#so almost eight years overdue

[mercuriallily]

First cosplay of 2023! All dressed up to watch Cats 1998 with my grandma :3

[cherry-leclerc]

20/90 ☆ cl16

genre: humor, smut, angst, jealous!charles, post-break up, toxic ex trope, on & off

word count: 2k

After a painful break-up, you and Charles find yourselves taking part in what seems to be a never ending cycle. But there are rules that apply.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...car sex, riding, wrap it before you tap it!

req!...two in a day?? you guys are spoiledddd

It takes about twenty days to break a habit, give or take. There’s proof; like the time you scolded yourself into not biting your nails anymore, horrified with the idea of getting engaged with monstrous hands. Or when you swore you would never drink again after Singapore.

But it takes ninety to make a permanent change.

It was a mutual decision, it was the most mature one, really, too. He was getting more and more busy; higher demand. You were drowning with homework, and senior thesis, it was long overdue. Yet it still broke your heart just the same. We can try again in the future, he tries to reason when you sob against his chest, linen shirt growing damp, but never once thinks about pulling away. 

There is no future if there’s no you, you whimper. You feel stupid, desperate, and disgusting. It was not a lovely mix, but it was true. How could you move on when he was all you’ve ever wanted?

And there’s no present without you.

That was thirteen days ago, to be exact. Life was not better, but bearable to say the least. Often, you would find yourself stalking him on social media, unbeknownst that he did the same. You finally got your bachelor's you had worked your ass off for. He finally came to a renewal on his Ferrari contract. Life should be good.

Instead, you find yourself slumping against the cold wall, eyes squinting at the harsh sun. You’re well aware you’re panting like a beast, and sweat trickles down your face like a water faucet, but you couldn't care any less. Running was definitely not for the weak. 

Abandonner si tôt?

Directing your attention to a deep voice, your heart stops before excitedly pumping against your chest. You can feel it in your ribcage. It should be a crime how handsome he still is, the more he gets day by day. W-what are you doing here? 

His green eyes flicker against the rocks. Oh, you know. 

Are you here for me? You want to foolishly ask, but bite down instead. I thought you were already in Bahrain. 

Keeping tabs on me? 

Flustered, you narrow your eyes, feigning a normal state. We dated for five years. I know your schedule by heart. His soft features register a wave of shock, nervous fingers gripping his phone.

It was good seeing you. And he leaves.

It shouldn’t hurt so much, but it does. It feels as if you’ve scraped your knee, hit your heart, got punched square in the face, and got run over by a school bus. Infinite times. And he seems A-OK. It's against your better judgment to follow after him, to yell at him out of spite for no apparent reason. But you were not the same girl he used to know.

“Oh fuck,” Charles groans as you ride him hastily, headboard banging against the wall as he keeps a steady hold on your hip, where a path of fresh bruises lie. He almost laughs if it weren’t for you rolling your hips tentatively. He quirks a brow when you shake your head and finish around his thick girth, leaving him no choice but to follow along with a low shudder. 

“What have I done?” you whisper, delicate hands coming up to cover up your bare breasts. “Oh my God…”

“Ah,” he hums. “What a delightful thing to hear.”

Scurrying off his lap, you grab your wrinkled clothes, inching towards the exit as you wag your finger. “This –that– could never happen ever again. Capeesh?” 

Charles tries his best to hide his hurt, braving through with a nonchalant smile. “Never again.”

-

You’re eight days in when he texts you. Something about needing someone to talk to. You might have broken up, but who said you couldn’t remain friendly acquaintances? He demands you meet at your spot, and it's a slap in the face but find yourself there nonetheless. He rambles on and on about his ongoing stress, and the neverending pressure. You knew it got bad, but you never thought this much. 

“My PR manager is debating on whether I should date someone for the sake of increasing views. More attention.” 

Your jaw goes slack. “You called me for this?” Rushing up to your full height, you brush off a gust of dirt, struggling to not roll into a coughing fit. “What makes you think this is something I want to hear?”

The Monegasque’s face pinches up like a clam. “I thought you should know.”

You scoff. “Right…” He watches as you scarily pace the open field with a blank expression. It saddens him how suddenly he doesn’t know how to read you. “You’re a fucking coward.”

And you leave.

-

He follows through with it because there’s really no other choice. She’s nice, but not kind like you. She’s pretty, but not breathtaking like you. You get the gist. 

Her touch is unfamiliar and cold, forced. Abnormal. Her father is some kind of wealthy man who invests in prestigious hotels in his home country and is looking to make some more money as if what he doesn’t have is enough to serve him a lifetime. Sometimes, Charles feels for her. She probably wanted this the same amount as he did. 

Behind a screen, you live through all of it. Your friend nicknamed you as Bella-From-Twilight-When-Edward-Goes-Away. Only Edward comes back. Charles never did. But it's now been seventeen days. And you curse the day you run out of your favorite ice cream.

“Why am I always bumping into you?” you huff when you spot the brunette. He rolls his eyes. I’m the famous one here. I don’t need to follow anyone, unlike you. Where his cold tone finally blossomed from –you don’t know– but you didn’t like it at all. Purposefully hitting your cart against his own, you stroll off. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Superstar.”

Comedically, you both find yourself glaring as you check out from adjacent sides, a silent competition on who can get out of there the fastest. You came here just for that, he mouths from afar as your burn bright pink, gaze flickering towards your strawberry ice cream. You flip him off, but giggle apologetically when the cashier assumes it’s aimed towards her. 

Charles wants to chuckle in amusement but would rather eat his own foot than admit to that. Have a good day, you can hear his clerk tell him at the same time yours does too. Flinging your arm into the hoop on your tote bag, you run off as he races you with a full cart of groceries. There’s a curve you hit as you manage to squeeze through and smile back at your ex, somehow satisfied. Amidst skip, you feel a harsh push as you fling forward, falling onto your knees as a little boy winces, licks his lollipop, and walks away. 

Blood trickles down your knees as you fiercely turn back to look at a regretful loser. “Is it really that deep?” you spit out, ears turning bright red from your reasonable anger. He tries to help you up but that only receives him a slap in the face. “Great. I look like I just got my period. Unbelievable.” 

“You just hit me,” he speaks in disbelief.

“You just pushed me,” you retort pointing at your injury, flesh being creepily visible. “On purpose, I might add.”

The Monegasque scoffs, gently massaging his aching face, dark brows pointed at you like knives. “You’re one crazy fucking girl…”

“Thanks, I get that a lot.”

It's all a fateful haze, the way you end up in his car. You suppose it starts the moment he presses on helping you unload your groceries, as some sick apology. But it’s only my ice cream. But he sheepishly shrugs. Now blood paints his driver's seat as you sit on top of him, and occasional grunts overflow due to his red cheek. “I can’t have sex with you,” you mumble against his swollen lips, chest heaving as your tinted windows begin to fog up. It was still early, but you didn’t care. 

“And I shouldn’t want to have sex with you, and yet.” 

“Yeah,” you pant, kisses steaming up. “Okay then.”

Shame lingers on your drive back home, and grows even deeper when you realize your strawberry treat has melted.

-

You would never take yourself as a self-driven person; not like most people. It was only one of your many flaws, but in this very moment, bent over the kitchen counter, you promise to become one.

“I can’t keep going back to him,” you groan over the phone as Lily attentively listens to what she considers gossip, and you consider a mid-life crisis. “We broke up months ago, why do I keep doing this to myself?”

“Perhaps because two still care for one another.” And because you know you still love him, and he loves you, she wants to add but stops herself when you glare coldly. 

“I am so over him, are you kidding? I’ve never been better. In fact, I’m going out tonight. First man I see boom! Fuck him. Just like that.” You click your fingers magically for emphasis. 

Lily’s face drops as her eyes zigzag towards something behind her screen. Before she can try to talk you out of it, you hang up. She’s obviously joking, she stutters when Charles freezes, midway from hanging Alex a pair of joggers, since he had forgotten his own. The green-eyed boy forces a dark smile, tipping his head and heading out without a goodbye. 

“I should probably warn her.”

You weren’t picking up–you weren’t going to. It was starting to hit you how stupid this all was and you did not need your friends erasing the last bits of determination you had within you. Beaming at a group of guys, you can’t help but flutter your eyes as they quietly fight over who gets to have the first move. Dibs, if you must. Swallowing the last bit of your awful drink, you start making your way over before a warm hand grips your wrist. “No. I’m not doing this again.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “And you’re not doing that either, we’re leaving.” It takes a lot of mental strength to not kick him in the shin and run off, but you can’t help but slap him once again as soon as he drags you out into the alleyway. A habit you’ve picked up, I see, he growls.

“Why are you still doing this?” you whimper, glassy eyes looking up in complete defeat. “You broke up with me. I agreed. We’re supposed to be moving on from one another. Why can’t you at least try to let me go?”

It’s a punch to the gut, the sound of your raw voice, broken and weak. He takes a clumsy step back, chest tightening from the tense situation he has wheezed himself into. “Believe me, I’m trying but I just can’t…”

Your nose is runny, mascara coats you like a baby racoon, cheekbones are splotchy as if you’ve just been hit, and you were still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Which is part of the reason why he can’t walk away from everything you've been through. 

“Well you’re not going to try, but I am. For real this time.”

-

It’s been ninety-two days, a lot, but not enough at the same time. But there was a piece of you that knew you weren’t missing him as much. So, maybe–it was. Enough, you suppose. It still hurts a tiny bit sometimes, watching him pose with fake smiles, or maybe they’re genuine, you can’t really tell the difference anymore. The way his eyes learned to sparkle for her over time. Fake can become real, it appears. But you being yearnful didn’t mean you weren’t moving on for your own sake. This was good, a new start. The kind you now looked forward to.

And it only took ninety-two fucking days.

taglist: @urfavnoirette @lpab @d3kstar @namgification @myownwritings

*feel free to let me know if you would like to be included in the general taglist!!

[mintmatcha]

tw: implied abuse, no curses au

"Can I ask a question?" Yuuji digs his heel into the wood chips as he swings, digging a growing trench behind him. "You don't have to answer."

Ash falls from the end of Choso's cigarette. He leans against the anchor of the swing set, cheek against cold metal, and sighs. Twilight has passed and the streetlights have turned on, giving the playground a hazy, barely lit glow. Yuuji's guardian will start calling soon, but Choso decides the extra time together is worth the future ire.

"I already told you that I'm not giving you a tattoo."

"Aw, damn-" Yuuji clicks his tongue against his teeth. Ever since they met, he's been dying for a tattoo of his own, throwing out wild new ideas almost every day. One day, when he's eighteen and likes an idea for more than a month, Choso will bring him to his studio and comply.

But, not yet.

"That wasn't my question though," Yuuji says.

"Then go for it."

The younger boy takes a deep breath, then lets it out even slower, pulling the tension longer and longer until it snaps.

"Why weren't you... around? Like, when I was a kid and stuff."

Choso takes his own breath.

"Your mom-- our mom." The taste of that sits bitter on his tongue. He never called her mom, even back then. "She was different for me."

And for our other brothers, he adds silently. Yuuji doesn't need to carry that weight yet, the knowledge that he was the exception to it all.

"Why?" Yuuji pumps his legs a little softer, the back and forth motion of the swing slowly dying out.

"I dunno." Choso wishes he had the answer to that. "She was sixteen, did bad things. Don't worry about it."

Finding out about Yuuji wasn't a shock, somehow. Years after Ken had surrendered her children to the state, Choso had received noticed that she had died. The news felt overdue. No tears were shed, no love lost; the group chat of siblings had all agreed not to go to any service, but the day of, Choso had changed his mind.

He had put on his nicest outfit -some thrift store pants that didn't fit and a shirt he stole from foster dad three- and went expecting to be the only one there, the only one willing to say goodbye.

Choso hadn't known about her new family. They hadn't known about him either. It was typical of Ken to leave a mess in her wake.

Turns out, through a series of lucky breaks, the woman had clawed her way out of poverty and into the arms of a rich, but nice man. Her life was easy and sweet, filled with luxuries and love, including a son ten years younger than her eldest.

No one knows why Yuuji was different than the others, why she decided to be good to him and no one else. Mental illness is strange like that, picking and choosing how it pleases.

Yuuji huffs, gripping the metal chains tighter. "But-"

"Yuuji." Choso drops his cigarette and crushes it under his boot. Then, he thinks about the child that will play there tomorrow, shoveling wood chips into their mouths like idiots, and decides to pick it up. He jams it into his pocket. "You have good memories of her. Don't ruin that."

He used to resent how much Yuuji loved her. He was eight when she died, the same age Choso was when he first had to dial 911 for her. That anger had long faded, replaced with a strange amount of pity.

"But I want to know. What she did and stuff." Yuuji's voice jumps high with emotion. "I'm basically an adult, I can handle it."

"You're sixteen."

"Well, mom was doing this stuff at sixteen, so-" Yuuji is seething suddenly, brow furrowed and teeth grit.

"So?"

"So, she was old enough to be doing bad things and I'm not old enough to know about it?" He stands and the swing clatters behind him. He's stocky, yet tall, bunched with muscles that he's built from baseball. On one side of his cheek, there's a bit of chocolate stuck there, a remnant from the ice cream Choso bought him. Below it, there's a rosy hickey on his neck, a remnant of the boyfriend he hasn't told Nanami about yet. He thinks they're having sex, maybe, but doesn't know how to broach the topic without scaring his brother into never talking about it again.

