#it was ridiculously cheap and it was the ONLY copy at the store

[andorerso]

best money I ever spent 😍

[eternal--returned]

IGGY POP: Once I heard the Paul Butterfield Blues Band and John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters, and even Chuck Berry playing his own tune, I couldn't go back and listen to the British Invasion, you know, a band like the Kinks. I'm sorry, the Kinks are great, but when you're a young guy and you're trying to find out where your balls are, you go, "Those guys sound like pussies!" I had tried to go to college, but I couldn't do it. I had met Paul Butterfield's guitarist, Mike Bloomfield, who said, "If you really want to play, you've got to go to Chicago." So I went to Chicago with nineteen cents. I got a ride with some girls that worked at Discount Records. They dumped me off at a guy named Bob Koester's house. Bob was white and ran the Jazz Record Mart there. I crashed with him and then I went out to Sam's neighborhood. I really was the only white guy there. It was scary, but it was also a travel adventure—all these little record stores, and Mojos hanging, and people wearing colorful clothes. I went to Sam's place and his wife was very surprised that I was looking for him. She said, "Well, he's not here, but would you like some fried chicken?" So I hooked up with Sam Lay. He was playing with Jimmy Cotton and I'd go see them play and learned what I could. And very occasionally, I would get to sit in, I'd get a cheap gig for five or ten bucks. I played for Johnny Young once—he was hired to play for a white church group, and I could play cheap, so he let me play. It was a thrill, you know? It was a thrill to be really close to some of those guys—they all had an attitude, like jive motherfuckers, you know? What I noticed about these black guys was that their music was like honey off their fingers. Real childlike and charming in its simplicity. It was just a very natural mode of expression and lifestyle. They were drunk all the time and it was all sexy-sexy and dudey-dudey, and it was just a bunch of guys that didn't want to work and who played good. I realized that these guys were way over my head, and that what they were doing was so natural to them that it was ridiculous for me to make a studious copy of it, which is what most white blues bands did. Then one night, I smoked a joint. I'd always wanted to take drugs, but I'd never been able to because the only drug I knew about was marijuana and I was a really bad asthmatic. Before that, I wasn't interested in drugs, or getting drunk, either. just wanted to play and get something going, that was all I cared about. But this girl, Vivian, who had given me the ride to Chicago, left me with a little grass. So one night I went down by the sewage treatment plant by the Loop, where the river is entirely industrialized. It's all concrete banks and effluvia by the Marina Towers. So I smoked this joint and then it hit me. I thought, What you gotta do is play your own simple blues. I could describe my experience based on the way those guys are describing theirs . . . So that's what I did. I appropriated a lot of their vocal forms, and also their turns of phrase—either heard or misheard or twisted from blues songs. So "I Wanna Be Your Dog" is probably my mishearing of "Baby Please Don't Go."

Legs McNeil & Gillian McCain ֍ Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk (1996)

The Stooges ֍ I Wanna Be Your Dog (1969)

Muddy Waters ֍ Baby Please Don't Go (1953)

[shuttershocky]

How do you cope with the disappointment of not getting a limited character you wanted? I really crave Omertosa, but I only have like 12000 orundum stocked up right now, so there's a good chance I never get her

Just like NTRK in Texas' banner, Texas the Omertosa will rerun in a future limited banner, where you can spark her if you really want to guarantee her, so never say never!

But that's not what you want to hear right now. Let me tell you a story of gacha disappointment.

Older followers will remember this happening in real time, but I've been burned really badly twice in FGO. Really, really badly. This is why they implemented a sparking system years later badly. My luck in FGO has always been bad, but this was astounding the statistics level of bad.

FGO JP has a two year difference with FGO Global, a much larger waiting time than the 6 month difference in Arknights, but also plenty of time to plan in advance. By the time FGO released in English, JP already had Hassan-i Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain, Grand Assassin. I thought he was cool as shit, and I had about 1.5 years to save, so I thought this was in the bag.

FGO back then didn't (or maybe it still doesn't) have a cheap option like Arknights' monthly card. You paid money for rolling currency with no guarantee whatsoever. Since I'm not a gambling sort of person, I went entirely F2P. I only spent tickets on the banner, and all quartz (the orundrum equivalent) I'd get from dailies, events, quests, etc. And even then, I started saving tickets too half a year before King Hassan was due to arrive.

By the time King Hassan arrived in FGO English, I had enough tickets and quartz saved up to do about 300-350 rolls (I had about 900~ quartz and a lot of tickets, but the exact number i no longer remember. Back then, 30 quartz gave you a 10 roll instead of the current 10 roll + 1 free, and this was already a big upgrade from the original 40 quartz for a 10 roll that FGO JP had).

I was SO ready. I smugly thought I would maybe keep rolling after I'd get King Hassan to try for extra copies.

Not only did I not get him, I did not get a single 5 star in over 300 rolls.

I was incredulous. What the fuck was that? My friend showed me the math and said I had an equal chance of getting King Hassan on my first roll, and in FGO the chance of getting a 5 star is 1%, with the rateup being 0.8% (i think it was even lower back then. 0.6%?)

That was painful. That was almost two years of saving and I didn't even have a spook for a consolation prize. The math was so ridiculous i should have just entered the lottery, but with my luck it would have turned out the grand prize was murder.

BUT, I had the thought that surely after hitting rock bottom this hard and this improbably, it was never going to happen again right?

Fast forward two years or so. FGO JP announces Demon King Nobunaga. Nobu is one of my favorite characters, so I was all over that shit. It wasn't going to happen again. I had two full years warning this time. No more spending quartz on the two years in between; I wasn't just going to guarantee Maou Nobu, I was going to NP5 (max potential) her.

Two years of savings later and I had 900~ or so quartz. As a backup plan, I had two emergency banks: I had saved up all quartz fragments in the last THREE years (i just stopped converting them to quartz after a while out of laziness until I had Maou Nobu as a target), and I did not do a single character's interlude (Paradox Simulation + story quest) or Strengthening Quests (you have to beat a quest to get a buff for your units in FGO) so I had all the quartz from those ready.

All in all that would have been something like... 420~ rolls? I also had a lot of tickets too that i just hadn't spent before.

I didn't get a single copy of Maou. I used the emergency stores. I got one 5 star character in the very last roll and it was someone I already had (Arjuna)

I thought nothing could have been worse than the King Hassan rolls. I was wrong. So very wrong. Massive pain. Two years gone to waste. I was so angry that I blew up at a whale friend commiserating with me by saying that at least it wasnt as bad as him, who also failed with about the same number of rolls but he paid money for all of those. I went into a rant that I had it way worse because I didn't spend money for it, I had patience and mastery over the urge for instant gratification that rich people like him could never understand. I should have been rewarded. I deserved better. I felt it so hard that I did what the King Hassan banner couldn't do to me and dropped money for the 100 dollar quartz pack. I got another 5 star. It was another dupe (Altera). I'd be eating less for the rest of the month (100 USD in Filipino currency is 5000+ pesos. It's a lot.)

Then I admitted defeat. It just wasn't meant to be.

And that's why I don't really fear the Arknights banners at all. I studied the orundrum income carefully for a F2P player and for someone on the monthly card and found reaching the 300 roll spark is quite doable via constantly using the recruitment system to get duplicates to buy tickets on the store and only getting the 5 star guarantee on every new banner. If there's ever someone I really, really want who is limited and I can't guarantee them on this banner, I can absolutely guarantee them twice, maybe even 3x over for the banner they appear in next year. It's a year's wait, and I've had plenty of practice saving for two. Having a free ten roll and a free roll every day on a limited banner also means there's always hope until the very last day. You can even manufacture your own orundrum stores by burning your orirock cubes and devices in your factories (Noooooooo you need those!) if you're truly desperate.

How do I cope with the disappointment of not being able to get what I wanted in Arknights?

I've experienced much worse.

[braveclementine]

Epilogue: This is Not the Beginning

Warnings: None

Copyright: I do not own any Twilight characters or locations. I do own Davina Mikelson and Marcel. I also own the backstory for my OC. I do not condone any copying of this.

Davina P.O.V.

I finished curling my hair, unplugging the curling iron quickly, leaving the bathroom and looking out the window.

He wasn't here yet.

I breathed out a sigh of relief, grabbing my white sun shoes and then made sure that my make up was perfect, fixing small blemishes and such.

My children- Em, Rose, Ali, Jaz, Ed, and Bella- would be going to Prom tonight. As Carlisle couldn't take me to prom, he had promised me an evening out and I was now putting on the clothes that Alice had left me.

It was a light blue dress, something I could imagine wearing at the beach or something. I wore soft sandals with flowers and Alice had specifically told me to curl my hair in the 1800's with curls. So that was what I had done.

Hair style

Dress

Part of me felt ridiculous with the new style of clothing and the old style of hair, but part of me knew that this was exactly what Carlisle liked. Naturally why Alice had gifted it to me. And I had checked- this dress was only $125, which- compared to the last dress- was thrift store cheap.

I turned out the lights in the house as I walked down the stairs. I had consented- as I was graduating soon and would start online college and a more permanent position at the hospital- to moving in with the Cullens. I probably wouldn't be back to this house in a while.

I paused at the front door, waiting, until there was a knock and I opened up the door.

Carlisle was dressed less formally, just like me. He wore a simple black button up shirt and black slacks. His shoes were still dress shoes though.

"Ready?" He asked, holding out his hand.

I took it, closing and locking the door behind me. He led me to the car, opening my door, closing it behind me, and appearing in the drivers seat in seconds.

I laughed lightly. "So, what are we doing tonight?"

The sun was still in the sky, not quite low enough for the sky to be sunset colours yet.

"It's a surprise." Carlisle murmured, reaching out to take my hand as he drove.

He didn't drive far, pulling off the highway where a trail ended. I stepped out of the car and watched as Carlisle pulled a basket out of the back trunk of the car. I smiled, blushing at the romantic idea.

"A picnic?" I guessed.

"I've come to realize you really hate expensive things." Carlisle said, "I thought you would like this better."

"I do." I said and then added rather quickly, "I mean, not that I don't appreciate the other things you've done for me of course! But I do like the simple things better! I mean, you know, not better as in the other things-"

Carlisle silenced me with a kiss, his arm wrapped around my waist, his lips hard against mine. He pulled away much to quickly for my liking and whispered, "I know."

He pulled back completely and smiled, "Now then. On my back."

I raised an eyebrow before walking over to him and hoisting myself up on his back, wrapping my arms tightly around his neck, trying not to choke him. I wrapped my legs loosely around his waist.

"We're not going far, right?" I asked.

He chuckled, "Even if we were, you're as light as a feather."

"Actually-"

I didn't get to finish my sentence as he took off running.

I had seen the Cullens run before. I had seen them in action, but I had never felt it this way. The wind pressed against my skin as he basically flew through the forest, dodging trees, and everything in between.

I relaxed after a few moments, sure that he wouldn't drop me or let me fall, leaned over, and pressed my lips to his cheek.

He came to a stop soon and I found ourselves in a large meadow.

Bella had told me about a clearing Edward had brought her to once, a circular one filled with flowers.

This one was filled with flowers, but it was rectangular-ish and the flowers weren't purple and blue, but rather red, orange, pink, and white.

I slid from Carlisle's back, taking his hand and we walked towards the middle of the meadow before with once single flick of his wrist, the blanket was spread out and he sat down.

I sat across from him, tucking my knees under me so I could sit more comfortably.

"You look beautiful tonight." Carlisle murmured, "Did you know that?"

I giggled. "I would say you look handsome, but you always look handsome and you know it."

Carlisle chuckled, unfolding the basket and pulling out food. "Alice may or may not have informed me about some of your favorite foods. Don't worry, we didn't cook it."

I laughed lightly. To be fair, there were mostly sweets: tea cookies, chocolate chip cookies, vanilla cupcakes, and sour apple drops. A few cans of rootbeer, still cold. A bag of Takis. A bag of Salt and Vinegar chips. And then a still warm bowl of mac and cheese.

"This is sweet Carlisle." I said, smiling up at him.

I took on of the tea cookies to eat before standing and then reseating myself next to Carlisle. He put an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close.

We talked about work for a little bit, talked about life for some time. He told me about some of his time with the Volturi, which was very interesting to me.

"So vampires do have royalty." I stated in interest before drinking some of my rootbeer. "And you got to live with them for some time? That's so cool."

"They had zero regard for human life." Carlisle sighed. "For that I regret very much."

"But you didn't drink human blood. You still hunted animals when you lived with them?" I questioned.

"Yes, and to which Aro tried curbing my appetite, which is what he called it." Carlisle said.

He had brought himself a thermos of blood and I remembered when the Cullens had said their Aunt had prepared them Tomato soup. I laughed a little to myself.

"I would like to meet Aro." I decided.

Carlisle shuddered delicately. "Not while you're human. I've come up with the theory that your blood either calms vampires, or it completely entices them like a blood singer. Should you're blood appeal to anyone in that court. . ."

"Well, alright." I said, rolling a Taki in my finger now while I thought over his words. "It's an interesting theory you've come up with." I popped the Taki in my mouth.

"Well it is the only logical thing I can think of." Carlisle replied. "Your blood smells like fruit regardless of whether it's desirable or calming. But whereas all I want to do is feast on it, my kids use it to calm themselves down from a blood lust. James was attracted but neither Laurent nor Victoria could understand it because it didn't appeal to them in the way human blood should have."

"Interesting. . ." I murmured. "What would the Volturi think about you finding a mate?"

"I do not know." Carlisle murmured, running his fingers up and down my bare arm. "I like to think he'd be happy for me. But at the same time, should he find out before I turn you, he would probably try and turn you himself."

"Where do the Volturi live?" I asked.

"Italy."

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Why Italy?"

"What were you expecting?" Carlisle asked in interest.

"Transylvania."

Carlisle's laugh echoed off the trees, pulling me into a tighter hug until I was basically sitting on his lap. So, you know, I rearranged myself so I could lock my arms and legs around him, pressing my forehead to his shoulder.

"Oh Davina. . ." Carlisle laughed, stroking my face with his fingers.

"It was a decent guess." I muttered, turning to press my lips to his neck.

Carlisle stared down at me, his golden eyes fighting something. I reached up with one hand, cupping his cheek, pulling him down so our lips met.

The food was quickly abandoned after that, Carlisle and I wrapped up in our own little world, our lips on each others, our hands around each other's shoulders, wrapped in each other's hair, pulling, pressing, loving.

I only pulled away when my head started to spin from lack of air and Carlisle grinned at me. "You know you don't have to hold out so long. I'll kiss you as many times as you'd like."

I giggled, "Sometimes, I forget that I could just try breathing out of my nose."

Carlisle grinned before falling over on purpose, pinning me underneath him. He stroked my cheek, pushing my black hair out of the way before curling a finger through one of the curls. "I must say, I absolutely love what you've done with your hair."

I smiled, "So as long as I dress like the 1600's and do my hair like the 1800's you're happy?"

Carlisle looked panicked and he quickly said, "I mean, I like how you look when you dress in these times too of course, I just happen to like the looks of the old times as well. Not that there is anything wrong with the new times either-"

I kissed him and laughed against his lips. "Carlisle, I was just teasing you. I have no problem doing my hair like this, I actually kind've like it. And I don't dress to impress anyways. Only on dates. The rest of the time you'll have to deal with my fandom loving arse."

"That's alright." Carlisle growled against my neck, kissing along it, "I quite like your ass."

I giggled, pressing my lips to his hair as he was softly kissing my collarbone now.

He stopped moving for a moment, pulling back slightly, his eyes almost crossed. He shook his head and his eyes cleared, still yellow. "I apologize. The Lord is quite. . . aroused at the sight of you like this. It is getting harder to contain him."

"You know you don't have to, right? Lord won't hurt me either." I whispered, running my fingers through his lovely fluffy hair.

"Oh he doesn't want to hurt you." Carlisle muttered, lowering himself back down till he was hovering just slightly over my lips. His eyes bored down into mine. "He wants to take you right here and I simply won't do that to you."

I smiled up at him, "Truly the gentleman."

"I try." Carlisle murmured, his nose skimming my cheek before he pressed his lips back to my neck, this time, sucking rather lightly. I sighed in content, feeling the way his lips and tongue moved against my smooth skin. He left a trail of kisses down my neck, and one on my collarbone. "But it is so hard. . ."

I took his face in my hands, guiding him back to my lips so I could kiss him again. "Carlisle, I love you. I love Lord, and I love everything about you and your family. And I completely respect your traditional beliefs."

He sighed, "I feel like you have a specific 'belief' in mind."

"Hebrews 13:4 'Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled, for God will judge the sexually immoral and adulterous'. Basically that it is immoral to have sex before marriage."

Carlisle was surprised, "You know the Bible?"

"I was brought up in an extremely devout Christian family. . . although now that I say the words out loud, they were just religious. There was nothing extreme about it. They just believed. . . I believe Carlisle. I believe."

It was strange that a vampire was what brought my faith back to God. It was strange that through everything I had been through, it was this small situation that brought me back to my faith. And because he had brought me back to my faith, he had, in a way, brought me back to my parents.

"You will give me the honor of proposing when I believe we are both ready, won't you?" Carlisle asked breathlessly.

"As long as I'm twenty or older." I laughed lightly. "I don't fancy getting married in my teens."

"Agreed." Carlisle said, and he pulled me up for another kiss.

Neither of us saw the black wolf retreat into the forest.

[fiendishartist2]

the other half i guess i'm giving to you– mp100

"Oi, Mob. Does this photo still look haunted to you?"

Reigen lazily called to his apprentice across their barebones office. They had only seriously been in business for a few months– a few months longer than Reigen ever imagined he would keep this up. But here he was, scuffed loafers propped up on his cheap desk, a bootlegged copy of Photoshop on his laptop balanced on his leg. He spared a glance to the boy single handedly keeping this business going; sure Reigen pulled his weight, but if Mob didn't continue to show up at the office every day, Reigen would be a private investigator by now. He wasn't sure how he felt about this outcome yet.

"Mob?" Reigen huffed, looking at his apprentice at his "desk" (he was 11, he didn't need a real desk, Reigen told himself. The plywood box covered in his mom's old tablecloth the kid sat at had nothing to do with Reigen's empty bank account) where Mob was fast asleep, his cheek squished against its surface. He trotted up to Mob, leaning down dramatically and snapping his fingers. Mob lifted his head, sleepily propping it up on his folded arms. He sniffled.

"Mmmph?" he mumbled. He cracked open one eye to look at his mentor. Reigen crossed his arms and shot him an annoyed look.

"Is this really a good time for a nap, Mob?" Mob responded with a long yawn. Reigen's eye twitched.

"Sorry, shishou. It won't happen again." Reigen pointed at him, levelling him a scowl.

"You're damn right it won't. I can't pay you for sleeping on the job." As Reigen strutted back to his desk, clicking his heels the whole way to make his point, he thought he heard a low, confused mutter of '...pay?'.

A couple minutes passed when Reigen heard a solid 'thunk' come from Mob's desk. He looked up only to see his mop of black hair splayed on the desk as his apprentice, once again, slept on the job. Reigen hummed, this was starting to get ridiculous. Mob wasn't one to shirk his responsibilities; actually he was dedicated to his work to an almost uncomfortable degree. Mob showed up at the office exactly 25 minutes after his school let out: the amount of time it took him to walk there. He tended to look at Reigen like he hung the moon, especially when he came up with some of his patented 'calm down or inspire Mob' lectures. He never acted disrespectful or sceptical or even bored when he was with Reigen. Something was up and Reigen was just curious enough to want to get to the bottom of it.

Reigen squatted in front of Mob's short desk, gently shaking him awake. He woke with a start.

Mob's eyes were red rimmed and puffy; his face flushed a sickly red and his nose dripped a steady stream of snot. Reigen held back a gag at the sight. Part of him regretted choosing to hire an 11 year old.

"Ah! I fell asleep again!" Mob's scratchy voice squeaked. He broke out into a nasty coughing fit. Once it was over and Reigen was sure Mob was done spewing his kid germs everywhere, he felt Mob's forehead with the back of his hand. Mob leaned in subtly to his cold hand, in contrast to his burning skin.

