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jawllines · 4 years ago

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“You’re really gonna go in there?” Y/N queries gently, and Harry only nods his head in response, reaching for the door handle. An urgent, delicate touch of Y/N’s hand startles him, looping around his wrist and dragging his attention toward her, “Shouldn’t we have a game plan if something is behind the door?” She asks, her hold on him tightening just a little, and Harry notes how soft her palm feels against his skin, “Like, let’s say we open the door and a behemoth is standing there, what do we do?”

“The only behemoth that could fit in this tiny room is the band from Poland, Babe, and I reckon they have better things to do on a Thursday night,” he retorts, clenching around the knob and tilting it down, “Now unless you want to hold hands in there. . .”

She lets go before he can finish, and he doesn’t have to look back at her face to know she’s irate. A small smile quirks at his mouth as he pushes his shoulder against the heavy door to aid him opening it, bracing himself to see something potentially horrid. . .

And there’s nothing.

Harry and Y/N are witches, they hate each other, and something’s coming

19K+ words

(A/N: Hiii!! So, I’ll be honest I know absolutely nothing about real witches at all, so what is in this story is not fact! it’s just an AU and doesn’t speak toward any of my real witches out there unless i accidentally got some things right. Happy reading, I really liked writing these guys I hope you like them just as much!!)

It was dark.

Both in the state of the sky and the feeling that slithered through Y/N’s body while she tended to the Brugmansia finally flowering in her garden. The shift in the air could have easily been inculpated by the cool breeze that blew past her face, shepherding clouds thick and heavy with autumn rain, but Y/N knew better than that. Those feelings typically bring her peace; the rattle of thunder soothes her aching bones while fat drops paint the pavement, wet the dirt to mud, and feed the drying grass.

This feeling made her bones rattle. It crawled beneath her skin like billions of tiny beetles unearthed within her vessels; her stomach churned, her shoulders were weighed down, there was a gnawing pain at her temples, so fierce she held her hand to them. The cold brass of her ring cools her heated skin. This feeling was vile, it was awful, for fuck sake what was causing it?

She stood from her crouched position and slid back into her store. Technically, she’d closed about three hours prior so she should have been home well by now, but when she’d finally gathered her things in her duffle at 12, she looked out the back window and noticed some of her moonflowers had begun to bloom. There was a small part of her that had been reluctant to step outside at all, but she needed to greet them and water them, no matter the odd, unfamiliar troubling sense that had initially confused her. She ignored it -- she thought maybe she was just nervous to say hi to them, sometimes she was.

(Flowers and plants hold a special connection with their caretaker, from a tiny seed to a flourishing garden, they place their lives in the care of the earth or a human. If not properly nursed, their wilted petals appear so quickly, a silent plea for water, or sun, or even a little attention -- Y/N found that plants liked a little attention. That’s why she spoke to them, she cooed and gave them well-wishes when she left them alone. They felt just a part of her family as any blood relative had, from the moment she had sliced the tip of her finger in a torn brush and the petal she’d touched afterward fused together her tiny wound. Her nan had always told her that maybe she was a bit closer to plants than others were, so she probably shouldn’t share this with kids in her class because they might be jealous of her (Y/N knows now her nan just didn’t want her getting picked on.)

It was clear to her now that this feeling was a bit more than that when her goose pimples sunk back into her skin after stepping into the warmth of her store. Though it was not just because she had been keeping her shop pleasantly warm as the nights grow colder and longer; she kept herself protected in here. In between these walls lied a sanctitude that kept all evil out, in all manners, of all species, besides two.

One of which is her bunny, Thumper, who in all ways but emotionally was her familiar. He was a ghostly white Holland lop, with big dopey ears that she slid her fingers beneath and flipped up and down in spare moments. She accuses him of being evil because he’s always nipping at her fingertips, demanding food with a stomp of his foot, and gives the silent threat that he’ll nibble on her plants if she really pisses him off (he stands by them, twitches his little nose and shows his two front teeth until she gives him what he wants -- it’s usually more hay). He’s nothing but a little, greedy nuisance that showed up on her step one day and hadn’t left since.

