#moustache guy will never fail to crack me up

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Whaddup!!

For @gusu-emilu, and it only took a year

[giyuu-is-lonely7]

Spice: Taehoon Seong x F!reader

A/N: I got lazy near the end and I apologise if he's OOC. Haven't edited yet.

Warnings: none, maybe implied sexual content near the end

“You’re so shit and handing spicy food” You laughed as you watched Taehoon down a glass of milk. His glare did nothing, if anything you cracked up even more. A pale milk moustache was evident on his equally pale skin. This boy really thought he could scare you with a glare after you watched him fail at eating the spicy ramen.

His arm came up to his mouth to wipe the milk mou off his face. You were seated at his families' dining table, a bowl of instant ramen in front of you with a pair of chopsticks sticking out from it. Taehoon had invited you over to watch a movie as it was a shit day with even shittier weather, you’d just finished editing his video when he called you over. This was not what you expected though, to be laughing at the guy who would kill someone for even looking at him funny.

“Shut Up.” 

You just couldn’t, if he couldn’t handle the spice why’d he even bother putting it in his ramen. He made his way back to the table with a glass of milk for himself, none for you, you noted. Taehoon was obviously getting ticked off now, so you did your best to calm down. It was quite the show, his once pale face becoming red suddenly out of nowhere. With a finale chuckle, you let a sigh of air pass through your mouth.

“Sorry, sorry.” The tears on the corner of your eyes begged to be released, but you quickly wiped them away so Taehoon wouldn’t know about them. His brows twitched with slight anger, he didn’t like to be laughed at.

“So is this the real reason why you don’t like spicy food? Cause you can’t handle it.” I wasn’t supposed to come out like that, but it was too late to turn back now. 

He was pissed, the eyebrow that twitched and the jaw that clenched were clear signs of it, though you feigned oblivious and continued to speak. “I always found it odd when you take me out to dinner and never order any spicy food. Theres nothing wrong with not having spicy, but if spicy was the only option you’d lower it down.” 

A hand slammed into the wooden table which made the ramen cup bounce in the air a little. This didn’t phase you in the slightest. Instead, you wanted to tease your boyfriend even more. 

“Awwe, did I make my boyfriend who can’t handle spice very well upset, oh whatever shall I do. How could I ever atone for my sins, I know I’ll buy you some ic-” 

Your sentence was cut off when a callused palm slapped over your mouth to restrain you from speaking. Dark brown eyes met your own as his pale skin had a pinkish hue blooming underneath it.

Holy shit!

You had just made your boyfriend blush. The same guy who didn’t even blush when he asked you out was now blushing up a storm over a small little tease.

“Don’t smile.” His voice was less like his normal tone, this one was flustered even. The corners of your mouth rose up even faster at his voice. Slowly your hands reached upwards to remove his from your mouth though it did little as his grip on your face was strong. 

Once again you tried to pull his hand off your face yet it was hopeless. A cocky smirk made its way up to Taehoon’s face, the blush on his face was long gone. The hand that was not latched onto your face was placed on the chair you were sitting on, his hand just mere centimetres away from your shoulder. He leaned forward and whispered in your ear.

“Beg”

This fucker, so you figured out his secret, and now he’s going to make you embarrass yourself because of it. As it, you had dignity to uphold. No way were you going to lick is hand, you had no doubt your boyfriend was clean, but he was still a boy, so that option was an easy pass.

The next option was to act as cute as possible. Make some cute looking eyes or throw some cute little poses, Hah! As if your cold-hearted boyfriend would bend to your will at that, plus being cute was not you at all.

Option three it was, with little to no force at all, you twisted your body around in the chair. Your back no longer had the support from before but you were completely free from his arm now. But you were now falling backwards. 

With a thud you landed on your back, only to be met with a slam from the front as well. A cough escaped your mouth as you opened your eyes. Only to be meat with light brown hair and a hand to the side of your head. Taehoon had landed right on top of you, his face was squished between your boobs. Well what a sight. He had lot his balance when you fell off the chair resulting in him falling, though how’d it end up like this? 

Taehoon shifted his head to look up at you, his brown bangs covered his eyes slightly, your eyebrow quirked up. 

“Comfy down there?” 

He scoffed before shuffling up a bit, you took this chance to take a hit at him.

“Who would have thought you’d have gotten so defensive over nothing, its cute.” A smile made its way up to your face before being replaced by a shit eating grin. “I feel bad though, do I still have to by my boyfriend thats bad at spice ice–” Once more was your sentence cut off, but this time differently.

His warm lips met yours as he stole the words from your mouth. Your eyes closed on instinct as his hand that was once holding your mouth hostage was now caressing your face, mainly cheek but who cares for the details. Having done this with him before, your mouth opened wide as his tongue slipped inside your mouth. Arms reached up to play with his brown hair, the locks were soft to the touch. One of his best features. 

Parting your mouth once more, your eyes opened and Taehoons tongue slipped out of your mouth as a trail of saliva followed his tongue out. With warmed cheeks you let go of your boyfriends hair and stare at him in the eyes as he did the same.

“Finally shut up.” He spoke as you rolled your eyes.

“Oh shut up jackass.” A reply came from your lips.

“I’m home” A cheerful voice spoke from the front door 

Eyes locked with each others, you communicated telepathically.

‘FUCK!’

[taoofshigeru]

Dr. Starline is a Columbo Villain

I finally got around to reading Bad Guys and it struck me just how Dr. Starline is simultaneously a smart, savvy villain and a really dumb one. Tangent incoming.

One of the things I love about Columbo (the detective show) in general is that all the murders are like, first drafts of a master plan. Not beta-read.

Like, there's this one guy who hosts a crime show and has reported on all these crimes. He hates smoking, and he's being blackmailed by a heavy smoker. So he comes up with a plan to murder the guy by dabbing Nicotine Sulfate poison on a cigarette, and make it look like just a smoker having a heart attack situation. He poisons three cigarettes, tricks the guy into smoking one of them, and replaces the poison cigarettes with butts ones he he lit earlier and let burn in another ashtray to hide all the evidence. Pretty slick plan.

Columbo, who smokes cigars, is on the scene for like 30 seconds before he notices the replacement cigarettes have been lit, but not smoked. Cigarettes have a filter that one inhales through, and the replacement butts were burned down, but had no stains on the filter. (Unlike all the other used butts on all the other ashtrays in the house.) This isn't the critical piece of evidence, but it gets the detective to order a toxicology report which immediately picks up the poison, and sets them on the trail of realizing it wasn't accidental death.

It is a good example of a cunning plan overlooking something that's damningly obvious to someone else.

That's a super-juicy theme in that show. Most of the killers Columbo nabs are smart, successful people who are very, very self-confident. Like tech bros or rookie engineers in general who pitch big ideas, not realizing an obvious flaw that someone with more experience would spot immediately.

Of course, it's not like you can just draw up murder plans on a whiteboard and do brainstorming exercises with your team. But in another setting, this is the kind of plan->failure that serves as a really good setup for a moral about the power of teamwork or the importance of taking advice.

So the specific event in Bad Guys that starts Starline working on the whole Surge and Kit plan was his experience seeing Rough and Tumble in prime rhyme condition handle a badnik in an unexpected way, exceeding his expectations via the power of teamwork. He then proceeds to betray his team, and while he technically gets what he wants (a new base) out of it, he misses an obvious lesson about the dangers of double-crossing your partners in crime.

And, critically, he never really learns that lesson. His solution to this "problem" of other people having their own wants, desires, and agency is to brute force brainwash the glitch sibs with the hypno glove. Which of course backfires spectacularly after they realize what he's done and get the glove out of his hands. It's like a cherry-on-top situation that the scene where Surge and Kit are wrestling for control turns on Surge taking a hit while Kit comes from behind to swipe the glove. Cooperation, teamwork, and trust.

Starline comes up with new plans, but fundamentally he's trying the same thing over again. Whatever good idea he has might get him to a point, might work the first time, but it falls apart because he fails to patch the cracks in his own control-freak personality. Essentially, he's trying to win without working on fixing the thing that always trips him up.

...

(IDW) Eggman has a lot of the same flaws and also makes flawed plans, of course! But in contrast to Starline, he's got different motivations. His plans generally are rough around the edges by design. He'll come up with the same type of big idea framework, but he's more concerned with maximizing the strong, fun points of his evil ideas and getting a little moustache-twirling in on the side rather than minmaxing to make sure they win. There's that line about how he could just go carpet bombing that blue hedgehog if he just wanted to be done with it. He wants to win, sure, but that's not his primary motivation. He enjoys coming up with the plans, and can always just do another thing if the first thing doesn't work. Like the Millennium Actress, he enjoys the chase whether or not he ultimately ends up catching his nemesis.

Anyways them villains in IDW Sonic are written really well and occupy a lot of mental real estate.

[hakasims]

The Most Important Review of Every Single Marwan Kenzari Film

If you’ve seen this one about Luca, you know the drill.

Now, Marwan’s brand is a little less defined than Luca’s but I managed to find similar tropes in a lot of his films. Also, rather than copy myself and give you a redundant Marwanmeter, I decided instead to recommend which Luca character best pairs with each Marwan character for your crossover pleasure. Let’s see if we ship the same things! Some of them are crack. You’re welcome.

(all gifs again by the awesomely amazing @weardes​ who did not ask to be my gif factory but life’s a bitch)

Het zusje van Katia (2008)

Will you miss him if you blink? Kinda. They talk about him a lot but his actual screen time is like 43.7 seconds. Also can I just say... he’s supposed to be from Italy?? The boy says literally one (1) Italian word, and you’ll never guess what it is. (Obviously, it’s “bella” like there’s a chance he could’ve said anything else.)

Is he hot? Painfully hot.

Is he naked? There’s this one scene where he’s wearing the sluttiest pair of speedos I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

Does his hair look great? Actually, yes. Perfect hair, perfect beard, he looks amazing.

Does he fuck? Yes, a lot - off screen, including an M/M/F threesome he presumably, probably, most definitely initiated.

Best paired with? From what I’ve gathered, this hoe ain’t loyal, so the best course of action is to find him a Luca that would benefit from a one night stand with no strings attached and wouldn’t fall in love with him. The obvious choice here is Valerio from Slam - Tutto per una ragazza. They meet, they fuck, then Giac makes his 4-hour drive back to Pisa, and they don’t see each other again until the next time he’s in Rome. Everybody’s happy, especially the two sluts in question.

De laatste dagen van Emma Blank (2009)

Will you miss him if you blink? Yes, absolutely.

Is he hot? Very.

Is he naked? Almost constantly.

Does his hair look great? He’s got those cute short curls, he looks so good.

Does he fuck? That’s literally why he’s there: to fuck and to die.

Best paired with? Man, I wish I had something to work with here. The only thing we know about him besides his sexual prowess is his affinity for white suits and toy helicopters. And as far as I know, those might be the exact things Fabrizio from Nina finds hot in guys. So like, why not?

Loft (2010)

Will you miss him if you blink? He’s the fifth most important character.

Is he hot? Yeah, sure.

Is he naked? There’s a scene where he’s wearing underwear and a tank top but it somehow makes him look like a kindergartener.

Does his hair look great? It looks quite nice.

Does he fuck? Yes, though I wish he didn’t.

Best paired with? Tom is a very violent person and a drug addict. He does messed up stuff to his sexual partners I’d rather he didn’t do to any of Luca’s characters. Feel free to use him for your sadistic fantasies or as a villain or whatever.

Rabat (2011)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s one of the three leads.

Is he hot? Oh yes! And cute!

Is he naked? He’s at the beach wearing nothing but boxer shorts.

Does his hair look great? He’s got this extreme undercut thing that would look ridiculous on anyone less pretty, so like no, he doesn’t have great hair, but also like it’s Marwan, you know what I mean?

Does he fuck? Before he embarks on a road trip with his friends, he has an offscreen threesome with two girls he picked up at a wedding. Slut.

Best paired with? Gabriele from Waves. They’re both sweet guys who could meet in some Tunisian port and decide to sail the Mediterranean Sea together.

Black Out (2012)

Will you miss him if you blink? Not unless your blinking is very deliberate.

Is he hot? Not really. He’s a dirty cop with a shitty moustache and oral fixation.

Is he naked? No, but I wish he was: his clothes are awful. Marwan is 29 in this movie and he looks 50!

Does his hair look great? Nope. They took Marwan’s usual short hair and made it not work somehow.

Does he fuck? No.

Best paired with? The one thing Luca’s characters all have in common is that none of them come off as bootlickers. All of them are either too soft for such a relationship or wouldn’t waste their spit on a cop.

Wolf (2013)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s the protagonist.

Is he hot? *gestures wildly at the gif*

Is he naked? He’s got quite a few shirtless scenes.

Does his hair look great? It’s nothing special but suits his character well.

Does he fuck? Oh yes.

Best paired with? Hear me out. I know that some people ship him with Fabio, but in my opinion that pair, while hot, doesn’t work. Here’s my pitch: Cesare from Non essere cattivo. The drug connection is still there, but in this case Majid’s problem-solving skills won’t fall on deaf ears. Cesare needs a daddy, ok? Majid can be a daddy when he needs to, especially when he has a soft boyfriend to care for. And Majid needs soft, not psycho.

Hartenstraat (2014)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s the protagonist once again.

Is he hot? Painfully.

Is he naked? There’s that iconic scene where he’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs and boots while carrying a tray...

Does his hair look great? He’s got Joe-like curls and looks like what every male romantic lead should aspire to look like and then cry because they all fail.

Does he fuck? There’s one very unfortunate sex scene played for laughs. I’m pretty sure he’ll need therapy afterwards. I certainly do.

Best paired with? Paolo from Il padre d’Italia. Paolo deserves the best boyfriend, and who’s better than Daan, an extremely hot man who cooks? They both have daughters, so they can talk about that, I guess, and Paolo can finally have a family. Honestly, this is so wholesome I just made myself cry.

Lucia de B. (2014)

Will you miss him if you blink? For sure.

Is he hot? He’s a cop. Again. But he looks good.

Is he naked? Fully dressed, but man are his clothes ugly. Is that a cop thing?

Does his hair look great? He has slightly longer curls, which is fine and the best thing about this character.

Does he fuck? ACAB. (I know this doesn’t answer the question, I just wanted to make it clear.)

Best paired with? See my bootlicker comment from earlier. While Detective *checks notes* Ron Leeflang isn’t explicitly corrupt, he’s obviously a dick, so the best I can do here is recommend any Luca character that has ever been in trouble with the law for any fics about power imbalance you want to write but aren’t comfortable with a nice Marwan playing the villain.

Bloedlink (2014)

Will you miss him if you blink? Oh no, he’s there the entire time.

Is he hot? In a weird way, yes.

Is he naked? So, so, so naked. Like, leave nothing to the imagination naked.

Does his hair look great? I’d say that little rat tail is the exact opposite of great.

Does he fuck? Probably more than is good for him. I should also add that he’s canonically queer in this.

Best paired with? Rico is a pathetic loser in need of someone who’s got his life together and has a lot of experience dealing with fuckups. Enter Loris from Il mondo fino in fondo. He has a stable job and a savior complex, and with his little bro gaying it up in Chile and not needing him anymore, all he wants right now is someone to fix. I should be a fucking matchmaker in real life, for real.

Pak van mijn hart (2014)

Will you miss him if you blink? Undoubtedly.

Is he hot? No. The whole point of his character is to be the lesser choice compared to a guy who looks like a completely ordinary bland white dude...

Is he naked? ...so of course he isn’t naked! What, are they gonna take this poor woman, show her Marwan Kenzari’s post-Wolf body and expect her to choose her deeply mediocre ex? Please! They’re gonna dress him in the dorkiest clothes possible...

Does his hair look great? ...and make him wear the most awful wig that was clearly run over by a truck.

Does he fuck? No. As you can observe, they tried really hard to make him unfuckable, but honestly, he seems like a perfectly nice guy.

Best paired with? You know what? Mattia from La solitudine dei numeri primi is in desperate need of some sweetness and normalcy. I’m sure Richard will treat him with kindness and respect.

Collide (2016)

Will you miss him if you blink? He’s the fifth most important character. Out of five.

Is he hot? Very hot.

Is he naked? Not for a second! What’s up with American movies where people aren’t just casually walking around naked without any plot necessity???

Does his hair look great? His curls are so cute you guys! Look at them!

Does he fuck? Not explicitly.

Best paired with? Fabio from Lo chiamavano Jeeg Robot. Again, the drug connection is there, but Matthias is soft enough not to butt heads with Fabio and, by the end of the movie, rich enough to satisfy his cravings for good living and fame. Also look at how good their color coordination is with those dark wine red clothes! Sometimes planets just align, okay?

Ben-Hur (2016)

Will you miss him if you blink? Yes, especially if you aren’t watching the background.

Is he hot? Your usual Marwan hot.

Is he naked? No.

Does his hair look great? His typical short curls with a twist. I think the forehead area is supposed to invoke the Caesar cut? I don’t know. It looks fine when not hidden under that dumb helmet.

Does he fuck? No.

Best paired with? A better script and a much better director. (Seriously, what is this blocking?)

The Promise (2016)

Will you miss him if you blink? He’s there a decent amount in the first half of the movie and then almost completely disappears in the second half.

Is he hot? Very much, yes.

Is he naked? Unfortunately, no.

Does his hair look great? He’s got short curls again, but this time they’re fashionably styled, it’s magnificent.

Does he fuck? Oh yeah! And there’s no way he isn’t bi or pan in this. No way.

Best paired with? Roberta from L’ultimo terrestre. Listen, Emre Ogan may be a slut but he’s a gentleman, okay? He’d treat Roberta right and he’s got daddy’s cash to spare on hundreds of gorgeous white dresses for her.

The Mummy (2017)

Will you miss him if you blink? He’s there, but barely.

Is he hot? Dangerously hot.

Is he naked? Not once! Instead we get a naked Tom Cruise literally no one asked for.

Does his hair look great? It’s your basic professional short hairdo.

Does he fuck? No.

Best paired with? Malik is a member of an organization tracking and destroying various monsters and historical artefacts related to them. Guido from Tutti i santi giorni speaks four languages, including Latin, and is a literature and ancient history nerd which makes him a valuable asset. Malik can fight and protect; Guido is bumbling and in need of saving. Guys, this writes itself.

What Happened to Monday (2017)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, especially not in the third act.

Is he hot? He’s okay.

Is he naked? Very naked.

Does his hair look great? They shouldn’t have greased his curls back. He looks like another victim of Fabio Cannizzaro’s stylist. Also I wish he’d either shaved or finished growing out that beard.

Does he fuck? He fucks and he fucks good. He’ll go down on you, he’ll deflower you slowly and gently, he’ll choke you if you want him to, he’ll spoon you all night, he’ll give you emotional support, he’ll murder people for you - he’s down for whatever.

Best paired with? There’s one Luca character who needs a lot of sex and even more emotional support. Alright, most of them do, but I’m thinking of Ettore from Lasciate andare. He needs it, okay? Good dicking, good spooning, a good ear, a fine piece of ass to cry into - you get the gist. Most importantly: someone who’d love him for who he is and with whom he could relax and be himself. (Also, I see you, people comparing him to Fabio. Shame on you for sleeping on this soft boy and judging him based on his appearance.)

Murder on the Orient Express (2017)

Will you miss him if you blink? He’s kinda always present, being very French.

Is he hot? Very hot.

Is he naked? No, but I’m willing to forgive that because he looks so good in his conductor uniform.

Does his hair look great? He never takes off his hat.

Does he fuck? No.

Best paired with? Mickey Miranda. They’re both murderers morally dubious characters who would look hot together. What else do you need? (Again, I see you, people who want Pierre for Roberta because he’s a “nice guy”, and I know for a fact you didn’t watch the movie. Spoilers, I guess.)

The Angel (2018)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s the protagonist.

Is he hot? Oh yes.

Is he naked? Not once, but you won’t regret it because he’s wearing excellently stylish 1970s clothes.

Does his hair look great? It looks fantastic. The sideburns (not yet seen here) are a good touch.

Does he fuck? He can definitely get it, but he’s loyal to his wife.

Best paired with? As the most aesthetically coherent and fashionably hot pair in this post, Ashraf and Primo are a no-brainer. Can you imagine Primo calling him “Angel” in different contexts? When he’s being intimidating, not realizing how palpable the sexual tension between them is, and later not even hiding his arousal? Sometimes things just work because they’re hot. That’s all, folks.

Aladdin (2019)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s the main villain.

Is he hot? It’s not like he went viral for being the “hot Jafar” or anything.

Is he naked? No! Fucking thanks a lot, Disney.

Does his hair look great? He has a buzz cut under that turban but he looks good in the turban, so that’s something.

Does he fuck? It’s a Disney movie, so he doesn’t fuck - explicitly or otherwise - but he still comes off as a thirsty bitch.

Best paired with? Jafar ends the movie as a genie who’s obligated to grant his master three wishes but is enough of a petty bitch to exploit the hell out of the “gray area” and screw them over Wishmaster style. My unconventional pair for him is Lui from Ricordi? So many scenarios with distorted memories and magic-induced mindfuck. So many possibilities for awesome and messed up crossover gifsets! Don’t say I never give you guys anything.

Instinct (2019)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, he’s very prominent.

Is he hot? I hate myself for finding him hot but I do.

Is he naked? He’s playing basketball shirtless in one scene, shaking his sweaty boobs everywhere.

Does his hair look great? His weird mohawk-like thing is honestly terrible, but if anything can make it work, it’s Marwan’s bone structure.

Does he fuck? Um, I’m pleading the Fifth on this one for the sake of good taste.

Best paired with? Prison. A very lonely, Luca-less prison.

The Old Guard (2020)

Will you miss him if you blink? No, unless blinking in your case means sleeping through the gloriousness that is the first ever canonically gay couple in an American action film.

Is he hot? Painfully.

Is he naked? Shirtless in one scene.

Does his hair look great? Soft curls courtesy of Luca Marinelli’s tireless lobbying.

Does he fuck? Not on screen, but you can just tell by the way he looks at his husband and reads impromptu poetry right to his face. And everybody knows nothing kindles the fires of passion quite like murdering homophobes together.

Best paired with? If you have to ask, you’re clearly reading this by mistake. In which case, kudos for finishing such a long and confusing post, now go watch The Old Guard and cry at the beauty that is The Immortal Marriage.

[daydreaming-in-letters]

London Rain

Part 1 

03/09/2021

Pairing: Henry Cavill x fem!reader (3rd person)

Word Count: 1,022

Warnings: fluff, nudity

Summary: Henry comes home two days early after being away filming for several weeks to surprise his lady.

A/N: I’ve been writing fan fiction for some time now, but I never felt comfortable sharing my works with anyone. Over the past months things slowly started to change and I became more active here on tumblr, and it seems that I have reached the point at which I want to put something I came up with out there. Please keep that in mind while reading and be gentle.

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. Please don’t copy, repost or share my work on other platforms. 

This story was inspired by Heather Nova’s song London Rain. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

London rain was purring down in thick strands, playing a rhythmic melody on the roof of the cab. He paid the driver generously, more than pleased that he had delivered him at his destination safe and sound in this horrible weather. With a wave of his hand and a tired smile, he was quick to wish the man a good night. Scooping his bags up from the pavement, he hurried to get to the front door before the thick drops would soak him completely.

He hadn’t even seated the key inside the lock, when he could hear heavy steps on the other side of the door, followed by a soft whimper. As much as he loved the dog and his warm welcomes, he devoutly hoped that he wouldn’t bark in his excitement.

