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clarklovescarole · 2 years ago

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January 1937: Parnell Sideburns

Jan. 1, 1937 – Pittsburgh Post Gazette

Clark Gable’s Christmas gift to Carole Lombard a thoroughbred three-gaited saddle horse.

Jan. 1, 1937 – Austin-American Statesman

Carole Lombard’s intention to give up breakfast in bed and do more riding (on the horse Clark Gable gave her for Christmas).

Jan. 2, 1937 – The Kansas City Times

Lombard, usually voluble, is in the midst of a real romance. Her case with Gable is progressing, one might say. She knows the whole world knows it and doesn’t care. She does suffer a rise in temperature when she finds herself quoted concerning it.

“I’ve never discussed the matter,” she says.

Jan. 3, 1937 – Democrat and Chronicle

The arrive of Carole Lombard on any set where she happens to be working is no casual incident. Things may be dull and routine before she comes, but the moment she bursts in upon the company one begins to hear the crackle of electricity. The whole set seems to come to life.

Amid the shower of good-mornings Miss Lombard makes for her 8-by-12 dressing room on the sound stage. The dressing room is green outside, white inside; always, in the mornings, is fragrant with freshly-cut flowers.

Sometimes the flowers come from Clark Gable, sometimes from Mitchell Leisen, the star’s director in her current Paramount picture, “Swing High, Swing Low,” sometimes from herself.

Jan. 4, 1937: Unusual gifts

An after-Christmas survey of starry gifts discloses the fact that among all the diamond and sapphire bracelets and gorgeous cars and houses and lots exchanged in Hollywood this bumper year, the most unusual gift was received by Clark Gable!

Gable’s present from his “girl friend,” Carole Lombard, was a two-wheel buggy, with whip and all equipment, together with a trick cane that opens out and measures a horse’s height. A sort of follow-up gag for the old broken-down automobile she gave him several months ago, which Clark had dolled up with white paint and college boy gadgets. He drove it, too.

So we fully expect to see Mr. Gable dashing down the boulevard in his two-wheeler with his race horse, Beverly Hills, hitched thereto!

Carole and Clark are the village cut-ups. Mitchel Leisen, who is directing the current Lombard film, “Swing High, Swing Low,” expressed a desire for a horse this year to race at Santa Anita.

C and C gave him a hobby horse wearing a holly wreath for bridle. Zeppo Marx fared a little better – his Christmas gift from the pair of cut-ups was a decrepit donkey, which he found standing in a forest of hay on his front lawn Christmas morning!

Jan. 4, 1937 – The Boston Globe

Jan. 4, 1937 – Asbury Park Press

The boy who takes around the plug-in telephone from table to table in the studio restaurant is a literal table-hopper. At Metro, only commissary where the meal-disturber can get right into your soup, Robert Taylor, Clark Gable and James Stewart get the most calls (most of the stars lunch in their dressing suites). When Taylor, Gable or Stewart is on the line, romantic gossips figure that Barbara Stanwyck, Carole Lombard or Virginia Bruce is on the other end.

Jan. 5, 1937 – The Gaffney Ledger

Clark Gable has been lunching with Mary Anita Loos, who used to be Francis Lederer’s best girl. But don’t come to any false conclusions. Carole Lombard is still head-woman in Clark’s life.

Jan. 8, 1937 – Standard Sentinel

You draw a blank if you ask Bing Crosby to discuss, for instance, the importance of crooning. He’ll talk golf and horses, though. Carole Lombard is mainly interested in people, but if you ask her what she thinks about one in particular, you get no place fast – that person is Clark Gable. It must be love.

Jan. 9, 1937: New godparents

Jan. 9, 1937 – Los Angeles Times

Carole Lombard and Clark Gable were relegated to supporting roles in a one-act playlet last night when Dennis Clark Moriarty “stole the show.”

For it was Dennis Clark’s christening and neither film stars nor anyone else were going to take any honors from the month-old son of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Moriarty. The father is a screen actor.

Gable and Miss Lombard acted as godparents for the baby at its baptism by Rev. John Conlon, pastor of St. Mary Magdalen’s Church.

The baby, born December 6, was named Clark in honor of its godfather.

Jan. 9, 1937 – Los Angeles Times

Jan. 9, 1937 – Chattanooga Daily Times

(Sheilah Graham)

Mrs. Rhea Gable is telling people that the reason she does not give Clark Gable the divorce he desires is to prevent his marriage to a certain film star. Is she referring to Carole Lombard?

Jan. 11, 1937 – The Bristol Herald Courier

When Clark Gable stands beside a roulette table, the other players watch him and forget to bet. Carole Lombard is the coolest of feminine gamblers.

Jan. 11, 1937: Sideburns for Parnell

Jan. 11, 1937 – News Journal

What! Sideburns on Gable? Clark Gable growing sideburns for his newest role, Parnell, Irish freedom leader, aids Carole Lombard by lighting her cigaret. The camera caught them in an off-guard moment at a Hollywood function. Clark has been linked romantically with Carole recently.

Jan. 13, 1937 – Pittsburgh Sun Telegraph

Honors now rest about even in the Carole Lombard-Clark Gable practical joke contest, but Carole shortly will prove herself the arch-ribber of the two by carrying the fight to the screen itself. With the aid of Director Mitchell Leisen, she is pulling a gag at Clark’s expense in her new picture, “Swing High, Swing Low.”

There is a scene in the script where Fred MacMurray and Dorothy Lamour go to a race track and put all their money on a certain horse. The dialogue has been switched so that you’ll hear them yell:”Come on ‘Beverly Hills’! For once in your life, win!” Beverly Hills is the name of Gable’s race horse. He has been kidded plenty about the fact that it never wins. The horse in the picture won’t either.

Jan. 13, 1937 – The St Louis Star and Times

Where there is Carole Lombard, there is tomfoolery – and most of the time, Clark Gable. The night Clark was to broadcast his “George Washington” skit over the radio, Carole beat him to the studio.When he arrived for work she had decorated his dressing room fit to startle a circus press agent. On the wall hung a huge picture of Washington, and beside it an equally enlarged photograph of Gable. Beneath was a placard which read: “Fathers of our country.” Miss Lombard had also brought in two small fir trees, on which she and a property man tied scores of preserved cherries. Two small hatchets completed the ensemble.

Jan. 16, 1937 – The Ithaca Journal

Carole Lombard, Hollywood’s No. 1 gagster, has started an epidemic of ribbing which includes even a scene in one of her pictures. Clark Gable is included in the ribbing, too, and it was to him that she recently sent a two-wheeled trash cart, presumably to be driven behind his race horse. She also sent a ton of hay and an $8 mule to Barbara Stanwyck and Mrs. Zeppo Marx, who are operating the Marwyck horse-breeding ranch in San Fernando. Mitchell Leisen, Miss Lombard’s director in “Swing High, Swing Low,” got into the feud innocently enough merely by stating that he wished he owned a race horse. Mr. Gable forthwith sent him a wooden hobby horse.

Leisen topped the rib by getting all dressed up in jockey clothes of the Gable pattern and colors, and having his picture taken on the hobby horse. The photo, framed and sent to Gable, was captioned: “Jockey Leisen Up on Beverly Hills” – Beverly Hills being the name of Gable’s non-winning nag.

Jan. 17, 1937 – The San Francisco Examiner

Hollywood Gossipers Hit Low Score in Guessing Romances

The batting average of the Hollywood gossipers, who see a romance in every mixed twosome, is notoriously low and it’s getting worse every year… Carole Lombard was practically engaged to writer Robert Riskin – until she started going about with Clark Gable.

Jan. 19, 1937 – The Owensboro Messenger

Carole Lombard is still incapacitated, and Clark Gable is running for her.

Jan. 20, 1937 – Monrovia News

Clark Gable and Carole Lombard visited a phonograph shop not long back, and bought one of those newfangled machines that combine radio, home-recording, loud speaker, and play twenty-four records at a time. Gable watched its performance, then said to the salesman, “The darn thing does everything but cook.” At which Miss Lombard snickered, “You might say the same of me.”

Jan. 25, 1937 – The Los Angeles Times

A new thrill was discovered yesterday by Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. They “truck” in the moonlight. No, it isn’t a dance.

Gable bought a new, up-to-the-minute station wagon, with radio, upholstered seats and everything. It was delivered to him at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

With his makeup still on, he climbed into his new toy and headed for Carole’s home. She was in the midst of her dinner, but Gable couldn’t wait. He loaded her into his shining new wagon and away they went – to go trucking in the moonlight, cold or no cold, and it has become a nightly habit with them now.

Jan. 31, 1937 – Star Tribune

Carole Lombard is suddenly stricken deaf if some new writer lands in our town and asks her when she expects to marry Clark Gable. Carole, one of the grandest scouts in the world, can freeze up to a temperature as cold as California orange groves have been this last week if that question is put to her.

On the other hand, Clark is equally noncommittal and frosty if he is asked about La Lombard. The subject of his friendship, he feels, is nobody’s business and he is probably right. Both of them have learned publicity can ruin any prospective romance.

Jan. 31, 1937 – St. Louis Post

Jean Muir and I were having lunch at the Vendome the other day, Jean perfectly turned out in a black velvet suit and the smartest looking cape of the same material falling to the hip line. …

While we were sitting there Carole Lombard and Clark Gable came in and sat at a nearby table. Carole immediately attracted the attention of all with her large picture hat of black alligator skin and a bag and gloves to match.

We stopped to speak to them as we went out and Carole told us that when she finishes work on her picture she is going to take a six weeks’ vacation and not go away any place, but just spend her time driving about in a racing sulkey which she has just ordered, and riding the horse which Clark gave her for Christmas.

The day after I saw them, Gable went to bed with the flu. He is the major casualty of the epidemic so far as the studios are concerned.

Jan. 31, 1937 – The Des Moines

Amazing! Probably it’s a romantic gaze Carole Lombard is giving Clark Gable – they’re one of Hollywood’s current romances – but it looks almost as though his sideburns startle even her.

#1937 #clark gable #carole lombard #old Hollywood

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jellyfishright · 2 years ago

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Still My Beautiful Man -Pt 3

2 days later

*****Kiyoi****

Kiyoi toyed with his phone as he waited in the lobby, his leg shaking restlessly.

This was his final audition for the day. When it was over he would meet Hira at his university and they would head home.

He’d been there for the better part of an hour and there were still quite a few people waiting with him.

“Kiyoi So.” A young lady finally came out to call him inside the room.

He got up, portfolio in hand and walked into the room.

Besides the person who’d called him in, there were 3 other people in the room sitting at a table with mounds of pictures and papers set before them.

They onced him over appreciatively as he stepped forward and handed his portfolio to them.

With his hands casually shoved in his pocket, he waited while they scanned the contents .

Their eyes become glossy as they scanned the pictures.

“Kiyoi.” The oldest looking man in the middle addressed him “Your portfolio is very impressive. These are wonderful pictures of you.”

“Thank you.” he replied.

“These pictures…” he continued to look even while he spoke. “I’ve never seen such beautiful pictures. Who took these?”

Kiyoi thought for a moment.

“A friend of mine– Hira.” he replied.

“Hira.” the name sounded buttery on the man's tongue.

Over the last 6 months Hira had taken so many photos of him, every picture in his portfolio was taken by him.

“What studio does Hira work with?” the man pressed.

“None.” Kiyoi replied. “He’s a university student.”

They got wide-eyed, commenting among themselves.

“We would very much like to meet him.” the man said “My company needs a photographer and with pictures like these, Hira might just be the person we’re looking for.”

Kiyoi nodded once and gave them a little smile, unsure of what to say next.

“Forgive me.” The man apologized. “I got a little too excited. Let’s get back to the audition.”

Kiyoi nodded again and waited for the instructions.

10 minutes later he’d performed as requested.

“We’ll be in touch.” the man said as Kiyoi went to retrieve his portfolio.

He nodded and left.

When he was back in the lobby he dialled Hira.

“Hello.” Hira’s voice came through the receiver.

“Are your classes over?”

“Mmm.”

“I’m heading to you now.” Kiyoi told him.

“Mm.” Hira replied before they hung up.

Without a backward glance Kiyoi left the building.

The ride to Hira’s university was 15 minutes on the metro line so in two shakes of a hair Kiyoi was walking up the pathway to the spot where they usually met.

As expected, he spotted Hira at the designated spot.The smile that usually formed when he saw Hira faltered at the sight of something unexpected.

His head was focused on his camera as two girls flanked him,with excited expressions.

Kiyoi’s heart twitched as the girls rested their hands on Hira’s hand and shoulder respectively.

“What’s with them?” he questioned as he walked towards the group.

He wanted to race across the quad towards that ugly scene but he tempered his gait, steadily making his way past all the eyes that he attracted towards Hira.

