#thank god i begged my parents to get medals and the watch | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

idkthisisjustforfanfic · 4 years ago

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that makes four.

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PART 2

The first days of Harry staying at your house were overshadowed by Maeve’s 5th grade spelling bee victory. The fake gold medal was a mainstay around her neck for a new nights at the dinner table until she eventually forgot about it.

Luckily enough, neither of your daughters seemed to be thrown too off kilter by his presence. Maeve was just young enough to not know much about who Harry was or the band he’d been in--though she was ready and willing to brag about having a celebrity around.

CeCe--in true sibling rivalry fashion--decided to draw her own medal with crayons and ask you to cut it out so she could wear it around the house. If Maeve gets one, so do I.

With potholders on and the oven door open, you apologized. “I can’t right now, honey--give mommy a few minutes and I’ll help you.”

Harry materialized at the bottom of the stairs, eyebrows raised when he said: “What do you need, CeCe?”

“I have to cut this out!” She said excitedly, running over to the drawer where the scissors were kept. She whipped them out and turned around quickly, Harry’s eyes bulging out of his head when he hurried over to grab them from her.

“I’ll cut, you watch,” he laughed, exchanging a look with you when CeCe climbed up to sit at the island. She hummed in agreement, handed over the paper and watched as he lined it up to start snipping.

“CeCe,” he said her name inquisitively. “Is CeCe short for anything?”

“Cecilia Rose L/N,” she smiled. “Pretty, right?”

“Very pretty,” he smiled. “Same last name as your mum.”

The last part of his sentence was a statement, a quick glance in your direction when you turned off the oven and shouted towards the stairs. “Maeve! Dinner’s ready!”

Your call went unanswered into the big house--you had no clue where she was or if she’d heard you. When Harry finished cutting out the paper medal, he handed it to CeCe who beamed with pride and put it around her neck.

Hands on your hips, “CeCe, will you please find your sister and tell her dinner is ready?”

She took one big breath and then screamed, “MAEVE!”

Both you and Harry flinched at the noise but laughed. She held onto Harry’s arm when she hopped down from the stool, shaking her head in disappointment. “Good god that girl,” she huffed, heading to climb the stairs when she yelled again: Maeve!!!! Dinner!!!!

“She’s a handful tonight,” you said, almost feeling guilty as her footsteps stomped on the floor overhead. “Thank you for that, though,” you said, motioning to the scissors in his hand. “Want a glass of wine?”

“S’not against the rules?” He teased.

When you shot him a look, he smirked and let out a laugh. “I’ll gladly take one. It’s fine, though. She was ready to stab someone flinging the scissors around like that.”

“They just had scissor safety in art class not too long ago.” You told him, pulling the cork from an already open bottle of red. “Sometimes I think she barely listens to anyone--she just does her own thing.”

“Not the worst way to be,” he smiled, picked up the glass when you slid it over on the granite. An awkward beat when he took a sip, smiled in your direction when you did the same. You could hear Maeve and CeCe fighting upstairs, offered him another guilty smile, but then he asked: “do you plan on changing your name?”

“My last name?”

“Yeah--L/N is your married name, right?”

It felt a bit nosy, a bit intrusive for the fourth night he was sleeping under your roof. You shrugged your shoulders casually, unsure how to answer. “Just haven’t gotten to it.”

He’d been quiet so far, out most of the day once the girls were gone for school and he’d return before dinner. Kept to himself--or at least out of the way--and was always helpful when he could be. Bringing groceries in? He carried a few. Needed a hand with clearing plates after dinner? He would gladly help.

Maeve and CeCe came rushing downstairs and were more willing to do the gratitude thing than they usually were, forks in hand when Maeve turned to you. “Oh, by the way, Auntie Shelli is taking us out for dinner tomorrow night.”

“She is?” You smiled at Maeve. “I haven’t heard about that.”

“She promised last week, she said Friday.”

“Okay, well I can check with her.”

“Are you doing anything tomorrow night?” Maeve asked.

“Not a thing,” you said, shaking your head. You’d been looking forward to it all week--maybe a bath and a glass of wine, maybe even a movie if you were feeling adventurous. Zoey was typically after you to do something: dinner, come hold Benny for an hour while she took a shower. You were totally up for helping a friend, but it’d been a minute since you had some me-time and if Jeff’s mom had already offered to babysit, you weren’t going to say no.

CeCe turned to Harry excitedly. “What are you doing tomorrow night? Are you coming to dinner?”

He smiled in her direction but shook his head. “I’m actually going over to a friend’s house.”

“What friend?”

“CeCe,” you laughed, embarrassed by her prying. “He doesn’t have to run everything by you, you know.”

“I know,” she said simply as she shrugged her shoulders innocently. “Just thought maybe it was one of my friends. I don’t know if we have the same friends.”

Harry laughed at this and smiled when you rolled your eyes. “I don’t think you know her.”

You watched Harry for a second, wondered if it was a girlfriend or something of the sort--Jeff hadn’t mentioned anything like that. Why couldn’t he stay there, with that friend?

“Well you should come with us and Auntie Shelli one day,” Maeve said. “We usually get ice cream and she lets us get a bunch of toppings and she doesn’t even care if we’ve had dinner yet.”

You let out a short laugh, the details of their time with family members always slipped out when you least expected it. “He’s busy, girls, remember?”

Harry shrugged, “we could get ice cream soon.”

You looked up at him, forked into a bite of dinner and said quietly: you don’t have to.

He didn’t--Harry didn’t owe you or your daughters anything except common decency and kindness. Helping you clean up after dinner or bring in the groceries was enough of a repayment for a guest room and his own bathroom.

“Maybe next week?” He ignored your comment and smiled at the girls.

“Next week!” CeCe chirped back, brushing her hair out of her face with a grin.

You figured they’d forget--swept up by the excitement of something else by the time next week rolled around and Harry would be off the hook. You smiled in his direction, apologetically and pleading, but it wasn’t until the next night that you realized he was serious.

Jeff’s mom had picked Maeve and CeCe up, you had just poured a glass of wine and went to sit in your office to go over any unread emails when he knocked on the door.

“Hey,” he offered a smile, leaned against the wall and put his hands in his pockets.

“Hi,” you turned to see him, unsure what he wanted or why he was popping in. “What’s up?”

“Uh, just wanted to let you know that my plans fell through--so, I’m just gonna be home--here I mean.”

His correction was quick, a subtle misstep through words.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, nodded slowly as you took in the information. He’d be here--in your house and just hanging out. While you had planned for a quiet night, having one other person somewhere in the house wouldn’t kill you, right? Maybe he’d lock himself away in his room and leave you to your emails, then you’d slip upstairs and end the night with a bath before your children returned with a sugar high and stories for days.

“Okay,” you said. A pause when he nodded, looked at you and then down to the floor.

“Do you want to have a drink?”

“I’ve got one,” you lifted your glass and then faltered. “Oh, together--sure, yeah.”

He held back a laugh, motioned for you to lead the way once you stood up from your desk. He trailed you back through the living room and into the kitchen, got himself a wine glass when you found the bottle you’d already started on the counter.

Was this weird? You couldn’t tell. The house was quiet and for a moment it felt like neither of you knew what to say when the only sound was the cork coming out of the bottle.

“I can venmo you for groceries, too, since m’drinking your wine.” He lifted it and poured, you watched the liquid rise in the glass until he looked up at you, waiting for a reply.

“No, it’s fine.”

“M’eating your food, drinking your wine, sleeping in your house,” he let out a laugh but put the stopper back in. “I feel like I could at least pay you back for some--” he looked down at the bottle and studied the label, “cabernet.”

You pulled out a barstool and sat, a sigh when you waved him off. “S’fine--I’m still making my way through the sorry your dad died and sorry your husband left you bottles.”

His lips pulled up at the side when yours did too. “Where do they make those grapes?”

“Somewhere far away from here,” you nodded, a long sip from your own glass when he moved to sit beside you.

“So how much did Jeff have to beg you to let me stay here?”

You looked over at him, hesitant to admit your own reluctance. You knew he and Jeff were close--you’d long been hearing stories about their nights out or big wins as a team. You’d even been invited to the release party for Harry’s first solo album, but you couldn’t find a babysitter and back then your ex couldn’t be bothered.

“I got a few pleading text messages after he first brought it up,” you smiled.

He laughed and nodded. “Well, it’s a big help. My house is over in Malibu but s’not ready yet--the only guestroom in Jeff’s house shares a wall with the master and something about that felt...weird.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You didn’t want to hear Jeff and random women hooking up?”

“Not in the slightest,” he shook his head and bit back a smile. “Figured I’d stay with his parents for a bit but then Irv and Shelli told me they loved me but their rules are strict: their children, grandchildren, and your children. Those are their only guests.”

You nodded, it wasn’t news to you. “One time my dad stayed over after a party and Irv almost hit him with a golf club in the morning because he’d forgotten who was on the couch.”

“Yeah, so, sounds like a good idea that I’m here.” Quiet again when he moved the glass around, then he said: “you know, I would be happy to take them to ice cream or something one night--give you a minute to yourself.”

You smiled, the offer was sweet and apparently he had no idea that he’d just ruined your one chance this week to have that. “You really don’t have to--I’m sorry that they’re so...fascinated by you.”

“No, they’re great, very sweet. Maybe I can tag along when Jeff watches them next and learn the ropes.”

You nodded, reassured by his understanding that watching them would take skill. “There’s a lot to learn, they can be quite the handful sometimes.”

“Yeah?” he tilted his head. “Tell me more about them.”

The way he looked at you stirred a feeling in your chest that you couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was just the fact that he seemed interested enough to ask about them, he already seemed more invested than their father had been over the last year. You also would never turn down an opportunity to humble-brag about the tiny humans you'd created.

“Well, Maeve is pretty straight-edge. She’s always cared a lot about school and she likes it--which is weird, cause she didn’t get that from me and she definitely didn’t get it from my ex-husband. Like, she actually gets excited to come home and do her homework.”

He laughed, sipped from his glass and said: “Right, I’m sure she didn’t get her drive and determination from her mother who started her own successful business.”

You brushed off the compliment with a roll of your eyes and a laugh. “The weird preteen-angst thing is new, though. I have no idea if that’s because of losing my dad or losing hers,” you picked at a thread on your sleeve.

He was quiet for a moment, like he didn’t know what to say to that.

“And CeCe,” you saved him the trouble, “she’s a fireball. She is so strong-willed it actually makes me nervous about when she’s a teenager. She might actually drive to Vegas and get married or something. It’s just her world and we’re living in it.”

His dimples appeared on his cheeks when you shrugged. “Well, you’ve clearly done something right with them. Jeff's always loved being an uncle."

“I appreciate that,” you said honestly, a pause before you admitted: “My ex was never that hands on.”

“Right,” he nodded. “Is that why things ended?”

You let out a short laugh, again unsure if you were sharing too much. Would you wake up and regret the fact that you'd poured a glass of wine, and apparently your deepest secrets, all out on display?

“That, along with the fact that he was cheating on me for a good 18 months, I think.”

“Wow,” he nodded slowly, his lips pushed out in thought when he dropped your gaze. “What a dick.”

“Yeah, better I found out now than later on, I guess.”

“So that and losing your dad this year--”

“Yeah it’s been shitty,” you cut him off, another sip of your wine to avoid having to say more. He looked at your glass, now nearing empty, and reached for the bottle.

“Then you definitely deserve another one of these,” he laughed, fingers pulling the cork out again. “No wonder you got so many sympathy wine bottles.”

He poured himself another too, eventually he followed you into your dad’s old office when he asked what hid behind the mystery door on the first floor.

It was the only room you hadn’t redone yet, something about keeping his records on the book shelves and his papers on the desk felt like it kept him here. He’d chosen the green for the walls and you apologized when Harry’s eyebrows shot up at the sight.

“Great man,” you nodded, turning on a light switch, “terrible decorating taste.”

Harry nodded slowly, wine glass still in hand and a smirk fighting it’s way onto his face. “S’a bright color, yeah.”

He let out a laugh when he made eye contact with you, a disapproving look on your face when you walked over to the desk. “All these strewn about--probably some important information about you over here somewhere.”

He came over and lifted a paper. “Harry Styles is one of the most thoughtful, caring, and funny people I know.”

“Really?” You tugged at his arm to get a better view of the paper. Your dad’s handwriting was almost illegible, a date scribbled on top and another few words halfway down the small notebook page, nothing about Harry and nothing that seemed all that important.

“I hope that’s what he thought of me,” Harry smiled, his eyes flickered to where you still had a grip around his wrist. “Your nails are digging into me.”

“Sorry,” you pulled back immediately. “Sometimes I have to grab CeCe like that in the store or she runs off.”

He kept your gaze for a second, but it felt uncomfortable and made you nervous, so you cleared your throat. “Feel free to come in here and use this stuff,” you motioned over to the piano and the guitars he had in stands. “No one uses it, so--it’d be good for it to get played.”

“You don’t play anything?”

You shook your head. “No--he’d started to teach me guitar when I was young but then my mom died, just never picked it up again.”

You were thirteen when it happened, a car accident on the 405 and you didn’t go to school for weeks. Your dad had always been your main support--they divorced when you were ten--but after that you grew even closer, which is why losing him was so hard. He’d been a friend and a parent and the best grandfather who helped pick up the pieces when things with Luke started to crumble.

Harry was quiet, a simple nod when he went over to the piano and sat. You felt the need to shift the topic of conversation to something less depressing than the unfortunate events of your life.

“Are you writing a lot for the album still?”

“Yeah--we’ve got a few things written that might end up on it, but, mostly just experimenting with some new sounds.”

He pressed a chord down on the piano and looked up at you. “How do Maeve and CeCe seem to be handling it all?”

“Which part?”

“Both.”

You shrugged. “They’ve asked a lot about where their father is and why he hasn’t visited. And they understand that their grandpa is gone, but they’re sad, I think. CeCe’s had more nightmares than usual.”

He smiled a little. “And how are you doing with all of it?”

You let out a tiny laugh, mostly out of discomfort with the sudden seriousness in his voice and the way he already pulled more out of you than you’d planned. “I’m fine.”

He lifted his brows but played another progression of chords. “Wouldn’t blame you if you’re not.”

You took a sip of the cabernet and watched as he hummed along to whatever he played. When he looked up at you and waited for a reply, you smiled. “Some days I want to pull my hair out and others I need a good glass of wine. I kind of oscillate between those two lately.”

“Well, I’m always happy to split a bottle with you.”

You nodded, tried to fight the smile on your face when he laughed but then gave in. “Good.”

You woke up the next morning with a bit of a headache from the third and unexpected glass of wine. The girls were home by 9pm and unfortunately for you, the weekend was busy with play dates and birthday parties and grocery shopping.

Monday had you back in the office and recounting the first week to Tristan over an iced latte and a breakfast sandwich you’d grabbed after school drop off. Now it was cold and you were approaching the mid-day slump you were all too familiar with.

“I just can’t believe you’re alive still, to be honest. You know--seeing as you thought he’d be a serial killer or something.”

You looked over at him with narrowed eyes. “I didn’t think he was a serial killer.”

“Just a pedophile?”

“Alright,” you waved him off. “I can admit that it’s been fine--good, even. It’s only been a week, though.”

“Right,” he shrugged. “Halfway there. Maybe week two is when he goes crazy.”

You ignored the teasing from your friend and looked back to your computer. “Do you know if Kailee ordered the new bottles for the matcha face mask?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” he nodded. “And we also got the labels in for them as well. They ship off to the packaging plant on Tuesday.”

“Good, and numbers are up from last quarter which is really good. The meeting with the investors should go well.”

“Yeah, I mean, our entire profit has doubled since this time last year,” he smiled in your direction, a subtle reminder that the late night emails on top of the worst year ever had already proven to be worth it. “You should be very proud.”

“I am,” you admitted. “Of us. All of us.”

“Yes, what kind of boss would you be if you took all of the credit?” He teased.

“A bad one, but I’m also the type of boss that leaves at lunch time to go home and change since I have a meeting this afternoon that I forgot all about.”

He looked you up and down when you stood.

“It’s with people from Anthropologie about carrying some of our products in store--so I don’t think I can wear athleisure.”

He laughed and kept typing. “Fair enough. See you at 2pm, though, for the website meeting?”

“Yes,” you promised as you grabbed your keys. “Please don’t let the place burn down while I’m gone.”

“Might throw the match myself,” he waved you off, a laugh at his own joke when you headed for the elevator.

You were proud of the company you’d built and the office you’d been able to purchase two years back, but you were more proud of the energy that buzzed through the halls and the people who made work feel less like work and more like the adventure of a lifetime. You tried to be the cool boss who brought enough coffee for everyone, gave good time off but still expected hard work and drive to be the core of the business.

It took a while to settle into the role, though. At first you were sure you’d be seen as a spoiled rich kid who got a loan from her father to start a company--but it only took one year to repay him when you started getting placements in health food markets across LA. When Kourtney Kardashian posted something about your raspberry toner, the rest was history.

You’d always been passionate about making people feel good about themselves and focused your entire brand on building people up, not tearing them down. The world had enough of that as a mother of two daughters, you hoped it’d be something that would change that narrative, at least for them.

The drive home was quick and the sun was shining, which put a pep in your step as you hopped out of the car in the driveway and headed for the side door.

Harry’s car was still here--you’d left earlier than usual but didn’t expect him to be home. If anything, you figured he’d left shortly after you and planned on staying late in the studio. Jeff had mentioned something about laying down new tracks.

“Hello?” You called into the kitchen and looked around, he wasn’t in the living room or out by the pool. You found a laundry basket at the top of the second floor and figured that maybe someone had picked him up, but the sound of muffled singing pulled you down the hall and closer to his guest room.

The door was cracked only a bit, the sun streamed in from the windows and you could hear the running water of the shower. It was wrong, maybe, but you pushed the door open and stepped inside, smiled to yourself at the fact that he was singing a Carole King song that your dad used to play on repeat when you were a kid.

The room was clean--you hadn’t been in it since you’d pointed out the linen closet in the bathroom and showed him how to use the TV remote. His bed was made--maybe not the way you would have made it but the throw pillows were arranged in a way that showed he tried.

A buzzing on the dresser pulled your attention away from the bed. His phone, a message from someone named Bria Whitmore. Another message, then a third. You took a step closer--who on earth was texting him this much without a reply? A girlfriend? Someone he probably slept with or something of the sort.

“Hi,” his voice pulled your head around quickly and sent your heartbeat through the roof.

“Jesus, hi--sorry--I was just--”

He was in a towel, the fabric wrapped loosely around his waist and hair was slicked back from the water. You looked away from the tattoos that littered his skin and looked down at the laundry basket.

“I was just seeing if you had any laundry you needed me to do?”

It was clean, but he didn’t need to know that.

“M’good,” he smiled like he didn’t believe you. “Why are you home?”

“Had to change--forgot about a meeting,” you let out a laugh and tried to slow your pulse. “Figured the pilates mom look wasn’t the right vibe.”

He nodded, moved around you in the center of the room to pull out a t-shirt from a drawer. You saw him look down at the cell phone you’d been eyeing.

“Your phone went off,” you admitted, the laundry basket still pressed up against your hip.

“Yeah?” He smirked over his shoulder.

“I was just making sure it wasn’t an emergency--I wasn’t, like, snooping.”

A dimple appeared on his left cheek again, he tugged the fabric over his head and then shook out his hair.

“S’not an emergency,” he said. “Just a friend.”

You didn’t know if that was code. Were twenty-somethings calling their booty-calls friends now? You figured you’d ask Tristan later.

“Why are you home?” You tossed the question back at him.

“Schedule changed--went for a run after breakfast and now just, showering, y’know,” he looked down at the towel that separated you from an even more awkward moment.

“Right, sorry, I...am leaving,” you pointed to the door. “Changing, back to the office, home tonight.”

“Sounds good,” he smiled. “Figured I could make dinner, if you wanted. I make a mean chicken taco.”

You took a few steps backwards to the door. “You cook?”

“I do,” he smiled. “Hard to believe?”

“No,” you shook your head. “That would be great--if you want, but you don’t have to.”

“I’d love to,” he nodded. “I’ll see you tonight, Y/N.”

“With more clothes,” you smiled, immediately regretting the bad joke and the attention it drew to the stuffy air and the butterflies in your stomach.

“Definitely more clothes.”