"Shit- don't repeat that." Reigen hissed. He stood up and pinched the bridge of his nose. What if a client comes in? He contemplated, I can't take a sick kid to an exorcism. He considered just sending Mob home but one look at the boy shot that idea down. He was tipping forward in his stool, just barely keeping consciousness. Not to mention how he had already passed out sitting up twice; Reigen did not trust him to get home safely by himself. And Reigen definitely didn't want to walk the boy home himself, he wasn't sure if the kid's parents knew he was Reigen's apprentice. He didn't even know if they knew Mob was psychic. Those were two conversations Reigen hoped he would never have.

Another, more appealing, thought popped into Reigen's mind. What if he just dealt with it here? He was sure there was a corner store just around the block and they definitely (probably) had cold medicine he could pick up for Mob. Then, Mob could just nap it off and be good as new before any clients came in.

Reigen smirked at his perfect plan. With a flourish, he pointed at his teetering apprentice.

"Get up, Mob! We're going shopping!" His glinting smile faltered as Mob struggled to get off of his wobbly stool. He stood in front of his mentor, swaying in place, wheezing and sniffling like just standing was a Herculean task. Reigen realised this might be harder than he thought. No problem, he scoffed, Mob's just a tiny kid, I can totally carry him there.

After a bit of contemplation, Reigen scooped up Mob, tucking him under his arm and holding him with the grace you would give to a sack of potatoes. The boy went completely slack, probably already asleep again, glad to be off his feet.

Reigen set out for the store, once again feeling great about this plan.

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

Reigen no longer felt great about this plan.

He was mistaken about the distance between the office and the nearest corner store. It was not 'right around the block' like he boasted– instead, Reigen had to lug around Mob for several blocks, nearly dropping the boy more times than he'd like to admit.

He was also mistaken that he was strong enough to carry around an 11 year old boy; Mob looked deceptively small, but he had the density of a bag of bricks. Or maybe Reigen was just out of shape. Either way, by the time they made it to the store, Reigen arrived walking tipped to one side, sweaty and tired. He just barely kept his grip on the boy fast asleep at his hip. His only saving grace was that Mob slept like the dead- not once did he wake up, no matter how many close calls there were involving his head and the sidewalk.

Reigen shakily stumbled into the corner store. He bodily shoved the door open with all of his weight. He heaved Mob further under his arm, using the back of his other hand to wipe the sweat that was collecting on his forehead. All at once, he collapsed against the check out, panting from exhaustion.

The woman behind the counter eyed him cautiously, but still smiled politely, trying to give him her best 'I'm so uncomfortable but I still have to be nice to the customers' face. Reigen could barely care at this point; people looked at him weirdly all the time– he was a weird guy after all– and in this circumstance he was way too tired to bother dialling it back.

"1-" he wheezed, "1 bottle of cold medicine," he adjusted a slightly snoring, congested Mob under his arm, "Kids medicine, please." He added.

The cashier looked down at Mob with wide, confused eyes. She hesitated, staring at the top of his black bowl cut before her gaze flicked to Reigen, who was shooting her a manic grin he probably thought was reassuring. She shook her head as she turned around and picked out a random brand of medicine from the shelf behind the counter. Without even asking if this was the brand he wanted, she rang it up. Judging by her half-lidded, glazed over expression, she never intended on asking anyways. Reigen didn't mind, he just wanted to get the hell out of here and relax at his desk.

Reigen leaned Mob against his hip, digging around in his suit pockets for his thin wallet. He procured the sorry excuse for a wallet triumphantly, face glowing with success. That is, until he realised he would have to get out his money single handedly. He glanced between his two occupied hands before resigning to opening his wallet with his teeth.

In this delicate balancing act, Reigen hadn't noticed his hold on his apprentice slipping, until a soft thump was heard by his feet. A still sleeping Mob landed face down on the dirty carpet beneath their feet. Reigen almost screamed.

"Sir. Are you going to pay or not?" the cashier's monotone voice drolled, giving away no emotion except contempt.

"Y-yes!" Reigen yelped. Turning over his wallet above the counter, he shook out his loose change. He leaned down to pick up Mob again, praying to anyone who was listening that he didn't break his nose or anything in the fall.

Reigen faltered. Instead of wrapping an arm around his middle, he lifted Mob up by his underarms. He hauled the boy up, resting his head on his padded shoulder. He leaned the boy on his hip, with an arm supporting him under his legs.

He grabbed the bottle of cold medicine just in time for the cashier to state the measly 200 yen he gave her wasn't enough. Conveniently, he didn't hear her as he sped out of the store with his head ducked down– just in case they had any cameras. For privacy's sake, of course.

He walked (ran) out into the orange glow of the late afternoon.

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

Mob was dumped into the faux leather seat of Reigen's desk. Reigen slumped, his arms trembling from use as he slumped against his desk.

Mob stirred in his seat. He yawned, breaking into another coughing fit, drier and rougher than the last. Reigen remembered why he set this whole plan into motion in the first place.

Mob wiped his tired eyes, "...Shishou?" He yawned again, "Why is there dirt on my face…?" Reigen coughed, covering an embarrassed squeak.

"No time to think about that, Mob!" Reigen declared with confidence, in direct contrast to his appearance; he was leaning against his desk, the arm propping him up visibly shaking. He struggled to lift himself onto his desk, but after a few attempts, he was finally off of his feet. He scooted over so that he sat in front of his apprentice. Shooting a self-satisfied smile, Reigen smoothed down his wrinkled suit and resumed his air of not-quite professionalism.

"You're very sick, but no need to worry! I've got just the thing to help! Now where did I put that…" Mob's feverish brain was sluggish and he struggled to keep up with his mentor's conversational pace. Well, more than usual.

Reigen brandished the half-stolen cold medicine, holding it up for Mob to admire. Once Mob hummed a tiny note of approval, he went searching in his desk drawers for a teaspoon. After a few minutes of rummaging, he procured one from the depths of his desk. He furiously wiped the suspicious unknown grime from its surface on his suit jacket. Mob wrinkled his nose at it; he rubbed his nose in confusion when it twinged with pain.

Reigen read the label carefully, before pouring out a single dose of sticky red medicine in the teaspoon of dubious cleanliness. Mob took the medicine without protest, however as soon as he tasted its fake cherry flavour, the paperwork cluttered on Reigen's desk flew across the room, like they had been picked up by a stray breeze. Reigen sighed– crisis flawlessly averted.

"Alright, that should do it." Reigen set down the spoon and bottle, "You rest up and let the medicine take effect."

"But, Master, it's almost dark," he pointed to the window behind him, "I sh-" he yawned, "Should be home by now." A bead of sweat rolled down Reigen's forehead.

"Y-you should be home?" Mob nodded heavily. But he's still sick– he's dozing off mid-conversation! I can't send him home like this! Horror dawned on Reigen; Oh my god, I'm going to have to call his parents. One look at Mob– already curled up and drooling in his sleep– and Reigen's resolve melted away. He sighed in resignation and drew out his phone from his pocket. Today had ground him down and he was finally ready to let his delusional plan die out.

Reluctantly, he flipped open his phone, fingers hovering over the number pad.

"Mob?" He started digging his own grave, "What's your parents' number?" Mob rattled off a phone number he was probably taught to memorise. Reigen punched it in, sucking in a sharp breath as it rang once, then twice– then with a click, a woman was talking.

"Hello? Who is this?" Reigen cleared his throat, voice cracking.

"H-hello Mrs. Kageyama! This- this is Reigen Arataka of Spirit's and Such Consultation-" He was cut off by a gasp.

"Oh! You must be the nice man Shigeo spends his afternoons working for! I don't think we've properly met before." Her words stopped Reigen dead in his tracks. You know about me?? He thought.

"Y-you know about me?" His big mouth supplied. Despite his growing embarrassment, Mrs. Kageyama just chuckled.

"Of course I do, little Shige talks about you all the time!" He looked down at the boy comfortable enough in his office to nap in his chair. He was softly snoring.

"He does…?" Reigen said in a small voice.

"Y'know," Mrs. Kageyama continued, "that boy just loves you to death. It's astounding actually," her voice turned incredulous, "Shige usually has so much trouble connecting with people. But he talks about you like you're his best friend."

Her words were materialising and tying a very complicated, very impressive knot around his heart. He could cry if he wasn't so focused on seeming like a responsible adult to Mob's parents.

"Actually, I was calling about your son." That sentence made him feel old. He shuddered.

"Oh no..." She sighed, sounding resigned, "Is he acting out with those abilities of his again? I promise we can pay for any damage he caused-" Reigen choked back a surprised noise. So she knew about her son's psychic powers? That definitely made this easier.

"No, he's very well behaved!" Reigen hastily corrected, "I was just calling to tell you he might not be home on time. He seems to have come down with a nasty cold." He leaned back, crossing his legs and getting more comfortable.

"I gave him some medicine, but he's napping. He's so tired, I don't think I can let him walk home in this state."

Mob's mother hummed sympathetically, "Poor little Shige... He's been off all week, but we had no idea he was sick! Don't worry yourself with him any more, we can come pick him up right away." Reigen felt ice cold dread wash over him. They're coming here?! I have to meet both of them, in person? I'm so screwed, he screamed internally.

"Sounds great! I can finally meet the people who raised such a nice boy like M- uh, Shigeo!" He caught his slip up just in time. He couldn't let them know he had such a demeaning nickname for their son, no matter how endearing he now found it. Mrs. Kageyama chuckled again.

"Oh stop it, we'll be over in a few." Reigen hummed his goodbyes with carefully practised sweetness, just barely keeping his calm. As soon as he snapped his phone shut, he melted into a sweaty puddle.

"Okay! This is fine!" He jumped off of his desk, pacing around the room.

"I can do this- all I have to do is convince Mob's parents I'm a good mentor. I trick Mob into thinking that every day!" He stopped, "But I've only had to trick Mob. What if they see right through me?!"

He whirled around and threw open his drawers, digging around desperately for stray coins. The racket he was creating woke Mob.

"Here!" Reigen slapped 300 yen into Mob's palm. He blinked at it sluggishly, "Take this and tell your parents I pay you 300 yen every day!" Reigen took him by the shoulders and shook him around a little.

"You got that, Mob?" Mob just nodded, mostly to appease Reigen so he would stop shaking him. He was dizzy enough as it was; he didn't need to add 'throwing up onto his shishou's shoes' to the list of mortifying things he did today.

Reigen startled at the sound of a car pulling up to the curb outside. He sprung up, smoothing down his dirty blond hair and fixing his crumpled suit (although there was nothing he could do about the faint sweat stains…). Looking at least a little more presentable in his thrifted suit and worn-out shoes, Reigen let the Kageyamas in with a polite smile.

As they came into the office, Reigen greeted them with the same sweetness he practised over the phone, only faltering when he noticed a mop of unruly black hair trailing behind the two parents. Mob had never mentioned having any siblings.

The boy was small but just a bit taller than Mob. He had the same straight black hair, but instead of falling into a neat bowlcut, it stuck up in untamed spikes. His face was sharper than Mob's; higher cheekbones, a pointier chin, sharper dark eyes. Still, he had the same round, pinchable cheeks as his brother. Unlike Mob's constant blank expression, the younger boy looked outwardly unamused by his office. Reigen's smile strained.

"Hi!" Reigen all but shouted, "So nice to meet you all, I'm Shigeo's mentor, Reigen Arataka!" He decided to leave out the whole 'greatest psychic of the 21st century' thing; the Kageyamas didn't look like the gullible type to appreciate his eccentricities. Especially considering the way Mob's younger brother was prodding at the things in his office with a disinterested scowl.

Mr. Kageyama shook Reigen's hand firmly, shooting him a wide grin, "Hey there! So you're the man whose been training our little Shige." He took a look around the office, eyeing the posters plastered on the walls. His searching halted at the child's drawings pinned up behind Reigen's desk, "Nice to know he's in good hands." Reigen fought back a flattered giggle, flapping his hand dismissively at the statement.

Mrs. Kageyama busied herself with checking on Mob while her husband sized up Reigen. She brushed back his bangs and felt his forehead, confirming Reigen's assumption that Mob was sick with a bad cold. She scooped her son into her arms, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. As she inspected the cold medicine Reigen gave to Mob, she nudged her youngest to say hello to Reigen.

The boy shuffled over to him. Reigen felt an aggressive tug on his pant leg, looking down from his conversation with Mr. Kageyama to the boy trying to get his attention. He squatted down and smiled at him.

"What's up, kiddo?" Despite being put off by the boy's intelligent eyes searching him with an unprecedented amount of suspicion, Reigen reached out a hand to pat the top of his head like he would with Mob.

"Hey!" Reigen reeled back, cradling his hand away from the youngest Kageyama. He hoped the amount of restraint he held to not punt the little shit that just tried to bite him couldn't be seen on his face. Through gritted teeth, he tried to laugh it off.

"Well, you're quite the spirited little-" he coughed, "-young man, huh?" Mrs. Kageyama looked mortified, while her husband just laughed.

"Oh my- Ritsu! You apologise to Mr. Reigen right now!" He didn't even look remorseful.

"No, no, it's alright!" Reigen smirked at the boy. He could use this opportunity to look even more mature in front of the Kageyama parents, "I understand that little Ritsu doesn't want his hair messed with." The boy looked about ready to tackle him.

"You're much too nice, Mr. Reigen." She shook her head disapprovingly.

"Please, just call me Reigen. I hardly think of myself as 'Mr. Reigen'." That one was true; Reigen didn't like to be overly formal with anyone. He never felt like he was deserving of such a stuffy, mature honorific. Much less in front of his apprentice's parents, nearly 15 years his senior. The only person he kept titles like that up with was Mob– and that was mostly because the boy insisted on it.

"Who knows," he continued good naturedly, "If Shigeo continues as my apprentice, we might be seeing much more of each other." He pitched forwards a little as Mr. Kageyama clapped his shoulder.

"If you're free tonight, we'd be happy to have you over for dinner."

Reigen thought of his small, dark apartment; he probably hadn't had a home cooked meal since he moved out of his parents' place years ago. He beamed at his guests, the first real smile he had worn all day.

"O-of course! That sounds great!" His barely controlled joy must have shown because Ritsu rolled his eyes like it was the most pathetic thing he had ever seen.

And so, Reigen found himself having the best meal of his adult life, surrounded by the family of his young apprentice. It wasn't the (amazing) food (that he gratefully accepted leftovers of, by the way), or even the free ride home afterwards that made the evening great; it was the company. For the first time in a long time, Reigen spent a significant amount of time with people who cared about him– people who actually felt like his friends. It was perfect; even if, halfway through dinner, Mob passed out face first into his food.

That night, Reigen went home to an apartment that felt a little warmer, a little less empty, and a little less lonely.

[apoptoses]

☕️ + Armand's reaction to Lestat's music career when he first learns of it

Oh man, like, full five stages of grief:

Denial: "Don't be ridiculous, Daniel, Lestat is too foolish to produce any sort of significant work of art. It must be some desperate fan of your book trying to imitate him."

Anger: "How dare he depict me as some sniveling villain in a cheap cloak, I swear to you, when I find him-"

Bargaining: "If only I had been able to get through to him when I found him in New Orleans, if I had convinced him of my love perhaps he could have turned to me with these secrets instead of exposing them on the television-"

Depression: there was at least a three night span where Armand laid on the bed watching his music videos on repeat and Daniel considered tossing out the tv (was listening to lestat's music on repeat what prompted daniel to go wander chicago, completely unhinged? possibly)

Acceptance: Did Armand finally break down, buy a copy of every cassette Lestat put out and one of his t-shirts at the nearest music store in Chicago before he picked up Daniel? Absolutely. But if anyone asks him it's only because he knew they'd one day be collectors items he could sell at auction, and he totally doesn't still sometimes wear that t-shirt to sleep in.

He rarely brings up his music in the modern day, as he recognizes Lestat is a man who cannot be shamed and it would only fuel his ego. But sometimes when he's alone in the car he puts on Dance of Les Innocents because all things considered it's a pretty killer 80's metal song.

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

The local Office Depot is going out of business, so the entire store is on sale. They have big signs that say "up to 50% OFF EVERYTHING,"

I like buying office supplies, and it's been going on for a fee weeks now with no set date for the permanent closure, so I head over there every now and then to check if the sales have gone up. Most items have been 20% off, but because nothing is moving they've started pushing things for 30 or 40% off

WHILE RAISING THE PRICES

I kept track! The base prices are going up faster than the sales, so you're actually paying MORE for the items now then before! A box of pencils was 20% off $5 the other day, not it's 30% off $6, so you pay 20 cents more. Big poster boards were 30% off $2, now they're 50% off $4, 60 cents more! A lot of shelves are bare because people have been buying up printer paper and ink and pens, but the wall of 3-rinf binders is as full as ever because they're charging OVER TEN DOLLARS for some laminated cardboard, even after 40% off! It's fucking ridiculous! Capitalists literally can't help themselves; even during the liquidation sale they insist on jacking up prices! They'd rather destroy unsold merchandise than let it go for cheap.

And Office Depot was the only game in town. There are no other office supply stores or copy ppaces for 100 miles! Now we have to go up on the mainland if we want to buy anything. That's not entirely true; CVS still has a stationary section, where they sell individual pens for $3 each or a 4 pack for $7. They also have 75 sheet wide-rule composition notebooks for 5 bucks a pop.

The Florida Keys really are the bottom of the barrel...

[bunbunpawz]

jFashion

I hate it when people shame others for not being 100% accurate to their fashion. So many circumstances come into play, there is never a need to be rude when people are trying so hard. Long ago, before jirai kei, I tried to put my feelings in other fashion, I tried Lolita, Gyaru, soft girl, 90′s trend when it was a thing etc. I found myself drawn more towards the aesthetic of Japanese clothes, I wouldn’t mind wearing not Jfashion but at least in my country and my circumstances there weren’t many girlier, softer cuts for clothes. So naturally I became more interested in the Japanese clothing. Lolita was one example, in Japan, Lolita fashion is a lot more broad and forgiving. Fashion in general in Japan if forgiving. But when I tried it back in my own country, there were so many rules to follow! And I do undestand that without some guidelines, any A line dress could become “lolita”, which can beome so vague that it no longer looks accurate to the look. However with so many rules, I found myself more stressing out than relaxing in garments I enjoy wearing. Even something as small as saying “lolita” instead of “lolita fashion” could be ridiculed. Even when the intend is very clear to what I mean.  I was drawn to the country lolita the most, because I wanted to feel a sense of simplisity and freedom, and in general I have a more softer persoanlity. Kinda Ironic I chose to wear Jirai Kei over Ryousangata isn’t it? In anyway, I had about the same feelings people developed years later towards Cottage Core. By the time that became a trend I already quit.  Gosh, I remember how every detail mattered, down to socks and if your shoes have open or closed toes, even when the Japanese lolita fashion accepted either! It was so stressfull. With Gyaru, I never actually got to go outside dressed in gyaru. I went to a meet up once but I kinda messed up and thought it was themed like the meet up before that. Because of that I felt kinda shamed and missplaced. So gave up here too.  I tried some classic Jfashion too, the Harajuku very known ones like Dekora and Mori-kei. Later I just wanted to find easier to find clothes that were simple and comfortable to wear while also easy to find. BUT AGAIN! my country didn’t come through for me. Something as simple as a plain white T-shirt was such a mess to find. Wide Jeans what were those? It would be years before they returned back to fashion. WIth such circumastances its no wonder I had to go through loops and hoops to find anything close to what I was looking for. On top of that I couldn’t order online and could only rely on what I could purchase at a store and with minimal income. Luckily for me we had Jfashion stores, very expensive ones, but every now and  then a gold item would pop up. Something cheap and good looking.  Thats why even though SheIn is awful for the enviorment, it can be so helpful too. Its a double edge sword really. People that cant get the correct sillouete or order from japan, or even just afford the style, can get cheap, stolen designs from shein that cost a fraction, but are also made cheaply in comparison. But sometimes that is all you can do. I dont support theft of course not, but popular desings that are stolen within the community itself, I cant help but feel like maybe its alright? For example, the Jirai Kei bear pattern clothes are so popular, many different brands made similar designs and copied off of each other. Shein also made a similar design, which can be called out for being awful, or can be called out for being inclusive to people that cant afford the bigger brands or order from Japan. And what about Plus size? Most Japanese brands are onesize, to a 3 size methood, which depends on your country could be summed up to, XS, S and M. And what nobody ever talks about is that Japanese women are short! so clothes made in Japan for Japanese women, tend to be short. If you’re a western person like me, even if you’re not that tall, you might not be able to wear the clothes without exposing your belly or not having it sit prooperly on your arms. With such inclusivity I really do enjoy the freedom of using Shein for Jfashion. I haven’t actually ordered much from Shein, because I still cant splurge but from what I did see and try, it can be a hit or miss and with Jfashion it seems to be more of a hit.

