“Y/N?” His voice is laced with confusion, guilt, and fear. He’s afraid of you? Then he’s on his feet, not moving towards you, just standing there, the Bible fallen closed onto the bed, forgotten. “Y/N, what are you doing here?”

“I-I was looking for Father Lantom and I got lost and I heard a noise from over here so I,” you trail off, your brain racing at a hundred miles an hour. Silence is thick in the room before you manage the words “Matty what are YOU doing here?” He doesn’t answer, but his hand goes up to rub the stubble on his chin, clearly uncomfortable. You swallow before forcing the words out. “You’re supposed to be dead.” There, you said it. All these months and you’d never said it once, always just settling for ‘gone,’ not able or ready to face the finality of the word ‘dead.’

Matt doesn’t say anything, he just stands there, looking guilty, his hands fidgetting at his sides. You can’t handle the silence, it’s all you’d gotten for the last few months and you were tired of it, bracing yourself, you cross the distance so that you’re standing in front of Matt, looking up at him, trying to calm your racing heart. Matt’s alive and he’s here standing in front of you. And he looks like absolute shit. His hair is sticking up where he’s been running his hands through it, his face looks tired behind all the healing cuts and bruises, the way he’s holding his body tells you that he’s hiding more wounds under his clothes as well. Slowly, you reach out your hand, placing it on his chest, over his heart, feeling the solid beat under your palms telling you that this isn’t a dream, apparition, or hallucination, it’s really him, your Matty, alive under your hand. “Matty, say something, please.” You whisper, your hands trembling because as much as you want to throw your arms around him and sob, something stops you, because he’s alive, alive enough to stand, alive enough to lounge around and read, and yet here you are, months into mourning him, with no idea that he was here the whole time, alive.

Matt hangs his head, closing his eyes. “Y/N,” just hearing him speak your name feels like a piece of you is being put back together. “I’m not, I can’t,” He’s struggling to tell you and you reach a hand out to cup the side of his face.

“Matty, what is it? You can tell me.” Your voice is trembling, scared of what he’ll say but thankful that you get to hear him say anything.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, “I’m not coming back. As far as I’m concerned, Matt Murdock is dead. I can’t be him anymore. I’m not him anymore.”

Just when you thought that losing Matt the first time had been more pain than you would ever feel in your lifetime, he managed to rip your heart all over again even while standing here in front of you. “Matt, what are you talking about? You’re alive, you’re here. Why, why?” You’re confused and blabbering but you can’t wrap your mind around his words.

“Y/N, I can’t be a part of your life anymore, or Foggy’s, or Karen’s. I’m sorry.” He says like it’s something that simple, cutting ties and easily making a little bow at the end.

“What?” Your voice is indignant now, and you step back, taking your hands off of him. “What, no. No, you,” You laugh, the sound dry and harsh. “No, Matt Murdock, you don’t get it. You don’t GET it.” You shake your head in disbelief. “You don’t get to play martyr. Not with Foggy, not with Karen, and sure as hell, not with me.” To his credit, Matt flinches, but he doesn’t say anything so you plow on, months worth of pent up frustration coming out. “I did not get back the hell up so YOU could tell me to move on with my life. Not you, Matt Murdock. Three grief counselors, Matt, THREE. Maybe I should send you the fucking bill! Because, you know what they told me, Matt? They told me the exact same bullshit that you’re trying to sell me right now. ‘He’s not coming back, sweetie, he’s gone. He would want you to move on,’ and that’s all fine and dandy when you kiss booboos for a damn living but you?” You shake your head. “You have, NO right to tell me to move on.”

You take a deep breath when he doesn’t respond. “When you told me that you were Daredevil, I could see how much it meant to you, how much you needed it, so I didn’t push you away. Foggy and Karen, they asked me, how could I be okay with it? How could I be okay with the things you were doing? Do you know what I told them? I told them that I loved you and that if loving Matt Murdock meant loving Daredevil then I would love them both because they were the same person. One doesn’t exist without the other, Matt, and as much as it scared me every damn night, knowing that you may not come back, and how much I hated seeing you get hurt, coming home half-dead, I loved you anyway. And then,” Your voice caught, the words stuck in your throat. You realized that at some point, you had started crying, your cheeks soaked with tears. “Then,” you start again, “then that day, you didn’t come back. I thought I lost you, and you know what they told me? Those police officers, those counselors, our friends, they said ‘He would want you to be safe’ and here you are telling me that same bullshit, that you think that cutting me out is keeping me safe, so I’m going to tell you what I told them, ‘IF HE WANTED ME TO BE SAFE, HE’D BE HERE!’” You shout the last line, anger boiling up even as you see the conflicting emotions warring on Matt’s face. You should feel guilty for yelling at him, but you don’t. Shaking, you straighten up, swiping at your cheeks to clear away the tears. “So, when you’re ready to keep my safe, you know where to find me.” With that, you turn and walk back out into the hallway, when Matt’s voice calls after you.

“Straight forward, up the stairs, and right at the top and you should be back in the sanctuary.” You snort, but follow his directions, finding yourself in the sanctuary a few minutes later. You pause to stare at the altar and the crucifix hanging above it for a few moments before you turn and leave the church.

***

It’s been a week. A week of knowing that Matt Murdock is alive. It’s Wednesday again, but you can’t bring yourself to go to mass or even anywhere close to Clinton Church. You’ve battled every emotion possible in the last week, torn between wanting to never see Matt again wanting to race back to that church and beg him to come home, come back to you even if it was the most degrading thing you’d ever do. You usually take your Wednesday evenings off from work so you’re at home, attempting to read a book, but stuck reading the same paragraph over and over, your mind everywhere but on the words in front of you. A knock on the door startles you, you weren’t expecting company. You expect several of the usual suspects, Foggy with takeout to make sure that you’re eating and offering company even if you don’t want conversation, Karen with a bottle of something alcoholic and some half-hearted talk about a story that she’s working on, your nosey next-door neighbor with some fake niceties and suggestions of who you could use as a rebound amongst her friends’ sons. What you don’t expect is the all-too-familiar lawyer standing at your door, his usual suit traded in for a sweatshirt and sweatpants, his glasses back on his nose, hiding the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen.

“Matt.” You say, not sure what else to say.

“May I come in?” He asks and you step back, silently inviting him in as you return to your spot on the sofa, before standing up again, too restless to sit. Having Matt back in your apartment feels odd, all things considered, and you wander around before coming to the window, gazing out, to escape looking at him where he’s taken up your former place on the couch. “So,” he says.

“So,” you echo.

“I’m sorry.” The two words fall from his lips and hit the ground like a sack of bricks. When you don’t respond, he continues. “You were right, what you said that day.” Again, you say nothing so he breathes out and says, “you must hate me.”

That makes you sigh. You didn’t know what you were going to say to him, but now you have an idea. One of the grief counselors convinced you to start journaling and a few nights ago, you were watching one of your favorite movies and the final scene had struck a chord with you, so you’d played with the dialogue in your journal that night. Those words come back to you now as you recite them to the window, still unable to look at Matt. “I hate the way you worry me, and I hate your perfect hair. I hate the way you call my name. I hate it when you care.” You smile softly, turning slightly so you can see Matt out of the corner of your eye. “I hate your dumb red devil suit, and the way you hear my heart. I hate you so much that it makes me scream. More now that we’re apart.” Your fists clench at your sides and you turn a little more, your voice starting to shake as tears fill your eyes. “I hate the way you know me best. I hate it when you die. I hate it when you make me laugh. Even worse when you make me cry.” Your voice breaks for a moment and you swallow before you finish. “I hate the way you disappear, and that you never called. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.” You turn all the way and find see Matt looking at you. Your fists relax and you fidget with your hands as Matt stands up, crossing the room to where you stand, wrapping you in his arms, soundlessly. You reach back, clinging to him like he’s going to disappear from your grasp if you don’t hold him there.

“I’m ready to keep you safe if you’ll let me.” Matt whispers into your hair.

“As Daredevil or Matt Murdock?” You ask with bated breath.

“Both.” He says and you hold him tighter than you thought was possible.

[renzu-valra]

Mindless/Soulless  ;  Obsessive/Possessive (#12)

Characters: Nozaki/Nobushige  ♦  Region: Ishgard  ♦  Time: Present Hosted by: @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​ Warnings: mind-break, blood, mild mention of body horror; non-canon compliant

I had a purpose. A reason for being here—now; drenched in sweat and cold frost. There had been a reason why I ran through the bitter storm and dark unfamiliar streets. Something I had been searching for. Something important.

But the moment I turned my gaze upwards into that second story window, my purpose had filtered away like treated water. My legs lost their balance and my knees hit the ground hard. All that rage and anger which led me here in the first place had been cleansed from my mind, and all that remained was a blank space. A vast, white void where my thoughts used to spiral out of control. I couldn’t think anymore—nor ration these turn of events. For in the closed window of what seemed to be a manse, I saw my entire life flash before my eyes.

And I could not bear it.

I saw my brother.

For years, I had thought about what I would do if I found him again; what it would be like. What I would do and say…how I’d run to greet him and with that one embrace, all the sins I had committed until that point would be expunged from my back. But now that it was finally happening, I couldn’t do anything at all but stare.

He was running a comb through his wetted hair…slowly and with care. Just as I would do for him when we were young. With him seated atop my lap as I wove a damaged comb through his hair gently so as to not tug on any knots. His hair had grown much longer since then. And the comb he used now was of far better quality. Every time he brushed his straight hair down, I felt more of my consciousness slip away.

My ambitions and fears, returning to dust. And then, his neatly tucked night-robe slackened over his collarbone as he set his comb down onto the vanity afore him and made to tie his hair up in a loose ponytail. The white of his silk gown nearly matched the tone of his skin—his smooth, unblemished skin. He appeared as if an angel. A winged goddess of the sky. Even when he rose to stand, his full frame now in view, I felt unworthy. I was but an ant, and he, the radiant sun.

Don’t go. Don’t go.

As he walked away from the window and my image of him began to wane, I pleaded silently for him to stay. My legs knew they could yet run—run to him and force a reunion—but it was as if my brain had willingly severed the connection binding my limbs to my will. I was kept hanging on a thread as he vanished from my sight. Hanging, and so desperately wanting. Wanting, for the noose to tighten.

Like a shotgun pushed against my head, the trigger seconds from being squeezed, he appeared before my eyes once again. A book held affectionately in his slender hands. Forgo the cold and my sub-temperature body. I was at peace. And soon, I would meet my end. As he reclaimed his seat by the window, his thumb making to turn the cover over…as his fingers trailed atop the paper inside…I heard it. The sound of a trigger popping. Bang.

His thin white gown clung tautly against his curved figure, soaking up the remnants of water post bath. The tails of his robe decorated with ornate lace befitting a queen. Nothing like the rags we had worn as children. Everything like what I envisioned him wearing whenever I laid eyes on him after a day riddled with strife and woe. He was beautiful, and I could stare forever at the way his untucked bangs curled and slid against his scaled cheeks. With each flip of the page, I found something new—something old—about him to admire. I had once protested against him wearing his hair up until I realized I could better see his smile. I had wanted him to stay wholly dependent a while longer, until I saw that the first thing he walked towards was me. I had urged against teaching him vocabulary, until I heard him call for me with his fragile, sincere voice. I had fought and fought and fought against his freedom—his separation from me—until this moment. When I was faced with how absolutely transcendent he had become.

Was I finally freed? Forgiven for all my grievances? Was it all worth it?

Bang.

 ----

 Of course I had known. For all my life…you have been a part of it. Though we have both went our own ways and been changed during the journey, I would never have been able to forget you. My dear, older brother.

I let you watch whilst I feigned innocent ignorance to your presence. I needn’t sight to know you were there—gazing through mine window entranced. For a moment longer, I thought. For this small moment more, let us enjoy a tranquil reprieve. Let us forget the truths of our damaged worlds and become sheltered in a temporary lie. For his sake. My brother’s—the one who gave up everything and more for me.

I would smile, as my fingers traced the braille of the page I dedicated to memory knowing that this too was a lie. I was not able to read with my eyes anymore, unlike when I was a child still in his care. My lips curving upwards in a sweet fashion only because I knew he was enjoying this time. That surely, he felt at peace in watching another one of my many acts for him. I wanted nothing more than for him to be happy. For him to know that he was safe…and that he would always feel this soothing bliss whenever he returned home to me.

However, this time…I was resolved to put an end to this fabricated fairy-tale. And I hoped that when I did…he would still be mine.

A voice rang out from below. One of the attendants serving at this manse. A woman’s voice, calling out into the front gardens. Demanding that the man laying half-prostrate with his head turned up leave at once. Nothing unreasonable, given the late hour…however…I lowered my head and closed my eyes in knowing farewell. It was time. Time to end this charade. To say goodbye to who I once was, once and for all. And to wish all the best to the me yet to come.

The once certain voice that resonated from the room underneath mine cried out again. This time in horror and desperation. Her screams broken and airy—begging for anyone to help her…until her voice called out no more. A pity, yes…but there would be no one person put to blame for her unfortunate suffering. She had simply been at the wrong place at the most inopportune of times. Mourning her would come later. For now, I had to prepare.

So that when he pushed through my door, he would be made to understand.