You made a face at yourself once the door was shut, idiot. At least you hadn’t accidentally seen a picture of someone’s boobs. You were sure he got plenty of those.

You pushed the thought out of your head and thankfully Harry didn’t smirk at you too much when Jeff came to pick up the girls for ice cream the next afternoon. They hadn’t forgotten, but luckily Jeff had offered to take them out one night and it seemed like the perfect opportunity for Harry to tag along. That way he could stay true to his word and the girls would stop pestering him every time he popped down to the kitchen.

Zoey had been begging to bring the baby over to get out of the house, and now she was sitting in the other room with Benny on a play mat on the floor. Maeve, CeCe, Jeff and Harry stood in a line, eagerly awaiting the green light to pile into Jeff’s car.

“Okay, so Uncle Jeff can text me if you need anything, see you around 7pm?”

“Yes ma’am,” Jeff said, a salute in your direction that pulled a giggle from both of your daughters.

They’d been fighting more lately, CeCe tried to take the medal from Maeve’s room one night over the weekend and suddenly it was like world war three. You were shocked that they’d gotten it together enough to spend some time in each other's presence, even with Uncle Jeff chaperoning, but you were eager for the quiet and hopeful the screaming matches wouldn’t return once the ice cream and dinner date was finished.

“Love you, be nice to each other, okay?” You leaned down and used both hands to hold CeCe’s head in place when you planted a kiss on her forehead, then Maeve. A hug for Jeff, “only one ice cream cone this time.”

He laughed but obliged, you moved down the line to Harry, an awkward nod in his direction when you realized that whatever type of acquaintanceship had slowly started to bloom between the two of you was hardly grounds for a kiss on the forehead or even a hug.

He apparently sensed this too, a playful smile on his face when he lifted his brows. “No farewell for me?”

Jeff let out a quick laugh but Maeve and CeCe took off for the car, racing to see who could get out the front door fastest. “Alright, don’t kill each other,” you reminded again, waved them all off with an embarrassed smirk and then watched as Harry helped CeCe buckle into her booster seat.

“So,” Zoey appeared beside you, Benny in her arms as she looked out the window. “Seems like things are going well.”

“Yeah,” you shrugged casually. “He’s been nice.”

“He seems friendly,” she wiggled her brows when she met your gaze. “Flirty friendly.”

“Just friendly,” you laughed and headed for the kitchen to pour yourself a drink. It might have only been Tuesday, but the week promised to be a busy one. You wiped up a runaway drip of wine on the rim, fully aware the words about to leave your mouth would push Zoey into gear. “But I did see him shirtless yesterday.”

“That sounds amazing,” she shifted Benny in her arms, eagerness in her voice. “How was it?”

“I mean--he also caught me snooping in his room, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

You tried to downplay it. “I came home from work in the middle of the day to change and I heard him in the shower--which is weird cause I didn’t think he’d be home.”

“So you went in there?”

“Not the bathroom--I just peeked into his room and noticed it was really clean. Which is weird, right? He’s a kid!”

“He’s not a kid,” she rolled her eyes at you. “Your kids are kids. He’s twenty-four. I looked it up.”

Your eyes were wide when you turned to head for the couch. “You looked it up?”

“I was curious! He’s a celebrity living in your house and he’s very attractive and you have been harping on his age.”

“Because it felt weird at first.”

“And it doesn’t now?” Her tone was hopeful when she laid Benny back on his play mat and kneeled beside him.

You took a gulp from your wine glass. “Less weird, but only because he’s mature. He’s helpful around the house--he cooked dinner the other night--and he’s good with the girls.”

The corner of her mouth pulled towards the ceiling, arched eyebrows when she clarified. “He’s good with the girls?”

“He’s just nice to them--I was worried that they’d annoy him. I mean, I doubt that he was excited to hear that two of his roommates were six and ten.”

“Okay--but why did you see him shirtless?”

Right--she’d gotten you off track. “Because...I went in his room and then saw his phone buzzing and then he came out and caught me looking at his phone.”

“You were looking through his phone?!”

“No! Not the actual texts, just to see who was blowing it up. I only looked at the lock screen.”

“Was he annoyed?”

“No,” you shrugged, shame laced through your voice. “He was casual. But then he put his shirt on and I left him alone and went back to work.”

“So there’s sexual tension,” she shimmied her shoulders and pulled a laugh from you, she nuzzled down into Benny’s face but then gave him a pacifier.

“No.”

This brought her gaze back to you, more serious now. “Y/N, you are not a creep if you admit that you find him attractive.”

“I can admit that he’s handsome,” you chose a new word that felt more detached. “But who cares? He’s literally just a house guest. A friend of a friend.”

“Right, but he was just flirting with you like there’s no tomorrow.”

“No he wasn’t,” you denied her accusation. When she stared at you expectantly, you took a loud sip and let the obnoxious noise ring through the now empty house as if it would preclude you from saying any more.

“You truly, seriously, one-hundred percent haven’t noticed any type of flirting?”

You averted your eyes for a second, ready to dismiss her question and tell her she was crazy. There was nothing going on between the two of you.

But then you thought on it, thought about the way he asked about Maeve and CeCe and remembered the way your stomach seemed to twist itself in knots when he smirked at you and when the dimples appeared on his cheeks.

“The look on your face is enough of an answer,” Zoey teased, bouncing side to side when Benny made a noise. “Isn’t that right, Benny Boo? Someone has a crush.”

“There’s no crush here--he’s just,” a shrug of your shoulders when you didn’t know what words to use. You didn’t want to add fuel to her fire and you certainly didn’t want to give her any more of a reason to keep bringing this topic up.

“Dreamy? Beautiful? The perfect rebound post-divorce?”

A flutter of your eyelids in annoyance when you stood to head for the kitchen. “No,” you said, making a face in her direction. “He’s just cute.”

“So cute!” She followed behind and egged you on. “A crush is perfectly harmless, a little bedtime rendezvous is totally not a big deal.”

“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves, here, okay?”

“Oh come on,” she laughed. “You mean to tell me you haven’t already thought about if he’s good in bed?”

She came to sit next to you at the island, folding her legs beneath her. When you sipped at your wine and tried to hide a smirk, her face lit up. “I knew it, I knew it! I don’t blame you, at all, by the way. He’s gorgeous.”

“I’m just horny, number one,” you admitted, leaning forward to rest your elbow on the granite counter. “And seeing a man actually be good with kids is a breath of fresh air.”

“Yeah, Luke didn’t set the bar high with that one.”

“Absolutely not.”

A pause of silence when evening air blew through the open doors to the patio. There was music audible through the trees, wafting in from the backyard of your neighbors.

“I think you should fuck him.”

“What?!” You turned towards her quickly, your voice quieter when she smirked and looked over at you. “Are you out of your mind?”

“You have a ridiculously attractive man living in your house and he hangs out with your kids and now he’s starting to cook? It’s like a lifetime movie waiting to happen.”

“That doesn’t mean I should have sex with him!”

“Do you want to have sex with him?”

You were quiet for a second, kept her gaze but then rolled your eyes and shook your head. “I’ve had a bad year,” you made an excuse for the pulsing in your veins whenever you were alone with him. Nothing more, nothing less.

“When does he leave again?”

“I don’t know--at the end of the week, I guess. It’s not happening, so don’t get any ideas.”

“Alright,” she seemed to relent, “You do you. I just think you deserve a little feel good time.”

“That sounds gross,” you wrinkled your nose, pulling a laugh out of her.

She was able to change the topic, told you all about the way Benny was getting better at lifting his own head and he was screaming a lot less when she put him down for some tummy time. Your phone dinged, though, signalling a new text just when you were about to pull out leftovers and heat them up.

She watched when you opened it, got excited when you smirked at the screen.

“Who is it?”

You almost didn’t want to show her, but you knew she’d pry it out of your hands with force if you didn’t share. You flipped it around, watched as a smile spread across her face.

A picture of Harry and CeCe, both with sunglasses on as they ate their ice cream. Maeve and Jeff were in the background, the line at the ice cream shop down the street wasn’t too long. You were kind of surprised he was willing to go with them, wouldn't it create a buzz in the headlines?

Zoey gave you a knowing look.

“It’s just sweet.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know,” you smiled a little at first, but the happiness faded from your face when you pulled yourself back to reality. “I feel stupid thinking that he’s flirting with me. He could be with a supermodel if he wanted to. One with perky boobs and who’s, like, twenty. Not someone who’s old enough to be his mom.”

“You are seven years older than him,” she made a disgusted face. “You could have been, like, his babysitter, not his mom.”

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better.”

“You’re being stupid about this!”

You paused with tupperware in your hands, turned around slowly. “I am not being dumb about not having casual sex with the popstar boyband kid living under my roof. I think not having sex with him is objectively the responsible thing to do here.”

“Why do you always have to be so responsible, though? You have been doing that forever, okay? You’re the business owner mom who’s always been incredibly family-oriented.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not in the slightest! But you’re more than just a mom.”

You bit at your cheek and dropped her gaze, put the tupperware down from exhaustion. “I just want my children to have a normal life. I only had one parent and I thought they were going to have two and now that ship has sailed.”

She nodded sympathetically. “But that doesn’t mean you did anything wrong! You never relaxing and having a good time will only teach them bad work-life balance.”

You rolled your eyes at her comment, tried to fight the smile when she waited for you to fold. “I love you,” she said. “I want you to get laid or have a drink or let your hair down once in a while.”

You held up the wine in her face. “Already halfway there.”

She reached for the bottle of wine and shoved it towards you with skeptical eyes. “Try harder.”

You let out a laugh and took another sip once it was refilled, pushed plates into the microwave and sat there with her until Jeff’s car pulled back into the driveway and the girls came tumbling back into the house.

“Mom, Harry said he could teach me how to play guitar,” Maeve grinned up at you, an affectionate hug caught you by surprise, but so did her words.

“He did, did he?” You eyed Harry as he walked in with Jeff by his side, sunglasses still on his face despite the sun lingering just above the horizon.

“We’ll start a band,” Harry nodded in her direction, kept his eyes shielded as CeCe ran into the backyard with a noise of excitement.

“And Uncle Jeff said he’ll sing.”

“You’ll definitely get far, then,” you teased, pulling an offended look from your childhood friend. “He’s obviously the best singer in the house.”

Harry nodded in playful agreement. “Could put me out of a job any day.”

“Maeve!” CeCe called suddenly, pulling everyone’s attention to the backyard. “Come play squishball!”

Harry looked down at Maeve and she looked up at him, you were unaware of whatever unspoken communication was transpiring between them. “Should we?” He asked.

“Definitely,” she giggled, hands on her hips.

Zoey was also confused, but she watched as Maeve and Harry headed for the patio. Harry finally took his sunglasses off, handed them to your older daughter before he spoke. “CeCe, we need to have a meeting.”

“A meeting?” She asked, she groaned in disappointment but walked back towards the house, bat dragging on the grass behind her. Jeff laughed and folded his arms over his chest, unaware of whatever deal had already been struck between them.

“You two are both really great at squishball,” Harry admitted, his voice suddenly more serious than before. “But I think we need to up the stakes.”

“Up the stakes?” You could tell by the look on CeCe’s face that she had no clue what that meant.

“Winner of this game gets the medal I won from the spelling bee,” Maeve explained.

You were about to protest, head outside and discourage any type of betting or gambling or whatever the backyard made up game was leading towards, but Harry went on to explain the rules. “CeCe gets a head start running bases, just because of her tiny legs.”

Maeve nodded, “and she gets a free home run to start off.”

CeCe smiled wide and put her hands on her hips, pulling a laugh from Harry as she copied her older sister. “I like the sound of that,” she said. A sure-fire way to make her win, you realized. But what was in that for Maeve? How had your previously grumpy pre-teen become a team player in a matter of hours?

It wasn’t long before Zoey gathered up her things and put Benny in the backseat, giggling and excited yells floated in from the backyard when you hugged her goodbye. Jeff stayed past sunset and offered an excited high five when CeCe won, completely unaware at how easy they’d made it for her.

But he soon left, too, you climbed the stairs behind your two little athletes, got them washed up and in bed before it was 9pm--not bad for a weeknight. You were sure Harry would have retreated to his room, too, but he was sat by the fire pit on the patio, a near empty glass of wine in his hand when you came back out.

“Care to explain?” you leaned against the doorframe and smiled. He adjusted in his seat but shrugged his shoulders when you admitted: “I never thought I would hear the end of it with that stupid medal.”

There was a confident look on his face when he met your eyes in the glow of the fire pit. “Figured I can teach her a few chords on guitar and that would take her mind off of taunting CeCe.”

It was smart, you nodded slowly and watched him. Give Maeve something that would get her really excited, but only if she’d give up something else. Bargaining--a classic parenting trick. You eyed Harry with a level of skepticism.

“How are you so good with them?”

He smiled at that, apparently flattered by the compliment. “They’re good kids,” he said simply.

“I’m aware,” you laughed, “but you don’t have to spend so much time with them.”

“I like it,” he shrugged. “It’s kind of nice to be around a family, you know?”

The words pulled emotion to your chest. Did you really look like a family to him? No husband, no grandfather, two irreplaceable roles and now you were trying to fill all of them just to keep your kids afloat.

“And besides,” he stood from his chair and grabbed the now empty glass before he came closer to you. “Something about being here just feels right.”

You looked up at him, felt the same rush of heat to your cheeks but hoped you were safe in the cover of night. He smirked, like he knew what he was doing to you but was too much of a gentleman to call you out. Hesitation when you felt some type of magnetic force between you, the distance simultaneously felt like inches and miles.

You smiled softly, embarrassed by the way your pulse picked up and the thoughts that flew through your head. What would happen if I, does he ever think about, am I crazy if I want to?

He brushed past you and walked to the sink, placing the wine glass down quietly before he turned to face you once more. “Is it as bad as you thought?”

Confusion, you wiped your sweaty palms on your pants. “Sorry?”

“Having me here,” he motioned around, the dimple on his left cheek was visible even in the dim light. You rolled your eyes, dropped his gaze for a second when he let out a quiet laugh. “I hope that it’s only as miserable as you thought--m’just aiming for not worse than expected at this point.”

You turned to face him and put your hands on the granite, thankful for the fact that the island was now between you, the ticking of a clock on the wall kept time when you tried to piece your words together carefully.

Was he flirting with you? A similar to question to that he'd asked only a few nights earlier, this time with more of a smirk on his face and a lilt in his voice that made sent a shiver down your spine.

“It’s better,” you admitted with a nod and a teasing smile. “But don’t tell Jeff that.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, held your gaze and then nodded. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

There was silence for a second, you almost offered to pour him another glass of wine but then he said: “Only a few more days, though.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, the fantasy shattered on the floor between you. “How’s the house coming?”

He winced, a quiet laugh when he shook his head. “Everything’s been pushed out a few weeks, actually. But--it’s fine, I’m probably just going to stay with a friend or something, you know, don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

You brought your lips into a thin line, unsure if what you were about to offer was appropriate or weird or just plain awkward.

“Oh...well, I mean, if you want to stay here longer, you can.”

His mouth pulled up on the side, he brought his gaze back to you and shifted his weight on his feet. “Yeah? You don’t mind?”

You shrugged, again hoping to play it cool or not come off too eager. “If that would be helpful,” you trailed off.

“Yeah, very helpful.”

“Cool.”

“Cool,” he nodded, pulling another smirk from you.

A few more weeks, tops.

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pixiedst · 4 years ago

Text

Dance With Me 02 // KYG

Request from @lost-midnight-flower

Hiii can I request a got7 fic? Maybe something along the lines of meeting the guys at a fan meeting or something and one of them falling head over heals with the reader? That seems pretty cute to me, is that weird? If you choose to write this, you can pick which member you want to write about ^^ have a great day/evening ahead!

Genre: Fluff Pairing: Reader x Yugyeom Rating: PG-13 Warnings: None Description: Dance studio owner Y/N meets Yugyeom at a fan sign. Word Count: 3,694

Index // Part One // Part Three // Part Four

”I’m gonna be honest, I enjoyed the bunny ears,” Yugyeom says and takes her copy of the album to sign.

“Hilarious,” Y/N says. “Turn to the next page.”

He does as he’s told and finds a beige envelope with a glittery, red heart sticker sealing it. He lifts it and scoffs. “How radiant.”

“If you don’t want it, I’ll-“, but before her fingers can reach it, he pulls away.

“No way! I wanna know more about you! I am not losing this chance.”

Y/N tries to keep a straight face, but she can tell from Yugyeom’s laugh that her cheeks are red enough to betray her. He’s different today. Bolder. She looks at the fans next to her. Can they hear them? They seem busy enough with their conversations.

She likes this, though. It’s a different side to him. Before she can say anything else, the staff orders her to move. As she gathers her things, she glances back at Yugyeom one last time to flash a smile.

He winks.

Dear Yugyeom,

Here is the letter you asked for.

Yours, Y/N

Yugyeom stifles a laugh and reads further.

Okay, I’m kidding. I’m writing this after watching your beautifully entitled V-Live “OLOLOLO”. Mark noticed my comment and asked for me: what have you been up to lately? It inspired me to write this.

Do you wanna know why I started dancing? I watched Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses as a kid. I wanted to travel to a secret land where I could dance with magical statues to classical music by instruments that played themselves. Needless to say, when I found out none of that was real, I was devastated.

But what kept most of that fantasy a reality was the dancing. My parents understood how much I wanted to be a dancer and enrolled me in ballet class. I was horrible, hated it immensely, and my dream of becoming a princess withered.

Years passed, and they let me enroll in a hip hop dance class, and that’s where I found my rhythm. My body was comfortable with the music, and I was satisfied with the setting. I knew I wanted to be a professional dancer.

But my parents’ understanding ended there. It thrilled them to have a daughter who could dance, but they felt that choosing it as a career was impractical. After years of begging, proving my worth through recitals and gold medals, they never changed their minds.

I graduated with a business degree. They wanted me to start a business, so I did. I started my studio. They tried to get angry, but they knew they had no reason to be. I did what they wanted me to do, and with the skills I learned, I added my own twist. I never broke a rule.

Until now, they’re unhappy with my decision, but they’re less angry. I think that’s all right. I still meet with them every few weeks because I love them despite the sacrifices they forced me to make. But looking back, it’s safe to say they were good for me. With my level of skill before university, I wouldn’t have been able to get into any of the performing arts schools. I only joined the dance team in my school and used that experience to start my studio. Not a bad deal.

You might be wondering why I’m telling you all this. That V-Live struck a chord in me. Bambam said to not be ashamed, so here I am, shamelessly presenting my life story to you.

Here’s my social media if you want to see me dance. This is a huge step for me, but I think this is a good way for me to let go of doubts and embrace the unknown instead.

Instagram: @dancingseoul

YouTube: Dancing Seoul Studio

Thank you again for inspiring me to be where I am now. You’re the best.

Yours, Y/N

Yugyeom’s mind races. He’s only met this person three times, but despite the brief interactions, she trusted him enough with this personal story. There is nothing more he wants for her but success. He wants to see her studio run out of slots for enrollments. He wants millions of people to subscribe to her YouTube channel. It’s what she deserves. Life is too cruel to keep that from her.

He checks her Instagram. It’s cute. Majority of the posts are dance videos and pictures of the studio, but she slides in a few selfies now and then. Their family is small, but she looks happy. He smiles. He likes seeing her happy.

He stops on a selfie from two years ago. She barely aged. The only difference is her hair, which in this photo shows a light brown shade and a fringe. Cute. He taps twice and continues to scroll.

Within a few more photos down, he freezes.

Wait. Did he...

He hurries back up, a scream locked in his throat. His muscles tense, and his breathing goes rigid. Why can’t he find it? He’s back in the recent ones. Did he miss it again? He scrolls back down, slower this time, but the pace is almost killing him. She must have seen the notification by now.

When he finally finds it, he taps on the heart and drops his phone on the bed. He sighs. There’s no use. He’ll have to explain himself next time they meet.

Maybe they can pretend it never happened, but based on their brief interactions and the way she writes her letters, that’s highly unlikely. Typical. Just another person in his life to tease him indefinitely.

He smiles. For the members, it’s nothing new. But for Y/N? Maybe it won’t be so bad.

How to React to Your Idol Liking Your Instagram Photo: A Tutorial With Y/N

Drop your phone on the floor

Scramble to check your phone is okay

Scream in your pillow

Cry (optional)

Take a screenshot to preserve the memory

She frowns. He liked that photo? Why did she even upload it? What was she thinking? Her hair was a mess, and she was sweating like she’d been in a sauna. And the angle? She can’t even process how embarrassing her selfie skills were two years ago. She taps on the three dots and hovers her thumb over the “Archive” button.