[immaculatetfs]

Beware the clearance sale: Cartographer’s Hat

Josh had just finished university. He had never really studied hard, preferring partying and working-out to studying, but with a degree in business, he reckoned that he would have no trouble getting a job, not that he was in a hurry to get one. Josh first and foremost wanted adventure, but with lockdown preventing overseas travel he was confined to his home town, with only local hiking trails to satisfy him. Though these were not his first choice, Josh decided to do one anyway out of sheer boredom. 

Lacking the hiking boots he needed, yet unable to afford new ones, Josh turned to a  finding a pair secondhand. After looking through two hospice shops, Josh gave up and began driving home, but on the way back he was surprised with a store that he could swear he had never seen before, despite living in the town near his whole life. Curious, Josh decided it wouldn't hurt to try look one more time before quitting his search. The shop was shabbier than the ones he had previously gone to, smelling like a mix of old cloth and some artificial lemon air-freshener, he found here what he had been looking for: a pair of hiking boots. They were in pretty good shape to, for second hand and looked just the right size for his feet. as he was just about to pick them up, an employee came up to him

“We’ve got a clearance special on those ones”

“Oh?” “ Josh asked “How much?”

“Free.” They replied

Josh’s brow furrowed “What?”

“Honestly, We need to make room for more items. Were overflowing out back. any item in this section is free, as long as you buy two or more”

Josh was taken back, how weird was this, “giving out free stuff, ridiculous! even if it is second hand”, he thought, though he was never one to question a good thing. Looking around he saw nothing but assorted junk, “I’ll get this hat as well then” he said, picking it up for the sole reason that it was what was closest to him, but when he looked back up to the employee, they were gone. 

Suddenly, Jake was not in control of himself. He felt his arms involuntarily reaching up to his head and placing the hat onto it. As soon as it was there, Jake felt a wave nausea across his whole body. He tried looked around at the store, taken aback by this sudden weirdness, but could not see anyone, and as quickly as it had come, the nausea faded and his movement returned. Immediately he tried to remove the hat, but try as he might it did not budge one bit. More annoyed than anything, he decided to go find that employee and to what was happening, was this some prank? That idea angered him. He walked towards the back room of the shop, though unbeknownst to him, with each step his body was expanding a little bit more. A layer of fat began to soften his well-maintained abs, his thighs widened as his ass plumped up. By the time he had made his way across the room, he was nearly unrecognizable from who he had been moments before, though Josh only noticed his new heft when his expanding ball gut broke open the front of his favorite shirt 

“What the fu---” another wave of nausea hit him, twice as intense as the last. suddenly Josh felt an itching all across his face. By the time the waves were over, his only thought was to see himself in a mirror. he ran to the changing rooms of the store, his unfamiliar weight making his every movement feel awkward and alien. when he touch his face, and felt the unfamiliar yet unmistakable scratch of stubble across his jaw. 

“Oh god” he muttered, Jake hated beards, thinking of them as untidy and ugly. By the time he saw himself in the changing room mirror, his worst fears were realized. Across his swollen face small wiry black hairs were emerging, growing at a rate that should be impossible, but there it was, happening, right in front of him to his very face. By the time the growth slowed, Jake felt like he was about to cry. Before he could though, another wave pulsated over him, though instead of nausea this time it was deep pleasure. Jake's member was at once standing, tall and girthy as a ship’s mast, its head pressing into the ball-gut above it. All of Jakes fear melted away, replaced by only one thing. He reached down, feeling his sensitive member, watching the stranger in the mirror copy his actions. Each touch, every tug sent pleasure rolling across his new body. Josh was so entrapped in his pleasure that he didn't notice the features of his face begin to morph, his nose shrinked and his cheekbones widened, his face began to show signs of age, maturing Josh from his early twenties to his late 40′s. His eyesight began to blur, coinciding with the appearance of thick-lensed glasses on the stool behind him. All this was lost to him though as he kept hammering away at himself, he barely even noticed that with each stroke, his shaft was getting smaller in length, though the loss was made up for by thickness acquired with every one of of his new tool’s pulsing's. His new body was sweating like crazy and had begin to stink up the room with the the sharp tang of sweat combined with the musty smell that his cock was starting to give of. Joshes cleaning habits having apparently become more lax as he aged. After what felt like a blissful eternity, he could not hold himself any longer and shot his seed all across the mirror. As he was lost in the pleasure of his new body, the world outside the changing room began to change itself. Gone was the store, and replacing it was a humid, lush tropical rainforest. 

When Josh had grouped himself together again, he noticed that behind him hung up was a cheap suit, blue bowtie, worn trousers and an explorers coat. All his other clothes being destroyed by his transformation, Josh had no choice but to put these impractical clothes on, not failing to notice a new, cloying heat. He also noticed that beyond the room he could hear birds he had never heard before and a river sloshing by. Perplexed by this, he staggered outside to investigate. The second he was out of the changing room it disappeared from existence with a *pop*, leaving  Josh alone in the vast rainforest.

Josh, it turns out, got the adventure that he always wanted; though not in the way that he hoped, or in the form the he expected.

[bostonbakeddeans]

Leverage + florist / tattoo shop au

Ohhh THANK YOU yes.

1) Eliot is absolutely the florist. His pop had a hardware store (more like a hole in the wall) that it was tacitly understood Eliot would inherit, but he's never had a head for his Pop's organization system, and hammers and screws and saws don't hold his interest. His sister has always been the better of the two of them at it; you can name an obscure lag bolt only manufactured between '64 and '66 and not only does Elise know what you're talking about, but she knows where the two they have are and can put her hands on them in 30 seconds. Eliot's only ever been interested in the gardening supplies, of which Pop only ever carried a bare minimum (a few bags of potting soil, some cheap seeds, a few tools here and there).

He opens the florist shop when he gets back from his tours in the army. It's small, and it's not gorgeous, but its workable, and it's his.

2) Hardison and Parker co-own the tattoo shop. Parker has incredibly steady hands, and she's a master of copying what she sees, but she doesn't create original pieces. They have loads of cheap flash art (popular with teens who have parental permission), but most people go there to commission a piece from Hardison. He's a brilliant artist, and he does brilliantly at mapping art onto skin (how it moves, how it shifts, how it fades), but the actual act of tattooing freaks him right out. So he does the art and Parker brings it to life on the client, and they make it work.

3) Parker notices that someone is moving into the shop long before it actually opens. The lights come on, for one thing, and someone keeps signing for deliveries. She likes trying to guess what it's going to be - Hardison plays along, even though they both know he could do some internet sleuthing and find out. When it becomes obvious that it's a flower shop, they begin figuring out more and more ridiculous reasons why it's certainly Not a flower shop and what else it could be (notable guesses: an art installation featuring fresh flowers, a weirdly involved romantic dinner, and a restaurant with extremely fancy centerpieces).

4) When the shop opens (nothing "grand" about it; the only announcements are run in the local paper), Parker and Hardison are first through the door. They look around with wide eyes and then greet Eliot. They give him a few gifts - "welcome to the neighborhood" and house-warming combined. When questioned, Hardison admits that they've been watching him move in, and Parker points out that the apartment listing above the shop hasn't been up since he started working on the shop, and Eliot's not sure whether he's flattered or skeeved out. He's definitely grudgingly impressed either way. Most people don't look that closely.

5) The first time Parker realizes she has Feelings (pretzel-y Feelings) for Eliot is when a client comes in without an idea and, rather than turning to one of Hardison's pre-made designs, she begins tattooing the bouquet Eliot brought over. It's in her eyeline (not near her station; that wouldn't be sanitary) and she looks at it often, so the lines come easily. It's softer than her work usually is - Hardison's art tends to be bold and chunky, nothing like the delicate sprays of flowers she's doing now. The client is delighted, and doesn't even seem to notice that she's just copied the arrangement on the front desk.

They close early that day to give Parker time to process what's just happened. By the time she and Hardison lay down to sleep, they have a plan on how to get Eliot on board with being a part of them.

(+1 for their 10th anniversary, they all three get pretzels tattooed on them somewhere. Parker's is on her upper thigh, "upside down" for anyone looking at it but rightside up for her, right where she can lay her hand on it whenever she wants. Hardison's is on the back of his right hand - he's a lefty - so he can look at it every time he does pretty much anything. Eliot's is over his heart, because that's where he needs the reminder. Yes, Parker picked the locations and did the tattoos herself; Hardison did the art; their initials are in Eliot's handwriting, following the bottom curve of the pretzel.)

[faranae]

I can't find your bread recipe :( with the tag bread queen there are only three posts and none of them is your wonderful recipe where it how can I find it? Ly

Oh! I had to switch accounts at some point last year, that’d probably do it. Hold on I got you! The reblog it’s posted on is here, and since it’s about time I copied it into its own post anyway… With a few minor edits: 

—

Two adulting (kitchen-related) tips from me!

1. Buy a roll of parchment paper from the cooking shit aisle. A big roll will last you for-fucking-ever. Pretty much any time you’re using a baking pan you can line it with that stuff and save yourself A: food sticking to the pan and B: it’s a quick rinse and it’s clean.

2. Bread can get fucking expensive, so make your own. A bigass bag of flour and a bag of active dry yeast (store it in the friiiiidge!!!) works out a FUCK of a lot cheaper than buying bread at the store, and you can do so much more with it. Bread, pizza, rolls, cinnibuns, homemade pizza pockets. It seems intimidating but it’s stupid easy.

Seriously. It’s stupid simple to make, and most of the “3 hours” to make it is sitting around surfing the internet or doing whatever the fuck you want while the dough rises. If you have an afternoon free once a week to sit and play video games or surf the net, you have the time to make your own bread on the cheap. 

Here’s my simple-as-fuck recipe:

2 ¼ teaspoons active dry yeast (You can buy a bag of this stuff CHEAP in bulk stores, the little single-serve packets are hella stupid priced)

1 cup warm water (think a hot bath)

1 ½ teaspoons sugar

2 tablespoons oil (any kind works for the most part)

2 ¼ cups flour

1 teaspoon salt

1. Stir the yeast, water, sugar, and oil up in a bowl. Let it sit for about 10 minutes. It will foam up VERY high, this is the yeast getting happy! If it doesn’t get all foamy, the water may have been too hot or not hot enough. Remember, Yeast is alive! Treat it like a nice girlfriend!

2. Mix your flour, salt, and the yeast concoction up in a bowl.

3. Knead that shit for about 5 minutes. It will start sticky as heck, but will come together into a nice dough. If it’s still super sticky, toss in a bit more flour. The dough should feel silky to touch if you’ve done it long enough. Here’s how to knead it:

4. Put your dough in a covered, lightly oiled bowl and leave it someplace warmish for an hour. At that point it will have roughly doubled in size, give it a gentle punch to release the gasses that have built up inside. Cover it again and let it sit for a bit longer.

Boom. You have bread dough. Here are some baking times and uses for ya:

Optional egg-wash: Just crack an egg into a bowl, add a pinch of salt or some water if you’re game, and mix the bejeebus out of it with a fork. Brush (or if you’re like me, goop it on with said fork) that shit thinly on bread before baking for a nice crust.

Pizza: Stretch it on a pan, stab the fucker all over with a fork, add toppings, bake 425*F 15-20 minutes. Roughly the same process for pizza pockets, just with more filling and pinching it shut before baking.

Bread Sticks: Make snake-shapes, let rest on pan 10-ish minutes, bake 400*F 10-20 minutes.

Dinner rolls/Pullaparts: Make ball-sized (yes those balls) balls. Place on greased pan, let rest 10-20 minutes to rise. Egg-wash and bake 375*F 25 minutes.

Bread: Lightly score (cut) the top, let sit for 20-ish minutes on/in whatever you’re using to bake it, egg-wash, bake at 375*F for 20-ish minutes. It’s done when it sounds hollow if you knock on the bottom. If it sounds solid, it’s still doughy.

You bet your ass you can deep-fry this shit for cheapie yeast doughnuts. Roll that shit in sugar or dip it in whatever, it’s fucking tasty.

Bagels: YES. YOU. CAN. Form bagel-shapes out of the dough and boil them in salty water for about 2 minutes. Egg-wash them and bake them at 400*F for 10 minutes.

Cinnamon Rolls: Roll that shit out into a rectangle. Brush it with a mix of butter, cinnamon, sugar, and a pinch of salt (no exact amounts here, do it to your taste). Roll it up into a log, and cut it into discs. Let them sit 20 minutes in a pan and then bake at 375*F 15-17 minutes. I can personally vouch for these coming out amazing! If you bake them long enough, the filling will caramelize on the bottom of the pan into pseudo-crunchy-sweet-buttery candy, and if you’re using parchment paper it’ll pop right off for indulgent consumption. 

You can add whatever you want to the dough for some variety, just if it’s dried spices remember you really only need 1-ish tablespoons. I personally like making bread with about 1 tablespoon of dill in the dough. Roll it out flat, sprinkle it with cheddar, roll it into a log, squeeze the ends shut, and bake it like a regular loaf of bread. Cheesy dill bread OMNOMNOM.

That got a bit long. But yeah. Bread’s expensive, yo. Save your wallet.

(Also it’s ridiculous amounts of therapeutic to bake, for me anyway.)

[x0401x]

Jeweler Richard Fanbook Short Story #26

Feel free to message me about possible corrections, and please consider supporting the creators by purchasing digital copies of the official releases: Novel || Manga || Fanbook. In case anyone is feeling generous: Ko-fi | PayPal. ( ╹◡╹)っ’･*

← Previous || Index

Opera-phile

I had a hobby that I couldn’t tell anyone about. People like me were no rare breed.

Amongst the hobbies I had heard about from my friends until now, the one that made me think “this might be a bit hard to tell someone” the most was that keeping ice cream lids when they finished eating it. They said they would write down the date on each lid and store them in one of those clear files sold at 100-yen shops. They could only eat ice cream on special days when they were little, and they still couldn’t get over the habit of that time. The face of the person who had told me about this seemed simply satisfied in some way. Regardless, this may not have been something so difficult to say because it was revealed at a drinking party.

Now. Bringing the topic back to me.

If you were living alone in a foreign land called Sri Lanka, you could do whatever you wanted. I could get up at any time, eat whatever I felt like, study the things I enjoyed and go wherever I wanted with my Three-Wheeler. I didn’t have much, but the prices were cheap. My culinary repertoire was also noticeably increasing. Even if I danced alone in my room, no one would be watching. No, my dear dog ​​Jirou would stare at me with a bit of a strange look, but there were times when he’d eventually jump up and down and start dancing with me. Even if I listened to music at a loud volume, the same went for my neighbors.

Therefore, I was now thinking that maybe my stopper had come off a little.

I had bought the CD in Colombo, the real capital of Sri Lanka. As one would expect of the biggest shop in the country, they sold a lot of things that were unlikely to be available in Kandy.

The jacket featured a black-haired woman with a spellbound face, both of her arms outstretched. It was an opera CD with twelve songs.

I went back and forth in my room, shouting, “ah~, ah~”. What an opera was? No, I did know. It was traditional singing style – something like a musical, in which singers such as tenor, paritone, soprano and alto would perform along with a play. But something about them that diverged a bit from musicals was that the words used were old, the melodies weren’t excitable, and they were mainly either Italian or French, I believed.

I had no choice but admit it at this point. I liked opera.

Nakata Seigi had the words “I’m in love with opera” floating about in his head. I was driven by an urge to scream “gyaaah” and make said words disappear, but on the CD jacket, Maria Callas was making a spellbound face as usual, and that made me happy. I had purchased this CD after much hesitation over buying this or buying that. There was no way I wouldn’t be happy about it. Still...

Somewhere in my head, I recognized this as something embarrassing.

My dear boss was always telling me to think rationally at such times. He told me that whenever I thought my mind was moving in absurd ways, it always happened that there was some sort of timid development in me, which I either hadn’t noticed or, even if I did notice it, I’d ignore it – but once I understood it, it would stop being absurd.

Why would opera be embarrassing in the first place?

How I had come to like opera? The trigger was the radio. When I was staying at a hotel for a while back in Tokyo, I tended to feel down because I had nothing to do other than study, so I’d sometimes listen to the radio broadcast at the hotel while devoting myself to physics and English.

The singing voice I heard at that time was – how should I put it? – tremendously wonderful.

I couldn’t think that it was the voice of someone from the same world as myself. Someone was singing in a place just a few ways away, and as I listened to it, my body felt like my body was airily floating up – it was that kind of voice. I didn’t have any preferences for either male or female, and if anything, I liked both. The title of the song being streamed was written in the hotel’s guidebook, so I went to a video streaming site and searched for the same song by other singers and the songs that came before and after said piece. Faust. Madama Butterfly. Otello. Rigoletto. The Magic Flute. Don Giovanni. Whenever an opera song was used on a TV show, i became able to at least tell which prelude it was from.

And this passion hadn’t cooled down even now that some time had passed since then.

I walked around the room again, shouting, “Uuuh, uuuh”. Jirou energetically followed me from behind. It was almost as if he meant to say, “It’s fun to go a stroll even inside a room, huh, owner?”. Sorry but it’s not like I’m taking you on a walk, I thought, yet Jirou couldn’t care less, letting out a sweet voice as I held him up and rocked him, and then running off to the yard as if he had gotten excited. Just as I felt relieved, thinking about what a cute fella he was, I found myself imagining something. I could see myself at the drinking party, talking about how I liked opera. The reaction I pictured was an explosion of laughter.

“‘Opera’, you say. What’s up with that? It’s that thing where fat people raise their voices like crazy, right? You like that? Why? No way, Nakata, didn’t you just want to have a rich people hobby just ‘cause you’ve well-off these days? Like, those that feel like you’re superior. That’s exactly what opera is. Okay, I get it, but that ain’t very interesting, so how about we change the topic?”

It gave me chills.

I wasn’t creeped out by how people might talk about my hobbies. However, it was painful to have the whole genre of opera, which had saved me back when I was put in a spot like a light reaching out from the sky, be judged by people who didn’t even know the difference between Callas and Pavarotti and not be able to defend them. I had to protect what was important to me. Or else, it would get damaged. I wasn’t referring to the long-standing form of art that had been cultivated for hundreds of years. I meant my own heart. That was painful to me.

Yeah, I was somewhat aware that this wasn’t an “embarrassment”. But I was scared.

I was low-key terrified of having people pointing their fingers at me from behind with words such as “eccentric”, “weirdo” or “pretentious” for having a preference that was different from other people’s – and something that I seriously liked, no less.

With a deep breath, I took the CD’s vinyl cover. Unlike Japanese CDs, there was none of those convenient little ears that made the cover come off when you pulled it. I slowly cut it with a pair of scissors, set it on a nostalgic stereo radio and played it while referring to the table of track numbers on the backside.

Just from the intro, I already knew who was singing and what song it was.

Maria Callas’s “Casta Diva”. It was a song from an opera called “Norma”, and the meaning of it was “chaste goddess”.

What it made me reminisce to was a seriously horrible time, when I had to prepare for my death to a certain extent. Whenever this song played in the hotel’s radio program, which repeated itself over and over, this song would connect me with paradise, telling me that I didn’t need to worry about trivial matters, so I was able to leave it all aside and relax. It was that kind of song. Without a doubt, my biggest and best saver was that beautiful jeweler, but from the sidelines, opera had definitely helped me keep my sanity.

That was amazing.

I was grateful from the bottom of my heart that this form of art, which couldn’t be classified as mainstream at all in Japan and probably overseas as well, had maintained its thread of life across the centuries. It had saved me. Would the CD sales be of any help to it? Thankfully, I had some money to spend and was probably able to buy a set of all-track CDs per month. Would that be a form of repayment of any kind? It would be great if so, I thought wholeheartedly.

“Casta Diva” wasn’t too long a piece. With a voice that sounded like it was vanishing, the song ended. For whatever reason, it made me feel like crying, no matter how many times I had listened to it. It was too beautiful. It was an impossible speculation, but if Richard turned into a song, I felt that his form would change into something very close to this one.

