#not quite good at carving or printing yet but it was fun

[snarrl]

first ever linocut, made back in late dec or early jan. used for christmas cards hehe

[erudieti]

ESTHER “ESTI” BAILEY ( COURTNEY EATON ) is a TWENTY-SEVEN year-old RESEARCHER/PHD STUDENT in DUNDEE, SCOTLAND. They were brought under Richard’s care when they were only SEVEN years old. They are known as THE SCHOLAR because they are CURIOUS but also DISMISSIVE. + PINTEREST. + PLAYLIST.

BASIC INFORMATION

full name: esther roxanne bailey nickname(s): esti, es, essie, roxy (by mrs. tristan) date of birth: november 8th, 1977 age: twenty-seven gender & pronouns: cis woman, she/her sexuality: demiromantic & bisexual occupation: paleontology phd candidate, researching in scotland current residence: a small cottage near her dig site in dundee, scotland. ocean view, gas stove, and very, very bad cell reception (by design).

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

hair: dark brown, almost black — slightly wavy, which was more apparent before she cut her hair into its current state (a haphazard bob she chopped herself because she doesn’t trust hairstylists. not one clue why).when longer, was typically pulled back into a ponytail or braid, currently let loose or tucked under a hat. eyes: dark brown, round and frankly a bit piercing. always inquisitive, usually cloaked in some type of judgment. they match her near perpetual frown. height: 5’10, approx. 6’0 if she chooses to wear her favorite sneakers (some type of running shoe with a platform. a fila perhaps. a reebok moment). notable features: previously mentioned Frown (downturned to one side, typically, always in thought); arrays of rings on each hand when she’s on her off days; long, lithe fingers covered in teeny scars from cooking; a look on her face that makes you feel as if you’ve done something Wrong

PERSONALITY & BEHAVIOR:

strengths: intelligent, observant, independent, competitive weaknesses: distant, awkward, judgmental, pretentious quirks: plays with her rings, and if they’re not there, fiddles with her fingers; walks very quietly, has a tendency to “sneak up” on people (she tells them to just listen better); she has a surprisingly good poker face when she wants to (typically, she doesn’t find enough energy to want to); prefers multiples of 5s; always begins her day with a cup of stupidly sugary tea, a brain game of sorts, and a new academic article she hasn’t read yet, printed out so she can mark over it with her green highlighter and pen. vices: sweets, particularly of the chocolate variety, but any will suffice. has never denied herself a sweet treat in her life; cigarettes; enough redbull that her heart is quite angry with her.

INTEREST & HOBBIES:

interests: paleontology, clearly, but specifically dinosaurs and early marine life; very much an animal person, currently has a chocolate lab named hershey and a maine coon named godzilla; the aforementioned king lizard himself, as well as other reptiles (specifically ones that seem to be living dinosaurs, such as komodo dragons or crocodiles); cooking, primarily as a form of stress relief and way of showing her love (as she’s quite bad at doing it any other way); the entirety of the jurassic park franchise hobbies: she enjoys anything that makes her brain work, including but not limited to: puzzles (sudoku, crosswords, jigsaw), brain games, chess, crochet/knitting, and solitaire. on the flip side, esti recognizes the importance of avoiding burnout, so she carves out time to play mindless games that still have an element of routine and fun to them, like:, animal crossing ), the sims, among others; cooking, trying new recipes and figuring out cool new ways to avoid or hide vegetables in her food (this is also kind of for practicality. she has sensory issues); makes miniature dioramas of various times in history (pre-paleolithic era); she collects bugs/creatures in amber and has a display case for them! special skills/talents: could have been good at volleyball or basketball, preferred to strategize rather than actually play; adept writer, has been on the author list of a number of published articles; good at doing math in her head; good at the aforementioned cooking; an innate ability to make people unsettled; sculpting miniatures for her dioramas

BECOMING A WARD

so do you guys know about the conscious baby meme. she was the conscious baby. no but really, esti gained richard’s attention when she was seven and had entered a science fair the woodrow foundation was putting on. she won, of course, but what really pulled him in was her quick wit, obvious intelligence tor her age, and her project itself: deep research on the fossils in her area, some examples she’d managed to find herself on the local beach, and a diorama of a mesozoic landscape, complete with detailed figurines of the flora and fauna. richard, upon talking to her social worker, found out that esther’s parents had given up complete parental rights when she was born, and she had been in the foster system for five years, since a failed adoption that ended when she was two.

LIFE AS A WARD

esti was always described as an “old soul” (she has autism), more preoccupied with her own interests and the knowledge she could get from richard and mrs. tristan than those her own age. a mildly haunting child, she learned how to mask the odd demeanor as she grew (not that she always does it, but it helped when she began to branch out into other groups). she never considered richard her father (as she so claims) or the wards her siblings, so she had no qualms with remaining a bit isolated, though there was never a shortage of blunt remarks or rolling eyes from her. esti kept mostly to herself, mrs. tristan, and richard, along with a select few others, always able to be found in her room doing something to feed the ever-hungry chasm that is her brain. any friction with the other wards was, to her, their problem (esti take accountability challenge. she says no).

AESTHETIC

esti’s fashion is understated in the way really annoying rich people’s is; baggy shirts, jeans, coats, sneakers, all simple but from designer brands. she wears sunglasses often and they’re usually perched atop her head, and all of her jewelry must always match (she prefers silver, but isn’t a stranger to intentional mixed metals). fav shoes include reeboks, new balances, and filas. a frequent uniqlo enjoyer. her array of rings changes every day to match her outfits, save for the one she keeps on no matter what (a gift from richard when she first became a ward that she had consistently gotten resized to fit her growing finger. no, she will not acknowledge that it’s sentimental, but she will freak out if she can’t find it). always somewhere between casual streetwear and adam sandler. it’s not that she wouldn’t enjoy being fashionable, she just … doesn’t care enough.

EDUCATION

esti stayed at woodrow for her secondary education, as it was practical and she knew the best teachers in the country flocked to teach there. she also didn’t really want to be around other people. after secondary, she went to Kingsbury College (again, because it was a practical choice), and studied geology with a minor in biology; she was valedictorian. following that, she got her master’s in paleontology at the university of edinburgh, which is also where she went on to begin her PhD work. she is currently working on her dissertation, which involves marine fossils and some type of unique sediment on the beaches of dundee (i do not know as much about this as her god knows I couldn’t name specifics)

EXTRACURRICULARS 

growing up, esti was encouraged to try many different clubs and activities to get her to branch out. while she was never forced, she knew it would make richard happy, so she begrudgingly agreed. she spent a few years playing volleyball, which she was good at by virtue of being a tall kid, and attended various camps and clubs targeted towards gifted children (science camp each year was her favorite). it was a bit hard, though, as she grew out of each one very quickly and began detesting it even quicker. she stuck with sculpting classes and crafting classes, though, because it kept her busy and she didn’t have to talk much.

THEIR LIFE NOW

Esti has mainly been focused on her academics since leaving Woodrow at 18; putting all of her worth into one facet of her life means that’s all she really does. She rarely visited Woodrow, only returning at Richard’s request despite how he favored her. She last visited four years ago, when Richard threw a dinner in her honor to celebrate her acceptance into Edinburgh’s PhD program. Esti lives a solitary life with few close friends, and she prefers it that way (she’s lying she’s sooooo lying she wants companionship and true understanding she’s lyinggggg).

[ukiyoexo]

COFFEE ADDICT. — NMY

PAIRINGS — nct, nakamoto yuta x reader

GENRES — ghoul!yuta, tokyoghoul!au, student!reader, uni!au, fluff, angst

SYNOPSIS — yuta, the boy who sits two rows in front of you in biology class. yuta, the boy who has a secret he could never let you find out about. yuta, the boy with an undying craving for flesh and addiction to coffee. yuta, the boy who ends up saving you?

WARNINGS — violence, blood, idkkk

WORD COUNT — 1.5k+

TAG LIST — @uwu-yifan @peachjaem00 @heartyyjeno @guccichan @morkleeskneecaps

NOTE — ayyyy this is kinda messy but i wanna write more tokyo ghoul stuff because this was fun :)))

DEVILTALES — MASTERLIST

tokyo. the city that never sleeps. the city of big dreams and big problems — big ghoul problems.

you had heard plenty about the ghoul situation in tokyo before you had even applied to uni in the city. it was hard not to. not only was it printed in black bold lettering on the front of every newspaper after every attack, but you also found them incredibly fascinating. you were almost drawn to them, the mystery that surrounded them, the unknown.

but maybe that curiosity was always going to be your downfall.

since you had first moved to tokyo, there had been more attacks than you could count. the days between them descreasing each time. it was scary, of course, the stay at home orders and the many warnings to not go out at night increasing.

and you mostly followed them, but you would be lying if you said you weren’t partly intrigued.

♡ ♡ ♡

“afternoon class,” your professor welcomed you all, scribbling a topic on the slate board at the front of the class in large, scrawled white chalk. you had always loved biology, that’s why you chose it as your major. not only was interesting and you were constantly learning new things, but it just encouraged your aspirations to one day study the ghouls that ran the city. “today we’ll be learning about mutation.” he continued as you copied down the title.

you were good student, you paid intention in class and you got the work, often coming out with top grades. but recently you had been distracted by something, or more specifically someone.

the transfer from osaka that sat in front of the class and wore his cherry red hair in a ponytail was quite hard to miss. same went for his addiction to coffee, a cup from the same coffee shop downtown held in his hand every time he walked into lectures.

at first, you hadn’t payed much mind to him. you were working towards your dream and weren’t going to let some boy with bright hair distract you. but it was hard not to be intrigued — there was your undying curiosity again. sure, he was good looking, and looked like he had been carved by the gods or whatever, but that wasn’t what pulled you in.

he was different. the way he acted, the way he held himself, the aura that surrounded him. there was something different about him and you couldn’t quite place it, apart from the fact that he did quite literally only seem to live on the caffeine filled beverage.

class wraps up quickly, your attention only drawn to the boy a couple times. although you couldn’t help but notice how he seemed more invested in his note taking than normal.

at the end of this lecture, you’d normally head straight home to avoid the streets in the dark, but your biology had set an essay to be done with a rather tight turn around.

you could have, of course, organised your time to get it done another time. but it was one night, you would be fine, right? besides, a part of you was so fascinated by the beings that you almost wanted to see the things that stalked the city.

the library is quiet, most people not wanting to have to risk the journey home. yet it’s helpful, actually. you manage to plan and write most of your essay without much difficulty. but maybe that was because it was also on a topic you loved: ghouls.

you’re mid way through a sentence when you get a notification from your phone. a random text from your friend, some stupid meme, your attention drawn instead to the time that’s glaring back at you.

it was late, later than you had intended. and too late to really be out.

you pack up quickly after that, heading out of the library and making your way down the safest path home. you had your keys slid between your fingers, although you didn’t know how much use they would come to if an incident did occur.

the night is cold and black. an icy, darkness that seems to coat the city and leaves a shiver running down your line, chills prickling your skin. you continued down the street, making a sharp left turn. it’s a blind corner, one that you shouldn’t have taken, one that should have made you choose another route. but you had taken it anyway, maybe it your curiosity again that drew you to it.

you notice the blood first, a steady stream of thick red liquid trickling down the street, dripping it’s way down the drain. then the sound of ripping. meat tearing. flesh.

the gulp from your throat is audible, your eyes not even fully up as your feet begin to shuffle back, you don’t feel as intrigued or nearly as brave as before.

you try to escape, but it’s too late.

you see her eyes first. a fluorescent red surrounded by a black that matched the night sky. her hair a violet, bright shade that seemed to contrast the dark look on her face. a hungry look. “p- please- i won’t tell anyone i saw you- just-”

“just let you go? is that what you going to ask me, dear?” she inches closer and you wish you could run but your frozen, not only trapped by the crippling fear but by the ‘claws’ that extended from her body. “do you really want your last words to be pitiful begs?” her hand reaches to cup your neck, touch almost delicate. “i- i-”

“let her go rize.” your stammered words are interrupted by the voice of a man, his tone calm and steady. the woman shifts her attention away from you at his command but her hand remains gripping at your throat, tightening ever so slightly. “yuta?” she almost smiles.

the name is familiar yet you cant quite yet place why.

“i thought you didn’t hunt these pests anymore?” her face contorts into a pout, patronising the man who you still hadn’t caught a glimpse of. “i don’t.” he states and you can hear his teeth gritting. 

“and i thought your binge eater days were behind you?” he fires back, a bit more aggressively than before. 

rize’s head cocks at his words, body turning, hand dragging you with her. 

the way she smiles is so sickly and sweet, tongue poking out to wipe the reamining blood from her last victim from her lip. “you know her, don’t you?”

your gaze flickers up at her question, curious eyes scanning up the body of the man who had at least delayed your murder. his red hair catches your attention first, a vibrant shade that you recognise, although it’s no longer in a ponytail, instead framing his chiselled face. his jaw is clenched but his eyes are wide. “oh, did you not want her to know what you are?” she opens her hand, letting you fall to the ground. her claw instead coming to pin you to the ground. 

you had read about hers before,a rinkaku kagune, it’s strong and pushes hard against your chest until you’re gasping for air.

“you should have stopped when i told you to,” the boy who you had only known from biology spits back, and for some reason you can’t help but think how stupid you were for not piecing the clues together, the fact that you had only seen him consume coffee should have been enough for you to realise.

he was a ghoul.

and he was powerful. 

his kigune seems to glow in light of the moon, its a bikaku, one of the only one’s that can properly disarm a rinkaku. 

he strikes, hard, quick movements that leave the pressure on your chest weakening. rize attempts to strike back but he’s cut through half her kigune claws before she can even process fully what’s going on. you expect him to finish her off completely but he stops just there, “go before i kill you.” he grits and you scowl on her face twist. “you’ll see me again, yuta.” she mutters harshly, walking over to where her prior victim lay, picking up the body before leaving.

yuta seems to keep his cool as he makes his way over to you, extending a hand which you take with your own shaky one. his eyes meet your eyes and his whole demeanour seems to shift, “don’t tell anyone,” he states quietly, a stark contrast from his prior tone, “please.” 

you don’t get an opportunity to respond before he’s turned around again, he moves quickly, leaving you standing frozen with little time to thaw from your fearful state.

you don’t sleep much that night, mulling over what yuta had asked of you. you barely knew him, if at all, and how could you trust that he wasn’t just another senseless ghoul who killed the innocent people you saw in the newspaper. you want to keep his secret but it’s a big ask, and you don’t know if you can.

morning comes and it’s another biology class. you wonder if he’ll be there, how he’ll act. but you’ve already made up your mind nonetheless. 

you enter the classroom lightly later than normal, having taken a detour to the campus. yuta’s sat in his same spot at the front, and a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips when you see your saviour. your confident, making your way towards him. 

your hand slides a black coffee across his desk and he looks up with wide eyes, his gaze softening slightly when it meets your face but still just as confused. 

“your secret is safe with me.”

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

someone behind me was tracing my steps / maybe you’re better off this way

Fandom: Kamen Rider Ryuki

Characters: Asakura Takeshi, Kido Shinji

Songs: "After the Fall," October Project & "Passive," A Perfect Circle (playlist here)

Takeshi’s sitting against the wall, bleeding out, and the mirror guy—Kanzaki, right—is standing over him, mouth twisted in something he vaguely recognizes as dismay. “I can’t use this, there’s barely any energy left,” he says, not to Takeshi, and there sure as hell isn’t anyone else in the room. “I’ll have to reset.”

“Hang on a second.” Takeshi coughs and feels his mouth fill up with the taste of copper, which isn’t such a bad flavor when you get down to it. “What about my wish?”

Kanzaki doesn’t even look at him, already fucking around with the mirror. “You don’t want anything, there’s no point.”

“Sure I want something.”

“…what on Earth could you want at this point? It’s all going to be reset anyway.”

Takeshi grins up at him, knowing that it’s sure to be an unnerving sight with his teeth all over blood. “Lemme remember.”

“Out of the question. Giving one participant unnecessary foreknowledge would interfere with the procedure.”

“Nah, nah, I’m not gonna interfere with shit. It was just a hell of a time.” Takeshi looks up just as Kanzaki is looking down and grins his bloody grin a little wider. “I like to remember times when I had fun. Looking forward to doing it over again. Let me remember.”

---

It’s not until he graduates university that Shinji realizes that he’s missing something.

Slightly after, really. He graduates, he works some shitty part-time gigs, he does some freelancing, and then Ookubo gets in touch and offers him a job at Ore Journal. That’s all fine, but when he steps through the door of the Ore offices he’s hit with a wave of déjà vu so powerful that he nearly trips and falls face-first into Reiko’s desk. Fortunately he catches himself before anyone notices. It had been bad enough trying to explain to his mother about the girl who lived in his mirror when he was thirteen; he can’t imagine how the people here would react to, “I remember walking into this room for the first time at least eight times over.”

He gets a grip on himself, but the feeling of loss stays. He’s missing something, and he doesn’t know what. Sometimes he’ll get a glimpse of it, he’ll pass someone on the street or overhear a snatch of conversation and a fragment of memory will overwhelm him, but he never gets everything.

From the bits that he sees, he’s not sure that he wants to get everything. It might be better to be missing something than to remember.

---

Takeshi’s known that he’s missing something for a long time now, and whatever it is, he wants it back.

He’s not exactly an educated guy, but he knows himself pretty well, and the idea that there’s a big chunk of him missing is galling. He can feel its absence. He can’t tell what it is, it hasn’t got any kind of useful shape, no edges that he can detect, but it’s his. And since he wouldn’t just go carving out part of himself, that means he’s been robbed.

He doesn’t take kindly to being robbed.

Mostly, though, he can ignore it, the way you ignore a hole in the wall that you don’t feel like repairing yet. He does what he likes, gets what he wants, eats when there’s food, and doesn’t think about it unless he reaches for something in his mind and finds that it isn’t there.

And then he sees the journalist.

Some sweet-faced kid, he is, showing up at a bar that Takeshi likes and bugging the regulars about a local ghost story that Takeshi knows for a fact is bullshit. He doesn’t try coming over to Takeshi’s corner, because the bartender visibly warns him off, but he’s talking to everyone else. That suits Takeshi fine. He can just sit with his drink and watch and remember, in shards and splinters, tantalizing and incomplete.

Kido Shinji is what’s printed on the business card he swipes from the bartender once the journalist leaves, with the address of a tea shop written on the back in pen.

Now there’s a name that rings a bell.

He stares down at the card for a moment, not sure whether he’s pleased or furious, and then heads out. Guy couldn’t have gone far.

---

Shinji gets through the door and is immediately handed an apron and a bandana for his hair. “Dishes.”

“What—Ren, I just got here.”

“Yeah, and there are dirty dishes. I don’t have time to deal with them, there are customers.” Ren squints at him for a moment, frowning. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

Shinji pauses in the middle of tying back his hair, uneasy. “I’ll tell you once there aren’t customers. Where’s Miyu—he’s still working, ok.”

Ren rolls his eyes. “Apparently that middle schooler who was here last week told all of her friends about him, he’s been busy all day.”

There are a lot of dishes piled up, and it keeps Shinji busy until Ren’s shooing out the last customers of the day. Atori’s different without the old lady, but it’s not a bad different; hopefully she’s happy in whatever warm place she moved to after she sold the shop to Ren. She’d certainly never seemed happy here.

He’s happy here. In a stable place, with a little bit of stable work apart from Ore, with people who inexplicably love him for reasons that none of them quite remember clearly.

When the last customer is out the door, Ren leans back against the counter, arms folded across his chest, and says, “So something’s bothering you, spit it out.”

Shinji frowns down into the dishwater. “I think someone was following me again today.”

“What, again? How long’s this been going on now, two weeks?”

“Three and a half. Ever since that thing I was looking into about the ghost, do you remember that one?” One saucer in the dish rack, start washing the next piece. “Maybe I pissed off the ghost.”

“You said there wasn’t a ghost.”

“Well, yeah, but what if there was and now it’s following me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not being chased by a ghost.”

Shinji glances nervously over his shoulder, as if he’ll see his ghost reflected in the tea shop window. “How can we be sure, though?” He picks up another dirty cup and starts to wash it. “Some of the things I remember…”

Ren’s arms wrap around him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. “They aren’t here,” more softly and gently than he usually speaks. “No ghosts. Just you, me, and Miyuki.”

“No ghosts.” Shinji takes a deep breath. “You’re right. No ghosts.”

---

The place isn’t tough to break into. Decent locks, but nothing Takeshi can’t get past with a crowbar. He lets himself in and looks around the vaguely-familiar tea shop with interest before heading past the counter and to the back. Stairs lead up to the apartment above, and sure, they creak a little, but that’s nothing to worry about. After all, he’s still got the crowbar if he really needs it.