"And you had tattoos at my age, by the way!"

Choso lets him stew in it, huffing and puffing. The blown out edges of first tattoo peek from under his sleeve, the image barely legible now. An older woman gave it to him at fifteen, in the basement of her house. It became so insanely infected that he ended up in the ER a couple days later.

"I'm not a kid. I can handle it." Yuuji states, calm and clear. "I'm not a kid."

A car passes, it's headlights stretching and pulling the shadows across the park. In the changes, Choso can see his mother in his brother, those soft eyes and thin lips and the same slightly crooked nose that Choso has himself. He thinks, maybe, if time was kinder and his father was better, they'd look more alike each other, but then the moment is gone and they no longer even look like siblings.

"Okay."

Yuuji untenses a bit. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Like, okay, this conversation is done, or okay, I'll tell you?"

"I'll tell you," Choso says, jamming his hands in his pocket. The cigarette butt is there, mushed and still warm against his knuckles. "But not tonight."

"What?!"

"Next time, I promise."

Choso doesn't understand why Yuuji insists on rushing away from innocence, but he knows that he can't stop him. Yuuji will find out about the abuse, the neglect, the other brothers, and the other horrors in some way or another and then things will never be the same.

"Stay a kid just a little longer." Choso resists the urge to ruffle his hair. "For me?"

"Yeah, sure," Yuuji sighs. "One more day."

[bomberqueen17]

looks like i picked the wrong week to quit amphetamines

no no that's a quote from the movie airplane. i tried amphetamines, by prescription, and i know i didn't find them particularly helpful, but i don't remember why. i've spent the last couple of weeks aggressively checked out of reality almost completely lost in my attempts to write a novel about solarpunk tall ships and the hot bisexuals who sail them, and that has been hella fun (i should share a snippet sometime. i will.) but it also means my car is still overdue for inspection and i need to figure out how to pay my physical therapy bill and i have several other urgent tasks piled up plus i still have an enormous quantity of luggage and things i removed from my cabin to winterize it piled in my house's entryway etc. so.

so anyway i've resumed amphetamines, since i had a two-week supply and only took one of them. and we'll see how that goes.

(yeah other friends of mine who've gotten diagnoses have had doctors insist on them monitoring their like, cardiac health or blood pressure with these, and it is slightly surprising to me that nobody has asked me about those things, but on the other hand, i seem to have been fine, so i guess this is ok. i found this guy through my insurance company so this isn't like. well. i don't know. it's the finest supervision i can get through my shitty insurance i guess.)

anyway. tall ships bisexuals is actually going pretty well but extremely disorganizedly. i need to get that under some kind of control.

i bought a stand mixer but haven't gotten it yet.

I also just forgot what i was going to write here, so this is going really well, score another one for the vyvanse. yes yes i'm keeping a comprehensive journal.

wow no really i don't remember where i was going with this. heck! welp. oh yeah no, i've been queueing enormous numbers of political posts and then going back and deleting them as unhelpful, so you're welcome. facebook memories helpfully showed me my post from eight years ago on this topic and mostly i'm like oh wow i was on facebook eight years ago? but if i look, mostly i was not. lol i signed up for facebook almost twenty years ago and decided it was Not For Me almost fifteen years ago and it still sends me twenty emails a day about my friends it's holding hostage, this is kind of amazing. anyway.

well i've been sitting here trying to lure my agitated cat to sit down and kick me out of the recliner, and after literally half an hour it has finally worked. so, off i go to drink like three gallons of water because that is the one thing i remember about being on meth that was really really important. you think "ah i need some more water" and you pour yourself a cup of it and it's gone and you're like "where did that go" so you drink three more cups and then you're like "wow i'm thirsty did i forget to drink water" and you wind up drinking incredible amounts of water and never peeing so. anyway that's a lot easier now that it's winter and i'm living someplace with running water, so. thumbs up.

woof i took a multivitamin and a fish oil capsule at the same time and i can taste that fish oil capsule, well done me =_=

[229zmi]

AU REVOIR

PAIRING: Kuroo Tetsurō/Reader

CONTENT: embarrassing moments, you and kuroo are #strangers, kuroo is late to a job interview, phonecall with kenma

WORD COUNT: 1.9k

“Hey, uh. Can I help you?”

Oh, god. Kuroo Tetsurō has never been more embarrassed.

Not even when he was suffering from a particularly bad case of borborygmus in a completely silent lecture hall, or when he accidentally liked someone’s post from 176 weeks ago. Nor was he this embarrassed the time his umbrella turned inside out and cartwheeled out of his hand into a ditch in front of several cars stopped at a traffic light. And who knows how many embarrassing moments he’s had throughout all his years of volleyball— but this moment right here. It still takes the cake.

Pause, rewind, play: this morning, ten minutes ago. The sky was blue, the birds were chirping, and Kuroo Tetsurō? Ten minutes ago, he was suddenly woken up by a loud sound, although it wasn’t the sound of an alarm, no, for there was no alarm to wake up to. What woke him up was actually a call from Kenma, who almost never called him, so he figured it had to be important.

“Hello? Everything okay?”

“Are you on your way to your interview?”

Of course. How typical of Kenma, always straight to the point, no pleasantries or—

Wait.

“Wh—“ Kuroo blinks a couple times to wake himself up, groggily rubbing his eyes. He lets out a yawn loud enough to shift earth’s tectonics before continuing his sentence, “What’d you say?”

“Your job interview,” Kenma repeats from his phone, “it starts at eight-thirty, doesn’t it?”

Silence fills the conversation for a while. Kuroo’s eyes begin to flutter shut, lulled by the faint sound of static emitted by the call. It isn’t until his phone slips out of his hand and hits the sheets with soft thud! that Kenma speaks up, impeding the drowsy man’s short-lived slumber.

“Hello?”

“Hm,” Kuroo hums.

“You are ready, right?” His best friend’s starting to sound concerned. “Like, all dressed up and halfway out the door ready. Right?”

“Mm… hm.”

Kenma restrains himself from somehow reaching his hands through the phone and violently shaking Kuroo by the shoulders. “That does not sound convincing. Please don’t tell me you’re still in bed.”

Still clueless, Kuroo yawns again, rolling over onto his other side. “And if I am? I set an alarm last night, you didn’t need to call me. I can handle it myself.”

“Kuro,” Kenma says. Now he sounds dead serious, like he’s about to be the deliverer of either some grave news or an overdue love confession. Unfortunately for Kuroo, it’s the former; Kenma drops the bomb without hesitation: “You have twenty minutes before your interview starts.”

“I didn’t realise you were so punctual, Kenma. Twenty minutes, that’s plenty of t—“

Oh.

Oh.

(Pause, rewind, play: the night before. Kuroo turned off all the lights. Hopped under the covers. Went straight to sleep. He did not set his alarm.)

Shit.

“I swear I set my alarm last night,” Kuroo speaks into the phone, running a hand through his hair out of frustration. In the past seven minutes, he’s managed to brush his teeth, get dressed, and exit his apartment without any major troubles. Sure, his hair’s a little… controversial in the back, and there’s some noticeable creases in his button-up shirt, but clearly, a bigger issue lies at hand — and no, it’s not the judging stares that the other pedestrians are giving him as he power-walks through the city. “You don’t think they’ll mind if I’m a few minutes late, do ya?”

Kenma audibly sighs.

“I don’t know what that means, so I’m taking that as you telling me they’ll one hundred-percent hire me on the spot.”

This time, Kenma doesn’t make a sound, though Kuroo senses he may have rolled his eyes. Either that, or he made a face akin to someone tasting a lemon.

“I’m hanging up,” his friend finally says, deciding he’s done enough to help today. Even this is something he considers charitable in their friendship; usually, Kenma prefers to treat calls with his friends like another app on his phone and close out of the call without warning, so maybe Kuroo should be grateful on this glorious day, he thinks.

“What? No, you can’t do that. That’s.”

“…That’s what?”

“Treason,” Kuroo finishes. “I still need your moral support. So—“

There’s a dull beep coming from the other end. Betrayed, Kuroo pulls his phone away from his ear only to be met with the image on his lockscreen — a photo of an outing with his friends some weeks ago — and the ever-daunting time, which currently reads: 08:19. A second later, the screen turns black and he catches sight of his reflection, including his unfortunately dishevelled hair and his wrinkled shirt and—

He winces.

His tie needs serious fixing.

The building where his interview will be at is only a few blocks away. After only a moment’s contemplation, he decides it won’t hurt to spend a minute or two trying to fix whatever fucked up knot he made while he was still dealing with the effects of being just woken up several minutes ago, veering away from his line of travel toward a car parked along the side of the street. Using the tinted window as a mirror, he tugs at the fabric in an attempt to undo it, although to no avail.

Then, the window rolls down.

“Hey, uh.” Concerned eyes lock with his. Kuroo short-circuits, his face turning a sickly colour as his mouth drops in horror, giving the illusion of a fish out of water. “Can I help you?”

Tapping along the rim of your steering wheel, you wait for a response. It isn’t that you’re annoyed or mad or anything along those lines; rather, you were almost flattered at first by the sight of a handsome yet serious-looking man speed-walking past your car before doubling back and staring at you through your window with what you misunderstood as passion in his eyes. But after watching him fidget with his tie for a solid minute, the realisation crashed onto you like tidal waves: he was in fact not nervously blown away by your copious amount of beauty, and now you’re more disappointed than anything.

“I’m so sorry,” Kuroo says with an apologetic smile, straightening from his previously hunched position over your window after realising how creepily close he is. A voice in the back of his mind tells him you have pretty eyes — and pretty hands, he notes a moment later as he steps back to put more distance between the two of you — but he pushes back both thoughts. “Really, I didn’t know you were there.”

“Were you planning to steal my car or something if I wasn’t inside?” You intend for this to be a light-hearted joke, but maybe your tone comes off too bland for him to get it, and now that enough time has passed for you to think about it, you’re not sure what you were trying to do with this ‘joke’ either. Nonetheless, you find amusement in the way his expression swiftly switches from aghast to frantic and even more in the transition of his face to a deeper shade of pink.

However, there’s a part of you that feels bad, so you eventually reassure him, “I’m joking. Would you like some help with your tie?”

Out of the benevolence of your heart, you decide to leave out the part where you mention how it looks like a three year old trying to tie their shoes for the very first time.

Kuroo looks grateful, relieved almost. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

“C’mere, then.”

You motion for him to come closer and reach your hands out the window. Kuroo takes a tentative step forth, though that’s not near close enough for you, so you extend your arm and gently tug on the tie, pulling him forward until your elbows are barely past the window. To make things a little easier, Kuroo spreads his knees slightly, creating a wide triangle with the ground and lowering himself so that he’s level with you. For a brief moment, your eyes drift to meet each other’s before immediately looking away. You focus on fixing his tie, and Kuroo acts interested in a crack in the ground all of sudden.

Even if he does look a bit odd standing like this, he supposes it’s worth the judgmental stares from passers-by once again because in only a matter of a minute, you somehow manage to untie the hideous knot. As you begin retying it, you make an attempt to start up conversation.

“Got something important today?”

“Just a job interview.”

You hum, mildly intrigued. “Where?”

He tells you the company and building, and you beam in recognition of the name.

“I work there! Today’s my day off,” you tell him. Once you’re done, you tug at the tie one last time before, without thinking, moving to brush the dust off his suit jacket with your hands. You freeze up as soon as you realise. (Whatever deity of embarrassment that exists up there must be having a field day with the two of you today.)

“Sorry. That was. Force of habit. I mean, I’ve never done that before— sorry, again. I really don’t know why I did that,” you say honestly. Maybe it’s a thing you’ve seen married couples do on television and subconsciously kept inside your brain like some kind of secret weapon to only be unleashed when you want to woo someone, but you think it’ll be more humiliating if you admit that.

Kuroo laughs. It’s a unique sound, and you find yourself liking it a lot, unable to keep yourself from returning a small smile at him. “It’s fine. We all have our moments.”

“What time’s your interview at?” you ask out of curiosity, leaning an arm out the window.

“Eight-thirty.”

The both of you stare at each other in silence for a couple of seconds.

You purse your lips. “Isn’t that…”

“Yeah.” He glances down the street, then back at you, and it looks like he doesn’t really want to leave yet. Even though he really should. Pulling out his phone from his pocket, he reads the time: 08:26. “I probably should get going.”

“Well, it was nice talking to you. Good luck with your interview,” you say, trying your best to not sound dismayed. Right before he leaves, however, something — perhaps the prospect of him not getting the job and you never getting to see him again — urges you to call out to him, “Wait.”

He turns back.

“I, um. Parked here ‘cause I was searching up directions to this café that opened up recently. If you’d like, after your interview, we could go get coffee together. You can tell me all about it if it goes well… or complain if it doesn’t.”

“Of course,” he says immediately. He can’t help but feel giddy inside, internally wanting to kick his feet, twirl his hair, and giggle and squeal like a pig all at once. If he was inside a building or a room, maybe he’d also be comically bouncing off the walls like in cartoons. Regardless of these overwhelming compulsions, he retains his composure, cooly adding, “I’d love that.”

“I’ll wait for you here, then,” you affirm with a smile. “See ya later…” Oh, right. You’ve yet to exchange names, but you suppose that can wait for now. “…stranger.”