His eyes never left Hira and soon enough Hira’s eyes pulled upwards to meet his.His heartbeat both quickened and slowed when their eyes met, Hira could do that to him with a single glance, he was that intense.

“K-k-Kiyoi.” He diverted his attention from the girls.

“Mmm.” Kiyoi replied as he came to a halt before the group, hands casually stuck in his pockets. He onced over each of the girls, with a frosty expression frosty, cocking a curious brow before looking at Hira.

“S-sorry.” Hira apologized “They wanted to see the pictures I was taking.”

“We saw his pictures displayed in the common area.” one of the girls spoke up. “They were so beautiful.”

The other girl nodded in agreement as she held on to Hira’s elbow.

Kiyoi’s eyes darted to the point of contact.

“Let’s go.”Kiyoi said

Hira nodded and stepped away from the girls.

“He’s so handsome.” Kiyoi overheard one of the girls comment as they walked away.

His fist tightened in his pocket as he stalked off with Hira in tow.

“S-sorry” Hira apologized as he beheld the dark expression on Kiyoi’s face.

“Why are you apologizing?” Kiyoi questioned.

“I made you wait.”

“Disgusting.” Kiyoi thought to himself. Hira was always like that with him.He never wanted a speck of dust on his star but did he realize his power?

Kiyoi looked across at the oblivious young man with his bangs caressing his brows.He really was arrogant in his own way.Was he impervious to the efforts of those girls just now?

Hira was the same but he’d also changed.

He was confident but also still shy.

This duality wasn’t there before. Perhaps it was being out in the big wide world and not the fishbowl of high school.

Regardless of the process, the result was the same, this weird boy who always wanted to be invisible was now being seen and not only by him.

His first brush with that reality had come through that guy with a bad taste in everything, Koyama.Hira was no longer someone others viewed as a nuisance. He was no longer someone only he saw.The feeling unnerved him and he hated it.

Kiyoi walked, lost in thought until Hira’s voice pulled him from his musings.

“Kiyoi.” Hira called in that gentle voice.

Kiyoi turned his head to look.

Click.

His face was dead in the lens.

“So Beautiful.” Hira commented with a smile.

****Hira*****

“So beautiful.” Hira whispered in Kiyoi’s ear before licking it gently.

Leaving his ear he traced kisses all over Kiyoi’s face.His beautiful brow, his beautiful eyes, his beautiful cheeks, his beautiful nose. He sucked on Kiyoi’s pink plump lips, his hands snaking under his shirt as he held him against the wall.

Kiyoi’s eyes were closed, his hands roaming the breadth of Hira’s back as he kissed him.

As with any good wine, Kiyoi’s kisses made Hira lose his inhibitions.He became both god and servant to this beautiful man.

6 months ago touching Kiyoi like this had only been a dream, until that night.That night when he came to him at the place where he’d saved him before.That night when the dam of his desire had been irreparably ruptured.

He kissed Kiyoi passionately as he hurriedly relieved him of his jacket and shirt,baring his chest.

Hira’s breath was ragged as he looked at Kiyoi.

On the way home , he seemed to be in a bad mood for some reason. He always hated when Kiyoi was anything but happy. His star should always be shiny.

The minute they'd set foot in the house he'd grabbed him, showering him kisses.

Hira swept the hair from Kiyoi’s eye before using that same finger to trace the lines on his face,lingering on his lips.

Kiyoi kissed Hira’s fingertips twice before opening his mouth slightly.

Accepting the invitation Hira slipped his index and middle fingers into Kiyoi’s mouth.

Kiyoi swiveled his tongue around his boyfriend’s finger, sucking intermittently with a tease.

Hira could never stand being teased.It drove him mad. His desire for Kiyoi was always on full throttle, teasing him like this would just drive him over the edge.

He pulled his fingers from Kiyoi’s mouth and gripped him by the waist, spinning him in one swift motion so his face was against the wall.

Spreading Kiyoi’s limbs apart on the wall he covered his hands with his, slowly tracing the lines of his beautiful body.He alternated between kissing and licking the length of Kiyoi’s back. He wanted to bite him but he had to be careful since Kiyoi still had some auditions left and he didn’t want to tarnish his skin.

Soft moans escaped Kiyoi’s lips as Hira’s mouth roamed over his body.

Hira kissed down to the waist of his pants before yanking it all down in on swift motion, leaving his body bare.

A blush crept up Kiyoi’s face as Hira reached his hand around and gripped in with one hand.

“Ahh.”

Encouraged, Hira began to move his hand up and down while he bent behind Kiyoi, kissing his buttocks, his thighs, the back of his knee, his calf.

There was nothing for Kiyoi to grab as Hira pleasured him. The walls were smooth, his fingernails could find nothing to latch on to so his hands just contracted on either side of him as he rested his face on the wall.

This was what he’d wanted.

These hands.

This touch.

“Mmm..ahhh.” he bit his lip to try and keep himself atleast somewhat contained but he couldn’t. The more Hira’s hands and lips moved in synchrony,the more intense the feeling became, causing him to lose himself until finally he crescendoed with ragged breaths.

Hira stood at full height, fully clothed as he spun Kiyoi to face him with his flushed face.

This is what he meant. In this moment he was both servant and god. Kiyoi was all his.He would worship every of that beautiful body and attend to it like it was his sworn duty but he would also command it to do his will because it belonged to him.

With eyes never leaving Kiyoi’s Hira undressed, tossing his clothes here and there until they both stood bare before each other, their chests heaving, anticipation heavy.

Hira reached for his camera, his eyes filled with wonder.

This was his world.

These were his eyes.

This was his man.

Kiyoi blushed and stretched his hands towards the lens.

Click.

Click

“Don’t”

Hira gently lowered his hand and kissed it before raising the camera again.

Kiyoi looked into the lens

Click

With each shutter of the lens Hira captured another beautiful part of Kiyoi.

His soulful brown eyes.Click.

His prominent nose.Click.

His plump pink lips that were even more pronounced after being kissed. Click.

His elegant neck. Click.

His beautiful shoulders. Click.

His bare chest.Click.

His hard abs.Click

Hira aimed the camera below Kiyoi’s waist but did not press the shutter.Instead, he put the camera back in place and pulled Kiyoi towards him in one swift motion, his desire set ablaze once more.

They kissed with reckless abandon as they made their way to the bedroom, their lips and hands all over each other.

Hira laid Kiyoi on the bed, his eyes becoming likened to his camera, capturing every inch of him frame by frame.

Kiyoi’s chest heaved as those eyes roamed the length of him.

He wanted those eyes to keep looking at him like that forever. They would be the only thing he’d ever need in the world.

“Kiyoi.” Hira said his name lovingly as he bent to kiss the only star in his universe.

#bl series #yaoi bl #yaoi #my beautiful man #hira kazunari #hira x kiyoi #hira #kiyoi sou #kiyoi x hira #kiyoiso #boy love #boys love #fanfic #fanfiction

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wingsofhcpe · 3 years ago

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whumptober day 6- collapsing/definitely just a cold

fandom: shadow & bone

pairing: fivan [ivan x fedyor kaminsky]

rating: T+

additional warnings: possible main character death (but not really)

other notes: METRO 2033 AU (book-canon)

you can also read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34208404/chapters/85572847

Upon their return to the tunnels that evening, Ivan notices Fedyor has been lagging behind, stumbling at the back of their group as if struggling to keep up.

“Are you okay?” He asks, falling into step with his husband and holding out an arm to steady the other man’s gait. Fedyor smiles and nods, the filter of the protective mask making his breathing sound heavy and ragged.

“Perfectly fine, lyubov. I’m just tired.” He assures him, although there’s something in his voice Ivan cannot quite decipher. Still, it’s not unheard of for the rangers that venture to the surface to catch a cold in the nuclear winter that has befallen their city, and even underground, the cold and humidity result in even the healthiest, most robust of the survivors to sport a nearly constant sore throat and a permanently runny nose. He and Fedyor had been lucky enough to not have fallen sick for the better part of the last five years, but if it happens now it’s not like it’s going to be the end of the world. That, Ivan thinks to himself, has already kind of happened anyway.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, eyes careful to remain glued to the ground while they pass by the vicinity of the Kremlin tower- the rumours of soldiers falling into a trance and disappearing into the depths of the ruined building, as if drawn to it by some sinister power (or most likely a mutation of some kind, Ivan thinks), never to be seen again, are enough to keep even the most reckless of them from testing their luck. Ivan very much doesn’t want to become the dinner of some oversized mutated horror to which radiation has granted some supernatural hypnotising power, so he keeps his eyes low, watching the rubble and dirty ice crunch below his heavy boots. Fedyor, next to him, is following the same old habit. They trudge ahead, soldiers following a familiar path home. Whatever that word means for each of them; safety, warmth, the welcoming arms of each other.

It feels like hours, but it is only a few more minutes until the group reaches the safety of the tunnels. They scutter back under the ground like rats, the old automatic staircase long since dead and creaking ominously beneath the soles of their boots. Aleksander and Zoya do a quick sweep of the first level- the most dangerous one, as it’s completely exposed to the wild, inhospitable world above. Monsters may be lurking in every little shadow, or a trap may have been laid by the peculiar bandits who ally themselves with none of the Moscow Metropoliten, and live within the bowels of the tunnels themselves, without ever coming in contact with what’s left of civilisation. Ivan didn’t know that when he first became a ranger, a soldier who ventures outside in look of supplies or lost artifacts of civilisation, and his first mission to the surface would have ended with him in pieces inside the oesophagus of some otherworldly beast, had Aleksander and his shotgun not intervened on time. He hasn’t made the mistake of brazenly striding across the open space ever since; in fact, he’s usually among the ones that help scan the front before allowing the rest of the group to pass, but tonight he’s made an exception, staying at the back with Fedyor.

“I really am fine.” Fedyor says quietly as soon as everyone has crossed to the true underground, and the protective metal doors have slid shut, keeping monsters and radiation away from the civilians that live in the station-towns below. “You don’t need to fuss.”

“Mhm.” Ivan hums. “I believe you.”

Still, he’s got a strange, nagging feeling about it. It’s not the first time he’s seen Fedyor struggling- most soldiers do, in fact. Their equipment is heavy, and roaming the wasteland aboveground takes a vastly emotional toll on them as well; having to constantly keep an eye out for dangers, the slightest noise causing panic among even the most seasoned of them. And then, there’s the distance they must cover- it grows longer every day, as the supplies and leftovers that can be found near the entrances to the Metro diminish each year. Ivan prefers not to think of the inevitable- of the time when all of it will eventually run out, and no matter how far they go, how many dangers they face, there will be nothing left to salvage. He thinks that only then, will the old world truly be gone. But you don’t get far in life if you keep thinking of the future, distant or otherwise. You take one step after the next, thinking only of the now, of today, of survival. This is something all of them know. Those of them that refused to adjust to the rule, perished long ago.

“What’s the matter?” Fedyor asks, nudging him with his elbow to draw his attention and thus jostling him out of his thoughts. “You look troubled.”

“It’s nothing.” Ivan says carefully. He can tell Fedyor is tired, and he doesn’t want to burden him with his own miserable musings. Fedyor has always been the optimist between the two of them- the one that has always believed that, sooner or later, the radiation outside would fade. The world would become habitable again. They’d reclaim their previous lives, whatever that meant, since both of them had barely been in their teens when the apocalypse struck. Ivan himself doesn’t remember much of it, but Fedyor does, and even after so many years together Ivan doesn’t know whether he’s jealous or not. Half of him wishes he could remember his mother’s face; the other half is glad to be blissfully unaware, every time Fedyor wakes up crying quietly, face buried in Ivan’s chest. He doesn’t often talk about what reduced him to this state, but Ivan knows. Fedyor remembers everything about his family -his parents and all six of his sisters-, including the way all of them died. He has never told Ivan how, or even when, and Ivan hasn’t pressured him to do so. He knows well enough how gruesome and traumatic it must have been, so he focuses on comforting instead of asking. “Just wondering what’s for dinner tonight.”

Fedyor makes a face, one that Ivan can see now that they have all removed their gas masks. “The same as every night, probably. Rotten carrot stew and mushroom tea.”

Yeah, well. It had been the same for twenty whole years, and still Ivan still can’t fathom how he’s stomaching it every night. He makes a disgusting noise, and Fedyor bursts out laughing- only to stop abruptly and cough loudly into the crook of his arm.

“Fedya?” Ivan’s heart skips a beat again, this stupid nagging feeling rekindled upon hearing the rough, dry sound that comes out of his lover’s mouth. Still, Fedyor just sucks in a deep breath and laughs again.

“Calm down, you mother hen.” He teases with a poke on Ivan’s shoulder. “Just choked on my own spit. Happens to the best of us, believe it or not.”