Upstairs, the place is chaotic in sort of a cute way, decorated as it is by three people with clearly pretty different sensibilities, fragments of three very different lives on display. It smells faintly of frying oil, too. Someone made something good for dinner tonight. On a whim, he checks the fridge, finds a container of leftover gyoza, and eats them absently as he contemplates the shopping list stuck to the freezer door. Eggs, rice, sliced pork belly, in neat handwriting that definitely isn’t Kido’s.

He finishes the gyoza and the tail-end of a carton of milk, leaving the empty containers behind on the counter and picking up his crowbar again as he heads toward the back of the apartment.

There are three bedrooms, and none of them are marked, doors closed against the darkened hallway. Checking each one would be a hassle, and might lead to more trouble than Takeshi feels like getting in right now. Instead he just remembers how jumpy Kido seemed even before Takeshi started following him and lets intuition lead him to the room closest to the fire escape.

The door swings open, and the first thing he sees is a cloth square on the wall. A covered mirror.

There we go.

Kido’s asleep, sprawled across the bed with his head tossed back and his hair spread out on his pillow, throat pale and exposed. Alone, which makes things a little easier. There’s a computer desk set up in the corner of the room; Takeshi grabs the chair from it, drags it over next to the bed, and sits, resting the end of the crowbar on the floor as he’s saying, softly and cheerfully, “Hey, Kido. Wake up.”

A shift, an irritated mumble, “Not time to—” and then one eye opening halfway and the jolt, Kido scrambling upright in the bed, one hand flung out to the side reaching for something that isn’t there.

What isn’t there?

Splinters reform into another regained memory: a deck of cards in an elaborate case, gleaming purple metal smooth and cool in Takeshi’s hands. There’s a name that goes with it, or maybe more than one, faint and still lost but centimeters from the tip of his tongue.

Kido’s gone white as a pan of milk, hand still empty because they’re in a world with no decks, now, no monsters that Takeshi suddenly remembers with fondness, not nearly as much fun, and Takeshi leans forward on his crowbar and smiles, friendly, like, and says, “Come on, Kido, I remember you being more interesting.”

---

Shinji can hear his heart beating over the ringing in his ears. There’s a bit of light coming in from between the mostly-closed curtains, just enough to see by, and with his hand coming up empty and his unwelcome guest illuminated so that only golden hair and white teeth are visible, he is assailed by memory.

He knows this man.

From the corner of the bar where he’d been looking into that ghost story, sure, the one the bartender had told him not to bother, but also from before, from ten befores or more. A killer, vicious and cheerfully so, dangerous to be around, but beneath the adrenaline thrum Shinji can feel another pulse, pity, pity, pity, perhaps misplaced but still there.

He fights to get his breathing under control and says, “Asakura. What are you doing here?”

“You took something of mine.” Asakura’s head tilts slowly to the side, semi-friendly grin still visibly. “I came to get it back.”

“I don’t have anything of yours.”

“Never said you did. I said you took it. Didn’t say I thought you had it.”

“That…you know that doesn’t make sense, right?”

“None of this makes sense, Kido. We live in a world that revolves around a guy like you.” Asakura leans forward, one hand darting out to grab Shinji’s chin, ragged nails digging into his skin. In the dim light his eyes are flat and dark and predatory as their gazes lock, only taking on any gleam as he drinks in…something, whatever he’s getting from looking at Shinji like this. Shinji nearly asks, in fact, but he can’t quite speak, and anyway Asakura’s talking again, still as cheery and conversational as he has been. “Used to be, I got the deck in my hands and I’d remember all of it. That was the deal. Don’t know how the mirror guy finally bit it, but whatever happened, you’re the key to everything now.”

Shinji’s considering shouting for Ren, because even if he did have a dragon at his beck and call, the mirror is covered. Then, of course, he notices the crowbar. And Asakura continues to look at him, searching for something that Shinji is apparently giving him.

“Pathetic.” Abruptly, Asakura lets go again. “You used to be fun, Kido.” He stands, shouldering the crowbar like a baseball bat, and heads for the open bedroom door, only pausing briefly to say, “Call me if you ever decide to get the band back together, yeah?”

Shinji remains frozen for what seems like a long time after he’s gone, dizzy with memory and his heartbeat noisy in his own ears.

He doesn’t remember the end of things. None of the ends of things, actually, and he’s not sure if the others know that it happened more than once, how many times they were put through the same wringer. Whatever it was, though, whatever he or they finally did, it was permanent.

He never would have expected someone to resent him for it.

Finally he finds the focus to move, raising a hand to rub at the sore spots on his jaw before getting out of bed.

Miyuki’s bed is disturbed by unoccupied, and this fills him with a banked and indistinct dread until he comes to Ren’s room and finds them both there, Miyuki sprawled as inelegantly as always and snoring lightly at Ren’s side. Ren is awake, barely. “Bad dreams all around tonight, I guess,” he slurs as Shinji closes the door, and moves over to make space. “Wha’ was yours about?”

Shinji curls up beside him and says, softly, “Just ghosts.”

---

Takeshi strolls down the middle of the empty street, crowbar on his shoulder, in such a good mood now that he’s very nearly whistling. It’s a damp night; the streetlights make shadows in the fog that look like old friends he now remembers, any number of enormous beasts stalking him as he walks. Which makes him want to laugh, and so he laughs, and the sound bounces off the buildings and the fog in an echo that could go on forever.

“Goddamn,” he says to a fog-reflection that shifts and changes with every step he takes, now a vast snake, now a rhino, now a stingray. “That was a good time, wasn’t it.”

The fog makes no reply, but the shadow continues to follow him down the street as the echoes of his laughter die away, and after a moment, feeling almost jaunty, he starts to whistle.

[chelsfic]

Leftovers - Part 7 - Nandor the Relentless x Reader Fanfic

Previous parts: Masterlist

A/N: Well...this was unexpected. I wasn’t planning to go in this direction quite YET, but the characters had minds of their own...

Summary: While planning for the upcoming biannual orgy, the reader gets a lesson in seduction from Laszlo and Nandor finally surrenders to his desire.

Warnings: Smut, Female reader, Blood drinking, First time, Loss of Virginity

---

Nadja’s voice echoes through the house as she rushes into the library clutching a letter in her hands.

“Laszlo! Nandor! Colin Robinson! House meeting!”

Guillermo trails after her carrying the rest of the mail. Bills, a grocery circular, and a stack of computer parts catalogs addressed to Colin. He drops the pile on an end table and takes an unobtrusive position by the doorway as the other housemates start to file in with varying expressions of annoyance, curiosity and boredom.

You’re the last one to arrive, traipsing into the room looking vastly under dressed, as always, compared to the old world vampires in their elegant finery. Even Colin and Guillermo keep it business casual. You, on the other hand, are dressed in a pair of neon pink capri leggings and the USA Men’s Basketball jersey you stole from Nandor. The jersey falls down to your knees and the wide arm holes reveal the sports bra you’re wearing underneath. When Nandor first caught you wearing it a couple weeks ago he’d groused at you about disrespecting his belongings. But then he found himself strangely pleased with how his garment dwarfed your smaller frame. He rather liked the idea of his human wearing his shirt. So, he stopped complaining.

You give him a cheeky grin and flounce the bottom of the shirt around your thighs saucily as you flop down beside him. It’s been just about a month since the rave and since things between you and Nandor...advanced. You’ve started secretly thinking of him as your vampire boyfriend. You spend more nights in his coffin than you do in your own bed and you’ve both enjoyed the closeness that comes with sleeping in an enclosed box. 

You’ve continued to touch, kiss, and explore each other physically. Your progress has been slow, though you’ve gone further and experienced more with Nandor than you ever have with anyone else. But he is being downright mulish about taking the next logical step. On the one hand it’s comforting to have a more experienced partner who is so willing to go slowly. On the other hand...you’re horny. And you can’t tell if he’s being considerate and cautious or if he’s being selfish and wanting the best of both worlds: sexy times and virgin blood.

You sit so that your leg brushes against his and take his hand, twining your fingers together happily. You probably look like a preteen with her first boyfriend but you don’t really care. 

Colin Robinson grins and his eyes flash blue as he drones, “PDA! Get a room, you guys.”

Nandor hisses angrily and you roll your eyes. You spot Guillermo standing rigidly by the door and wave him over, patting the cushion on your other side.

“Memo! Come sit down for the meeting,” you invite.

Guillermo’s eyes flick to his master automatically and Nandor proclaims, “Vampires--non-familiars only, Guillermo!”

“What!?” you exclaim, slapping his arm. “Stop being mean to Guillermo!”

“Mean!?” Nandor scoffs. “I’m not mean to Guillermo! I saved him from being executed by the Vampiric Council last year, didn’t I?”

Guillermo nods, “Yes, master...although I did save you as well--”

“And I let you have the human giving thanks holiday off, didn’t I?” he interrupts.

“That was...three years ago…” Guillermo mumbles.

Nandor is gearing up for a full on hissy fit but Nadja interrupts, “Enough! Gizmo, go and sit with the human, you know Nandor is going to surrender to her eventually and I have news to announce!”

You smile in triumph and Guillermo reluctantly slinks forward to sit on your other side, eyeing his master over your head with a worried look.

“That’s strike one, Guillermo,” Nandor grumbles irritably, as Nadja takes over.

“I didn’t want to tell you until I had their answer,” Nadja smiles beatifically and folds her hands over her heart, “but I petitioned the vampire orgy committee and they’ve decided to give us a second chance to host the biannual orgy! I explained that my husband had been unnaturally deranged by some putrid blood--”

“Don’t you mean, betrayed by my wife?” Laszlo interjects.

“--and so we’re hosting it this weekend!” Nadja finishes, ignoring her idiot husband.

“Wonderful!” Nandor cries, dropping your hand and standing up to pace the room. “We’ll need to begin preparations at once. Guillermo, I’m giving Nadja permission to boss you around. It needs to be perfect this time!”

“Thank you, Nandor,” Nadja trills, obviously euphoric with plan-making already. “This time we’ll chain the virgins up, so there’s no chance for the cheeky buggers to spoil our fun…”

“Excellent idea, darling!” Laszlo praises, eager to show his support and avoid sleeping in one of the basement coffins tonight.

Nandor nods, “Yes, good suggestion, Nadja. Guillermo, you’ll bring the chains up from the basement...”

Nandor continues rattling off orders and you listen with increasing bafflement and alarm. He’s clearly giddy as he lists the “supplies” they’ll need.

“The sex net, obviously… the swing… assorted dildos… we should get a few Devil’s butt plugs, shouldn’t we? Those were popular at Marcus’s orgy last year…”

You turn, wide-eyed, to Guillermo and find him looking resigned and pulling a notebook from his back pocket to write this down.

Laszlo, Nadja and even Colin Robinson join in the discussion and they don’t seem likely to lose momentum any time soon. 

Finally, you clear your throat and speak up, “Um...I’m sorry. So...you--all of you--go to...sex parties? Like, where you...have sex all--all together?”

God, could you sound more virginy? You direct the question to everyone in the room but your eyes focus on Nandor. He looks away with an uncomfortable grimace.

Nadja tuts and puts a hand to her forehead as she croons, “Oh my sweet, baby virgin! I have forgotten how stupid and innocent you are. Do you not know what an orgy is? It is like a dark, bacchanalia of the flesh… a joining of bodies into one, throbbing mass of pleasure. And it is a great honor to host it! Vampires from all over New York will attend.”

“But…” what you really want to do is talk to Nandor in private. Your mind is racing with half-formed concerns, but mainly you’re hoping your new vampire boyfriend isn’t planning to have casual sex with a dozen strangers after spending the last month refusing to deflower you because he’d rather preserve the taste of your blood than deepen your...well, what you’d thought of as your relationship.

But you can’t give a voice to these worries even if the idea of Nandor with someone else stabs at your heart. You don’t want to be the needy virgin. The silly little girl who thinks a 758-year-old vampire is interested in “going steady.” Are you being unreasonable? Are you being unrealistic? Are you being insensitive to vampire culture? All at once you feel tears stinging your eyes and you blink rapidly to clear them before anyone notices. 

“I know what you’re worrying about, my warrior,” Nadja breaks through your thoughts. “But you’ll be perfectly safe during the orgy. Look!”

She poofs into a cloud of vapor, reappearing a few seconds later holding a pair of matching plain white t-shirts with the words “Do Not Eat” printed on them. 

“One for you and one for Gizmo!” she exclaims with a proud smile as if this solves everything.

---

“So…” you start and then trail off, not really knowing what you want to say.

You’re up in the attic with Nadja and Laszlo, helping them sort through boxes with labels like “Sex Dungeon,” “In Case of Orgy,” and “Emergency Dildos.”

Laszlo uncovers something wedged behind the StairMaster and exults, “My darling! Do you remember this…?”

It looks like a dildo circa the Renaissance period, smooth and hand-carved with a leather harness attached. Laszlo throws his head back and his hands twitch excitedly at his sides as Nadja stalks up to him with a seductive smirk.

“Of course, I do, my naughty boy. And if you are good and don’t ruin this orgy with your moods then maybe we’ll have ourselves a nice little time with it…” her voice goes high-pitched and squeaky as she grabs the phallus out of Laszlo’s hands and strokes it along his jaw, bringing it up to his lips and squealing as he opens his mouth to run his tongue lewdly over the shiny, smooth wood.

“O-okay, I’m just going to give you guys some privacy…” you stand and start to make your way over to the stairs.

Nadja drops the dildo and calls after you, “Wait, mortal! You had something you wanted to ask?”

You stop in your tracks, turning back to the couple and taking a breath to steady yourself. You have to talk to someone about this.

“Yeah, it’s...well, Nandor and I haven’t had sex yet--”

“We can tell that very well, my yummy friend,” Laszlo cuts in and Nadja slaps his arm.

“Go on, little horny infant,” Nadja says encouragingly.

“--but we’ve done other stuff,” you continue, “and I...I have feelings for him. But the thing is, I’m not as comfortable as you all seem to be about...sharing…”

“Ahh!” Laszlo murmurs with an arch look. “And you don’t want a load of randy vampires diddling your man.”

“Right,” you confirm, heat spreading over your face under their scrutiny. “But he seems so excited and I...I still don’t really know if he feels the same way that I do…”

“Hmm, yes this is very tricky,” Nadja muses. “Of course...there are some vampire couples who attend and only pay attention to each other…”

“Bloody boring, if you ask me…”

“Shut up, Laszlo!” Nadja hisses. “Can’t you see our human needs us?”

“Alright, alright!” he says irritably. He turns in a small circle, rubbing his chin abstractly before snapping his fingers and pointing to you in excitement, “I’ve got it! It sounds to me like what you really need is a little help in seducing our warrior friend. Once you’ve done the dirty deed you can enslave him to your feminine wiles just like my darling Nadja did to me.”

“Good idea, Laszlo! Then you can attend the orgy together and if anyone tries to tempt him away you will do the whip on them!” Nadja declares with delight.

You’re not sure if she’s misusing roller derby lingo or actually suggesting that you use a whip on your rivals. Probably both…

“But he won’t have sex with me because he’s obsessed with my stupid blood…” you whine, plopping down on one of the boxes with an exasperated sigh. 

“Trust me, human. With our help, Nandor won’t know how to resist!” Laszlo assures you with a self-satisfied grin. “Nadja, darling, get the projector!”

“Oh, no, Laszlo...she’s just a poor human girl. Don’t subject her to your boring pornos…”

---

By the time you come down from the attic you’re pretty sure the image of Laszlo’s orgasm face is permanently burned into your brain. And you’re not exactly sure how “Vampire Tricked in Steamroom” is supposed to help you with your conundrum, but Laszlo’s proud enthusiasm is adorable. Nadja’s words as you walk down the stairs are a little more helpful.

“Nandor is just thinking too much with his fangs and not enough with his penis. Use your natural talents--” she glances meaningfully at your chest, “--to make him realize his mistake.”

You’re not sure you have it in you to play the seductress like Nadja does. Still, your footsteps automatically take you in the direction of Nandor’s room. When you walk into the crypt you find him bent over a long roll of paper on the floor with a paintbrush in his hand and glitter stuck all over his head. He holds his work up to show you with a proud grin.

It’s a banner with large, bright, sparkly letters spelling out, “Welcome Orgy Guests!”

“What do you think?” he asks shyly. “Too much glitter?”

You blink and bite back a laugh at the sight of your fearsome boyfriend with his hair and beard covered in glitter. He’s smiling at you, revealing the wicked gleam of his fangs and you’re suddenly overcome with the desire to kiss him until you’re covered in glitter too. You stride forward, gingerly taking the banner from his hands and setting it back down on the floor.

“Just the right amount of glitter,” you assure him and then you hop up, wrapping your arms around his neck and trusting that he’ll catch you with his strong arms. His beard is scratchy against your face as you claim his mouth with yours, kissing and nipping his lips with a needy growl. Okay, wow--maybe Laszlo’s cheesy movie instruction has some merit?

“I knew it,” Nandor smirks. “You like the glitter, don’t you? Like Twilight!”

“Shut up, Nandor,” you laugh, stroking your fingers through his thick hair and angling his head so you can kiss along the edge of his jaw. You playfully drag your teeth against his neck and his whole body shudders in response. 

Curious, you do it again and this time he moans low in his throat and gasps out your name. Your lips curl into a mischievous smile and you bite down sharply, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to bruise if he didn’t have supernatural healing.

“Gah! Human…” Nandor pants, walking you over to the luxuriously upholstered couch set against the wall and dropping down with you in his lap. His voice breaks as he begs, “Harder.”

You draw back, locking your eyes with his for a moment, your breath coming quick as you feel the stir of his hardening length beneath you. His eyes are nearly black with desire and he digs his fingers into your hips in encouragement and repeats himself, “Harder, my mortal.”

You bend forward, brushing your lips gently along the crook of his neck like always does before he feeds from you. You bring your hands to his collar and loosen the ruff of his shirt, pulling it aside and cradling his head as you sink down to bite. You’re tentative at first, somehow afraid of hurting him, but he growls in impatience and swats your butt with his open hand to spur you along. You increase the pressure, feeling his skin give beneath the blunt edges of your teeth and the cool, coppery taste of his thick blood spreading over your lips and tongue. You swallow it, lapping at his neck eagerly as he squirms beneath you and mewls in pleasured surrender. 

When you finally pull away, your mouth and chin are painted an obscene red and Nandor goes wild at the sight. He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you into a rough kiss, arching his hips upward so he can grind against you.

“Now, I get to taste you,” He whispers against your lips, shifting out from beneath you and kneeling on the floor between your legs.

“It’s not--” you’re out of breath and your head is spinning. “It’s too soon, baby”

He purrs at your use of the pet name and slides his hands up the outsides of your thighs, catching the waistband of your leggings and dragging them down your legs along with your underwear.

“There’s more than one way to taste you, my human,” he explains, pressing his palms to the insides of your knees and pushing your legs further apart. He drags his beard along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, scenting you with a pleased sigh. He scoops you up in his hands, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch and finally lowering his face between your legs. His breath is cool against your heated flesh and then he’s dragging his tongue along your slit in one long stroke that ends on your needy, throbbing clitoris. 

“Oh my go--”

Nandor rears back, hissing, and you rush an apology, “Sorry, sorry, sorry! I forgot.”

“Be careful with that shit!” he grouses but then he’s dipping his head back down and attacking you with his mouth. 

He’s gentle and thorough and--you think--very good at this. A few times you feel the sharp edge of a fang just brush against your most sensitive skin and you start to flinch away but he shushes you and strokes his fingers along your thighs to settle your nerves. His lips and tongue move against your clitoris in perfect, rolling motions that have you melting under his attention. You let your hands fall down to rest in his glitter-specked hair and stroke your fingers along his temples as he laves and sucks. When the mounting tension in your core grows to be too much you roll your hips up, grinding yourself into his face and twisting your fingers in his hair as you cry out. 

Nandor climbs back onto the couch and settles beside you, watching with a pleased smile as you tremble and gasp through the aftershocks. He’s lazily palming himself through his trousers when you finally turn to him and press the full length of your body into his, capturing his lips for a kiss that tastes of mingled blood and arousal--both your essences combined. 

“I’m ready…” you whisper, sliding your hands beneath his loosened collar and along his shoulders. “If you can possibly stand my blood tasting all ordinary and non-virgin flavored…”

You emphasize the last statement by edging your leg between his and grinding your thigh against his fervent erection. Nandor groans loudly and it sounds like a surrender. 