What if he did like it, though? Maybe he thought she looked… pretty. She scoffs. That’s ridiculous. She’s not terrible looking, but she could never compare to the girls he must see every day. Twice literally works in the same building as him. He can’t possibly look at her and think she’s pretty.

But she is open to possibilities. Sometimes. Only this time.

Y/N smiles. She exits the app and places her phone on the bedside table. The thought rings in her mind, and she can’t help but bury her face is her pillow. Wouldn’t it be nice, though?

Wouldn’t it be nice if Kim Yugyeom found her pretty?

“Is it her?” Bambam asks.

“No,” Yugyeom replies, and flashes a smile at the fan in front of him and accepts a stuffed toy.

So, his secret is out. The members caught on and have been playing telephone throughout the event. Yugyeom just has to suffer from being seated in the middle this time.

“Is it her?” Bambam asks, not even looking away from his next fan.

“No, but she’s almost here.”

Bambam laughs as he allows the fan to place a scarf around his neck. Yugyeom wishes nothing more than to run away and never come back. His members are extra smiley and observing each fan who comes their way, trying to figure out which of them was able to steal the maknae’s heart.

Oh, God, please keep it subtle, he prays.

And there she is. His breath hitches, and he blinks a few times to avoid making a complete fool of himself.

“Hello,” His voice cracks.

So much for subtle.

Bambam and Youngjae laugh, and the girls they’re talking to join in. Fantastic.

He clears his throat and repeats himself. “Hello.”

Y/N smiles. “Did you drink enough water today? You don’t want your voice to crack like that again.”

He can feel Bambam and Youngjae solve the puzzle. It’s only a matter of time before the information leaks to the rest.

“No letter today, sorry. I figured the previous one already showed a lot. I don’t even know what to say anymore,” she says.

He pulls the album closer to him and signs. “That’s okay. I really enjoyed reading it. I got to know you a little better.”

Y/N presses her lips together before she leans in to reply, “You seem to have enjoyed my Instagram, too.”

Yugyeom laughs and pink rises in his cheeks. “I’m sorry about that. I was just going through your dance videos and accidentally pressed like on your selfie. You’re a really talented dancer, though! I’m impressed!”

Nice save. That was a nice save, right?

“Nice save.” So it was not. “But thank you for the compliment. I wasn’t sure about that selfie, though.”

“I thought you looked cute,” he says. She looks away shyly. “But really, though. You’re an incredible dancer. I hope your studio gets the recognition it deserves.”

“I’m so tired,” Jia says and slides to the floor as the rest of the team gather their things.

Areum ties her hair and wipes the sweat around her neck. “Me too. I’m so glad it’s Saturday. I can stay up all night watching Luna’s Hotel.”

“New drama?” Y/N asks.

“Mhm! It’s my second one this week!” she replies.

How she finished yet another drama, Y/N has no idea. It’s surprising enough that she has the energy to teach dance despite barely getting any sleep. Sunhee, on the other hand, has been slowing down. Apparently, she’s been getting into GOT7.

None of them know about Y/N’s interest in the group. If anything, the members themselves are the only ones who do. Nobody else is aware of his influence on her career, and she prefers to keep it that way. She doesn’t want them to think she’s weird and obsessed.

“If they’re just gonna show off their relationship every two seconds, they might as well get married,” Sunhee grumbles as she stares at her phone.

“I know. It’s all they ever post about. We get it. They’re dating,” Jia says.

“Who’s dating?” Y/N asks.

Sunhee turns her phone and reveals the screen. Y/N leans in to get a better view. It’s a picture of Hyuna and Dawn. His hand is on her waist, and she’s kissing his cheek while he looks at the camera with a slightly tucked chin and close-lipped smile. It’s a cute picture.

“What’s wrong with them dating?”

“It’s disrespectful to the fans!” Areum says.

“How is falling in love disrespectful?”

Jia scoffs. “Typical of you to say that, really. Listen. Celebrities exist to entertain, meaning the audience can form emotional attachments to them. Dating someone completely destroys that bond they formed with their fans. It’s disrespectful for that sole reason. Do you get it?”

Y/N wishes she could reply with, “Typical of you to say that, really,” but stops herself. Maybe she should just agree. What’s the point of disagreeing when it will only leave her out of the group even more? It’s funny how she’s technically the boss, yet they treat her like another colleague. Where is the respect?

Part of it is her fault, though. She can’t be too restricting, and she is desperate to keep them with her. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she needs them. Sure, she wants a circle of friends, but she also needs them for her business. What would she do without them?

But she cannot let them win this time. She just can’t agree with them.

“I understand that there’s a bond between celebrities and their fans, but they don’t just exist to entertain. They’re more than just faces on a screen. They’re human beings, and the fans are only falling in love with a small portion of their real selves. You see how much training they have to go through just to debut. They have to be as close to perfect as possible because they’ll be in front of hundreds of cameras. What I’m saying is that underneath all that perfection, they are regular people who fall in love too. Being a celebrity doesn’t take that away.”

Sunhee shakes her head. “I bet you haven’t fallen in love with an idol before.” Her voice wavers. How pathetic. “It’s like chasing a cloud. You just look at them from afar, and that’s all you can do.” She sighs. “You wouldn’t understand.”

They pick up their things and head to the door. Jia leaves last and says, “See you on Monday, Boss.”

Y/N only responds with a nod and a weak smile.

Jia called her ‘boss’. If only she felt worthy of the title. She sighs and takes their place on the floor and closes her eyes. She could really use another surprise live. Anything GOT7 always made her feel better.

She walks to the speakers and plugs her phone before clicking on shuffle and running to the center of the room.

When the music begins, it’s like the rhythm is beating for her. Y/N always had to think before she spoke, analyze every word the rest of the world said, but in this room, there is no language but the movement of her body. There is no law but the music running through her veins. As she dances to the beat, her feet and legs and knees scream at her to rest, but she doesn’t listen. Moments like these are precious to her. This is her territory. This is home.

A knock on the door puts her off balance. She groans. Everybody knows not to interrupt her when she’s dancing. Did someone forget something? There doesn’t seem to be anything left behind. She rushes to her phone and pauses the music. She grabs a towel and wipes her sweat before she reaches for the door.

“Listen, we’re clo-” But her voice gets trapped.

Standing before her is none other than Kim Yugyeom.

Y/N doesn’t know what to do. She has dealt with defending her dream to her family, lost relationships because no one believed in her, and handled three difficult-to-please girls for two years. She got through those hurdles without a scratch, but as she stands before Yugyeom, her throat is dry and her knees buckle.

Her fantasies could never live up to this. Not enough fan fiction prepared her for this moment, and frankly, she’s not sure if there is anything in the world to do that. This is her idol, her hero, the entire reason she has her studio today—the very studio he’s in. Well, sort of in. He’s only at the door frame, and this must be the moment she steps aside to let him in, but her body remains still.

“Hello,” he says, his voice low. “I don’t really want to be seen right now. Can I come in?”

Like a hypnotist’s snap, she blinks and regains control of her senses. She quickly nods and steps aside, still unable to find her words.

Yugyeom seems to be doing just fine. He walks around the room like a tourist in a museum and gapes at every little thing she’s sure the JYP building has and more. After admiring the speakers, he turns around and faces her.

“Do you mind if I…” He unzips a few inches of his hoodie and meets her eyes, a quiet permission to take it off.

She nods and almost chokes when her eyes land on his arms. He’s wearing a muscle tee today. Her heart beats louder than the speakers on maximum volume. He places the hoodie on a bench against the wall, and even that is enough to make her breathing go rigid. Everything he does is so godlike, she doesn’t know if she’s worthy of this front-row seat.

“So… how did you find my studio?”

“The address is on your Instagram.”

Of course. Heat rises in her cheeks. Given she’s already humiliated herself, maybe she should create a list of them to slap herself in the face with when this is all over.

“Right,” She rubs the back of her neck. “What are you doing here then? Do you need a place to practice or something?”

He shakes his head and walks to her. “I wanted to see you.”

Y/N is sure he can hear her heartbeat. “You… you wanted to see me?”

He nods. “I really like talking to you, and I thought since we barely got the chance to know each other through the fan signs, maybe we could step outside of those and become real friends. You seem like a really interesting person, and I want to get to know you more.”

What’s with the sudden confession? Her entire face must be red right now. With his eyebrows raised and a small smile forming, he’s definitely having fun with her reaction. She takes a step back in hopes of the distance giving her space to breathe.

But why would he want to be friends with her? She’s just a low-rate dancer with a small studio. What could he find interesting about her? She scans his face, and he lowers his eyebrows, but his smile never fades. He’s not kidding.

“All right,” she says and takes a step forward. “But we have to keep this a secret. If my friends find out, I’ll never see the end of their complaints.”

She hates to admit it, but she almost regrets saying that. Being friends with Kim Yugyeom could be the turning point in their relationship. She can almost imagine it. They would pay more attention, listen to everything she has to say without disregarding it, and they might even like her. They’d listen to her stories about Yugyeom behind the scenes and whine. They’d be jealous of her. How enthralling is that? To have someone be jealous of her for once…

Did she really think all that in a few seconds? She sighs and lowers her head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she mutters and meets his eyes again. “It’s best if no one finds out. I don’t want to risk having my entire life change.”

“I get it.” He looks at the speakers on his left before turning back to her. “You were dancing to Teenager.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, I was. I should be home by now, but I was feeling a bit stressed and needed to get it off my chest.”

He walks to the speakers and picks up her phone. “This might be a weird question, but can I see you dance?” When she doesn’t reply, he adds, “I want to see the Y/N I heard so much about. By ‘heard’, I mean ‘read’.��

She walks toward him. “Weren’t you just on my Instagram? You could see me dance there.”

He laughs. “Yeah, but you mostly post your students’ performances. And on Youtube, too. You don’t give yourself enough screen time. I wanna see you.”

The light just above him shines on his skin, and the shadows sharpen his features. His black muscle tee and jeans give off the illusion that his skin is paler, he almost looks like a vampire. A sexy dancing vampire. There is something about him that’s so captivating.

Y/N was never good with words. Dancing was always easier. She’s sure he can agree, and that’s when it hits her. Maybe he does have a reason to want to be her friend. He found someone he could relate to.

“Sit down. I’ll show you something no one’s seen yet.” His smile rises to the ends of his cheeks. “Consider yourself lucky.”

“I’m very lucky.”

“Now this isn’t finished yet. It’s supposed to be for two people, and I haven’t choreographed the entire song or the boy’s part. What you’re about to see is completely raw and unfixed. It might not be pretty.”

“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.”

I am Yours by Andy Grammer fills the room, and her body moves in an instant. She thought she’d be nervous dancing in front of her idol, but it’s the very reason the confidence surges through her. She follows every beat with her feet, with her arms, with her whole being until she sinks into the melody.

You know I need you Like you’re oxygen Be my atmosphere Let me breathe you in So I can try to tell you I love you

She twirls under an imaginary hand, which her mind immediately portrays as Yugyeom’s. Her heart soars at the image, and it pushes her further. Her body is tired, but she can’t find the energy to stop.

Still can’t believe it when you say you’re mine and I am yours, I am yours

With one final spin, she halts and meets his eyes.

I am yours.

She doesn’t know what he’s thinking. There is no expression on his face. His gaze is completely fixed on hers, and it almost glows under the lights. His breathing is quick like he was the one dancing.

“What-” She tries to catch her breath, but she can’t tell if her struggle is from the dance. “What do you think?”

He swallows and licks his lips. “I’m thinking…” Y/N grips the hem of her shirt. “I want to be your partner.”

Her eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “What?”

He gets up and walks straight to her like time is running out. “I wanna dance to this with you. You haven’t finished the choreography, right?”

“Yeah, but-”

“And you said you needed a partner. A boy. Well, I’m available, and I want the part.”

“But Yug-”

He takes her hands, and her body freezes. “Dance with me.”

She shivers under his touch, but she makes her decision. With her heart and mind racing at once, she nods and says, “Okay.”

Part Three

#ultkpop #dancewithmefic #got7 #got7 fanfic #yugyeom #kim yugyeom #kim yugyeom fanfic #yugyeom fanfic #got7 fluff #yugyeom fluff

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mandelene · 5 years ago

Note

Amelia gets into dancing, and she really loves and enjoys doing it. Her parents and sister are supportive, and they watch her performances (she's with a group) every time. Then in the middle of one performance, Amelia dislocates her shoulder but just keeps going, simply choosing to fold her arm w/ a dislocated shoulder behind her back because she doesn't want to ruin her group's performance. Dr. Kirkland is Not Happy and threatens to make her dancing stop if she keeps on being that reckless :)

Here you go, anon! I love a furious, nervous-wreck Dr. Kirkland. xD

Taking One for the Team

Word Count: 1099

"Amelia's team is next!" Francis informs them excitedly, getting his video camera ready. It's dance competition night, and he absolutely loves being able to cheer his daughter on. While he and Arthur were a bit hesitant at first to sign Amelia up for professional dance lessons, she has proven to them time and time again that she is fully committed. And well, it would be cruel of them not to support her.

"She's going to look so beautiful in her leotard," Madeline says, just as excited if not more so. "Her team has a good chance of winning first-place tonight! This is their best routine."

Arthur nods his head along with the two of them but isn't nearly as ecstatic. He's seen the acrobatics involved in this particular dance routine that Amelia is about to perform in her group, and it worries him. He doesn't understand why the dance instructor couldn't come up with something more standard and simple. Do the girls really need to be jumping in the air and doing somersaults to score points?

To be honest, Arthur always feels anxious when he watches Amelia dance. Plenty of things could go wrong, and while he is proud of her for pursuing something she genuinely loves, he doesn't think he'll ever stop worrying about her.

The lights are turned down, the crowd starts to clap, and Amelia's group struts out onto the stage. Arthur purses his lips and grips the armrest of his seat with one hand and grabs Francis's hand in the other.

"Happiness hit her like a train on a track," the song begins.

Amelia twirls around in synchronization with the team, a beaming grin on her rosy face.

"Run fast for your mother run fast for your fatherRun for your children for your sisters and brothersLeave all your love and your longing behind youCan't carry it with you if you want to survive..."

Amelia does a backflip, and Arthur squeezes Francis's hand as hard as he dares until he hears Amelia's feet safely hit the ground.

Thank God.

She goes straight into a cartwheel afterward, followed by a handstand, and to the untrained eye, she does a perfect job, but Amelia is HIS daughter, and he knows her tricks well. Directly after the cartwheel, he notices her flinch, and the grin on her face wavers somewhat. When she gets out of the handstand, she tucks her left arm behind her back and continues to dance as though all is well.

"She's hurt," Arthur urgently whispers, turning toward Francis and Madeline with a stricken expression.

"Shhh. What are you talking about? She's dancing just fine."

"She's hurt," Arthur insists, and he starts bouncing his leg up and down restlessly. Should he go up on the stage and stop her? Why is she still dancing? Has she lost her mind?

"The dog days are overThe dog days are doneThe horses are comingSo you better run."

The music finally stops after what feels like an eternity, and after the girls give a bow and start walking offstage, Arthur springs up to his feet and rushes after them. Francis shouts at him to calm down and stop, but he doesn't pay him any mind. Arthur knows what he saw, and he's not crazy.

He invites himself backstage, pushing his way past a security guard who asks him who he is and what on earth he's doing.

"Amelia!" he shouts, running up to her, and, unsurprisingly, she's holding her shoulder and crying. Her dance instructor is standing beside her, trying to figure out what's wrong.

"My shoulder hurts r-real bad," she sobs, and when she sees Arthur, she immediately goes over to him. "I d-didn't want to let the team down!"

"Sir, you're not allowed to come back here without--!"

Arthur takes Amelia to the group's dressing room, ignoring the guard who is continuing to pursue him, and has her lie down on a couch. She sobs the entire time and starts writhing, clearly in immense pain.

"We'll fix it, love," Arthur tries to soothe her, and when he turns around, he sees he has an entire party of onlookers staring at them. "Can someone find some ice, please?"

The dance instructor nods and hurries off.

"Shhh, I know it hurts, poppet. I'm going to take a look at it, okay?" he turns to his audience again and says, "Can we have some privacy, please?"

The other girls reluctantly scatter, whispering to themselves and theorizing about how bad the damage might be while Arthur just sighs and directs all of his focus on Amelia. When he's certain they're alone, he very gingerly helps her out of her leotard and places a cold hand on her inflamed shoulder, assessing the joint.

"Don't touch it!" Amelia begs, and more tears stream from her eyes.

"All right, love. I'm sorry...Can you move it at all?"

"No, it hurts too much," Amelia hiccups.

Arthur pets her hair softly, clicks his tongue, and says, "It sounds and looks like you dislocated your shoulder, darling. I'll call your papa to bring the car up front, and we'll take you to the emergency room."

"Can't you just fix it?"

"Not without you getting an x-ray and sedative first. You should have stopped dancing as soon as you realized you had injured yourself. Continuing to dance might have made it worse!" Arthur scolds her, keeping his voice low. "It was very reckless!"

"But my team..."

"Your health and safety are more important than some silly competition. There will be other competitions...I don't know how much more of this my old heart can take, you know. You gave me quite a fright today, and I'm tempted to never let you dance again."

"Dad!"

"Just promise me you'll be more careful next time."

"...Okay, I promise."

"Pinkie promise and cross your heart?"

Amelia nods, shakes Arthur's pinkie finger, and traces a cross over her heart with her healthy arm.

"Good. I'll call Papa. Just hold still and hang in there for a little longer, okay? It'll be all better soon."

"We better have won first place."

------------------------------------------

Four hours later, Amelia leaves the emergency room with her arm in a sling, no longer in any pain. She gets strict instructions from the orthopedic surgeon to avoid dancing for 12 weeks, which isn't the news she wanted to hear.

That said, Madeline lets her know that her team did, in fact, win first place, and presents her with a gold medal.

So worth it, Amelia thinks, careful not to look too victorious around Dad.

#hetalia #aph nyo!america #aph nyo!canada #aph france #aph england #drabble #dance competition #aph face family #dr. kirkland #drabbles

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slusheeduck · 6 years ago

Text

Intruder

The time has come and I can share the full one-shot I wrote for the @yoimoviezine!! Young Vitya is one of my favorite things ever, and getting to show how his relationship with Yakov might have started is something I’ve wanted to write forever, so THANK YOU ZINE FOR GIVING ME THE OPPORTUNITY TO.

Yakov hadn’t been a young man when his life had changed. He’d just begun his descent into old age, just beginning to entertain the thought of retiring. He had plenty to show for all of his years of hard work, after all: a fruitful skating career of his own, now thirty years behind him, and reputation as a coach who put out gold medal winners. But, well, he liked his work, and he liked pushing students to be the best possible skaters they could be.

That said, he didn’t run a charity. Even with parents offering frankly obscene amounts of money for their children to be part of his classes, even with coaches calling him begging to take their students, he had a very strict set of rules to be considered before he would even consider taking them on:

Students had to be passionate about the ice

Parents had to accept that he was the one in charge of their child while on the ice

His time was to be respected.

Rules one and two were the ones most often stumbled upon; he had no patience for lazy students or overbearing parents. The third rule, though, was never an issue. Auditions were always made via appointment, and all of Russia knew that class time was sacred. Students—and only students—were the only ones allowed in the rink at that time, and no one—not even the pushiest parent or the most hopeful coach—would dare to interrupt it.

So, when he heard an unfamiliar voice call out, “Hey! Are you Yakov Feltsman?” in the middle of warm-ups, he nearly had a heart attack.

The entire class came to an abrupt halt, the dozen Juniors staring wide-eyed at the intruder as Yakov took a moment to silently fume. There would have to be a long talk with management about the shoddy security at the rink. He took a deep breath, then turned to look at the very unwelcome arrival. A young boy leaned against the wall, skates slung over his shoulder. One smile, one head tilt, and slightly widened, bright blue eyes told Yakov what he needed to know; it wasn’t shoddy security that got this boy in. No, this was a charmer.

And Yakov hated charmers.

“This rink is—”

“I was told to come find you by my coach, Irina Mikhailova,” the boy continued blithely, as if Yakov hadn’t spoken. “She said you used to coach her, and that you could teach me more than she can. So I came here as quickly as I could.”