As soon as he had opened the door a tiny crack, Kal pressed past the barrier and jumped up, licking his face excitedly.

“Hello to you too,” Henry chuckled, taking his time to hug his buddy. Eventually he grabbed his paws, signalling him that it was time to get down again. “Now be a good boy and don’t wake the lady of the house, alright?”

Kal snorted as if he had understood, before he trotted back inside. Henry hurried to follow him, setting his bags down in the hall, throwing his coat on top of them carelessly. While he disposed of his shoes, he allowed himself a brief glance around the familiar quarters. Simply being here took such a weight of his shoulders that he felt light as a feather as he tiptoed into the living room, where he found Kal on his bed, looking up at him expectantly. 

“Sorry, buddy, it’s been a long day and there is only one thing I want to do.” His gaze wandered over to the door that separated the living room from the bedroom, making his insides clench in excitement and without further ado, he began to strip himself bare, leaving his clothes on the sofa. 

He was careful to switch off the light before he entered the bedroom, sneaking over to the bed silently. In the dim light that drifted through the curtains he could make out her familiar form on her side of the bed and finally seeing her after such a long time apart almost overwhelmed him. Tears of joy blurred his vision and he had to concentrate on her even breathing to not lose it completely. 

Carefully he pulled up the sheets and as he glided underneath, the comfortable heat of her body engulfed him, welcoming him home. Inch by inch, he scooted closer until his chest finally met her back, the familiar sensation at last making him feel whole again. One arm slowly snaking around her middle, he pulled her even closer, while her enchanting scent filled his nostrils. God, he had missed her so much, missed holding her, feeling her skin on skin. 

“You’re home.” 

He grinned, the joy of hearing her voice outweighing his guilt of waking her up by far. But instead of answering, he pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, his whiskers tickling her sensitive skin.

“And you kept the stache.” 

A deep chuckle escaped his throat. How could she be so observant while she was still half asleep? He had hoped she wouldn’t notice, giving him time to get rid of the facial hair first thing in the morning. During their video calls, she had made it very clear that she wasn’t overly fond of this look, but he had prioritised getting home over getting rid of the moustache. 

“You know you’re a lucky man, right?”

His arm flexed playfully around her waist. “Because I’ve got you.” It came out more as a question than as a statement.

“Yes, that and because you are one of two people who can pull off a stache and still look incredibly handsome instead of giving me strange pornstar vibes.”

He thought about her words for a second. “One of two? Who is the other guy?” 

His tone bordering on slighted, his grip on her tightened subconsciously.

“No need to worry, Hen. It’s Tom Selleck. He’s way too old for me anyway.”

“I wasn’t worried,” he was quick to reply, but there was no chance she would believe him as even to his own ears his words seemed more than just a bit defensive.

“Yes, you were.” He could hear the cute grin on her lips that never failed to make his heart swell.

“Yes, maybe a bit.”

With a soft chuckle, she turned in his arms and suddenly he felt sorry that she had closed the curtains so neatly, making it impossible to see the beloved features of her face clearly in the faint light. She on the other hand didn’t seem to have a problem with the darkness, her palm finding his cheek with a sure movement.

“I missed you.”

Gently his hand dove into her hair, pulling her to him, until his lips softly met her forehead. “I missed you too. Terribly.”

His other hand smoothing over the middle of her back, he pulled her into him like he knew she loved. Suddenly snippets of their last call played before his inner eye, those rare moments when their longing seemed almost unbearable and made them both all whiny and soft. It had been in one of those moments that she had told him how much she missed the way he held her, caging her in with his strong arms, making her feel so secure in his embrace. And as if she remembered her words as well, she rested her cheek on his chest with a contented sigh, her fingers lazily raking through his dark fur. 

Gradually he could feel her breath even out against his skin as sleep claimed her once more. While his lips found her hair, he could sense another wave of the familiar warmth take hold of his whole body. He was home again, with her. Utterly chuffed, his eyes finally fell shut, before the steady drum of the raindrops against the window slowly lulled him to sleep as well.

Part 2

[laiqualaurelote]

The Fiddle Game says Keeley or Roy to me (or both). Is that right?

Thank you for choosing from the DVD extras menu of Such Great Heists! Neither Keeley nor Roy here, but The Fiddle Game is possibly my favourite of the extras (and nearly a whole fic on its own). It draws on this story about a guy who bought a drawing in a yard sale for US$30 and discovered it might be a Albrecht Dürer worth millions, and this story about a rogue Melbourne gallerist who ripped off his artists.

The Fiddle Game

Li Xing presses her nose to the glass window of the Caruso Gallery. If she stands in a certain spot, she can hear snatches of what is being said inside - like what the American with the moustache is saying to Roman Caruso.

“I wouldn’t part with it if I didn’t have to,” the American is saying. He is middle-aged, pale blond, with a moustache that droops like a walrus. “It was my late wife’s, you see. It’s gotta be worth something. I mean, look at the initials, don’t that mean something?”

Roman is staring down at the small drawing with that twist to his mouth that Li Xing used to think meant critical appraisal, but now recognises as a sneer. “I don’t know what to tell you. The initials might not mean anything. I can have some people take a look at it, figure out its value, but I wouldn’t expect too much, if I were you.”

“Okay, you do that.” The American is subdued, eager to please. Something like desperation showing behind his eyes - Li Xing knows this feeling all too well, has seen it for countless days in the cracked mirror she keeps in her studio, ever since she realised that Roman wasn’t going to give her back her paintings, that even if he sold them she might never see the profit from it, that it is only a matter of time before she can’t pay the rent for the studio any longer and has to move back to Harbin with nothing to show for the years she has slogged in London, trying to make her way through the impenetrable art world.

Maybe she should warn the American about art dealers like Roman Caruso. But people had warned her, and she’d still let him take her art, because who else was going to? And now the American is leaving, and Li Xing has her chance as he passes her, but she holds back. She’s always afraid that words will fail her, that people will hear her accent and laugh. So she says nothing, and lets the American move past her into the street.

Li Xing keeps watching. Roman isn’t going to let slip where he’s keeping her paintings, but she doesn’t know what else to do. She can’t make new art, she can’t think straight. All she can do is stand at the window as the hours tick by.

In the Caruso Gallery, people come and go. The drawing that belonged to the American’s dead wife lies unwrapped on the counter, and they don’t pay it any mind. None of them - except the man who comes in as the afternoon is waning. Maroon blazer slung carelessly over a shoulder, silver streak running through his dark mane. Looks around the gallery like he’s going to take it apart. Art critic, probably. He walks past the drawing on the counter, then does a double take. Takes a pair of glasses out of his pocket and peers at the drawing through them.

“Why, Mr Caruso,” he says when he has got Roman’s attention, “I didn’t know you had an honest-to-goodness Dürer in the shop. How is it that this isn’t already up on the block at Christie’s?”

Roman is blinking, wrong-footed but recovering quickly. “A Dürer, you say?”

“The initials, my dear fellow - surely you must have noticed. And - may I?”

Roman allows the man to remove the drawing from its frame and lift it to the light. “You see here the trident watermark with the ring? The mark of Dürer’s patron, Jakob Fugger - only Dürer would have access to this paper.” He whips off his glasses. “How much would you take for this? A million?”

“I - I’d have to consider the - ”

The man huffs. “Playing hard to get, are we?”

Roman reaches out and takes the drawing gently but firmly away. The man has made a mistake, Li Xing thinks - he has set a price, and whatever that price, Roman will always want more.

The man’s face shutters. He hands Roman his card. “I’ll be back, Mr Caruso. I hope you’ll have had time to reconsider then.”

When the man has left, Roman starts making calls. Li Xing huddles by the window, trying to read his lips. “I mean, hypothetically speaking - no, I’m not saying I’ve found anything, but if I hypothetically had found an original Dürer - excuse me? Could you repeat that figure again?” She’s so absorbed that she doesn’t notice the reappearance of the American in the gallery.

“I’ve decided not to sell it.”

Roman gapes at him, hand over receiver. “Wait, what - ”

“It’s the last connection to my wife that I got,” the American is saying. “I can’t lose that. No, sir. Thank you for your time, but I’ll be taking that back now.”

Roman slaps a hand down on the drawing's frame, possessive. The American looks down at his hand, confusion filling his eyes. And Li Xing can’t take it any more.

“Don’t let him take it,” she blurts out as she bursts into the gallery.

They’re both staring at her. Li Xing fights the bubble of panic rising up her throat, threatening to choke her words as they form in her mouth. “He’s going to cheat you,” she babbles, “that’s what he does, he took ten of my paintings and he won’t give them back and there’s nobody who will help you, nobody - ”

She feels security come up behind her, grab her arm. “Please,” she nearly screams, “please, believe me - ”

Roman is already moving smoothly between them, obscuring her from the American’s view. “My apologies for the intrusion, just a disgruntled artist who’s been harassing us. I’ll offer you thirty thousand pounds for this. What do you say?”

“Gee, I don’t know - ”

“Forty thousand. That’s my final offer.”

The last thing Li Xing hears before she is bundled out of the gallery is the American saying “...yeah. Yeah, all right.”

Li Xing walks home in the creeping fog. In her studio - she’s sleeping here to save on rent - she puts on some instant ramen, texts an update to the WhatsApp chat group of artists who have consigned work to Roman. Don’t know how much longer I can do this for.

Hang in there. This from Toby - he’s a sculptor, Roman owes him some twenty thousand for sales of his work. You’re due some luck soon.

Li Xing’s parents named her for luck. It hasn’t worked so far. She eats her ramen, then curls up on the ratty couch to sleep.

She wakes with a start in the dark. It takes a while for her eyes to adjust, but then she sees the figure silhouetted against the window.

She screams and scrambles for the light switch. The figure yelps - it’s a young man, clutching something broad and square. They both freeze.

“Hola,” says the stranger in her studio. Moving very, very slowly, he lowers the object in his hands - she sees now it is some kind of packing case - to rest against the wall, next to nine others like it. He backs away, hands out as if to placate a spooked animal, and leaps up onto the sill, nimble as a lynx. He smiles at her, open and easy, and then he throws himself backwards out of the open window.

Li Xing rushes over, but there’s no sign of the man on the street below. She crouches to open the nearest packing case with shaking hands.

It’s her painting. They’re all her paintings, the ones that Roman said he’d sell for her and she thought she’d never see again. She claps a hand to her mouth, eyes blurring with sudden tears.

Things happen quite quickly after that. In the morning she gets an e-mail from Welton & Associates, and she has to reread it three times to be sure it’s them asking if she’s looking for representation. On the phone with a nice man called Mr Higgins, she stumbles over trying to explain that yes, she’d love to work with them and she knows they’re very reputable but she’s just got out of a bad deal and she’s not sure she wants to rush into another. The next thing she knows, Rebecca Welton herself is standing in her poky studio, examining her paintings. She lingers in front of the one Li Xing did during her first year in London, which remains her favourite, though she’ll never say. “You made this when you were lonely, didn’t you?”

Li Xing can’t trust herself to speak, so she just nods.

“Mm,” says Ms Welton. “It’s fucking horrible, isn’t it? Being alone. But sometimes it’s necessary.” Then she says to Mr Higgins, who is hovering in the background, “We’ll take all of them.”

“Righto,” says Mr Higgins, and writes Li Xing a cheque for forty thousand pounds there and then.

Toby shows up at her vernissage in Whitechapel with the news that Caruso Gallery has been shut down. Something to do with Roman trying to sell a forged Dürer, apparently. Oddly enough, twenty thousand pounds had appeared in Toby’s account a few days before, from an unknown sender. “D’you know anything about that?” asks Toby, and Li Xing, a little heady from the champagne she’s unused to drinking, just laughs and laughs.

Over Toby’s shoulder, she sees two men standing in front of her favourite painting. It’s the hair she recognises first, that silver streak, and then when the other turns, she sees that it is the American, though his hair and moustache are now dark and trim. He says something to the man with the glasses which makes him roll his eyes, even as his mouth quirks with a kind of private fondness that Li Xing feels herself an intruder to witness.

It is the man with the glasses who sees her first. He smiles, thin-lipped, and reaches out to catch the wrist of the American, who is gesticulating animatedly. He nods in her direction, and the American turns, grinning broadly to see her.

Li Xing bites her lip. Thank you, she mouths.

The American mimes an exaggerated shrug of Who, me? His companion sighs, fond and exasperated in equal measure, then winks at Li Xing and turns, pulling the American with him as he goes. Hand in hand, they disappear into the crowd. She never sees them again, and she never forgets them either.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

72 Hours In Montreal [Part I]

A/N: Many moons ago, the incomparably lovely @im-an-adult-ish​ pitched a Montreal concert fic idea (jokingly, I think), and quite a few of my followers fell in love with it. They were even kind enough to vote on which Queen member should be the love interest, and there was a clear winner: John! 

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and at last, here is the first of three chapters of this new mini-fic. I’m going to tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy. 💜

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together...or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (not graphic). 

Word Count: 6.8k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @escabell​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​ @deacyblues​ @tensecondvacation​ @brianssixpence​ @some-major-ishues​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @youngpastafanmug​ @simonedk​ @rhapsodyrecs​ ​​​ @joemazzmatazz​​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​​ @namelesslosers​​ @inthegardensofourminds​​ @sleepretreat​​ @hardyshoe​​​ @sevenseasofcats​​ @jennyggggrrr​​ @madeinheavxn​​ @whatgoeson-itslate​​​ @herewegoagainniall​​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​​ @pomjompish​​ @allauraleigh​​  @bluutac​​ @johndeaconshands​​ 

The obnoxious British men are still laughing. The one with the mustache, suspenders, and illogically tight red leather pants is standing on the tiptoes of his equally red Adidas shoes to paw candles off the top shelf so he can sniff them. The blond one has no less than eight jars balanced precariously in his wiry arms. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing is billowing through the shop speakers.

“Oh my god, he’s gonna break something,” you moan in a whisper, covering your eyes but peeking through your fingers. Your apron is suddenly too tight around your waist; your cheeks are roaring with blood as you envision the inevitable confrontation: Sir, unfortunately you ruined some of our giant tacky overpriced candles and so now you have to pay for them. So sorry. Paper or plastic? We take Mastercard.

“Who?” Kevin asks. He’s holding a broom in one pudgy, pinkish hand and a dustpan in the other. He has surrendered.

“That one. Suspenders and moustache guy. Red shoes guy. Dorothy without Toto.”

Kevin cracks a smile. “That is frighteningly accurate. He is rather whimsical, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll click his heels and disappear back to London or wherever.”

“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” you mutter in commiseration. Actually, to be perfectly literal, you’ve never been to Kansas in your life.

“Wait, I think I might have met that guy before somewhere.” Kevin squints with great concentration. “He looks oddly familiar…”

“Hm.” You check your eyeliner wings in your reflection in the cash register screen. From what you can tell, they’re every bit as tragically asymmetrical as you remembered. Spectacular.

“Staring won’t make it better,” Kevin notes, very unhelpfully.

“I know,” you reply, miserable, toying with your bangs so you can hide behind them.

“How does that even happen? The right one is practically a 90-degree angle. The left one looks like you drew it on with a Sharpie.”

You groan. “I’ll try to scrub them off during my break.”

“If you’re not too busy helping me sweep glass off the floor, sure,” Kevin says. “I told you, I took an electrical engineering class as an elective once. I could totally take a look at your bathroom.”

“I thought you said you failed that class.”

“No, I said I got a D in that class. Ds aren’t failing.”

“Well now you’ve convinced me.” You scrutinize your reflection again, frowning. You rent a rather dilapidated one-bedroom apartment above a bakery just a few blocks from the Yankee Candle shop. The apartment always smells like powdered sugar and baking bread, which you like. What you don’t like is everything else about it: the peeling paint, the low water pressure, the windows that you can’t wrestle open, the occasional mice, the shoddy electrical wiring. On any given day, there’s an approximately 27% chance that the bathroom light won’t turn on when you flip the switch. This morning you had been on the losing side of those odds, and with the only mirror in the apartment being the one mounted over the sink—and the overcast November skies outside offering painfully little natural light—you had haphazardly guesstimated your way through your makeup routine before dashing off to work. Your guesstimation skills, apparently, are not all that great.

“If he’s The Wizard of Oz...” Kevin points his broom handle from the snickering moustached man to the gangly, poodle-haired one who has been trying to decide between two candles—Christmas Cookie and Cinnamon Stick—for twelve uninterrupted minutes. He’s wearing a parka spotted with patches: a NASA emblem, a soaring rocket, a smiling green extraterrestrial face, Saturn and its rings. “That guy’s gotta be Star Wars.”

“Or Alien,” you suggest, clutching your chest and pretending to die melodramatically.

Kevin laughs. “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

“Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

“What about that one?” Kevin nods to the guy who has large blue eyes and bleach-blond, fried tufts of hair sticking out in every direction and a grin that is simultaneously childish and foxlike. Under Pressure comes on the shop speakers, and the British men all start cheering and high-fiving each other, leaving their candles momentarily tucked under their arms or quivering precariously on the edges of wooden display tables. You are entirely mystified. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“Bye Bye Birdie,” you decide. “Beautiful. Charming. Beloved by all. Perhaps a little dangerous. I can picture teenage girls sobbing themselves to sleep as he gallantly marches off to war.”

“You think he’s gay?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s dressed well enough for that.” The blond man is wearing a shapeless, polka-dotted sweater that has ‘NIVEA’ spelled across the front, for reasons that are difficult to fathom.

Kevin sighs, crestfallen. He suffered a nasty breakup with his boyfriend Patrick two weeks ago, and is enthusiastically on the hunt for a rebound to distract him. “You’re probably right. Okay, last but not least.” Kevin aims his broom handle at the fourth and final British stranger. “What shall we call him?”

You consider the man who has wandered away from the others. He’s wearing Levi’s, a black bomber jacket, aviator sunglasses, a mop of unwrangled auburn hair, thoughtful lines that break around the corners of his hidden eyes. He is browsing unhurriedly, perhaps even distractedly, through the fruit-scented candles. He picks up a jar of Macintosh Apple, sniffs a few times, then sets it back down precisely where he found it. He even spins the jar so it’s label-side-facing-outwards again. You warm to him immediately.  

“One of the James Bond movies?” Kevin offers. “He seems…enigmatic somehow. Esoteric. Yet still clearly leading man material.”

“Casablanca,” you say, not tearing your gaze from the stranger. “I can imagine him waving off some old flame on a foggy, night-draped airport runway, breaking hearts with sparse words of wisdom. Can’t you?”

“Oh, that’s exactly right!” Kevin sighs again, dreamily, yearningly. And whether he’s yearning for his ex-boyfriend Patrick or Bye Bye Birdie a.k.a. NIVEA-sweater man or passion or sex or love or maybe just the ineffable high that accompanies the beginnings of things, you couldn’t say.

You peer at your reflection in the cash register screen once again, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Maybe if I—”

“Freddie!” Star Wars cries, and you whirl just in time to see The Wizard of Oz, whizzing around and giggling and preoccupied with teasing NIVEA-sweater man, stumble into the six-foot-tall tower of Christmas Tree-scented candles and send countless jars crashing to the tile floor.

“I knew it!” you unleash in a rush of misery and exasperation, the biting threat of tears in your eyes and the back of your throat. And of course, it isn’t just about the mess on the floor, it isn’t just about having to tell your manager and hoping to God he doesn’t fire you. It’s about your derelict apartment, it’s about your fucked up eyeliner, it’s about everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months; it’s about the never-ending feelings of helplessness and inertia and predestined ruin, it’s about not being able to get fifteen meters down the street before life throws up another red light, another jagged sinkhole gaping like ravenous jaws. And none of that is these ridiculous British men’s fault; yet still, in that moment the fury you feel towards them is overwhelming.

“Jesus christ,” Kevin mumbles, stepping out from behind the counter to survey the damage, his hands still clutching the broom and dustbin.

“You couldn’t just mosey around and ask which candles are on sale and maybe sniff one or two like a normal person?!” you explode. “You had to come in here acting like goddamn animals and destroy like a third of our inventory?!”

“I’m so sorry,” The Wizard of Oz sputters, looking at you and Kevin with wide, profusely apologetic dark eyes. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man are helping him to his feet, albeit with very spirited chidings. Kevin is grudgingly asking if he’s alright. Casablanca is already trying to sort through which candles are broken and putting those that survived aside. And when he casts furtive glances from behind his aviator sunglasses, they’re directed not at Kevin or The Wizard of Oz but at you.

“Freddie, bloody hell,” NIVEA-sweater man laments.

“I’ll pay for them all,” The Wizard of Oz tells you. “I’m so, so, so terribly sorry, you’re absolutely right to be cross with me, and I’ll pay for everything. Here, let me get my wallet…” He digs around in the pockets of his preposterously tight red leather pants.

“Uh…sir…” Kevin begins uncertainly, not wanting to break the bad news.

“It’s going to be hundreds of dollars,” you inform The Wizard of Oz. “Maybe over a thousand. You’re really going to pay that? Or are you just going to wait until we start sweeping up and then sprint out the front door the first chance you get?”

“Hey,” Kevin warns you quietly. He wants you to keep this job probably even more than you do. You are, by his own admission, far and away his favorite coworker.

“No, no, darling, please, let her scold me, I deserve it.” The Wizard of Oz at last locates his wallet. He sashays to the counter, brushing nuggets of glittering glass off his clothes, and counts out two thousand Canadian dollars in hundreds. “Will that do? You can keep the change as compensation for the inconvenience. And we’ll help clean up as well, has anyone got an extra broom?”

As you stare down at the money, shocked into speechlessness, three hulking men dressed in black come barreling into the shop.

“Lord in heaven, Freddie, what happened?!” one asks. He has a thick beard and an Irish accent and closely resembles a grizzly bear.

“I made a complete ass out of myself and am now trying to win the affections of this marvelous creature,” The Wizard of Oz replies, flourishing a hand towards you. “Is it working, dear?”

“Kind of,” you admit, still stunned.

“Oh my god.” The broom tumbles out of Kevin’s grasp and clatters on the floor. He points at The Wizard of Oz. “I know where I’ve seen you before. You…you…you’re Freddie Mercury, right?”

In reply, The Wizard of Oz only flashes an enormous, toothy, dazzling grin.

“Oh my god,” Kevin says again, a starry, awed smile rippling across his round face.

“Please don’t make his ego any bigger,” Star Wars pleads.

“And you’re Brian May!” Kevin replies. “And you’re…” He turns to NIVEA-sweater man, snapping his fingers, trying to remember. “Robbie…no, Ronnie…uh…Ricky…?”

“Roger Taylor.” But it comes out like ‘Rogah Taylah.’ NIVEA-sweater man extends a hand for Kevin to shake, not the least bit offended. “It’s a pleasure. Sorry about the candles.”

“No problem, sir!” Kevin squeaks as he takes Roger’s hand, beaming. The men in black—the band’s security, you’ve gathered—have descended upon the crime scene, confiscated Kevin’s broom and dustbin, and are rapidly clearing glass and chunks of candlewax from the floor and discarding the mess in a trash bin that usually collects only chewed gum and unwanted receipts.

“So I guess I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you tell Freddie Mercury guiltily, all the venom in your voice evaporated. You’re no Queen superfan, true, but everyone knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody and We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions. And Another One Bites The Dust. And Killer Queen. And Crazy Little Thing Called Love. And Somebody To Love. Your thoughts are suddenly a racing, indecipherable blur. Your knees are boneless. You’ve never met a celebrity before. Well, not unless you count professional hockey players, which you definitely don’t.

