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britishvamps · 4 years ago

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Arranged

Prompt: None Fandom: Atiny (ATEEZ) Member: Jeong Yunho Warnings: Not really, underlying tones of sketchy deals, mention of a gun and knowledge of a crime family Word Count: 3,012 *Quick PSA: I cut it down but it's still over 3k words. This may be part of a series with the Ateez boys. This will have a series of its own and this is written for my black/POC girls 💜*

The day of your nineteenth birthday began pretty much like every typical day in your household. You were awoken at 7:30 am, went into the bathroom to have a shower. You sat back in front of your vanity, body and hair still wrapped in a towel as you moisturised your arms and legs when a knock on your door. “Come in.” You said, changing the song playing from your phone to Khalid’s ‘free spirit’ as your parents walked in. Behind them, an array of gifts were being carried in bags, and boxes followed them as they came up to hug you. “Happy birthday, sweetie.” Your mother spoke as she sat on your bed. “Happy birthday, pumpkin.” Your father whispered as he kissed your forehead before straightening out his suit and rushed back out, leaving you in your now packed room with your mother still sat on the bed. “Baby, get dressed and come meet your father and me downstairs in the dining room, okay. Dress cute.” She uttered as she arose and strutted out, her nude Louboutin heels clicking on the marble floor with each step she took before you heard the click of the door behind her.

Assuming it was another row of gifts, you dried your hair and quickly dressed in a long black flowy dress with gladiator sandals. Deciding to go semi-bare faced, you put on your lashes, did your eyebrows and put on your jewellery before you went downstairs. As you walked into the massive dining hall, one of the help came and placed a stack of hot, fluffy pancakes in front of you as two others place similar looking plates in front of your parents. “Eat up, baby. We have to go out soon to meet a few people.” Your father spoke as he skimmed over his paper whilst sipping his coffee, glancing at you as you placed a few strawberries on your plate and cut them into your pancakes. Giving a brief nod, you quickly dug in before rushing to your walk-in closet and grabbing your nude cardigan. Hopping down the stairs, your parents stood by the door with their entourage awaiting your arrival before you all bustled out and entered your respective cars. Your mother and father in one car with two guards in the front seats, you in another with three, and the rest split in two other similar looking sleek, black BMW X6′s before you set off to your location, still unknown to you. “So... where are we going, guys?” You quizzed your escorts after about 45 minutes of driving through the city, to which you got a short reply of “You’ll see when we arrive, Miss.” Rolling your eyes, you sat scrolling through the birthday wish messages from your social media as your friends posted photos from balls and events as well. “Well, seeing as nobody is going to say anything, I’m going to connect my phone to the aux.” You say as you unbuckle your seatbelt and lean forward to grab the thin black cable. Soon after, the music’s soft melodies were surrounding everyone in the car.

It was not until an hour or so later that you had begun slowing down in front of the great black gates that stood tall and proud in front of a large, pristine white coloured house. The bright green lawn and burgundy door stood out in comparison to its white canvas. As the gates to the unknown slowly opened, the silence in the area almost became deafening. It seemed virtually ghostly besides the hum of the engines that soon cut off as they reached their destination at the top of the driveway.

As you exited the vehicles, the once empty patio was now occupied by a single maid, much like Amanda. She stood, awaiting your ascent up the stairs. She leads you and your parents to a large room that could only describe what one might use for an exaggerated dinner party. On one side of the table stood a man, a woman who you assumed was his wife judging by her posture and clothing and a younger, taller male off on the side of the woman. Your mother and father walked towards them, beginning the greetings between them and the more youthful male shock their hands. Although confused, you shook their hands, bowing slightly to the younger male who seemed to have no interest in being in the same room as anyone who was actually in there already. “Hello, please sit. We have much to discuss.” The older man said, pointing towards the chairs as he took his place at the head of the table.

Confused, you remained stood up. “What is this? Where are we?” You quizzed, to which the younger male finally looked up at you, eyes curiously glancing over your figure as if trying to see if you were serious about your question or not. This gave you a chance to see him correctly and was he a sight to see. His face seemingly made by the gods themselves and his broad shoulders accentuated by his choice of suit. A grey check suit and white dress shirt with a deep black tie. “Sit (y/n). You will soon understand.” Your father’s voice spoke in a tone you haven’t heard from him before. Sitting opposite the younger male, you watched as another man, who you hadn’t noticed was even in the room, came and handed your father and the other older male a stack of papers, much like a contract. “Seriously, dad, we’re here to do business on my birthday.” You deadpanned, quite annoyed that the secrecy seemed only for another one of your father’s ‘business deals’.

“(y/n)...” Your mother started, before being cut off by your father. “(y/n), this is Mr and Mrs Jeong and their son Yunho.” As he spoke, he handed you the stack of papers as Mr Jeong handed his son a copy of your documents. Looking down at dark black ink that sat on the accumulation of white papers, sat your marriage contracts.

Thick, slabs of ivory paper perched on the deep black glass of the table, with the neatly written words staring back at you as it read ‘Legalised document of the union of the Jeong’s and the (y/l/n)’ s’. The thoughts swirling in your head were too loud as you looked up in horror, taking a glance around the table only to receive a sea of all blank faces. It became quickly apparent that you were the last one to know. Abruptly arising in anger, you practically flew out of the room, dismissing the yells of your parents and just when you had reached the door of the house, you were suddenly stopped by a sharp, curt pull on the arm, turning to be face to face with the beautiful individual who was previously sat opposite you. “I suggest you return on your own volition before I am forced to bring you back.” He spoke his face at much closer proximity than you had expected. Breathing heavily, you pulled your arm out of his hand before speaking. “If you think I am walking back into there so I can hear about how I am to get married to you on my nineteenth birthday, you, sir, have much more wrong with you than my parents do.”

As you opened the door, you were abruptly picked up and tossed over the shoulder of the man who you was to be your future husband. Screeching, you yelled to be let down, but your screams fell upon deaf ears as he walked you back into the dining room and set you down by the door before entering it and holding the door open for you to walk past. Huffing, you pushed your hair back and walked into the room, angrily throwing yourself into your chair as you listened to your parents plan the type of wedding they wanted you to have. Still angry, you zoned you into your thoughts, wondering what you possibly could’ve done in your past life to deserve such a treatment in which your own parents would ship you off to be wed to a man who, in the short hour you had known him, had already manhandled you and not left a good impression. “So, it is decided. The wedding will be in 6 months, and the two of you will be living together for that time. Get to know each other better.” Mr Jeong said, clapping his hands together as both sets of parents beamed at one another. “We will, of course, have to meet again to talk about the official taking over of my place once Yunho is wed, but until then, it seems we have a wedding to get through.” Mr Jeong finished as they all arose, shaking hands once more and to which you did not partake, just walking out. Upon entering your car, you locked the doors to ensure your parents wouldn’t try to speak to you.

“Where to, Miss (y/n)?” The driver asked, your guards back in their designated seats. “Anywhere but home. Make sure my parents don’t try to follow me.” You ordered, pulling your earphones out of your pocket and letting the lyrics of Billie Eilish consume you. It was not until two and a half hours later that you realised your destination. In this park, your parents used to take you as a child, before your father became too busy with his business to have your fortnightly picnic with you in that same park. Walking through the small, isolated area, you finally took a seat in what became your usual thinking spot. A large oak tree perched in front of the midsized artificial lake that sat in the middle of the field. Thinking back to the beginning of your day, even if you were given a thousand guesses, none would have been close to the events of today. At a mere 19 years of age, you got engaged and soon to be wed to a rude man you had known for only three long hours—a very handsome man, but a rude man nonetheless.

The sun was still shining brightly in the afternoon, but there was a clear breeze. You had been sat there for much longer than you had anticipated as your stomach grumbles, indicating that it was time to start heading back. Dreading the drive back, you slowly walked back towards the car where one of your guards, Eric, was holding a bag of takeout and a drink. “Figured you’d be hungry, Miss (y/n).” He smiles and hands you the food and drink before opening the car door, letting you slide in.

Two months had passed, and your parents had decided that it would be best to announce your engagement during one of your father’s trimonthly “fundraisers”. At this time, you and Yunho had only interacted when your parents and the Jeong’s visited and even then, the interactions were curt and almost business-like themselves. You slept in separate rooms and continued to live very individual lives; you, unaware of the back alley dealings and Yunho, preparing to take over his father’s “business.” All your friends were super excited that you were living with such a cute guy and started making plans to go wedding dress shopping but if only they knew the truth; that it was nothing more than a business deal.

You had to go shopping with Yunho for a matching dress and suit, both your parents joined making sure it was going well. You had entered another boutique, the employees running around trying to find a dress to match Yunho’s burgundy suit that he had seen almost instantaneously after visiting the first store, you, however, seemed to have no intentions to finding a dress, enjoying the complimentary champagne and strawberries you were getting served. “(y/n) you need to take this seriously. This is a good thing.” Your mum spoke, grabbing the champagne flute from your hand before pulling you up. In front of you was an assortment of dresses in the same colour as Yunho’s suit. Rolling your eyes, you ran your hands over the materials of the dresses, ranging from silk to velvet. You stopped at a silk dress with gold detailing, pulling it from the rack and holding it to your body. “Perfect choice, miss (y/n). This will look amazing on you.” The employee complimented. You walked into the changing area and put on the dress, instantly falling in love with the way it looked. You walked out to see your mum, and Yunho’s mum watches you in awe. “That’s the dress. You look beautiful, darling. This is the one.” Mrs Jeong spoke, signalling towards an employee. “Go get changed; I’ll go pay for this, and then we can get brunch and start discussing the wedding.” And just like that, the perfect moment came crashing down with reality.

A few weeks had passed, and it was the day of the ball. Everything was decorated to a T; the drinks fountains looked taller than you as they sat on the tables with filled champagne flutes roaming around as people started arriving. You and Yunho were in the study with your parents, receiving another lecture about acting like a couple. "Yunho, (y/n), please. Try acting more like a couple. Hold hands, maybe a kiss or something." His father sighed, watching the two of you practically glaring at one another from across the room. "I do not remember signing up for this." You groaned, seeing your parents glare at you before you stood up, trying to walk to the door. "(y/n) sit down. This marriage is for the best for the both of you." Your mother muttered, watching your every move. "The marriage is happening; the best thing you can do is try and make it as enjoyable as you can." Your father announced, ending the conversation as he put on his suit jacket, turning and nodding to Yunho before he began walking out. "I will do my part for tonight but do not expect me to act as if this was of my volition." You notified, pushing past him, the tail of your dress flowing behind you.

The party was in full swing when your parents had begun getting everyone's attention as they started announcing your betrothal. "Ladies and gentlemen. We have some exciting news. In a few months, my son will be getting married." Exclaimed Mr Jeong, receiving several cheers and claps from guests. With his hand out, Yunho walked towards where you and your parents were stood before taking your hand and placing a gorgeous diamond engagement ring on it. This caused an uproar of cheers, and he leant into you. "Keep this up, and one might think you actually like me." You whispered as you faked a smile, giving Yunho a quick side look before smiling back at the guests.

After you descended the stairs, your girlfriends began asking about 'the mysterious fiancee'. As if those words were his summoning, a hand snaked around your waist, causing you to force a smile as you looked up at him. "I heard I was being looked for." He smiled, planting a kiss on your temple. One would've actually believed you were a couple if they did not look too close. "Yes, girls, this is Yunho. Yunho, these are my best friends." Each of them not so subtly giving you approving looks as they shook his hand. "Pleasure. But I must steal away my beautiful fiancee." He charmed, to which they immediately sent you both off with a giggle and a wink. Yunho led you into a room in the back, immediately dropping his arm from your waist the second the door closed. "Why are we in here when the party and alcohol are out there?" You chided. Rolling his eyes, he unbuttoned his suit jacket. "We need to talk. You can't avoid me, so this the best place." He began, sitting in one of the chairs. "What do you know about your father's business?"

"He owns a few restaurants, some buildings and some shipping companies; I don't know. Why do you ask?" You quizzed, also sitting down. Yunho let out an incredulous laugh, leaning back. "Baby, that is far from the truth. Where we like it or not, we're going to be wed, so time to lay out a few truths. Our fathers are both the heads of two very powerful crime syndicates. Our marriage is an alliance to which we will both gain a lot. We may not see eye to eye, but you will be my wife, and I promise no harm will come your way." He said, staring at your face as it contorts to one of confusion and shock. Suddenly it was all making sense; the late-night work meetings, the cryptic conversations and the constant need to have guards. "I- This is crazy! It all kind of makes sense, but I can't be marrying a- a criminal." You rushed, standing up quickly. "Listen, I am telling you to warn you. We will never be 100% safe, and better you find out than during a situation that may involve me bringing my gun." He spoke as if this whole thing was normal. "Look, we can talk about this after the party. We disappear for too long, and people might think we're doing something, and we wouldn't want that now, would we love?" He smirked, straightening his suit before he sauntered out, leaving you stood in the room alone with your thoughts. Letting out a shocked laugh, you fixed your dress, faked a smile and walked back out to the enormous hall where Yunho was seemingly deep in conversation with your friends. You looked around, the news of your father's business partners not being as legit as they seem to change your perspective of each and every member in the room. Your father's head of management for his buildings and hotels you no longer regarded as your godfather; your driver no longer felt like he had just that one job.

Tag list: @helwegen @yunhobabygurl If anyone else wants to get tagged, please just message me or leave it below :)

#ateez #ateez mafia au #ateez x reader #ateez scenario #ateez angst #jeong yunho #jung yunho #ateez yunho #yunho scenarios #jeong yunho scenarios #jeong yunho imagines #choi san #park seonghwa #kim hongjoong #choi jongho #kang yeosang #song mingi #jung wooyoung

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sign-from-god-complex · 5 years ago

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Summary: Roman hadn’t realised just how much his friends disliked his crush… or how much they disliked him.

Pairing: Roceit and one-sided royality.

Warnings: Unsympathetic Patton and Virgil, sympathetic Deceit, toxic friendships, brief unwanted flirting, implied fat-shaming. If you don’t want to read the fat-shaming, skip the paragraph starting with “Dee picked a cookie up off his lunch tray”, you won’t miss anything crucial.

A/N: I know this one is very outside the realm of what I’d normally write. I want it to be clear that I would never think the sides to be anything like what Patton and Virgil are like in this fic, I was simply in a Mood and this is what I felt like writing.

AO3 Link

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"He's so pretty I think I'm gonna faint."

Roman gazed across the cafeteria with verifiable hearts in his eyes, chin resting in his hand like a teenage girl in a romance novel. He let out a wistful sigh, watching Dee laugh at something Logan had said, delighting in the way his whole face scrunched up. He looked so happy.

Roman wondered what it would be like to be that happy.

Happy was easy in theory, sure. Roman was happy when he got a part in the musical, he was happy when he got a good grade or when he perfected his eyeliner just so. But… there was always some sort of… catch.

Roman was allowed to be happy about the musical but not too happy; his friends didn't get his love of the stage and they quickly grew bored of his excited rambling, pushing him to talk about the latest TV show or cute boys instead. He was allowed to be happy about good grades but not in front of the other students; only nerds got so excited about their grades, and Roman wasn’t allowed to be a nerd. He was allowed to be happy about his eyeliner but not in front of his family. Wouldn’t want to be too overtly queer, would he?

He was lucky to have what he had, he shouldn’t be wishing it away, but sometimes he just… longed to not have to worry about what people think so much.

Virgil rolled his eyes, letting out a huff. "Seriously, princey? You're still pining over that asshole? Move on already!"

Roman blinked, furrowing his brow. That was not the reaction he had been expecting. Sure, his friends had never really seen what he did in the other boy but they'd never been so callous about it before either. Usually, they replied to his lovesick rambling with noncommittal hums or vague agreements but this seemed frustrated, bubbling up and over like Virgil had been holding it back for a while. Roman wondered just how long.

"What?"

Patton sighed—patronising and exasperated—and Roman turned his confused look onto him.

