#leave more comments in people's guestbooks

[snackugaki]

idk

[brisquad-unit-4402]

i thought i dropped a thank you post but i guess not! thank you everyone for getting me to 500 followers!

i think when i started this blog i wanted to grow to big silly numbers—who doesn’t—but now i’m just impressed there are 500 accounts out there that want to see my work.

at this point i’ve already achieved a lot of goals i didn’t expect to achieve with vtuber fanfic of all things. wrote 5k+ word fics, beat yearly word counts, achieve a following and lovely people in my inbox. hell, i’m writing a video game and with tons of talented people working right along with me.

this is all to say nowadays i try less to see my follower count as 505 people and more of 1 person that enjoys me x505. the individuality of it. and in turn what i wrote isn’t what 505 people would want—it’s what i want, by 505. there is no greater joy than self-indulgence and it shows in the art you create. i’d like to imagine that even if a follower was only here for one character, or one post, or has forgotten i existed, then i was at least entertaining for a second. i’m really happy with that.

so to the people who have liked any of my posts and nothing else: thank you. to the people that follow and are pleasantly surprised when i’m on the dash: thank you. to the people who see my works in the tags and move on, or have moved on from vtubers entirely, to everyone that wouldn’t see this: you have my deepest and sincerest thanks

if you’re familiar with my sideblog you may remember a while back when i reposted a mysta rias tweet that changed my life (genuinely): “do what makes you feel creatively free.” i had just watched a k9kuro clip before writing this, too, on communities and being an entertainer creating a space for viewers. i know i’m pretentious but i’d hope i’m not so pretentious to call my blog a community but—the people who enter my inbox give me life. the replies and reblogs and comments make my day, genuinely. i still remember things people have said months, even a year ago. something funny: on occasion someone’ll say something sweet and it’ll give me the motivation to sit down and start writing when i had none before. if not a community, then i consider you all within my circle nonetheless, and with delight.

to everyone that has thanked me for the fic—thank you for your time, feedback, and for reading. to everyone that hopped into my asks to brainrot or thirst or ask just anything: you always make me laugh, thank you. to the people that reblog, especially: i would have never seen this milestone without your support. i write on tumblr and not other socmed because i seek the comfort of a fandom that understands how to support its artists and reblogs, which increase visibility, are how i can connect to others even if for a moment. you have my deepest and sincerest thanks

though i do admit when i’m not writing i am a lurker myself at times. likes are invisible support. thankfully tumblr doesn’t have views (one less statistic for me to freak out about!) but i’ve gone through entire blogs myself without leaving any sign. i’m trying to get better at that but the point still stands.

to the invisible people that have read my fics without interacting, to the people without an account, the ones that know me because i crosspost or by word of mouth and not through tumblr: thank you. i think of my notifications as an optional guestbook and i have no idea how many people have visited me in all, but that doesn’t change the fact that people have read my works. you have my deepest and sincerest thanks

to my friends, finally. on this blog i have my briskadetsona, and i try to act entirely in character with unit 4402. it’s because i don’t like networking and dreaded doing that online too. but the curtain parts and this is one of those times. the messages i’ve sent have never been a chore.

my mutuals, anons, and fellow tumblr users: you are why i get corny like this. i have a lot of admiration for you, thank you. the people who know my discord: we should shoot the shit some more, thank you. the people that let me gush about my stories and headcanons and my upcoming fics: i don’t think you’ll ever realize how much that means to me. thank you. to all of you who have heard me speak, read my texts, had no expectation: “folks like you are the reason i’ve lost count of the dreams i’ve fulfilled in just a few years.” thank you dearly. thank you. you have my deepest, and sincerest, thanks

i know i’m dramatic and cheesy but i do enjoy reflection and i hope this grants you perspective. tysm

[capricorndevil15]

I just found out that 123Guestbook is shutting down on July 1st of this year. Holly & Macy and Everyone Else has had a 123Guestbook page running for around two years now, and I've absolutely loved reading the messages people leave on the site. Even though I eventually set up a more thorough comment section, I kept the guestbook around because I just liked it a lot. The comment sections feel specific to each page of the comic, whereas the guestbook felt like it encompassed the website as a whole, the comic + the extra pages and treats. Rlly sad to see it go. I will likely not be replacing it.

I plan to archive my guestbook in some way (even if I just end up taking a bunch of screenshots lol), so that I can keep all those messages on my website. If you want to leave any last words on the HollyMacy guestbook, please feel free to do so while you can! The guestbook will become read-only on June 1st.

-Teratoaster <3

[damazcuz]

One more question(for now) why do people on tumblr use tags to talk #like this #about whatever they think of the post, instead of just commenting on the reblog😭 Is there an etiquette I'm missing?

short answer: yes.

long answer, there is an etiquette to it, and I think it's a longstanding thing that just ended up ingrained in a lot of users, which comes off as cold/shy/outlandish or maybe even standoffish to people from other sites and apps. there's no be-all end-all of how to act online or on here but i think in terms of most* people (*speaking broadly, making this up) who've used tumblr for a while it feels like this:

tumblr is a theater, the dashboard is a stage, each post is a performance. (a joke, a dramatic act, a story, a movie, a picture, etc.) you have a variety of ways to interact with the performance, but some of them are going to be more frowned upon--based purely on how the long standing visitors of the theater are used to acting, honestly.

likes are a polite applause, but they don't show anyone outside of the theater that you enjoyed yourself, or what you enjoyed. the performer appreciates the applause but does not garner any new viewers when you only like a post, btw.

silent reblogs mean you exit the theater with merch or a leaflet and go show it to other people. look what i saw on the stage, don't you want to see it too. this shows the performance to a new variety of viewers, who might then also show it to others.

replies and reblogs with content are often seen as """"rude"""" because they're like standing up at the end of the performance and loudly saying "that was okay but I think MY take on things makes it just a BIT better." people are more forgiving of this when it's something universally true or acceptable, or when it's very funny. if it's not (and even if it is, sometimes,) there'll potentially be a reblog down the line making fun of it (and this is another person in the theater standing up and making a fart noise, regardless of how tasteless or rude.) it's never actually "wrong" to add comments on a reblog unless you're being intentionally hurtful, and it's normal to add commentary to a friend's post, but even then, people seeing this from the outside may see that as obnoxious and impolite and try to call you on it anyway. (people are very weird about enforcing what they see as a universal rule of etiquette, when this is admittedly the only site where you'll be punished for adding to the discussion.)

and again, this is an absolutely arbitrary rule because what one person finds universally true and hilarious, another will find trite and stupid and too niche. the polite thing to do in the case of the latter is just reblog from further up the chain than the commenter, but people aren't always nice when they're annoyed.

getting to your actual question now, comments in the tags are a way to leave remarks that you DON'T want to shout to the whole theater. these are you whispering to yourself or your friend, or writing in a guestbook on the way out. people can see/hear it if they go looking for it, but you're not shouting over the performance to get your piece out. it's polite because it's unobstructive and doesn't take up space, and if your tags don't make sense to someone else or seem too niche, they don't have to share the post with your commentary attached.

adjacent to this, "peer review" or screenshotting someone's tags to insert them in the post is like if you did whisper to your friend, then your friend wrote your comments on a whiteboard and held it up for others to see. as this is a form of commentary within the reblog, it's again subject to an arbitrary universal/niche rule. just because a tag gets peer reviewed doesn't mean it's beyond reproach by strangers.

also in line with this general line of thought experiment, blazing a post means that between acts, you run up on the stage and start shouting your piece. it is, once again, going to be more acceptable to strangers to see you do this if it's something universally funny, true, or cute. this is why niche fandom posts, vent posts, and self promotions get ignored or booed down, while pet birthday photos and silly jokes get blazed and get a lot of notes regardless.

lastly, a kungpowpenis is when twelve+ individuals from the audience get up and beat the shit out of the person performing on stage and leave their corpse on display in the town square.

[taechnological]

I need help where do i find old bts content ;;; I saw someone on reddit saying this blog(?) has everything but how do i access any of their content? I saw people leaving comments on a guestbook page do i just leave a comment and wait? Or are there any other twitter accounts

ah actually hybe shut down miintae's website last year so it no longer exists now </3 but u can check out qdeoks site sadly they also got their site taken down but it's back now!

EDIT: check the replies of this ask for more solutions!!

[lacrimaomnis]

BRF Reading, 27/7/2021

I have never had the right word to describe what I feel about Prince Philip and his death because I always feel that the word "grief" may be too lofty, too bold, even, to describe what I am feeling. It perhaps may be grief, but I always feel that in the end, in the grand scheme of things, it is so small and so inconsequent, so irrelevant, which is why I hesitate to use the word "grief" because it carries with itself so much meaning, so much profoundness that it almost feels wrong for me, someone of no consequence or relevance to use that word to describe what I am feeling.

This is actually a personal reading I did for myself. I am on the fence about whether to share this or not because his death was three, almost four months ago and I do feel in these times we do not need another sad reading -- there was already so much sadness around us all. I decided to share this in hope that any of you who read this, who had questioned how Prince Philip's last hours were could find solace that he was not in pain, he was not stressed about Harry and Meghan, he was not stressed about anything or anyone. He was in a total and complete peace, with leaving his love behind the only thing that weighed him down -- but otherwise, he faced his last hours with dignity, strength, and courage. I hope by sharing this, anyone who reads this can feel some sort of closure, even if at first it seemed like you do not feel like needing it.

As written, this is merely a speculation and therefore must be taken with a grain of salt. This speculation is not true until proven otherwise.

My question is, how was The Duke of Edinburgh's last hours?

Cards drawn: The Emperor, Eight of Pentacles, The Empress, Five of Pentacles, Strength Underlying energies: Queen of Swords, Four of Swords

Remarks/Comments: Three major arcana cards out of five cards. This is perhaps a very important question for me as the querent, even if I do not realise it myself. I really struggled not to cry as I type this.