“No, you absolutely should have,” Freddie retorts. “I was dreadfully discourteous. I’m positively mortified about it. I should be punished severely. Have you got anything behind the counter to whip me with? A riding crop, perhaps?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry I called you an animal.”

“I’m sorry about the candles. There, now we’re even. Wait, not quite yet.” He calls over to Kevin: “Darling, how would you and your friend like front row seats at our show tonight?”

The squeal that bursts out of Kevin is not human.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Freddie Mercury says, very pleased.

“This is really too generous of you,” you protest, although your heart isn’t in it; Kevin might legitimately strangle you if you screw this up, and you’re finding that you want to see Queen in concert too. It’s something to interrupt the powerless, unrelenting monotony; it’s like something that might happen in a movie or a dream.

“Nonsense!” Freddie announces cheerfully. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man—or, rather, Brian and Roger—are chatting with the security guys and nodding along as the bearlike Irishman reviews the day’s itinerary.

You peer over at Casablanca. Now that the floor is mostly clear, he’s migrating towards you and Freddie. You glance apprehensively down at your reflection. “Goddammit,” you mutter, manipulating your bangs again, wishing you could disappear. “I meet a rock star for the first time ever and I look like this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kevin says, obviously lying.

“I like it,” Freddie tells you, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It’s very goth raccoon chic.”

“My bathroom light wouldn’t turn on this morning and I was late for work and I guesstimated and that was clearly a poor decision.” Poor decisions are my expertise, you think instinctively, and feel a tug of something you don’t quite have the words for. Shame, grief, disappointment, a raw sting like a flame beneath your palm, a dread like a child who’s lost their mother’s hand.  

“I’ve offered to take a look at the wiring!” Kevin exclaims. “I told you, a D is passing!”

“Kev, babe,” you reply. “I really, truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably just make it worse. And then my landlord will hate me and keep my security deposit and write me awful references and I’ll have to live in an endless string of ancient, hideous apartments until I die.”

“It’s an electrical problem?” Casablanca asks, pushing his aviator sunglasses up into his unruly hair. His unveiled eyes are a blueish grey—they remind you of one of the candles, maybe Beach Walk or Bahama Breeze—and very direct. He stares at you and you stare back, and at some point you realize that everyone is waiting for you to answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes nothing happens when I flip the switch. That’s the extent of my handyman knowledge, unfortunately.”

Casablanca nods. “I could take a look, if you like.”

Not Beach Walk. Not Bahama Breeze. Warm Luxe Cashmere, maybe. “Now that really is too generous. I couldn’t possibly put a rock star to work on my terrible apartment.”

“John’s got a degree in electrical engineering, that’s right in his wheelhouse,” Brian counters.

“Yes,” Roger says, grinning, teasing in a way that has absolutely no malice in it. “He’s more of an engineer than a rock star anyway, isn’t he?”

“Seriously?” Casablanca—John, you mentally correct yourself—doesn’t seem much like an electrical engineer. But Roger’s right: he doesn’t really seem like a rock star, either. What John seems like is steady and abiding and perceptive, attentive, unflinching. He studies you like some people study paintings, like you once studied paintings; not in a passing-by-in-a-crowded-hallway type way but in a patient way, a methodical way, with the quiet that comes from knowing that vision in the frame is older than you will ever be and will still be hanging on that wall when you’re bones in a box somewhere.

Freddie lights a cigarette and puffs on it decadently. Smoking definitely isn’t allowed inside the Yankee Candle shop, but you aren’t about to snap at Freddie Mercury for the second time today. “Oh, let him tinker around in your flat, darling. It’ll make his day.”

“Is it far?” John asks you.

“No, really, Casa…uh, I mean, John, I appreciate the offer more than I could possibly express but I—”

“It’s just a few blocks north,” Kevin says, and tosses you a wily smile.

“How convenient!” Freddie trills. “When does your shift end, dear?”

“Not until 5:30.”

“She can take a long lunch break.” Another smile from Kevin. “Honestly, there’s not much to do around here now that the Great Candle Massacre of 1981 has been remediated.”

“Splendid!” Freddie says, radiant.

You shake your head, very slowly. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Then you clearly haven’t lived enough,” Freddie quips.

“Fred!” Roger presses. “Are we going to the bookstore down the street or not? That was the whole deal, we suffer through your candles, you suffer through our books.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering,” Brian says.

“Of course I’m suffering. That cashier over there almost murdered me,” Roger slings back.  

Freddie sighs and rolls his large, dark, expressive eyes. “Yes, darling, of course, don’t give yourself an aneurism. We’ll go to the bookstore, John can rendezvous with us later.” Now he turns to you. “We’ll send a car to your flat at 7 to pick you and Kevin up for the show tonight. Don’t let John leave without knowing your address. Wear something deliciously opulent. Lots of sparkle. Maybe furs.”

“I make eight dollars an hour,” you tell him.  

“Or you could just wear nothing.”

“Sparkle and furs it is.”

Freddie chuckles and turns to the men in black. “Chubby, my dear?”

The towering bearlike Irishman replies: “Yeah, I’ll go with John. Don’t wreck anything else while I’m gone. Don’t get yourselves deported before the show. EMI will have your heads on spikes.”

Freddie pretends to be scandalized. “Causing destruction? We would never.” He saunters towards the shop door, jingling the bells as he swings it open, and waves like royalty. “See you tonight, darlings!”

“Bye!” Kevin shouts after him. And then, after Freddie, Roger, Brian, and the two non-bearlike men in black have departed: “Oh my god I just met Freddie Mercury and he’s amazing and he knows I exist and he spoke to me and tonight he’s sending a car to take me to a concert and I’m going to have front row seats and what if he invites me to have a drink afterwards oh my god.”

John, evidently unaffected, prompts you: “So your place is just a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. Just let me get my coat…”

The man in black—Chubby, as Freddie had introduced him—fetches your coat off the rack by the door and holds it up so you can slip inside it. No one has ever done that for you before.

“…Thanks…?” You button your coat, feeling a little like royalty yourself at the moment.

John pulls open the door, the tiny metal bells jangling, and gestures out into the streets of downtown Montreal. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses again; the November wind gusts through his hair. You catch threadbare ghosts of cigarette smoke and cologne that the breeze lifts from his skin like pages of a book. And he smiles, just barely. “After you.”

You walk north together along the path of the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets, your breath fog in the cold, weaving through the bustling crowds of tourists and holiday shoppers, Chubby trailing not far behind and displaying his talent for keeping watch while not letting on that he is. To even your own horror, you can’t seem to shut up.

“John, this is so kind of you, this is completely unnecessary, you really shouldn’t feel like you owe me anything because Freddie already paid for the candles twice over and I was totally unprofessional for yelling at customers, even annoying customers, and Kevin and I are already getting a free concert tonight and so—”

“Okay,” John says firmly. “You have to talk about something else now.”

“I can’t talk about anything else. All I can think about is how ridiculous this is.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?” he asks, very casually, as if you’re strangers in line next to each other at Starbucks.

“My whole life.” Minus a little over three years, but you don’t need to get into that. “My parents live over in Verdun, right on the St. Lawrence River.

“Sounds scenic.”

“It certainly is.” You’re trying not to look at John, because every time you do it’s hard to stop. You look at the cars rolling by instead. “This is super embarrassing, and I don’t mean to offend you, but what exactly do you do in Queen?”

He’s not offended; he thinks it’s hilarious. “I’m the bassist.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, bassists are quiet and reliable or whatever. Bassists don’t terrorize Yankee Candle employees.”

“You’re not a Queen fan?”

“I’m a casual and appreciative listener, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I couldn’t pick any of you out of a lineup, clearly. Roger is the drummer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Drummers are feral, almost universally. Which means Brian must be lead guitar.”

“And what do you think of lead guitarists?”

“Word on the street is that they are brilliant yet micromanaging egomaniacs, but I don’t want to bash your friend or anything.”

John chuckles, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on yet. “No, please, bash away. So you prefer bassists.”

And finally you do look at him, and you regret it immediately; because now you’re caught in the thoughtful crinkles around his eyes and the barely-there stubble of his cheeks and the playful curve of his lips and how the wind ruffles his auburn hair the same way it steals leaves off of slumbering trees. You almost walk right past the bakery. “Oh, wait, we’re here.”

You lead John and Chubby upstairs to your chronically irritating apartment. John removes his sunglasses, inspects your bathroom light switch, then asks if you have a specific kind of screwdriver. You bring him the toolkit that has lived beneath the kitchen sink since before you moved in and he roots around, finds what he’s searching for, and unfastens the light switch plate from the wall.

“Please don’t electrocute yourself,” you fret, as Chubby meanders around in the living room and tries not to intrude. “If you die your groupies will never forgive me.”

“Who says I’ve got groupies?” John replies, amused.

“I just assumed all rock stars do.” Your eyes flick down to his hands as he fidgets with the wiring; and you notice randomly—or, maybe, not all that randomly—that he’s not wearing a ring. You’re still ruminating over that when he returns the light switch plate to the wall, secures each of the four screws with a few deft twists of his wrist, and performs a test flip. The light turns on immediately.

“Mission accomplished,” John says mildly.

“What?! No, no way, no freaking way.” You flip the switch again. The light turns off and on obediently. You try it at least five more times. Perfection. “…How?!”

“Just a few loose wires. No great hardship.” He tucks the screwdriver back into the toolkit.  

You gape at him. “That took you…like…two minutes.”

“Aren’t you glad my band wandered into your candle shop and almost demolished the place today?” He rests his hands on his waist; his sturdy, skillful, ringless hands. “Anything else I can fix for you?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

“Stop looking at my fucked up eyeliner.”

John laughs. It’s a delightfully clear, disarming sound. “That’s not what I was doing.”  

“I should fix my makeup and go back to work now. And you should probably go help your friends burn down the bookstore or blow up a Starbucks or do whatever else is on your agenda for today.”

“Soundcheck and dinner, actually,” John says. He slides the toolkit back beneath your kitchen sink, meets Chubby by the front door, and pauses there to give you one last lingering, laden gaze. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“In my best furs,” you purr in your most convincing Freddie Mercury impression.

“Or nothing at all,” John suggests levelly. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out better than you thought it would. Your tan, knee-high suede boots are celebratory without being too uncomfortable. Kevin brings you a faux fur jacket that he stole from Patrick during the breakup. You find a glittery black dress in the back of your closet that you once loved, then couldn’t stand to look at, then forgot existed entirely; but tonight it’s like you’re seeing it with brand new eyes. It fits even better than you remember. In the mirror, you look like a stranger and a hauntingly familiar acquaintance and yourself all at once.

Chubby arrives in a black limousine at precisely 7pm, parks along the curb next to the bakery, and honks the horn twice. You and Kevin dash down the narrow steps and climb into the backseat, finding complimentary cigarettes and bottled water and chilled champagne. As the limo rolls though Montreal under changing traffic lights, Kevin prattles on about the band, their history, their albums, their tours…and John in particular. He tries to tempt you. You resist valiantly…for the first fifteen minutes, anyway.

Finally, you sigh in capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I get it. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s divorced,” Kevin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I saw it on the cover of a tabloid a while back. Very contentious, spicy stuff. He’s got like eight kids.”

“He does not have eight kids!”

“Okay, maybe not eight. But he has a lot,” Kevin insists.

You rearrange your hair with deliberate flippantness. “What do I care if he’s divorced?”

Kevin grins. “You know why you care.”

“Stop,” you plead.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he definitely likes you. And you like him. And I haven’t seen you like anybody, ever, in the…wait, let me count…the nine whole months that I’ve known you. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend? When was the last time you got laid? Oh my god, it hasn’t been nine months, has it?! That’s way too long to go without sex. No wonder you’re so serious all the time. It all makes sense now. You poor thing. You’re in dick withdrawal.”

“Assuming that’s my problem—which it isn’t, by the way—if I wanted to get laid there are far easier ways to accomplish that.”

“Sure,” Kevin says. “But you don’t want just any dick. You want British bassist dick. John Deacon dick. Casablanca dick.”

“This friendship is terminated.”

Kevin cackles, pouring himself a glass of champagne that bubbles over the top and spills onto the limo floor. “I’m really glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we can do this together.”

You fill a champagne flute with bottled water and clink your glass against his, smiling. The limo is turning into the parking lot of the Montreal Forum. “Me too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The backstage room that Chubby escorts you and Kevin to after the show is full of chatter and heavy smoke and roadies and fans and musicians and journalists, trays of hors d'oeuvres, wine and Stella Artois and vodka and tequila and rum, the electric promise of things that will go unmentioned in the morning. There are stacks of stereo speakers in the corner rumbling out Another One Bites The Dust. You and Kevin camp out on a green velvet couch—making small talk with each other to avoid making it with anyone else—until the band arrives.

John is still wearing his concert outfit: blue pants, blue shirt, a black leather jacket that gives him an edge like a knife. He passes out a few polite nods; but Freddie and Roger are undeniably the suns in this room, and the guests their planets. Freddie is soon surrounded by a constellation of followers and whisks Kevin away with him. John, meanwhile, comes straight to where you’re sitting on the couch and stands in front of you with his messy hair and his veil of cologne and his mystery-candle-blue eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks in that calm, measured way that you’ve learned he has. “Rum and Coke? Moscow Mule? Hurricane? I’ve been on a mojito kick recently.”

“I don’t drink.” And you wait for the inevitable awkwardness that usually follows that sentence, when he says why? or seriously? or maybe just oh in wilted disappointment.

Instead, what John says is this: “No problem. Rum minus the Coke?”

You smile up at him. You can’t help yourself. “That would be perfect.”

There are innumerable drinks already poured on a table, dark carbonated liquid trembling in red plastic cups as the bass from the stereo speakers quakes through the crowded, droning, smoke-hazed room. John moves from cup to cup, taking tentative sips before shaking his head and putting them back down on the table. After each attempt, he casts you a rueful smirk before continuing on to the next cup. At last, he finds two unadulterated Cokes and brings them to the couch: one for you, and one for him. He sits beside you with one of his legs crossed over the other, a lit cigarette in his right hand, a red plastic cup of Coke in his left, and his eyes on you in a way that isn’t hungry or arrogant or restless but merely, benignly contemplative. You find yourself thinking of paintings in museums again, you even start to feel a little like one; and you wonder what colors he sees in you, what types of brushstrokes, what signatures scribbled in the corners of the canvas, what shadows painstakingly penciled in to mimic the angles of the sun.

You tell John about growing up in Montreal, about autumn strolls along the St. Lawrence River, about snowfalls and Mont-Royal and Chinatown and the Notre-Dame Basilica, about the exhilarating turmoil of the Summer Olympics in 1976. You tell him about how Kevin is in his last year at Concordia University and works part-time at the Yankee Candle shop for money to invest in his hair gel and travel fund. You tell him so many things he doesn’t notice all the parts you leave out. In return, John tells you about himself; not about John Deacon the bassist of Queen, but about the understated man who likes cars and electronics and the Beatles and tea in the evenings beside a roaring fireplace. And when his arm comes to rest on the back of the green velvet couch, and then across your shoulders, and then around your waist, it doesn’t feel strange at all. You lean into him as you exchange stories and clandestine giggles until you’re nearly in his lap, and that doesn’t feel strange either. And you haven’t had a drop of alcohol—you haven’t in almost a full year, in fact—but you feel a little drunk tonight, because your cheeks are hot and the room is blurry and the world is brimming with a pure, rose-gold, uncomplicated happiness.

The other band members periodically stop by to say hello, clutching their drinks and making stilted pleasantries as you and John smile drowsily up at them, looking nothing like the soberest people in the room. Chubby and the rest of the men in black are simultaneously omnipresent and scarce, which you are beginning to think is a requirement inked into their job description. Kevin, having been fully absorbed into Freddie’s entourage, is beaming and flushed and extremely, blissfully tipsy. And they all watch you and John not with scandalized sideways glances but with warm approval swimming in their gleaming eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” you tell John when you are alone again. “For improving my dreadful apartment. So thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I hate that I marred your time in Montreal with unpaid labor.”

He shrugs it off. “I like fixing things. It’s what I’m best at.”

“Besides being an internationally acclaimed rock star, you mean.”

“I’m honestly not so sure I’m cut out for the rock star life.”

“You are, though. I saw you. I watched you all night.”

John just stares at you, and then he leans in even closer, inhaling deeply. You can feel the heat of his breath on your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck; goosebumps spring up across your skin like stars at twilight. “What the hell is that? Perfume? Lotion? Shampoo?”

“It’s probably sugar and baking bread, because I live on top of a bakery.”

“Does Yankee Candle make anything that smells like you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “They definitely do not.”

“They should,” John murmurs. And with the rough whirlpools of his fingertips he turns your face to his so he can kiss you.

It should be kind of humiliating, right? Making out with some guy you just met on a green couch in front of thirty strangers, your hands getting tangled in each other’s hair, your lips meeting again and again, taunting darts of the tongue and quick painless bites and stifled moans and grasping tugs at clothes that you’re starting to wish weren’t there at all. It should feel embarrassing, you should feel overexposed, here in this land of unfamiliar expectations and accents and faces. But no one seems to be watching too closely. This must be so tame in the world of rock stars, it occurs to you; almost wholesome. And you can’t remember a time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“There’s a pool table in the next room,” someone says, startling you, and you break away from John to discover Roger perched on the arm of the couch, grinning coyly as he sips his emerald glass bottle of Stella Artois. “I mean…you know. If you’re into that. John’s got all sorts of moves, we played for days at a time at Ridge Farm. You could challenge him to a round or two. Place bets. But be warned…he’s a total pool shark.”

“Is he?” you ask mischievously, clasping the lapel of John’s leather jacket. Even if you freed him, he shows no indication of retreating. He’s raking his knuckles back and forth along the length of your thigh that your little black dress leaves exposed, never venturing above the hem.  

Roger winks. “Just thought you might want to know.” Then he hops off the couch and disappears into the crowd again.

John is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours, and no lower. He’s trying to not be even vanishingly forceful. He’s trying not to sway you. But you know exactly what he wants. “Do you…?”

“Show me how to play pool,” you whisper. And you lead him through the shuffling bodies and boisterous, increasingly intoxicated laughter and cumulus clouds of cigarette smoke to the door on the other side of the room.

Beyond the threshold you find a pool table and not much else. It’s terribly unceremonious; it’s absolutely perfect. You can hear Blondie’s Call Me playing back in the packed room where the rest of the band is still reveling, the bass crawling through the walls to radiate in your eardrums, your bones. You lock the door and reach out to flick off the harsh florescent lights, but John stops you. You don’t have to ask him why. He wants to be able to see you. He asks if this is okay—again, wordlessly, with the forthright blue of his eyes—and you nod. And then he kisses you as you drag him in, breathing in his cologne and nicotine, tasting the virgin Coke on his lips that he drank just for you.

John tears off his leather jacket. You toss the faux fur that Kevin lent you to the floor. You climb up onto the pool table, and John follows you. You yank off his shirt, link your suede boots around him as he positions himself between your naked, down-soft thighs. And then John stops.

“Look, I have to be honest,” he says. His hands tremble as they cradle the small of your back, just barely. “I’m newly divorced, and I’m really out of practice, I mean really out of practice, and this is not at all my usual way of doing things, and if I’m total rubbish or only last like thirty seconds or something I just want to apologize in advance and swear that I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make this worth it for you. Because I like you. I really, really like you.”

“I’m a little rusty too,” you confess with a small, sheepish smile. But he doesn’t need to know exactly how rusty you are, or in how many ways, all those layers of blood-hued ruin that spin webs from the skin down to the marrow.

John seems relieved. “Then maybe we’re even.”

You’re not even, you’re nowhere close; but it’s comforting that he thinks you could be.

John kisses you again. His hands find the zipper on the back of your dress, and then the tiny metal clasp of your bra, and then the black lace of your panties…and then everything else as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you return together to the green velvet couch in the next room, not with bashful swiftness but with your hands entwined, your eyes satiated and calm, your clothes unapologetically rumpled. The partying is winding down. The song pouring through the stereo speakers is In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. And now you and John don’t talk very much at all; you just sit there with fresh cups of Coke, your head resting against his chest, his left arm draped around you, watching the rest of the universe spin on like a carousel as your feet stay rooted to the earth.

“So you’re the smart one,” you say eventually. “You must be, with an electrical engineering degree.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re rather erudite, as far as rock stars go.” He smiles drowsily down at you. “Freddie’s got a degree in graphic art and design. Roger has one in biology. Brian has the better part of a PhD in astrophysics. He might even go back to finish it one day. He probably will, just to be able to lord it over us.”

“Wow,” you reply, distantly, suddenly feeling very small.

“What did you study?” he asks you.

In truth, you never finished college; but you aren’t going to tell John that. “Something useless.”

John is intrigued, and perhaps a little concerned as well. His brow furrows with grooves like lines of fortune in an open palm.

“I wanted to be a painter,” you explain, smirking at the absurdity. “But the world doesn’t need painters anymore. They have pictures and videos that are just as clear as real life. They don’t need my fantasies or interpretations. They have reality.”

“I think we still need painters,” John disagrees, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy circles around your bare shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yeah. For when reality requires improving.”

You let a few moments of silence tick by. And then you put on your faux fur jacket, finish the last of your Coke, stand and find your balance on the low heels of your boots with exhausted, shaky calves.

John jolts upright, somewhat alarmed. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“This was great, John. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time. So thank you for that. But I have to go home now.”

“Okay.” He studies you, processing. “Okay, okay. I’ll have Chubby drive you.”

“That’s really not necessary, I can get a cab…”

But John has already waved Chubby over, and the massive man appears serendipitously with an impossible degree of stealth. Kevin finds you, staggering, babbling breathlessly about all of his adventures, showing you where Freddie and Roger and Brian signed his chest with a black Sharpie, repeating the same stories on an identical loop every few minutes. As you leave, you offer John a brief parting wave; and he returns it, like a reflection in a mirror, but he’s wearing a pensive frown and eyes dark with thought. Then again, maybe you are too.

Chubby leads you and Kevin outside to the waiting limousine. You slip into the backseat, ply Kevin with bottled water, open the sunroof so moonlight and cold, reviving November air can flood in like a river.

Kevin is coming down now from the high of the champagne and the concert and the carousing with Freddie Mercury. He blinks, soaking you in, really seeing you for the first time in hours. “Wow, you had a good night with Casablanca. You had a really good night.”

“Yeah,” you reply softly, resting your head against the window and watching the stars and streetlights pass by above like seasons. “And it will never happen again.”

[sinkix]

~ Haikyuu!! Boys baking with reader - Ft. Ushijima, Tendou, Oikawa, Hinata & Nishinoya ~

YO! SO UHHHH... I’M BACK??? I GUESS?? MAYBE??? After a little break I had this in my drafts for a while and realllyyy wanted to complete it since it’s such a cute concept. Honestly at this point my posting frequencies are so sporadic and random pls forgive me lmao.

@deathcab4daddy​ gave me the inspo to include Ushi and it was so funny coming up with ideas for him, he is no.1 country boi chef 

Dude I’m listening to the Mario Kart soundtrack ‘Coconut Mall’ while I continue writing this someone save me. Like u think I’m joking. UR WRONG.

Ushijima:

The most straightforward yet idiotic baker you will ever come across.

Before you even THINK about performing step 1, he will read the entire fucking leaflet like it’s a Shakesperean monologue.

INGREDIENTS INCLUDED.

LIKE SIS I DIDN’T NEED TO KNOW IT CONTAINS  MONOCALCIUM PHOSPHATE THANK YOU.

I’m surprised he doesn’t count every single particle in the brownie mix.