Once I finished listening to the track, the “aaah”s and “uuuh”s had disappeared from my head. I liked opera. Opera turned into my strength. So I wanted to cherish it.

Even if someone ridiculed me for it, the problem was with the person, not with me or with opera. And my precious, beautiful shopkeeper had stated that “no discriminating other people based on their preferences” was one of the main principles of Etranger. What was I going to do by discriminating myself?

I was going to keep buying opera CDs from now on too, I swore proudly to my heart, yet secretly decided not to write about it in my blog or talk to Richard about it. Not because it was embarrassing. But rather because I had the gut feeling that I couldn’t predict what would happen in the end if I told him.

On that day, I was busy with preparations for cooking. First Saul-san, and then Richard would come to Kandy to hear the reports about the progress of my studies. It was also like a test. But I hadn’t studied half-assedly enough to chicken out at that. Above all, thanks to the negotiations in Ratnapura, I was conscious that my eyes were well-trained, if I could say so myself.

If it didn’t go well even with this, that was fine. I was happy to find new challenges. Lots of things became easier once I started feeling that studying was fun.

And since they were coming over, they wouldn’t get angry if I prepared a bit of a feast. More than anything, being able to cook a few people’s share in this house had me overjoyed. After all, I was basically living alone, so just how many times had I found delicious-looking and cheap food but had to tearfully give up because I wasn’t sure if I could eat it all by myself?

Being surrounded by things that made you happy was extremely good for the heart.

Deciding to go for an additional blow, I set the CD in the radio. A long aria began at the end of the first opus of all songs. It was a French opera called “La Fille du Régiment”, and being fond of this one had greatly helped me when I was studying French.

The man who started to sing that he was going to marry the army was a world-renowned tenor.

In the beginning, the man sang that he was going to do meritorious deeds in the army, cheered on by his companions. Since I had been listening to the words ever since back when I could only hear them as katakana spelling, my mouth moved without any reference. Of course, my voice didn’t sound like that of a tenor, but it had the same gist as somehow trying to sing in the range of a singer from some music show. Just that was fun enough.

A fish pie was baking in the oven. There were three types of curry in the smaller pots. My Nakata-style sliced veggies pickled in soy sauce, which were a mixture of chopped coconut sambal and dried fruits, were lined up on a cutting board, and the fresh fruits that I planned to make into mixed juice were all completely ready. The only thing I had left to do was preparing watalappan for dessert. It had to chill in the fridge for a while, so it was necessary to make it in advance. However, since it was my third time making it, I had the procedure memorized. No worries.

The tenor raised his voice amidst joy. The man who sang, “Ah, I’m going, I’m going to marry the army” didn’t like the army in particular, he was just in love with the abandoned girl that all the men from the regiment he was enlisted in were raising together.

The key switched to waltz. The true value of the tenor would ensue from that point onward.

The oven beeped, indicating that the pie had finished baking. With light steps, put on my gloves, took out the whole iron plate with the pie on it and gently slid it into a white porcelain plate.

A series of splendid high Cs. This referred to when the tenor raised their voice a great deal. If the composer was wonderful in reproducing the feelings of happiness into the music so keenly, then so was the singer who sang them so faithfully, I believed. The feeling of excitement turned into the melody just the way it was.

I arranged the dishes on the table and peeled the fruits. The high Cs continued one after another. I opened a can of coconut milk and mixed the contents with nut paste. The song was approaching the end. “What a fate, what a fate,” he sang, sounding merry. The highest note was near.

The song was coming to a close while celebrating happiness with the highest note. The feelings of the singer weren’t recorded in the CD, but I could hear them as comfortably as could be.

It wasn’t nearly high enough, but I sang along at a fairly loud volume.

At the same time as the song finished with a flashy grace note, I lightly kicked the open lid of the oven. It closed up neatly. With this, everything was all set. I was going to put away the CD set before the guests arrived.

Or so I had planned.

After the peak of my excitement, I noticed that someone was standing outside the window. He hadn’t come in from the front door. Hence the chime didn’t ring.

“Bravo, bravissimo.” A beautiful man wearing a white shirt and sunglasses, said glasses charmingly pushed up above his forehead, was smiling while applauding at my stiffened self.

The test was terrible that day. I didn’t think there was any issue with the contents of my answers. However, since I was stuttering so much, Saul, my mentor who was so picky about manner of speech as well as the contents of it, pointed out that I should “act more dignified”. I knew that better than anyone. There was too much noise interference in my head with things such as, “Why did I put opera on in such high spirits? What did he think of me now? As I thought, does he think that this hobby doesn’t suit me? No, that’s definitely impossible when it comes to my teacher, so I have to take control of my self-consciousness”.

And so, this is a story that happened more than half a year after that. Something that took place in Sri Lanka in May.

“Eh?”

“Happy birthday, Seigi. Here is a little present.”

“A bank deposit transfer certificate?”

“Good job reading it. That is from the USA.”

“USA...”

“There was a seat that you would probably like, so I purchased a year’s worth of it.”

“A year”? This wasn’t potato chips or cup noodles. What kind of seat was that? Was there a truck coming to deliver it? While thinking about such things, I continued reading the A4 paper, and when I got to half of it, I roared loudly. I let out a voice that sounded like a crushed frog, I believed.

The seat that Richard had given me was indeed a seat. But at a music theatre in America, which was likely the world’s most famous. It was a one-year membership card.

This was proof that “a seat will be reserved for you”. A seat just for me, for any performance, that I could use whenever I went there.

I felt lightheaded. Just how much had this “seat” cost him? What was he trying to do by giving something like this to someone who sat in swivel chairs sold at mass retailers? I did have such rational retorts in my head, but above that, I was so, so happy that I started jumping up and down. I could go to a theatre that I only knew about from CDs. Anytime, as long as I had the plane tickets. No matter who was singing.

“Can I really have this?!”

“Do you think I’m some sort of boorish lad who’d take back the treasure after making the other person happy?”

“No way! Uoooh, I’m too excited; that’s bad!”

“You are reacting like a dog again...”

“I’m gonna run in the yard for a bit!”

As I, with a messy katakana pronunciation, sang to myself the chorus part of the aria that had just finished while rolling around in the yard, Jirou ran over and mounted on me without restraint. “Owner, we’re going to play here, right? We’re going to play here, right? Come, let’s play,” he seemed to say, energetically wagging his tail. I was so happy that I hugged him and rolled about, but then I could see Richard laughing. The yard was on a slightly lower level than the house, so the house was wholly visible, so I didn’t think I was mistaken. He really was making a happy-looking face. This might have been my first time seeing that man laugh with such a child-like expression.

At that moment, something suddenly came to mind.

When Richard told me for the first time that he “likes pudding”, did he also think for a bit that it was embarrassing or wonder about what I was going to say? This man had thorough knowledge about the so-called “society”. There was no way that he hadn’t considered the possibility.

But he had told me about it.

Did I not say anything weird to him back then? “A man, liking pudding?” or “Why would a foreigner like a Japanese dessert?” It gave me the creeps. Back then, I didn’t have as much care as now regarding how to handle such circumstances. I just had words jumping out of my mouth like knives. This still applies even now, but I wanted to think it had gotten better, even if just a little.

Had I not said anything to him? Had I not hurt him? I didn’t have any way to confirm that now. If I apologized without knowing what I had said, it wouldn’t be a sincere apology.

But right now, Richard was looking at my happy self and smiling.

So I decided to stop thinking about these things. And from now on too, I would keep making heaps upon heaps of the things he liked.

I had to protect what was important to me by myself. But if I happened to notice something that mattered to someone who was dear to me, I wanted to cherish it too. I had no other choice.

After stroking Jirou, I went back to where Richard was and bowed to him again. He reciprocated the bow with a “you are welcome” and seemed about to start laughing again.

“That’s right, I was gonna make pudding. Wait just a bit more.”

“Is there anything I can help with?”

“You already got me a seat at the MET; I can’t go along with that flattery even as a joke. I’d be happy if you played with Jirou, though.”

“Then, I will take you up on those words.”

Rubbing my chest in relief, I went back to my room, patting my whole body to remove the dirt and dog hairs, and after washing my hands with soap, I returned to the kitchen.

By the looks of it, I was going to be able to listen to an opera in person one of these days – at least within a year’s time. Once I watched it live, all the curtains would close, right? For real? Was such a thing possible? Apparently yes. Hard to believe but it was true.

That man who was like an incarnation of the worldwide definition of “beauty”, and above that, who was a genius at pleasing me, was fooling around with my hybrid brown dog in the yard, illuminated by tropical sunshine. It seemed that the preparations for our feast would still take a while.

“What a wonderful day,” I hummed tentatively in French. A gorgeous tenor voice wouldn’t come out of my throat, but the things I liked would firmly support my heart nevertheless. Almost like a backbone for it. And there was someone supporting this backbone. Honestly, what a wonderful day. For now, I’d be making pudding. And share at least a little bit of this feeling.

[publiccollectors]

From the discussion “Towards A Self Sustaining Publishing Model” hosted by Printed Matter.

Some things I have learned in over 30 years of publishing since my teenage days as a zine maker, administrating my project Public Collectors, and from working in the group Temporary Services and our publishing imprint Half Letter Press.

I have just ten minutes to speak. If only one or two things that I share are useful, that’s plenty! It took me decades to understand some of this stuff.

Use every exhibition invitation with a budget to print something. Use the whole budget to print something. Make something in a large enough print run so that you have something to give away and surplus that you can sell. Your publication can be a folded sheet of paper, a booklet, a newspaper, a poster, a book, or anything in between.

Be able to print at least something at home. Buy a cheap laser printer or inkjet printer, find a used copy machine, buy a RISO or some other duplicator, carve something into a potato or a piece of foam and print it. Being able to do at least some of the printing and production at home—even if it’s on a tiny scale—will compel you to print things that you might have convinced yourself not to send out or bring to a professional printer. Hopefully the ability to print impulsively and compulsively will result in good work. Figure out how to keep making things on every scale. Look for cheap used printing equipment on Craigslist. Team up with friends and buy equipment together that you can share. Start a printing collective in your basement.

Ideally your publication should cost 1/5th or 1/6th of the retail price to make. If you sell a $10.00 publication through a store, you are probably only going to make $6.00 or less after the store takes its cut. So ideally your $10.00 book costs $2.00 or less to make. Don’t aim to just break even. Aim to make a profit so you can keep making more publications and pay for your life. Publishing will probably never be your sole income but don’t lose money on purpose. Make things that are priced fairly and look like they justify what they cost to buy. The fact that you didn’t find a more affordable way to print something is not an excuse to sell something that feels cheap and shitty for a ridiculous sum of money. Good cheap printing is easier to find than ever before. Do your homework.

Figure out the cheapest and least wasteful ways to do everything. Ask other publishers where they get their work printed. Look for local printers so you can avoid shipping fees. Ask local printers if you can pay in cash for a discount. Ask printers if there is a cheaper way to do what you want to do by adjusting the size of your paper or the paper stock or some other small shift in form. If you print things yourself, buy the paper that is on sale. Design a publication around the paper that you found for cheap. Discount warehouses sometimes have good paper. Even dollar stores sometimes have good paper. I’ve even bought paper at flea markets. Costco sells an 800 sheet ream of 24 lb paper for $6.99. I use it all the time. It rules. I also recommend getting your jugs of organic olive oil there, but you can’t print with that.

Free printing is good printing. If you have access to free printing, use it. Free printing is like free food at art openings and conference receptions. It is one of those pleasures in life that never gets old. Come up with an idea that is based around the aesthetics of whatever free printing you have access to and make the publication that way. Eat the cheese and bread. Drink the wine. Make the copies at work.

Buy bulk shipping mailers on eBay. Find bubble wrap and other packing materials in the trash. Look out for neighbors who just bought new furniture—it’s usually wrapped in miles of packing material you can use for shipping books. Boycott terrible right wing fuckers like ULINE. Seriously, they give money to everyone horrible. Trump? Check. Ted Cruz? Check. Scott Walker? Check. ROY FUCKING MOORE? CHECK FUCKING CHECK! Tear up their catalogs and use them as packing material to protect your books. Make publications that have a consistent size so you can purchase cardboard mailers in bulk and get a discount on them. Buy packing tape in bulk. Buy everything in bulk. You can store your extra reams of paper under your bed or on top of your kitchen cabinets if necessary. Be like a wacko survivalist prepper, but for office supplies. Go to estate sales and look for the home office in the house. Buy the dead person’s extra tape and staples and rulers and scissors. I’ve been using some random dead person’s staples for years because I bought their staple hoard. Staples aren’t like meat and milk. They don’t expire.

I’m against competition. Try to avoid competing with other artists for resources. If you don’t truly need the money, don’t ask for it. Artists should have a section on their CV where they list grants they could have easily gotten but didn’t apply for because they are privileged enough that they don’t need the money as much as someone else. I almost never apply for anything but the one thing I do apply for and get every year is a part-time faculty development grant from Columbia College Chicago where I teach. It pays adjuncts up to $2,500 a year to fund their projects and seems to be completely non-competitive. My union negotiated to get us more money. I have used that grant to make over a dozen publications. The value of the publications I make and sell with each grant is about three or four times the value of the grant itself. Some years I make more from the grant than I do from the limited number of classes I teach. But I don’t depend on this grant to be a publisher and I’d still be able to make things without it.

Make things in different price ranges so everyone can afford your work, but also so that you can sustain your practice. Make a publication that costs $2.00, that costs $6.00, that costs $20.00, and make something special for the fancy ass institutional libraries that have a lot of money to spare and can buy something that costs $300.00. Likewise, make things in all different size print runs. Is there something you can print 1,000 of that you can keep selling and giving away for years, to enjoy that quantity discount that comes with offset printing a large number of publications?

Collaborate with people and pay them with publications (if they are cool with that) that they can sell on their own. Sometimes this ends up being better pay and more useful than an honorarium, and it helps justify a larger print run. But see what they need—don’t assume. Barter with other publishers and sell each other’s work and let each other keep the money. This helps with distribution. Sometimes it’s easier to sell their work than it is to sell your own. Help others expand the audience for their publications.

Fund your publishing practice by asking your friends who teach to invite you to talk to their college classes about your work. Use those guest speaker fees to print something. I sometimes tell people on social media: If three or four people will invite me to speak to their class, it could fund the entire next issue of X booklet series that you like so much. This has often worked. Also, sometimes their students end up ordering publications. Sometimes lectures about publications generate more income than the publications themselves.

Have an emailing list and write newsletters to announce new publications. Stay in touch with people who like what you do. Expect to spend a ton of time corresponding with people. Have some cheap things and cool ephemera on hand that you can send people for free when they mail order your publications. Reward people who support you directly with something nice that they didn’t expect. People like handwritten notes. It’s okay if they are very short but sign the packing slip and at least write “Thank you!”

Above all, know that publishing is a life journey and not a get rich quick scheme, or even a make very much money scheme. Enjoy the experience of meeting and working with others, trade your publications with other publishers and build up an amazing library of small press, hard to find artist books. Get vaccinated and travel and sleep on each other’s couches. Be generous with your time, knowledge, resources, and work. Tell Jeff Bezos to fuck off by never selling anything you make through Amazon. Find the bookstores that you love and work with them forever. It’s nicer to have deeper relationships with fewer bookstores than surface level interactions with dozens of shops run by people you don’t know.

Think about your publishing family. Bookstore people are your family. People that organize book fairs and zine fests are your publishing family. Other publishers are your family. People who follow your work for years on end are your family. Printers and binderies are your family. The postal workers that know you by name and that you know by name are your family. The person who doesn’t care if you make the free copies at work is your family. Over thirty years later, I’m still in contact with people I exchanged zines with through the mail when I was a teenager. In some cases I still haven’t met them in person. It’s fine! They are my family. Your students are your family—particularly once they graduate or drop out, as long as they continue making books and zines. Your family is your family, particularly if they value and support your publishing practice. And for this reason, this talk is dedicated to my late father Bruce Fischer, who let me use the company copier and postage meter when I was in high school, and to my mom who sat on the floor with me and helped me hand collate and staple my zines.

That’s what I’ve got for now. Stay in touch and with luck, and enough vaccines and masks and hand sanitizer, maybe I’ll see you at a book fair. – Marc Fischer • Thank you to Be Oakley of GenderFail for the invitation to present, to the other presenters Vivian Sming, Yuri Ogita, and Devin Troy Strother, and to the wonderful people at Printed Matter for hosting this! You should be able to find the video archived on Printed Matter’s YouTube Channel.  Presented on April 2, 2021

[morgana-ren]

For Anon: Just the alleyway scene! Here you go! 

There was no better display of the sickening plethora of filth that was ‘hero culture’ than the mall.

Hoards of humans crowding inside a concrete cage to throw their money at any cheap, shitty knockoff item with a famous face plastered on it. Kids ran amok, screaming and crying and leaving a trail of crumbs and slobber in their wake. Teenage girls and boys huddled around the hippest stores, fawning over the latest heart throb and shoplifting trinkets while no one was looking. It was absolutely disgusting.

They flocked to the stores like rats chasing poisoned peanut butter. Endeavor t-shirts, Uwabami makeup. Midnight lingerie. Fucking All Might everything. They all flew off the rack as fast as they could be stocked. Moronic NPCs shoveling every ounce of garbage they could find into their inventory. Every bone in his body longed to run his hand along the wall and just watch it all turn to dust.

His hatred of the general populace was one of many reasons Shigaraki didn’t make a habit out of leaving the bar. Assuming that Father had kept enough of his face hidden during his exploits for it to be somewhat safe, he still didn’t particularly enjoy crowds. People of all sizes, shapes, colors, smells, cultures, ideals, and morals but they all had one thing in common.

They all looked down on him.

In public, he always kept his head down, hood and hair covering his marred face. Hands steadily in his pocket, eyes on the ground. He pulled himself into his own body, doing his best to not draw any undue attention. It wasn’t for their benefit, of course, but his. If one more NPC stared at him, a single person let their eyes linger too long on his chapped lips, dry skin, scars, or emaciated form, he would snap and ruin everything. A massacre that ended in his incarceration would probably throw a massive sized wrench into the gears of All for One’s plan, and that was the last thing Tomura wanted.

Regardless, it made him so angry.

Not that he cared what they thought. They could drown in their own filth as far as he was concerned. He just didn’t like being stared at. It was so rude. These pack animals always pretended like they were so much better than everyone else, with their laws and their heroes. So superior. But the way they looked at him, the way their eyes crinkled in disgust, mouths agape, looking at him like he was a wet rat who crawled out of a sewer grate.

How would they look at him when their expressions were melting from their faces as they disintegrated into ash?

The situation made his fingers twitch and lip curl. Wasn’t it enough that idiot Stain had polluted the minds of the city’s villains with his ridiculous ideology? Did everything have to be such a pain in the ass?  

Luckily, Shigaraki had a few hobbies that helped to calm his mind. While drinking at the bar and crisping newspapers was always a quick and easy stress relief, he had always been particularly taken with video games. Not only did he enjoy them, but he was good at them. No one could look down at you for your appearance or ideals, the only thing that mattered in the end was victory, and that was a strategy he could work with.

It didn’t matter the genre, the rating, online or off, he knew he could dominate it. He never had much trouble climbing the rankings or leveling up. Nothing mattered but his prowess, his skill, both of which he had in spades. Not to mention, it allowed him to exercise his destructive and domineering personality without drawing any real attention to himself. In fact, it even made him cool. People would fight for his allegiance during battles or races, sending him an wave of friend requests and messages with offers from their guilds or promises of friendship from their groups. He didn’t care about that. He deserved the recognition. He was only getting what was coming to him.

But even video games weren’t completely safe from the influx of hero paraphernalia pandering garbage. Gaming companies flocked to video games featuring heroes like a fly to shit. It was easily avoidable, sure, but it still pissed him off that heroes could infect the one thing he genuinely enjoyed.

Still, he had to admit, it fun wiping the floor with famous heroes in those games sometimes. Even if the villains were hideously under powered. In fact, that made it even better. If he could win a fight with a nobody villain against a famous hero in a video game where there were limited controls, can you imagine what he could do in real life where the possibilities were endless?