Yakov huffed a sharp breath through his nose, crossing his arms. “If you want to join, your pa—”

“Oh, I have the money for it,” the boy barreled on, starting to dig in his bag. “I can actually pay for the first few classes now! And I swear I won’t complain, no matter how hard…”

“Quiet!”

The snap rang out through whole rink, finally quieting the boy. Yakov pinched the bridge of his nose, taking and releasing a long, slow breath as he shut his eyes. Losing his temper was bad for his blood pressure. But, hopefully, once he opened his eyes, the boy would be smart enough to leave immediately.

He opened his eyes, and two wide blue eyes were staring right back at him. Rather than being cowed (like the rest of the class currently was), he stood strong, face set in determination and silently refusing to move.

So he was a stubborn charmer.

Yakov let out another huff, then pointed to the seats just off the rink. “Sit.”

The icy determination suddenly melted away, and he eagerly dropped into a chair. He opened his mouth to speak, but Yakov held up a hand.

“For the love of god, don’t say a word and just sit there. I’ll talk to you once class is over.”

The boy shut his mouth, and he nodded before sitting up straight, attention raptly on the ice. Yakov rubbed his temples, then whirled around to face his students—who all quickly tried to look like they’d been warming up instead of watching to see how their coach would deal with the intruder.

“You know what’s next! Drills! Now!” he barked.

He crossed his arms as the whole class scrambled to show that they did indeed remember that drills came next, and the class progressed as normal—with everyone, especially Yakov, doing their best to ignore their visitor.

However, despite his best efforts, Yakov’s gaze kept drifting over to the boy. He sat straight up in his seat, eyes following the other skaters through their routines. Yakov had been around long enough to know when someone was itching to skate, and it looked as though it were taking all of this boy’s self-control to keep himself from launching himself over the wall to join them.

Well. At least the passion was there.

The class did finally come to an end, and the students meandered off the rink. Several hung around off the ice, obviously waiting to see what would happen to the intruder, but were quickly ushered out with a hard look from their coach. Finally, when it was just him and the boy, Yakov turned to look at him. He fidgeted in his seat, excitement radiating from every inch of him as he boldly met his eyes. Yakov sighed and shook his head.

“So. You want me to coach you?”

“Yes! Very much!” The boy leapt up to his feet, but dropped back down as Yakov motioned for him to sit.

“Why?”

This question was always the hardest for potential students to answer. “Because you’re the best” was the usual response, which resulted in an automatic dismissal. “Because I want to go to the Olympics” was another common one, and usually that one resulted in continuing with the audition. “Because my coach says I can do better, and you can help me” was the one he liked the best; almost all of those students wound up joining him.

The boy pressed his lips together for a moment, but there was no hesitation in his eyes as he looked up at Yakov. “Because I love skating more than anything,” he said, voice steady and determined, “and I’m going to be the best skater in the whole world.”

Well. It wasn’t often incoming students were so bold. But those that did rarely measured up to their pride.

Time to see if this boy was any different than the others.

He nodded, then gestured to the skates sitting on the boy’s lap. “Get those on and show me what you’ve been working on. You must have at least one program ready if you’re here.”

The boy’s face split into a wide, beaming smile, and he automatically pulled off his shoes to get his skates on. They looked well-broken-in, so that was a good sign, as was the obvious eagerness as he practically ran out onto the ice.

“Warm up first!” Yakov barked once his blades hit the ice. The boy nodded, then easily began a few laps around the rink. While his excitement was still palpable, he was laser-focused as he did his figure-eights, a few camel turns, and his practice jumps. When he was sufficiently warmed up (Yakov had to admit, he was impressed that the boy had given himself enough time; skaters at his age were rarely so well disciplined. He’d have to call up Irinka and give her his compliments), he made his way to the center of the ice. He took a deep breath and sent a bright grin to Yakov.

Then, with no warning, his entire demeanor changed.

The overly-excited, impatient boy that had interrupted the lesson disappeared, and a cool, collected skater appeared as he got in position. He lifted his arm, lifted his head, then immediately sank into his routine. He glided across the ice as if he’d been born on it, twisting and banking in perfect rhythm to the music playing in his head.

It wasn’t a perfect routine, no. His footwork was sloppy, and he touched down on a double Salchow—due to nerves, no doubt, considering he landed a triple flip with hardly a waver. But the mistakes didn’t matter, and neither did the impressive jumps. What was most important, more than anything, is that Yakov could not take his eyes off of this boy.

His favorite students were always the ones that commanded the attention of the audience, but this wasn’t the same. This boy wasn’t demanding that you look at him; he was inviting the audience to join in his joy. Every outstretched hand, every toss of his head was a heartfelt request that just edged on desperation.

Watch me. Isn’t this fun? Enjoy what I’m doing, because it’s for you.

Yakov had seen many, many different styles in his years of skating. But he’d never encountered anything like this. And, proud and disruptive as his introduction had been, he’d be an idiot to turn this marvel of a boy away.

The routine drew to a close, and for a moment, the boy held his pose. He trembled, breathing hard as he stared straight up at the ceiling, then let his arm drop as he looked up at Yakov. Sweat matted his fair hair to his forehead, and his face was soft, as if he’d just woken from a dream. It took a moment before the big, bright smile was on his face again, and he skated over to meet Yakov.

“So? How was that?” he asked breathlessly. “Was I good?”

Yakov shook his head, pushing aside his marvel to put his best coaching face on. He crossed his arms as he looked up at the boy, face hard.

“You do love skating.” It wasn’t a question, but the boy nodded all the same.

“Yes. More than anything.”

“How old are you?”

The boy stood up straight, eyes sparkling as if that was a “yes.” “Eleven, but I’ll be twelve in December.”

He nodded. “Good, good. That gives me enough time to polish you up before your Junior debut.” He looked up as the boy sucked in a breath, but before he could blurt out whatever gratitude was going to leave his mouth, Yakov met his gaze dead-on. “But this won’t be easy. I’m not your parent, I’m not your cheerleader. I’m going to work you harder than you’d ever thought possible. If you become my student, nothing will be more important than the ice. You need to understand that skating will be your entire life from this point on.”

The boy blinked, blue eyes wide. After a moment, though, he did the very last thing Yakov expected—he laughed.

“That’s not a problem,” he said breezily. “Skating’s been my entire life since I first stepped onto the ice.” That cool confidence returned as he met Yakov’s eyes, a small smile on his face. “I’ll make you proud. I promise.”

The moment broke, and he sent Yakov another wide grin as he glided over to the entrance. “So I’ll see you on Monday, Coach Yakov! That’s when your new session starts—don’t worry, I’ll remember, I have it written down on my calendar.”

“What?” Well, the boy really had been confident that he’d get this, hadn’t he? Yakov huffed as he walked over to where he was pulling off his skates, then set his hands on his hips as he looked down at him.

“What’s your name, malchik?” he asked as he slipped his shoes back on. “You never introduced yourself through all that.”

The boy looked up, then gave the biggest grin he had yet. “Victor Valentinovich Nikiforov.” He tied his skates together, then tossed them over his shoulder as he lightly got up to his feet. “And that’s the last time you’ll ever need to ask.” Then, with a wave and a bright “da skorova,” he was out the doors and gone.

Yakov lingered for a moment, staring at the door. Victor Nikiforov. In that moment, that name had the potential of belonging to the greatest skater Russia had ever seen or, possibly, the biggest pain in the neck Yakov would ever have to deal with.

But either way, Yakov knew that this charming whirlwind of a boy—this Victor Nikiforov, who already loved the ice more than anything—had staked a claim in his life without so much as an appointment beforehand.

So now, all there was to do was to see just where this whirlwind would lead.

#yuri on ice #yoi #fanfiction #yoi fic #ice speculation zine

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chezzkaa · 6 years ago

Text

Numb pt 12

Click here for more Numb content OR JOIN THE NUMB DISCORD

Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 2500+ Warnings: child death and angst

Date posted: 6 Sept 2018

His grip on your hand tightens without realising, gaze caught in the fire. The way the flames dance and log cracks beneath the glowing coals dusted with ash. Ryan doesn’t speak for what feels like an eternity. The seconds drip by and splatter against your nerves with each excited cheer of the blazing hearth. The tea nestled in you lap is cooling, but you can’t bring yourself to drink it. Something odd and unsettling aching your limbs and begging them to be still.

“I moved to Motbury a few years ago,” Ryan starts, voice soft and tripping in his throat. He doesn’t look at you, but seems to appreciate the slow circles your thumb traces against his. “Figured I’d man my own business and start again. I kinda hoped a different town would make things easier.”

“Easier?”

“Yeah.” He rolls his head to the side, watching your expression. “I was dwelling a lot where I used to live. It’s got… pretty hard. I used to have a house full, and getting used to all those empty rooms was tough. But out here… I’m still on my own, but it’s a lot easier to manage.”

You chew your lip, picking at the skin until you feel it sting. Ryan hadn’t spoken much of his family, but what you did know was that his Dad had meant a lot to him. You try to find your voice. “I’m sorry, losing a parent-”

He rejects your train of thought with a simple shake, lips pressing into a thin line. “It wasn’t just him. I lost my Dad in the Winter of 2014, my wife in Spring 2015, and daughter a few months after.”

The anguish starts first in your fingers, stretching though your palm and along your arm with a cold prickling sensation. With it your muscles seize, desperate to shake free the raw feeling that taints your body and courses through your veins. Infesting your being and stinging just beneath the skin. But you persist, clinging to the mourning that washes over Ryan as he remembers, oblivious to the cry you chew.

“I’m so sorry.” You struggle to keep from choking on the agony he hasn’t realised he’s sharing, forcing your voice to keep from sounding strangled. “That’s…”

But you can’t put your sadness into words, the feeling of someone else’s emotions burrowing into your bones making breathing hard. Clinging to his hand like it’s a lifeline that keeps you from drifting out on the sorrow he wears in his smile.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” he replies in a tone that sounds wrong, given the circumstances. “But it’s alright. My Dad was old and fragile. He had a fall while we were working around the Grisham forest and steadily declined from there. And my wife was ill when I married her, so we were prepared for the inevitable. Got to say our goodbyes. We were lucky.”

He senses the question you don’t allow to fall from your lips, letting off a sigh and staring at your joined hands. He traces one of the silver scars cutting across your skin, thumb curving across a cluster that span like stars. Like Ryan prefers getting lost in the blemishes that bloom over your hands as opposed to dwelling in what he knows he can’t escape.

“I’m now realising that I’m kinda just throwing the ‘I had a wife’ thing on you. Kinda shoulda said something sooner, huh?”

“Don’t be silly,” you mutter. “Am I making this weird? I can let go of your hand?”

“Please don’t.”

You’re quiet for a moment, the nagging of a question becoming too much. “How old was she?”

He knows who you’re asking about, knows by the gentle tone that pools between his fingers that you’re not asking about his wife - and he sighs. “Bethany was 9.”

Another wave of feeling, tainted with anger and a deep aching pain that resonates in your chest. You don’t speak this time, but you can’t bear to leave him alone. Not with the thoughts that race through his mind and infest yours as a result. And all at once you can see it, drowning in the guilt and agony and self loathing. His fear burning your airways and clogging your nose.

The curtains are drawn. The house almost humid with the artificial heat that beats against the walls, clinging to the carpet and sticking across the windows. Ryan closes the door, soft click muffled through the darkness. A sigh sees him shrug out of his coat and kick off his shoes, straining with a relieved groan. He doesn’t notice you, an impression against the memory that haunts him now. A version of himself caught in the loop you’re only managing to glimpse.

He calls out a name, voice rippling as though the air were water. Every breath you draw never being enough as he yells louder, and waits.

“Bethany? Sweetheart?”

Nothing.

You should be leaving. Should be yanking your hand free of his while you sit beside the fireplace, but you can’t. Because if you pull away he’ll be on his own again. Left in the cycle you shouldn’t be seeing, but can’t bear to abandon him too. So you follow him; socks padding across the stairs he takes two at a time, his hand gliding along the banister. There’s panic in his voice now, the name being called infinitely more fragile.

“Bethany? Don't tell me you're asleep already.”

Only empty silence greets him on the landing.

Ryan raps his knuckles against the door, painted a delicate pink and littered with dinosaurs. He’s impatient, you can see it in the set of his shoulders and the way his eyebrows knit. But he’s scared, too. And as his stomach fills with knots and nerves, so too does yours.

“Bethany?”

You feel sick when he yanks open the door. And this time you call her name, too. “Bethany?”

He’ll never get a response. He bolts across the small room, taking the bundle of blankets on the bed into his arms and shaking. Her name is falling freely now, littering the sheets like his tears when she doesn't smile into his voice. Burrowing into the carpet with the sound of his wails.

“No…” It’s your voice this time, bouncing uselessly against his back while he stares at his daughter’s blank expression. “No, please.”

He glances up as though he’s heard you, face contorted in utter agony. But instead he starts bellowing. Crying out for help, pleading for the babysitter that should have been there. For the neighbours. For his wife.

With that, you can’t take it anymore. Can’t stand to see him lose himself to a scene you’re sure he’s been trapped in far too many times. And rather than sinking to your knees like his emotions will you too, you take your first step into the room. And then another. Forcing your legs to move until you’re stood above the man who’s lost everything, cradling the world in bloodsoaked hands.

Reaching out, your fingers brush through his hair, a gentle ‘shh’ falling from your lips. His sobs falter, almost surprised as the energy that makes up your being crouches to his left, arm wrapping around his waist. Your head barely anything against his shoulder. “Shh, baby. It's time to go.”

The pressure against your hand comes as a shock, and the sight of his blue eyes free from the clouds of crying anchor you back to the tavern. He smiles, creaking as he leans over to brush a tear from your cheek, expression confused and soft. “Hey, you alright there?”

You nod, clearing your throat and turning a gentle pink. “Yeah, sorry. Just… thinking.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one crying?”

You smile, though barely. “Please don’t, cus I’ll bawl my fucking eyes out. And I’m wearing makeup.”

He chuckles, not at all bothered outwardly by the memory that’s seen you close to shattering. “Oh no.”

“It’ll be a bloodbath.”

“We can’t have that,” he determines firmly, lifting up his arm and motioning. “C’mere.” You don’t hesitate, shuffling into his side and tucking your shoulder beneath his embrace. The weight of his arm is reassuring, pulling you close. “See?” He nudges your foot with his, smirking. “Hugs makes everything better.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, snuggling further into him. Ryan chuckles, warmth of his chest glowing against your cheek.

“But if I shut up how am I supposed to ask you questions?”

“Questions?”

He nods. “We’re gonna trade life stories.”

You don’t do a good job of keeping the grimace from your face, picking anxiously at your fingers. “Okay, fire away.”

“You used to work with Jeremy.”

This statement comes as a shock, and you can’t figure out how best to respond. Instead you glance at him, a swift finger needling between his ribs. “That’s not a question, asshole.”

He smiles, a little more bashful and reserved than before. “Give me some time. Jeremy actually told me an awful lot about his partner back in the city, I just want to make sure I’ve not got anything wrong.”

“He talked about me?”

“A lot,” Ryan confirms, looking a little wistful. “He was always going on about the ‘best crime fighters to ever hit the streets’.”

You laugh, defrosting a little. “Of course he fucking did, oh my god. That fuck lives and breathes his work.”

“So did you.”

Now you stop, breath stammering across your tongue. Bitter with the apprehension clotting your throat. “You could say that.”

“According to our dear detective, you were the recipient of a number of medals and honourings. Best homicide inspector the area had ever seen.”

“Is there a question involved in this at all?” Your tone is a little sharper than you intend, body stiffening in his arms.

Ryan knows he’s hit a sore spot, gentle this time. “Why did you move to Motbury?”

It’s not what you’d expected, gearing yourself up to pour your heart out, bleed your feelings over the memory of a body you’ve never truly let go. A case you couldn’t solve in time. It takes you a while to reply, the crackling of flames accompanying the hollow tone that escapes your lips and coats your interlocked hands. “I couldn’t stand to be in the city anymore. It was to empty.”

His grip on you tightens. “I thought you lived with your friends? The ones that are moving down?”

“That was… after.”

“After?”

You sigh reluctantly, fidgeting with your fingers. Shifting, Ryan dives into your jumper pocket, plucking out the stones he’s seen you turn over too many times to count, dropping them into the palm of the numb hand you hold out. Once the smooth surfaces touches skin the negativity ebbs, just enough to manage. “Thanks…”

“You’re welcome.”

“So.” Folding the small stones over and over, you can’t bring yourself to share the glance you’re certain he’s casting across your expression. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Wherever you’re comfortable, Y/N. You really don’t have to tell me.”

“No, no it’s okay. When I was younger I actually lived around Grisham forest, too.”

“No kidding!” He’s grinning, like a kid finding out that his best friends loves dinosaurs as much as he does.

“Yeah, I lived there with my Granddad back when we were on speaking terms. Once I was old enough to get my degree I moved to the city and started working my way up. Trevor and Alfredo lived in my apartment complex, and I met Lauren through mutual friends. Jeremy… Jeremy and I became fast friends. Our desks were next to each other and we had the same drive. Ended up being partners, which was fantastic. Got a few good years in working at the top before everything happened.”

Ryan doesn’t interrupt, letting you continue at your own pace.

“I always had a problem with getting too invested in my work. Late nights at the office, even later surrounded by files at home. It started bothering the people I lived with, but at that point solving crimes and saving lives was all that mattered to me. To Jeremy and I. Then we got caught up in this really tough situation, and we were certain we’d got the asshole, but… we were too focused. Ended up getting tunnel vision and missing out on key information that was sitting right in front of us. I-”

You hum in irritation, trying to follow the soft movement of Ryan’s thumb as it rubs circles into your side.

“I refused to see something so fucking important because I was so desperate to solve the damn case. And it got someone killed. My ignorance and obsession was paid for with someone else’s life. Jeremy and I got the guy in the end, but it shook us up. He got transferred a month after begging the higher ups, and I stayed behind. Couldn’t really face anymore files, and eventually I couldn’t manage being alone. Trevor and Alfredo moved in, and we decided to move away from the city. Start again, just like you I guess.”

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, pulling you tighter against his chest and resting his cheek against your head. The gentle rocking is soothing, his free hand cupping your face. “That’s-”

“Life,” you finish, muffled in his plaid shirt, tears threatening to brim over. “That’s life.”

“Why didn’t you go and stay with your Granddad?”

“He died a few years ago and I hated him,” you reply, unfazed.

“That’s… not the response I expected,” Ryan chuckles, pulling away slightly and peering down at the small smile decorating your lips.

You shrug, reaching up to brush free the lock of hair that falls into his eyes. “He was a nasty man.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, “bastard was constantly cursing people who rocked up on the property. Missionaries, girl scouts...” You snigger, the pair of you comfortably settling back into a lazy embrace. “Squirrels.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Not at all, he was a real piece of work.”

“What an asshole,” Ryan chuckles.

“You’re telling me. I’m much happier with the friends I’ve got now. Lucky, too. You know what they love?”

His face clouds. “Errm… food?”

“Ghost stories. But also food. Probably more so food. But I want to hear a ghost story.”

“The Widow of the Woods?”

“Unless you’ve got more?”

Ryan smiles, rubbing your foot with his. “I’ve got plenty, but we’ll start with the one you won’t shut up about.”

“I’ve asked, what, like twice?” your fingers hook into his ribs, and he yelps out a laugh, squirming into your side.

“Okay, okay. I give! The Widow of the Woods, I get it. Jeez, you’re a wicked person.”

“I prefer ‘witchy woman’.” You punctuate the words with a wave of your hand, of which Ryan gabs and forces back down with a playful eyeroll.

“Of course you do. But I can see it, you’re definitely a fucking witch.”

“If only you knew - wait. Excuse me? Are you insulting-”

“So,” Ryan starts loudly, shuffling up in his seat to cut off your sentence. “The Widow of the Woods.”

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tancong · 7 years ago

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Gency Week: Day 3

This is the first time I actually wrote about a wedding. My ships? Being happy? It’s more likely than you think.

Title: A Deal Sealed and a Kiss not Missed Theme: Wedding Word Count: 2108 Rating: G (for God I’m so happy for them)

There were a lot of things that happened in the following years. Angela became more proficient at magic, thanks to her studying and a few close-death encounters with some assassin or another. Genji almost lost his arm and legs more times than they could count on both their hands. Despite it all, she became bolder. She began to assert her position within the family, not standing to be viewed as a weak child who needs the attention of some pompous prince any longer. She still hid Genji, of course. Even she was worried about what may happen if her family found out in a bad light.