You bought him a frilly cupcake-printed apron stating ‘best wife’ not expecting him to actually wear it

But since he’s secretly a big softie and treasures anything you buy he wears it proudly.

His stoic and dignified disposition is a comical contrast to the words printed on the front lmao.

Ushi best wifey bro.

The tight fit of the apron is pretty hot since it outlines every ridge of his pecs and tightly toned torso.

Gotta resist groping your mans while stirring the brownie batter.

tbh he’s more likely to grope you, he can’t resist that a$$.

And let’s face it he’s def an ass/thigh kinda guy.

Can and will try to casually initiate some form of unholy activities by lifting you up onto the kitchen counter, goading you to slowly lick the spoon and locking gazes before pulling you in for a deep, open-mouthed kiss to get a taste of the incomplete creation himself.

Ushi’s lips and brownie batter are a knock-out combo js.

Literally has the most serious face when he’s cracking the eggs into the bowl

The amount of concentration is equivalent to that of when he’s performing a serve at match-point.

HAS to set the temperature to the EXACT degree stated on the box

Everything is done by the book if you do one thing out of place he will pull you up on it lol.

“(Y/N) you were supposed to stir it for 5 minutes, not 7.”

When its done you feed him some and he can’t help but smile its so ADORBALE AHHH.

You end up eating most of it since Ushi doesn’t strike me as much of a chocolate/junk food lover.

STILL A VERY FUN BUT F R U S T R A T I N G EXPERIENCE.

Tendou:

The complete opposite of Ushi

Does everything wrong and the unconventional way.

Absolute disaster but doesn’t even sweat it since Tendou basically thrives in chaos and the disorderly.

To him instructions are purely equivocal, will read them for five seconds then toss them away.

Step aside Gordon Ramsey, Chef Tendou is here.

Despite doing everything the unorthodox way it still comes out amazing.

Like??? how???

Will cheekily place a dollop batter on your nose then lick it off fh3jkeffefds

Or if he’s feelin’ a lil freaky, he’ll swipe it off with his long ass finger and make you suck it clean, smirking at your submission as you coat his finger with your saliva.

oop-

Constantly cracking jokes and shitty food puns, pretending to drop the bowl to make you go into preemptive cardiac arrest before you can swat him with the spatula.

While you’re waiting for the timer to ping, Satori being the schemer he is will use this as an opportunity to pull some fuckery and tease you in any way he can.

u better be praying like bodhisattva TanaNoya rn because he is MERCILESS.

Suggestive comments, the brush of his fingers against your thigh, it’ll leave you A C H I N G in frustration by the end of it.

Unholy activities aside, once your baking session is completed you finish it off by feeding PHAT forkfuls of brownie to each other and giggling like dorks when it gets all over your mouth.

The jackass actually got a fingerful and SMEARED it over your cheek and forehead, drawing a little cross and snickering when the crumbs fall onto your nose.

Tendou was smart to draw a cross bc he gonna need jesus with the ATTACK you launch on him after that, which promptly leads to an all out food war in your kitchen that neither of you want to clean up after ward.

Don’t worry though it’s Tendou, he’ll somehow find a way to make such a mundane activity fun.

Nishinoya:

stirs WAY TOO VIOLENTLY

IT’S LIKE AN ELECTRIC WHISK ON OVERDRIVE.

IT WILL SPLATTER OVER THE COUNTER, CUPBOARDS AND EVERYTHING YOU HOLD DEAR WITHIN A 1 MILE RADIUS.

You best believe he will try and eat some of the batter and you have to swat the spoon away from his mouth since he has NO REGARD FOR THE FACT HE COULD GET SALMONELLA.

Plus you know what Noya’s like once he starts eating something the whole thing will be gone in a matter of milliseconds.

He somehow managed to get Baking powder EVERYWHERE and even gave him self a little moustache with it.

The white substance kinda looked like something else but you didn’t really wanna say lmaooo.

could explain why he has so much energy all the time oK ILL STOP-

While you’re putting the mix on the tray he is SO extra and will do fancy lil swirls and over extend his arm like a swan to gracefully spread the batter

until he nearly fucking knocks it over.

During processing time since he is so excitable and impatient you best believe he’s gonna suggest a game of ping pong or something because my guy can well and truly never sit still.

ping pong match with the spatulas, kitchen island and a hard boiled egg.

Pls be careful he will rolling thunder that egg and pimp slap it so hard with the spatula it’ll damn near give you a concussion, not intentionally, but like protect your noggin. Wear a helmet.

For the remaining 5 minutes of baking time y’all just sit like kids in front of the oven and watching it rise like starved hyena’s observing it’s pray before demolishing it into sad particles of cocoa.

And lemme tell u, once the timer pings, that baking tray is free real estate for Noya. Half of your creation will be devoured before you can even put it on a plate and marvel at your handiwork. 

He kicked your ass at spatula ping pong btw I’m sorry sweaty but short kings stay winning.

Oikawa:

Such a dramatic bitch like he got the whole she-bang going on.

Strapped with a pink apron, a whisk at his side and standing proudly with both hands on his hips.He is prepared like a greek gladiator going into battle.

You better believe he gonna make some snarky remarks and tease your method of doing things. 

“Ah-ah-ahhh (Y/N)-chan you’re doing it all wrong, let me show you how a PRO does it.”

Proceeds to drop entire bowl on his foot and yelp like a little girl in pain.

Well and truly embarrassed with himself, you put a band-aid on his toe and he piped down after that.

Shattered big toe and mixing bowl aside, actually a really good baker??

He is a PRO at decorating, y’all decided on cupcakes since its literally his forte to make them look aesthetic and pretty.

You almost don’t wanna eat them from how good they look.

jk almost

You take it in turns breaking bits off and placing pieces into each others mouth with a loud “aaaaaahhh!”

Places a piece in your mouth, leans forward and locks lips with you in a soft, passionate kiss before pulling away and uttering the words “It tastes even better coming from your mouth ;)”

hnnnNNGGGGGGggGg.

You both whine and bicker over who cleans up after.

“You cleaaannnnn!”

“no Toru YOU clean!”

“but I made the cupcakes look pretty :(”

“not as pretty as you <3″

He did the cleaning after that.

Like just stroke his ego with some compliments and he’s whipped with a smug grin on his face for the next 30 minutes.

You decide to save the rest and bring them to his next practise.

Literally on the verge of tears when he sees you beaming and holding the platter of treats, Kiyotani mauls half of them in a matter of seconds to which Oiks gets salty over LMAO.

Hinata:

So excited oh my god he’s so precious please protect him I will CRY-

Has a little sunflower apron on and JBJKNDDDKDW IM SMILING JUST IMAGINING HIM FIDGETING IN EXCITEMENT OVER THE THOUGHT OF BAKING COOKIES.

Yes you decided on cookies bc he goes rabid for some choc chip biccies.

You have to guide him v carefully because of how easily confused and clumsy he is.

Cannot for the life of him crack the eggs without getting a quarter of the shell in the bowl so you have to do it instead.

Has a surprising amount of strength and forearm power bc holy shit boy can stir FAST.

Hums a little tune while he does it and bobs up and down with a wide grin on his face it’s so adorable, he has such a gentle singing voice I can’t-

Attempts different shapes with the batter when pouring it onto the tray but fails pretty miserably lol.

he tried ok???

Once they’re done he takes the tray out of the oven and since it was heavy, subconsciously propped it with his knee and nearly dropped the entire tray from the pain. (I’ve actually done this before when making chicken nuggets I do not advise being that brain dead)

Had to put some burn cream on the bbies knee :’((

When you decided to dig in, he handed you a cookie that looked like a crooked circle and said he tried to make that one a heart and insisted he feed it to you.

Blushed VERY hard at the moment of silence and intense eye contact while he fed it to you.

Nearly short circuited when his fingers brushed against your lips.

Moe moe x100000000000000000000000000000

You offer to do the cleaning after because he hurt himself and you didn’t wanna make him do any work, but he still offered to wipe the surfaces for you bc he’s an angel <333

literally just wanna marry him.

[thecatprince]

A Heart Can Be Broken But It Still Beats On

Read it on AO3

Summary: Roman breaks after spending so long trying to do what’s right and failing. The others try and help him, but he lashes out at all of them.

Warnings: Depressed Roman, Suicidal Roman, He lashes out at all the others specifically Janus, Virgil, Logan and Patton, so a bit of character negativity. Really just a lot of angst.

Authors Notes: Another Roman Post-POF Angst Fic? By me? More likely than you might think. I had a lot of fun writing this. Credit for a bit of Roman’s speech goes to @unring-this-bell‘s comic (which you should go check out)

Inspiration credit goes to @transformationloveb. I took some of your prompts and sort of mashed them together, and I think you might like this. 

Words: 2659   

Reblogs > Likes

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Roman stumbled through the rooms of the mindscape. He felt so empty, so deflated and so broken, so desperately, painfully broken. He felt like crying, but no tears would come. He felt so useless, so helpless, so hurt. No one needed him, no one wanted him, and he wouldn’t be surprised if no one even liked him. He felt so fucked up, so goddamn useless, so pathetic. Roman turned the corner to head down the hall to his room trying to keep it together until then. Unfortunately, his room was at the very end.

He heard Remus’ chaotic cackle and it took all of his strength not to break down then and there. As if there wasn’t enough in the world to remind Roman of how pathetic he was, how horrible he was, how disgusting and unwanted he was. He could vaguely hear a voice scream ‘REMUS’ and his thoughts just got louder. If they hated Remus then he couldn’t imagine how much they hated him. Janus words echoed in his head, “If it wasn’t for the moustache, I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is.”

He heard voices coming from Virgil’s room, and he looked in as he passed. He saw Virgil and Remus sitting on the floor, bottles of nail polish spread in between them. Virgil was evidently trying to stop Remus from drinking all the nail polish, and they were both laughing. Roman felt a wave of rage flood his body, replaced quickly by the overwhelming feeling of hurt and betrayal. Painting their nails had been a small thing that only Roman and Virgil had done for the longest time now. Whenever one of them was overwhelmed they would go into one of their rooms and get out the large assortment of nail polish Virgil had stored in his room. Of course you would choose him over me, Roman thought bitterly, staring at the two sides. “Hey Ro-Ro,” Remus said cheerily, catching sight of his brother. “Wanna join us?”

Virgil turned around to face Roman, his face immediately turning into one of guilt, then concern as he took in the other sides face. “Of course you replace me with him. Why am I even surprised?” Roman fought back the tears that threatened to spill forth. “Even you prefer him to me.”

“Roman-“ Virgil began, a mixture of guilt and worry on his face.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Roman said. He turned and ran down the hall way. He was vaguely aware of Virgil calling after him, but he didn’t care. He was all out of caring. He needed to get away, to go anywhere but here. He would do anything to make the pain, the loneliness, the brokenness go away. He barely payed any attention to his surroundings as he ran forward and opened the door to the Imagination. He stopped when he saw the state of it.

The green fields and peaceful woods were gone, replaced by brown valleys and dead trees. His kingdom had disappeared, and the sky, usually a bright, brilliant blue, was now a stormy grey. Roman recovered from the shock of how different it looked, and continued to run. He wasn’t sure where he was running to, he only knew that anywhere was better than here, where he was constantly reminded of how unwanted he was and how much everyone disliked him. He kept running until he was out of breath, until his lungs ached and his head was pounding. Even though it hurt, the pain felt so good and refreshing.

He fell to his knees and began tearing at his prince outfit, trying to ruin as much as he could. He didn’t deserve any of this, not his signature sash that now made him sick to look at, not his once pristine white top with the gold embroidery that he had spent such time on. He felt some sort of sick satisfaction at tearing apart the outfit he had spent hours on years ago. He was so naïve back then. He had believed he was worthy of their love, that he was loved, that what he did was good enough. Roman continued to ruin his costume until he was just wearing rags, and he was just left feeling empty. He wanted to cry, to let it all out, to do anything to get rid of all the horrible things he felt, but the tears wouldn’t come. He just sat there, all alone, surrounded by fields of nothing. He shook as silent sobs racked his body, but still he didn’t cry. He was too broken, too empty to cry.

After what felt like hours, Roman calmed down. His face was dry, his body ached and his ragged costume was in a heap on the ground in front of him. If he just stayed here, would anyone miss him? Would they even care enough to look, or would they just continue on with their day as if nothing had happened? As if Roman had never even existed? He could just imagine them sitting around the dinner table, Remus in the chair Roman usually occupied, all laughing or rolling their eyes at some bad pun Patton had made, or listening to Logan recite facts on astrology. They were probably having a grand old time without him. Probably happy too. What he would give to feel happy again, to feel anything other than this aching sadness.

Roman stayed there for a few more minutes until he heard voices in the distance. He must be hallucinating surely. They were meant to be together having fun. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Why did have to come back and remind him of how shit he was, how much of a burden he was to all of them. Roman wanted to run away, to make sure they never saw him again. But his body ached and he was so tired that he could barely stand. He felt them come towards him and stand behind him. He didn’t know exactly who was there, but he knew that he didn’t want to see them, any of them. He heard them shuffle around, and he could imagine the looks of disgust being passed between them. He could imagine what they must be thinking looking at him crouching down on the ground, wearing rags, so dirty and so pathetic. They would leave soon. They would regret coming. They would realise that they had made a mistake and that he wasn’t worth it. They would leave and forget about him. Forget about how stupid and naïve he was. He waited for the footsteps to recede, but the more he waited the more he realised that they weren’t leaving. He heard someone clearing their throat. He winced, waiting to hear what they would say. Probably how much they hated him and how he was letting down Thomas.

“Roman,” a voice said and Roman felt a renewed wave of rage as he realised that Janus had the audacity to come and see Roman. He had expected sugar coated reasons why Roman had failed from Patton, rude comments from Virgil, hard cold facts from Logan and even something from his twin, but he had not expected Janus to try and sweet talk him the reasons why he had failed this time. He couldn’t take any more from him any longer.

“WHAT?!” Roman yelled, standing up in a fit of anger and whirling around to face Janus. He paused when he realised that everyone was there, but quickly regained himself. “What do you want from me now?”

“Roman-“ Patton began hesitantly, but Roman was so sick of having to bend over backwards to try and do the right thing. He was so sick of being built up only to crumble again. He was so sick of feeling this way, of being treated as another pawn in Janus’ grand scheme, of being manipulated and deceived and straight up overlooked. He had sacrificed everything to do what everyone wanted him to do, he had done everything they wanted and he had been thrown in the dirt like a toy they were sick of.

“I tried being nice, I tried to be better, I have done everything you wanted, what more could you possibly want from me?”

“I-“ Janus began, but Roman cut him off.

“I have sacrificed everything to be the person you wanted me to be, but I am never good enough.”

“Roman-“

“SHUT UP!!!... I mean, don’t call me that. I’m not Roman. He is the person you wanted me to be and I have killed myself trying to make you happy, all of you,” Roman’s voice was cracking and he barely paid attention to the shocked faces before him. “And I am so DONE with being treated like dirt, for doing everything you wanted, for trying to learn and to do what everyone wants me to do and then have it thrown back in my face. Do you know how much it hurts me, every time I do what I think is right, do what I think is good, only to be told that it’s not, that I am wrong? Every fucking time I try and learn from an experience I am told something different. I was mean to Virgil so I try to make it up by being nice to Deceit. And do you know how that goes? I end up being manipulated and in the wrong. So I learn. And now I am once again wrong. So wrong. And I don’t know where I went wrong. I tried being everything you wanted, but I always end up being wrong.

“And no one sees the tears, no one notices the sadness, no one knows the pain, but you all see my mistakes. So I am done. I am done with being the nice guy, done with feeling so pathetic and sad and empty. I am done with trying to be everything you want me to be, tired of having all my ideas criticised and looked over, tired of having to sacrifice everything to be half of what you want of me. Nothing I ever do is good enough, I am not good enough for you. So you will no longer have to deal with ‘Roman’. No more mess, no more drama, no more noise. Sounds nice doesn’t it? Nothing unnecessary getting in your way now.” Roman stood there, taking in the variety of shocked and worried faces. Patton stood out to him the most, tears running down his face.

“Roman, I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you and you know I love you,” Patton said gently, wiping the tears away.

“Do I though?” Roman asked, sounding more broken than ever. “Patton, you are amazing. I look up to you so much, and for years I have followed in your footsteps, believing you knew the way. And I still believe you do. But you had a choice. And you chose him.” Roman gestured towards Janus. “And do you know how much I suffer to make you happy? I sacrificed the callback to go to the wedding, to make you happy, because when you are happy, Thomas is happy and that is my top priority. But I all I get in return are lies and betrayal. You’ve made your choice, Patton. I have defended you and done everything you wanted, and I was so happy to do that because I was so convinced I was right in doing so. But you didn’t even defend me today. You could’ve done something, you could’ve been on my side, but you chose him over me. He is a liar and cheat and he will build you up just so you can fall down harder, and you chose him over me. What did I do wrong, Patton?”

“Roman-“ Virgil tried to cut in, to try and explain things, but Roman wasn’t finished.

“Oh, don’t even get me started on you.” Roman turned to face Virgil full on, his voice breaking with anger and hurt. “You constantly put me down. I do everything I can to be nice. I try to stop calling you nicknames, I try to stop insulting, I apologise over and over again, and yet you never do the same. I have tried time and time again to be a better person, and yet you put me down over and over again. You insult me, you shoot down all of my ideas, and every time it feels like a slap in the face. And I am doing everything I can think of to make it up to you for all those mean comments I made before you were accepted, but I am trying my best and I never get a kind word back. Nothing I ever do is ever good enough. And I get that not everything is fine and dandy being Anxiety, but I try my best and it never gets me anywhere. And as for you,” Roman began, turning to Logan, whose face was almost impossible to read, “none of my work is ever good enough for you. I am too extra, too passionate for you. My ideas are always terrible and I can never seem to measure up to your impossible standard of creativity. And you think that you are getting ignored. It would be nice to know that you were at least listened to recently. Do you remember where I was when you were giving your neat little explanation when my dear little brother showed up? I was knocked out on the ground. You think you’re being ignored. You have no idea how much you are being heard.”

“And I am just so sick of being told I am wrong, that I am not enough, that I am just no more than just an unnecessary, extra piece of Thomas that no one really wants anyway. You all wanted me to be good? Well look what you have done. Are you happy now? Now that Roman had finally broken, now that I have sacrificed everything for you? Am I finally good enough? You have all run me to the ground. Is this what you wanted of me? Am I finally right? Or am I wrong again? Like I was with the callback, like I was with Janus, like I am with everything I do? All I ever wanted was to be right, to be a hero, to try and be everything you wanted of me. Is this enough? Am I now enough for all of you? Have I sacrificed enough to be right, to be worthy of being myself, or do I need to go further? Because how far do I have to go to prove myself to all of you? All I ever wanted was to be wanted, to be loved…” And with that Roman collapsed onto the ground.

His body felt limp and broken, but he was conscious. He was so tired and he ached and ached and he felt so empty. He heard his name being cried out as he fell, he saw the sides crowd around him, felt them check if he was okay. He felt strong arms wrap around him, felt his body being picked up gently and being carried against someone’s solid chest. He wanted to fight, to leave, to die, to do anything than stay alive and face another day of this emptiness. But he was too tired to fight, too exhausted to jump out of the arms that felt so comforting to him. He didn’t deserve any of the kindness that they showed him. Because he had to admit, no matter how much they hurt him, they were kind to him. He closed his eyes and just let his body relax into the chest of the side carrying him. He didn’t cry. He was too hurt to cry. A heart can be broken, but it keeps on beating just the same.

[cullen-collective]

*cough cough* @emmettmccartycullen started this *cough cough*

***

"Get the fuck out here! You're making me wait and I do not enjoy waiting!"

"Yes dear," Edward said. "I remember the months before our wedding better than you do." He finally emerged from the bedroom with a fluffy blanket and the giant beanbag chair Bella had gotten him for their last anniversary.

"Hardee har har." Bella flopped down onto the bag as Esme came in and settled on the couch near Emmett and Rosalie.

"Bella, please stop cursing during family time," she said. "Beside that, once we start the video the f-bombs will fly freely anyway. No need to get a jumpstart."

"Yeah, sis, watch your fuckin' language." Bella snorted loudly and Emmett guffawed at his own joke. Rosalie rolled her eyes and smacked Emmett's shoulder as Esme sighed.

Edward settled on the beanbag next to Bella and draped the blanket over them. "In case you were wondering," he said, "Alice has surely seen us decide to watch this without her and she will not be pleased. Jasper and Carlisle will also be disappointed."

Rosalie shrugged. "Their fault for being out of town when it got uploaded."

"Can we press play? I've been looking forward to this for a week." Bella shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The fact that she was incapable of being uncomfortable didn't seem to phase her in the slightest.

"We are literally immortal, love. The extra few seconds for everyone to settle in cannot kill you. Nothing short of a ballistic missile can kill you." Edward punctuated the sentiment by draping his arm around her shoulders and planting a kiss to her temple.

Bella huffed but smiled when his lips connected with her cheek, then her hairline.

"I'm going to hurl."

"Ignore Rosalie."

"You always say that." Bella giggled.

"It's always good advice."

"Oh my God, Ma, start the video before we become extras in the Ed and Bella poetry hour," Emmett said, looking thoroughly disgusted.

"Don't call me Ed!"

"Okay, okay, I'm playing it, everyone quiet down." Esme hit a button on the small remote and the giant screen filled up with the two faces that brought the family together without fail.

"So right now, we're in Monroe, Connecticut, were about to go pay Annabelle a face to face visit..."

"Such a terrible idea," Emmett muttered.

"It's not real, so," Edward shrugged.

"This week on a special episode of Buzzfeed Unsolved Supernatural, we investigate Annabelle the doll as part of our ongoing investigation into the question: 'are ghosts real?'"

"No," Esme said, and Edward shook his head.

"Would you two shut up!" Bella said. "I'm missing the beginning! And yes they are." She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. "Ryan presents tons of evidence."

"Evidence that could be literally anything."

"The evidence could be my foot up your ass," Rosalie suggested.

"That person is probably weirdly attached to that doll," Ryan's voice cut through their argument.

"Hear that, Emmett? You're way older than twenty-eight, you have to get rid of your dolls." Bella laughed out.

"Oi! Those are collectible action figures. I am not weirdly attached."

"It doesn't matter because none of them are possessed," Edward said.

"Because possession isn't real," Esme chimed in.

"Oh my goodness, we get it, you're skeptics, pick a new hobby." Rosalie crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her head on Emmett's shoulder, eyes glued to the screen as she admonished the "Shaniacs".

"Just a little concrete evidence and I'll get a new hobby," Edward said.

"What's the most disrespectful thing I could do to her?"

"Give her a wet willy!"

"Throw it in the toilet!"

"Tell her that her momma's fat!"

"Call her a virgin who can't drive!"

"Draw a moustache on it!"

As Shane and Ryan approached Annabelle's case, Bella snorted. "This is like watching someone enter the room the killer is in during a horror movie."

"You mean fake? Yeah."

"Mom, what the hell?!"

Edward reached behind him and slapped five with Esme.

"Oh God, I hate the spirit box," Rosalie said. "That noise is super annoying for our ears."

"Yeah, I'm actually with Shane on this," Emmett said.

"We want a response!"

"Why?! That guy is for sure going to get drained dry one day." Bella had half her face covered by the blanket.

"His blatant disregard for the supernatural makes me think that's unlikely."

"Vampires and werewolves you have down pat, but ghosts is the line you draw?" Bella's eyebrow shot up.