“Yes…” he pants. “My human...yes. I’ll make you mine. But...but--” he growls in frustration “--wait a moment!”

He hops up, leaving you half naked and bemused on the couch as he darts around the room, locking the door, positioning a fur rug on the floor next to an ornate candelabra, and finally opening a drawer and removing a folded piece of paper.

He comes back to you, kneeling at your feet and handing you the sheet of paper. He watches with a gleam in his eyes as you open it.

Inside he’s written in glitter pen:

“Happy Deflowering!

Love,

Nandor the Relentless”

And there’s a drawing of you laying on a fur rug with an artfully modest sheet draped over your nude body and Nandor floating in the air above you, his cape flying out behind him and his fangs bared. Well...now you know he hasn’t been planning to keep you a virgin for all eternity...

You bark out a laugh and press the drawing to your heart as you look up at him and gush, “I love it, Nandor!”

His lips part in a light smile and he presses forward, taking your face in his hands and catching you with his intense eyes.

“I wanted it to be--” he frowns uncomfortably as he forms the word “--nice...for you, human. Perhaps we had a rocking start…”

“You mean with you kidnapping me, drinking my blood and treating me like a human snack pack?” you deadpan, but you dart in to peck his lips to show you’re only teasing.

“Yes, that,” he continues and his fingers are tracing light patterns through the hair at your temples. “But I...I do care about you, my mortal. For more than just your delicious blood…”

Finally hearing him say the words out loud starts your eyes misting and you set the drawing down on the couch beside you, reaching forward to take him in your arms and kiss his beautiful, stupid, warrior lips. 

Nandor is remarkably quick at removing his layers of clothing. By the time you’ve shed your stolen jersey and squirmed your way out of the sports bra, he’s completely naked. Vampire speed. He kneels on the fur rug before you, his pale skin reflecting the golden light of the candles, glowing with second-hand warmth. You forget to be bashful about your own nudity as you drink him in. Dark hair covers his chest and trails down his stomach into the dark nest around his proudly straining erection. 

His own dark eyes drop to linger on the lines of your body as he reaches out and draws you closer, laying you down on the plush rug and perching beside you. You draw your hands up under your chin automatically, but he takes them and draws your arms down to your sides, baring your body for his hungry gaze.

“You are more breathtaking than the Euphrates running red with the blood of my enemies,” he murmurs, brushing his fingertips over the peaks of your breasts and smiling as your nipples pebble under his touch. 

You smile and shake your head, gazing up at this gorgeous man and feeling, for once, entirely worthy and beautiful in someone else’s eyes. You joined roller derby hoping to gain some body-positivity, some confidence--which you have. But still, you’ve never before felt so attractive and powerful. Nandor bends down to kiss you, running one hand along the line of your neck and letting the other roam over your belly and down between your thighs. He strokes through your still wet slit, spreading your slick and rolling your clit between his fingers until you’re mewling into his lips. 

“You know…” Nandor murmurs, pushing your legs apart and shifting to seat himself between them, “there’s more than one reason they call me relentless, little human.”

The sound that falls from your lips is half-gasp and half-moan. He slides the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your arousal before finally--finally--pressing forward at your entrance. Even after a month of pining and yearning for this you still tense up at the final moment and Nandor kneads his hands into your hips with a soft coo, “Relax yourself, my mortal…”

He leans down to press a rough-stubbled kiss along the edge of your jaw as he finally slips inside of you and you feel, for the first time, the impossible and wonderful sensation of being filled by your lover as he gradually pushes deeper. For several seconds the pressure of him inside of you is all you can think about and it’s overwhelming. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, digging your teeth into the already healed skin.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, and there’s a distinctly vampiric edge of lustful curiosity that accompanies his concern. He’s rolling his hips against you in a slow, steady rhythm. 

“Mmhmm,” you murmur without removing your teeth from his neck. 

He slips a hand between your bodies and finds the hardened bud of your nipple with his fingers, rolling and stroking it as he continues rocking into you with deeper and deeper thrusts.

“Not for much longer,” he promises with a teasing pinch to your nipple.

His pace increases as the pain gradually ebbs into a delicious, burning ache that builds and builds. You throw back your head, keening each time he buries himself inside you. Nandor’s mouth falls open and he dips his head to run his lips over the throbbing pulse of your throat, feeling the rush of your hot blood beneath the surface and losing the steady control of his movements as he frantically ruts into you. 

“Mine, mine, mine,” he cries, wrenching his mouth away from your neck and instead slamming his lips to yours with an anguished moan as he goes rigid, pushing deeper inside of you as his release tears through him. He jerks his hips several more times, reaching between you to put his fingers on you and coax you towards your own peak as he softens inside of you.

He finally slips out of you, collapsing onto the rug at your side with a heavy groan. He hugs you to his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin and humming in pleasure. His skin is almost warm with your borrowed body heat, but where you are covered in a fine sheen of human sweat, he is as smooth and unaffected as ever.

Your muscles shake with involuntary tremors and he strokes his hands down your back comfortingly.

“Shut your eyes,” his voice is a low rumble that you can feel where your head rests against his chest. “Rest, my love.”

The word sends a warm rush around your heart and you smile, burying your face into his lovely chest hair. 

All your insecurities about the upcoming orgy are forgotten as your limbs grow heavy with exhaustion. You’re just starting to drift to sleep under the steady feel of his hands smoothing over your back when a sudden thought pops into your head.

“Nandor!” you poke your head up to meet his eyes. “Am I going to turn into a vampire?!”

He furrows his brow as he asks, “Why would you think that, human?”

“Well...I drank your blood…” you explain, relaxing back into his chest now that it seems you’re not on the brink of transitioning into an unholy creature of the night without warning.

Nandor laughs, “I would have to drink your blood first...almost all of it. And then feed you my blood. No, my human, you won’t become a vampire...not yet.”

You nod your head absently, letting your eyes drift shut without fully absorbing his last words.

---

A/N: ?????????

Tags:

@festering-queen​ @kandomeresbitch​ @strangestdiary​ @glitterportrait​ @scuzmunkie​ @redwoodshadows​

[imagine-nation20]

Mutants, and Magic, and Stones, Oh My

Summary: After the fighting stops, and everyone returns to the mansion to get back to their semi-normal lives, they meet an unexpected guest.

Requested: No? But also yes, by an anon

Request:Wild card! write whatever you hell you want to read! (or don't, if you don't feel like it)

Pairing: Sean Cassidy X Reader (Sort of. Its hinted at)

A/N: I’ve had this idea in my head for a very long time, but I haven’t seen to First Class movie since… like it came out? So excuse my weird lack of information. This was just a fun idea that I felt like writing, and thank you to the anon for giving me the means to do so! Also, reader is hinted more towards being female, so sorry.

~~~

Stephen Strange stared at you from across his desk. “I’m not angry,” He started.

You groaned in response, “Please don’t do that, ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed’ speech, okay? I get it, I screwed up-”

“By almost destroying the New York Sanctum,” He grumbled back.

“But I didn’t,” You insisted, crossing your arms in a huff.

“(Y/N),” He tilted his head, hands clasping in front of him on the desk. “You’re a smart kid, but I took you on as my personal apprentice under the assumption that you would set an example.”

You threw your hands up, “I have, Doctor Strange,” you insisted, “I’m the best in the entire sanctum, maybe even every sanctum! I never lose a sparring match, I practise every spell given to me until I’ve perfected it, and yet, I make one little mistake, and suddenly I’m a disappointment?”

“I never said-”

“What do I have to do to prove to you I’m taking this seriously?” You asked, eyes wide in an earnest plea.

Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose, and you could have sworn you saw three new grey hairs sprout from his head. He was silent, staring down at his hands, which were now rested flat on his desk. His eyes trailed to you. 

He had taken you in as his apprentice on a whim. A car crash, which should have been fatal, instead left you paralyzed from the waist down. He had come to you in the hospital, clad in strange robes and a bright red cape, talking of magic and giving you back you ability to walk. You had thought he was crazy, if not for the demonstration he gave in the middle of your scramble to call a nurse or doctor.

You had accepted without any further fight. If you could get your freedom back, you would take it. So, you studied. Harder than any other apprentice. You weren’t going to take this miracle opportunity for granted. If Stephen told you to jump from a cliff, you would, with the faith that he knew what he was doing, and it would better your training.

So when he pulled the Eye of Agamotto from his neck, you tried not to let your jaw drop to the floor.

“There are disturbances, I can feel it through the eye,” He mumbled. “Something, or someone, is messing with the timeline.”

“And?”

He took a deep breath, sliding the eye across the desk to you, “And I want you to go back and fix it.”

“You-” You stuttered. “You want me to use the eye to go back and stop someone from messing up the past?”

“Yes,” He shrugged. “I would do it, but I have to look after the Sanctum, make sure we can recover from this recent setback,’ He leveled you with a look.

“Are you sure you want me to do it?” You asked, reaching out hesitantly.

“Weren’t you the one just grovelling for forgiveness?” He quirked a brow.

With that, you snatched up the eye, pulling it over your head and letting hang from your neck. The old, brassy metal and glowing green of the amulet contrasted with the white and grey of your robes.

“Take the staff with you,” Was his last fleeting comment, waving you from the room. “When you are ready, come find me in the training arena.”

You walked away, moving to prepare. Your robes, you switched out for more moveable, mission-like clothes. Black pants, tucked tight into brown, wrapped boot. Next came the long sleeved, brown undershirt, which had arm guards wrapped over top, then a darker, short sleeve top. A cloth, which looked like a long strip of bright red material with a hole dead center for her head. You slipped it over, each part hanging down past your knees. A thick, black belt held it all together, with a paler, brown cloth wrapped over top to hide a dagger sheath.

It was a lot of layers, and took you awhile to get on. The final touches consisted of the eye, which was tucked under the red cloth, and the brown straps to hold your staff. At your waist hung a small spellbook.

Stephen was meditating when you showed up.

“Good, you grabbed the book,” He never opened his eyes. “You will need it, seeing as you wont have access to the Sanctums where you are going.”

“Which was going to be my first question,” You said. “Where am I going?”

“1962, New York,” He said. “What do you know about mutants?”

~~~

“Come on, Alex,” Sean smirked.

The blonde shook his head, “I am not helping you push Hank off the roof as payback,” Alex pushed the redhead away.

“But he deserves a taste of his own medicine,” Sean was adamant that this was fair play, despite the slight flaw to his plan.

“Hank doesn’t have the ability to fly, Cassidy,” Alex stood from his spot on the couch, moving towards the exit to the sitting room.

“So? I couldn’t fly when he pushed me,” Sean snarked.

They walked through the almost empty halls of the mansion. Despite Charles’ claims that they would soon have students wandering the halls, it was still quiet even weeks after the incident on the beach. Charles hadn’t quite recovered yet, and those who still remained in the mansion were hesitant in thinking he ever really would.

From down the hallway, Hank turned the corner, Charles beside him in his wheelchair. Sean was about to open his mouth to snark at the tall brunette in a lab coat, when a commotion outside hit his ears. A glance out the window from the four pairs of eyes left them all speechless.

In the gravel of the driveway, to the right of the fountain, was carved out by a large crater. It looked like a meteor had hit, despite no previous signs, and no fire. From within the crater, a green glow spread out.

The four glanced at each other.

“Uh, Professor…” Alex whispered.

“I don’t know,” Was Charles' answer to the unasked question. “Let us find out, shall we?”

Outside, there was no scent of smoke or fire. Instead, a metallic tang on electricity hung in the air, the tingle setting everyone’s arm hairs on end. The light from within the crater faded.

A hand appeared, grasped onto the ledge of the crater. Their palms were caked in dirt, but the back of their hand was surprisingly clean.

From within the crater, you grunted, cursing out Stephen in whatever language came to mind--even the more ancient ones. With great effort, and the use of already sore muscles, you pulled yourself from the hole your impact into the year made.

Upon rising from with depths, you locked eyes witha group of very shocked men. You must’ve looked crazy, with your old-looking robes and metal-tippedstaff. The glowing green necklace probably didn’t help.

“Hi,” You said awkwardly, “One of you wouldn’t happen to be Charles Xavier, would you?”

One of the older members of the group, who was in a metallic wheelchair, raised a hesitant hand. You smiled, sighing.

“Great, that makes my job way easier,” You joked. “I’ll be quick, but I’m from the future, someone from my time is trying to change this past, and I’m here to stop it.”

The redhead, standing stock still in the front, choked out an odd noise. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, as he collapsed.

“...oops,” You shrugged.

When Sean Cassidy came too, he could’ve sworn he had died and gone to heaven. You hovered over him, a pale yellow light emitting from the sigils you created over him. You smiled, hesitant and almost guilty.

“Sorry about all that,” You said. “Didn’t realize how shocking it would be if I just unloaded all of that.”

You were in one of the many sitting rooms, Sean sprawled out on the ugly, floral print couch. His head hurt, but the pain was quickly subsiding with every pulse of light from the sigils.

“What…” He trailed off.

You followed his eyes, seeing the confusion, “Oh, I guess I explain to the others, but not to you. I’m a… magician, of sorts. These are healing spells, I hoped they would help.”

“Magic,” Sean whispered, eyes wide.

You nodded.

“Are you a mutant?” He asked.

With a laugh, you shook your head, “No, I was human, up until about a year ago,” You explained.

The symbols disappeared, a smile stretching onto your face, you mumbled an ‘all better’, before helping him sit up.

“I feel bad that I made you pass out though,” You said.

“It’s fine,” Sean smiled. “At least I have a good nurse.”

Alex came strolling in at that moment, the calm mood rupturing with his loud steps. His blonde hair, which had previously been combed and well kept, was now sticking up in odd places.

“Professor wants to speak with you,” Alex said to you.

You nodded, shooting one last smile to Sean, before getting up to leave. As you rounded the corner out of the room, Sean spoke up.

“Am I hallucinating?” He asked his friend.

Alex chuckled, patting him on the back harshly, “No,” He sent him a sly look. “You really did pass out in front of the pretty girl from the future.”

“God dammit.”

[nagdabbit]

🥺👉👈 pwease? 🥺🥺

okay okay, but like, be gentle? it's just bones right now, and a really good ending, if i say so myself, but, like... bones. it's bones with rules, because i like them. and it's about four dumbasses playing dnd, so obviously i gotta.