His footsteps were already roaring through the long corridors of this stone manor—climbing the stairs in rapid pace as if even gravity couldn’t halt his ascent. Mindlessly, he would barge through each door along the way, having forgotten which room he spied on from below…but fortunately enough, they were kept unoccupied.

When at last he reached the wooden door which served as meager barricade between him and I…

I…

----

 Failure. Failure. Failure. I failed him. I failed him. I’m a failure.

He was—he was; he was…

That fractured bliss which had been shot through my skull only mere moments prior had ricocheted in my brain and sent bits of metallic shells shooting through my synapses. Each one becoming a word—a phrase. A torrent of impossible guilt.

It’s not—it’s not. It can’t be. It’s not possible. It can’t be.

Hurt. Wounded. Sliced—wounded. His arm, his arm, his arm.

All that blind fury had instantly subsided; all my control surrendered.

His skin—white, white, pure white. Purple? Black? A purple-black—torn apart and nearly skinless.

An animal? Monster. Beast. Man. Claw marks. Who to blame? What hurt; hurt; had hurt my brother?

Me. I did. It was all me. I did this. I. Did. This. I did. I didn’t stop them. Couldn’t stop them. Hadn’t stopped them. My brother—my little brother—had the skin of his left arm from his wrist to his elbow peeled off and and and—his chest was marked by a horrible scar. I was a failure, I was, and I couldn’t deny it anymore. I failed, I failed, I failed—

 ----

 I…

I slowly pulled my robe back over my arms and tied it around my waist. Covering myself in beautiful white silks once more before I stepped towards my ailing brother.

I…realized that I too needed this. I needed to witness my brother’s collapse to know that…I had done the right thing.

Wrapping my arms around his shaking self, I was soon brought to my knees as his weight crumbled down atop of me.

“There, there…”

I lovingly caressed him as he squeezed me so tightly he might as well have broken my spine. But surely he came to that same realization too, as his grip waned into more incessant trembling. My fingers stroked through his short, unkempt hair as I held him against myself. His warm hands soaked with the fresh blood of the woman lying dead in the foyer. Staining my white gown in his black-red.

“Big brother…I’m here. You’re home...”

Our horns pressed up against each other, nuzzling in a reminiscent manner. This scene, although set in the present…was no different than it had been in our past. My dear brother…returning home to me after a traumatic affair which struck his very core. Falling onto me in the absence of his mind. Crying pathetically as he clung to me in desperate need of my pure, untarnished love. Whilst the latter was no longer true…what mattered was that he still saw me as such. I was not broken, so long as I viewed myself through his eyes. I was still his god.

And while I yet drew breath, I would never let him go.

[keeroo92]

How about the sparda bois having to adjust to an s/o that gets into a terrible accident that leaves the s/o blind? (Preferably male s/o plz)

Sure thing, Anon! Apologies for the delay, hope you enjoy!

V

First thing he does when he finds out is give them his cane. It’s not like he’s particularly attached to it, he can always find another and his partner needs it so much more right now.

It breaks his heart to see the man he loves try to memorize where each piece of furniture sits. He keeps a close eye and his arms are always ready to catch him if he stumbles. After the first few times, he adds a layer of padding to the edges of the wooden table and chairs, the countertops in the kitchen and anything else he deems necessary.

In quieter moments, they sit together as V reads aloud. He doesn’t mind when his s/o asks him to read something new, only smiles and cracks open the cover to begin.

To make sure his partner doesn’t feel alone, he’ll learn braille with them. It’s a slow process for them both, but the first time his partner “reads” aloud, all the frustration vanishes with his smile.

He’s always there when it becomes too much. He understands how hard it is when one’s body fails, to feel limited by what one cannot do. He’ll reassure his partner with kisses and soft words, making sure he knows nothing could ever change the love in his heart.

Vergil

He’s angry beyond reason that circumstance harmed the man he treasures. The first few days after the accident, he searches for someone or something to blame. Who caused the problem, why did it happen, how can he fix it…

It isn’t until his partner shouts at him that he stops his investigation. He’s ashamed that he forgot the only thing that truly matters and turns his focus to being there for his partner.

He brings a notebook to every doctor’s appointment, taking extensive notes on how to help him adjust. Sometimes he makes the doctors uncomfortable with the intensity of his questions, but he doesn’t care. It’s too important that he knows exactly what is required of him.

It’s sweet how he helps him choose a pair of dark glasses and describes each cane in detail. The elegant one is his favorite, and it delights him when it’s the final choice.

When they come home, he sets up rubber cones for him to practice sweeping his path. He’s so proud when he first navigates the complicated set up he actually smiles. It takes him a moment to remember his partner can’t see it, but once he remembers he’ll bring his partners hand to his face so he can feel the twist of his lips.

Dante

He really isn’t sure what to say. It’s tough for him to understand what his partner is going through, and he does his best to just be there. It’s enough.

Sometimes he forgets what happened and walks a little too fast or comments on how nice the sky looks, but with time he improves. He’s always apologetic and thanks his lucky stars that his partner is so understanding.

He spends most of his free time trying to think of something to help. The basics are covered, but there has to be something extra special he can do. He won’t rest until he figures it out.

When he thinks of the sunglasses shop in town, he knows he’s found the perfect thing. He takes his partner down and they start browsing, trying on shades and laughing as Dante describes them. He claims he’s no wordsmith, but some of his choices prove otherwise.

They stay until the shop starts closing, which admittedly is only an hour. Dante picks out a pair of classic Ray-Bans for himself and leads his partner up front, insisting he pay for his as well. An appreciative kiss is his reward as they leave, looking like rock stars according to Dante.

Nero

He’s more worried than his partner is and asks tons of questions. Most of the answers he won’t remember, but he catches enough to know it’s permanent. That means changes need to be made.

He doesn’t leave his side unless he gets yelled at, guiding him around whatever obstacles and helping him find everything he needs. Nero takes no chances.

He gets called away on a mission a week after he got home, but Nero doesn’t want to go. He claims its more important to help his partner adjust than to kill a few demons. There’s always gonna be more, after all. His partner is the one who convinces him to go, they’ll manage just fine.

It’s a quick job and he gets back the next morning, with a new puppy in tow. He forced Nico to take him to the shelter and chosen a golden retriever. He promises he’ll take care of all the training and doggy-duties and his partner reluctantly agrees. They chose the name Gracie together for the new addition, adding name tags to her collar in an almost ceremonial fashion.

Nero trains her well and by the time he needs to leave for a more serious case, Gracie is already in the process of getting certified. He thinks it’s a waste of time, but apparently she needs a fancy vest if they go out in public.

Between Gracie and Nero, his beloved is never alone or in need of help from strangers. They are both rewarded with their own versions of ‘petting’ and several treats, and Nico declares Gracie the mascot of Devil May Cry.

[dearduende]

DID

this all really happen? the way it’s written, no— scratched into the spiral bound, composition, college-ruled everything. each waking moment and fights and fears. and the dreams. including those crushes from afar with code names that I must piece together from hints over months and years, and then tracing back cryptic love notes tucked into lockers now pinned as if evidence pointing to the mens rea— the furtive phone calls in hushed tones from my bathroom as if my parents didn’t notice me flush and steal myself away from the dinner table and the nightly status reports. the secrecy (and the hormones) (and the embarrassment of my existence) (but mostly the hormones) blooming acne across my chin, my forehead, my nose within the grooves of its parentheses willing its contents—each pore—to shrink into an afterthought. I remember now how I had prayed to God to absolve my skin problems and to solve my boy ones. even bargained with Him in bed that I’d stop touching myself— or at least a bit less—as if these whiteheads were His chosen form of punishment. a dozen constellations across my shoulders from which my mother would weave the story of her same hidden shame, shared scars and bumps across our backs like labels in Braille of all the parts I want to hide, she promised: it’ll lessen and pass with time.

yet it still manages to haunt the next generation.

pull out the red string and the pins to map the evidence, the eye witness accounts, the threats and the retaliation and the heartache onto the faded bamboo floors of my parents’ house. the times I willed myself not to cry, stone woman as my mother avalanched again over the granite before me her voice booming and crumbling daring to swallow us. the way I stoically thrilled in the lust of our mutual destruction, first: the sticky salt of our wounds lashed by sharp tongues and second: the umami of it seared and grilled to perfection. still bleeding. medium rare. or when my father stampeded the room. seeing red. throwing a metal water bottle, denting it permanently against the wall then landing on the cold tile. how their swear words were only ever in English (that’s when I knew shit was serious) a rare violence uncondoned by both their mothers’ tongues.

I’m just realizing now: no wonder my brother and I, or I’ll just speak for myself, why I still burst into tears in the middle of their war zone, or whatever else might feel remotely like it. I now know instead of acting as an unsolicited diplomat caught in the crossfire it’s safer to seek asylum in the Switzerland of the next room, one ear still wired to their rising voices (I can’t help it) and their talking points, only to draft peace treaties for a civil war where they’ve long forgotten what it is they’re really fighting about anymore. but back then, this was the only way to snap them out of self-destruct mode by overriding their programming with the parental unit fail-safe. their child crying.

I could walk backwards through it with my eyes closed and show you exactly how the sun slants through the windows. how in late spring afternoon the crystals hanging in the dining room explode a universe of rainbows, little galaxies of light scattered among our dark matter, across the white walls and the floors and the crumbs on the pale table cloth. I could point out all the favorite sun spots of Tiger and Lily (may he rest in peace) and somehow always end up back at the grand piano. there is a tenderness only fingertips know.

dig out the mental blueprints from the archives. the different schools. the cliques and the quacks. the start of another year. short shorts and sweaters. (refer to your diaryjournals for the details).

and then another new journal. how they all somehow begin with the just-after-waking subtle scent of short stories germinating in my mind. they seem to disappear just before I can finish transcribing them and then I’m left empty handed, dumfounded, foolish and doubting and then writing the only kinds of stories I do know, the ones I’m still learning to place in the light sprouting tender roots between sheets of paper, pressed tightly like all those flower petals— if only I could preserve their bright pigment tones. but even imagination fades. and seemingly so do memories. these spines loosely bound and knees and elbows now cracked, scuffed, and crinkled. just a bit creased and water damaged. over the years. but mostly tears—watermarks from another era. once, an errant sprinkler jet from the lawn tap tap tapped against my bedroom window just barely cracked open, as fate would have it. waterlogged stacks of books my pillars now pink and black and blue with mold and flooded the bamboo floors. trying to put out the wrong fires a decade too late, or maybe the right fires as in the written ones, to destroy the evidence. I now keep them sealed in a plastic box.

I plead the fifth. there must be some limit after all these years, when it’s way too late to apologize anyway— I’ve considered, and then talked myself down, from texting or DMing all the people I have wronged. and memory serves no one now. if my handwriting has changed at least a dozen times does that mean I’ve lived a dozen different lives? the Hubba Bubba gum tape chewing preteen blowing bubbles over every i and j and under each ! and then there’s the jagged purple glitter pen cursive as if going slower helps it turn out better— one of those things you realize later in life isn’t always true. there’s the one seemingly always in a rush, skinny and slanted and caffeinated (there are coffee spill stains to prove) always as if she’s just about to topple over. breathe, I want to tell her, no need to move so fast. you will concuss yourself doing so. and two weeks later also topple down the stairs. (both true stories.) life will force you to slow down. I almost forget the one more rounded and grounded printed in ballpoint extra fine so as not to bleed but what’s the cost of living for the sake of perfection? what even is my handwriting now? I had to dig out one of my scrap paper lists to figure out how its a blend, less measured and more movement without being driven purely by entropy.

loosely held together.

and now, how often do I write, like with pen and paper the letters carved and inked their ghosts passing through the walls between pages bumping up against other memories. these lives and voices call out to me across the decades, some more familiar than others almost like specimens in a museum glass box too fragile for the dust or the humidity or the air or the light of day. I’m an archeologist glowing at her simple discovery which really just involves showing up onsite and digging and dusting and continued search over and over into the pits of my being delicately brushing away at the dirt around my bones, the silt and sediment compressing into a cross section of history held in my hand. look! here it is.

so I write again, if only for this moment to leave my future self some clues (in no particular order): the return of my freckles. Craigslist apartment daydreams. I’m building my callouses learning a new landscape of metal strings and broken chords. say a little prayer. tonight, I made choong yao bang from scratch with Mom. I’ve been staying up way too late (it’s 4:35am right now... why?) and then falling asleep to ASMR videos (specifically, Emma). Mom and Dad are actually not fighting much these days despite spending all day under the same roof (find your Google doc, love in the time of quarantine).

my younger self might not even recognize these people inhabiting our same house.

Mom and Dad are both still here. and I’m trying not to take it all for granted, I promise. we’re together for now but he’s gone again (eerily, much like 10 years ago but this time on his own terms) or at least he’s far away, who knows, who’s to say. we’re giving him time and space. and we’re learning how to hold each other while we fall apart, sometimes all at the same time. usually in different ways.

how I’m scared and excited for my life to unfurl one leaf at a time. allowing myself the gift, the anticipation, the surprise, and then counting the splits.

reach for the sunlight, keep reaching.

and I still don’t know what I wanna be when I grow up but when have I ever had it all figured out and what fun is that.

and a note to my younger self: PS—not only will you continue to write for emotional release (reference my pure bewilderment of this cathartic power in diaryjournal dated February 10, 2007) you will also connect with other humans in your words and we’ll play in our world and revel in theirs too. keep writing, for yourself. and dare to share it with others.

gather what others refer to as the weeds, make a bouquet, blow and scatter the dandelion seeds.