However, Reinhardt eventually found out. She could only sneak out so many times before he caught her at least once. Not Genji, just her trying to leave. Whenever she left with Genji, not a soul would be able to tell. However, he was not always available to catch her falling out of her window. It was definitely fun when he does that for her but sometimes, she had to climb down the tree. Oh, she could fly a bit now. That gave Genji quite a surprise when she had shown it to him. Yet another discovery made from a near-death experience.

The first few times, he let her go without saying a word. However, there came a point when he politely informed her that he should probably report it to her parents soon if he did not know more about the situation. And, being someone she trusted dearly, she told him the full truth. She could have sworn that she almost ended the crusader’s life with a heart attack that night. Many people would have been in awe at being able to kill someone like Reinhardt, but not like this.

When he finally recovered, he reluctantly told her everything he knew about the young man. They were things that Angela had already got out of him, with the exception of his background. She could understand why he didn’t want to share it and knew better than to ask about any of it after hearing it from Reinhardt. If anything, she was the one that corrected the old champion.

In the end, he admitted that if she was with Genji, she was in better care than if she was being accompanied by half the royal guard. As such, he made no note of it to her family, only stating that she should keep him informed of whenever she should plan to head out and whether anything new develops between them. In return, he would cover for her whenever he could to make sure others didn’t find out. Though she could have done without him slipping a magic scroll of pregnancy protection under her door, she appreciated the gesture regardless.

They had been a couple ever since that night after the festival. Though he never said anything explicitly, the soft voice he used and the unusual requests he made were more than enough to answer her question. They weren’t truly unusual, just for him. Apparently, holding hands was pretty scandalous if he had to ask so softly. After she teased him about it a few times, that hesitation was gone. Next came kisses. An adorable phase when he would always be by her side and looking longingly at her before pretending otherwise. Eventually, she got a kiss for every occasion. For saying something clever. For wearing something pretty. Everything was apparently worthy of receiving a kiss from him. Honestly, she really felt spoiled.

Then they cuddled. She practically had to beg him to stay, putting on the best pout she could muster. This was after she had told him about Reinhardt knowing their relationship, else he would have probably bolted without a second thought. That night, she refused to let go of him no matter how warm it got until he finally confessed gently that he had desperately wanted this too.

The morning after that was when Genji almost lost his life to Reinhardt, who was only stopped when Angela eventually woke up and insisted that she was the one who wanted him to stay and not him sneaking in. Despite being unarmed when going to bed with her, Genji only suffered a scratch on his arm and a cut on the palm of his hand, an impressive feat when facing an overprotective legendary knight with a sword.

Sometime later, Reinhardt would be asked to accompany them to town for grocery shopping, only for him to be introduced to his worst nightmare. It turned out that Genji did have a few friends, most of them in the same profession as him with the exception of a blacksmith, alchemist, and one merchant. The person he introduced to Reinhardt was an assassin as tall as he was, a dashing image of what the crusader had once been. Angela almost died from her lungs collapsing through all the laughing she did that day, watching her mentor being bullied relentlessly. The man called himself an assassin but he was really an old knight, an acquaintance of Reinhardt really. He just so happened to pick up the new profession in the new age, though how he succeeded was beyond Angela’s comprehension. Genji explained that most people simply saw him as a retired knight, so it was easy for him to get on their good side and stab them. “A strangely effective strategy,” he said with a frown that indicated he couldn’t believe it worked either.

And then, eventually, the truth had to come out. Discussions came up about the fact that Angela must choose someone to marry. The four racked their brains over the matter, coming up with a million different ways to introduce him though not finding a single one that doesn’t involve having to mention the small fact that he was an assassin, else there was no way to explain how they met or how no one has ever heard of him.

At last, Genji came up with a simple solution. He would simply have to enter the tournament that her family was hosting to find a potential suitor for Angela. She had rejected so many princes already that her family had given up on status and class, opting instead for someone with a strong personality that could possibly hope to deal with her. In a three-to-one vote that left Angela extremely frustrated, they decided that would be the course of action.

She truly was never going to understand men and their solidarity to beat each other up to get what they want.

And so, Angela found herself in the stadium, smiling and waving at thousands of spectator and greeting hundreds of knights. Round after round of combat happened, all which bored her. She had seen Genji in combat before of course, they had not gone on all those dates without at least one violent incident happening. These battles, regulated and without any threat to her, just felt so boring. Even the battles Genji were in did not excite her much. A glance at his opponent was all she needed to tell that they didn’t have a chance. The only excitement came from the fake gambling game she had with Reinhardt about how long it would take for Genji to finish the match. Oh, and when Reinhardt’s new best pal somehow snuck into their area. That assassin was truly a scary man after all.

The last battle was actually quite intense. Angela found herself leaping to her feet and cheering when Genji snuck in a good strike. She had to sheepishly sit back down and explain to her parents that his combat style and grace had gotten her interest in the previous matches while Reinhardt held down his friend’s head to hide his muffled laughter.

Eventually, Genji came victorious to be granted the medal from her father and the pleasure of being able to kiss Angela on the back of her hand, a task which he almost failed out of habit. In return for his valiant work, she gave him a kiss on the cheek and the words “take me” whispered into his ears. She happily sauntered away leaving a tournament champion that felt weak and defeated by just two words.

Eventually, the wedding came. Angela eventually told her parents the truth about Genji, with Reinhardt to back her up. Ever since the beginning of the planning, her parents had felt uneasy about ‘forcing’ her into it. That much was what Genji had predicted. When she told them, they let out a sigh of relief before their brains caught up to the implications.

By then, it was far too late to question her as Angela had already fled to try on her wedding dress. It was something that she did not show Genji, and in return, he also hid his choice from her. She just had to trust his sense of fashion, a sense which has served him well in the past with all the recommendations he made for her. She was sure that he would look handsome regardless, so long as he wore something appropriate.

On the day of their wedding, Angela could hardly contain her excitement. Leading up to it, they were a normal couple. Other than practicing their dance, everything else was out of their control. Their ring, ceremony, decorations, and announcement were all handled by the castle staff. They ended up just going out on more dates, disguised of course, and cuddled a lot. Without the need for secrecy, their cuddling time was more playful and relaxed than ever. Well, Genji still could not get used to walking through the front gate of the castle. It was probably for the best anyway, lest the servants or other people bothered him about his status and her health and all that pleasantries he admitted to hating.

Angela took a deep breath and entered the chapel next to the castle. The crowd let out a soft “ooh” in unison at her beautiful white dress, with its fluffy white frills and ribbons that flowed off her as naturally as water would.

The only person who wasn’t fazed, as with the first time he saw water flowing off her skin, was Genji. He simply gave her a smile that almost made her stop walking, one that was accompanied by a striking black cloth vest and formal pants. For some reason, she had never expected to see him in anything but light armor or traditional festival clothing. Yet, there he was, as handsome as ever and with a smile that disarmed her more than any fanciful parry could.

“I can’t wait to take that dress off you.”

“Be respectful. We’re in the middle of a wedding.”

“But you’re not saying I can’t.”

“Shush.”

Angela gave him a stern gaze for a moment before giggling and taking his hand to for their walk to the altar. She could feel all her nervousness melt away just like that. Really, he could be so indecent and inconsiderate at times like these. But perhaps he knew that was what she needed and what she fell in love with. Someone who knew exactly how to best make their lover happy, no matter how they may look in the process. How did someone as selfish and spoiled as her ever get someone so selfless and kind like him?

“Angela Ziegler. Do you take Genji Shimada to be your husband?”

“I do.”

“Genji Shimada. Will you take Angela Ziegler to be your wife?”

“Yes, I do. May I give her the ring and kiss her now?”

The solemnizer chuckled and nodded. “You may proceed.”

Genji let out a soft sigh under his breath that came with something along the line of “fucking finally” as he brought out the beautiful ring with a shining emerald and a gold frame. When the ring finally shone on Angela’s fingers, her eyes shining with tears of joy, the officiant announced, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Without waiting for anything further permission, Genji swept Angela off her feet and pulled her into a deep kiss as the audience applauded loudly, with both Reinhardt and his new friend wiping a tear with their handkerchief. Her parents, too, looked extremely happy for their daughter, despite all the fears they had about her future with an assassin as the next in line for the throne. However, at that very moment, they had never seen her look happier.

And that was what a marriage should look like, no matter who it was between. Because no matter what came their way, it would take the whole world to separate the princess and her assassin.

#gency #gency week #emergenji #gency fic #gency fanfic #genji #mercy

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cuntess-carmilla · 4 years ago

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This is just an extremely long vent post sparked by my brother. ^_^

(Reclaimed r slur by the end in reference to myself)

Someone explain to me how my brother can be so smart yet always soooooooooo fucking wrong in everything other than thinking cops and Piñera are scum.

Actually? I know exactly why! It’s because in his colossal immaturity coupled with his trauma of having always been told that he’s dumb because he’s autistic and the combination of mostly STUPID awful teachers and bullying was the actual reason why he did so badly in school after like 3rd grade. Which I get! But the way he ~copes~ with his inferiority complex is by being possibly THE most arrogant person I’ve ever known!

Ok, no, the most arrogant one was my ex-boss who sexually harassed me, but my brother (being actually a good just really frustrating person) comes 2nd. Besides that insecure arrogance, he’s way too driven by his gut feelings without supporting those gut feelings with reason or proper sources. Sometimes AGAINST proper sources. He ESPECIALLY doesn’t inform his gut feelings with other people’s opinions to form any sort of balanced collection of ideas to consider!

Given that he also has really bad anger issues (I’m fucking uncle Iroh post-war crimes compared to him) and represses every emotion that isn’t Wrath, a lot of the time his gut is just going by whatever position, POV or idea causes him the strongest emotional reaction - again, without proper research - that aligns with his like, misanthropy and sense of The World Inherently Sucks, so a lot of the time it’s motherfucking conspiracy theories! And he sticks to the position that took 5 minutes to convince him no matter what anyone says if they don’t passionately agree with him.

AND when someone doesn’t passionately agree with him, or innocently asks questions that could make his position be exposed as wrong or unfounded, he takes it as the grandest personal insult meant to make him feel stupid and if we try to tell him that disagreeing with him or even just not being sure what we think of the positions he adopts, he literally, legit says we’re just saying that to demonize him and make HIM out to be the psycho.

I love him but he’s wrong a lot of the time EVEN compared to my very fascist parents when it doesn’t come to specific local politics (ie. hating cops and Piñera). Don’t get me wrong, they’re fascists so I disagree with 99% of their views (the ones I agree with being stuff like “rape is bad” and “femicides shouldn’t happen”), my mom herself makes up a lot of insane fascist conspiracy theories, and both of them source their information from right-wing mainstream media.

But like... At least they try to form opinions based on (the sadly biased) information they can get rather than immediately making up their minds with NO space for questioning anything based on what aligns with their emotions?

Ok, my mom not so much but she’s only like that when it comes to subjects she thinks she knows well. When it comes to subjects she knows she’s ignorant of, she doesn’t do that. She’s open to asking questions, being corrected and thinking things through in those cases.

My dad is generally capable of all those things that my mom does when she knows she’s not knowledgeable enough in the subject at hand, and actually has a pretty decent capacity to admit he’s wrong when he’s proven wrong by undeniable facts! He knows too that a lot of his own ideas and perceptions can change through time and he’d rather be properly right instead of clinging to past ideas and perceptions just to never admit he was ever wrong. What’s more, he fully accepts that people aren’t always going to agree with him on everything and that’s not a fucking hate crime! What a concept.

So like, yeah I think their politics are wrong almost entirely lol. But I can at least... Think of them as relatively functional adults when it comes to that shit even if they’re wrong and stay very wrong? My mom does take some things more personally but never to my brother’s level.

Just minutes ago my brother was spouting conspiracy theories about COVID (you know the shit, virus was human-made, it’s a conspiracy by some secret society to kill people, etc) like it was objective fact. My dad has stayed away from watching or reading any news for the sake of his own sanity so he doesn’t actually know all the facts, BUT with the facts he didn’t know, he asked him where his information came from in a very neutral way, or filled in the spaces with reasonable logic and distrusting things that are obviously conspiracy-mongering.

Just that my dad didn’t immediately agree with him and put the things he was saying to question my brother started fucking yelling and victimizing himself. I was so fucking annoyed that I committed the crime of interfering not regarding the subject itself, but regarding how my brother was handling not being agreed with. He word by word said “OH, SO YOU AGREE WITH HIM?" I told him I wasn’t agreeing or disagreeing with anyone! Because I wasn’t! I was just trying to calm the dude down and TRY to teach him, for the billionth time, to learn how to take CONSTRUCTIVE gentle criticism and to handle others having a healthy minimum of skepticism regarding the extreme ideas he proposes out of the blue! You know. Like a fucking (by tomorrow) 22 years old guy SHOULD. Ah, yes, he’s not a fucking teenager! HE’S TURNING 22 IN 23 MINUTES FROM NOW.

THEN he started victimizing himself, WITH ME.

ME! THE ONE BITCH IN THIS HOUSE WHO ALWAYS ADVOCATES FOR HIS ASS, HAS ALWAYS TRIED TO LISTEN TO WHAT HE HAS TO SAY WITHOUT DIRECTLY SHUTTING HIS IDEAS DOWN WHEN I THINK HE’S WILDLY WRONG BECAUSE EVEN THEN I MAKE SURE TO DISAGREE WITH HIM IN A WAY THAT HE DOESN’T PERCEIVE AS ME THINKING HE’S A STUPID PARANOID IMBECILE (paranoid he IS by the way!).

I’M THE ONE CUNT WHO’S ALWAYS TRIED TO MAKE THE REST OF THE FAMILY UNDERSTAND WHERE HE’S COMING FROM WHETHER HE’S RIGHT OR WRONG, WHO’S TRIED FOR YEARS (AND SUCCEEDED A LOT OF THE TIME!) TO TEACH THE REST OF THE FAMILY HOW TO ACCOMMODATE FOR HIM, HIS DISABILITY AND HIS TRAUMAS WHEN HE DOESN’T RETURN THE FAVOR TO ANYONE, SOMETIMES ASKING FOR MAYBE MORE COMPREHENSION AND PATIENCE FROM THE REST OF THE FAMILY THAN IT’S FAIR TO ASK FOR!

HELL. EVEN WHEN I TELL HIM OFF WHEN I GET PISSED AT HIM AND SAY PRETTY HEAVY THINGS TO HIM? I MAKE SURE TO ARTICULATE WHAT I’M SAYING IN A WAY THAT SHOWS COMPASSION AND IS COMPLETELY CODDLING IN TONE SO HE DOESN’T FEEL PERSONALLY ATTACKED. EVEN HE SAYS I’M THE ONLY ONE WHO “LISTENS” TO HIM.

THIS EMOTIONALLY REPRESSED DUDE WHO BREAKS FURNITURE AND DESTROYS OUR FOOD WHEN HIS ANGER OR ANXIETY TAKE OVER, WHO DOES NOT LET ANYONE SEE HIM VULNERABLE UNLESS HE’S HAVING A MELT DOWN ONLY BECAUSE THEN HE CAN’T STOP HIMSELF FROM CRYING? HE USUALLY TRUSTS ME ENOUGH TO HAVE CRIED ON MY SHOULDER MANY FUCKING TIMES.

AND HE ACCUSES ME OF JUST WANTING TO MAKE HIM SEEM LIKE HE’S THE INSANE DUMB DELUSIONAL AWFUL PERSON, SO I CAN SOMEDAY USE THIS INSTANCE AGAINST HIM IN ANOTHER “FIGHT”, WHEN I’VE NEVER FUCKING DONE THAT EVEN WHEN HE, TO BE HONEST, DESERVED IT? SERIOUSLY DUDE? FOR FUCKING REAL?

I’M THE ONE YOU’RE GONNA ACCUSE OF THAT WHEN I SPEND MY WHOLE FUCKING LIFE CODDLING YOUR PETTY ASS, PROTECTING YOU, BEING A SECOND MOTHER AND CHARGE FREE SHRINK TO YOU?

OR PULLING ALL-NIGHTERS TO HELP WITH YOUR COLLEGE HOMEWORK WHEN I’VE HAD CLASSES TOO THE NEXT DAY? SOMETIMES DOING THE WHOLE COLOSSAL PROJECT ALONE THE NIGHT BEFORE IF I REALIZE YOU’RE TOO BRAIN FOGGED, FATIGUED OR TRIGGERED TO DO ANYTHING WITHOUT GETTING SUICIDAL OR SOMETHING? SENDING YOU TO BED WHILE I DO YOUR SHIT AND DON’T SLEEP AT ALL? SOMETIMES GROUP PROJECTS WHERE YOU WERE GROUPED WITH LAZY ASSHOLES SO I’M DOING THE WORK OF 4 PEOPLE ALONE THE NIGHT BEFORE? FOR FREE?

M E ?

BITCH, I DON’T EVEN WANT A MEDAL OR TO BE THANKED BECAUSE BEING THANKED FOR ANYTHING MAKES ME UNCOMFORTABLE! BUT COME THE FUCK ON. I’D JUST APPRECIATE NOT BEING SLAPPED ON THE FACE IN RETURN, YOU KNOW?

*insert gif of Disney’s Hades exploding in red fire then calming down 2 seconds after*

Like you just! Can’t fucking have an adult conversation with this dude if you’re not validating him without question! You can’t! You can’t have any level of healthy friendly debate with him! You can’t beg him to be reasonable! YOU CAN’T!

He was saying “BUT IT’S OBVIOUS”, my dad asked CALMLY “With what proof?”, then it was “WELL, IT’S OBVIOUS TO ME”, then “That’s an opinion, not a fact. We can google the number” and OH MY GOD!!!! OH MY GOD!!!!

Then to ME he was all “YOU JUST LOVE TO BE RIGHT, DON’T YOU?” calling US immature and saying WE are the ones who don’t want to listen to a different opinion!!!!! When I told him he fucking loves being right he victimized himself again with a “WELL, FOR ONCE I’D LIKE TO BE!”

I was about to tell him, with the last dying bit of my patience, that yeah, like most people I do actually like to be right and I like it a lot! But that being right requires actual fucking work and THINKING rather than just going by whatever supports your misanthropic Kill Society angry feelings, and the moment you’re proved wrong YOU HAVE TO CHANGE YOUR POSITION IN ORDER TO BE RIGHT, BECAUSE IF YOU CLING TO YOUR DEBUNKED FIRST BASELESS CONVENIENT OPINION OUT OF PRIDE THEN YOU’RE OBJECTIVELY WRONG AND A PISSBABY.

But I didn’t get to say that because something else interrupted it and then things cooled off while, like a good Scorpio Mars, I’m still endlessly ruminating on and won’t forget about the rest of my life as much as I’d actually LOVE to be able to forget this instance of him being an idiot. 8)

Like, does this motherfucker not fucking get that unless I already know the subject thoroughly and have a fully fleshed Opinion, I don’t often give opinions out loud BECAUSE I try to first shape my thoughts properly and THAT’S why I tend to be fucking right? That that’s why I always have a lot of arguments and am so certain of what I think, because I’m so insecure that I only fucking talk when I’m 99.999999% confident in what I have to say, rather than it being because I’m an inflexible asshole who thinks is better than him!

And he’s seen it. He’s fucking SEEN ME acknowledge when I’m wrong!!!!! Including the times I’ve been wrong TO HIM.

In all honesty I don’t enjoy admitting when I’m wrong (in big part BECAUSE I put a lot of effort into articulating the ideas I’m standing by!), but when I realize that I am, just out of a minimum of maturity and sense of DIGNITY - because I’d find it so fucking humiliating to not acknowledge being wrong when it’s obvious that I am to everyone involved and I can no longer defend my point - I still do it!

Bitch, you said it yourself, I LIKE TO BE RIGHT. I’m going to side with what I genuinely think is right even if I used to think it was wrong! There’s a motherfucking reason that as a teenager I was a Pinochet apologist, Gays Go To Hell, Communism = Evil / Capitalism = Freedom, pro-life, Catholic and now I’m THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF ALL OF THAT.