anyway, here's a lil bit. not quite the beginning, i guess? i dunno, i've forgotten how to do writing on the internet. be gentle.

~~~

D&D was weird.

It involved a lot of sitting around, trying to stay focused as Heather narrated at them. A lot of trying to be clever, trying to be smart. A lot of trying not to fuck up entirely.

The biggest problem with it all was that, sitting directly next to his highschool--and current--bully, it was damn hard not to feel like he was breathing wrong. Hell, Billy had shown up and rolled his eyes at Steve's presence, so he was clearly existing incorrectly, too.

"Alright, you've made your way from the college library to the very outskirts of the city," Heather said, eyes scanning her notes, while her arms made wide, sweeping gestures. "Almost an hour on horseback through the busy, winding streets. There are no street signs directing, but you see a path breaking away from the main road, and disappearing into the trees. The path is dense and quiet and dark."

"Is it weirdly quiet?" Steve asked, then shrank a little as Billy whipped his head around to glare at him.

But Heather just looked a little proud. "Yes! The sounds of the city have disappeared, but it's that same oppressive quiet that you rode through on your way to the city. Musty and still and quiet."

"Do I notice the same thing?" Robin asked.

"Go ahead and roll…" Heather tilted her head back and forth as she thought about it, "Gimme a nature check real quick."

Robin eagerly rolled her die, and then groaned. "That's a seven."

Heather chuckled. "You don't notice shit," she joked, but her smile was teasing. He liked that about her, the way she could ease tension and soften failure. She was easygoing and kind, just about the only person he'd trust his best friend to. "No, you don't notice anything out of the ordinary. The wood has grown so dead, and quiet so steadily that you haven't even noticed it happening."

Robin made a face, and scribbled that down. "I don't like that one bit," she muttered.

"As you make your way through, you come to a small clearing, and in the middle of it stands an ancient temple," Heather said, hands still weaving the story out in front of her laptop screen. "It's small and crumbling, but the thick vines and moss-covered roots that cover the intricately carved stonework looks like the only thing holding it upright. This is the home of Ash, the cleric. And, Billy, why don't you introduce yourself."

At his shoulder, Billy straightened up a little. "A tall tiefling steps out of the door as you ride up." Steve very carefully didn't laugh at Billy making his character tall. "He is a mottled grey-brown color, almost like tree bark, and his dark hair is pushed back away from his face. He has horns pushing out of his forehead that curl back over his head. He's wearing old, but sturdy leather armor, decorated with oak leaves, the symbol of Silvanus. He's carrying his wooden maul, and he looks very angry."

"Great, who does he see riding up?" Heather asked, turning her attention back to him and Robin. "Althea?"

She nodded, eagerly. "On the first horse, you see the elf that you've been dealing with. She's got her hair braided back, and she's wearing the dark robes of the college, with the crest on the front. You don't see any weapons on her, but she has several books strapped behind her."

Heather smiled, sweetly, and Steve had to wonder just how often they'd get distracted flirting in the middle of a game. But then Heather looked at him, expectantly, "Ront?"

Right, fuck. He shoulda probably thought ahead while he had the chance. "Uh, following behind her, you see a large half-orc, about seven feet tall. He's wearing just simple clothes, no armor of any kind. He has a carved, wooden amulet of a hawk, hanging around his neck, and a battleaxe strapped to his back."

"Perfect!" Heather clapped her hands together, excitedly. "And our party has gathered! Althea and Ront, you arrive in the clearing surrounding the temple of Silvanus. It is late afternoon, the forest around you beginning to cool as evening draws closer. Ash steps out to greet you, and--"

"And walks forward toward them, very annoyed, like he's been waiting. And he says, ah, she finally leaves her tower to visit the peasants," Billy greeted in a gentle accent, almost Irish, maybe. He gave Robin a mean grin.

"Shut up, I finally have something helpful," she snapped, going for haughty and posh. "The village of Oakville--"

"Oak Pointe," Steve corrected.

"--was wiped out," she finished, unperturbed. "Only one villager survived."

"And how is he useful?" Billy asked, and Steve got the feeling he wasn't exactly in character.

"First, he's the only living person who has seen how these monsters operate," she reasoned, just as annoyed.

Billy turned his sharp gaze toward Steve, and it cut just as deep as his words. "And why are you so important to all this?" he asked, in a mocking tone. "Why not run for the lawmen in their castle? Why go to the librarian?"

"My entire village is gone," he said, slowly. "Everyone I have ever known, just gone. My family, my friends, everyone. If I can stop this from happening to others, I'm going to. Guards with swords didn't do a damn thing to help when this all started, they won't help now."

Billy--Ash, whatever--gave him a long look. Not impressed, definitely not, but maybe surprised. "Then why didn't you come sooner?"

"I had to be sure they really were dead, and that I wasn't sick. It spreads so fast, I needed to wait it out," he reasoned. "Someone brought that death to my home. I wasn't going to risk bringing it here."

Billy studied him for another long moment, expression a little more searching than judgemental. But finally he nodded. Maybe not acceptance, yet, but close. "And you, why are you finally here?" he asked and rolled his gaze toward Robin. “I have been sending my concerns for months, and you and your books have ignored me at every turn. So why are you finally here? We could have made so much more headway if you hadn't waited for a witness.”

“Because I might have finally found a clue," she said, triumphantly, expression a little more fiery than she'd worn the week before. "And I'm gonna open up the book to the weird pictures and things that I've been working on."

"What is this?"

"A book I'm trying to translate," she said, jamming her finger against the page as if she had an ancient book in her lap. "I have yet to get very far into it, but it speaks of a temple, deep in the Rootwood," Robin said. "And monsters like the ones we've been hearing stories of. And then I wanna explain the--well, everything that you gave me, so here," she added and handed over her notes. "I'm gonna explain all of that."

"And once she's explained it all, I wanna see if anything she's said fills in any gaps in what I've already learned," Billy said, absently, as he scanned the notes and scribbled notes into his book. "Or, like, if I can piece anything new together from all this."

"Great, whenever you're done reading, roll a history check," she said, and turned back to Robin. "Are you telling him everything?"

Robin smirked, "Of course not! I don't trust him, so I'm only giving him what I've gathered from the book, not the scrolls I've been using to translate it." As Billy glared at her, she held up another set of notes as proof.

Heather had been good about that, helping them figure out what their characters would know about the world that she'd created for them. Gave them pages of more and text for them to use. Steve had his own print out and the notes he'd taken as Robin had explained everything she'd learned, and he pulled it out to follow along. Or, rather, he intended to. Heather beat him to the punch.

"While they begin to compare notes, what's Ront doing?" she asked, easily.

He blinked, felt his cheeks go hot. "Uh, Ront is just looking around the temple."

"Meandering?"

He shrugged a little, "Exploring."

"Poking things?" Heather suggested, innocently.

He saw Billy pull a face, and walked himself back a little. "Only stuff that doesn't look breakable."

Heather narrowed her eyes, lips quirking up in amusement. "Roll a--hm, roll an investigation check for me, please."

"No," Billy said, firmly.

She gave him a wicked look, "Yes."

And Ront's intelligence score had a pretty little negative one above it. Which meant he was pretty dumb. Which meant Heather wanted to cause a little trouble. Meant she was going to let him have fun in order to terrorize Billy a little bit. Get a smidge of revenge for all the shit he's spewed the week before. Which, honestly, Steve could really get behind.

So he hoped, and he prayed--just a little--and threw the die into the little tray in front of him. The math wasn't too hard, thankfully, despite the distracting groan from Billy and snickers from Robin. It was a perfect roll, really. Better than anything he could have hoped for.

But, fuck, it was so hard to keep from breaking, to keep from laughing loud enough to wake the neighbors, that his eyes threatened to water. At his side, Billy had already slouched back against the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Calmly, he folded his hands in his lap, and gave Heather a serene smile. "Zero."

[alindae-anne]

What Makes a Book?

I want to take a break from my novel and dive into a history lesson of books themselves. Why? Well first of all, I will be honest, this blog is for an assignment. But also because the way books have evolved over the last 5,000+ years is fascinating!

Of course no one ever really thinks about THE book, just the fact that the story within its pages--the mystery, the romance, whatever they happen to be enjoying--is a great read (or maybe not so great), but have they ever wondered what materials the book is made from? Who invented it? How the book has become one of the most common and most used items of all time?

No. Of course they didn't wonder any of those things. And if they did, they probably didn't take the time to research any of these burning questions, either.

How great, then, that I wrote this post?! Today is your lucky day! (Also, it is a good thing that Keith Houston, author of Shady Characters, decided to write a whole book about it (1).) I'm going to use the pages of a classic tale to explain some cool things you probably never noticed while reading a book before.

Gulliver’s Travels was originally published in London in 1726 by Benjamin Motte. The author, Jonathan Swift, used it to satirize London society and culture, poking holes at the social hierarchies and systems, basically making out everyone living in the 18th century to be fools--but mostly the wealthy and those who were obsessed with scientific progression (2). If you have not read it, I highly encourage adding it to your reading list, or at the very least there is a 2010 movie, featuring Jack Black as Gulliver, that you could watch. (It’s Jack Black, okay?)

This 2 page spread of Gulliver's Travels pictured above is actually found in The Franklin Library edition from Franklin Center, Pennsylvania, published in 1979. This is the first printing of this edition, and its pages, the way it is printed, and the way it is bound and presented, are all features of the modern 20-21st century book, plus some extra bells and whistles. The most interesting qualities come from the publishers themselves who specifically design their books to be very snazzy--meant for collectors’ editions! They include different kinds of leather binding, exclusive illustrations, and may be signed or part of a particular series specific to a certain author or genre (3). This makes the books published here very valuable and sought after.

Gulliver’s Travels is hardcover. Specifically, “fine leather in boards.” This means the spine and front and back boards (or cover) of the book are bound in leather. The leather is fine and and delicate and able to be decorated and engraved upon.4 Above you can see how fancy it looks with the gilt gold engravements. Even its pages are gilt!

This picture shows more clearly the binding, and of course the spine, which is “hubbed,” or ridged, for added texture.

At this point you may have notice that this version is much different than the original published in 1726. That is because over time, the materials involved in making books have changed slightly or the processes have become more efficient or cost worthy, etc. Either way, the anatomy of the book has not wavered. Keith Houston has dissected the book into certain components and we can see them in each book we read:

I have attempted to label it as best as I can, so hopefully you can follow along:

Chapter Number

a) this seems to be a description, more or less of the chapter, or the Chapter Title. b) “A Voyage to Lilliput” seems much more title-like to me, although this is technically called the “Recto Running Head.” The recto running head is a condensed or abbreviated chapter title, repeating on every right-side page to the end of the chapter.

Drop Cap. This would be the first letter of the first word of a chapter, which is usually exaggerated or embellished in some way.

Opener Text

Head Margin - the space between the top of the page and text

Foot Margin - the space between the bottom of the page and text

Folio - page number

It has taken quite a while for books to become so sophisticated. Because it was published in 1726, Gulliver's Travels is technically what you could call "modern" in terms of how long ago books began their journey to what they are today, but even between 1726 and 1979 the quality has improved. This edition published by Franklin Library is a perfect model for the modern book of today.

The 2 page spread we analyzed above is made from paper. But books were not always made with paper, or even in the book form, bound with anything at all, and they were not printed either. They were written by hand on papyrus.

Papyrus was the first material used as "paper" beginning in Egypt. The reeds were stripped, strung side by side and pressed together. Papyrus was durable and sturdy, and the water of the Nile was abundant in aluminum sulfate, which brightened it so that writing and scribbles could be seen better. There is no particular origin of when Papyrus had first been invented but it must have been around the end of the 4th millenium BCE (Houston 4).  

Parchment is made from animal skin that has been soaked, scrubbed, dried, and stretched for days and days, creating a more flexible, yet still durable, material for writing. It was also thinner and could be made "cleaner" and brighter by chemical means. Religion heavily influenced its distribution; some parchment use was literally banned because the type of animal skin used to make it wasn't considered "holy" or "good." For example, the lamb or a calf was acceptable, but how dare you use parchment made from goat skin? What is wrong with you?

Besides the fact that parchment is kind of gross if you think about it (although to be fair, you can’t be too choosy in times right before the common era), it was also expensive to keep certain cattle only for paper making, and the reliability of having new cattle at the time you may need more paper was not very high.

Paper was first introduced in China. It is made from bits of cloth and rags soaked in water, and after breaking down into pulp, strained through a wire grate and pressed to dry. Fun fact-- the Rhar West Art Museum in Manitowoc, Wisconsin has held classes showing how to make paper using this exact process.

There is a trend here: the materials used to make paper (and papyrus and parchment before it) become scarce or too expensive, or they are just not “good enough.” People want their paper thin and smooth, but still strong and durable; crisp and bright, but still able to last years and years without crumbling. There have been times that processes used to ensure these preferred qualities of paper included using chemicals that ended up negatively affecting some other quality. For example, the paper would be white as snow, yet the chemical that did this broke down the natural adhesives which kept the paper intact.

Have you heard that paper grows on trees? Well, that is partly true since after rags and cloths were nowhere to be found (unless people were about to start donating the shirts off their backs), wood pulp has now since been used... the higher the demand for paper, the greater demand for those materials used for its creation. 

This brings us to printing side of things. The first ways of printing weren’t of how we think of it now. Even before papyrus, people were still writing and making inscriptions on pretty much anything they could get their hands on. The earliest forms of writing were rather indentations or markings on clay tablets. Found across the Middle East, it is a cuneiform script of the Sumerian people from 3300 BCE (Houston 79).

Similarly, the Egyptians were also keen on developing their own writing system which today we recognize as hieroglyphs. A lot of these were found carved on the walls of tombs but also began to be used on papyrus in 2600 BCE (Houston 82-83).

The Egyptians celebrated their scribes and believed those who wrote with brush and ink on papyrus to be channeling power--that it was a gift from the gods--”wielded with respect and humility” (Houston 87). The hieroglyphs not only showed the intention of the writer, visually, but often the picture would be associated with or connected to certain sounds which emerged more formal use of letters as time went on.

The alphabet we use today can be traced back to the Phoenician alphabet (used by the Egyptians) which had evolved into the Greek and then Roman alphabets (Houston 91-92). At this point in time, scribes were using water based ink which was fine for papyrus, but during the transition to parchment they realized that ink smudges quite a bit. This led to the creation of iron gall ink that would darken and adhere to the parchment as it dried due to its chemical makeup in contact with oxygen in the air.

Jump ahead to 1400s and we are with Johannes Gutenberg and the printing press! One thing Keith Houston make sure to mention is that although Gutenberg invented the printing press itself, to help moveable type and mass printing, the idea of printing had not been new. Clay pieces used as stamps and similar objects had been excavated and dated back thousands of years before the clay inscribed cuneiform tablets were made. And a primitive version of a sort of printing press is mentioned being made by a man named Bi Sheng during the reign of Qingli from 1041-1048 AD (Houston 110). Obviously nothing great came from it, most likely because he was of unofficial position. Even so, movable type was still possible, although painstakingly slow with wooden blocks used as stamps. This was common for the next few hundred years in China.

Even though Gutenberg's press completely revolutionized the transmission of knowledge, it was still quite slow in comparison to the versions which came after, only being able to print 600 characters a day (Houston 118). From Gutenberg's printing press came other types of presses that improved the speed or efficiency of movable type immensely. These all came after the original publication of Guliver's Travels, starting in the early 1800s with the Columbian press, eventually the Linotype, and then lack of precision called for the Monotype, which could produce 140 wpm (Houston 149).

The 2 page spread above then, could possibly have been printed by the Linotype, but most likely, however, the Monotype, which is the more accurate of the two. Another possibility could be "sophisticated photographic and 'lithographic' techniques" or "'phototypsetting'" (Houston 151). Houston mentions that the printing press age has died and now faces a digital future.

I'm at my 10 image limit which means I better wrap this up with some interesting facts about bookbinding. On BIBLIO.com I was trying to see exactly what "fine leather in boards" meant which is apparently how Gulliver's Travels is bound. I didn't find any phrase that matched, but from my understanding, the leather is very supple and pliable, which is why it was able to be gilt with gold, and it was able to form nicely to the hubbing on the spine.

The website also explains that the first "book binding" was technically just putting the pieces of paper or parchment together and pressing them between two boards. Literally. Like just setting them on a board and putting another board on top of that. Eventually leather was introduced, first as a cord wrapped around the book to keep the boards in place. As time progressed, the practice was improved and perfected so it was less crude. This involved the creation of the "spine" where the pages meet together and can therefore open and close in a v shape without flying away.

This website helped explain some of the other embellishments and extra flair that can be added to a book's binding. It mostly goes over leather binding which is from most animal skin but there is a unique leather bound book that can be bound with seal skin. Some of the books on the website are so expensive because of the materials they are bound with and the effects that have been created in the cover, for example, Benjamin Franklin's observations on electricity, which has had acid added to the page, discoloring it for a lightning strike effect, and includes a key to represent his famous experiment.

Gulliver's Travels, although not quite so fancy, is still a very beautifully bound book with decorated endpapers, meaning the inside cover is laden with designed paper rather than boring white or some other neutral color.

I hope you found this journey of the book as interesting and as exciting as I did while writing this post! You must really love books because even my attention span isn't this long. I will admit I took at least 3 different breaks.

I'm back to my novel for now, thanks for listening😎

Bibliography

Houston, Keith--Author of Shady Characters, which I used extensively in my TikTok “history of punctuation” project--also wrote -> The BOOK - a cover-to-cover exploration of the most powerful object of our time, 2016.

British Library Website -> works -> “Gulliver’s Travels overview”

Masters, Kristin. “Franklin Library Editions: Ideal for Book Collectors?” Books Tell You Why, 2017 (blog).

BIBLIO.com -> “Leather Binding Terminology and Techniques”

[the-awkward-outlaw]

A New Adventure - Pt. 10

Okay, y’all, here’s part 2 of my Halloween segment of this piece! This one’s a bit shorter as I’m juggling a few more projects on top of this one. I’ll try to get more out before Halloween is over. 

Masterlist 

Read on AO3

The Maze

It’s nearly the middle of October and Halloween is in full swing. 

Arthur likes seeing the decorations from your neighbors’ yards and along the neighborhood. 

You’ve had him watch a different Halloween movie every night, though you keep the truly scary ones for the daytime. 

Arthur finds this funny, teasing you about not being able to watch scary movies in the day when Halloween is all about being scared. 

That is until you show him the first Paranormal Activity and he about jumps out of his skin. 

He’s convinced that movie’s real and it took a lot of convincing from you that it’s not and was filmed using clever techniques.

He wasn’t a big fan of Beetlejuice initially until a day or two later and you heard him humming the Banana Boat song. 

The two of you still haven’t done anything quite yet to celebrate Halloween. 

However you know of a local vegetable stand up north that has the best pumpkins for a great price. 

It conveniently sits not too far from a good picking of corn mazes. 

So you take a day off work and drive up north to the vegetable stand. 

Arthur loves the pumpkins. He wants to buy several, though he has no idea what you’ve got planned. 

When you explain carving jack o��lanterns, he’s even more excited. 

On the stand, he convinces you to buy some corn, apples and then he finds on the cashier stand some home made jam. 

You can’t resist his obvious enthusiasm, so you buy some. 

Then you head over to the corn maze as it’s getting late in the day. 

Outside the maze stands a man on stilts in a scarecrow costume. Arthur is highly confused and you realize he hasn’t seen a real person in a costume before. 

However, he happens to be wearing his classic outfit with blue shirt and tan coat. 

A group of young men pass by. “Hey! Nice Arthur Morgan outfit! Bad ass!” 

You giggle at the look on his face. You still haven’t shown him the game, though you’ve explained it. 

Having strangers address him as though they know him still throws him off, but how could it not? 

Suddenly you’re worried though: Arthur is a fighter. If there’s an actor in that maze who scares him and gets too close, they will get punched in the face. 

You pull him aside and explain this to him, and that there is no real danger. 

“What the hell is the point of this?” he demands. 

“Arthur, it’s for fun. Please? I promise you’ll have fun, and I haven’t done one of these in over ten years!” 

He sighs but relents. After all, he can’t resist your excitement. 

Arthur does surprisingly well in the maze. There’s not a lot of actors who attempt to scare people, just a couple. 

Arthur has surprising ease in finding his way through the maze. He blames it on a good sense of direction he’s had to have since where he comes from he didn’t have fancy gadgets to tell him where he is. 

At one point in the maze, Arthur pulls you to an area he knows is a dead end. When you ask what he’s doing, he pulls you into a long kiss. 

If only the game had a way of translating how passionate he is. The feeling he puts behind all his kisses is indescribable. 

His hands, so large and warm, place themselves perfectly on your back and hips. 