[barnes-dameron]

The Blind Date

*not my gif* 

Matt Murdock x fem!reader

Summary: Thanks to your lovely matchmaking friend, Natasha, you were set up on a blind date with a very attractive blind man. 

Word count: 2.5k

“Seriously Y/N,” Natasha says, eyeing you over the granola bar she was eating. “When was the last time you’ve been on a date?”

You rolled your eyes at the question, and continued to eat your cereal. It’s been a while since you’ve been on an actual date but there were reasons, or excuses you made. You’ve been working as a nurse and medical assistant to Dr. Cho at the Avenger’s facility for over a year now. From late nights of patching up Steve or wrapping up a sprain ankle from Sam, you didn’t have any “free time.”

When hearing upon your dull love life, Natasha had to stick her nose in your business. You tried your best to dodge her questions, in effort to not embarrass yourself. While trying to enjoy your bowl of cereal in the morning before your long day of work, Natasha decided to ambush you. 

“A while,” you said in between bites of cereal. 

“How long is a while?” Natasha asked, pointing her granola bar at you. 

“A year,” you mumbled while putting the spoon in your mouth. 

“A what?” she asked, giving you a look of confusion. 

“A year,” you said, loud enough for her to hear. 

Natasha practically let her granola bar fall out of her hands. She hopped off her seat on the kitchen table, and came racing towards to one side of the kitchen island, the opposite from where you sat. 

“You haven’t gone on a date in a year?!” she exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you?”

You shook your head, while trying to formulate a good response. But you came up short. 

“I don’t know,” you said at last. “I’ve just been so caught up with work that I never really had time to go out. Plus it’s hard to find good men to go out with. When I tell people I work for you guys, they just get intimidated and drift away.”

Natasha pursed her lips, and nodded her head. 

“Well...” she said, dragging out the last letter. “I found the perfect guy for you.”

“Natasha-”

“Y/N please,” Natasha said, holding up her hand to silence you. “You haven’t been on a date for over a year because of us. I’ll take care of your shift and make sure Steve, Sam, and the others won’t injure themselves. You deserve at least one night to yourself and another man.” 

“What if he doesn’t like me?” you asked, your nerves getting the better of you. 

“Are you kidding me?” Natasha said. “You’re a smart, hot, and sexy nurse. Any guy would be lucky to have you.”

You smiled. Any other person would say that to you, and you would still feel doubtful. But hearing that from Natasha, it gave you a burst of confidence. Maybe you could go on a date. It’s been a while, but you could probably do it. It won’t be hard, plus it’s one date. 

“What’s he like?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you. 

Natasha smiled, straightening her back a bit. 

“He’s handsome, kind, loyal, a civil servant, brave, and not to mention a lawyer.”

Hmm. This guy does sound pretty nice, and a lawyer! You were a sucker for lawyers since your little Law & Order binge watch in between shifts. You shrugged your shoulders. 

“Plus,” Natasha added. “He doesn’t give a damn on how anybody’s looks.”

“What the hell,” you said. “Why not?”

“Great,” Natasha responded. “You have a date with him tonight at six at that little restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen.”

You practically choked on the milk you were drinking from your bowl. 

“Tonight?” you asked. 

“Yeah,” Natasha said as she was making her way to the door. “I let him know a couple of days ago. He’s wearing dark red shades, and don’t be rude by being late.”

The restaurant that Natasha instructed you to be at was actually quite nice. The tables were covered in cream colored cloth, and were lit by soft candle light.  Classical musical played gently in the background, filling the silence but still allowing people to carry on conversation. 

It’s been a while since the last time you got dressed up. You never really attended Tony’s lavish parties, so you had no need to do it, except tonight. You wore a dark red and black dress, that Wanda graciously let you borrow, that hugged your figure in all the right places. It was the first time in forever that you practically radiated confidence. 

You looked around, searching over the heads of people to see a face wearing red shades. The restaurant was quite crowded, and for a split second you felt hope dwindling out from your body. He probably stood you up. A part of you wanted to leave the restaurant, go back to the facility, and relieve Natasha from covering your shift. But hope still resided in you as well. 

You approached the hostess behind the little podium, your stomach twisting a bit. 

“Excuse me,” you said, grabbing her attention. “Have you seen a man with red sunglasses?” 

“Yes, he came not too long ago,” she said, looking around the restaurant. “He’s towards the back corner over there.” 

You looked at the direction she indicated, and found where he sat. You thanked the hostess, and began to make your way towards his table. He didn’t stand you up. He was here. He was actually here. You are on an actual date. The closer you got to the table, the butterflies began to flutter more widely in your stomach. He was there, sitting patiently for you. 

“Hi,” you said, trying to grab his attention. “Sorry I’m late.”

You sat in your seat that was across from him. He was handsome. His thick dark hair was perfectly in place but a little messy, and coincided with his 5 o’clock shadow. He smiled, his bright and unwavering.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his voice deep. “I didn’t wait for long.”

You settled yourself in, placing the cloth napkin on your lap. 

“You must be Y/N,” he said. “Natasha’s sexy nurse friend.”

You laughed and nodded your head. 

“That would be me,” you said. “And you’re...”

“Matt,” he said, his smile quirking to one side. “Matt Murdock.” 

“Nice to meet you Matt.”

“You as well Y/N.”

The waiter came by and introduced himself, placing two menus in front of you and Matt. But something seemed a bit off. You watched as Matt pursed his lips, and turned his head to the direction of your waiter. 

“Do you by chance have menus written in braille?” Matt asked. 

Braille? You looked over the side of the table, and saw a white cane. Oh, he’s blind. You would’ve thought that Natasha would give you a heads up. You listened as the waiter apologized, and watched as he went to go get Matt’s menu. 

“You just figured out, didn’t you?” Matt asked, a smirk playing on his lips. 

“Yeah,” you said, embarrassment strung in your voice. 

“I hope this doesn’t change anything,” Matt said, tapping his finger lightly on the base of his fork. 

“It doesn’t,” you replied. “Why should it?” 

Matt smiled. Even though he couldn’t see you, he saw you. He didn’t need to see your physical features, he saw you by the way you talked. He saw you by the way you described things with such a passion. He saw you by the way your heart would flutter at random times. 

The dinner went on smoothly. You laughed at his stories, and you shared some of things from your past. You never felt this great in over a year. Maybe Natasha was right. 

“So you work with the Avengers?” he asked before eating a bite from his dinner. 

You let out a loud sigh. 

“Yeah,” you replied. “It’s not as glamorous as it seems. My job is to just patch them up, and tell them to be careful next time even though they don’t.”

“If we started off the night with that comment then it probably would’ve gone a different way,” he said, laughing softly after. 

“Oh really,” you said, trying your best to be flirty but failing horribly. You thought you had your dating mojo, but that all changed when actually being in front of Matt. “How would it be different?” 

You witnessed the slight hesitation in Matt’s breathing, the tension in his shoulders. He pursed his lips, his eyebrows furrowing a bit. He opened his mouth but closed it again, trying to collect his thoughts. 

“You work with heroes right?” he asked, his head tilting to the side a bit. 

“Yes...” you said, trying to follow him. 

“What if I told you that being a lawyer isn’t all I do?” 

“What else do you do?” you asked, rather curious for the answer. 

At that moment, you moved your hand to reach for another napkin, but your hand bumped and knocked over an empty glass from your previous drink. It would’ve hit the floor and shatter if it wasn’t for Matt. 

You watched in utter amazement as Matt quickly caught the glass halfway down. How he knew it was about to fall or where it was, you didn’t know. Matt set the glass back on the table, and turned his head to your direction. He sensed the slight pick up in your heart beat.

“Does that somewhat answer your question?” he asked, quirking up an eyebrow. 

“Somewhat.”

Matt leaned forward on the table with his elbows, you doing the same. His voice came out as a whisper, soft and gentle, only for you to hear. 

“Have you heard of Daredevil?” he asked. 

“You mean the the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?” you countered. 

Matt pursed his lips, and hung his head a bit before raising it to meet you. 

“Yeah,” he said, sounding a bit defeated. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“I heard of him,” you pondered. “Don’t know much about him, except he protects the city.” 

Matt gave off a soft laugh. 

“There is a bit more that he does,” Matt said. “Like how he goes on dates with sexy nurses.” 

You let out a breath, and looked away. Was he really telling you that he’s Daredevil? On the first date? Wow, he must be Daredevil because telling you his “night job” is a ballsy move. 

“So...” you began, turning your attention back on the vigilante in front of you. “Are you implying that you’ve been on more dates with sexy nurses.” 

Matt smiled, and leaned back in his chair. You noticed the way the tension left his shoulders slightly. He continued to face towards you. 

“Kind of,” he said. ‘So you’re not bothered by my ‘other job?’” 

You laughed, taking your forearms off the table. 

“I work with super humans, people that have tech, and martial artists,” you said, shrugging a bit. “At this point another person coming out as a hero is no surprise to me.”  

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say hero,” Matt pondered. 

“In my book you are,” you stated flatly yet sincerely. 

Matt opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted with the waiter bringing the check. Matt reached out for it, but you placed your hand on his. 

“I can pay,” you insisted. 

You hated owing people, and you certainly didn’t want to owe the Devil of Hell’s kitchen. You still owe Sam a favor from two months ago when he bought you lunch. With Sam, that favor could be anything. 

“No,” Matt persisted. “I’m the lawyer let me pay.”

“I’m the nurse. I’m capable of paying.” 

“I think not,” Matt said, scrunching his face up in an amused look. “Your purse isn’t next to you.” 

“What?” you asked. You looked next to your seat, and noticed that the purse you brought wasn’t there. You looked around the table and under your seat, but it wasn’t there. By the time you reemerged from underneath the table, in time for the waiter to come and pick up the bill with Matt’s money. After he left, Matt passed you your purse over the table. “You asshole! How did you get it?”

Matt raised up his cane for you to see, as you rolled your eyes. 

“Perks of being blind,” he chided. “I’ll let you pay for the expensive ones.”

“A true gentleman,” you teased him, but let it go (for the time being). 

“So you agree then?” Matt asked, fiddling with the silverware a bit. “To future dates?”

You bit your lip in excitement, and Matt noted the little skip your heart made. He wanted to go on future dates with you! You nodded you head, but mentally kicked yourself because he was blind (even though he sensed your movement). 

“I would love that,” you replied, a smile spreading across your face. 

Throughout the rest of the night you couldn’t stop smiling. You smiled all the way to your car, throughout the ride home, and even through your dreams. 

Throughout the walk to work, Matt couldn’t stop thinking of you. Between cases and stopping crime, his life was pretty dull. It wasn’t until he met Natasha that he considered to get back into the dating game. When she told him about you, Matt was interested from the start. 

Of course he was more interested in how you were a nurse, someone to have as an ally, but now he was thinking of you as something more. 

Entering into Nelson and Murdock, Foggy emerged from his office and followed Matt into his. 

“Was she hot? Was she sexy like your friend said? Did you sleep with her?” Foggy badgered Matt with questions, as he took stuff out of his bag. 

“How am I supposed to know what she looks like, Foggy?” Matt said. “But she was beautiful. With her words, her voice, her intelligence, and witty remarks-”

“But did you sleep with her?”

“No,” Matt said. “I felt that this is special. I don’t want to rush it. I kind of see myself with her, Foggy.”

“You can’t see anything, Matt,” Foggy chided. 

Matt rolled his eyes, but continued to unpack. Matt sensed Foggy moving around the room to settle himself in a chair, but then Matt heard the distinct knock that belonged to Karen. 

“Come in Karen,” Matt answered, and sat in his chair. 

Karen walked in, holding something in both hands. 

“Matt,” she began, making her way to his desk. “This is for you. Some woman came in, saying this is for you.” 

The heavenly scent filled up the room along with Matt’s nostrils. He hummed in content as he searched through the bag pulling out his favorite meal. While feeling around, his fingers landed on a slip of paper with indentations and rises of dots. Braille. It wasn’t everyday that he received a message written in braille. He ran his fingers over the lines, and smiled to himself. 

“What’s it say?” Foggy questioned as Karen leaned over the side of the desk to get a peak. 

“It’s from Y/N,” Matt said fondly, loving the way your name ran off his tongue so smoothly. “ ‘Payback from last night. Can’t wait to see you again. P.S. You better appreciate this note. You don’t know how hard it is to punch in braille for the first time.’“ 

Matt laughed softly, and shook his head as he held the note in both hands. 

“Wow,” Foggy said. “She sure is something.”

“No, Foggy,” Matt said, contradicting his friend. “She’s everything.” 

[khymer-vulture]

A Taste of Life

Anndddd, here’s one of the stories I’m working on. I’ll be posting it on here first, before putting it onto AO3, I’m gonna wait until I put a couple chapters in the overhaul before putting anything else on there.

(A What If AU - based around the story of the blind old man....or episode 8)

Act 1 - Chapter 1

‘What is this chill I’m feeling?’