Soon the whole world would see. This was only the beginning.

Frankly, there was only one downside to gaming. Most new releases from the companies he liked didn’t come out with PC ports for a little while after the game’s initial release, which meant he had to leave the safety of the bar and adjourn out into the world to get brand new games. Sure, he could send Kurogiri to do it, but more than once he had come back with the wrong game in the series, or even the wrong one entirely. It was a frustrating mess, and it was easier to just avoid it all together by going himself.

Besides, sometimes walks helped him clear his head. Sometimes.

That was how he found himself here. One of his favorite companies had just released a brand new action and adventure game that he’d been dying to try ever since he saw the trailer. He’d even had Kurogiri call in advance and reserve a copy. At least he could do that right.

Shigaraki needed this. Needed to get his mind off of the Hero Killer Stain and All Might and fucking all of it. He was driving himself mad going around in circles in his own head asking himself questions he knew he didn’t have the answers to. He needed to put his head in the clouds, if only for a little while.

So he dodged through the crowds of people, weaving in and out of families and groups trying to get into the game store before he finally lost his last ounce of sanity. There seemed to be more people here than usual, which just soured his mood even further. He should have known better than to come on a weekend. He grunted past several bystanders, biting his tongue to hold back the onslaught of insults fresh in his mind. It was only when he reached a rather impenetrable wall of people that he inhaled sharply, ready to start grabbing.

A large group of pedestrians had gathered in a circle around something, which was blocking off a large portion of the walkway and therefore his path. He mumbled under his breath, tempted to forcefully move them out of the way. What in the hell was going on that was so important that it saw fit to hinder him?

“Hey, isn’t that the hero class from UA?”

“Yeah! Wow! I saw them compete in the sports festival! So awesome!”

“You guys are so cool! What’s it like at UA?”

Shigaraki stiffened. So they were here. He peered upward for a moment and saw the class huddled together, some blushing, others posing, obviously basking in their new found fame. That kid was here too. The mop of hair and splattering of freckles was visible even from where he stood. That one willing to put himself in danger over and over again for All Might. Midoriya.

Maybe it wasn’t entirely a negative thing that he found himself here on this particular day. That boy obviously had his pulse on hero culture. Maybe he could explain why people were so taken with Stain and yet completely ignored him. An ear splitting smile cut through Shigaraki’s face, irritating one of the blisters on his lower lip. He wiped the blood and waited for the crowd to disperse as the students each went off in their own direction.

When it was only him and one other student, a young girl with short brown hair, he made his move. He started heading in the direction of Midoriya, grinning wider when the young girl sped off, leaving the kid all by himself. It was so perfect. He was about to reach out and make his move when he heard it.

A voice. A voice that made his blood pound in his ears.

He stopped cold, hand stopped short of the oblivious Midoriya’s shoulder. Instinctively, his head turned in the direction of the voice, heart thrumming in his chest. Surrounded by a couple of fellow UA students, she was standing in front of a window, joking around with one of the people nearest her.

Her. She was here

His fingers began to shake as he withdrew them from Midoriya, stuffing them back into his pocket before anyone noticed him. She was here. He should have known. She was in the class too. These kids stuck together like glue. If they were here, it was certain she was nearby. Stupid stupid stupid. He had almost blown his chance.

But he hadn’t.

He turned and stalked in her direction, staying only far enough back as to not draw attention, crimson eyes glaring into the back of her head. She was laughing at something some blonde idiot in her class had said. He felt his temper go through the roof, and allowed one hand out to scratch and dig at his neck. Why was she talking to him? Why was she laughing so hard? What he said probably wasn’t even funny. He didn’t like the way that guy was looking at her. Did he like her? Did she like him?

He felt a thin trickle of liquid down his neck as his scar reopened.

He managed to tame his anger just enough to keep from rushing him. Instead, he followed the group at a distance for a while, waiting for his opportunity. He overheard something about a camping trip and something about training. Interesting. He would have to make a mental note of it. However, right now, he had other things on his mind.

The opportunity finally came when a few of the students rushed ahead to drool over some restaurant while she stayed behind, digging in her bag for her wallet. They ran off ahead, yelling at her to catch up and complaining about hunger. He heard her laugh and tell them she’d be there in a minute, she just needed a second to get some cash out. She was alone. It was time.

He came up behind her, placing his hand on her shoulder, doing his best to mask his voice.

“Hey, you’re one of those kids from UA, right? You’re practically famous! Do you think I could get an autograph?”

He felt her stiffen underneath his hold. She knew something was off, a shiver rolling down her spine as she tried to turn and look at him. He was just out of the reach of her peripheral, hair and hood hiding his features.

“Y-yeah, I am.” She raised her hand as if to pry him off, but thought better of it. “If you’ll just let me go for a second, I’ll get in my bag and get out a pen and some paper.”

Her voice was on edge, her shoulder muscles clenching. He couldn’t help but smile again.

“I saw you compete in the sports festival. You came in fourth, right? It was so cool. I bet you got so many offers from agencies. I bet everyone wants you to be their hero.” He could feel her breathing getting more shallow, feel her neck flex as she swallowed.

“I-um-Sir, I don’t really feel comfortable being touched by people I don’t know, but if you’ll remove your hand, I’ll get you an autograph or a picture if you want.”

Sir. She had called him sir. It was adorable. He wanted to hear it again.

“I noticed you got your costume fixed too. I liked better it the other way, but that way is fine too.” He chuckled. “Hey, you’re a little tense. It’s okay, we’re friends, remember?”

Realization hit her like a truck. She inhaled, biting her lip as she turned her head as much as she could in his direction. “Shigaraki!”

He leaned down, perching his head on her shoulder. “Careful, you don’t want to make a scene. All Might might not be busy this time, but there certainly a lot of civilians around. A lot of your friends too. I’d hate for something to happen.”

“What do you want?” She snarled, making a slight effort to jerk away. He didn’t let her.

“I just want to talk. Is that so bad? Or are you too cool now to catch up with an old friend?”

“We are not friends!” Growling, she reached up and dug her fingernails into his wrist.

He giggled. She had certainly gotten more feisty since their last meeting. “That’s not a very nice thing to say. I thought we hit it off pretty well.

Before she could respond, the same blonde classmate came running towards them from inside of the nearby building. Shigaraki sneered, tightening his grip on her shoulder in warning. He was no doubt coming back for her.

“Hey! We got a table and be-Woah! Who’s this guy?” The kid stopped a bit short of them, shifting between looking at her in confusion and peering suspiciously at him.

Shigaraki leaned further in and whispered under his breath. “Unless the next time you want to see him is in an urn, I suggest you get rid of him. Quickly.”

She pulled herself together, smiling happily while waving at him. “It’s cool, Denki. He’s an old friend.” A sly smirk pulled at Tomura’s mouth. “We ran into each other and thought we’d catch up a bit. Don’t wait up! I’ll meet you guys there!”

Denki continued looking back and forth between the two of them, eyes lingering on Shigaraki for a brief moment before retreating. “Okay, then. I’ll save you a spot. Don’t take too long or I’ll eat your food too!”

As they watched him walk back into the restaurant, Tomura hummed. “You’re certainly a good actress. If I hadn’t known better, I wouldn’t believe you were lying.”

“Say what you need to say and then leave.” She hissed quietly.

“Walk forward and turn into that alleyway on your left.” He gripped her with his hand, careful to leave his middle finger levitating.

“Like hell! You think I’m just going to walk into a dark alleyway with the leader of the league of villains? You’ll kill me!”

“You don’t have a choice, hero. Assuming that’s what I’m planning, it’s either you or everyone else in this area, starting with Denki.” He began walking, shoving her forward lightly. “And if I start feeling anything funny, I’ll dust you first and then move on to them.”

She exhaled in defeat, shuffling her feet forward as Shigaraki steered her toward the desolate alcove. That rendered her quirk completely useless. Shigaraki would know if she was trying to use it on him, and she didn’t want to test his promise. She had no doubt in her mind that he wouldn’t hesitate.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t get the drop on him though.

Remember your training. Duck and jab. Get out of his reach!

Not quite halfway down the passageway, she ducked and lurched back, sending her elbow careening into his stomach. He grunted in pain as he was driven back several feet away from her, taken too much by surprise to bring his hand down. She turned to face him, readying her defensive stance as he recovered from the blow.

“This again?” He wheezed, rolling his neck.

“I’m not going down without a fight!”

Sighing, he straightened his back and held his hands up. “Have it your way, then.”

She sent a few punches his direction but he dodged the brunt of them, only landing one on his injured shoulder. It was exponentially stronger than the last time they met, enough to send him reeling backwards while grabbing at his weakened limb. He coughed a few times, quickly evading her other jabs.

“You’ve been practicing.” He noted.

“I train with Midnight every week in hand to hand combat to keep people like you away!” She sent another loaded punch towards his face, which he easily sidestepped.

“Looks like it’s going well.” He deadpanned, seeming unimpressed. “I’m getting bored.”

She ignored his prodding, sending a few low kicks to his shins. He brought his own foot up, catching on the back of her knee and yanking, sending her toppling to the ground. She growled in frustration, pushing herself away from where he stood and standing back up, immediately taking stance again. She charged him one last time, sending her leg on a collision course with his hip in the hopes to knock him aside, but he simply raised his arms, catching her leg and holding it.

Her eyes widened as she began to lose balance, but before she could fall again, he slammed her into the wall closest her back using her own leg as leverage. She cried out, letting her guard down. He used the opportunity to move on her, pressing against her and pushing her further into the brick as one hand slid up from her calf to her thigh, never relinquishing its grip, while the other calmly wrapped around her neck, middle finger flexing.

He could feel her erratic breathing. She had lost to him not once, but twice now, and it barely even took any effort on his part. Her frightened eyes searched underneath his hair, but it was too shadowed beneath his hood to see much of anything. All she could make out was his teeth, visible underneath his simpering lips.

“Quiet now. Your little outburst is bound to have attracted attention.” He placed his forehead to hers, leaning forward slightly to cover her face in a curtain of his hair. She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip on her neck “Unless you want a whole lot of nice people to die, you’ll play along.” He pressed her harder into the alley wall, crushing her body with his. He hiked her thigh up around his own and held it there with the hand that still had a grasp on it, maneuvering his hips between her now open legs.

She made a sound of disgust, trying again to turn from him, but he dug his fingernails into her thigh, eliciting a shocked gasp from her. Through the tendrils of his hair, she could see a few curious people beginning to peak into the alley entrance, drawn by the sounds of their fighting. He pushed his face so close to hers that she could feel him smile.

“You’re not making this very convincing.” He whispered. “All it would take is one little touch and I could dust them all.”

She swallowed hard, closing her eyes and preparing herself for what she had to do. Slowly, she raised her arms up over Shigaraki’s shoulders, one hand resting uneasily on the back of his neck, the other tangling up into his hair. She let her leg rest up in his hand instead of squirming, wrapping her knee around his thigh and relaxing her stance so it appeared more natural.

Shigaraki was absolutely not a fan of being touched. In fact, casual brushes in the street were often grounds for a permanent ashing. But this? Oh, he could make an exception for this.

“Good girl. Make it seem like it’s just two lovers in an alleyway looking for a little privacy.” He could smell her again, that scent he’d been dying for, trying so hard to emulate over the past few months. His heart rate was reaching peak levels, but the blood was beginning to divert away from his brain. He couldn’t help himself. He ground into her a little bit, the front of his jeans scraping against her body as he rutted, feeling the warmth of her body.

“You’re despicable.” She seethed, swallowing down a wretch.

He giggled, letting his thumb run small circles over her exposed thigh. “Prove how heroic you are, Hero. Convince me these people don’t deserve what I could do to them.”  

He pushed his mouth to hers, instantly trying to snake his tongue into her mouth. At first she was unresponsive, until he brought the fingers on her neck together and clasped at a necklace she had been wearing. It crumbled instantaneously, sending a splay of ash down onto her chest. Almost immediately, she allowed him access, pliantly opening her lips for him to invade and slowly responding to his ministrations.

She tasted like she smelled, and it took every ounce of self control he had not to push her further. Although her movements were unenthusiastic and light, it didn’t matter to him. He knew he wasn’t exactly experienced in any of this, going off of tips he’d learned on Internet forums or books. He tried a few things, like biting and sucking on her bottom lip or fighting her tongue for dominance, but it seemed to make little difference to her besides the occasional tightening of her fingertips in his hair.

Despite that, he was almost beside himself. He could learn how to make her react to him in time. He was too focused on engraving her into his memory to care. He could feel every last bit of her body pressed against his own, every movement and muscle. Every curve she offered up to him and him alone and it was just like how he had imagined it would be in the dreams that had haunted his few dreaming hours ever since their first meeting.

Shigaraki had certainly not woken up that morning with the belief that he would have his tongue shoved halfway down her throat that day. If he had, he likely would have been in a much more amicable mood. Right now, he felt absolutely ecstatic. He had her right where he wanted her. 

Well, not right where, but close enough. She was submitting to him because he knew her weakness. He wondered, in time, how far he could push that weakness. How far was she willing to go?

But he was nothing if not a strategist. He wouldn’t push it too far too fast. He wouldn’t risk it. He would chip away at her resolve slowly, breaking away her boundaries one at a time until there was nothing left but her submission. If it meant threatening her friends, her family, random children on the street, he didn’t care. She would be his. He decided that a long time ago. She belonged to him, and frankly he didn’t really care what she had to say about it. It wasn’t her decision.

Eventually, the last of the onlookers had left, leaving behind a handful of heckles from teenagers and reprimands from angry parents ushering their children away while covering their eyes. Her hand was yanking at his hair erratically, not in lust but in a likely plead for him to back off of her finally so she could breathe. He gave himself a minute longer, cherishing the moment before withdrawing himself, unable to stop the grin that crawled up his face.

“See? It’s not so bad now, it is? You just saved all those idiot’s lives and all it took was a few minutes.”

She couldn’t stop herself. Her hands were shaking in rage, stomach churning. She’d never felt so violated. So utterly disgusted. She could taste him in the back of her throat and feel his leftover saliva on her lips and it made her want to vomit.

She looked directly up at him, and spit in his face. It landed with in an undignified blob sliding down his cheek.

It took Shigaraki a moment to fully register what happened. He unhanded her leg, bringing it up to his face and squelching the small plop of liquid between his fingers. Slowly, he raised his head up, finally giving her a full view of his face for the first time.

She immediately regretted her actions.

He looked enraged, eyes open with beady pupils staring down at his hand. His cracked mouth was contorted in rage, snarling while rubbed three of his fingers together, spreading the coating around. His eyes flashed up at hers, and his hand clamped down on her throat, fourth finger twitching unsteadily.

“You little brat.” He spat, tightening his grip more and more by the second until she could no longer breathe. “You think you’re all high and mighty, that just because you’re a Hero that there’s no consequences for your actions. That you can treat people like trash.” His fingers dug in with bruising strength, and the longer he held them, the more little black dots began dancing in front of her vision. Her chest was trying desperately to inhale, but she couldn’t with his palm crushing her windpipe. Fear welled up inside her, and the longer she struggled for breath, the more overpowering it became. “I can show you how wrong you are.”

“I-I’m So-orry!” She croaked out, pleading with him for air. His eyes flashed dangerously, and he loosened his grip only enough that he could make out her words.

“Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

“I’m sorry! It was-” Her mind raced, searching for the right words to placate him. “It was rude of me, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. I beg your forgiveness, Shigaraki. Please forgive me!”

He let his hand sit firm for a few more seconds. He was still twitching with anger, but something about hearing her beg, beg him for forgiveness sent a wave of pleasure through him. Of course she was going to be defiant at first. He could forgive her this once. After all, she would be making it up to him in the end regardless.

He smiled down at her, ghosting his fingers on her neck as she coughed and sputtered, trying to catch her breath. “Just don’t do it again. I hate people with no manners.”

She shook her head, eyes bright and fearful. After that, she didn’t dare try using her quirk on him or bothering to fight him again. She was entirely at his mercy. This guy was insane. He didn’t even need to use his quirk to kill her. He would just suffocate her and leave her body in the alley way. What was his deal? Was he still harboring a grudge from their last encounter? Why was he here now?

Finally regaining her breath, she peered up at him hesitantly, studying his face. “Did you follow me here?”

He seemed taken back for a minute, before chuckling a little underneath his breath. “Follow you here? No. I was actually here for a completely separate reason and just happened to run into you. Isn’t that lucky?”

“Yeah. Lucky.” She grunted, lamenting her choices. She knew she should have stayed in bed today

“I was actually about to grab Midoriya when I saw you. I just couldn’t help myself.”

She furrowed her brows. “But why?” She didn’t understand what this man wanted with her. He didn’t seem to outright want her dead, but wasn’t content letting her live in peace either.

He let out a heinous cackle, letting three of his fingers on his free hand wander up to his neck and scratch. Why was he telling her any of this? “I guess I just find you intriguing.” He tore at his neck anxiously for a moment while she stared at him. The way she was looking at him was making him feel itchy and hot all over. Underneath his hoody, he felt like it was one hundred degrees, which given the weather, might not have been far off. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin, anxious, stomach twisting in knots. He hated that she had this control over him.

He pulled his hand away from his sweating neck, reaching up to touch her face once more. He wanted to feel her skin, how soft it was. Just wanted to graze his fingers across her face so he could remember how she felt even after she’d gone. However, when he raised it up by her head, the sleeve of his jacket rode up his arm, revealing the piece of cloth he had tied around his wrist.

Immediately her eyes were drawn to it, and she gulped hard, a horrified expression etched on her features. “Is that… Is that my…”

Shigaraki realized what had spooked her. Tied around his wrist was the unmistakable pattern of her costume, ripped from her torso during the attack on U.S.J. His eyes darkened. There was no sense in lying to her now.

“You recognize it, huh?” He lowered his hand down, bringing it between both of their faces. “I’ve kept it on me since.”

Her breathing became inconsistent and staggered, mouth agape in terror. “W-why?”

He leaned in again, scraping the cloth against her neck, hoping to siphon some of her scent back onto it. “I think it helps keep me focused.”

Her vision spiraled. She could ignore a few consistencies but this was all to much to be a coincidence. Something she had done had gotten his attentions enough to keep it on her, even endear herself to him in some twisted way. He wasn’t just doing this because it made her uncomfortable or to spite her like she initially thought. If she didn’t know better, she would say it was something resembling a crush.

“S-Shigaraki, I don’t-” She cut herself off. What could she possibly say? ’Hey supervillain, not interested?’ ‘Thanks for the flattery but I’m a hero?’ Our careers kind of make it impossible for us to be together but thanks for the interest?’

It didn’t really matter, she had a feeling he wasn’t interested in her opinion on the matter.

“You’re everything I hate, you know.” His voice was soft, gentle even. He had hidden his eyes behind his hair again, and despite refusing to move away from her, he seemed a few miles off. “You heroes. You piss me off. If I had my way, I would have killed every one of you the first time we crossed paths.” There was a distant cold in his voice that made her shiver. “I wanted to. Kill you. It would have been easy too. All I had to do is wrap my fingers around your pretty little neck and squeeze and you’d have been gone before you could even scream for help. I bet that really would have thrown one over an All Might too. One of his precious students turned to dust while he was in the same room. Sometimes I think I should have.”

There was no deception in his voice. He was telling the truth. Somehow it terrified her more than when he had gotten violent. He lowered his hand back down, grabbing her chin with his thumb and index finger.

“But I have better ideas now. There are worse things than death.” He lifted his head, and she felt her soul plummet. His eyes were manic and deranged, boring down into her with the promise of unknown horror. His smile was wide and frenzied, nearly breaking his cracked lips into shards all over again. There was a strange flush across his pallid cheeks, something almost akin to a blush, like he was flustered even thinking about it.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl away. Find a rock somewhere and hide under it, anywhere where he couldn’t find her. Something told her he wasn’t saying this just to frighten her. The possibilities that could run through a madman’s mind were things she didn’t want to consider. Things that he considered worse than death were beyond the realm of what she wanted to realize herself. He placed another soft kiss to her mouth, and she was too paralyzed in fear to stop him.