Amused, he returns, “Later, stranger.”

As he walks away, a voice in the back of his mind makes note yet again of the fact that you have pretty eyes, pretty hands, and, just now, a pretty smile. Maybe, he thinks, he’ll tell you after the interview.

[accio-victuuri]

from this article: 10 short stories about "Formed Police unit" 📝 ( i included general facts and the ones related to Bobo )

The action blockbuster "Formed Police Unit", which brings together actors such as Huang Jingyu, Wang Yibo, Zhong Chuxi, Ou Hao and other actors, was released on May 1st this year and topped the box office in the first two days.

Before the screening, the producer Liu Weiqiang and director Li Dachao of "Formed Police Unit" shared the behind-the-scenes story of the film with the Entertainment Management Studio . During the exchange, they talked many times about the need to "shoot with care" and "correctly" when making movies today. Movies need to be awe-inspiring.”

Liu Weiqiang revealed that the film took 75 days to shoot and was 10 days overdue. The investors also fully supported it because they wanted to provide the best results for the audience. The following ten short stories let us know more about "Formed Police Unit".

ONE

The story theme of "Formed Police Unit" was proposed by director Li Dachao. In 2010 , Li Dachao saw a piece of news about a peacekeeping police officer returning to China after his death. The urn was covered with the national flag and the police standing on both sides saluted solemnly. Li Dachao was thinking about it at that time. I was moved, " At that time, I was thinking about what peacekeeping was, and later I learned that they are such a noble and selfless profession, all dedicated to contributing to the local people. "

I thought of this subject in 2010 , but the film didn't start filming until a few years ago. Li Dachao believes that timing is very important, " You see how much the world needs peace now, I think it is very important to express the spirit of peacekeeping. "

FOUR

"Formed Police Unit" is the first film starring Wang Yibo. Liu Weiqiang revealed that Wang Yibo was very cautious when accepting projects. When discussing the script, he was moved by the role of Yang Zhen.

At that time, Wang Yibo had a small worry, that is, there was a scene with teenage Yang Zhen in the movie. "He was worried that if it were played by another young actor, whether the two would be able to synchronize the performance. The little Yang Zhen we found and He looks quite similar, so he feels relieved when he sees it.”

FIVE

At the end of the film, Yang Zhen had a scene where he was beaten by an enemy. In order to guide Wang Yibo to perform the real pain, director Li Dachao said: "I pinched him before starting the movie. After pinching him, he screamed. I said this feeling was... By the way, you have to keep it real, and you have to magnify the pain of being pinched 100 times. "

SIX

The crew learned from former peacekeeping police officers who had actually participated in peacekeeping operations that when they went on missions, they would spread Chinese culture locally, teach Chinese and martial arts, and usually grow vegetables in the base where they were stationed.

The crew also built a vegetable garden on the set, and the props team was responsible for growing vegetables and watering them. There was a scene where the peacekeepers went to pick vegetables. "An interesting fact is that almost all the vegetables were dug up by Wang Yibo. He dug them too fast. I said wait, I haven't turned on the camera yet," director Li Dachao said with a smile.

SEVEN

Wang Yibo was still a newcomer to the film industry when filming "Formed Police Unit", but Liu Weiqiang's impression of him was that he was very smart, "You see, he usually doesn't make a sound, but when he does, he is very powerful. He is an observation-type actor, and a good actor is like this , observe first, and after observing, he will know which points he ne

EIGHT

The peacekeeping team in the movie is designed according to the real peacekeeping configuration, two armored vehicles + snipers + liaison officers, etc. Each character has his or her own plot mission. For example, Ou Hao plays the team leader, and he is a role model. As a police officer, he uses his lines to express the spirit of the peacekeeping police; Gu Jiacheng's character and Yang Zhen grew up together in the police station, and he played a catalyst role in Yang Zhen's growth.

The director revealed that in order to prepare the soldiers' strong bodies and performance conditions, the actors of the Peacekeeping Team spontaneously trained, ran, gained muscle, tanned, and encouraged each other before filming began. Huang Jingyu said that the first half of the movie was shot in the daytime, and in the end it was all night scenes. The action scenes were shot all night long, and it was raining. If you didn't reserve your physical strength, you wouldn't be able to persevere.

NINE

Based on the longitude and latitude, landforms, vegetation, weather and climate characteristics of the mission area in the movie, the crew found a filming location that could simulate the African environment and built an entire city, including slums, streets, squares, seaside stilt houses, etc.

The last major scene of rescuing witnesses during a stormy night had to wait for the tide to change during the actual shooting. The tide rose every four hours at that time. In order to show the harsh environment in the storm, we had to wait until the tide rose to shoot. It took 15 days to complete

article source

[mariacallous]

“Thank you Liz!” the crowd shouted, drowning out the former congresswoman who had come to Ripon, Wisconsin to deliver the most unlikely cri de coeur in political memory.  

Cheney endorsed Harris weeks ago. But this was the first time she spoke at an official Harris for President event. There she stood, stern but emotional, positioned behind the seal of the office her father once held—a crowd of appreciative Democrats before her. 

It was a powerful scene. It was deserved. And it was overdue. Cheney has earned a moment with flowers and applause for her willingness to call out the threat posed by Trump. Yesterday she finally got it, replete with a few choked back tears. 

But the visible emotions passed quickly. This was not a time for valedictory celebration. There is real business before us. Nobody understands that more than Liz. For her, this isn’t about ego or pageantry. She earnestly believes it’s the most important thing she will ever do. Her dad said as much. 

On Thursday, she spoke in stark and powerful terms. First, she reiterated that her values and policy views haven’t changed, and they needn’t change, to make this endorsement. 

I was a Republican even-before Donald Trump started spray tanning. I am a Ronald Reagan conservative.… Above all else, I know that the most conservative of conservative values is fidelity to our Constitution. I tell you, I have never voted for a Democrat. But this year, I am proudly casting my vote for Vice President Kamala Harris. 

Then, she laid out the clear choice before the country.

In this election, a broad coalition has come together to support Vice President Kamala Harris. Now, we may disagree on some things, but we are bound together by the one thing that matters to us as Americans more than any other, and that's our duty to our Constitution and our belief in the miracle and the blessing of this incredible nation… So, today I ask all of you here and everyone listening across this great country to join us. I ask you to meet this moment. I ask you to stand in truth to reject the depraved cruelty of Donald Trump. And I ask you instead to help us elect Kamala Harris as President

As I processed this speech, I couldn’t shake the sad spectacle hovering over it. Given the stakes and the unimpeachable arguments presented, it is striking that Cheney is so alone among her peers.1 

Back when Charlie helmed this newsletter, he wrote a series about the singular bravery of Mitt Romney. “Romney, Alone.” “Romney, One Man Alone” “Romney, Alone Again.” 

In the series’ final installment he wrote this. 

Almost alone among his colleagues, Romney seems focused on the verdict of history…What would happen if three or four—or eight or nine—Republicans senators joined Romney? How would Trump react to a critical mass of senators who pushed back? What would happen if a half dozen senators who remembered the legacy of Margaret Chase Smith joined together to condemn “Fear, Ignorance, Bigotry and Smear”? Would Trump tweet insults at them all? And how would their Senate colleagues react then? As the impeachment inquiry progresses and we find more evidence of exactly what Trump did with regard to foreign interference in U.S. elections, we may well find out. Until then, Romney stands alone. Again.

Today, Romney doesn’t stand alone. He stands on the sidelines. Rather than focusing on the verdict in November, he prefers to try and ensure he is “in a position after this election to have some influence on the direction of our party in the future.” 

God (and Liz) willing, when this election is over there will be something left to influence.  

Mike Pence wasn’t in Ripon either. But he was there in spirit. In absentia, Trump’s former vice president received a spirited round of applause from the Democrats in Wisconsin after Cheney congratulated him for refusing to violate his constitutional oath. (Democrats applauding Mike Pence. Yes, you read that right). 

The list of others who were missing is too long and too depressing to enumerate, so I shan't. Instead, I’ll return to The Bulwark’s persistent yawp. After all these years and all these disappointments it remains impossible to process that at this moment, with everything on the line, it is Liz, alone. How could it be? How can they risk putting Donald Trump back in the Oval Office after he ate well-done cheeseburgers in front of his TV while a mob he sent ransacked the capitol, assaulted police and tried to hang his vice president? 

How???? 

As long as I live I will never fully comprehend it. There should have been a line of honest and wise men a mile long standing behind Cheney on Thursday. But their cowardice, their venality, their shameful abdication of responsibility only served to make this moment in Ripon more powerful.

Because instead of that mile long line of men, there stood two women with vanishingly little in common. There they were, in the place where an honest, abolitionist Republican party formed, in political unity, bound by a mutual love of country and a commitment to its best ideals. 

Two women standing in the breach to protect the country from the men trying to tear it apart. 

Two women alone, standing together for all of us. 

[fenglianist]

Pairing: Mu Qing/Xie Lian

Rating: T

Word Count: 7,473

Summary:

Xie Lian leant forward and wrapped Mu Qing tightly in an embrace that took Mu Qing's breath away. The faint fragrance of cherry blossoms clung to his hair, the same scent that lingered in Mu Qing's memories, so nostalgic that for a moment there it almost took Mu Qing right back to those sunlit days on Mount Taicang, plucking fruits from the cherry trees with Xie Lian. How did that day feel like it was simultaneously lifetimes ago, and just yesterday?  “Mu Qing, I really… really am so glad to see you again. I've missed you so much, these eight hundred years.”

Mu Qing and Xie Lian reunite after Xie Lian's third ascension.

(Written for TGCF Rarepairs Gotcha for Gaza)

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Reconciliation, Pining, Pining Mù Qíng, Mild Gore, Canon Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, POV Mu Qing (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Worried Mu Qing, Introspection, Not Actually Unrequited Love, it isn't mulian if there's no angsty longing, long overdue conversations finally happen

[jetblackknight]

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ long overdue starter for @sunfallsprophet's 𝙳𝙹𝙰𝙷𝙸𝙼𝙰 : )

⚔ ────▪ 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙸𝚂𝙽'𝚃 𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙿𝙾𝚂𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 . ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ He thought this with confusion written across his strong, yet soft, features. Vergil knew every inch of the island of Fortuna, from its rocky beaches to its snowy peaks, and even beyond. He knew of the jungle, its demonic, magical nature finally dissipating after nearly eight years of influence. It was to be an empty forest. Yet, from where he sat, on the rooftop of one of the few still-standing buildings in the castle town, such was not the case. Curiously, he sipped at his tea in front of him, but what he saw had begun to bug him more than mere curiosity. No one was supposed to be on those mountains now. They had not yet been deemed safe—small packs of lesser devils still hid within its canopied hills. And he knew where Nero was right now . . . he was on a job, with Dante. He was not allowed to go on any, yet. At least not without supervision.

                         ❛ It is their life, ❜ Vergil reminded himself. He sipped at his cup of tea, admiring the glass-work. The cafe underneath his feet had not yet reacquired the appropriate stock; Port Caerula was in ruin after what his son had done in frustration, and had yet to be repaired, leaving imports to the island few and far between. The occasional ferry was all that came, back and forth, once a week. Largely, the cafe was a " Bring Your Own Cup " situation. Vergil admired the sustainability. He enjoyed the tea, too. Homegrown, still earthy, with a little bit of sugar. It was distracting enough to almost make him forget.                          And yet, here Vergil was, sitting there, thinking about the soft plume of smoke he saw in the mountains . . .                          ❛ Or not. ❜                           Sighing, Vergil stared at his cup and grumbled, standing. He brought it with him half-drank, and downed the rest on his way downstairs. His name had been engraved in his own, elegant script on the bottom of its glass, so he left it with the barista behind the small, cluttered counter. She knew exactly where to put it. The perks of being a Sparda—special treatment across the entire island.                           With a start, Vergil began to flit throughout cramped alleys and busy streets, a blur of black and teal, making his way to the port, to the mine, up the mine, and over the now non-magical bridge that led him to what was once a training ground. It was now merely forest ruins. Kicking off the ground, he made his way into the air out of the watchful eye of the townspeople and transformed, flying above until he was almost touching the curious plume of smoke. He smelled food. Fire, of course, but food. And still . . .                           His curiosity had been piqued, such was true. Vergil flew back several yards before diving down into the forest, nothing more than a whisper of leaves—he knew when to be silent, unnoticed. If this was simply an idiotic hiker, he could scare them into returning back to Fortuna before something far worse than an irritated half-demon came along. What he found instead was not a hiker.                          ❛ How curious. ❜                           The middle and end of a small forest path, overgrown by flora, sat under his feet ; not more than thirty feet away, the beginnings of what Vergil first presumed to be another ancient ruin. But it wasn't. The material was all wrong. Where the training ground was sun-bleached stones and clay, this was something else. Something handmade, without the use of infernal underlings, as the training ground was. After all, it was where his father trained the Order, long before that wretched old pervert had taken up the mantle and turned the majority of the town's able young men into artificial demons. No, this was made with love and care, each stone fitted into place, each beam of wood hand-carved and cut and sanded and oiled to blend into the environment. At least, until whoever was here decided to use their fireplace.                           Vergil began to step forward, careful, but not careful enough—the scent hit him just before the aura, and it knocked his concentration completely to the floor. Whatever was here was not human. Vergil gripped his sword tightly, trying to recover. He had only seconds before whatever warding magic was here alerted its owner to his presence.                           Even then, it appeared he was far too late.                           Vergil braced for a fight.