"Yeah. Because the others I can see. And hear. I've never heard a ghost's thoughts."

"HOLY SHIT THE FLASHLIGHTS!" Emmett suddenly shouted.

"Oh fuck!" Rosalie said.

"Tell me when it's over!" Bella threw the blanket fully over herself.

"They leave them right on the cusp of on and off," Edward said. "Small vibrations."

"Dude, that is some solid fucking evidence."

"No, Emmett, it isn't." Esme shook her head. "It's just science."

"Between me and you... he's free rein."

"I'm totally telling the spirits that about you if we ever come face to face with something malevolent," Bella said, poking Edward in the side.

"Glad to know I have full spousal support."

"Yep. I am the pillar on which you stand."

"... on those who cross her path... remains..."

"Unsolved," the five of them said in unison.

"Think of what a gift it will be if you survive the next couple weeks, no accidents, no nothin', you can put her on your little list of ghouls!"

"Put her on the list, because she isn't real," Esme said.

"They can't hear you through the screen," Rosalie said.

Just then there was a loud crack as the door flew open. Lightning shot through the sky, illuminating the figure standing menacingly at the entryway.

Emmett cowered behind Rosalie and let out a very girlish shriek, and Bella clung to Edward, who clung back just as tightly.

"Take them, I have a husband and kids!" Esme shouted.

"We are your kids!"

"Now is not the time for logic, Rosalie!"

"I cannot believe," the figure in the entry said, with the voice of an ear-shattering banshee, "you watched Buzzfeed Unsolved without me!"

Bella peeked her head out from Edward's chest and got a better look at the figure without the lightning in the way.

It was Alice.

And she was livid.

"Told you guys she'd be upset."

[bowieandqueen11]

Called It/ Platonic!Klaus x Reader x Diego Hargreeves

Prompt: Might be too long and stupid but what about (young?) Klaus discovering that there's "number 8" kept in the basement? Years later she shows up for the funeral and Klaus recognizes her, rest is up to you 😍. And if it ends with some Diego fluff I'd love you forever LOL

Thank you for sending this in love I’m ready to write some Diego fluff XD <3

Giggles fill the otherwise silent halls of the Hargreeves Mansion. From up on the second floor, Grace looks up for a second, her head tilting slightly to the left before she begins smiling to herself, glad to hear the children play for once.  She returns to her embroidery, her finger moving masterly in time with the needle as the soft thread patterns it’s way into a half-crescent. From the other side of the house, Klaus stifles his laughter as he runs down the oaken hallway, his thick navy socks slipping unevenly down his thighs as Luther’s ‘three...two...one!’ fills his head, whipping around in a slight panic. He throws himself against the wall before veering a sharp right around the corner, nearly running face first into the  velvet door of an ancient cupboard which his fingers wrap around the doorknob of.

Stepping into the darkness, his shoulders shift uncomfortably against the back edge, his blazer scratching against his elbow as his nose bumps against something quite large and quite solid. His heart races slightly as his fingers reach forward, trembling in the blank darkness as apprehension’s tendrils wind their cold tendrils around his heart, his breath coming out in short puffs as his fingers reach out slowly, slowly and tentatively. They close around something thin and hot, and Klaus nearly jolts away, but instead a small ‘ack!’ leaves his lips as the object moves against him, grabbing his wrist. ‘

‘Klaus, you weirdo, find your own hiding spot’, Diego whispers.

Throwing him out, Klaus trips over the few trinkets that fall out the door, ignoring Diego’s eye roll as he throws his arms up, shouting ‘thanks for nothing!’ Stepping backwards, eyes still narrowed at Diego’s shaking head as the door swing shuts again, Klaus’ hips bump against the edge of the ivory table that lays near the entrance hall, the old orange lamp wavering slightly before teetering over the edge and falling with a sick thud onto the floor, shattering into a million little pieces. Klaus freezes, his eyes widening in slight fear as the cogs in his mind tick, a million different plans flying through his head as he hears Luther shout ‘I’ve got you guys now.’

He decides to run, a grin lighting up his face as he flies down the hall like a rocket, careful not to trip down the stairs again. A slow shiver runs down his back as he leaps onto the hallway floor, his hand coming up to run over his jaw which still aches slightly at the memory of being wired shut. He hears large thumping coming from the stairwell above, and so he flies around the corner and keeps running until his skinny legs begin to ache as they pound off the floor. His feet slow slightly, his breath puffed as he spots a large black door near the back of the house which he doesn’t recognise, not noticing the yelp of Five that echoes through the halls as Luther’s hands land heavily on his back and shouts ‘got you!’ Feeling the clock ticking down, Klaus goes over his options. Either go back the way he came, and fear either bumping into Luther, or even worse, the big cold dead eyes of his dad. ‘What on Earth are you doing, Klaus’, he mutters to himself, staring up at the ceiling as he sighs. That rules option number one out. Plus, he wasn’t about to lose his bet with Ben, he was going to be the last one standing. That leaves option number two. He steps towards the door, his hand coming up to rest against the sleek black steel, slight intricate designs bumping underneath his fingertips, cold seeming to seep out from the cracks and wrapping him in thin wisps of smoke like pale hands reaching out for him. He turns the auburn key that lies in the lock with a small creak, pushing the door open with all his might, nearly tripping down the wooden stairs that lie before him. Throwing one final look back, he steps forward into the dark.

He fumbles in his pocket, knocking the half unrolled joint out of the way as his fingers wrap around his lighter, flicking it on and squinting into the room. Coming down to squat behind a few cardboard boxes that litter the floor by the stairway, he frowns to himself as he sees stickers labelled ‘Klaus’ drawings’ or ‘Vanya’s test results’ placed on their tops. He’s knocked out of his daydream by a slight moaning coming from the opposite wall, slight murmuring coming from two large frames he can just make out standing a few feet away from him. Raising his lighter, he leers forward slightly, his fringe falling over his forehead as he hears a low ‘please, please let me go home. I just want to join in.’

‘That’s not going to happen, number eight. In a few days you will have a new home, with people who might actually care about you.’

Klaus flinches back slightly at the sound of his father’s unforgiving voice, swearing to himself as he rocks back too far on his heels and his hands scrape against the floor, breaking the skin. As he pats around desperate to find his light, he feels a large hand wrap around his collar and drag him yanking and kicking back up the stairs, his thighs hitting painfully against each step as his eyes stay as wide as saucers, unable to look away from the hunched frame and crying eyes that run towards him squealing, loud ‘please’s tumbling out of her mouth as her father shuts the door.

‘Wh-wh-who was that, papa?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, number four. Are your powers playing up again?’

‘Nein, papa, there was someone down there, I saw...’

Reginald Hargreeves yanks Klaus to a stand, his face leering down slowly so Klaus could see the slight twitch of his nose before his eyes, the little crack that still runs through his monocle from Vanya’s experiments, the uneven trim of his moustache as it twitches in anger. ‘It must have just been another spectre, right Number Four.’ Klaus nods, fear making him tremble slightly in his father’s grasp as his hold fails, looking down at him for a moment, as distant as the crevice of a mountain before walking off and leaving him standing alone.

Klaus stands at the edge of his family, alone in his thoughts as the rain pelts down upon his pink umbrella like bouncing starlight, thin streams of his cigarette smoke swirling in front of his eyes as the little feathers lining his sleeves tickle the delicate skin that rests underneath his white bracelet. He looks around, bored already at Luther and Diego’s fighting, but his eyes crinkling slightly in amusement as Five storms into the house. The cold wind hits against his bare stomach as he lifts his hand to his mouth, letting his cigarette rest between his fingers as he looks up at the sky, closing his eyes for a moment and just letting the large blue swirling void pass him by for a moment before all the pain kicks in again.

Looking back down, flinching as Ben’s bronze head hits the ground with a dull crash, he shouts an annoyed ‘nice one!’ Tilting his head to take one more look at dad’s ashes, his breath hitches for a moment, fear encompassing him. He didn’t expect the ghosts to come back so quickly. And yet there you were. The girl who had haunted his dreams every night since he was sixteen years old, just standing there on top of the yellow dying grass as the rain drenches your hair. However, when Diego drops his knife slowly to his side, confusion widening his eyes as he takes a step towards Grace, his hand out protectively as his eyes never leave yours, Klaus relishes in the fact that he was right about one thing.

‘You! It’s you!! I knew it!! Called it, I’m not going crazy!’ He laughs quickly, a toothy grin lighting his face as his fingers spin the umbrella, wandering over to you as he says ‘it’s you, number eight.’

Diego steps forward, one eyebrow raised as he stares in shock at Klaus. ‘Number eight?’ Klaus winks at him, saying lightly, ‘I told you there was another one like us.’ Diego hesitantly comes to your side, his fingers still naturally twitching against the knife strapped to his waist as you look up on them, your tears mixing with the rain that patters down your cheeks like dew drops as you whisper, ‘you. I remember you. The kraken, right. The boy with the big brown eyes that shined like starlight and yet were always so sad. The boy with the stutter.’ He looks down at you, eyebrows completely furrowed by this point as his shaking fingers reach out to stroke stray curls away from your eyes, before falling to the dip of his cheek, gazing at you with such tender and wonder Klaus coughs dramatically. Diego’s breath hitches in his throat, captivated and completely unable to move as your fingers reach up to press gently against his temple, tracing the path of his scar as he watches you.

‘I have some bad news’ you say, not noticing Diego’s disappointed look as you drop your hand. ‘The apocalypse is coming in five days, and I have no idea how to stop it.’

[meowloudly15]

Stranded: Day 9 - BREAD HINDRANCE

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Gwen felt exhausted, even though it was hardly 5 in the evening. Everything had taken its toll on her, especially the unceasing atomic disjunctions.

“So, what do you say we get shawarma before saving the world?” asked Peter B., trying and failing to sound chipper.

“What’s shawarma?” asked Peni.

“Hah, it’s only the best type of food anywhere ever, besides pizza bagels, of course! C’mon, I know the best spot! At least, I hope it exists here!”

Peter B. led the spider-gang through the streets of Manhattan to a restaurant called the Shawarma Palace. They ate there in silence.

It was the perfect excuse for Gwen to ponder what Peter B. had told Miles. “A leap of faith,” he had said. And he was right, for once.

What was her leap of faith?

...

Monday evening was the hardest evening she had ever spent crimefighting. Gwen hadn’t bothered to go out over the weekend after Peter had died. Putting on the costume that day felt strange, like she was wearing somebody else’s clothing. Torn clothing, actually. Before she could set out, she had to repair the damage done to her mask. It took her 90 minutes to fix it, sacrificing part of her bedsheet.

With her promise newly made, Gwen set out to fulfill it.

It was easier said than done.

Her first foe was a mugger who was threatening a young man at knifepoint. Gwen assumed that the takedown would be simple and painless. It was neither of those things.

She misjudged her leap and landed squarely on the victim of the mugging. The young man hit the ground with a loud thud and a softer crack. He didn’t make any effort to get up, even after Gwen stepped off of him. The bell in her head started up again.

The mugger took Gwen’s shock as the perfect opportunity to attack. He stabbed her in the upper arm. She yelled and kicked him in the gut. The mugger stumbled backwards, dragging the knife down her arm. Gwen winced and clasped her hand over the wound.

Before she could react, the mugger stood up and rushed her again. Gwen stepped aside and grabbed the man’s right hand, crushing it. He screamed. Gwen finally disabled him with a punch to the jaw.

She helped up the mugger’s victim, who was in a great deal of pain. “I’m so sorry, sir. Are you all right?”

“My head… owww...”

Gwen managed to half-carry, half-escort the whimpering victim to the emergency room. A kind nurse bandaged her stab wound while she was there.

She set off again. This time, she walked, since her injured arm wouldn’t allow her to web-swing.

“You’re that super-freak who killed the kid!” yelled a middle-aged woman on the other side of the street.

Gwen gave her a sarcastic salute. “Yeah, hi, nice to meet you too. I’m your friendly neighborhood Spider-Woman.”

“Go burn in hell, mutant!” hollered another guy.

Gwen rolled her eyes behind the mask. She wasn’t one of those creepy mutants. At least, she didn’t think she was.

“I’m no mutant, dork, though judging by your face, you might be,” she replied acrimoniously.

The bell in Gwen’s head grew louder, fueled by the untrusting gazes and half-heard whispers of passersby. She broke out into a run to escape it.

She darted down the street, running faster than she thought was physically possible, until she collided into somebody. That somebody was a woman, a tall, stocky, pink-haired lady with tattoo-covered arms.

“What’re you doing in those funky clothes, girl? DashCon’s not until February.”

“Oh boy,” Gwen muttered.

The tall woman squinted at her. “What’d you call me?”

“Uh, uh, nothing, ma’am!”

The woman grinned, showing a missing tooth. “Now that’s the kind of respect I like to hear. You’re the superpowered girl who killed the boy, huh? I recognise you from the news.”

Gwen nodded nervously, slowly edging away.

“A’right. Then how’d you like to join our gang?”

Gwen’s eyes widened. Of course she didn’t want to join a gang! She wanted to be a hero, not a villain! Why did everybody think she was the bad guy? That wasn’t her plan!

“No thanks, ma’am,” she blurted out. “I’m actually trying to stop people like you.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed again. “All right, superhero, have it your way.”

Gwen squared up.

“Chill out, I’m not gonna fight a kid. Pick on somebody your own size.”

Gwen relaxed and walked away.

She immediately remembered her promise and whipped back around. The bell clattered in her skull.

“Sorry, Pink Panther, but you’re going down!”

Gwen shot a web at the woman. It adhered to her back, and she used it to yank the woman over to her. However, the woman was both ready and angry. She pulled out a gun, flicked off the safety, and fired.

Gwen didn’t know that it was possible to dodge a bullet at point-blank range. She also didn’t know that a bespectacled lady in her late thirties stood a few yards behind her.

Gwen crushed the gun with her hand. She knocked down the pink-haired woman with a foot to the neck. She ran over to the lady, who was bleeding from a bullet wound in her gut.

She carried her to the hospital, but it was too late.

The bell let out deafening clangs.

Gwen didn’t remember how she had climbed to the highest strut of the Queensborough Bridge, nor did she recall how long it had taken to get there. Even less did she know how many people had heckled her or given her untrusting looks along the way, although she was vaguely aware of it happening. She was trapped in her own thoughts, not caring what happened on the outside.

All the same… she did care. And she knew what had brought her to that place.

She had broken her promise. She had tried so hard to succeed but had failed nonetheless. Everything she did resulted in her hurting others! Everything! Why, oh why couldn’t she do anything right?

Connecticut City didn’t need a hero like her. Connecticut City didn’t need her. She wasn’t a hero. She couldn’t be a hero. She would never be one.

Gwen took off her gloves and pocketed them. She pulled up her mask.

She watched the murky water swirl below, then raised her head so she could watch the sun sink below the horizon. The clouds were a beautiful mix of purples and oranges. Somehow, the mess of colours blended beautifully and reflected off of the water, giving it a glow that disguised its pollution. The fading sunlight cast shadows across the far side of gleaming steel buildings.

Any city, no matter how ugly, looked better if it was partly encased in darkness.

Gwen wasn’t scared. She knew that the fear would come later and would end abruptly.

The question was, would it work?

There was only one way to find out.

“Hey, new hero!” yelled a voice from below. It was a man, an elderly man with a small white moustache and large, distinctive glasses.

“I believe in you!”

Gwen pulled down her mask and dove from the bridge.

Time slowed down, and Gwen retreated into her mind.

The old man believed in her. Why? What was there to believe in? Didn’t he know?

He had sounded so hopeful. What hope did she have?

It was the same hope that had led Gwen to get back up and to stop Peter from hurting himself and others. It was the same hope that had led Gwen to believe that she could become a hero. It was a hope that she thought she didn’t have but which resided in her all the same.

She needed to get back up.

She needed hope.

Gwen pulled a glove back on and fired a webline.

Her feet skimmed the water.

She soared into the air, carried by a thread. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, heightening a confusing mix of fury and triumph. She yelled. Her voice sounded clear and wonderful and alive.

It was time for her to fly.

...

Gwen remained lost in thought after leaving the Shawarma Palace. (The food wasn’t as bad as she had expected it to be.)

As much as she wanted to disown it, hope was the one thing that kept her going. Belief was the one thing that let her get up. That, and a stubbornness which stubbornly refused to stop being stubborn.

GAYNESS IMPEDIMENT

Since she wasn’t paying attention, Gwen clotheslined herself on a pole adorned with a rainbow-patterned flag.

“Hey, you alright back there?” asked Ham.

She peeled herself off the pavement. “Yeah, I’m good.”

The Spider-Gang reached a crane which overlooked Kingpin’s large apartment building.

Sp//dr scanned the building. “Kingpin has a private elevator from his penthouse to the collider below the building.”

Noir watched the crowd of affluent-looking people entering the skyscraper. “We can count on having an audience.”

The gang proceeded to peer into the penthouse.

LINCH KING

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” everybody said simultaneously.

Of course, the penthouse was the location of a banquet. In honour of Spiderman.

“What a pig,” Gwen spat.

Ham narrowed his eyes. “I’m right here.”

“Hold on,” interrupted Noir. “Look at how the waiters are dressed.”

They were all wearing Spiderman masks to conceal their identity. And bow ties, because it was a formal event.

“It can’t be that easy.”

It was that easy. After sneaking through the unlocked door to the roof, the Spider-Gang happened upon a bin full of adhesive bow ties. Peter B., Noir, and Gwen each took one.

“Uh, what are ya gonna do with Peni and me?” asked Ham.

“I’ve got an idea,” replied Peter B. with a mischievous intonation. He grabbed a large square tray and one of those food-covering domes from the closet. “Do you have any glue?”

“I think this will work,” said Peni. She pulled a handful of gumballs out of Sp//dr.

Eww.

After five minutes of vigorous chewing, the tray was attached to the top of Sp//dr’s dome. Peni tucked herself safely inside of her robot. Noir draped a white tablecloth over the tray, and bingo: instant serving cart.

When Peter B. gestured to Ham to go under the food dome, he refused.

“C’mon, where else are you gonna hide?”

“For Pete’s sake, I won’t do something so undignified!”

“Nobody will see you! We’ll keep the lid over you the whole time.”

Ham sighed. “Fine.”

And so the Spider-Gang entered the banquet undisturbed, posing as waiters (and a waitress, and a serving tray, and a roasted pig).

“It’s that easy,” commented Peter B.

Did they have Easy Buttons in this dimension?

LINCH KING

“I just wanna thank MJ for being here this evening,” said Kingpin from his dais.

Peter B. stopped in his tracks and turned to look at the woman in question.

“MJ?”

Oh boy.

Gwen snapped her fingers in front of Peter B.’s face. “Pay attention!” She pushed him back towards the “cart”. “It’s not your Em Jay, Peter.”

Peter B. seemed to relent, but then he swung the “cart” back towards Em Jay’s table. “Excuse me, but I gotta…”

Gwen intercepted the Spider-Cart. “Peter! No! Remember the mission.”

She wasn’t getting through to him.

“Trust me, I’ve been there. You gotta move on.”

“C’mon, it’ll take one second!” he pleaded.

BREAD HINDRANCE

Peter B. let go of the Spider-Cart and started to jog over. He stopped in his tracks upon seeing Em Jay standing directly in front of him.

“Hello,” said Em Jay.

“Oh. Wow.”

“I was just wondering if we could have some more bread at Table 12.”

Peter B. remained stock still, frozen by… was it anxiety? Guilt? Well, it was something, and Gwen was not going to get involved in whatever it was. She could only hope that he’d realise that the mission was more important than his not-ex-wife.

“Uh, yeah. I’m just… I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry.” Em Jay chuckled. “It’s just bread.”

Gwen couldn’t stop herself from facepalming. Noir looked on, as impassive as ever.

“I… I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I didn’t even try.”

Em Jay looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, uh, that’s fine. You know, I should really get going.”

“I know I could do better! If I only had the chance to get you… the bread that you deserve!”

This situation would probably be hilarious if it weren’t so important that Peter B. not act like a moron. Gwen needed to take action before it got worse.

“Are you okay?” asked a disconcerted Em Jay.

Gwen stepped up to pull Peter B. away. “Ma’am, we’ll get you some bread right away. Just sit tight.”

Em Jay nodded and walked away. She looked relieved.

Peter B. continued to wax poetic. “For you, they should fill this place up with fresh bread.”

Had his shawarma gone bad?

Gwen led Peter B. back to the Spider-Cart. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good, ‘cuz we’re not getting her any bread.”

The Spider-Gang left the dining hall and headed into the kitchen.

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[bowlerhatwearer]

Lost Guilt

One Shot by Bowlerhatwearer

Ghost Pupper/S,Snow by @stedilnik

Ervin Niedmüller by @bowlerhatwearer

Warning: Story involves: drug abuse, blood, semi strong language, death

Before this story starts I have, to avoid confusion say two things:

- Ervin speaks with a German Accent

- The paragraphs jump between first and third person narrative.    With the exception of the last who is also written in third person.