"Look, Ro, we tried to be nice about it, but Dee's just so…" He screwed up his face in disgust. "Eugh. Him and that nerd do nothing but talk about sci-fi and their grades; they're so boring! Don't you think you could do better?"

Patton batted his eyelashes, painting on a smile that made Roman feel sick.

"Better?" he parroted and Patton simply hummed, sliding in closer and placing a hand on his thigh that had Roman jumping.

He stood up abruptly, staring down at Patton in disbelief. Where could this have possibly come from? Patton had never really shown any interest in him before! Sure, he'd been nice, but Patton was always nice; that sugar-sweet way of his became a bit overwhelming after a time, but Roman stuck through it. They were his friends after all, what was he supposed to do?

A quick glance at Virgil revealed no surprise, shock or distaste for Patton's actions, in fact, he seemed to be barely paying attention, scrolling through his phone with a bored look on his face. He had thought that Virgil would be the kind of person to jump to his rescue, but it appeared he thought wrong. He wondered how well he really knew the two of them after all. They’d seemed to have changed so much since they were happy little kids playing fantasy games in his backyard and Roman wasn’t sure it was for the better.

Only seeming mildly put out by Roman virtually flinching away from his touch, Patton turned those big, blue puppy-dog eyes on him, expecting him to just cave, sit down again and let Patton fuss all over him.

So, instead, Roman picked up his tray.

"I don't know what's going on here but if you want to apologise to me, I'll be at Dee and Logan's table," he stated, tone sounding far more confident than he felt.

Patton's fake smile dropped into a glower, causing Roman to take a step back in surprise. "Oh, finally worked up the courage to ask out the snake bitch, huh?"

Roman didn't reply, far too much in a state of shock to do anything other than turn around and make the walk over to Dee's table. He could hear some of the other students around him commenting on his actions—those close enough to eavesdrop jumping around to their friends on other tables to share the story—but Roman just ignored them. He'd gotten used to the gossip that came with being "popular" a long time ago. Though, that's not to say he wouldn't be happy to lose it.

He came to a stop at the side of Logan and Dee's table, finding himself too self-conscious to speak up as he listened to them debate the merits of selfish actions. It was horribly nerdy and terribly endearing and Roman honestly would have been happy to stand there all day if his arms weren't beginning to get tired.

He cleared his throat, watching as both of the table's occupants froze almost immediately, turning to face him "Hi."

There was a moment of silence—Roman shuffling his feet awkwardly—before Logan decided to speak up.

"Roman Prince." Xe regarded him with a kind of startled concern, looking slightly caught out, but Roman just gave a nervous smile. "Are you… in need of something?"

Roman let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Um, my friends were just being—" he struggled for the right word for a moment before finally settling on—"dicks. They were being dicks. Um… and I was wondering if I would be able to sit here, instead?"

Roman watched as a dark blush rose to Dee's face, a sort of frightened look in his eye that had him glancing over to Logan for some sort of reassurance. Logan, however, seemed to be poorly concealing a smirk and clearly was not going to be of any assistance to him. Roman tried not to be too concerned about what that look meant.

"I believe that would be acceptable," xe said, grabbing xyr bag off of the seat beside xem so he had a place to sit down. Roman let out a rush of air as he did so, dropping his tray with a thunk as he watched Dee glare at Logan slightly, though he could tell it held no real animosity.

Dee picked a cookie up off his lunch tray, nibbling on it nervously and Roman couldn’t help but smile. He wondered if he’d be able to get a caramel slice with his lunch tomorrow. They were always his favourites but eventually, he’d given in to the disapproving looks from his friends whenever he’d get one. Somehow, he didn’t think that was going to happen here.

“So,” Logan broke the silence, directing xyr gaze at Dee though cutting xyr eyes over to Roman for a brief moment, “How did you do on your most recent history assessment?”

Dee scrunched up his nose. “Ugh, a B minus. And I actually tried on that one too.”

Roman remembered that project, it was actually a rather creative one—something he greatly appreciated. “Write a diary entry from the point of view of someone in a particular historical period, including appropriate language and presentation”. He’d ended up choosing the Elizabethan era, flaunting his fairly in-depth knowledge of Shakespearian language to paint a rather delightful and dramatic love story in 3 or so pages of text. It had been all written out by hand too, utilising the ink pens he’d been given by his mother for his birthday a few years back.

He’d been extremely proud of that piece of work but all his friends had said was, “That’s nice, Roman,” and “Cool,” like he’d been telling them his boring weekend plans and not showing them something he was really pleased with. He’d been put out by that, sure, but… he’d supposed maybe it just hadn’t been as good as he’d thought it was.

“Roman?”

Roman jerked his head up to see both Logan and Dee looking at him in a questioning manner. “Hmm?”

“I was asking how you did on your history assessment,” xe reiterated, spearing a piece of pasta with xyr fork, “I’m under the impression that the two of you are in the same class.”

They were, in fact. The first time Roman had seen Dee sitting in the classroom on that first day of the year, sticking out his tongue in concentration as he sketched something in a notebook, Roman had nearly walked into the doorframe in a gay panicked mess. Of course, nobody else needed to know that.

Roman ducked his head shyly. “Oh, uh, I got an A.”

He was already preparing to dismiss the topic to move onto something else—something more palatable than Roman bragging about his grades—but Dee’s voice interrupted him.

“Roman, that’s brilliant.” His face was impressed—proud—and Roman’s eyes widened, hope flooding his chest despite his best efforts to suppress it. “I mean, I worked for weeks straight on that thing and I barely got above average.”

Roman flushed at the praise, trying not to preen too much at the way Dee was looking at him. It made something in his chest flip-flop around and he bit at his lip to try and hide the smile that was taking over his face.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” he laughed, “I, uh- I always liked history, especially the classics. There are just so many incredible stories and the language is gorgeous and it’s always so much queerer than historians claim. I mean-”

Realising he’d been about to start rambling, he cut himself off abruptly, snapping his mouth shut and flushing in embarrassment. Stupid. He couldn’t scare them away before he’d even gotten the chance to know them. Logan regarded him with a curious look, seemingly confused by his actions; Dee, however, gave him a sad sort of smile.

“Ro?” Roman met Dee’s eyes—kind and understanding, aware of how it felt to be talked over and ignored and dismissed—and softened slightly. “We would adore hearing about why you love history so much. Wouldn’t we, Logan?”

The look Dee was giving xem was unidentifiable to Roman, however, Logan seemed to know exactly what he was trying to convey as xe raised xyr eyebrows slightly, nodding xyr head. “Of course, yes.”

Roman studied them for a moment, trying to gauge their sincerity.

He’d never believe Dee to be all that malicious. Was he opinionated? Sure. Was he selfish? Almost definitely. He prioritised himself and his wellbeing and the only time Roman had ever seen him go out of his way was for Logan and he should be appalled by that behaviour, except… Roman sort of… admired him for it?

It’d been a long time since he’d done something purely for himself. So many of his actions were performative. Restrained. Suppressed. And, with that in mind, he gave one last glance between Logan and Dee and, for the first time in years, Roman let himself talk.

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General tag list: @mutechild @super-magical-wizard @shadowsfromthesun @teadays @lovelylogicality @mctaetae613 @autism-goblin @deadlyhuggles6 @romanthestarstruckqueer @whispers-stuff-in-your-ear @that-one-sunfish-with-a-wig-on @sanders-and-sides @spirits-in-my-thoughts @hhhhhhhhhhfjaskfsagfhasfgdsakfsa @autistic-virgil @happysingingturtles @figurative-falsehood @jadedfantasies231 (and @dr-gloom you asked to be tagged!)

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #roceit #roman sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #unsympathetic patton #unsympathetic virgil #lo can write #1500 milestone #I feel it's probably important to point out this has a happy ending #well for ro anyway #and in this fic that's what matters

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viinas-writes · 4 years ago

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“Desert Rose”

Written for the Kiribaku Anthology “Ascent”. Words: 5,211

The weight of Eijirou’s last bullet is both a grim and comforting reminder. It’s locked in the pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants like a soldier at the ready, waiting for its first and last command.

Blood-red clouds race past his vision, blurring into the overcast sky. He feels the ravaged terrain of a city he once called home tilting under the worn soles of boots that have been too small for over a year. His lungs burn. Smoke and debris sting his eyes. His body aches down to his bones but he doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop.

A fleeting thought rolls across his mind: I don’t want to die here.

He casts a glance over his shoulder. The hooded man—a dorobou, probably—is still in pursuit. Eijirou can hear the clack of a rifle bouncing against his assailant’s back.

Eijirou is virtually unarmed; his pistol has been empty for months. He keeps only what he calls an “insurance bullet”—to put into his own head if things turn for the worst. If the choice is between dying as himself or having his soul obliterated by a dorobou, there’s no question about how he’d rather go.

He skids to a stop just before the ground plunges straight down. Loose earth scuttles past his feet and falls over the edge. His blood throbs in his ears. Down below, he makes out human remains, grotesquely discolored, emaciated, and half-floating in dark, shallow water. Discarded hosts. When a dorobou’s human body decays from infection, the only way for them to survive is to move onto a new one.

His hand finds his pistol, his trigger finger twitching.

“You stopped.”

Eijirou’s heart skips. Furtively, he looks back. His pursuer stands a safe distance away, rifle in hand but pointed at the ground. He pulls his hood back to reveal a shock of blond hair.

His appearance gives Eijirou pause. The venom in his gaze is discordant to the roundness in his jaw, as if everything he’s seen has yet to catch up with him, physically.

He’s a kid...like me.

“A dorobou wouldn’t have stopped.” His head falls. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a heartfelt, “Fuck.”

Eijirou’s head fills with questions but the only one that forms is: “What are you looking for?”

The boy’s hand drops to his side and he screws his eyes shut, furiously shaking his head. He won’t look up, lest he lower his guard. Eijirou understands that well. Trust can’t be given blindly; altruism was a luxury their world lost.

“You looked like…” He drags a weary hand through his hair. “Same shitty dye job.”

Eijirou raises an eyebrow. “Uh—”

“Whatever,” the boy says. He turns on his heel, slinging his rifle across his back. “I made a mistake.”

“H-hey, wait up!” Eijirou yelps, because to a certain degree all trust is blind and maybe he’s just as angry and tired as anyone unlucky enough to have been born into this hell. “You know, we’ll survive longer with two of us, right? I...I mean,” he pauses, turning his words over in his head. “Unless you’re not alone…”

The boy sneers and the venom in his eyes now drips from his voice. “Like hell. I made it this far on my own.”

Eijirou laughs, which makes the boy turn and glower. He’s got big, rotten pride and an attitude to cut through glass, but if he’s survived this long all by himself, there’s got to be a thing or two they can learn from each other.

“S-shut up!” he stammers, visibly thrown off-kilter. “Give me one good reason why I should let your dumb ass tag along!”

Eijirou’s lips curl into a grin. “Well, I’m not much for offense, but.” He brings his fists together with a satisfying thud. “I’m resilient. I’ll be your unbreakable wall, man. A guard who won’t waver.”

“You are so goddamn weird.” He turns back around. Something like disappointment feels heavy in Eijirou’s chest but before he gets the chance to make a move of his own, the boy calls out, “Fine. But get in my way and I’ll kill you.”

***

Time elapses and once they’ve gotten to know each other—in whatever capacity Katsuki will allow it—it may have been days, weeks, or even months. He learns the idiot is named Kirishima Eijirou and he’s sixteen just like him. Katsuki is able to connect his ink black roots and faded red dye job to his loud, vivacious personality. Who else but someone with a desire to stand out would even bother keeping up such an appearance in this wasteland?

Katsuki also learns that there’s an organized chaos to the way they work together. Everything about Kirishima should make Katsuki hate him; he’s chatty, impulsive, optimistic to a fault, way too touchy…

But he’s also quick on his feet.

Clever in the emotional ways Katsuki is not.

He’s rock solid and dependable where Katsuki is turbulent.

Somehow, it just works.

One night, a storm chases them into the dilapidated remains of a drugstore. They rush in, sopping wet, the soles of their boots squeaking against the tile. Broken glass and empty food wrappers litter the floor. Along the walls, there are dark, empty refrigerators and equally vacant shelves.

It isn’t uncommon for looters to gut places like this. If anything, Katsuki is annoyed he hadn’t thought to do it first.

They find a corner clear of debris to rest their aching feet and Kirishima wastes no time in talking Katsuki’s ear off.

Katsuki supposes he doesn’t mind the sound of Kirishima’s voice. It’s a way to fill the silence he’s has grown uncomfortably used to—protection from his own thoughts. What’s more, as long as the idiot stays yapping, it means Katsuki doesn’t have to talk back.

His secrets don’t define him, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to let any asshole into his head. Some things are sacred. For now, his memories are fragmented moments in the back of his mind. They belong to him in the form of nightmares and fantasies that will become all too real the moment he shares them with anybody else.

So he lets Kirishima talk.

Kirishima’s head tilts back against the wall. He shuts his eyes as if lost in a moment long gone.

“I can’t remember anything before the orphanage,” he admits. His voice has taken on a softer tone, uncharacteristic of the boisterous pain in the ass Katsuki’s come to know. “It wasn’t much, you know. Overcrowded, underfunded...the food was awful.” He brings his hands together and starts to wring them out. “There were never enough beds either. We’d play games to decide who’d have to sleep on the floor for the night.” His lips quirk into a crooked grin. “I’d always let the younger kids win. It sounds pretty shit, but it was home. It was all we knew. Some kids, like me, were orphans of war but a lot of them were abandoned. We didn’t have anybody but each other.”

Kirishima rests his forehead on his joined hands. “When dorobous Thieved our caretakers, I was thirteen. Nobody knew what to do. So many of my siblings died. I was scared and desperate.” He takes in a shuddering breath. “I ran away. Like a coward. I didn’t do anything. Didn’t jump into the fray like a real man should.”

Katsuki tries to picture it, a younger, doe-eyed Kirishima, running without purpose. All his life he had nothing—he was running toward nothing—and yet, he stayed on his feet with love in his heart and a will to live.

How could someone so kind survive in such an unforgiving place? Katsuki tries to wrap his head around it. These days, survival is earned only by the most ruthless.

Katsuki isn’t sure whether it’s Kirishima or the world he’d underestimated. Both of their truths cannot coexist.

“Do you ever regret it?” Katsuki asks, mulling the pieces over, studying the nuances of Kirishima and the broken pieces of his sorry life. He wants it to make sense.

“What, surviving?” Kirishima chuckles. “What kind of question is that?”

Katsuki wonders if he’d have the same optimism if his strength amounted to something other than more time in hell.

A grin that’s at once hopeful and sad touches Kirishima’s lips. He punches Katsuki’s shoulder playfully. “Besides, I met you, didn’t I?”

***

The first time Eijirou sees a dorobou die, the shock leaves him reeling. He’s no stranger to death, but something about the way this body—once so omnipotent—hits the floor is horrifyingly human.

Smoke rises from the barrel of Bakugou’s rifle.

Eijirou’s stomach turns at the sight of the bullet nestled between the host’s eyes. A clean shot. From a distance, he might even look peaceful.

As he steps closer, Eijirou studies the details of his face—close-cropped brown hair, patchy stubble on his chin, thick eyebrows and a hooked nose. The veiny black tinge under his eyelids is the only indication that he was ever anything but human.

Who was he before he was Thieved? Whose life did we just take?

Eijirou’s siblings and caretakers, all Thieved or murdered, flash with gruesome clarity in his head. One by one by one.

“Do you think they felt it?” Eijirou whispers. Lead has settled in his bones. His hands curl into fists to keep them from trembling.

Bakugou snorts, slinging his rifle around his back. “Who gives a shit?”

“Not the dorobou,” Eijirou corrects, his voice steadier than he would have given himself credit for. “I mean the man...do people stay conscious when they’re….Thieved? Are they still there? Do they know they’re being kil—”

“You talk too fucking much.” Bakugou’s voice is like ice. “Let’s go. We don’t know if there were more where he came from.”

