#sorry if this meanders a bit I wrote it in pieces over a few days

[cordeliawhohung]

hello, how are you today? :D last time i checked i saw your requests were open so i wanted to ask if you could write a reader and cowboy!gaz piece?

i was watching western shows with my granny the other day (it's her pastime and honestly some of them are pretty interesting) and there was this part in an episode where a woman and her cowboy husband were doing the laundry together until someone came over to their house which was by the town and started to bother them and it escalated until the husband ended up fighting that person in the middle of the street... anyway, all the laundry that was up on the drying line was ripped and thrown to the ground in the tussle and the couple just look at each other after the whole ordeal and are just like...welp. more laundry again

but yeah that's sort of what happened, if it's possible, could you incorporate that plot with gaz and reader? it'd mean a lot to me and i think it'd be a little hectic but sometimes people find peace in all that chaos.

thank you!

oh my sweet sweet anon this idea rotted my brain and i wrote this in a day (: pardon any mistakes i wrote this half awake and sorry my brain was in the damn GUTTER the whole time but i hope you enjoy!!! thank you so much for this request it was so much fun and made me think about things i.... never have a;lskdjf

masterlist

You and your husband live a quiet life on the outskirts of town, that is until a misunderstanding ruins your calm day of doing laundry. At least your husband is there to help pick up the slack.

warnings: fluff! not much else!! core went overboard again! slight suggestive language. 2.6k words long.

Summers on the outskirts of the Rocky Mountains were always dry and warm. Blistering rays of sun soaked the fragrant sagebrush around you and you intermittently wiped sweat from your brow as you hung freshly washed laundry on the line to dry. The nice thing about the sweltering weather was that the unblocked sun and gentle breeze would make quick work of it. 

Once you were half way through your pile, the familiar sound of a horse clomping their feet on the dirt road past your home caught your attention. After you finished pinning up one of your blouses, you paused and turned your gaze towards the road. Your husband, Kyle, meandered along on his horse not too far off in the distance. Grinning, you wiped your damp hands off on your apron before skipping off towards him. You had sent him off not too long ago to head into town to purchase a few things for dinner that night; one of the nice things about living so close to town was that errands never took him too long. 

“You started the laundry without me!” he called out. 

His horse, who he had named Cisco but you called Spot due to its domino-like pattern, snorted as they approached the gate you found yourself leaning against. Kyle hopped off in one smooth and rehearsed motion before he worked on parking his horse on the post. You innocently tilted your head at him as you watched his fingers diligently tie the reins around the wood. You watched the tendons in his hands flex as he worked, and you found your own hands busying themselves by toying with the strings of your apron. 

“Figured I’d get a head start,” you explained.

“Head start?” he asked as he sauntered towards the gate. “Looks like you got half the load done already.” 

You loved listening to him talk, and could never get enough of his voice. Not only the dark timbre of it, or the way he always crooned at you, but his accent. His family had immigrated from England when he was a young boy, and despite the time he spent in the American West, he still held onto bits of his accent. When you had first heard him speak, you thought it was silly the way he pronounced certain words, but you found it awfully cute hearing American terms from him. 

“Sounds like you’ll have to make it up to me later,” you teased as he entered through the gate and closed it behind him. 

He held out a small leather pouch and gently shook it in his hands as he approached you with a boyish grin. “Oh, was getting ingredients for supper not enough?” he teased. 

You tilted your head again as you snatched the pouch out of his hands. You hummed as if considering his words. “I’ll have to think on it.” 

Without another word, you turned around and began to make your way back towards the clothes line as you threw a teasing glance over your shoulder. Kyle stood there with his thumbs shoved in his pockets and a cheeky smile on his lips, and you weren’t oblivious to the way his eyes roamed down your legs, hypnotized by the sway of your hips. 

You placed the pouch in the pocket of your apron as you approached the line again, and you felt the light weight of it swing around as you bent down to grab more clothes. Not far behind you, Kyle assisted in finishing the laundry, and the two of you worked quietly in finishing the mundane chore. 

As you worked, you couldn’t help but steal a glance or two at Kyle. Alright, more than a glance or two, but you couldn’t be blamed. Not when he was as fine of a specimen as he was. A proper cowboy, he sported a thick pair of jeans that hugged his thighs and a long sleeved maroon shirt. His attire was a bit more relaxed as he wasn’t working with the animals, yet he still wore his black cowboy hat to keep the shining sun off his face. Even through the fabric of his shirt you could see the way his muscles flexed as he shook out one of your dresses before reaching up to pin it on the line. The way his waist tapered at his hips should have been illegal.

When a quarter of the pile was left, the furious huffing sounds of a horse could be heard galloping down the road at full speed. At first you didn’t pay it much mind, as plenty of people used the road outside your house to get to other ranches, but when the horse started to slow, you knew you had a visitor. 

Mr. Davis was a kind enough man, albeit a bit thick skulled and old enough to watch the birth of the world. Kyle often said the man couldn’t tell a pig from his own mother, and though you chastised him and told him that was rude to say, you knew he was right. You had once gone into town to shop at the store he worked at and watched him struggle to figure out how much change he needed to give back to you. Instead of holding down the shop like he was supposed to, he was on his horse, very red in the face and speeding towards your home. 

“What else did you do while you were in town?” you questioned as you held a damp pair of jeans. 

Previously unbothered, Kyle stopped what he was doing and turned his attention to the road. The soft smile on his face vanished and was replaced with confusion. “Nothin’ that would warrant him showin’ up here.” 

Sighing, Kyle quickly dried his hands off on the thighs of his jeans before resting a hand on the small of your back. Even through the fabric of your blouse you could feel how the warmth of him bleed through into your skin. The two of you stood there absolutely dumbfounded as you watched Mr. Davis struggle to park his horse next to Spot. It was lazy and half-assed work and you watched the reins slowly begin to unknot, but he stormed up the path anyway, up through the gate, and started to shake his finger as he approached you and Kyle. 

“Mr. Davis!” Kyle greeted, a bit tense as he took a few steps towards the man. “What can I help you with?” 

“Help? You can help by returning my bell!” the man shouted, his hoarse voice hardly carrying over the distance. 

He stopped just short of the end of the clothes line and he crossed his arms over his chest. Sweat laid in heavy beads across his forehead, and his breathing was far more labored than it should have been. His lips sat in a thin line and you noticed how his eyebrow kept twitching as he stood there glaring at your husband. 

“I apologize, but I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talkin’ about,” Kyle admitted as his thumbs dipped back into his pockets. 

“Don’t play dumb,” Mr. Davis snapped as he pointed his finger. “You snuck it into that bag of yours, didn’t you?” 

Instinctively, your hand clutched at the pocket of your apron where you kept the pouch Kyle had used to store the items for dinner. It was mostly spices and small vegetables; certainly nothing that could have been confused with any bell. Mr. Davis must have caught sight of your reaction because he took another step forward in an attempt to walk around Kyle. 

“Yes! That one!” he exclaimed. He held his hand out with the intention of snatching it from you, and you found yourself stumbling backwards. “Hand it here, girl!” 

Before the man could get close to you, Kyle’s hand shot out and grabbed Mr. Davis by his wrist. The only other time you had seen Kyle that angry was when someone had spilled bourbon over his brand new chaps. It took ages for you to help him get the stench of alcohol out of them, and a rumor had started going around that he was a drunk because of the stench. But the fire in his eyes then was nothing but a small spark compared to the raging storm that ate up the sweet brown hue of his irises. 

“You best remember who you’re talkin’ to,” Kyle warned. “That’s my wife and you’d do well to treat her with respect.” 

As if the store clerk wasn’t riled up enough, being grabbed by Kyle certainly pushed him over the edge. He tried to wrestle his arm out of your husband’s grip, but Kyle was infinitely stronger than the rather fragile man. All he had managed to do was flail his arms until his hand caught on the collar of one of Kyle’s work shirts. Pins came flying loose as the clothing was tossed down into the dirt on the ground. 

“Respect?” Mr. Davis repeated incredulously. “Awfully interesting of you to request respect when you stole something right under my nose!” 

“Mr. Davis, please,” you tried to reason, “I’m not quite sure what it is you’re looking for.” 

“My bell!” he shouted in response, arms still flailing against Kyle’s grip. 

“Well, yes, but perhaps if you took a moment to breathe and explain-” 

“Or your lying husband could give back what’s mine!” he interrupted. 

“Alright,” Kyle warned, “that’s enough outta you.” 

What unfolded in front of you was so confusing you didn’t have the words to explain it. Mr. Davis wasn’t an insidious man, by any means, just extremely dense, so when Kyle tried to drag him off your property, he did his best not to hurt the man. Though the man had nothing on your husband's strength, he certainly knew how to flail. Shirts, dresses, jeans; several articles of clothing flew to the ground as Mr. Davis managed to tangle himself in the clothing line. If you hadn’t spent the better part of the last hour or so washing them by hand, you would have thought the sight was a bit comedic. Instead you found yourself cringing at the awkwardness of it all. 

Your only saving grace through it all was that another horse galloped at full speed towards your home. Clay Turner was the owner of the store Mr. Davis worked for, so it only made sense he was the one you saw racing towards your home. He was a fine and charismatic gentleman, but you had caught him sneaking fresh produce into his pockets on several occasions. You weren’t sure how a business could be as successful as his when he shoved his mouth full of his product any chance he could get, but you weren’t one to judge too harshly when the prices were so cheap. 

“Whole damn town coming to visit?” you mumbled to yourself. 

“Mr. Davis!” he called, nearly tossing himself onto the ground as he rushed through the gate. “Stop harassing these poor folks!” 

But the man was still too busy tussling with Kyle to pay much attention to his boss. Clay shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small metal item that he held lazily up in the air. Upon closer inspection, you realized it was a small bell; the type to put on a desk or counter in order to call someone over. Was this the item Mr. Davis came all that way to accost your husband over? 

It wasn’t until Clay started to ring the bell that the man stopped struggling, but even then his eyes found you as he pointed at you once more. “Ah, so you do have it! Give it here this instant!” 

“Oh, you senile old man,” Clay muttered. With more force than needed, he yanked Mr. Davis away from Kyle and shoved the bell into his hands. The man looked down, completely astounded. “Maggie’s boy snatched it off the counter, you idiot. Now get on your horse and get back to work.” 

Burning red shame on his face, Mr. Davis looked up from his bell, to Kyle, and then to you before watching his feet as he walked back towards the gate without so much as an apology. Sighing, Clay offered the two of you a short smile as he wiped his hands off on the front of his shirt. 

“I apologize for that delirious old man,” he said sincerely. “He bought a desk bell for the front counter and brought it into work today. Says it’s easier to keep track of customers while he’s doing inventory. As you can tell it’s… very important to him.”

“So I noticed,” Kyle deadpanned. 

Clay’s face tensed as he glanced at you and then to the ground. A myriad of clothing was scattered everywhere with heavy amounts of dirt smudged into the fabric. On the front of your favorite blush pink blouse was a large footprint. You’d be lying if you said that sight didn’t upset you a little bit. 

“I apologize for the mess, Mrs. Garrick,” Clay continued. “I’ll make sure to give you a mighty fine discount next time you visit the store.” 

One short and awkward farewell later, Clay and Mr. Davis slowly faded away down the road. Dumbfounded, Kyle turned to face you with a small shake of his head. His hat had been knocked off in the midst of their argument, but had been caught by his stampede strings and rested against his back. A few buttons had either been torn off or came loose because the top part of his shirt was open, exposing his sternum. Glistening skin laid underneath, and you found your eyes drawn to it like a moth to a flame. 

“Knew I should’ve gone to Clancy’s,” Kyle sighed. “Why don’t you head inside and start supper? I’ll clean up out here.” 

Humming, you reached for him and rested your hand on his chest. Sweat covered his skin in a thin sheen, and he felt warm to the touch. Whatever irritation that had been on his face melted away into a smirk as he rested his hand on top of yours. 

“What?” he teased, smirk morphing into a grin. “You asked me to make it up to you earlier, didn’t you?” 

“I had something a little more fun in mind than you doing chores,” you admitted. 

As he thought for a moment, your hand slowly trailed down his sternum, only stopping when you had been blocked by the closed buttons of his shirt. Kyle took the stampede strings from around his throat and grabbed a hold of his hat before quickly placing it on your head. It was a few sizes too big and fit oddly on your head, and you found your hands flying up to keep it on straight. 

“How about we wait to have fun until we’re sure we won’t get any more visitors?” he suggested. 

A part of you wanted to say you didn’t care, but you knew that if Mr. Davis came by again to pitch a fit while you were trying to spend quality time with Kyle, the sheriff would be investigating a murder. So you huffed in agreement before crossing your arms. 

“Alright,” you conceded. “Suppose I might as well put these ingredients to good use after all the trouble you went through to get it.” 

Kyle’s hand came up to your chin and tilted your head upwards. He placed a short, chaste kiss on your lips before diving back in for a deeper one. A part of you almost wished he hadn’t because that only made your desire for him grow stronger. It took everything within you to keep your hands to yourself, and you instead busied your fingers with the task of keeping his hat on your head. You still felt him lingering on your lips in a pleasant tingle even after he pulled away. 

“Atta girl.” 

cowboy hat rule cowboy hat rule cowboy hat rule

[megasilverfist]

Greyschool

(cross posted from my gym’s blog) I’ve had a few people ask where I went to school and some of the purples also wanted to know what it was like, so I guess I’ll talk about it a bit.  I started out in a fairly typical greyschool before being recruited for multiple speciality high schools.  I was pretty tempted by one of the pre-navy schools (I like ships and they had 93% placement into active duty roles), but in the end I did the last year of my schooling at Soata academy which was more or less a sports grey spefic school.  Well it was for people who had a clear career track that would benefit from flexible scheduling or who qualified for their competitive teams.  In practice this meant sports greys but we had some stunt performers with reoccurring roles who didn’t work well with their studio’s school for child performers (those tend to be green focused), people who were inheriting businesses and mostly needed on the job training ect.

Normal greyschool was mostly like what people would expect.  Lots of gym otherwise classes similar to what (I think) you get at purple school in terms of general academics though not any feeder courses for purple jobs obviously. Soata, home of the biting crowntails, was a different story.  First off gym was optional and not really encouraged, we had some good stuff available for people who wanted to get a chance to sample specialty training approaches ( I did a brief one on the Idzedia powerlifting method), and for people preparing for relatively sedentary careers (the fish guys, the kid who’s family owns sportsbet.tap ect) but mostly they were just like your already getting sports specific professional coaching, thats kinda the point of being here.  Of course the people doing sports where high school level competition was a major recruiting field did play through the school teams, go crowntails bite their fins off!, but that was still extracurricular technically apparently, I didn’t come up with this.  

Anyway, we didn’t have gym, we didn’t have to keep up with classes teaching pointless things like the capital of Antiam or that almond milk isn’t made by feeding cows almonds, and we did have relatively tight academic prep standards and plenty of funding.  This meant that I was able to take lots of cool electives and advanced courses like history of sports, media interaction (coming up with good post game quotes, posing for photos ect), and nutrition science while still having a shortened school day for more training time and lots of flexibility to travel for events (they rescheduled my finals and were set up to livestream and record classes).  Also Shahn Nahn (yes that one) was an alumni which besides being cool as fuck also meant we had a sauna and on site masseuse from his donations.

So yeah would totally recommend it to anyone who can get in, but you do have to either qualify for their competitive teams or provide proof of outside training and meet fairly strict academic requirements (((only strict by school for jocks standards, but still manages to screen out ~20% of applicants))).  You can get a similar approach for stupid people at Nuna, boo dumbo ears how do you even swim, and similar flexibility but more classes for fallback plans/slightly lower standards at schools in different cities with Peka prep probably coming closest, boo double tails go home you freaks, I hope that helps.  (((seriously don’t make your fish fight irl)))

[pingutats]

my dearest darling

in which you and harry spend a sunday morning having coffee & cake, and spontaneously decide to go engagement ring shopping together.

warnings: a little suggestive at the end. mostly just pure fluff!

word count: 3.4k

.                               .                           .                               .                           .

The little alleyway off the main street filled with café tables is a perfect place for you and Harry to sit unseen. In fact, in this little alcove, it’s easy to watch the world pass by the two of you. It’s a nice reprieve from the usual of the world watching Harry. 

He’s wearing sunglasses anyway, just in case—despite the overcast weather. 

You frown at him, resting your elbows on the table and lacing your fingers together to rest your chin on. “I really think that makes you more conspicuous.”

He scrunches up his nose. “Nah. Or at least, if people notice, they’re going to notice an odd bloke in sunnies, not me.”

“They’ll notice it’s you.”

He glances at the busy footpath. “‘S working so far, love.”

A young waitress rounds the corner from the cafe’s front entrance and sets your coffees down on the table. You move your elbows off the table politely to give her space.

“Thanks,” Harry says, reaching for his black coffee. 

You smile at the waitress as you wrap your hands around the latte you ordered, warming up your freezing fingers. You notice the way she hesitates before she leaves, how she looks at Harry like she wants to say something before before quickly spinning on her heels and walking away. When she’s out of earshot, you look at Harry. “She knows.”

He shrugs. “That’s different.”

The waitress reappears a minute later with the little cakes you ordered. This time, she’s braver. “I’m so sorry—are you Harry Styles?” she asks, saying his name in a voice that’s akin to a reverent whisper.

His eyes dart to you for a split second and he raises his eyebrow enough that only you’ll notice, conceding to you, then smiles at her. “Yeah, I am. Sorry, what’s your name?”

You watch him navigate the encounter easily, like you’ve watched so many times. The girl asks for a photo and he politely declines, explaining that he doesn’t want to draw attention, but offers to sign a napkin for her instead. He a short message (nice to meet you, all my love) to her and draws a couple hearts after he signs his name, then passes it to her with a sweetly genuine thanks her for her support. 

“Oh my gosh, no, thank you,” she says earnestly. “It was so, so nice to meet you.” She glances at you, then, and her cheeks go even pinker. “Thanks,” she says again, and then she’s gone.

You let a giggle free at the awkward way his fans treat you, like they don’t know if it’s appropriate to talk to you as well, and how they struggle to find something to say to you anyway. Once it might have bothered you. It’s just amusing to you now. You raise your brows at Harry. “All your love?” you tease, quoting the message he wrote on the napkin. “Where’s my share?”

He pouts from behind his sunglasses. “Don’t be like that.”

You kick his shin gently underneath the table. “I’m kidding around. She was sweet. I like watching you do that, you’re so good at it.”

His foot swings around to trap your ankle between his. “Trying to play footsie at eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning? You little minx.”

You roll your eyes and wrench your foot free, rattling the table as you do so. He laughs—a sharp barking ha! that makes you smile through your embarrassment at causing a small commotion. 

“Who’s conspicuous, sorry?” he asks.

 You shake your head at him and stab your fork into your apple and cinnamon muffin. He keeps giggling as he slides his own plate with the carrot cake to his side of the table and picks up a fork himself.

“Mm, that’s good,” he says after he swallows his first bite. “Better than the one I make.”

“Well, baking isn’t known to be one of your talents.”

He claps a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded.” He leans over the table and skewers a piece of your muffin on his fork, dodging your attempts to swat his hand away with great agility. He pops it in his mouth triumphantly, cocking his head like he’s challenging you. 

In return, you steal a piece of his cake. 

“That was a much larger piece than what I took,” he accuses. 

You shrug.

His phone, face down on the table, dings. He glances up at you. 

“Check it,” you tell him. You know he only has alerts on for his closest friends—otherwise his phone would be ringing all day long. “I don’t mind.”

He bites his lip apologetically and flips the phone over, reading it. “Oh, it’s Tom. Hang on a sec.” He starts typing back.

You crane your neck around to read the message—something about Tom being free at the end of July, and Harry is giving a thumbs-up to that.

“Where are you off to?” you ask. 

“France, maybe,” he replies. You’re aware that discovering this kind of information so suddenly would be jarring for most couples, enough to even incite a fight—but you and Harry aren’t exactly a normal couple, and international trips are just part and parcel of your relationship. Hell, he goes on world tours for months at a time. You’re lucky, you suppose, that you function just as well long-distance as you do when you’re living together. 

“Lads’ trip?”

He sends the message and clicks his phone off, leaning back in his chair. “Nah. Taking you to Paris and getting down on m’knee in front of the Eiffel Tower,” he says, nodding sagely. 

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, Tom’s there to get the photos.” He shovels a forkful of the cake into his mouth and then points his fork in the general direction of a street busker playing a violin across the road. He swallows. “And I’m getting that guy to play a little tune, for the atmosphere,” he adds. 

You raise your brows. “Oh, you’ve got budget for this, then.”

He smiles. “Nothing but the best for my dearest darling.”

You snort.

He carefully cuts a piece of cake with the edge of his fork. “Nah, we’re thinking of doing a trip down to his friend’s studio in—somewhere in France, I can’t remember really. Friends and family welcome too, if you want to come. Apparently it’s a real nice place.” He eats his mouthful and then lifts his sunnies to look at you with clear eyes. “We are getting married, though. I mean that.”

Your cheeks threaten to burst from how badly you want to smile, but you force yourself to assume a serious face, just to humour him. “Of course we are.”

Despite the butterflies it inspires, this conversation isn’t new. You’ve been with Harry a couple of years now and you both know you’re on the same page when it comes to your shared future. There are no hard plans, but the direction is set. You’re getting there someday. 

He puffs his cheeks out. “I feel like you aren’t taking this as seriously as I am.”

You sigh melodramatically. “Well, sweetheart, I haven’t seen a ring yet.”

“A ring? You should have asked,” he drawls, then suddenly sits up straight and points a finger at you. “Don’t take that as a challenge. I want to be the one to ask.”

You shrug. “Can’t make any promises.”

His arm shoots forward to grab at your hand and you almost laugh out loud at the puppy-eyes he’s making at you. “No, please, baby, I swear you can do everything else, but let me do the proposing bit.”

In your heart, you’re happy he’s so insistent, because this is exactly how you want it to be too. In your mind, though, you really enjoy tormenting him. 

“I’ll think about it,” you concede, and he groans.

“I’m buying a ring soon as I can, just to lock it in,” he tells you as he destroys what’s left of his carrot cake.

Once you’ve finished and Harry’s gone up to pay for the coffee and cake (he also took a moment to lean over the counter to snap a group selfie with the waitress who served you earlier and a couple others too) you walk back up the street in the general direction of your car that’s parked a few blocks down. The weather is pleasant today and the sun is even peeking out from behind the clouds now, justifying his sunglasses. 