Summary: He was surrounded by the people he loved. He was not in pain, but there was a sense of loss. Charles and The Queen were definitely by his side in his last hours. His last hours were spent quietly and calmly, just like what the Countess of Wessex said: "It was like somebody took him by the hand and off he went. And that's all you ever wanted for someone, isn't it?"

First card: The Emperor. This is the card of male authority, a patriarch, and in this reading, this card stands for Prince Philip. He was, until the last of his breaths, the patriarch of the family. This card can also imply the presence of Charles, the next patriarch of the family once Prince Philip passes away. This told me that in his last hours, Prince Philip perhaps said a lot of things to Charles; one can only imagine what he said to his eldest to prepare him as the next patriarch of the family, where his job is to support his mother and to make decisions for his family, like once Prince Philip did. This card brought to my mind one quote from the Duke's first private secretary, Michael Parker, when the Duke offered him his job: that his job, first, second, and last, is to never let her (Elizabeth) down.

Second card: Eight of Pentacles. This is the card of skill and craftsmanship, but most importantly this card is about accomplishment and hard work. Perhaps in his last hours, Prince Philip reflected on his accomplishments and hard work. He was the longest-serving consort for a reigning monarch in British history. Over his seven decades of service, he was either a member, the president, or the patron of over 780 organisations. This card also reminded me of his Duke of Edinburgh's Award, a scheme that he devised to help adolescents and young adults to improve themselves, and perhaps one of his most lasting legacies.

This card also speaks about his numerous achievements; his solo tours, everything that he did was to improve the nation he served and to serve his monarch -- as he solemnly vowed before his Queen in her Coronation: to be her lord liege of life and limb.

Third card: The Empress. This is the card of a female ruler, the matriarch, and in this reading, this card stands for Her Majesty. She was by his side in his last hours. This card also speaks about fulfillment and contentment, and coming after the Eight of Pentacles, this tells me that Prince Philip was content with what he had achieved throughout his long life. He was also content with the marriage he had with The Queen and the children he had with her.

The Empress offers succour and comfort, and I interpret this card as that the presence of Her Majesty brought Prince Philip a great comfort. He knew his time was coming to an end, and the presence of his Lilibet, his cabbage, comforted him.

Fourth card: Five of Pentacles. This card represents a loss. Coming after The Empress, this card can be interpreted two ways: Philip felt a sense of loss as he had to leave his Lilibet behind, as he has to go ahead of her. He had walked two steps behind her for the entirety of his life. Now as he has to go ahead of her, perhaps there was a sense of loss in him: would his Lilibet be alright without him? Would she be alright, now that no one can protect him, that he, the last person on Earth to be her equal can no longer be with her? Who would make sure she is alright if he's gone? Who would be there for her, behind closed doors, to listen to her, to comfort her, as an equal?

Another interpretation is that The Queen, as represented by The Empress, felt an impending sense of loss. Her husband was dying, and there was no denying nor stalling that. She did everything she could to give him the comfort needed to spend his last days, or perhaps just stall the inevitable just a little bit more, to be with him. This card instantly reminded me of The Queen saying that his death has "left a huge void in her life".

Fifth card: Strength. His physical strength may be waning, but he is as strong and as courageous as he has always been. This card represents inner fortitude, and for Prince Philip, this inner fortitude had been his defining trait throughout the years. He was The Queen's strength and stay for all her years, his remarkable mental fortitude was forged by his difficult early years.

This card reminded me of one story where he signed the guestbook with "no fixed abode" as for the address, that he was a penniless royal in exile for the majority of his life until he married The Queen, then Princess Elizabeth. The stories of his hardships and his difficulties, and yet, he triumphed over it all.

This card also tells me that Prince Philip faced his last hours with courage, strength, and dignity. Perhaps he encouraged those he loved to continue on; because as he said: "Life would still go on without me." Perhaps he encouraged his loved ones to have the strength for days ahead.

Underlying energy 1: Queen of Swords. This card was the underlying energy for The Empress. She is the most worldly and intelligent out of all Queens, and this card tells me that The Queen must make good use of her intellect and skills to make her own judgment, because there would be no one else to discuss and share her thoughts about in a way lovers could share their thoughts together, and she has to trust her judgments. She has to believe in her wit and her intellect, just like how she believed in the decisions and the judgments Philip made.

Underlying energy 2: Four of Swords. This is the card of rest. This card tells me that it is his time to rest, to lay his head down, and to go to sleep. As for Philip, this card indicated that it is his time to put his sword down at last and to rest for he has fought well. He has raised his sword and fought his entire life to make life more tolerable for those who come after him, and rest is his reward.

Conclusion: This reading brought me the closure I didn't even know I need -- perhaps I did grieve. I cried as I read the cards and analysed it because I felt so much sadness and relief at the same time. I was relieved that at his last hours he was not in any kind of pain and that he was surrounded by the people he loved and I was sad because The Queen had lost her last equal, the grief emanating from the cards was overwhelming, amplified by my own.

[shewillreadyou]

Me before You: Chapter 2- For Real

As always. I hope that you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

A/N: This is a TRR AU. Liam is already married, but see’s Riley and wants his cake. If the readers are receptive this might turn into more than a mini series.

Disclaimers: Most characters are property of Pixelberry

Warnings: Language, adult content, mild sexual innuendo. 

Word Count: 2458

Catch up: Haven’t met you Yet

Prompts: @theworldofprompts​ 

“Name one thing you regret in life?”  

“Well, for starters, I married you.” will appear in BOLD.

Pairings: Drake & Riley

Song inspiration: For Real- Amel Larrieux

Be Kind: Hit the heart button, leave a comment or reblog. It makes a writer so so happy. 

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may salute your bride.”

Savannah and her groom shared a modest kiss. 

“It is my pleasure to present to you for the very first time the Duke and Duchess of Ramsford. Bertrand and Savannah Beaumont of Cordonia.”

“Cordonia?” Riley whispered to herself.

“So I’m not crazy. Drake said he is from Cordonia. The Liam look-alike could really be King Liam of Cordonia. The matron of honor could actually be Queen Carsyn. This is insane.” 

Her thoughts raced as she tried to make connections. 

“There will be a cocktail hour in the barn,” an older woman announced.

The barn was decorated in a rustic theme, Tim McGraw’s, “I like it, I love it” played in the background and there were servers with appetizers everywhere. Quickly, lines formed for the open bars. Mack held on to Riley’s arm as they waited.

“So let me get this straight? The guy you met in New York, was Drake? Drake Walker? Like Savannah’s brother Drake? No fucking way. The world is not that small.”

“Yeah, apparently it is, he is the man I saw at the airport, the guy from the bar, the guy I’ve been texting and now he’s here.”

“Sounds like fate.”

“I don’t know if I believe in fate. More like dumb luck.”

“Miss Riley?” a server interrupts their conversation. 

“For you and your guest.”

He offers a whiskey sour and an old fashion, the signature drink to she and Mack.

“Compliments of Mr. Walker. My name is Caleb, I have been personally assigned to you for the duration of the evening. You don’t need to wait in lines. I can bring you whatever you need to eat or drink.”

“Wow, well thank you Caleb. That’s very thoughtful.” 

She tries to tip Caleb and he refuses. 

“No thank you Ma’am. Mr. Walker has already compensated me handsomely. Please let me know if there is anything else I can get for you.”

Later

The wedding party joins the guests in the barn before the bride and groom have their first dance. Riley watched from her assigned seat wondering who would end up seated next to her. The seat went empty for the first part of the afternoon. 

“That was a beautiful ceremony. You know, I have seen pictures and heard tons of stories about Drake from Savannah, but he has really grown up. He is a hottie.”

“He’s ok.”

“Wow, just ok? Huh? I’m wounded.” he says in a raspy voice. 

“Drake!”

Mack and Riley blush furiously.

“Raye. It’s good to see you again.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” she smirked.

“Sorry! Drake, this is Mackenzie, Mack this is Savannah’s brother Drake.”  

“Don’t listen to her. She was definitely pleasantly surprised,” Mack said as she extended her hand for Drake to kiss. 

Riley elbowed Mack and Drake laughed as he shook her hand. 

“Good thing I get the honor of keeping you company tonight. My seat was moved next to yours.”

He smiled and Riley’s heart melted just a little bit more. He leaned over to hug her and she immediately flashed back to their dance on the rooftop. 

After their first dance, all the guests were invited to the dance floor. “At Last” by Etta James started to play.

“May I have this dance? And please don’t tell me that your feet still hurt.”

She stood, unsure of what to do in the presence of royalty.

“Your Majesty, we have to stop meeting this way. Shouldn’t you be dancing with your Queen?”

Before he could answer, Drake slipped up behind Riley snaking his strong arm around her waist. Pulling her into his embrace.

“Beat it Li!”

“Miss me yet?” 

“Perfect timing. Small world. You didn’t say that your Mom and sister lived so close to me.”

“I didn’t think it was pertinent information at the time,” he said as he led her in a slow dance. Riley watched Queen Carsyn over Drakes shoulder, as she shot daggers at King Liam. 

“Is he always like that?”

“What?”

“Liam? Is he always so tactless?”

“I’m not at liberty to comment,” he chuckles.

“Question asked, question answered.”

“Enough about Liam. Have I mentioned how stunning you look?”

“No, but thanks for the compliment anyway.”

She smiled, getting lost in his eyes as they swayed to the music.  

After sitting and watching Drake and Riley dance and flirt for hours Mack was about ready to go.

“Ri, I’m about ready to head out.”

“Riley reluctantly said her goodbyes to Drake, not knowing when she’d see him again. 

After a short drive back to her place they arrived to see a red Jeep sitting idle in front of her door waiting. Riley looked at Mack and shrugged her shoulders. When she had said goodnight to her friend, she headed to the door. The window of the Jeep lowered, “Hey, could you tell me where to get something good to eat in this neighborhood?” 