He looked like he was about to speak when Denki’s voice rang through the alley way. “Hey, what gives? We’ve been waiting forever!” Both she and Tomura turned their heads toward the entrance to see Denki standing there with a beaming smile, eyes closed and holding up several bags of food in his closed hands. “We didn’t wait for ya, but we got you leftovers! Took us forever to find you! What the hell are you doing down here anyway?” He opened his eyes and nearly dropped the food, face red with embarrassment as a few of her classmates crowded around as well with equally shocked expressions.

“Someone’s getting’ some.” Eijiro whispered to a blushing Mina who was giggling behind her hand. Momo scowled over at the pair, giving them a death glare.

“Are we interrupting something?” Fumikage asked, trying to be as polite as possible in the given situation.

“I didn’t realize you were with so many people!” Shigaraki immediately withdrew his hands, stepping away from her but taking care to keep his face shadowed. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to keep you held up.”

Eijiro chuckled at his words and she felt like she could just die.

“I’m off then. It was nice catching up. Don’t worry, we’ll see each other soon!” He spoke loud enough for them to hear before he leaned inconspicuously and whispered in her ear. “If any of you follow me, I’ll get angry. I’d hate to kill half his class without All Might here to see it.”

He started walking but stopped short a few seconds later. “Oh! One last thing, hero.” He pulled her in close to his side, hands fishing his phone out of his pocket. “You promised me a picture.” He held his phone up, getting one snapshot with her in frame. Although his features were still almost entirely hidden behind his hair, she was completely exposed, expression like a deer in headlights. It would do for now. He placed his phone back in his pockets, giving her one last look before turning away and ambling off down further into the alleyway, turning out of her sights after a few seconds.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” Mina called, still giggling behind her palm.

“No!” She shook her head vigorously, trying to hold back the tears and the sick that were clawing their way up her throat, acting as natural as she could. “Look, can we just get out of here? Please?”

Her friends all looked at her confused for a moment, shrugging before following her as she took off.

As he heard their voices drift further and further off, Shigaraki brought his fingers up to his lips, grazing where hers had been. He still tasted her, and he was trying to savor every moment. He didn’t know for sure how long it would be until she was in his arms again, only that she would be. He needed to calm down. He needed to be patient.

He forced himself down the streets and passageways away from the mall, farther from her but thinking of nothing but all the while. His head didn’t feel any clearer, if anything it felt more clouded and stimulated than it had before, but he was fine with that. He didn’t get to ask Midoriya what the difference between him and Stain was, but that mattered little to him now. There would be other opportunities for that. He did curse himself as he remembered he had forgotten to pick up his game, but he shrugged it off. If his estimates were correct, it wouldn’t be available for much longer anyway.

The sun sank behind the horizon, giving way to the darkness of the night sky. When he felt secure enough, he placed Father back on his face, making his way back home under the cover of shadow. His body was shivering, but not from the cold. He could hardly believe anything that happened today.

When he finally turned the knob to enter the bar, Kurogiri immediately turned towards him in a panic.“Tomura Shigaraki, is all well? The mall you attended today has been shut down. I was worried that you were detained and perhaps incarcerated.”

“Don’t be stupid, Kurogiri. I’m right here.” He lumbered over to the bar, sitting half-haphazardly in the seat. Kurogiri decided it was better not to question him, opting to pour him a drink instead. He turned towards the TV, which was playing news footage of the mall, giving minimal details about the incident but describing a notorious villain spotted there. “So she told.” He muttered under his breath, smirking. “I figured she would.”

Kurogiri heard his words, but decided it would go against his mental health to question Tomura on the incident if it was indeed what he thought it was. Revealing his face would have far reaching consequences for the league. Judging by the way he was lovingly picking at the ratted material tied around his wrist, he had found that girl again. So his obsession hadn’t in fact died. This would not bode well.

The rest of the night continued on relatively average. Tomura drank and cussed and ranted about All Might and the Hero Killer Stain, staring down at his phone in the intervals. Kurogiri polished his glasses, offering advice where he could and bearing the brunt of Tomura’s abuses when he couldn’t. It almost gave him hope that maybe Shigaraki could put this whole incident behind him instead of obsessing over it like he often did.

That is, until most of the way through the night, Tomura stumbled off the bar stool, clinging onto the counter as he shambled towards his room in the back. He paused momentarily, turning to face Kurogiri for a few seconds before slamming his door.

“Hey Kurogiri, you know those old storage rooms we have? I need them cleaned out. We’ll be having a guest soon. I want to make sure she’s comfortable.”

[quicksilversquared]

Traps and Sneaks: Chapter 2 (of 2)

As the Guardian, it’s Marinette’s job to protect the Miracle Box and all of the Miraculous inside of it from evil. Obviously just sticking it away somewhere hidden isn’t going to cut it, so Marinette makes a box to hide it in. A booby-trapped box. A very dangerous booby-trapped box.

And if a certain someone gets their thieving little fingers caught in it, so be it.

links in the reblog

Lila sniggered to herself as she snuck up the stairs in the Dupain-Cheng bakery, unnoticed and unhindered.

Really, it had been way too easy to get in. All it had taken was feeding Alya a lie about how she had lent Marinette something to help her finish with their most recent Literature project but hadn't gotten it back, and she was worried about approaching Marinette to ask for it because, well, Marinette had been so busy recently that she probably thought that she had returned it. Lila was worried about appearing like she was accusing Marinette of stealing it if she asked about it, and they were only just starting to fix their relationship after getting off on the wrong foot. Alya had swallowed the lie like it was the most believable thing in the world, clearly thrilled that Lila and Marinette might be on the road to reconciliation, and from there all Lila had needed to do was suggest that maybe it would be easier for her to just fetch her things herself than it would be to ask Marinette.

Alya had been too eager to help, going into the bakery herself and getting permission from Mrs. Cheng to go in. Then she had let Lila in the side door- "I can't possibly go through the bakery myself, what if they recognize me and blame me for the time when Marinette got expelled and don't let me in!" Lila had exclaimed when Alya suggested that she just go in through the front herself- and made sure that she knew the way up before leaving. There had been a dicey moment when Alya moved to come up with Lila and help look, but Lila had waved her off with another excuse, insisting that she didn't want to eat up more of Alya's free time, especially when she knew that Alya and Nino had been thinking of going out for ice cream.

Alya had left, Marinette's parents would be busy in the bakery for hours, and Marinette herself was across the city at some sewing techniques workshop that she had won a full-ride scholarship for and hadn't shut up about all week. There would be no one to catch Lila and plenty of time for her to investigate Marinette's room and find- well, anything she could use against her.

A diary with embarrassing secrets, perfect for blackmail. Money, perfect for- well, money was always a good thing, and so was jewelry that she could pawn. Photos, also for blackmail. Sketches of designs for any other contests Marinette might have her eyes on, to copy and claim that Marinette had taken Lila's ideas. Maybe in-progress commissions that Lila could mess up, all the better to put a dent in Marinette's reputation if the damage wasn't found before she sent the pieces off to whoever had bought them.

One last flight of stairs, and Lila pushed open the door to the Dupain-Cheng apartment. Another set of stairs led up to a trapdoor that Lila could recognize as Marinette's (thanks to Alya's instructions), and she scampered up the steps and into the obnoxiously pink room at the top of the stairs.

The first thing she noticed: it was neat, unlike what Alya had warned her. There wasn't fabric draped all over the place or notebooks left out. On one hand, that would make things more difficult because she would have to search to find anything interesting, and unless Lila wanted to raise suspicion right away, she would have to put away anything she took out. On the other hand, well, it would probably be easier to find some things if she didn't have to dig through piles of fabric scraps or whatever it was that Marinette apparently usually had scattered around her room.

"Okay, first impressions," Lila said out loud as she glanced around. Marinette's school bag was by her desk- maybe she could tear out a couple pages of notes, so Marinette wouldn't have them to study from on the next exam. Next to the desk was a mannequin with what looked like a fairly complete outfit on it, leather pants with a lot of detail work and a matching jacket. Lila fingered the material, glancing at the seams on it. Since the piece was complete- or at least it looked complete- Marinette probably wouldn't look at it too closely before sending it off to its recipient. The recipient who, if the size of the pieces and the look of them was any indication, was probably Jagged Stone.

If she could mess with Jagged Stone's perception of Marinette and maybe mess up their working relationship, that would be perfect. Then he wouldn't feel inclined to do Marinette any favors like, say, coming in to call Lila out on her stories.

Lila decided that she would look for a seam ripper later, when she was poking around the desk. There was no point in stopping her assessment of Marinette's room now for that. After all, she had plenty of time.

The desk was otherwise pretty clear of anything interesting, though Lila was sure that she would dig through it later if she had time. The boxes on it probably just had sewing stuff anyway, and that- well, mixing it up or taking things might annoy Marinette, but she probably wouldn't think that much of it.

Across the room, though- well, there was a storage chest doubling as a bench, and Lila would be very surprised if there wasn't anything interesting in there. There might be a lock to deal with, but she had expected that and brought along her lock picking kit along. A few pokes and she would be in, ready to find out any secrets that Marinette might prefer stay hidden.

"Why couldn't she leave her diary on her desk like a normal person," Lila grumbled anyway, because it was also very possible that she would unlock the chest and find...nothing. Maybe Marinette didn't have any juicy secrets for Lila to exploit, and this whole trip would be- well, not for nothing, because she was still fully intending on causing ill-intentioned chaos, but not nearly as productive as she had hoped.

And considering that Lila was running quite a large risk with her lies to Alya about the thing she had 'loaned' to Marinette, a large payoff would be really preferred.

After a few more minutes of poking around- Marinette didn't keep a diary up near her bed, either, or any jewelry of any value, not that that stopped Lila from pocketing a few exotic-looking necklaces that she could always claim were gifts from people that she met around the globe- Lila turned her attention back to the large storage chest. The lock gave after a minute of working on it, and she flipped the lid eagerly, hoping that- well, hoping that there would be something interesting inside. Instead, she came face-to-face with...presents.

Boring. Knowing Marinette, they were probably all homemade and not worth anything.

Lila scoffed, wrinkling her nose at the pile of gifts. There was nothing interesting about Marinette being so disgustingly organized that she had gifts for her friends prepared well ahead of the holidays and their birthdays. She shoved a couple of the presents to the side, her nose wrinkling further at the next row of equally neatly-wrapped presents underneath.

Except... they were all labeled as being for Adrien.

Lila's eyebrows raised as she glanced at the top row of presents and- yep, all for Adrien. On closer inspection, all of them had little post-its on them with what event- and what year- they were meant to be for.

She sniggered. Marinette was a little obsessed, wasn't she? But as interesting as this was, it wasn't exactly something that she could easily use as blackmail. A bit disappointed, Lila kept digging, shifting packages aside. One more layer, and her fingers brushed against a dark wooden box, one that looked like perhaps Marinette had put it together herself.

It was exactly the sort of thing that a girl like Marinette- someone annoyingly craftsy- would store her diary in. Jackpot.

Smirking, Lila pulled the box out and considered it, her smile dropping as she did. Really, upon second glance, it was surprisingly sloppy, with uneven, dripping varnish and wonky nails. It was ridiculously heavy, even for its size, and especially considering that it was clearly made out of some cheap plywood. And oddly enough, it had two locks on it.

Frankly, the locks were the only reason why she didn't immediately lose interest. If they hadn't been there, Lila probably would have assumed that it was actually a failed project that Marinette was trying to hide.

"Well, it doesn't take a genius to figure out which lock to try," Lila scoffed, setting the box on the floor in front of her and settling down more comfortably to work on it. "That second keyhole isn't even in the right spot!"

Really, had badly had Marinette messed up that she had managed to insert a keyhole in middle of one of the side panels, nowhere close to where the box and the lid had come together? It wasn't even straight- in fact, it was upside down. Shoddy craftsmanship, all around.

(The fact that Lila had never made anything like the box and had no idea how to even approach putting a lock like that on a box or even make any sort of box herself was, of course, completely irrelevant.)

Unlike the lock on the storage bench, the lock on the box wasn't very straightforward. There were more pins in this lock, and each one had to be individually maneuvered into place. Lila worked on it, scowling in concentration as she slowly picked it open.

Either Marinette had just happened to have a lock sitting around that she used, or there was something good inside of the box. No collège student was going to spend the amount of extra money it would take for a fancier lock like this for no reason at all.

With one last careful nudge, the lock gave. Lila grinned in triumph, flipping the box open. The lid seemed a bit heavy- for some reason it seemed to be lined with a strange metal band, but who cared- and there were a few stray papers and a thin journal sitting in the top compartment, on top of a wooden shelf with- you have GOT to be kidding me- another lock, just barely visible. Lila reached in to move them, and suddenly metal flashed, quick as a blink. Lila shrieked in surprise, automatically yanking her hand back, but she was far too late. Pointed metal teeth had snapped shut around her arm, keeping it in place, and- oh god.

They hadn't just closed around her arm. No, they had gone straight through the skin and- oh god the pain-

Lila fainted.

  Marinette had been having a lovely time at her sewing techniques workshop. Their instructor had walked the small class through all sorts of different ways of handling material, and next week they would be covering more tricky materials. They had gotten an entire binder with step-by-step photo reminders of what they had learned, and Marinette's already had notes scribbled up and down the margins.

She was so glad that she had won the scholarship to the class. It wasn't that she couldn't afford it herself- after all, with the commissions that she had done lately for Jagged Stone and Clara Nightingale, she wasn't left wanting for money- but considering that she often had to miss things because of akuma attacks, Marinette wouldn't have wanted to spend the money on something that she might not even be able to attend. With the scholarship...

Well, if an akuma showed up, that would still suck. She was learning so much from the class and it would definitely up her design skills. Having to duck out on the class because someone got upset and Hawkmoth had to akumatize them would be a huge disappointment, because she would miss out on so much valuable instruction. But at least she wouldn't be spending her own money on it.

She still felt a bit guilty that she was doing the class and not spending the spare time working on learning more Guardian stuff, but the Order and Master Norbu had assured her that she should make sure to balance her superhero duties and her civilian life. After all, they didn't want her coming to resent her duty as Guardian because of everything that it made her miss out on.

The last section came to an end, and everyone turned off their machines and started packing up. Marinette tucked her sewn samples into her bag with her binder- at some point, she wanted to actually file the fabric pieces in next to their respective instructions, but that was a project for another day- and pulled out her phone, opening it up to check for messages. She had put it on silent for the class- silent with the sole exception of akuma alerts, thank you Max for that setting modification- so that no one would accidentally distract her. Sometimes the class chat blew up over the weekend, and having that pinging constantly throughout the class...

Well, it wouldn't give anyone a very good impression of her, that was for sure.

-and oh boy that was a lot of messages.

"My parents tried to call me ten times, Tikki!" Marinette hissed, all of the relaxation and good feelings from the day gone in a heartbeat as she tried and failed not to catastrophize. "Oh my god, what if one of them had a heart attack or a machine broke and sent pieces everywhere and they're at the hospital and it's really bad and I should have been there and-"

"Call them back!" Tikki urged, sticking her head out of Marinette's jacket as soon as they were clear of the rest of the group. "And- look, it was both of your parents calling, not just one or the other. So that means that they're probably fine, right?"

"Oh!" Marinette considered that for a minute, then dove straight back into her worrying. "Then maybe the bakery caught on fire and burned down and we're homeless and-"

"Just call them back, Marinette!" Tikki exclaimed, though she was looking worried, too. "Then they can tell you what actually happened."

Marinette wavered, then pressed Call. Her mom's phone rang once, twice, and then she picked up.

"Marinette! Ah, is your class over?"

"Yeah, we- we just finished," Marinette responded, her heart rate slowly dropping back towards normal. Her mom didn't sound overly upset, so- maybe it wasn't super-serious? "I- I saw you called? And papa?"

"Yes, I hated to call during your class, but- well, there was an incident," her mom told her, sounding a bit hesitant. "Right away- your dad and I are fine, the bakery is fine, the house is fine. But your classmate- Lila Rossi- she broke into the house and into your room. She got into your storage bench and- anyway, long story short, there was a box in there that was, ah, quite severely booby-trapped?"

Marinette's heart skipped several beats, jumping straight into her throat. The- that was the box where she hid the Miracle Box. It was very well hidden- after all, it had been in a locked storage bench, hidden under Adrien's presents, and then locked (several time over) itself- and she had assumed that that would be enough to keep it undiscovered. If Lila had gotten into it- even just into the first layer- that could be enough to put the Miracle Box in danger. The police might want to know what was in the box, or they might have broken it open to get Lila's hand out- because presumably Lila had gotten her hand caught when she tried to get the box open, and getting the trap open wasn't exactly straightforward- or maybe Lila hadn't been caught too badly and had somehow persuaded someone to open the box for her. "It- yes?"

"Whatever the box is hiding- well, it's still hidden," her mom assured her, and Marinette couldn't stop herself from letting out a sigh of relief. "The second level is still locked. And the doctors did manage to get it off of Lila's arm- well, after a bit of puzzling, at least, they said that set-up was very clever. That was why we called you, actually. We didn't want to bother you, but it was just taking the hospital and the police so long to figure out that lock mechanism and they had been hoping for a clue."

...well, at least her mom didn't sound upset with her. Yet, anyway.

"We've gotten the box back now," her mom continued. "And we've already dealt with the police, so you don't need to worry there. They understand that Lila wasn't meant to be in our house, much less your room, and that the box was securely hidden and locked up. The only reason they might want to talk to you is to learn more about why Lila might have broken in."

"To make me look bad, I bet," Marinette said dryly. "To steal things, or plant evidence, or try to find something to blackmail me. Why else?"

"Lovely girl." Her mom said something to someone else on the other end of the line, muffled and indecipherable, before she came back. "That's all, really. Will you be coming back soon?"

"Yeah, I'm heading for the bus stop."

"All right. See you soon!"

With that, the call disconnected. Marinette stared at her phone for a minute, then glanced down at Tikki. Her kwami looked just as worried.

"I thought that you had hidden the Miracle Box really well!" Tikki exclaimed. "That was a really nice place, and no one ever goes digging in there! Add in the fact that you had it locked, and it should have been fine."

"Yeah, but clearly Lila was digging around with the intention of finding anything that I had hidden," Marinette told her. She let out a sigh, the stress starting to inch back in on her, taking all of the relaxation from her sewing class away. Maybe the Miracle Box hadn't been found today, but- well, this was hardly going to be the end of this whole fiasco. If (when) Lila got akumatized again, she would probably go after the box again to see if she could break it. She might tell people at school about it- changing, of course, the reason why she had been in Marinette's room in the first place and making up completely different circumstances as to how she had ended up with her hands on the box. While Marinette really had no choice but to return the box to its previous spot for the moment- after making sure that it was re-set, of course- it wouldn't be completely safe for the long term.

At least summer break was coming up soon and she had already been doing research on how to DIY hidden compartments. Clearly she would need to use that knowledge earlier than intended.

"Maybe she'll actually get in trouble this time," Tikki offered hopefully. "I mean, breaking and entering, trying to steal- you could try to press charges."

"Maybe, but considering how injured Lila probably is, she'd probably pull the sympathy card." Marinette groaned. "I don't understand how she even got in! We've been keeping the side door locked, and mom knows better than to let Lila into the house."

"If she got through the locks on the bench and the box, Lila probably knows how to pick locks," Tikki reminded her. "She might have just picked her way through the door downstairs."

That was a terrifying thought, honestly. That someone like Lila could just pick her way past a door lock and get in her house...

"If that's what happened, I'm definitely going to petition my parents to get better locks." Marinette checked her room again, then headed back down the stairs. Tikki flew after her, phasing into her purse. "I don't think they would agree to put in booby traps, too, but- ugh, I'm going to be worrying about people getting into the house now."

"Maybe it's just a matter of the lock being old and needing to be replaced," Tikki suggested. "Hopefully your mom knows more."

"I hope so!"

It felt like it took forever for the bus to come, and then it trundled along the streets far too slowly for Marinette's taste. She spent the entire trip worrying over different scenarios where Lila could twist things around to make Marinette look like the bad guy and trying to figure out where she could add a hidden compartment to her room, somewhere where no one would notice the addition.

This far, she was coming up blank. Maybe she could put something on her balcony- but that just didn't seem secure enough. It would be far too easy for a passing akuma (or, perish the thought, a passing supervillain) to accidentally knock into and destroy a hidden compartment. No, it would be better to get creative inside her room.