Your mind starts to drift (his arm wrapped loosely around your waist anchors you to the real world) as you think about how nice it is to be with Harry, how you’ve learned to appreciate each physical moment you have with him because they are so precious. After the tours, the promotional trips, the film sets, and all the little things in between, you understand how to be with Harry. You know not everyone can handle a life like this, and you’re sure that if it wasn’t Harry whose return you awaited, you wouldn’t be able to either. But he always returns. 

Harry comes to a sudden halt in front of a shop window, gazing in. You’re nearly yanked off your feet as you keep trying to walk with your arm around him—he’s so steady that he doesn’t budge. You stand next to him and look into what you realise is a jewellery store. 

“What do you think?” he asks. 

“Huh?”

He looks down, his arm squeezing around your shoulder. “Said I’d get you a ring, didn’t I?”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach. “What, today?”

“‘M not asking. Just preparing.”

You raise your eyebrows up at him. “That is… that is really a technicality.”

“Humour me,” he says. “C’mon.” He shepherds you into the store, steering you by your shoulders. 

It’s small and pretty in here, the air from the fans cool against your sun-warmed skin. There are hardly any other customers at the moment, so you have some kind of valuable privacy. There are a couple of glass counters that run along either side of the store with meticulously placed themed displays inside them. You gravitate immediately to the closest thing, a cluster of rough amethysts hanging from necklaces. 

“Aren’t these so cute?” you comment to Harry.

His arms wrap around you from behind and you reach up to grasp onto his crossed forearms resting against your chest. “Oh, yeah, they are.”

You stay there looking at the necklaces for a little too long—it’s not like you’re really that fascinated by the jewels, but more that you’re just enjoying Harry’s head leaning over your shoulder and his chest pressed to your back as you stand there. When your gaze meanders along the counter and you see something new, though, you shake free of his grip and follow your whims.

This store isn’t labelled out front with a massive brand. You’re pretty sure it’s an independent jeweller, judging by the neat description cards that accompany each small collection, explaining the theme in a lively and personal manner. This is what makes you really fall in love with the place and feel sure that this is where you’ll find the perfect ring. You know Harry could afford any ring from any famous brand, the heaviest jewels imaginable, easily worthy of a feature article in Vogue magazine. He could probably organise to have a diamond dug up fresh specifically to go on your finger. 

It’s the fact that Harry could give you anything in the world that makes you not want it at all. Special, to the two of you, isn’t something that you’ll find in wealth or the crowds that adore him.

It’s found in a day like this.

“Oh, my god, H, look at this one,” you gasp, grabbing his wrist and pulling him over.

He bends over the counter, his gaze following the line of your pointing finger. “Oh, that is pretty,” he says. 

It’s a simple gold band with a small, neatly carved diamond fixed to it. It isn’t flashy at all, which is what drew you to it. You knew he’d like it too. Despite the decadence of his performances, he can be a different man behind closed doors and you love that part of him. The secret part, the one that only you know so well. 

“I’m in love with it,” you tell him.

Harry nods. “Yeah, I think that’s the one.”

You never doubted that he would agree, but his assent sends a bolt of excitement up your spine. It’s all so real, suddenly, and you can’t wait to see him on his knee for you, to see that ring on your finger. You know your ring size off by heart (how could you not, being in a relationship with the jewellery connoisseur that Harry is), so there’ll be no need for you to try it on today. You’re left with only the raw anticipation of the day he’ll slide it onto your finger. 

His hands come down to rest on your hips as you both stare at the ring. You imagine you can hear his heart, knowing that it’ll be beating erratically because his excitement must match yours—you know how he feels about the idea of marriage. 

He spins you around to face him, leaving his hands on your hips. He looks at you very seriously. His sunglasses are resting on top of his head now, pushing back his curls and revealing his green eyes and furrowed brow to you.

“You know, if we’re seen buying an engagement ring…” he begins, trailing off. He shrugs. “Just want to think about that.”

You screw up your nose. “According to some magazines we got married last week, and also six months ago. Just being in here is probably going to spark something.” You glance behind you, as if you’ll see journalists scribbling away on their theories, then flatten your palms against his chest, smoothing out his shirt. “I’m happy to ignore it. I want to just do our thing, H.”

He nods, pursing his lips, and gradually the crease in his forehead disappears. “Okay. Good.” Twin smiles spread over your faces and you have the feeling of being two giddy kids, high-schoolers about to have their first kiss. Something new, unknown, exciting, that the two of you are going into together. His eyes are practically sparkling at you. If this was a cartoon, you think his pupils would be shaped like hearts right now. Something is starting to bud and you can feel it growing up inside you and between you, preparing to bloom. 

“Alright,” you say, breaking the insulating silence to draw you both back to the real world. 

He blinks a couple of times as if he’s just waking up. “Alright,” he echoes. “Let’s get it.”

He waves over a man drifting through the store in a neat suit and points at the ring. “Excuse me, can we please have a look at this one?”

The two of you watch the man unlock the cabinet and slide the plate of rings out, placing it on the counter. He picks up the one Harry pointed out. “It’s a lovely one, sir.”

“It is,” Harry says. His hand finds yours and squeezes your fingers. “What size is it?”

The man checks the price and tells you, and your mouth drops open. Surely there is something supernaturally perfect going on, because it’s exactly your size. You and Harry look at each other incredulously. 

The man seems to notice your unspoken conversation, because he helpfully adds, “We can resize it if you need.”

Harry chuckles. “No, it’s perfect. I think…” he trails off, looking at you. “What do you think?”

You nod at him, grinning. You rub your thumb over the back of his palm as he tells the man, “Thank you. We’d like this one, please.”

You stand slightly behind him as he pays for it, flexing your hands and wringing them in front of you. You know it’s all in your head, but your left ring finger is tingling as if it senses that it’s missing a piece. You really just want to wear the ring at this minute, but when the man selling it to you offers, Harry shakes his head quickly. 

“I’ll hold onto it for now,” he says. He accepts the little box from the man and slips it into his pocket. “Thank you so much.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, sir. Enjoy it, and congratulations to the two of you.”

Harry snakes his arm around your waist as you walk back out to the street. His hips knock against you as he squeezes you into his side, and you can feel the little box in his pocket. You can’t help the grin that takes over your whole face. You worry you look like an idiot, smiling so widely at nothing, but when you glance up at Harry, he looks exactly the same.

Your car is parked down a quieter road and you get to relax a little once you’re away from the crowds of the main shopping strip. You can walk a little more slowly and Harry loosens up a bit. His hyper-vigilance starts to strip away. You can see the tension in his shoulders dissolving and here’s your Harry, emerging from his defensive layers. Most people wouldn’t notice this change, but you do. You feel how he adjusts the grip of his hand on your hip, how he leans into you a little more as you walk. In your closeness, you can smell his cologne and you think of how you watched him spray it on this morning—and how you’re going to be watching him do that for the rest of your lives.

He glances over his shoulder and you copy him. The narrow street behind you is empty, but you don’t get a moment to really register this before you feel his arms tighten around your waist and you’re swept off your feet for a second as he crashes his lips into yours.

You close your eyes, letting the kiss envelop all your senses. The sweetness of the cake’s icing lingering on his lips; his arms locked around your waist, holding you up; the rapid beating of your heart. He pulls away slowly and your eyes flutter open. His face is just inches from yours and he’s looking at you with such intensity you feel naked. Not for the first time, you’re in awe of how impossibly green his eyes are; you could make a palette from every forest in the world, and it wouldn’t hold a candle to what you see in front of you right now.

“Y/N,” he says. He cracks a grin. “I’m so fucking happy.”

Your reply is simply to grab him by the back of his neck and pull him in for another kiss. Your hand tangles in his hair and you feel his tongue running along your bottom lip before he pulls away again quickly.

“Fuck,” he says, sounding lost for breath. “Need to stop before I make a fool of m’self in public.” He even physically takes a step back from you, his eyes comically wide.

You giggle. Your gaze travels down his body and you notice the indent of the box in his pocket. “Is that a ring in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

He shakes his head at you. “You’ve gone all giddy. ‘M getting you home right now and then we’re celebrating properly.” He turns around and starts walking towards the car, his long legs carrying him faster than you can keep up.

Your stomach flutters imagining what his idea of celebrating might be. Suddenly, the only thing on your mind is getting back to your house as soon as humanly possible. You run after Harry, skipping around in front of him and jogging backwards as you waggle your fingers in his face. “So, when are you going to pop the question?” you ask.

“Oh, honey,” he says, patting his pocket with the ring. He grins. “It’s going to be when you least expect it, I’ll promise you that.”

.                               .                           .                               .                           .

thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed—if you did, a reblog or a message is really encouraging and lovely for me to see!! the title is taken from the song by etta james.

this fic is the first part of a series called “here we are in heaven,” and i’m really really excited about it. you can read my earlier fic, at last!, if you want to see where this will end up, but there will be more parts to fill the in-between. plus blurbs and stuff! let’s chat about it! 

my masterlist can be found here. have a beautiful day!

[rein-ette]

A cleaner version of my previous ask 😅

Engport, babysitting (catsitting, plantsitting etc) or fire, please?

Oooookayyyy, so. I wrote...something. It's for the engport + fire prompt, but if I'm going to be completely honest it doesn't have anything that much to do with fire, though I swear I did come up with it because I was thinking about things related to fire. And this first part of it doesn't have much engport either, though there's certainly a lot of Port. It does have a cute small animal in it, if that's any consolation.

I do also have another idea for plantsitting, so I might write that at some point, but I didn't want to keep you waiting much longer so -- please accept my apologies and this fic that I can almost guarantee is not what you thought it was going to be.

Warnings: abuse of Greek mythology and one scene from Spirited Away. Also skulls. One skull. And I guess, death? But not really.

The realm of the dead was turning out to be a lot less crowded than Gabriel had expected. Since many mortals died every day, he had imagined that the banks of the river Styx would be crowded with souls, screaming or writhing or whatever spirits did in agony as they waited for their passage to the Underworld. Instead, Gabriel stood alone on what appeared to be a train platform, in the middle of a river so still he could easily see his own reflection in it, and so wide it might as well have been an ocean. Gabriel only knew it was a river because he could sense that the water was drawn to him like a curious child to pretty flower, responding to his immortal parentage. Unconsciously, Gabriel flexed his fingers and wondered if the steaming waters of the Styx would listen to him if he tried to command it. Probably not, and seeing as he was going to be knocking on the door of her master momentarily, Gabriel did not want to be introduced as that nephew who had angered the Goddess of Hatred the moment he had woken up in the Underworld.

Fat lot of good his powers had done him anyways, since he had died at sea.

Hadn't mother always told him the Oceanids were bad shit?

Sighing, Gabriel looked around again at his surroundings. He realized with no small amount of surprise that, while he had just been alone, now several shadowy figures stood with him on the platform, the edges of their figures melting in and out in the thick fog that rose from the waters around them. He tried to examine their faces to see if any of them were the spirits of his crewmates, but whenever he thought he could make out a feature their faces dissolved back into the fog. Exasperated, Gabriel glanced back at the river, noting with another jolt of surprise that now he could see the dark outline of a set of train tracks beside the platform, about half a meter underwater and stretching away into the blackness. Not long after he registered that, he heard the rumble of a train in the distance.

I suppose that's my ride, he thought to himself. The old myths said that Chiron ferried people on a boat across the Styx, but apparently the Industrial Revolution had come to the Underworld as well. Snorting at the thought, he dug in his pocket for his gold coin, which any good sailor always kept in case the ever-capricious ocean claimed them — even semi-immortal sons of river goddesses. Clearly, this was a good habit, because being semi-immortal had not saved Gabriel from that torpedo, which had reduced his poor ship to a lump of floating scrap metal before Gabriel could call up enough power to fill a water bottle, and, oh, all those poor soldier boys who would now never get a chance to die in a gruesome war and fulfill their heroic fates —

Gabriel could not find his coin. Frowning, he searched the front pockets of his admiral's tunic as well, even though he knew he had not kept it there. When that yielded nothing, he moved on to his back pant pockets, then his boots. For the first time since he had drowned in the icy cold Atlantic (which, admittedly, was not that long ago), Gabriel felt a shiver of true panic run through him. How would he board the train without his coin? How would he enter the Underworld? How would he join the ranks of the heroes in the Elysian Fields, where he belonged? Had he perhaps lost his coin when he had rushed to the railings to survey the damage on deck and was promptly dropped into the roaring Atlantic when a stray bit of flak from the exploding engine room tore clean through his right leg?

Now that he thought about it, that seemed likely.

At least he’d gotten his leg back.

The train slid to a rippling stop into front of him. With a soft swoosh, the doors opened, and Gabriel found himself staring at a man who, despite his smart train conductors uniform, could not have been anyone but Chiron, given that his face was a gleaming skull and his eyes literally balls of hellfire. It seemed the god had tried to update his aesthetic for the 20th century as well.

Chiron proffered to him a small wooden box, in which Gabriel could see several gold coins. Desperately digging through his pockets one last time, he finally shook his head. "I’m sorry, I don’t have the fare, I —"

The doors slid closed in his face, and immediately the train began to pull away.

Muttering a few choice curses, Gabriel stumbled a step away from the edge of the platform and watched as the train picked up speed and swooped away into the darkness.

Somehow, he doubted it would be returning to this station.

In the ensueing silence, Gabriel weighed his options. He could sit on this platform and mope, possibly for eternity. He could jump in the river and hope that his aunt either saved him or tore his soul into shreds from the agony. He could try walking along the rails in the direction the train had left, also possibly for the rest of eternity, in the hopes of reaching the entrance to the Underworld eventually.

Gabriel took off his shoes and chose the last option, despite feeling that sulking for the rest of eternity held a certain amount of appeal. He was very good at sulking. Nevertheless, he waded into the water at the end of the platform and found immediately that Hatred was lukewarm, not freezing cold like he had imagined — a nasty, suffocating lukewarm which swirled thickly around his thighs with the collected resentment, broken promises, lurid thoughts and heavens knew what else of millions of miserable souls.

He had feared the water might send him immediately into convulsions of unbearable pain or suck his consciousness right out of him, but as he continued along the track nothing remarkable occured. Perhaps the Styx had sensed his godly parentage and was protecting its kin. Or perhaps Gabriel had collected so much resentment in his long life that the river didn't even recognize him as a foreign body. Whatever the case, Gabriel held his shoes gingerly in one hand and sloshed on.

Quickly, he lost all sense of time, distance, or direction. It felt like he had barely taken two steps before the platform he left was swallowed by the fog, and the tracks underneath his feet curved and meandered like a small stream itself, without rhyme or reason. Gabriel realized that even if the water had not immediately destroyed him, he could not walk forever, and when he finally collapsed from exhaustion he would either be eaten by whatever dwelled in this wretched river or drown over and over in its depths until it dissolved him like a piece of wet toilet paper.

Still, he could not turn back. There was no hope even if he managed to return to the platform, and while a lesser man might have cowered in fear on dry land anyways, Gabriel had spent most of his twenty one centuries of life fighting and wandering across the oceans anyways. Wading through an infernal river until even his immortal soul crumbled into the waves — it seemed somehow like a fitting end.

To distract himself from his happy thoughts, he began to sing. At times it was just a wordless tune, but when he felt inspiration hit he added lyrics. He sang of his birth on the sun-kissed banks of the Douro, the eldest son of its beautiful immortal gaurdian and a local Roman nobleman. He sang of his siblings, not all of whom had inherited his mother's immortality, and he sang in particular of the one brother who did and accompanied him through the aching, bittersweet years that followed. He sang of the lands he had travelled, some bursting with life and colour, others stunning in their harsh, barren beauty. He sang of his lovers, the princes and the ladies, the soldiers and the nymphs and the humble farmhands whom he had courted, bed, and occasionally wed — but never to last, for mortal lives were but a flicker in the endless night and even the immortal ones could not tether down his heart for long. The stars called him, the waves called him, and Gabriel always, always answered.

He suppposed now, though, he had finally found his last resting place.

This thought was immediately followed by a less melancholic one: I didn't know polecats could swim.

Gabriel stopped singing and instead stood and watched as the little furry animal approached, paws paddling furiously as it slipped through the water. It stopped when it neared him and splashed around for a bit, before lifting its snout and looking pointedly at Gabriel, its dark eyes gleaming and intelligent.

Gabriel hadn't known that polecats could give pointed looks, either.

He cupped his hands and extended them to the animal, which immediately scrambled on and promptly snuggled up in his palms, curling into a little content ball. Unable to hold back a smile, he stroked its slick, midnight fur with a thumb, marvelling at how soft and warm it was and how docile it seemed.

Well, he thought, at least I still sing well enough to seduce a polecat.

"You've seduced more than just a polecat, that's for sure," someone muttered.

-- part 2 is here --

[nyxdelanuit]

It Started With a Postcard (Sero x F! Reader)

This is my contribution to the BNHarem’s penpal event! This event is nsfw so be warned! I had a lot of fun with this collab <3 

Please see the Penpal Masterlist to see the other characters! 

Warnings: smut, nsfw themes below!

Sero stood outside his apartment, staring down at a flowery postcard in his hand with an apprehensive gaze. The early afternoon sun warmed his shoulders, reminding him that he was still stood outside of his modest house. He brought the mail inside, kicking off his shoes at the door. Bills and various coupons were glanced over quickly before his eyes returned to the stiff postcard. The other mail was inelegantly dropped on the kitchen counter. Sero’s eyes scanned the delicate writing as he rummaged his kitchen for a drink. The handwriting was rushed and messy, but still a softer hand than his own.  

It had been a spur of the moment kind of thing, signing up for an anonymous penpal. He had been passing through a stationery store on his way home from patrol, preferring the calm walk home instead of flying above as he did for work. It allowed him to leave a lot of the tension of his job outside of his home as he watched the calm masses meander through the streets in the dying light. He had passed the shop many times before. There was just something that pulled to the shopfront that day. The scent of wooden pencils and lightly perfumed paper leaked out onto the streets, likely from the kiosk placed in front of the encompassing window. He knew it was a ploy to get more out of a dying business, selling a penpal package with bundled paper, envelopes, stamps, and a single postcard. There were spaces to fill out his information, and all letters would be sent through the shop. It had been tempting at the time, the opportunity to talk to someone who didn’t know his hero persona.

It had gotten tiring throughout the years, being the backbone of his friend group. Bakugou didn’t have the emotional intelligence to comfort their friends, Kaminari and Mina were too reckless and blase, and poor Kirishima was ironically too soft. So it had fallen to him, the voice of reason. The one everyone called at three in the morning when the weight was too heavy for one of his friends to hold alone. He had carried it all for years, not stopping to wonder who would hold him together while he supported everyone else. He just had to shrug it off with a smile, as they expected.

But now, the unassuming postcard in his hand offered something different. This person expected nothing more from him than a letter. He didn’t have to be Sero the hero, or Sero the strong one, he could just be Sero. His eyes roamed over the postcard once more before he searched the house for the bundle of paper he purchased. He flopped down onto his couch, picking out a soft grey piece of stationary and leaning over his coffee table to write.

For the first time since high school, Sero struggled with his words. His sentences were awkward and stunted and he floundered over what to say. It was harder than he remembered to start up a conversation with someone who couldn’t instantly reply. Even more so when he was trying to be vigilant about not letting his penpal, Y/N, know about his hero work. Everything he put down about his life felt vague and he hoped his new penpal would overlook his obvious avoidance of the topic.

It took a few days before Sero received a reply. He couldn’t excuse the excitement he felt at the soft envelope in his mailbox, stamped with the stationery store’s address. Sero briefly wondered about who his penpal could be, it would have to be someone within his patrol area. The store was locally owned after all. Perhaps he had even saved his penpal before.

While Sero’s letter had been subdued, neutral in both color and tone, his penpal was decidedly exuberant. The paper itself was awash in pastels with a light littering of designs, neither dark enough to obscure their writing. He noticed the writing was less hurried, but not much neater. It helped anchor Sero to the idea that it was another person on the other side of this letter, something as little as not having the best penmanship was oddly endearing.

His name ‘Hanta’ curled in a delicate slant at the top, causing the breath in Sero’s lungs to hitch. He had forgotten he hadn’t signed his full name, too worried that his penpal would connect it to his hero life and put him on some sort of pedestal. His penpal wrote significantly more about themselves than he had, but didn’t seem perturbed at his reluctance.

They worked a job they were okay at, they lived modestly within their means, they saw their friends often enough, and they met with their parents once a month for dinner. They were happy, but they wished for something to break up the monotony, therefore they signed up for the penpal service. Even though the topic was a bit dull, Sero saw the life behind their words. Humor laced their words and although Sero wasn’t quite happy about the self-deprecating tone, he could work with that. Your name was signed at the bottom, a messy smiley face scrawled just next to it. Without thinking, he brushed his thumb over the doodle, the smile blurred but still bringing a smile to Sero’s face.

There was no hesitance this time as he picked a more playful stationary. The words seem to flow onto the paper with no thought, he had forgotten how nice it was to just communicate with someone with no pretenses.

Weeks passed this way, and people could tell there was a little more pep to Cellophane’s step. He was more eager to get home, a new letter appearing in his mailbox every few days. Truth be told, he hated the wait. Every word poured out to pages made him feel closer to his mystery friend. He paused today, walking through the busy streets. Did he consider his penpal his friend? In every way you could consider someone you know only through words on paper, he supposed he did. Throughout the months of writing, there had been no lack of conversation. They shared in each other’s good fortune and even a few less fortunate events. Sero looked forward to their letters even more than Kaminari’s occasional club invites. Even now as he dodged his neighbor’s attempts at conversation, all he could think of was the softly scented envelope he hoped was waiting for him.

His hopes were rewarded. Sero glanced sheepishly at the growing piles of neglected mail on his counters as he cradled the letter to his chest. He wasted no time reclining on his couch and opening your letter. He wondered, not for the first time, if you sprayed some sort of perfume on your letter or if that was just the scent of you. Either way, it had become a comfort to him. There was no stopping the grin that dominated his face as he laid back onto the couch, intently running his eyes over your words. You always made sure to respond to everything he said, Sero had no idea the last time he felt this seen.

He was already moving to pen up a reply before he noticed your signature smiley face was missing from the end of the letter. Instead, penned in a shaky hand,

‘Call me sometime, Hanta. XXX-XXX-XXXX’

Sero stumbled over his feet trying to get up, ultimately ending up in a heap on the floor. In his haste, he struck out with his tape, pulling his phone from the counter into his hand. He quickly unstuck the tape and tapped open his contacts. Once your contact was filled out, the empty picture stared Sero in the face. His fingers seemed to move on their own, pressing the phone icon softly. It finally registered as the dial tone rang through his silent house, his hands fumbling to get the phone to his ear.