“Drake! What-- how did you know where I lived?”

“Guestbook.”

“Well, that isn’t creepy at all.” 

“I’m hungry and thought you might be hungry too.” 

“So, where to?”

“I don’t know, I have only been here a few weeks.”

“I know a place.”

Drake gets out of the truck and walks around waving at Mack, who is still watching from her car. He opens the door for Riley and grabs her by the waist helping her into the truck.

“Really? Such a gentleman.”

He smiles as he heads back around. Mack lowers her window and says, “I took a picture of your license plates just in case she doesn’t make it back.”

“Noted.”

“Thank you. So where are we going?”

“Whataburger. I can’t get that in Cordonia.”

“What the what?”

“You’ll love it, promise and it’s on me. Seat belt.”

“Let me ask you a question?”

“Just one?”

“God no, I have a million questions.”

“Ok, I will try my best to answer them.”

She thinks of what she wants to ask first.

“What did you honestly think when you saw me today?”

“That I am not this lucky.”

A blush crept across her face as she awkwardly shifted in the seat.

“Why do you live in Cordonia if your Mom and Sister are here?”

“Work is there. Besides, I have never had a good reason to come back.”

“I see.”

 Her face betrayed her, she was feeling conflicted and defeated and it showed. They drove along the dark road quietly for a few minutes.

“So, uh, you must do important work in Cordonia for you to stay there instead of here with your family.”

“If you want to know what I do for a living Raye, just ask.”

“You told me not to and I respect your wishes.”

“Well, some would consider it important. My family won’t be here for long, Sav and my nephew are moving to Cordonia this week. I’m the lead for the King’s Guard.”

“You mean you protect Liam?”

“Yeah,” he says as he rubs the back of his neck.

Just then they pulled into the parking lot. The line in the drive thru was long so they headed inside. He held the door open for her and when they stood in front of the counter he stood directly behind her as they both looked up at the menu. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms when he noticed her shiver. 

“Cold?”

“Yeah, a little. Also, overwhelmed with this menu. Order for me?”

A mischievous grin crept across his face as he placed his suit coat around her shoulders. 

After an hour of probing conversation, many laughs, and eating a deliciously greasy burger, heavenly fries with as Drake called it “fancy fucking ketchup,” they headed back to her place. 

“Drake, I’m not ready for tonight to end,” she confessed.

“I know the feeling.”

“Come upstairs with me?”

“Riley Elizabeth Raye! What kind of guy do you think I am?”

“The kind who steals people’s personal information out of wedding guest books.” 

“Checkmate.”

“Besides, I have had these shoes on since this morning. My feet! Anyway, we can watch a movie and chat for a little while.”

“I have been told I give a mean foot massage.”

“Are you offering?”

He licks his lips and bites his lips. Her center twitched.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what? Why are you looking at me like you want to climb in my lap?

Her cheeks flushed red.

“You wish.”

“Enough about that, let’s talk about our first real date.”

“Who said I wanted to date a guy with no real reason to come to Dallas?”

“Whoa, that was before.”

They headed up to her apartment. He stood so close to her in the elevator that she could feel his body heat. They had a staring contest that she lost. She definitely looked away first. It was like he was staring into her soul. The sexual tension was thick and she felt relieved when the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. 

“Long distance dating is not exactly something I want to pursue.”

“Understandable. I’m here now. Let me take you out tomorrow.”

“What would that look like?”

“Dallas Jazz fest is tomorrow.”

“And you just happened to know that off the top of your head?”

“I might have done some research on my phone when I learned that a certain lady whom I’d like to impress was within my grasp.”

She chortled, “you like jazz?”

“No, but if I get to spend time with you it can’t be that bad.”

“You’d do that for me?”

They step inside her place and he makes a face. 

“What is it?”

“Your place smells exactly like I expected, fruity.”

She invites Drake to sit as she kicks her shoes off. She moves around the counter and opens the fridge grabbing a couple bottles of water, a bottle of Glenmorangie, and a couple glasses. 

“Raye, this is the good stuff. It’s really expensive. Sure you’re sharing?”

“Completely, pour me one too? Be right back,” she says as she headed into her bedroom to change and freshen up.

When she returned, Drake cleared his throat at the sight of her barely there clothing change. 

They settled on the soft couch as Drake passed her the tumbler of whiskey he poured for her. She eyed the drink as he stared at her. 

“What are you looking at?”

“Your umm, outfit? Comfy?”

“Yes. Very. Should I drink this? I didn’t see you pour it.”

“Good grief, switch with me.” Drake says before raising his glass.

“Cheers, to the best reason I ever had to come back to the States.”

She bit her lip trying to contain her smile.

“Well then, after a toast like that you get to pick the movie.”

She later regretted being so generous. Drake chose FACE OFF. They started off good, he pulled her aching feet into his lap and rubbed them until she was sure she would orgasm. She pulled away crossing her legs in a twisted attempt to save her panties. 

She loved the movie but knew she couldn’t get through any of the scenes when they ran their hands down the others face to wordlessly say, I love you. So as much as she tried she sat with tears running down her face for much of the movie. The first time she cried Drake pretended to ignore it. She wiped her face on her. The next time she cried he looked at her with a raised eyebrow and the final time he pulled her into his arms and wiped her tears.

“You definitely get to pick a movie that won’t make you cry next time.”

“Next time? You really want to go out with me, huh?”

“I thought that was clear by now.”

  “Drake, can I be honest?”

“I’d prefer it.”

“I have never dated a white guy before.”

He feigned shock. Then laughed. 

“We have that in common because I haven't either. Is that all?”

“No, I didn’t expect to like you this much.”

“Have you dated a black woman before?”

“No.”

“Are you ready for family and friends to turn their backs on you? For strangers to shoot us dirty looks in public? For all of the things that come along with dating me?”

“I guess I never really thought about it. But I’d like to think that it would be a small price to pay to be with you.”

 They chatted until they both fell asleep. The sunrise plucked him from his slumber. She had fallen asleep in his arms. He watched her for a few moments fighting the urge to kiss her. He untangled himself from her and used her restroom. When he returned, she was awake. 

“I thought you finally came to your senses and left.”

“I don’t scare easily. I’m headed back to the ranch. I’ll pick you up around 6pm.”

She stood and they shared a long embrace as she secretly sniffed him trying to memorize his smell before she let him out.

Back at the ranch

“You stayed out all night. Did you get some trim?”

“No.”

Figures. You wouldn’t know what to do with all that ass anyway.

“And you do?” Carsyn interjects.

“Carsyn, I didn’t realize you were back from your morning run.”

“I knew that you wanted to fuck her. I saw the way you were looking at her at the wedding.”

Drake stands, “This seems like a personal conversation. Call me later Li.”

Liam shakes his head and turns to his wife. 

“You are always making a big deal out of nothing. I have given you everything. You knew who I was before you married Me. You are the queen. Why are you so insecure?”

Tears filled her eyes. 

“Name one thing you regret in life?”  “Well, for starters, I married you.”

Liam stormed out of the room to find Drake in the hall on the phone with Riley. When Drake sees Liam he ends the call.

“Drake Walker. Your nose is open. I know you think you like her but, do you really want to start seeing a black woman? They can be a lot.”

“Don’t be an ass Li, any woman can be a lot. But it’s different with her. She is so chill. Like it’s easy with her.” 

“If it’s so easy, why didn’t you close?”

“I said that it’s easy to be with her. Not that she was easy you, prick.”

“Just be careful Drake. You know what they say… Once you go black…”

“Li! For fucks sake.”

“I’m just saying. I’m going out tonight so if you need a trial run Carsyn will be here alone.”

“Did you just give me permission to fuck your wife?”

“Sure, everyone knows I’m not.”

“Hard pass.”

@txemrn​​​ @pixie88​​​ @secretaryunpaid​​​@khoicesbyk​​​ @blackkingliamstan​​​ @mom2000aggie​​​ @shannonwrote​​​ @hopelessromanticmonie​​​ @fanjessfic​​​ @rideordiechronicles​​​ @lucy-268​​​ @dcbbw​​​ @darley1101​​​ @maurine07​​​​ @sfb123​​​ @bbrandy2002​​​ @kingliam2019​​​ @schnitzelbutterfingers​​​ @lem-20​​​ @choicesficwriterscreations​​​​ @theworldofprompts​​ @no-one-u-know​​

TRR: @twinkleallnight​​​  @bebepac​​​ @mainstreetreader​​​ @romereadingshop​​​ @romewritingshop​​​ @lem-20​​​ @texaskitten30​​

[quickspinner]

On commenting and feedback

Hey friends...so something’s been bothering me a little and I want to talk about it for a sec. I want to be clear I’m not making this post to call out anyone in particular, this is an entire trend I’m seeing and I just...kind of want us all to take a breath for a second.

Every so often I feel like there’s a wave of posts that goes around about how important commenting and reblogging is to support writers. And that’s absolutely true. A fandom that doesn’t interact with its content creators dies a pretty pathetic death, it’s absolutely true.

But the tone of a lot of these posts have started to bother me, especially as I see newer writers pick them up, and I just want to put some things in perspective here, and leave some thoughts for both the writers, and the readers.

Readers, your comments are absolutely valued and extremely motivating for creators to receive. At the same time, there’s no contract that says writers are entitled to a certain level of feedback. It is not on you as a sole individual to reach an invisible standard of interaction that will cause them to create more. And if you’re sweating and freaking out and guilting yourself over commenting--then don’t. Find the level of interaction you’re comfortable with that, and accept it, and don’t feel guilty about it. If writing a comment for me causes you agony and robs whatever joy you took out of my story, then I don’t want it. I truly don’t. Just leave the kudos if you can. There’s lots of helpful advice out there on how to comment if you want to but aren’t sure what to say, and when in doubt, read the other comments and feel free to add “what they said!” or use them as a model for your own comment. But absolve yourself of the guilt. Do your best.