You shiver slightly, thanks to a combination of the kiss and the cool air. 

He pulls you close to his body to warm you up and it works. He runs hot. 

At the end of the maze, you pull out your phone, wanting to capture the memory. 

Arthur is still getting used to the idea of a camera fitting in your pocket, but he smiles all the same, his arm wrapped around you. 

It turns out to be such a good picture, you end up printing and framing it, putting it on one of your end tables in the living room. 

Arthur only says he likes it because he can see your beautiful smile.

[sassysnowperson]

How about the TIE!Bodhi au?

~

I think tumblr has fixed it, but just in case, this is an ask from @bright-elen, who wisely also sent this comment: would love to hear about TIE!Bodhi and, is that some Discworld I see there???

~

TIE!Bodhi AU

SO! This is one of my oldest plot ideas (conceived shortly after Bodhi Lives between me and @aeshna-uk - who was my very first fandom friend!) that never quite managed to get written. The basics of the world: 

Bodhi, when he goes to the Imperial Academy, has a better time of flight training and gets good enough scores to become a TIE Fighter. 

AND 

Baby Jyn does not hide successfully, and gets captured with Galen. 

So we've got Imperial Tie Fighter Bodhi and Imperial-Raised-Jyn. The change of circumstances changes Galen's plan - from the beginning, he decides Jyn is going to be his message out, and very carefully raises her to be a proper Imperial Peon, but secretly a Rebel. 

Jyn watched the Empire kill her mum, it wasn't a hard sell. 

One day, many years later, Jyn makes her run for it with the message. A squadron of TIES is deployed to stop her… 

Yeah, you know who's in that squadron. Jyn makes a desperate hyperspace jump and manages to catch Bodhi's TIE in her hyperspace bubble. They both wind up crash-landed on a wild planet with no backup, and very large dinosaur-type things that have a decided interest in eating either them, or their shuttle, with no particular preference. 

“We can’t shoot it when it’s that close to the shuttle," he said, his voice pitched so low that she had to lean close to hear it. She didn't recognize his accent. "Too many volatiles from the damaged cell. Stray bolt could set off a reaction even if it didn't hit the fuel cells directly.”  

Jyn glared at him, feeling a sudden surge of furious indignation. "Really?" she whispered angrily. "That’s where you want to start the conversation? As an alternative, may I suggest, ‘by the way, sorry for tying you to a tree’?”

“If we can’t get it away from the shuttle, then there’s a decent chance the ship will explode even if we don't shoot at it,” the pilot continued as if he hadn't heard her.

“Or maybe, 'sorry for shooting down your shuttle in the first place'?”

The pilot paused. “Do you want to be stranded here?" he asked pointedly. 

Jyn opened her mouth, closed it, folded her arms over her chest, then finally, grudgingly, said, “No.” 

He nodded. “We need to lure it away from the ship. Shuttles won’t be its normal prey. We need to give it something to chase and -” 

“No,” Jyn said, remembering at the last second to keep her voice at a whisper. She still filled it with as much vitriol as she could. “You are not using me as bait you plasteel-souled son-of-a-mynock!”

The pilot sighed and pulled a blaster out of his belt. Her blaster. Jyn was considering the indignity of being threatened by her own weapon when the pilot reversed his hold, offering her the grip.  

Startled, she looked up, meeting his eyes. Steady brown stared back at her. 

“You’re shaken. Probably concussed. And you're clearly not combat-trained. I’ll go, circle around, lure it off. Once it’s cleared the ship, take any clear shot you get. I’ll do the same.” 

Jyn grabbed at the blaster before he could change his mind. She quickly wrapped her finger around the trigger, considering just pulling the weapon to her and getting a shot off before he could react. With him dead…

“Jyn,” he said. The sound of her name in his mouth shocked her out of her plans. She noticed he had his own blaster out, gripped in his other hand. He watched her, and for a moment there was something almost vulnerable in his gaze. He cleared his throat. “Rook.” 

Jyn looked at him, confused.

“My name,” the pilot said. “Bodhi Rook.” 

They go from mutual enmity to mutual respect as they get the shuttle fixed, and Jyn does her best to talk Bodhi around. 

I loved playing with this idea for a couple of reasons. It's fun to really dig into how much personality is based on circumstances and what, if anything, stays true. Pitting a different-in-personality Bodhi against a completely-different-person Erso trying to pull at his conscience was also very fun. I also love taking one (or, in this case) two small changes, and spinning out a different universe from it. What happens to the message? The Death Star? Scarif? 

Also it's a lovely enemies to friends (to ??? - haven't gotten the far future of this universe really firmed down) arc, and I haven't really written one of those yet! 

Carrot and Cheery

Yes you DO spy Discworld :D 

This was prompted by an exchange and not finished in time for it, so it's just been languishing in my drafts folder. The goal, though, was to explore some of the space between Carrot (The Dwarfiest Dwarf to ever Dwarf, aside from that little "being a tall human by genetics" business) and Cheery, who is using her bedazzled axe to carve up dwarven tradition until she finds a place she fits in it. They don't interact that often, but I think there's some really interesting compare/contrast to be done between them. 

The fic was going to set their ideological clash and more fundamental support of each other against a background of dwarfish politics, which is also fascinating to me. 

I don't have much of this one, but here's the start, which is when I realized just how much fun it is writing in Pratchett's style. 

"Excuse me!" 

Carrot, with a sinking sensation in his gut, turned to find Sachrissa Cripslock determinedly wading her way through the busy market square toward where he stood, next to the yellow rope printed with the words, "Bugger off! Police Business!" (What the words lacked in professionalism, they made up for in clarity). He briefly harbored a flitting hope that perhaps the current of the crowds would sweep her away. Unfortunately, Miss Cripslock had the wading skills of a determined fisherman stalking the Blink Salmon in the mountains of Lancre, and was upon Carrot before he could escape. 

"Captain Carrot," she said crisply, "as you must be aware, there are rumors circling of your claim to royalty! Do you have any comment on the matter?"

Carrot was relieved. He had thought she was going to ask about the interesting graffiti of…Humorously Shaped Vegetables, in Sargent Colon's words. Compared to the difficulty of finding a professional statement to make on Incidents of Vegetables, he felt nearly confident in answering her question. 

I really need to find more excuses to write Discworld Fic. :D

[dherzogblog]

songs/20

Happy Holidays Everyone! I started making these yearly playlists in 2001 as an attempt to connect with friends in the wake of 911. It was just before the dawn of ITunes, and way before social media. We were not in touch like we are today. I burned dozens of individual cd’s one at a time, printed up customized jewel case covers and snail mailed them all out. It was an annual month-long labor of love. Over the past few years, streaming music has made it much easier and faster to compile and distribute, and frankly much more fun. I still look forward to putting the playlist and blog together and sharing it with all of you. Particularly this year as it gives me a chance to connect with so many friends I haven’t seen in quite some time. It was a tremendously challenging year for all of us. I was grateful to have had my family here in LA the entire time, we remain healthy and well. The west coast Herzogs know just how lucky we have been. The next year will not be without its own challenges, but I'm hopeful we are able to move past this pandemic and the exhausting events of the past 4. More than that, I look forward to seeing each and every one of you in 2021. Until then, be safe, be well, and be good to one another. Enjoy the music.

ox peace, dh

Los Angeles CA. December 2020

Khruangbin - Time (You And I) Don’t ask me to pronounce the name of this eclectic trio from Texas, but this dubby disco tune had me returning to its chilled out groove often during the last few decidedly “un-chill” months. Dreamy and funky, the groove takes me back to NYC’s early 80′s club scene and Ze Records releases from the likes of Kid Creole and Coati Mundi.

Anderson .Paak- Lockdown Scenes from the front, June 2020

.

Bill Withers (1938-2020)- Use Me The legendary Bill Withers left the playing field at the top of his game in the early 80′s, hardly heard from again. And while he didn't pass from Covid, his healing pop hymn Lean On Me seemed to be everywhere as people found music to help them cope with the challenges of the pandemic. Withers left behind a legendary and enduring group of hit songs that moved easily from soul to folk to pop, not to mention the subtle rolling funk of this one.

Black Pumas- Fire Strong debut from an unlikely Austin duo that garnerd both buzz and grammy nods. The critics are calling it “psychedelic soul”. Not quite sure that nails it, but like the artists coming up next, they’re carving out new ground while drawing inspiration from classic sources.

Gabe Lee- Babylon

Marcus King- Wildflowers and Wine

Charley Crockett- Welcome to Hard Times

Three artists that are literally changing the face of Country and Americana music. Soulful, authentic and diverse, reaching back for inspiration but always looking forward. If you like this sort of stuff they are all worth checking out. Each album is filled with quality songs.

Low Cut Connie_ Private Lives Philly’s Low Cut Connie are back at it with a double album that plays like the soundtrack to a boozy night at your favorite bar. Sweaty, funky and not a little bit messy. If Peter Wolf and Bruce had a kid it would be this blue eyed soul boy. Adam Weiner grew up in the shadow of the Jersey shore and can't help but have a bit of that E Street hustle.

Willie Nile- New York at Night One of New York’s beloved adopted  son’s dropped this love letter right into the jaws of a battered metropolis driven to its knees by the pandemic. It was heartbreaking to listen as the “city that never sleeps” came to a full stop. Somehow I still found myself coming back to it, imagining night’s ahead, when NYC is back on its feet and I’m roaming its streets. Looking for music, a beer, or maybe just a slice, and fueled by the irreplaceable energy and promise of the greatest city on earth.

The Long Ryders- Down to The Well Americana pioneers the Long Ryders reunited last year for a surprisingly solid album. This single sounds like it could have been recorded during their 80′s heyday featuring their trademark Byrds like jangle and harmonies, but the lyrics mark this song as unmistakably 2020.

The Speedways- Kisses Are History UK power pop outfit reach back to the the 60′s on this sweet slice of retro pop perfection.

Billie Joe Armstrong- That Thing You Do

In the early days of the pandemic we had all our kids (+ a significant other) at our house for a few months. It worked out great and we were luckier than most. The biggest issue was keeping enough food, weed and wine around.  There were some great nights with amazing meals, followed by gathering around the TV together. We re-watched The Sopranos, binged Billy On The Street, and revisited some of our favorite movies. One night we went back to a old family favorite, Tom Hanks’ underrated love letter to the one hit wonders of the post Beatles era, That Thing You Do!  I’ve seen the movie several times and it never fails to please. A true feel good film and a perfect Kodak snapshot capturing a simpler time in American pop culture. 

While we watch the unlikely chart topper’s The Oneders  fizzle as fast as they rose to fame, its not really the point. The movie is really an old fashioned love story. Playing like a perfect hit song you can listen to over and over, full of both hooks and heart. I always thought the title track, written by Fountains Of Wayne leader Adam Schlesinger  (who we lost to Covid), brilliantly captured the British Invasion sound every group wanted after The Beatles stormed America. Green Day’s Billie Joe Armstrong must agree. During the pandemic he cut an album’s worth of cool covers including a faithful version of this one.

Gerard Way (W/Judith Hill - Here Comes the End A tale of discovering music in 2020:  Heard this on a Netflix trailer for the series The Umbrella Factory. Turns out it is performed by Gerard Way (My Chemical Romance) who also writes the comic book the series is based on. (got all that?) He’s joined on this searing garage/psych rave up by the talented and versatile Judith Hill doing her best Merry Clayton.

Hinds- Spanish Bombs I’ve been following this Madrid based, all female outfit of punky garage rockers for a few years now. I think they are pretty great. This track, recorded for a Joe Strummer tribute bursts with an unbridled joy the stone faced and politically minded Clash could never muster. I bet Joe would love it though

The Secret Sisters- Hand Over My Heart Have enjoyed their harmonies for some time now. This one gives me vague Wilson Phillips vibes and I don’t really mind. 

Tame Impala- Breathe Deeper I know I’m supposed to like this guy, all the cool kids do, I’ve even seen the band at Coachella. Over the years very little of the music has stuck to me, but the pandemic offered a bit more free time to dig into this funky dubby, chilled out jam, and it stuck with me. Not to mention that 2020 was all about deep breaths.

Ledisi (feat.Corey Henry)- What Kind of Love Is That Ledisi is back with some slinky, sultry R&B and jazzy vocals

Dinner Party- FreezeTag An R&B/Jazz collective featuring Terrace Martin, Robert Glasper, 9th Wonder and Kamasi Washington use sweet soul on heartbreaking and all too familiar tale..

Toots and The Maytals- Time Tough  I’ve written an awful lot about my love for Reggae over the years. Right after Bob Marley kicked the door down for me, Toots showed me around the house. Ska, rock steady, and roots. He was true reggae royalty and sadly we lost him to Covid, just after he released what would be his last album. Check my Toots tribute blog and playlist.

Mungo’s Hi Fi- The Beat Goes SKA! These clever UK roots reggae collective never fail to surprise. This kitschy Sonny & Cher cover managed to make me smile every time I heard it. No mean feat in 2020

Stone Foundation (feat. Durand Jones)- Hold on To Love Frequent collaborators with Paul Weller  (he appears on a track on the album), Stone Foundation are back with another batch of their UK soul revival stylings. This one features Durand Jones ( of Durand Jones & The Indications) on vocals and some great reggae style horns at the top.

The Pretenders- You Can’t Hurt A Fool Can’t resist a good torch song, especially sung by the smokey voiced Chrissie Hynde. Was kind of shocked at how many good songs were on this album.

Shelby Lynne_ Don’t Even Believe in Love Sultry country soul and one of her strongest albums in awhile.

Jaime Wyatt- Neon Cross Outlaw country has a new bad girl. And in case you didn’t think she was serious, she enlisted producer Shooter Jennings (and his mom Jessi Colter on one track) to help make her point. 

Daniel Donato- Justice 25 year old guitar prodigy call his music “cosmic country”.  Ok, now I’m listening. You should be too.

The Jayhawks- This Forgotten Town 30 plus + after their debut this Twin Cities alt country group led by founding member Gary Louris continue to deliver. They find their inner Neil Young on this one.

Lucero- Time To Go Home God I wish I was in a bar right now listening to this, even if I might be crying in my beer.

John Prine (1946 -2020)- Lake Marie We lost so many this year, but this one really stung. A true American songwriting treasure, who was still making great music against all odds right up to his untimely passing. His songs are known for their simplicity, and economy of words. but this one goes against the grain. I’m still not exactly certain what it’s about. Sorrowful and haunting, yet somehow uplifting and redemptive. I heard him perform it live here in Los Angeles a just over a year ago and it has stuck in my head ever since. There is surely a place in heaven for the great John Prine.  He sang about it on his final studio album in 2018. Ironically it became the last song on his last record.

Thanks for making it this far....

***Play the entire songs/20 Spotify playlist HERE!***

[epochxp]

Epoch Xperience Interviews Nordic Weasel Founder, Ivan Sorensen

Mr. Sorensen needs no real introduction to many miniature wargamers. His company, Nordic Weasel Games, has taken the historical miniatures gaming world by storm, and he’s become the force on Wargames Vault. His formula of “substance over flash” has produced good games for a very reasonable price, and he has taken full advantage of PDF technology to produce a quality product one can buy and have in your (virtual hands) the next day. 

Without further ado, I give you Ivan Sorensen:

Biography

My name is Ivan Sorensen, and I am a game designer and self-publishing writer of miniatures games, as well as the odd role-playing game. Under the moniker of Nordic Weasel Games, I have worked as a game writer for close to 7 years. 

I am an avid player of board games, miniatures games, role-playing games, video games, and anything else I can get my hands on. I have spent half my life on this planet in Denmark, where I was born, and half in the United States, where I currently reside. I am married, have one kid and two cats named Scruffy and Lancelot. 

Unlike a lot of historical games writers, many of my formative miniatures gaming experiences actually came from science fiction games, so I suppose that has given me a little bit of a different perspective.

So, how did you get started in writing rules? Was there an “aha” moment, or did you fall into it?

At the risk of sounding cheesy, I have basically always created little dice and board games for myself, using Lego pieces or other things that we had available, usually based on video games I had read about in magazines or other ideas like that.

When I was 12 or so, I remember getting a copy of White Dwarf magazine from a local gaming club I had joined, and it blew my mind. We had some limited exposure to the idea of space marines and all these things from the Milton Bradley Hero Quest and Space Crusade board games, but the idea of battle games played without a board, using miniatures and dice was too much to resist. I knew I had to get into this, and as I had no money for it, I sat down to write a game I could play with my Space Crusade figures, which would look as much like what I imagined Warhammer 40.000 would be like.

Since then, I had pretty much always been the “rules guy” in the gaming groups I was part of, whether we were playing miniatures games or RPG’s, so it just came naturally over time, I suppose. As I got access to the internet and later got access to ordering things from the UK or US, I devoured every game I could get my hands on and was even remotely interested in. 

The start to writing games that were any good was my own attempt at creating a World War 1 game system (titled Trench Storm). I had shared it online, and to my great surprise, it began catching people’s attention and got a (very) small following, with people even purchasing miniatures to play it. Eventually, I was contacted by the US distributor for IT Miniatures, who offered to print it to promote their 20mm figure range. The rest is, as they say, history. Once in a great while, a copy of that game still pops up on eBay, it seems! 

How did Nordic Weasel Games come to be? 

So that story took place right around the time I moved to the United States. After moving, I had a lengthy period where I did not have my work permit yet, so game writing seemed like an obvious distraction, resulting in Fast and Dirty, a sci-fi rules set that you still see mentioned online here and there.

As the years went on, I kept tinkering and building things but mostly for my own enjoyment. Sometime during the fall of 2013, I started seriously working on a new game system for WW2 skirmish actions that I felt had some real potential to go places. At the time, I worked at a relatively dead-end middle management job at an incredibly toxic information technology company. You know the sort of job, where you have been there for too long, and you hate every minute of it. 

Come the spring, I decided to take a gamble that I could make enough money from game sales to make it worth pursuing and quit. I figured if I could find a way to do it without putting money on the line, then if it all bombed, I could just walk away and find something else to do in life.

Consequently, Five Men in Normandy was released on June 15, 2014, and as of today, we are still here! 

What is in the future for Nordic Weasel?

Hopefully, many big things! The biggest priority for 2021 specifically is to get into print books, though there are a lot of stumbling blocks in terms of layout requirements and so on.

I always keep a list of projects I would like to do, though I try not to talk about them too much in case they fall through. I am the sort of guy who always starts with 20 ideas, so by the time the unworkable ones have been weeded out, there are 2 or 3 left. 

What I can say is that I am actively looking at fantasy miniatures battles, and I would love to do more WW1 and Black Powder era gaming material. 

The real big question is that I am also very much at a point where there are just too many things to do it all alone. I cannot write 4 or 5 new games, support an entire back catalogue, and update old titles all by my lonesome, so I look forward to trying to solve that in the future. I suppose this is a good problem to have, but it is certainly also an intimidating one!

Is there a period of history you want to write rules for but have not?

We have worked extensively with the two world wars and the black powder era in general, as well as 20th century-to-modern era battles, and with Knyghte, Pyke and Sworde we even delved into medieval warfare.

The one that stands out as something that would be fun to do is World War 1 air combat, complete with goggles and scarf flapping in the wind. A little romanticized sure, but great fun, and there is a lot of fantastic models available.

For a historical era I have not touched on at all, I would say that while I have done games that cover it among other 19th century conflicts, a dedicated American Civil War set is something I would be very keen to do.

There are a lot of fantastic rules out there for the period, of course, but I feel like the “Weasel” approach of being solo-friendly and campaign-oriented could carve out a nice space of that market. Plus, I find the era quite fascinating. Growing up in Denmark, I was never really raised with a particular view of the conflict, but having married into a proud Vermont family, it is, of course, unavoidable. 

Can you tell our readers what goes into rules writing?

I think this is something that is intensely personal, and the rationale for writing something can be varied: It may be due to sensing an opening in the hobby space that does not seem to be catered to currently. It may be that I have a personal passion for a given setting or era, or it may simply be that I have a clever game mechanic and want to build a game around it.

The process for me usually starts with sketching out a page or two of keywords, mechanics, and things I’d like to hit on a notepad. Then I work on building it out with simple sketches for the main areas of the mechanics: Activations, movement, shooting, morale, and so forth. Basically, carving out the cornerstones of the game system. At this stage, it is entirely possible it feels like it’s not going anywhere, and it goes in the bin. 

If the core idea seems to have merit in this skeleton form, it’s time to test it out with some generic troops and see if it actually feels fun on the table. From there, you just build out from it: Get other people to read and play it, read it out loud to yourself, etc. Figure out what parts need ironing out and improving and which are good. 

It is really all an iterative process. Once I know the game has legs to stand on, I start writing out the table of contents in advance, so I can “fill in the blanks” as I go. If I know I am going to have a section later for off-map support, I can keep that in mind when I am developing each piece of the mechanics and so forth.

Eventually, any project hits “The Suck (TM).” This is whatever part you hate doing the most, whether it is layout or proofreading or points systems or whatever. For me, it is terrain rules, funny enough. I never read that section of a rulebook, and I never enjoy writing it, but you must. “The Suck” is where your game will probably die because if you let it overcome you, you will put the book down, and every time you click on the word processor, you will immediately be faced with it. The best way to defeat “The Suck” in my experience is caffeine and not letting up: When it starts rearing its ugly head, it is time to keep going and don’t stop until you are through with it. 

Has desktop publishing and PDF only supplements changed the face of the hobby? Has it affected the quality of the product we see today?

Absolutely yeah. It’s not that long ago that a game being available in PDF was a novelty, whereas today, if a game is NOT available in PDF, you are going to lose sales. 