Once she hopped off of the bus, Marinette wasted no time in hurrying home. The bakery was still open- hopefully business hadn't been interrupted too much by Lila's injury- and she headed in, sparing a quick smile for a few regular customers that she recognized. Her parents had one of their normal bakers working the counter in her mom's place, clearly finishing up the day so that the Dupain-Chengs would be able to deal with the mess going on in their home.

Hopefully it wasn't messing production up too much. If both of her parents were upstairs and they had one of the normal back kitchen bakers at the counter, that meant fewer hands on deck to start preparing things for the next day. And since the staff wouldn't stay overtime, that meant that her parents would end up working long hours.

Freaking Lila. Of course she just had to make life difficult for everyone else simply because she was spiteful and fixated on revenge.

Not wasting any time, Marinette headed upstairs. Her mom was in their kitchen and on the phone, her back to the door, but her dad wasn't anywhere in sight. That meant he was probably downstairs, which suggested that she actually wasn't in trouble because she had the trap. If she had been, her dad would be there too, his arms folded and a frown on his face.

Her mom, though, was more than making up for the frowning as she argued with whoever was on the other end of the line.

"No, I am not arguing the definition of 'breaking and entering' or 'trespassing' with you," Mrs. Cheng snapped into the phone, mere seconds after Marinette entered the room. Marinette paused, blinking over at her mom in confusion. Normally her mom didn't raise her voice over the phone. "You are not a resident here, you do not get to let people in who we don't want inside. That is outright irresponsible behavior- no, I do not care what your interpretation of the situation was, I already told you that. And I will be contacting your mom about this. Perhaps she can get it through your head how unacceptable your actions were. Good-bye."

With that, Mrs. Cheng hit the end call button with a flourish, scowling at the phone for a moment before noticing Marinette. Her scowl was promptly replaced with a smile. "Marinette! How was your class?"

"It went well," Marinette told her, biting back the urge to gush. That could wait until dinner, after the more pressing issue of Lila's break-in had been dealt with. "Who was on the phone?"

"That was Alya," Mrs. Cheng told Marinette with a sigh. She pocketed her phone and washed off her hands before returning to her dinner prep. "I was calling to ask her if- well, she stopped by earlier to get something, so I wanted to know if she saw or heard anything out of place while she was here. I just wanted to try to get a better idea of when Lila might have broken in so we wouldn't have to go through as much security footage-"

"Wait, why did Alya come over?" Marinette interrupted, frowning in confusion. She hadn't borrowed anything from Alya recently, and normally Alya at least texted her to let her know if she was borrowing anything from Marinette for some reason while she wasn't home.

"I was getting to that, don't interrupt," Mrs. Cheng gently chided her. "Anyway, Alya seemed pretty surprised about us having a break-in... until I mentioned that it was Lila."

Marinette groaned. She was getting a sinking suspicion that she knew where this was going. "Please don't tell me that Alya let Lila in."

"...Alya let Lila in," Mrs. Cheng confirmed, sighing. "...on the plus side, at least she didn't pick her way in through our doors. I would be looking into swapping out our locks if that were the case."

"Why on earth would she think that that would be a good idea in any way?" Marinette exclaimed. "And- well, presumably she let Lila in and then just ran off instead of supervising her, which- even if Lila somehow made up some reason for having to stop by my room, why wouldn't Alya at least have the common sense to stay with her?"

"Well, from what Alya said, Lila said that she had loaned you something and you had forgotten to give it back, and she was worried about bringing it up and making you upset... because you might think that you had already returned it and think that she was trying to frame you. Or something." Mrs. Cheng pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly exasperated. "It sounded like Lila was making it sound like you two were starting to mend bridges. And I told Alya that Lila was found with a lock picking kit and some jewelry from your Nonna Gina in her pockets, but she's still insisting that it was all a misunderstanding. "

"How- how much did you tell Alya?" Marinette asked suddenly, brain all of a sudden dancing with pictures of Alya hearing about the trap and trying to dig into what, exactly, Marinette was trying to hide. She presumably had enough sense to not go digging through Marinette's things in hopes of an interesting discovery, especially considering how hurt Lila had gotten, but that didn't mean that Alya wouldn't incessantly ask her questions, and within hearing distance of other people, too.

Not that Lila probably wouldn't bring up the trap on her own- or would she? Why would she? There would be no way to talk about it without making herself look bad. But if Lila's reputation was tanking anyway, maybe she would bring it up just to make Marinette look bad, too.

"Not much," Mrs. Cheng assured her. "I didn't have to. I implied that Lila got into a locked box of sewing things and cut herself that way, which is very believable. Your fabric scissors are sharp, as are your rotary cutters, and it's not hard to believe that someone who wasn't familiar with that box might get themselves injured. I'm not going to tell your most inquisitive friend about your very mysterious and heavily-guarded trap box."

Marinette breathed out a sigh of relief.

"On a related note, I suspect that Alya might not be very keen on coming over here for a while," Mrs. Cheng added. "I was not subtle about how irritated I was with her. And she just kept on digging her heels in more whenever I pointed out things that she wasn't considering or just flat-out missed." She paused, looking slightly sheepish. "And I may, before you got back, have insulted her investigative and observational skills. Just a little bit. I just got too mad about the fact that she fell for such an obvious lie and didn't even try to check with you about it before she went ahead and let Lila in."

Honestly, Marinette couldn't blame her mom for exploding. She couldn't believe that Alya would have done that- and apparently still thought that she was completely justified in doing it. If Lila hadn't gotten herself injured and had gotten away without being caught, who knew what sort of damage she could have caused or what information she might have gotten her hands on?

Frankly, if things had gotten to that point, once she realized what had happened, Marinette probably wouldn't have been able to resist the urge to pull out the Horse and Portal Lila to somewhere dangerous. The arctic, maybe, or the surface of the Moon. She wouldn't be able to cause trouble there.

After a pause, Mrs. Cheng nodded towards the couch. "Your box is there. I think the police said that it's currently disarmed, but be careful with it."

Marinette nodded, scooting around the table to grab the box off of the couch. She was planning on being super careful. After working so hard on the trap- well, she had once gotten a cut on her finger while she was assembling the booby trap, and that had been without any force behind it. She had no intention of becoming acquainted with those same blades with force behind them.

Besides, the box was completely safe when it was disarmed, and Marinette really didn't think that she was likely to ever just forget to disarm it, not with all of the safety measures she had deliberately built in. All that took was unlocking the second lock first- the crooked one that looked like it had been a mistake, or just a practice run on a spare piece of wood that ended up not being a spare piece- and then she could unlock the lid itself. There was a visible latch on the inside that would give away- to her- if the trap was set or not, and she always checked it just in case before sticking her hand in.

"I know how to open it safely and make sure that it's disarmed before I put my hand in," Marinette assured her mom. "After all, I designed it. I won't forget how to do it."

"Honestly, I figured that much. It wasn't a reassurance when I looked at the box at first because honestly, it doesn't look like an expertly engineered box." Mrs. Cheng smiled over at Marinette. "But that's deliberate, isn't it? No one would suspect that there's anything inside when it looks like a beginner's project."

"It was either make it look like that or try to make some sort of ornate box with a hidden key hole so that no one could figure out where the lock was, but- well, I don't have the time or skill to do that sort of carving." Marinette ran one hand over the box, remembering how much effort it had taken to make the box really solid and then go back and make it look like a beginner's project, ramshackle and not at all sturdy. If the person looking at the box knew anything about construction, the presence of the lock would probably give away the fact that she knew what she was doing, but Marinette was willing to bet that most people wouldn't know that. "It would have been cool, though. I've seen some locks online where people would never figure out how to open it unless they had been shown how, and that would have been nice."

Hawkmoth would probably just try to slice the box open then, but- well, if he did, he was in for a surprise. The wood might crack, but the enchanted metal underneath wouldn't budge.

"You've done quite a bit of research about this, then." Mrs. Cheng considered Marinette for a long moment, and she resisted the urge to squirm. "Honestly, there's a part of me that really wants to question the box and say no to you having it, because it's clearly dangerous- I mean, I saw the damage that it did to Lila- and even though I know you'll be careful, it's hard to be comfortable with the idea of that being in your room. But clearly you've been responsible with storing it, and I trust that you wouldn't have gone so far out of your way to get the materials and do the modifications to that trap if you didn't think it was important to protect whatever is in there." She took a deep breath, and Marinette could tell that her mom was severely torn about whatever she was about to say. "So your dad and I are going to allow it, and we won't ask about what you have in the box. Heaven knows you deserve some privacy."

Marinette let out a sigh of relief. "I- thank you."

"And- I didn't want to say anything over the phone, but the police had originally wanted to talk with you about why you had that trap on the box," Mrs. Cheng continued, and Marinette's heart dropped right back into her feet, the moment of relief gone. "Because- well, normally kids your age don't have stuff like that. But- oh, you should have seen it. Your dad got very puffed-up and huffy with them about how this was the second time in less than two years that a classmate of yours had been caught breaking into your room with ill intentions and were you not allowed to protect your things? And one of the police was Officer Raincomprix, so of course he was in a pretty big hurry to drop that line of questioning. Particularly when he was reminded that his daughter was the other classmate that had snuck in."

Marinette hastily muffled a laugh. She would have loved to see that, honestly. "And they didn't say that they would, like, come back later or anything?"

"Only to get a statement from you that Lila wasn't meant to be at our house at all. Your father and I discussed it, and- if it's all right with you- we'd like to pursue pressing charges. We've heard enough about Lila that we want to make sure that she won't be bothering you in the future. Breaking and entering is just- she's taken it too far. She's been taking it too far, and I apologize for both your dad and I that we haven't taken it seriously. No disorder is going to compel someone to target you to the degree that she has been, much less plot to break into your room." Mrs. Cheng shook her head, clearly disgusted at herself for having fallen for the lie. "At the very least, we want to look into getting a restraining order. That should keep her away from you."

"What if Lila spins some tale or tries to get sympathy and we can't get the order?" Marinette asked. Even with their evidence- well, from the sounds of it, Lila's hand was probably pretty mangled, and she didn't have the magical healing potion that Marinette kept on hand just in case to put it back to normal. "What if they decide that her hand is punishment enough?"

"Then we'll argue that." Mrs. Cheng's voice was firm. "If you testify about what Lila has been like, then the courts will know that she's likely to just go back to school and cry about her wrist to get sympathy. And they've seen people like her before, I'm sure. They're not going to be as easily fooled as your teachers and classmates and- well, and your dad and I."

Marinette swallowed and nodded. That would be nice. That would be really nice.

"And if they do- well, and even if they don't- I will be talking to Lila's mother. There's no way she knows what her daughter has been up to, if she still was letting her run around." Mrs. Cheng nodded once, sharp, and Marinette knew that there would be no stopping her mom now. She was determined to keep Lila away from Marinette and force her to see the consequences of her actions, and so it would happen.

Honestly, Marinette had the best parents ever.

  Marinette let out a sigh of relief as she tucked the box back in its spot, piling the presents for Adrien back on top of it and shutting the lid of her storage bench. It locked with a thud and a sharp click, sounding sturdy and secure.

It was too bad that that was a lie. Marinette ran her fingers over the lock, wondering if she should try switching out the lock for a different style, something that would be harder- or, even better, impossible- to pick. It might be hard to do that without attracting attention, though, and if she messed it up?

It would be better to not have signs of tampering on her bench, just in case. Maybe she should practice with putting in and taking out locks on a bit of scrap wood first.

A blanket went over the bench, set at a jaunty angle, just casual enough that it didn't look arranged. Marinette's backpack went next to it, the perfect picture of nothing here to see.

And still Marinette worried her lip.

"It'll be fine, Marinette!" Tikki told her, zipping up next to her shoulder. "Downstairs is all locked up, the box is hidden, and the bench is locked. No one is going to be breaking in- and Lila is in the hospital anyway."

"I know, but..." Marinette trailed off, glancing around her room. Whenever someone entered her room without her consent- when Sabrina broke in, after Jagged Stone's camera wandered in while broadcasting live to all of Paris, and then now with Lila- she always felt thrown off kilter and uncomfortable, out of place and not as secure as normal in her own room. It wasn't ever a nice feeling.

She couldn't even safely leave her diary out in her room. Not her diary, not anything that might be the least bit valuable, not any signs of her crush or anything that might even hint at her double life. Maybe it would be a good idea to tuck those things away anyway, but there was a difference between having to simply put things away instead of leaving them out in the open and having to lock everything away under several layers of protection.

Marinette was starting to get the feeling that once she was older and had her own place, there would be a lot of personalization with false walls and hidden compartments where she could hide away- well, everything, really. All of the parts of her life that she might be at all leery of anyone finding out about.

It was always going to be a good idea to hide the Miraculous stuff, especially while Hawkmoth was active, but Marinette should be able to expect some measure of privacy in her own room. The fact that she apparently couldn't...

Maybe it was a better idea to not dwell on that too much. And, with any luck, they wouldn't have any trouble going forward. She and her parents had talked over dinner and come up with a new rule for letting in friends and classmates: all visits had to be approved by Marinette before they set foot through the door. If she let them in herself it was fine, of course, but if they came in through the bakery and wanted to be let up then Sabine had to have a text on her phone from Marinette approving it. There would be no more surprise visits from her friends- or at least no truly surprise visits, since she would at least get a couple minutes' warning from her mom's inquiry text- and no more people going up to her room when she wasn't there 'just to grab something really quickly, honest'. If someone tried to come over as a surprise and Marinette didn't see her mom's text right away- either because she was just busy or because she was out as Ladybug- then that was just too bad. They didn't just get to saunter up and poke around in her room unattended until she got back.

That- well, security reasons aside, it was a really good change. There had been multiple times lately when Marinette had been in the middle of trying to catch up on homework and one (or more) of her friends burst in and interrupted her, and that had both thrown her completely off and eaten up time that she really didn't have to spare because she felt bad about sending them away when they had come over to see her. There hadn't been any times yet where Marinette had been out as Ladybug and came back to find someone in her room, but, well, she couldn't get lucky forever. If they hadn't made the change, then it would probably only be a matter of time before Ladybug slipped into her room after a long fight and found Alya waiting there.

(That would be a disaster.)

"At least I hadn't gotten around to painting the trap with the poison that the Order sent me," Marinette commented after a pause, pushing away thoughts of her new visiting arrangements and how she really should have implemented them earlier for the time being. The poison was a new suggestion from the Order, something to completely ensure that Hawkmoth wouldn't be able to steal the Miraculous, and it was a suggestion that made her really, really nervous. She fiddled with one of the tassels on the blanket, then resolutely turned and headed up to bed. "The police might have been fine with the bear trap- if only barely- but a bear trap coated in poison? I would have gotten in so much trouble."

"I still think it would be a good idea to put it on," Tikki told her. "I know it ups the scary factor even more, but in case Hawkmoth finds the box and he doesn't pass out from the trap- or if it doesn't catch him as much as it sounds like it got Lila, since he might be expecting a trap!- then it should still keep him from getting away scot-free. You have the antidote and the healing potions, so you should still be safe!"

"In theory, at least." Sure, the Order had assured her that it would take some time for the poison to kick in, enough time for her to get to her remedies- a delay of sorts, followed by it absolutely flooring the unfortunate person affected- but that still depended entirely on her keeping her head long enough to actually get to them.

Maybe she needed to consider a rearranging of where things were so that there would be less distance between the box and the antidotes, just in case that very dangerous and (hopefully) very unlikely scenario of the box snapping shut on her ever happened.

Ugh. More things to do, as though she didn't already have enough on her plate. But Tikki was right- Hawkmoth was too much of a threat to keep putting off the secondary level of protection. She would just have to be super careful around the box- even more than she had been before- and prioritize getting her remedies located closer to the hidden Miracle Box.

That, and she definitely had to make sure that she kept her remedy up-to-date, no slacking and letting it come close to expiration. And, well, she had to make sure that she didn't use up the healing potion- the potion that would immediately reverse the damage from the trap in case something went wrong- with injuries that she got while sewing or tripping over her own feet.

At least she knew how to make the healing potion. As long as Marinette kept an eye on how much she had- and her (poorly) hidden supply of potion ingredients, those had to be next on her list of things to build hiding spots for after a new spot for the box and a close but not too close location for the remedies- and made sure to top it back up whenever she got low, using it for other injuries shouldn't be a problem.

"I'll tell Mom no babysitting next weekend, and do the poison then," Marinette said, realizing that she hadn't said anything for a minute. "If I do it right away and the police end up wanting to see it again, then that'll be an issue. If I give it a little time, then I won't end up putting the poison on and then having to take it right off again. And I need to get some more supplies- a dedicated paintbrush, and some gloves so that my skin doesn't come in contact with it at all."

Tikki nodded, approving. "I didn't think of that! That's a good thought. I think that should be fast enough. And it'll give you time to think about ways you can shake up your set-up so that no one else will know about it again!"

"The biggest changes there might have to wait to summer, honestly," Marinette admitted. The amount of work it would take to make a hidden cubby- and to make it fast enough that no one would notice it- would be absolutely insane, her biggest project yet. "But I'm sure that I can make some changes to up my security before then, and dream up improvements that I can make so that I'm ready to hit the ground running as soon as I have enough free time."

Her mind was whirring with more ideas already, actually. She would have to ask the Order to enchant more metal so to be Miraculous-resistant, pieces that she could put inside of the storage bench and keep it from being destroyed. If Hawkmoth (or his akumas) couldn't pick locks, that should be enough to stop him. And then if she practiced with taking out and putting locks in, then she could put in a lock like one she had seen online most recently, the one that had a hidden keyhole. Both improvements wouldn't affect her ability to get in- which was a good thing, since speed was super important during akuma fights- but should make things for difficult for anyone with nefarious intentions.

It would be a lot of work, of course, and might mean skipping out on a few outings with her friends to get things done quickly just in case, but she could make the Miracle Box safe and secure again. It might even end up helping her in the long run, since now she knew where the weak points in her security were and could fix them before they were put to the test by an akuma or Hawkmoth. Sure, it wasn't ideal that people knew about the box at all, but- well, it wasn't worth crying over spilled milk.

Marinette would come back from this, and she would come back stronger.

[crystxlclear]

you’re just like an angel (your skin makes me cry)

a sudden desire oneshot 

masterlist // sudden desire chapter one

pairing: marcus pike x original female character (coraline meyer)

words: 4.4k

synopsis: coraline and marcus go to a halloween party. pining ensues. 

set in the future, in comparison to the current sudden desire timeline, after coraline accepts that suggestion 

warnings: FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF SWEET SWEET FLUFF, mutual pining (more so from marcus, unintentionally, though?), alcohol consumption/slight alcohol intoxication, established relationship

author’s note: you don’t need to have read sudden desire to understand this! (but please do)

this was meant to come out on halloween but i am a terrible procrastinator. but i mean this was too cute not to post? so i hope you all accept my extremely belated spooky-season offering. expect more of this sweet beautiful soft fluff when we get more into sudden desire, when we get to the baby-making stage (i gotta make up for the lack of smut somehow). This is really nothing of significance or particularly interesting, except i just wanted to write something halloween-ish

also it’s kind of obvious and i have mentioned it here and in previous sudden desire chapters but daniel is coraline’s brother and kimmy is his wife/cora’s sister-in-law, they’re in the next chapter! 

not beta’d because i have no friends to read it lmao

Coraline doesn’t usually go out on Halloween. Those evenings are usually spent curled up on the sofa, cocooned beneath her comforter, watching the entire Scream series back-to-back. It had become somewhat of a ritual, those films. Sat in the comfortable dark while she practically quoted the film back at the TV screen. An annual event since she was ten, when she’d managed to convince her dad to let her watch the first three films while her mom was out with friends. Her DVD copies were almost two decades old, now.

It must have taken something, or someone, special to break a habit so ingrained, a years-old routine. 

That was the moment Daniel Meyer knew, beyond all doubt, that Coraline Meyer looked at Marcus Pike as more than just a friend. 

Sure, she denies it. Sure she’s too damn stubborn to admit it, even to him. But for someone to pull Cora from her Scream-filled Halloween night bubble, it must take a lot. He isn’t blind, either. He’s seen the looks they give each other - those fleeting looks, a flush of red creeping to their cheeks whenever they glance between each other for a moment, that soft lingering smile on her face when she arrives at his house after a day spent with him - and he’s spent hours in his living room listening to her recall stories and gush about him like he hung all the stars in the night sky. 