 Isaac’s world came to a strange turn, he had liberated himself from the cruelties of the Orphanage by murdering the proprietors in their sleep. Now, he’s sitting in the living room of an old shack belonging to a blind old man. The past couple days were strangely awkward, Zack said nothing, kept to himself, and mostly slept. He’s not used to this, he’s not used to being fed, not used to someone casually talking to him, and most especially, not used to having someone show concern for him.

 Just the memory of having the old man give him his coat sent his mind in a spin. He just killed a guy, yet the old man was unfazed, and simply tended to him, before filling Zack’s head with a question for purpose.

 ‘What will you do now?’

 He doesn’t know...but...deep down, he doesn’t exactly want to leave this trashed shack. It just didn’t feel right to just up and go, and besides, where is he going to go?

 Zack stared at the scrap of paper onto the table, annoyance scrunched on his face from the frustration of being illiterate. It’s been a few hours now since the old man stepped out. Isaac came to figure out that the old man’s outings were routine, he left in the early morning, and came back around the afternoon or the evening. Time continued passing by, the light of the day hazed into the dark of night, and the old man wasn’t home yet. There were no scraps to scavenge, or even any trace of food to pilfer through the shack, Zack’s stomach was growling loudly, a familiar torment that the boy was accustomed to for years. A torment that agitated him.

 ‘That old fart should’ve been back by now…’

 Zack stared at the scrap of paper again, he can’t read it, he can’t understand the fucking scribbles on the paper. The boy grit his teeth and uttered an angered growl, before swiping the paper and shredding it into bits.

 ‘They ran off, I just know it...I should’ve killed him when I had the chance,’ he internally snarled, ‘he’s the same...they’re all the same…’

 That chill he continued to feel during his stay didn’t leave him at all, instead, such a sensation increased. It was making his heart race, a palpitation he hasn’t felt since he had ordinary skin. Following that, was a sickening twist in his stomach. Zack doesn’t know what this strange feeling was, he doesn’t understand it - he hates it.

 Isaac angrily leapt out of the wooden chair he had been sitting on all day, and let out a loud, infuriated yell at the top of his small lungs. Adrenaline surged through his veins, giving him that same sense of a savage rush like during the night of his liberation. He was overwhelmed with an urge to destroy - to kill. The young boy grabbed the nearest thing in sight, grasping the flimsy wood chair, and held it up to throw it across the shack.

 “What’s all this fuss about?”

 Zack paused in his actions, his heart stopped for a split second, and that rush of adrenaline suddenly ceased. The boy lowered his arms and glanced behind himself to see the old man entering the shack through the creaky door. The elderly man slipped his tattered hat off to set it at the table, before approaching the boy. Zack quietly set the chair down, and returned to his stoicness - albeit, he was internally kicking himself for jumping to conclusions so quickly.

 “...What took you so long?”

 “I apologize for the delay, I didn’t mean to make you worry,” the old man replied, then handed a small paper bag to Isaac. “There had been an incident near the riverside. The area was blocked off for a while, so I had to wait until everything was cleared up. From what I heard, there had been a mugging, which lead to an unfortunate end…”

 The person was killed, there was no need to sugarcoat it for Zack. The delay though, all over a dead person, to Zack, it seemed like it should be no big deal.

 “Such a shame...it seems every new generation is growing much more violent these days…” the old man sighed, pulling back a chair on the opposite side of the table to sit with the boy.

 “...It’s a kill or be killed world...people will do crazy things to live another day…” Zack muttered with a sneer.

 This made the elderly man reflect on the blood he smelled coming from Zack, but again, he made no reaction to it, “...Hmm...yes, I suppose so…”

 Then something recalled in his mind, “Ah, right...were you able to find my note? I’m afraid I can’t really judge what my penmanship is like nowadays.”

 There was an awkward silence, before Zack let out a shy mumble, “...I can’t read.”

 This surprised the elder, especially for someone Zack’s age to be illiterate, it seems there alot to the boy that he did not know. It must’ve explained the anxiety he was able to sense from him as he stepped back into the house, still, a short chuckle left the man’s lips.

 “What’s so funny? Are you laughing at me?” Zack growled.

 “No, not at all...just laughing at myself,” the old man replied, “I must’ve made the situation a little awkward. I apologize again, I wasn’t aware.”

 The boy huffed before he opened the bag given to him, even just a crease opened, his nostrils picked up the scent of bread, and quickly assumed that it was freshly made. It was at room temperature now, but the scent was fairly pleasing compared to the hard bread he ate prior. Again, Zack’s stomach growled, and the boy didn’t hesitate twice to take a bite out of the soft loaf. He doesn’t know if he was going to get used to this, he was so used to being discarded or treated like some sort of burden to kick around. This old man was treating him the opposite, he just keeps giving, with no catch to it. Such acts were making his survival instincts too befuddled to be suspicious of him or not, like he wants to keep his guard up, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to be so defensive around him either. The old man remained the same, keeping that gentle nature, feeding him and providing a roof over his head, when he never asked for it.

 He gives, without asking much in return, just the company from another person.

 Isaac doesn’t know what it all is, to give. He always looked out for himself, others would either die off or treat him like something other than human. The boy glanced over to the blind elder, and knew he went out of his way to get him fresh bread this time. For once, Zack went against his instinct of self preservation, and brought his bandaged hand up to tear off the other half of the bread.

 The old man could smell the scent of the bread coming in his direction, Zack was offering it to him.

 “It’s yours, young man. You need all the food you can get to grow big and strong,” the old man kindly declined.

 “...Eat it…”

 This made the old man pause for a moment, Zack was insistent on giving him a share of his food. This boy, who only kept to himself, and showed a strong distrust - along with an inner plight that he can sense. Maybe this can be a sign that he was coming around. The old man grasped the piece of bread from Zack’s fingers, and bit off a small piece. The two sat there quietly as they’ve always done, now eating this freshly baked bread together.

 “I have been meaning to ask...but I did not want to seem like I was prying, may I ask you for your name?”

 “...What for? Why do you care?” Zack grumbled.

 “Well, I can’t exactly call you ‘Boy’ all the time,” the man replied with a gentle chuckle.

 Isaac stayed quiet for a moment, he was kind of right, and Zack probably wouldn’t respond if he was referred to such a name, something that didn’t show his individuality.

 “...It’s…” he reluctantly muttered, as if saying something so simple was choking his throat, “...it’s I-Isaac...Isaac Foster...I’d rather be called Zack…”

 “Isaac…” the old man mumbled, “...Isaac...that’s a good name.”

 Zack could feel something else besides a chill within his being, a shy warmth creeping across his cheeks, and heating the bandages he wore on his face. It’s awkward to hear something about him that wasn’t demeaning, and hummed out a faint grumble. He doesn’t know how to react to it.

 His mismatched eyes returned to the blind old man, “...What about you?”

 “Just calling me ‘Old Man’ will do,” he replied. “I guess it would be simpler anyway.”

 Zack gave the man a pout, not like he could see his reaction anyway. Still, it felt like his question was kind of dodged. Then, he watched him carefully get up, and shuffle over to the other side of the shack.

 “Well, since you’ve told me that you can’t read, I’m afraid I can’t exactly educate you like a normal person would these days,” he said, “...however, I suppose I can teach you my way of being able to read. Even the outside world can provide these kind of texts.”

 Isaac raised a brow, as the old man pat around one of the dingy furniture, knocking aside some bottles, until he grasped the item he was looking for. As the old man returned to Zack’s side, he set down the item he was searching for, a book. Before the boy could question, or even complain about his illiteracy, the elder opened the book to show that it was devoid of words, each and every page had an array of different bumps lining the page.

 “Ever since my vision began to fail, I had to teach myself to read this way,” the old man said, “...this is Braille, it helps the blind read like any other person. Since I can no longer read ordinary text, perhaps I can teach you to read Braille too.”

 “Right now?”

 The old man softly chuckled, “It’s quite late, I think it would be better to do it tomorrow when we’re both fully rested.”

 He closed the book, leaving on the table as a silent promise.

 “If you do wish to live here, I think it’s about time this place should get tidied up as well. It wouldn’t seem right to have you live in such a mess,” he continued.

 “...I’m used to it…”

 “Hmm, that may be...but I think a change is always good for everyone,” the old man said. Like before, he showed his kindness to Zack, by giving him a gentle pat on the head, and draping his torn coat around his shoulders, “Get yourself some sleep.”

 The elderly man shuffled his way to the bedroom, with the sound of light patters following behind. Zack could see an orange feline making its way into the bedroom for a quieter place to sleep. It must’ve went into hiding, especially after Zack’s sudden outburst earlier. Once the bedroom door closed right behind him, Zack sat there to stew in his own thoughts. He finished eating the last bits of bread, before dusting the crumbs off his bandaged hands. This old man he’s come to stay with really was a complete opposite of those in the Orphanage, he just gives, while they always took. Not once has Zack ever asked for any of it, but, he really doesn’t want to complain. Honestly, these passing days had been feeling both strange, but oddly fulfilling. This blind man treats him so much differently, not as a monster or a tool, and shows no sign of even considering it. Then, there was the way he talked to Zack, even if it was simple ramblings about the day, his tone was always soft and calm, unlike the venomous words he came to adjust to.

 Isaac actually gave something to someone, it was a behavior he would never show to anybody, especially when it came to food. The bread given to him, it was incredibly tasty, much better than the stale bread that he consumed the other day. Deep down, Zack knew he couldn’t live on just bread alone. The boy has lived on trash for the longest time, but still, he did devour different things that he considered palatable. His instinct to scavenge stirred within him, but also something else, a strange need to give something in return to the old man. Something did poke in the back of Isaac’s mind though, he knows the blind elder was living in squalor, the trashed shack was proof enough, and the man’s disability certainly wouldn’t bring in income to help get food. Like Zack, this man must’ve scavenged as well - it explains the hard bread.

 “Why do I even care about it?”

 The boy paced about the room for a moment, he’s feeling a mixture of agitation and anxiety. No one cared about his existence in such a way the old man is doing now, and it’s bothering the hell out of Zack. Is repaying this strange gesture a proper way to react? Maybe like before, when he admitted his act of murder to the old man, he could try and test a reaction.

 Isaac pulled off the coat that was draped around him, and dropped it onto the couch he had been sleeping on in the past few days. He quietly made his way into the old man’s room once again, there was one thing he wanted to confirm for himself. His heterochromatic eyes spotted the tattered wallet kept on a cracked dresser, and didn’t think twice to open the small, leather pouch. Just as he thought, only pennies were inside. This old man sacrificed what very little he had to get him actual, edible food. Isaac grit his teeth, he feels this sense like he’s too much trouble for someone like this man, but not once has he complained or shown regret for it.

 Company just isn’t enough for repayment, Zack feels like he’s taking from him, another person who’s just struggling to survive another day.

 ‘Maybe this is why it’s bothering me so much…’

 His mind was made up, Isaac set the wallet down, and left the room. He was going to seek out another victim tonight. As Zack stepped out, he paused in his steps, and recalled that he disposed of that large kitchen knife. It had become dull and twisted, incapable of stabbing or even slitting a throat to help commit the deed of killing. The boy grumbled in annoyance, he needed to be resourceful if he was going to take someone down. Zack walked around the house to find at least something of use that he can wield as a weapon. Just near the back of the house, he found piles of wood, possibly to be used to warm up the old shack during the colder weather. Well, the man isn’t going to be using it now, given the warm season it was now. Zack picked up a large chunk of wood, and decided to get a good feel for it. He swung it a few times, getting a better grip on the blunt object to prevent it from slipping from his fingers. It may not do a quick job like a knife, but at least beating the shit out of someone will suffice.

 Isaac set out into the nearby town, maybe if he’s lucky, he can bump into another drunk.

 Like before, there was barely a soul wandering around in the dead of night, except for the usual drunks leaving their favorite bars to head home. Zack walked down the alleys, if he got a kill there, then maybe he can do it again. He stopped in his tracks, and saw the stain on the ground where his last kill happened. Zack had this deep compulsion to smile at his work. Just knowing he killed a person made him feel satisfied, but that smile faded as he recalled the old man’s reaction.

 ‘What will you do now?’

 He still doesn’t know...but for now, he just wants to pay the old man back.

 A sound suddenly caught Zack’s ears, a loud and exhausted yawn. The boy turned his attention to the noise, and saw a man shuffling down the alley. It’s obvious the man was worn out, he was wearing a suit, which he lazily unbuttoned with a tie dangling on his neck. He looked like he was about to fall asleep any second. They were perfect, this man wouldn’t have the energy to fight back, more or less even realize what hit him. Zack hunkered down behind some trash cans and gripped the piece of wood tightly. He was like a predator stalking prey just before the moment of striking. As soon as he caught a glimpse of the exhausted man’s back, Isaac charged, reeling his arms back to swung the blunt object at the man’s knees to cripple him, then swung again to strike the victim on the head.

 It took seconds to topple the person to the ground, and Zack was overwhelmed with a rush coursing through his veins - that very same rush he got from his last kills. He smirked at his handiwork, and stood over the motionless victim, however, he noticed that they were still breathing.