Does he think it didn’t hurt my pride to discover one-by-one that my views were absolute shit? IT DID AND GOD KNOWS MY PRIDE IS SENSITIVE AS HELL. Does he think it wasn’t depressing to have my whole world views destroyed? I NEED TO STAND ON FIRM GROUND ON EVERYTHING OR ELSE I LOSE MY SHIT, IT WAS AWFUL TO SUDDENLY HAVE MY WORLD VIEW WRECKED. Does he think I didn’t try to argue for my WRONG ideas for as long as I still thought I had decent arguments to back them up? OF COURSE I DID, I BELIEVED IN THEM FOR A REASON, AS WRONG AS I WAS.

But I changed! I changed when I no longer had any space left to think I was right! And I operate the same way with my current positions and ideas now! Dude, I tend to be right over you BECAUSE I don’t immediately get set on the first thing that makes me feel emotionally Validated, unlike you! You ARE smart but you’re SO driven by your own colossal yet insecure ego that you don’t even BOTHER to be critical of your own thoughts and all your potential goes to waste.

I ruminate on every single little thing obsessively, to my own detriment, being my own Devil’s advocate having an ruthless debate against myself in my mind, starting off COMPLETELY insecure about my own thoughts, paranoid trying to imagine in what way I could possibly be proved wrong by someone else if I said my ideas out loud and how to hold my stance in case it happens. I NEVER say my ideas out loud to people who I think know more than me or are smarter than me, to not make a fool of myself in front of anyone because I’m a coward and I was also bullied into firmly believing I’m a fucking retard!

All of that pathological effort because I actually don’t think I’m better than you or anyone else! I think I’m really fucking stupid! So I overthink it all endlessly and by PRINCIPLE I distrust and question my own thoughts and perceptions at every single second. For hours, days, weeks, months, EVEN YEARS.

That’s why when I do speak I’m one of those annoying bitches who have an answer to everything! BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU’D TRY TO PROVE ME WRONG ON THAT FRONT ALREADY AND I DON’T WANT TO GO THROUGH THAT HUMILIATION SO I ALREADY HAD THAT SHIT COVERED BEFORE I DECIDED TO SAY ANYTHING.

And nothing in that exhausting, paranoid process guarantees I’ll be correct! So even when I firmly think I’m right I keep it to myself some more in case that maybe two years later or something I’ll discover a flaw in my thought process.

It’s so tiring, it’s so fucking tiring how EVERYONE who knows me from afar or from very FUCKING close, thinks that any and every one of the fucking things I achieve just fell into my stupid hands out of the sky by mere luck because God felt like giving me an easy ride that day. They ALL think I’m some arrogant bitch for the very few things I don’t doubt anymore when I try my best to be humble as long as I don’t humiliate myself! But I’m SURE they all think I’m a conceited lucky show off!

EVERY TIME I’m for fucking once proud of anything I achieve, people tell me to my fucking face that I’m just naturally and inexplicably talented, taking away any merit of my fucking own.

Like it’s a FUCKING compliment that, supposedly, everything I’ve achieved by pushing myself to my limits despite being at a disadvantage in so many areas, destroying my already ill body and breaking my autistic little brain, barely sleeping for days, having panicked crying fits where I self-harm because it’s not good enough and I don’t know how to make it right... What I finally accomplish by putting in all that effort, self sabotage and sacrifice?

Oh, it just fell into my hands because I’m THAT blessed, apparently! It’s all just LUCK AND TALENT I DIDN’T DO A THING TO EARN! I’m SO lucky and effortlessly talented! I feel SO fucking flattered!!! :) Thank you SO much! :) I’ve never EVER doubted myself also! :D

#also i know there's typos but you know what there's nothing of?#my shits to give or any energy from how exhausted i already was before all this

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glitteringconstellations · 7 years ago

Text

Beacon (1/?)

words: 2137 Chapter 1: they say the world will end in fire

The earth was a sea of white-hot flames and acrid smoke.

The sky lit up with blinking star-like flashes Maria knew now to be hostile enemy fire upon her home. It made the already fiery evening sky feel even more ominous. The panicked screams of people around her rung in her ears, and she held her youngest daughter closer to her chest, gripping ever tighter to her son’s hand in hers as they pushed through the throngs.

There were only twelve shuttles evacuating people to the Lunar Space Stations—she sent a prayer of thanks up to the heavens that one was in Havana—and she was going to make damn sure her children were on it.

“Mamá, what about Papá?” the daughter who clung to the back of her shirt cried over the din. On her older daughter’s left, Maria’s fourth-born son pushed and shoved when people crowded too close.

“Your father will be right behind us,” Maria consoled, though the lump in her throat belied the terror she, too, felt. Her husband had left in search of their two adult children and was supposed to meet up with them. How they’d ever find each other, she didn’t know. But her focus now was the four children she had with her.

Her heart throbbed in agony. No, she would not lose another child this day.

Read on AO3

There was no stopping a mother still grieving, and she pushed her way to the front of the throng, taking elbows in the ribs and suffering through strangers yanking at her hair, pulling her back. The fences blocking off the military base were heavily armed. On a normal day, the soldiers could be intimidating; today, they were outright frightening.

“Only approved persons are permitted past this point!” one of the soldiers bellowed. “Have your documents ready and we will get you on the shuttle as quickly as we can!”

“Get us out of here!”

“Come on, man, there are kids here!”

“Don’t let us die!”

It was utter madness. Maria shielded her baby’s eyes when a man trying to climb the fence was shot. The screams and the shoving intensified, but Maria had a mission. An explosion rocked the ground beneath them—time was running short.

Her son pushed a path clear and finally—finally—stood before the gates onto the base. The solider before them held his rifle out to block them. “Stand back.”

“Please,” Maria gasped, “you must put my children on that shuttle.”

“We already have a list of approved citizens to board the shuttle first. State your name, present your papers, and we will have you through shortly.”

Maria didn’t have any papers, but that wasn’t going to stop her. “Sir, I beg of you, these children—”

“State your name, and present your papers,” the soldier interrupted, sternly.

“Maria McClain,” Maria snapped, desperation tingeing her voice. “Mother of Lance McClain, cadet of the Galaxy Garrison Defense Force, and if you have any respect for the memory of my boy, you will put my children on that shuttle.”

The solider gaped. The whole island had heard of Lance’s loss, of course; the whole world had. The international incident had brought down the heads of people around the globe in mourning for the three cadets lost. No one had had any idea that it would have been the catalyst for intergalactic war.

“Ma’am,” the soldier said after a long moment, his tone softening just a bit. To his credit, he did look rather distressed. “You have to understand that there is protocol that must be followed. I’m truly sorry for your loss, but—”

“Let them through,” a gruff voice said behind them. All six heads snapped up to the large soldier who’d stepped up behind the soldier, a bearded man of impressive height and wielded an even more impressive gun. He must have been an officer, judging by the varied medals fastened to his lapel.

“Sir,” the soldier saluted, but his face read confusion.

“Didn’t you get the memo, boy? They’re letting all the children on board regardless of papers.” He stared hard at the soldier, his tone brooking no argument. Maria couldn’t tell if he was lying or not, but she was grateful, and there was no time to waste. Ominous purple ships stood out against vibrant orange and deep indigo of the evening sky, the sky still alit with the firefight.

“Seleste, take your sister,” Maria said, holding the girl in her arms out for her teenaged daughter to take. Seleste obliged, but her face lit up in alarm.

“No, Mamá, we’re not leaving you—”

“You must follow this man and do as he says, mija,” Maria interrupted, turning to address all four of her children. She felt breathless that God was on her side in this most difficult time of need. “Gabriel, Clara, listen to your brother and sister. Seleste, Alvaro, take care of them. They will need someone to watch out for them while I’m not there.”

“Mamá, please,” Alvaro begged, tears stinging his eyes as his mother handed off Gabriel’s trembling hand to him. She shook her head. “Lance would never forgive us if we left you!”

“I’ll be on the next shuttle with Papá, Julio, and Isabel, okay? It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.” She pulled all of them in for a hug, pressing an urgent kiss to each forehead. “Now, go, mijos.” She looked to the senior officer, who nodded and waved her four children through.

“Mamí! Clara wailed, reaching out over Seleste’s shoulder. “Mamí, come with us!” Gabriel struggled against his brother’s hold, trying to reach their mother.

Maria watched with a breaking heart as the four of them were ushered through by the junior soldier into the line of people boarding the shuttles with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. She turned to the senior officer, who stood there, watching her.

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” she gasped on a shuddering sob. He only shook his head.

“I just want you to know, there’s no guarantee they’ll be any safer up there,” he said, slowly. And Maria knew that, she did. But this was their best option. She nodded anyway. The officer cleared his throat.

“I never met the boy, but I have a feel McClain would have made an excellent pilot.” He clapped a hand on her shoulder, and she bowed her head. “The young ones will be well looked after, madam, and we’ll do everything in our power to get everyone out of here to safety.”

Maria could only nod, tears streaming down her face. She thought of her husband, and her two remaining children, and her sister, and her parents, and prayed to God they were safe. But she had done it. Her babies would make it.

She gazed up to the terrifying, darkening sky, and prayed.

They had to make it.

---

Earth fell to its knees and bowed before Zarkon before the week was through.

---

“Paladins,” Allura called, “please meet Coran and I on the bridge for debriefing immediately. We have another distress signal we must pursue.”

An emergency mission to answer distress calls wasn’t unusual, Lance thought to himself. The urgency in Allura’s voice wasn’t necessarily unusual, either—she was very much of the mind that Voltron was obligated to answer every single distress call brought to their attention. Being the defender of the known universe came with a certain number of responsibilities, after all.

But seeing the pinched, pale look on both Allura and Coran’s faces when they converged on the bridge was unusual, and Lance felt his stomach lurch unpleasantly. Allura especially was as white as a sheet.

“What’s up, Allura?” Pidge said, adjusting her armor as she came into the room. She hadn’t picked up on the atmosphere yet. Smart as Pidge was, she was still the youngest of them all, and sometimes Lance envied the naivety that came with her age.

Shiro held no such luck. “You said there was a distress call,” he urged, frowning. Whatever it was they had to tell them, it wasn’t good. And if Shiro was worried—and he was, Lance could tell—then Lance was extra worried.

“Yes, yes,” Coran said, gesturing to the control panel he stood before. “The Galra have invaded yet another planet, I’m afraid.”

“Another?” Keith questioned, arching an eyebrow. “You mean there are planets out there other than Earth that they haven’t conquered yet?” Allura flinched, and no one missed that. Keith stiffened, going ramrod straight. “Allura.”

She wouldn’t meet their eyes. “I’m certain there are, the universe is vast even in terms of those planets beyond the still yet grips of the Galra. But…. Yes, the distress call came from the Terra Firma Quadrant.”

Cold fear settled in the pit of Lance’s stomach. Earth.

Hunk nearly swayed. “You mean, Earth? Our Earth? The ones where our families still are?” He looked very green. Lance didn’t blame him—his thoughts immediately flashed to his parents, his siblings. The ones who must have thought him dead, after all these months.

Coran nodded gravely. “I’m afraid so, my boy. We received a transmission from an Earth vessel hailing itself the Orion not even half a varga ago. It was a broadcast to all emergency channels, unfortunately, so we couldn’t respond.”

“That’s one of the Lunar Stations,” Pidge breathed. “People live in those, Allura. Civilians.”

“Yes, well, it seems we do have one small advantage,” Allura amended quietly. “The Galra haven’t seemed to have noticed the inhabitation of Earth’s moon. Granted, after that broadcast, it is very possible that the Galra know, now,” she added, her face still pinched as though the words themselves hurt her tongue.

Shiro took a deep, shaking breath, one that didn’t instill Lance with the usual confidence that oozed from their leader. “Can you show us the broadcast? We might be able to get more information out of it than you two could. No offense,” he added hastily.

Coran waved his hands. “None taken, Number One.” He turned to the control panel and tapped a few keys, before the transmission appeared on the hologram screen. A man Lance didn’t recognize in Garrison uniform appeared on the screen, looking harried. Behind him, about fifty personnel scrambled to maintain the controls of the bridge.

::This is the ILS Orion, broadcasting to all friendly parties. If there are any out there.:: The man cleared his throat. He had never done this before, Lance thought bitterly. Had never had to. ::I am Commander Henry Kravitz, of the United States of America—er, of Earth. I am the commanding officer of this Lunar Station, and we are in need of immediate assistance.::

::Approximately a year and a half ago, one of our exploration teams went missing from one of the moons of Pluto. Half a year ago, one crewmember from that team returned in a crash landing aboard an alien vessel, and promptly went missing from Garrison Custody.:: Lance cast a sideways glance over to Shiro, who gripped the back of his chair so tightly the metal of it crumpled slightly under his Galra prosthetic.

::Three Garrison cadets went missing from the academy the same night of the crash,:: the Commander continued. ::We attempted to make contact by means of the wrecked vessel. It took months of recovery and salvage, but we finally managed to get the ship’s communication functioning. We had hoped that we would find answers to our missing crew and cadets… but what we found was beyond our worst nightmares.::

“They’re talking about us,” Hunk murmured, wide-eyed and horrorstruck. Honestly, Lance could relate. That cold dread had settled deep in his bones, and he found, for once, he was completely speechless.

Pidge shushed him, eyes glued to the hologram.

::…the ships arrived scarcely a fortnight ago, opening fire without discrimination. We managed to evacuate approximately five hundred thousand people, worldwide, to the Lunar Stations before our bases were overrun. We have no communication with Earth any longer. We have no idea how many survivors there are, if any. We don’t know what the hostiles want. We have little in the way of defense, besides a paltry few turret guns. Our stations are hiding in the Moon’s shadow, at present, and this message is encrypted to only the emergency channels, but there’s no telling how long it is before we are discovered.::

::It’s a shot in the dark, but we’re hoping that if there are hostile aliens out there, there might be some friendlies, too. So please…:: Commander Kravitz took off his hat, fury and fear clear upon his face. ::If you see this transmission, if you understand it, please send us your aid. The future of humankind depends on it.::

The transmission cut out, leaving only a terrible silence on the bridge of the Castle of Lions.

#voltron #voltron legendary defender #fic: beacon #chapter 1 #reunion fic #angst with a happy ending #lance #pidge #hunk #shiro #keith #allura #coran

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lets-talk-about-yoi · 8 years ago

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YOI/Captive Prince Crossover aka Evidence that I have no self-control

Based on this test post

Nicaise gazes up at the tall building with the words “Skate Central” attached in a tackyily aggressive font just above the entrance. He decides. “I don’t want to go in.”

“Nicaise…” Laurent begins.

“No, I’m not going in.”

“Nicaise, you are the one who begged us to take you here.”

Damen, quietly, speaks. “If he doesn’t want to go in, we can’t make him.”

“He’s going in, Damen. We drove all the way here for him to go ice skating and he’s going ice skating. He’s just pretending he’s scared because he knows that works on you.”

“What? No it doesn’t.” Normally, there would be eye-contact and a tense moment followed by Damen accepting Laurent’s statement as truth, but Laurent has no time for such games. Nicaise is trying to distract them.

“Nicaise,” Laurent begins. “Your father and I are going in. You can either come with us, or stay out here until we are finished.”

Nicaise narrows his eyes at Laurent in a surprisingly effective attempt for a thirteen-year-old to look intimidating. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” Laurent meets Nicaise’s glare with his own look of icy goading. The two of them love to push each other’s limits and Damen has learned to stand back and let the two of them silently duke it out. It’s safer than trying to intervene.

The moment stretches on.“Fine,” Nicaise breaks first. “But we’re leaving after twenty minutes.”

“An hour,” Laurent counters.

Nicaise tries again. “Thirty minutes.”

“Forty-five,” Laurent says with an air of finality.

“Deal.” Nicaise spins around and walks briskly to the entrance, leaving his parents behind.

Damen decides it is safe to speak. “I think he needs to spend less time with you.”

“Don’t worry, he has your over-developed sense of pride.”

“I have an over-developed sense of pride?”

Laurent leans up and quickly pecks Damen’s smiling lips. “Let’s go in before he verbally eviscerates someone.” Laurent reaches for Damen’s hand before they both walk towards the entrance, grinning.

They reach the rink after apologizing profusely to the young lady behind the ticket counter for Nicaise striding in without paying and take seats on the bleachers. Not too close, of course, but close enough that they could reach Nicaise in case something happened. Ice skating could be dangerous, after all. They sit and watch Nicaise valiantly try to skate around the perimeter of the rink, holding onto the wall most of the time for some time until it happens.

There are other people at the rink, of course, of varying skill levels, but one of them has taken interest in Nicaise. A young boy, about Nicaise’s age, skates towards him. Damen and Laurent both tense, awaiting the verbal altercation in which Nicaise is often involved. The second tick by. The boys exchange words. Miraculously, there are no punches swung, not even tears. The boy appears to be instructing Nicaise on how to skate properly, his own figure skates gleaming white next to Nicaise’s rented ones.

“I’m getting a snack. Do you want anything?” Damen whispers to Laurent. Laurent shakes his head. Neither of them take their eyes off their son.

Damen does manage to tear his gaze away long enough to make it to the snack bar, though. There’s only one person in front of him and he’s speaking rapidly to the cashier in another language. Damen pulls out his phone while he waits. There’s a text from Nikandros about plans for next weekend. He’ll have to talk to Laurent, of course, but if today continues to go well he has a feeling they’ll be back at the ice rink. Damen is broken from his ponderings by a body hitting him.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Damen’s shirt is wet. The man is holding a now half empty cup.

“It’s just water, I promise—“

“It’s okay, really—“

“That was so clumsy of me, I didn’t even—“

“I shouldn’t have been standing so close. It’s my fault.”

There’s a slight pause where they both consider what to do now.

“I have towels—in our bag—please, let me—“

“All right.”

“Good.”

Damen lets the man lead the way to a spot on the opposite set of bleachers. There are three gym bags lined up on the lowest bench. The man reaches into the one closest to them and pulls out a crisp white towel.

“Here.”

Damen takes the towel with one hand and untucks his shirt with the other. “Thanks.”

“I’m Yuuri, by the way.”

“Damen.”

“I haven’t seen you here before.”

“My husband and I brought our son here for the first time today.” Even after all this time, Damen still felt a little thrill at the words: my husband, our son. It was still surreal at times. “He loves watching ice skating and has been begging us to take him here. We thought it was just a phase, but after two months of nagging we finally caved.”

“Which one is he?” Yuuri asks, genuinely, not in that obligatory small-talk way other people did.

Damen looks up from where he’s wiping down his torso. “That one.” Nicaise is on the other side of the rink from them, still with the other boy. They’ve made it away from the wall now, which is progress.

“Oh, he’s the one with Alexei.”

“Yours?” Damen asks even though he assumes the answer is “yes.”

Yuuri laughs. “Yes, Alex is mine.” Damen can sense the pride and wonder in Yuuri’s tone. He understands the feeling. They continue watching the two boys. Alex skates around for a bit and does an impressive jump for someone so small.

“He’s very good.” There’s no flattery. Damen can recognize skill and hard work when he sees it.

“Yes, he is. He’ll have his Junior debut soon.”

“Oh, you compete?”

Yuuri flushes. “Yes, well—“ They are interrupted.

“Yuuri! Did you see Alexei’s triple axel?” A new man is approaching them. This one taller with platinum hair.

“Yes, Viktor. It��s getting cleaner.”

“He’ll be doing quads in no time.” It takes a moment for Viktor to register the unknown new person. “Hello, I’m so sorry. Viktor Katsuki-Nikiforov.”

“Damen Theomediades-du Vere.” The two shake hands.

“Damen’s son is the one with Alex.”

“Yes, I was wondering who that was. He looks new. Are you new?”

Damen laughs. “Yes, we’re new.”

“Wonderful! Your son…”

“Nicaise.”

“Nicaise! He is doing very well for his first time. Hardly falling at all!”

“Yes, well, all the ballet probably helps with his balance I guess.”

“Ballet?” Viktor seems intrigued, but he doesn’t get the chance to continue.

“Papa! Papa! Did you see my triple axel?” Alex slides to a graceful stop right at the edge of the rink.

“Yes золотко. It’s getting very clean. Uncle Yuri has been helping, hasn’t he?”

Alex laughs, bright and flute-like. “Yes, he has.” He turns to Damen. “You’re Nicaise’s dad, aren’t you? I know because he didn’t want me to come over here with me.”

“Yes, I am. And you’re Alex,” Damen answers.