The other. . .well, the other was Harry Styles.

Y/N liked most witches, no matter their point of interest. She knew that there could be a certain level of distrust amongst the syndicate -- hexes, and curses placed upon one another, but she tried to stay out of that -- she held no disfavor toward most of the others either. Everyone connected with things very differently, what she may connect with might not be that of what her neighbor connected with and that was okay. Her nan’s emotions had been in accord with the sea, and even though Y/N spent most of her life fearing water, she bore no judgment.

What she does is done in the mind of good favor, of bettering oneself with the world around them in a way that would beneficial to not only them but the people in their lives. Open up otherwise closed eyes to the beauty of the spirit and soul they possess, and the beauty and soul that the world around them held. The town she had moved to at 20 was so rich in natural beauty, ponderosa pine and hemlock trees grew tall in an extensive, juniper green forest almost always clouded with thick fog, the soil was soft and fertile, the air was crisp and clean. She felt happy here and wanted the others around her to recognize how lucky they were to be in an area so free of sordidity.

There was an empty shop up the brick road of the older part of town, that had been crowded in cobwebs, leaves that had blown in from the broken window, and animal droppings. Her nan came to help her clean it up (her mum had too, but she was dog tired after her workweek so spent most of the visit asleep on Y/N’s couch), and did something short of absolving the land so that she could grow a garden behind the store, in the clearing of 200 or so meters before it meets the mouth of the forest. She sold herbs, people came to her for intricate, meaningful bouquets with flowers that could not be found in just any store (and she was good to her plants, so if she asked very kindly, and sent them with a packet that produced a very special brew when dumped in the water, they would live very, very, suspiciously long), plants that would liberate people of their aches and pains so long as they tended to them, journals of reused paper, scrubs, oils. . .there were many things. She offered classes too, to help people learn how to better cater to their flowers.

That had been a year ago, so she was still finding her footing, but not six months into this happy reality she had created for herself, Harry Styles had come to town. It took nothing but a few minutes of coming to contact with him that he was a bad apple, and when the once sweet-tempered town had begun mottling with dark splotches, she knew for sure. Harry was like her, but his book of shadows had pages filled with wicked words of revenge, conjuring demons and letting them wreak havoc. His business was more under the cuff -- he posed as a writer who needed a scenery change for his work, but Y/N knew it had to be more than that -- but he did his bidding in the night, seeding through clubs, in alleyways, in the forest. . .if someone knew about Harry, it was because they knew a guy who knows a guy.

And for some reason, unbeknownst to her, he refused to leave her be.

This is why it almost makes sense that the bell of her store would jingle brightly no matter the fact she’d locked the doors hours ago, and her attention would be brought to the pest himself. He wore a sweater that threatened to swallow him whole, and baggy, holey jeans he rolled at the cuff showing off his bat printed socks, stuffed into grandpa-Esque loafers. The necklace he always wears around his neck (a small pendant that she had never gotten close enough to make out) is sat atop of his sweater today rather than hidden beneath it as it usually is. His hair is getting longer, more unruly with his warm brown curls than it had been when she first met him -- she really hadn’t known he’d had curly hair until the more recent months when it had started growing out.

His eyes were always the same soft, crystal green that matched his character none, and a pawky smirk on his mouth as he dragged his fingers along the lavender jars placed on her shelves, “Shouldn’t you be home by now? I figure it’s past your bedtime.” He leans down like he is about to pick something up, and when Y/N peers over the counter, she sees him slide his hand beneath Thumper’s soft white belly and pull him up to his chest. That was another indicator that Harry was just no good -- he was the only human that he liked, and the little creatine didn’t even like her.

“Shouldn’t you?” She flips it, continuing to gather her things so she could head home for the night.

“You know these are my typical hours, Babe -- everyone wants to curse someone at 1 AM, there was a study done in the east end.” He pets between Thumper’s ears as he sets him down on the counter beside the cash register, before he reaches out for the wooden crafted incense burners, “Have these cheap little things been selling any?”