 “Tch...I didn’t kill them...one more blow to the head outta do it…” Zack muttered to himself, “...to hell with it, I liked using that knife anyway…”

 Killing this unconscious person would be a waste of time, he only came out for a different purpose anyway. Not like this person saw who ambushed him, and not like they would remember anyway. Zack knelt down to the man’s level and began to pilfer through his pockets, pulling out the man’s wallet and quickly scrounging through it for whatever he had. There was a big wad of cash inside, but he wasn’t sure if it was alot or very little, since he was uneducated. Didn’t matter anyway, he only cared about it being enough to pay the old man back.

 Isaac pocketed the bundle of cash, then tossed the pseudo-leather wallet onto the incapacitated man’s face. It was time for him to go back to that dirty old shack, and go to sleep. Finding his way back felt natural, even though this was the second time leaving the place, it was almost like the path back to the residence was already imprinted on his mind. The front door was so damn loud as he slowly pushed it open, the hinges were definitely worse for wear due to age and disrepair. The old man would wake for sure.

 “Zack?”

 Yep, he woke him up.

 The elderly man tiredly shuffled out of the bedroom to check on who entered his home, “Zack, is that you?”

 “...Yeah…”

 “Did you step out again?” the man asked.

 “...Yeah…”

 An expression of concern grew on the elder’s face, but also a strange sense a relief.

 ‘This child does not smell of blood this time…’

 Before he could inquire Isaac’s need to be out so late, the blind man felt Zack grasp at his hand. The boy’s hands were covered in some sort of cloth, yet, his permanent dark vision couldn’t help him figure out if it was just scraps of cloth or gloves on his hands. Zack turned his hand over, then quietly placed something within his withered palm, and judging from the texture, it was obviously money.

 “Take it...” Zack quietly murmurs. “It's yours…”

 The boy’s mismatched eyes focused on the old man before him, he appeared a bit stunned to be given this, almost at a complete loss for words. There was also another mix in the man’s expression, a faint hint of remorse, which left Zack confused and curious.

 “Thank you, Zack...but you didn’t have to go out of your way for this…” the man said.

 “I did…” Zack replied, his eyes trailing down to the dirty floor. “I’m just sittin’ around doing nothing...while you’re doing all this stuff for me…when you didn’t have to.”

 The elderly man appeared confused, “What do you mean?”

 “...I’m a monster, but you keep treating me differently from everyone else…it’s the least I can do, I guess…”

 “Monster?...” the old man repeated, “...I don’t believe you’re a monster at all, you seem to be quite a fine, young man.”

 Isaac felt something besides that uncomfortable chill, like something within his chest twist, and fill him with a strange warmth. This made the boy grasp at his chest, and blink a couple times from a strange sting coming from the corners of his eyes. The man’s words showed no signs of a lie - but Zack’s self-doubt wants to tell him that this blind man is only being naive.

 Naive or no, the old man meant every word - to him, Isaac was a poor and misguided child.

 Zack grit his teeth, as his throat tightened, and a sound struggled to choke itself out from him. No one ever said such a thing to him before. All he’s ever heard were the same heinous insults - monster, freak, tool, and the like. Even if it’s just a small word of kindness, it meant the whole word to this broken boy - it made him feel normal, for once.

 “...Thank you…”

Everything after that, the old man held true to his words. First thing that was done the following day, the old man dedicated his time to teaching Zack how to read Braille. It was confusing at first; after all, it was just bumps, and his wrappings didn’t help at all. Zack tore off small pieces of the cloth, leaving just his fingertips bare to help roll his scarred digits over the array of elevated lettering. It seems he’ll have to make a change on how he wrapped up his body.

 The old man was rather descriptive on every different bump within the book, demonstrating which one were letters, symbols or numbers - rows of six bumps total, but all assorted into different patterns. Though pairing all of them into a word appeared so foreign in his mind, yet, the man showed his willingness to aid him in piecing them bit by bit, until it all began to make sense. The book was a collection of weirdly assorted sentences, something the old man called poems. They seemed like mere rambling to Zack, but all he cared was he can finally read something.

 After days have passed, the shack was finally getting the clean up it needed. The old man held open a large bag for the trash to be thrown in, while Isaac picked up every scrap of paper, trash, and old alcohol bottles strewn about the place. The cat wasn’t making it so easy, and often pawed at the balled up pieces of paper before Zack could have a chance to pick them up. The boy huffed in annoyance and picked the cat up by the scruff of the neck, then hovered the feline over the bag. He had no intention of dropping the animal in, but it amused him to tease them in such a way. He set the orange tabby back onto the floor and gave it a pat to shoo it away, while him and the old man were busy.

 With a large bundle of the trash being disposed of, the shack was growing comfortable.

 With the bulk of the scattered mess disposed of, the floors were swept, while the old man cleaned the windows. Isaac was accustomed to being used when the Orphanage was completely trashed, but he was forced to do it, the old man was quite calm and polite when he asked him. He asked. Giving Zack the option to say yes or no - not like he was going to decline anyway, but knowing that someone actually bothered to ask, it made him feel good inside. The old man wanted aid, not a tool.

 Their little shack was feeling a little more like a home.

 “Zack...are you still here?”

 “...Yeah, I’m in the livin’ room, Gramps!”

 Several years had passed, the place they called home was nothing like the ramshackle shack Zack first occupied. It was kept clean, and no longer had a musty scent lingering in the old wood. There was also a change in Zack as well, he was an adult now - 20 years old, and much healthier than the emaciated boy he once was. He had grown tall, and thanks to Zack’s vicious muggings, even his selfless instinct to aid the elderly man, he had built up some muscular bulk. No longer was Zack a frail boy struggling to live another day, he was a force to be reckoned with. Just that one robbery that day wasn’t going to be a one-time thing, it was a test on how he would do it, aside from repaying the old man for taking him in. After that, Zack had been committing savage muggings every other week. It helped keep his profile low, and the two didn’t exactly spend their income luxuriously. They did, however, get items that were their biggest priority, like food, and new clothing.

 For now, Zack was lounging on the couch, his eyes were closed for a moment, as if he was trying to take a short nap, like he often did since living with the man. His attitude towards the elder changed as well, it was obviously clear when he made the decision to stay with him. Ever since the old man told him that he was not a monster, the blind man earned something Zack never given to anyone - trust and respect. To be given the name Gramps was definitely proof enough of it. Zack would’ve never bothered to care to learn for names, or even give names to go by for someone. This old man clearly affected Zack in his youth, in a positive way.

 The old man, now known as Gramps made his way through the home, tapping his cane here and there to listen to his surroundings. Ever since living with the young man, he’s developed a sixth sense of knowing where Zack’s presence was. Gramps set his hand on the cushion of the old couch, and glanced in the direction where Isaac would be.

 “Ah, there you are...have you seen the cat? I haven’t seen him in days…”

 Zack lazily opened an eye, “Hmm? Just shake a bag of food, that always got him runnin’...hell, break out the can, I’ve seen him go nuts over that.”

“I have, but I never got any response,” Gramps replied.

 Zack raised a brow, that was new, even having them just suddenly disappear seemed so unlike the mischievous orange tabby. He knows damn well he didn’t scare off the creature, the feline was rather quite friendly and playful to Zack through the years. To have it not respond to their usual beckoning made the man curious.

 “Hmm...maybe they’re out catching mice again…” Gramps prattled, “would you mind going outside to check for me?”

 Seemed easy enough, “Yeah...gimme a few minutes…”

 The young man rolled himself off the couch, and made his way out of the shack. Honestly, he didn’t have the heart to tell his doubts to Gramps. The cat was becoming just as old and frail as the old man himself, and its fiery orange pelt grew dulled and gray over the years. The feline was even showing its lack of life, it slept much more than it used to, lost interest in chasing whatever Zack waved in front of it, and even catching mice didn’t appeal to it. The feline didn’t really have much fangs to subdue its prey anyways, just one dull fang remaining in its aging mouth.

 Still, he needed to find where the tabby snuck off to.

 Zack began to click his tongue, followed with soft whistles to beckon the cat, and alert it of his presence. Normally the simple calls worked, but like the old man said, there was no response. He decided to try and lightly clap his hands in another attempt to get the animal’s attention. Again, the feline was nowhere to be seen.

 “Hey cat, where the hell are ya’?”

 Isaac walked around the shack, and glanced at a tunnel underneath the wooden building, obviously dug by some sort of vermin in the past. To him, he knew it was the cat’s favorite spot to hunt and catch all sorts of prey that lurked underneath. He may as well give it a look, and internally hope to god nothing leaped out at him.

 “You in there?”

 Zack got on his knees, and peeked into the small tunnel in hopes of finding the missing feline. His eyes focused to see anything that lurked in the dark, and to his relief, he saw the familiar striped pattern of the tabby’s coat. Maybe the cat was becoming deaf too, that’s why it never responded to the usual sounds. The cat was curled up underneath the shack, like the usual position it preferred when it took a nap. If the cat really was losing its hearing, then maybe he should wake the animal up gently, as to not startle it. Zack slid a hand inside of the tunnel, and reached for the cat’s ear to give it a gentle rub. His exposed fingertips felt at the soft fur of the cat’s pelt, but as his hand gently coiled around the feline’s ear, he sensed that the body was cold to the touch - cold as the dirt in the Earth.

 The young man froze, and felt a churning pit within his stomach. The cold stiffness within the feline’s body, and its lack of response to sound, even touch, there was no other explanation. From the short, torturous years of growing up in the Orphanage, along with being completely surrounded by this similar situation, Zack knew what was wrong - the cat was dead.

 “...Shit…” he quietly muttered, “...the old man isn’t going to like this…”

 Simply telling Gramps that the cat was dead wouldn’t be enough, he was honest to the core, but Zack wanted to present the evidence of his find to the old man. He carefully reached further into the hole, and carefully pulled the curled corpse out. The cat really did look like it was sleeping as it often did. Perhaps this was the reason for the cat’s disappearance, the cat must’ve figured their time was up and went to find a place to die. An all too familiar scenario with the children who suffered in the Orphanage with him.

 Zack carried the body with him, as he walked back around the shack, and entered through the usual creaky door.

 “Did you find the cat?”

 “...Y-Yeah…” Zack replies, “...but, I don’t have any good news about it…”

 Gramps stayed quiet for a moment, he was curious what the young man meant by that, but also worried - was the cat hurt? Sick? Or worse?

 Zack raised his arms up to present the deceased feline to the blind man, watching him halt in his steps, and bring a hand up to feel at what was brought up before him. A familiar soft pelt, but a cold stiffness to the touch. Gramps’ expression was neutrally shocked at first, before it shifted to a sadness.

 “...I see...this is unfortunate…” he said with a somber sigh.

 “...Sorry about this…”

 “It’s not your fault, Zack,” Gramps replied, “I’m glad you let me know what happened. This is the course of nature, and he had lived a full life.”

 Gramps retracted his hand, and gently nudged Zack out of the way, so he could exit the shack.

 “Come with me, I’ll need your help.”

 Isaac raised a brow, but followed the elderly man outside of their home. For some reason, he was still feeling this disgusting twist within his stomach, and a sense of dread looming over him - like a terrible deja vu. He followed Gramps to the other side of the shack, and watched him set aside his cane to reach for something else. Within the man’s wrinkled grasp, he saw a very familiar tool - a shovel. Zack froze up, his stomach sank, like it was being weighed by so many stones. Memories flashed within his head of those horrible nights of being forced to bury corpses, being used as a tool. Just the shovel alone was a symbol of his mental torment. His hands shook, his throat tightened, and a need to escape began to flood in his mind. Isaac doesn’t want to relive it, not now, not with Gramps.

 “Could you help pick out a spot?” Gramps calmly asked, “I’m afraid I won’t be of any help, with my faulty eyesight.”

 Isaac’s anxiety driven thoughts suddenly ceased from the old man’s words, leaving him numb and confused, “...W-Wait...you just want me to find a place to bury it?”

 Gramps lightly nodded, “A place with flowers would be wonderful, I think they’ll love that…”

 This sent Zack’s thoughts in a stir, it confused him, the cat was just a corpse now, so why would it matter where the body was buried - aren’t corpses meant to be disposed of?

 “Why? The cat’s already dead, so why is finding a spot such a big deal? We’re just getting rid of it, aren’t we?”

 Gramps gently shook his head, with his expression showing a hint of sympathy - it seems Zack let slip a little more of his past without thinking much about it. Even after trying his absolute best to educate Zack through the years, there was still much for the young man to learn, and alot more to life for him to experience. Where ever Zack came from, the old man knew that deep down, it must’ve been a harsh and unforgiving environment. Like before, he made no attempt to pry.

 “No, we’re giving him a proper place to rest,” Gramps said, “he’s been a loyal companion for all of these years. I think for the memories we shared with them, the best thing we should offer them is a peaceful burial. They deserve that, wouldn’t you agree?”

 Isaac stayed silent for a moment, then glanced at the feline in his arms, he’s so damn used to disposing of corpses like trash, and always assumed it was just normal to do so. However, to Gramps, he’s treating a burial like it was a farewell to an old friend. The more he looked at the cat, it did appear peaceful, like it was still asleep - maybe that’s how they went, and simply passed on as they slept underneath the house. Zack’s thoughts were in a spin, what was the truth to him?