Writers. My friends. My colleagues. There’s nothing wrong with wanting validation and feedback. Yes, it is absolutely disheartening when you put a lot of effort into your work and you don’t receive the level of reaction you are hoping for. You put yourself on the line and you did something scary and you should be very, very proud of that. At the same time, no one chained you to the desk. No one forced you to pour out your soul. No one guaranteed you a certain number of comments of a guaranteed minimum length. Sometimes you throw out a line out there and nobody picks it up, and you feel sad and alone, but that’s not the fault of whoever was on the other side. You chose to put yourself out there, I hope because there was just something inside you that had to come out. And the best you can do is make that choice with your eyes open. Just like there are plenty of good published books in the world that never made the bestseller list for reasons completely unrelated to the effort put into them or the quality of their content, sometimes you publish something at the wrong time, or to the wrong audience, or in the wrong place, and it just doesn’t hit the way you want it to. 

And I especially want the young writers and the new writers to hear this: you know what? This problem has always been there, and it’s never going to go away. I’ve been publishing fic off and on since I was 18 and the major form of feedback was leaving messages on a website’s guestbook. It’s always been a problem. As writers we’re hungry for feedback. We want to know someone is on the other end. The supply is never going to equal our demand. Regardless of whether or not that is fair or the way things should be, that’s the way things are. You’ve got to find a way to be at peace with that, or you’re going to be frustrated and discouraged forever. It will get better as you grow in your craft and grow your audience - and as it does, it will take more and more to satisfy you. So just, take a minute before you lash out because you feel your effort isn’t as reciprocated as you feel it should be. I’m all for spreading awareness of how much writers crave feedback and what a boost it is for us to receive it, but we don’t have to throw a temper tantrum to do that.

I encourage you to think about your piece a little bit before you publish it and calibrate your expectations. Every piece has it audience and some of them are going to be smaller than others. Sometimes that is not “fair;” by which I mean, an audience’s response is not necessarily proportional to the amount of time, effort, and emotion put into a work. As of the time I wrote this, my silly little piece that I wrote for fun in an afternoon has literally three times the number of notes as the fic I have put the most heart and work into, despite the one being extremely short and the other being multiple chapters. I’m not particularly bothered by that, it was entirely predictable (although sometimes it’s not; sometimes audience is very, very unpredictable). Things that are funny or sexy are almost always going to get more attention than things that are deep and angsty, things that are short are frequently going to get a bigger audience than things that are long. Just consider your expectations. 

It also takes time to build an audience. I recently reblogged a post of mine from early last year when I was newly returned to tumblr that had 9 total notes and it quickly shot up into the 70s. Same fic, not a word different, it’s just that over the last year I’ve built a bigger audience. So consider that, as well. As you’re trying to build that audience, do you really want your brand to be ‘that author who’s always complaining about people commenting’? There are some things in life where you have to get angry to effect change. I don’t feel that fic feedback is one of them.

“But how am I going to improve?” My friends. Expecting to improve your writing from internet comments on your work is like fishing with a deep sea trawler. You might get some good stuff but you’re going to dredge up a lot of trash in the meantime, and it’s probably not worth your effort and the toll on your confidence to wade through it. Find yourself a group of people, either in real life or online, who you trust to give meaningful feedback. Sometimes that’s super easy, and sometimes it’s not. But it’s completely worth it to find people who both challenge and encourage you, and it’s a lot less discouraging than inviting internet trolls to beat you over the head. Be specific, too, in asking for the type of feedback you want. I myself am extremely sensitive to criticism, so I choose to ask for it only in very limited ways, from very specific people. To continue the previous metaphor, use a fishing pole in the right type of water with appropriate bait, to make sure you’re getting the kind of feedback you want. 

But you want to know a secret?

It’s okay to not care about improving. It’s okay to just enjoy what you’re doing. So if you want to improve, by all means try. But if you just think you should want to improve, when in reality you just want to write a fun story, that’s totally okay too. Sometimes you have to give yourself permission to not necessarily be the best that you can be. Let yourself write the fun silly crack once in a while; not everything has to be a V. Serious Undertaking. 

I’ve rambled on long enough, so let me just conclude with this: It’s okay to want validation. It’s okay to encourage people to comment, to tell them how much their comments and reblogs mean to you, to ask them to leave you feedback whenever they can, and give helpful tips about ‘how to comment if you’re not sure to comment.’ It’s not about the request, it’s about the tone. It’s not okay to browbeat people, accuse them of killing fandom, to tell them that they’re the reason that you aren’t writing more/anymore, because that’s patently untrue. You are responsible for your own creative process, and if it can’t thrive without constant reassurance, then that’s not an audience problem, my friend. That’s a disease that’s terminal for your writing. 

And finally, remember to support your fellow writers and creators. Nobody gets it the way fellow creators get it, and if we can’t depend on each other for support, we’re certainly not going to get it outside our own community. If you do feel compelled to reblog one of those rants on commenting, I hope you paused before you did it to go leave comments yourself. Creating content doesn’t give you a magical exemption from supporting others. None of us can hold up the fandoms and float our ships all by ourselves. Do as much as you can to support your fellow creators, and if you can’t, then that’s okay. Just extend the same grace and courtesy to your own readers, okay? 

[chromecutie]

Not A Ghost - part 35

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Masterlist on my profile!

Taglist: @emma-frxst  @ra-ra-rasputiin  @holamor ​  @empressme-bitch  @marvel-is-perfection  @hazilyimagine ​ @marvelhead17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash ​ @whitewitchdown ​ @master-sass-blast ​ @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen @emberbent @leo-writer . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

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

Nighttime in the Icebox was usually pretty quiet, not counting the occasional inmate screaming or howling. It was a soundscape Mimi had been used to for years. She couldn’t guess how long she had actually been in prison, but it didn’t matter any more. Everything was in place. She waited until the night shift walked by her cell, briefly shining their flashlight through the plexiglass walls to confirm she was in bed. Nestled in shed skins and extra blankets she had collected over time, the reptilian knew there wouldn’t be a body check again for about an hour. Plenty of time. In fact, if things went according to plan, it would be the last body check for a while.

As the booted footfalls on the metal grate walkway faded, she crept from her bed without so much as a rustle from her shed skins. The control collar weighing on her neck took away some of her abilities - like her venom she desperately missed, but it couldn’t change her narrow shoulders and hips which were perfect for sneaking into an air vent. Climbing the back wall was difficult; without the collar, her fingers had grip like a gecko, but now she could grip only slightly better than a human. Still, she made it to the air vent near the ceiling and got in.

Most of this plan had already been formulated for a long time. Mimi ran through it in her mind thousands of times, part drill, part fantasy. For a long time, the missing piece had been how to safely leave the Icebox without tumbling down the mountainside or freezing in the snow. Who knew the twisted, savage little monster who used to swear she was one of the X-Men would give her the answer on a silver platter? It was funny. 

--

Most inmates blurred together in Mimi’s memory, unless they made a very strong impression that they could be useful. The one they started calling Guestbook stood out only because she was irritating. Her big doe eyes and chattering teeth and frightened tears were an annoyingly fresh reminder that the Icebox was indeed hell. 

On a day like a thousand others, the laundry room had been quiet and out of the way enough for Mimi to set up the deals that had allowed her to rise to gang lord status. She eventually amassed almost as much power as the warden of the Icebox. And when a frenzied inmate with wild eyes and frizzy, mousy hair had scrambled into the laundry room trying to hide behind a row of dryers, Mimi simply rolled her eyes.

“You can’t be in here,” she said. “Get going.” When there was no answer, she went over to the would-be hiding spot and tried again. “I know you’re not deaf.” The inmate was breathing heavy, but suppressing the sound as much as she could. Mimi frowned down at her, “Guestbook - hm.” She took in the torn sleeve of her jumpsuit, and fresh, bleeding X tattoos that had been carved into her forearm. “They got you again, huh?” 

Guestbook’s nostrils flared as tears welled up anew. “If you tell them where I am, I’ll--”

“You won’t do shit to me,” Mimi’s scaled brows lifted and her eyes narrowed. “That’s why you’re gonna die in here.”

Shuffling footsteps echoed in the hall outside of the laundry room, and a few of the more disgusting inmates poked their heads in. One asked, “You seen the Guestbook in here?”

Guestbook was still hidden from their view, and for a second Mimi honestly thought of letting them have her. Instead, she rested a fist on her hip and stated, “I’m busy. You bother me in here again and it’ll take them a week to scrape you off the floor.” They hesitated, but when Mimi bared her pointy teeth and hissed at them, they scattered.

As their pattering faded, Mimi cracked her neck and turned to resume her work sorting laundry. “Maybe if you hadn’t started off day one screaming about how you’re X-Men,” she said absently, “people wouldn’t be out for your hide. We all know you’re not.”

Guestbook squeaked from her hiding spot, “I--”

Mimi shook her head, impatient. “I don’t care either way. But I guarantee that if you kill one of these fuckers chasing you, they’ll start giving you some space.”

Guestbook shook her head, brows pinched tightly over a fading black eye, “I’m not killing anyone.”

Loading a pile of blankets into a washer, Mimi warned, “They don’t do funerals in here, and nobody gives a shit if you die for some bullshit moralistic ideal.” She threw in a scoop of detergent and set the machine running, and when she looked again, Guestbook was gone.

After that, it was like something had changed. Mimi started noticing when Guestbook fought back against her attackers. She escalated fights, and fought dirty. She even killed the inmate who had cut off her finger...and the inmate who had held her down for it...and she even bit off the finger of the guard who had watched and laughed. She killed another inmate, then another. So much for bullshit moralistic ideals. After that, Mimi tried a few times to offer Guestbook a place in the Vicious 13; a killing machine is always useful. But every time, Guestbook refused, and so Mimi had to send someone to stab her, make an example for turning down the V-1-3. But she never sent her best, because she didn’t want her dead, and whoever she sent usually met a grisly end at Guestbook’s hands.