I think the barrier of entry has also dropped dramatically. Even a basic word processing package can churn out a PDF document that you can distribute online or sell. Of course, with proper page layout software, you can achieve much greater results (as some of my friends are rarely missing a chance to tell me), but you need to examine what your skill limit is. Any tool has a skill cap, to borrow a video game term. If you are not currently good enough at what you do to push up against the limitations of your software, burning 200 dollars on new apps will not make your books any better.

It is funny, though, because the wargaming field is so diverse in the type of things we see. You can pick up relatively big-name games that are incredibly plain-looking: Black and white, no art, rudimentary layout. Then right next to it, you see a PDF that is full-color, original artwork, and gorgeous. And the two can be viewed as equal value to the audience. 

Of course, eye candy DOES sell, but I think once you are beyond the Warhammer circles, gamers become a lot more content-focused. 

What are your favorite historical periods and why?

The 19th Century, the two world wars and the Russian Civil War. 

Really, the whole era from circa 1910 to 1925 or so is fascinating to me: It is, of course, the transition of the old, romanticized world to the world of modern warfare, as well as being incredibly diverse in the sort of things you can see. The Russian Civil War sees tanks and armored cars, partisan bands, nationalist militias, Red and White guards, Cossack cavalry armies, Anarchists, and anything else you can shake a stick at. It is really a wargamers heaven for finding odd units to model up on the gaming table.

Honestly, my love of history, in general, comes from one source: “All Quiet on the Western Front.” I think anyone with a passion for history has that moment where they realize that history is not about abstract concepts and kings and dates but is about real people who lived and breathed and had dreams and hopes. “All Quiet” was that for me, and it left a life-long impression on me when I read it as a teenager a few years from the age of the characters in the book.  

What do you see for the future of historical miniature wargaming?

Oof, that is a dangerous question. I think I managed to predict the rise of “Warband” level games (games where you play a small force in skirmish actions and with some level of character progression between games). Right now, that idea has set the fantasy and sci-fi miniatures scenes on fire, with everyone churning out their own version of the concept. 

In historical gaming, there are elements of it, but it has not been embraced to the same extent, possibly due to the grognard bias against skirmish games. I think if I had to put money on something, I would say watch out for historical skirmish games with campaign aspects or character progression in the next year or three.

I also think solo gaming is going to continue to gain in popularity and respectability, with more games developed primarily or even specifically for solo play. I am super excited to see this field because there is a lot of things that can be done here with how enemies arrive on the table, fog of war, and so forth, which is not possible in a conventional opposed game.

Playtesting, how important is it?

Very, but it’s also very misunderstood. I see people post all the time on forums about how they have been testing their game rules for 5 years. That sounds very impressive, but if you are only getting together 3 or 4 times a year in that time frame, you are basically starting over each time. Additionally, just playing the game with your own group is fine to iron out the basic problems of a game, but it will lose its value very quickly. 

To get actual feedback, give the game to people who cannot ask you questions and let them figure it out. Now your text must stand on its own feet and must work without you being there to explain the intentions. That is the real test. I would say three games played by strangers is worth more than ten games with your usual Saturday group. 

Of course, tracking down people who can understand the rules, will play the game, [and] report back to you, AND aren’t crazy is a challenge. If you post online, 50 people will say they would love to, and of those, two will read the book. Once you find reliable people who can give you good feedback, cling to them for dear life. 

 What are the benefits and pitfalls of self-publishing your own wargaming rules?

The biggest advantage is, of course, that you are in charge. What you want in the book goes, if you want a supplement, it will happen, and so forth. Additionally, your game will reflect what you wanted it to be. I think in [self-publishing], you get a lot clearer creative visions and indie gamers tend to gravitate towards that: A game that has something to say on the topic is extremely attractive, even if you disagree with a particular conclusion.

I try to do as much myself as I can, though, of course, I do rely on outside sources for things like artwork, feedback, etc. Part of that is that this way, I know I can support the product down the road: If I want to fix a rule where we came up with a better way of doing it, or I want to add a new section, I can do that. 

The downside, of course, is that you are on your own: Your art is as good as your own wallet can make it, your book looks as good as you can make it (unless you pay for it), and so forth. You also must promote it yourself. If you are writing for something like Osprey, they have marketing power and money to put behind the project. 

Anything else you would like to say to our readers?

Before you write a game, ban yourself from reading any game on the same topic for a few months. If you are writing a WW2 tank game, put all your WW2 games in a box and do not open it. You should be spending that time immersing yourself in the topic in the form of books, music, documentaries, or anything else. Never ever another game.

Also, it cannot hurt to blast some metal albums, at least in my experience. 

--

At Epoch Xperience, we specialize in creating compelling narratives and provide research to give your game the kind of details that engage your players and create a resonant world they want to spend time in. If you are interested in learning more about our gaming research services, you can browse Epoch Xperience’s service on our parent site, SJR Research.

--

(This article is credited to Jason Weiser. Jason is a long-time wargamer with published works in the Journal of the Society of Twentieth Century Wargamers; Miniature Wargames Magazine; and Wargames, Strategy, and Soldier.)

[hajimeow-archived]

:)

AU and idea from this post

fandom: merlin

ship(s): merlin/arthur, morgana/guenevere

word count: 2106

—

it was arthur’s eleventh birthday tomorrow, he grew restless just thinking about it. oh, how much fun he and the town would have! the dancing, singing, celebrations, but best of all the gifts.

maybe this is the birthday my father will finally get me a puppy! oh, he couldn’t think of anything that would make him happier!

as he lie in bed on such a still, quiet night, it was not quiet to him, as his excitement filled the silent air with so many thoughts and and anticipations. even being snuggled under the covers, late at night with three bedtime stories only hours before, he was still awake with his thoughts.

and it was then, a tingle was on his wrist, the sensation seemed to draw shapes. at first it only tingled, but soon it began to burn, and soon the burning ran all through his arm. he held it tightly and cried silently, not wanting to wake anyone.

but that didn’t make sense, why are his wrists burning like they’ve been charred with fire? he was nowhere near fire. so, he decided to look at it.

he was young, but he managed to make out the odd, messy shapes that appeared on his wrist.

merlin.

—

over time, the shapes has morphed into neat letters that could easily be made out by any soul lucky enough to have learnt to read. arthur knew his luck, most people did not have the name of their soulmate on them because their soulmate could not write. of course arthur knew how lucky he was to possibly have a wealthy or even royal soulmate.

but this could not change one fact. the fact that merlin is a boy’s name.

“it’s okay, arthur. i know it’s hard, but merlin doesn’t have to be a boy. names truly have no gender, they could still be a girl for all you know,” morgana’s reassurance helped, especially since she had undoubtedly the name of a woman on her wrist as well, but arthur was a prince, soon to be king! he could not rule the kingdom with a man by his side, he’d be assassinated at best.

of course it would be easy for a farmer or any other low life to get away with loving the same gender, or even be accepted as such, but that is because nobody cares if they do. it says in the law that a king must rule alone or accompany a woman as queen, and though arthur could avoid this merlin for as long as possible, fate always brings soulmates together, no matter how hard one fights to get out of it. and that’s what scared him.

the only way to get out of being with another man was if merlin were to die, the name would change. it could change to a woman.

no, arthur, you cannot kill an innocent man.

he looked to morgana who sat beside him, looking down at her wrist. she never showed anyone her wrist, she only told arthur it was a woman, nothing else. he figured it would just simply be the name of some woman from another kingdom or someone they did not know of, but no. of course it couldn’t be so easy, because the neat print read guinevere in fine, bold letters.

he turned away before she got the chance to catch him.

“morgana?”

she looked up at him and made a small noise.

“i hate to say it but… morgana, i’m scared. what if my father sees my wrist? oh, i’ll never hear the end of it. arranged marriage this, disgrace that, where does it end?”

she sighs.

“i know, arthur. you’ll just have to hope you’ll be king by the time you meet them.”

the two sat in silence for one last moment, before a guard spoke from outside the door.

“supper time.”

—

after supper, the sun began to set. as arthur looked out his window silently, he appreciated the colors. the soft orange and pink, expertly blended together behind the tinted clouds and dark trees.

a burning on his wrist stole his tranquility. he watched in pain as the letters wrote themselves. they were written slowly and messily, almost like they were being carved into something. once the letters came to a halt, the pain stopped with it. of course, it read merlin, just like the rest. but this time it felt different. the pain lingered in a tingling sensation minutes after the writing stopped, only growing stronger with time. he thought of it too much, so he did the one thing he knew how.

he stood and left his quarters, headed for gaius’s.

—

arthur hesitated to open the door, remembering to knock, and so he did.

but it was not gaius who answered the door.

instead it was a boy his age with dark hair, pale skin and a smile on his face. arthur felt his wrist tingle to where it almost made his hand cramp.

“i assume you’re here for gaius? i’m merlin, nice to meet you,” merlin sticks out a hand. arthur hesitantly shakes it with his good hand, he feels like he can barely move the other. merlin.

“um… yes. i am,” arthur opens the door wider to walk inside without another word. gaius looked to be working on a remedy.

“gaius? gaius, i must speak with you, alone,” he glances back to merlin, who’s not paying even the slightest attention.

“what is it, sire? i’m quite busy.”

“please. it’s important.”

gaius sighs and stands to talk to merlin. arthur doesn’t tune in, too overwhelmed with his own issues. whatever gaius said, it got merlin to leave.

“what’s the issue, sire?” gaius sits back down. arthur follows and pulls his own chair closer.

“you promise not to rat me out to my father?”

“depends,”

arthur takes that as a no and shows him his wrist and shuts his eyes, aware that he’s shaking and sweating more than he’d like.

“oh…”

arthur pulls his sleeve back up and folds his arms insecurely. he could feel the tension and worry radiating from gaius without having to look.

“i’m sorry i ever told you, i just… i knew if i told morgana that i had met merlin i would never hear the end of it… im sorry, i know you know him well, i’m—“

“calm down, sire, you’ve apologized more times in one sentence than you have in your lifetime,” gaius took in a breath and looked down before continuing.

“merlin hides his wrist as well, but i’ve seen it. he does not know i’ve seen it, but i have. i always hoped it was a different arthur, and that it would not have to be this way, but of course i was wrong. i do not mind if you and merlin have a relationship but please, for the safety of you both, please do not let yourselves get caught,”

arthur sighed angrily.

“no, that’s not it. gaius, i only like women. i don’t understand, i must have the wrong person, but how could this happen?” he began to fidget and shake, all of his worries piling on at once.

“fate never makes mistakes, sire—“

“it must have this time, because if i am with a man my father will off me without a second thought. fate isn’t stupid, it would never mean to do this,” he said sternly and left. he hadn’t the energy for yelling today.

he began to walk slowly back to his quarters, not paying any mind when he passed merlin on the stairwell, however, merlin did that for him.

“arthur?”

“...how do you know my name?”

merlin shrugged. “lucky guess. would you like to join me?”

arthur knew he had nothing better to do. besides, his mind already made the choice of sitting with merlin for him. now that they sat closer than a foot or more apart, the tingling in arthur’s wrist was no longer a pain, but a nice, warm feeling. he longed to feel it forever.

“so why’d you need to see gaius in such a hurry? if it’s not personal,”

“it’s personal.”

merlin nodded. it was silent, until he spit out yet another question.

“do you have a name on your wrist too?”

“of course i do. almost everyone does. why?”

merlin shrugged. “i don’t know. i figured i was the only one, back in my village i was, anyway,”

“back in your village? why’d you leave?” arthur asked. he couldn’t help but take an interest in the boy. he assumed the name on his wrist was to blame. in any other circumstance, he’d be back in his quarters right now, trying to sleep but thinking too much to do so properly.

“i wanted to see if there was anyone else like me, and maybe if i could find the person on my wrist. would you like to see it?”

“see it?” arthur felt a bit shook, before remembering merlin was not from here. showing your wrist to people was not intimate or odd where he came from.

“yeah. actually, it’s the funniest thing, you know,” merlin pulled his sleeve up.

“i believe it’s you.”

—

arthur couldn’t sleep, all night. he got out of bed when the sun rose, not when he awoke. he would ask gaius for a remedy, but he didn’t want to be anywhere near merlin. not when he knew merlin was open to liking men. what if he made a move?

a soft knock sounded on the door. it was no doubt morgana’s. though still in his sleepwear, he opened it. he couldn’t be happier to see her.

“arthur? are you okay? you look as if you haven’t slept in a week,” she worried.

“i’m fine. come in.”

she did, closed the door behind her and lie on his unmade bed on her back with her hands on her stomach.

“you’re not fine. what’s happened to you?”

quick footsteps passed them in the hall, and with them, a pain shot into his wrist and through his arm. he could not hide it this time.

morgana gasped.

“is it merlin? he’s here, in camelot, and you’ve not told me??” she had a teasing smile on her face. this was bound to happen, he just didn’t think so soon.

“i… i didn’t know he was here!”

“oh, don’t lie, i know you better than anyone—“

“morgana, can you not talk about it?” he sighed and left the room after he’d gotten changed into something suitable. he was stopped by his father in the hall.

“i just dined with lady helen. she’ll be singing for us tonight and i want you to inform the people of the palace to be there tonight. understood?”

“yes, sire,”

—

arthur sat beside his father in the large group of people, anticipating lady helen’s song. he could spot merlin from the corner of his eye. he held his wrist tightly as it burned and pulsed. he wanted anything but this.

he didn’t realize the moment lady helen began her song. it was a beautiful, loving tune at first, but it began to lull him to sleep. the urge was so strong, it didn’t feel natural, but that didn’t stop him from closing his eyes.

merlin held his hands tightly to his ears upon seeing everyone fall into a deep sleep, cobwebs beginning to grow onto them and color starting to drain from the room.

her song grew louder as she pulled a dagger from her coat. merlin panicked. his eyes darted everywhere, until they landed on the chandelier above her, and he felt a forceful energy exit him and the chandelier fell.

he uncovered his ears and seconds after, the people began to wake, pushing the cobwebs aside. lady helen was now an old woman with frail, grey hair. she picked up the dagger and tossed it to arthur as if she were not being crushed under the weight of the chandelier.

it flew fast. without thought merlin jumped to pull arthur’s shoulder and off of the chair. the dagger pinned itself into the back.

arthur was stunned, looking at merlin and back at the dagger. he stood alongside merlin and as they did so, the king walked over.

“you saved my son’s life. a debt must be repaid,”

“ah, well—“

“no, don’t be so modest. you’ve earned yourself a position in the royal household. you shall be prince arthur’s manservant,”

as kind uther scurried off, arthur’s blood began to boil. he didn’t mind a servant. he did mind merlin as his servant.

“father—!”

arthur looked away from merlin with a burning face. he thought today couldn’t get any worse, now he just couldn’t wait for what layer of hell tomorrow will bring.

—

2106 words in one fucking sitting. willingly.

i’m starting to wonder if i’m ok.

[ms31x129]

Woohoo! Time for Chapter 3! I had to make a another DJ! I felt compelled! @cultureisdarkbeer @monikafilefan @today-in-fic

Chapter 1 - Courage to Jump Tumblr LINK or if you like AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 2: Luck of the Irish Tumblr LINK or if you like AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 3: Graffiti of the Heart  (Click on the name for AO3) or if you like Tumblr just clickity-click on the Keep Reading link below.

{Summary:

Jackson continues his journey, leading him into D.C. and the power of words, mixed with his abilities, and some parental love, allow him to travel back into his younger self. There he delves into a memory within a memory, but whose memory is he recalling?

Oh Jackson, never fret, when you are the son of Fox William Mulder and Dana Katherine Scully, you never walk alone.}

“A vision is not just a picture of what could be; it is an appeal to our better selves, a call to become something more.” -Rosabeth Moss Kanter

Jackson tossed the cabbie a $20 that he’d “won” on a scratch off ticket he picked up at the gas station not far from his house.

“You good, kid?” the man with thick eyebrows and questionable hygiene asked him as he slid out of the back seat.

“I’m good.”

As he shut the door and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, the man’s window opened and Jackson rolled his eyes at the preemptive attempt to dole out words of wisdom that he knew were surely heading his way.

“You’re a kid alone in the dark, and I’m dropping you off in the middle of the National Mall,” he warned, pointing at the dimly lit public square overlooking the lake as if it weren't completely clear to Jackson as to where he was headed. “Shit happens.”

Jackson leaned down and smirked. “Yeah, I got that,” he waved the driver off. “Thanks for the heads up, but they're the ones who should be afraid of me.”

The cabbie shrugged, probably figuring he’d tried if a sullen news report streamed across his T.V. in the morning about a teenage boy found dead behind some bush near Constitution Ave.

The cab’s tail lights shone in the dark as it drove off down the street. Jackson was left alone to wander and think about what the hell he was going to do next. Running was getting old, fast. Yet, running was all he knew how to do anymore.

After bouncing round from place to place, traveling and sightseeing for months now, he figured he’d stick around more familiar places for a while. And after his little run-in at the house, he decided a larger populated city would be a better area to blend in at. He was fairly certain no one of importance was searching for him after taking a bullet through the skull and had been presumed dead by everyone but his mother, yet he couldn’t be too careful if he wanted to keep what was left of his family safe. So, the busy tourist attraction around the Washington Monument seemed like the perfect place to clear his head before finding a cheap motel to crash at for the night.

The springtime weather was unusually warm for nightfall and the soft quacking of ducklings bathing in the lake in front of the monument caught his attention. He smiled and found an old bench to sit on and stretch out his long legs as he watched how the mother duck encouraged her babies to follow her into the glassy water.

As a little boy, he would run out back behind his farmhouse and sit on a log with his dad to watch the birds and geese swoop down onto the lake during migration. The sky would darken with the mass amount of them hovering and playfully cutting through the air above him. Now when the sky darkened around Jackson, it was not due to nature and its natural way of life, but an unnatural force of darkness that has managed to follow him wherever he went.

“What do I do now?” he wondered to the empty seat beside him, strumming his fingers along the back of the bench. “Alone in the dark…”

As he steadily chipped away at the fragments of the multilayered paint, Jackson noticed letters engraved deep into the weathered bench. With his curiosity peaked, he leaned down to tear away a larger chunk of blue paint and saw exactly what was written.

DKS & FWM

WERE HERE

1994

His eyes widened just before his mouth fell open. “No way! It can’t be,” he shook his head in disbelief. But there it was, etched in precise, even lines that defied all logic.

He could feel her —feel her as if she were sitting right beside him in that very moment. Even with so few letters to go on, there was no mistake to be made. His birth mother had marked her presence for her future son to unknowingly stumble across 25 years later.

“Un-fucking-believable. I guess the past really does screw with the future.”

His fingers traced along the letters, feeling each groove as if he were her sitting in this very spot so many years ago. Was she acting as a lovestruck young woman daydreaming of the man she loved? Was she poking fun at the probable 30 other initialed couple’s forever time stamped into the bench’s frame? Could she have been contemplating her future, her whole life as she scratched each line with purpose?

So many never-ending questions with never enough answers. He did carry one way to find resolution to some of his larger ones that have remained unanswered for far too long.

Jackson reached into his pocket and opened up the letter once again. He inhaled deeply and picked up where he had left off.

And if I falter or fail on this day, know there is an answer my child. A sacred imperishable truth but one you my never hope to find alone.

The last words barely registering in his head when his mind started up like a projector, snapping his head back with the force of the memory.

December 10, 2008

It was a cold day and his mom had him all bundled up in a puffy blue and white jacket. He could hardly move, restricted by the coat and his sweater that hugged him. It chaffed at his pale sensitive skin underneath.

This hospital felt more like a church with pictures of saints covering the walls, crosses with the carved out figure of Jesus bleeding from his hands and feet hanging ominously.

The hallways to the children’s section had windows with tiny squares, reminding him of a jail cell from a show on T.V.. The nun brought them down another hallway with big blue bears and bright yellow giraffes painted on the walls, stuffed animals and toys inside the rooms on shelves and beds. All of it couldn’t hide the cold hospital walls, hard industrial floors, or the thick flat wood of hospital railings holding the stench of sickness and antiseptic.

It all made his stomach turn and chest feel tight with worry. The sound of machines beeping played in the background as his anxiety grew.

Another room now.

This one was baby blue in color with animal prints dressing the windows and children’s drawings mounted for all to see. It was meant to be friendly, but it only had the hair at the back of his neck standing on end. He wanted to run. He wanted to cry. No more tests.

Everyone passed with purpose; expressions dark with evil, lingering stares for such a holy place. Jackson made up his mind. There was no way he’d ever return to this place again.

They turned the corner quickly and he swung himself wide, stretching out his arm, tugging at his mother’s hand and was suddenly hit by a moving object in a white coat.

Stumbling back, his gaze scanned up towards the woman in front of him. Her face was blurred by a file, but her feelings of defeat, of a battle lost, of helplessness, of the world closing in was in full high-definition. Her kind blue eyes framed by vivid tendrils of hair never quite met his, but they were the softest blue he had ever seen. Like water in the pool at his friend Mikey’s house, floating peacefully in chaos.