Read to your own risk.

~~~~~~

“Shit” It’s the first thought that shoots in my brain, what a “great” way to start my morning. The sunlight blinds one of my eyes, something I tried under all circumstances to avoid but failed already in the moment when I didn’t close my with smoke and other substances ridden curtains. Not fully awake yet I get up, looking at myself it’s easy for me to notice and remember that I didn’t got out of my clothes that I wore since yesterday, no, since yesterdays yesterday. The mustard stain on my grey shirt reminds me of the date, I think.

Dry, like a plant that desires water since several months but is denied the liquid, that’s how I feel right now, or do I feel like this everyday? Since I went deeper down the never ending spiral my brain can’t make good connections any more, it is in a 24/7 hour mood.  Like searching a needle in a haystack. During my walk to the bathroom I inhale the flavour of cold smoke, mostly from tobacco but also weed. Evidence from this claim are the cigarette packets next to some beer, medication bottles and some ends of self rolled joints. My next thought is as scrambled as myself, but I can only smile about it.

Cold, I forgot to turn on the boiler again didn’t I? A rhetorical question at this point, whatever, I can shower later, with my senses a bit more clearer I know now that I need to get out of the student apartment, but where to go?  The park? The train station of this forsaken city? The woo- nearly automatically I clench my hands on the sink, breathing heavy, do I really want to go to this place? Really, especially today? It takes me a while, minutes probably, like my mind, my feeling for time is lost. I’m lost. The cold water helps my senses,  my face confronts in the shining glass, I can only grin about the guy who meets me in the mirror.

A Cat, medium size with grey-black stripes, the fur is felted and dirty. Some pieces of it is in some places lighter or non-existent. Mostly because of scars or injection sites. Sometimes the healed injuries and cuts happened due of meaningless fights. The ember eyes are dull, or rather became dull with time, ridden with tear sacks and folds that a feline my age should not have. A soft smile reveals on the first sight nothing, but inspecting it closer one of my eye-teeth broke off a bit, it’s what you get when you mess with the wrong dealer.

“Miss Beauty Queen first price” the words, coming from my mouth sound more like croaking rather than speaking, from all the smoking I must’ve been getting hoarse.

Before I decide to leave my messed up bathroom I take some medicine bottles with me, mostly painkillers and sleeping pills, never hurts to have those.

My next station would be the kitchen, but I don’t feel hungry, since days, weeks or months I don’t feel it. Despite eating only one burger a day it feels as if I’m not loosing weight, maybe it’s due of the liqueur, I don’t know. With a single click on a button I look at the landline phone, despite not old at all it’s already ridden with three and a half cracks on the earpiece something that just happens if hit it with all force on the table.

Looking at the answering machine I notice that I have four absent calls.

All of them from my parents.

They still think I’m in law school, actually university, they put a lot of money into it and me.

Put a lot of money in a failure, a junky, a criminal.

A Murderer

I’m one, no I’m not, or am I? I’m not sure how you call someone like me?

Pulling out the last crumbs from my eyes I head to the door of my flat. It’s dramatic, a tragedy and I’m the protagonist of it. My parents believe I’m still the son they raised, still going to law school to become a “highly respected truthfully member of society, a lawyer” I became a victim of myself and drug abuse. That’s what I’m now. A well aware mistake, a failure, a slacker who still gets send money from his parents, despite thrown out of the university months ago, they just don’t know.

All of this, could’ve been prevented on that day, that one year anniversary. My one way ticket to oblivion and destruction.

Forgetting my self pity for a while I go down the stairs, I don’t greet anyone, say no word, just stomping down and further down the stairs, destiny, bus station. Which is not too far ahead from the building. Everyone I see on my way, I don’t recognise them really, they all became blurry one day, unimportant, they are like shadows to me.

I’m just in time for the bus, like me it has seen better days, the city is nice, but like many it lacks the money to buy new public vehicles, they still run the ones from the 60s, when there was this financial uprising, that later ended in quite highly debts and unemployment. The rust attacks the green lack, the leather seats ripped open by accident and or on purpose.

It doesn't bother me being a fare dodger here and there, if they throw me out I just walk the rest of the way.

The seats are nice, not because of their appearance, despite their age they can be comfy and warm, it makes me notice that despite sleeping 10 hours, I’m still tired, so tired, since the final stop is my destination, It doesn't matte, there is always time to sleep time away.

<...>

Knocking, buzzing, knocking and buzzing. It takes the cat a while to notice that it’s his hard-line phone and the door, not the pleasant dream he had that creates this order of sounds. Responding at first with a grunt and the thought to throw the old thing on the wall he rethinks it and tiredly answers, whoever desperately tries to call him. Looking down at the line-phone it’s easily for the feline to answer who is the desperate, or rather annoying caller since no one other he knew would call around this time.

“Snow, zats you?”

“Rise and shine morning cat, it’s already twelve you know.”

“Sorry, I-, I think I napped in vhen studying the...law about trespassing I zink?”

“Learning again tomcat? I thought your test was already last week?”

“Listen S, if you’re in law school every veek is a test, at least for me.”

“Dawww, poor kitty, you sure you don’t want to change the subject?”

“Nah, you know my goal, I vant to help those poor cases, it’s not their fault if they go down zis spiral, it’s most of the time a hard househo-, vhy are you calling me?”

“Oh you know, I’m done with my shift, Alponso is still working, I’m bored-”

“-you vant to hang out?”

“...”

“Danged S, vhere are you even right now?”

“Well, what would you do if my answer is at your door, trying to wake you up with calling and knocking.”

“GOD DAMIT!” the law student didn’t even bother if his neighbours heard him.

It was always the same with S, or Snow, that’s what he called the white furred short-hair dog with long black hair and as black eyes, she would just appear in front of his door or call him, bothering until he would say yes, and the worst of all, he always said yes, one the other side S gave him a change in the grey-black striped cats right now monotone live.

Opening the door as fast as if he was hunted by a pack of racing cars Ervin was greeted by a smaller as him, white dog girl who grinned unsure while greeting him with a short wave before she placed her new so called “mobile phone” in an as white as her fur was backpack.

He wasn’t sure if he should just throw the door right into her face or scream but decided to gave her too a hand sign meaning she should just step in, Ervin didn’t really bother that S, saw him in his olive green flannel pyjamas right now.

“You look se-”

“Nicht ein Wort S, Nicht ein Wort.” despite the words spoken out in German the dog understood clearly that her opponent in the door frame was not amused.

“Aww come on now, and don’t call me S, I’ve a name you know tomboy.”

“Well lets see, you come here vhenever you like, you raid my fridge and call me sometimes during my lessons, so...nein.”

“Killjoy, speaking of-”

“There’s a hamburger in my fridge, you can varm it up in the microwafe while I take a shower and change clothes.”

“And here I thought you would go out in that flannel stile, I heard it’s the newest trend.”

“Haha, you’re killing me S, more than I vish for.”

Showing her dog tongue plus blowing raspberry's the dog girl began to salvage for the said nutrient, that was according to the law student in his fridge.

“Oh and just to be sure-” half trough the door of the bathroom Ervin grabbed as fast as he could his wallet that still laid on the kitchen table

“So vee von’t have zhe accident like last time.”

“I told you it wasn’t me who drew the moustache and monocle on the license photo.”

Grumbling the door got closed and locked.

“How comes that your fancy pants of a roommate doesn't hafe time for you, on a Thursday afternoon?”

“Overtime, he seriously needs the money for the new fridge, the old ones busted and we still try to get out the smell of spoiled milk and rotten eggs.” the dogs voice got mixed with chewing and eating noises, and Evin was surprised that she didn’t choke on it by accident.  

“Vell zat’s vat you get from a two day vacation, an unlucky surprise.”

Ervin began to shift his concentration on the sound of the first cold then warm water that soaked his fur, for a short time there was a relief, but that soon got overtaken by random thoughts of stuff he had to learn from law school, property law or what happens if a person goes missing and so one.

The grey striped cat was about to scream, school, aka university got so bad sometimes that he bought himself a package of sleeping pills and took already from time to time one.

On the one side S, her roommate and their friends bothered him, on the other hand the diversion probably saved his mind from succumbing to madness so he was kind of thankful for S, who was the first he met. Whilst she was on her shift, apparently S had the unlucky destiny to work late and Ervin had the unlucky destiny that most of his courses where late, meaning the time he bought himself some nutritions, may it be sometimes a whole menu or a simple lemonade where always when S was on the cash register. Apparently even an honour roll student like S had to pay bills, something Ervin was not aware of when he met the girl first.  

Turning off the water tab he stepped out the shower and immediately began to dry himself with a towel and then his old but trustworthy fur dryer.

Out of the bathroom with a towel slightly above the waistline he noticed how S was about to eat the last remainder that there even was a burger, the lettuce leave.  

“You know if you vould have moved to me instead of this ramshackle hut vee probably vould already have had a new fridge, premium efen.”

“Of kitty cat of course, and every time I can listen about how awful that last course was and the judge and the persecutor you read about didn’t knew anything about their job eh?”

“That really hurt you know” the voice playfully a bit down and spoken on purpose with his broken English.

Even if Ervin saw Snow sometimes annoying that would go on his nerves, and S saw the cat as a stuffed shirt that never knew when not to have the last word. They both had still one thing in common and that was not only being a Scorpio from their star sign, no, it was teasing and taunting the other until the very end.  But booth did that with knowing the others metes and bounds and when to stop.

“You know, Adolpho IS really nice, I don’t know why you two have such a fuzz over each other.”

Walking into his bedroom he decided to wear something comfy, casual jeans, and a hoodie would do today, better than a shirt the cat thought. Of course Ervin wore also his trusty blue white striped trainers

“Hmm I don’t know maybe it’s oh I mean, him alvays saying how much vork he has to do I mean visouth question he has vork to do, but like, he’s not the only one. And zen his constantly bragging about the stuff he IS doing.”

“That reminds me of someone I and you know.”

“Oh please I’m completely different.”

“Uhhuh.” The cat didn’t have to look at the white dog, he knew her eyes where rolling, probably staring also in his souls at the same time given the cold he felt suddenly in his spine.

“Case closet, where do you vant to go anyvay?”

<...>

It was the announcement of the bus driver that woke me up, end of the line, looking out of the window It gave me a shudder, this whole place whenever I was only near from it, it gave me the chills, but I’ve already decided to be here so. I step out as soon as I can, taking the backdoors of the bus naturally, I’m not really excited to explain myself if the driver asks for a ticket I don’t have.

Those woods, the starting point of a never ending spiral of tiredness, depression and being someone who knows nothing at all, it’s like a noisy TV only showing static in my head once I begin to stroll into the woods, the leaves are green, autumn still a bit away.

Whenever I’m here, out in the forest, I don’t wander off random, no, I only search for this one place, that one building that always haunts me, it was a factory. Did it produce cement, textiles or motor parts, don’t know, don’t care, at least not anymore. The closer I come the more tired I feel, I’ve slept quite much in my, apartment that became more a personal purgatory to me than a safe heaven and in the bus I must've slept around 45 minutes, given that it’s the time from my apartment to this end station.

It-

Hm-

And there she is.

Her presence, even if I’m not looking at her direction, I can feel, she is here.

I think it’s a she, or is she an it and it a she? I don’t know, all I see is white, and black and the eyes, of course the eyes that do not exist.

Whatever it is which I don’t know, it follows me, from all the maths I did, I think “she” is an hallucination, happening of all the stuff I took.

Ohoho and I took plenty, looking at my arms prove that, they are full, full of sometimes big, sometimes small injection sites, some deeper and some not so deep cuts, bruises, scratches, fur that's burnt or about to fall out and of course patches, Iconic, that for such a miserable being that I am, it’s those bandages for children that I have all over my arms and especially the fingers, the only colourful thing on this murderer that I am.

And she, she watches me, sometimes close, sometimes far, in the mirror, in the glass, behind a three in my TV. Do I still own that? Didn’t I gave that former birthday present to a pawn shop for some quick bucks for some quicker wasted heroin?

Gray, once again, static in my head. I don’t know what she’s trying to tell me with her constant watching, heck, I don’t even know what my own brain wants to tell me most of the time. Once it wants this than that but most of the time it wants pills, drugs and liquor oh and tobacco.

Most of the time I ignore this white being that follows me with its hull dark and empty sockets with a small hint of red in it, at least that’s what I see there from time to time in the hollow orbs.

My throat begins to scratch and I let out a heavy cough, lately with the increase of my daily consume of certain substances it has gotten worse, but it’s a curse I have to life with, of course I could go and seek help, but why should I? I was the one who already destroyed one innocent life on this world, so why not another? Why not myself so I can make sure ‘it’ won’t happen again, the murderer that murders himself, quite poetic isn’t it?

The more I come closer to the building, the more it aches me. On one side my body rejects what I give it, on the other it seeks, it demands the chemicals, the pills, tobacco and alcohol I put into myself, sometimes even so much, that I do not care for others, It’s not uncommon that I have to search for a new dealer after an “episode” of mine.

As good as I can, this old cat ignores this white, being, this ghost or illusion or hallucination or perhaps better this sickness of lost guilt that is haunting me for whatever reason, the pictures and memories are unclear about everything. I only know I did something, my mind rejects the clear pictures, only sometimes I see it but can’t make the dots, then I forget it was even there.

When I see her, well, sometimes I greet her, or I try to talk, but she’s mute, I can’t her a thing if she tries to communicate with me or something, and then her stare.

Yes those haunting black hollow sockets of infinite darkness that watch me with judgement of the sins I’m guilty as charged for, but I’m innocent, they made me innocent but I’m guilty, I’m for something guilty I don’t know I’m guilty for a crime I have forgotten, the murderer with drug forced amnesia, what a joke I am.

I reach the building, finally, it felt like aeons to be able to step into it, there is one thing about this old pile that we have in common, we are ruined and about to fall apart, we just don’t know the exact time nor date when it comes against us. When nature reclaims what we took from her.

Since when this building has been crafted, used and then abandoned, I cannot say, but its designed purpose it has long exceeded. I’m not the only lost one who apparently wanders here around from time to time, even if it’s not my most favourite spot.

Syringes, old tablet splitters, bottles and cans of alcoholic beverages are only a few of the messes that have been left around, someone even had the determination to bring a mattress here  into the second floor of this factory building.

Which is not the reason why I’m going up there, no by far not, more because whilst I actually am not a friend of this place I’ve hidden quite a stash here. Some drugs to swallow together with the sleeping pills and painkillers should do a good trip.

Letting out a hoarse chuckle I continue my walking, there are graffiti over graffiti everywhere in this building, black, blue, red, neon green it’s a play of colours drawn on a falling depressed canvas, a wall that once it breaks down takes the art with it. I don’t care for their meaning, I can’t even take care of myself, I don’t know anything about me anymore, sometimes I’m asking myself if the knowledge I have about myself are real or something I’ve dreamt, I do know who I was, but do I really? Since that day, that marks the anniversary today where everything was gone and broke down...who can I trust if not even myself?

When the medicine, my medicine by my orders not by a doctor are helping me, it lets me see the world like how I want to take it, not cold, grey, careless and depressed but artificial warm, a place of colours I haven’t seen for quite a time now, it lets me see the truth. The only colour I really care for is from those bandages for children, I don’t know why, but they are like one of the only things that are being in order in this broken, corrupted mind that’s engulfed in numbness.

After the last step on the crumbling concrete stairs being made I take my time to breath and look around on the second floor, there is a small balcony there, I can only guess it got probably used more for smoke breaks than to look at the view, looking down you would see a still semi intact inner yard with a concrete floor that got a bit torn open by mother nature.  The metallic handrails are trough and trough overtaken and or eaten away by the rust.

I’m tempted to go out there, looking at the sky and just, let my thoughts going around but, heh, I really need to find that stash of mine and secondly she’s out there too...at least that’s what I think, I do wonder, who she was that she is tormenting me like that.

Hiding stuff was never really something I was good at but, no one would really suspect a stash of my special tablet shaped drugs hidden under an old typewriter, to my luck they stayed dry and there is no mouldiness on them either. I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t I became what I wanted to defend, but I need it, to get myself together, if only for a moment, to see the unseen that I want to see but at the same time not, my mind is scrambled like an egg and as fried as a potato. Normally you take those alone, but I don’t mind mixing them up with a bunch of painkillers and sleeping pills. It’s going to be a pretty strong cocktail I’m taking here, leaving me an extra sour and bitter taste in the mouth since I had the “grandiose” idea not to take a bottle of water with me, or at least a juice box.

I think, I think this is even the strongest yet I took, needless to say I’m excited but at the same time ignorant of what will come. My hands are shacking and I begin to scratch myself again like I did so often before on this place, I’m worried about this but the best is now, to remain calm and to rest a bit before my prime time begins. I see her now outside of the room she is watching me, watching me all the time with those dark hollow eyes. The eyes, it’s the last I see before my body puts itself to rest, for now.

<...>

“And the vorst of all of zhis is that- what is this place anyway S?”

“Uhm, I think it was an ammunition factory that closed down after WWII, but it also could also have been a soap manufacture, don’t know, don’t really care either.” looking at him with her tongue stretched out Ervin let out a sigh in the white furred dogs direction.

“Wunderbar, so vhen I step on a landmine I can-”

“Ervin, what did you say before, you wanted to tell me more about Germany.”

“Did I? Na wo war ich-… yes, I vanted to say that vee can’t even visit my relatives in the GDR any more because of my mothers paranoia.”

“Why, is she scared of the east? Scared that they will fire a nuke at her home?”

“Well given zat her uncle got shot near the vall and due of my fathers position she’s afraid that zee Stasi would let us in, pack us up and vee vould never see the daylight again.”

“Oh...and what does your father say about that?”

“Eh, he’s too busy to argue vith her, as a prosecutor he’s most of the time in his ehm...place where he works, you know vhere they are also holding trials, it’s called “Gericht” in German, damn I chould know this!”

“You mean a court?”

“That’s the vord! Most of zee time he has cases vith people that don’t pay their traffic tickets, how boring!”

But to all honestly, the striped cat felt the same right now, he wasn’t bored about being in the woods and near the old factory, no that was quite, interesting, but all the studying and learning was boring, perhaps he should’ve studied something different. But then there was that other thought about how he wanted to help the people with drug addictions when they faced judgement and trials. Since that day he saw those teenagers, sometimes a bit younger that himself there at the railway station in “Berlin Zoologischer Garten” But of course that meant he had to learn, what he did and tried as good as he can, he learned and learned and learned and-

“Say from where are you anyway, I mean yes West-Germany but where exactly from?”

“Huh, wa- uh from Saarland, the youngest state in West-Germany, then we, moved to Berlin. Honestly I’m glad vee didn’t got to be part of zee French-”

Reaching the old factory, Ervin made an abrupt stop of what he wanted to say, despite being in the woods and despite it already corroding and slowly taken over by wildlife and plants it was still a very impressive building.

“Many junkies or homeless are there but only at night, I never encountered anyone here, only saw the syringes and some stuff there together with a mattress on the second floor.”

Stepping inside the shadowy building with graffiti on the walls there was only one question for the law student.

“How come zat an honour student chooses this as her sanctuary instead of a library?”

Touching one of the said walls that was marked with the all to well known sentence “F*ck the police” and an Anarchy symbol together with a sign of peace the white dog turned around and the black but very much full of live looking eyes met the striped cat ember ones.

“Because it’s full of art!”

Spinning around with her arms spread the cat examined the room they stood in before letting out a sigh.  

“And drugs and dirt and rats probably...”

Like as if he was given her a wrong answer to a question to a teacher that was never asked in the first place, her eyes went from happy and hopeful, how she looked most of the time and how Ervin knew her, to a not angry or disappointed but rather annoyed with a hint of sadness.

“Did I-”

“Why are you so mopey?!”  

She did not scream at him at all, but the slight raise in her tone made Ervins mostly tired eyes went wide and he stared at her for a few seconds, processing the question she just asked him loud and clearly. Of course he knew the answer and he wanted to tell her, but he was tired, so god forsaken tired. As if he was having a headache, which slowly came to be he touched his forehead before exhaling a bit of air.

“You said on the second floor vas a mattress, lets go, I’ll tell you zere.”

S showed him the way by taking the stairs first, and whilst she did it with ease for him it felt like a trial as if every step was two metres high. Talking about here and there was easy, but talking about himself and his troubles beside the stress he gets trough learning, nearly impossible but here he was.

The mattress wasn’t, like he expected in best shape and full of unknown stains, but since it didn’t smell like piss or other extreme fluids he didn’t mind sitting on it.

“Why are you always so, so tired and grumpy and stuff Ervin? Is it me?”

“No, no,...So, you vant to know why I’m so mopey since like for veeks.”

She nodded

“And I don’t think any kind of deal makes you forget that question?”

She shook her head.

“Ok, ok that’s bad but fine, you know, zat super hard exam I had, that vas really important for zis semester?”

“Yes I remember, you locked yourself into your flat for nearly two weeks if not more and everyone thought you died so we called the landlord.”

“Heh-” the striped cat got more silent “-...I-I bombed it.”

“Oh”

“I mean the professor is giving me anozer chance, others failed too, but zat is the day after tomorrow, a-and I know I learned for it hard like the last time and I know I should know the answers, but If I don’t, o-or if he asks different questions. I-I don’t want to redo this semester, I’ve already planned everything for summer because of that part-time job zat I do f-for six veeks.”

Burying his face into his own hands the cat let out a painful sigh, he was done, done with everything and of course he had to open up about it.

“And I know you vant me to be on that party on the very same day, I know socializing vould be good for me and that you mean it well but, I can’t, I vant to but I can’t, even once I have done that retry, I’m a broken mess and probably...zum Aufstreichen and what if I have to re-do the semester and my parents have to pay more than intended? I don’t know vhat to do S, I’m sorry for being such a mess...of a friend.”

For a moment, it wasn’t probably long but for him it felt like eternity before he felt a slight pressure on the left shoulder.

“As if it’s the only party in this month, so what once you pass it you’ll be on the next.”

“I promised it to you, I promised to be there before you and start socializing.”

“So what, since when is it forbidden to postpone a promise? What counts is that you’re holding it the next time. Do that exam and write an A plus, plus and double plus.”

Once the cat swiped away with one of his sleeves what he refused to call tears he looked at Snow who looked at him with her friendly smile that even could burn a hole in the hearth of the coldest person living on earth.

“I promise, I’ll be zere, tell me date and time and I’ll be zere for you on that party, talking and laughing with at least ten people and one of those red cups in my hand.”

“There you are, I mean you don’t have to overdue it but don’t forget that a promise is a promise.” she playfully wagged with her index finger in union with her tail.

“I’ll be there waiting for you, a promise is a promise.” and spoke it out to his own surprise, without a hint of accent.

<...>

There was no other party, neither with her nor him and that day, it was the last time he saw her.

The fingers shook, the cat was trembling like as if on such a warm day in June it had minus fifteen Celsius. On the one side it was the strong mix of drugs and medicine that brought him into this state, on the other, it was his mind, he saw it all, once again what he tried so often to repress with drugs. He saw what he wanted to forget, he saw it all again and again. For a moment he still laid there in his fetal position sweating from all pores, his eyes fast going from left to right , right to left and bloodshot.

When he woke up, that next day, that one after the party, one year ago it must have been, she was gone, he called and called but she, no S, Snow, she did not answer and then, yes then It must have been only a day or earlier, there she was, found, stabbed as if she was Julius Caesar, and her eyes removed like some sort of ritual murder. The culprit never found and brought to justice of course. And whoever the being was that did it to her, it had to be a being made out of pure sadistic intention, so bad her body looked, found in hers and Alphs home.  

Weakly he gets up but not without holding on the wall where all of the paint was already faded away. He needed air, just a bit of fresh air, that was all that Ervin thought he needed right now.

Ervin himself was aware that due of his sometimes strange acting people might have assumed that he was the culprit of this perverse crime, so he wasn’t surprised when her former roommate had his suspicion against him. Alph, oh he didn’t took it easy either, he nor Ervin. But with time and countless interrogations it became clear that the striped cat was innocent and so was Alph.

It was a tragedy of invaluable measures and whilst everyone who knew her where mourning over their lost friend, there was also the relieve, that not Ervin or Alph was responsible that S was never seen alive again and what they all had to accept once the time passed, that she was gone, the beautiful smile the honour roll student had, forever erased from existence.

Everyone began, even slowly and painfully to move on, everyone except the cat, he wasn’t there, he should've gone with her, protected her to make sure this wouldn’t have happen, but he didn’t, he did his exam bravo then slept deep and tight trough the abduction of the person who the feline called good friend. He learned and learned and learned for a position that never was his to begin with and as a reward it took someone very close from him. And for that he screamed, cried and let his emotion take over the rational, until it was over and he a broken mess beyond repair.

Alph and the others talked with each other, got their help as a group they needed but Ervin, he began to become what he never wanted to be, once again he was a shut-in but with cigarettes, then alcohol followed by pills and weed and then the harder stuff, he isolated himself, he wasn’t guilty, in the eyes of the law or Snows friends there he was innocent, but in his own eyes, he might have had lost his guilt, but it was still there, eating him from the inside until nothing would’ve been left, but now here he was looking in shock and quite disgusted when he looked at the injection sides he did to himself and the barely and or poorly covered scratches that came with the stuff he took.

The messed up cat ran in his paranoia, his head and throat ached. Like a fountain of bad emotions his head was filled damping his other thoughts and senses making him feel as if he was about to suffocate.

Once again he saw this apparition of her, this illusion, dream, thought, drug inflicted piece of memory, ghost or demon, he wasn’t sure what it was but whatever it might have been that resembled like a death black holes instead of eyes having Snow he just ran past her to the old run-down concrete balcony with the rusty handrail that got enlightened by a slowly orange for this day vanishing sun announcing the night that was soon to come.

Anyone would’ve now expected tiredness or a silent standing man but the only witnesses, the birds around the facility, the bugs floating around in the mild summer warmth or the other animals that decided to step near the building got engulfed in a scream, mixed with sadness, pain, shock, anger, confusion, disillusion and regained memories followed by a violent, strong and careless shaking of the rusty iron where a guilt ridden Ervin cut his hands slightly due of the poorly aged metal that engulfed his as poor exposed skin.

It did barely anything to fight back against the former law student defenceless it took his shaking and later kicking before it came to a sudden end. His whole body felt unstable, he sweated, the drugs that got stretched by their creators with bleach and washing agent to use less of the actual stuff did their job together with a mind as fragile as crystal glass, the mind wanted to cry, but the rest of the body was too reluctant or too tired to fulfil this needed request. Still standing the cat turned its bag from the innocently bashed handrail and leaned on it, taking medium deep breaths of air in and out, in and out again and again.

When this thing, this creation of insanity and desperation that tried to resemble Snow, the dog he had known and seen alive one year ago approached him it happened slowly, and he, Ervin, he just watched. The long black hair, the white fur, once she looked normal. Then from one second to another a mangled, tortured, messed up, injured, probably raped and half skinned creature with sockets that lost their organs of visions who now where dark black infinite deep orbs with white dots approached him, naked of course with de furred breasts, exactly how the body was found in her own home, only a few knew it, only a few was told what was done to her in only a few hours of full torture.

But Ervin did by all logic not move and inch, he stayed there pressing his back with all his anger and sadness against the rusty metal and waited, if this apparition wanted his demise, he would not run away, or ignore it once again like he did so often, what good would if do to not face his own fears or the reality that was cruel but truthful he knew the facts and she did too, if he would’ve been there on this faithful day which was able to ruin his past, present and future, everything would be normal, and by all chances better. But it was not, and here he was, waiting for judgement, and it never came.

The being that resembled the canine he once knew just stood there in silence, and every time he blinked it felt as if her appearance would change, but always with a monotone expression that told him nothing of this being. To say that his eyelids and libs together with the fingers trembled and shook as if it was the coldest winter since 37 years was an understatement, but here he was the words he tried to form turning out to be pure gibberish. It took him a minute and around forty-five seconds until he was able to form the sentence he searched for.

“I-Im sorry S, I’m sorry, for m-” and in that second, before finishing the slowly, raspy and weakly spoken out sentence something gave up.

It was not the appearance that encountered him here on the old balcony

It was not his own brain cells who for god knows how long where finally able to make a clear sentence.

No, it was the atoms, the molecules of the metal that was exposed to water and air that with over forty years without any maintenance broke apart, and thus the handrail fell down together with the leaning cat.

In the short time frame between falling from the balcony that was set on the quite high second floor of the building and reaching the concrete floor that awaited patiently his blackhead to hit and crush on it. Time was nearly to not present, everything was slower than any slow motion effect in any film he had ever seen.

And just in this unfortunate moment and event in his live where he watched in pure shock above, where it, the dog ghost that resembled S looked down from the balcony to him falling, the cocktails of different pills and drugs kicked in.

The first thing he noticed that changed his view of reality in this bittersweet time was that the sky took another turn, it looked a bit like cotton, mixed with some new modern lemonade that looked as if a leprechaun barfed into it, the stars that during this time shouldn’t by all accounts not viewable flashed like small disco lights and turned around left and right making the whole sky appear like one gigantic kaleidoscope that once in a while got moved. It was fascinating but not the only part of his self inflicted trip that dulled and hulled the unpreventable truth of his demise.

When without any intention too look away from the sky his head moved a bit he was able to have a closer glimpse to the concrete ground that suddenly filled his ears with the sound of stones breaking apart. As if time was moving thousands of times faster, which only counted for the ground the concrete got big cracks and grass sprouted out of the ground that began to touch and hugged him like a soft cloud or down blanket, next to the grass flowers appeared and more and more of the building began to disappear and be replaced with flora. Like as if the accomplishments of his kind meant nothing to anyone and were taken over, no, rather reclaimed by mother nature itself.  

There was no sound when he fell into the grass no cracking bones or nerves that got cut or crushed, no organs pressed against his bones and no breath that left his body. Looking around he noticed how around his head formed a lake of a fluid that was as shiny and colourful as a rainbow and with a slight touch on his nose, he noticed how the same fluid ran out of his nose, ears and a bit out of his mouth too. He was, despite being caught in a trip, very well aware what actually was happening and what this liquid actually was, but he wouldn’t and most especially couldn’t care less what happened. He felt numb, none of his limps wanted to work any more, they where tired, so tired and only wanted to rest, a long deserved rest that they requested after one hard year of torture and pain created by their own nerves, mind and decisions.  

He wasn’t sure what it was, but it felt like some kind of “numb darkness” that whilst for now was only a weak presence felt as if it was going to grow stronger with time, but it was not the only presence near him.

S, the real one, at least if felt like the real honour student looked down to his face one he hasn’t seen what felt like centuries, it was not the emotionless face that sometimes he even interpreted as angry, it looked as if it had non ill meaning to him quite sad actually, perhaps feeling a bit of pity of his continuing demise. Stuttering a bit, but not like the last time he was able to form a whole sentence within seconds.

“H-hey do not cry Snow, it’s b-better like this, imagine me to die in a ditch in zee cold and dark heh.” as much as he did not want to but the smile he put up for some seconds was lost.

“There is only one regret I have S, zat I lost my guilt, no one blames me, I’m innocent by law but I’m guilty, I did zis, If I chould’ve been there, it’s zere zis lost guilt that consumed and fed on my, it chouldn’t be there, but here it still was and it still is. I-I understand if you can’t forgive me Snow, I vouldn’t either. I-”

His vocal chords suddenly stopped, but it was neither due of his blood loss nor the damaged brain or nerves, perhaps it was the drugs, perhaps the cracked mind he did not know nor could he care, but maybe it was really her who spoke to him, he did not know. Her voice, it felt like hers, but more soft and serious how it told him that there was no guilt to begin with, how she can not forgive him since there is nothing to be forgiven, that it is not his fault that it came to this, that it was not him who murdered her that it was her who felt sorry for him and that it was him, who should not be in such a position.

Ervin was speechless, and not only due of the increasing numb darkness that engulfed him more and more, it was rather more of the dam in his mind that finally breached and allowed him to cry, like the colourful liquid his tears ran down like a new formed river in a terrain.

“T-tha-ank you.”  

The numb darkness had nearly covered his whole vision by now, but Ervin was still able to see the white furred dogs face and how he slowly spoke those two words with his cold feeling lips

“S, Snow-”

Looking up to him, face to face to his friend, he wasn’t sure if this happened really or a trick in his decaying mind but it felt very real in those merely seconds he had.

“-wherever I land, wherever the road takes me, wherever I go, I’ll be there waiting for you , a promise is a p-promise...S.”

Those last words, as if they had a function of some higher realm coated him completely into this numb darkness, both his mind and body, but for once, since many months, since many days and nights and since the many hours, minutes and seconds of this one year he had been trough, he was able to feel a naturally warmth.

<...>

On this evening in June 1987 many things happened

On this evening in June 1987 fireflies flew around in the grass and woods to be caught  by young and old.

On this evening in June 1987 sundrops and primroses began to open to show their beautiful pedals  

On this evening in June 1987 crickets tuned their music together with croaking frogs in union

On this evening in June 1987, Ervin Niedmüller died with his guilt being lost.