--

The vent shaft was narrow, the turns were difficult, and Mimi had a hard time seeing - another thing that would’ve been no trouble without the collar. Still, she wriggled and maneuvered her way until she could hear voices. They were too muffled to make out clearly, but she recognized them well enough. She knew she wouldn’t show up on the heat sensors she’d been warned about, but still she crept along more slowly, careful not to make the slightest sound. Finally, she reached the vent opening over the control office. The air filter was filthy, and she couldn’t wait to throw it at the guards having a cheerful work day chat just beneath her.

They were trading snarky comments about the DMC’s benefits package when Mimi dove through the vent, sending the filter banging around and puffing clouds of dust everywhere. One guard, understandably startled, scrambled away from the intruder. The other was still in Mimi’s reach when she went to grapple him. He swung wildly with his fists and baton, and with a few fluid dodges, Mimi weaponized his momentum against him and flung him over her shoulder into a bank of cabinets. Before the second guard could stop her, Mimi was on the first, and with strong fingers hooked one hand under his jaw while the other held the top of his head firmly. She wrenched his head to an unnatural angle with a horrible crack. The guard went limp and slumped away from her. 

From the other end of the control office, the remaining guard didn’t scream into his radio for backup, didn’t beg for his life, didn’t make any move to attack Mimi. Instead, he smiled.

Mimi returned his smile as she got to her feet, “Edmund.”

“Maria,” his smile widened, “Finally.” Edmund Robinson, who had been the one to bring Guestbook to solitary, extended his arms and Mimi leapt into an embrace. They held it only a moment. He asked, “What’s next, gorgeous?”

All her years in the Icebox, and Mimi had hardly touched her collar, usually opting to pretend as much as possible that it wasn’t there. She grabbed it with both hands and said, “Get this fucking thing off.”

Robinson, still smiling, nodded and used his key card to unlock a safe where some devices about the size of a USB stick were kept. There were three hard tokens, each had a small screen displaying a six digit code that changed every ten seconds. With one in hand, they both took a deep breath.

“Don’t fuck this up,” Mimi said with an urgent edge. If he typed the code too slowly, or missed a number, the explosive charge would take off her head and his hands. She watched his face one more moment before turning around to let him reach the block on the back of her collar.

With a few beeps, and the longest nine seconds of her life, Mimi’s collar clicked loose and fell away. Her head swam, and she leaned against Robinson until the woozy feeling faded enough to collect herself. She shook her head, trying to clear away a nagging uneasiness. Finally, she heard guards shouting on the other side of the plexiglass walls. They could only get in if the officer inside the office scanned their card to unlock the doors.

“The armory,” she pushed herself away from Robinson to look at the row of monitors playing the security footage. On one screen, guards were grabbing heavy riot equipment. “Edmund, can you seal that?”

“On it,” he tapped his card against a sensor, typed a few keys, and she watched the surveillance screens as the door to the armory sealed shut, with a couple officers still inside and a half dozen more outside of it beating on the door.

Thunder on the doors of the office broke their focus. Officers were beating on the doors with batons, fists, and the ends of their cattle prods. Robinson and Mimi were unconcerned; the glass was built to withstand a beating from incredibly strong inmates throwing their full force against it. Mimi locked eyes with one of the guards on the other side of the glass. He was practically foaming at the mouth in his fury. “Edmund,” she said with a smooth, almost sensual tone, “open the cells.”

[lostinfic]

6. Boston, Fall

Summary: He’s photographed devastated war zones, refugee camps and child soldiers. She writes for magazines about luxurious resorts in exotic places and five-star hotels in glamorous cities. For both of them travel is an escape, but he’s had enough of this grim reality, and she’s had enough of this disconnected fantasy. Perhaps together they can find something in between, something real, and stop running from themselves. Each season, a new destination and a chance to grow closer.

Pairing: Alec Hardy x Hannah Baxter Rating: Mature~ish (for now) Word count: 5k

A/N: Many thanks to those who commented on the chapter addition I posted this week, it felt really good to see people still interested in this story despite my absence. You’re the best!

Tumblr  |  Ao3

He couldn’t believe he was doing this again: waiting for her, unannounced, in front of the cruise terminal. In Boston, today. But it was different because she’d gone to his exhibition in New York and wrote a message in the guestbook, and that knowledge emboldened him.

He zipped his North Face jacket up to his chin against the cold sea breeze. And waited.

Finally she came out, leather jacket, pink travel mug and hair in lazy curls.

“Baxter,” he shouted, his voice betrayed his excitement, and he immediately buried his hands in his pockets, affecting a casual air. With a head tilt, he beckoned her closer.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him then narrowed to a furrowed brow. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t look as happy to see him as he’d hoped. His stomach clenched.

“I hitched a ride with a mate,” he said.

“To come see me?”

“Nah, I’m a Red Sox fan.”

Sarcasm to muffle his beating heart.

A small smile appeared on her red lips which she hid behind her thick tartan scarf.

“Miss Baxter!” An Asian man jogged up to them. In his white and aqua tracksuit, the cruise line colors, he looked like a figure skater. The too-wide smile and forced eye contact betrayed his marketing position even before Hannah introduced him.

“Jeffrey Allen, the marketing liaison on board. And this is my— photographer, Alec Hardy.”

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Hardy.” Jeffrey shook his hand with too much enthusiasm. “Now, Miss Baxter, Mr. Hardy, Festival Cruises is happy to provide its esteemed guests with complimentary shuttles to the heart of historical Boston. You will be boarding one, yes?”

“Actually, we—” Hannah began, but Jeffrey pushed her towards a big charter bus. With mild panic in her eyes, Hannah grabbed Hardy’s sleeve and tugged him along.

He followed her to the very back of the bus. She slouched down, pressing her knees against the seat in front of her. She apologized for yawning, she hadn’t slept well.

“Sea sick?”

She shrugged. “How did you know I was here?”

“Your whole life’s online.”

“Don’t you know you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet?”

“That’s right, you didn’t post about seeing my expo yesterday. Not good enough for you?”

She toyed with the lid of her travel mug, twisting it left and right, then taking a sip.

“So you saw my message in the guestbook.”

“I did.”

“There was a photo of me in your exhibition.”

She sought his gaze. She wanted him to say more about the photo. One photo out of fifty. Aesthetically pleasing. That’s all. Or so he tried to convince himself. Her eyes mirrored his own anxious expectations. He wished she’d say more about his exhibition. What did she think? Why did she feel shaken?

She looked away first, bit the corner of her thumb nail. She flipped back to teasing.

“Besides, you need to pay if you want exposure on my blog.” She bumped him lightly with her shoulder.

He had this feeling again, of something on the tip of his tongue, something about her that escaped him every time.

Jeffrey came on the bus too, and they both groaned at the sight of him.

Yesterday, she’d skipped a special shore excursion to visit the World Press Photo event, she suspected Jeffrey would try to oversee her work today.

The man sat beside her across the aisle and monopolized her attention with talks of museum discounts. She listened with a tight, polite smile.

Hardy observed the other passengers, most of them silver-haired, carrying canes and walkers. It wasn’t adding up. He and Hannah may be very different types of travelers, but from her articles, he’d gotten the impression they both preferred to avoid the main tourist attractions to experience local culture. She ate street food, talked to people, danced to their music. This didn’t seem like her no matter how much they paid. But then again, he shouldn’t believe everything he reads online.

“Didn’t think you were the senior cruise type,” Hardy said, interrupting Jeffrey.

“I’m looking for a husband,” she joked.

“Preferably one on the brink of death?”

“And who loves to travel.”

She grinned, and his stomach unknotted.

“Well actually,” Jeffrey began, unprompted and unwelcome, “the average age of cruise passengers is lower than you would think.” He lectured them on the advantages of sea travel for the whole family.

Hardy rolled his eyes.

“I like to think of it as sampling the best of each port of call,” Hannah summed up.

“While dumping a ton of waste in the harbor,” Hardy said.

Jeffrey squinted his eyes at him. “You’re not one of our esteemed guests,” he realized.

He would have thrown Hardy off the bus if it weren’t on the highway. Hardy couldn’t care less, but Hannah’s glare stopped a lecture of his own.

“Don’t make me lose this job too,” she whispered to him.

Soon, the shuttle stopped near a visitor center. Mid-morning Boston was busy and cloudy. the scent of last night’s rain hung in the air, pigeons bathed in puddles. Shop windows sported pumpkins, real or painted or fashioned into garlands.

Hannah wanted better coffee than the one on board and headed for a coffee shop chain to refill her mug. Hardy coaxed her instead towards a local place advertising Fair-trade coffee.

Seven years ago, he’d photographed children harvesting coffee beans in terrible conditions. Seven years later people still didn’t care. Perhaps if he’d stayed in New York he could have convinced a few more people to choose their coffee brand wisely.

He’d meant to pay for Hannah’s beverage— an indication of his intentions— but work had clogged his mind again, and he found her handing him a cup instead.

They stood on the cobblestone pavement, unable to settle on an activity to do, neither wanting to make a decision the other might dislike. They had both been to Boston before. “As you wish,” was uttered more than once without any action following.

Hardy ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight. Now that he was in front of her, he didn’t know what to say. It had seemed so easy in Singapore.

“I should probably get some work done,” Hannah said. “Check out a few landmarks, take some photos… “

“Right, yeah, don’t want you to be in trouble with Jeffrey. Sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”

Jeffrey interrupted them once more, coming out of the visitor center with a handful of brochures. He was really pushing for Hannah to join one of their guided tours.

Hardy opened a rideshare app on his cellphone. He had to drop by his friend’s place first, get his overnight bag back, but he might make it to New York City in time for Alys Tomlinson’s conference.

“Are you alright?” Hannah asked with a frown.