“I suppose.” Ivan rolls his eyes and doesn’t prod the issue further. They fall back to joking and conversing about the strange book in another language Fedyor found buried under the rubble, about the mutated butterfly that scared their latest recruit -poor Alina, she’s a child really, compared to veterans like them- so bad she almost tumbled into a hole in the ground, about the myth of the Kremlin, about the songs Zoya shared with them every night while David strummed an old, ragged balalaika. It’s not until well after debriefing and dinner, when they’re both huddled safely together in the little barricaded, tent-covered alcove that has become their home, furthest from the tracks, that Ivan’s worry resurfaces.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t feeling too great, right?” He asks quietly, voice softer than anyone other than Fedyor ever hears it. Fedyor hums and nods, nuzzling his face into the crook of Ivan’s neck. He’s already half-asleep, making tired, adorable little sounds as he clumsily cuddles Ivan.

“Course I would…” He murmurs, words slurred to the point Ivan barely understands them. He smiles fondly and places a kiss on Fedyor’s forehead.

“Good. Sweet dreams, my love.”

He has nothing to worry about- he can trust Fedyor. He would know if the latter was lying. Besides, a cough shouldn’t be enough to worry anyone, even with the medical progress of humanity has somewhat regressed after the apocalypse. And Fedyor would never lie to him. Ivan is sure of that.

It turns out, however, that Ivan was wrong about Fedyor for the first time in their shared lifetime. Because Fedyor lied.

It’s only a week after that they’re sent to the surface again, one of the scouts having brought back concerning information about a nest of mutated amphibians thriving too close to the station’s entrance for comfort. They should be exterminated at the earliest possible convenience and that is, of course, a job for Aleksander and his trusted, courageous rangers. So out they go again, masks and guns and all. None of them is as talkative as they usually are during an exit, though; a direct confrontation with a nest of irradiated monsters is no easy feat even for the best of the best, and it’s not rare for encounters such as that to go terribly wrong. Entire squads of rangers have been wiped out like that, and although Aleksander’s group is heralded as the elite, the ones who have never suffered a single loss even when facing up to flying terrors, it’s still not something to be taken lightly. The soldiers are quiet, and only Zoya’s voice echoes among them as she directs them to where the scout had pinpointed the location of the nest.

It’s tough work, as expected; none of them dies, but one of the younger soldiers damn near loses her entire arm when one of the senior beasts chomps down on it. Ivan is the one that shoots the thing right between the eyes at just the right moment to prevent the girl from suffering a debilitating injury, but she is still quite shaken, and he cannot find it in him to blame her. Luckily, however, most of the amphibians are hatchlings or juveniles, the nest having only been briefly established. It makes for an easier job than it would have been, had the nest been populated mostly by adults, and Ivan has learned to count his blessings. He’s about to order one last sweep of the area before they leave, just to be certain, but then he hears Zoya shouting.

“Fedyor? Fedyor!”

Her voice is dangerously close to panicking, and Ivan swerves around so fast that he nearly trips over the mutilated carcass of a juvenile amphibian. His eyes are scanning the area before him before he’s even done fully restoring his balance, eyes searching frantically for Fedyor. He detects him eventually; curled up on the ground, rifle haphazardly discarded a couple of feet away from him as if it slipped out of his grasp. Zoya is kneeling next to him, her hands pressed onto his chest as she presumably checks for a pulse. It’s only a few seconds until Ivan throws himself to the ground next to the younger woman, hands reaching out to assess Fedyor’s vitals himself.

“Is he injured? Did you see him fall?” He asks breathlessly, and Zoya shakes her head.

“He was with me the whole time. I didn’t see any of the creatures attack him directly, but he just… he just collapsed. I don’t know what happened to him.”

Fedyor is indeed uninjured, at least externally. There are no visible tears or damage in his protective equipment, his mask and filter are intact, but his heartrate is erratic, and the thermometer attached to his uniform is showing his temperature to be abnormally high, even for someone being winded from the battle. His breath is coming out shallow and heavy, fogging against the glass of his mask. Upon closer inspection, Ivan realises that it’s also speckled with blood.

“It’s on the inside,” Zoya says, having detected it herself “so it can’t have come from the mutants. I don’t understand.”

Cold, unbridled fear laces Ivan’s insides like the permafrost of Siberia, stealing his breath to the point where he nearly starts to wheeze.

“It’s- he’s been coughing for the past week.” He hears himself say, tongue twisting and stumbling over the words. Under any other circumstances he would have been ashamed for Zoya, his fellow second-in-command, to see him undone is such a manner, but presently he cannot be bothered with it. “He told me it was just a cold so… we just left it at that.”

“A cold doesn’t warrant passing out and spitting blood.” Zoya says, voicing the exact thought that had taken root in Ivan’s mind, but he had still been too afraid to voice. “Has he been having any signs of a fever this past week?”

Ivan racks his brain, trying to think. Fedyor might have been a bit warmer than usual to the touch, every night when they fell asleep cradled in each other’s arms. But his body temperature had always been a little higher than average -to the point where Ivan often called him a living, walking furnace-, so none of them had made a comment about it. That, Ivan belatedly realises now, regret filling his every pore and bursting from his skin, had been a mistake. He should have asked. He should have pushed more. He should have told Fedyor to rest or to see a doctor.

He shouldn’t have trusted Fedyor to watch over himself; he was the type of person to watch over everyone else, his Fedya, but never took care of himself in the same manner. Ivan shouldn’t have believed him, when he’d said he was fine.

“What’s going on?” Aleksander’s voice brings him back to the present, out of his guilt-riddled musing. The steady, familiar sound of it grounds Ivan, if only for a moment.

“He passed out, sir.” He says quickly, getting up on one knee. “We think he’s sick. He needs a doctor.”

Aleksander’s cold, lightless eyes inspect Fedyor’s unconscious body for a few seconds, then eventually he nods. “Ivan, can you carry him? I know of an entrance that leads to Komsomolskaya Station. It’s abandoned, but we can get through it we’re careful, and it’s shorter than the way back home. There’s a sub-unit of rangers in Komsomolskaya, so they’ll have a doctor ready to examine him.”

Ivan’s mind makes a quick mental sketch of the map of the Moscow Metropoliten; their home base is located at Kurskaya station, which is where they got out of on their way here. However, they have moved quite far from their entry point. If his intuition is correct, they must be somewhere near Semyonovskaya, which belongs to the Baumansky Alliance, a group of stations that are less than friendly towards the rangers of the Hanza Ring, the wealthiest and strongest section of the Metro. So they cannot get in from there, but if the entryway Aleksander is suggesting is closer to Komsomolskaya than the way to their home station, then Ivan is ready to follow no matter the risks. They can’t risk being out in the open with one of their soldiers unconscious and defenceless, and whatever may hide at an abandoned entrance to the underground can’t be worse than the mutated night terrors that roam the ruins of Moscow upon the descent of darkness. They have to risk it- it’s far from ideal or completely safe, but then again, nothing is these days. Between Scylla and Charibdis, they have to choose something. Besides, there’s no real reason for a group of flesh-eating monsters to have made a nest in an abandoned station- these creatures moved to wherever they smelled the largest amount of warm-blooded food, and so they couldn’t have possibly inhabited the old entrance.

“Are you sure you can you lead us here, sir?” He says decisively after a moment, and Aleksander nods with a little bit of disdain in his dark glare.

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I couldn’t, Ivan.” He says harshly, and Ivan’s shoulders tense. He has spoken out of line, that much is obvious even to him. Worry over a fellow soldier being hurt doesn’t normally excuse it, but Aleksander knows of the relationship between him and Fedyor; perhaps he will be forgiven as soon as they’re back under the safety of the ground. For now, Ivan cannot preoccupy himself with that, too. Worrying about his husband is enough.

He hoists Fedyor up on his shoulders, arms lodged under the other man’s thighs to keep him steady. They’ll both be sitting ducks if something attacks them, but Ivan trusts Zoya and the rest of the squad to cover for them in case the worst comes to pass. As if to assure him of it, Zoya slings her rifle off her shoulder and tucks it under one arm with a finger poised near the safety, ready to open fire at a moment’s notice. Ivan gives her an appreciative nod, which she returns. And with that, they start marching.

Just as Aleksander promised, the way to the abandoned entrance isn’t long. It’s filled with debris, however, as no group of rangers had bothered to maintain the path in many years. It would have been a treacherous landscape to navigate under the best of conditions, and Ivan stumbles awkwardly under Fedyor’s dead weight, certain he would have fallen a dozen times by now had it not been for Zoya grabbing his arm and steadying him. It doesn’t get easier when Fedyor shifts a little, groaning and coughing and making Ivan’s heart convulse with worry. He’s still unconscious, but it’s obvious by the sounds he’s making that he’s in a considerable amount of pain. Ivan wants to stop, he wants to cradle Fedyor in his arms and kiss his brow and tell him it’ll all be alright, but he knows it’s not possible. It would be suicide to stop now, and barring anything but the most pressing of emergencies, they must continue onwards until they’re safe again.

In the end, they make it. The old entrance is deserted, just as Ivan had predicted; no reason for predators to lurk around a passage that no living creature of considerable size and nutritional value uses anymore. There are other forms of life clinging to it still; a giant spider waiting patiently on its net near the furthest corner; a group of mutated rats watching them from the shadows with their hackles raised and eyes glowing ominously; and a slimy sort of shapeless biomass clinging to the right side of the wall, its tentacle-like appendages shifting curiously and prodding the air in the group’s direction. But none of these life forms is worrisome enough if you know they’re there- they do not attack and they do not chase you, and as long as you stick to a clean path away from the walls, there is nothing to fear from them. Besides, a lonely giant spider and a group of rats are easy to deal with a round of rifle fire or with a grenade, mutations or no. The biomass is another matter entirely, and Ivan isn’t even sure it can be permanently exterminated, but so long as they stir clear from the surface it occupies, it’s unable to harm them. So, in they go.

The way through dark, abandoned tunnels seems even less welcoming than the world on the surface, but Ivan consoles himself with the fact that in there, at least, nothing can swoop on them from above… probably. He wouldn’t like to test that theory, and apparently neither would anyone else, because they hurry past the rusty tracks and rubble-strewn ground as fast as humanly possible. Finally, after what seems like hours, the lights of the outpost to Komsomolskaya wink at them from the depths of the tunnel, and with a last burst of speed, they’re finally back to true safety (or as true as that can be, in the world they live in). The soldiers keeping watch at the outpost recognise Aleksander by the mere sight of his face as soon as he removes his gas mask, and let them through without a fuss. One of them is kind enough to point them directly to the infirmary wing as soon as her eyes fall on Ivan and his load. The watchmen keep a safe distance from them, however, and Ivan cannot find it inside him to blame them- nobody knows what’s wrong with Fedyor, and it’s not unheard of for mysterious epidemics to break out nowhere and ravage entire stations in mere weeks. These days, people trust only what they know. Everything else is seen as immediately and irrevocably dangerous.

The infirmary wing is more of an open space strewn with cots, and less of a proper wing. It’s stationed in the middle of the tracks, under one of the more impressive archways that had once been the pride of the Russian Underground. The tiles that make it up are cracked and mouldy, but their colours still shine dimly under the light of the electric bulbs that are strung everywhere. It’s one of the few places of real beauty left in the world, and Ivan allows himself to feel a little soothed by it. His worry returns tenfold, however, when a nurse dressed in white sprints up to them with a concerned expression on their face.

“What’s the matter?” They ask, eyes traveling nervously from Aleksander -clearly a superior officer- to Ivan, to Fedyor’s unconscious form. He’s fallen silent again during their trek through the tunnels, and Ivan doesn’t know whether that’s a good or a bad thing. He supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

“One of my soldiers passed out while we were on the surface.” Aleksander, clearly the only one with his wits still about him, explains briefly. “We were sent to eliminate some monsters, but he doesn’t have any visible injuries. He just collapsed.”

The nurse cringes a little and takes a step back, much like the watchmen at the outpost did earlier. Ivan’s empathy has just about ran out, however, because he glowers at them.

“He’s not infected with anything, for fuck’s sake.” Then he reconsiders, and ads, “nothing out of the ordinary, at least. We’re thinking it might be a bad bout of pneumonia. You deal with that here all the time, right?”

The nurse, clearly intimidated out of their wits, nods rapidly and mutters a string of desperate apologies before gesturing them to the nearest cot.

“Put him here, and remove his equipment.” They instruct, and Ivan bites down whatever annoyance he might be feeling and does as told. When the outer layer of Fedyor’s uniform is gone, he removes his own gloves and places a hand on his husband’s flushed face; he’s burning up, and he seems to have difficulty breathing.

Just pneumonia, Ivan tells to himself as he moves back, allowing the nurse and the doctor they had summoned examine the patient. It’s just a cold gone very bad, because Fedyor is an idiot with the self-preservation instincts of a rotten beetroot. He’ll be fine after a couple of weeks of bedrest, that’s for sure. And he’ll appreciate the time off. Doesn’t he always talk about needing a break?