“Piss off,” she stuffs her phone into her purse, then flips through her things to make sure her wallet was tucked in there as well, “What do you want, Harry? I’m about to go home, if you wanted to come around to bother me you should have hours ago.”

Harry feigns a gasp like he does any time she curses, “Thought good little witches didn’t have such foul tongues?” He flicks the candle jar on her counter, an apple scent had been melting around the wick for the better half of the day, “I don’t want anything in particular, just passing through. You know you’re right in the way of the forest, don’t you? S’kinda of obnoxious when you’re trying to summon imps at the cave -- they hate the bloody “stench” of the flowers.”

“Good,” she retorts, “You shouldn’t be summoning around here anyway, this area’s off-limits.”

It was barely an agreement but still an agreement nonetheless -- if Harry left her be, she would leave him be because Y/N wasn’t an idiot. If he wanted a fight, Harry could start one and he would fight dirty. All she asks him is to stay away from her store and her flat, and to keep away from certain areas of the forest where the soil was always soft -- in return, he would do his activities, sometimes he would need her flowers for different spells and she would turn a blind eye to what he was doing. She does a few gentle protection spells here and there but otherwise, he’s a free man to do as he pleases, just so long as he respects her request. He’d seemed perturbed by the conditions none -- had even chuckled and said as long as he let her keep her “pretty little flowers” he could get away with murder.

A heavy, weary sigh leaves him, “Yes, I’m well aware,” he rolled his eyes before crossing his arms on top of the counter and tucking his face in his elbow, “Gimme a moment though, it’s warm in here and I was freezing outside.” He muffles into his sweater.

Y/N had almost forgotten what she had felt prior to coming back inside, but his words bring it clearly to the forefront of her mind once more. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, hearing the floorboards creak beneath her as she wondered if he’d felt it too. It couldn’t have been him -- no, he was powerful but by no means powerful enough to conjure up something like that. And she’d like to ask him, but Harry has never been someone who took her seriously -- he would just make a joke of it, probably, or tease her. It wouldn’t be worth asking.

But the feeling that she’d gotten is chewing on her memory, so she asks anyway, “Hey,” she began and the only indication that he was listening to her is the fact his fingers stopped tapping against the wood beneath them, “Did you. . .when you were outside, did you feel that?”

He picks his head up from the crevice of his arm, “You’re gonna have to be a bit more descriptive than ‘that’,” his brows are raised as he continues, “Are you talking about the new pleasant but cold breeze we’ve gained for autumn, or the gut-twisting odious one?”

Y/N looks at him impassively, “The latter, idiot.”

“Yeah, I felt it,” he ignores her insult, “What about it?”

The skin between her brows pinches, “Are you not concerned? It felt. . .bad,” she couldn’t think of a better word to describe it, “I didn’t like it at all.”

“Are you scared?” There is delight swimming in Harry’s gaze as he stands up straighter, “Don’t tell me Glinda the Good Witch herself is scared of a little frightening feeling? I thought you were tough as nails and all that, hm?”

“Never mind, forget I even brought it up,” she tried to dismiss it, as she slings her purse over her shoulder and plucks Thumper up to sit him in the cradle of her arms -- she knew better than to ask him like she might get any comfort at all from his words.

He steps up and in front of her before she could start toward the door, “Oi, listen scaredy-cat, I don’t know if you’re aware but I deal with shite like this all the time, which means I’ve got a few banishments spells up my sleeve. If it’s really something that awful, I’ll cast it back to hell, easy as that.” Harry follows close behind her as she exits the door, feeling the same shiver of fear slither through her body, “I do want to see what it wants first though.”

“Of course you do,” she utters in disappointment, “Just keep it away from my garden, please.”

“I’ll try,” he tells her just as she reaches her car before he dips into his pocket and reveals that he’d stolen a baggy of chamomile, “If I didn’t keep your precious garden safe, then I wouldn’t have anywhere to get enchanted chamomile, and it works lovely in a sleepy time tea, I’ll tell you that -- your lavender is shit though. Never puts me to sleep like it ought to.”