[phillippadgettwrites]

The First Time, Every Time: Conduit

Rated X / 988 words / Posted on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

She makes him feel weak.

The protective layer he built up around himself—comprising an off-putting mix of dry humor, feigned indifference, and outlandish theories—was twenty-one years strong when he met her. Within the space of forty-eight hours, it disintegrated and blew away on the chilled Oregon wind as she bared her body to him, and he bared his soul to her. He wants to feel strong again, to feel protected, but something about her won’t let his guard come back up. Something about her makes him question whether he even wants it to.

He hates being pitied. He hated it when he was twelve, and he hates it now; people feeling bad for him won’t bring Samantha back. But Scully doesn’t pity him—it wasn’t pity on her face when he stupidly poured his heart out to her days after accusing her of being a spy. Pity holds people at arm's length, it allows them to find comfort in the fact that they are not sitting in your seat. What Scully shows him is something between empathy and compassion. She doesn’t look away from his hurt, doesn’t keep her distance. She sits down right in the middle of it and holds his hand. She sees right through him. Sees the way he’s looking for his sister around every corner, that his aloof facade is just that. He keeps flip-flopping between baring his teeth at her and rolling over to expose his vulnerable belly. Come closer, stay back. Leave if you want, but please don’t abandon me. It scares him how good it feels to have her around, because experience tells him that people who make you feel good are not long for this world, or his world at least. The more he leans into her, the harder he’ll fall when she inevitably walks away.

He is two people. He is Mulder the man, slowly alienating her with brusqueness and intentional omissions, making himself so intolerable that he’ll have something to point to as the cause of her exit beyond the fact that he just isn’t someone people want to be with. But he is also Fox the boy, looking around desperately for someone to comfort him, to tell him that he will be okay. He sits on the edge of his motel bed, glancing intermittently at the adjoining door to her room. Mulder the man tells him to stay put, but Fox the boy is fairly strong for a twelve year old, and he wins out in the end. He knocks on her door, then chews on his thumbnail as he waits for her to answer. He has no plan for what he’ll do when she does.

“Mulder, is everything okay?” she asks, squinting against the light pouring out of his room.

He glances at the clock and realizes that it’s after 1:00 am. Her hair is all fluffed up and messy, the top button on her pajamas open to expose the lily white skin of her chest.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize how late it is. Never mind, I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

He begins to turn away from her, but she catches his hand to still him.

“Are you all right?” she asks, and he hears it in her voice before he looks back to see it in her face. Empathy. Compassion. And he’s weak. So incredibly weak.

“Does it make me a terrible person that I’m envious of him? Maybe even a little resentful?” he asks, feeling broken and raw.

She doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t need it. She pulls on his arm and draws him into a hug, and he feels himself crumbling. She’s so much smaller than he is, but her hug feels as big as the ocean, and he’s drowning in a surge of relief that is twenty-one years overdue. Instead of asking what he needs, she just gives it to him. She takes him into the quiet dark of her room, guides him down to the soft surface of her bed, pets his hair and strokes his back. She doesn’t tell him that he will be okay—she’s too forthright to placate him—but somehow she still makes him feel like he might be, someday.

They are sitting, and then laying. Parallel, and then entangled. So slowly it’s almost imperceptible, her comforting touch goes from maternal to intimate, from palms to fingertips, from patting to stroking. She tilts her head up and he can smell the heat of her breath in the dark, feel her breasts pressing against his chest on each of her shallow inhalations, and his cock stirs. Like a steadily rising tide, she draws closer and closer until her mouth wets the dry shore of his lips, and her tongue crashes into his like a mighty wave. There are intermittent utterances that break up the quiet hush of their movements—confirmation that it’s mutually consensual, a brief discussion regarding the lack of a condom, his expression of concern that her sharp breath when he enters her is indicative of pain—but for the most part they are silent. She feels so good that his eyes sting and his lips threaten to say things that he will regret in the morning, so he kisses her almost continuously, pinning his lips to the corner of her mouth when her jaw drops wide and she throbs around him. He comes so hard that he can barely hold himself up, his arms dissolving into the motel mattress and allowing the full force of his weight to sink into her tiny body.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, attempting to roll off of her, but she wraps her legs around his hips and strokes the back of his neck with a featherlight touch.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, and it suddenly feels like his throat is packed with marbles. “You’re okay.”

She makes him feel weak, but she also heals him. She helps him find his strength.

He’s grateful.

[secret-diary-of-an-fa]

I Saw the TV Glow Review (Weirdly, It Works Better Without Subtext)

SPOILER ALERT

ALSO TRIGGER WARNING: Gender Dysphoria, Depression, 90s Television, Kid’s Parties, Rishi Sunak, Skittles (and the repackaging thereof), Unaliving Oneself onstage with a Prop, Ontological Dread and Birds Flying Into Windows.

So, there’s a bit of a buzz about I Saw the TV Glow in cult cinephile circles, and I’m a bit glad about that because it’s a genuinely interesting film and we don’t see genuinely interesting films get the attention they deserve very often. Note, however, that I said “attention” not “praise”. That’ll be important later. So… why is everyone talking about this film (and by ‘everyone’, I mean ‘like, maybe, me and eight other snooty movie weirdos’)? Well, we’ll get there, but first let me lay out the plot for you: protagonist Owen is a socially-awkward, doesn’t-fit-in-anywhere boy right out of the mumblecore ‘90s Indie Cinema Playbook and, during his middle-school years, he befriends a lass called Maddy (though ‘befriends’ might be wrong word for the weird codependence they strike up) and she introduces him to a show called The Pink Opaque: a dark, disturbing, supernaturally-inflected TV show about two psychic friends who fight ‘Mr. Melancholy’ (a sinister occult psychopath with a moon for a face- just go with it). Ostensibly, The Pink Opaque is meant to be for kids, but from the beginning, there’s something very obviously not quite right about it. Weirder still, when Maddy disappears in a doomed bid to find herself, the show gets cancelled, almost as if it was a part of her. Fast-forward, via a few narrative leaps and bounds, to Owen’s adulthood and Maddy reappears, claiming to have been inside the show, which is actually reality. She and Owen, she asserts, are the main characters from the programme and Mr. Melancholy has sent their minds to the ‘Midnight Realm’ of their present, false reality. In order to escape, they need to bury themselves alive, because that’s what’s happening to their real bodies and it’ll reestablish the connection (I’m adding the technobabble, by the way: the phrasing in the movie is nowhere near that logical or concise). Spoiler alert: Maddy does this and then vanishes from the plot, Owen doesn’t and we see him grow old, trapped in his own personal suburban nightmare… right up until the end of the film, where we see him leaving his place of work in a manner very open to interpretation. Is he finally about to wise up and go bury himself in order to emerge renewed, or is he just going home for a cuppa, a biscuit and a long overdue review of his mental health medication?

Now, clearly, all that sounds like a real fucking trip of a movie, but that’s not why it’s generating buzz. See, Maddy believes that she and Owen are the two main characters from The Pink Opaque, but both of those characters are female. Owen, as you can tell from the fact he’s called Owen, is not. Thus, the flick has been interpreted as a metaphor for gender dysphoria and the process of transitioning/ the decision not to. There’s a lot of allusions to Owen feeling like there’s something wrong with him (on one level reality) and feeling like he’s being buried alive and is dying while, er, that’s literally what’s happening to his meta-self on the Pink Opaque level of reality. There’s a bit where he has a break-down at a kid’s party and screams “HELP ME! I’M LITERALLY DYING RIGHT NOW!” Although, in fairness, kids’ parties make me feel like that too and I’m not even remotely trans. The point is, it’s a film with a big, fat, capital-I Issue at its centre, which has given people a license to enjoy it despite the fact it’s weird, schlocky, neon-doused pulp of the highest order. And, fair play to people suffering with gender dysphoria, if this film really speaks to you, you go right the fuck ahead and enjoy it on that level. But (and here I’m about to piss off the entire internet), I actually think it works a lot better if you just take it completely fucking literally. Like, forget the metaphorical nonsense and focus on the actual plot and it instantly becomes one of the best and most upsetting horror films of the last five years. Try and draw real-life parallels, however, and it starts to seem a bit overwrought and melodramatic.

Right. Time to try and explain what I mean without upsetting anyone more than I already have (please don’t send me hate-mail: I don’t read it and you’ll just give yourself carpal tunnel syndrome, which, trust me, is a bitch). It’s pretty obvious that there’s something wrong with the world Owen and Maddy inhabit from the get-go. The school they go to as sprogs is called Void High School, which (aside from having the initials VHS) is also just NOT A REAL NAME FOR A PLACE, and it has really creepy, weird text on its message boards in place of the usual papers and kids drawings (one strip that caught my eye, rendered in stark black-on-yellow font, simply reads ‘PAIN IS WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY’). There’s a supermarket that just seems like a giant, sprawling liminal space devoid of people. Characters from The Pink Opaque show-within-a-film get referenced in places that have nothing to do with the show. Daytime, though it never vanishes altogether, seems to become less and less frequent as though the characters are sinking into the deepening night of impending death. Characters who should be key to the protagonists formative years have no dialogue at all, as though they’re just set dressing in a shared delusion. The lore of The Pink Opaque shifts, so that the characters memories cease to align with the show itself, just (it seems) to fuck with them. And, creepiest of all, Owen has to continually narrate his own life straight to camera, like he might forget who and what he is and come unmoored from reality if he doesn’t constantly tell the story. As the clues stack up and the evidence becomes more and more incontrovertible, the realisation slowly dawns: this is not madness. This is not too mixed-up kids bonding over a crappy horror show on TV. This is the story of a person condemned to a slow, humiliating false life by a vengeful cosmic entity while their real body dies in a freshly-dug grave on another level of reality. In that context, the existence of the show The Pink Opaque, is their oxygen-deprived brain trying to warn them to get up! GET UP NOW! YOU ARE DYING! GET UP! And that’s genuinely terrifying. “What if reality isn’t reality?” is already one of the most disturbing questions you can ask yourself. Add to that the questions of “Who is perpetrating reality against you?”, “Why are they doing?” and “What if the real me is dying while this happens?” and you’ve got some pure, solipsistic, philosophical nightmare fuel to keep you up at night!

The gender dysphoria interpretation, in contrast, is probably the intended interpretation, but if you focus too much on that, it makes the whole thing feel a bit, well… silly. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure gender dysphoria is very, very unpleasant. I’m sure being trapped in the wrong body and not knowing how to express the all-pervading feeling of wrongness is one of the most traumatic things a human being can go through. However, none of the trans people I know in real life have ever collapsed onto the floor in their place of work to scream “I’M LITERALLY DYING RIGHT NOW!” (although my sort-of-adopted trans daughter did once call me after a night of heavy drinking to claim “I’m sober now! I’m just putting these skittles back in their packet!” like it was the dexterity-challenge of the century and somehow proved something. That has nothing to do with this review, I just thought it was funny and that you’d like to know it happened). Nor, to the best of my knowledge, has burying oneself alive and popping back up out of the dirt like a jack-in-the-box ever been considered a useful, therapeutic part of the gender reassignment process. Meanwhile, Owen’s life isn’t just a bit constricting and mediocre, it’s downright oppressive, devoid of even the most fleeting moments of joy, and his only meaningful emotional connection is with someone who fucks off for a decade at a time and reappears claiming to have been living inside a TV show. Nobody could be that miserable all the time, even if they tried. Think about how long human beings live: the number of years and the number of days in each year and the number of hours in each day and the number of minutes in each hour. At the very least, at some point in all that, you’d accidentally catch a Monty Python rerun or see a bird fly into a window and then try and strut off like nothing happened and then… Whoops! You’re laughing like a fucking idiot and your perfect record of being resolutely unhappy is completely fucking ruined, you loser. My point is that, as a metaphor, I Saw the TV Glow feels a little hammy: like an actor beating his chest and wailing to express grief, possibly before committing fake-sepuku with a very obviously cardboard knife. But if you forget it’s a metaphor and remember that Owen’s life is so unremittingly miserable because it was created to be unremittingly miserable by a cosmic entity of terrifying malevolence and power, suddenly it all makes sense… and scares you badly enough to keep you up all night worrying that maybe we’re all trapped by Mr. Melancholy… or Prime Minister Rishi Sunak as we call him here in the dystopian wasteland that used to be Great Britain.

Anyway, I recommend I Saw the TV Glow. It’s stylish, weird, quite clever (though not as clever as it clearly thinks it is) and, frankly, some of the visuals have to be seen to be believed (the monster of the week made of melting ice-cream, for example, is the kind of thing that you’d normally have to neck quite a lot of absinth to see, but the film-makers have brought it to life here so that you don’t have to and, consequently, your liver won’t start to hate you like an abused spouse).