~~~~~~

Tagging again: @stedilnik

With friendly greetings

The Bowlerhatwearer

[welldresseddadblog]

Welcome to the 13th instalment of the “Garmsman Dozen” question and answer session. The response so far has been tremendous. Did you miss earlier ones? There are links at the end of the page.

This week we welcome to the Garmsman Dozen Christopher Laverty from Great Britain!

Who are you, where do you live and what interests you?

Christopher Laverty. York, UK. 40 years old.

Author of book Fashion in Film, broadcaster, creator of website Clothes on Film and costume consultant.

Twitter: @clothesonfilm, Instagram: @lordlaverty, @christopherlaverty, Facebook: @clothesonfilm.

I enjoy movies, decent TV, clothes, clothes in movies, clothes in decent TV, bourbon, pipe smoking, cigars (preferably Cuban), cocktail making, cycling, running and twirling my moustache.

Thinking back to your childhood, what were your most memorable or favourite clothes?

Honestly, I don’t remember much of my childhood. Controversially I don’t many of us really do, we just piece together memories from what we’re told and photographs. With that in mind, I’ll go to my late teenage years when I first remember becoming interested in clothes. It was the mid-late 1990s so a lot of pale, shapeless denim jeans worn way too long with thick, oversized shirts and suede Kickers. This is probably why I gravitated toward the vintage scene which at this time was big on 1970s retro revival. My favourite buy was a tan leather trench coat, probably from the late 1970s, made in Egypt with a Selfridges label. It was immaculate. I purchased for £25 from Covent Garden market and still have it today. I don’t wear the coat much as it’s a little on the nose these days and verging on dress up, but at least it still fits! I do come from a family interested in clothes, particularly my dad. I was born to older parents (they are in their late eighties now) and with an older brother (now 60) and sister (53). I was spoilt rotten. Apparently, I even had a tailored coat, which to a working-class family is quite a fancy thing. My appreciation of clothes comes from understanding how they are made, their design, influences and appropriateness to the era. This is all born in me I think.

How would you describe your style today, and what are your influences?

It’s one of two things depending on my mood, time of year, facial hair and hairstyle: 1) denim and workwear, Edwardian influenced to 1930s OR 2) 1970s lounge with flared three-piece suits. I like to change things up because I get bored easily. It does have to be a specific look though – I have to feel that it ticks certain boxes, although saying that I do loathe the idea of sticking rigidly to eras or historical accuracy. My main influence for the 70’s is television programmes such as The Persuaders! and The Professionals and films such as Fear is the Key and Carlito’s Way. For workwear, it’s more print-based influences, like old photographs of miners and ranchers, but also films like The First Great Train Robbery and There Will Be Blood. I pull from wherever I like, really. Again, it’s not rigid; I’m not a re-enactor, I’m just someone who enjoys a period-specific feel to their dress.

How do you think others would describe your style and garments, do you get any reaction from friends and random strangers?

Totally, though a lot of that comes from random moustache admirers/hecklers. I don’t mind, so long as it’s polite. People will always point out what is different and, if I’m honest, I get a kick out of it. I think my friends just list random people they consider could be associated with my look – I’ve had everything from Shaft to a Spitfire pilot. It’s all good fun unless you choose to be offended (which I don’t because life is far too short to be cross and moaning all the time).

When looking for clothes, what factors play into your selections?

Need, mainly. I don’t really seek out any clothing unless I’m specifically short on something, like a henley t-shirt or new pair of boots. Most clothes come to me, in that I might stumble across a charity shop find or somebody acquires a shirt or whatever they think I’d like. I don’t really pay full price for anything. For example, I bought some suede chukka boots by Alfred Sargent last year, but only because they were offered to me by a friend who’d found them (in immaculate condition I might add) in a charity shop. I certainly didn’t need the boots but I’ll not turn my nose up at a bargain. I love clothes, though my wardrobe is actually quite capsule. I think there’s nothing worse than just buying willy-nilly and ending up with so much gear you can hardly store it all. This actually diminishes sartorial creativity in my view.

When putting together an outfit combination, do you spend a lot of time considering it?

Not really. I think I know what works and just go with that. I’ll plan more if it’s an occasion outfit but for every day I just grab what I like depending on the weather. Putting together an ensemble can be fun, but I do think if you take too long it becomes fussy and convoluted. If in doubt, take it out.

Most garmsmen will have a few “grail items” in their collection. Not to out you, but if your house is burning, which garments do you grab?

Probably my RM Williams boots. They are Craftsman Yearling, the finest boot RM Williams make in my opinion and they work with almost any outfit. I purchased on eBay nearly a decade ago for about £100. The leather is cracking a tad now but I couldn’t be without them. That said, I wouldn’t burn alive for them either so this better be a fairly mild fire we’re talking about here.

Photo by Ben Bentley

Are you budget-conscious or spendthrift? Are you a single-shot shopper, or go large and buy bulk? Where are you on slow-fashion and buying less?

I’m not spendthrift, even less so if I’m buying for others. If something fits and looks great and I can afford it and need it, I’ll buy it. I do like things that are in a sale or reduced though – it just feels more fun to make that purchase. In this respect, I wish I could support more artisan brands but they are just too rich for my blood. The sad thing is I know that the guys running these places and making these clothes and footwear are just getting by as is. If I was rich I’d probably shop with an eye toward supporting homegrown brands, but as things stand whoever can give me what I want for the best possible price is going to get my money.

Having a large collection of clothes can lead to changing outfit on a daily basis, but if you were going to wear a single outfit the next two weeks, what would it be?

My go to is probably a green ribbed cotton henley (from H&M), Marlboro leather and canvas braces (charity shop), Levi LVC 1878 jeans (eBay) and my RM Williams boots. This outfit suits just about every occasion, unless you want me attending your wedding or something. It’s comfortable to travel, work, socialise and chill in. Simple but effective in my opinion.

What would you never wear?

That’s a tough one. Basically, anything that looks awful on me, so very baggy trousers or jeans (I’m a short-ass), super-tight muscle tees (they are hilarious even if you have the body) and chunky hi-top trainers (love them on other people but I look like a failed hip-hop artist). Oh and baseball caps. Every time I put one on I look like I’m dying of some disease.

Photo by David Wade

What are your best tips for buying?

If you’re talking specifically about buying for my look, either workwear or 70’s inspired, then I’d say eBay, charity shops and vintage fairs. Got to be patient though and realise that, in the main, if you’ve found a bargain, someone else has too. People know their stuff a lot more these days so everyone has their eye out. For basics, I find H&M hard to beat. It’s not the highest quality and sometimes their stores are saturated with desperately on-trend crap, but in general, for easy tees and shirts, they are a goldmine (plus have lots of year-round sales).

Do you have a dream garment you’d love to own?

A few years ago I would have said a Savile Row suit but I think I desired one for the wrong reasons. It was a case of wanting to say I’ve had a suit cut on Savile Row rather than wanting the garment itself. I must admit I have always hankered after a beautifully tailored flared leg suit from the 1970s. I have a couple of off-the-peg examples but I’d love one bespoke. Suits of this era with that distinctive cut, the high waist, flared leg, high double vents and pagoda shoulder are not impossibly hard to find, though ones made from high-quality wool suiting are. Also, I’m a sucker for LVC Levi. I’d buy most of it just to hang on my wall and salivate over.

Anyone that buys clothes will have made mistakes, what is your most memorable bad buy?

Loads! When I used to buy more and think later I grabbed many a mistake. Possibly my worst was a pair of loose Abercrombie & Fitch jeans, from eBay if I remember correctly. Not sure what look I was going for. LA surfer, possibly? Or maybe just asshole. Either way, unsurprisingly, they didn’t work.

Do you have any style icons, historic or current?

Most of the looks I covet are from films so were put together by costume designers rather than the stars in question. Then again, stars and icons had stylists back in the day and they have stylists now. Cary Grant always nailed it. James Coburn could rock the Ivy. Nowadays Sebastian Stan constantly looks interesting without going too bananas (he has a brilliant stylist and an easy to dress bod too, mind). My elderly dad has a wonderfully open love of bright colour, which I admire and is daring for a former market trader from the East End of London. ‘Be more like him’ I often think.

Who are your favourite Instagram profiles?

What you mean apart from @Welldresseddad??? 😉 I like all the sartorial based accounts I follow. Two, in particular, indulge my passion for high-end workwear denim that I can’t afford: @kingchung501 and @vorstenbos. Anyone who doesn’t take it all too seriously, basically.

How do you think trends such as denim and heritage style will evolve and survive? What will be the next big thing?

I think more and more people will get into making their own clothes. We are not there yet, and I certainly don’t presently have the skills, but big picture I feel this will get easier and easier to do in our own home. Sustainability is a big trend and not going anywhere – and really it can’t afford to. Denim especially will go down this route. Like I said we are a way off, but with current textile innovations and online communities, it is coming.

Thank you!

Thank you for your Garmsman Chris!

Photo by David Wade

Did you miss the first Garmsman Dozens?

Jon from Great Britain

Shaun from Scotland

Klaus from Germany

Roland from Italy

Daniel from Sweden

Enoch from the USA

Even from Norway

Kris from Belgium

Michael from Great Britain

Liam from Great Britain

Lee from Great Britain

Iain from Great Britain

Michael from Italy

PS: If you have suggestions for participants, let me know. Or have your mother suggest you, if you’re a bit keen to suggest yourself. My email is WellDressedDad (@) gmail.com

  The Garmsman Dozen #14: Chris from Great Britain Welcome to the 13th instalment of the "Garmsman Dozen" question and answer session. The response so far has been tremendous.

[littlewhitetie]

Interlude

I know it’s ridiculously late, but this was originally inspired by @blackpaladinweek Day 3: Break/Mend.

In which Keith takes care of Shiro after The Journey. 

There.

Keith’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of the tiny Galra fighter. He’s fragile, Black tells him, but he’s in there.

Keith guides the Black Lion’s massive jaws to clamp down on the tiny ship, thrusters in reverse to ease the deceleration. Each move he makes is deliberate and precise, swift but gentle in carrying the ship to the hangar. The Lion sets the little ship on the hangar floor with utmost care, a mother with her cub.

As soon as it’s on solid ground, Keith bolts out of the pilot’s seat and leaps out of Black’s mouth. He sprints toward the fighter as fast as his legs will carry him.

The ship doesn’t open on its own. Shiro doesn’t step out to greet him.

Without hesitation, Keith pries the fighter open with his—no, Shiro’s bayard, and… It’s him. He’s here, he’s alive—though from the looks of it, just barely.

“Shiro,” Keith breathes, reaching for him when he doesn’t move. Keith tears off his helmet, and long, matted hair tumbles out. He’s been gone for far too long.

Keith tilts Shiro’s face toward him with hands too urgent to be gentle. Shiro’s lips are cracked, his complexion a frightening shade of grey. His eyes are sunken and hollow. “Shiro, wake up,” Keith pleads.

Shiro’s eyelids struggle to open. They manage eventually, cracking open just a sliver. “Keith,” he croaks. “You… found me.”

Keith’s chest swells at the sound of his voice—rough, weak, exhausted, but his. “Of course we did.”

Shiro gives him the faintest of smiles, and then his eyes slip closed again.

(Read more on AO3)

Trying to remain calm, Keith reaches for Shiro’s neck, pressing his fingers against his carotid artery to find his pulse. It’s there, but it’s rapid and thready. What happened to him?

The ship paints a partial picture. It’s a Galra fighter—did Shiro escape from the Galra again? More pressing, there’s a sharp, acrid odour telling of just how long he’s been in there, yet there aren’t any supplies visible in the tiny cockpit. There’s no sign of him having had access to food or water.

A clattering of footsteps fills the hangar in a steady crescendo as the others finally arrive, gathering around.

“It’s him,” Keith tells them, falling into leader mode, “but he’s not doing too good. Allura, can you lift him out of the seat? We need to get him to the med bay.”

“Yes, of course,” Allura says, clambering to his side. Shiro’s eyes are closed, but he elicits a pained gasp when Allura shifts his left leg. He’s conscious, if only just. He groans as she moves him again, lifting him into her arms. Careful, Keith wants to snap, but he holds his tongue. Patience. She’s trying her best.

“Can you guys go get a bed and whatever equipment set up?” Keith asks the others. “I don’t know what happened to him, but from the looks of it, he hasn’t had anything to drink or eat in days, and he might need a pod.”

Coran, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge respond with various forms of affirmation and hurry out of the hangar.

Carrying Shiro, Allura walks at a slower, metered pace to avoid jostling him more than necessary. Keith matches her strides beside her, not wanting to let Shiro out of his sight ever again. It’s a long walk from the Black Lion’s hangar to the infirmary, and they make it in silence.

By the time they get to the med bay, the others have a bed set up for him. As soon as Allura lays him down, Coran calls her over to help him calibrate some of the equipment. On the other side of the room, Hunk is poring over various containers in a cabinet. He trades chemistry jargon with Pidge, who types things into her wrist device at lightning speed. Lance just watches them, his eyes following their back-and-forth like a tennis match. He looks lost.

“Lance,” Keith says. “Help me get him out of this weird suit. Careful with his leg.”

Lance perks up, eager to be helpful. “You got it, boss man.” Keith’s not sure how to feel about being called that when Shiro’s back, but there are more pressing issues. He’ll sort that out later.

There’s no easy way of getting the worn, bulky suit off without moving Shiro too much, and they end up just tearing through the suit with Keith’s luxite blade. Keith and Lance share a horrified glance when they catch sight of what he’s wearing underneath.

Lance swallows. “Is… is that—“

“Yeah.” The unmistakeable tattered purple of a Galra prison uniform.

Keith’s stomach twists further as he cuts away the material covering Shiro’s left leg. There’s a bandage tied around Shiro’s left thigh that’s been completely soaked through, encrusted in dried blood. Lance blanches, looking as ill as Keith feels.

“He’s gonna need a healing pod,” Keith calls to the others.

“Unfortunately, the pod will have to wait,” Coran says, looking over a jumble of numbers and letters on a screen. “The pods use metabolic energy in the healing process, and he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink in a long time. We’ll need to treat that first.”

“We found something that should work,” Hunk calls from across the room. He and Pidge amble over carrying a packet filled with a clear liquid.

Coran pours the liquid into the mouth of a machine beside the bed—some sort of Altean version of an IV. He fiddles with a few things, adjusting settings, and then he inserts the needle into Shiro’s left arm. Or, at least, he tries to.

Shiro’s eyes fly open, and he tries to tear his limb away. “N-no,” he gasps.

“Shiro, Shiro, it’s okay,” Keith says, holding his arm in place with gentle but firm pressure.

“Nn… nnn…”

“Shiro, please,” Keith begs. “You gotta hold still.”

Shiro’s eyes are wild and panicked, but they lock onto Keith’s, and he stays still long enough for Coran to finish.

Leaving a hand on Shiro’s arm, Keith glances up at the others. “Guys, is there something else we can use that’s not…” He gestures vaguely at the line under Shiro’s skin.

Coran strokes his moustache. “Well, we could stick a tube down into his stomach through—“

“Uh, I don’t think that’s better,” Hunk interrupts. “Pidge and I can try to formulate some kinda oral rehydration solution that he can drink,” he offers, grabbing Pidge around the shoulders. She nods. “Y’know, sugars and salts.”

“Great. Do it,” Keith says with a nod. He turns his gaze back to Shiro. “Hey,” he murmurs, leaning in. “We need to leave this in for a little bit, but we’re gonna figure something else out real soon, okay?”

Shiro gives the barest of nods.

“Just rest ‘til then,” Keith says. “We’ll be right here.”

Shiro says something, his voice too low to catch his words. Keith has to lean in even closer to hear him repeat it, his ear barely an inch from Shiro’s lips.

“Just you,” Shiro whispers. “Please. The others… I can’t…” Can’t truly rest with them around. Can’t let them see him like this. Can’t be who he thinks they need him to be right now.

Keith would tell Shiro they’re not expecting anything from him, but that’s not exactly true. The rest of the team only really knows his leader persona. Maybe they’ve seen it slip before, but for the most part, they know the person he lets them see. The team is familiar with his confidence and determination and reassurance, and they do need that part of him. They nearly fell apart without it. It would be fine if Shiro let them see beneath that, of course it would, but it’s not something Keith could convince him of in a few words. Shiro’s got walls up just like Keith; his are just better hidden.

“Okay,” Keith says, quietly. He straightens up and turns to the rest of them. “Coran, you can monitor this stuff remotely, right? You guys don’t need to stick around. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

“I’ll stay too,” Lance volunteers. “I don’t mind.”