 He shook himself back to his senses, and walked onward to lead the old man into the forested area near the shack. A place with flowers, just like he had asked. This still seemed so strange on Zack’s end, his mind keeps trying to replay all those times he was forced to bury bodies for the purpose of just getting rid of it, but now this situation is so much different. This body was going to be treated respectfully. Even though it was a corpse now, to the old man, it was still their companion, now locked in eternal sleep.

 Zack noticed a small patch of wildflowers, and stopped in his tracks, “Hey...I found a spot…”

 “Oh you did? Wonderful. Thank you, Zack,” the old man said, as he walked up, then gripped onto the shovel to put it to work, “Alright, I’ll take care of this.”

 Gramps dug the blade of the shovel into the earth, he didn’t have an awful lot of strength to push the tool in further, and even used his foot to stamp the shovel in a little more. Isaac just stood there and watched, knowing that the old man was having difficulty picking up the piles of earth. It was obvious to see that he was struggling, but determined to dig a hole for the small burial site. The need to step in was stirring within Zack, but his legs were frozen. Memories made him wish to avoid having to touch that god forsaken tool, just looking at it keeps haunting his thoughts and senses. Those brutal nights, even the freezing rain that made the wet bandages stick to his skin, and chill him to the bone - such memories continued to feel so vivid, so fresh, no matter how many years have passed. Even still...he can’t leave the old man to strain himself…

 Zack set the deceased animal down, and walked up to Gramps. The old man sensed something grasp the hilt of the shovel, and prevented him from digging any further.

 “I’ll take care of it, yer’ gonna kill yourself, Gramps…”

 The old man turned his attention to where Zack’s voice came from, “It’s alright, Zack, really...I got this.”

 “Nah, ain’t havin’ it...just chill for a bit, I’ll finish up…”

 There was no use arguing with Zack, Gramps came to learn that once the young man set his heart on something, there was no changing his mind. The old man stepped back to let Isaac finish digging a hole for the burial. Like what he’s accustomed to, Zack stabbed the tool into the earth, and lifted a large pile of dirt to the side, before doing it again to deepen the small pit. Doing this task often made Zack feel angered and disgusted, but for some reason, he wasn’t getting this sensation at all. Even shovelling at the dirt wasn’t causing a spike in anxiety, it only felt like Zack was doing just another simple chore.

 ‘This is so fucking weird...why isn’t it bothering me anymore?’

 Isaac’s mismatched eyes focused on the old man nearby, and watched how he patiently waited for him to dig the small grave. Those who had wronged Zack would force him to do whatever they pleased - he was not a human in their eyes. For Gramps, it was another story, the old man’s requests were always approached so calmly, and within good reason. Sometimes, Gramps didn’t even need to ask, Zack would just do it on his own. That thought alone made Zack pause, what he’s doing now was his own decision, as a human being - not a tool. There was no way this feeble old man would even consider such a thought to come across his mind. In the cloudy-white eyes of the old man, Zack was envisioned as a lost child, not as a monster or any such words, just as he told him all those years ago.

 ‘You seem to be quite a fine, young man…’

 God, those words still hit Zack hard.

 “Zack? Are you finished? You’ve been quiet for a while…”

 “Ah...s-sorry, I kinda spaced out for a second,” Zack replied, before digging up one more pile of earth, “alright, the hole should be deep enough.”

 “Thank you, Zack,” the old man said. “Let’s give our friend their final place to rest.”

 Zack set the shovel to the side, so he could pick up the curled up feline he had placed on the ground. He turned around and saw Gramps stumble for a moment, like he had tripped upon something.

 “Ah?! Shit, you alright?”

 “I’m fine, clumsy me...I think I ran into a stone,” the old man replied.

 He knelt down to investigate what he had struck, and just as he assumed, it was indeed a stone, and a fairly large one. It must’ve been buried in the wooded foliage that Zack didn’t see. Even though it almost caused a small accident, this large stone seemed to be perfect for what else was needed for the grave - a tombstone. If Zack stepped in to finish digging, then he could at least add the final touch to it.

 Zack watched the old man pick up the large rock, and feel at the soft earth underneath him to judge exactly where the dug grave was, before setting it in front the small pit.

 “There, now he has a proper grave,” Gramps said. “Let’s send him off…”

 Isaac glanced down at the feline, then knelt down before the grave to carefully put the corpse inside the small ditch. This really was a different kind of scenario compared to disposing of bodies back in the Orphanage, it almost felt kind of somber. It’s hard to believe that so many years passed by, since he even met with this cat, hell, even experience what it was like to play with an animal that didn’t fear him.

 So, this is what the old man was implying to Zack; this kind a burial was to show respect those dear that have passed on, while back in the Orphanage, those who passed were only regarded as trash. The young man’s world continues to feel like it was being turned upside down with every passing year and every new experience with Gramps. Yet, he never once complained about it, this kind of culture shock only left him more curious. It wasn’t left without a bitter taste in Zack’s mouth, and how he was disgustingly lied to, for using him, and for making him assume that what he had done was normal for a burned freak like himself. It made Isaac grit his teeth and clench his fist in a growing anger.

 “Rest well, old friend…” the old man spoke up. It snapped Zack out of his dark thoughts, and focus his attention back to the elder nearby. He had the shovel in hand to push the dirt over the body to finalize the burial. On his face, was an expression that he was at peace. With the labor done, Gramps turned his head, and softly smiled to Zack, “If you want to, you could leave them some flowers.”

 Isaac stared at the mound, he had to internally admit, he really did grow fond of that mischievous, orange feline through the passing years. Maybe, like the old man, he could consider it a friend - unlike the children who never lasted long in the Orphanage, those he never became attached to. The wildflowers that were strewn about the plot they had picked for the burial, perhaps the cat would really like that; he even recalled watching the tabby bat at a few flower petals for no particular reason, other than play. A half-grin creeped upon Zack’s lips as he knelt down and plucked a couple of the wildflowers, he set them onto the soft dirt, as a way of giving the cat something to play with one last time.

 “See ya’ later…”

 Zack stood back onto his feet, and dusted off the dirt that collected on his pants. He walked over to the old man to grasp the shovel from his hands, and offered to guide the blind elder back to the place they called home. It was going to be a little less occupied now, but Zack did learn something today. He learned the more human side of one of his biggest torments, that not everything was done for the most selfish and heinous of reasons - but out of honor and respect to those that meant alot to someone.

 Living with this old man continued to feel like he was in some foreign territory, but he was willing to continue staying and learn there were more sides to life than the mercilessness he had grown accustomed to.

Another change occurred during Zack’s stay with the old man, this change was an effect on how those within the town viewed him. Just stepping out into the open during the day, especially with the way he looked, was anxiety inducing. There had been times where he either wanted to cut people up for staring at him, or run off to hide his grotesque appearance. When the populace noticed he was following the old man, even helping him out, some people seemed to have fawned over it.

 Isaac was the boy that Gramps adopted. Or simply, the shy boy that followed the blind beggar around. After a few trips, no one really questioned Zack’s presence; to them, he became another regular.

 Though, some people did continue to stare, due to his bandaged face, which Zack learned to just wear another article of clothing to make him appear a little more normal, either using a scarf, a face mask, or even a bandana. When he had to run errands on his own, he even took to wearing fingerless gloves to help him read the Braille words, and make sure what he was asked to fetch was the correct item. Even some of the shop owners called Zack by name. It was weird, very weird, to have people just say hello to him in such a friendly manner, and to refer to him by name like they were already on friendly terms with him, because he was a regular. This was hard to adjust to, and hard to realize that in town, he became normal.

 Today was a grocery day, Zack followed Gramps down the street, as they carried paper bags filled with assorted food in hand. Isaac took care of the heavier items, while Gramps carried the lighter groceries, like bread, eggs, and cheese. The two continued down the sidewalk, until something nagged Zack to halt in his tracks. Something was nearby, just hiding in a small alley near a row of townhouses. Isaac leaned in to peek at what was lurking in there, and noticed a small figure sitting against the wall of the building. It was a small human figure. Zack’s eyes focused in the shady dark, and saw that it was a young girl. Her expression showed a somber hollowness. Not only that, Zack could pick up a faint whiff of blood. There were slight visible bruises, and the girl was wiping her nose - most likely, the blood Isaac detected.

 There was no question that this girl was having it rough. He’s seen that kind of look before.

 “What’s yer’ story?”

 The man’s voice startled the girl, and quickly glanced in his direction. He saw an odd look of relief, as she noticed who was there - just a simple stranger to her. The girl tightened her lips, and turned her head away, as if she had something to hide. Not only that, Zack was still a stranger to this hollow girl.

 Isaac breathed out a faint huff, “...Whatever…”

 The man backed away, so he could head back to Gramps. The old man had noticed Zack’s presence had lagged behind, and patiently waited for him to return.

 “Ah, there you are...did something happen?”

 “Nah, it was nothin’ important, let’s head back home…” Zack replied.

 Both Isaac and the old man continued their walk together, while they carried their share of groceries to the edge of town.

 Back in their home, both Gramps and Zack placed away their food in their respective places. The old man never questioned where Zack got his money, but he was relieved that he wasn’t coming home smelling of blood. He assumed that Zack must’ve found a better outlet for his lost sense of purpose. It was helpful as well, Isaac’s selfless contributions bettered their lives to make their living arrangements much more like a home. Even now, Zack used the money he collected to get them a couple of appliances to help them store and cook food without the fear of it spoiling. Zack took out a couple of eggs they had just bought, before putting it and the cheese into a mini fridge he managed to buy with the stolen money. He had gotten a hot plate as well, he knew damn well the old man had a gas stove, but there was one problem - fire. With what he had, Zack wouldn’t have to get near that dangerous element.

 “Gonna make lunch...ya’ hungry, Gramps?”

 “I am a little hungry,” the old man replied.

 “Kay, sit tight.”

 It wasn’t just reading that the old man taught Isaac, he even taught him basic mathematics - which was a huge help in Zack’s muggings, and even how to cook. It’s mostly basic meals that were made, since it’s what they mostly could afford - more or less, stuff into that tiny fridge. Zack wasn’t exactly a great chef, but whatever he cooked was still very much edible.

That night, Isaac sat on the couch, seemingly wallowing in thought. The young man was staring at his hand, uncovered, as his gloves laid beside the furniture on the floor. He stared intensely at the specks of scars littering his skin, and brooded with a sense of inner disgust. How is everyone able to treat him like an everyday person? Internally, he’s happy that the old man took him in like one of his own, and even made him feel a sense of acceptance these past 7 years, but still, it can’t wipe away the horrific memories burned in his mind. Not to mention, this inner desire he continued to feel since he first picked up that kitchen knife; life may have been calm all these years, but that sinister urge to shed blood was only kept at bay, due to his muggings.

 ‘What if Gramps wasn’t blind...would he still have taken me in?’ he thought to himself, then recalled the woman he murdered next to her car, ‘...or would he see me as a monster?’

 Being covered in blood didn’t seem to affect the old man, but, how would he react if he really knew what Zack was? What he kept hidden underneath his bandages...

 “Hey, Gramps…”

 The following morning, the old man was making a pot of tea for him and Zack. He turned his attention to the direction of Zack’s voice to inquire what he needed.

 “What is it, Zack? Do you need something?”

 Isaac bit at his bottom lip from anxiety building up within his being. If he showed him, how was Gramps going to react? Hell, how was he going to react? His throat got tight, making it difficult and painful to swallow, while his heart thudded hard against his chest.

 He needs to know…

 “...Do you still not think of me as a monster?”

 Gramps raised one of his bushy brows in confusion, it’s been a long while since Zack shown his self-loathing to him.

 “Of course, Zack...I meant what I said. You’re not a monster,” Gramps replied, “...what’s with the doubt?”

 Isaac took a couple deep, but frantic breaths, the unknowing outcome was making him nervous - after all these years, he was so damn nervous if everything turned to hell now. He doesn’t know what to do, or what he’ll do. Zack pushed a sleeve back, and unwrapped one of his arms with a shaky hand. He can see more of his skin, littered with rigid scars, obviously caused by burns. An unwilling disfigurement that he absolutely loathed about himself. Zack collected his chaotic thoughts, and picked up one of the old man’s hands, and placed it on his arm.

 Gramps paused for a moment, actually feeling skin underneath is calloused fingertips. He can feel the warmth of Zack’s skin, but also an unnatural firmness in some areas. Scar tissue, that’s what it was, and there was alot of it. This is why Zack called himself a monster, a freak. His body endured a permanent trauma that must’ve left him believing this was he was now. His expression lowered to an empathetic and somber one. This must be why he was mistreated so badly, before stumbling upon this young man. Gramps breathed out a soft and saddened sigh, as he felt Zack’s bunched sleeve, then quietly pulled it back down to cover his arm back up.

 “Zack…” he beckons, “...you are not a monster. You are just as human as I.”

 Zack’s heterochromatic eyes widened. He was speechless to Gramps’ words, even his show of kindness, no matter what. He’s going to accept him, he’s always going to accept him. This made the young man choke back a foreign sound for a moment, while he felt that familiar sting in the corners of his eyes again. What was this he was feeling? It was like the chill he once felt before, but it was overwhelming. An emotion he doesn’t know, or even able to grasp. His breaths had a faint shudder at first, and quietly sniffled to himself. Zack blinked a couple of times to make the sting within his eyes fade.