You picked up after two rings.

“Hanta!” His heart swelled as he realized he wasn’t the only one eager to talk, not to mention his given name falling so easily from your lips.

“Wow, do you have some sort of psychic quirk?” He chuckled into the phone. Neither of you had disclosed your quirks as of yet. You returned his laughter nervously.

“Oh definitely, I haven’t been answering every unknown number the past two days with your name or anything.” Sero settled himself on the floor, his free arm stretching up over his head. The sun streaming through his window, the particles in the air lit like tiny embers as they drifted. It felt as if his grin was etched into his face with how much he was smiling. He almost missed the silence that stretched on as he tried to imprint your voice into his head.

“Oh, sorry. I just got off of work, why don’t you tell me how your day went while I unwind a little?” It almost felt as if he was floating as you prattled on about the mundane happenings of your day. It was so normal, so nice. He forgot how nice it was to just live for a minute.

“Hanta?” He hoped you couldn’t tell the way he choked on his breath every time you said his name. “You just got off of work, how was your day?”

“Well I’ve got a few hours to rest before I’m on call, but today was pretty low-key as far as they go.” It felt natural to tell you about his day that he didn’t notice his slip up. It wasn’t as easy as it was on paper.

“On-call?” Sero cringed as you questioned. “Like at a hospital or something?”

”Something like that.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He heard you hum an affirmation, but to his surprise, you didn’t push any further.

“Sounds kinda rough, Hanta. I know I’m pretty cranky when my schedule gets changed.” He appreciated how you kept trying to get to know him without pushing the things he wasn’t ready to share. “And it must be some commute if you work in something like a hospital. There aren’t any close-by. Oh, sorry, I guess I’m assuming you live nearby since the paper shop is local.”

“Yeah, I do. Live nearby, I mean… and the commute isn’t terrible.” Sero muttered awkwardly into the phone.

“I wonder how many times we’ve passed each other without knowing.” Your voice came out a little breathlessly as if you were daydreaming on the other end.

It was easy for Sero to fall into you. Hours passed by as the two of you talked about anything that came to mind. He had barely even noticed the shadows growing deeper as the light faded from his house, until only darkness remained, cut by a singular beam of light from the bright moon. He was fully content to talk to you all night, provided that he wasn’t called into work. At least he was until your yawn cut through your voice.

“I didn’t realize it was so late. Shouldn’t you be getting some rest?” Your voice was getting exponentially drowsy with each minute that passed.

“I’m already on-call, you should get some sleep though.” He chuckled softly into the receiver. Your sleepy voice was adorable.

“Hanta! You shouldn’t have let me blather on instead of letting you rest.” You tried your best to reprimand him, but it only brought forth another soft chuckle.

“I’ll be fine. It was worth it to talk to you, anyway. Now go to bed. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Hanta.” Your voice was barely a breath, and Sero was reluctant to hang up.

It became a nightly ritual between the two of you. Sero called whenever he got off of work, and the two of you talked throughout the night. He insisted you stay on the line even as he made dinner. Sero gave good advice on your shitty coworkers, and he told you stories about his eccentric friends to fill the empty space. You had even tuned into a show together, commenting about the bad storyline and cheesy acting. Every night, Sero would wait for your yawn and wish you a goodnight. You had buried yourself in his heart, and he was in no hurry to remove you.

You were convinced you had worried a path in your floor. Sero’s calls were never on a set schedule, but he had called you every night for over a month, and it was passed the time you usually fell asleep on him. There had been no word from him all day, not even a text to say he’d miss your call.

Sero got back home late. It had been the worst day that he’d had in a while. He was called for assistance rescuing people while some of his more combat-oriented heroes took on a villain, but there had been heavy casualties. All the tape in the world couldn’t fix someone crushed by the rubble. Sero knew that too well now.

His body moved on muscle memory. He had already changed out of his gear and showered at the agency, so he simply kicked his shoes off and stumbled to the couch. There was no thought to it as he dialed your number.

“Hanta! Are you okay?” The panic in your voice floored him.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think of how late it was. Did I wake you?” The somber tone of his voice shook you.

“It’s fine, did something happen?” Sero sighed into the phone, choosing his words carefully.

“My work involves helping people, but I wasn’t able to save all of them today.”

The two of you talked into the early hours of the morning. Sero felt everything spill over as he spoke, and you somehow took everything in stride.

“...And I couldn’t do anything.” Somehow his chest felt lighter and tight all at the same time.

“That doesn’t mean that your work isn’t important anymore. You make a difference. A big one.” Was this how other people felt when he was on the other side? It didn’t stop hurting, but knowing that someone was there carrying the weight with you was more than Sero could have hoped for.

Life returned to normal after that, with the exception that Sero started being a little more forthcoming with how his days went. You still didn’t know his exact occupation, but you knew enough to help on the rough days. It only made the feelings Sero had for you more intense. Even though the two of you talked every night and sent little text messages throughout the day, neither you nor Sero stopped sending little letters to each other.

Sero was rummaging through the leftover bits of his penpal package, trying to find a good piece of stationery to pen his next letter. His frown marred his face as dull, formal paper littered the bottom of the box. It would have seemed silly to him at the beginning of your correspondence, but he wanted everything to be perfect in his letters. He had saved every one you had sent, after all. If you were doing the same, they had to at least look like they were worth saving.

Sero wandered into the stationery store, sunglasses perched on his face and a practiced neutral expression on his face. With his hoodie bunched up around his oddly shaped elbows, the only recognizable feature Sero seemed to have was his trademark grin. If he could get in and out without being noticed, he would be able to get a letter out tonight instead of tomorrow morning.

If drumming up business was the reason for the penpal event, it sure seemed to work if Sero was any judge. He wandered through the aisles, stopping often to look at delicate papers with seasonal decorations. He noticed with a flush that all papers in his grasp were soft and floral, reminiscent of new spring love. In an effort to shake those thoughts from his mind, he watched the other patrons roaming the store. Any of them could be you, passing by without even knowing. One customer in particular had caught his eye, thumbing papers in soft greys and a pale yellow clutched in her hands. How lucky he would be if you were anything like her. He realized a bit later that his distraction had only led him deeper into his daydreams, so instead, he browsed the rubber stamps and stickers towards the end of the aisle. Would you like it if he placed stickers on his letters? Which ones would you like? Maybe the delicate cherry blossom stickers, or the pack with puppies? Did you like a specific character?

He had been so lost in his thoughts, he almost missed the ring of the vaguely familiar voice from the front of the store. He heard it every night, but never this clear. Who else could it be but you? He rushed to the front of the store, the bell chiming as it fell closed. He had half a mind to follow you into the street, seek you out finally. Maybe then he could get you out of his head. But the shopkeeper had called to him, noticing his armful of papers, and Sero knew it was too late. Even if he left now, he wouldn’t be able to pick you out of the crowd. Next time he wouldn’t hesitate.

It was easier to admit on paper. Sero wrote to you that night about how he thought he may have just missed you earlier, and how he had started thinking about meeting up. His hand trembled as he wrote about he was a bit nervous about how much he liked you. He finished the letter quickly, sealing it in an envelope and placing it in the mailbox before collapsing in bed. No taking it back now.

It had been quiet for days, and Sero was starting to feel on edge. He liked the days where there wasn’t much to do, it meant that everything was safe and he was doing his job, but multiple days in a row meant trouble. It didn’t take long for his hunch to be proven correct. Glass shattered onto the streets, metal crunched against metal, and Sero moved as fast as he could push himself to go.

Thankfully a few heroes had been nearby to assist Sero with the robbery-turned-mass-destruction. It took them longer than Sero liked, but the villains were subdued. With the criminals apprehended, Sero focused on the cleanup. He had no more than a few scratches, but he was worried about all those that may be trapped in the toppling buildings. A few buildings sat askew, steel beams exposed like snakes reaching out into the sky. It was fairly easy for him to stabilize the buildings, swinging around with his tape like a spider cocooning its prey. As each building was stabilized, he quickly scanned through the halls, escorting any remaining citizens out of the building and past the danger zone. He worked methodically, moving down the street and clearing each building before the next. Compassionate, yet logical. He couldn’t let the recent memory of his losses skew his current predicament.

Those thoughts had swum through Sero’s head until a harsh squeal accompanied by a metallic groan met his ears. He wasted no time jumping into action, flinging himself through the sky to the source. There you hung, dangling by increasingly sweaty hands as you desperately tried to get a better grip on the slowly sagging steel girder. Sero’s heart beat erratically against his chest, but his body moved on instincts ingrained in his muscles.

It always looked so smooth in the movies when the hero swoops in to save the girl. The girl would stare up at the hero in admiration as they glided through the air, as graceful in the sky as a bird. That’s not how you felt. Cellophane’s body collided against yours like a truck, pushing the air from your lungs. Your whole body lurched against his as he scooped you up. The crashing of the beam behind you echoed in your ears, you couldn’t begin to imagine what would have happened if he had been even a minute later. Cellophane may have swung through the air like he was made for it, but your body was jostled by the air beating against your face. The helmet seemed a really wise choice at the moment. As you struggled to grip onto his form, you felt the phone in your pocket easing it’s way out.

“Hey, stop squirming. I’ve got you.” Cellophane spoke to you calmly, but all you could think of was the phone that was about to shatter across the pavement far below you. Your hand reached out to grasp at the device, grasping around thin air. “It’s just a phone, you can get a new one.” Cellophane tried to comfort you as you watched the glittering of your phone exploding and becoming one with the debris of the street.

“No, I have to be there when Hanta calls!” You cried out. Today had already been hard enough, and in your frightened state, all you could think of was how Hanta would hate you if you ghosted him. Cellophane’s chuckle rumbled through where your chests touched, and you couldn’t help but smack his shoulder lightly. “It’s not funny.” Tears gathered in your eyes, all these emotions were too much for you.

“I think Hanta won’t mind if you miss a call, Y/N.” He cooed. You were startled as the tears escaped your eyes.

“Hanta?” His grin was visible through his helmet as he clutched you a little closer to his chest.

“Gotta say, this wasn’t what I was thinking of when I said I wanted to meet you.” You manage to loop your arms around his neck and pull him closer, causing him to veer off course slightly. He righted himself with a nervous chuckle, landing gently on a stable rooftop nearby. “Sit tight for a bit and I’ll come get you, okay?” You could only nod numbly as he propelled himself back into the sky.

Sero may have rushed through his work, knowing you were waiting for him as the chill of the night started to set in. It had been a long time since he felt such a thrill soaring through the city. He circled lowly around the building, coming up behind you as you swung your feet off the edge of the building, staring up at the night sky. He plopped down beside you, removing his helmet and fidgeting with his sweat-slicked hair.

“So… come here often?” Sero pulled a startled chuckle out of you before you leaned onto his shoulder.

“Good one Hanta. Or should I say Cellophane? Now I kinda get why you were so reluctant to tell me your job.” You returned your sights to the sky, a little nervous to look him in the eye.

He stood then and offered you a hand. “Sero Hanta, hero name Cellophane, at your service.” He grinned down at you, and you took his hand to help you stand. You toed the ground with a flush.

“So should I call you Sero then?” It was Sero’s turn to blush.

“Actually, I was hoping this wouldn’t change much between us. I like it when you use my given name.” You nodded, finally looking into his eyes.

“Then you should use mine, too!” Your joined hands still sat between you, and although Sero had realized, he simply gave it a soft squeeze.

“Well, my place is nearby if you want to get cleaned up?” He offered awkwardly. You were suddenly and intensely aware of how all the dust and dirt clung to your skin.

“That would be wonderful.” His smile turned mischievous as he pulled you to his chest, not giving you time to get nervous as he vaulted the two of you off the roof. You had half a mind to scold him, but you were too focused on enjoying the ride. Seeing the city you lived in, the streets you walked every day, from a bird’s eye view was not something you would forget anytime soon. The biting wind stung your eyes, but you couldn’t bring yourself to close them.

To your surprise, Sero deposited the two of you on his balcony. Why waste time with the front door when he could meander through the sliding door? He quickly ushered you through his room. He tried to at least. You were having too much fun pretending your legs were jelly and trying to get a glimpse of his room. It was nice to know that the light-hearted chemistry you had felt over the phone was more than present in person by the way Sero was laughing along with you instead of kicking you out.

The two of you settled into his living room, cold drinks in hand as you tried to catch your breath from the whirlwind of a day. Sero seemed to be keeping an eye on you, and you wondered if he was simply looking for any lingering unease from the attack or if he was as enamored with you as you were with him.

“The bathroom is down the hall, you should get cleaned up.” He broke the comfortable silence, motioning to a door behind you. You shook your head vehemently.

“Oh no, Mr. Hero, sir.” You giggled at him, “You worked a long and hard day, I can wait.”

“You’re the guest!”

“And I’ll be a damned good one and let you go first.” Sero huffed at you before conceding, tossing you a remote to the television as he passed.

“Fine, but next time you go first.” You gasped as he disappeared behind a door.

“Oooh, so you already think there will be a next time? Hanta, I took you for a gentleman!” You jeered at him playfully. Even with the door closed, you could hear him groan.

“Shush! I have neighbors ya know.” He tried to sound put-off, but you could hear the laughter in his voice. To his credit, he didn’t make you wait very long. Steam rolled out of the bathroom as he walked out, still toweling his hair. You tried not to stare at the way his shorts hung low on his hips or the way his shirt stuck to his still-damp skin, but there was no good place to look that wouldn’t make it obvious. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice your conundrum, simply gesturing to the bathroom.

“It’s all ready for you, I’ve put out a towel you can use. Feel free to use any of my stuff, although it might smell as nice as you’re used to.” You thanked him softly as you escaped into the bathroom to hide your flush. The water still ran warm from Sero’s shower, and you were quick to strip and step into the stream. You watched in fascination as all the day’s mess ran down the drain, a sickly grey.

Sero waited for you on his couch, still pristine. He frowned, realizing that you had probably stood the whole time as to not dirty his furniture. You were too stubborn for your own good, it seemed. He mindlessly flipped through the channels, wondering vaguely if he should just watch one of the many shows he neglected. It wasn’t until he heard the soft padding of your feet that he pulled himself from his thoughts. You stood at the entrance of the hallway, covered only by the fluffy towel he had left for you. Your face was fully flushed, and Sero tried to convince himself it was only from the shower.

“My clothes are completely wrecked, do you have anything I could change into?” Your voice was soft and reluctant, and Sero was quick to pop off the couch, slipping slightly in his haste to help you once again. He tried to slip past you to his room, but he couldn’t help stopping as your skin brushed against his. You looked up at him, eyes wide and questioning.

Sero prided himself on his control. Out of all of his friends, he was known as the level-headed and logical one. Even so, that restraint only went so far. Seeing you in such a state of undress, looking up at him so earnestly, it broke the dam holding back his desires.

His hands tangled in your wet hair, pulling your lips to his with bruising force. You gasped into his hold, dropping the towel as you draped your arms around his neck. Clothes were forgotten as his hands traveled down your neck, moving your head to fit against his better. His tongue traced against your lips with agonizing slowness, but his hands held no such restraint. His rough fingertips drifted down your neck, ghosting past your nipples as they made their way to your waist. He didn’t hesitate to lift you by the thighs, making you anchor your legs around him.

Sero staggered to his room, never once compromising his hold on you. His body followed you down onto his bed, not letting his lips leave you for more than a moment. When he finally broke away, eyes hazy with lust, he gazed down at you.

“Is this okay?” He wanted you to be sure. You were, especially after his question.

“Yes, Hanta. I want you.” Your voice was heavy with your desire, driving him to strip his shirt with an urgency he rarely felt outside of work. The fabric flew into the darkness of the room and his lips were on you shortly after. He let his hands roam now that you were in his bed, kneading experimentally at your breasts. You pushed your chest into his hold, encouraging him to give you more. Your hands found their way to his navel tracing down the path of dark hair. Sero was already straining against the fabric, and you softly swirled your fingers over the tip. He groaned darkly against your mouth, pulling back to rip the shorts off of his body. His lips descended on your chest, harsh nips and soothing licks raining down on your skin. You were so focused on the way he wrapped his lips around your nipple that you hadn’t noticed his hand grazing your skin down to your core. Sero swirled his tongue around your nipple, lavishing the other in rough pinches and soothing circles.

Your back arched off the bed as he spread your folds, skimming over your clit. You bucked against his hand, desperate to feel his fingers against you.

“You’re so wet for me.” He panted against your chest, staring up at you with dark eyes. “Did you think of me after our calls? Did our talks make your heart race like they did mine?” You nodded helplessly.

“Please Hanta.” You begged for his touch and he was too enamored with you to resist. His finger entered you deftly, his palm rough against your clit.

“I had hoped so, ya know I liked you even before I saw your face. Now I know how good you look, I don’t want to let you go.” He finished his breathy sentence with a nip to the underside of your breast, making you squirm against him. He moved back to watch you, adding another finger and then two. The squelching noises coming from his fingers would have normally embarrassed you, but you found yourself lost in the way that he stared at you like an oasis in a desert; like you were something he had been waiting for so long to indulge in. “I already knew you must be beautiful, just from your voice, but fuck, you are so much more than I could imagine. I think I could be happy to spend the rest of my life in this bed with you if you kept looking at me the way you do now.” His hand retreated from your heat, and your body tried to follow. “I’m sorry, I can’t hold back anymore.” He panted, fisting his weeping length before sliding it through the slick collected between your legs.

It was a sweet stretch as Sero sunk into you, a few thrusts before he was fully seated inside you. You reached for him, scratching at his shoulders as you tried to roll your hips up to meet him.

“Fuck, babe. You’re pulling me in so good.” He groaned, placing sloppy kisses across your shoulder. He pulled out to the tip, teasing himself as much as he was teasing you, before slamming home with a lewd smack. Your keening moan set him off, pistoning into your tight cunt without remorse. His fingers dug into your thighs as he tried to angle them higher without slowing. Sero’s hands slid up to the underside of your knees, almost bending you in half as he rolled his hips viciously, grinding up against your engorged clit with every thrust.

“I can’t get you off of my mind. F-fuck, I can’t let you go now. You’re stuck with me.” His hips stuttered against you as he spoke, slowing down to edge himself. The slowed pace had you writhing, not able to buck up against him well in this position. He chuckled softly, his breath hot on your skin. You were so focused on chasing your high, your eyes shut tight and head thrown back, that you barely noticed the tearing of tape coming from Sero. He deftly crossed your legs, attaching the tape to his headboard off to the side in a way that still allowed him to see your face. “Goddamn, babe, you’re so tight like this.” His breathing was erratic as he placed his newly-freed hands on your ass, separating them until he could clearly see himself sinking into your warm cunt. You gasped under his intense gaze, clenching around his cock. The veins were clear in his neck as he tried to hold himself back, his voice caught in his throat.

Then he snapped, a low groan resonating throughout the room. He was all fast, demanding thrusts and blissful praises. You responded in kind, wordless wails of pleasure and breathless gasps. “I’m not gonna be able to last much longer. Cum for me, baby, please.” He pleaded with you, his voice gravelly and needy. His calloused fingers found your clit easily, rubbing figure eights just on the right side of pain. Your legs struggled against the tape as you tried to grind yourself more on his length, pushing his cock into the spongy area that craved his attention. You felt yourself wind up, breaths shallow as you stayed rigid against his passion, desperate for him to keep rubbing against that spot. Your head was swimming with the lack of oxygen as you held your breath long enough for the tension to snap. Sero’s head flew back with a moan as your walls started to drag him further in, constricting his cock with an encompassing ecstasy. He sped up, keeping you on the precipice of over-stimulation. With a final wet smack, he sheathed himself within you, pulsating as the warm ropes of his cum branded your insides.

He stayed within you as he gently removed the tape from your skin, leaving soft kisses on every reddening section of skin. His hands rubbed soothing circles into your thighs, moving down to your calves. “Are your legs sore? I probably should have asked sooner.” He looked a bit ashamed as he asked, only relaxing once you shook your head. “Good.” He pulled out of you slowly, your combined fluids steadily flowing from you.

He quickly ran to his bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it with warm water. Once he returned, he returned to his spot between your legs, delicately wiping up all remnants of your fluids. His touch was careful against your swollen sex, and the warmth soothed away any ache that may have remained. He cleaned himself quickly after, only settling himself in bed once he deemed you were taken care of. Once he collapsed onto the bed, he pulled you onto his shoulder.

“So… would it be presumptuous of me to call you my girlfriend?” A thread of nervousness weaved through his voice as he tucked your face away from his flushing face. You allowed yourself a tired giggle.

“I think that’d be nice, Hanta.” He shuddered at the feeling of your breath against his neck.

“Oh, great! Well then, does my beautiful, caring, amazing girlfriend want to stay the night.” You could feel his grin against your head and couldn’t resist the one on your own face.

“Well, I’m pretty sure I don’t have work tomorrow, so why not.”

[the-pontiac-bandit]

Tobe + fist (if your still doing that tortall thing) the kalasin thing was AMAZING!!!

i’m SO glad you liked the kalasin story!! here’s one about tobe to thank you for the compliment!

Tobe whistled as he meandered down the long aisle in the center of the pages’ stables, horses perking their ears up or neighing quietly in greeting as he passed. He’d lived at the palace for nearly a month and had found--to the surprise of no one except himself--that it quite suited him. He’d known that Peachblossom, Hoshi, Magewhisper, and the rest were well-bred and well-trained, but even after Lady Kel had described the palace in detail, he still hadn’t been prepared for the sheer number of perfect horses, living stall after stall for what felt like miles of stables. Their coats shone, muscles rippling beneath as they responded to the lightest touch of his knee against their sides. It was like magic.

Stefan and Daine, meanwhile, were teaching him to control his actual magic, spending hours meditating with him and instructing him on the best ways to listen. He marveled for a moment as he walked at how much clearer the voices around him sounded, even compared to only a few weeks before, when he spent most of the ride south translating Peachblossom’s complaints about the mud for Lady Kel’s benefit. He’d spent time admiring and trading wry jokes with Loey’s shaggy ponies in the Riders’ stables and spent most afternoons practicing with his bow on their standing targets while they were busy on horseback, but that was a decision for next year. For now, he was more than content to enjoy the marvel of newly discovered magic and the heady sensation of his newly earned freedom.

He was distracted as he wandered through the stables, making his way towards the hay lofts at the far end, where he’d left some tack that needed mending. He was reveling in the sounds—although really, Daine had explained last week, they weren’t sounds as he understood them—of the horses’ idle gossip. Equine gossip was always so much more interesting than two-legger gossip, Hoshi had insisted time and again when he came to her and Peachblossom with a tidbit about one of his two-legger friends, and Tobe found that he had to agree.