[iris-writesx]

we could leave the christmas lights up ‘til january | stede x ed x izzy

read it here or read it on ao3 <3

this was supposed to be the fic that introduced the au, so if you like just pretend this one came first. though, none of the fics in the au necessarily have to be read in order, it will just be a bunch of one shots for this idea!!

but i’ve only written fluff once for this fandom and not even this trio, so it’s overdue. i feel like this fic is a bit meh but it’s definitely more to provide some context for the au. i spent so long working on all of their backstories im actually pretty proud of them akdjwjr

off note and it doesn’t matter but i started the bbc show “uncle” that con o’neill is in (yes i watched it for him) and it’s actually really good and i am SO in love with val <3

but enjoy!! please tell me what you think / what you’d like to see for this au :)

title is from “lover” by taylor swift x

2.2k words — modern day au, domestic fluff, christmas, ed suffers from chronic pain

more from this au; and now i see daylight

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Ed was fucking tired.

It was almost eight o’clock by the time that he finally pulled into the driveway, and all he planned on doing was having a shower, and going to bed. He didn’t even fancy his dinner, which he knew Stede would've kept in the fridge ready for him to heat up.

He didn’t like Fridays. Fridays were the only day that Izzy and Stede got out of work a good couple of hours before Ed did, and he didn’t like being left out on their time together.

But he was home now. He could just… relax.

It didn’t help that his knee had been killing him all day, which, he would admit, was his fault. He had woken up a lot later than he should have, and in his rush to get ready and leave the house he had forgotten to put on his knee brace. Which basically fucked his leg for the whole day, considering his work was all pretty manual.

Ed had been working at the garage for coming up three years, and he loved it. He loved the fact that he was always bustling about doing something, something that kept his mind and hands occupied. It had taken some time to fall into the flow of his work schedule, but he had and he was so thankful for that.

It had been Izzy who had originally gotten him the job. At the time, Izzy had also worked there. It was the first thing that he had helped him with after Ed had gotten out of rehab.

Of course, Izzy didn’t work there anymore; after he’d lost his leg, there was no chance of him filling his post back up there. But Stede had been kind enough to offer him a job in the little café tucked away in his library.

Ed didn’t mind working without either of his partners there. It just meant that seeing them again after work was even more exciting, something he looked forwards to every day he was apart from them.

His eyes screwed, wincing as he turned to get out of the car. He didn’t even bother grabbing his bag, in his urge to just relax. He could sort that shit out in the morning. Ed was just looking forwards to his warm house, his partners, and some peace and quiet.

…which, he realised when he opened the door, he would not be getting just yet.

The first thing he heard was Stede’s rambling. Stede, bless him, did ramble all the time, granted. But it was one of those do as I say rambles, one he usually ended up using on Ed actually.

Though, for once, it wasn’t directed at him, but at Izzy.

“…be half an hour max and we can do the rest tomorrow, or I can just do it all myself tonight. What do you think, the red? Or the green? I do have more of the green but the red goes better with the gold-”

“Jesus Christ.” Izzy sounded as wiped out as Ed felt.

Ed shrugged his coat from his shoulders, and kicked his shoes off on the rug that Stede had put out now that the wetter weather was more common than not. The warmth of the house was like heaven, and he took a moment to just stand there, leant against the wall as Stede carried on his rambling in the living room.

The colder weather was never favourable, his knee always hurt worse in the cold even with the brace. But without it? He doubted he’d be able to be on his feet for too long the next day, but luckily it was Saturday, which they all had off of work.

Thank fuck.

After he realised that he had been stood there for too long, Ed finally made his way from the hallway into the living room and- just stopped in the doorway. Staring.

“What the fuck is all this?”

Pretty much the entire floor space was covered with different Christmas decorations — ornaments, tinsel, fairy lights, the lot. In the middle of it all knelt on the floor, unsurprisingly, was Stede. He had a rope of tinsel in one hand, the other dug into a box which seemed to just contain more of the shit.

Izzy was tucked up in his armchair by the fireplace, and seemed to be pointedly ignoring the mess around him, as he had his phone in his hand and a blanket draped over his lap.

“Ed!” Stede whipped his head around and smiled, like a fucking holiday bomb hadn’t been deployed in their living room. “I didn’t hear you come in, I’m a little preoccupied. What colour do you like best? Izzy isn’t being helpful in the slightest.”

Izzy scoffed. “Told you to toss it all, didn't I?”

“Oh don’t be such a Scrooge, Israel.”

Ed was still stood in the doorway, blinking at the room in front of him. He knew that Stede was fond of traditions and holidays — he had been awfully skilled at decorating the house for Halloween, had actually scared a good few kids with the fuckery he put outside the house. But they hadn’t really talked much about Christmas.

It was the first of December for fuck sake.

“Ed?” Stede put the box down and got to his feet, frowning a little.

“I think he’s in a state of shock.” Was all Izzy supplied, clearly just to jest Stede.

“I just…” Ed waved his hand around, unsure what to say. “Didn’t remember our house being so glittery.”

Stede stepped over the decorations laid out on the floor to greet Ed in the doorway, leant in to plant a kiss on his lips, and for a moment the decorations didn’t matter because he was home and didn’t want to be anywhere else. He mumbled a hello to Stede, kissed him again, and once Stede had returned to his spot on the floor Ed finally walked into the room, crossed over to Izzy’s chair to lean down and greet him with a kiss too.

“I’d go back out if I were you.” Izzy nodded towards the door once Ed had perched himself on the armrest of his chair, and looked up to see Stede glaring playfully.

“I’d take a lot less time doing it all if you helped.”

Izzy pulled the blanket off of his lap, and reached down to fumble with his prosthetic, and after a moment he took it off, careless as he let it drop to the floor. “Can’t help.”

Ed snorted a laugh, though Stede’s expression was very unamused. “You can’t use that to get out of everything.”

“Yes I can.”

Stede was pouting, and looked over at Ed, gesturing to the decorations around him. “You don’t think this is all pointless, do you?”

“Never said it was pointless.” Izzy mumbled from his side.

Ed let his gaze drift over the decorations again. Nowhere that he had ever lived had ever decorated so heavily for Christmas. When he was a kid his mother would put up a tree and some stockings, but that was it. When he and Izzy had been roommates out of school, they’d never really bothered with much either, just a shitty little plastic tree until they went back to their families for the holidays.

But Ed knew that Stede had led a very different life up until the point that they had met. His life had always been lavish, always had the expenses to celebrate holidays however he wanted. He had no doubt that the decorations over their living room floor were nothing compared to where he had lived with his parents, or with Mary before them — it wasn’t like their house had the room for it all — but it was still more than Ed or Izzy had ever had.

Ed didn’t hate Christmas, not at all. He held fond memories of his mother from that time, secret santas with Izzy (that, granted, he’d had to basically force Izzy to take part in), and more recently, the first Christmas that they had all been together for.

But this would be their first Christmas living together.

“It’s not pointless, mate, no,” Ed shook his head, leant down to lift up a little ornament of an angel into his hands. It was delicate and pretty, and nothing like he and Izzy would’ve owned before they had known and loved Stede. “S’just… y’know, we’ve never really seen the point in decorating the place for Christmas.”

“Really?” Stede had his mouth open, shocked, like Ed had just said something scandalous. “Never? But it’s so- it’s so lovely, Ed, Izzy, it’s such a pretty time of year.”

Ed just gave a little shrug. “The decor and shit has never been so important I guess.”

“Right, then,” Stede nodded, and he had that look on his face — his stubborn look, the look he got when he was about to do something that neither Izzy or Ed would be able to stop once it was in motions. “It’s settled. You two are going to have a real Christmas, done properly.”

His determination made Ed smile, and how could he say no to that? That much passion and stubbornness and- fuck, he just loved Stede so much.

Loved both of them so much.

“Sure thing, love,” Ed nodded, smiled. “But how about we stick a pin in it until tomorrow, yeah? ‘Cause I’m fucked, and just really wanna go to bed-” he moved to stand from the arm of Izzy’s armchair, but he moved in a way that sent shooting pain from his knee and throughout his leg, and immediately cut himself off, gritted out a “fuck” as he stood still.

Izzy had long since zoned out of the previous conversation, had been reading some news articles on his phone like the old man he was, but Ed immediately felt his hand on his back. “Edward?”

“What’s wrong, love?” Stede was insisting, too, and Ed looked up and watched as he scrambled to his feet to get to where Ed was stood.

“Nothing, nothing,” Ed waved them off, inhaled deeply to recompose himself. Sometimes he forgot how much his knee actually did hurt, the pain took the breath from his lungs sometimes. “Just forgot to wear my brace today- ow, what the fuck?” He turned to scowl at Izzy when he had smacked his waist.

“Fucking idiot,” Izzy grumbled, though Ed could see the worry in his eyes. “How much did that brace cost? Too much for you to forget to wear it.”

“Is your knee okay?” Stede was fluttering at his side, frowning. “How bad is it? Do you need any help?”

Ed shook his head. “I’m all good, just a little tender. Will be worse off tomorrow.”

If anything that just made Stede’s frown worse. “Why don’t we go and take a shower so we can get in bed, hm?” He offered, lightly held Ed’s arm with his hands. “I was going to shower anyways, Izzy said he wouldn’t kiss me until I got all of this glitter off of me.”

“I won’t,” came Izzy’s voice whilst Ed laughed. “That shit pisses me off, and now it’s all over our carpet.”

“He’s just being a grump, it’s past his bedtime,” Ed grinned, pretended to ignore the swat he got to his hip as he pulled Stede in with his arm around his shoulders, briefly kissed him on the mouth. “We can shower then sleep,” he told Stede, before he looked back at Izzy. “Will you be joining us, darling?”

Izzy certainly had a point about the glitter, because Ed glanced down at his hands and could see that his skin was dotted with red and golden flecks. He looked back at Izzy with a smile, hands outstretched to cup his face.

“Ed- no-” Izzy leaned as far back in his chair as he could, held his hands up to try and shove Ed’s away. “Edward-”

Ed was far too entertained, and leaned far enough in to cup Izzy’s face despite his protests, laughed against his mouth as he kissed him, before he leaned back to see him.

His beard was glittery.

“Oh don’t you look fabulous, darling.” Stede beamed from beside them.

But Izzy was just glaring at Ed, didn’t look the slightest bit entertained.

“Well, now you have to join us,” Ed beamed, still laughing as he leaned away, tapped Izzy’s cheek once more. And though being leaned down had twinged his knee a little more, the pain was sharper in his joint, it was definitely worth it. “Coming, love?”

“Go fuck yourself.” Izzy grumbled, but despite himself he still leaned down to grab his prosthetic, started putting it back on so he could head to the shower with them.

Stede went upstairs to get the water running and between leaning on Izzy to get to the bathroom whilst his knee was playing up, and listening to the sound of Stede’s humming from the bathroom, he couldn’t have felt more at home.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

comments would mean the world <3 requests are open!

[beardedmrbean]

Namibian Michelle Nehoya has spent nearly $500 (£390) on the application process for a visa to visit Canada - but almost two years later it has yet to materialise.

The 38-year-old, who lives in Namibia's capital, Windhoek, is desperate to get to Quebec to see her aunt and cousins whom she has not seen for almost a decade.

The visa application has involved filling in multiple forms - and among other requirements, she has also had to provide six months of bank statements, an invitation letter plus a detailed travel history.

There is no way to apply in Namibia, so this has also meant travelling to South Africa to submit her biometric data, which involves giving her fingerprints and having a photo taken.

Her experience is not uncommon for Africans travelling to Western countries.

In 2022, seven of the top 10 countries with the highest visa rejection rates in the bloc of European countries known as the Schengen area were African, according to consultancy firm Henley and Partners.

“It has been lengthy and frustrating. I haven’t been given any reason why it’s taken so long," Ms Nehoya tells the BBC.

However, if her family in Quebec decide to travel to Namibia on Canadian passports, they will not face anything like the challenges and costs she encountered. Canadian citizens can currently enter Namibia without a visa.

But this will change in eight months’ time.

From next April, Canadian nationals, along with those from Germany, the US, the UK and 29 other countries, will require a visa for entry.

These include all “non-reciprocating countries” - meaning the new visa rules will affect citizens from all countries that require Namibian passport holders to have visas.

“Namibia has extended gestures of goodwill and favourable treatment to nationals of various countries. However, despite these efforts, certain nations have not reciprocated,” Namibia’s immigration ministry said in May.

“In light of this disparity, the government has deemed it necessary to implement a visa requirement to ensure parity and fairness in diplomatic interactions.”

But these visitors will be able to buy their 90-day visa, costing $90, on arrival in Namibia - unlike the onerous requirements placed on African passport holders who need to get their visas beforehand.

The British High Commissioner to Namibia, Charles Moore, said he respected the right of Namibia to impose new regulations.

“[The UK] unfortunately imposed a visa regime on Namibia last year due to the number of asylum seekers we were receiving. That was impacting on our relationship with Namibia,” he said.

A statement from the UK government further explained there had been a sustained and significant increase in the number of asylum applications from Namibians at the UK border since 2016.

“This constitutes an abuse of the provision to visit the UK for a limited period as non-visa nationals,” it said.

For Ms Nehoya, Namibia’s visa announcement is long overdue: “I think it is fair. It feels like Namibia is standing up for itself.”

The reactions on social media to the news echo her sentiments.

“Finally. I hope they also require them to submit a bible of documents, take medical tests, [and] Namibian language tests,” wrote one commenter.

Another said: “If I need to bring bank statements… and all sort of documents and still buy visa just to gain entry to a country, that country should also do the same to gain entry to my country.”

And visas for the Schengen area, the US and Canada do not come cheap for African passport holders.