 Blind or not, Gramps would’ve taken him in anyway, to which he was grateful, but unfortunately, he doesn’t entirely know all of the trauma he endured; the trauma that continues to haunt his mind.

[ikesenhell]

Shapes

This is Chapter 5 of I See Starlight. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here. NOTE: SPOILERS FOR TO HONOR AND PROTECT. If you have not read it, please go back and do so before proceeding. THIS WAS A LIVEWRITE! … at literally three-four in the morning. A very special shout out to the trio that hung out and line edited my work: @velociraptor-detective, Brie, and @stardust-and-ashes​

Mitsuhide often forgot that he couldn’t open his eyes anymore. Masamune told him this might happen. In the first few moments of bleary consciousness, his first instinct was to try and crack those eyelids apart from his cheek and the jolt of pain as he rediscovered the fused skin. That woke him up pretty well.

But this morning was unique. A rumble of something against his chest roused him first, and then came the familiar ritual with his eyes. What the devil was that? He stroked his fingertips gently downward and explored the topography of this strange new land. There was the softened ridge of her shoulder. He felt the cool drape of her hair in his fingertips, working his knuckles through it, following the river over the valley of her waist. And there--there was the offending rumble. Hideyoshi emitted a soft snore again, rolling his head to the side. Mitsuhide nearly laughed. Instead he just cupped his hand around the man’s cheek and felt the sound with his own hands. It vibrated off his skin and up his arm.

And the weight was… comfortable. When was the last time he woke up with someone else, let alone two? The question took him back far enough that he stopped trying to remember and settled instead for nuzzling his mouth down into the cold silk of her scalp, resigning himself to the melody of breath and the calming cry of sea birds outside the window.

Mitsuhide was well acquainted with his own feelings. He’d been alone with them often enough to really dig in, to crush them and use them and manipulate them to his whims. In the fragile stillness of the morning, he allowed himself to really feel them. No one was awake to watch the run of thoughts on his face. Pensive and uncertain, he walked his fingertips featherlight down the length of her arm and Hideyoshi’s neck, relishing the weight of them on his ribs despite himself.

They deserved more than this. Didn’t they? He was only half-surprised at lumping Hideyoshi in with that particular train of thought. In retrospect it wasn’t that unexpected. Not that he’d spent much time courting the company of men, exactly, but he’d never shunned the advance either. Either one suited his purposes from time to time.

But he wasn’t using them--not for services he couldn’t get elsewhere, at least--and that part had him thinking more than anything.

Hideyoshi snored again, jolting him from his thoughts. That time he did laugh. His chest jostled her enough that she stirred in his arms, rolling against him and settling her mouth against the curve of his arm.

“Mitsuhide?” She murmured sleepily, and he wondered if he’d ever heard anything better in his life. He found the curve of her cheek with his thumb and worked his hand over her face, memorizing every curve and line. Her nose had a slight ridge, only upturned the tiniest bit at the end. Her mouth was full and small (which was a trend on her in general, it seemed), her jaw soft. Without prompting, she planted a kiss into his palm and his heart surged so hard it caught his breath in the crossfire.

“Hush, little mouse,” he managed. “Comfortable?”

“Mhmmm.”

Now Hideyoshi grunted awake. His awakening was far less graceful. A snort; the familiar inhale of someone who wasn’t quite sure where he was and a long stretch. Mitsuhide imagined he’d been sleeping in that distinct Hideyoshi way: arms crossed tight over his chest, head rocked back as if he were still the bandit sleeping against a tree. “Huh?”

“You hush too,” Mitsuhide snickered, his laugh jostling her head once more. Apparently that felt funny, because she giggled too. “You’re warming my legs nicely down there.”

“Hng.” Hideyoshi grunted and made to move, but Mitsuhide worked a languid hand through the other man’s hair and he stilled again, dropping his head back onto her waist. “That’s not fair. I’ve got PT.”

“Kenshin can come and get you himself. I’m quite content being here. As for fairness, I didn’t even realize you had a thing about your hair, my friend.”

Heat radiated clear up through Hideyoshi’s scalp and Mitsuhide tried not to laugh again, utterly failing. She twisted and tried to bury her smile into the cushions, but now it caught to Hideyoshi, the familiar puff of breath he always released when grinning despite himself floating in the air. “And you’ve got a thing for people laying on you. I guess fair is fair.”

“Do I? Do I have a thing?”

“I don’t know, Mitsuhide, you’ve got two people putting your legs to sleep, no doubt.”

But the three of them lay there a long while yet, stretching in turns and waking with gentle slowness. Mitsuhide wrapped one arm over her hip and the free hand through Hideyoshi’s hair, wondering if it was half bad that he only had the touch of them to luxuriate in.

---

The three of them walked the cobblestone streets to the library. Hideyoshi carried the braille machine in his arms, its weight barely anything to him--especially with all the wild thoughts circling his mind.

What did last night mean? What did all that fond caressing mean? Was that just Mitsuhide being classic Mitsuhide, or was that something genuine? Had he overstepped his bounds with the half-awake Princess, or was she as unphased by it as she seemed? She blushed easier now. Was that good or bad? Was this going to be a reoccurring thing, or had it been a one off? If it was--

“Hideyoshi?”

He blinked at the hand in his face. She peered intently at him, her head cocked. “Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m just fine. Did you need something?”

“I asked if it was heavy. I can carry it a little.”

“Heavy?” He repeated, realizing he sounded less like a person and more like a parrot. “Oh, no, it’s not really heavy at all. Besides, I wouldn’t dream of making you carry it.”

Mitsunari was alone in the library today. He glanced up at the trio as they entered, a sweet smile on his face. “Hello!”

“Where are the glasses?” Hideyoshi asked, realizing all at once that the silver-haired man wasn’t wearing them. “Does the ocean suddenly have perfect vision?”

“Apparently!” Mitsunari grinned so wide that it made his eyes crinkle into little crescent moons. “I wouldn’t have guessed it myself. Maybe it’s less about being the ocean and more about coming back, but I don’t have any particular evidence either way.”

“See, this is why this whole ‘magic’ business completely throws me.”

Mitsuhide snickered and set his staff on the table, scooting it on his own toward the shelving for space. Hideyoshi almost went to help, but a gentle eyebrow raise from the Bookkeeper stilled him. The crash he feared never came; instead, Mitsuhide stopped just short of a collision, clapping his hands matter-of-factly. “Shall we?” “We shall!” Mitsunari flipped open a book, searching through the pages until he found something in particular. “And in fact, I think you’ll like what I’ve got in store today.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“Would you mind terribly if I didn’t tell you until after?”

Hideyoshi wondered for a long moment if he ought to press the issue, but Mitsuhide just shrugged. “I’m in your hands.”

“Aren’t you too tall for that?” The Bookkeeper quipped, realizing a second too late what she’d said. Her whole face turned a bright pink, but Mitsuhide laughed out loud.

“Such as it is. Shall we?” ---

Truthfully, he was a little anxious at not knowing exactly what he was doing. The bones of it felt the same: feeling his will inch through his body, taking charge of each muscle, the center of him surging like the glow of a lightning storm. Mitsunari guided him expertly through a world he didn’t quite understand with his words alone. All the sound of the library fell away, the familiar footing of ground lost to him.

It felt like infinity.

He’d been blind before, but it was so much worse now. Never before had he been so unseated. The urge to scream welled up in his throat, to reach out, to take something solid to moor him in this alien world. He wanted a hand. Desperate for a measure of comfort, Mitsuhide dug into the well of his memory and conjured the weight of her head on his ribs, Hideyoshi’s body draped over his legs, the ghost of a breeze over his face, the swell of his heart--

And then it was all over. Mitsuhide felt the floor beneath him again and he staggered, dropping to his knees and heaving. He felt Hideyoshi and her run to him--

Wait.

“Hold.” Mitsuhide waved his hand and they both stopped only feet from him. How did he know that? Curious and calm again, he reached out with his mind and groped along the floor, the table, the books in neat ridges along the shelving--

“I know where things are,” he gasped. “I know where everything is.”

“Uh…” Hideyoshi paused, then lifted his hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four. Your left hand, specifically.”

A pause. Mitsunari knelt by his side and pat his back. “Are you alright? I know that couldn’t be pleasant--”

“Great.” Mitsuhide croaked, fastening that smile on his mouth. “I know where everything is. I’m bloody fantastic.”

“I’m behind you,” Hideyoshi muttered. “How did you know how many fingers? Can you physically see?”

“No.” He struggled to his feet and brushed himself off. “Hideyoshi, draw your sword.”

“What!?”

Mitsuhide reached to the side and stole Mitsunari’s with a long shnnk, raising it to a battle-ready stance. “I’m serious.”

“You’re--I--Mitsuhide.”

“If you don’t draw it, then this’ll hurt.”

The Bookkeeper gasped and dashed back against the table. Hideyoshi barely managed to parry the blow, the crash of steel on steel ringing through the library. Mitsuhide laughed with reckless abandon.

“I saw that,” he managed, “I saw that!”

Hideyoshi dropped his sword and closed the gap, wrapping him in a tight hug. Mitsuhide accepted it and they stood there a long while, rocking back and forth in the middle of the library, and for the first time in an eternity, Mitsuhide wondered if he might cry.

---

Kenshin put him through his paces with such gusto that Hideyoshi nearly ate his lip off with anxiety. Mitsuhide had never been their most stellar swordsman (though Mitsunari was always worse, despite their best efforts), but even with months off practice, he held his own. Every swipe, swing, thrust and riposte he anticipated, meeting the onslaught with a passable defense.

“You won’t die,” Kenshin pronounced at last. “Which is improved.”

Mitsuhide’s familiar smirk was a glory to behold. “Generous as always with your compliments.”

Masamune snorted. “Well, fuck. Hit me up with some of this magic bullshit.”

Yuki scowled. “I still don’t like it. Are there drawbacks?”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” Mitsuhide twirled the sword experimentally in his hands. “Mitsunari expects I’ll have terrific migraines from time to time, but we will have to see in the long run.”

“Is it reversible?”

“That I can’t say. For now, it works. That’s all I’m concerned with. I am the test subject, after all.”

Hideyoshi almost missed helping Mitsuhide navigate the world. It was bewildering to see him walk blind through the kitchen as easily as could be. There was plenty he still couldn’t do--anything flat still threw him through a loop. He was as reliant on his braille as ever.

“I can see the shape of things, not the texture or color or what have you. Even that is a little fuzzy. I have to focus.” Mitsuhide stretched in the library, playing his hand experimentally over the bookshelf a bit at a time. “And I still won’t be able to shoot. I can’t ‘see’ but a certain distance out.”

The Bookkeeper smoothed her satin skirts, settled in her desk chair. “And these… these migraines. How often do you think they’ll happen? How bad will they be? That would be a real drawback in a serious situation.”

“I’ve worked through some very severe circumstances before.” Easily as could be, Mitsuhide caught a chair under the lip and dragged it up beside hers to sit. “I can’t imagine a migraine that would put me out of commission so readily.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t worry.”

Mitsuhide grinned and teased his fingers under her chin. “Little Mouse, you don’t need to worry about me so much. You’ll start getting Hideyoshi’s eyebrow wrinkle.”

All at once, Hideyoshi realized he was wearing that exact expression. “I mean, you can’t blame us for being interested in your well being.”

Apparently their Kitsune had nothing to say to that. He just paused, cocking his head ever so slightly. “We shall see, won’t we?”

Despite Mitsuhide’s confidence, Hideyoshi still settled into the library with them. He wasn’t as invested in reading as the other man, so he watched the Bookkeeper and learned his way around her blueprints, slowly getting the hang of the drafts and measurements. Afternoon passed into night. Content with her progress on the braille machine’s final draft, she settled onto the couch beside Mitsuhide with a book, and Hideyoshi decided to occupy himself with cleaning his sword.

“So,” Mitsuhide asked at last, his low voice soft in the library. “I’m assuming we’re not all going to form a puddle again tonight?”

Silence reigned again. Hideyoshi and the Bookkeeper exchanged glances, a creeping blush overtaking both of them.

“I mean,” she started.

“Well--”

They both fell quiet and tried again at the same time.

“I didn’t--”

“If you were suggesting--”

Mitsuhide grinned like the devil and the Bookkeeper dipped her face into her hands, too embarrassed to continue. He teased a hand through her hair. “I’m only asking because I was rather fond of the setup.”

“I--” She took a deep breath and blurted out the rest of her sentence as one run-on. “I’m very self conscious because I think I like both of you and I don’t know what to do about that and it makes me think there is something wrong with me.”

Well, there it was. Hideyoshi wondered if saying nothing or everything was safer. Throat dry as the desert, he looked at Mitsuhide and imagined what it would be like to admit it.

“Let’s say I feel much the same about that sentiment,” Mitsuhide crooned. Hideyoshi waited for his face to light on fire (which it didn’t, and he frankly wasn’t sure if the distraction might have saved him). “If that were the case, Hideyoshi, then might you be on board?”

“Yes,” he managed. “Yeah. Probably.”

And that curling smile emerged. “Then let’s figure the rest out later. For tonight, I’m content just to have a few accomplices in a good night’s sleep.”