The terrible feeling is still there, however, choking Ivan. Because there’s one thing worse than pneumonia when you’re a ranger- something that awaits all of them, sooner or later, albeit it’s usually later. Still, accidents happen, and exceptions are known to exist. If that’s the case, then…

…don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. It’s not the radiation. He’s fine. Aleksander has been venturing outside ever since he was thirteen and he’s still as healthy as they come. Fedyor is fine.

He feels a strong hand clasping his shoulder, and he doesn’t need to look to know it’s Aleksander. For all his strict, intimidating exterior, Aleksander cares for his soldiers greatly and he’s been shown to be extremely perceptive when it comes to their emotions. He’s not a man of many words, but then again neither is Ivan. That gesture between them is more than enough; Ivan nods thankfully and closes his eyes, leaning against the nearest wall while the doctor examines Fedyor.

It’s minutes, hours, years before the man in the white robe finally looks up and clears his throat. Ivan jerks up, shoulders straight and face impassive even as his heart is about to burst right out of his chest and hit the doctor straight in the face. He braces himself and looks up- and the pity he sees in the doctor’s eyes yanks the floor right out of his feet.

“I’m very sorry, sirs.” The doctor is saying quietly, looking between Ivan and Aleksander. “Your comrade… he’s in an advanced stage of radiation-induced lung decay. There is nothing we can do other than try and make him as comfortable as we can, for whatever time he has left.”

A dim ringing noise is sounding in Ivan’s ears. His vision is blurry, and while part of him is aware the doctor is still speaking, he cannot decipher the words. All he can see is Fedyor, his Fedya, lying pale and wheezing in that stupid, bedraggled cot, with a threadbare white blanket pulled over his legs and chest. His Fedya, sick with radiation poisoning. His Fedya, dying.

Aleksander’s hand is on his shoulder again, and Ivan realises with a start that he’s fallen on his knees, staring at the stained, cracked floor tiles. Aleksander is in the middle of saying something to him, but Ivan doesn’t wait to listen to his superior. He’s back on his feet a moment later, fingers curling around the doctor’s robe and eliciting a terrified squeak out of the nurse, who scuttles away as if afraid they’re going to be next. The doctor tries to push Ivan away, but his grip is a vice.

“You will save him.” Ivan hisses between gritted teeth, staring right into the doctor’s terrified eyes. “I don’t care if you have to fight the Devil himself to do so, you will save Fedyor.”

“There’s not enough medicine in the whole Metro!” The doctor fires back, standing his ground despite his fear. “Only potassium iodide can help him now, and stocks have been rapidly diminishing. Ever since the accursed atomic bombs fell on Moscow, demand of it has skyrocketed, and most stashes were lost when the whole world aboveground went up in flames, in case you didn’t notice, sir. So unless you can pay me thrice your weight in bullets or consumables, there’s no way I’ll be able to procure enough to treat him.”

Bullets, the form of currency used in the Moscow Metropoliten. One of the things the rangers are primarily focused on scavenging whenever they go aboveground. A ranger’s pay is good, but it’s nowhere near that good. In fact, Ivan is aware that even if his whole unit scrounged up their monthly wage of bullets together, it wouldn’t be enough to procure the medicine. Not when it was, quite literally, more precious than gold in their society. With so many people becoming contaminated by radiation each year, potassium iodide had become just as essential as potable water in most stations.

Ivan lets go of the doctor and steps back, suddenly aware of how fickle this hope is. How truly rotten the world they live in is. There’s nothing he can do to save Fedyor, his husband, his only family. There’s no hope. Fedyor’s kindness, his smile, his optimism is going to be extinguished like so many others that die within the bowels of the Metro every damn year. It was only a matter of time before death’s ever-present hand came for one of them, too. Ivan had just believed they’d have a little more time. That maybe Fedyor’s naïve daydreams about one day returning to the surface, to life as it once was, weren’t all that unrealistic and unachievable.

But they had been. Even Fedyor himself must have known that, in the end. Even someone as sweet and radiant as Fedyor will eventually be broken by their grim reality. Perhaps that’s what saddens Ivan more than anything else; not the prospect of death itself, but the fact that Fedyor will die knowing he’d been wrong. That there is no hope for any of them. That he wasted his time on silly dreams of a future none of them ever really had.

Fedyor deserved better. So much better. But there was nothing Ivan can do for it now. He can only stay, until the very end. A selfish part of him hopes that the end won’t come too soon. That there’ll be some time for him to try and find the medicine his beloved so desperately needs to survive. But deep inside him he knows it’ll be for the better, if Fedyor’s end comes quickly and painlessly. If his suffering isn’t prolonged until there’s nothing left of him but the memory of pain and sorrow. Ivan might have not been able to save Fedyor, but he wants him to at least go as painlessly and peacefully as possible. Even if his death will leave Ivan himself broken, without hope of ever recovering from it.

Aleksander and the doctor leave him after exchanging a few quick words, and Ivan is thankful for it. He wants to be alone right now, excluding the presence of his still-unresponsive husbands. He settles in a rusty metal chair by Fedyor’s bedside, and takes the latter’s hand into his own. It warm and clammy with sweat, but Ivan lifts it up and kisses the knuckles. Finally, he lets the tears fall.

“I’m sorry. I should have known you weren’t okay. I should have said something. I should have tried to save you.”

Words won’t be of any help, not at this point. But Ivan hopes, at least, that Fedyor knows he’s loved, cherished. That his death won’t go unnoticed. That he’s important, so important to Ivan. That if he could, Ivan would reverse their positions in less than a heartbeat.

He hopes Fedyor knows how much Ivan truly loves him.

It’s hours before Fedyor finally regains consciousness. During that time, Ivan has cried until he has no more tears left to spare, until his eyes burn and his mouth is dry and sticky with nothing but bitterness, until the only thing he can do is press Fedyor’s hand against his forehead in a pitiful attempt to just feel him there.

“…Vanya?”

Ivan nearly jolts out of his seat, heartbeat skyrocketing. For a moment, he’s not sure what’s happening. He’s not sure whether or not he’s dreaming, and he dimly wonders if part of him believed Fedyor was never going to wake up again.

But here his dumbass of a husband is, looking at him through fever-glazed eyes, his cheeks flushed with fever and his mouth speckled with dried flakes of blood, and Ivan is suddenly so angry he could have torn a flesh-eating mutant beast in half with his bare hands, without breaking a sweat.

"Why?” He barks, voice breaking in despair, and thick with bitterness as more tears he didn’t know he still possessed spring up to his already-reddened eyes, choking onto the regret of not having seen the signs right in front of him. “Why did you hide it? Why didn’t you tell me, Fedyor?"

Fedyor's eyes flutter a little with exhaustion, but his blood-speckled lips twitch into a weak, tired smile. The same smile that made Ivan fall head over heels for him so many years back.

"What good would it have been, moya lyubov? It would only make you sad. There's nothing..." Fedyor pauses, coughs; his face twists with pain that drives shards of ice into Ivan’s heart, fresh blood bubbling up in his mouth. "... nothing anyone could have done. If my time's up, it's up..." "Don't say that!" Ivan grits his teeth, fighting the losing battle of keeping his tears in check. "I'll find a way. I’ll sell my soul if I have to. I won't let you die!"

"I'm glad..." Fedyor sighs, a trembling breath coming out of him as if even talking exhausts him beyond words, as if it’s an effort to keep his eyes open, "I'm glad I got to spent so much time with you, my Vashenka... I have so many fond memories of us. I’ll take them with me… I won’t be lonely, whatever awaits me on the other side."

“No.” Ivan chokes back a broken, pitiful sob as he moves from the chair, kneeling to the floor next to Fedyor’s bed. He bumps his head against Fedyor’s shoulder as if jostling him hard enough will wake them both from this awful nightmare. “Don’t talk like that, my heart. There’s still hope. Isn’t that what you always say to me? That there’s always hope, even in the darkest places? Well, you’re my hope, Fedyor! So- you can’t die! I won’t let you!”

He knows he’s sounding very much like a spoiled child whose parents won’t get him what he wants, but he’s past caring. And why should he, after all? The world has taken everything from him- his family, his city, his home, any hopes for a normal way of life. Why shouldn’t he be pissed and angry and terrified and broken, that he’s losing the one thing that made this foul existence worth living?

Belatedly, Ivan realises Fedyor’s shoulders are also shaking as he, too, cries.

“I’m sorry, Vanyusha.” Fedyor chokes out, tears gliding down his flushed cheeks. “I’m sorry, I-I wanted to… to see the world with you. I wanted to live to see the day when we could go back. When all of this would be nothing but a distant nightmare… but- but I… I was stupid…”

“No- No, Fedyenka-“ Ivan cups Fedyor’s face on both his own large, calloused hands, bringing their foreheads close, “You’re not stupid, you were never stupid. That light, that hope you always had within you, that’s what kept so many of us alive. You can’t give it up now, my love. Don’t decide to be a realist now- not now, of all times. God damn everything, Fedyor, you made me believe there’s still something worth fighting for even in the ruins of a nuclear holocaust. You can’t let yourself wither away now.”

Fedyor sobs and lifts up a hand, using whatever strength he still possesses to drag Ivan in for a desperate, hungry kiss, as if it will be their last. And it might as well be- Ivan doesn’t know how much time they have, until Fedyor’s lungs cease to function. So, Ivan kisses back as if that’s his last chance to do so. He tastes the copper tang of blood on his beloved’s lips, slips his tongue into Fedyor’s mouth as if his kiss alone can heal his husband. Only when Fedyor starts to struggle for breath, chest heaving with another bout of coughing, does he draw back. His fingers tangle themselves in Fedyor’s dark brown hair, and he caresses the latter’s head until the fit has passed.

“Ivan…” Fedyor rasps tiredly after a few heavy, painful breaths. “Will- Will you forgive me…? For lying to you?”

“Of course.” Ivan sniffs, swallowing back another sob. “I will forgive you anything, my heart, so long as you promise not to give up. Not yet. I’ll find a way to scrounge together enough for the medicine you need, even if it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.”

Fedyor smiles a little again. His face is tired and haggard, but that smile is as genuine and loving as it has always been.

“I… I’ll try. For you.” He whispers, and Ivan forces himself to accept that for now, that is enough. It’s better than nothing, it’s better than Fedyor surrendering himself and waiting for death to come and claim him. It might not be much, but it’ll have to be enough.

It’ll be alright, it’ll be alright, it’ll be alright.

Suddenly, Ivan realises why Fedyor clung to his naïve optimism for so many years. Because without it, one loses one’s mind.

“…Rest.” He whispers, forcing himself to believe that his hopes won’t be for naught. “You need to conserve your strength, Fedyenka. I promise I’ll stay with you.”

“You should rest, too.” Fedyor murmurs, his voice hoarse, and Ivan lets out a sigh- really, of all the times for Fedyor to worry about everyone other than himself. Still, it’s true that Ivan is exhausted, too. The battle with the mutants, however brief, the trek to the old entrance while carrying Fedyor’s weight, the grief and fear and despair, it’s all taken a great toll on him.

“Lie next to me?” Fedyor whispers before Ivan has time to assure him that he can last a bit longer. Ivan tenses a little, throwing careful looks around; unlike the Russia they used to know, relationships between the same gender aren’t exactly rare in the Metro, and they’re certainly not illegal, but they’re largely frowned upon. How are you going to help repopulate the human race if you can’t have children with your significant other? Both he and Fedyor have had to deal with a lot of nasty comments and even a physical assault or two- or rather, attempts on physical assault, because no matter how much of a macho straight male you consider yourself to be, going up against two fully trained military rangers isn’t going to end up in your favour, even if said soldiers are gay (or in Fedyor’s case, bisexual). The infirmary is an open space with nothing to hide them from prying eyes, but Ivan realises that he doesn’t give a flying fuck. Let them come and yell at them and try to push them apart. See how that works out for them. Ivan isn’t going to deny his husband the simple pleasure of lying next to him, not when they’re both losing everything anyway.

So he does as asked of him, and crawls under the pitiful excuse of a blanket. He wraps Fedyor in his arms to keep him warm even if the blanket doesn’t, murmurs sweet nothings to him and kisses his brow until Fedyor succumbs to a deep, fitful slumber. Ivan holds him as he coughs and whimpers in his sleep, ever-vigilant. And he doesn’t let himself lose hope.

Hope that, no matter what, he’ll find a way to save Fedyor.

#my writing #whumptober 2021 #fivan #heartrender husbands #fedyor x ivan #fedyor kaminsky #ivan no last name #shadow & bone #metro 2033 #angst #whump

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fleckcmscott · 5 years ago

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Watch What Happens - Chapter 15

Chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

Summary: Arthur, an aspiring comedian, has struggled to find normalcy and compassion his entire life. Y/N, a hard-working paralegal and transplant to Gotham, has just been put on a case for the Wayne Foundation. When they meet, unexpected sparks fly.