The way Bakugou withdraws from hard questions isn’t lost on him. It leaves Eijirou wondering what he’s so afraid of and what he’s seen to make him so cold.

More so...why was it so easy for him to pull the trigger?

***

When Kirishima manages to hotwire a pickup truck, Katsuki supposes he could have done worse in finding a partner. It’s in bad shape, with a cracked windshield and rusty paint job—not to mention the fact that it’s ancient—but it isn’t like they can afford to be choosy.

Methodically, he fiddles with a tangle of blue and red wires, tongue poking out between his sharp teeth, and Katsuki can’t help but study the stern wrinkle in between his brows. He is held captive by the movement of Kirishima’s calloused, dirt-caked fingers looping, tying, pulling, working in such a comfortable motion that Katsuki knows he’s done this many times before.

The truck roars to life; Kirishima sits up and grins. A drop of sweat rolls down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat. Katsuki drags his eyes away once he realizes he’d been staring.

“You’re not as dumb as you look,” he remarks.

Kirishima laughs, unapologetically loud. It does something strange to Katsuki’s pulse. He shoves him out of the way and settles into the driver’s side, then looks at the dashboard. The gas meter is a hair away from empty. He sighs.

“You wouldn’t happen to know how to siphon gas too, would you?”

As night rolls in, the two decide it’s best to get some much needed rest. They lay a couple of blankets they stole from a looted shop some weeks ago over the truck bed’s hard ridges and then collapse beneath a threadbare quilt they found in the backseat.

Katsuki’s heavy eyes fall closed as cool air fans across his face. The humble chaos of nighttime has always been so strange to him. Daytime can be so quiet—lonely, when your only company is the terrain. But nighttime rings.

Crickets on the outside.

Memories on the inside.

Kirishima’s breathing so steady and calm...protective in its own inexplicable way and shushing Katsuki’s hurricane of thoughts.

He shifts and Katsuki opens his eyes, transfixed by the way the moonlight drips over Kirishima’s face, delicately tracing his features. He follows the soft silver lines from the ends of his hair, down the slope of his nose, over the curve of his lips, enamored by how they shift and change as he moves.

Kirishima turns on his side and Katsuki can’t breathe for a second. They’re close enough that he could count his eyelashes if he wanted to—long, black, and brushing the top of his cheeks when he blinks.

“Can I ask you something?” Kirishima asks, almost whispering.

Katsuki swallows, something heavy settling in his chest. “What is it?”

“You asked me some time ago...if I ever regretted surviving.” Kirishima wets his lips and the crease between his brows returns, like the question is something he’d considered as carefully as he did the wires in their truck. “Do you?”

He exhales, watching the scar on Kirishima’s eyelid appear and disappear as he blinks. He doesn’t know how to answer that. Survival nowadays is limited only to how desperate you are—more so, how lucky. Katsuki has never been fond of games of chance.

At last, he settles with, “I don’t regret not giving up.” Be it due to luck, skill, selfishness, or a combination of it all, Katsuki doesn’t know how to surrender. He’ll stay alive out of spite if he must. What better way is there to get back at a life that took everything away from him?

Kirishima stares and it makes Katsuki feel naked, like his gaze alone can crack through his armor and sink beneath his skin. He wants to turn away but he’s trapped. Kirishima’s eyes are a deep crimson with sunny flecks of gold—embers that don’t stop burning.

Gooseflesh covers Katsuki’s arms.

He tells himself it’s just the chill.

“My mentor.” The words fall from Katsuki’s tongue. Kirishima’s eyes hold him steady like his own private gravity and it makes Katsuki feel safe.

Maybe secrets whispered in the dark aren’t quite as real.

Kirishima moves closer and their knees bump under the blanket. Electricity sparks in the places they touch.

“I…” Katsuki’s mouth feels dry. He clears his throat and tells him, “My parents and I joined the rebellion when I was a kid. We went out on rescue missions, slaying dorobous and bringing civilians back to the safe house we built. My mentor...he was well-known in our town. A hero, really.” What Katsuki doesn’t say is that Toshinori Yagi was practically his father after his own parents were Thieved and then mercy-killed by their own comrades in action.

He feels Kirishima’s fingertips graze his arm, maybe by accident. Katsuki draws in a swift breath.

“What happened to him?” he asks, gentle and undemanding. Maybe the skeletons in Kirishima’s own closet have given him this specific type of empathy. Or maybe he’s just that kind.

“I went out on my own one night,” he says, curling his trembling hands into fists. Anxiety mangles his words and Katsuki needs a moment to recalibrate. This memory—this confession—isn’t supposed to belong to anybody else.

He keeps talking.

“That fucking safe house felt more like a graveyard than a sanctuary,” he grinds out. “It was full of grief-stricken survivors. I had to get away, just for a bit. Every day felt like a goddamn funeral.”

Kirishima says nothing. His eyes are so damn big, like a puppy’s. It at once throws Katsuki and comforts him.

“I got ambushed by dorobous. Like a dumbass I wasn’t armed so the fight seemed pretty hopeless. I kept thinking to myself that I’d rather die than be Thieved, as if I had the luxury of a choice.” Katsuki grasps the blanket with white knuckles, swallowing the knot in his throat. This fucker will not see him cry.

��Toshinori, my mentor, noticed I was gone so he came looking for me. The idiot was recognized immediately. I mean, people called him All Might. He was their worst nightmare…”

Or at least that had been true before his accident. After a close call with a dorobou some years prior, Toshinori was left walking with a cane and almost blind in his left eye. His aim wasn’t what it once was. He could barely hold his own in a fight. He existed as a symbol, a tactical leader, but he hadn’t been on the frontlines in years.

“I wasn’t as interesting to the dorobous anymore and he saved my life at the cost of his own.” His voice was strangled and he cursed himself for being so weak, even now. “They killed him. And I ran away when I should have died by his side.” Beneath his own anger and grief, he knew why he did. Because if Katsuki had died that night, Toshinori’s sacrifice would have been for nothing.

It still felt like a flimsy excuse.

“It was my fault.” It comes out in a broken whisper that didn’t even sound like himself. “If I hadn’t gone out...if I hadn’t been there…” He shakes his head furiously and curses under his breath.

Kirishima touches his arm, running his thumb across his skin. “Hey...what happened after that?” A soft voice. A steady voice.

Katsuki swallows. “I couldn’t face anyone. I took one of his guns from the weapon closet and ran like hell.” As an afterthought, he adds, “The leader of the attack looked like you from the back. It’s the reason I chased you down that first day. Sorry, I guess.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Kirishima says.

Katsuki finally averts his eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says again. His fingers stay on Katsuki’s skin. “Look, this world doesn’t really lend itself much to blame. Shit happens and we just have to get through it as best as we can.”

Katsuki turns away from him because suddenly he can’t stand to be touched. He’s surrounded by the ghosts he just set free. It’s all too much.

He hears Kirishima sigh but then the silence feels all too heavy. It empties his mind of the present and leaves too much room for the memories. He comes to a compromise.

“Hey, idiot,” Katsuki says. “Tell me a story.”

Kirishima tenses beside him. He stammers, “Uh, s-sure. Of what?”

“Anything.” He just needs to hear his voice until sleep pulls him under.

And so he does and his gravity returns. When they wake up the next morning, they’re a tangle of limbs.

***

Sunlight beckons them awake and they extricate themselves from each other without words. For the past few weeks, ever since their first night together on the truck bed, every morning has been this way.

Eijirou tucks his pistol into a proper holster now while Bakugou is bent over his knees, lacing up his boots. Once they’re both ready, they share a glance and then hop into the front seats, off again. Sleepy, laconic conversations have become routine for them and each response brings them closer to some semblance of the energy required to survive.

“You reek,” Bakugou says.

“So do you,” Eijirou says.

“Let’s find a shower.”

“But food first.”

“Food first.”

“And coffee.”

A snort. “Good luck finding that.”

“You really do reek, man.”

“You didn’t think so when you clung to me last night.”

Eijirou laughs, tilting his head back against the seat, listening to the rickety hum of their motor. He catches Bakugou’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

It’s rare to find an abandoned supermarket stocked up, but when they stumble upon one with its front doors intact, Eijirou suggests they give it a look.

Bakugou grunts an affirmative.

Humid air rolls over them as they step inside. The first thing Eijirou notices is the assaulting stench of rancid meat.

“Eugh,” he half-gags. “That’s ripe.”

“Good sign,” says Bakugou. He stalks past Eijirou. “Means there’s still food here. There’s gotta be something salvageable.”

“Should we split up, then? Cover more ground?”

The faster they’re out of here, the better. If this place has yet to be looted, that means it’s only a matter of time.

“Yeah.” Bakugou cocks his rifle, ever-vigilant. “We’ll meet back at the entrance in ten.”

They part ways and Eijirou combs through the aisles, stocking up on whatever non-perishables he can find. A jar of peanut butter. Saltine crackers. Canned goods. His backpack puts on satisfying weight. But the rotting smell only grows more oppressive the closer he moves toward the back.

He tiptoes forward and the stench sends his stomach lurching. When he turns the corner, fear winds through his stomach.

A girl—no, a corpse—lies at his feet. One yellow-tinted, glassy eye stares straight through Eijirou; the other has been eaten by a festival of maggots that have since found a home in her now-hollow skull.

Infected black veins bulge from her ashen, emaciated hands.

Not just a corpse. A discarded host.

Eijirou draws his gun and calls Bakugou’s name.

Katsuki backs into a wall, aiming his rifle at the horde of enemies closing in on him. He’s limited on bullets and would prefer not to waste any on these lowlife dorobous but if he must, then he will. His eyes dart from left to right, searching for an opening.

Kirishima’s voice falls on deaf ears. It wrenches Katsuki’s heart. Is he alright? Did a dorobou find him? He knows Kirishima is more than capable of taking care of himself.

But still...

The one directly in front of Katsuki cocks his head with amusement. Katsuki’s head spins; something about him sets his nerves on end.

“You know…” His voice is deep and gravelly, grating against Katsuki’s ears like nails on a chalkboard. “You remind me of an old friend. It’s that look in your eyes.”

Katsuki’s blood runs cold but he shows no indication. He narrows his eyes and clicks a bullet into its chute.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” he says, though he’s still careful. Right now, his odds aren’t good.

“Aw, kid, don’t you remember me?” He smiles, displaying a row of decaying teeth. “I wonder if All Might would be proud to know you’re still alive.”

Silence.

Eijirou’s heart sinks.

Without thinking, he breaks into a run.

He keeps his gun drawn as his eyes scan the area, desperately searching for a sign of his partner.

He runs.

Leaping over debris and groceries strewn over the floor.

He runs.

As nightmarish what-ifs fill his head to a point of bursting.

He runs, and runs, and runs.

Because if he doesn’t...

His thoughts and better judgment are so wholly monopolized by adrenaline that he isn’t prepared when he’s tackled. He crashes to the floor, gripping his gun to his chest. Cans of food spill out from his backpack and roll straight into the foot of an adjacent shelf.

Eijirou turns over with a gasp, aiming the gun forward. A dorobou with a nest of blonde hair crushes his legs beneath her weight. Her honey-colored eyes are feral with hunger. A web of black veins blooms from her temple.

Her body has already started to give from the infection; once a host can no longer sustain them, they find their next target.

That insurance bullet flashes in his mind.

She’ll kill him. She’ll take him. The gun throbs in Eijirou’s hand like the heartbeats its bullets are meant to collect.

He should kill her.

He should…

A scream tears through his chest and he jams the butt of his gun into her nose. She shrieks as blood runs over her lips. He wrestles her off and leaps to his feet and he doesn’t hesitate to take off again.

Red floods Katsuki’s vision. Toshinori’s alias falls off the dorobou’s tongue like something poisonous. Visceral familiarity carves into Katsuki’s gut and suddenly the pieces jerk into place. Those smug eyes. The bloodlust that would rather kill than Thieve.

A different host, but it’s him.

“You.” Katsuki abandons logic and self-preservation. He lunges at him. “You son of a bitch!”

He’s shoved to the floor by four or five others and his rifle is wrenched from his grip. It clatters to the floor, out of reach.

“I want the body!”

“Shut up! My host has given way. I need it the most.”

“If you damage it beyond repair, none of us will be able to take it!”

A knee jams into his back and Katsuki’s jaw cracks against the tile. Agony explodes through his body. All of his senses but the ones that register pain begin shutting off. White noise spills into his ears and he feels like his skull is about to burst open.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t see.

He can’t speak.

Why the hell did he let his anger get the better of him? Katsuki tries to curse but pain shoots through his spine.

Maybe this is some kind of penance. To die the same way as Toshinori, the way he should have all those years ago.

Even now, thinking of his mentor’s sacrifice, he’s so selfish.

He’d give anything for more time.

More things to learn. More sunrises to see. More...more nights under the stars and long drives in comfortable silence and more warmth. Warmth under a tender gaze, a familiar voice, a soft touch...

...just...more…

The floor grows warm as pins and needles spread across his back. His heartbeat slows, but so does the pain.

Is it over?

It’s so quiet.

And then, a gunshot.

A scream.

A sob.

Bang.

A watery voice calls his name, not Bakugou, but Katsuki. It sounds so sweet. Like a lullaby. He wants to hear it again. Warm hands carefully roll him over and take him into their arms.

“Hey.”

It’s so warm.

“Katsuki.”

It’s so safe.

“Godammit, STAY WITH ME!”

A gentle flame flecked with fierce gold embers. It’s so beautiful.

“I took care of them but we need to leave before we’re ambushed by more.”

It’s...

“Katsuki.”

It’s home.

***

And then everything burns white.

Katsuki’s eyes open to what feels like the goddamn sun. Slowly, the stiff gears in his mind begin to turn as shards of reality draw together: the ridges of the truck bed under his body, the throbbing in his head, the smell of grass and gasoline, and the faraway sound of music trickling through static—a radio?

He groans and tries sitting up but the pain knocks him back down. Kirishima is instantly by his side, hands hovering just above Katsuki’s shoulders.

Kirishima.

He takes him in: big doe eyes, razor sharp teeth barely biting down on his bottom lip whenever he’s concentrated or confused, the scar cutting through his eyelid. He’s so soft. Kind. For a dumb moment, Katsuki asks himself how someone like this could possibly fit into a world so cruel.

“The….fuck,” Katsuki says.

Kirishima helps settle him into a sitting position, then gestures sheepishly at Katsuki. “I hope it’s okay. I have, like, the bare minimum of first aid knowledge. They taught us at the orphanage. But, uh, I’ve never properly dressed a stab wound.”

Stab wound?

He glances down at his body and connects the pain with a concentrated area just shy of the small of his back. Threadbare bandages are wound tightly around his torso.

“It’s...fine,” Katsuki manages, still dazed.

Kirishima sits back on his heels and exhales; it looks as if it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to breathe in days. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

His head is still full of fog, but through the haze of pain, confusion, and whatever memory he has from that night in the supermarket, he’s able to realize one thing.

Kirishima saved him.

Kirishima, with his gentle heart and careful hands pulled the trigger again and again, crying Katsuki’s name—desperate. Kirishima who once asked him if human hosts could still feel the fear and agony of being Thieved, and then being killed. He discarded his own empathy to save Katsuki.

Dorobou or not, his hands are forever stained with blood now.

“You,” Katsuki begins, then stops himself. He doesn’t need to rehash that. Not right now. There will be time to talk about it just like there will be time for Katsuki to return the favor. Instead, he sighs. “It had to be you, didn’t it? No other asshole could have gotten us out of that mess alive.”

Kirishima laughs and the remaining tension bleeds out of him. There’s still something different in his eyes—not broken, but less naive. They’re the eyes of someone who just learned that the only way to survive is to be more ruthless than the world you’re in.

But those fire eyes with their sunny gold flecks are still unequivocally Kirishima Eijirou.

“Is there anything you need?” he asks. “I mean, now that you’re awake.” He jabs a thumb in the direction of the front seat. “I can change the radio station, though, it’s either this or polka.”