“Alexei Toshiya Katsuki-Vikiforov,” the boy says proudly, pronouncing every syllable precisely.

“You’re a very talented skater Alexei Toshiya Katsuki-Nikiforov,” Damen also pronounces every syllable precisely and Alex beams.

“I’m going to go to the Olympics and I’m going to win even more gold medals than my Dads combined!”

Damen almost asks what that means, but it is at that precise moment that Nicaise, apparently bored with being left alone on the ice, glides next to Alex. He has to hold onto the edge of the rink to stop himself.

“Dad, it’s been forty-five minutes, but—“ Nicaise’s eye widen, almost comically. He frantically glances between Yuuri and Viktor’s faces. “Katsuki—Viktor—Yuuri—oh my god.”

Damen, concerned at his usually eloquent, if not abrasive, son’s apparent lack of communication skills, brings his full attention to his son. “Nicaise, are you all right?” Nicaise doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“You’re living legends Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki.” He then rounds on Alex. “You didn’t tell me your dads were famous!”

This wound up being very long but I am not sorry.

золотко [ zolotko ] means “my gold” (apparently. please correct me if I’m wrong)

#yuuri on ice #captive prince #lamen #laurent of vere #damianos #damen of akielos #viktuuri #viktor nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #yoi #my post #fanfiction #yoi crossover #captive prince ice skating #captive prince crossover #nicaise

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lotus0kid · 8 years ago

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Hi and happy anniversary!! If you're still taking propmpts/questions, can I ask for a Seconds update? Did Hiero and Ives ever again try to reach out to Hamish and Phoebe? Thanks for all the great fics :)

HN/HM/OE/R: Anniversary Fic the 14th

((This follows the events of this fic. Thanks for prompting!))

Phoebe knows every creak and sigh in the house onMagnolia. Right now she wishes shedidn’t, because every sound has a memory attached to it, and at night whenshe’s alone in bed they threaten to drown her in grief. But she chose to stay, after the busted door andwindow were replaced and the blood was mopped up and her mother’s butchered bodywas unhooked from the basement ceiling. She stayed for Carly, and for herself. She didn’t want to see an updated version of her own childhood play outfor her daughter- the sudden, violent absence of a parental figure, the hastymove, the construction of a brittle new life. She didn’t want to end up like Essie- peeking through the blinds,waiting for her doom, eventually too scared to even set foot outside.

She can’t do it. Shewon’t. So she stayed, and a yearpassed. It crawled along, trudgingtoward the first anniversary. One wholeyear without her mother. She and Carlycouldn’t even mourn in peace. They hadto be watched at all times, just in case visitors arrived. The pair of monsters that brought this horrordown on them. Phoebe’s repulsed fearratcheted up for weeks before the actual day arrived. She barely dared to let it start unwindingafter the anniversary passed with no sightings of Hiero or Ives. She’s three weeks into the second year, andshe still can’t relax.

Hamish, sweetheart that he is, practically begged for her tolet him buy a plane ticket to Savannah. Phoebe knows it was little more than stubborn pride that forced her toface the first anniversary alone. Thathasn’t stopped her from Skyping with Hamish every spare minute though. She still can’t explain it, but nothing makesher feel better quite like looking into his eyes and hearing his voice.

Good night, Phoebe,she calls up the memory of their latest parting, in hopes it might drown outthe painful memories and let her sleep. But then, she hears something.

Phoebe bolts upright in bed, not daring to breathe as shelistens. There. A little creak, whereno creak should be except when someone is walking in the living roomdownstairs. Heart pounding, Phoebe slipssilently out of bed and goes to the lock box on her dresser. She digs the key out of the drawer below and opensit. Gun drawn and held ready in bothhands, she pads out of her bedroom and along the hall. She pauses at the top of the stairs andlistens. She hears nothing, which meansnothing.

She prays whoever is down there heard her and made theirescape. Or, no, she wants them to stillbe there, so she can catch them. Ofcourse she does.

She inches down the stairs, gun aimed toward the livingroom. To her guilty dismay, she sees a petitefigure standing at the fireplace mantel, red-nailed hands gripping it on eitherside of Essie’s urn. Stepping onto theground floor, Phoebe takes careful aim at her twin sister’s head. Her thumb moves to the hammer, nudging itback a bare millimeter.

“Wow,” Hiero says, nearly causing her own demise as Phoebe startles. She half-turns, swinging from the mantel withone hand as she directs a dull glare at Phoebe. “You’re really gonna just shoot me, in cold blood, right here in thefucking den?”

Phoebe doesn’t answer. Can’t really, while her own face is staring at her.

“You know my brains’d splatter all over our mother’surn. Bullet might actually go rightthrough me, spill her ashes all over the place. Is that the plan? Messy as hell.”

“Shut up,” Phoebe mutters, “Get on your knees. Hands behind your head. You’re under arrest.”

A red smile stretches across Hiero’s face as she does asinstructed. “Like you could even getcuffs on me,” she giggles merrily, “I’d like to see you try.”

Phoebe creeps forward, even as she puzzles over how tosubdue Hiero without putting a bullet in her.

“You don’t even have cuffs on you. I don’t see a phone either. How’re you gonna call for back-up and keepthat gun on me, sis? I’m so curious.”

“I said shut up,” Phoebe growls. She really didn’t think this through. Why the hell didn’t she bring her phone? Or at the very least call Liz or McVee fromher room? Even the possibility ofHiero’s presence scrambles her brain.

“Guess you could have your little girl call 911. But then, I’ll bet she doesn’t know about herAuntie Hiero yet.”

The gun’s cocked by the end of her sentence.

Hiero’s eyes widen, but not with fear. “Ooh, now things are gettinginteresting. What’re you gonna do? Shoot me and claim self-defense. It might work, long as no one figures out I wason my knees. Unarmed. Helpless. Bet they’d give you a medal.”

“SHUT UP!” Phoebe shouts, hard breaths issuing from hernose, fingers starting to ache from her death grip on the gun.

Silence rings between them, only broken by a door openingupstairs. Phoebe’s heart stops.

“Mommy,” Carly calls down, “Are you watching a movie?”

Phoebe swallows hard. Hiero wags her eyebrows. “Yeah,sweetie, sorry it was too loud. Go tobed now, okay? See you in the morning.”

“But can I-?”

“Carly!” Phoebe barks, “Go to bed.”

“... Okay.”

Hiero twists one hand so just the wrist touches herhead. She wiggles her fingers in a wavetoward the stairs while silently singing the words, Bye, sweetie! When Carly’sdoor shuts, Hiero coos, “Ain’t she a little angel?”

“Why the hell are you even here?” Phoebe asks in a furiouswhisper.

Hiero rolls her eyes. “Duh, to visit our mother. I knowyou know it’s been a year now.”

“A year and three weeks.”“Well, yeah, had to wait for the cops to quit hovering, didn’t I?”

“As if you actually care,” Phoebe snarls, “She neverwould’ve been in danger if you hadn’t shown up!” To her horrified embarrassment, tears well upin Phoebe’s eyes. She dares to take ahand off the gun to swipe them away.

For some reason, Hiero doesn’t attack. She frowns at the floor. “I wish I didn’t care, okay? But I do, and it sucks. You know I got to talk to her once. Like, as me. Same night Boyd... Anyway, shesaid she loved me, and missed me. Glad Igot to hear that, at least. It helps.”

“It helps?” Phoebe echoes incredulously, “You are acannibal.”

Anger sparks in Hiero’s eyes. “That doesn’t mean I don’t got feelings! About our mother. The woman who abandoned me, with some notnice people.” Anger turns to coldcontemplation. “I wonder how you’d’vefaired. In the Congregation.” The wordcomes out in a venomous drawl that chills Phoebe’s blood. “You have no idea what I’ve beenthrough. What was done to me.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to eat people.” Phoebe is very close to sure about this.

“I’ll take what I want from this world, because sure as fucknothing’s been given to me. I will feed. And I’ll grow strong. Stronger ‘n you can even imagine. It’s really not all that accurate to call mea cannibal, when I ain’t exactly human anymore.” She lets out another cheery giggle, her eyesfar too bright.

“Is this some more of Ives’ bullshit?” Phoebe inquires,“Where is he?”

Hiero rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah, sure. Grab a pen, I’llwrite down the address for you.” Herirritation dissolves before she says, “He did want me to ask though, did youget the plane tickets?”

Phoebe’s lips thin as her mind flies to the envelope sittingin her nightstand drawer that she really should’ve reported to McVee two monthsago.

“You know Francis and I got a ton of frequent flyer miles. So, y’know, whenever you wanna go see Hamish, or vice versa, justholler.”

“That is so sweet of you,” Phoebe simpers sarcastically.

“Don’t mention it, sis,” Hiero sneers right back, “That’swhat family’s for.”

A surge of disgust and anger allows Phoebe to sight down thebarrel again. For once, Hiero says nothing,just dares Phoebe to shoot with nothing but a mirror of her own steady gaze.

Hiero is a killer. Ifshe leaves this house on her own, more people will die. Phoebe knows that. For her own peace of mind, she wants Hieroand Ives locked up where they can’t torment her or Carly or Hamish ever again. But she has no back-up, and no way to get itwithout involving Carly. If she shoots,Carly will come running. Both of thoseoutcomes are untenable. She doesn’tbother wondering if she could subdue Hiero in a hand-to-hand fight. A part of her brain she chooses not to dwellon knows Hiero is far stronger than she looks. Stronger than it’s possible for her to be. Faster too. Even with a gun, Phoebe is out-classed. She’s probably been at Hiero’s mercy this entire time.

Hiero smirks, as if she can read Phoebe’s dismal conclusionon their shared face. “Can I go now,officer?”

She doesn’t wait. Ina blink, she’s up and gone, leaving behind nothing but a breeze and agiggle. Phoebe stands in the livingroom, feeling pathetic with her cocked gun and vanished perp. Her heart pulses with sick thuds against herribs. She stumbles to Essie’s urn, freehand gripping the mantel where Hiero’s did. For better or worse, she chooses to believe Essie would want both of herdaughters alive.

---

“I hate her.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do, she’s a bitch.”

“She doesn’t understand us.”

“She could try!”

“We’re cannibals, dearest.”

“We’re family!”Hiero wails from where she’s draped across Ives’ lap.

“Did she get the tickets?” he asks gently, stroking herhair.

Hiero sighs, “Yeah. Might even use ‘em too- she looked guilty enough. Ugh, can you imagine? Feeling guiltyover plane tickets? Godday-um! You try to do something nice for someone...”

“True love will conquer all, my Hiero,” Ives says, bendingdown to kiss her temple, “Never fear.”

“Someday they’ll appreciate us,” she asserts, “Just takestime. And time’s what we got, so itworks out.”

“That’s right.” Ives’lips move below her ear, and along her neck. Hiero giggles and twists until she can pull him down over her.

Family is at once perfectly simple and devilishlycomplicated, Hiero is finding. It makesher a little nervous about the future, but she’s always been the type to plungeahead even when the going gets rough. She just doesn’t want to lose her roots, not now. She wishes things were different. At the very least, she wishes she could’vebrought her and Francis’ happy news to Essie herself, not a cold silent urn ona mantel. Hiero chooses to believe Essiewould be pleased their little family is growing.

#anyem #fanfiction #seconds #high noon #hamish macbeth #operation endgame ravenous #deweymay

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dazais-guardian-angel · 8 years ago

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Bungou Stray Dogs post-anime manga thoughts

By “thoughts” I really just mean “Dana rambles about things everyone already knows and doesn’t need to read again about chapters 38 through 48.5″ lol, but just wanted to throw some stuff out here at random. This is extremely long and half-meta-y, half crying, and if you care to read all of this you deserve a medal and my appreciation lmao.

Chapter 39 is the one I had seen mentioned in a couple places before, but had no idea why it was a standout one. But god damn do I see why now; this is probably one of the best chapters in the entire series in my opinion, and it makes all of the stuff shown so far before this about Atsushi’s treatment at the orphanage look like child’s play. Jfc that was so hard to read; I can only imagine how utterly traumatizing this will be to watch if we eventually get a season 3, oh my GOD Atsushi my poor, poor precious baby, I just want to hug you so so tightly and give you so much love ;____; *cries* But I love how the headmaster came back into play, something I didn’t expect to happen, but it was perfect and a great catalyst for more character development for Atsushi. What I greatly appreciated and respected the most about this though was that they didn’t do what I began to fear they were doing, and that’s that they didn’t try to redeem the guy despite giving him a sad backstory. They gave him depth by giving a reason for his cruelty towards Atsushi in the form of a similar past for him and the fact that Atsushi’s life was saved later down the line because of all the hatred he built up from everything that was done to him, and by making the headmaster want to come to see him to praise him for his efforts in defeating the guild... but despite all this, at the end of the day, Dazai straight-up lets Atsushi know that he has absolutely no obligation to forgive the man for the hell he put him through despite these things he’s just learned, and I’m so so glad. So glad. The second point may be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that what the headmaster did to him also gave him such cripplingly low self-esteem and self-worth issues that plagued him all the way until the end of the guild arc, so yeah. It’s actually kind of similar to the situation with how Dazai trained Akutagawa; it was necessary in his mind, because him enduring that was the only way the latter would survive the mafia, but it was still a very bad way to go about it (not that I blame Dazai completely, cause he was just doing what is natural to him, but yeahhhh). In the end, with this chapter, I can appreciate the headmaster as a character more and understand his reasons, but I cannot forgive him, as Atsushi doesn’t. And okay, then they kind of backtrack on the point they’d just made by having Dazai tell Atsushi that when a person’s father dies, it’s only natural for them to cry... gdi Dazai, Atsushi’s real father isn’t the headmaster; it’s Fukuzawa, or Kunikida, or to be the most accurate, YOUUUUUUUU alksjdffjkldlkdj *sniffs*

On another note, that line from Dazai made me bawl like a baby for an entirely different reason *looks at Dark Era and weeps softly* ...Dazai cried: confirmed

So yes, that chapter was beautiful and perfectly done despite being painful as fuck, and only made me love my precious kitty son more ugh; definitely one of my favorite chapters.

Chapter 40 is the beginning hint to the feels train of hell regarding Kunikida that only gets worse later on. :’) But I’m so glad he saves Aya; she’s friggin adorable and Kunikida’s very serious turning down of her marriage proposal to him made me laugh way more than it probably should have lmao. Also always nice to see more of Dazai pulling shit on Kunikida like in the older chapters/season 1; his faces are priceless looooooooool.

Chapter 41 is what I’d been waiting for; I got spoiled on Gin being Akutagawa’s sister awhile ago somehow, and man did the reveal not disappoint. Haven’t laughed so hard with BSD in quite a long time (actually this is probably the funniest part to date lol); this chapter was just the best LMAOOOOOO. The misunderstandings and miscommunications were off the charts, Higuchi’s actions and assumptions being the best part of the whole thing she totally was crushing on Gin there, let’s be real lol... I really really hope we see more of the Akutagawa siblings interacting eventually; this was the first we’d heard of it, and the implications are really fascinating. Would love to know what Gin thinks about all the stuff that happened prior, like with the Guild and on the boat before that so much angst potential, and just I want to see more of them! It’d be interesting to see her and Atsushi interact, in particular... Other than that, I also expect Katai to come back into play eventually in the current arc; we shall see his ability is the most oddly specific and weirdest I’ve seen yet lol

Kid in the Port Mafia who was A’s subordinate didn’t deserve that. :( RIP nice kid who we didn’t even get the name of; the agency/mafia will avenge you I hope

Love how Kyouka’s parents continue to be brought up, and that we finally get answers about them, and Demon Snow, here. It’s very sweet and sad. :’) Only makes me love Kyouka more. Kouyou has always confounded me about how I should feel about her (also, she has a demon ability too that looks similar to Kyouka’s/her mom’s, but Kouyou can’t be related to her, so...?), but by this point she seems to genuinely support Kyouka being at the agency, and even goes undercover to further help her understand her ability, so I can respect that. The information about Demon Snow also begs the question of what other abilities could be inherited (Akutagawa has Rashomon, but Gin has no ability, so nothing there); maybe we’ll see more of that at some point much later.

And Lucy continues to appear frequently and I am just so, so happy and thankful; bless Asagiri for giving my daughter more screentime (pagetime?) and not leaving me hanging with her after the end of the guild arc... I love her so much alskdjfbfjdklskdjfbg *cries* she’s so awesome and her relationship with Atsushi is just :’’’) <333 definitely one of my favorite characters. the thing with their clothes in this chapter LMAO

also whenever Ango shows up, even if it’s just for three pages to relay some essential exposition and then disappear again, I automatically promptly lay down and die OTL

I LOVE that the guild is being brought back; seriously this makes me so happy. Fitzgerald interested me somewhat in the last arc even though I couldn’t really say why, and now, I actually love what they’re doing with him, like so much. His character in chapter 44 and especially 45 was so much more likeable than anything we’d seen of him yet, and it looks like they’re trying to give him some sort of redemption arc, which makes me thrilled, like oh my goodness. I’m not going to go as far as to say Fitzgerald has completely changed, definitely no; he’s still doing everything he’s doing for the sake of getting the Book, and he still cannot let go of money, which is what inflates his ego, and he won’t be able to change for the better completely until he is able to stop associating having money with having value as an individual. Unfortunately, the nature of his ability has trained him to have this mindset, so it’s not going to be easy. But he’s already making some good, if small, progress; he brought that murderer to justice, which let the doctor be found innocent like he should have been, and then doubled his wages (Fitzgerald says he only did all that because it was the most financially logical plan, but c’mon, don’t try to tell me there wasn’t some ounce of humanity/kindness in his actions). I hope he keeps going down this path to improve as a person. Plus like how can you not love his adorable excitement at doing mundane things now like shopping smartly for things on sale??? and pulling a Phoenix Wright in court and doing the most badass mic drop in history??? He’s such a sinnamon roll now omg; I love him (Fitzgerald/Pots OTP for life >.>) Steinbeck will possibly help give him a push in the right direction; right now he seems angry at and dissatisfied with how Fitzgerald seemed to revert back to before, but if he saw what he did afterwards, I think he’d be interested. Louisa is a good companion for him but she’s too submissive/worshipping of him to tell him what he really needs to hear; Steinbeck could do that. So with this redemption going on, it may be leading to a parallel of last arc where the agency and the mafia had to team up to fight the guild, whereas this time, the guild has to team up with one or both of them (even if just in action and not in words too) to defeat the new and incredibly more dangerous threat, Fyodor. Only time will tell. My friend made an excellent post elaborating on this little side plot with Fitzgerald and further speculation here; she talked about it more eloquently than I have so I recommend it~

And speaking of Louisa earlier, I’m so incredibly happy she’s getting focus??? She was one of my favorite guild members in that arc, but I always thought she’d just be an aesthetic favorite... but no, now she’s actually having a character and I can’t wait to see more of her (the tidbit about her and Lucy being friends of sorts was so sweet ;w;) as well! <3 Seriously, so many minor faves of mine I didn’t expect to come back, some not ever, are getting a lot of care and focus; I’m so blessed ahhhh now if we could just get more Poe appearances and more Oda references/flashbacks, I can die happy asdfggjlk (and also cry a lot at the latter)

Then, finally, there’s the current arc/crisis, whatever you want to call it. It’s been building up vaguely sooner than this in a few other chapters, but now it’s finally getting going and oh god is it awful. It was shown in chapter 42 that Fyodor is a master planner, manipulator, and mass-murderer, and he does it barely doing any heavy lifting on his own. He’s legitimately terrifying, and although I do loathe him with every fiber of my being (and you bet your ass I will even more if this situation ends the way I’m dreading it will end), I can’t deny his ingenuity, and he is a great villain. Mori is too, but this guy is even better (worse) and it’s absolutely sickening. Letting the agency and the mafia destroy each other in under 48 hours by targeting their two leaders, meanwhile taking out their top strategist AND continuing to emotionally manipulate the people involved and sending them in circles until the time runs out is the smartest way for him to work towards getting what he wants, which is... death to all ability wielders, to look for the Book...? Not quite clear on that yet, but Fyodor is anything but straightforward when talking about his motivations so lol.