Chapter warning: Swearing, Angst

Words: 3,671

All he had wanted to do was meet his father.

Arthur had always wondered what he'd done to make him leave. Maybe it had been his condition. Or, somehow, his father had instinctively known he was mentally ill. Penny had been right when she’d said he was an unwanted bastard. But Arthur still longed to find out who his father was. After his mother's confession, he'd been determined to meet him as soon as possible. Nervous excitement had filled him as he searched all his pockets until he scrounged up enough money to take a train to Wayne Manor.

A copy of City Metro News had lain on a nearby empty seat, and he’d grabbed it to study during the ride. There'd been a photo of Wayne's other son. Arthur recognized him from the news. He didn't look happy, almost hiding behind his father's form. His dark hair and apparent shyness reminded Arthur of himself. There wasn't much he remembered from when he was that age. But the boy's posture had evoked a time when Arthur had hidden in a teacher's closet because his laughter wouldn't fucking stop, even after he'd gotten a ruler across the knuckles.

Walking from the train station to the mansion, he'd done his best to make sure he looked presentable. He'd fixed his hair and looked to see if he'd missed any buttons on his dress shirt and brown cardigan. If he was going to meet his father after thirty-five years, he was going to make him proud. He'd checked his pockets for the red clown nose and magic wand he'd brought to entertain his half-brother with.

Arthur's gait had turned into a stroll as he walked along the brick wall surrounding the perimeter of Wayne Manor. He'd peered over the barrier, astonished at the size of the place. If he had been allowed to grow up with his father, he was sure his life would have been different. It certainly would have be easier to care for his mother. And he'd have his own bed to sleep in.

Even as he’d thought about these possibilities, he’d realized he didn't want anything from Thomas Wayne. He hadn't gone there to ask for money the way his mother always did. Warmth and decency were what he’d sought. If he pressed his luck, maybe he could get a hug, too.

And answers. Penny's history had always been a mystery to him. It would be nice to learn more about her.

He'd felt some solace when he spotted the boy from the photo. Younger children were easy for him to interact with. Usually, they accepted him without question. When the child had spotted him, Arthur ducked behind the wall and put his red nose on, then peeked back up and smiled, continuing towards the entrance. The boy had followed, leaving his backyard jungle gym to take a closer look.

The boy and Arthur had stopped about ten feet from each other, on either side of a closed, wrought iron gate. After performing a magic trick, which the kid didn’t seem to understand, Arthur had knelt down on his side of the barrier. He hadn’t expected to be so moved at meeting his half-brother. Hands on the bars, Arthur had asked the boy's name. The boy hadn't hesitated to give it; Arthur gave his name, too. He thought he may hugged Bruce if he could have. But the gate prevented that. He'd had to settle for pushing Bruce's mouth into a smile with his thumbs. The boy had still been smiling when Arthur let go.

Then the butler had ruined it.

Thinking back on it, Arthur grew despondent. When the man said there was nothing to tell, Arthur had been confused. Why would Penny lie about who his father was? She didn't have anything to gain from that. But when the man had called his mother delusional and sick, he felt anger burn in him. It had grown while the butler continued denying everything.

Arthur's darker impulses had gotten the better of him when the man had told him not to make a fool of himself and laughed. It had happened too fast to stop it. Rage coursed through his entire frame as he'd reached through the bars and grabbed the man by the tie, then the neck, and squeezed. "He left me!" he'd yelled, feeling pathetic even as the words left his mouth. He'd been shaking, watching the man struggle to drag his hand away.

A movement over the man's shoulder had caught Arthur's attention. The boy, his brother, was standing there, staring at him with wide-eyed horror. His heart lurched. He'd made Bruce smile two minutes ago, and now he was afraid of him. Arthur had stopped suddenly, letting go of the butler. Then he'd run. As fast as he could, he'd run away from the gate, the manor, and the terrible idea to go there. Distressed, he'd hopped on the next train home, not even thinking to buy a ticket.

Now it was calm outside of Gotham General's emergency room. Arthur was glad for the silence. Sitting with his legs crossed on the metal bench, he brought his cigarette to his mouth and took a long breath. He adjusted his legs, as they'd started falling asleep. It was getting harder to stop his outbursts - today had been particularly tough. What would Y/N think if she knew what happened? Her eyes, which had seemed to reflect want and affection that morning, would instead be filled with fear. Like his brother’s. He couldn't stand the possibility. He screwed his eyelids shut.

Footsteps were approaching. Arthur felt his body relax a little, relieved Y/N was finally there. He straightened his legs and looked up, ready to spring to his feet and take her into his arms-

But two police officers were approaching him.

Fuck. The butler must have called Gotham PD after all.

"Mr. Fleck. Sorry to bother you,” one policeman started. “I'm Sargent Eckhard.” Eckhardt gestured towards the other officer as they stopped about a yard in front of Arthur. “This is my partner Officer Corrigan."

Arthur didn't move, looking up at them, trying to conceal his nerves.

Eckhardt continued. "We had a few questions for you, but you weren't home. So...we spoke to your mother."

It took a few moments before Arthur understood. "Oh..." His brows knit together. "What did you say to her? Did you do this?"

Corrigan spoke, waving his hand. "No, no, no. We just asked her some questions and she got hysterical - hyperventilating - then she collapsed. Hit her head pretty hard."

Arthur punctuated his words with a shake of his head, his voice strained with aggravation. "Yeah, the doctor said she had a stroke."

"Sorry to hear about that." Eckhardt said with some sympathy. "But like I said, we still have some questions for you." He looked down at his notes. "Were you at Wayne Manor earlier today?"

There was no point in denying it. He'd been stupid enough to give the butler his name. He focused on the ground as he answered. "Yeah."

Eckhardt continued. "They said you bothered their son."

"I didn't bother him." Arthur looked up at them. "I did a magic trick. Part of my act. I'm a party clown." Trying to keep his anger from growing, he puffed on his smoke.

"I see." Eckhardt paused. "They also said you assaulted the butler when he told you to leave."

Before Arthur could come up with an answer, a car pulled into the parking lot and stopped. After a few moments, Y/N exited it, waving goodbye to whomever the driver was. Anxiety made his shoulders ridged. It would only take a couple seconds for her to be next to him. The cops needed to leave before she saw them. She was too smart - she'd know something was up. "I wouldn't. That's horrible." He pushed himself to stand.

Y/N walked around the policemen and hugged him immediately. The relief he'd hoped to feel when he saw her was spoiled by his annoyance. She'd really shown up at the worst time. But her voice quieted him. "I'm sorry," she said. "How is she?"

He gave a quick nod. "She's sleeping."

She turned to the policemen, a confused look on her face. "Can I help you? Were you the ones who called the ambulance?"

Corrigan shook his head. "We just needed to speak with Mr. Fleck." He turned his attention to Arthur. "Don't go near the Waynes or Wayne Manor again. All right?"

"Yes. Okay." Arthur flicked his cigarette away, avoiding Y/N’s gaze as he grabbed her hand. "Now, if you don't mind, I have to go take care of my mother."

~~~~~

The hospital room was small and dimly lit, but he was glad his mother had gotten a room with a single bed and a window. Arthur sat on the twin padded chairs at Penny's bedside, staring at his clasped hands. It was all his fault. His mother being in the hospital, maybe dying. He'd selfishly neglected her. He hadn’t just left Penny alone all night so he could finally fuck a woman (something he'd been planning to do again), but he'd also left most of the day after they'd fought. What if she died before he could apologize? What if yelling at her was the last interaction they would have?

After he and Y/N had gone inside, they’d headed to the nurse's station to grab the paperwork he hadn't been able to complete on his own. Thankfully, they’d been able to find a quiet, private space to work on it. There had been so many questions about Penny's medical history. Y/N had been surprised at how little he knew. He tried to explain that Penny never liked going to doctors and didn't talk much. All he could say with any certainty was that she didn't take medication and needed help at home.

There were a lot of phrases he hadn't heard before. And it was hard for him to pay attention, his mind filled with guilt and questions of when he could bring Penny home. But Y/N had been patient as she clarified what a living will was, what advanced care directives were. Even after he'd understood, he didn't know the right answers. He'd felt like an idiot. But his mother had never discussed it. They never discussed anything.

Y/N was running her hand up and down his back soothingly. The beeping of the monitors and sound of the ventilator were deafening. Worry gnawed at him. And he felt awful. "I've been the man of the house for as long as I can remember," he said quietly. "I- I've never lived alone before."

Y/N scooted closer to him and put her other hand on his thigh. "You won't be alone, Arthur. She's going to be all right."

After a minute, he moved to slowly put his arm on the back of her chair, grazing her shoulders. With the wall heater right behind them, the position felt awkward, but good. She snuggled up to him and sighed. It didn't take long for her head to grow heavy on him, her body to slump against his side. He looked at her sullenly. How could she have fallen asleep when he needed her so badly?

He frowned at himself in disgust. She must have had a long day, he thought. And I didn't ask about it. Carefully, he tucked a stray hair behind her ear, then adjusted himself so he was in the corner of the chair. Looking back and forth between Y/N and Penny, the only two people who mattered to him, more than even himself, he sighed. Losing either of them would tear him to pieces. He hoped he had the strength to prevent it.

~~~~~

When she blinked awake, it took Y/N a few bleary seconds for her to realize she wasn't at home. No. Her back ached because she was laying on a set of chairs at the hospital. Arthur and Ms. Fleck were there. And policemen had talked about the Waynes. She swept her hair back from her face and pushed herself up, wincing, and looked at her watch. Damn. She'd been asleep for almost an hour. Looking around, she didn’t see Arthur. His jacket was draped over her, though. He couldn't have gone far. Stretching, she stood and looked around the room.

She'd spent a lot of time in hospitals in the year before she'd moved to Gotham. They were all quite similar: florescent lighting, tiled walls, that same anti-septic smell. There was a strange comfort in the familiarity. Ms. Fleck's form was small in the bed, her arms stuck with IVs, face almost entirely enveloped by the ventilator mask. The electrodes for the heart monitor were visible through her hospital gown. Y/N wondered if she was cold. She stepped to her and pulled the cover further over Ms. Fleck, bringing it to the top of her chest.

As Y/N continued to observe her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, she felt the urge to talk. It was silly. She barely knew this woman. And the one time she'd met her, Ms. Fleck had hurt her son. But maybe talking would help her recover. For Arthur's sake, at least. "I hope you don't mind me being here," she started. "Arthur's here, too. But you probably know that. He hopes to see you again soon." Her brows lifted as she continued. "I want you to know your son is a wonderful man. I'm fortunate to have met him. I-"

When she saw Arthur enter the room out of the corner of her eye, she stopped and turned to him. He approached the foot of the bed, two paper cups in his hands. "I got some coffee," he said, offering her one. "They didn't have any creamer. Sorry."

She took it gratefully and sipped at it. "Thank you. I'm sorry I fell asleep. You should have woken me up."

He dismissed her apology with a wave. "Has anything changed?"

"No. But she seems stable."

"That's good," he said, taking a drink.

After some silence, save for the sound of a monitor, Y/N decided to try to lighten the mood. "Well, tonight didn't turn out how we'd planned, huh?"

Arthur stared at her. First she thought she'd misjudged the timing of her remark, but then he chuckled, blushing, and brought his hand to his face. "No."

His laugh relieved her. It was good to hear before she had to start questioning him. Y/N put a hand on one of the bed's safety railings and closed her eyes. The policemen who'd been talking to Arthur when she arrived had been in the back of her mind since she'd gotten there, as well as their comment about the Waynes. "Arthur, I need to know. What were those officers talking about?"

His brow furrowed. After half a minute, he responded. "My mother wrote Thomas Wayne another letter. She keeps asking me why he isn't answering. I wanted to give it to him." His eyes darted to hers, then back down to Ms. Fleck.

"They called the police because you wanted to drop off a letter?" Y/N asked.

He went back to the chairs they had shared and sat stiffly. "I don't know why," he said softly, studying his coffee. "I didn't go inside. I waited at the gate." He pursed his lips, his face still pensive.

She suspected there was more to it - she'd have to find out the rest later. But his explanation was enough for the moment. Her thoughts went to the newly filed motion and a lump formed in her throat. Patricia was right: there was no way she could tell him about it now. Not with the stress he was experiencing. She would be needlessly piling on. Maybe Renew Corp. wouldn't send their letters his way, and she could continue to work in the background.

But she still felt the need to warn him. "Stay away from them, Arthur. They're powerful people. Gotham depends on them for too much." His only response was a nod and his eyes fluttering shut.