He didn’t notice at first when the tones changed, but suddenly, he was aware that the genial chatter he’d been so enjoying had turned tense and quiet. Some of the more skittish warhorses had backed up to the corners of their stalls, pawing at the floor with hooves the size of the plates in the mess hall while the whites of their eyes shone in the dim light. Similarly, some of the more skittish pages had fled their horses’ stalls, eager to avoid broken toes or bruised ribs.

He knew what his job was now. He was to go find Stefan as fast as his legs could carry him and warn him that a fight was brewing. Then, Stefan would wander through the stables in the casual, quietly purposeful manner he had perfected, silently reminding the pages that they’d best groom their horses properly and pick fights on their own time. He’d witnessed it twice since he’d started as a groom, and he was eager to emulate the walk himself one day.

He’d already turned to go when a sample of the words drifted towards him over the quiet scuffles of pages fleeing the scene, eager to avoid the punishment work that they’d surely earn if they were caught brawling in the stables.

“A stupid trollop…no better than you ought to be…”

Tobe’s blood boiled at the sound of the words, ones he’d heard more times than he could count, from the mouths of new refugees or fellow soldiers at Mastiff, always out of his Lady’s earshot. Before he’d even made a conscious decision to do so, he was spinning on one heel and stalking back down the aisle. As he strode towards the corner stall, where the horses seemed most nervous, he drew himself up to the fullest of his fourteen-year-old height, thanking the gods for his recent growth spurt. He’d put on more muscle, too, as his voice deepened. He spared a moment to warn the horse—a particular favorite of his nicknamed Bonney by her rider—not to intervene, and then shifted his hearing to his ears to better hear the two-leggers, picking up more of the argument as he drew nearer.

“You shouldn’t do this, Halleburn,” Bonney’s rider’s voice was cold, her tone firm. Tobe was sure she must be angry. After all, his own mind was seething with rage. Instead, though, she sounded ice-cold.

“You shouldn’t be doing any of this, my lady,” Brennard of Halleburn replied. Tobe was still new to the manners of the nobility, but even he could tell that lady here was an insult, not an honorific.

“You’re just embarrassed that I beat you. If you spent as much time practicing as you do whining when you lose, you might have more luck next time.” Tobe was tempted to whistle quietly at her bold retort, but he was distracted by the sound of a scuffle, and by Bonney’s insistent Hurry in his head.

He rounded the gate into the open stall, his fist already drawn back like Lady Kel had taught him years ago in the town square of New Hope. Before he’d had time to consider attempting to resolve the situation peacefully, he was feeling the surprisingly satisfying crack of breaking bone beneath his fingers.

Both pages’ jaws dropped, blood dripping into Halleburn’s open mouth as he sputtered indignantly. He spared not a word for Tobe, instead spitting blood in his general direction as he sprinted out of the stall and down the aisle. Tobe was sure he was bound for Lord Padraig’s rooms, but he could hardly bring himself to care. His blood was pounding in his ears, his heart racing in his chest, as he seethed over the page’s words.

He took one deep breath, then another, fighting to control his emotions and his shaking hands. It was as the anger cleared that he recalled he was not alone in Bonney’s stall. The female page was staring at him, mouth still open in shock. Belatedly, he remembered his manners, bowing deeply in the manner Stefan had drilled him on as he stuttered.

“I apologize—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disrespect—Page…” and then he trailed off. While he was intimately familiar with the details of the page’s riding skills—well beyond her fourteen years, according to Bonney—Bonney had never thought to mention her rider’s name—or how pretty she was.

“Marinie,” she replied. She finally closed her still-open mouth, but her eyes were still flashing with anger. “Marinie of Shaila.”

“Page Marinie,” Tobe filled in, finding words as he calmed. “I do apologize for my outburst. It was not my place. I hope you can forgive my rudeness.”

She brushed past his formal apology with an impatient shake of her dark braid. He noticed her hair—longer than both Lady Kel’s and the Lioness’ but braided tight against her head. After a day’s worth of hard work, shorter pieces in the front had fallen out, some framing her face while others curled out from her head. One lock fell in her eyes with the shake of her head, but she brushed it away absentmindedly as she replied, “He’s going for the Training Master, you know.”

Tobe shrugged. “Stefan’ll be disappointed, but Daine’ll think it’s funny.” He’d discovered quickly that Daine always thought such misbehavior was worth a laugh. Numair said it was because she lacked discipline, but there was laughter in his eyes as she elbowed him in response.

Marinie smiled quickly at that, her demeanor shifting from frustrated to friendly in a breath. “She probably will. In one of our lessons on horse care, she told Carlin of Irenroha his horse would bite his nose if he kept sitting like a lazy sack of flour at the trot. When Carlin tried to complain to Lord Padraig, m’lord just told him Daine was right.”

“That sounds like her,” Tobe replied. He wasn’t sure if he should go before Lord Padraig returned to chastise him or stay to clean the blood off the floor of Bonney’s stall. Now that the adrenaline was leaving his body, he could feel his fist hurting where it had made contact with Brennard of Halleburn’s face. He shook it out as he turned to leave the stall for the tack room, where sponges and brushes for scrubbing could be found.  

“Why’d you do it?” Marinie asked. She was surprisingly direct, for a noble, and he found the corners of his mouth twitching at her lack of inhibition.  

He stopped, one foot out the gate of the stall, to answer. “I worked four years for the Lady Knight Keladry, and—”

He’d meant to continue to explain, about all of the muttered insults and unfair accusations and his disappointment that such things were said even in King Jonathan’s palace, but Marinie had already cut him off.

“You know Lady Knight Keladry?” Her face lit up at the information, a smile breaking across her freckled cheeks. “What’s she like? Is she as good with her glaive as they say? What about the lance? I didn’t get to see her joust on Progress—my mother said I was too young, even though I wasn’t, and—”

She cut herself off, her cheeks reddening slightly as she scraped a well-worn boot against the stable floor. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to say.”

Tobe grinned properly at that. “She’s even better. You should see her joust against Lord Raoul—that’s a real match. She hasn’t beat him yet, but she sits in the saddle all firm, and her horse is all muscle and speed. She rides him like something out of legend, and he can bite something fierce. He’s too big for pretty much everyone, but they manage well, and he’s got a beautiful strawberry coat—”

“You’re talking about her horse,” she interrupted him again.

“Right,” he caught himself. He rubbed his hand again. It was properly throbbing by then, his first two knuckles already beginning to swell. Lady Kel hadn’t mentioned how much punching someone hurt—he’d have to tell her when he next wrote.

Page Marinie eyed his fist, a knowing look in her dark eyes. “You should come to my rooms. I have bruise balm that’ll help loads with that. You won’t be able to use that hand tomorrow otherwise.”

“I shouldn’t,” he replied, a bit uncertain. “I really should be cleaning this mess. That’s what’ll get me with Stefan later, if Bonney here tells him she’s been smelling blood all evening.”

She shrugged. “Meet me back here at the second bell after supper, and I’ll help. I finished my punishment work in the armory two days ago, so I have the time.” His heart skipped a beat at the invitation, and he could feel his cheeks redden just a bit.

He started to protest, but she was already interrupting him again. “If you hadn’t done it, I probably would’ve. He deserved it. And if you really want to thank me, you can tell me stories about Lady Kel—not her horse—on the way.”

[nevtelenwriting]

You Can Be a Hero

Gen: Shinsou Hitoshi & Dadzawa Aizawa

Rating: Teen?

Just a one-shot that’s part headcanon, part of a longer character-study fic I’m fiddling with for my favorite goth son Shinsou (one sided pining after Aizawa if you squint, Shinsou you poor disaster gay)

How Shinsou started training with Aizawa

--

“You were good at the festival.”

Shinsou nearly trips over himself in surprise. He’d been on his way home for the day, head down and ignoring yet another long series of meaningful looks from his schoolmates down the hallway. Being in a school of people with the best of the best of quirks meant less looked at him with fear; though not all. At this point it was just aggravating, a tired rhetoric he’d spent his school years shrugging off.

However, those days following the festival he’d noticed an uptick of people seeing his power as less…villainous. No one called it good yet, though. That was fine. He knew he had an uphill battle to fight, he’d known ever since this quirk manifested.

Shinsou never expected a hero to scout after him, not while he was still in General and a first year, so hearing the low timbre of Eraserhead behind him just about made him swallow his tongue in shock.

Shinsou whips around on his heel to look dead at the greatest role model he’s ever known, leaning casually against the outside wall of Shinsou's homeroom. He’s never been this close to Eraserhead despite being in the same school. He's larger than life itself, both as casual looking as a man could be yet swallowed by an air of competency and intimidation. Thankfully those awful bandages were gone from the infamous attack at USJ. He appeared fully recovered from an attack that would have killed any hero lesser than Eraserhead.

Shinsou knows what Eraserhead was capable of. Everyone else idolizes All Might--not that Shinsou didn't also see his goodness--but Shinsou’s idol has always been Eraserhead.

Another reason he resents the kids in class 1-A; they had the incomparable gift of having the greatest underground hero of all time teaching them, and no one seemed to notice or care. He doubts any of them even knew without being told who Aizawa was.

Aizawa stares at him levelly, not betraying any reaction as he mused, “Didn’t expect you to be someone easily snuck up on.”

“What can I say,” Shinsou retorts quickly, more reflex than anything, “I guess I’m not as good as the best stealth hero in the world.”

“Japan, sure,” Aizawa replies just as effortless, and if he could see his mouth beyond his capture scarf Shinsou thought he might be smirking, “Not sure about the whole world.”

Shinsou’s convinced now he’s dreaming, because there is no way in any universe he’s quipping with his idol. Shinsou isn’t that lucky, he’s not blessed.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, regards Eraserhead quietly. He goes back to that first jarring statement as he mutters, “You don’t have to say that. I wasn’t good enough to advance.”

“No, you weren’t.” Aizawa agrees, neither condescending nor placating. “Your grasp on your quirk is rudimentary, but decent. I doubt you’ve had any formal training?”

“Not a lot of people signing up to help the guy that can make you stand on your head,” Shinsou drawls, a level of bitterness in his words.

“So you use your quirk whenever you please then.” Aizawa says softly, also matter-of-fact, no hint of condemnation but also no question about it. “You know that’s against school rules.”

Shinsou grimaces but doesn’t reply. He wouldn’t apologize for using his quirk. He had to practice, and he never made anyone do anything bad. It was easier to be left alone when he could get people to do it himself, and he also needed to learn how to strength his abilities if he ever hoped to succeed.

“I don’t need a lecture,” Shinsou finally decides on. “If I plan on joining your course I need to take what I can get.”

“I’m not here to lecture.”

“Then you’re here to feel sorry for me.” Shinsou says flatly, albeit a little too quickly.

Aizawa stares at him, too quiet, and Shinsou hates how he’s talked to him. Aizawa probably thinks he’s petulant, ungrateful for the sparse moments he’s been granted here just being acknowledged by his hero.

“You’re very careful about closed-ended statements. Usually you use open-ended ones.”

Shinsou nearly flinches. No one had ever caught that before. The thing was his quirk wasn’t activated by questions, specifically, but responses to his statements. He couldn’t explain what it was, but he could feel the difference in the way he phrased his words, how some statements opened his mind and left room for the invisible tendrils reaching out, ready to latch onto the first to bite down and pull them in. Questions were the easiest way to create that space, and that’s how he wrote out the trigger for his quirk on paper. It meant that people only hesitated when they heard the lilt of a question his voice. Had Aizawa figured out it wasn’t so literal?

Shinsou would usually feign ignorance here. He’d remark how strange that was, but this is Aizawa. He deserved the respect of his honesty.

“I didn’t want you to worry about talking to me.”

Aizawa absorbs this, brows twitching a little together as he considers the weight of that awfully vulnerable admission. Shinsou wishes he could take it back the moment it left his mouth.

“That doesn’t concern me. I doubt you’d abuse your quirk that way.”

Shinsou stares at him, loss for words and at a loss for why Eraserhead was wasting his time with him here. If he doesn’t care, then…

“So why are you here?” Shinsou asks, testing the waters in more than one way.

Aizawa doesn’t hesitate, “I wanted to talk to you about your courses. Come with me for a moment.”

Shinsou almost balks, but Aizawa has already pushed away from the wall, hands in his pockets as he meanders down the hall. Shinsou follows after him.

“Your quirk could have many applications in pro work, but the best is obviously apprehension and de-escalation. How complex of an action can you make someone do?” Aizawa fills the silence as they walk to the Hero classes wing, and Shinsou is again, jarringly, lost for words. He’s always been articulate, and he supposes that it was necessary for his quirk to work. He was still in shock Aizawa was talking to him, though, asking him about his abilities, that his head still reeled on why instead of answering his logical questions.

“Um,” Shinsou starts eloquently, “Not really anything complex. Simple actions, one at a time. Like making someone start or stop something.”

“Time limit?”

“Not sure.”

“Longest control then.”

Shinsou scratches his cheek, “Longest so far has been the cavalry battle. But I was able to actively keep renewing the hold whenever I gave new directions.”

“I see. What about distance?”

“Distance effects it, but I don’t know exactly. I can feel the hold strain when someone gets further away from me.”

“So you really haven’t tested limits yet.”

Shinsou frowns at the back of Aizawa’s mussy black hair. He’s hunched over a little, but still taller than Shinsou, with broader shoulders. He clears his throat.

“Again, don’t have volunteers lining up to dance like a monkey, you know?” Shinsou offers, another open-ended statement, and maybe a bit of a test. Aizawa couldn’t erase his quirk with his back turned.  

He did sometimes have volunteers, but less dance like a monkey and more, well…fetishistic. Which was great, because he was fucking fifteen and barely thinking about anything like that yet, let alone something so…controlling. Shinsou grimaces to himself.

Aizawa chuckles, “Actually, I do.”

Shinsou doesn’t have a reply to that as they reach his classroom. He gestures to one of the seats but Shinsou doesn’t take it. Aizawa leans against his podium instead, head in his hand regarding him with those tired eyes.

Shinsou takes in the classroom and tastes the little bit of that resentment again. It’s nothing remarkable, looks exactly the same as his own homeroom, but the fact he’s here, so near yet so far, makes his chest clench with anger. He wants to be here so desperately but everything was working again him. It’s not the first time he’s been tempted to try his luck at another school, but distance, cost, and no guarantee he’d succeed there either, kept him here. 

As if reading his mind, though it wasn’t hard to read his face Shinsou was sure, Aizawa asks, “Do you still want to be in a hero course?”

Shinsou answers immediately, “More than anything.”

“Hm.” Aizawa looks him up and down, then says, “Even if we did make concessions about your quirk, you’d never pass a physical. Heroes need to have more than one trick, and you’re useless against robots, a natural disaster, and multiple villains at once.”

Shinsou bristled, hands shoving into his pockets and mutters, “Why did you bring me here? This feels an awful lot like you’re rubbing what I can’t have into my nose.”

“I don’t do that. I’m telling you why you’re not here, and what you need to fix if you want a chance of getting in.”

“This school doesn’t care,” Shinsou snaps, “Doesn’t matter how good my quirk is.”

“Which is why you’ll need to work harder,” Aizawa explains, no room for further argument. “It’s not fair, but you need to make yourself irreplaceable. So here’s what we’re going to do. Work with me the next few days. Let me assess where you’re at and how to make you hero-course worthy.”

Shinsou process that slowly. Pieces together that blatant implication. Realizes that Eraserhead isn’t kidding.

“Wait, you…are you joking?” He has to ask, because it’s impossible he means it.

“I don’t joke.”

Shinsou nearly sputters out, “You want to train me?”

Aizawa arches a brow, “Assess, I said. See if you’ve got enough potential. Then yes, if all goes well, I want to train you. I feel our styles would match well, so it’s only logical to pass on what I know to someone who is like me. We need more heroes that don’t rely on self-focused quirks.”

Aizawa explains it practically, matter-of-fact as if there weren’t a million obstacles in the way, a million ways Shinsou could fail--or worse, fail him.

Shinsou swallows hard, “And you think that can be me?”

“Of course,” Aizawa says flatly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Shinsou thinks he might have died. There’s no way his idol, his role-model, the one person who made him believe he could be a hero, was looking at him like this, seeing his potential, his worth, his ability to do good, and decided he was worth the time and energy.

Logistics win out in favor of the shock, or worse, the vain hope that Eraserhead was serious.

“How? You have a class.”

“They’re on internships starting tomorrow.” Aizawa straightens up, fishes out set of paperwork. He hands it over to Shinsou to read. At the top states “Internship Application”. Aizawa keeps talking while he gawks at the form.

“If you’re fine with it, I’ll talk with your teachers and give you a pass on your classes for the next three days. You’ll be entering the hero course late, so you’ll have a lot of catching up to do. First-year internships are among them. So I’ll take you on under my agency, and you intern with me for the next three days. It’s one less thing to worry about, and I get to assess your limitations and potential.”

Shinsou’s jaw has definitely droped, and Aizawa has a lilt of humor in his voice this time when he says, “You’ll catch flies that way.”

Shinsou snaps his jaw shut. He swallows, and asks, finally, the question that’s been burning since Eraserhead first told him he did good at the festival.

“Why?”

Aizawa blinks, “Why?”

“Yeah, why.” Shinsou gains a little more strength, “Why me? Why bother? You have twenty potential heroes in your class. I’m in General, you said yourself I’m weak. I have little hope of getting in without a lot of time and a lot of effort. So why the hell are you bothering?”

Aizawa scoffs, studying him with narrowed eyes that promptly shuts Shinsou up. He should have bitten his tongue. He should have been grateful.

But nothing has ever come easy for Shinsou. There was always another shoe waiting to drop, the bad to every moment of good. No one saw Shinsou’s potential, not to being a hero. People saw him as villainous, terrifying, avoided at all costs. Even those heroes at the sports festival could do nothing against UA’s requirements. So why was Aizawa bothering? What did Aizawa want from him? Nothing came without a cost, Shinsou knew this, and he had to understand before diving too deep into a too-good-to-be-true fantasy.

“You think you’re the first person that had to fight to get here? The first one people called villain?” Aizawa arches a brow, the weight of those words sitting heavy in the room.

Shinsou stares at him with slowly widening eyes, and realizes. Understands.

“You?”

Aizawa sighs and rubs at his eye, the one with the scar and Shinsou wonders about the damage there. “Yeah, me. I was in General first, too. Got a hell of a quirk for a villain too, don’t I? Could screw with All Might himself. The tests were different back then though, I was able to sign away a lot more of the limitations so I could get in. Tests are harder now, which means they’ve become more unfair to those that deserve to be here. So that means we need to bend the rules.”

Shinsou snaps his hanging mouth shut. He should have realized it, but…but the shock is warring with the realization that Aizawa, Eraserhead, understands him. He’d been here beside him, called a villain, fought to be a hero. He wasn’t alone. God, he wasn’t fucking alone.

Shinsou is still swallowing back the vibration in his chest that Eraserhead thinks he deserves to be here when he catches up on what he’s been saying.

God, he refuses to fucking cry.

“You think I can be a hero?” Shinsou asks, and it sounds so stupid, so small, so much like when he’d asked his parents back when things were happy.

Aizawa watches him intensely, and says, “Absolutely. So. See you here tomorrow?”

Shinsou nods vigorously, and Aizawa’s eyes crinkle in the corners with a hidden smile.

“Good. Get rest, you’re in for a long three days.”

Fuck, Shinsou couldn’t wait.

[finn-ray-nal-beads]

Ooh this just made my heart race 🥺 from the writing prompt list: Giving them a tight hug that makes them lose their breath. For whoever 🥺

HOLY MOLY I AM SO SORRY THAT TOOK ME ALL DAY. I HAVE BEEN SO FUCKIN’ BUSY JEEZ. 

i put together a little oneshot with our dearly beloved lumberjack my babe. i really hope you like it! 

(also this doesn’t mean requests are open, but if i like the prompt i will write something about it.) 

Warnings: FLUFF OUT THE ASSHOLE, mentions of war, slight depression, and a tiny bit of angst, violence (in the form of self-defense, well kind of) 

Laughter filled the modest three-bedroom home you shared with Flip. Fingers twirled around a ridiculously long phone cord as you chatted with your long-distance girlfriend, Katie. It was nice to finally be able to relax in the empty house you both had shared for the five years you’d been married. And almost two years since Flip had been sent away to the war. 

You tried to busy yourself with work as a night shift nurse, taking every possible spot you could to stay out of the house. It was too hard to be there when he wasn’t. His scent of cigarettes and pine soap disappeared months ago, and it left you empty inside. 

Sure you both wrote the occasional letter when he was able to send them over. And you gathered care package goods to ship over so he’d still feel like he was home, or so you’d imagined he would when he opened the items. Everything was just… different. You hated to admit it, but it was difficult to function without your handsome man at your side. 

He was your protector, your love, your everything. Your other half of your soul was thousands of miles away, fighting in a war he never asked to be in. The existential dread fell over you whenever you laid down to shut your eyes. You didn’t even speak it out loud, because you believed in karma, and only thought the best you could when it came to those dark moments thinking about his safety. 

You pleaded with whatever entity that he’d come home safe and in one whole piece. That he would make it out of there unscathed and never have to go back. You cried and cried over the time lost between the both of you. Bargaining that if he came back, you’d finally start that family you and he had been talking about for several years. You’d vow to spend way more than just a few hours each night together, cut down on work, and all the other larger than life assurances you would whisper into the darkness. Pleading all of this into the night for his perfect face to hold again, to kiss and taste. 

______________

Today, though, was a different kind of day. You woke up out of your king-sized bed to the streams of gorgeous morning light shining through the window. For the first time in what felt like years, you smiled and stretched your limbs. Crawling out of bed you hurried to put on your furriest robe and comb your hair. Then meandered downstairs to your kitchen to make some fresh coffee. It was your day off from a long 60+ hour week and you needed the rest more than you could fathom. 

Your plans were simple. Shower, start some laundry, make a grocery list, sit and read, and possibly call your mother if you had the time. You sat to enjoy your morning Joe and read the daily paper, making sure to do the crossword puzzle just as you did every morning.

During your fourth sip of sweet caffeine, a phone call came in. You answered and immediately beamed at your long time pal who sang your name over the phone. The laughter ensued and you found yourselves talking for nearly an hour or more if you’d bothered to look at the time. And now here you were giggling like a schoolgirl with her totally oblivious to the taxi that had parked in front of your home. 

__________________

You jumped as you heard the front door creak open. 