At the moment, Fukuzawa is dying, Mori is dying, and unless a miracle occurs one or both of them will be dead by the end of this. As much as I would definitely not be adverse to our resident douchey vampire cosplayer pervert being offed, and especially for the sake of the agency’s best grandpa, I loathe to admit that without him the mafia as characters would most likely fall apart... and groans his banter with Elise is stupidly cute and entertaining ignoring the creepy factor that’s always in the back in my head. Character-wise, I wouldn’t cry too hard if he died after all, he killed Oda, the bastard, but realistically and writing-wise I know it’s not really feasible for it to happen. ....But Fukuzawa on the other hand can’t die, okay, h-he just can’t; the very thought of it makes me want to cry. :’’’’’( I know everyone is pointing out the foreshadowing and everything but... the agency would be absolutely wrecked, Kunikida and Ranpo and Dazai especially don’t even get me started on how Dazai might react at having yet another father figure and friend die on him, just don’t... I just don’t see them getting over it for a long, long time. ....just.... please don’t kill the world’s #1 grandpa please *lays down and cries* (also can we just talk about Lucy taking him into Anne’s room and watching over him protectively and worriedly at Atsushi’s request; good lord I love her even more than I already did before :’’’’) <3 )

Dazai is currently out of commission, which is something that has yet to happen in the series until now. It makes for an interesting change-up, since he can’t swoop in with his intellect and knowledge with a master plan this time, which gives the others a chance to shine but also makes me fret more. Then again, it’s implied that he knew the sniper was there and let himself get shot, so who knows, maybe he’ll manage to do something even still. Kinda doubt it though. Either way, I hate seeing my bby hurt; get well soon Dazai. ;w;

My heart breaks for Ranpo; I haven’t read the light novel about him and Fukuzawa yet (I don’t think it’s fully translated yet anyway, and not sure when or if it will be), but I’ve gathered that Ranpo cares a lot about him. :( I’ve always been rather neutral on him, his belittling and ignoring of Atsushi in the beginning chapters/first season annoying the hell out of me, but he’s matured lately I feel like and I can respect and like him more. I hope he doesn’t lose Fukuzawa. ;w;

Tanizaki is a badass; I’m glad to see some solo action from him. His ability is more deadly and advantageous than I even thought; he could be a master assassin if he was in the mafia. 0____0 don’t mess with him; he’ll fuck you up lol

And then finally there’s Kunikida, and good lord I have never loved Kunikida more than I do now. He’s another character I was neutral on for a good long while in the first two seasons; I know Dazai is annoying but it eternally bothered me how Kunikida treats his suicidal habits as a joke and doesn’t think for a second that they may be very much painfully real (then again, none of the agency members take Dazai’s suicide attempts seriously, so I can’t blame just him, but ughhhhh). Episodes 6 and 7 in season one were obviously meant to characterize him, but that arc confused the hell out of me so unfortunately I didn’t get the intended feelings from it. But damn, now I feel like I’m finally seeing what kind of person Kunikida really is, and it hurts. This was being led up to from chapter 40, except there, there was a happy ending... this time, not so. And it was terrible to see. Kunikida is a kind person, someone who wants to do as much good as he can even knowing that sometimes it’s just not possible to save everyone, and it was utterly heartbreaking and sickening to have to see him witness what he did, completely fail to save that child despite how hard he tried to do so, thanks to fucking Fyodor. And now he’s breaking down over it and I just want to hug him so badly??? Someone, hug him, please. Kunikida you don’t deserve this suffering. ;______;

also, I’m so upset about this that I’m not even going to cross it out; Asagiri why do you insist on blowing up children??? why did you have to make THAT IMAGE OF KUNIKIDA GETTING BLOWN BACK BY THE BLAST AND HIS SUBSEQUENT REACTION TO IT LOOK ALMOST EXACTLY LIKE THE OTHER TIME. WHY DO YOU HURT ME IN THIS WAY I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE. *screams and sobs* who wants to place bets on how Dazai might react when he hears Fyodor resorted to killing kids to get what he wants; eyyyyyy actually let’s not imagine that :’) .........slaughter him Dazai.

Atsushi is currently our only hope right now for saving the president! Please do your best, kitty son. And I picked the worst time to catch up with this series because everything is so uncertain right now. :’’’)

Random other things I can think of that we need information on at some point/things I want to see happen:

Q is the main one. He disappeared as far as I know after the Dazai and Chuuya team-up and we’ve yet to learn his whereabouts. His ability is one of the most deadly in the series so he could possibly be used to their advantage here? Who knows, but his absence is suspicious to me and I hope maybe it will be addressed if not in this arc then later.

Hawthorne is currently... possessed or something. Who knows if he’ll get saved and rejoin any of the guild members still lingering around now in the story; I hope he’s saved at least. He wasn’t one of my favorites before, but I feel bad for him. :/

More information on the Book of course, as well as on Fyodor, but that’s a given.

AGATHA. She was introduced as a member of a third organization back when the guild and Fyodor’s group was first introduced; I want to see her again and learn what she does, and what her ability is!!! Agatha Christie is definitely my favorite irl writer out of all the ones in BSD, and the only one I’ve read multiple works from, so I was super excited to see her appear and I can’t wait for her to truly come into play.

Lovecraft is still nearby (sort of lol) and has ties to Steinbeck; he could possibly come back.

This is more in general and has nothing to do with this arc (well, not entirely), but I’d like to see some of the side characters eventually get fleshed out more. Kenji and Chuuya are sorely in need of this, and to a lesser extent Yosano and Tanizaki/Naomi. Kenji is nothing more than a slightly disturbing ever-cheery personality, we haven’t gotten to see any of Chuuya’s inner thoughts and personality outside of Dazai really (which I desperately want, because he’s a fan favorite but I really can’t get that attached to him so far tbh), and I’d like to know the backstory behind Yosano and Mori’s mysterious past connection, as well as where Tanizaki and Naomi came from. The Black Lizard getting more focus would be nice as well. There’s so much else they can do with these characters, and as much as I adore Atsushi, Dazai, and Akutagawa, I hope we eventually see focus put on the others too. That has a chance of happening, and has already been happening sort of, this arc to some degree I think, which is nice. As much as I love this series, my main complaint with it would be that the pacing is kind of all over the place, and some of the filler is sort of redundant or doesn’t contribute much (then again, I attribute this feeling somewhat to how lackluster the first season of the anime felt to me, with its over-the-top slapstick and the Azure Messenger arc which even after a rewatch still confuses me lol, as well as with the very oddly placed episode 11 after the official start of the guild arc. Dark Era was very oddly placed but I appreciate it so much, not only because of how godly it was, but because without it I literally would have been so confused in the guild arc multiple times??? Manga y u assume that readers have definitely read the dark era novel....).

Long-term wish for the story: I want the agency, with Atsushi in particular, to realize that Dazai has a lot of emotional baggage and serious scars and depression from his life in the mafia, and for him to have his own arc where he heals, culminating in him finally being able to let out all of his grief about Oda and everything else and just have a good cry, because damn, Dazai is still a child if we’re being honest here, and he’s suffering so much; he needs a hug and I so desperately want to give it to him ;___; ...and some kind of make up with Ango pls? even if it’s just them no longer being enemies, and even if it’s just one conversation.... I want them to be able to talk at least once about what happened OTL

Other long-term wish: save Akutagawa pls; give the child happiness and comfort ugh and take him to a doctor; I worry about his health so much ffffff

Anyway, I think that’s that. So happy to be involved in this lovely family-feels filled hell now that’s not sarcasm, at least not completely hahah; can’t wait to see what exciting new places the series goes from here. :’) <3

also dazaiscans is awesome for scanlating this wonderful series for us, and for leaving the best comments in the margins that made my reading experience 100 times better and more laugh-filled; kudos to them! <3

#bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs spoilers #meta #personal posts #sort of meta lol #I have a lot of feels and a lot of thoughts and a whole lotta worries #*sips wine* further into hell I go

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mascandolasletras · 8 years ago

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The Case of the Prison-Monger

Hama Tuma

Great Expectations make frustrated men. Our parents, being realists, teach us from the outset not to yearn for big things – when you stretch up to reach higher things you drop what you had under your arms. Moral of the saying? Hold on to what you have and be satisfied. The more you want, the more chance you will lose what little you already have.

Still, we produce ambitious men. Anomalies, actually; a handful among millions. However, try to keep what you have is a standing order for all. Without exception. This is why an Ethiopian is surprised, even if opposed, at the extent to which the State goes to protect itself. Or, say, the Great Chairman himself. He has liquidated many of his close friends, he has struck alliances which change swiftly, he has ordered Terror and Massacres (what we call the TM diet) against the people, he has peddled the country’s sovereignty to the highest bidder (in this case none other than Russia which came big and fast with the item the Chairman needed most at the time – arms). From a rabid anti-socialist he has metamorphosed himself into the symbol of socialism in Africa (even if many say it is play-acting). All in order to keep what he has – absolute power.

The wife who expects affection and not love lives happily ever after with her husband who, like all husbands, spreads his love around. Parents who expect some consideration from their children and no more end up with disappointment. Pray to God but don’t expect miracles. Watch your health, but you may die soon. The less you expect, the less you get frustrated, and the greater is your happiness if you get more.

It is a philosophy of poverty and servility, you may say. Perhaps. Actually, it was expounded in a coherent form for the first time in the eighteenth-century manuscript by St Gebre the Poor. The manuscript, which read like a ‘How-to-live-satisfied-with-an-empty-stomach’ manual, could have sold well in the present weight-and-diet-conscious western world. It dealt not only with the filling capacities of a one-fruit-a-day-meal and warned how one can get fat and lazy by not exercising the mind, but it also advised believers on how to let ambition steam in its own pot and how to realize happiness through deprivation. A Chinese philosopher said to have plenty is to be confused. St Gebre said to want plenty is more than being confused, it is to court frustration, sin and eternal damnation. Next to Zarayacob, St Gebre is our only philosopher – and in themselves the two are also anomalies in this society of ours which looks at mental exercise with extreme contempt.

Over the years, the art of wanting little or being satisfied with what we have has become part of our culture. We do not even think about it, we just act by reflex. Contradictions and wars arise when our rulers want more. Take the late king. He raised the price of food and petrol. There we were, enjoying our starvation and famine, when he pops out with his price increase measures to take even the little we had left. He was reaching for more money, we rebelled and he lost what he had. A simplified but precise rendition of the revolution we had. Take the guerillas in the rural areas. They are seeking higher things like freedom, equality, peace and democracy. They want more than the slavery they have. The result? They lead a hard life of war and suffering, facing death and the TM diet. St Gebre wouldn’t have approved for sure.

Let it be said, however, that not all Ethiopians subscribe to the teachings of St Gebre. This is why we have upheavals, mutiny, unrest, wars and destruction. But the adherents of reduced expectations are still in the millions. It’s the only way to survive. When you live in the valley of the shadow of death you cherish life even if it is a mere existence. The case of the prison-monger was a good example of the philosophy of satisfaction with poverty. In my opinion, the man should have been given a medal (if not the Lenin Prize or the Chairman’s Medal of Valor, at least the Medal of Ingenuity in Accordance with the Teachings of Our Great Chairman). But let me not rush you… ‘Look at the accused,’ said the prosecutor pointing at the man in the Cage. ‘He’s young, I believe somewhere in his early thirties. He is robust, he is healthy. He could contribute to the building of the New Ethiopia. But no! For the last ten years, he has been continuously in and out of jails and prisons. As soon as he serves one sentence out he goes to commit another crime and to come back again. And each time he deliberately makes sure that the crime he commits does not get him the death sentence. He is an expert of the Articles of our Penal Code. He readily admits his crime every time he gets, or rather lets himself be, arrested. He has shown great inventiveness in managing to get himself behind bars. He is a prison addict, a real prison-monger. While in prison he studies via a correspondence school and is now in his third year of law. Can you imagine!?’

‘Our prisons are congested: we want to empty them. This prison-monger must, however, be punished. Up to now he has been arrested six times; if he reached the legal limit of ten then he would automatically get death, whatever the gravity of his crime. But he also knows this. I suspect he has plans to go up to the ninth with his petty crimes and prison sejours. How do we punish him? Do we send him back to prison? He wants that. To labour camps? He would be pleased. I think the best punishment is to set him free. If he goes to commit another crime, he should be arrested and set free again till he reaches his tenth arrest. Then we shall execute him. We want the prisoner freed, Comrade Major Judge.’

‘Objection, Your Honour!’ said the defence lawyer. ‘The accused admits his guilt. He has confessed to his crime and wants to pay for it. He has the right to be punished. , he has the duty to receive punishment. The law demands it. We can’t just set him free.’ ‘I agree,’ said the judge. ‘The prosecutor must realize that this is an open court with its own message to our enemies. So, we must hear what the accused has to say, at least. And then give him the necessary punishment. Proceed,’ he added to the defence counsel. ‘Thank you, Your Honour. I shall call the accused to the witness stand.’ The accused walked briskly to the witness stand – a healthy, athletic figure indeed. ‘You are Matteos Gudu?’ ‘Yes.’ A firm voice. ‘Is it true you have been in jail six times?’ ‘Very true.’ ‘What have you done this time?’ ‘Shoplifting.’ ‘Do you admit it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Are you a kleptomaniac?’ ‘No. But I am a prisonomaniac. I love prison.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I was born poor. I lived with my family – all eight of us – in one single room which was so small that my friends used to joke about it, by saying that every time I turned over in my sleep I left the room. As a result, big rooms and open space suffocate me. Reverse claustrophobia you can call it. In prison, where close to seventy of us are stacked in a room fit for twenty, I feel alive and at peace.’ ‘Come now! We know that even if you stay outside you can easily get a small room to rent. In fact, that is the only thing you can get if you are lucky.’ ‘Yes, I know that. It brings us to the second reason why I love prison. Money.’ ‘Money?’

‘You see, after my first stint in prison, I looked desperately for work. I couldn’t get any. I had lodging problems as well; you must know that I haven’t had any living relatives in this city for a dozen years or so. Broke, hungry, sleeping on the pavement – I was destined to be a guttersnipe. I refused to submit to this. I stole again and got back to prison. This time for a year. No lodging problem, food was little but regular and even if it does not arrive, you can do nothing about it really. So you don’t worry. In prison, you could say, I found happiness and calm. When they came to release me, I begged them to let me stay but they refused. But I went out and came back again.’

‘Prison is a punishment. How could you not feel the lack of freedom? Being cooped up in a little hole? Being unable to move around as you desire?’ ‘What is freedom, I ask you?' said the prison-monger. ‘Who is he who can roam freely in our country nowadays? You need permission. When you are hungry, worried about it, broke and with no place to sleep, freedom is an illusion. Your aching stomach does not enable you to sing with the birds or to roam like a well-fed ibex. You suffer and writhe, that’s all you get. But in prison, I found freedom even if I was hungry. My mind was at rest.’ ‘But you studied?’

‘That’s another thing which made prison lovely. In prison, I found a lot of intellectuals. They were ready to help me continue the studied I had interrupted a long time ago. I threw myself into books, I finished the school leaving certificate exams with honours and qualified for the university. I chose law since I am interested in this field. I am now in my third year.’ ‘Your teachers are anarchist?’ ‘They are political prisoners. We don’t discuss politics; I am not interested in it. But they are capable teachers and as you know the students who get the highest grades in the national exams are the ones in prison.’ ‘Theirs is a wasted life. Why do you fashion yours accordingly?’ ‘They are in prison for what they believe in. That’s their life. Mine: it would have been wasted on the outside. Can you guarantee me work? Do that and I will leave prison with joy.’ ‘I am a lawyer, not an employment agent. Maybe when you finish your studies, I could see. Anyway, don’t you feel ashamed to be a burden on the State?’ ‘I am not a burden on nobody. The State sends me to prison to punish me. I receive this willingly. Once in prison, I work, and I am now one of the best carpenters in the prison workshop.’ ‘You found no job as a carpenter outside prison?’ ‘Are you joking? There are hundreds of more able carpenters who are unemployed.’ ‘What about as a domestic servant? Or maybe you think that’s a lowly job?’ ‘No job is lowly if you need it. The servant field is saturated. Besides, not many people can afford servants these days. Others think maids and servants are becoming spies and are troublesome. So, no job.’ ‘Doesn’t it bother you to spend ten years of the prime of your life behind prison walls?’ ‘I told you no. you are in prison if you believe it to be so. Your house can be your prison. A palace can be a gilded prison for a king. The monk who shuts himself up in total isolation in a cave is not in prison. In prison, I met very many really free people.’ ‘Do you expect us to believe this?’ ‘I believe it.’ ‘What you want from life seems to be very little.’ ‘I yearn not for riches or high positions.’ ‘Commendable, indeed. But by being in prison, you try to escape the anguish and pain which gives life its salt.’ ‘Life has its miseries wherever you may be. King or beggar, free or a slave – each will get his share, though not equally.’ ‘Into each life some rain must fall…’ ‘It floods onto the poor. They try to dam it somewhat. My prison is such an attempt.’ ‘What sentence do you now expect for your crime?’ ‘I should be sent to prison for five years as Article 689 of the Penal Code states.’ ‘What if you are set free?’ ‘That will be a crime!’ The accused looked really shocked. ‘I have violated the law and I should be punished.’ ‘But if you are set free, would you commit a crime again?’ ‘I couldn’t avoid it. For the public good and mine, I belong in prison. To finish my studies as well. You know I can’t go to college on the outside with thousands of eligible students still on the university waiting list.’ ‘If you commit three more crimes, you will be killed.’ ‘Then death will be a relief indeed. Not punishment but real salvation.’ The prosecutor looked pensive. ‘You can cross-examine him,’ said the lawyer to the prosecutor. ‘I think you are insane!’ the prosecutor shot at the accused. The accused kept quiet. ‘I think you are a no-good lazy person,’ the prosecutor added. The accused remained silent. ‘I think you are a parasite who likes being one,’ stated the prosecutor. The accused said nothing. ‘I think you are a fellow-traveler of anarchists and a shame on your country,’ said the prosecutor. The accused just looked back at him. ‘I think being set free will fry your testicles to ashes,’ the prosecutor added in a matter-of-fact way. The accused looked startled but remained silent. ‘I think, Your Honour, I have no more questions,’ concluded the prosecutor. Judge Aytenfistu exhaled a lot of air and cleared his throat. The ritual over, he spoke. ‘You, the accused, you are a no-good, fast-talking, lazy, strange, crazy person. As the prosecutor said you are a parasite. You are also dangerous. Whoever finds joy in prison, whoever feels free in our jails goes against the order of things, goes against the expected. A cow can’t give birth to a puppy. Prison is punishment, not a source of calm and freedom. If such feelings as yours spread, our society will be in chaos. I agree with the prosecutor, you are hereby sentenced to immediate freedom.’ ‘But Judge…’ the accused began to protest. ‘No more! You are freed! Case dismissed!’ ‘You can’t do this! You must send me back to prison!’ the accused screamed. ‘Take him away!’ the judge ordered the policeman. As the policeman signaled the accused to get moving back to the Cage, the latter seemed to be struck by a revelation. He turned to the judge and what came out from his throat paralysed the whole court. ‘You call yourself a judge, you fat pig! You are an ignorant fool! Half the time you sleep on your bench! Your only qualification is your stupidity. I bet you are an impotent sissy. You…’ ‘SHUT UP!’ The scream came from the judge as well as from the prosecutor and the defense council. ‘You motherless squit!’ the judge fumed. ‘I will show you who is impotent. You castrated parasite! You can’t insult a judge and get off scot-free. I sentence you immediately to ten years of hard labour in the Robi Desert state farm. Take this dog away at once!’ the judge was beside himself. ‘Your Honour! That’s what he wants!’ protested the prosecutor. ‘That’s what this foul-mouthed son of a slut is going to get! Case dismissed. Court recess for ten minutes!’ The judge got up and walked out of the court angrily. Well, what can I say? The prosecutor growled at the accused, the defense lawyer did the same, the audience just stared. The policemen manhandled him. And the accused? If I ever saw a smile of happiness and satisfaction, there it was on his face. I wonder if St Gebre would have approved of such unorthodox methods to keep what little one has. The prison-monger went back, not to prison but to a state farm, and no one who knows state farms will say that they are not worse than prisons. The accused will even get anarchist teachers there. What more could he ask – a small over-filled room to sleep in, a piece of bread or two for the day, backbreaking work, possibility of study, no worrying, freedom. He had it made, the lucky prison-monger. Still, I wouldn’t trade places with him. I will cling to my own little world. Who is free; me or the prison-monger? As St Gebre said centuries ago, it’s a world of relative freedom and relative bondage.

#literature #african #english

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