Katsuki has half a mind to snap at Kirishima for coddling him. He doesn’t, though. Because it’s Kirishima. Because when everything was slowing to a stop, all he could see was scarlet eyes and a starlit smile.

So he doesn’t curse at him, or move away, or listen to the parts of himself telling him he’s a fool for letting anybody this deep into his heart.

He says, “You called me Katsuki.”

Pink blossoms on Kirishima’s cheeks. He lets out a nervous laugh and scratches the back of his head. “Sorry about that. I, uh, things were...I mean, you know. I don’t kn—”

“God, you talk too fucking much,” says Katsuki. His fingers wind through the fabric of Kirishima’s shirtfront and he pulls him in for a kiss. Butterflies explode in his stomach and his heart feels like it’s about to burst out through his ribs and at first, he thinks Kirishima is going to push him away.

But he melts.

His hands cradle Katsuki’s face, calloused thumbs circling his cheeks. His flushed skin, soft lips, and the rhythm of his pulse intoxicates him like a drug. When they pull apart, Kirishima licks his lips, and then laughs.

Katsuki is taken aback. Defensively, he sputters, “What the hell?”

“You’re so cute when you’re smitten,” he replies, then presses a sweet kiss to the side of his mouth. Katsuki’s face burns. “Man, I’m so glad you didn’t kill me that first day.”

He snorts, then narrows his eyes. “Once again, you talk way too damn much.”

Kirishima cocks an eyebrow. “What are you going to do about it?”

They fall back into each other and Katsuki smiles against Eijirou’s mouth, thankful at the very least for one thing: that all of the anguish leading up until now gave him something so good. Maybe they were unfairly born into a world where the odds are stacked against them. But maybe there’s also something to be said about the way they’ve kicked adversity in the ass. Destiny, fate, or whatever brought hellfire to their home, challenged humanity to a fight to the death.

Every moment up until now has been about trying to conquer the insurmountable. But now, together, there isn’t an odd they won’t beat.

#kiribaku #bakushima #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #fanfic #zine

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ks-caster · 5 years ago

Text

Letters to Gabriel

Fandom: Heroes

Characters: Elle, Gabriel

Notes: Throughout her arc, Elle develops a coping mechanism where she writes letters to Gabriel - even though she’s often betraying or being betrayed by him, somehow writing her thoughts to him helps.

Gabriel and Peter are going through old Pinehurst files, and Gabe finds a manila envelope full of these letters - she kept them, and they were archived.

Letters 1 and 2, as well as the rest of the outline, are available under the cut.

Chapter 1:

Dear Gabriel,

They didn’t tell me how cute you were.

Or how depressed.

It was just supposed to be a simple meet ‘n’ greet assignment; I go in, say hello, plug my name into the back of your head for when it’s needed later, and then walk off the face of the earth until next time.

Well, you know that’s not how it happened.

My hands are shaking. This has been the craziest afternoon. And now here I am, sitting in a corner of an unused office, writing a letter that I can never send, to a guy I barely know. I’m not good at dealing with stress and fear and uncertainty… all those uncomfortable, nagging emotions that no one—at least in my line of work—ever has. Or at least, they don’t admit to them.

My father has told me all my life that I’m supposed to be stronger, smarter, better. I can’t stoop to being mediocre in anything, and God forbid I should be below-average. So I can’t be worried, not in front of anyone. I can’t be shocked and disturbed that I almost walked in on your dead body. That’s why I’m scribbling my thoughts to a complete stranger on a memo pad I found—okay, stole from—beside Bennett’s phone. I’ve gotta do something, so maybe this will help me calm down before I break down into a nervous wreck.

After I left your shop, Bennett told me that we’re not just observing you because you have a power. We’re waiting for you to kill someone. Bennett said that we needed to see you hunt “in the wild,” because transferring power from one vessel to another is extremely rare. But I’m guessing that the homemade noose—a sturdy thing; I can’t believe that you actually bought it when I said it broke on its own—might just be an indicator that you’re not interested in killing anymore. Maybe what you did before was a fluke. Maybe we’re wrong in our analysis. Maybe we’re totally off-base, and you didn’t kill the guy at all.

But then, why would you try to hang yourself?

Okay, so you probably did murder him. But, well, I’m an agent—if a junior one—and I’ve killed loads of people. You offed one guy… It’s hard for me to remember that kind of… of innocence. I have to go pretty far back. Actually, I don’t even remember the first person I killed, so I have trouble understanding what the big deal is. But it’s sort of sad, still. You seem like an all-around decent guy who made a mistake that can’t ever be fixed.

And you said I was like an angel. When you looked at me, your eyes were so full of light. I’m a manipulative, violent, compassionless bitch, who dreams of becoming a good enough femme fatale to impress her high-standards father. But when you finally got around to figuring out that I was there, when you asked me for my name, when you said I was like an angel… nobody’s ever looked at me like that. Certainly no one’s ever asked for forgiveness from me. More importantly, I was never the kind of person who would ever even consider giving forgiveness if it was asked.

Your face, the way you saw me, what you said… I liked it. It was like I was actually a nice person, for the first time in, well, ever.

Even though it’ll be pretty bad luck for you, I look forward to seeing you again. I want to see your face, and see you look at me like I’m an angel.

I want the excuse to act like I’m an angel again.

Until next time,

Elle.

The letter was written on lined notepad paper with the Primatech logo in the bottom right-hand corner of each mini-sheet. It had been folded several different ways, and also torn in half—all at once, by the slant—and carefully repaired with scotch tape.

Behind him the lock on the door rattled as a key was inserted, and Gabriel took a deep breath and then slid the whole stack of papers back into the envelope, closed it, and hid it inside of his shirt. After spending several virtual years alone with Peter in the dreary loneliness of his mind, Gabriel didn’t keep too many secrets from his friend. But this… until he’d read the whole thing, he wanted it to be just his. Not so much secret as personal, he decided, and that was okay. He was entitled to a little privacy.

Chapter 2:

Elle’s second letter was written on the backs of old calendar pages. On one side of each piece of paper a month was divided into little squares for each date, and on the other side her simple, slanted script filled the entire page with dark blue ink.

Gabriel had taken the big manila envelope back to the hotel room he was sharing with Peter, and had laid the stack out neatly on the desk, in the order they had been in originally. He resisted the urge to look ahead; he had all the letters, so he might as well read them in the order in which they were written. Besides, this might be the only record left of Elle Bishop’s life, thanks to the efficiency of people like Bennett who wouldn’t want dead agents to leave a paper trail. Out of respect for her, he decided, he would read the letters in order, leaving the memory stick for last, since she clearly wasn’t very high-tech in the beginning.

Dear Gabriel, the second letter began.

Hey, it’s me again. You know, I’ve never actually had peach pie before; it was good.

Being with you… was good.

From the moment I stepped through the door, I was walking on air. I was expecting the “angel look” again, but the whole night, I got something better, something I never knew I’d ever want. You looked at me like I was… me. Not “Agent Bishop,” not the Director’s-Creepy-Twisted-Protégé-Daughter, just me, and no one else. All evening, I was just “Elle.” And it was wonderful.

You said you fought with a hunger for more abilities, that you had wanted to be “more special,” and that now you think it’s okay to be ordinary. But oh, Gabriel, you’ll never be ordinary. No one ordinary could ever make me—me!—feel so calm, so complete, so at-home.

Gabriel, I don’t care how corny that romantically-retarded Bennett said it was. I stand by what I said: you are special just the way you are.

And some tiny corner of my brain, the part of me that still has enough human left in it to care, is utterly repulsed and terrified by what I’m about to do to you.

I tried—well, okay; my attempt was lame and went nowhere. I bucked at the reins a little, that’s a better way of putting it. I told Bennett after I left that I thought your suicide attempt was a wake-up call; that I didn’t think you’d kill again if left to your own devices. I even said I refused to turn you into a monster.

But then he reminded me that if I didn’t follow orders, I wasn’t an agent, and if I wasn’t an agent, I couldn’t stay with the company. I’ve been trained—as Bennett reminded me—since I was four years old, by my father, who believed in me, who supported me, who groomed me to be the best and brightest. If I’m not with the company, then… where am I supposed to go?

He’s my dad. He’s put so much effort into raising me. I can’t betray him.

Not even for someone who makes me feel as… as right as you do.

I gotta stop writing you letters, seriously. I have the one from the day we met stashed in the bottom of my jewelry box—dunno why I kept that one—but there have been others, just notes, really, scribbled on napkins or post-its. Like I said in the first one, I don’t really know what to do when something’s wrong, you know, in my head. Whenever I’m upset or hurting or just surprised about something, I always “tell you,” even though I’m not actually sending you, the real live Gabriel, any of these letters. It became a habit practically over the night, and it’s sticking like a leech. I’ve tried keeping a journal instead, but it just doesn’t work.

Because when I write, I think about what you might look like reading it. I imagine your face, your eyes, how you might look at me, and tell me it’s okay to be ordinary, that I don’t have to be special either.

But if everything goes as planned with our date-night next Saturday, then… Well, it’s just really, really stupid and probably unhealthy for me to keep doing this. I’d never live it down if someone found these. So this will be my last letter to you, Gabriel.

I really wish there was something I could do to save you from me.

Elle

It wasn’t the last letter, clearly. The stack below it on the desk had to contain at least four or five more.

Gabriel stood up and strode to the window, pulling on the thin chain to make the horizontal blinds rotate open. He stared down at the parking lot below, needing a moment to breathe before continuing. So, even beforehand she knew that what she was doing was cruel and terrible.

Turning quickly on his heel, Gabriel stalked back to the desk, sat himself down, and picked up the third letter. Delaying the inevitable was just another kind of slow torture.

Part of Chapter 3:

What have I done?

Elle’s third letter, written in black pen on plain unlined copier paper, began without any introduction.

What have I done? She wrote, the script perfect and even, like that thought had consumed her long enough for her to write it out neatly before she could continue. The rest of the letter was barely legible—her hands must have been shaking terribly, or else she’d written it in a moving vehicle. Probably the former, Gabriel thought as he carefully deciphered the wobbly handwriting.

What have I done? Oh Gabriel, what have I done to you?

I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Gabriel, you can’t imagine how sorry I am—or perhaps you can. You tried to kill yourself, after all, when you murdered that man, and now I’ve destroyed you, and there’s a razor-blade on the desk by my elbow still wet with my blood. Some people say that cutting helps when you feel like this, but it didn’t help me at all.

Nothing can help me right now; not even writing this. The thing I do to keep myself sane now hinges on someone whose sanity I shattered. Irony is cruel…

Even killing myself—yes, I thought about that—wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t change anything, it wouldn’t undo anything. So here I sit, bandages wrapped around my bleeding arm, writing yet another letter I can never send, to a man to whom I really do owe these words. I’m so sorry.

And you didn’t kill me.

You told me to get out—to run away before you hurt me. Even in that state, even in the frenzy I pushed you into, you had a strong enough heart to try and save me.

The paper was badly water-damaged; from tears, Gabriel assumed. These obscured the writing so badly that for several paragraphs, only a few scattered words were readable.

Twenty-two years of my life, the letter continued after the worst of the damage, and I’ve never had anyone look at me like you did—in the clock shop like I was an angel, and in your apartment like I was just Elle. You made me feel like I could actually be that way; not Agent Bishop, but just myself.

The next sentence was crossed out, and Gabriel had to focus carefully to make out the words. Even my father never looks at me that way, she’d said, and then deleted as best she could.

But I can’t undo what I’ve done. I can’t unmake the monster I created. No matter how much I wish I’d been brave enough or good enough to say “no” at the time, I can’t change the past. I hate myself, and I think I always will. I hope I do. If I brush this feeling under the rug, if I forget how horrible this was, how horrible I was… then what will I become? It must have taken a demon to raise a demon.

She post-scripts more about how much of a coward she is: she doesn’t type it because she doesn’t want any chance that a record of her emotional slip-up will reach Bennett or her father. When Gabriel finds it, it has been torn in half and then carefully repaired with scotch tape.

Outline:

Chapter 3: Elle’s third “letter” is a long rambling apology, dated the same day she manipulated him into killing Trevor. That night she went home and was so full of self-loathing that she didn’t know what to do. She tried to let it out by cutting herself, but it didn’t help; she wasn’t changing anything, and even suicide wouldn’t change what she’d done to him. So she patched herself up and decided to write him a letter—a letter that she knew even then that she could never actually send—telling him how incredibly stupid and guilty and sorry, sorry, sorry she was. Twenty-two years of life, and she’d never had anyone look at her like he did that day in the clock shop; first with eyes full of tears, then with wonder, like she was an angel, and then that day when they’d had pie in his apartment, like she was just Elle. Not agent Bishop, not some made-up character, but Elle, just herself. Even her father didn’t ever look at her that way. (Perhaps that bit is crossed out?) But she can’t undo what she’s done, no matter how much she wishes she’d been brave enough to say no at the time. The letter is written in shaky handwriting on pieces of unlined blank printer paper. She post-scripts more about how much of a coward she is: she doesn’t type it because she doesn’t want any chance that a record of her emotional slip-up will reach Bennett or her father. When Gabriel finds it, it has been torn in half and then carefully repaired with scotch tape.

Chapter 4: Elle’s fourth letter is written—still by hand—a little more neatly on lined, three-ring-punched paper. It has also been torn and repaired. This one is dated several months after the first, and she talks about how she has Peter in custody, and how she’s read the new files on Sylar, and can’t help but wonder if he’s happier that way, with no inhibitions or conscience. But then she records a conversation she had with Dr. Suresh, and Mohinder tells her about how he found the words “Forgive me!” scrawled in blood on the wall of Gabriel’s apartment before the evidence was removed. Now Elle is conflicted. She wants to be a good daughter and a good agent, but she’s having problems with her father. Her father is concerned about the problem Sylar poses, and she’s afraid that she is being blamed for his actions, even though she was following orders when she created him. That’s why she writes another letter—not to Sylar, but to her friend Gabriel, the sweet single guy whose oddities made him easy to talk to, like he would understand her problems because she wasn’t any stranger than he was. But then she reflects on how she destroyed that part of him, and she can never forgive herself.

Chapter 5: Elle’s fifth letter is a rant, written so hard on the paper that it is torn in places and grooved in others. It is on paper torn out of a notebook, and the only tape repairs are where she tore it from writing too hard. She starts off by calling him every bad name she can think of in all capitals, then calms down enough to record that she tore up her two previous letters, and then thought better of it and fixed them, because writing these was helping her keep her head on straight. She goes on to say all the horrible punishments she’d like to inflict on him, and then says how scared she is. Scared because she created an even worse monster than she ever expected, scared because without her father to guide her she has no idea what she’s supposed to do, scared because there’s relief mixed in; she finally doesn’t have to try so hard to impress him. She’s so confused, and even though she hates him, writing a letter to the old him seemed like it might help.

Chapter 6: Elle’s sixth letter is written shakily again, and hasn’t been ripped, though several parts of the page were burned off and re-written on clean paper, which was then taped to the bottom so that the whole thing is readable. She admits how much pain she is in, and how lost she is, and how she is going to Bennet—the man who pressured her into turning Gabriel into the monster who killed her father—for help, because he was the man with the plan; the one with all the answers. She feels a dull, routine sort of hatred for him, but she is so confused and hurt and lost that she doesn’t really know how she feels about anyone anymore. She had even started to blame her dearly departed father for turning her into what she is, but she feels that that’s disrespecting him in death and… She feels that she shouldn’t need the man who murdered her father. She shouldn’t need anyone; she’s supposed to be strong. But she needs him. Writing to him is the only thing keeping her sane. And maybe that simple fact just goes to prove how truly crazy she really is.