“No. The rest of you should get back to the bridge. Figure out a plan for how we’re gonna infiltrate the Galra outposts Kolivan told us about.”

Lance gapes at him. “You—you can’t seriously be thinking about that right now!”

“Come, Lance,” Allura says, grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him toward the door. “We need your, ah, sharpshooter eyes on this plan.”

Lance visibly brightens at the appeal to his ego. “Well, in that case…”

Allura glances back as they exit, giving Keith a knowing look. Coran, too, nods almost imperceptibly. Perhaps those Altean ears of theirs were able to hear Shiro’s request.

“Supplies are in here,” Coran says, opening a cabinet. He goes through the different items, though Keith is well acquainted with them already—he prefers tending to his own injuries after battles to having someone else fuss over him, and he’s patched Shiro up more times than he can count.

“I’ll be keeping a close eye on his vitals from the bridge,” Coran tells him. “Let us know if you need anything.” Keith thanks him, and then they’re alone.

“Just me now,” Keith says.

Shiro’s face relaxes a fraction. His eyes flutter closed. “Thanks for staying,” he whispers.

“Of course.”

The rise and fall of Shiro’s chest slows, evening out. Once he’s sure Shiro’s asleep, Keith strips off his armour, disinfects his hands and knife, and begins the unglamorous task of getting Shiro cleaned up.

He cuts away the Galra prison clothes, tearing the awful thing into unrecognizable scraps of fabric. Keith had vowed to make sure Shiro would never end up in that uniform ever again, but he’d failed on that front. Twin storms of guilt and rage crash over him, turning his stomach more with each inch of skin he uncovers.

More of Shiro’s body is bruised than not, left a mess of green and yellow and brown. Whatever happened, he took a hell of a beating. His left leg is caked with dried blood from the thigh down. Gingerly, Keith peels away the bandage to reveal a nasty wound that’s still healing. It looks infected, and the area around where the skin’s been broken is burnt, angry and red and blistered.

The burn mark is shaped like a hand.

Keith swallows down his nausea. He can’t change what happened to Shiro, but he’ll fix him up as best he can. He focuses on his task, wiping away layers of blood and grime.

A few whimpers escape Shiro’s lips when Keith cleans the wound, but he doesn’t wake. With practiced precision, Keith applies a salve and dresses the wound, his hands all too familiar with the motions.

He reaches for Shiro’s face, dabbing at the blood on his cracked lower lip and wiping away the salt of dried sweat. He moves slowly, cloth lingering longer than it has to as it moves over Shiro’s features. When his face is clean, Keith discards the cloth and abandons all pretences, cradling Shiro’s cheek in his bare hand. “I missed you,” he whispers. “I missed you so much.”

Moments turn to minutes. Keith loses himself in a slew of emotions and half-formed thoughts, how could this happen and what can I do and he’s here he’s here he’s here.

Keith doesn’t move until Shiro starts to stir. His brow pinches and his jaw clenches, a groan slipping through his teeth.

“Shiro?”

A hitched breath; another moan.

“Shiro, what’s wrong?”

Shiro’s shallow breathing picks up in pace, becoming harsh and erratic. Something on the monitor starts flashing, graphs spiking.

“Coran?” Keith says over the comm system. “Coran, something’s happening. What should I do?”

“Not to worry, Keith. It looks like he’s just having a bad dream. Unpleasant, certainly, but not life threatening,” Coran assures him. “I imagine you’ll know what to do better than any of us.”

Just a nightmare. Not good, but better. Keith thanks Coran, requesting clothes for Shiro and a tablet when asked he needs anything, and turns his attention back to his best friend.

Pain is etched into Shiro’s features as he suffers through his nightmare. It’s difficult to watch, but it’s better not to wake him. Keith learned that the hard way, and he’s got the scar to prove it. He keeps an eye on Shiro’s left arm to ensure the IV is still in place, an eye on his right arm out of instinct.

Shiro’s distressed noises get louder, more desperate. Still, Keith waits. It’s better for both of them, but Keith hates not doing anything. It’s always been hard for him to sit still. He drives his fingernails deep into his palms and bites down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood.

Finally, with a stuttering gasp, Shiro’s eyes fly open, dazed and disoriented.

“Shiro,” Keith says, carefully moving in close enough to touch. “Shiro. It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Shiro’s eyes dart frantically, and when he catches sight of the IV in his arm, his right hand moves to tear it out. Keith grabs his wrist before he can.

“Shiro, please, we gotta leave that in,” he says, keeping his voice steady.

“No, I don’t—the lab—I…” Shiro trails off.

What lab? What did they do to him?

Keith eases Shiro’s arms back to his sides, keeping his fingers curled over his left wrist. “You’re not there anymore,” he promises. “You’re back at the Castle. We found you.”

Shiro doesn’t speak, silence punctuated only by uneven breaths.

“I’m sorry it took us so long,” Keith says, quietly. “I’m so sorry, Shiro.”

The look Shiro gives him isn’t angry, or blaming, or resentful; it’s so much worse than that. It’s mournful, despondent, broken. It crushes Keith, an implosion in his chest, squeezing tears from his eyes and carving fissures across his heart. Shiro’s silence speaks volumes. He doesn’t tell him it’s okay, doesn’t tell him he’s okay. His silence is honest.

“Where were you?” Keith asks, but he doesn’t get an answer.

Agitated and afraid, Shiro’s eyes return to the line in his arm. His metal fingers twitch. “Have to get this out,” he rasps. “Need it out of me.” The desperation in his voice deepens the hollow in Keith’s chest.

“Just hold on. I’ll see where the others are at,” Keith says, keeping his voice even. He opens up a comm line. “Hunk? You guys almost done?”

“Almost,” Hunk’s voice comes. “Give us a couple doboshes. We’ll be there soon.”

Keith cuts the comm and turns back to Shiro. “Just hold on. Hunk and Pidge are on their way over. They’re bringing something you can drink instead.”

Shiro’s eyes dart away. “O-okay.” He doesn’t seem assuaged at the thought. More distressed, even.  

“Do you… not want to see them?” Keith asks.

“I… Of course I do,” Shiro says, but he still won’t meet Keith’s eyes. “I’m just… tired.”

Keith gets it. He really does. “Okay. That’s fine. I’ll be right back,” he says, giving Shiro’s shoulder a brief squeeze before heading outside to wait in the hall for Pidge and Hunk.

They arrive shortly, Hunk carrying a pitcher and a cup, Pidge carrying the tablet and clothes he’d requested.

“How’s he doing?” Hunk asks.

“Can we see him?” Pidge chimes in.

“He’s stable. But you can’t see him yet. He’s, uh, resting.”

“Okay. Well, let us know when he’s awake,” Hunk says. “We wanna see him.”

Keith shifts uncomfortably. “Right. Yeah.”

Hunk and Pidge instruct Keith in how much solution to give Shiro and how often. When Keith heads back in, Shiro’s already got his metal fingers over the IV, ready to tear it out, though his hand is clumsy and shaky.

“I got it,” Keith says, hurrying back over, working as quickly as he can to remove it. Shiro’s relief is palpable. “Okay. Let’s try something else.”

Keith adjusts the bed so Shiro’s sitting up, his back at an incline. He pours a small amount of the liquid into the cup. “Here. Drink this.”

Shiro’s hands are still trembling, so Keith curls his fingers over Shiro’s and helps guide the cup to his lips. “Small sips. Nice and slow,” Keith says. Shiro obliges. By the time he’s done, his eyelids are starting to droop.

“You can rest,” Keith says. “I’ll be right here in the room. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thanks, Keith,” Shiro whispers.

Keith waits until Shiro drifts off. It doesn’t take long. Keith pulls out the pad, brings up some files, and settles in.

…

Keith helps Shiro to drink the sugar-salt solution at regular intervals in between nightmares. Keith cleans him up and changes the sheets when he throws it back up, rubbing his back and soothing him as best he can, gently urging him to try again a bit later.

Shiro apologizes over and over—Keith shouldn’t have to do this—but Keith reminds him of all the times Shiro’s taken care of him. This is nothing. Keith doesn’t mind at all.

Keith tries to do work while Shiro’s asleep, but his thoughts keep coming back to Shiro. He has so many questions. Where was he? When was he? His hair is too long—maybe the Galra did something to him; maybe he was somewhere where time moved more quickly. Keith really hopes there’s another explanation; he hopes Shiro wasn’t suffering for the years the length of his hair implies.

Keith asks Pidge to extract any information she can from the Galra fighter. As Keith listens to the pilot’s log she downloads, he’s unable to stifle a choked noise that threatens to become a sob. If Keith had been looking for him when they were at Thayserix, maybe they’d have found him sooner. He was in there for seven days. Any longer, and he’d have—

Or what if Shiro had caught up to Voltron, and they’d done to his ship what they do to all other Galra fighters? Something awful crawls up Keith’s throat, and he forces himself to stop contemplating what-ifs. He can’t think about that. He can’t.

The space suit. Allura and Coran tell him they’ve never seen anything like the outfit Shiro was found in. It certainly isn’t Galra. It does look like something that’s been mass-produced, though—some sort of uniform, maybe? It’s a good thing he’d had it; he’d used up the ship’s supply of oxygen somewhere around Day 5. But why was he even wearing it in the first place? Was he out in space at some point, outside of the ship?

And the injuries. From the looks of it, he must have acquired them not long before getting in the ship. The massive bruises suggest he was thrown around. Maybe a crash? But the ship was intact. Maybe he had been back in the arena. He was definitely fighting something or someone. The wound in his leg looks like it came from a weapon—the wound Shiro had had to cauterize himself.

And a lab, Shiro mentioned something about a lab. God, what happened to him?

Keith needs to know. He’s curious, of course, but more than that, if it involved the Galra, it could be important to know for the sake of the mission.

“Shiro,” Keith says after a few vargas have passed. “Can you tell me where you were?”

Shiro flinches. “I… I can’t remember much.”

“What do you remember?” Keith asks, coaxing him.

“I… Can we talk about this later?” Shiro pleads, and Keith can’t bring himself to press the issue.

“Yeah. Of course.” Keith puts a hand on Shiro’s broad shoulder. “Well… whatever happened, I’m glad you’re okay.”

Shiro gives him a weak smile, one that says, ‘that depends on your definition of okay.’

“I’m glad you’re alive, and you’re gonna make a full recovery,” Keith amends. “Let’s see how your leg’s doing.”

Keith fetches the supplies to change his dressing, grimacing as he unwraps the wound. The Altean salve has helped a bit, but it still looks bad. “We’ll have to get you into a pod as soon as you’ve got a little more in you.”

Shiro freezes up.

“Shiro?”

His eyes are glazed over, lost in some kind of flashback. Keith waits for it to pass with bated breath. When Shiro finally snaps out of it, he vehemently shakes his head. “No,” he gasps. “No pod.”

Keith frowns. “Your wound’s pretty bad.”

“It was worse before. It’ll heal on its own,” Shiro insists.

“That could take a while,” Keith says.

“You’ve been flying the Black Lion, right?” Shiro asks.

“Yeah, but—”

“So you can handle it for a little while longer. Can’t you?”

It’s a request. It’s not what Keith wants. But if this is what Shiro needs, then… “Okay.”

They settle into silence, something comfortable and familiar. Keith’s about to go back to his pad, when Shiro asks, “How long was I gone for?”

It hurts just thinking about that time. “Eighty-four days.” Eighty-four days of grief and loneliness. Eighty-four days of poor leadership and indescribable stress. Eighty-four days of failing to find Shiro. Why had it taken the Black Lion so long?

Shiro’s expression is unreadable. Maybe it had felt like more, maybe less. “Well, I’m glad you were able to take my place as the Black Paladin.”  

Keith bristles. “I’ve been flying the Black Lion, but I am not the Black Paladin.” His voice is sharper than he intends, but he’s adamant about this. “I could never take your place.”

Shiro’s lips quirk up, and it’s hard to tell whether his smile is genuine or self-deprecating.

“I’m serious, Shiro,” Keith says, just in case it’s the latter.

“You always are,” Shiro says. His voice is exhausted but fond. “So if you’ve been piloting the Black Lion, who’s in Red?”

Keith’s only partway through his explanation of the Lion shuffle when Shiro dozes off again, falling into a fitful slumber.

Keith tries to keep working, but it’s hard to focus on interpreting the Blade of Marmora’s intel with the pained noises Shiro makes in his sleep, the way he gasps and shivers. He gives up when Shiro starts crying out, forming words Keith wishes he couldn’t make out.

Shiro wakes from what sounds like his worst dream yet with a scream. With a surprising amount of strength, he pushes himself off of the bed, struggling to his feet.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, where are you going?” Keith asks, just barely catching him before he collapses.

“My room, or just… not here. Please.”

Shiro should probably stay here in the infirmary where he can be monitored, but his eyes are pleading.

“Alright,” Keith concedes. “But I’m not leaving you alone.”

After sending a brief message to the team to tell them he’s moving Shiro, he helps him to his room. Shiro leans on him heavily, and by the time they reach his bed, Keith is bearing nearly all of Shiro’s weight. The walk there takes all of Shiro’s energy, and he’s asleep in a matter of ticks.

Keith claims the edge of Shiro’s bed and pulls out his pad. He’s greeted by the blinking lights of several new messages. Another Galra outpost identified. Another distress signal. How should we prioritize? How should we approach this part of the plan? How’s Shiro? Can we see him yet?

There’s so much to be done, and Keith’s going to have to figure out how to balance it all. He’ll need to decide how to divide his time between taking care of Shiro and his duties with Voltron. He’ll need to find a way of preventing Shiro’s reclusiveness from affecting team morale. Ultimately, he’ll need to strike a balance between what Shiro wants and what the universe needs. He’ll get Shiro to tell him what happened, even if it hurts.

Keith gets back to work.

Keith doesn’t remember nodding off. He doesn’t remember becoming a body pillow, but that’s how he wakes, with Shiro clinging to him like an oversized teddy bear. It’s distinctly uncomfortable—Shiro’s metal arm digs in under his ribs, and his grip is so tight it’s hard to breathe. Still, there’s nowhere Keith would rather be.

He wriggles out of Shiro’s arms just enough to roll over to face him. For once, Shiro looks like he’s at peace, finally getting the rest he needs. Shiro pulls Keith in close again, eliminating any space between them.

There’s a lot Keith has to do, but all of that can wait. For now, he’s right where he needs to be. With a small smile, he burrows deeper against Shiro’s chest. Taking in the steady one-two rhythm of Shiro’s heartbeat, he goes back to sleep.

[kind-red-ghosts]

As Many Burgers as You'd Like

Attack on Titan. Springles (Sasha/Connie). Fluff. Humour. College AU. 1626 words.

You can also read it here.

Summary: Connie and Sasha have college exams to study for and plan an all night study session, but who are they kidding? Of course they spend most of it playing video games and goofing off. They make a bet, and the loser has to buy the winner as many burgers as they want. A winner is about to emerge when Bertolt leaves a not-so-nice surprise for them.

As Many Burgers as You'd Like

Energy drinks with their tabs pulled off and half opened textbooks littered the coffee table and the living room floor. A day old pizza box holding the last half-eaten slice was shoved to the side of the couch. This scene was the only evidence left of Sasha and Connie’s short lived all-night study session. Currently, they sat side by side on a couch leaning forward, shoulders pressed up against one another, eyes glued to a screen where they were duking it out in a tournament style video game.

They had spent the better part of the morning controlling different characters and were finally on their final round. They were both left with their best fighters. Connie’s favourite character excelled in agility and quick attacks, whereas Sasha preferred fighters that used ranged and delayed attacks.

“Hey Connie, what about a bet?” Sasha tugged at the pull string of her hoodie. It was several sizes too big and that’s what she loved about it. Connie was wearing a graphic tee and sweat pants.

“What?” Connie stuck his tongue out in concentration.

“Loser buys as many burger as the winner wants at Titan’s Burgers.”

Connie’s eyebrow arched. “As much as they want?”

Sasha nodded zealously, eyes almost glazing over as she thought about it. “Even if it’s a month’s worth of rent!” Sasha pressed a button in rapid succession, bombarding Connie’s character with attacks. “BURGERS!!!”

Connie countered with a successfully executed combo, knocking her character to the ground. “You don’t know what you’re in for Blouse,” Connie huffed. “I’m going to make you buy me so much you won’t be able to afford rent and get evicted.” Sasha’s character’s health bar was pushed into the red. A mini animation flashed across screen. “Looks like you’ll be crashing here!”

“Who will be crashing here?” Reiner and Bertolt walked into the living room. Backpacks slung over their shoulders.

“Sasha made a bet-”

“It’s not over yet!” Sasha screamed, guiding her character to crack open a piñata of sorts releasing an assortment of food, which served as the healing items of the game. “FOOD NEVER FAILS ME! Take that Shorty!”

“YOU’VE GOT TO ME KIDDING ME!” Connie groaned –loudly – to the ceiling.

“Karma is a dish best served cold!”

Reiner shook his head. “I think you’ve gotten two different sayings mixed up there, Potato Girl.”

“That was one time Reiner!” Sasha said through gritted teeth, hands squeezing the controller.

Bertolt had apparently slipped his bag to the floor and was gathering empty cans in his arms. Reiner flicked him. “Don’t clean up after them! They’ll never learn.” Bertolt left the mess and straightened.

Reiner crossed his arms and turned to Connie, “anyway, she can stay here as long as she stays away from my side of the fridge!”

Sasha paused the game –

“Hey!” Connie exclaimed.

–and spun to face Reiner. She locked him in her glare.

Reiner held his hands up in defense. “I swear I lose weight after you visit because all the food mysteriously disappears. I woke to noises one night and found you passed out with your head in the fridge.”

Bertolt rested a hand on Reiner’s shoulder and Reiner automatically turned his ear. “I thought you said you thought that was a dream?” Bertolt asked.

Reiner shook his head. “I really don’t know,” he looked pointingly at Sasha who had stretched out her leg and managed to pinch the pizza box between her toes drag it towards herself. She peeled cheese off the lid and placed it on the last slice. She held it up to Reiner who declined. Sasha shrugged and then shoved it into her mouth.

“I’ve seen stranger things during the day,” he concluded.

Music from the game resumed.

“Not fair! Don’t unpause the game without telling me!” Connie shouted at her, eyes snapping back to the screen, his thumbs finding their hold on his controller again.

“Heading to school now, then working late,” Reiner called out as he walked towards the front door with Bertolt. “Don’t wait up.” Reiner winked.

Connie heard the wink in his voice and rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Ah! Sasha calm down with the booby traps – hey!!”

Reiner laughed, “oh you don’t have to be shy when all these people around, I know how you really feel.”

“Oh, just go and kiss your reflection, already.”

Bertolt snickered and they both left, the front door swinging closed behind them.

Connie and Sasha were concentrated on the game. Sasha trapped Connie’s character in blast and finally brought his health bar into the red. Their scores were evenly matched.

Connie cursed just as Sasha’s hand flew to her face.

“Who farted?” Connie pinched his nose.

Sasha coughed. “It’s like rotten eggs but, like, sweet.”

“No, no, no…more like someone was making a stew and mixed armpit sweat, dog piss, and garbage sludge!”

Sasha gagged at the description and started to get up from the couch.

“If you leave now you forfeit and I win!”

“Con-nie! I think it’s burning holes in my lungs!”

“If you’re not strong enough to endure the pain, then you aren’t worthy of being crowned the victor!”

“CONNIE THERE’S LITERALLY TEARS IN YOUR EYES.”

Connie scrunched up his nose, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Like I said.”

A smile tugged at her lips despite the toxins penetrating the room. “Fine,” she tucked a leg under her bum. “THIS IS FOR BURGERS!” She yelled and shot Connie’s character with arrows from behind. “And you’re completely clueless like usual, this smell is like being stuck on a hot and crowded bus between some guy who hasn’t showered and another who thought it was socially acceptable to eat a garlic and onion sandwich without brushing their teeth after.

Connie moaned, “you’re making it worse Sasha.”

Reiner dry heaved behind them. They both turned to see him grabbing his forgotten keys from the dish near the front door. “Bert, was that you?”

“Sorry!” Bertolt popped his head through the door.

Reiner waved the smell away from his nose, “You could to sell your farts to the government as a secret weapon!” He his voice in a jeering tone, “Bert’s farts are silent but deadly. I guess I won’t have to worry about my food getting stolen! Although, I’ll need post an ad for a new roommate! It was nice knowing you Connie.”

He walked through the door again and elbowed Bertolt in the stomach. “You’re just full of hot air, huh?” Bertolt frowned and his eyes darted from side to side.

“Leave the door-”

“-open so the smell-”

“-gets out!” Connie and Sasha’s pleads went ignored as the door clicked shut. Somehow the smell got worse.

“Did he fart again?” Connie exclaimed.

“We’re gunna die in here.” Sasha slouched, hoping that the end would come quickly. “Connie, I think this is goodbye.”

Connie pressed a hand against his forehead (before promptly returning it to the controller), “I never thought my life would end – at such a young age – by a haze of butt fumes.”

Sasha snorted and smashed the buttons, “why don’t you just stand still for a second, and then you won’t have to meet such a tragic fate.” She exhaled, “although that would be a funny caption on your headstone ‘Here lies one that met his demise because of Bertolt’s farts’.”

Connie shook his head, “he must have eaten gym sneakers.”

“More like bad sushi!”

They both burst out in a giggling fit. Connie choked and ducked his chin into his t-shirt trying to cover his nose without using his hands. Sasha dove into the couch cushions but she couldn’t properly use her controller in that position so buried her nose into Connie’s side, bunching up his shirt to cover her nose.

Connie lifted his arms up in surprise. “What are you doing?!”

“Wut’s it ook like?” The fabric of his shirt muffled her words.

“Then I’m using your hair,” Connie took a strand between his upper lip and nose so it looked like he had a huge moustache.

Sasha started laughing then coughed. “It burns!!! It hurts to laugh!”

Blades clashed on screen, sparks flew, and the music crescendoed.

“The smell! How is it still here?”

“I know!” Sasha pushed herself up and buried a nose in a couch pillow.

Connie took this chance to fall back into Sasha’s lap and bury his nose in her shirt.

“Hey that tickles!”

“Oh yeah!?” He poked fingers into her sides making her laugh harder – and in turn – cough harder.

“Uncle!” She shouted. “Please! It smells so bad I think I’m going to cry!”

However, onscreen she went in for the final blow which Connie’s character blocked and then countered. Their weapons caught, and there was an explosion as both players flew out of bounds.

The match ended in a tie.

“No way!”

“Stop!”

They looked at each other and laughed and gasped for clean oxygen. Connie nodded in the direction of outside and Sasha jumped up with Connie right behind. They burst out onto the lawn.

“FRESH AIR!!!”

Sasha tumbled to the grass and laid with her face to the sky.

“MY LUNGS DON’T FEEL LIKE THEY WANT TO MURDER ME ANYMORE!”

“I wouldn’t wish that smell on my worst enemies,” Connie said sucking up the clean air.

They both doubled over in laughter. Sasha rolled into a sitting position.

“Titan Burgers?” Connie asked a lop-sided grin plastered to his face.

“Definitely.”

Just as Connie reached for his pants pocket, Sasha touched the side of her bra.

“I left my wallet!”

“My bus pass is in my backpack which…”

Sasha and Connie locked eyes and then peeked at the house.

They held out a hand each.

“Rock Paper Scissors to decide who has to go back in there?”

A/N

So no matter which AU Bertolt is in, he is full of hot air...and it's deadly.