He hadn’t noticed Jeffrey’s departure.

“I know it’s not your thing, if you’d rather go…” she trailed off.

“Do you want me to?”

“I suppose not. Look, once that’s out of the way—” she waved the brochures— “we can go somewhere nice, yeah? Hang out.”

Maybe it was the caffeine finally kicking in, but there was a light dancing in her eyes as she said this, things promised but unspoken. His heart sped up like a puppy’s tail.

Hardy grabbed a random brochure out of her hands: the Freedom Trail. He studied the map. “This way.” He hurried away with long strides. “C’mon, Baxter, before Jeffrey comes back.” She laughed and caught up to him.

The trail started in Boston Common. In the park, ancient elm and oak trees fanned out their shades of red and orange. Dead leaves crunched under Hannah’s ankle boots as they walked among morning joggers and giggling preschoolers. They picked the shortest way across the park, took a wrong turn and ended up at the Frog Pond. The water surface reflected the cloudy sky, still but for the brush of weeping willow branches. Their pace slowed to a stroll.

“What did you mean earlier, about losing your job?” he asked.

“Well, I lost my job at Elite Travelers because of you and your bloody work ethic.” She poked him in the chest, and he crossed his arms.

After she’d followed his advice and exposed the magazine’s censorship, she was fired. That was only the beginning. Every other media part of the same conglomerate shunned her too. Magazines, newspapers, websites and TV shows she’d worked with before, now didn’t reply to her emails and phone calls. A secretary she’d befriended finally explained HR had blacklisted her.

As for hotels, anything part of Group Peregrine, the Mahal Kita Resort owners, became off-limits too.

“Don’t blame me for your shitty boss,” Hardy replied, though he did feel a smidge guilty.

“I know, I was taking the piss. I thought I could be like you, you know. That it’d be good for my reputation, I’d be credible, get more interesting assignments.”

“You did it for the wrong reason.”

“Alright, don’t worry, I did it for the people of Pulau Kesuma too. It can be both. I just mean I thought good deeds were supposed to be rewarded.”

“Give it time,” he replied lamely.

The cruise line’s offer was the first she’d received in weeks. They needed her to rejuvenate their image. “And I’m always up for a challenge,” she said, and he smiled at her determination.

“But you don’t like it.”

“I prefer to focus on the positive aspects.”

“Thought you were a journalist.”

“Exactly. I’m neutral. Just because something doesn’t appeal to me, doesn’t mean it wouldn’t appeal to someone else.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

“Really, I thought you’d argue more.”

He would have, but he was trying to make a good impression.

He told her he’d sent her article on Pulau Kesuma to Ellie who had translated it in Indonesian for the island population. “The maids you interviewed asked about you. Did you stay in touch?”

“They did?” She smiled, genuinely touched. “I haven’t… I meant to… did you stay in touch with anyone?”

“I try… I’m not great at it. I tell people letting me take photos will help, I give them hope. I have a responsibility to see that help through.”

“I don’t think I could ever do that. The responsibility…” She blew out a puff of air.

“It’s not all bad. I lived with this family in Kuwait, about— well, early in my career. I was young, the mother she fussed over me. She still writes to me. Yesterday, the youngest son had his first child, and they sent me a picture.”

He showed her the picture, saved on his phone, of Omar with a baby in his arms. Hannah leaned closer until their shoulders touched. Her weight against him made him forget what he wanted to say. She glanced at the photo, then looked up at him.

“You’re a good person,” she said.

He shrugged, embarrassed. He never helped as much as he wanted to, but it felt like false modesty to say so. In fact, the retrospective of his work in New York made him uneasy, and he was relieved to escape it for a day. But he knew he should have stayed to talk about the issues he’d photographed rather than go and have fun.

He was about to offer they sit on a bench and he’d buy her a pastry to apologize for her lost job, when he spotted Jeffrey, in his bright suit, on the other side of the carousel.

“I bet he’s spying on me,” Hannah said in a whisper. “We have to shake him off.”

They slowly backtracked and hid behind the trunk of a large tree.

Hardy looked at the Freedom Trail map. “We need to head that way, but he’ll see us. So we take this road to go around and exit the park.”

“Ok. Got it. Ready?”

Hannah grabbed his hand, and it surprised him so, he froze. She tugged on his arm. His legs remembered how to move, and they made a run for it. They dashed from tree to tree, laughing.

He’d once done the same to dodge bullets. This was much more fun.

Once they’d put enough distance between Jeffrey and themselves, they slowed down and Hannah let go of his hand.

They exited the park and reached the next stop on the trail, the Granary Burying Ground. Samuel Adams and Paul Revere were both buried somewhere beneath the time-worn tombstones. Neither Hardy nor Hannah could remember what made these men famous. As they kept walking, Hannah read out loud about the landmark while Hardy guarded her from colliding with anyone.

Two more landmarks and Hannah realized she’d forgotten to take photos for her blog. Hardy took hold of her camera and swiftly snapped photos of her in front of an old brown-brick building.

“Oi, I wasn’t ready.”

“It’s called street photography.”

They strode the streets, still looking over their shoulders for Jeffrey. The imaginary threat pushed adrenaline through their blood. They slalomed between tourists. Their breaths came quick and cloudy.

Old State House.

Quincy Market.

Hardy took shortcuts through private properties. “The trick is to look like you know where you’re going.” She found it thrilling. Their eyes gleamed, their cheeks flushed.

Paul Revere’s House.

Old North Church.

Inevitably, they talked about US politics, but also about history and their work. What they said didn’t matter. They were like two dogs sniffing and chasing each other. A test of sorts. A trial run.

The few women he’d been with since his separation— accidents, convenience— they didn’t feel like this. The gravitational pull of Hannah threw him off course. She tugged at the very center of him. He knew, and perhaps she did too, that they were on the edge of something great. Something all-encompassing. There would be no going back. But parts of her were wild and unknown. Like a wounded beast hides in the shadows. And so he photographed her, as she walked, as she curled her hair around her finger, as she looked at the city. Moments, seconds, like puzzle pieces that might reveal her heart to him. A hint to give him the courage to step over the edge.

In an hour, they reached the last stop on the trail: the Bunker Hill Monument. They stared at the towering granite obelisk.

“I prefer the ones in Egypt,” Hardy said.

Hannah wanted to climb the 295 steps leading to the top. The view would be worth the effort, but a sign by the door warned people with heart conditions. He stalled.

“What are you afraid of, old man?” Hannah teased.

He bristled at that. He couldn’t tell her about his pacemaker precisely so she wouldn’t overthink the age gap and see him as old and sick.

“I’m not old, I’m experienced.”

She snorted a laugh. “At least you’ve still got all your hair… For now.”

“I’ll show ye, Baxter.”

He opened the door to the obelisk and let her go first under the pretense of chivalry.

A narrow spiral staircase led to the top. Humidity beaded on the cool stone walls. By step 60, they started building up a sweat and gradually shed layers: scarf, coat, jacket, collars were opened.

Over the weeks, Hardy had grown accustomed to the foreign object in his chest, but now his hand flitted to his heart every minute.

“Are you alright?” Hannah inquired, noticing the gesture.

“Fine. Keep going.”

“I need a rest anyway.”

Pity. He gritted his teeth. How could he hope to ever get back in the field if he couldn’t even climb a couple hundred steps. No one would pause for him Syria.

“You’re wearing a suit.” Hannah observed now that he’d removed his windbreaker.

“That bad? I had it for the conference.”

“No, I like it. You made an effort.”

She slid her fingers along his collar to straighten it.

“I almost brought you flowers too,” he said and immediately regretted it— she would think he’s old-fashioned.

“Next time,” she replied with a teasing smile.

That affirmation spurred him on. He resumed climbing before he’d caught his breath. Two steps at a time. Proving a point. His heart raced but at a steady rate. The pacemaker held on.

“295!”

The top of the obelisk was a tight space of gray brick, with only four tiny windows under a high, peak ceiling.

Hardy sagged on the sill of the closest window, and Hannah squeezed next to him. She raked her hair back from her forehead, sending a whiff of floral shampoo his way.

Their panting breaths on the glass fogged the panorama. Hannah drew a smiley face with her fingertip and gave it a little beard. She grinned at him.

The fog faded and they stared at the Charles River and its cable bridge beyond the tiny squares of brown bricks. There were other windows with a different vista, but Hannah was here, honey eyes on the horizon, skin flushed with exertion, warm against his sleeve.

They talked in low, dreamy voices about the highest places they’ve visited: the Petronas towers, a volcano in Hawaii, Lake Titicaca, a rooftop bar in Hong Kong, a suspension bridge in the Alps. Up in the clouds, where humans seem small compared to nature and one’s life inconsequential.

They shared a bottle of water, and only moved when other people arrived.

Hannah begged him to let her take a good photo this time. She meant one over which she had control.

“The light’s rubbish in here.”

“I trust your skills. Just let me fix my face, must be all shiny.” She pulled a pocket mirror out of her purse and dabbed her forehead. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have washed my hair.”

“Don’t worry, you look great.”

“Really?” she asked coyly.

“You know you do.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you agreed.”

“I came all the way here, didn’t I?”

“For my pretty eyes?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

“So, are we ever getting to Fenway Park?” he asked with feigned impatience.

“Knob.”

He’d been called that before, but never this fondly.

Hannah reapplied red lipstick. As she smacked her lips together, she glanced at him over the mirror. A sultry look that roused butterflies in his stomach.

He couldn’t tell whether she was serious or messing with him. She’d been straightforward about sex in Singapore, if she still wanted him, she would simply say so, wouldn’t she?

He raised the camera, and, with practiced ease, she flashed the smile he’d seen many times before on Instagram. He didn’t care for it. After a few poses, she asked him to join her for a selfie and his indulgence stopped there.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Starving.”