Chapter 7: Elle’s seventh letter is written on burned and repaired paper just like her sixth, from sitting on a plane with Claire Bennet, of all people, on her way to some mystery company to get help. She describes again how the lightning is building up inside of her and making her sick, and how she barely dares to hope that this new company will be able to help her. She’s vacillating wildly between hating him and wanting to kill him and almost wishing he were here—the old Gabriel—so that she could talk to him, and have him look at her like that one more time, like she was just Elle and nothing else. The fact that he could feel remorse for what he had done—when he tried to hang himself—the fact that he could try to change, to go straight… The old Gabriel had sort of inspired her to be better. But it wasn’t enough, apparently. She still didn’t have the guts to take his side against the schemes of the Company.

Chapter 8: Elle’s eighth letter is typed, and in perfect condition. There’s nobody to fear reading it, really, although she does admit to deleting it from the system after she prints it. She says, “Hey Gabriel, what do you know, I’m writing another letter that I’ll never give you, and you’re asleep in the next room over. This is ironic.” She goes on to say how grateful she is for everything he did. Even though he claimed she did it on her own, she says she never would’ve thought it was okay to forgive herself if someone else hadn’t done it first. She says that the things he’s done only allow him to see the good in others better, because he knows what it’s like to be drowning in his own darkness. She admits concern over the Arthur Petrelli situation, but she chooses not to tell him the truth just yet. She says she intends to, but right now he’s so new to the idea that he has a choice about who he is and how he lives. She believes that he’s not destined to become his parents, but she’s not so sure he’ll believe it yet, so as twisted and evil as Arthur is, she lets Gabriel believe he is his father for now, because if he finds out what Sampson Gray is like, she’s afraid he’ll go right back to how he was. She concludes by saying that she believes he has to power to change, and that Arthur may be using him, but he’s also helping him whether he intends to or not. She plans to stick close and help him break away from his pseudo-family, and then tell him the truth when she thinks the time is right. Then she ends by saying, “look at me, acting all mature and knowing, like I think I’m a seer or something. You’re important to me, Gabriel, and I’ll do anything in my power to undo the wrong I did you, even if I have to lie to you for now.” –This would end the cannon drabbles, because Elle literally dies the next day, and Gabriel is confused when he finds a memory stick also in the envelope.

Chapter 9: This one’s a video letter from Gabriel himself; the Gabe of the future. In it, he details out how time would’ve progressed, and talks about his life with Elle—now Elle Gray—and his son, Noah. (The video shows him holding up a picture of their family.) He talks about how Elle’s power started maturing, and she’s a lot more than she seems. She told him that the future would end; that their lives together wouldn’t last, but he said he didn’t care. He wanted her here and now, even if it wouldn’t be forever, because he loved her. A few weeks ago, she started to seem distant and preoccupied, and she finally ‘fessed up that the end of the future was coming soon. She said that she would use the last of her power as she faded to make sure that their son had a chance to survive. He couldn’t time-travel, but he asked her to put this with her letter collection, so that the Gabriel—the Sylar—of the past would find it and know that even though this particular future was gone, the chance for a life without hands covered in blood was still there if he had what it took to follow it. –Gabriel finishes this video in confusion. There’s also a file on the stick, a typed letter from Elle-of-the-Future.

Chapter 10: Elle-of-the-Future writes and explains how she “caught” past-Elle before she made it to that beach, swapped clothes, put on the bloody bandage, and hid her away in another country before taking her place. Since the future—and her existence with it—was disappearing, she would’ve literally faded and vanished if he hadn’t killed her, and she’s still alive, in the past, and pregnant with their son. She says that her vision isn’t nearly as specific as that of the person who initially explained all this to her, and she doesn’t know where his head will be when he reads this, so for their child’s safety she doesn’t say where Elle is. She does say that she loves him, and still believes in him.

Chapter 11-etc…: Meanwhile, Elle—hidden in another country—still writes letters to Gabriel whenever she needs to clear her head. She writes about what happened between her and Elle-of-the-Future, and also writes one when she figures out that she’s pregnant—and it’s gotta be his. She writes about how—on that last, craziest day of her life—she was terrified, but sort of exhilarated, because she knew she’d have to rely on him more, to protect her.

She writes about how Claire’s media revelation has forced her to keep herself very carefully in check. She has the baby, writes about it, about how much issue she had with her powers maturing while she was pregnant, and how she was afraid to use them at all until the baby was born.

She writes at length about labor—she has Noah in a wrecked buss, or some such violent scene. Afterward she lets loose a stunning, frightening display of power that has been held in check for far too long. This reveals her true nature to (bad guys/media) and she has to go on the run. Rebel helps her—she leaves his true identity out just in case some random person ever reads it, to Gabriel’s great amusement when he finally reads it.

Elle ends up working with kids like Rebel and Molly—and a few OC’s—to help other Empowered in need, and once she’s set up in a house, the kids all live there, so she’s part partner, part mom. She writes to him about how she’s not just a mother to her own child, she’s got a group of grade-and-middle-schoolers sleeping on her couches.

Also she writes all her thoughts about Noah’s name. She wants an angel’s name, because with all the exposure it’s not safe to call him Gray. She thinks about Michael, but it’s too much like Micah, who lives with her, and she doesn’t want it to get confusing. (She doesn’t get a chance to name her son until a while after he is born, due to running for their lives.) In the end, she chooses Noah, because Noah was a survivor, and she thought that if there was any sort of fate attached to a name, she wanted one that came with protection. It didn’t occur to her until later—and another letter—that Bennet’s first name was Noah. Oops, oh well. Maybe Noah Grayson Bishop will be a better Noah than Noah Bennet.

Her letters conclude with some confessions about how much she still misses him, and how she’s so dependent on her memory of him, and wants him for real. Then she says how she can be totally honest here because no one will ever read these, and how even now she doesn’t have the guts to send them, even though she learned through Molly—whose power matured, making her basically omniscient—that he was reformed now and safe to have around baby Noah. She also admits that she’s frightened, because her power is maturing as well, and her body is changing into she doesn’t really know what.

At this point, Molly decides to send the entire package to Gabriel. She writes him a letter as well, explaining that she can’t like him—because of what he did to her parents—but she can’t hate him either, because of what she’s seen of his life and the way he has been changed. She reflects that she doesn’t really have the capacity for hatred anymore, because she knows everything about people, and can’t help but sympathize at least a little. She finishes by saying please don’t tell anyone that she sent the letters, because word might get back to Mohinder, and he wouldn’t understand.

Then Gabriel writes back. In the penultimate chapter, he says he needs to explain, to apologize, and that he’s been thinking about her and missing her too. He says he wants to meet.

In the epilogue, Gabriel enters a restaurant—or wherever—and sees the back of Elle’s head. He is overcome by nerves. She may not have been present as such, but his last memory of her is killing her. He is afraid to approach; his foot won’t move forward anymore. Then Elle lifts up Noah, and he looks Gabriel straight in the eye. It’s a baby’s face, but somehow it says, “Well dad, what are you waiting for? Get over here.” He smiles, and takes the next step towards the booth.

Down comes the curtain, have a nice day readers!

#Beth's New Year's Cleaning Queue #free to a good home #any and all parts available for general use with credit #heroes #heroes fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction ideas #writing #writing ideas #First two chapters written plus an outline

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peerless-soshi · 7 years ago

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A sweetener

Title: A sweetener Fandom: Danganronpa/Super Danganronpa 2 Setting: Post-Future Arc Relationship: Kazuichi Souda & Ibuki Mioda Genre: Silly friendship, silly humor Word count: 5047 Links: AO3, FFN Summary: Kazuichi Souda pretends to be in a good humor but it doesn’t stop Ibuki Mioda from adding sugar to his bitterness. A/N: Written for TereziMakara as a part of GenEx 2017. Inspired partly by their suggestions and partly by Ibuki's Free Time Events, but mostly by one of the Chapter 1 Hidden Events. Have fun!

Kazuichi Souda, in spite of what some people tended to think, liked to set clear goals and always knew what he was aiming for. Perhaps that’s why he has found his greatest passion in disassembling and putting together all different electronic devices. He had never learned it; combining dozens of seemingly unmatched screws, springs and other mysterious, somewhat rusty elements hiding inside of metal skeletons into a complete and harmonious whole was natural and reminded him that life was also shaped like a scheme, so that any bigger problem could be solved by looking at it from the right angle and the right perspective. Souda had remembered about it when his father had thrown in the corner yet another empty beer bottle and cursed his son as well as all those who appeared in his sight. He had clung to this thought, trying to be deaf to teasing of his fashionable classmates or when he had pulled out his notebooks from a stinking public toilet and watched the notes running down his hands together with ink and wet paper, turning into a mush. He had repeated it in his mind like a private litany whenever an empty wallet had reminded him that in the near future it wasn't going to be magically filled with money.

Every detail is a part of a brilliant body. One screw affects the entire machine. Just see things as a whole, not as parts, and everything becomes logical.

Coming back home through the winding streets of a working-class neighborhood, sultry from the summer sun and smelling like diesel oil, Kazuichi Souda had been analyzing how first all cogs and gears appeared to be useless bits of junk. Everything changed after a closer look, matching together right elements and connecting cables, when separate parts started to work and created unity complex in its simplicity. Souda considered his life to be the same - he needed to imagine dreams like one of familiar engines and understand functions of each wire, then combine everything together. That was simple, and Souda knew how to build his own life.

But not everything turned out to be as easy as hair dyeing or sharpening teeth. Now the young mechanic yawned and rubbed his overtired eyes, feeling somnolence mixed with unusual resignation. On a large table decorated with an asymmetrical mosaic of oil and grease stains, where he liked to work, Souda had gathered tools and equipment suitable for repairing, improving, renovating or simply dismantling. All objects were now carelessly strewn around his workspace, left without any logic. He looked at the clock hanging on the wall. One in the morning. He should go to sleep. However, the promise of resting was followed by a feeling which Souda tried to avoid all night long, with better or worse results: what if he wanted to connect the wrong wires?

He cursed softly under his breath and pushed the screwdrivers aside.

So far the list of objects which have fallen victims to his growing frustration was quite long and wide, but that couldn't stop him from expanding it. During a three-hours session of working in the garage adjacent to his new home Souda has managed to take to pieces a dead camera, an alarm clock, a VHS player (originally, he had planned to beef it up a little and turn into a Blu-Ray reader, but the idea got boring in the middle of his job), as well as an electric cooker and a remote control, so old that Souda couldn't tell what was its first purpose. And today nothing helped. Fragments of various devices piled up on his right and left side in shaky stacks, bringing even greater chaos upon the workspace, and Souda's thoughts weren’t more organized.

He yawned again, this time longer, and almost all his sharp teeth were illuminated by the bare bulb hanging over the table, which served as the only source of lighting in the garage. He joined both hands on his neck and leaned back. The chair crackled dangerously under his weight.

When back in school Kazuichi Souda had looked at Sonia Nevermind for the first time, above all he had seen her delicate and warm smile that seemed to posses the magical ability of encouraging anyone who needed it. The princess of the Novoselic kingdom had always walked in the hallway with her head held high and from that height looked at the future - a person coming to the classroom first just to greet each one individually and whisper a good word at the beginning of the day, never avoiding anybody, invariably looking others in the eyes. Her naive faith in a good fortune was so unwavering that in spite of the royal aura, telling an ordinary mortal to throw themselves on their knees, Sonia has never made her friends feel worse. Even Souda became someone. In retrospect, he knew that it was stupid, but as a boy who was more accustomed to criticism than to motivating he had immediately drawn attention to Sonia's forbearance and before he noticed, Souda craved for her recognition more than he could have expected. It didn't take long and every careless "we can do" sounded more like good wishes addressed just to him, and even a simple "let's try" could make Souda rise higher, above his own, still rather modest, dreams.

The high school was simple. For a kid every desire is at their fingertips, so Souda was running around Sonia like a puppy with a curved tail, trying hard to show off with a music box of his own design and get a miserable slice of the princess's favors. The Jabberwock Island helped Souda to deceive himself, too. Out of the former Ultimate Despair only five students survived, a pathetic outcome that stuck down in Souda's throat and made him cry at night like a baby. All the survivors were waiting for their comrades to wake up from the coma caused by the virtual simulation, what resulted in a bond much stronger than in times of sharing a school table or worrying that a person sitting next to you can kill the other day. Souda even let himself think that he and Sonia grew closer. He also decided that when (never if) the others would finally open their eyes, he would behave like a real man and talk to Sonia sincerely. However, life awaiting them after the age of despair didn't conducive to Souda's ambitious plans. Hiding from the patrols searching for Enoshima Junko's supporters, making the ruined tourist resort possible for living and dealing with memories of the demons which once they had been left no room for romance. Later, Souda was repeating. Soon. A bit more. One day for sure.

Believing that another grain of sand in the hourglass of passing time was enough to put things together and make Sonia return those feelings which Souda has been holding since the first day of school became a comfortable habit Souda cultivated, so he could put the truth aside. Because somewhere in his heart he knew, even if he didn't understand yet.

Later Makoto Naegi used the complicated net of his acquaintance and with some help from the Future Foundation, authority of the Togami family and taking advantage of his surname, after the murderous reality-show recognized all over the world, he prepared them a place to return. The Hope Peak's Academy.

'Nobody will look near me, right?' Naegi said, showing them a somewhat embarrassed smile, then added, 'Of course, you have to watch out and try not to stand out, but I think everything should be all right.'

The darkest place is under the candlestick, Souda thought with admiration. Naegi was far more thoughtful than it could be judged after his inconspicuous appearance.

The moment of leaving the Jabberwock Island and returning to the bustling streets of Japan was foundation upon which Souda would have build a whole new life, yet he didn't expect that step to bring so many changes and force him to abandon the illusion of the royal romance. The princess returned with her classmates to the Hope Peak's Academy, but unlike them she didn't bother with choosing her own apartment. Instead, she left together with Tanaka and moved to the house of his choice, which resembled the caricature mix of a Doctor Frankenstein's gothic court furnished by third-class horror filmmakers and a farmhouse. It eventually confirmed the rumors of Sonia and Tanaka having evening strolls along the beach together with their hamsters.

Kazuichi Souda wasn’t about to mourn and promised that he would survive the loss with a steel heart. With pride. Manly. This, however, didn’t exclude self-pity in the comforting privacy of his cluttered garage.

The familiar, metallic weight of a screwdriver lying in his hand was usually reassuring, and focusing on complex meanders hiding inside of electrical devices kept him away from reality. Repairing some exceptionally annoying and stubborn mechanisms could even inspire him to see life decisions in a better light. He missed tinkering so much in the simulation! But now, when everything was fine, he could have this method of soothing nerves in a place that started to hurt after three hours of still sitting on the stool.

'Damn,' he hissed quietly because no creative riposte came to his mind. He pulled the hat over his ears, trying to cover his eyes as well.

Damn it!

At 1 am. - after three hours of working, two coffees and one beer - hitting his head against the wall looked like the best possible idea. The screws, scattered everywhere, hopped up as Souda's forehead experienced a close meeting with the table surface. He sighed. Since he was in such a stupid position, he might as well rest his eyes. He was too tired.

***

Souda was dreaming about a rock band of four mechanics who played Avril Lavigne's songs on drills and pneumatic hammers. Being still wrapped in sleep’s sweet embrace, he thought that such musical experiments were quite interesting and if the untypical band would ever release a CD, he could come over for an autograph. Then Souda felt the harsh touch of the table on his cheek and the choking smell left by the metal saw, but the rumble didn't stop. No, it wasn't a dream, Souda realized, leaping up quickly. He needed another moment to know that his imaginary musicians weren't playing a cover of Grilfriend, but rather someone was knocking on the garage door with enormous enthusiasm.

'Kazuichi-chan? Kaaa-zuuu-ichi-chan!!!'

'I'm going, I'm going!' Souda answered, walking in the opposite direction. No... he was in the garage, not at home. Another door.

He had to be very sleepy if he didn't immediately recognize the ringing voice that managed to pierce through the fairly soundproof garage walls.