---

Mitsuhide woke in what he assumed to be the middle of the night. No birds disturbed the sweet ocean air. The icy chill of the northern wind struck to the core of him, but her head on his shoulder and Hideyoshi on his other warmed him enough. If it were a dream, it was good enough for now.

Silent and gentle, he worked his thumb over Hideyoshi’s cheek. The other man roused ever so slightly.

“Mitsuhide?” He croaked. “You need something?”

“No. I was just awake.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything? You feel a little cold.”

A surge of affection took hold of him. He tapped a hand under Hideyoshi’s chin and guided him forward, half-expecting a fight or protest. None came. Instead he felt the warmth of lips against his, a brush of breath over his chin, the staccato shock of a man in the middle of a kiss and unsure what else to do aside from enjoy it.

“Nothing,” Mitsuhide murmured. “Nothing else.”

She stirred on his other shoulder. Obligingly, Mitsuhide combed a hand over her head and she tilted her face back. The same desire swelled inside him, and he planted a kiss on her forehead, nose, and mouth. She hummed against him and it felt so sweet that he caught the edge of her lip between his teeth, relishing the shiver of her spine.

“That was nice to wake to,” she sighed, settling back down on his chest.

“And nice to go back to sleep to.” Mitsuhide lay his head back against the pillow. “So back to sleep. Both of you. Tomorrow is another day.”

[sosthemortalcoil]

Hello, just here to say, your writing is pure marvel to read — secondly, your characters are totally awesome and I adore them all with so much fondness. Thus it brings me to some questions: how would the LIs react to a Gabriel with a thick, scruffy beard, lumberjack-esque ? Or what about a Gabriel who has lost sight ? How would they treat a blind Gabriel then ?

Ah, also forgot to mention, the beard ask can be very platonical, I said LIs, but any reactions to it is always a welcome fluff up. Gotta’ live reading all the replies you give, ahhhhh. (Part two of the above ask.)   

We’ll start with the beard ask, and then get to the blind Gabriel. For the beard ask, doing a platonic reaction for each RO followed by their reactions while in a relationship with Gabriel.

1. Alice: She’s wondering who will do better at no-shave-November; you or Charleston? (She’s betting on the werewolf.) As for being in a relationship with her, well, beards add some fun texture (though minimal stubble-burn, please).

2. Iain: He wishes he could grow a beard like that, but he can’t (and the one time he tried, it just looked ridiculous). As an RO, it’s a little weird for him (he’s used to only being with women) but he’s coming to find that he likes it.

3. Stephanie: She just shakes her head. It’s a guy thing. As an RO, she kind of wants to see if she can braid charms into it (like a dwarf from Lord of the Rings! Please? Pretty please?)

4. Charleston: He appreciates a good beard, but he does remind you that there are regulations to what length beards can be (and since he has to follow them, it’s only fair you do too.) As an RO, he likes scruffy.

5. Zaria: She’s not a big fan of beards, particularly if any of the hair starts to obscure a person’s lips. It makes it difficult to read lips when you can’t see. As an RO, she would much prefer Gabriel shave.

6. Tom: He might have to make a joke about Gabriel being hairier than a dog, but otherwise he won’t think much of it. As an RO, he’s not interested in men. A beard is a no-go for him.

7. Karyn: She thinks beards make guys look old, so she’s going to tease Gabriel about that. Even more-so as an RO, calling Gabriel ‘old-man’ quite a bit.

8. Aelius: Doesn’t really care about physical appearances. He’s seen pretty much every kind of person in his long-life. As an RO, he likes to play with it while cuddled up against Gabriel.

9. Iro: As long as it’s kept aesthetically pleasing, she’s doesn’t care. She will (as an RO or not) tug on it to get Gabriel’s attention.

10. Michael: Beards are human things. He’s not really a fan of them as an RO (he doesn’t like the texture).

11. Ramiel: It’s definitely different from what you used to look like. As an RO, he wonders if he should try to grow one so that you match.

12. Sabriel: She approves. One of those more human things. As an RO, she’s kind of fascinated with it.

13. Ryder: Look, if it makes Gabriel look more intimidating and bad-ass, he approves. As an RO, the only thing he’s concerned about is (possibly) being upstaged by Gabriel’s beard.

14. Leo: He thinks it lends an air of authority to Gabriel. As an RO, he gets a little disgruntled because he feels that it may highlight their age difference (which, really, since Gabriel is millennia older than all the non-angel ROs, isn’t an issue for him but he hates when others comment on it.)

15. Tadea: She’s never pictured angels as being scruffy, and you think you might catch her occasionally giggling over it to herself. Not really applicable as an RO (see Tom’s answer above).

Lucifer isn’t really a fan of facial hair (very human thing, that).

Daniel doesn’t care? He can’t grow one himself, but to him, Gabriel is Gabriel.

Israfel likes it. He thinks Gabriel is taking well to the whole-living as a human thing.

Blind ask below read line

First, about the blind ask, this is how they would respond to a Gabriel who has gone blind due to injury. This is not the same reaction for someone is born blind or goes blind through more gradual (naturalish?) means. This also assumes that Gabriel isn’t using superior angelic senses nor accustomed to being blind. Also, a blind Gabriel would be blinded in their shell, which is susceptible to things like being bitten by a were. Lastly, angels don’t have to rely on sight like humans do. In angel form, it’s impossible to permanently blind an angel (sight-wise). So for this ask to even work, 1. Gabriel must be in the shell and 2. For some unknown reason normal Grace regenerative and restorative powers aren’t working.

1. Alice is going to be searching for some magical way to restore sight, or let Gabriel see again. Archangel or no, they won’t let Gabriel stay her partner if they’re blind. She’s more prone to being snappish at home, stressed by trying to ensure that she’s not making things more difficult for Gabriel. She’s not normally a super neat person, but she’s been going overboard to make sure she doesn’t leave stuff lying about for Gabriel to trip on or stumble into.

2. Iain is an overbearing nanny. He feels guilty that this could have happened, and he tries to wait on you hand and foot. It’s nice at first, but it starts to become grating. You aren’t a complete invalid.

3. Stephanie immediately works on some charms to help you navigate. They heat up against your skin as you approach objects. She’s constantly trying new charms and little spells to try and assist you with your new state while also trying to figure out if there is a way to restore your sight permanently.

4. Charleston would offer to bite them. Being a werewolf with heightened senses could be helpful. He’s also a lot more growly when people get to close to you, snapping if someone actually runs into you.

5. Zaria is upset by this. Sometimes you can feel her anger when she signs something, momentarily forgetting you cannot see her. She repeats her words aloud, but it’s an aggravation. She works with you on learning Braille, and once you are comfortable with it, she starts leaving you little notes in Braille. Sometimes she just traces words on your skin, letting them speak for her.

6. Tom assigns someone to be with you at all times, making sure you’re safe and that you don’t hurt yourself while adjusting. Usually that someone is in wolf form, so as far as most people are concerned, you just have a seeing-eye-dog. One who changes almost daily. And looks more like a wolf. He himself tries to take as many shifts as possible, though he prefers to be in human form with you.

7. Karyn isn’t good at coping with things like this. She does set up everything electronic that you own to talk to you, reading stuff out loud like your text messages (which backfires when you open a text from her in front of her and Daniel...). She’s quick to get frustrated, frequently simmering in anger when something doesn’t go right or her attempt to help fails miserably. Still, she’s sticking around, which surprises you a little given her nature.

8. Aelius rarely lets you out of his sight. He’s furious that this happened in the first place, and is determined to get your sight back. He’s a demon. He’ll make it happen somehow.

9. Iro finds it funny that an archangel is wandering around blind. She doesn’t feel any sympathy, and frequently likes to push stuff into your path to test you.

10. Michael is furious. This shouldn’t be possible, but yet Gabriel is blind. He’s too busy ranting to focus on helping you, and keeps declaring that he’s going to fix this.

11. Ramiel is quieter, blaming himself for not protecting you. He’s always at hand when you need him, but you can tell that he’s brooding more.

12. Sabriel is quick to work on ensuring that you’re human life isn’t too badly impacted by this, getting you a trained seeing-eye-dog and working with you on adjusting to how blind humans function.

13. Ryder expects you to be able to still take care of yourself, and doesn’t do anything different.

14. Leo thinks it must be some sort of experiment, where Gabriel wants to experience life like blind humans do, because he cannot fathom a world where Gabriel, as an archangel, can’t just fix themselves.

15. Tadea wants to kill whoever did this to you. She doesn’t expect it to be permanent, but she’s still pissed that someone did this to her lover.

[foxenglish864]

Ubuntu Start Docker On Boot

Docker is a combo of ‘platform as a service’ products and services which use OS virtualisation to provide software in packages called containers.

Ubuntu Start Docker Container On Boot

Ubuntu Start Docker Container On Boot

Ubuntu Start Docker On Boot Safe Mode

Ubuntu Start Docker On Bootable

Containers contain everything an app, tool or service needs to run, including all libraries, dependencies, and configuration files. Containers are also isolated from each other (and the underlying host system), but can communicate through pre-defined channels.

Ubuntu will download the latest version of Docker from its archives, unpack it, and install it on your system. Step 2: Make Docker start automatically on system boot: sudo systemctl enable -now docker. Step 3: Test it. Now that Docker is installed and running you should verify that everything is working okay. This can be done using the hello. A minimal Ubuntu base image modified for Docker-friendliness. Baseimage-docker only consumes 8.3 MB RAM and is much more powerful than Busybox or Alpine. Baseimage-docker is a special Docker image that is configured for correct use within Docker containers. It is Ubuntu, plus: Modifications for Docker-friendliness. To start a stopped container, use docker start, followed by the container ID or the container’s name. Let’s start the Ubuntu-based container with the ID of d9b100f2f636: docker start d9b100f2f636; The container will start, and you can use docker ps to see its status.

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This introduction to Docker video will give you a quick top-level overview of the tech and how it works:

Because Docker is open source software it’s not only free to use, but free to adapt, extend, hack, or build on. In this guide I cover installing Docker on Ubuntu 20.04 LTS (Focal Fossa), but the same steps may also work on older versions of Ubuntu, including Ubuntu 18.04 LTS.

In this post you will learn how to install Docker from the regular Ubuntu repository, how to enable Docker to start automatically at system boot, and how to install Docker images and run them locally.

But this isn’t a deep dive. This tutorial is intentionally short and to the point. This is so you spend less time reading and more time doing.

Install Docker from Ubuntu Repository

There are two hard requirements to install Docker on Ubuntu 20.04:

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Ubuntu Start Docker Container On Boot

You need to have sudo access

You need to be connected to the internet

If you’re managing or setting up an Ubuntu server then you (probably) meet both of these requirements already, but do check before you begin.

Step 1: Install Docker from the main Ubuntu repository. Do this using the apt command and the docker.io package name (note: the package name is not simply ‘docker’):

Ubuntu will download the latest version of Docker from its archives, unpack it, and install it on your system.

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Step 2: Make Docker start automatically on system boot:

Step 3: Test it.

Now that Docker is installed and running you should verify that everything is working okay. This can be done using the hello-world app. From the command line run:

When you run this command you’ll see a lengthy message informing you that the ‘installation appears to be working correctly’.

But look closely at the message:

You’ll notice something interesting near the start: Docker was ‘unable to find’ the a ‘hello-world’ image. But instead of quitting it searched for and downloaded it from Docker Hub.

Ubuntu Start Docker Container On Boot

Which leads us neatly on to…

Step 4: Find and install Docker images.

Now you’re set-up the world (or rather the Docker ecosystem) is your oyster, and Docker Hub your port of call. Docker Hub is billed as ‘the world’s largest library and community for container images’. Any image available on Docker Hub can be installed on your system too.

Let’s look at how to do that.

To search for an image on Docker Hub run the docker command with the search subcommand, like so:

For example, I want to search for Alpine Linux on Docker Hub so I run docker search alpine. A list of matching images (which match the term alpine) will appear. I want the official Alpine image so I look in the OFFICIAL column for the word OK

When you find the image you want to use you can download it using the pull subcommand, For example, to install Alpine Linux I run sudo docker pull alpine.

Install docker on oracle linux 7. To run a downloaded image you need to add the run subcommand and the name of the image, e.g., sudo docker run alpine.

If you want to run an image as a container and get instant ‘interactive terminal’ shell access add the -it flag. For example: I run sudo docker run -it alpine and it drops me straight into the Alpine container, ready to work:

To exit the ‘interactive terminal’ type the word exit and hit enter.

Check out the Docker Docs page for a wealth more info on how to use, admin, manage, and maintain your containers.

Ubuntu Start Docker On Boot Safe Mode

A couple of useful commands to know include docker ps -a to list all images you’ve used (and see their container ID/name); docker stop (container id) to close an image down; and when you’re done with a container remove it using the docker rm command, again adding the the container ID/name at the end.

Ubuntu Start Docker On Bootable

Going Further

In this guide we looked at installing Docker on Ubuntu 20.04 and getting official images installed. But this is only the beginning of what possible with Docker.

One possible avenue to explore is installing Docker rootless. This is an experimental feature and not (yet) easy to enable. But the effort required to set it up is worth it if you’re concerned about security and stability.

If there are topics you want to see a similar to-the-point tutorial on (be it Docker related or otherwise) do drop a note down in the comments or via my usual e-mail.