Hannah had a list of trendy restaurants in Boston, and he already dreaded the place she would choose. He scowled when she guided him towards a tiki bar, but the restaurant she wanted was at the back of it.

“Half my job is knowing the coolest restaurants.”

“At least Jeffrey won’t find us here.”

Large garage-style doors opened on a courtyard, ensconced in climbing ivy, where small fireplaces and blankets kept the clients warm. It smelled like Guy Fawkes night and camping, green and smokey.

They arrived past one o’clock, tail end of the lunch rush, so a table was available. They sat at the corner of the table to see through the archway offering a view of the river.

The sun had come out, Hannah traded her scarf and leather jacket for a blanket loosely draped over her arms. She wore a tunic underneath with a wide boat neckline, and he was struck by the desire to cover her neck with kisses.

He pulled himself together while the man-bunned waiter explained today’s specials. Hannah asked the waiter what he recommended, and soon they were talking about the creative process behind the menu and his vision for the future of catering. She was fishing for some quirky details to share on her blog, and it fascinated Hardy, her easy smile, the effect of her charm on other people. And on himself. He was just one of many. She returned her attention to him, and the misgivings evaporated.

“Sorry about that. I’m all yours now. What will you have?”

Wherever he traveled, he ate the food laid out in front of him, pigeon stew or roasted guinea pig, he made do and thanked his hosts, and yet in Western restaurants, he became picky. Here, the menu offered only six meals, each one elaborate. Hannah couldn’t decide between duck arancinis and wild boar noodles, and thus his dilemma was solved; he ordered one of the two so she could taste both. They ended up eating out of each other’s plate, a level of intimacy he hadn’t expected to reach so fast.

The coziness of the setting enveloped him. The excellent food, the laughter. He wished the afternoon would never end, but she had to be back aboard the ship at 4pm.

The ticking clock boosted his courage. He touched the tattoo on her inner wrist, a simple black outline of a star or flower, he couldn’t tell. “What’s the story?” he asked. It was a blatant excuse to touch her, and they both knew it. Keeping his thumb there, stroking the delicate skin, filled him with a heady sort of audacity.

“It was supposed to be a compass. Never pick the cheapest tattoo parlor, it’s cheap for a reason. The bloke got bored halfway through, didn’t even write the cardinal points. I used to add them by hand.” She laughed then lowered her eyes. “My best friend, Erin, she got the same so I never had the heart to have it changed.”

“Erin? Is that your friend who passed away? The one you wanted to travel with.”

“Yeah… I was just thinking about her yesterday, your photos they… stirred things up.”

She looked like she wanted to say more, she stroked her collarbone as her eyes flitted between him and the river. He wanted to take a photo to study later and decipher.

“Anyway, how do you know about that?” she asked.

“I read your blog.”

“All of it?”

“You sent me a link.”

“To one article.”

Her knees rested against his under the table.

“You’re a great writer.”

“Really?” she asked, this time no coyness colored her voice.

He leaned on his elbows, towards her, and told her about the articles he’d preferred. The things he’d learned even about cities where he had been. He didn’t feel as out of his depth now, it was professional almost, except her legs were brushing together and it sent a thrill up his spine.

She had written less in-depth articles in the last year as her followers favored shorter pieces with many pictures, and affiliated links generated revenue. She confessed she missed it, sitting with one person and having a real conversation and then finding the words to convey the moment to her readers.

They ordered deserts, despite feeling full; it was a day for gluttony. She insisted on feeding him a piece of pumpkin pie.

She was a great conversationalist, always a funny quip or an unexpected question. She wanted to know people. Yet, when the tables turned, she used humor and flirting to deflect.

He thought of developing photos in a dark room. She revealed herself slowly, like an image in the tray of developer chemical. But if a photo was left in that chemical too long, it turned black, and so did Hannah eclipse herself if pressed too much. However, it was in Hardy’s nature to persist, to question, to get to the heart of things. Of people.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to New York?”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to Boston.”

“Fair enough.”

“Kind of silly, isn’t it? I mean we obviously— I think— wanted to see each other. Right?”

“Yeah.”

Hannah’s hand was so close to his. Her pink fingernails scratched at the buttons on his cuff. He opened his hand: an invitation.

“I’m glad I came here today,” he said.

“But you haven’t seen the Red Sox.”

“I’ve seen everything I wanted to see,” he answered, looking into her eyes.

His hand was still splayed opened, and he waited with a lump in his throat. She looked at him as if assessing his honesty. Finally, she slipped her fingers into his palm, and he closed his hand over them. Hannah smiled and tucked her chin in her shoulder closest to him, as if trying to hide her joy.

“I’m glad you came too,” she admitted in a quiet voice.

Affection overwhelmed him, and he impulsively kissed her forehead.

They ordered cups of tea, and continued holding hands as they drank. Her touch warmed him more than Earl Grey.

Clouds drifted in front of the sun and a cold breeze swept the courtyard. Hannah shivered, and he pulled the blanket higher up her shoulders. She caught his hand so his arm remained around her.

He glanced at her lips, within reach, parting delicately, her half-closed eyelids, and he knew she was going to kiss him.

“I’m not…” he began, compelled to warn her but not sure what about.

“You’re not what?” she asked with an amused lilt.

I’m not good at this. I work too much. I shut myself off to the people I care about. I fucked up my marriage. I can’t give you what you need.

Hannah’s expression turned to one of concern, so he pretended to have forgotten what he wanted to say.

His cell phone rang. “I have to get this, it’s my daughter.” He rose and stepped away from the table. His thoughts were scattered. He took a second to regroup before answering. Daisy was coming to join him in New York in two days, and she had some last-minute questions about packing.

While he talked on the phone, Hannah went to the restroom.

*

He was a dad. She’d imagined him as this free spirit, roaming the world, hurtling towards danger to save women and orphans. But he was a dad. She didn’t want to be a step-mother. They were ugly or cruel or evil. She wasn’t ready for that. She couldn’t deal with a teenager. No way. And with the ex-wife— no fucking way.

Why was she even thinking about being a step-mother? This thing with Alec, it was just a fling. Would be a fling. Nothing more. Whenever she slept with a man abroad, she made a point never to see him again after. Hardy was no exception. She wouldn’t see him again and certainly never meet his daughter.

An impatient knock on the door startled her. She quickly pulled up her pants, though she couldn’t remember if she’d peed or not.

As she walked back to the courtyard, Hannah observed Alec who was lost in thoughts. Why did his sad eyes make her want to blow him so much?

She could have kissed him hours ago— should have— but she’d enjoyed the slow blooming of it. The way her touch rippled through him. He was so starved for it, he didn’t even know. Yet he held back, and she couldn’t understand why.

“I’m not with her mum anymore,” he said as soon as he saw her. “Divorced. There’s no going back after what happened.”

If she asked what happened he would tell. He would open up to her. She didn’t ask.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I just didn’t know you have a daughter.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to keep it from you. Can’t believe I haven’t mentioned her.”

“So you’re a daddy, that’s kind of hot.”

“No.” He inspected her, a wrinkle deepened on his brow. “Did you want to go?”

She was still standing up behind her chair.

Alec paid for both their meals, and then there was nothing to do but leave. She asked him to walk with her to the visitor center where she would catch the shuttle bus back to the ship. She wasn’t ready to part from him yet. The closer they got to the visitor center, the heavier her heart felt. Alec’s eyes were on the ground with serious dimples in his cheeks. She wanted to say something clever and flirty to lighten up the mood.

They rounded a corner and saw the big white charter bus, with Jeffrey standing beside it. They backtracked a little, just out of his sight, under an old-fashioned lamp post.

Once again, they stood face to face on the pavement, without knowing what to say, but for entirely different reasons now.

“I should let you go,” he said even as he stepped forward, closer to her.

Those eyes of his were on her now, wide, almost pleading. He made her feel so warm and soft inside, pliant, in a way she didn’t recognize about herself.

She stepped closer too.

She’d made her desire abundantly clear, twice he’d turned her down now, the ball was in his court.

Hesitantly, he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jaw, and she could have melted in that touch.

He straightened his shoulders, and she sensed he’d come to a decision.

“I can’t leave without kissing you...”

“Go on, then.”

He laughed at her impatience. A deep breath, and he dipped his head to kiss her. Just a brush of lips at first, enough to send sparks through her blood. The day’s energy finally released. His fingers carded through her hair, her arms wrapped around his waist. The kiss deepened, and she felt it to her toes. People walked around them and leaves twirled in the wind, and they kept kissing. It was a day for gluttony. She gorged herself on every bit of lust, sadness and hope.

Hannah kept her eyes closed and Alec rested his forehead on hers. She felt peaceful and high-strung all at once. She relaxed her fists that were clenched into his jacket.

He sought her mouth again, with more confidence, hands splayed over her ribs, wide and steady.

Engine noises alerted her to the shuttle about to depart. Hand in hand, they walked over to it. In front of the door, he pulled her into a hug.

“I wish I could take you on board,” she whispered against his neck.

“I can be a stowaway, I’ve done it before.”

She chuckled and they kissed again, holding each other close. Jeffrey cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Where are you going next?” Alec asked.

“Portland, Maine. Why? Do you have another mate you can hitch a ride with?”

“I could find one.”

“It’s a date, then.”

#

Chapter 7: Portland

[ladywindrunner]

Dead By Daylight

@fatesblades @lightsblade @lady-proudmoore good luck, have fun, don’t die.

It was a ludicrous notion, the suggestion that the four of them stay at the infamous Wood’s End Cabin. Located in the nefarious Witchwood, officially known as the Blackwald, it was a cottage nestled in the midst of a gnarled, old forest rumoured to be haunted. Nearly everyone in the Eastern Kingdoms had heard of it, it was a common tale for mothers to tell their children. Located in the ass end of nowhere (otherwise known as Gilneas), children grew up fearing that those that misbehaved would be dragged away to their demise. Older renditions of the fairy tale explicitly spoke of how the children stolen away were consumed by demons and monsters, but most mothers toned down the stories.