The European Union made more than €53m ($58m; £45m) on rejected visa applications from African countries in 2023, according to a recent report by the Lago Collective, a think-tank that focuses on migration.

Visas can be rejected for multiple reasons. The report says most rejections are based on “reasonable doubt about the visa applicant’s intention to return home”.

In June 2024, the price of Schengen short-term visas went up from €80 to €90 for adults, and in October 2023, the UK visa fee rose from £100 to £115.

The report also showed that nearly a third of Africans applying for a visa to the Schengen area were rejected, higher than the global average.

Even when visas are approved, African travellers say their experiences at border security make them feel uncomfortable and unwanted.

Winnie Byanyima, the head of UNAids and who is herself Ugandan, drew attention to this when she tweeted in 2022: “I’m at Geneva airport, I’m almost refused to board, all documents scrutinised over and over again, calls made… I board last.”

Despite Namibia’s visa initiative receiving praise on social media, the tourism industry is less enthusiastic.

The Hospitality Association of Namibia said it was “very concerned” about the message it “sends to the global travel trade”.

In 2022, the tourism sector accounted for 7% of GDP, making it the third largest contributor to the economy - with most tourists coming countries such as Germany and the US.

Though Soni Nrupesh, a tourism expert based in Windhoek, believes the visa move will not deter visitors: “It will not change much; you can still get on a plane without a visa.

“It’s just when you get to the airport you will fill a form pay the fees and enter.”

Prospective travellers like Ms Nehoya hope this kind reciprocity will be the future for everyone.

“People come to Namibia, and they love it. But we also want to see what is happening on the other side,” she says.

“It would be nice to go to Canada, the US or the UK and just get a visa on arrival. But right now, we must plan everything so far in advance.”

[prairiesongserial]

23.13

The rabbi’s study hadn’t changed in eight years. The tower room was a hexagon with windows on three sides and bookcases on the other three. The rabbi’s desk took up most of the space, but there was also a little couch pressed against the wall under one of the windows. The boys piled onto it so they could peer down at the forest and the town below.

Cassidy’s gaze slid over the familiar spines on the rabbi’s bookshelves. They recognized a stack of books that Rabbi Alterman would “just be getting to” sitting in a haphazard pile on a chair, only now the chair’s legs had begun to bow under the weight.

Despite the clamor of all five of them entering his serene sanctorum, Rabbi Alterman still had not looked up from his book. There was a pencil balanced above his lip. Rabbi Alterman was eight years older, which came as a shock. He was overdue for a haircut–usual, for him–but instead of familiar salt-and-pepper curls, his hair had gone almost entirely white. It was hard to imagine this man energetically leading the first years in outdoor games.

“Rabbi,” Cassidy said, finally.

He looked up, blinking from behind large glasses. The pencil fell from his lip.

“Little Cassidy?” the rabbi asked. He stood up, disrupting a pile of books. Cassidy’s heart beat faster. “Your hair is orange?”

“That’s the first thing you have to say?” Cassidy said. “After eight years? I’ve returned, Rabbi, after eight years of wandering in the desert, but yes, my hair is orange.”

Rabbi Alterman blinked again, as if he couldn’t understand Cassidy’s complaint. The last time Cassidy had been in this room, it had been just after failing his final exams. Cassidy had always passed every floor on their first try, except the last one. They hadn't been able to bring themselves to give the answer the floor master was looking for.

The rabbi had blinked at them with the same strange combination of surprise and patience. Cassidy had ranted at him, pacing the rug, about scholars who locked themselves away in towers not knowing the first thing about right and wrong, and the rabbi had only nodded every so often to show he was listening.

“I noticed you’re still doing the trolley problem,” Cassidy continued. “Honestly–”

“Ah? Did you finally pass this year? Mazel, Cassidy.”

Cassidy was caught so fully off their guard that they fell silent. Rabbi Alterman stared back at them, then slowly smiled.

“Still so much energy. You look well.” The rabbi got up from his desk and walked around to Cassidy’s side. “I like the orange.”

Cassidy pulled a face. 

“Now,” Rabbi Alterman said, “you have brought me four strangers. I have heard a little about this from the floor masters, but I would like to hear it from you.”

Cassidy glanced behind them. John paced the short length of the study, looking tired and dirty, and with a knife stuck through his belt. Val looked a little better, though he stared distractedly out the window, Gawain’s bids for attention so far unheard. Percy had pulled himself away from the window. He resembled a little prince again, standing with shoulders square and hands behind his back.

Cassidy switched to English for the others’ benefit. They let Percy introduce himself, and prompted him to explain a few key points–such as, who were John and Val, and why were two English princes on the lam.

Rabbi Alterman stroked his beard. “I know of Hemisphere. A few years ago there was an attempt to unify the German states–unsuccessful. That name was bandied about. It didn't ever come to anything. So, England has thrown in with that lot…”

“If you can call a coup ‘throwing in,’” said Cassidy. Rabbi Alterman waved down their comment.

“And now you are here,” the rabbi said. His gaze rested heavily on Percy. “And you have something to ask me.”

Percy swallowed. “Well, we are in a good bit of danger.” He seemed to be actively resisting the urge to glance to Cassidy for help. “And we were hoping that you would hide us here. Cassidy gave us new names and everything.”

“Did they?” asked the rabbi. He narrowed his gaze at Cassidy. “Ah, Menashe and Ephraim. Yes, how like them.” Cassidy fought down a grin, not in the mood to be happy. “That does explain some whispering from the lower floors. I didn't think I had forgotten the existence of two students.”

Percy looked hopefully at the rabbi.

“Well, young man, you make a compelling case. It appears to be a matter of life or death,” said the rabbi. He heaved a sigh. “And so you understand why you cannot stay.”

Percy’s face fell.

“Rabbi?” Cassidy asked. “Rabbi, you can't be serious. It goes against Jewish law to turn them away. This kid tested out of every floor just to see you.” Cassidy raised their voice, switching to Yiddish. “It's the fucking trolley problem all over again. Are you serious? You won't let them stay because intervening might put blood on your hands? You can’t divert the train away from these two because you can’t foresee what lies on the other track? In that case, why do anything? Why adopt me? Didn't doing that take meat out of the mouths of wild dogs? Rabbi–”

“Wait, Cassidy, I can’t think,” said Percy. Cassidy just barely held their tongue. Percy’s face was screwed up in concentration, as if this were another test. Cassidy ground their teeth. They looked to John, who looked just as upset.

“I think I understand,” Percy said. “You actually will allow us to stay here, but you’re asking us to think for ourselves why we can’t.”

The rabbi smiled at Percy. “Go on,” he said.

“We might have been followed, I suppose,” Percy said. “In any case, we will be searched for. And eventually we might be found. When that happens, this town won’t survive, not if the Queen doesn't want it to. The German states don’t tend to rally when things like this happen; it’s each village for itself.”

The rabbi nodded for Percy to continue. He took off his glasses and started to clean them on his shirt.

“And…” Percy fumbled. “And, er… as former heads of state, it would be irresponsible to divert a disaster headed towards ourselves onto dozens of other children, not to mention all the woodsmen and farmers and artisans in town. The only responsible thing to do is to try to outrun the train, I suppose. Metaphorically.”

“Rabbi,” Cassidy said. “You can’t do this to them.”

“Not quite full marks,” the rabbi said, holding his hand up to Cassidy. “Percy, when you can save everyone, you must save everyone, yes? But that includes you and your brother. I have a friend in Switzerland who runs her own yeshiva in the mountains. It’s little known, and not easy to get to unless you know the way. I think she will be able to take you in at little risk to herself. And I have a few thoughts about disguising your trail; perhaps Cassidy will help me narrow them down?”

Rabbi Alterman directed his smile to Cassidy now. It was the sunny smile he liked to use when he’d taught one of his students something. Cassidy rolled their eyes, turning away so that the rabbi wouldn’t see.

Percy made a strangled sound of relief, then went to hug Gawain. John’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath; he looked less anxious at the price of looking more tired.

“I’ve always hated the trolley problem,” Rabbi Alterman said. “Everyone gets so serious.”

23.12 || epilogue 23

[whentranslatorscry]

Hitagi Honeymoon

006

“Nine-tailed fox? I know not.”

This indifferent reply came when I asked the little blonde girl, who emerged leisurely from my shadow, about the Killing Stone that had become my mission during a long-overdue honeymoon. Having finished a meal with my sister, taking separate baths, and finally settling down in my room— more accurately, a room that showed traces of once being occupied by the young boy Araragi— I could not help but pry.

“I don’t know everything, I know only donuts.”

“Wow, that's funny.”

“I do know the Cat of Many Tails, though— a classic by Ellery Queen.”

After more than a decade of reading nothing but manga, this little girl had finally grown up to read classical mystery novels.

Little girls do grow up, huh.

No, had this girl truly grown up, not just Japan, but the entire world would be in peril— this is something one tends to forget inadvertently. It is because she remains in this childish form that she is granted the certification of harmlessness.

“Speaking of aberrations, you were once the king of them, and Oshino, being a specialist, should’ve given you some special education. Even I’ve heard of Tamamo-no-Mae’s name.”

“Ah, the name.”

“Somehow, it sounded like an alias,” said Shinobu as she tilted her head.

She tilted her hands and feet as well— a stretch, it looked like, due to her constant presence in my shadow.

“My history as the king of aberrations, and the nostalgic aloha boy’s expert instruction, it has been almost eighteen years— or has it been six years? I’ve forgotten all about it.”

I wanted to say how unreliable that sounded, but it might just be the way it is— I hardly remember even a grain of the knowledge I crammed during my entrance exam studies.

It was a nanoparticle-level oblivion.

I wasn’t even sure what I learned in college. I couldn’t even be sure if I really took the exams. Did I get in on my parents' connections, so very like me?

Including my numerous brushes with death, memories related to aberrations seemed to be deeply etched in my mind, but in reality, these experiences may be romanticized or altered.

Hellish spring breaks, nightmarish Golden Weeks, stylish and elegant battles against vampires and cats alongside Hanekawa, uttering superb catchphrases— did these memories reflect the truth?

“Why don’t you do that thing you do? That memory technique where you stick your hand into your brain and stir it up chaotically.”

I remember it with crystalline clarity, like a trauma.

“Are you a fool? If I, now merely a squeezed-out husk, were to attempt such a violent technique, only the gruesome corpse of a young girl would appear in your room.”

“That’d be awful for sure. I'd have to wield the full might of a cop to cover it up.”

“You should not be a cop by any means. Neither a cop nor an FBI agent.”

“Hmph. That's why I became a famous detective instead.”

“That certainly sounds like a line from a classical mystery.”

I don't think so.

Why classical specifically, anyway?

“Right. It was a technique from your vampire days, more or less. I guess you wouldn't remember it that well.”

“Indeed, if I were to stir my brain like that, it would turn into a Tochigi specialty, Shimotsukare.”

“How are you so knowledgeable about Tochigi's specialties?”

“I had a period where I lived in this country, as a god.”

That's right. I often forget that.

Rather than living here, it’s better to say that she reigned over here.

Could it be that this little girl witnessed the battle of Tochigi and Gunma at the Senjougahara, or rather, the fight between god and god, the clash of the giant centipede and snake?

Had she been watching from a vantage point engulfed in sand?

“The timing does not add up. My time as a god in Japan—that is to say, on this land, happened about four hundred years ago. The myth you are referring to may be slightly older.”

“Well, I guess.”

It wasn’t just a slight difference, but that was the scale of human beings.

Wasn't Tamamo-no-Mae eight hundred years ago? The scale was completely different for great supernatural beings and gods.

So there hadn’t once been a connection or destiny between Shinobu and Tamamo-no-Mae in this country.

“So you weren't childhood friends like me and Oikura.”

“Indeed. You have no childhood friends.”

“I do. Don't forget about Oikura.”

“I merely denied the ‘friends’ part. Although, I cannot deny my tendency to forget things. The times when I was pretending to slay aberrations are now beyond the realm of forgetfulness. Fox aberration, hm.”

“They are often mentioned alongside tanuki, but is that all there is to them?”

Foxes are indeed a common presence in ghost stories, yet their image is generally quite playful and not especially threatening.

A fox of the size and power to destroy a country, however, would be far beyond the reach of our abilities today.

Whether in Japan or America, my accomplishments extended no further than that of a humble investigator.

As I consider this, I must admit that even current Shinobu is hardly formidable battle personnel; she’d be better described as an entertainer, mascot even. Should the rumor prove true, even with the directive from Chief Kouga, to whom I had sworn allegiance, I feared we would have no choice but to flee in terror, our tails between our legs.

“I‘d cut off my own tailbone just to get away.”

“Though my resolve is strong, the scene before us is indeed a harrowing one. I may not know of the Killing Stone, but I have heard rumors of stones splitting apart all over the place.”

“Oh, so there are other legends like it after all. I wonder if they branched off, or if they were once all one story. History really is fascinating when it's not part of a school curriculum.”

“Even the dumpling statue at Utsunomiya Station was reportedly split in half, with its sealed juices spilling out.”

“That's recent, isn't it?”

That makes me wonder why she was so familiar with Tochigi Prefecture.

If she was, then she should know about Tamamo-no-Mae as well.

Falling behind the times, are you?

“If it is the ancient knowledge you seek, let your wish be fulfilled—in all seriousness, it is a good place to take the tsundere girl.”