Music from the television appeared to suddenly draw his attention. Though she wasn't a regular viewer, Y/N recognized it as the opening theme to Live! With Murray Franklin. She watched his features soften, his eyes light up. The break from the tension he'd displayed most of the night would do him good, she thought. She settled next to him and finished her coffee as the monologue went on, more interested in Arthur's reactions than the show itself. When he scooted forward and reached out to hold his mother's hand, she gave him a smile, half-listening to the TV.

"...in a world where everyone thinks they could do my job, we got this videotape from Pogo's comedy club right here in Gotham. Here's a guy who thinks if you just keep laughing, it'll somehow make you funny. Check out this joker."

At the sound of Arthur's laugh, Y/N's eyes shot to the television, a hollow ache forming in her chest. There was Arthur, almost completely washed out by the spotlight on his pale skin, stumbling his way through his opening. Who had recorded this, she wondered, and which asshole had given it to NCB studios?

"Oh my god." Arthur said, then moved to stand in front of the TV. He was smiling. And when the clip was done, he let out a short, genuine laugh and clapped once. The joy on his face hurt her heart. He didn't seem to understand he was about to be mocked, that he was going to be laughed at, not with.

Murray spoke, then, mugging for the camera. “You should have listened to your mother.”

Y/N felt remorse for every time she had laughed at an oddball being made fun of on television.

"Let’s see one more," Franklin said. "I love this guy."

She closed her eyes, wishing she could shut her ears, too. If only the television had been broken or the antenna was out.

"It’s funny. When I was a little boy, and told people I was gonna be a comedian, everyone laughed at me," the recording of Arthur said. "Well, no one's laughing now."

Franklin didn't miss a beat. "You can say that again, pal." The audience roared.

Y/N got to her feet and went to Arthur. The corner of his mouth twitched; his whole frame was frozen, his jaw clenched. She reached out to take his closed fist in one hand, wrapping her other arm around his back. "You didn't deserve that."

He went to grab his jacket from the chair and hurriedly put it on. "We should go," he said. "It's late."

Y/N turned to him, squinting. "Are you sure? I don't mind staying long-"

"No, please. Let's just go," his said lowly. He left the room, not waiting for her, his coffee cup on the windowsill.

Buttoning her coat, she followed, catching up to him as he waited for the elevator. "Arthur-"

"You should go home," he said, leg bouncing.

She tried to take his hand, running her thumb over the back of it. "Come back with me. You shouldn’t be alone right now."

"I'll be fine."

"You don't have to push me away," she said, shaking her head. Though she spoke tenderly, it was impossible to keep her frustration out of her voice. "I wish you wouldn't."

His expression turned crestfallen. After they went into the elevator, he took her face in his hands and kissed her lightly. "I'm sorry." he said, pressing his forehead to hers. "Please don't be mad at me."

"I'm not mad." She held onto his wrists. When she looked up at him, his eyes were shining and wet. The usual puffiness under them had gotten worse. "You look exhausted. Have you slept?" she asked.

"No."

She traced one of the bags with her thumb. "Is there anything you can take that will help?"

A snort left him and he backed away from her. "You don't have to worry about that."

"What does that mean?"

He bit his lip, frowning. "I- I wanted to tell you this morning, but-"

She winced. That was deserved. "Tell me now."

After a little while, he closed his eyes. "I stopped taking my medication. The city cut the funding for it."

Y/N sighed, feeling as though she should have known, given her affected cases. Gotham Department of Health budget cuts had been all over the news, too. He had been moody, but she’d chalked it up to all that had happened with Pogo’s, his mother, and herself. Now she didn’t know where to attribute it. Her mind began working on how to help. She knew a few doctors through work. Maybe there were other programs. If she could-

"Please. Just go home. I'll be all right," he insisted. He was gazing into the distance, his hands in his pockets. Y/N cocked her head, torn between respecting the boundary he was drawing and letting out the pushy side she'd warned him of. But she didn't want to scare him off.

After they stepped out of the elevator, then exited the hospital, she grabbed his arm and pulled him towards her. He nearly stumbled but caught himself on her shoulder. He looked at her in consternation. She ignored it. "Come by if you want to,” she said. “I'll be at work all day, but tonight and tomorrow after the benefit I'll be home. Hell, stop by my office for a break."

Arthur lowered his head and nodded. "Okay."

"I’m here if you need me." She pressed her lips to his cheek. "And if you don't call me when you get home, I swear-."

"I will." The answer was so quiet, she almost didn't hear it. His eyes flicked to hers long enough to know he would. Then he withdrew gently, the corner of his mouth lifting before he turned and walked away.

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @clowndaddyfleck @sweet-nothings04 @stephieraptorr @rommies @invisiblewispofwhimsey @let-the-stars-fall-in-the-abyss

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

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rabbitcruiser · 5 years ago

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Global Running Day

Global Running Day has celebrated annually on first Wednesday of June. This year it falls on June 6 and it is a day to celebrate the sport of running. Participants of all ages and abilities pledge to take part in the type of running activity by adding their names to the Running Day website. Global Running Day is the evolution of United States, started in 2009 and race organizations throughout the nation. The inaugural Global Running Day held on June 1, 2016. More than 2.5 million people from 177 countries pledged to run more than 9.2 million miles. New York City, Bill de Blasio, declared June 1, 2016, to be Global Running Day in the City of New York. Boston Marathon winner Meb Keflezighi led a run from the Boston Run Base with the group, and the Atlanta Track Club organized a “run around the clock” event, where at least one person from the Atlanta metro area would be running every hour of Global Running Day.

History of Global Running Day

To bring the people together who love Running, this Running Month was established and describes a particular gait of movement in general; both feet leave the ground at some point. Also Running always happens at the same speed, even in the same person. Jogging and Sprinting is considered forms of racing, but distinctly differ from a run. Human beings cannot always run. Admittedly, it was a long time. When Australopithecus is Our first upright ancestor kept evolving, we gained the ability to have a long-striding run nearly 4.5 million years ago. It was vital to our existence as a species as we engaged in what is known as ‘persistence hunting,’ where catching the prey often involved days-long hunt to track and wear the animal down until it could no longer flee, and collapsed from pure exhaustion.

How to Celebrate Global Running Day

Celebrating Global Running Day is simple and exciting. It is also a day for everyone around the world to celebrate the joys of running. For those of you who think of running as physical torture, or who believe that a jog on the treadmill is about as exciting as watching paint dry, no, I’m not sarcastic: running really can be fun. Participation is easy just pledge to take part in any racing and Running day celebrations is more fun with others and listed ways that can celebrate with others either locally in the Cities, also with us wherever in a virtual format.

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bibliotechnician · 6 years ago

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University

@emeraldcitystalker

The Library was currently inaccessible. She wasn’t sure why, but Shit was stirred up enough that he feigned calmness until she had entered before chasing her back out. Rather than risk herself in the confines, she’d opted to leave for now. It had taken a moment for her to decide what she wanted to do, go back to Polis or do what Stalkers did best.

The answer was clear.

Which was how she ended up more than halfway across the ruins of Moscow, running from a particularly persistent demon. A lesson in vigilance, scrumbling about in a pile of debris for something useful had dislodged it from its nap. With a morbid laugh, she entertained that she too would have chased someone halfway across the Metro for disturbing a nap. Even through tunnels. Maybe...

She waited for the sound of wings to fade, the shadow on the ground to leave her sight, before looking out from the shelter she had taken made of an eroded upheaval of asphalt. The demon flew not too far away, perching on top of a ruined building, and watched down below with twitching head and sharp eyes.

A look around was given to assess her next move. Staring a demon down didn’t work as it did with her preferred mutant, all it did was make you an easy lunch. Running without a plan into sight was also not a good idea, the result was much the same and she wasn’t too keen in feeding any mutants, surface or tunnels alike.

Her next point of safety was an open freight container some ways away, teetering on the edge of an embankment. It probably wasn’t the sturdiest or the best place to hide from a monster big enough to push it over, but it was something that got her closer to a more sturdy shelter.

She looked up toward her tormentor and waited for it to bounce around the edge of its rooftop perch, turning its attention away from her, before scrambling out of her hole and making a run for the container. The sound of a roar and wings flapping spurred her onward faster, bolting through the open end of her next haven and sliding to a stop on the far end. She looked over her shoulder to see if the beast had diverted course, her eyes widening as she noticed it still coming. There was no time to grab any weapon, all she could do was grasp hold of the support bolts at the back, press herself to the wall, and hold on tight.

There was a deafening clanging noise and she felt the container go airborne, the feeling of weightlessness brief as it collided with the ground under the embankment. Such force jarred her grip into letting go and causing her to roll with it along the ground until it stopped.

It took a moment for her equilibrium to return to itself, the dizziness of striking her head against one side fading away just enough to dig in and change her filter out. There was still a fog in her head as she stood up, stumbling toward the open end, the bent door still attached to the hinges creaking ominously. She had to find a better place to wait out this attack, but it would be harder now that she was trapped in a trench.

Looking around quickly made her head hurt, a few cracks in the acrylic faceplate throwing light at odd angles in her face and exacerbating the headache. All she had to do was avoid any more strikes to her head and she could get out of here with minimal damage. Thankfully, she didn’t hear or see the demon at the moment, and a second look around proved it wasn’t nearby. While it worried her a bit, maybe the thwak to its own head scared it away.

Her attention shifted to her surroundings, looking slowly around for somewhere to fortify herself long enough for the demon at least to lose interest. Then she could get back to Polis and get the treatment she needed for her bumps and bruises and potential concussion. Nothing stood out to her, as she scanned the horizon, paying especial mind to sound as she exited the container in full to look behind it. It was only then that she saw what looked like an intact building at the other end of the trench, large and widely intact. It reminded her of the Library in how it dominated the scenery around it, and the Library in her mind triggered a feeling of safety.

Her mind was made up, she walked slowly away from the container, seeking out several other temporary hovels in her path as a just in case. She was mindful still of what was happening around her, looking up and around to see if anything hostile was nearby, and especially trying to locate her tormenting demon.

She moved from hiding spot to hiding spot along the trench toward her destination, the haze finally lifting enough she could think somewhat clearly. At the least, she knew that staying in the open was a bad idea and was using the geography and human-made debris in the trench as cover. After a while, she was almost certain that the demon had scared itself off, of which she was grateful and decided to relax a little.

It was a bad idea to relax, evident when she was almost to the building in her sights and the unfortunately-familiar roar and flapping of wings sounded close behind her. She didn’t have time to look, seeing the shadow engulf her was all she needed to get her to move. She felt her heart practically stop as the overflow of adrenaline into her system kicked in, time seeming to slow down for half a second while she dodged the beast’s talons by inches.

Using its delay to fly off and turn back around, she ran. The building wasn’t too far ahead now and once she was inside, she could easily defend herself. The flight toward it was harrowing at best, using what she could to her disposal and ducking under and around things when she could to deter the overly-persistent demon.

Almost .... there.....

Over the slope of the trench’s far end, using some sort of half-primal mindset to her disposal to employ all four limbs, rocketing her up over the lip in record time. Over the top of old concrete barriers, one that she ducked behind when she knew it was too close in time to see it miscalculate the distance between her and the frankly massive structure just after her spot, coming in to land instead and sliding itself over more crumbling concrete. Up the broken stairs toward the front doors behind columns, into the ruined lobby beyond, and pulling the Preved from her back. A check to see if it was loaded properly before the bolt was replaced and she aimed outward and waited.

She heard the scramble of the demon as it got back to its feet, the awkward gait of it gallumphing along in her path, saw the grotesque head of the monster come into view, spot her, and try to get through the broken door frames. It was a determined creature, she had to give it that.

It got just close enough to her, she could see every individual tooth. No one, she was sure, had been this close to a demon’s mouth and lived, and she was certainly going to live. The Preved was aimed directly at the back of its throat and the trigger pulled. There was a roar that drowned out the sound of the demon’s own, followed and overlapped immediately with the ear-piercing squealing of the monster as it took the bullet directly in its mouth. It wasn’t enough to kill it, she wasn’t surprised, and she backed up when it started to flail and writhe in an attempt to turn around. The sound of it tearing doors about was cacophonous at best, mixed with the pained cries of the winged beast, she had to back further up to alleviate the sheer pressure it put on her hearing alone.

Eventually the demon freed itself back outside, skittering along and crying, trying to fly and partially failing and falling back down.She sighed as soon as it was silent, leaning against the side of an old office desk and slipping down, putting the rifle across her lap.

“Make that little ass think twice, now won’t it...” she muttered to herself, taking a fast moment to breathe.

Once she had calmed enough to think again, she unloaded the spent casing from the Preved’s chamber, replacing it with a new live one. She pulled herself up against the desktop, stumbling once. Well, that wasn’t good. She knew it wasn’t just exhaustion or her adrenaline finally leaving, it was that smack to her head earlier giving her grief. She was going to have to get home and fast before it got worse. Normally, you were supposed to sleep off small concussions, she knew, but doing so here was dangerous.