            Sylvanas remembered, even from a young age, she had never given the tales much thought. Vereesa and Valeera had thought the stories terrifying, though Valeera grew out of the fear faster. Alleria didn’t much care for fairy tales, though whether that was due to fear or disinterest, Sylvanas didn’t know. It didn’t matter in the long run, as they were all adults now. The thought of ghosts, monsters, and whatever else the Blackwald was supposed to contain was laughable. She didn’t know Jaina’s opinion on them, she wasn’t even certain such stories existed in Bolarus, though she imagined they had their own ghost stories. Liadrin thought they were entertaining, though she and Sylvanas had shared laughs about the implausibility.

           Staying at Wood’s End Cabin was Valeera’s idea, thinking it be a fun getaway. Sylvanas had scoffed at it, exactly how such an adventure would be fun was beyond her – but they’d driven from Silvermoon, to the Blackwald. The road trip had been excellent, with sightseeing, delicious food (most of the time), and good company.

           But as Sylvanas drove up the ragged laneway towards the cabin, she’d come full circle into thinking this a ridiculous idea. The trees here were old, gnarled, with twisted branches and a canopy so thick that hardly any light from the late-afternoon sun pierced through. The grass was a mixture of deep greens, dying yellowish-browns, and long, aggressive wild-grass that was a deep crimson hue. The cottage, as it came into view, was small. There were vines growing up one side of it, and while the appearance may have been charming on other structures, here it just added to a distinct creep factor.

           “Valeera your ability to choose destinations is impeccable,” Sylvanas quipped dryly, pulling the car up next to the cottage. “Are you certain you wish to stay here? Or should I drive us back to the dilapidated hotel off the highway if you’re so intent on getting us killed.”

           She put the vehicle into park, eyeing the cabin warily.

           She was less concerned with ghosts and more-so with tetanus, rabies, and other nasty diseases.

           She spared a fleeting, but impish glance at Jaina before she got out of the car, arms firmly crossed in disapproval as she took in the sight.

           Oh yes, they were going to die. The cabin was undoubtedly going to collapse in on them during the night. The windows were grimy, fogged so much that it was hard to see inside, the door looked to be solid enough, but there was an envelope nailed to it.

           Sylvanas’ brows turned downwards in suspicion as she approached the entrance and plucked the letter from the door. She tilted her head as she opened it, reading in it quickly.

           She snorted, shaking her head as she turned to face the others as they exited the car.

           “Oh,” she said, clicking her tongue as a smirk graced her lips. She flipped the paper around. “Good.”

                                          WELCOME TO WOOD’S END CABIN

NO SANITARY NAPKINS ARE TO BE FLUSHED DOWN THE TOILET, THE SEPTIC CAN’T HANDLE IT.

NO DAYTIME BURNING

CELL SERVICE LIMITED, THERE IS A LANDLINE INSIDE.

NO WIFI (TALK TO EACH OTHER)

THE BLACKWALD, WITCHWOOD, AND WOOD’S END CABIN ARE KNOWN PARANORMAL HOTSPOTS. WE HAVE BEEN FEATURED IN A NUMBER OF PARANORMAL INVESTIGATIONS AND ‘GHOST HUNTER’ SPECIALS. DOCUMENTATION INSIDE FOR YOUR READING LEISURE.

IF YOU HAVE AN PARANORMAL EXPERIENCE, PLEASE WRITE IT DOWN IN THE GUESTBOOK! WE LOVE HEARING ABOUT PEOPLE’S ENCOUNTERS.

AS PER AGREEMENT, NO REFUNDS WILL BE PROVIDED FOR RENTERS LEAVING EARLY.

She handed the paper to Liadrin.

           “Remember to write down your experiences,” Sylvanas teased, turning back to cabin. She pushed the door open, peering inside, with unimpressed expression. She reached inside, flicking on the lights. “Valeera remember to scribble down you survived a week without internet, that’ll be the true paranormal experience.”

           They flickered once, twice, then came on.

           The inside was as inspiring as the exterior. Rustic, woodsy, with only a hintof The Exorcist. Sylvanas held back another comment, chuckling to herself as she turned on her heel, heading back to the car to start moving luggage.

[damsgaard04carlsson-blog]

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[abelabel0-blog]

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[rinnechan]

3 days to Zukkii's birthday!!! 📝

Part 2 of Zukkii's answers:

· A story from when you became interested in mangas. → Um... how was it? I can't remember anything, so, as an apology, I'll tell you the manga I'm addicted to right now. It's "GIANT KILLING". Tsubaki!! [= the name of a character from Giant Killing]

· Something that is challenging for you → Comedy

· Favorite food → Recently, tuna.

· What should I do to become taller? → Eat well! Sleep well!

· Why did you apply for auditions of sentai [series]? → I intended to do it even before I moved to Tokyo (lol). Because it was a dream.

· Valentine's gifts that left an impression → Handmade chocolate

· If Kaji and Adachi were girls, which one would you chose as your girlfriend? Both would be terrible (lol).

· Favourite cake → It's difficult to decide but, still, shortcake!

· From the people you co-starred until now, what's your type? → (*´∀｀*)

· The things you like, do you eat first or last? → Absolutely first!

· What kind of role do you want to play? → I want to do comedy!

· Something expensive you bought recently → There was a time I spent more than 2000 yen at a convenience store

· What is your favorite song by Makihara Noriyuki-san? → "LOVE LETTER" I guess...! I can't make up my mind about this!

· Do you eat the strawberries of the cake first? Last? → First~!

· Favourite brand → I'm not particularly picky about it but... it's nice to wear G-STAR.

· What about older women? → I like them (*´ω｀*)

· If you could become another member? → I would turn into Shirota and go to the karaoke!!

· Mobile phone model → DoCoMo P906i Silver

· A song you sing at karaokes → Unicorn "Daimeiwaku"

· Your favourite clothes & hairstyle for girls → Casual, soft and fluffy

· Do you like the theatre? → I like it. The nervousness, the sense of unity, the refreshing feeling, there is a characteristic feeling to the theatre.

· Your favourite place in Kansai → When I went to USJ [= Universal Studios Japan] I got excited by the Delorean (゜Д゜;)

· From the roles you've played so far, which was your favourite? → I can't decide but... Well, I guess it was fun to play Jan!

· Did you go to see Tenimyu after your graduation? → I went! But I haven't gone recently... (;_;)

· Where have you been with the members recently? → Going out for tea, to eat and drink.

· Favourite Japanese movies, books, sneakers → "Sway", recently I read "Hataraku Ryuu", VANS · adidas

· Toilet paper, single? double? → Soft double

· Confession you want to receive on Valentine's Day → I would be happy if the person talked in straightforward way.

· A location that leaves an impression → When I go to a location with lots of nature and the scenery is beautiful. Especially the afterglow of sunset!

· Do you dislike people from Osaka? → I like them! I also like the Kansai dialect (^o^)

· Do you use gifts [from fans]? → I'm honoured to use them m(__)m Eye masks and such are already in heavy rotation.

· When do you want to tell Kaji "Change this!" → I think that he is fine just the way he is (lol).

· A gesture girls do that makes you choke up with emotion → When they make a series of movements lifting their hair

· Speak up without holding anything back, how much do you weigh? → Speaking up without holding anything back, 67 to 68 kilos.

· Commitment to fashion → None! I guess I wear whatever it's comfortable.

· Eyes, get dry easily? → Eyes, get dry easily.

· What is a rare event between the members recently? → Confronting Kaji, I guess (lol).

· Which member do you want as your bride? → Masaya. Somehow it doesn't feel impossible to call him "Okan!" [= mother]

· Mobile phone's standby [screen], ringtone → I left the default settings as they were...

· Accessories? → I don't really use them. I like those that are not too rough.

· Does Jan's personality and voice resemble your own? → When Jan is super excited, that's me (lol).

· Your favourite flavour of Jagariko [= a brand of Japanese snacks that are essentially potato chips shaped as thin sticks]? → Salad.

· What colours do you like? → Red, white, black, flashy colours.

· What would you do if you had a week off? → Go to a hot spring, play soccer, watch movies, read books.

· Your favourite comedians right now  → French bulldog!

· What's your favourite Jan word? → It's nikiniki!

· Which member do you want to play Doraemon? → I think it's Kaji (lol).

· Relaxation method when you're tired → Enter a hot ofuro!

· What kind of child were you? → It seems I was a nervous child.

· Your impressions of Nagoya → The hitsumabushi was super delicious! Tsukete Mi~so Kakete Mi~so [= a brand of miso]

· Can you speak a dialect? → Not much. It feels like the words become cloudy.

· Favourite phrase → "Do not just follow other people's mood, follow your own mood."

· How to overcome a hard situation → Autosuggestion. And, take the offensive (lol). Say "I can do it!" and then "I'll manage it somehow!"

· Are you still friends with the Gekiren members? → Of course! I would be happy if we could co-star again someday.

· How did you concentrate to study for exams? → It might be a good idea to tabulate your hours of study. When your hours of study increase, it'll be similar to when you level up in a RPG (lol).

· Memories of your graduation → I just gathered with my usual friends and chatted (lol). And graduation trips are nice, aren't they?

· Lines that left the best impression → I guess the long lines from Sophistry? But they were justified by all the contents (lol)

· Favourite game → Dragon Quest, Winning Eleven

· Is there such thing as "ZukiKaji"? → Isn't there (lol)?

· Which [D-BOYS] member would you live with? → Mikami. Thanks in advance m(__)m

· If you entered a concert band, what kind of instrument would you play? → Vocals... No no, trumpet.

· Do you like chocolate? What kind of chocolate do you like? → I like it. I like crunchy chocolates!

· Do you read all the guestbook comments, every time? → I certainly read! Thanks everyone for always supporting me m(__)m

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