Souda grabbed the pilot and before the automatic door reached the top, he saw a silhouette that couldn't be mistaken with anyone even among the darkness of the night. Ibuki the working woman Mioda looked just like in the high school, what meant combining elements of the dress code with her own flashy style. Today she was wearing a woman's dress suit and a white blouse, enriched by the boots with spikes and striped knee socks. The chain necklace was swaying on her neck and the earrings ringed in her ears. At least the shoes color matched the skirt, Souda thought. Ibuki was still combing her hair in a "lightning struck the cornfield" way, though now she gave up the lacquered horns in favor of a three-colored braid.

'Kazuichi-chan,' Ibuki drawled, glancing at him from under the black lashes, 'Ibuki called you and called, the door bell almost burned, and you didn't answer. You bailed on me?'

Souda was glad that Ibuki has abandoned her earlier habit of breaking the lock whenever the other person didn't open at once, but the new method of pressing the doorbell until the nearest neighbor didn't call the police wasn't much better for her friends. The mechanic blinked, trying to shed last signs of sleep settling on his eyelids.

'I've dozed in the garage, all right? I didn't hear you...'

'Cool! You know, Kazuichi-chan, it's like a secret base or something. A lab, with super-mega-long-range weapons!'

'Stop being so loud, neighbors are sleeping!'

And as if a special switch responsible for making connections clicked, Souda thought about something that should be obvious from the beginning. He looked at Ibuki, then at the dark streets with a single blinking lamp and the sky, covered with the stars much less visible than from the Jabberwock beach.

'Mioda,' he began slowly, 'what time is it?'

Ibuki didn't reply immediately. Instead, she put her index fingers to the temples and closed her eyes with a meditative expression.

'When Ibuki left the house, it was 2.15 am. Ibuki is sure because the night rock broadcast just ended. Ibuki ran really fast, but stopped in the park and on the playground...'

'You're crazy! It's the middle of the night!'

'That's it!' Ibuki prattled, "It's late and twinkle-twinkle-little-star, all services go to sleep! Ibuki played the guitar when something cracked and BUM!" Ibuki waved her hands so Souda stepped back to avoid a possible blow.

'Whaaat?'

'Amplifiers don’t work.'

She moved and pointed to something. Souda had to strain his eyes to see what the girl was trying to show him in the murky shade of the bulb. It was only now that he noticed a brown bag lying next to her leg. Looking at its impressive size, it could hide a medium animal and a supply of its food.

The reason why Ibuki Mioda woke him up around three o'clock at night became clear.

'It's not an excuse!' Souda shouted in response, probably being as loud as the girl standing in front of him, 'You've brought the speakers!? Couldn't you wait till the morning!?'

'The amplifiers,’ Ibuki corrected him, ‘besides, night playing is the coolest! Try with me and Hajime-chan. It’s so quiet, calm, Ibuki hears every beat!'

‘Hinata plays with you... No, never mind! Do you have to play at night?'

Ibuki nodded cheerfully and not waiting for an invitation, pushed Souda off and pulled the bag behind.

Souda's neighbors would probably hate him tonight, but at least this sacrifice could provide Ibuki's new neighbors one night of peace.

'Wait. Come to my home,' Souda said, taking a toolbox.

***

Souda worked in the garage so often that his workspace resembled a house much more than the place where he theoretically lived. However, even a mechanic who much rather wore a working suit than a shirt didn't greet a guest in a cluttered cubicle, so dirty that one could write on dust. Souda had changed the garage into the scenery after the detonation of a nuclear bomb, he would have to clean up anyway. Inviting Ibuki to his proper home seemed to be just right.

'Thank you!' Ibuki shouted and before Souda reacted, embraced him. Souda almost stumbled.

'Okay, okay,' he said, fixing his goggles, 'It's not a big deal.'

Checking the old amplifiers was truly nothing for Kazuichi Souda, but Ibuki was too delighted that he helped her to refuse now. He was soft.

Ibuki insisted on testing the electric guitar amplifiers by plugging them to the CD player and turning the music on. Taking into account the impact power of the said amplifiers, it was a very bad idea. Souda tried to talk some sense into Ibuki but the girl was chattering like a hurdy-gurdy and before Souda blinked, with sweat on his forehead he was watching Ibuki connecting the cords. When she pressed the START button, he took a deep breath. One, two... nothing happened. Souda opened his eyes. To his unspeakable relief, the amplifiers proved to be really broken and the speakers played only honey silence.

'Listen to me, Mioda. Find something to do and I'll try to fix them as soon as possible.'

'Roger!' Ibuki replied, saluting.

The girl turned around on her heel and left the room. Seeing her back disappearing in the corridor, Souda felt a light twitch. It was unexpected yet there was excitement slowly growing inside of him. Taking apart things he found in his house and whose internal scheme he could sketch from memory wasn't a big challenge for the Ultimate Mechanic. Now, with enthusiastic Ibuki looking at him working as carefully as if she managed to sneaked into the magic show and making cheerful sighs, Souda was motivated to prove that he hadn't won the title on vacation.

‘Yush, here we go!’

It reminded him of times when he had been helping the old man with his shop and repaired bicycles entrusted to him by the local poor kids. Someone needed his talent, someone counted on him.

Souda smiled. Getting up early wasn't so bad.

***

A very simple statement could fully describe Ibuki Mioda: she was like a spinning top and something as simple as staying in one place for too long turned out to be a great feat for her.

When she came back to the room, first Ibuki crossed the legs on the floor and every now and then distracted Souda, asking a bunch of questions sometimes related to his repairs, sometimes not. All the time she was tapping on the floor panels and fidgeting. Around four o'clock the girl moved to the couch and now was kicking the air while lying on her back, muttering something silently or humming like a bored child waiting for a doctor's appointment. Souda tried to ignore it, but the impenetrable singing didn't help in working with small elements.

'Mioda, you're annoying,' he hissed.

'I'm hungry. It's breaking my stomach!'

'The kitchen is over there, if you're starving then get up and make something for us both,' he answered, and without looking away from the cables pointed to the door.

Ibuki stopped; she froze in a candle-like position, then abruptly straightened up. Souda shuddered, almost dropping the wrench he just picked up.

'What?'

She looked at him with eyes wide open, and the light of the desk lamp which Souda had put beside on the ground to see the insides of the amplifiers better reflected in her black pupils. Involuntarily, he gulped louder than intended. It was just an innocent joke, now Souda was worried. Did it offend her?

'Really?'

'Eeee...' Souda just blurted, 'That kitchen is out there? Yes? Yes!'

'YOOOO-HUUU!'

A dog from a nearby garden started to bark to the sound of a high-pitched scream, sang through the diaphragm.

Ibuki slipped on the floorboard through the labyrinth of screwdrivers and screws, leaving behind a bright streak.

'Watch out!'

'Ibuki loves to cook!!! It's totally the best...' Ibuki shouted and added in a conspiratorial whisper, 'wait till you try my cookies! Even their design is mine.'

She winked at him with a smile.

'Seriously?'

Souda wanted to hide his surprise but nonetheless raised his eyebrows; the tattooed musician with colorful hair didn't look like a person passionate about cooking. On the other hand, she often sat in the canteen, eating cookies and drinking tea. He just assumed she was taking cookies from the supermarket or swindled them from Hanamura. Now he learned she could bake herself…

Well, she also sewed her clothes and made her hair. Maybe baking wasn’t that surprising.

***

Letting Ibuki to temporarily become the ruler of the kitchen country was a far better idea than Souda expected. Even ordinary amplifiers required minimum concentration and that was difficult with Ibuki playing alongside. Now complete silence covered the house like a featherbed. Souda couldn't believe that a phenomenon as abstract as quiet Ibuki was indeed possible, and yet the girl only tapped with plates, creaked with the kitchen cabinets or clanged with cutlery. The loudest sound coming from behind the closed door was buzzing of the mixer.

'Kazuichi-chan, if Ibuki sets the oven, will it explode?'

'You can use it, don’t you worry. I haven’t tweaked it yet. Yet.'

'Okkiii~'

He snorted and put down the pliers. Listening to Ibuki bustling gaily made Souda realize how much he missed it. On the Jabberwock Island each member had their own cottage and gaining a brief moment of privacy was rather simple, but the sixteen students still shared their daily lives. Together they had been eating and drinking, planning and building, comforting each other and playing together when their whole world was limited to the abandoned island. Opening the window had been enough to come across a friend. Now the ordinary life separated them, and loneliness weighed a lot more than Souda was ready to admit. Singing Ibuki filled the empty corners of his home with new air.

Kazuichi Souda discovered also something new, even though earlier he had been living with Ibuki Mioda for months - their musician had a beautiful voice. Considering the talent which allowed her to enter the Hope Peak's Academy, his observation was fairy stupid and once again Souda played a top fool, but so far he wasn't even sure how Ibuki really sang like.

Really was a key word here; their singer was known form rather odd musical taste and arrangements of songs resembling sounds of an angry road roller, so listening to her performances required strength and exceptionally healthy ears. Now, without a microphone, amplifiers, her electric guitar and strange lyrics, Ibuki sounded quite different.

She probably chose a song from when she had played in a girls band, or maybe even older. In contrast to what she liked the most, now Ibuki's singing had a soft and pleasant rhythm of a fluttering butterfly. It was similar to melodies played by music boxes or lullabies Souda remembered from his childhood - Ibuki was jumping between the lower and upper tones with grace of a dancer, wrapping the song in sleepy softness, and at one point carried a note so high and so clear that Souda whistled with admiration. For the first time he truly appreciated being able to listen to her.

He stood up and headed to the kitchen. On the threshold Souda hesitated; maybe Ibuki didn't know the door was thin and he could hear her? Would she feel ashamed?

Whatever. It was his home. Besides, it was hard to believe that from all the things, singing could intimidate Ibuki.

Souda was stepping into the room with an optimistic attitude that wandered off in a moment. His heart stopped as he needed few seconds to analyze the image which appeared before his eyes and compare it with the memory of the kitchen he held in his mind. The difference was overwhelming. Ibuki Mioda changed everything around her into a real battlefield; the whole piles of dirty dishes, looking rather like leftovers after a big wedding than a meal for two, piled up in the sink and on the table. The raw dough was splattered all over his once clean walls and was still dripping from the mixer, getting the cabinets dirty and creating a small puddle on the floor. Ibuki left the ingredients - opened milk, flour, eggshells - scattered on every free piece of space. Throughout the mess was standing the culprit, removing something from the oven. She took off her jacket and tied it around her waist like an apron.

'What's going on here?' Souda blurted, 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MIODA?!'

'Oh, Kazuichi-chan! Just in time.' Ibuki clapped her hands, almost dropping the hot oven plate on her feet. She didn't seem to be particularly affected by Souda's anger.

'Wait, wait. What did you do to my kitchen?'

Ibuki shrugged.

'Come on, it's gonna be cleaned up!'

'It?'

'We're gonna...'

'Why WE?'

Souda didn't receive the answer because Ibuki jumped up to him in three steps, stood on her toes and put the plate filled with cookies just under his nose. They smelled nice, like sweets and cinnamon, but Souda pushed the plate aside. He tried to catch Ibuki’s gaze.

'Do you understand how long it’s gonna take before we tidy it all?'

'Kazuichi-chan is a bore-to-the-core.' Ibuki pouted and tilted her head lightly. 'At least try the Ibu-cake. Ibuki always wanted to bake it.'

'Listen to me, girl! What's so special about those cookies, anyway?'

He shouldn't ask. If he has already sharpened his teeth, at least he could use them in a practical way and learn how to bite his tongue at the right moment. As soon as the words left Souda's mouth, he understood what Ibuki was referring to. The cookies themselves seemed to be simple pastries, the important detail was their... specific shape. A very specific shape.

'Mioda, it can't be...'

Souda didn't keep in the kitchen any baking accessories, so Ibuki had to form the cookies herself or used a simple glass, yet she managed to create almost perfectly round shape. Each plump bun was connected with another, creating a pair. In the middle Ibuki painted frosted circles, and inside each placed one pink decorative candy. Everything was stacked on the plate like a pyramid.

He opened his mouth wider.

'Ibuki always dreamed about baking cookies in the shape of her boobs!'

Souda felt a nasty, wide, neon pink blush from his cheeks reaching for the neck.

'I won't eat it!' he exclaimed, stepping back.

'Let's see ~'

Souda and Ibuki must have looked like characters from a bad sitcom broadcast on an old comedy channel; he was running, awkwardly balancing between the bowls left here and there and avoiding the sharp table edges, while Ibuki was at his heels, holding one of the cookies in her hand. Hinata once mentioned that jogging with Mioda felt like pulling the lungs out of the chest, but back then Souda had been stupid and hadn't believed. Now he was forced to agree with Hinata. For a moment Souda managed to keep a distance, then Ibuki caught his hand and before he knew, put a small piece of the cookie in his mouth.

'It's good, right?'

'No! Yes! I mean... now I feel stupid!' Souda screamed, as red as hair of a tanned model from the hair dye package.

Ibuki tried to feed him with another one, however Souda dodged and found himself on the table. Suddenly, the ground shook. He lost his balance and although he reached out dramatically, Souda landed on the floor. Ibuki, who was almost able to stop, stumbled and fell on him, screaming. He also screamed, though rather because of Mioda knocking him with her knee. The bowl standing on the table, still dirty with flour, fell on her, then hit Souda in the head.

'Aaah...' Souda groaned, 'See? Are you OK?'

The thought that next appeared in his mind was fast but also very simple and clear: oh fuck.

Ibuki moved up and rubbed her stomach, wincing. Souda was about to say that he should be the one to complain, but fell silent and blinked with surprise. In the eyes of the girl who just now was full of fresh energy flashed tears. He wanted to believe that it was an optical illusion, but his hopes were short-lived like a soap-bubble. Tears are tears, no matter how you look at them.

'Listen, I'm sorry...'

During the moment of tension Souda was coming up with all possible excuses. Then Ibuki burst out laughing. She laughed and laughed, wiping tears from her cheeks and barely catching air, and the singing sounds of her giggle filled the kitchen, then moved on, getting to the living room, echoing in his bedroom, resounding in the garden. The walls trembled, swollen from her gaiety, and the air vibrated, trying to keep up with the notes of laughter. It was contagious. Watching her, Souda couldn't help himself and smiled, then snorted, and laughed; they were both lying on their backs, rolling and barely breathing.

Calming down a little, Ibuki lifted on her elbows and looked at him.

'See, Kazuichi-chan? You finally smiled.'

'What?' Souda answered with a question.

'Since Sonia-chan moved to Gundham-chan, Kazuichi-chan was acting off like a zombie!' Ibuki knelt and put the tongue out to illustrate her words. 'Now you're finally laughing! Ibuki is happy!'

And she was, Souda noticed this sincerity. Ibuki’s eyes sparkled as if they were on fire, lips stretched in a smile even brighter than before.

There were many things that waited to be said, so Souda hid under his hat again. Could it be the real reason? Ibuki Mioda was a strange girl – eccentric and loud, holding the heart in her hand yet still hiding it, easy to read and incomprehensible. She showed herself but saw only others and more than ever Souda knew that she lived for anyone but her own feelings.

Coming to his house like a torpedo in the middle of the night, admiring his work, singing, even baking those silly cookies! All for that, all for him?

'You know, Kazuichi-chan…' Ibuki sighed. Just a moment ago gleeful, now showed unexpected seriousness. 'Ibuki doesn't like difficult things, but... when Ibuki left the band, she felt a little lonely.'

Souda was so used to Ibuki being with them that sometimes he could forget how she was kicked out from her first band. It made him a little ashamed.

She looked up. 'Playing alone... is sad. And boring. But Ibuki has found you, guys, and knows that even while planning the solo career, Ibuki doesn't play alone. We will be with you, Kazuichi-chan. It's empty at first but you're never alone. Even if no one is around now, there is always someone, somewhere. This is what Ibuki believes in. So don’t give up. There is too much to achieve.'

'I...' Souda started and the words hung in the air. He planned to say something big but the right sentences were too far away from him.

Then he realized something. It was a small thing, almost invisible, but… Since Ibuki came to him, Souda wasn't thinking about Sonia. Till now he was troubling himself with assumptions, and imaginations, and possibilities. Three hours have passed and for the first time he was doing his job without reflecting on what the princess could be thinking.