“Hold on, Katie,” you placed the phone on the counter, grabbing the sharpest knife from the block next to the stove. Ready to attack this intruder who seemingly broke the lock on your front door. A thud reverberated through the living room followed by what sounded like boots. 

“H-hello?” you asked the lumbering faceless figure in your foyer. “Don’t test me, asshole!” you yelled in what you thought was a warning tone. 

The figure huffed. “You know your tough-girl voice isn’t really that convincing babe.” 

It’s deep familiar tone echoed from the dark corner. The figure shuffled around the large bag it had dropped and came into the bright living room. He looked so exhausted. Dressed in his army green uniform. Dark locks perfectly feathered his dotted face. Glistening eyes upon hearing your shrill threatening voice from the kitchen. 

“Hey honey,” he whispered. You stood there dumbfounded in your PJs. Not really knowing if that was actually him on the other side of the room. 

Just as you registered that fact he, closed the gap between you and wrapped his huge arms around your waist. You dropped the knife to the ground and your empty hands found the back of his head, messing up his perfectly set hair. You inhaled his camel cigarettes and sobbed into his crisp uniform. Hugging him tighter and tighter as you heaved in and out. 

“U-hmm honey…” he spoke into the crook of your neck, no doubt sobbing silently too. 

“You’re kinda chokin’ me out,” he gasped and tickled your sides. 

“God you asshole,” you choked out wiping tears away. “I missed you so much.” 

“I missed you too honey. More than you know,” he sobbed again hiding his face back into your chest. You began to cry too petting his perfect strands again. 

“I can’t believe you’re home Phil,” you whispered, kissing his crown. 

“Yeah baby,” he stammered into your sternum. 

“I’m home.”

__________

god i hope this was halfway decent, Desi. you write so well and i didn’t want to disappoint at all! 

🖤,

ray-nal-beads

[casually-inlove]

Hello. In one of your responses, you wrote: "I also have things that I don't necessarily agree with." Can you tell us about it? I am very interested in your representation of this manhua. What do you think is written well in the story, and what is not? What would you add or remove? What is missing and what is too much in history? I would very much like to know your TianShan headcanon. I have too many "wants". I'm sorry if I was rude.

Dear anon, this was not rude at all. Indeed, you have many questions, so much as I try to be concise in my posts, this one is going to be very lengthy. Let me start with a little disclaimer. Everything below is entirely subjective. It is in no way meant to undermine anyone's enjoyment of the series, nor is it supposed to be an attack against the author. I value the comic's episodic nature and light-heartedness myself, otherwise, I would not have stuck around. It is also true that for the past half a year my interest in it waxes and wanes. Besides, I am well aware that certain groups of fans grow dissatisfied with the manhua direction. That said, I must state once again, OX has every right to write the story as they please, while the fans, no matter how displeased they may be, do not have the room to make demands of the author. So then, without further ado, some of my quibblings follow below. Beware of the wall-of-text.

1) The plot and characters get stagnant at times — these two go hand in hand. I suppose it is a prevalent gripe with 19 Days, and I am sure everyone has experienced it at least once. Some of it stems from the very way the story is told: the manhua timeline moves slowly in comparison with the readers' timeline. It works for depicting slow-burn relationships and subtle changes in the characters' outlooks. The problem is, more often than not, the latest chapters are inconsequential to either plot or character growth. They do not have the substance or the conflict to them. When OX had introduced the characters, while undoubtedly charming and loveable, they were practically walking tropes. Jian Yi, the bubbly airhead. ZZX, the stoic childhood friend. HT, Mr Popular. As time passed, OX did the clever (and the right) thing — they have subverted these stereotypes, by showing us that the characters are not who they appear to be. Thus, we learned that Jian Yi is a lonesome, affection deprived kid who on occasion dreads going back home because it's empty; his bright grin is there to hide his sadness.  We also learned that HT had a dysfunctional family and had been exposed to violence since a tender age; we also learned that he used to lead an empty life devoid of close interpersonal connections and passions, etc. I am not going to write about Mo because it is obvious and self-explanatory.

That sudden change in the perspective is what made those characters fascinating. A few of these developments co-occur with the addition of the “darker” mafia/gangster subplot. Indeed, the introduction of the criminal legacy theme (which is true for Jian Yi, He Tian, and Mo to an extent) allowed to show the wounds and troubles these characters had to face. It also dangled the prospect of an intriguing plot direction — a mafia-related story that is disguised as a school-themed slice-of-life. It was the underlying gangster plot-line that hooked me up; I kept asking myself: Are they connected (the Jian family, the He family)? Were they responsible for what happened with the Mo family restaurant? Will their backgrounds converge at some point? How does Jia Yi's kidnapping fit into all this? That sort of stuff. Alas, right now that subplot seems to be put on a backburner, which is a shame because this is the plot-line that leads to future events, such as Jian Yi's disappearance. The kidnapping is still going to happen and the threat looming over Jian Yi is still real, yet OX does very little to explain anything about it. Naturally, revealing everything at once is out of the question, but if it were me, I would have opted for unveiling bits and pieces now and then. To start with, it would have propelled the plot forward. Apart from that, it would have given the readers some food for thought and kept the intrigue fresh — they would have been cracking their heads to piece the puzzle. Finally, the characters' darker backgrounds provide the opportunity to give them development. For instance, how would Mo's view of He Tian change, if he learned that the latter had to face his warped father to save Mo (ch. 245 and further on)? Or how would Mo react, if he learned that He Tian lost his mother (presumably) due to his family shady dealings? Would it make him understand the other boy, relate to him on some level? Etc. 

The comedy and fun, light moments are precious, but I miss those moments when the manhua challenged my impression of the characters. Right now, the plot stagnates in the sense that we know that someone is threatening Jian Yi, but we aren't being given any clues or updates on the matter, as if the whole thing wasn't important. So, in response to your question “what would I have removed”, I would say that I would probably drop quite a few school-centric chapters in favour of “criminal” subplot. Just a bit: maybe show Mr Jian's messages, or Jian Yi's mother discussing the situation with him, or He Cheng receiving some reports on the situation.  

The character recent portrayal also disappoints me on occasion. They started as stereotypical manga characters, then they were given some depth, and now they are close to becoming yet another set of stereotypes. Yeah, I get that Mo is a tsundere and enamoured He Tian is an idiot in love — OX has been depicting them as such for the past year. It would be cool to take a look at other facets of their personalities now and then too. While it’s understandable that only a few weeks have passed since the beginning of the story, OX should remember that years have passed for the readers; keeping the audience engaged should be among their priorities.

I suppose I do have a bias here because as an adult I have little interest in all things school-related, and in general, I am not too fond of slice-of-life (I typically avoid reading it).19 Days attracted me because it had some universal themes, like dealing with past and legacy, finding your path, healing from the old scars, learning to handle difficult relationships within a family, and of course its low-key “mafia” subplot. It could be that OX truly doesn't have a meticulously chapter-to-chapter thought-out plot, hence why the manhua meanders at times, or it could have something to do with Mosspaca's internal agenda. Perhaps, it is the latter and the company somehow insists its artists stick with simplistic plots for the sake of keeping their target audience. Even so, there's a catch here, which was brought to the attention by @agapaic: the original reader audience has aged up already so to keep them hooked it would be wise of OX to “mature up” the comic as well. Not in the sense of 18+ content, but in the sense of introducing more mature subjects alongside the comedy and slice of life. Perhaps, they are not looking to keep the fans but to attract the new, younger ones. Who knows.

2) Drama and comedy imbalance. It is a pet peeve of mine which I consider to be one of the prominent manhua flaws: there is lots of slapstick comedy which ends up being out of place on occasion. I do realize the comic is humorous, however, there is no denying that OX introduced themes and topics that are no laughing matters. Jian Yi's and He Tian's loneliness, bullying and ostracizing, extortion racket, absentee parents, youth gangs and violence — just to name a few. There is a lot more, but you get the picture.

It is also obvious that three out of four main characters carry the remnants of childhood trauma with them, which directly affects their present selves. All the same, these topics practically fizzle out as soon as they get introduced, or get swept under the rug with comedy. Considering the humorous nature of the comic, it is given that dispersing some grimmer topics with playfulness will be used now and then. To my mind, however, OX relies on that abrupt drama-to-comedy switch too heavily, which makes the transition steep and often out of place. At times, it creates an impression that the author does not take these issues seriously. There have been numerous episodes when emotional moments were subverted and then dropped, without gaining climax and closure. For instance, the moment that sticks out to me the most is when He Tian attempted to tell Mo why he liked him. The visuals made it clear that it wasn't easy for He Tian to say out loud, yet OX never gave the intense moment the needed closure.

Mo brushed He Tian off and the latter just rolled with it, as if it never took him any courage to say those words, and then everything was swiftly engulfed by slapstick humour (the ball-slapping scene). A panel showing a glimpse of He Tian's face sinking to indicate he was somewhat let down by Mo's nonchalant response would have been appropriate — in fact, it would be natural for someone to get hurt when their confession is taken lightly. Likewise, I half-expected OX to show a bit more of He Tian's reaction towards Mo's story about his meeting with She Li. We got to see his expression darkening when he learned that She Li gave Mo the ear piercings, yet this time — mind you, when Mo suggested that She Li might have murdered someone — we never see He Tian react much. For the record, it was He Tian who asked She Li a rhetorical question about being able to take responsibility for taking a life.

Furthermore, I believe that someone romantically invested in another human being would have naturally shown more inquisitiveness upon hearing a story like that. Sure enough, some would say that Mo would not have liked talking about a traumatizing event, and that is fine as well — just show it. A single panel of He Tian being concerned and trying to inquire further and Mo refusing to talk would have been a very neat detail that could have potentially smoothed the transition into humour, while keeping our heroes in character.

3) Sometimes there is too much focus on the couples. The manhua has introduced several reoccurring supporting characters which are directly linked to our main quartet. For example, Mo had bonds before meeting our boys: his henchmen, the Buzzcut. Likewise, He Cheng was the one to raise He Tian; he shaped the boy's outlook on life.  These characters all played important roles in making our boys the people they are today, and yet we know so little of their bonds. Maybe the Buzzcut is unimportant in the larger scheme of things, He Cheng, however, is not only linked to He Tian, but he also plays a part in the underlying mafia/gangster subplot. It would have made sense if he was the one to shed some light on the situation with Jian Yi and He Tian's traumatic past. I would have loved to see our boys interact with other people as well — it would have served to show the variety of relationships out there: friendships, familial bonds, mutual respect between the leader and underlings, etc.

Anyway, I am going to stop now. I could name a few more, but this text is already more than 2000 words long. I have made some posts with my nitpicking before, so if you wish you can read them here.  

link & link 

Once again, this is all entirely subjective and it is not meant to be perceived as me saying that the manhua is poorly written and no one should enjoy it. Writing and creating compelling plots is a tough job, especially when it comes to long pieces. It also goes without saying that the author should keep their target audience and marketing goals in mind. 19 Days appeals to a great number of people of all ages and that means that OX succeeded in creating something compelling. Their writing is indeed flawed at times, but there is no way around it. It is impossible to excel both at being a great artist and a good writer. While there may be things that each of us would want to change (when comes to characters or the plot), it is still important to remember that it is not our creation. We can only decide whether to keep reading and enjoy what we get or move along. There is no point in attacking the author or generating constant pessimism.

[rachelstwomoms]

CHILDHOOD FRIENDS AU: Rachel’s Birthday  (Part 2/?)

( Previous chapter here )

Spin the bottle truth or dare turned out to be awesome, just like Dana said. Nobody was brave enough to choose truth, so the game just ended up being Rachel and her classmates daring each other to do dumb, embarrassing things while everyone else watched and laughed, but that in itself was perfect for lifting Rachel’s spirits. After three more kids ended up either jumping willingly or being pushed into the pool with their clothes on, Rose came outside to reprimand them. She raised her voice and forbade anybody else from entering the pool because four o’clock was approaching, the party would be over soon, and she doesn’t need anyone’s parents complaining when she returns them a soaking wet child. Despite the seriousness of Rose’s tone, Rachel has to slap a hand across her mouth to stifle her laughter, finding it absolutely hilarious to watch her stepmother scold her friends instead of her.

The game died pretty quickly after that. Getting in trouble with a parent seemed to put a damper on the fun, and some of the parents had started to arrive to pick up their kids anyway. Rachel, Maxine and Chloe return inside and hang out in the hallway, Maxine on front door duty and Chloe handing out goodie bags as the party guests leave. As both the birthday girl and a parent favorite, Rachel is on the receiving end of tons of hugs and birthday wishes from the adults. Rachel preens and basks in the extra attention, all smiles as she thanks everyone for coming. 

At around four thirty, the last guest leaves. Rose shuts the door behind them and exhales a long, weary breath, thankful that the most stressful part of the party is over. Now until tomorrow morning, it’s just going to be Rachel, Maxine and Chloe. Rachel’s had her two best friends sleep over several times already and they haven’t run into any major problems yet. Maxine is such a sweetheart, and Chloe… 

Well, she can handle Chloe.  

“Rachel, honey, are you still up for tonight as planned?” Rose just wants to make sure. 

“Yeah!” Rachel is in the living room, popping the mix CD labeled “Rachel’s Party Jamz” she got from Chloe into the stereo. “When are we leaving?”

“Probably in about an hour. I’m going to clean up a bit first,” says Rose, looking around at the huge mess Rachel’s classmates left behind. She starts clearing paper cups and paper plates from various pieces of furniture. “You three can relax until it’s time to go. No more snacks, though. I’d like you to save your appetites for dinner.”

“Okay!” Rachel sits down on the floor next to her pile of presents. “I can open these now, right?”

“Go ahead.”

Rachel and Chloe cheer and turn their attention to the stack of colorfully wrapped packages and gift bags in the corner of the room. Instead of joining them, Maxine wordlessly wanders out into the kitchen, where Rose is grabbing a trash bag from underneath the sink. The young girl accidentally startles the woman, who stands back up only to find Maxine suddenly standing right in front of her. 

“Oh, Maxine! Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Did you need something?”

“Can I help you clean up?”

Rose’s heart swells. “That’s very sweet of you. I think Rachel’s about to open her presents, though. Wouldn’t you rather watch?”

Maxine shakes her head. “It’s okay. She can show me later.”

Chloe pokes her head over the living room bookshelves. “Goodie-two-shoes Maxine Caulfield strikes again!” 

With Maxine’s assistance, Rose finishes the party cleanup in half the time it would’ve taken her alone. She rinses the soap suds off the very last platter and hands it to Maxine, who is ready with a clean towel. Rose peels off her rubber gloves and drapes them over the edge of the sink, then takes the freshly dried platter from Maxine. “Thanks again for all your help, dear. I think we’re all done.”

Rachel comes running into the kitchen carrying a handful of gift cards. “Rose, look! I got fifty dollars to use at the smoothie place!”

“Let’s open Maxine’s present now!” Chloe waves both of her friends over. “Maxine, get your butt over here. We saved yours for last!”

Maxine was hoping that Rachel would open her gift while she was out in the kitchen with Rose so she wouldn’t have to watch. Instead, Rachel has grabbed her hand and she’s being pulled right back over to the big purple gift bag that she was relieved to get rid of earlier. At birthday parties, Maxine always dreads present time. She doesn’t like when everyone turns to look at her after the birthday kid announces that the next one’s from her, and she always worries that they’re going to hate her gift.  

Today should be fine because it’s only Rachel and Chloe here and they’re her friends, but Maxine’s still feeling kind of embarrassed. She just hopes that Rachel doesn’t think her gift is lame. Maxine stands awkwardly next to Chloe as Rachel reaches into the bag, ripping out fistfuls of pink tissue paper and plucks out a small lavender envelope. Maxine quietly hopes that Rachel doesn’t open her birthday card right then and there, or worse, read it out loud in front of her. 

Last weekend, Vanessa Caulfield came home from the store with a blank birthday card and told her daughter that it would be nice if she wrote her own message for Rachel. Following her mother’s instructions, Maxine ended up spending nearly an hour of her Sunday morning coming up with a message on a sheet of scratch paper, copying it in pencil into the card, and then tracing over it in pen in neat, careful cursive. 

The message ended up being longer than Maxine expected. Now that Rachel’s actually reading it, every second that ticks by makes it seem even longer. Maxine stands there, rubbing her elbow anxiously and watching hazel eyes move left and right across the card. 

Rachel’s lips curl into a smile as she gets to the latter half of her friend’s handwritten message. By the time she reaches the end and looks over at Maxine again, she’s positively beaming. “Thanks, Maxine. That was really sweet.”

“I wanna see!” Chloe’s hand shoots out and makes a grab for the card. 

Maxine’s heart nearly stops. 

But Rachel swiftly moves it out of Chloe’s reach and uses her other arm to nudge her away. “Never mind. Let’s see what’s in this baby!” Rachel picks up the gift bag, waves it in front of Chloe’s face, then drops it in her lap.  

Chloe looks down and grins, instantly forgetting about Maxine’s card. “Yeah! Maxine always gives the best presents. This one’s gonna be good.”

While Chloe’s distracted, Rachel sweeps the card under the pile of other birthday cards on the coffee table and out of sight. She meets eyes with Maxine one more time, flashing her another bright smile and a wink before turning her attention back to her last present of the day.

Maxine lets out a relieved sigh, heart swelling with appreciation for how Rachel always just seems to know how she’s feeling without her even saying anything. There have been times when Maxine has been almost convinced that Rachel can read her mind. That, or she’s just really, really good at guessing things about people. 

Over the next few seconds, Maxine’s birthday gift for Rachel is unveiled at last. Rachel reaches into the gift bag and pulls out a pale yellow, star-shaped pillow. Across the front is the word dreamer in curvy, white script with glittery, golden threads woven into each letter. 

“Oh my god, it’s so cute!” squeals Rachel. She hugs it to her chest and nuzzles her face into the soft, plushy fabric. “And it’s perfect for my room!” 

Finished with most of the party cleanup, Rose comes over and takes a seat in a nearby chair. She eyes the small mountain of gift wrap, tissue paper and ribbons accumulating near the fireplace. “How’s everything going over here, girls?”

“Rose! Look what Maxine got me!”

While Rachel excitedly shows off her new pillow, Maxine takes a starts to relax. Rachel likes her present after all. The pile of gifts nearby catches her eye and she takes a curious peek. There are books, board games and card games, a fuzzy purple diary with a matching pen, lots of bracelets, a few lip gloss sets and even a faux fur handbag that she’s pretty sure is from Juliet, who was carrying a similar one when she arrived. Maxine recognizes Chloe’s gift right away. They picked it out together last week during a Price family shopping trip – according to William, Maxine is an honorary family member – to the local mall. After much meandering in and out of several stores looking for something for Rachel, they finally found the gift during a short detour to Chloe’s favorite shop.

Sitting right on the top shelf in the middle of the science and discovery section was a set of bath confetti shaped like stars, hearts and diamonds. Six different colors, six different scents. Maxine and Chloe both know that for the past couple of weeks, their friend has been all about fizzy bath bombs and sweet-smelling lotions, so this would be right up her alley. But the best part, the very reason why Chloe was drawn to it in the first place, was the awesome packaging. The soap flakes are stored in little scientific test tubes, all lined up in their very own test tube rack. 

An ideal gift for Rachel with a Chloe-esque flair.  

“Hey.” 

There’s a tap on her shoulder, and Maxine turns to come face to face with Chloe, who has two ribbons stuck to her forehead and a smaller one on the tip of her nose. She looks ridiculous. Maxine dissolves into a fit of laughter and gives Chloe a gentle, playful shove. “You’re such a dork.”

Chloe gives a cheeky grin and bows deeply, causing one of the ribbons to fall into her lap. “Thank you very much.”

Rose guides Rachel back over to her friends with a hand on her back. “Girls, I’m going to go freshen up a bit, but let’s be ready to leave in about ten minutes or so, okay?”

“Okay!”

Next up on Rachel’s birthday schedule is dinner and an evening of games at the big arcade downtown, and neither Maxine nor Chloe have ever been there before. Maxine’s parents are not big fans of “loud, unsophisticated establishments” such as arcades, and when Joyce and William take them out, they tend to stick to local places around the neighborhood. The Bay is the most popular center of entertainment in all of Arcadia Bay for older kids, teens and adults. No colorful ball pits, no carousels playing nursery rhymes, and not a single singing anthropomorphic animal in sight. Just a vast array of bleeping, blooping machines as far as the eye can see.

All of this, along with the promise of all-you-can-eat pizza and a huge cup of game tokens courtesy of James Amber, has the girls absolutely stoked for their fun night ahead.  

James and Rose lead the girls to a spacious booth in the corner of the restaurant section. It has a clear view of the arcade, perfect for when they will need to keep an eye on Rachel and her friends later on. As expected, the girls quickly shovel down their pizza and are begging to be excused from the table before Rose even finishes her first slice. James gives them their tokens and tells them that he will be coming around every so often to check up on them. With one last warning from Rose to have fun but be careful, the girls disappear into the sea of beeps, whirs and hypnotizing lights.  

Most visitors to The Bay see its wide selection of arcade games as a place to let loose, play around and have fun. 

Rachel Amber sees a battlefield.

This is her chance to challenge her friends to some friendly competition.

For the first hour, Rachel marches around the arcade leading Chloe and Maxine around to different games. The birthday girl effortlessly places first during every race, dances the highest combos, and shoots down the most monsters. Victory after victory sends Rachel into a winner’s high and, before long, there’s a smug bounce in her step as she looks around for more games to win.

Just when Rachel thinks that she’s won every possible multiplayer game in the room, she spots one that she and her friends haven’t been to yet. Grinning excitedly, Rachel points to the lone table nearly hidden behind some of the bigger, more visually appealing machines. “Let’s play that next!”

Chloe and Maxine follow her finger and find an air hockey table. They look at each other and share a smile.

Rachel’s already standing on one side of the table, picking up one of the strikers. “So, who wants to go against me? Chloe?”

Chloe tries her hardest to act casual and keep a straight face. “Actually, Rach, why don’t you play with Maxine?”  

“Oh, okay,” says Rachel, shrugging. She waves her younger friend over. “Come play with me, Maxine!”

Rachel shoves two of her tokens into the coin slot on the side of the machine and the table comes to life. The overhead scoreboard starts glowing and cool air starts to blow from the tiny holes on the table’s surface. There’s a rattle and a clang! as the machine ejects a neon green puck into the pocket on Rachel’s side. 

Rachel waits for Maxine to pick up the other striker before she places the puck on the table. “Ready?”

“Ready,” replies Maxine, her free hand moving to hold the edge of the table.