“Not because the Senjougahara battlefield is there?”

“I think there was a tradition called the 'Festival of Rowdiness,' a bizarre celebration where people march while hurling insults. It would be perfect for somebody with her sharp-tongue.”

“I wish I could have told high school Hitagi about this.”

Now that she had matured, entered society, and found work, Hitagi's sharp tongue had been considerably subdued. She could no longer become a sarcastic news reporter. Nevertheless, in the sense of recalling the good old days, it was a festival with enough impact that I’d like to visit if I can.

“Where is that?”

“In Ashikaga City.”

“Are you pulling some ancient wisdom from your brain, or did you just read a guidebook?”

Maybe it wasn’t impossible that she was more looking forward to our honeymoon than I was.

On further thought, she had been constantly bound to my shadow, denied the freedom to move on her own. She, who used to be a wandering princess, traveling all over the world.

“I can hardly remember my time as an unmoored princess. I was traumatized by the forced travel. However, you took me to live in America for over a year. It's a fact that I have grown to miss Japanese food.”

“Weren’t you originally from Europe?”

“Shimotsukare may vary in taste, but I'm interested in trying Nasuben.”

“Nasuben?”

It was quite puzzling that I was continually receiving local Nasu information when I summoned Shinobu to investigate a mystery as a request of the Hearsay Department.

Despite all that, the trip was unavoidably intriguing; at its core, it was still a honeymoon.

To make amends for the name taken from my lover, I wanted to make it as good of a trip as possible.

“Ah, the nine-tailed fox is not entirely unrelated to Nasuben. It is an abbreviation of ‘Nasu no Makunouchi Bento.’ Although called a bento, it is more like a set meal; following the likeness of the nine-tailed fox, served in nine dishes.”

“Hmm, I guess the fox is deeply rooted in the local culture, unbeknownst to an ignorant person like me. I wonder what the fox dance is all about.”

“That is from Hokkaido.”

So it is.

In contrast to Shinobu, I had become quite unfamiliar with Japanese affairs. Even so, I couldn’t say that I had become well versed in Washington either. The most I had seen was the obelisk.

There was a sense of instability, as if I was losing touch with my roots. Nonetheless, it was not as destabilizing as losing my name.

…I should tell her about that, too.

It was an unavoidable topic when discussing our honeymoon to Senjougahara.

“Shinobu.”

“What is it?”

“Well, I wasn't sure whether to call you Shinobu or not… since I took your name. I thought that we should take this chance to delve deeper into that matter and discuss it properly.”

“It is a tad too late to be digging up something you have been glossing over with vague words. Although, I did overhear you talking about it with the tsundere girl.”

“Now that I‘m an adult, I feel that I must face the reality that I have avoided and establish a new ethical standpoint. First and foremost, the matter of when I saved you as you were on the verge of death after being torn limb from limb.”

“Is this book going to end with only that story?”

With a meta remark like that, Shinobu had swiftly cut off the conversation—indeed an impressive skill that could only have been honed over six hundred years. She tried to deal with my serious talk by turning it into a gag.

“I’ll cut it out and move on, but, it might have been necessary to neutralize you. Taking away your power may have been, but I can't help but think, looking back on it now, that taking away your name was a bit too much.”

“Aha. Well, in the sense of the supernatural, taking away one's name and one's power is almost equivalent—I must say that even the name Kiss-Shot Acerola-Orion Heart-Under-Blade was given to me for that very reason.”

“Ah, yeah— by Death.”

“Don't you dare call her Death.”

Deathtopia Virtuoso Suicide Master— the purebred vampire who transformed the wandering princess Shinobu into a vampire.

Now deceased.

When I was in university, Shinobu and I journeyed to Europe—almost as if stowing away— to witness the passing of that purebred vampire. I must mention that this was a tale from before I became a cop.

“I see, that’s how it came to be. Before that, what was it again? When you were a wandering princess— a noble princess?”

“It was Princess Acerola.”

“Princess Acerola.”

“Do not ridicule my former name.”

“I’m not ridiculing it.”

“Before that, it was Lola. Yes, Lola.”

“You're trying to make me laugh, aren't you? The way you say it.”

“It was Road Roller.”

“Ah, there’s no escape.”

She was trying to make me sound insensitive. What a wicked little girl. There’s no way she was Lola.

“But that’s the hard part. I wonder if you became a wicked little girl because you ceased to be Lola, or if you ceased to be Lola because the name no longer suited such a wicked little girl. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

“If you put it this way, the chicken certainly came first. The reason why I became a wicked little girl was certainly because of you. You sucked my blood. Do not blame it on the name.”

To be precise, I had sucked her blood just up to the point where she ceased to be Kiss-Shot Acerola-Orion Heart-Under-Blade.

But it's not that I wanted to avoid responsibility. On the contrary, I wanted to take responsibility.

“The name Oshino Shinobu has become almost synonymous with a blonde little girl, hasn't it?”

“I doubt that was the intention when aloha boy named me that. The reputation has been unfairly forced upon both the names 'Shinobu' and 'Oshino'.”

“Don’t you think it’s that you refuse to acknowledge their individuality by calling Oshino 'aloha boy' and Hitagi 'tsundere girl' instead of their real names?”

“You seem to be hell-bent on shelving me as a non-compliant character from the start. You used to call the aloha boy ‘dirty old man’ and 'aloha bastard.' In fact, it's quite disrespectful to the spirit of Aloha itself.”

“I wonder if giving someone a random nickname or continuously mispronouncing their name is no longer the trend. It used to be the hallmark of a great detective character.”

“On the other hand, when you were called 'Heart-Under-Blade's servant’ by the vampire hunters, did it not feel like it suited you perfectly?”

It did.

I could hardly believe that the version of me called 'Araragi-kun' by Senjougahara Hitagi and the one called 'Koyomi' by Araragi Hitagi were the same person. Also, when referred to as 'Araragi-senpai' by Kanbaru and as ‘Araragi’ by Oikura, even the differences between the two felt insurmountable.

Just as there ia no single truth, I’m not uniform either. With each different call, there is variety.

Araragi the boy and Araragi the detective; young Araragi and Investigator Araragi, they are all strikingly similar yet so distinctly different.

“It seems unexpectedly crucial how one is referred to, and I suppose a mere symbol like a name can't be easily discarded.”

Yet, I had done so, for Hitagi and Shinobu both.

“Maybe I really have no choice but to run for office. I'll soon have the right to stand for elections.”

“To think someone like you already poses a threat by merely possessing the right to vote, and now you seek to enter the realm of candidacy?”

“I presume that when you became a vampire six hundred years ago, there must have been extraordinary determination behind your decision, but what did it feel like to be named by Death?”

“Do not call her 'Death' again. While I cannot recall the experience accurately, I believe it wasn't bad. It was a rather cool name.”

And so, I had compelled her to let go of that cool name. On the other hand, you could argue that there is nothing wrong with either Kiss-Shot Acerola-Orion Heart-Under-Blade or Oshino Shinobu, as long as she’s happy with it.

“To sympathize arbitrarily is also a feeling of blasphemy against the laws of nature.”

“Law is not a law of nature. As far as that tsundere girl is concerned, I think it is sad and pathetic to put a sinner's name on her.”

“Who’s a sinner?”

“But that may be what it means to be a servant. To bear half the name and sins.”

That was precisely the relationship between her and I—in this context, it might be unjust to bind Shinobu to the name Oshino forever. A producer's name is not displayed.

If one must bind, let it be my name.

“What is with that strange look in your eyes, staring at me after such a long time?”

“Don't say it as if I used to look at you with strange eyes often. No, no, I just thought that one day I'd have to take you to the Eight Seas of Oshino, too.”

“Taking the heroine all over Japan is too troublesome. Do you intend to become a great travel mystery author?”

“Well, I don't know where the Eight Seas of Oshino are, though.”

“They are in Yamanashi Prefecture.”

“Seriously, you know every nook and cranny of Japan better than I do. Yamanashi, yeah? The seas. Not seven seas but eight.”

“I shall be honest, they are not seas.”

“They're not?”

“They are springs. It is probably there that a woodcutter dropped his ax. With eight of them, it is bound to happen in one.”

“That was supposed to be a foreign fairy tale. Choosing between a gold ax and a silver ax, it’s like choosing between separate surnames for married couples. The truth remains submerged in the spring.”

“The Eight Seas of Oshino is a nice place, but I would prefer to visit Futarasan shrine in Nikko, where the legendary sword, Nenekirimaru, is said to be. I'd like to compare its length with that of the Aberration Killer.”

Our honeymoon plans were being continuously incorporated with outside arrangements.

I’d heard about the Nenekirimaru. I suppose the force pulling us toward battle wad quite strong. However, resolving issues through battle and violence was no longer the modus operandi of our times.

Futarasan Chugushi shrine? I remember hearing about Nikko's Futarasan Shrine from Hanekawa, but maybe it was a different place.

“The location is different. The Futarasan Shrine is a World Heritage site along with the Nikko Toshogu Shrine, while the Nakamiya Shrine is close to Lake Chuzenji. Well, although I have never been there myself, so I cannot say anything for certain. If you'd like, I could scout out the location for you. With a grand jump, perhaps?”

“It's not like we can allow ourselves a preview of our honeymoon, it would spoil the experience entirely. Revealing any plans beforehand is strictly forbidden. That being said, if we're going to be near Lake Chuzenji, I suppose it wouldn't be too far out of the way to visit Senjougahara since it's along the path. Was it Ashikaga where that rowdiness festival you mentioned takes place?”

“Indeed, the birthplace of the shogun family.”

“Ashikaga is also in Tochigi. Had the Muromachi shogunate been established there, history might have been different. So, Ashikaga City is at…”

Ungracefully, I checked on my smartphone, and found that it was far from both the Nasu Highlands of the Killing Stone and the center of Nikko's Senjougahara. It was basically on the opposite side of Utsunomiya. Since we can't eliminate those two, it seems we have no choice but to give up on the rowdiness festival this time. Although it would have been extraordinarily interesting in terms of tracing Hitagi's roots, surely such an odd festival couldn’t be held year-round.

We just couldn’t build our plans around a rowdiness festival.

“Considering our rigorous adjustments for a two-night, three-day trip, it's just impossible to cover the entirety of Tochigi Prefecture. Still, Shinobu, is there anywhere else you'd like to visit? If it's included in our route, we'll prioritize it.”

“That reminds me, was Irohazaka not in Tochigi as well?”

“Irohazaka…”

“It’s a slope with forty-eight hairpin turns leading to Lake Chuzenji. To be exact, there are separate slopes for ascending and descending. Each slope is assigned one of the fifty sounds of the kana, apparently.”

“Forty-eight slopes is impressive, but the Iroha song's forty-seven syllables—or even its fifty—don't quite match, do they?”

Should I search for an answer to this mystery on the internet? No, such knowledge must be acquired through experience, without prior research or preconceptions. If this is the slope leading to Lake Chuzenji, then it must be the very path to the battlefield.

“We’ll be going by car, you know. It's not a bridal car, not a camping car either, it’s a slightly larger minivan.”

A larger minivan may sound like a contradictory description, but yes, it's the only way to describe the size of the car that had been settled on after various replacements.

My Volkswagen was sold because I couldn't maintain it while I was away for overseas training. I’m sure it’s in good hands somewhere by now.

Maybe the car you are driving was once my Volkswagen?

“Don't worry, I'll arrange for a proper child seat.”

“Who could feel relieved after hearing that…? Wait a minute, master.”

“What's going on? Is this an emergency?”

“Although it is inevitable that I shall accompany you on your honeymoon due to our shared soul and body, do you truthfully intend to place me in a child seat before the tsundere and the monkey girl?”

“Ah, child seats may be embarrassing, but traffic safety takes precedence above all else. I’m also in a complex position with the Hearsay Department, the FBI, and the like. I still maintain that traffic safety— in this automobile-driven society founded on the auto industry— is of ultimate importance.”

“It may be your call to subject me to the shame of sitting in a child seat, but that is besides the point. As for the monkey girl, she will do just fine in any case.”

“Calling people monkeys is rather outdated, wouldn't you say? But monkeys come to mind when talking about Nikko. There might really be something to the notion that, in their ability to express remorse, monkeys are the more venerable creatures.”

“Do not impose upon me that trio of wise monkeys— see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. I share a bond with the monkey girl, born of a fleeting moment. Clashing souls— hers and mine— it was a rap battle that I remember well.”

“Your memory’s distorted.”

It was the time I clashed with Shishirui Seishirou.

Details were sparse, but reflecting on that occasion, I wonder whether 'she’s fine' would suffice to describe the connection that arose between them. For that matter, even the relationship between Kanbaru and me, forged in bloody battles, left much to be desired.

“That's right. To one such as I, acts of killing are no more than a daily, mundane occurrence.”

“An assertion as lofty as that of a divine being.”

“But really, master. What I wish to discuss is the tsundere girl.”

“Wassup?”

“There has not been a meeting, or so it would seem, between myself and the tsundere girl.”

Strictly speaking, there has been.

Before Shinobu had yet to be bound within my shadow, in the ruins of the abandoned cram school, under Oshino’s instruction—there was a little girl sitting cross-legged, with a deeply-donned helmet, tucked away in the corner of a classroom, and she had been spotted by Senjougahara Hitagi.