Thank you, he wanted to say.

'I forgot to say, but you sing nicely, Mioda,' he said.

Ibuki smiled.

'Kazuichi-chan wants a karaoke competition?'

'Why not?'

Neighbors would hate him anyway. He might as well enjoy himself.

#danganronpa #dangan ronpa #super dangan ronpa 2 #kazuichi souda #ibuki mioda #soudabuki #danganronpafic #I tried to check if this fandom has any fanfiction tag but I'm not sure. any help?#My writing

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dentelle-grise · 8 years ago

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Your Latest Trick

(Loki x Reader)

Chapter 2

Chapter 1 (NSFW) can be found here

Summary: Long after everyone has stopped talking about Loki and his misdemeanors, his failed attempt to take over Midgard and his punishment, you meet him at a party.

Original Prompt: Imagine Loki undressing you slowly, entirely by magic, only touching you with his eyes.

Your Latest Trick - Chapter 2

You dose, body still humming, knowing you’ll have to move soon. But, even if it was a hoax, a near dream, and you could be in all manner of trouble if you got caught here, you still want to savor it.

He just did something incredible to you, and without the use of half the senses. Now you long for his missing touch and strive to remember his scent.

Way back when you were kids, there was a time when you all went camping, as far out as you could go and still be in the palace grounds. You recall waking in the damp dawn under the breath-damp canvas with your nose tucked under Loki’s chin, breathing him in and feeling the deep slow thud of his heart. You were virtually stuck to one another. But that’s hardly surprising with eight of you crammed tight in the tent. You remember being aware of crossing a boundary. Friends shouldn’t sleep that close. Not even by accident. So you tried to extract yourself and get outside before anyone else woke up. It was difficult pulling away and picking your was across the sleeping forms. But, once free and a blanket stuffed in your place, you quietly forgot about it. Until now.

But you can't quite place it. What you really want is the real thing to snuggle up to right now. Instead you're alone here, trying to spot the tells. Not only did Loki never touch you, but you never saw him touch anyone else at the party either, nor did you see him eat. He didn’t get close enough to you, not until those last moments, for you to guess he was not the true Loki, only a projection. So, of course you couldn’t kiss or hold one another as lovers should. Those missing things worsen the feeling of being left alone here. He didn’t even bid you farewell.

Where is the real Loki anyway? You have a strong suspicion about that, and it’s not a happy one.

You rise, regretfully, and dress in what clothing remains unscathed.

Loki’s chamber is a lonely unlived-in place now you see it without him. It has only a few relics of a life. The open book and the flowers create an illusion, while in fact this room is disused. They must have been put there by someone else but Loki. Frigga perhaps. You hate the flowers, they make you think of a tomb. But they’re evidence that someone comes here and will again. This is no place to tarry.

You do your best to arrange the bed, putting back the crumpled covers. There’s not much to hide. If you didn’t still feel your body purring, you would have thought you’d imagined everything.

Before you go though, you take a look around. There’s not much here, but there’s the book, heavy and large enough to cover most of the desk, its thick pages covered with immaculate looped handwriting in a dark ink with a copper sheen. It’s a journal, lying comfortably open at about midway. You start to read but then you notice the date and the first words. ‘I, Loki, King of Asgard…’

Your heart speeds up and your eyes skip over the words in a jumble. ‘…have conceived the perfect solution for Jotunheim. With this one stroke I will have outdone both Father and Thor.’ You can’t focus to read. He wrote this the day they foiled the invasion; the day he fell from the Bifrost.

But what does that mean, ‘with this one stroke’? More important, where is Loki now? Could it be that he still is in the dungeons, but somehow still able to work his magic? Well you’re hardly going to report him for it and let someone know what he just did with you.

You’ve been on the receiving end of Loki’s pranks before, but nothing resembling this. Though far from unpleasant you would prefer if your friends and family never knew how he tricked you.

No one need ever know.

You know though, and so, somewhere, does Loki. The niggling ‘why?’ of it has crept into your thoughts alongside the softness left by the pleasure and the emptiness of this place.

As Loki grew up, his pranks grew with him, as did the mayhem he caused. You have indeed heard all manner of stories about Loki. But to you, many of the worst of them seemed no more than that - just stories. As unlikely as… Well, what just happened.

At the door you struggle to smile. Instead you grimace and twist your face every way in frustration until the magic complies and lets you out.

You go swimming. It’s a normal kind of thing you’d do. Just you and some friends out where the summer pools are fed by the waterfalls. There’s enough conversation to up your mood but not so much that the others can tell that something’s off. You learn casually that nobody saw you leave last night. What’s more, nobody mentions having seen Loki at the party. It’s as though you were the only one who could see him.

When you step into the sun-warmed water and look up into the glistening droplets from the waterfall, you feel as though you could let go of last night and your strange adventure. But though the sensation of the water all around you brings you back to yourself, the undercurrent of unease doesn’t leave you. It doesn’t even start to fade.

It’s as though he were watching you. As though, even though he never touched you, every inch of your skin was covered in magic fingerprints.

As you dry off, you feel the welcoming warmth of two of Asgard’s suns through the trees, but a tiny voice inside reminds you that this is something Loki may never feel again. If indeed he’s still in the dungeons.

Then a real voice interrupts.

“Where were you anyway last night?” Uh oh. So you were missed.

“I met someone.” You give a quirk of a smile. This is the perfect answer. You need say no more. These are your friends, they know about your conquests.

“That explains things.” It’s affectionate but you can’t help but wonder if anyone saw something - like you sneaking off with a convicted criminal.

“What?” You laugh to cover your nervousness.

“Just thought you were quiet… So, what were they like?”

You hesitate.

“Tall dark and powerful.”

It’s no lie.

Why did he do it?

The question continues to eat at you for the next few days. The most likely answer has already come to you but is too upsetting to contemplate – Loki is still in the dungeons and he used the projection to see life above ground again, to spend an evening as he would have done were he not imprisoned.

This doesn’t explain why he chose you though. Up until now nothing like that has ever happened between you, the cake fiasco put paid to much chance of that. Or so you thought.

And now? He stripped you naked and looked on as he gave you one of the most powerful orgasms of your life. Then he just laughed and disappeared… before you could reciprocate. If anyone here is the loser then it surely isn’t you.

So it’s not as if he took advantage, except of your ignorance of his magic and your latent fascination with him. Perhaps he bewitched you, but you were willing. And, if you’re honest, the idea of that thrills you.

But then perhaps Loki’s duped other girls the same way. If they are all as reluctant to talk as you are, then no one will ever know and he’ll be making the rounds for millenia. Loki has outdone himself.

But part of you feels stubbornly sorry for the Loki who is still the prankster of your childhood who you miss, as well as the man you want right now.

You try to distract yourself by reorganizing your dressing room, always good for a pick-me-up. You have a vast collection of dresses of all colors and styles and so you start looking for a new way to order them and best match them with your accessories. It’s pleasantly absorbing. But, as your worries fade, a dull sadness replaces them. You won’t call it pity. It’s tinged with want and that you know is selfish. It was a one night stand. Why don’t you treat it like any other? You know the score.

Because you know it was like no other and because Loki is hardly someone you only just met.

You set about sorting the dresses by season and then by color, but your hand stops when it reaches a red one, not the red dress, that one didn’t survive the collision with the cake. But it’s near identical. It’s one you’ve never actually worn, as it’s a color you tend to avoid now. But still you hang onto it.

Then your eyes fall on the treacherous pink scarf, lying where you hastily tossed it. You grab it and shove it to the back of the darkest drawer then shut it and its joyous color away from sight. Then you sit back on your heels and let out a long sigh. This is a bad time to be alone here. All these clothes have associations for you, most are happy, many romantic, sensual even, though none of the latter compare with what Loki did.

You have the feeling you could be in big trouble.

You know where they are, the dungeons, you always have. You even climbed down there once on a dare many years ago, but found only dank empty corridors and silent rooms. Your childhood passed at a time of peace when such places lay unused.

So you know where they are but don’t like to think about them. In your mind, the old images remain: empty cells and echos. But you know that isn’t true anymore. You wonder why you did not seek out Loki sooner, before he sought you.

As you descend the stairs, it gets colder the further you get from the reach of daylight. It’s not been long since the guards have passed by, you’ve studied them - like a spy - and know that you have half an hour to get in and out undetected before the next team makes its rounds. Half an hour to see if Loki is really there, beyond that you haven’t got a clue what you will do or say if you find him.

You just need to know.

What irony. Back then, that dare had been Loki’s: Sneak behind the guards, get to the dungeons and bring back a trophy to prove it. In the end, only Loki found a trophy, a key. He’d used it to lock Thor up down there for a laugh and Sif had to go and rescue him. It seems a long time since you’ve had that kind of camaraderie with the princes and their friends, such games ended with the coming of age and the distance only grew when you split with Fandral.

There is light and sound now, and an growing aroma of something cooking. But the closer you get to the source, the more unappetizing it smells.

As you step out from the stairwell, there are no guards to be seen. So far so good. You hurry forward. Your desire to know the truth outweighing your fear.

Though you planned how to avoid the guards seeing you, you hadn't counted on the inmates. They know you're something different and, despite your careful footsteps, your passage is announced by jeers and wolf whistles. To make matters worse, you have no idea where to find Loki, if indeed he's here. The place is a labyrinth and nothing like you remember. This is a working prison. Guards can never be far. And you’ve no plausible excuse for being here. You press on because the prisoners would be just as noisy if you went back. You’re starting to wish you knew another way back up to the surface, but any other stairs might lead other places you wouldn't want to find yourself.

After a while all the cells you come to are uninhabited. You should perhaps give up - only a little longer and you'll have used up your time. But then you see something move in a cell a little further on, there's no light on there and, as you move forward, the air turns cold. Before you can get close enough for a proper look inside, a figure surges forward and throws itself right at you, only to be caught by the cell’s forcefield, which crackles in complaint as he hits it. You shrink back, there's only an invisible wall of energy holding back a huge blue form.

You stand stock still and terrified as the man, because he has the form of a man, glares at you with ghastly glistening red eyes.

You don't need to ask what he is. This is worse than your childhood nightmares, worse than the story book villains who you could conveniently trap when you closed the cover. This great man glows with blueness, skin powered with ice crystals that make him look solid as stone.

In the shadows of the cell you see another of the creatures lying on a primitive bed. He moans at his companion about the noise. With everything you’ve heard about the Jotuns it doesn’t surprise you that they are not morning people.

The first frost giant is amused at your fear and laughs. As he does, his breath spreads in plumes about him and ice starts forming on the force field until it clouds and his face disappears from view.

You have to get out of here. If Loki is not here, then all the better for him, but without scouring every corner then you’ll never know.

It’s then you see a light beyond another row of empty cells.

Even from here you can see its inhabited, clearly by someone they wanted to keep away from all the rest.

Though you’ve thought so much about him, the reality is a still a shock. He’s pacing, it makes you think of him moving about in his own room upstairs, except here the space is smaller, too tight around him, too brightly lit and open to the rest of the prison. Even with his regal poise, he looks like a caged predator. He’s clothed much the same way as he was the night of the party - soft colors and fabrics - begging to be touched. The wretchedness of the situation hits you. If Odin’s sentence stands, then he will remain here forever.

He hasn’t seen you, not even with the noise from his neighbors. You’re nearly up to the glass when Loki glances over in your direction.

His body betrays his surprise and then a tenseness grips him. He strides over to the window of his cell and you step closer to him.

“What are you doing here?”

There’s nothing of the man he was the other night in his demeanor, no soft seductiveness, no humor.

“I came to see if…”

“Begone.” He waves his hand as if to dismiss you and turns as though much more interested in something else, though n his line of sight there is only an empty corner of the cell.

“You shouldn’t be here. Get out.” Glancing back at you and throwing you a fiery look. He throws his arms up as though to shoo you away.

“Go on. Run off home, Or you’ll miss the next party.”

It's a slap in the face. You are stunned to silence and he stares you down. But you’ve come this far. So you stand your ground and imitate his stance, his glare.

“Not before you tell me why.”

He is beautiful in the flesh, and it shines though despite his apparent distaste of you.

He shakes his head in disbelief.

“How did you get here? He tuts like you were a naughty child. You’ve no guard with you, so clearly you didn’t ask nicely - not that they would have let you. I’m supposed to be kept alone. Its part of my punishment…” the last word he spits.

You don’t move an inch and, though he’s only yards away, it’s as though he’s looking at you from across a vast gulf.

“So. This ‘unofficial’ visit?” he continues. “Could it be about our little secret?” He flashes you a wicked grin, but it fades fast as though it sours his mouth.

“Why did you do it?” You cross your arms. Inside you are crumbing. This is going worse than you ever could have imagined. You feel like you are accusing him. Its not what you wanted, but then again… if he only did it as a prank…

He’s looking at the floor, arms folded like you, and then he laughs, bitter and humorless.

“Because I could.” His words are cold and matter of fact, the unspoken ones hang between you. He couldn’t do anything else, he’s physically trapped. The illusion only lets him glimpse a world he’s now forbidden. He took something by trickery against a world that denies him. That something was you - little more than a trophy, a symptom of his anger at his predicament. A way he could still laugh at Asgard. Your blood runs cold and you feel anger twitching in your stomach.

Then you look at him, really look at him and at his cell. It’s too small for his towering form, and this is all he knows the length of all his days and possibly will ever know. You wouldn’t just be angry with such a situation, you’d be half crazy by now.

“I can’t do true magic outside these four walls. Only parlor tricks.” He gives you a derisive smirk.

You loath how you are caught between hate and pity. And you would not have him see you pity him. Better that he see you outraged.

He doesn’t give you the time.

“Guard!” he calls. And you flinch, looking left and right. “Guard!” he cries louder and laughs as your panic reveals itself. The last glimpse you get of him before you hear footsteps and set off at a run is Loki shaking his head and grinning before throwing himself lazily across the chaise longue.

You run, retracing your steps. Back past the frost giants again.

“You choose a strange place for wooing, traitor.” One calls out in a deep cracked voice and you’ve no idea what he means.

You’ve no time to wonder about it anyway. You run, driven by fear and shame at your mistake in coming here. What did you expect from Loki, really.

You hear the heavy tread of armored feet approaching and dodge into the shadow of an alcove behind a narrow spiral stair.

They pass and you wait until the only sound left is the thudding of your heart. It’s not the right stairway but it will do. You’ll take your chances with where it leads. You climb at a run, chanting a mantra of insults against Loki in your head. But deep inside there’s a pang as you burst out into daylight and leave him behind.

“Whoa whoa whoa there. Wait what were you doing down there, miss?”

Its a guard. Not one who followed you up from the dungeons, thankfully, but one who was patrolling the battlements.

“I lost my croquet ball.” You smile as though embarrassed. “It thought it rolled down there.” The lie comes easy and he doesn’t question it. You might be out of breath from running but you are still dressed finely as though you were simply playing on the lawn. You look the part.

“Well that there’s the way to the dungeons you don’t want to be going down there, miss”

“Okay.” you say and smile. Lying comes surprisingly easy when you need it.

He turns away. You walk slowly a few paces and then start running again.

You’re at the eastern extremity of the palace, a long way from your quarters. You try to calm yourself to slow your pace, but your heart is going now and it drives you. You can feel tears coming and you want to reach your chamber before they escape. You beg not to meet anyone you know, anyone who would see how upset you are. You take the back ways and put on a polite veneer for any servants you pass.

When you near your apartments, you sprint the final yards of the journey, long skirts or no. Then, after having bolted the door behind you, you sink down on the other side, the wood to your back, sides heaving, berating yourself and feeling the world’s biggest fool.

But before the tears can come, you sense a movement in the room and stiffen.

Surely the servants would be gone at this hour. You can’t see anyone.

But no, there’s definitely a presence. You feel goosebumps forming despite the heat from your run and rise slowly to your feet, ready to flee once more.