Lightly tapping the puck, Rachel sends it over to Maxine. She watches her opponent carefully, gauging her ability. With a smooth swipe forward, Maxine returns the puck with quite a bit of force. It shoots back across the table so quickly that Rachel just barely manages to stop it from entering her goal. 

“Whoa,” exclaims Rachel, quickly straightening up as she realizes that this is going to be a serious match. Maxine has lagged behind her and Chloe in pretty much every game they’ve played so far, so she wasn’t expecting her to be this… this good. Although Rachel was able to react quickly enough to block Maxine’s shot, it took her by so much surprise that blocking it was all she did. The puck merely bounces off her striker and lazily floats back across the table.

Clack! 

The game has barely begun, but Maxine sends the puck soaring past Rachel’s hand and into the goal.

Maxine, one. Rachel, zero. 

Chloe jumps up and down and cheers. 

Rachel is speechless. 

That first goal happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that Rachel is still trying to process what happened. With her mouth hanging open slightly, she looks across the table at Maxine, who’s smiling sheepishly at her. Rachel’s going to have to keep on her toes for this match. She takes a moment to stretch her arms and roll her shoulders before she reaches below her to retrieve the puck. 

The match continues, and Rachel tries every approach to try and throw Maxine off: surprise quick shots, bouncing the puck against the walls, even attempting to distract her with conversation. But no matter what she does, Maxine’s reflexes are as sharp as ever. 

The score is now six to one, with Maxine in the lead. When Rachel managed to score her first point, she was only two points behind. This gave her some hope and, for a brief moment, she felt as though she still had a chance to catch up and turn the game around. Her optimism changed into a sense of impending doom, however, when Maxine proceeded to score three more back-to-back points.  

And now Maxine only needs to score one more time to win. 

Beads of sweat shine on Rachel’s forehead, and on her face is a fierce look of sheer concentration. No matter what, she can’t let Maxine get another point, or else… or else she loses. She has to watch Maxine’s movements like a hawk. Pausing first to wipe her sweaty palm on her shorts, Rachel takes a deep breath, grips her striker tightly, and tries to decide on her next move. Should she attack from the left or from the right? Rachel wonders if Maxine has a weak side. She spends several seconds wracking her brain to try and remember which half of the goal she hit the puck into when she scored. Maybe if she can do exactly the same thing…

“Hurry up, Rachel!” shouts Chloe, impatiently. “We’re not getting any younger over here!”

Rachel glares at her and slams the puck onto the table. “Okay, okay!”

If Rachel doesn’t keep Maxine from scoring again, that’s it. Game over. She moves the puck over a few inches to the left, but decides to aim to the right. Rachel hits the puck as hard as she can and it bounces off the side of the table. Unsurprisingly, Maxine swings at just the right timing and hits it back to Rachel, who moves her hand accordingly and sends it back to Maxine. 

Chloe watches the rally between her friends intently, eyes moving back and forth with the hockey puck. It’s not that Rachel’s bad at air hockey. Not at all. Chloe’s played against Rachel before at the mini arcade at their neighborhood pizza parlor, and Rachel’s beaten her loads of times. But Maxine is crazy good. In all the years that they have been best friends, Chloe has never been able to win against Maxine at air hockey, not even once. Even her dad, William, has played against her before, but not even he could prove to be any match for Maxine Caulfield. 

All of a sudden, Maxine gives a hard swing and the puck flies straight toward Rachel. 

Out of pure reflex and desperation, Rachel’s free hand shoots forward and slams the oncoming puck flat against the table, stopping it right before it enters her goal.

Chloe’s eyes widen and she leaps up, pointing. “Hey! That’s cheating!”

“I-I know!” Rachel’s flustered. She didn’t mean to do that… it just happened. “Sorry Maxine. Can we redo that one?” Rachel swipes the puck back across the table with her hand. 

Maxine nods, bringing her striker down to catch it. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

“No hands, Rachel,” Chloe teases. Her friend makes a face and sticks out her tongue in response.

Rachel tucks her hair behind her ears and readjusts her grip on her striker. “Okay, go.”

Maxine lightly taps the puck over to Rachel, but Rachel is so worked up that she swipes at it with such force that she misses, barely grazing its edge. It spins and veers off horizontally to the right, bumping the side of the table and slowly floating back. Rachel grits her teeth and swings again, knocking the puck across the table as hard as she can. It bounces wildly back and forth between the walls of the table, but Maxine watches closely and is able to block it. She strikes it against the wall just like Rachel did, but at an angle that makes it rebound and sail right towards the goal. 

“Don’t-!” Rachel sweeps her hand in front of her and swings blindly. By some miracle, she stops the puck just in time and manages to hit it back to Maxine.

The puck glides back across the table, and Rachel watches it go. She almost can’t believe she blocked that shot. For a second there, she thought she was a goner-

Crack! 

With a sharp flick, Maxine smacks the puck straight across the table. It flies right past Rachel’s hand and into the goal. Sirens go off, signaling the end of the game, and the scoreboard flashes the final score: seven to one. 

“Yes!” Chloe pumps her fist in the air and goes over to congratulate Maxine with a high five. “Maxine, undefeated air hockey champion!”

Rachel stands at the other end of the table, seemingly in shock. She’s still holding the striker. As it slowly sinks in that she lost the game, Rachel’s brows furrow and her lips turn down in a pout. 

Rachel Amber is not a graceful loser.

As she looks at Maxine, though, Rachel realizes that she doesn’t have it in her to get mad. Maxine isn’t laughing at her or rubbing it in her face like Chloe probably would have. 

But Rachel is definitely over air hockey. 

Abandoning her striker, Rachel turns her back to the game and walks away, motioning for Chloe and Maxine to follow her. “Let’s do something else.”

The girls spend the evening hard at play, only occasionally coming back to the table where Rose and James are sitting to chug soda or take a few more bites of pizza. Eventually, Rachel and Chloe break out into a battle to see who can win the most tickets. Maxine tags along for a while but, as the night goes on, starts to find it hard to keep up with her overzealously competitive friends. In the end, Maxine announces that she’s going to take a break and relinquishes all of her tickets to Rachel as a birthday gift, which earns her an elated smile from the birthday girl… and some grumbling from Chloe. 

It’s about half past seven when Maxine returns to the table alone, looking absolutely exhausted.  

“Having fun?” asks Rose, welcoming Maxine back with a warm smile. The girl nods and gives a tiny smile in return, but Rose can tell that she certainly needs a breather. She pats the space beside her. “Have a seat, dear. It’s almost time to head home anyway.”

Knowing Maxine isn’t much of a talker, Rose reaches into her purse and pulls out her digital camera to show her some party pictures from that afternoon. Maxine looks at them with interest and warms up to Rose quickly. There are tons of photos of Rachel and her classmates, some taken inside and some outside by the pool, and Maxine giggles when Rose flips to one photo in particular. It’s one of her, Chloe and Rachel standing together by the edge of the pool, dripping wet, having paused to pose for the camera just before jumping back in. Maxine and Rachel are both smiling, and Rachel’s even throwing in double peace signs, but Chloe has her hands covering her chest and crotch, mouth shaped like an O and pretending to be shocked as though Rose just walked in on her taking a shower.  

Rose comes to a few blurry shots of Rachel’s birthday cake and she shakes her head. She flips past those quickly, apologizing and sounding slightly embarrassed as she explains that the camera just wouldn’t cooperate when she tried to take some closeups.

Maxine identifies the problem immediately. “You should change the settings.” 

“I’m sorry?” Rose sounds a little lost.

“On the camera,” Maxine explains. “For closeups. If you change it to macro mode, you should get a clear shot.”

The woman chuckles, now remembering that Maxine is an aspiring photographer. “I don’t know much about cameras. Could you show me?”

Maxine’s eyes seem to sparkle as Rose hands her the camera. “Sure.” 

Rose watches in fascination as Maxine’s little fingers press several buttons and navigate through various menus that pop up on the screen. Her face lights up when she finds what she was looking for. Holding the camera out so that Rose can see, Maxine points to one of the buttons near the top of the camera. “If you press this, you can change the focus settings. For really close closeups, you’ll want the one with the flower symbol.” 

“I see,” says Rose. “And then I can just take a photo normally?”

“Yeah,” Maxine replies. She moves the camera to the side and snaps a quick photo of the bottom of Rose’s glass of ice water. “See?”

When Rose leans in to look at the photo Maxine took, she’s completely blown away. The tiny drops of condensation on the outside of the glass are in perfect focus, so clear that they almost look like crystals. “Wow, honey, that’s amazing.”

Maxine returns the camera to Rose. “To go back to normal mode, just press the same button until the flower goes away.” 

Rose presses the button once and the flower icon turns into something triangular. “What does this one mean?”

“Those are mountains. That’s if you want to take a picture of something really far away.”

Rose hums and nods, thoroughly impressed with Maxine’s camera knowledge. She presses the same button again and, just like Maxine promised, the icons disappear. “Thank you, Maxine. This is very helpful.”

“Rachel, slow down!”

Both Rose and Maxine turn their heads toward the familiar voice. Rachel and Chloe are back, but something’s very wrong. Rachel comes storming over, clearly furious, and wordlessly plops herself in the seat across from them. She forcefully slams her plastic cup of tickets onto the table, making Maxine jump. Rose takes one look at Rachel and knows it’s probably time to head home. 

Chloe catches up and slides into the booth next to Rachel. “I told you not to play it anymore.”

Rose isn’t sure whether she should press further, or if she should take a different approach and try to take Rachel’s mind off of… whatever this is about. She ends up not needing to make that decision, however, because Maxine brings it up first. 

“What happened?”

Rachel is too upset to answer, so Chloe does. “She wasted all of her tokens on a dumb prize game.”

“It’s not fair!” Rachel sounds close to tears. “The stupid machine’s rigged!”

“Oh dear…” sighs Rose. Distract and divert. “Honey, it’s okay. You know what? It’s about time for us to leave anyway. You, Chloe and Maxine still get to trade in your tickets for prizes, right?” 

“Maxine gave me her tickets,” Rachel tells her, pulling the collar of her shirt up to wipe her eyes. 

“She did? Oh, that was very sweet of her, wasn’t it?”   

Rachel nods. “And Chloe let me have some of her tokens.”

“You're lucky to have such caring friends.” Rose starts to pack up her things, and the girls follow suit. “Let's exchange those tickets and head home. Don't forget, you girls still have ice cream and a movie waiting for you.”

“Where's Dad?” asks Rachel, suddenly noticing that her father is missing.

Shaking her head, Rose laughs softly. “Would you believe that he's been at that silly horse racing game for the past hour? I’ll tell him it's time to go. We'll meet you girls by the prizes.”

While Rachel, Chloe and Maxine scurry off to redeem their tickets, Rose goes to search for her husband. The last time she had seen him, he and a few others were crouched over the large metal race track in the corner of the arcade, placing bets on which mechanical horse would come in first place. Rose arrives at the horse racing game but, to her confusion, the stool where James was sitting earlier is now empty. She stands there for a moment, scanning the premises, but Rachel’s father is nowhere to be found.

Rose tuts under her breath, then fumbles through her handbag for her cell phone. No missed calls. Flipping her phone open with her thumb, Rose holds down the ‘3’ key and speed dials James’ cell number. It rings… and rings… and rings. Sighing, Rose shuts her phone and decides to head back to the table to see if James is there. Perhaps he had gone to the restroom, or on another round to check up on the girls…

“Rose!”

The woman turns, and there’s James, coming back inside through the front doors, cell phone in hand and waving wildly to get her attention. Rose waits with a hand on her hip, ready to ask him where he had run off to all of a sudden, but the words die on her tongue as James comes closer and she sees the troubled expression on his face. Her mild annoyance is replaced with worry. “What is it?”

James shakes his head slightly and rests his free hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Rose, I just got off the phone with Sera.”

Rose raises an eyebrow. “Did something happen?”

“She’s at the airport. She’s coming over tonight after all.”

[fanfic-scribbles]

Lunch Buddy: Chapter One

Masterlist

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Overall Story Facts:

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Summary: Steve Rogers makes a friend. A prickly, generally people-averse friend, but they'll both take what they can get.

Quick Facts: Friendship (/Eventual Romance) – Steve Rogers & Reader (leading to Steve Rogers/Reader) – Female Reader

Story Warnings: Reader-insert that verges on OFC, written in 1st person past tense

Chapter One: Oblivious

Chapter Word Count: 2612

Tldr A/N: I don’t do tags (sorry!), this is a ‘slice of life’ I write when the mood strikes so updates will come when they come, this is set shortly after the first “Avengers” movie and any canon that pops up will likely be different so keep an open mind, Reader (or OFC, depending on your preference) is female/bisexual/plus-sized because it’s important to parts of the story but otherwise remains undefined.

(Long) A/N: This is weird(ish), but I'm posting it, because I've been writing bits and pieces for this thing for over a year now and I keep chickening out of posting it. So I'm doing it! First off, a few general warnings: this (to me) still counts as reader-insert since I haven't ascribed a detailed physical look or name to the POV character but I do know some extra things about her. Those being: female, bisexual, plus-sized, asocial. That's it for actual set details and I mention them because they will come up in the story. Also, this is written in first-person past tense. I'm sorry if any of that bugs anybody (I know some people are very 1st person averse) but it's just the way I wanted to write it. I can't honestly say it's self-insert but I can (and should) say it's pretty self-indulgent.

Secondly: this is a 'slice of life' type thing that I write bits and bobs for on occasion. Since I've been adding to it for over a year I have kind of a meandering story and a lot of little pieces that add up to something I enjoy. I'm just trying to finish this first arc so I'll just say for the time being it is Reader(or OFC) & Steve friendship but it's eventually going to be Steve/Reader (or OFC) and we'll see how it goes from there. I aim to update every other week but, again, this is the one thing I have that is for pure relaxing so we shall see. I will not be tagging for this fic. Sorry! I’m way too forgetful and this doesn’t have a planned schedule, so there’s no way I can trust myself to be an actual Adult and do something that responsible.

Thirdly: This is after the first Avengers movie but I have already altered parts of CA:TWS to fit in with what I'm doing. I'll explain it as I go, just keep an open mind.

Stupidly: I have a thing for Oblivious!Reader. It never fails to amuse me to think of different ways for a character to go 'wait, *that* guy?!' Idk why, but sorry not sorry.

  I had a routine.

I actually had several, but one of my most sacred involved my lunch break. After half a day of staring at papers and screens, I took an hour to fortify myself for another half day of staring at papers and screens. By…staring at paper and screens. But this was by my choice, at least, and done in a nice, airy café, with a good drink (and sometimes snack) nearby.

I’d been coming to the same shop for almost two years, ever since I got my job just a block or so over, and I rarely missed visiting it on a weekday. Even a fucking alien invasion didn’t chase me off for long– people still had to eat and businesses still had to run. As soon as the infrastructure was back to (mostly) functioning, I was back to doing what I did in every way.

I had noticed when some of the other regulars stopped coming around (I really hoped they had just decided to go somewhere else and that they hadn’t gotten caught up in that nightmare) and I also started to notice some new regulars. One of them was a jerk and I only noticed her as much as it took to avoid her. There were a few people who just came in to get drinks and left right away. Then there was one guy who ended up causing a bit of a stir.

I really only noticed him the first time because he was attractive enough to literally turn heads. Even some of the guys I had assumed were straight took a peek and whispered to themselves. And he wasn’t unaware– his cheeks flushed and he ducked his head and I was pretty sure three people fell in love with him on the spot.

It was funny, but aside from noticing he was attractive and was very nice to the cashiers, I went back to ignoring him. I only had so long in a lunch break and I wasn’t the type to introduce myself to strangers, no matter how cute they were.

So, we simply existed in the same general space at the same general time for a couple of months. He became a regular and also found ways to disguise himself– hats and glasses, and jackets with the lapels turned up. It was funny to me because it seemed like such a movie star thing to do, but even funnier was that, when he remembered to do it, it worked. He drew eyes from strangers less and less the more he figured out how to hide himself, and the other regulars got used to him being around. Just from basic interactions I knew his name was Steve, he tipped well, he was always very polite to the people working, and he liked to sit down with a sketchbook and a cup of coffee. That was about all the ‘interaction’ we had and it was fine.

Until one day.

My headphones were in and I didn’t notice him standing nearby until he leaned closer. I yanked out one of the earbuds and straightened up to see what it was he wanted. He went from concerned to contrite in what could have been a new record. “Oh I’m sorry; I didn’t see–”

“It’s okay,” I said and pulled out the other one so I could give him my full attention. “What do you need?” I surreptitiously checked myself to make sure he wasn’t coming over to tell me about an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction.

“I was just wondering…” He extended an arm to the (very full, I just realized) shop. “There’s nowhere else to sit and your table is so large, could I sit here? I promise I’ll be quiet.”

“It’s not like I’d hear you anyway,” I said and he smiled. I quickly pulled my bag off the chair next to him and pushed it out.

“Thank you,” he said, I nodded, and we went back to our solitary activities.

After that, though, if he ever saw me in the shop he would give me a friendly nod or say hi if I didn’t have any headphones in. I responded in kind, but we otherwise left each other alone. Except that busy periods hit and, given that one interaction, I seemed to be his go-to. We left each other alone and he seemed just as fine with that as I felt about it. It was nice– technically could it count as socializing? It sort of felt like it, but it was my favorite kind of socializing: respecting each others’ boundaries.

AKA: Leaving each other the fuck alone.

It was great.

Except he eventually started to get a little more friendly; subtly, and slowly. Like the day he asked for my name.

“I just feel like I should know who I’m apologizing to every time I take over your space,” he said.

“You’re a big guy, but you’re not that big,” I said. But I told him my name. Then, weirdly, he just…went back to his sketchbook.

I stared at him for a second. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t really do this ‘meeting people’ thing that often, but don’t you normally give your name when someone else gives you theirs?”

He blinked and stared at me. “You don’t–” He stopped himself. “I didn’t tell you?”

“No,” I said. “I’d remember if you told me. And I’d remember if you told me and I forgot, because I would never, ever bring up your name or anyone else’s name ever again.”

He laughed, and looked startled by it. I was a little startled too, but he recovered pretty quick. “How do I know you’re not just covering for the fact that you forgot?” he teased.

“I am excellent at remembering when I should know someone’s name and deftly avoiding any chance at using it,” I said.

He chuckled, but he did say, “It’s Steve. Steve Rogers.”

I wrote ‘Steve’ in the front cover of my notebook, and expected to forget all about it.

~

I didn’t. Steve was friendly in an unobtrusive way. His greetings were warm and genuine and he was honestly pleasant to be around. I knew nothing of him but his name, that he liked to draw, and that people liked to gawk at him.

“Looks like you’ve made a friend,” one of the employees commented as she cleaned a nearby table.

“Uh…I guess so?” I pulled out a headphone just in case and sure enough, she stood and faced me and looked me up and down.

“How is he?” she asked.

I flinched, because seriously, what the fuck? “Um, he’s just some guy I sometimes share a table with. I don’t– I’m not– I don’t ever see him outside of here.”

“Oh I know; I didn’t mean it like that,” she said and grimaced. “And I didn’t mean that like– I just mean…is he nice?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t sit anywhere near him if he wasn’t,” I said. “I have no patience for douchebags.”

She smiled. “Nobody should,” she agreed. “Just, a guy like him…you sort of hope he’s nice, you know?”

“I…guess,” I said. I didn’t really know what to say to that. “I’m definitely not into him, if that’s what you were worried about?” She stared at me blankly so I tried to figure out a non-awkward way to say ‘fucking go for it.’ “He’s a nice guy and you seem nice, so don’t worry about me, just ask him. Even if he’s not into you he’s the sort of guy who wouldn’t be a dick about it.”

“Oh. Oh, no!” She laughed and waved. “I have a boyfriend, so I’m not– no, but, uh, thanks.”

“Oh.” Then why was she so– well, maybe she just liked seeing a pretty guy like that also be a good guy. God only knew the world needed more men who weren't jerks. I didn’t get to find out though, because she got called away by her co-worker and I went back to my notebook and my headphones. Why was everyone suddenly so social?

~

“What are you listening to?”

I shrugged. “Just my library on shuffle; nothing really cohesive.”

He chuckled and went back to doing what he did. Today it was fitting in stealing bites of his two strawberry croissants while he sketched.

It was a little strange for me, but I was getting used to Steve asking questions out of the blue. He was a nice guy and I didn’t want to be a jerk, that was part of it, but he also seemed to know when it was okay to talk to me and how far he could go. If I ever really didn’t want human interaction he somehow clued into it and would sit quietly. If I was open to it, he kept the conversations light and just something we both did in the background. Several weeks into this strange lunchtime camaraderie I accepted that some days he was there, some days he wasn’t, but it was just a nice easy thing we both slipped in and out of as time went on.

I was realizing I never really asked a lot of questions though. I cleared my throat. “Do you work around here?” I asked.

“No,” he said, smiling at his drawing as he worked on it. “I work…well, I’m sort of ‘on call’ I guess you could say,” he said. “My schedule is really irregular. I like to come here just to get out of my apartment from time to time.”

“That sounds nice,” I said.

“And you?” he asked.

“Yeah, I work in the area,” I said. “I like to get away from my desk and out of the office for at least a little bit. So I come here and just relax for an hour before I finish out the day.”

“That sounds healthy,” he commented. Before I could figure out if he was being sarcastic, he snapped his head up and waved his hand. “I didn’t mean– shit; I’m sorry,” he said and put his pen down. “That sounded bad. I meant it sincerely though. I have a lot of friends who are…workaholics, I guess you’d say.”

“Yeah, I do my fair share of overtime, but I definitely prefer not to,” I said. I thought about asking him what he did, but then he’d probably ask what I did, and I didn’t want to talk about it. It was fine– paid the bills and that was always a good thing, I just hated watching people feel like they had to feign interest in my bullshit. So we settled back into silence. And it was good.

~

“Um…excuse me?”

I looked up and so did Steve. The kid was looking right at him though, and I went back to looking at my book. I did keep an ear open, though, because I was nosy. Steve asked the kid’s name and I heard nothing, but when I glanced, Steve was scribbling something on a piece of paper.

His name.

I squinted, because he was signing an autograph, really?

Suddenly the woman’s comments, about hoping that ‘a guy like him’ was nice, made a lot more sense. Also the ‘movie star disguise’ thing. Was he actually a movie star? He hung out here way too much for that to be true, but I was baffled. Steve went back to his sketchbook like nothing was wrong or weird and I tried to figure out how to Google a tall blond buff guy named ‘Steve’ while somehow not getting stuck with a bunch of porn. Ugh; what was his last name again…

“You know you can just ask me.”