The filter in the mask was replaced again before she shouldered the Preved, tightened the strap down, and started slowly on her way further into the building. The new goal, now that she had survived a vehement demon, was to get to one of the upper floors and assess her location, maybe plan a way home. In order to do that, however, she needed a good vantage point, at least three floors up, if possible. Enough to see a good portion of Moscow and pick out familiar landmarks to go by.

The further she went in looking for a staircase, the weirder it began to feel. Winding hallways were reminiscent of tunnels and it took every ounce of control she had to ignore the claustrophobia trying to close in on her. It was cramped to her, it was strange. It was intensely uncomfortable. There was a dog...

Wait. What?

She stopped in her tracks, backed up slowly to look down the hall she had just passed. If she was hallucinating, she was going to be in real trouble. But no. Sure as shit, sitting in the middle of the hall not too far from her, was a dog. Or rather, something slightly reminiscent of a dog. It had the body for one, twisted just slightly in different ways so that to someone who had grown up underground without contact with real dogs, it would be fairly unrecognizable. But to her, who owned one, it was very familiar. Eerily so, right on that edge of uncanny valley.

Whatever it was about her at that moment, it caught the creature’s attention. It turned its head to look at her, getting up and starting to trot at her. For a moment, she thought maybe she should pull the Tikhar from its spot at her side, but on second thought, she noticed the body language was ... different from the standard surface mutant. Whereas there was aggression and predatory behaviour in many mutants, this ungainly creature almost as big as she was showed only a sort of reverence, with a wiggling whip of a tail and its head lowered in a familiar act of greeting.

It was a dog.

She slowly reached a hand out toward it, ready to pull back in case it tried to take fingers with it, and was wholly shocked to her spot when it bumped against the proffered hand with only intent to nuzzle. She let off a small nervous chuckle at the revelation this is what it wanted, scruffing to where the ears were.

“Well. You’re not so bad, then. Are you.” she said to it, watching with amusement as it flopped about and made a few pleasant whining noises.

Movement caught her attention from down the hall behind the creature. A second dog had appeared from seemingly nowhere and, at the promises of pets and attention, came lopping along to say hello. And a third manifested. A fourth. A fifth on the far end of the hallway. The first one pushed against her rather roughly, the second doing the same, all wiggling back ends and pleased happy fanged faces.

By then, she had stopped petting and was starting to back up. These things weren’t exactly aggressive, but something about the way they were acting was ... unsettling at best. They were still something dangerous, the rustle of her metaphoric hackles causing her to do the one thing she knew how to do.

She embodied a Librarian, drawing herself up and squaring out to make herself seem a lot bigger and more menacing. It might not work on a demon, but it might work on these things.

It gave them cause for pause, especially when she stared straight at them, but the spell didn’t last long. She had to lower most of it to get away, releasing her eye contact long enough to run in any direction. By now, she was so turned around that she didn’t even know where she had come from. God damn, she hated buildings like this...

The stare tactic lasted for a few crucial seconds, long enough to put distance between her and them. Though it wasn’t long before the warbled baying of the mutated hounds reached her ears, followed by the sound of them making a run after her...

#RP #University #emeraldcitystalker

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conmuchogustoleemos · 2 years ago

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Caperucita en Manhattan. Carmen Martín Gaite

Jueves 17 de noviembre de 2022

Tras un largo parón de más de dos años por Covid y por obras de mejora en la Biblioteca Reina Sofía, en la tarde de ayer, con gran satisfacción, reanudamos las sesiones del Club de Lectura “Con mucho gusto”. La primera lectura fue Caperucita en Manhattan (1990), de Carmen Martín Gaite.

Caperucita en Manhattan

Amelia Aguado fue nuestra invitada, en este caso invitada especial por ser la encargada de reanudar las lecturas que quedaron pendientes en 2020. Amelia es jefe de sección del Centro Buendía de la Universidad de Valladolid, encargada de la actividad y difusión cultural en la universidad.

La elección de la obra corresponde a un criterio puramente personal, así se lo solicitamos a todos los invitados al club de lectura que nos han acompañado en estos 8 años de andadura, y así fue en el caso de Amelia, quien apuntó que, desde su primera lectura de Caperucita en Manhattan en el momento de su publicación, ha sido su libro preferido, releído varias veces y otras tantas regalado.

Carmen Martín Gaite publica en 1990 este cuento largo o novela corta que titula, no de manera inocente, Caperucita en Manhattan. Su argumento se centra en Sara Allen, de 10 años, que vive en Nueva York con sus padres y que lleva una vida normal solo interrumpida por los viajes en metro que hace los sábados con su madre para visitar en Manhattan a su abuela y llevarle siempre la misma tarta de fresa. Tras un capítulo inicial de presentación espacio-temporal y personal de Sara y su entorno, la novela desarrolla el deseo de la niña de explorar aquello que llaman libertad, a través de la visión de la estatua de la Libertad, del recorrido por Manhattan y del encuentro con distintos personajes que le ayudan en su empeño. En las visitas a su abuela y a través de una imaginación muy activa, Sara tendrá la oportunidad de explorar el camino que le lleva a esa ansiada libertad cuando, saltándose las normas, vaga por la ciudad de Nueva York. En su viaje encuentra a los personajes-ayudantes Miss Lunatic y el Sr. Woolf, fundamentales para el descubrimiento del camino hacia esa libertad.

La novela está dividida en dos partes bien diferenciadas: Sueños de libertad y La aventura, que responden al esquema de los cuentos tradicionales, con los que sin duda tiene relación como material folclórico de base, Caperucita roja y Alicia en el país de las maravillas, principalmente. El tema es la libertad y el deseo de poseer la capacidad de decisión para explorar nuevos caminos vitales diferentes a los acostumbrados. También destaca el poder de la imaginación en el personaje de Sara, y todo ello plasmado a través de la reinterpretación y contraposición de los elementos básicos de los cuentos infantiles.

Los participantes en la sesión de ayer no mostraron, en general, entusiasmo por la lectura del texto, que para algunos era relectura. Cuento raro, extraño, sin tener muy claro hacia dónde quiere ir el argumento cuyo final, además, es abierto. Otros disfrutaron más de la lectura y todos reconocieron, sin fisuras, que Martín Gaite escribe muy bien. De este modo, se destacó el manejo del lenguaje en las descripciones de los espacios, de los personajes y en los diálogos. Otros comentarios reseñables tuvieron que ver con la función de los personajes femeninos: de Sara Allen como protagonista y, sobre todo, de su madre, su abuela y Miss Lunatic. La contraposición de dos modelos de mujer, sacrificada, rutinaria y más humilde la madre frente a la abuela, más moderna y liberada, dio pie a un interesante cambio de opiniones acerca de la posición de madre y abuela tanto en el texto, como en la vida. A estos modelos femeninos se une Miss Lunatic, extraño personaje proveedor del impulso necesario para que Sara emprenda su viaje hacia la libertad y actante para el cumplimiento del objetivo.

Por otro lado, se destacó la representación del espacio, Manhattan y la estatua de la Libertad como lugares vistos bajo una nueva mirada en los que se desarrolla la aventura, concretada en Central Park como espejo del bosque del cuento original de Perrault o los hermanos Grimm. Lugares que son personajes, cosificados en la mente de Sara. Destacada fue la importancia de la imaginación, ya que se trata de un cuento fantástico pero ubicado en un espacio real, con precisión espacio-temporal, con todos los personajes nombrados y definidos al contrario de la imprecisión que es habitual en los cuentos tradicionales. Objeto de debate fue también el público al que está destinada la obra, pues Caperucita en Manhattan tiene diferentes niveles de lectura que la hacen accesible a lectores de los 12 a los 100 años.

Como suele suceder, la de ayer fue una entretenida y didáctica sesión de lectura que tenemos que agradecer a Amelia, que nos trajo esta reelaboración del cuento tradicional de Caperucita. La alegría por volver a celebrar las sesiones de nuestro club de lectura animaron el debate y alimentaron el deseo de más libros y lecturas.

#Carmen Martín Gaite #biblioteca reina sofía #Club de lectura Con Mucho Gusto #club de lectura #Universidad de Valladolid #uva

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abhikasach-blog · 6 years ago

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Time Traveller

Time traveller, yes I have become one. Last evening I visited 1930s of somewhere. Last year, same time I was somewhere else which can easily be 2030s of here. This back and forth in time is magical. Some five years ago when I landed (drove) to this village, the first pan shop I stopped at was playing a cassette of a movie from 70s. This village is locked in time in a strange way. Some parts of it is pre independence and some advanced pockets have reached the 80s. After a month when I went to a city, the street lights were hurting my senses and the motion sensor lights caught my attention and I imagined the century when this village will see something like this. Often times I imagine the look on the face of the ba (old man of the village) if he would ever see a mall or travel by a metro train. It's as big as NASA finding a house in Mars. Some people never get a chance to travel at all. There are many such trees in this village.

Years ago, during my first interaction with a group of women of this area I was asked in the local dialect “whose are you?” I touched my forehead to feel the horns, lock or any symbol which gave them a hint that I was either cattle or a metal suitcase travelling with an owner. Having found none I told them I did not understand their question. “who do you belong to”, “sorry” “who is your husband/father/brother/son?” Son? Now that took me by surprise. Living here I came to know that even if seven or seventeen women have to go from one village to the other, the only mode of transport apart from the vehicle is a male person, it really doesn’t matter if he is just six years old. They are allowed to travel, it reminds me of that iron knife some people keep under their bed to ward off evil.

So last evening I was craving human interaction, my eyes wanted to see flesh, of course appropriately covered. They wanted to see the shadows of the people as they walk. My ears wanted to eavesdrop to conversations I was not party to. I wanted hear emotions, expressions, tones. I wanted to see, smell, and hear at the same time, which the gadgets have taken away.

I drove up to a village a few kilometers away and parked my car at the bus stop. I started walking in the narrow alleys which wind deep inside like the arteries going to some internal organ. More like those fine branches drawn from one of the branches when one doodles. My feet kept taking me deeper into the village. Sound of drums from quaint little temples were coming from almost all directions. These temples were made either under old trees, or were just a piece of stone. As I approached one such temple, there was only a pujari and no one else, he was still absorbed in beating the drum to the loudest. The entire village was echoing with beats from different corners.

There were two children on the street, as I looked at them I was reminded of my childhood. Just before dinner time my mother would realise there is no salt, and my brother and I would walk down to the closest shop to get it. On our way back from the shop we would have looked like these two, with gait in their strides, tossing their heads to some silent music. Laughing like they are watching a Stand up comedian in a bar. Settling some deep life changing conversations oblivious of the fact that salt has to reach the pan on time.

As I moved further down the lanes, there were matchbox size shops. Without selling anything through the day the old men were holding the fort of their little shops, busying themselves repairing or rearranging inventory. Disinterested crows and bats were sleeping on the trees. A solo slipper was left behind to become a part of the road.

I peeped in a silver shop which seemed to have some activity. In the shop was a man, who looked like he was in his early 90s, he was getting his walking stick repaired, yes it was a pure silver walking stick. He was crouching near the silversmith and instructing him in details, I interrupted them asking the price of a toe ring, well they didn’t have time to engage with me, some millions were on fire at that moment. Sitting there, I kept marvelling at the difference between need and want . A stray cat attracted my attention and I followed it to narrower lanes.

Houses in these lanes had as much dirt on their walls as there was on the mud path I was walking on. Some of these houses have not even been opened even once in the last fifty years. The windows have fought time, got injured and opened themselves to see some life, but only to see the locked attic of the houses in front of them. Some torn kite hanging on some or a dead bat on others. Only in years of good monsoon does the earth from these windows and those attic walk down the lanes surveying the other lanes collecting the mob of mud from all the houses.

After an hour or so I traced my steps back to the hub of the village. There used to be a very enterprising guy who kept provisions of 2018, I thought I must buy some cheese. When I reached the place where his shop was, only a closed door met me. I asked the neighboring shop “where is that guy” his remark “whatever he used to keep is available here” had the underlined hatred which is very visible in the country these days and it was completely obvious that like most of the people from ‘other religion’ his only option was to leave the village. Some people need to travel to live. It reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend. Once we were sitting and I was telling him that when people ask me about my caste and religion I tell them I have none. His reply was “it's easy for you to do that as you come from the privilege of your birth in a certain family, if I do jj same it will be read as cowardice, or a plea of inclusion”.