“Hello Darling,” says an unmistakable voice.

Chapter 3

#Thor #Thor2 #Thor3 #loki #loki x reader #imagine loki #loki fanfiction #MCU #your latest trick

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axmmatt · 7 years ago

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Intruder of Horrors - Amasees

Warnings: Light swearing, horrifying visuals, arachnophobia

Amy likes spiders. Icky, wriggly, hairy spiders. That’s why I’m not friends with her.

Well, there was at least one thing that Natsuki and I agreed on, and that was spiders were horrifying. Which… would be why I was glaring at the one across the room as if it was going to kill me. Which it could, you really never knew with those things. Wh- OH GOD IT MOVED. I didn’t hesitate, running out of the living room with a small cry and straight down the stairs to my bedroom. Screw spiders, screw Ferris wheels, and screw staying up until 3 AM. Granted, it was only 9 PM, but I had plans that I wasn’t sure I was going to stick to. Even though it was a Friday and my parents would be gone all night, I wasn’t sure I was going to stick to my promise of binge watching some TV show such as The Office or… The Office. Really, there was no competition. It wasn’t like I was just going to go to bed early, was it?

…Actually, maybe I should. Nobody on Tumblr would miss me for the night, and The Office could wait. I could get A LOT of sleep, and actually be proud of myself for once. Nobody was here and I didn’t have a set time to get up tomorrow, so… why the hell not? I still walked over to the computer on the desk and log in to Tumblr to put up a short post about how I was getting actual sleep. Within seconds, one of my random followers that I somehow forget existed liked it, and I took that as a sign of confirmation to get some goddamn sleep.

Once I finished changing into my nyan cat pajamas, I casually slid over to my bed and hopped in. There was no reason to stay awake, and I drifted off within half an hour— legendary time for me. I had no dream and thought nothing more of the spider I’d left upstairs to crawl away back to whatever hole it came from.

A few hours later, an orange pulse of energy traveled through the air and spiraled directly towards the house. It punched through the front door without a sound, spiraled downwards, and curled straight into the spider’s head. Now, the spider wasn’t well off; it was actually almost dead from the poison the exterminator had put down. But it was there nonetheless, a spider which they feared for no practical reason. Until now. It was an orb weaver spider, with eight legs bound tight in bunches of two and ebony eyes. The yellow and black spotted back was almost dried out from the betraying poison when the pulse hit them.

The spider changed immediately, the legs elongating, jutting out at odd angles and trying to compensate for the transformation it was going through. The back legs grew and thickened, the other six growing five finger-like appendages as the body stretched and became almost human. Almost. The bright yellow faded and was replaced over the entire body with a charcoal black, dull and wilted in appearance. Many of the eyes on the head disappeared, leaving only four. The sound stopped and the new creation stood up on it’s two back legs, stretching it’s arms and looking about it’s surroundings. Hearing a faint snoring from downstairs, it crossed the floor and descended, making a quiet but noticeable clicking sound with it’s legs as it walked. This host would not do. It had to find the original. The afraid one.

I woke up, unsure of why. Welp, if my body wanted to be awake, it was going to be. That usually meant the neighbors were too loud again and my brain threw a hissy fit. I glanced over, checking the clock. I’d gone to bed about 9:30 PM, and it was currently about 1:30 AM. A good, solid… four hours of sleep. Eh, good enough. I was tempted to yawn, but refused my body the liberty, instead standing and going over to sit down at my computer— when I heard a scratching sound from down the hall at the top of the stairs. I froze in fear and attempted to convince myself it was just the wind, but failed miserably. “It’s not that big of a deal, I’ll just go look and make sure Mom actually did take the dog with her,” I thought to myself. Swallowing my fear, I go out into the hallway and stand at the bottom of the stairs. I opened my mouth to ask who was there, but was interrupted by a sound. Breathing. There was someone at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily, scratching on the floor. My mind jumped to the first conclusion, naturally; there was an intruder in the house. My body froze in place, it was as if I’d turned to stone right there— well, before I heard footsteps patter down the stairs at an alarming pace. They’d somehow heard me, and I proceeded to do the logical thing; I belted out a stream of unholy language, booking it down the hall and shutting myself into the bathroom. Apparently I closed the door to my room behind me when I left, and I definitely did not have time to open it right now. Pressing my body up against the door, I looked for anything to help me with this situation currently, finding nothing. I was stuck in a virtually empty room with someone who was undoubtedly stronger than me trying to bash in the door I was holding, with nothing to defend myself.

Spotting a miraculous heavy-duty plunger in the corner, I made a plan. A stupid one, but a plan. I lunged across the room for the plunger, jumping to my feet and spinning to face the door. Instead of bursting I and attacking me, the door creaked open. I turned my head slightly, looking at the now ajar door, and tentatively asked, “Hello?” …No answer. Suddenly, a faint, annoying noise filled the room- scratching. It sounded like someone scratching a chalkboard very quietly. I quivered with fear as a charred black, spindly hand reached and gripped the edge of the door. Oh god. This thing- was not human. My already panicked breathing picked up as the door creaked open. Standing was there was the most horrifying monster I’ve ever seen. It’s thin, long body was black, just like everything else on it’s body, from its eyes to its toes. It’s mouth was slightly open, but I couldn’t see anything besides a dark, ink-like substance dripping from it’s teeth. The fingers on it’s hands were long and sharp— but that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was that it had six hands. Six arms, a hand for each, and two legs. Just like a spider. And, like any sane person, I did the only thing I could… I dropped the plunger and screamed.

HOLY GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING SHIT I L O V E IT

THE FIRST PARAGRAPH IS SO ACCURATE IT HURTS HONESTLY BUT GODDAMN THIS IS SPOOKY SCARY SHIT IM AHHHHhhS C R E M

I LOVE HOW YOU DID IT! THE IDEA FOR IT IS SO COOL, IM ASSUMING THE THING YOU WERE GOING FOR IS THAT AMASEES AND INHABIT THE BODY OF THE HOST’S FEARS AND THE HOST THEMSELVES EVENTUALLY?? EVEN IF ITS NOT H O L Y S H I T I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE AFRAID OF GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING CREEPY CRAWLEY DEATH DEALERS

I LOVE I LOVE YOU TALENTED BEAN

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browsersbooks · 8 years ago

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(via Independent Bookstore as Essential Political Act)

I was recently in San Francisco’s Mission District with an hour to kill. In general I hate having to kill time—I never know what to do—and to make things worse I was tired and just wanted to be home with a good book. So I wandered along, trying to find something to occupy my attention, and then there it was: big glass windows with bright green trim, behind them row after row of books. Dog Eared Books. I had always heard of this store but had never visited. I smiled and made for its beckoning lights.

I have a tried and true method for testing the quality of a bookstore: how difficult is it for me to walk in and walk back out without buying something? In some shops this is child’s play: they have a sterile, corporate feel to them, and their sterile, corporate wares don’t tempt me in the least.

But my favorite bookstores are just the opposite. When I walk into, say, Moe’s in Berkeley, or Powell’s in Portland, it’s as though I’ve stepped into a unique place full of eye-catching beauty. Immediately my attention is drawn in five different directions, and before I know it I’m bending under the weight of five irresistible books. These stores cast a spell, and once I begin to hunting through their prodigious shelves I know I’m going to latch on to something and not be able to put it back down.

Dog Eared Books is not nearly as big as either Moe’s or Powell’s, but its curation and ambiance are so strong that it quickly put me into buy mode. My first stop was a face-out display of political philosophy: Benjamin, Arendt, Žižek, Rancière, Guattari, and other gems, themselves surrounded by so many more such jewels. I was seduced. From there I was hit with an international literature display: Julio Cortázar, Álvaro Enrigue, Svetlana Alexievich, Antonio di Benedetto, Basma Abdel Aziz, Magda Szabó . . . By that point I was completely taken, and somehow half-an-hour had slipped away. When I made it to the store’s history section, I was dying to find something to purchase. I immediately gravitated toward Wendy Doniger’s history of Hinduism. Did I need 700 densely printed pages on the Hindu religion? Of course not! And how could I even think of leaving without it?

Suddenly it hit me: how many bookstores could I just wander into, find a display of challenging philosophical theory, then an incredible selection of top-notch world literature, and at last an enormous history of Hinduism? Bookstores like this just don’t happen. They are only possible where the ground is fertile.

A bookstore is an embodiment of a community’s values. Looking over its holdings is as personal and intimate an encounter as walking into a friend’s home for the first time and sizing up their bookcases. (If you don’t see any bookcases at all, maybe you should reassess the relationship.) What you find in a bookstore is the food a society wants to feed its mind, the sorts of things its owners and employees (no doubt community residents themselves) hope their neighbors will support.

Out of the many millions of titles that a bookstore might stock, most will only have room for tens of thousands. The books that make it in are a direct reflection of the people around that store. Which ones will prove successful enough to be restocked and justify more such titles? Out of the thousands of new books released each week, which ones will get that coveted front table space? Will the bookstore adopt pay-to-play rules for good placement? What sorts of ideas, values, stories, and aesthetics will its books embody? What titles will the employees take the time to handsell, and will they be passionate about it or scripted? Will they see each book sold as spreading important thoughts, or just so much income on the ledger?

It is easy to see how quickly a bookstore’s profit motive can blur into its mission, and how this sense of mission bleeds over into the shop’s physical space. Is it beckoning and comfortable? Does it have that cultured ambiance that makes bookstores so charming? What kinds of people does it welcome, defend, and champion?

This of course begins with the authors, translators, publishers, and others it showcases for events, and the audiences they cultivate, but it also goes far beyond this: I think of Cody’s Books, which played a major role as a refuge and first-aid station during the Berkeley anti-Vietnam protests of the 1970s, and which in 1989 was firebombed for pointedly supporting Salman Rushdie’s right to free expression when a fatwa was leveled against him for his novel The Satanic Verses. (This was at a time when then dominant chain bookstore, Waldenbooks, with 1,200 nationwide locations, had bent to the fatwa by removing Rushdie from its shelves.) Or I think of the massive Seminary Co-op in Chicago, often referred to as having the greatest collection of academic titles on Earth, and which is a member-owned cooperative with 50,000 US participants and thousands more around the world. Matthew Keesecker’s description of the bookstore, collected in an enterprise called the Seminary Co-op Documentary Project, is worth quoting at length:

When you arrive, you won’t think you’re necessarily at the right place. Then you will see a little sign that guides you to the catacombs of this enchanted world of words. You will descend a set of stairs, and then you will simply stare. Books. Endless row upon row of books. You will duck pipes, dodge faucets, and squeeze between shelves and working furnaces, and you will love every minute of it. It’s as if the books were already there, firmly planted in their rightful spot, and suddenly a building erupted around them. But rather than supplant the books, the building decided to work with the books and have a symbiotic relationship. It’s as if it grew around the tomes of knowledge, integrating itself by weaving and threading its way through the volumes of pulp and ink. They co-exist in harmony, waiting to be discovered by us.

Who can read that and doubt that any good bookstore represents a unique, highly cultivated space that must be carefully tended in order to continue existing? Spaces such as these are only moderately compatible with capitalism, and they are not at all compatible with monoculture, restrictions on free thought, imposed uniformity, intolerance, and least of all authoritarianism. As institutions that need pluralism as much as we need oxygen, they cannot avoid having a de facto political stance.

Even if a place like Dog Eared Books or Seminary Co-op never declared a position for or against Donald Trump, certainly their very way of being makes a statement about their compatibility with the man who cannot name a single book he has ever read, who pledged to ban an entire religion from the United States, and who endlessly demonizes information that runs counter to his beliefs as “fake.” The values these bookstores embody constitute an indispensable rebuke to the sort of governance that President Trump has endorsed through his conduct, his allies, and his words.

Perhaps that in itself is enough, but I am very proud to say that many bookstores in our literary community have done far more than just exist: they have chosen to resist, finding their place in what is popularly called “the resistance” as it pursues its defense of American values and institutions against the wrecking-ball Presidency of Donald Trump. The New York Times has reported on the ways in which indie bookstores across the nation have responded to the President’s actions (pointedly, Barnes & Noble has chosen not to be among them), and Publishers Weekly has also reported on many others. Closer to home, I can say that City Lights Bookstore has opened a new section titled “Pedagogies of Resistance,” and Booksmith co-owners Christin Evans and Praveen Madan have established a new monthly series called “Booksmith Resists.” In my own neighborhood, Diesel, a bookstore that long predated the Trump resistance with numerous politically orientated book displays and events, and it has redoubled its efforts post-Trump.

I will predict that exactly no one is surprised to hear any of this. When hailing from a foreign country is grounds for suspicion, when know-nothing-ism is a core value of the nation’s highest office, when lies are passed off blatantly (the bigger the better) and “alternative facts” are the order of the day, the very act of spreading the information, telling crucial stories about the lives of others, and providing a meeting place for all kinds of people is necessarily a politicized gesture. Bookstores are one of the most politicized businesses we have. They have been the traditional home to the misfit, the free-thinker, the person who prizes knowledge above money and who aspires to wisdom. They are one of the easiest places for diverse cultures to intermingle and forge an understanding. They are a crucial repository of a nation’s ideas, narratives, and lives. Knowing this, it makes me proud to live in a place where the bookstores compete to challenge their audiences with the most intelligent, sensitive, beautiful thoughts they can find. I cannot think it is any coincidence that the places where you find many such bookstores are also places where virtually nobody votes for the likes of Donald Trump.

If independent bookstores really are a key component of a healthy democracy, then we should feel hope, for as I write this they are in the middle of a renaissance. The 1990s and the 00s were a bad period, as the rise of chain bookselling put many indies out of business, and over a thousand of them closed down. But now the business models of Borders and Barnes & Noble have proven short-lived, and once again indies are appearing in communities that prize the qualities a good bookstore brings to a neighborhood.

To take just one example: this is precisely why many of us in my community have invested nearly $200,000 in the future of our own neighborhood bookstore, as Diesel makes the transition to East Bay Booksellers. We are committed to seeing this retail space remain an intelligent, opinionated, very independent bookstore, and to we are ensuring that it remains under ownership that we trust and admire. And we are not alone: such community investment plans are becoming more and more popular as the next generation of bookstore owners takes over. In addition, more than 250 new independent bookstores have come into being since 2009, representing growth of 30 percent. And the US Census Bureau has found that bookstores sales have grown the past two years, reversing seven years of decline as more and more consumers are realizing the benefits of shopping at their local indie.

Books are different from other consumer goods—they contain facts, thoughts, and stories that help shape who we are—and so bookselling is different from other kinds of retail. When I think of bookselling, I think back to something that my friend Brad Johnson, the future owner of East Bay Booksellers, said about the name he chose for his store. He said that he wanted it to represent the fact that bookselling is an art, even at times a calling. Now, while all of us in the literary community have to make ends meet—and no one understands this better than the manager of a bookstore—I think that we are more fundamentally here because we want to see our literary vocation in those exact terms. And our vocation becomes very much a calling when our nation needs the help of our bookish culture to protect it from those who would destroy our civic values. So the next time you are in an independent bookstore, take a moment to think about why it is there, and why you are in it—think about those things, and ask yourself how you will pay those beliefs forward.

Books About Bookstores and Other Book Havens

Upstairs at the Strand: Writers in Conversation at the Legendary Bookstore, edited by Jessica Strand and Andrea Aguilar * Sixpence House: Lost in A Town Of Books by Paul Collins * Shakespeare and Company by Sylvia Beach * My Bookstore: Writers Celebrate Their Favorite Places to Browse, Read, and Shop, edited by Ronald Rice * The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop: A Memoir, a History by Lewis Buzbee * The House of Twenty Thousand Books by Sasha Abramsky * Phantoms on the Bookshelves by Jacques Bonnet (tr. James Salter) * With Borges by Alberto Manguel * My Life in Middlemarch by Rebecca Mead

#books #bookstore #social act #social justice #political act #reading #independent bookstore #bookshop #browsersolympia #olympiawa #browsersbookshop

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