Daniel Meyer knows his sister well enough to know that she only has eyes for him.

He’d been surprised when she’d rung him that Thursday morning, bright and early as the sun continued to rise high in the sky, proclaiming that she was, in fact, coming to their Halloween party. That surprise had disappeared, however, the second she’d mentioned Marcus was coming, too. He’d laughed and she’d asked why but he wouldn’t tell her, amusement peaking the moment he heard his name. It’s brilliant and he should have known, really. Of course, he should have known.

...

Coraline tugs awkwardly on the costume. It’s cheap and uncomfortable and she’d bought it last minute from some poorly-lit store in the city. It’s that cheap, plastic-like material that clings to your figure in the most unforgiving places, places it shouldn’t yet somehow moulds to. She’s just glad she didn’t pick one of the skimpier ones she’d tried, the ones that rested far too high on her thighs and squeezed her torso so tightly it felt like she was wearing a corset. She felt like she was about to burst straight through the thin material. Instead, she’d gone for the far more family-friendly option. 

Skimpy outfits aren’t a good idea for a family Halloween party.

Though, even in the most modest costume she can find, she’s still pretty sure that she looks utterly ridiculous. 

But that’s part of the charm though, right?

The costume she’s settled on is slightly more modest than the rest, now that she’s fished out those stupidly expensive thigh-high boots she’d bought for a red carpet event once, that rise just high enough to conceal the ridiculous amount of leg on show. Any other night, she wouldn’t mind in the slightest, but they tones the outfit down enough that she’s positive she won’t offend the eyes of the conservative parents whose kids run around with her nephews. 

It’s not a big deal. She doesn’t particularly care. She only cares what Marcus thinks. 

If he likes it, who cares what anyone else thinks.

The least-revealing costume in the store happened to be that of a special agent or a spy or something like that. It’s a little... on-the-nose. Still, she figures it’s fitting. 

The dress’ weird vinyl material that creaks and squeaks whenever she moves and there’s a pair of flimsy plastic handcuffs strapped through the belt loops along with an already half-worn away sheriff’s badge that shines dully under the soft light of her bedroom. It’s cheap - anyone can tell that - but the whole thing has been last-minute, Marcus trying his hardest for a solid month to persuade her to abandon her tradition and come to the party with him. Only for him. Only him.

She truly does love Halloween. And Fall is her favourite time of year. But she’d spent all week at Halloween parties with her castmates and friends - late night all weeks, far too much alcohol, far too many times hearing The Monster Mash playing insistently over loudspeakers - and, come Halloween night, the only thing she wanted to do was order pizza and indulge in her yearly marathon. She’s done that elaborate costume stuff all week, a thousand different costumes adorning her body, and pyjamas sound far more inviting. Halloween night is for relaxing, she thinks. If it weren’t for Marcus Pike, it would remain exactly that.

She’s still fussing over the ever-rising hem of her dress and thinking of just staying home when the doorbell rings, loud and imposing, almost scaring her as its shrill chimes cut through the soft music playing over her speakers. She huffs out a sigh of resignation, giving up on any hope she has of making herself feel better about what she’s wearing.

Marcus is standing at the door with a bottle of red wine in hand and a smile on his face. That smile falters when he sees her, for just long enough for her to think about running back upstairs and changing into something different. His parted lips finally form around the words his awestruck brain is fighting hard to form: “You look… -good.” It’s all he can muster. And he sounds pathetic.

“... Thanks?”

He shakes his head clear, that initial shock of seeing her looking so damn good dissipating the second she notices his wide eyes and drops her head back as she laughs. The long line of her neck sparkles under the warm flickering candlelight of her living room, thanks to that body lotion she wears. “You look great,” he insists.

She bites her lip as his eyes scan her figure from head to toe. She catches his eyes but she doesn’t mind one bit. She’s doing the same thing. And it’s infuriating because she’s unable to stop.

Of course Marcus looks good. Of course he does, because he always does. Even in sweats and a t-shirt, when she bursts through his door at 7am, coffee in hand, far too wide awake for the early hours of a morning. When he’s still half-asleep. He still looks good. He even looks good now, in a cheap vampire’s cape and plastic fangs. Perhaps it’s the all-black, his shirt stretched taut across his chest or the leather jacket he wears that fits him so well. 

Or, maybe, it’s just the slightly goofy grin he wears when he sees her laugh, dressed in her costume and swinging her handcuffs on the end of her finger, and the way his lips puff out a little when they fall over the edge of the fake fangs. 

She means to tell him just how good he looks but he speaks before she can.

“I brought wine.” He notes. He lifts the bottle - she’s pretty sure it’s expensive, but she knows absolutely nothing about wine - and she squints at the label, a half-hearted attempt at pretending she knows what all those words mean. She has no idea. 

She doesn’t even need to invite him inside, he just follows when she turns and makes a beeline for the kitchen. “Daniel will never let you inside with that,” she calls over her shoulder. Her eldest brother has hated wine since his wedding, when his best man had thrown up on his shoes outside the hotel that night, after one too many glasses. It was partly Coraline’s fault, though; they’d been drinking and laughing at the bar the entire night, the bartender plying them with drink after drink until someone hauled them outside to get some fresh air. Daniel had been pissed that his best friend and the smart and suited man behind the bar had been supplying his nineteen-year-old sister with copious amounts of alcohol, though he quickly forgave them at breakfast the next morning when their hangovers were so bad, they had to wear sunglasses indoors.

“Lucky for you-” She pushes up on her tiptoes and reaches to the back of the kitchen cupboard. She can feel the breeze on the back of her thighs and she hopes to god that her skirt doesn’t push up too far and reveal too much. A few moments clattering around blindly, she returns to two feet with two wine glasses. “-my brother is used to me being late.”

Marcus is already fishing for the corkscrew in the cutlery draw before she's even turned around. He swiftly pops the cork and is there waiting when Coraline sets the glasses between them. 

“Here’s to being late,” he proposes, holding his glass up for her to clink after he pours them both a generous glass. 

Here’s to being late.

...

They do turn up late. Two-hours late, to be exact. A little too tipsy. Or, at least, Coraline is. She’s in that semi-blissful state, caught somewhere between content happiness and that point where he knows she usually starts to cry, before the giggles force their way out and she’s hiccupping through adorable sobs of indistinguishable hysteria. 

He’s only seen her like that once after a particularly bad fight over the phone with Scott. And, while she’d insisted that the whole thing was hilarious, he never wanted to see her like that again. 

But, at least for now, they’re both smiling. 

And Marcus isn’t sure how anyone can be mad at Coraline when she’s smiling.

It seems like the rest of the street is having parties, too. The entire row of closely packed townhouses and luxury condos are humming with life; pop songs and fluorescent lighting fill the street. It feels like they’re in a movie, endless decoration spilling to the sidewalk, waterfalls of orange, black and purple. Everything is garishly bright and confused, all mismatched shapes and colours - surrealism, like a Dali painting, exaggerated and unusual and unnatural. It’s strange to see the neighbourhood like this, with its usually-pristine gardens, turned fantastical. 

The smell of the Potomac River drifts along the street, swirling in the gentle late-October breeze. It dances with the charred scent of fireworks that lingers low in the air, cinnamon and herbs, and the smell that lingers before the rain. It intertwines to make Halloween, in all its ghoulish glory. Yet, despite it all, the only thing he can smell is her perfume. It lingers on the breeze.

Coraline walks just ahead of him; she’s skipping down the street, light on her feet, her black heels cutting a rhythmic beat through the hum of the street as it comes alive. There’s been a smile on her face since they left her apartment, that bright blissful buzz of wine pulsing through her veins, and she looks no different from the kids and the teenagers that weave through the cars lining the street. She’s been holding his hand since they left, too. Tightly, like if she lets go, he’ll disappear. 

But he would never. He could never leave her.

She’s his best friend.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” she calls back to him as they near Coraline’s brother’s house. It’s the same as the rest of the houses on the street: lighting flashes through the windows - orange and white and purple, casting shapes across the front yard, the yard that’s draped in Halloween decorations - and the soft hum of music pumped through the half-open front windows. 

She turns to watch him, walking backwards, still holding his hand. He’s taller than her, even in her heels, so she glances up at him with a pout on her red lips. There’s a little bit of awe in his chest as he watches her navigate the cobblestones blindly, not even faltering on her heels once. She wears Halloween so well. She makes the party store costume look better than it has any idea being. Those that pass - kids, teenagers, their parents, varying degrees of effort in their costumes - watch as they walk, when she pokes a long nail at his chest. “You’re to blame.”

“It’ll be fun, love.” He poses.

She raises a sceptical eyebrow. “Oh, really?” Coraline turns to glare at him. “Dressed like this?” She gestures to herself and the dress she feels completely ridiculous wearing. “I don’t think so.”

“But that’s the point of Halloween.” 

She notices the way his brown eyes sparkle beneath the moonlight. 

Cora hums in contemplation. “I still can’t believe you talked me into this.” She repeats, but there’s a hint of a smirk on her lips. 

“You’ll get over it.”

...

Three hours into the party and Coraline disappears. One moment, she’d been swaying with her nephew, Elliot, to Fleetwood Mac, grinning and giggling as she spun him from side-to-side in her arms. Marcus had watched her from the refreshment table in the corner, engaged in a half-idle conversation with Cora’s sister-in-law, Kimmy, as she cleared the dirty plates and refreshed the chips. He thinks she noticed him watching her but she’s far too polite to say anything if she did. She just seemed to hum knowingly and sweep away towards the kitchen as he watched Coraline twirl gracefully to the soft melody of Dreams. 

She’d brought a jacket with her, the cold creeping in right as they’d made to leave the house, and the loose fabric brushed against her legs as she swayed on her heels. The breeze that wandered through the open living room window billowed beneath it. She looked ethereal like that; all beautiful and glowing and bright, basking in the vibrant flashing lights and overly-gaudy Halloween decorations that don’t quite fit the gentle songs that float through the room. Coraline had been deep in conversation with a seemingly endless stream of Daniel and Kimmy’s friends and there had been a tense set to her brow as a consequence. Now, she looks jovial and carefree and relaxed. The wine they’d drunk before they arrived - and the bottle she and Kimmy had been sneaking in the corner of the room, giggling like school girls as they filled their cups whenever Daniel wasn’t looking - probably helped her on her way but it’s refreshing to see her like this. Happy.

So much for someone convinced she wouldn’t have fun.

Marcus turned to grab another drink as the song finished, fading away into the next, and within a moment she was gone, lost in the slowly thinning crowd that danced through the living room. The two-year-old that had previously been in her arms was halfway across the room, tugging on his father’s Batman costume. The crowd that seemed to part for her and her giggling nephew had thickened again, spilling over the dancefloor where she’d spun moments earlier.

He finally finds her perched on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs back and forth idly, staring out at the Potomac River as the moon sparkles across its surface. There’s a paper plate of chocolate cake perched on her knees, stolen from the one Kimmy had taken from the buffet table earlier in the night. She prods at it absentmindedly with a fork, smearing the purple and orange frosting across the plate like she’s painting on a canvas. Pale moonlight scatters across her face; her eyelashes cast gentle arching silhouettes beneath her eyes and sloping shadows across the soft lines of her cheekbones. 

She doesn’t hear him at first. The music, Creep by Radiohead, plays in the living room. He knows most of the words to the song because Coraline has played it on vinyl so many times in the late evenings of summer, when the windows are open the whole way and the curtains billow in the breeze. Her brother has good taste, just like her; the pleasant nostalgia of eighties rock pouring through the speakers. It’s muffled by the closed door of the kitchen, slightly broken door that he’d offered to fix the first time he’d been for lunch jammed shut to allow her some peace and quiet. 

He enters as quietly as he can but the music spikes through the doorway when he opens it and draws her attention away from the glittering ripple of the water. She smiles fondly when she sees him, for a moment, and her head turns back to the view from the kitchen window. 

“You okay?” He asks. He settles in front of her, leaning back against the island opposite her. “You wandered off.”

She doesn’t seem upset. Her expression is soft and content. “I’m alright,” she insists.

The kitchen is quiet. 

The world seems so far away.

Everything that has happened before and everything that might happen after that moment doesn’t matter.

Everything will be alright.

Coraline huffs out a laugh and closes her eyes, tilting her head back to let the cool breeze of the open window sweep over her bare neck. “Just needed a bit of quiet. It’s a little-“ She makes a motion with her hands, almost like she’s strangling someone. Somehow, it makes sense to him. “-full-on in there.”

Marcus watches her. His dark gaze flickers across her face as she carries on kicking her legs gently back and forth, manoeuvring himself so the toe of her boot doesn’t slam into his shin. The world just carries on around them; the party continues in the living room, the music continues playing and everyone else moves on with their lives as Marcus and Coraline exist in that quiet moment where nothing but each other matters.

There’s a brief beat of silence filled by gentle guitars and soft lyrics.

She’s watching the water in awe. He’s watching her the same way. 

You’re just like an angel, your skin makes me cry.

“Cake?” She offers out half-heartedly after a moment’s contemplation, soft green eyes drawing back to his face. An affectionate smile tugs at her lips.

He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

“Thank god.” The smile widens to a grin and she puffs out a small giggle. “You would have broken my heart if you’d said yes.” She hums as she brings a forkful of the cake to her lips, savouring the sweet taste on her lips. Her tongue darts out delicately to chase the remains. Her lipstick leaves a red spider web across the fork.

He won’t, but he’s never wanted to kiss her more than in that moment. The world stops for a moment when she meets his gaze as she does it, peeling her eyes away, cheeks flushing slightly. He won’t, but, god, he thinks she’s lovely. He won’t kiss her. Kissing her on the cheek or the nose or the forehead, that’s different. It’s familiar. It’s welcomed with a smile and she does the same to him, sometimes. Kissing her for real. That’s entirely different. He doesn’t kiss her unless she asks him to. Until she wants him to.

Whatever makes you happy. Whatever you want.

“That good, huh?” 

She nods. “I don’t know where Kimmy buys it from but it’s incredible.”

“Hmm, maybe I will take some.” He reaches for her plate but she tugs it away, a mock-offended expression on her face. 

“Hey!” She pouts. “Pretty sure that’s theft, Marcus Pike. Don’t make me arrest you.” She chides, patting the plastic handcuffs that rattle against her belt. 

“I’m pretty sure I’m the only one with the authority to actually arrest someone,” Marcus attests, quirking an eyebrow in amusement. 

“Not tonight.” She hums, tapping a nail against the badge that rests against her chest. She tilts her head and a bright smile crosses her red lips. She wears that gentle glow of wine across her cheeks, all pink and rosy. Coraline reaches up to card her fingers through the curls at the back of his head. Marcus sighs at the feeling of her nails scraping across the scalp at the nape of his neck. She leans closer for a second, so close that he can feel the warmth of her breath fan across his cheeks. Her eyelashes dip as she traces patterns across his scalp and dances the digits over her other hand up the bare expanse of his arm, prickled in goosebumps from the light scrape of her nails. There’s a blissful haze that passes her expression when she glances back out across the moon-drenched river. His breath hitches in his throat whenever she touches him like that. Whenever there’s intended intimacy behind it. That comfort that settled between them long ago.

Coraline doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, sometimes. It feels like second nature, now. 

She can feel her cheeks burning at the thought of it all.

She pulls her hand away from him all too soon. Marcus thinks about chasing her hand, pulling it back to hold him again with the lightest of touches. But he lets her go. Again. The moonlight casts silver shadows across her face like some kind of goddamn angel basking in the light. Instead, he just watches her as she picks the paper plate of cake back up, brings up another forkful and smiles in delight at the taste.

“Oh, really?” He answers in response to her earlier words, realising he’s spent far too much time watching her than he should. His hand brushes the outside of her knee before it comes to rest on the kitchen counter beside her leg. It’s unintentional. At least, he thinks.

You’re so fucking special. I wish I was special.

“Cora-“ He calls to catch her attention again. She turns her head to face him, her eyebrows raised a little in expectancy and surprise. “-you’ve got some frosting-“ Marcus swipes at the side of his mouth, where Coraline has a spot of purple frosting clinging to the corner of her lips, blemishing the otherwise-perfect red-paint. 

He steps forward again, reaching his thumb up to swipe the frosting away. She watches his movements at first, before her gaze focuses intently on his face and the dark-eyed gaze that follows the slow movements of his thumb. When he moves to pull it away, to wipe in on a piece of kitchen towel, she reaches for it, pressing the frosting-covered pad of his thumb against her lips. 

She grins around it when her eyes widen, swiping her tongue over the soft flesh, before pulling it back slowly. There’s a ring of red lipstick around his thumb. Her voice is low when she speaks, in tone and volume. She peers up at him through her lashes. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t know what she was doing. “You can’t let good frosting go to waste.”

He wants to swear. He needs to. Because all he can think of, right now, is kissing her. Again. He wants to taste the frosting still lingering on her tongue and he wants that red lipstick to stain his lips. He wants her hands in his hair, tugging and twisting as he presses his mouth to hers and he wants to feel her smile against him when the way she pulls him closer makes him groan. 

He wants to feel all that he can barely have. He wants the memories that linger when he’s in bed without her at his side, when their insane agreement isn’t in action. He wants more than fleeting moments. He wants it all. 

But he’s just being selfish. 

And, besides, she doesn’t want that, either. Not now. Not here.

“Do you want to leave?” It’s intended to be an innocent question. But, with all those thoughts and those hidden desires, with all those feelings he isn’t positive are anything more than shallow, unrequited and completely ridiculous and the swipe of her velvet-soft tongue over the pad of his thumb, it sounds loaded. He’s breathless. He groans to himself and steps back from her. 

Coraline doesn’t fail to notice the way his fingers skim the bare expense of her outer thigh when he moves. She half-wonders what he’s implying with it. She never knows what’s intentional between them anymore. She thinks it probably has meaning; she had his thumb between her lips just moments before. She isn’t even sure what she was implying. 

“We can get pizza.” 

“Pizza, huh?” She hums in contemplation, but there’s no decision to be made. In her mind, she’s already said he’s a thousand times, and she’s been ready to say yes since the moment they stepped through Daniel’s front door. As much as she loves Daniel and Kimmy and her niece and nephews, nothing sounds better than pizza on the couch with Marcus. “What kind of pizza?” She toys, musing the image over in her mind, finishing off the last mouthful of cake, already missing the sweet frosting.

But, intentional or not, goosebumps prickle across her skin. 

He’s leaning closer, now. He can’t help it. She draws him in with that damn smile. “Veggie.”

Her favourite.

“Tempting.”

“Very tempting.”

“From the pizza place on Pennsylvania?” Her eyes light up at the prospect. Her back straightens and they’re looking each other in the eyes. 

Marcus brushes a thumb across her knee. Coraline tries her best to hide the shudder that threatens to pull through her at his touch. Heat pools in her stomach and her chest and her breath hitches in her throat. “Where else?”

She groans, small and breathy, pushing its way from her mouth, almost like she’s been winded. Her eyes close over. Her eyelids flutter. Her head is swimming from the wine she’s drunk, head buzzing with that pleasant intoxication as the alcohol sweeps through her. She can’t help it. She can’t stop it. But she can’t tell whether it’s a response to the promise of her favourite pizza or the feeling of his warm palm against her leg. She doesn’t particularly want to know. But she brushes it off as the wine. It makes more sense.

It’s a little embarrassing.

Her eyes open again and he’s still looking at her, expectation and gentility in his gaze. “And garlic bread?”

He smirks in amusement. “Whatever you want, Cora.” His thumb brushes over her knee again. “Whatever you want.”

She grins. “How can I say no to that?”

“You can’t,” Marcus insists. He steps back from the counter and she slips off, smoothing out her dress and shucking her jacket around herself as the wind casts a shiver across her skin.

“Can I at least change first?”

He exhales a laugh through her nose. “Nope.”

“Oh, Marcus, come on!” She groans. His hand slips into hers; her delicate fingers curl around his, her palm soft against his work-calloused hands. “I look ridiculous.”

“It’s Halloween, love.” The pet name makes her legs feel weak. His voice is low and affectionate when he turns back towards her. He ducks his head and kisses her cheekbone. He lingers to whisper in her ear: “And you look hot.”