An unaccompanied woman walking in the village this late in the evening attracts audience. How they were looking at me reminded me one time when I and another friend had accidently drove into a naxalite village. It was three in the afternoon and there were very few people on the street. There was a man apparently repairing his cycle and keeping an eye on my car. As we approached the man and asked him the way out, he responded “I am new here” we moved further down on and there was a man washing his auto rickshaw. There were two three children playing with a tyre and a stick. They had the same look in their eye as the cycle man, the auto man and a couple of women we had crossed on the way. The women had the same piercing look but they refused to talk to us. We stopped near the auto guy and asked him the way out. He responded “I am new here”. After some 30 minutes we hit the highway, but the look in their eyes follow me still.

So, while I was standing there, I knew everyone was observing me, its less intimidating than how I felt in that trip. If you have seen any Guru Dutt movie, or a movie of that time, imagine a village market from there. People were sitting together in groups of three and five, discussing important things, there was this one man six feet tall, well built and he had a noticeably sharp nose. He was absorbed in the newspaper which had arrived a few hours ago with the bus that comes from the city. As he heard my voice he turned around and acknowledged my presence. I sat with them on the stair of the shop and we started talking about education. The old man on the edge of the stair kept peering through his broken spectacle without moving even an inch. Another person asked me,”since you are a teacher I want to ask you a question if you promise that you won't be offended”. I told him I can promise him that I won't be offended but the nature of the question will determine whether he would get an answer or not. He asked me “why are the people from your State so short in height?” It was easy, I told him about how genetics and geography along with nutrition and chance work on people’s physical built. The man with the broken spectacles just moved enough to readjust his glasses.

This person who was reading the newspaper told me that he teaches veda and upanishads to young boys holding residential camps. For him education means educating the young men and boys about the veda and the richness and exactness and applicability of all of it in present day. Well, you have to remember we were in 1930s and it was making complete sense to him. He actually looked like a freedom fighter. He spends millions of rupees annually to conduct these residential camps where more than 400 boys stay for a week in each camp and learn the vedas. He wanted to understand my perspective on education. I had recently, as a time traveller touched the meteorite iron which is billions years old. The children in the village only get to read one passing sentence about it in their textbook. Whereas the children in that city of that country have the luxury to see it, touch it and feel it. They also know about the vedas and the richness of the culture of not only India but also other countries. When I ask the children of this village about the country they live in, they happily name the state. These saplings need to be transplanted soon otherwise they will end up as trees here.

After talking to them for a while I went to the shop and bought the cheese cubes, which the shopkeeper had stored in an ice cream freezer. As I left the place I heard the old men started a fresh conversation on what cheese is.

As I approached my car I met someone from 1970s and as I reached the car there were more people from 2018. Finally when I reached Ayaad I came to my timeless zone of here and now.

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yowlthinks · 4 years ago

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Yep, learned this as a teen, it is mostly in the determined gait and a murderous expression. What makes it murderous is that you look THROUGH the person. Like focusing on a point just a meter or so behind them, looking right through. That makes people feel like you are a bit out of your mind and not to be trifled with. Highly recommended for crowded places when in a rush, dodgy neighbourhoods and Moscow metro 😉

On a separate note, I am shocked to read people would not swerve to let a wheelchair pass...

#feminism #patriarchy #human decency #respect

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drweieu · 4 years ago

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Today, 16/03/2021 Mardi, #Brussels . around 17H I was waiting for #metro in the station #ArtsLoi . there was a drunk man on the opposite side, zigzag gait and slipped down towards the tunnel. his head hit by the rail, bleeding. My god! maybe he lost consciousness, that many women on the platform screamed ‘Monsieur Monsieur Levez’, he had no reply. Some people pushed the parlophone trying to got the staff in contact, some ran to the ticket selling Center trying to find ppl help, some took photos, the metro was just 1 min away! A young boy, #Chinese , wore green sports clothes FLIED into the tunnel (he was so swift that I didn’t even see how he jumped down), he and the other women on the platform together pulled the poor man up. I don’t know this #hero ‘s name and job, I don’t know where he came and where he gotta go, I just wanna address him a thumb up, 🔝 man, bravo! https://www.instagram.com/p/CMfh17SBeiX/?igshid=ktl99efo3po7

#brussels #metro #artsloi #chinese #hero

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365lite-blog · 7 years ago

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How to be a heartbreaker

Pairing: Jihyun(V) x reader/MC. Genre: Comedy, Romance. Plot: (Y/n) broke up with her boyfriend. One night, she gets drunk with friends and, on her way home, she meets Jihyun. She gets confused and believe they are on a date. But because she is afraid that he would hurt her, she decides to play by the heartbreaker rules. And it is dramatic. Disclaimer: Drunk MC. A/N: Please, drink with moderation♥ I do not know how I came up with this scenario.

High heels made her presence sophisticated, attractive, as they could be heard anywhere she wandered. Nevertheless, she sighed as she stumbled, frustrated fingers brushing her hair as a response of incoherence. Her mind was already a chaotic mess and now, as if it was not enough, her stomach was indisposed. If she began throwing up, she had no idea if it would be her dinner or her heart that would come out. Really, she had drunk too much in the hopes of moving on. So many fishes in the sea, they said? She was still far from agreeing with that ridiculous statement.

Aquamarine locks flied in the air as the doors of the metro opened, welcoming the cold wind of autumn. Beautiful ocean eyes were glued onto the tiny screen of the camera he had in hands, struggling to discern the image as he was trying to judge if it came out as he had originally desired. To be honest, more than a decent capacity of sight, he needed inspiration. Something that would excite him, give him the flame he lacked to create art again. Deep down, he hoped he could fall in love again, for he knew he only felt alive when being in love and devoting himself to the person his heart claimed. Speaking of which, just as if his prayers were granted, his intact sense of hearing favored him with the distinct sound of unstable heels and he turn his head only to be greeted by the sight of a drunk young woman trying to proceed her way to the vacant sit next to his. He grew worried as she came closer, therefore aware that she looked as drunk as the scent and gait suggested. But before he could offer his help, she fell onto the sit, jolting his shoulder before moaning a vague apology as she flunked to meet his face. A hiccup shook her upper body and she sighed once more before bumping her occipital against the glass behind her in an attempted to rest for a while. The photographer slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, allowing the gesture since there was not enough light to hurt his cornea and stayed silent for a moment, taking her full frame in a sense of true appreciation of art. He though she was beautiful. No. Mesmerizing. His eyes cuddled her bare thighs, followed by her modest breast, soft neck, perfectly sculpted jawline and the cutest nose he ever saw. How he had wished to photograph her right in the instant. Even drunkenness suited her as it left her cheeks in an adorable strawberry tint. She was a piece of art on her own and he longed to immortalize her existence.

Air left in between her parted lips for the hundredth time already and she soon fell asleep, alcohol crushing her brain for some non-restorative sleep. In a matter of minutes, after being swung from left to right a dozen times, her head fell on the shoulder of the man at her other side. The stranger grimaced, impatience giving him allures of a apathetic human being. He was about to jerk her off, not giving a care about her deplorable state, but Jihyun pre-empted his rudeness and gently shifted her head so she would be resting on his own shoulder. Innocently and obviously still napping, she took his arm in between hers and snuggled closer to him. Almost a millisecond later, his face went hotter and he pulled his sunglasses back up as if it could have hidden his reaction. Following this event, he decided to close his eyes for a moment too. When he opened them again, he found himself being scouted by a pair of hypnotizing iris. For how long had she been watching him? But, as he adjusted mechanically his glasses again, she smiled coyly and went back to rest on his deltoid. Half an hour later, he arrived at his station. What was he supposed to do? He was concerned enough that her friends let her leave alone so he, obviously, could not do the same. Even if he knew nothing about her. With that conclusion in mind, he mildly shook her hand on his lap, causing her to yawn in response and look back at him with half closed eyes.

- We should get off here.

She scanned her surroundings and got up with him, clearly not aware of the situation in which she found herself. How could she binge drinking so much she could not even comprehend what was happening? Thankfully, he was the one she met before anything bad could occur. After walking for a few minutes side to side in a surprisingly peaceful silence, he discerned the lights of a taxi and was about to call for it when the girl clung on his lifted arm to pull it down. She was not pleased by his gesture and her entire face transformed into a moody winsome expression.

- You cannot leave me now.

Her actions made him look at her with astonished eyes. He really had to call a cab for her but, if she was being stubborn, maybe sending her home alone was a bad idea. Against all ethics, he decided that she would be safer at his house and headed in that direction. On the road, a grin was plastered on his face while she was playing a game on her own, failing to walk only on the lines even if she was seriously trying to. Sometimes, he had to catch her hand to prevent her from falling and, in the mist of confession, he felt like a knight next to her. But she was more charming than a princess. Anyways, they managed to reach the apartment building and (y/n) stopped abruptly at the door, making Jihyun wonder if she finally realized where she was, only to be shut by her next move. Her fingers adjusted the collar of his coat as she bit her lip in reflection.

- Thank you for tonight.

Her voice was low, hinting an attempt in being seductive and Jihyun had to refrain a laughter since it was evident that she could not remember a thing but tried to fake it. What happened next though, left him speechless. There she was, softly kissing him as if for rewarding him after her statement. Unconsciously, his hand took shelter on her waist. He was far more enjoying the kiss than he would have expected. But she was also drunk so he knew where to stop his pleasure. They parted briefly after, Jihyun still being light-headed and secretly admitting he wanted more of it. Resulting in self-awareness and shame for his mental behavior. He could definitely not get attached to her. She headed to the door before gasping loudly. She could have understood her situation now, right? No. She complained that she could not remember the passcode and chose to press on the bells of every name figuring next to the lock pad, claiming that some neighbor would help her. He ran to her and opened the door quickly before anyone could see who made a ruckus in the middle of the night. When they entered his apartment, she threw her heels in the void and took a few steps as she scanned the place.

- I do not remember having such a cool home. I am so drunk.

At least, she knew it. He was about to enter his living room when she turned around to face him and chuckled.

- You know I am not going to have sex with you tonight, right?

Well, she was not blunted with her words. That was for sure. Fortunately, that was not his plan either so any misunderstanding was out of the way for now and he could calm his concerns a bit.

- I know, I will sleep on the couch.

He believed she would have a better rest if she slept in comfort so he had no problem in letting her sleep in his bed. Therefore, he smiled politely and headed to the bedroom so he could take extra sheets for himself. She followed closely and sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, watched him as he opened a closet and took out two blankets.

- You are a gentleman, I appreciate that.

She gestured him to come closer and, when he did, she pulled him so he tripped and landed on her. Not wasting a second, she kissed him once more. This time, running her phalanges in his azure hair. It took him a moment to restart his brain and, in the meantime, he kissed her too, leaving the mark of a burning desire on her cold lips. She was toying with him, he could see that. It seemed as if she wanted him to desire her just so that she could reject him afterward. The possibility that she drank to forget a boyfriend came in his mind and he felt sad for her. But when he came back to his senses, he got straight up and, for once, was pleased to be on his way to blindness because she looked way too desirable in this position and it would have been worse if he could have seen her clearly. She definitely got what she wanted out of him.

- I should leave you to sleep before doing things that might trouble you… Good night.

With that said, he fled out of the bedroom and headed straight to his living room, forgetting the blankets he left behind and never thinking about them again for the rest of the night.

A couple of hours later, he was still struggling to fall asleep. Disrupted by her presence, he got up and took his phone to look at the weather for the next day. He was being selfish, he knew it, but maybe he could photograph her. He was aware he might want more after getting to know her but he would think about that risk later. For now, he only wanted to do, with her, the only thing he was good at. After putting his phone down, he pondered which camera he should take and got lost in the process of deciding which type of photo would suit her best. That was the only thought that finally relaxed him enough to drift off in the arms of Morpheus and have a quiet night for once.

The next morning, he heard a scream followed by rushing footsteps and smiled kindly, keeping his amusement once again to himself, as the girl froze when she entered the room and saw him making breakfast.

- I am so sorry, she said. I broke up with my boyfriend and my friends thought it would be great for me to have fun, so I ended up drunk and at some point, I thought we were on a date and I did not want you to play with me so I decided to play with you instead but you were so kind and hot and now I feel bad… Oh my god, I am so sorry, I will leave now. Thank you for letting me stay.

How could a human speak so fast and without taking any breath? Her face was hot red and her gaze was glued to her agitated fingers. She was in a really embarrassing position but it only made her look cuter, to be honest. He forced himself to stay calm instead of cracking an entertained smile and served the pancakes in a plate. He assuredly heard her calling him ‘hot’. This made his day.

- There is no need to be worried. Take a seat, I made breakfast and there is medicine for your hangover.

He placed the plate on the empty spot in front of her and took his own as she sat nervously, muttering a shy thank you. As she did not seem to have hesitated in staying, he took this as a good sign and seize the opportunity right away.

- Now that you are sober… Do you have something planned for today?

#scenarios #mystic messenger #jihyun kim #jihyun x reader #mc #mysme #non requested #v

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