I looked up from my fruitless search. He smiled patiently, but he looked…tired.

Well then.

“Where’s the fun in that?” I asked, but I didn’t have all day. When I looked at my phone again, I realized I barely had five minutes. “We’ll see how many lunch breaks it takes me to figure it out.”

He let out a surprised little laugh, and then he smiled for real. “How many do you think it’ll take?”

“Hmm.” I tapped my chin. “If it takes more than three, I’ll buy your coffee.”

“If it takes less, I’ll buy yours,” he said, we shook on it, and I packed up to leave.

“By the way– this one doesn’t count,” I said and skipped out to his protests.

~

There were a lot of blond buff guys who did porn.

So I maybe got a little distracted.

“Jesus.”

I leaned my head back and shut off the screen at the same time. “You’re blond and your name is Steve; I don’t have a whole lot to go on. Also, he had most of his clothes on.”

“He wasn’t going to,” Steve chuckled and sat back in his seat. “Should I try a latte? I also heard mochas were good.”

“If you really wanted to take advantage you’d go for the frozen drinks.”

He made a face like a five-year-old. It was so ridiculous I had to laugh. “I’m not sure about cold coffee,” he said.

“Ah, not even iced coffee?” I waved my sadly-not-iced drink around and took a long sip. “You’re missing out.”

“I’ll just take your word for it.” He glanced at the menu, and then back at me. “Next time then?”

I stared him down. “This is only lunch break number one.”

“Two.”

“One.”

He was grinning and I stuck my tongue out at him. “I’m gonna add ‘stubborn brat’ to my search parameters,” I said. And I did. He laughed at me.

~

There was only so much internet searching I could do before I got a little bored.

“Do you want to just give up now?”

“Never,” I said and swiped at my game. “I just need a little downtime. This is my lunch break after all; I’d rather have fun and relax before getting back to work.” I cleared the stage and looked up at him. “I’ll figure it out next time.”

“You are so strange,” he said, somehow sounding like he was laughing without actually laughing.

Search: “steve” “blond” “famous” “-porn” “douchebag”

“Hey.”

~

I didn’t get the full lunch break to try to figure it out one last time.

“Oh my god is that Captain America?”

I perked up and saw a flabbergasted gaggle of teenagers looking right at…Steve.

Steve.

Steve…

Steve Rogers.

Oh.

Holy shit.

He kept at his sketchbook, as he usually did, and I sat there and digested that information. The teenagers were too shy to approach (and as friendly as Steve was whenever people did come up to him, he never really encouraged that behavior) and so I got to sit quietly and take that in.

“Well?” he asked and looked up. At me. Like he was awaiting my judgment or something.

“Uhhh…” Whatever I thought I was going to say fled my brain and I was left with nothing. I scrambled for something. “Um…thank you for your service?” I said, eventually. He blinked and I let out a sigh. Why did I ever open my mouth nothing good ever happened. “Help me out, what do people normally say?”

He stared for a second longer and then he laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Once he settled down his eyes were bright with humor and it didn’t feel like he was being mean. It took me a little bit to realize he sounded relieved. And, like that, I felt a little more relaxed. Enough to go completely deadpan when I said, “Wow. So ungrateful.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He grinned like a total jerk. “Thanks.”

Yep, total jerk.

No wonder we got along.

Next Chapter>>

[roguelioness]

First Drabbles

I was tagged by the always-wonderful @galadrieljones to post some of the first drabbles that I ever wrote. Like gala, a lot of my very first fandom related writings are in notebooks that are now long lost, so I’ll stick to the fandom I currently write for - Dragon Age.

Tagging @long-liv-prairies, @kagetsukai, @shannaraisles, @rawrzimon, @wickedwitchofthewilds, @ladydracarysao3, @ma-sulevin, @thevikingwoman, @buttsonthebeach, @empresstress13, @kaoruyogi, @idrelle-miocovani, @ladynorbert and everyone who reads this!

The first few ficlets I haven’t ever posted anywhere. Many of them are small bits of scenes and dialogue from ideas I had, but they tapered out. Either I lost interest, or lost inspiration, or just never got around to working more on them.

My first ever drabble was for a half-elven Inquisitor, Callista Trevelyan. She was the daughter of Ostwick noble Bann Trevelyan and his elven maid Ashalle; when Callista was five years old, she looked too much like her father for anyone to doubt she was Bann Trevelyan’s child, so he reluctantly brought her up with his other children. She was never accepted, and it was actually a relief for her to wind up in Ostwick’s Circle. Her story was meant to be a love triangle with Cullen and Solas, which is why I stopped writing - I couldn’t find an ending that would be happy for all three of them. *shrugs* Maybe someday I will, who knows.

In the meantime, here’s a snippet from what I had written for her (below the cut):

She rose much before the first faint threads of dawn had meandered across the sky, as was her habit. It was the only time she to do the things she wanted to do. Slowly unwinding her limbs from the tangled sheets she crossed the room to enter the private alcove in the corner that served as her water closet. She filled the large bathtub with water - one of the few luxuries she’d asked for - and with a slow, tired wave of her hand heated it up. She stepped out of the thin, but surprisingly warm nightgown she wore, and neatly put them into the basket that served to hold her soiled garments. She slid into the water with a soft sigh, and tried to relax.

Relax. Not something that came easily with the title Inquisitor.

She reached for the elegantly designed bottle that held her cleansing fluid, something she’d created herself, meant to cleanse and soothe her skin. She smiled wryly, she was a woman after all, prone to all the womanly vanities.

She rose out of the water and dried herself with the towel placed nearby. She enjoyed this ritual she had in the mornings at Skyhold; they calmed her, calmed her thoughts and worries if only for a little while. Pouring the oil richly scented with amber and orange blossom she worked it into her limbs slowly, massaging it into the parts of her that ached. Dressing herself in a rich royal blue tunic and breeches of a warm brown she walked out of her room and down the stairs to the main hall.

She paused in front of the throne. She inevitably did. It was the most prominent piece of furniture in the room, after all. It was imposing and commanding, and for the thousandth time, she wondered the turn of events that lead to it being hers.

Her mouth twisted up into a mocking smile. Callista Trevelyan, head of the Inquisition, respected by Ferelden and Orlais. What would Sedrick and Paulette say if they saw her now? Her thoughts went to her mother as she chewed on her lip worriedly. Leliana had been unable to find anything of Ashalle. Her hands clenched into fists unconsciously. The last she’d heard of her mother was that she’d been sent away. By Paulette, no doubt. That snivelling little druffalo shit was always jealous of the mother-daughter bond she had with Ashalle. She took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders. Leliana was on it. She’d handle it, and if anyone could track her mother down, it was the Nightingale.

Letting out a small sigh, she shook her head to get rid of the melancholy thoughts and found her way to the kitchen for the two honey cakes she always had to help with the bitter tasting elfroot-and-spindleweed concoction she had each morning. She was trying to get the others into it as well, but no one save Vivienne was willing to brave the taste. Picking up the trough of hot pear cider and two mugs, she walked up onto the battlements. Here, she offered the night guards a warm drink. Which she was sure they welcomed, but more importantly it gave her the chance to talk to them, to get to know some of the people she was defending, the people who put all their faith into her. Being around them gave her the strength and the courage to face the day, with all its trials and tribulations.

Cullen found her on the battlements of the right tower laughing with the guards, and a warm glow enveloped him. He knew she did this for herself, but she would never know how much it meant to the soldiers. They knew she cared about them, and all her small kindnesses only strengthened their loyalty to her.

He approached her, his face grim. “Inquisitor,” he spoke. She turned to face him, the smile on her lips disappearing as she saw his expression. He hated that, hated knowing that the news he had would cause her grief. “Might I talk to you? In my office, perhaps?” She tilted her head in acknowledgement, and lead the way to his office. He followed, closing the door behind them as she turned around to face him. He handed her a scroll. “The people we lost at Haven. I’m sorry.”

She took the scroll from him, reading through it, and looked up with a face writ with raw grief. “I should have done more, Cullen. I should have save more of them. I failed Flissa, and Minaeve, and all the rest. Corypheus came for me, and how many died for that?” She absently rubbed her hand across her eyes to wipe away  unshed tears.

“Inquisi - Callista, it wasn’t your fault. How could you have known? None of us knew who he was at the time. None of us knew what he’d do. You saved so many of us. And so many of your friends, too.” He did something completely out of character and wrapped his arms around her, his head resting on top of hers. “You nearly died, offering up your life to save the rest. Callista, you did all you could. It is not your fault. “

She leaned into him, taking a deep breath, then pulled away to look up at him with a shaky smile. “Thank you, Cullen. I needed that.”

He let go and took a step back, giving her a comforting smile. “I only speak the truth.”

Her smile grew less shaky. She sighed, and rolled up the scroll. “I should talk to Josephine about setting up a memorial to Haven, with the names of all we lost. It… it’ll help with everyone’s grief.”

He nodded. “I’ll convene the war council later today.” She smiled and placed a gentle hand on his cheek.. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Commander.”

He watched her leave, feeling overwhelmed with the range of emotions coursing through him. She is a mage, he told himself. Surely, he needed to be wary, after Kirkwall, after all he’d seen…

Then he saw her laugh with the scout outside his office, and the sound, clear, rich and warm, drove all thought out of his mind, save one.

Maker help me. I’m in love with her.

Solas walked into the communal dining room, his eyes immediately seeking the Inquisitor. Not that he’d ever admit it. She had caught his interest from the minute she walked out of the Fade, the sole survivor of the explosion at the Conclave. He’d felt some guilt over all the lives lost, but at the time, they were all just shemlen to him. Undeserving of the land they stood on, akin to weeds. But now… now, the waters were murkier. Being around them, day after day, their lives, loves and desires so like the Elves of old… he reined in his train of thought, gave up on the Inquisitor, and sat at the table next to the Varric.

“Morning, Chuckles,” the dwarf quipped “what’s got your nug? You seem irritated and the day hasn’t even started.”

“Good morning, Child of the Stone. I trust you slept well?”

Varric snorted. “I have a name you can use, Chuckles. Or at least come up with a better nickname.”

Solas grinned “Since you don’t seem to want to use mine, I thought it improper to use yours.”

Varric muttered something indecipherable beneath his breath and stuffed some bread into his mouth.

The noise in the dining hall fell in intensity, and Solas knew that the Inquisitor had arrived. He knew, from memory, she’d be weaving around the tables, stopping here and there to talk to the men and women who gave their lives to the Inquisition’s cause. It was well known that the Inquisitor treated everyone with kindness, and while some of the traditionalists scoffed at it, the majority admired that their leader felt like one of them. He could admire that. He did admire that…

He looked up as she walked over to their table, rising slightly as she sat down. “Solas,” she laughed “how many times have I told you not to rise and interrupt your meal? We’re friends, you and I, and shall stand on no such formality.” Was it just his imagination, or did she emphasize “friends”?

He looked at her, hating the stiff smile on his face. “But of course, Inquisitor.”

She sighed, and turned towards Dorian, who was seated next to Iron Bull. She grinned mischeviously, and Solas felt something twist inside him. “Dorian, I stopped by your quarters last night to borrow a book, and didn’t find you there! Are you well?”

Dorian turned slightly pink, and Iron Bull guffawed. “Nah, boss, our Tevinter mage here was busy last night.”

She grinned, cat-like and wide, and winked at him. “I can see bull riding most definitely suits you!”

The mage from Tevinter  turned red, and retorted “Well, at least some of us are capable of having fun, Inquisitor!”

She laughed and nudged him with her elbow, then leaned in close to his ear and whispered something, to which he smiled and nodded.

She is never that free and easy with me. Solas hated it, wanted to hate her for it.

Just then, one of Cullen’s messengers came by with a message for her. Solas frowned at the thought of Cullen, and wondered why.

He heard her quietly reply, please tell the Commander I will be there shortly, and Solas clenched his jaw for a brief moment before remembering his surroundings.

“Nothing serious I hope, Inquisitor?” he asked smoothly.

She replied distractedly “Hmmm? No, I don’t think so. It appears some of our people are missing in the Fallow Mire. Leliana will be giving me more details, but it looks like a party will be heading that way tomorrow.”

Iron Bull slammed his tankard on the table. “I’m ready anytime, boss!”

Solas inclined his head gracefully. “I hope you know that you can call on my services at any time, Inquisitor.”

She smiled, a serious look in her eyes. “Thank you. Iron Bull, I’ll let you know, but Solas I’d like you to join the party. I have a feeling we’ll need another mage.”

He nodded, and watched her walk away, enjoying the sway of her hips. Varric piped up, “She does have a nice behind, our Inquisitor”.

“Oh really?” Solas replied coolly, “I hadn’t noticed.” Giving a curt nod to the others at the table, he rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for the journey.”

Varric put a hand on his arm, stopping him for a second. He spoke quietly, directing his words such that only Solas could hear them. “Callista’s good people, Solas. Don’t do anything reckless.”

Solas looked at Varric disdainfully. “Me? Do something with her? She’s not my type, Varric. She is not of my kind.” With that, he walked away.

Was it really so bad she wasn’t an elf?

[virginiavaleenevale]

The Greasi.

THIS IS A PART 3: PART 1; PART 2;

Summary:You are overwhelmed by all that is happened but finally decide to see what was  left in the woods… and what you find is not what you first expected.

Words count: 1653 words.

Pairing/Characters: Reader x Unknown, Carl, Negan (mentioned), Simon (mentioned), Dwight (mentioned), Daryl (mentioned).

Warnings: self hatred, angst, lack of coomon sense, little bit of language.

I’m sorry this took longer that I expected but I was really busy… Hope you enjoy! The story just started, things will get REALLY intresting in the next part :D 

“I’m sorry this had to happen… I left something for you in the woods outside Alexandria.”

It said.

I walked nervously back and forth in my small bedroom. My hands found their way through my hair on their own accord, all I was capable of thinking was how much I screwed everything up. One long day passed since I decided to live forever hidden in there and soon enough realised how stupid that was… but still, I didn’t want to confront anyone. My dad didn’t even try to interact with me and I don’t blame him… I knew how big of a disgusting disappointment I was. And then there was the message on my diary, tormenting me with doubts.

The first thought was that someone wanted to humiliate me even more or punish me for being so revolting, and all of the “I’m sorry” part was just a set-up to make it believable, to make me fall in the trap. But maybe I deserved that. As my eyes found the diary opened at that page on my desk, a new realisation ran through me, it didn’t matter in the least what was waiting for me, I had nothing to lose. I starred at the simple grey lines on the white paper, not moving the slightest while my mind flew and twirled and I had to admit that under all those intricate options there was still the chance that someone might just want to ease my heart a little… Obviously, being human I could feel the hungry curiosity devouring me, the fact that I ignored it was nothing but the threatening logic making me. But those threatens seemed of no value in my situation, and so I decided.

I took the little piece of glass I kept under my bed, it’s been my only personal protection since the Saviors stole my hunting knife… it was just a sharp piece of a broken window, 20 cm long more or less, the only thing that I did to It was wrapping a rag around less than half of it to create a grip. As I weighed it in my hand I made my way to the door and without saying anything I got out of the house from the back door. I was going to see what was in the woods. As far as I knew no one meandered in the woods and all the researches for supplies lasted days and were far away from Alexandria, so no one should catch me. With my head low, I walked in a fast pace following the wall, I needed to get to the back of Alexandria there’s a spot where no one will see if I climb over the metal barrier. I was almost there when a voice suddenly stopped me.

“Hey!”

I felt the blood in my veins turn into ice, guilt immediately weighted over my heart like I was found committing a crime. I turned my head and saw Carl standing there, looking at me like a mirage.

“Hey…”

My voice sounded so weak, I feared his words.

“I-I thought you would never get out of your room. You’ve been locked there for three days.”

I was sincerely confused, tilting my head to one side.

“What are you talking about? I stayed there for one day.”

I frowned and I could see some sort of concern spread all over his features.

“No… it’s been three days since Negan visit…”

My eyes widened… How? Did I sleep that much?? Was I so screwed up? My voice trembled as I started taking small steps backwards, getting slowly away from the boy

“I n-need to go…”

“Wait! Are you ok? Do you need anything? I… I want to help…”

I shook my head moving faster.

“No, just- just leave me alone… but… thank you Carl, thank you.”

I turned the other way immediately and never looked back at him. Only when I reached my way out I actually looked around to make sure no one was there, as fast as I could I climbed and then jumped on the other side. I took a deep breath, still taking in the new shocking information, I felt like I had no control over my body and that was the only thing I felt in control of during those days. The trees a few meters from me seemed higher than I remembered them to be, a strange force attracting me towards them. The sun was shining in the sky and the grass still had some dew covering it, walking calmly made me feel in a fairy-tale, no one to be seen, only the bird’s singing to be heard. It was almost like it was before the apocalypse, or at least for what I remembered… so many years passed. Searching for anything out of the ordinary, my instinct told me to go ahead without fear. I moved towards the woods near the front of the survivors’ city, thinking that probably I’d find what I was searching for there, and I was right. I was pretty close to the gates when something caught my eye, an arrow was engraved in a tree trunk pointing down to the ground. I kneeled in the dirt and removed the thin layer of terrain that I soon discovered was covering something. A piece o paper folded up was the first thing that I got in my hands.

I opened it slowly, noticing only in that moment that it was a page ripped from my diary, no wonder I didn’t perceived its absence before with the way I treated the personal journal.

“Go there, you won’t regret it I promise. I go there too when I need to switch off.”

The calligraphy was 100% the one on my diary… I took the remaining object from the ground and opened it without hesitations. It was a map, it showed the positions of Alexandria, Hilltop… the name of another place was scribbled all over… everything popped at the eye for being marked in red. I was confused but then I noticed a little circle made with a pencil in the middle of the map, it was pretty far away from everything. I was surprised everything went actually fine till that point, maybe it really wasn’t a trap…

“What the hell… if I’m going to do this, might as well do it all the way through.”

I said quietly to myself, and with the map in my hands I started walking towards the spot.

Everything was quiet for a long time, not many walkers that couldn’t be avoided, I was left me alone with my thoughts. I didn’t want to think about what happened again and neither I wanted to overthink my current actions so I focused on one mystery that still floated in my mind… Who wrote that? Who left the map there for me? Who was sorry for what happened to me? Not knowing was destroying me because I couldn’t even guess it…

Negan? It simply couldn’t be after all that. I won’t believe for one second him being sorry for me. I hated that the attraction towards the man still rumbled deep down.

Simon? Why even? He was Negan’s right hand, I don’t see the point in him being sorry or any sort of kind towards me.

Dwight? The exact same thing… why was I taking them into my options I didn’t understand myself. They didn’t know me, they clearly didn’t care for me, they wouldn’t be “sorry”.

Daryl? I was pretty sure the man found me beyond revolting now. We were not close friends even though I tried to be friendlier with him in the past.

Carl? We were friends sure, but the way he was looking at me before… he thought of me like a wounded animal… he has just pity for me and he already said sorry personally, it wouldn’t make any sense for him to be the one, it would be so obvious. Also, Carl wouldn’t send me to a place so far away from Alexandria.

It was past midday when I arrived near the highlighted location, I could feel my heartbeat speed up with every step I took, some houses were in sight but that was not where I was supposed to go. I brought the map closer to my face, trying to figure out which was the right building, a little shop seemed to be it.

My eyes roamed the area and then found it, a little store on the side of the road. I got closer, a storm pervaded my mind overwhelming it with so many thoughts that I wasn’t able to actually formulate a clear one, my heart stomped so loudly in my ears that a horde of walkers could have been right behind me and I wouldn’t heart it. The sign above the door-frame was completely ruined, what still was legible was

“T— Gre– -asi-”

I made the random letters role on my tongue, unconsciously trying to figure out a name.

“T-Gre-asi, Tgreasi… the Greasi…”

It was a nice looking little shop with red walls and big once-white windows. Time was not gentle with it, but it was strangely beautiful in its crumbling look, a lot of plants were growing around and all over it, it wasn’t hard to identify it as an ex-florist or something like that. A couple walkers were already dead outside, well… actually dead, but still I entered cautiously, holding my piece of glass in hand. The first shelves that came into view were spoiled of everything but the photos of various flowers and plants confirmed my guessing. Nothing special was there… or so I thought.

Slowly I got to the back of the store and that’s when I saw it… My mouth as wide open as my eyes, my breath caught in my throat and it seemed like time froze at the sight.

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed :) REQUESTS ARE OPEN. If you liked it check out my other stories. If you want to be tagged in any of my work just send me an ask.

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[mcwriting]

Arrested Development

Okay so I just want to apologize to every Arrested Development fan that saw this and was expecting post about that or something but... nah. This is an AU about Tom Holland (but if you’re an AD fan and would like me to write something about AD, hit up my asks fam)

So, as I said above, this is a Tom Holland AU where Tom and Harrison are cops and they meet you and ~sexual tension~ ensues (#spicy). Tbh I was so excited for this y'all don't even know.

Fandom: Marvel-ish

Ship: (Cop!)Tom Holland x Reader and (Cop!)Harrison Osterfield x Reader

Setting: A diner-style burger place lol

Word Count: 1,381

Warnings: Sexual references (and major tension obviously)

Rating: High T, to be honest

*Background: I WROTE THIS WHEN I WAS 17 AND DIDN’T KNOW ANY BETTER PLEASE DON’T FLAME ME.*

Tom, Harrison, and reader are in late 20s in my mind

y/f/n: Your friend’s name

y/l/n: Your last name

---

“Boy is that one fine piece of meat,” you commented to your best friend who sat across from you at the booth. 

You had been sitting with both of your meals in front of you talking when a pair of cops sat down at a table diagonal of yours, burgers in hand. Both officers were incredibly handsome, but your eyes were focused on the one closest to you, a thin but muscular young man with gorgeous brown curls that sat messily atop his head.

The problem is, you didn't realize how loud you had been.

Your friend turned to look at the boy you were referencing when the officer finished chewing his bite and turned to you. His eyes took on a determined, sexy look when they met yours.

“What was that, ma’am?” He questioned, causing your face to heat up. You kept a straight face as you answered.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I was only talking about that juicy burger you have there. It looks like a fine piece of meat.”

The officer turned to his sandy-blonde haired partner, one eyebrow raised. He slowly set down his lunch and stood, meandering his way to your table. He stopped and set his palms on the edge, leaning forward a bit to look at you closer. 

“Y’know ma’am, it’s a crime to lie to an officer of the law. Now is there something you should tell me?” He asked, a sly grin on his lips.

Your eyes narrowed before widening in fake innocence.