“Oh, excuse me. I’m sorry,” she murmured, reflexively placing a soft hand to the top of his head and leaving a spattering of goose flesh along his skin.

He heard the stress in her voice, saw the tightness in her neck, her hair reminding him of a blood moon casting it’s red shadow among the wheat grass swaying in the fields by his house. She was beautiful.

“Mother,” the word rising unbidden from his throat in a mere hoarse whisper for no perceptible reason. His eyes followed her as she swiftly rounded the corner to disappear from which they just came.

“You’re not hurt are you, Jackson?” his mom asked as she leaned down to give him a once over.

“No, Mom. I’m fine,” he mumbled back sharply as they continued down the corridor.

The nun conducting their tour had his father’s ear, relaying information in cautious tones “...once he begins to show promise in his progression he will visit Dr. Goldman for additional testing...”

That last word, “testing,” burrowed into his ear and burned at his throat as if he had swallowed shards of glass, lighting his stomach on fire.

The word hit him so hard that it pushed him back into the present. His brain rattled fiercely inside his skull. The heel of his palm massaged his brow at the ache firing in his brain until his anxiety settled.

It wasn’t going to stop him this time. He would push the physical and emotional pain away to continue on. Determined, he read the next line:

Chance meeting your perfect other, your perfect opposite, your protector and endangerer.

“Ah!” His small index finger screamed in pain. Something sharp was in his coat pocket, stabbing at it, pricking the skin. He dug it out in the privacy of his bedroom. It was one of those guardian angel pins like the one his mom used to wear and place inside Christmas cards when she sent them to people that were special to her. It must have slipped into his pocket from the woman who had bumped into him in the hallway earlier. Mother . Jackson recognized the birthstone as his own. The angel pin flipped around his naive tiny fingers and he realized he was, once again, trapped inside another flashback. Back into the abyss he plunged, opening into the eyes of another .

A ceiling came into view. A foreign bed, the softest of pillows, and a warm comforter surrounded him as a strong consoling arm wrapped around his waist. Deep, complex resonating emotions filled him—pain of loss, regret, and a heavy emptiness that hovered over him so thickly that it nearly suffocated.

“Do you think God is losing any sleep?”

His perspective shifted and a man’s face came into view. He had a beard worn almost as a mask, drawing attention away from the honest truth he held in his eyes.

Harrowing truths he carried on the cross he bore for ‘her’ and for… a sister. His eyes reminding him of the first of spring, when the grass just started to grow, but the death of winter remained underneath.  

“Why bring a kid into the world just to make him suffer? I don’t know, Mulder, I’ve got such a connection to this boy,” Jackson said in a tender voice that was not his own.

“How old is he?” the man asked and his eyes softened further, concern flooding through his vocal cords.  

“You think it’s because of William?” she wondered as if she were afraid of his answer.

“I don’t know... I… I think our son left us both with an emptiness that can’t be filled.” As he spoke his eyes revealed an intricate mosaic of an endless devotion—caring and love built up inside a never ending staircase like the one in the MC Escher art book that had caught his eye in the library.

“Just go to sleep,” the man said and tightened his comforting embrace. His lips rested at her temple for reassurance. “Let me curse God for a while.”

Unfamiliar long lashes fluttered shut and a sharp pain sang through the center of his brain.

The vision rapidly zoomed out, blurred and tunneled, focusing in on the toy box in his old room and the angel pin in his hand. He heard his parents talking in hushed tones just outside his bedroom door. He was there for a brief moment, only for him to be forcefully sucked out again.

His consciousness jolted back from his own eight year old body and violently threw him forward into the present.

His birth mother's angel pin vanished, the letter now in its place, clutched firmly within his shaking hand. He had just watched a moment in time through Dana Scully’s eyes, and that man was Fox Mulder.

“Oh. My. God.”

[redwoodwrites]

Coffee, Quirks, and Tigers

Summary: Ootsuki runs a kirei shop in a popular shopping district, but he mostly keeps to himself.  And then Fukuda shows up with his boss, who tells him to stay and pick out something for someone's birthday present.  He stays, it's awkward, but apparently not that awkward because Fukuda comes back again.  And again.  And pretty soon it becomes a weekly Thing for the two of them to go get coffee together. Now if only Suzuki and his henchmen could leave the two of them alone.

A/N: Starring Ootsuki and Fukuda from Mob Psycho 100!!  (Two of the guys who helped Shou in the finale of Season 2.)  They had basically five seconds of screen time...so I got to make up 99% of their personalities!  BWAHAHAHA THE POWAAAAAH!

 Ootsuki squinted. He'd been drawing a sketch of two fish swimming through trailing willow leaves.  It was a commission for a prestigious high school, but he couldn’t get it right yet. 

He sat back and stretched, glancing at his shop.  His drawing desk was in the back.  Framed kirei hung on the left and right walls, showing lacy outlines of flowers, people, even whole cherry trees.  Delicate three-dimensional paper animals hung from the ceiling, and three patterned kimonos were displayed in the window. 

Outside, the Tatooin Shopping District was swarming with tourists. Street loudspeakers played a constant pop culture soundtrack barely audible over the roar of people.  People came here for the chic cafes, high-end clothing stores, and a few electronic places - he got free cable from the flatscreen TVs displayed across the street.  It was usually news stories about heroes, although lately there had been a few missing person cases mixed in.  Specialty stores like Ootsuki’s kirei shop didn’t get a lot of customers.  That was fine with him.  Most of his business came from commissions, anyway.  He sighed and turned back to his drawing.  

Ding!

The front door opened and a giant strode into his shop, accompanied by a rush of street noise.  He had spiky orange hair, electric blue eyes and a blazer swung over his shoulders like a cape.  

“Now this is more like it!” he proclaimed.

“Shou, be careful!”

A second man appeared behind the first, following close enough to be his shadow. He was built like a bear, with short black hair and anxiety written all over his face. “Did you bump your shoulder in the doorway? You did, didn't you? Are you alright?”

Shou’s eyes caught Ootsuki and he jumped.  “Oi!  This your shop?”

“H-hai! Irasshaimase.” He started to bow, realized he was sitting, and scrambled to his feet, but the giant had already turned away.

“Pretty impressive,” he said, inspecting a paper sparrow hanging from the ceiling.  “Even got the texture of the feathers in there.  Nice.” 

“Shou, please!” the other man insisted. “Be careful, you could get a paper cut -”

“Fukuda!”

This time both men jumped.  “H-hai!” Fukuda stammered. 

Shou jabbed a thumb at a framed kirei piece.  “Find me something like this for Mom's birthday.  I don't want you back at HQ until you've given it at least two hours of thought – after all, it's the thought that counts!”

“But –”

“Two hours! Countin' on ya!”

Shou waved and slipped out the door faster than Ootsuki could follow, vanishing instantly into the crowd. He glanced over. Fukuda was doing such a perfect impression of a sad puppy that Ootsuki snorted with laughter. 

“Oh – er, sorry,” he said, catching himself.

Fukuda sighed. “No, no. I apologize for the disturbance.  I tend to get a bit...overprotective...and Shou is my boss.  I’m Fukuda Itsuki, I’ll be in your care.”

“Ootsuki Souta,” he said, and repeated the greeting.  After that he wasn’t sure what to do.   He ran a hand self-consciously over his bangs, glad they were long enough to cover his eyes.  “Er, well...would you like help picking something out, or…?”

“Yes please,” Fukuda said.  He nodded at the bird Shou had inspected.  “I've never been in a shop like this before. What kind of art is this?”

“It's kirei.  Most of what I sell involves cut paper. That includes the sculptures, but most of it is two-dimensional.” He stopped there - most people’s eyes glazed over at that point - but Fukuda was looking at him as if genuinely interested.  Ootsuki gestured to the framed pieces leaning in neat rows along the walls.  “Those are all made with a single sheet of paper each, and a very sharp knife. I make faces, landscapes, animals – there's one I did of paper fans, just for the irony. They're all organized by size and category...”

He led Fukuda on a brief tour of the shop, discussing his favorite pieces and the techniques he’d used to make them.  Fukuda was much calmer now that he wasn’t fussing over Shou, and asked questions about the types of paper he used and the tools he worked with.  Ootsuki grinned and pushed his bangs back from his eyes.  He never got to talk about this in such detail, but Fukuda made it easy.  Fukuda made it fun.  

They made a full circuit around the shop, ending at the window display.  The kimonos were beautiful even from the back.  Each of them had been printed in a tiny repeating pattern: a lotus blossom, a seashell, or the kanji for “jewel.”

Fukuda looked at them with obvious admiration.  “They’re gorgeous.  Although I'm a little surprised to see clothing in a kirei shop.”

“It’s the patterns.  I stamped it onto the fabric by hand.”

Fukuda's eyes actually boggled. “That's hand-stamped? I thought that was machinery!”

Ootsuki grinned.  “Nope, it’s all me.  This one was especially tricky.”  He reached for the one with seashells.

“Ah – your hands!”

Ootsuki glanced down. The light from outside caught the sheen of all the tiny, nearly invisible scars covering his fingers and palms. “Oh, that. Well, to get the best cut in a piece of paper, you have to drag the blade toward you. Better control that way. But the knives I use have to be quite sharp, and it took practice learning how to do it.”

“And your palms?”

“Pardon?”

“Knives wouldn’t cut your palms like that, look.”  He took Ootsuki’s left hand and gently turned it over.  The scars were thicker, darker. 

Ootsuki flinched and pulled away.  “I don’t like people touching my hands.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry.  It's just, my quirk is healing, but I can't heal scars...it bothers me when I see wounds that haven't been properly tended.”

“They were tended just fine,” Ootsuki said, a little too sharply. “I just wasn't good at controlling my quirk when I was little. So!” He turned away. “I think that wraps up the tour.”

“Of course. I'm sorry to have taken so much of your time.”

He sounded so sincere about it that Ootsuki softened.  “No, it's just that your two hours are almost up,” he said, and realized it was true.  How did it go by so fast? 

“Then, if it’s alright...could I have that one?” Fukuda asked.  He pointed to a piece hanging on the wall, a particularly intricate kirei with cuts so fine you could almost see the texture of the fur.  

“You like it?” 

Fukuda smiled.  “Suzuki-san did always have a fondness for cats.” 

 Ootsuki sat at his desk again, doodling. 

He was done with the fish commission, and now he had nothing to do while he waited to hear back.  It didn’t help that his thoughts kept wandering to Fukuda.  The visit had been two days ago.  Ootsuki was sorry he’d been rude at the end, and it felt worse every time he thought about it.  Why did he have to be so - so emo and awkward?  He tugged anxiously at his bangs.  He could be clever.  If Fukuda ever did come back, he’d -

Ding!

“Fukuda!”

“It's good to see you, too,” Fukuda said, grinning, and he realized he'd jumped to his feet. 

Ootsuki flushed.  “Well, um, yes,” he said.  With zero cleverness at all.

Fukuda didn’t seem to notice.  “I’m sorry to bother you again, but Shou's mother wanted to commission a piece of her cat.  Is that alright?  I brought a photo.” 

Familiar territory!  “Of course, I do commission pieces all the time.  Can I see it?”

“Right, here…”  Fukuda started digging through the bag slung over his shoulder.  “Sorry, sorry, I keep everything in here.  I don’t even know how old that granola bar is...ah, here we go!” 

He held out a photo of a small white cat.  Ootsuki moved to take it, and when he did, two coupons for the Golden Bean fanned out from behind it.  

“Oh, isn’t this that shop down the street?” Ootsuki asked, glancing up. 

He stopped cold.  Fukuda’s warm brown skin was suddenly ash-gray, and he was staring at the tickets like they were vipers poised to strike.  

“I don’t...remember these,” he whispered. 

“It’s okay!” Ootsuki said quickly.  He wasn’t sure why the coupons had unsettled Fukuda so deeply, but the look on his face was unbearable.  He yanked them out of Fukuda’s grip. 

“Wait, wait -”

“They’re just coupons!” Ootsuki said, holding the coupons well out of sight.  “Look!  I’ll just throw them away - oh.”

“‘Oh’?” Fukuda said, his face practically slate gray.  “O-Ootsuki, quickly, those tickets might be from -”

“From ‘Shou’?” Ootsuki asked drily, holding them up.  The silvery foil on the back of the coupons was covered in thick red scrawl.

Yo, Ootsuki!  Thanks for looking after Fukuda.  Take him for a walk, wouldja?  Have a cup of coffee, my treat!  - Shou

Immediately Fukuda’s shoulders slumped and color flooded into his face.  “Oh thank goodness.  It’s just Shou.”

Yes, pegging you like the lost puppy you are, Ootsuki thought.  Aloud he said, “I guess you’d like to have these back then?”

“They seem to be addressed to you,” Fukuda said.  “Would you want to go?  I feel really silly for reacting like that, and I’d like to make it up to you.  Do you like the Golden Bean?” 

Ootsuki shrugged.  “I’ve never been there.” 

“You’ve nev - you work five minutes away!” 

“The streets are crowded,” Ootsuki protested, but it sounded lame even to his own ears.  

Fukuda’s lips twitched like he was hiding a smile.  “I’m big enough to make a path for us.  Please?”

It was that unbearable puppy dog look that did him in.  Ootsuki found himself locking up the shop and heading out into the street behind Fukuda.  At least he was right - his bulk really did carve an easier path. 

The Golden Bean, however, was even worse.  It was easily three times as crowded.  People kept bumping Ootsuki and hitting his hands and he was about five seconds from bolting, self-conscious anxiety or not.  

Fukuda, oblivious, looped an arm through Ootsuki’s and somehow stepped right up to the counter.   

“What do you want to order?” Fukuda yelled cheerfully over the noise. 

Ootsuki looked at the menu, which was the size of a billboard and crammed with 12-pt font.

“Are you kidding?” he gasped out.  

Fukuda grinned, turned to the cashier, and shouted something else.  Somehow Fukuda managed to place an order, grab their cups, and find the last table left, in a little corner of the shop where the noise was down to a dull roar.  

“I am convinced this is your Quirk,” Ootsuki said, practically collapsing into his chair.  

“What, ordering coffee?” 

“Finding tables in this madhouse!” 

“It comes from having to keep a sharp eye out.”  Before Ootsuki could ask what that meant, Fukuda passed him his coffee.  “Here, drink.  You’re looking a little pale.” 

“I’m not used to dealing with people,” he said faintly. 

“But you work in one of the busiest streets of the city.” 

“Most of the people stay outside my shop.  Being near people is one thing, interacting is another.  I get nervous when people are really close to me.”

“Oh.”  Something in Fukuda’s tone made Ootsuki look up.  He was staring at Ootsuki’s hands again, and there was something behind his eyes that made Ootsuki remember how big he was.  “Ootsuki, is someone...hurting you?”

“What?  No!”

“Because if they are, I’d really like to do something about it.”

“They’re not, no one is, I promise,” Ootsuki said, barely managing to keep his hands above the table.  “Look, the scars are my fault.  I couldn’t control my quirk when I was younger.  I can channel kinetic energy through thin, flexible objects.  Plastic works, but paper is best, and school was full of paper.  Every time I picked up a piece of homework or a quiz…”  He gestured, indicating an explosion.  “It made school interesting, I'll say that much.”

Fukuda stared at him. “But you work with paper.”

“I learned to control it.”

“You saw a quirk counselor?” 

“Er...no…”  He shifted in his seat.  “When I was little, we had a neighbor three apartments over who liked origami. He’d make tigers or cranes and blow into them.  They’d come to life, just for a day or two, and he’d leave them out for other kids in the complex to play with.”

Fukuda’s face lit up. “That's amazing! So he taught you origami, too?”

Ootsuki fidgeted anxiously with a napkin. “No.  I thought it would be fun to blow his tigers up. I'm not like that anymore!” he added quickly.  Fukuda’s shock made his guts twist.  “I thought choosing not to control my quirk was easier than admitting I couldn’t.  I pretended it was funny.  So one day I blew his tigers up, and then I turned around and - and saw him standing there.  I saw his face.  And after that it wasn’t funny anymore.”

“Ootsuki...”

He ducked his head. “I avoided him for months. Then I got it into my head that if I could put the tigers back, everything would be alright. So I got a book on origami and a bunch of paper and practiced.  Even with homework.  Before I’d moved it around with erasers, but now I actively tried to manage it all the time, because if I didn’t, I couldn’t make the tigers.  When I was done, my hands looked like this and I had a dozen or so crappy tigers lined up in the courtyard.”

“And? What did he say?”

“Nothing,” Ootsuki said quietly. “He wasn't there anymore. He moved away. I was a coward for so long that I never got the chance to apologize.”

“And I think a kind person like that would have been happy with the gift you made for him.”

“It wasn't a gift. They weren't even all that good.”

“I beg to differ.”

Fukuda caught Ootsuki's wrist and he looked down, startled. He'd been folding a napkin into a paper tiger without realizing it, and he'd been about to rip it in half.

“It's quite good,” Fukuda said. “And one more thing.  I don’t think you’re a coward, Ootsuki.”

“I literally hide behind my bangs,” he said flatly. 

“You came to coffee with me,” Fukuda countered.

“That was just because -”  He stopped short, flushing.  He wasn’t about to mention that obnoxious puppy dog face.  Mostly because Fukuda was doing it right now. 

“You’re braver than you think you are,” Fukuda said.  “And I’m taking this to keep as proof.” 

He plucked the tiger from Ootsuki’s hand and tucked it safely into his bag. 

 Fukuda came back two days later, and again two days after that. He said it was because Shou's mother had more orders, but Ootsuki secretly suspected that Shou himself was responsible. He was probably the littlest bit annoyed with being watched like a hawk for stubbed toes and sent Fukuda off for two straight hours of peace.

Ootsuki didn't mind.

Fukuda, meanwhile, seem to have extended his overprotectiveness to Ootsuki, and was frequently checking to make sure he didn't have any fresh paper cuts, got eight hours of sleep a night, and took breaks from drawing so he wouldn't strain his eyes.

Ootsuki didn't mind that, either.

The two of them took to buying coffee and walking around to look at all the shops.  Once in a while Fukuda saw a window display for a fluffy sweater and just had to have it, and Ootsuki bought a new halogen lamp for his desk.  Fukuda finally got Ootsuki hooked on pistachio-flavored coffee, which Ootsuki hadn’t even known existed (and wasn’t convinced that it should).  

Two weeks into their coffee tradition, Ootsuki was hanging a new sparrow sculpture when he heard the door open behind him. 

“You’re early,” he said, turning.  Then he stopped short.  “What happened?” 

Fukuda was standing in the doorway, face pale, hands shaking at his sides, clothes rumpled like he hadn’t slept for days.  He was looking around the shop like he didn’t even see it.  

Ootsuki jumped off the stepstool and hurried over.  “Are you alright?  Are you injured anywhere?” 

“Huh?  No, I...no…”

“You look like hell!”

Fukuda laughed weakly, but it wasn’t a joke, and they both knew it.  “Sorry.  I’m, uh, I had a rough day.  Should we get going?”

“Now?  Like this?” 

“I really will be fine after some tea.  Or something.”

Ootsuki hesitated, thinking.  “Alright,” he said slowly.  “But it’s getting kind of cool out.  Come on back, I need to grab my jacket.” 

“Sure.”

Ootsuki headed for the back of the shop - without letting go of Fukuda’s hand.  He trailed along after him like an oversized puppy.  Ootsuki reached the employee’s door and pushed it open.  He even got a few feet inside before Fukuda drew up short. 

“I-I’m sorry for intruding,” he stammered.  “I didn’t know you lived back here.” 

Ootsuki had converted the back room into a one-room apartment.  There was a western-style bed on the right, a table in the center, and a kitchenette on the left, with the bathroom door in the back left corner.  Most of his expendable income had gone into a TV and game system set up next to the bed.  The place was spare but functional.

He shrugged.  “My budget’s pretty modest, and anyway I don’t see the point in buying a second place just for a bed and a bad commute.”

Fukuda’s lips twitched.  “You do have a point.” 

“Sit down anywhere, I’ll just be a second.”

Ootsuki went to the kitchenette and Fukuda sat down at the table.  A few copies of Ootsuki’s best works hung on the walls, and Fukuda was looking at the cityscape one with interest.  Then he blinked and seemed to come back to himself again.  “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Ootsuki turned around, a mug in each hand.  “Making tea.”

“You didn’t have to,” Fukuda said weakly. 

“It’s just instant tea, nothing fancy.”

“We were gonna get coffee.”

“Next time.”  He set the mug down.  “Sit.  Drink.  Breathe.” 

Fukuda obeyed while Ootsuki grabbed the quilt from his bed.  He sat down next to Fukuda so their legs were touching and wrapped the blanket around their shoulders.  

“Let me know if this bothers you, but sometimes pressure helps me calm down.” 

“I’m the same,” Fukuda murmured.  “When it’s someone like you.”

Ootsuki’s face felt as hot as the tea.  “Okay.  Um.  Anime.  I mean - let’s put on an anime or something.  Or not.  Or we can talk if you want.  Or not.”  Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking.

“Anything is fine.” Fukuda lowered his mug to the table, eyes down.  “You really didn’t have to do this.”

Ootsuki rolled his eyes.  “Pretty sure I did.  You worry a lot about other people, Fukuda, but not enough about yourself.”

Fukuda gave a tiny smile.  “You know, in your own way, you're nearly as stubborn as Shou.”

“Your boss?”

“And longtime friend. We met doing underground hero work.”

“Ah,” Ootsuki said.  Then the words sank into his brain. “Wait, what? Underground heroes? How is he an underground hero with that bright red hai – I'm sorry did you say you're a hero?!”

“Yes?” Fukuda glanced up, eyes twinkling. “Is it that much of a surprise?”

“I mean – you're so – lost puppy –”

“I'm a what now?”

“Mild-mannered! Is what I meant to say!”

“Yes, I'm a hero,” Fukuda said, grinning.  He had absolutely heard the puppy comment. “My healing quirk isn't particularly useful for offense, but it's invaluable as backup for the others in our agency.”

“I can imagine,” Ootsuki managed. Fukuda didn't fit Ootsuki's image of a hero at all. Fukuda wore fluffy sweaters and an open expression and exuded the kind of warm calm people normally associated with a good cup of hot chocolate.  Being a “hero” seemed to involve more exaggerated muscle development, primary colors and...teeth?

Fukuda chuckled as if he could read Ootsuki’s thoughts. “That's exactly why I'm so useful as an underground hero. I know how to dress and act a certain way.  How to give off a certain impression or persona. If you drop me in the middle of a city anywhere in Japan, I could disappear in an hour and never be found. I mostly work on organizational crimes, but sometimes I get asked to pursue missing person's cases.”

“Missing...but don't kidnapped people usually end up –”

“Yes,” Fukuda said.  His voice was low and his shoulders were trembling.  Ootsuki wrapped him in a hug.

“It must be hard,” Ootsuki said quietly. 

Fukuda leaned into him, eyes cast down.  “I can - I can usually find them in time.  And heal them.  I’m very, very good at both.  But Shou - there’s a man we’ve been tracking - you’ve seen the rash of missing people in the news?”

“I think so,” Ootsuki said slowly.  It sounded vaguely familiar. 

“The man we’re tracking is responsible, and today we found one of his facilities.  They’d known we were coming and abandoned the place.  But we found evidence of some of the missing people, and the - the Quirk research they were doing -”

His voice broke.  Ootsuki rubbed his back in small, slow circles.  “I can’t even imagine what it’s that’s like,” Ootsuki said softly.  He wished he had something better to say.  “I guess this explains why you were so scared when we found Shou’s coupons in your bag.”