But that was it.

I couldn’t call it a meeting, nor could I say that they had exchanged any words—and as such, it could be considered that Senjougahara Hitagi’s bonds with both the King of Aberrations, and the vampire husk, were nothing much.

However, when it came to Araragi Hitagi, things were not that simple.

“We’re living separately across the sea now, but in the not-so-distant future, we‘ll be living under the same roof with Hitagi. It’s only natural that I introduce you to her then. This honeymoon serves as an excellent start for that.”

“I had intended to follow you stealthily by hiding in your shadow. Well, if need be, I can move to the shadow of your sister again, and stay at home like I did before.”

The former King of Aberrations, who used to treat everyone with arrogance, grumbled shyly.

It goes to show how heavy the sin of stealing a name can be, turning a king into such a timid character.

“I want to introduce my proud partner to my new partner.”

“Shall the Senjougahara battlefield become a true battlefield?”

“I chose my words poorly. I want to introduce my trusted comrade to my wife.”

Is the term “wife” even still appropriate in this Reiwa period? Unfortunately, I still lack enough information to gauge Japanese standards, let alone determine whether or not it is politically correct. But it feels quite proper and historically accurate.

Whether or not Senjougahara became a battlefield for real was another matter entirely, but there was a delicate balance that had to be struck— if handled poorly, Araragi Hitagi could revert back to being Senjougahara Hitagi. Nevertheless, this was not simply negligible.

Yes, it was to my younger sisters— Karen and Tsukihi, and even to my parents who were still at home— that I managed to conceal the existence of Shinobu during high school (as well as that of Ononoki-chan, who was living with us for a time). However, when it came to my wife-to-be, the story was different.

I had made a promise with Hitagi from the very beginning.

When we started dating, we vowed not to keep secrets about the supernatural from each other— so, in that sense, introducing Shinobu to her was long overdue. I cannot help but be astonished that I had neglected to address such a subplot for almost eighteen years.

“We live in a time when people get angry if you don't tie up loose ends. I can't believe it. The beauty of a story lies in the cobwebs it weaves, whether they are resolved or not— hasn’t it always been a secondary concern?”

“I understand what you are saying, but it becomes a big problem when you are the one saying it. No, there are many other unresolved subplots, are there not? Why is it that only now you are meaning to arrange a meeting between me and your tsundere girl? Was it not more beautiful to leave it up in the air?”

“Now that Senjougahara Hitagi has become Araragi Hitagi, it's time to finally change that 'tsundere girl’ title, too.”

“Why would that be?”

Personally, I would like Kanbaru’s title as the “monkey girl” to be changed as well, but chronologically, it should be the tsundere girl first, because—

“Because, you will be the girl— the daughter. Araragi Hitagi will be your mother.”

“Mother of all that is good, what?”

“Not of all that is good, just your mother. I plan to adopt you.”

The time has come— for Oshino Shinobu to become Araragi Shinobu.

Prev Chapter | Next Chapter

[ladyaj-13]

LadyAJ's 2022 Fics

This year I wrote 28 new stories across four fandoms - One Direction, Kingsman, Endeavour and Eagle of the Ninth. Details below, I hope you’ll check some out - a mix of short tea break fics and longer ones, and a good scattering of rare pairs amongst the fandom standards.

One Direction

Follow Your Arrow - T, 36k, Louis/Harry

Canon compliant omegaverse band era pack-fic with touch-starved luna Louis, dropping, and other good stuff. Written for the One Direction Big Bang.

They said Louis playing alpha wouldn’t affect anything. It was the best thing for the band, so he doesn’t really regret it except deep in the dead of night, when he bites down on his knuckles to swap the echoing ache of depri for a sting of pain. But if he’d known it meant stepping back from Harry?

He’d have thought twice.

Bit by Bit and All at Once - M, 23k, Louis/Liam

Canon compliant, present day friends to lovers story, with long overdue love confessions and a very oblivious Liam.

“It’s not a joke,” Louis says, so quietly it almost gets lost in the humming of the fridge and the TV still playing out to itself in the other room. “I’ve been meaning to say for a long time… always told myself I would before I turned thirty... I love you,” he repeats, slightly choked, awful. “I’m in love with you.”

Or the one where Louis is in love with Liam, but Liam doesn't love him back. Or does he?

Eight Days - T, 22k, Louis/Liam

My attempt at a true romantic comedy, this is a canon compliant, near future fic. Written for the Lilo fest.

“Eight days,” Louis says decisively. “If the paperwork takes three weeks that means you have eight days before you have to file it. Give me those eight days.”

“Wait, what?”

“To show you what you’re missing, being married to me,” Louis says with a ghost of his old cheekiness. “You want to end this marriage, well. I want to experience it first.”

Or: Louis and Liam got hitched in Vegas, completely forgot about it for more than a decade, and it comes back to bite them. Sort of.

Blind Date - G, 14k, OT5

Bantery, fluffy poly AU fic where all five of them meet through the reality TV show Blind Date. Podfic available, linked from fic.

Louis Tomlinson, model and aspiring actor, has been chosen to appear on Blind Date. The only problem is, all the contestants are wonderful. And so is the host. It's making things difficult.

You and Me (Got a Whole Lot of History) - T, 7k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw

A Walls-tour era canon compliant Tomlinshaw with exes to lovers - a bit of misunderstanding for flavour and maturity in the finish.

Nick loves the crush and fever of being right in the thick of things, but just the thought of Louis looking down and spotting him makes him feel a little queasy.

It hadn’t been a proper thing. It wasn’t a relationship.

With This Wing, I Thee Wed - T, 4k, Louis/Niall

I flirted with calling this either the Cheeky Nandos one or the Gay Chicken one. AU capers with fake dating! Written for the Louis rare pair fest.

“Nando’s?”

Niall crosses his arms and pouts, a little line appearing between his eyebrows. “I want Nandos. I like Nandos.”

“And I like my dignity,” Louis mutters.

Make Your Mark - T, 3k, Louis/Liam

A friends to lovers speed-run with university students Louis and Liam, a tube of lipstick, and some realisations.

When one of Liam's classmates isn't getting the hint that he's not interested, Louis suggests they make him look unavailable.

Choo-Choose Me - G, 3k, Louis/Liam

AU meet-cute - read it on your next commute!

Liam is a commuter with a crush. Louis is the chirpy ticket inspector who occasionally mans the drinks trolley and sometimes makes announcements, his broad Yorkshire accent fighting the outdated train speakers. The train ships it.

Common Interest - T, 3k, Niall/Greg James

After reading the commuter fic above, maybe read this one on your lunch break. An office AU with background Larry, Nouis friendship and Tomlinshaw frenemyship. Written for Wordplay “Swing”.

Louis hums, swirling his potato to form a gravy puddle in the middle. He dunks a sausage in it. “Not that I don’t love our little daily ritual, but when are you going to go get your boy, you big hunky slab of man meat, you?”

Niall looks at Louis in horror.

Tall, Dark and… wait, what? - G, 3k, Louis/Harry/Nick Grimshaw

A canon compliant, Liam-POV, tour-shenanigans take on Stylinshaw. Written for Wordplay “Describe”.

Liam just wants Louis and Harry to admit they're seeing each other. To feel comfortable being themselves within the band and know that they're supported. So, he sets up a little game.

Roses - T, 2k, Louis/Niall

Beware the tags. Heed the tags. I take a fluffy pairing and make it less fluffy…

He’s going to go for it. He’s going to ask to be - boyfriends, or partners, or whatever you call it when you’re in your thirties and already know each other inside out. It feels like jumping off a cliff, but at the same time - it’s Niall. He can’t be afraid with Niall.

The Elf who Saved Christmas - G, 2k, Louis/Harry

An alternate universe meet-cute, with shopping mall Elf!Harry (and Niall) to the rescue. Written for the 1D Christmas fest.

Ernie and Doris are tired, grouchy, and no one told Louis you had to book an appointment to see Santa.

Particular - M, 2k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw

Edging into smut, as I described it in the tags, read for useless cleaner!Louis and uptight!(sometimes)Nick. Written for Wordplay “Particular”.

Nick is very particular about the upkeep of his hallway's Brazilian hardwood floor. He is very particular about the cleaning of his kitchen's fine Wedgewood china.

He is less particular in his bedroom.

The Superstar Scavenger Scramble - G, 2k, Louis/Greg James

The whole point of this fic was the smooching - canon compliant and height difference, because of course. Written for Wordplay “Scramble”.

He wants to win. And not just because he’s competitive as fuck, likes to best the other boys and put them in their place whatever they’re doing, never mind that this is a silly Radio 1 scavenger hunt around London, but because of what - who - is waiting at the other end.

Food Fight - G, 1k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw

A little canon compliant snippet that encompasses Louis’ love for tomato pasta.

It’s Louis’ famed cooking skills against Nick’s more cultured palate. Fight.

Moths and Butterflies - G, 1k, Louis/Harry

A fic that is close to my heart and seems to have resonated with people - pride parades, insecurity and finding a friend (maybe more).

It seemed like such a good plan a week ago. It had seemed like fate, for the town’s Pride parade to fall at the very same time when work sent him there to charm some clients. Who was Louis, to sniff at a higher power?

It was exciting, a week ago. Now he’s here though, in the thick of it, and he thought it would feel freeing but it doesn't. It just rams home how he doesn’t belong.

Damn it, Let me Cuddle You! - T, 920 words, Louis/Niall

Part of my sleepy Nouis series, this is just cuddling, arguing and fluff. And a bit more bickering.

Louis and Niall are both the big spoon. This causes issues.

Check the Body - G, 869 words, Zayn & Nick Grimshaw

A little canon compliant fic about finding commonalities and making friends. Written for Wordplay “Check”.

“Check the body!” Zayn yelps, and Nick nearly jumps out of his skin.

Kingsman

Trading Players - T, 7k - Eggsy/Harry

An alternative first meeting if Harry wasn’t available to spring Eggsy from the police station - with lots of protective Eggsy and Eggsy&Daisy. Complete as is, but I may continue it next year…

With Harry away on a mission, Merlin answers Eggsy's call and inducts Harry's Lancelot candidate, a Thomas Mayfield, for him. But the story doesn't end there, just because the pieces aren't yet on the board.

There’s a faint whimper, too distant from the bug to be Eggsy, but it sharpens Harry’s ears. He hits run on the location tracking software.

“Fuck.”

Quiet, breathed. Hopeless.

“S’alright Dais. We’re alright, yeah? Just - just ona adventure.”

Electric - M, 2k, Eggsy/Harry

A bit of an experiment, with Harry doting and Eggsy learning to like it - mainly fluff, but with a little angst as the salt in the caramel.

Harry’s touch is gentle, but electric. His fingertips massage light circles across Eggsy’s scalp that raise goosebumps over his entire body, broad palms tilting his head this way and that, putting Eggsy where he wants him, and Eggsy lets himself be put.

Family Realisations - G, 1k, Eggsy/Harry but maybe more Harry&Daisy

99% of Hartwin includes an age difference relationship, but this leans into Harry having a (hopefully humorous!) realisation of that, thanks to Daisy. 

Harry cuts up apple slices for his sister in law. Then he sits his sister in law in front of Peppa Pig for her designated half an hour of screen time, changes from his full suit into something more appropriate for an afternoon spent with a three year - with his sister in law, and when the episode finishes he takes his sister in law outside so she can check on her bug hotel.

Cascade - G, 1k, Eggsy/Harry and Tilde/Eggsy

Because everyone in this universe is clearly traumatised and making bad decisions.

This was a mistake.

And not just one mistake, no. This has been a whole series of them - a cascade of wrong turns and bad decisions, snowballing away until the momentum ran out.

Following in His Footsteps - T, 397 words, Eggsy & Merlin

Everything kept getting so long, I purposely wrote something tiny. But I still kind of love it. More Merlin & Eggsy friendship, please.

“In my defence,” Eggsy says shakily, because the whole point of the mission was capture only, Eggsy, we need information, “he was already dead when I got here.”

Endeavour

Uncommon People - T, 25k, Morse/Jakes

Merlin-esque alternate universe with prince!Morse, pining and shenanigans.

Prince Endeavour of Lincolnia is trapped by his status, and even worse - now he's expected to marry a woman he barely knows! But the Oxfordon cohort aren't all bad…

Snowy Morning - G, 1k, Morse/Max

An instalment in my domestic, established relationship Morse/Max series. 

There’s an ominous silence, and he wonders if he’s about to be treated to an overly detailed description of what happens to feet when left cold and soggy in inadequate boots.

A Battle of Wills - G, 1k, Morse/Jakes

We all want to see out-of-his-element Morse on Jakes’ farm, right?

Peter eyes the two staring contest participants, wondering who will win. Morse has determination on his side. He'll never back down from anything or anyone, Morse – he's got grit, as some out here would call it. Not to mention those wide blue eyes, narrowed now, that miss nothing, no sign of weakness.

Sunny Morning - T, 860 words, Morse/Max

Another instalment in my morning series, so more domestic established relationship fic, featuring Max’s garden.

Oxford is swathed in a heavy, unbroken blanket of heat.

The Eagle of the Ninth

Old-fashioned Sensibilities - G, 2k, Marcus/Esca

A modern AU… my flirtation with this fandom was brief but very satisfying.

Marcus must marry before he turns thirty, or his inheritance goes to Placidus.