“Why, Officer,” you paused, squinting to read his name tag, “Holland, I’ve done no such thing. I simply believe that nice hunk of meat over there looks quite... delicious”

Officer Holland turned to his partner once again, and they seemed to have a silent exchange with one another. Once turning back to you, he kept a serious expression on his face, but his eyes glinted with a playfulness that made your stomach flutter.

“You know, when someone breaks the law, I have to take them downtown,” he explained, leaving you at a loss for words, yet you recovered quickly.

“I don’t believe you'd be able to handle someone like me, though blondie over there might be able to take me,” you challenged, jutting your chin towards the other officer who had been watching your conversation intently.

“Oh don’t drag Harrison into this, he'd never be able to handle you like I could,” the brunette explained before the other officer, Harrison, you presumed, appeared behind Officer Holland. 

“Well you see, Tom,” Harrison, whose name plate read Osterfield, began, “I’ve actually taken quite a few women downtown, and I don't recall having any complaints. So you see, I believe out of anyone, it should be I that takes this lovely civilian.”

Your eyes widened, surprised at the events that were unfolding in front of you. You had come into the diner on a simple Friday afternoon to dine with your best friend, and now this was happening. 

The young men bickered, trying to show dominance to impress you, when words you never thought would come out of your mouth slipped out unexpectedly.

“How ‘bout you both take me together?”

At that moment the two stopped and stared at you, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, they didn't have to answer, because it was at that very moment that your best friend cut the thick tension like a seamstress rips fabric: violently and effectively. And by that, I mean, she promptly slumped forward onto the table, causing a loud thud and the silverware next to her to clink loudly against the table.

The low murmur of the restaurant came to an abrupt halt as the patrons all looked at you, wondering what the conundrum was.

You looked at the officers, your friend, and back to the pair again.

“Oh my God! What do we do?” Officer Holland, or Tom, asked.

“Excuse me? You're the police officers! Do something!” You gestured to your unconscious friend. 

The officer scanned the table, eyes settling on your soda. 

“May I borrow this?”

“Uh, I guess... What does a Coke have to do with helping y/f/n?”

“I’m going to use the cool condensation from the outside to cool my hands down and hopefully draw any heat from her forehead,” he explained, wrapping his hands around your glass before holding your friend’s head up and patting her cheek.

Soon enough, Tom's plan worked, and your friend’s eyes fluttered open slowly as she drew a hand to her forehead.

“What happene-” she stopped, staring at the scene before her.

“Oh my God it wasn't a dream was it?” she asked, looking between the three of you.

You nodded your head solemnly, a bit embarrassed that your friend witnessed what happened. Her face flushed again and she quickly reached into her bag, hands shaking as she fumbled with her wallet.

“Uh, um... hey, I, uh, gotta go. I’ve got that date with that guy I told you about, and well, uh, a girl can never be too prepared so um... I’m gonna go home and get ready,” she stuttered, pulling a ten dollar bill out.

You looked at your watch before replying.

“Y/f/n, your date isn't until 5 tonight, and, it’s only 1:50,” you mentioned, unsure of what to say.

“Well, like I said, can't be too prepared. Here’s ten bucks,” she handed you the money, “to, um, cover my meal... I guess if it isn't enough you can let me know at church Sunday... But uh, yeah. See you around,” she finally finished, sliding out from the booth. 

“Ma’am are you sure you’re alright?” Harrison asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Haha yep don’t worry ‘bout me. Uh, you two have a great day, nice to meet you,” she looked at you one last time, “and, see you later.”

She rushed to the door, only making the situation worse when she accidentally hit the doorframe on the way out, crying “I’m okay!” before rushing out the door and hopping in her car, peeling out as soon as the key hit the ignition.

“Sooo...” you started, stunned.

Just then, a staticky and monotonous voice came from both officers’ walkie-talkies, saying 

“Holland! Osterfield! Chief needs you back in ten!”

The boys looked surprised, replying with an ‘Of course” before looking back at you.

“Oh hey wait,” you called, reaching into your own bag. 

“Uh, what time do you all get off work?” You questioned as you dug around your purse.

“Well we end patrol at 3, but we usually have to stay and file paperwork until about 4 or 4:30,” Tom answered.

You nodded and let out an “aha” when you finally found what you were looking for: a Walmart receipt and a pen that had both found their way to the bottom of your purse.

You quickly scribbled a few things onto the back and handed it to Tom before grabbing a $20 from your wallet.

“What is this..?” Tom asked incredulously, peering back at Harrison who was reading the paper over his shoulder.

You couldn't believe the confidence you exuded in your following sentences.

“Well my offer was serious, and definitely still stands. There’s my number and address. Come around 8 tonight?”

Both boys’ jaws went slack once again, and you smirked to yourself for your little victory. 

“Oh and,” you lowered your voice to a sultry tone, “bring your handcuffs.”

You stood, throwing your $20 and your friend’s $10 on the table, knowing full well it was more than enough to cover the price of you and your friend’s meals along with a tip.

“See you downtown, boys,” you commented in the same voice as before, looking up at both men who each held quite a few inches on you.

You threw your hair over your shoulder when you turned to leave, swaying your hips slightly as you headed towards the door. Your hand was on the door handle when Tom snapped out of his reverie.

“Wait, we don't even know your name!” he called, reaching a hand towards you.

A sly grin played on your lips.

“Y/n, y/n y/l/n.”

Both boys smiled before Harrison replied,

“See you tonight... y/n.”

And with that, you strutted out of the building feeling like a million bucks.

And yeah, they both took you downtown.

---

A/N: Wooooohoooo! Was that fun or what? Would you believe I’ve never written anything this sexual before? (You can probably tell lol). Sorry if you think it sucks, but I liked the concept. Once again, hope you enjoyed, and if you haven’t, read my other stories! So far they are all Tom stories, but I might start writing other stuff too. I have another in the works called “The Baker and the Brit,” so be on the lookout for that.

See y’all later!

[sorrelchestnut]

#3, 4, 13 for Shoot to Thrill / Cry Havoc / The Hollow Man? Sorry if that's too many questions, haha, feel free to just answer the ones that interest you the most!

Okay!  *cracks knuckles*  Let’s do this.

For the Fic Questions askmeme, still taking questions if anyone wants to play!

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?

Shoot to Thrill, it would have to be this scene from early in the second chapter:

[He] lets her lead him into a meandering discussion that takes them through everything from his recruitment into as a Resistance agent through his reasons for leaving the Nexus, as well as another glass and a half of Kian's best 'shine.Not that she makes him do all the talking, either. The rendition of her first contact with the angara (exaggerated, he's mostly sure, for effect) takes almost half an hour, involves numerous semi-explicit gestures and startlingly effective sound effects, and has him nearly in stitches from laughing so hard. The retelling of her assault on the kett stronghold on Voeld takes even longer, and gets involved enough that she ends up ditching her gloves and clearing the table in order to better sketch out the attack vector using the silverware. (The liquor bottle, of course, is the communications tower.)

I had to rewrite it like three times to get it exactly how I wanted it, but I love it because it really nails down one of the things that I love about them: it’s not all flirting and innuendo and slick maneuvering, it’s also jokes and over-enthusiasm and honest enjoyment.  It was really important for me that they had this, too, otherwise what’s the point of staying together after it’s over?  What’s the point if it’s not real? 

Cry Havoc: It’s a long-ass fic, it’s hard to pick just one.  But here’s a bit from a section I recently re-wrote as part of my editing pass, since it’s a current favorite, at least.  This is still early in their partnership, but this time, while sort of skimmed over, really set the foundation for everything else.

Still, when it's done, he finds himself standing at the top of Trinity Tower, twenty floors of dead greenskins between him and the ground, and can't help the brief but total rush of feeling, just for a moment, fucking invincible. He's hit mutie dens before, plenty of times, but he's never done it with anything less than a full squad of mercs, and he can count on hand the number of times he's done it without at least one casualty. But here they are, right in the heart of mutie territory, just the two of them without a scratch on them. She is un-fucking-believable, like something out of a freaking comic book. Nobody could have pulled off this job, but here they are. The goddamn Unstoppables.

The Hollow Man, I love every piece of it from top to bottom so there’s a lot to choose from, but I think if I have to pick a favorite it’d be this:

Everyone is afraid of being recommissioned - even coursers, though most of them won’t admit it. But X6-88 has always thought that it can’t be as bad as all that. It’s not like death, which he’s come close enough to know is hot, and painful, and struggling, trying to pull air into your lungs for just one more moment to try and turn the tide. Recomm would be like… going to sleep. And then waking up refreshed, clean of the weakness and scars that have built up on his psyche. Maybe the X6-88 that wakes up on that table won’t be a courser anymore, but he could still be useful. He can still fulfill his objectives, which is more than he can fucking say for himself at present.

It’s my favorite because in a lot of ways, I think it’s the one that most gets at both who X6 is as a character and where he is at this point of the story.  One of the things I wanted to show with this story was that for X6, the reality of the Institute isn’t something he needs to learn in order to break free of his chains.  He already knows the reality; in a lot of ways, I think the coursers are uniquely poised to know it better than most.  And X6 doesn’t want to break free.  That was the entire point of the story: he chooses to be loyal to the Institute every day.  So I think this paragraph really got at that aspect of him, as well as the fact that he’s currently feeling broken, because he knows he’s not as single-minded as he once was.  He sees a conflict in between two things that he wants, and Sole offers him a way to reconcile this conflict like water to a man stranded in the desert.

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

Shoot to Thrill it would be this bit of flirting at the beginning of chapter three:

“Ryder.  Your timing is impeccable.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.  This sort of thing happen often in these parts?  ‘Cause I gotta tell you, Vidal, you guys are really living down to Nexus expectations right about now.”

“However will I sleep at night.  Often enough, though, lately.  It seems there’s a person of ill intent among our merry little band.”

“This, right here, this is my shocked face.”

I love the lightness of their banter, how easily it flows between them.  That’s one of the things that I like so much about them: some things are so tremendously easy and effervescent that it sort of counteracts some of the bite of the subterfuge.  Also, given how the narrative sets him up as this brilliant mastermind, it was important to show her holding her own when it comes to banter.

Cry Havoc: It had to be this one.  It took me ages to write - this is the bit I stalled out on, when I put the fic on hold for a freakin’ year - but it was just because of how important it was to the two of them.  This is the conversation they had to have in order to break through the last few barriers they’re holding onto, even if they don’t know it yet.

“No way, Boss.  Your plan was fine. The job was fine. I was the one who couldn’t handle myself when you needed me. I was the one who screwed it all up.”

“Ah, MacCready.  The only way you screwed up is in not telling me, pal.”

“I almost got you killed, Boss.”

“You really didn’t.  You didn’t. You had my back a dozen times, and then when you couldn’t anymore I had yours. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s goddamn supposed to work.”

“Just because I screwed up-”

“Everyone screws up! Anyone who says otherwise is either a fucking liar or they haven’t done shit worth mentioning.”

“You don’t.”

“Do.  Scout’s honor, I do. Everyone’s got something that fucks them up sometimes. You learn to work past it when you can or work around it when you can’t, but you’ve got to tell me so I can adjust. That’s all.”

Hollow Man:  I sort of want to cite their three-way banter from breakfast in the middle of the fic, because I really like the way it shows how X6 fits into their existing dynamic, how they play off him and each other.  But if I’m being honest with myself, it’s definitely this:

“You need to realize, whatever you decide, you need to know - you don’t belong to them. You belong to me, and I decide when you’re out. Not you, not the Director, and sure as fuck not Justin Ayo. Me.  Do you hear me?  You’re not done until I say you are, and I am not fucking finished with you yet.”

13: What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story?  Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

There is always music.

Shoot to Thrill:

I’m a Wanted Man - Royal Deluxe

Addicted to You - Avicii.

You Go Down Smooth - Lake Street Drive

My Trigger - Miike Snow.

Dogs of War: I actually have this playlist done, I think.  At some point I need to suck it up and post the damned thing.  Some highlights:

Down to the River - Brown Bird (my ultimate MacCready ship song)

Blood on My Name - The Brothers Bright (Sole character piece) 

Bury Me Face Down - Grandson (other Sole character piece)

God’s Away on Business - Tom Waits (my ultimate fallout theme song)

[ark-of-eden]

R is drunk and raving (not in the party way).

(R:) Additionally, I’m procrastinating like a fucking champion at working on fic construction, so you know the best use of my time is going off about random social media crap on the internet.

tl;dr: Putting all commentary in tags on Tumblr makes R cry and shit thousands of words into the Internet.

Every social media site inevitably develops sets of unwritten social conventions. Some of them actually make sense as being derived from meatspace etiquette and therefore you don’t really have to stress about remembering them as long as you play nice like a decent creature.

And some of them just don’t make any fucking sense that I can see. Folks on Twitter using a deliberately space-limited form of media to write a page’s worth or more in a string of 30+ rapidfire tweets? This is just how it’s done over there? (Tweetlonger exists but for some reason these massive chain-tweeters never seem to use it. Same with posting the whole thing in a long-form site like LJ/DW/Tumblr and just linking it to a tweet.)

And Tumblr has things that I literally had to put effort into learning after I migrated here, and after I learned about them I frankly decided to ignore them because I couldn’t see the point in them. Tumblr has this bizarre allergy to commentary and, likely derived from that, the practice of instead commenting by putting it all in awkward tags that render the tagging system not especially useful and are harder to get to if you’re actually interested in an individual’s thoughts about a thing and not just the twelfth instance of the same post crossing your dash in a day or two. It’s not like you can’t engage with people, because asks and messaging and such exist, but like...there’s this strong sense that it’s Terribly Ill-Mannered to weigh in with your own impressions right there, in the body of the post, typing your own words in that seductive, wide-open text box that appears all on its own when you go to reblog something. The properly-socialized Tumblrite eschews that tempting text field and instead posts weird sentence fragments in tag form (interspersed with actual tags that might serve to usefully categorize the post’s content), to the extent that some people can add on a good couple paragraphs of material down among the hashtags where others need to go looking for it on purpose if they want it. (I, at least, haven’t been able to find a plugin or something that automatically expands full tags on all posts so that I don’t have to fuck around with extra interface elements to get to them. I admit that I haven’t looked super hard, though.)

Preserving the original form of the OP’s post is a noble practice that I heartily support, but how is adding commentary a problem if you’re only adding a separate thing, not taking away or altering anything in the original...? This was already a practice/convention/code of social interaction on Tumblr when I got here, so I was never in the front row to witness this element taking shape. I suppose it must have made good sense at the time, but every time I see ten people reblogging the same post with no additions and a paragraph of tags appended to it, it’s like a splinter in my brain that has been digging into me for years now.

And I’m not hating on people who do that! I get that that’s The Way It’s Done Here and I am the deviant weirdo for continually adding comments directly onto things that I reblog. Tags are where individuality lives here, unless you’re producing your own original posts, which I guess other people are then supposed to reblog without commentary so that you have to go hunting after all the reblogs individually if you want to get an actual sense of what these people were all thinking when they reblogged your thing. It all just seems...so...WORK INTENSIVE, refusing to use site functions as they were intended??

Look, I absolutely know that my commentary is not the work of incisive genius that unfailingly adds value to every post I find worthy of my attention. We’re pretty much solid shitposting on this blog. Because I’m a little loaded at the moment and that gives me a handy excuse to run my fingers like an idiot (plus I put that readmore up there, so if your eyes are actually consuming these words, you have only yourself to blame for being here), let me run down relevant history of how we got here.

LJ was home for a good long while. Then shit got seriously messed up and Dreamwidth was created as a better LJ, so we migrated all our stuff over there. And journaling sites along those lines still feel like a native environment. I, in particular, am the most long-winded piece of shit we know and I am honestly incapable of talking about anything of worth in short form. It’s a sickness and I just sort of have to own it. :/ But that’s why journaling sites are a good place for me to live, because that’s where people go when they have the inclination to read meandering scrawls about the depths of other people’s lives or whatever.

We went to Twitter for a good while because all the cool people we knew from LJ were going there for some unfathomable reason. These people wrote things that were complex and fascinating to read, so all of them jumping ship to a place that limited them to 140-character chunks made no damn sense, but we loved those people and wanted to trust that they knew what the hell they were doing. And they probably did, and a couple of us were actually okay with Twitter, but I, being the long-winded shitpiece, spent a lot of time frustrated and kind of overstimulated.

Then things started going to hell more and more consistently for me personally (and us generally by extension, but that’s unnecessary detail). Bunkering down specifically to protect people that you care about from the fallout of your crazy is a fairly common thing for mentally-ill people to do, I think. So I’d shut up online until I felt stable enough to talk to people again. Those periods lasted a few days, then a week or more, then a month, then eventually I stopped talking entirely. I missed the LJ/DW format, but in the past I’d written about life events and things I was thinking about and such, so...at the time, all I really had to write about was the bad stuff. So LJ/DW was basically unusable as well.

I literally came here to be as shallow as I could possibly manage. Tumblr had a rapid, chaotic flow similar to Twitter, but could hold longer content like LJ/DW. We’ve never really used the site’s full functionality at any point, though. For at least a year, all we were following was the most lightweight, zero-calorie entertainment that we could find. (We actually came here for Flight Rising content, so there was a lot of that.) Being engaged with fandom in any consistent respect is an extremely recent thing.

And I’m not saying that fandom hasn’t got depth and complexity because it absolutely does and that’s one of the beautiful things about shared fan experiences. I kind of got into that sort of fandom by accident after getting here and rediscovering Transformers. But the unvoiced policy that I’ve always had here is to avoid the Too Real and dodge serious topics whenever possible. Thus, no gender theory, no neurodivergence or multiplicity, no nonhumanity, no religion or UPG, nothing with real substance behind it that bared real vulnerabilities. (Apparently this was a good move anyway because the nonhuman and multiplicity situation here on Tumblr is a bit of a clusterfuck? I honestly wouldn’t know, as I haven’t made a lot of effort to link up with those folks.) That’s still the policy. That might remain the policy forever until I reach some vaguely-defined threshold of sanity that makes me worthy of talking about those things in places and formats that other people can interact with.

And I’m sorry for all this talk about mental illness, but it’s simpler just to explain things clearly. I likely won’t go into any more detail about it on Tumblr. Or anywhere else, because I care about people even if I’ve never met them or talked to them at all and I still want to keep it all in the bunker to protect good people from the crazy. Sometimes, all you can do is just prevent the damage from spilling out into other people’s lives, and that’s the place that I usually operate from.

I’m still pretty drunk, so I’m allowed to ramble from too much truth serum, but all of that explanation was to get around to saying that the format of online communication that is most intuitive to me is the long, oversharing gut-spill of random people talking about things that are really meaningful to them - not in the sense of elaborate philosophy or artsy epistles to the cosmos, but just people being super real about things that are meaningful to them and going into lots of detail about them because gushing about things you love is great. And it’s possible to get that sort of discussion and gushing in Tumblr fandom, and I love it because it reminds me of better times, and the fact that I love it is WHY IT MAKES ME SO GODDAMN FRUSTRATED that Tumblr culture is basically stifling discussion and feedback and RESPONSE to things that people find interesting!!

Like, here’s how I see it. Unlike on LJ/DW, where you were limited to hyperlinking to a cool post in one of your own posts if you wanted your readers to go check it out, on Tumblr, if you find a super cool thing, you can pull it directly into your space and let other people experience it directly, exactly as you experienced it. But the thing is, I also subscribe to the My Blog My House concept. If I pull a thing into my “home,” I do it because there’s something homelike about it; it belongs in my home for some specific reason. I don’t take “ownership” of an item in the sense that I’m claiming it in place of its creator, but I’m taking ownership of it in the sense that it’s part of my Stuff now and it’ll get my fingerprints all over it and be blended into the general morass of Stuff that I recognize as my home. I don’t just pull random crap into my home for no reason at all.

And I just figure that other people are similar in the sense that they reblog things for distinct, unique reasons, not in the sense that they have some master plan for their blog content (some do, but it’s not necessary), but just that they have compelling reasons why they pick certain bits of content out of the larger river of their dashboard and put it in their own space for people to experience with them. I follow people based on the interesting things that they find interesting. I’m interested in why they’re interested in those things. They seem like interesting people to me because they’re interested in what they’re interested in.

But the WHY is a really important part of the equation for me. Did this person reblog that photo because they’ve been to that place themselves, because they like that kind of tree, because they reblog photos with that color scheme every Thursday? Did that person reblog that piece of art because they love that character, because they’re studying that art medium, because it reminded them of something funny they saw somewhere else? People attach their own context to things that they latch onto. It’s so freaking weird to me that people have to hide their interpretations or impressions in tags here on Tumblr, making them unimportant and optional in the process of sharing things they like with others. (Okay, people also share a lot of things they hate, but reasons for outrage are still part of the context that one adds to content.)

I WANT TO KNOW WHY YOU CARE ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE SHOWING ME. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT MAKES IT IMPORTANT TO YOU. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT IT MAKES YOU THINK AND FEEL. Even if it’s a blurb about how giant robots fuck or a cute kitten video, I NEED TO KNOW THESE THINGS.

Not in excruciating detail or with insightful analysis or even a lot of text at all. Mostly, the things that people put in tags are things that, to me, are a really crucial part of the experience of being able to go into someone’s “home” and see the Stuff that they chose to put in it. Reducing oneself to a glorified signal repeater is...okay, I guess, though it turns a Tumblr blog into a kind of faceless stream of other people’s material a lot of the time. The personal touch is what makes it all interesting. And I’m just unutterably frustrated that, somewhere along the line, it was decided that personalizing an experience by sharing one’s own impressions of it became rude enough that polite society decided that it had to be hidden away in tags. I want all of it, so I do go looking for it, but omg it requires MORE EFFORT and BURNING CALORIES and BODILY MOVEMENT and WAAAAH, you know what I mean. :P

And possibly Tumblr society is right and it’s done for a good, decent purpose and I’m being pigheaded and uncool by insisting on doing things my way without bothering to try and understand the local customs. I’m not usually that much of an asshole, but I am about this, for some reason. And I admit that my craving for those personal touches could very well spring from how utterly isolated and lonely I am, so maybe normal people really don’t need all the extra info and actually do just want mostly-impersonal streams of content. And that’s fine, since I know I’m kind of a weirdo even on my best days.

I’m pretty sure that that was all that I really wanted to say. I’m probably overreacting about the whole comments-in-tags thing. Like I said, it’s kind of an irrational irritation. Also, I need to stop before I write myself sober and no longer have an excuse for all of this. If you actually read all of that, you are an awesome, generous person and I’m pretty damn certain that I love you even though I have no idea who you are.