Fukuda rubbed at his eyes with one hand.  “I’ve been wondering lately if I’m being tracked.  One of the man’s top followers is very good at electronic spying.  We’re closer to finding them every day, and I think they’re finally feeling the pressure.  We’re going to have to face them soon.”

“Shou doesn’t seem like the type of person to lose,” Ootsuki said. 

“He’s not.  He really doesn’t need my help most of the time.  But with the man we’re tracking, he will.  Soon.  Even then we might not be enough to beat him.  I have to make sure he’s at the top of his game.  If I don’t, if he’s even a little bit tired, a little bit slow, if I’m not enough, then he might – he might actually –”

Fukuda folded into himself.  Ootsuki pulled him gently so that Fukuda was leaning into him, head just below Ootsuki’s chin.  He knew there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do.  For the first time he wished he knew how to use his quirk for something...more.  His heart ached. 

When Fukuda was calmer, they drank their tea and quietly watched anime movies on Ootsuki’s cell phone.  Ootsuki pulled the blanket off his bed and wrapped them up in it, shoulder to shoulder.  They stayed like that, pressed together in quiet, comforting warmth, for a long time.  

 It was two minutes past coffee time. 

Ootsuki sat at his desk, trying not to fidget.  He glanced out the window.  Back to his desk.  Back to the window.  Then he got up and looked down the street, shoving his face between the kimonos, trying to peer through the crowd.  Five minutes past coffee time.  Still no Fukuda.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket.  

Fukuda picked up on the second ring.  “Yes?” 

“You’re late.”

“I’m five minutes late,” Fukuda said, and Ootsuki could hear the smile in his voice.  “I’m rubbing off on you.  You didn’t worry so much last week.” 

“Last week I didn’t know that you regularly risk your life for a living,” Ootsuki retorted.  

Fukuda laughed.  They’d texted a few times since the last time he came over, but it wasn’t the same.  Ootsuki was glad to hear him back to his usual self.  

“You’re almost here?” he asked. 

“Yes, yes, I’m almost there.  You can probably see me from your window.  Look.” 

Ootsuki looked.  An arm in a fluffy green sweater sprouted from the crowd three stores down, waving. 

“You look like a bean sprout,” Ootsuki told him, just to hear him laugh again.  “Alright, alright, I’m hanging up.  But you owe me coffee for making me worry.” 

“It’s a deal.” 

Ootsuki pocketed the phone and realized he was smiling.  A new coffee shop had opened next to the Golden Bean.  There was a semi-playful war between the two on which was better.  Even the music on the street speakers was interrupted with updates on which shop had gotten more likes on Facebrick.  Ootsuki and Fukuda both thought it was hilarious. 

And Ootsuki wanted to try the new shop.  More specifically, he wanted to try it with Fukuda.   

His friend’s face finally came into view, swimming toward him in the crowd.  Ootsuki’s grin widened and he turned for the door. 

Suddenly the street speakers screeched.  The sound was so loud Ootsuki felt it in his teeth.  He jerked badly and people outside shouted in pain and surprise.  

Then the security gates on every shop came slamming down. 

“HEY!” 

Ootsuki flung himself at his door.  The bars were on the outside, but Ootsuki couldn’t even get to them; the door had locked and wouldn’t open.  He heard screams and saw that some people had been crushed under the gates and were struggling to get free.  The electronic store across the street had a safety gate that swung down like a garage door, and it had someone pinned by her shoulder.  Fukuda was already cutting through the fleeing crowd, hand outstretched and glowing.  Ootsuki took a shuddering breath.  That’s right, Fukuda was a hero, he could help – 

“AH-AH-AH,” tutted a voice from the speakers. 

The electronics shop exploded.  Every single device inside suddenly burst through the windows, walls, and ceiling.  Fukuda dove right into the falling shards, shielding the pinned woman.  Pipes and cables ripped up from the street.  The electronic devices whizzed toward them and the wires and metal wrapped around them, rising up to form a many-tentacled octopus shape.  A multitude of cables coiled and writhed ceaselessly around a bulbous conglomerate of tech, studded with cameras that blinked in every direction and crowned with three flat screen TVs.  The screens flashed to life, showing a composite view of a pale man in square-framed glasses. . 

Fukuda snarled.  “Hatori!”

“You really made it too easy to find you,” Hatori sneered.  “For an underground hero, it’s surprising that you’d risk falling into a routine.”

Ootsuki sucked in a breath.  The electronic spy!  Fukuda was right, they’d been watching, they knew he’d been meeting with Ootsuki every week!

Fukuda’s hand plunged into his bag.  Immediately Hatori’s cables lashed out, striking Fukuda’s chest so hard Ootsuki could hear an audible crack from across the street.  He flew through the air until he hit a telephone pole and the cables immediately caught him, ripping his bag from his shoulder and lifting him into the air. 

“Fukuda!” Ootsuki slams his palms against the glass, desperate.  Kinetic energy vibrated painfully through his wrists and the glass buzzed but didn’t break.  No, no, the villain had him, it was going to kill him!

He backed up and a hanging sculpture hit his head.  All that paper – but he wasn’t a hero, he had to call the police, had to get help – 

“Rats are really more trouble than they’re worth to keep around,” Hatori said, smirking.  Fukuda gave an airless scream, and Ootsuki heard a terrible, organic pop. 

The cables were squeezing. 

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

He wasn’t sure how it had happened.  He’d been standing in his shop, frozen in horror, and then he was outside and his arm was moving in slow-motion and the paper fan he was holding cut clean through the cables holding Fukuda. 

Fukuda hit the ground with a gasp, still wrapped in the metal coils, but his eyes were on something past Ootsuki.  Immediately he turned and swung the paper.  Again time skipped and there were stripped wires and computer bits littering the street in a circular blast radius, and Hatori’s metal octopus was hissing and stitching three of its limbs back together with angry clanks.  

“Not another one!” Hatori snapped, face red.  “Why – are – there – heroes – everywhere?!”

“Ootsuki!” Fukuda gasped. 

Cables reared up behind the octopus and struck like snakes.  Ootsuki tried to dodge but his legs were frozen.  Fukuda tackled him and they went rolling seconds before electrified prongs gored them to the street.  Fukuda grabbed a metal trash can and flung it hard.  Ootsuki winced when he heard the noise Fukuda’s chest made, but the trash can slammed down on the prongs with extra force and it lodged in the asphalt.  The two of them ducked into a narrow alley.  

“The hell do you think you’re doing?!” Hatori demanded.  

“I don’t know, I don’t know, my body just moved!  What do we do?!” 

“I need my bag, you stay here!” 

“Somehow I don’t think he’ll let me!” 

“Correct!” 

Ootsuki shrieked and flung his arm up right before a huge muscled octopus limb came sweeping down on them.  The blast broke it in two and they darted out of the alley.  Fukuda grabbed a loose bit of the broken limb and jammed it into another tentacle as they ran, forcing it back.  Ootsuki sent two more blasts at the tentacles darting into Fukuda’s blind spots and they sprinted out of range.  

 Hatori snarled.  “Hold still already!”

“No thanks!” 

The street was almost empty of shoppers except for the few who had been pinned or those trying to help them.  Ootsuki saw the moment Hatori caught sight of two teenagers wedged in a clothing shop entrance.  Something blazed in his chest and he slammed the fan down through the air, again and again, actually forcing Hatori back.  

“Agh!  Little freak!” 

“Ootsuki, your hands!” 

He glanced down.  He saw the red dripping down his fingers and wrist but couldn’t feel the pain or even the wetness.  

“Forget it, get the bag!” 

“But – you – fine, just don’t die!” He turned and sprinted down the street, where his bag was sticking out from under someone’s discarded shopping bag.  Ootsuki darted forward, scooped a handful of receipts off the ground and hurled them.  The paper burst into confetti and was immediately attracted by the static cling of the TVs, blocking out all the video cameras facing their way.  Hatori shouted with rage.  

Ootsuki stumbled back, gasping.  He was starting to feel the pain now.  His hands were shaking and blood dripped from his skin, under his fingernails.  He knew he’d cracked his bones because he suddenly knew exactly where they were in both hands.  

He turned and sprinted for Fukuda, who was desperately hunting through his bag. 

“Where is it, where is it, where is it,” he muttered. 

“What are you looking for?” 

“The EMP gun.  Small, black, yellow tape – I know I packed it, I definitely grabbed it off the counter –”

“THERE YOU ARE!” 

Something sharp and hard slammed into the side of Ootsuki’s head.  He hit the ground.  The drone that had hit him banked hard and circled, two more joining it.  Ootsuki realized his hands were empty and rolled away before their blades could slice his arms.  Fukuda had done the same, but his broken ribs had hampered his movement and a lucky hit had knocked him flat.  Immediately a cable burst out of the ground and bound him tight. 

Ootsuki’s hand plunged into Fukuda’s bag and pulled out what he’d hoped he would find - his little leatherbound book.  He tore out a dozen pages and struck, kinetic energy blasting the drones away.  

He’d forgotten the octopus, though, and just as he made to cut Fukuda loose a cable came out of nowhere and slammed him in the stomach.  

He lost time in a daze of gray and yellow pain until sharp hit his shoulder and he fell to his knees with a cry.  His vision slowly cleared. 

The drone that had been aiming for his shoulder had switched off at the last second and now lay cracked and silent on the ground.  The other drones hit the ground beside him, and the cable that had been whipping out to grab him suddenly collapsed on the asphalt, limp, live wires still sparking at its tip.  

Fukuda was standing in front of him, a small, buzzing gadget the size of a cell phone in his raised fist. 

Hatori’s octopus spasmed and flailed.  Chunks of machinery were already falling off.  For a second Hatori looked livid, but then his face twisted in a vicious sneer and an octopus leg sliced clean through the whole front wall of a restaurant, peeling it away from the building like a slice of cake.  The people inside screamed.  Ootsuki readied his fan, but apparently that had been the most Hatori could do.  The TV screens distorted to static and went black.  With a final, ear-splitting shriek of tearing metal, the octopus slumped over, dead. 

Ootsuki hadn’t realized he was about to join it until Fukuda grabbed his shoulder to keep him upright.  The two of them stared at each other for a few seconds, breathing hard. 

“You,” Ootsuki said finally, “are going to owe me so many coffees after this.”

“You can have them after I murder you for jumping into the line of fire,” Fukuda said.  But there wasn’t any venom in his voice, and his eyes had the puppy dog look cranked up to eleven.  “What were you even thinking?!  You have zero battle experience, and that guy was - villains aren’t a video game, Ootsuki!  He would have actually murdered you!”

He ducked his head.  “Sorry.” 

“Don’t - don’t apologize, just -”

“Hero-san!” called a voice.  It was one of the teenagers Hatori had almost attacked.  They were in the store right next to the restaurant, and it looked like he’d managed to squeeze himself out, but his companion had a thick river of blood running down their face that Ootsuki hadn’t noticed before.  “Hero-san, I - please help him - ” 

“Coming,” Fukuda called immediately.  “And stay put, Ootsuki, you’re next.” 

“Not going anywhere ‘till I get my coffee.” 

Fukuda shot him a look, part concern, part exasperation, then turned to help the teenager.  

Ootsuki leaned on a trashcan, catching his breath.  His hands hurt.  He was trying to avoid looking at them because he was pretty sure they were fractured and he’d pass out if he saw it.  

It had felt...strange, to be out on the battlefield like that.  Not natural, not exactly, but like he had fit perfectly into place.  As if the universe had simply been waiting for him to do it and the response was simply, “Of course.” 

Shock gave people such weird thoughts.  He shook his head and looked around.  Little shreds of torn paper drifted through the air, like scattered snowfall.  Bits of computer modems and gaming consoles covered the street, torn open, their silicon circuits glittering in the sun.  The security gates had retracted.  Some of the trapped shoppers were cautiously poking their heads out of the buildings, checking that it was safe.  It wasn’t; there were a lot of live wires sticking out of the ground and the octopus carcass, throwing sparks.  

It didn’t smell all that great, either.  His senses were still sharp from all the adrenaline pouring through him.  He could smell the burned plastic from the machines and the ozone of the sparking wires.  He could even smell something odd from the restaurant Hatori had sliced open.  Something burning?  

He looked closer.  A dark shape was sticking out of the wall.  It looked like a pipe with a little yellow sticker on it.  

Gas. 

He saw everything in perfect clarity.  The brilliance of the sky, so bright blue it looked painted by a child.  The shadow of Fukuda’s back, the exact way his head turned when he smelled it too.  The hot metal of the trash can under Ootsuki’s broken fingers.  And floating gently past, torn free from that little book by the explosions, a napkin folded like a tiger. 

He grabbed it and slashed with everything he had. 

The blast he made created a huge vacuum down the middle of the street, sucking away the explosion and heat and gas.  Hot blades drove up the bones in Ootsuki’s arms, splitting them in half.  Blazing pain seared his brain.  Sound warped and distorted like it was coming from underwater.  He thought he heard someone screaming, realized it was himself.  

He was on the ground.  His arms were on fire.  They had to be on fire.  They hurt so badly.  Shadows were moving over him.  One of them reached out to him, familiar, calling his name, but before he could answer more shadows came down like a curtain and he sank into the heavy black. 

 Ootsuki woke up slowly.  He was lying on a bed that crinkled loudly whenever he existed, and the ceiling was styrofoam-white.  The smell of rubber and cleaner filled his nostrils. A hospital.  

“I guess it’s nice that I survived,” he mused aloud.  

“Gee, you think?” 

“Fukuda!” 

He bolted upright.  Fukuda was sitting on a chair next to him, a book on his lap.  He smiled and put a warm hand on Ootsuki’s arm.  “Relax, the doctors saw you but you’re still going to be pretty tired.” 

“You’re okay!” 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, but how are your hands?” 

“My - oh…”

He held them up.  The last thing he remembered, they were bleeding like crazy and felt like he’d fractured every bone in his fingers.  Now they looked perfectly fine.  In fact…

“No scars?  They’re gone?”

Fukuda looked apologetic.  “You, er.  Sort of blasted most of your skin off.  So when I healed it, all the skin grew back more or less uniform.  I hope you don’t mind.  We’re mostly here because it’s standard procedure to bring someone to the hospital just in case there’s something a field medic missed.”

“But you’re okay?” Ootsuki asked again, searching his face.  “Last time I saw you, you were covered in blood and I think your rib had broken.” 

He grimaced.  “Ribs, plural.  But I promise I’m okay.  I just - the way you nearly got killed - ”  He broke off, shaking his head.  “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“I...I guess so?”  He looked around, trying to distract himself.  It wasn’t just a hospital room, it was a private room, with a flatscreen TV, a vase of fresh flowers, and a window with a panoramic view of the city. “I can’t afford all this.” 

“Don’t worry, heroes get free private rooms.” 

“I’m not a hero.” 

“I don’t see why not,” said a voice from the door.  They looked up as Shou phased through the doorway, a tray of hospital goop in his hands.  “Whoops, almost lost the Jell-O.  I pulled a few strings and got you a temporary hero’s license about thirty minutes after the whole Hatori thing.  So technically you’re a hero for the next three months.  Welcome to my agency.” 

“I-I’m not a hero!” 

Shou raised an eyebrow.  “Again, I don’t see why not.  How do you feel?  I’m not asking about your physical state.  Do you feel horrified, apathetic, jittery - or do you feel like you’re ready to do it all over again?” 

Ootsuki blinked a few times.  “The second one, I guess.  How did you…?”  

He nodded.  “I saw the fight.  You got thrashed because you’re a total noob, but you have good reflexes and use your quirk in creative ways.  My agency could use you.  And Fukuda’s obsessed with you now and not me, which is a plus.” 

“Shou!” Fukuda protested.  “I’m not obsessed with him -”

“You use the first sweater he ever bought you for ‘emergency hugs’ and set his picture as the background on your phone.  Besides,” Shou continued cheerfully over Fukuda’s sputtering, “Hero work pays well.  Unless you have another source of income I don’t know about, because your shop is basically gravel.”

“What?!” 

He leaped for the TV remote and flipped channels frantically.  He found the evening news and, there in the background, was his shop - or rather, a lot of vacant air and broken plaster where his shop used to be.  He could still see a few strips of paper fluttering through the air. 

“Oh, no no no no no,” he moaned.  “Everything I owned was in that shop!” 

“Everything?” Shou asked curiously.  

“He lived in the storeroom at the back,” Fukuda explained.  

Ootsuki dragged a hand down his face.  “I have a little money saved up, but I’ll need that for food and inventory until my insurance kicks in.” 

“I have an extra bedroom,” Fukuda said.  “I mean - it could be only temporary, if you like.  And only if you’re comfortable with it.  I have about three bonuses I haven’t even used yet, we could buy furniture or paper or anything you’d need.” 

Shou made a muffled-sounding squeak. 

“What,” Fukuda said flatly. 

“You two are actually sharing an apartment?” Shou asked. 

Ootsuki turned red.  “I - I guess you could say that?  We never really - I

Shou was grinning like a cat that had drunk half the cream and intentionally spilled the rest.  “So, to be clear.  You met by chance, had a coffee shop AU side story, fought a villain, and then…”

“Don’t you dare,” Fukuda warned.   

Shou was grinning from ear to ear. 

“And then they were roommates,” he whispered.

Then he phased through the door, laughing, dodging pillows from two very red-faced heroes.

[rksecretsanta2019]

Merry Christmas to @rkbyunbaek                         | from @rksophie​

i hope you like this!!! i wanted to make it a bit more angsty but i hope you enjoy reading it anyway! have a great christmas!! 💖

sophie had always kept to herself. even though she lived in a big city, surrounded by all sorts of people, she had always been on her own. she had never had many friends, not to say none at all, and the few people who came into her life knew it was better to stay away from the wizard and his daughter. it had never bothered sophie, despite her usually outgoing nature; her father had always been more than enough company, and the trips into the city with headphones over her ears and his father’s clients had kept her entertained enough. even after her father had passed away, sophie had continued her life mostly unchanged, taking over her father’s business and providing spells and potions for those who came to her in need. it was a quiet and simple life, and one she enjoyed fully.

it all changed the moment jennie knocked on her door, asking for help. barely a week before, the slightly older girl had appeared on her doorstep, clothed in a dark, heavy coat to protect her from the chilling winds, her face hidden behind a face mask. even then, sophie could tell she was someone important: her clothes, despite their simplicity, were clearly expensive and good quality, and the way she held herself, back straight and chin high, clearly denoted an upbringing considerably different from sophie’s own. had she known then that this was the crown princess standing in front of her? not at all, not until she turned on the news later that day to find reports of the apparently vanished princess. she had slowly turned to look at jennie – who, to her credit, had given her the fake name of nini – and the other’s silence and avoiding gaze had made it clear enough.

and so after that, sophie found herself housing a fugitive princess, because she had made a promise to help her, and if there was one thing sophie hated, that was breaking promises.

“you want to go to a club?” sophie asked incredulously, looking up from her dinner for the night – a nice, hot bowl of insta ramen –, and stared at jennie as if a second head had grown from her neck, eyebrows raised.

“yes! i’ve been holed up here for days now, and i want to do something, i want to dance,” jennie replied defensively, full lips pursing into a pout. sophie imagined that’s what she did usually to get her way, but it wasn’t going to be that easy to win her over.

“might i remind you, it was your idea to run away? your face has been all over the news lately, and the moment you step out of that door, you’ll be taken back to the palace,” sophie said, shaking her head at the other and going back to her dinner. “unless that’s your idea, of course,” she added before she took a bite. “in which case, i suggest surrendering willingly. i’m sure they’ll be a lot more forgiving then,” sophie ended with a slightly fake smile, finally pushing more of the delicious noodles into her mouth.

“no, i do not want to go back,” jennie said as she let out a huff. the other girl behaved sometimes like a rich spoiled girl – which was kind of what she was, really. “but you can do one of those spells you do, like, give me someone else’s appearance or modify my factions or something,” jennie continued with a smile, gums showing. it was hard to resist that smile, and sophie stared at her for a few seconds before she sighed and shook her head.

“fine, but let me finish my dinner first.” it was weird having to go along with someone else’s choices, but sophie had to admit, the other girl was starting to grow on her. … “so, how does it feel to be a blonde? do they really have more fun?” sophie asked with a cheeky smile, voice straining to be heard over the sound of the speakers. the club was full tonight, and sophie and jennie had managed to make it to the center of the dance floor and carve a little space for themselves. the other girl was wearing a white leather mini skirt, together with a printed crop top and a black leather jacket, legs covered by knee high boots. where her hair had been black before, it was now a platinum blonde, standing out in the mass of people. as she other had suggested, sophie had used one of her spells to modify her factions, making her look younger and slightly different. sophie could see through the spell, and so, to her, the other girl’s face looked as it always did, almond eyes under thick eyelashes, rounded cheeks rosy with the heat of the place. sophie’s outfit contrasted with jennie’s, the skinny black jeans and oversized top, and the platform military style boots. still, no one had denied them entry into the club.

“they definitely have more fun than crown princesses,” jennie replied, a playful smile on her lips. she was moving her body fluently, her eyes closed, and clearly letting herself get lost in the music. sophie couldn’t help but stare at her. she had never been much of a royal follower, not caring much for the monarchs, but the girl in front of her just continued to draw her attention. a princess running away from her duties seemed like the plot of a really bad, made-for-tv movie, and sophie couldn’t quite believe it was actually happening. then again, half the world couldn’t believe that people with magical powers actually existed, yet here sophie was, a fully living, breathing witch.

jennie kept moving her body to the music, the bass booming through the speakers and making the floor under their feet vibrate. sophie, softly swaying in place, just took the chance to observe the older girl. in just a week, she had noticed so much about her, and while sophie had always enjoyed people watching, jennie had just captured her immediately. she had been reserved at first, cold, almost rude, but as the week had gone by, she had started opening up, replying to sophie’s teasing sarcasm with jokes of her own, and grazing her with beautiful, rare, gummy smiles. perhaps it was the fact that sophie hadn’t had much contact with people before, or perhaps it was because jennie represented a danger and an adventure that sophie had really always craved for, but in any case, sophie had slowly but surely fallen for the other girl.

of course, there was nothing sophie was going to do about it, really. as much as jennie insisted that she wanted to give up her role and her duties, sophie knew better, and knew that this sort of rebellious phases didn’t last long and were, after all, just a phase. she would always remember the other girl as an exciting adventure, a welcome detour from her routine, but one that wouldn’t stay.