She pops open her car door, “Stop taking stuff from the store, or I’ll start lacing it with laxatives.”

“While you’re doing that, won’t you plant them Clathrus mushrooms? I reckon the imps would prefer them way more than the mums.” He looks serious -- not a trace of a joke laced in his features and somehow that leaves Y/N more irritated than if he were laughing at her as he spoke.

Her response is blunt, “No.”

“Listen --”

“Harry, I’m not going to plant mushrooms for the damn imps!”

. . .

When Y/N had met Harry, she was angry.

She had never been a very angry person. Seldom has someone or something truly has gotten so deeply beneath her skin that she felt the need to yell or grump about it -- mild irritation was never off the table, but true, unadulterated wrath and resentment? It was rare she ever felt the need to even make a snide comment. And that wasn’t to say she was better than anyone else, she was just mild-tempered and forbearing. . .it took a little more than a remark or two to make her angry.

But when she was angry, she was an amalgamation of vexation and fire, and there was no surer way to disrupt her peaceful demeanor than to compromise her flowers.

The day had been uneventful up to that point. It’d been a week since Harry had moved into town and Y/N was surely feeling the negativity that followed in his wake, but she was focusing on maintaining the tranquil, idyllic environment that she had around her previous. As much as she would have loved to seek him out, ready to squabble, tell him off for bringing any dark energy into such a calm place -- she had to come at it pragmatically. She and her friend Niall (who wasn’t a witch but knew about her) had both agreed that while it was aggravating, they didn’t know him. They did not understand the depth of his power, or what he was here for, nor had they understood wholly what he was capable of. Y/N had felt his presence, but Niall had confirmed it after hearing the underground chatter of a dark witch who made promises to turn glitter to gold.

She was on her way to her store. Though she was closed on weekends, she always went by to check on the flowers, water them, tell them about her day, and with her was Thumper who would be hopping around the grassy field and gnawing on the blades. It was very peaceful -- the time she spent with her plants -- so she always looked forward to it, but that day she was filled with trepidation as she parked her car. Something was off. . .not in the air, but with her flowers -- she could feel it deep in her marrow that they were in pain.

So she huffed it to the back of the store, and there she found Harry, two of her purple vervains nestled against his palm. He noticed her before she could even think to say anything, and something short of relief had flushed through him, “Oh thank fuck, you’re here,” he sighs, referencing her garden with a wave of his hands, “I cannot for the life of me remember what hazel looks like.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Y/N demanded, stomping toward him, but instead of shoving him to the ground like she wanted to, she dropped to her knees and caressed the remaining vervain, “Why would you pluck them like that? They aren’t ready!”

“Ready? They’ve flowered haven’t they?” His brows had been tilted while his mouth dipped in a frown, “I need them for an incantation, figured you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed these two. Aren’t we meant to help each other out?”

“You should have asked, you prick,” she pointed up at him, “And even if you had, I would have said no. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’re really disturbing an otherwise pleasant place. I wish you would leave.’

Harry feigned hurt, placing a hand to his chest, “You wound me,” he mocks her, “Listen Glinda Good Witch, we all gotta get by somehow, yeah? Not all of us talk to plants or whatever it is you do. So do you want me to pay or --”

“Those won’t work for whatever it is you’re trying to do,” she cut him off, “If it’s something with cruel intent, it won’t happen -- they were grown to do good.”

“Which is exactly why I needed them from you,” he wiggles them in her direction, “Well, I need to get going. You’re awful in particular about a garden that is subpar at best. Wish you well, see you later.”

Then he left. No guilt, no apology -- he just up and left, and Y/N was livid.

(Later that night when she had explained the situation to Niall, he was nothing short of outraged, so they had tried to find out more about Harry. Anything about him, really, but he leaves a very little paper trail in his endeavors -- from public records they find that he’s 25 and from Holmes Chapel, and from a google search they find he has two books out, published online, and doing decently well. There was nothing else apart from that, he kept his socials pretty dry, and what he did post was nonsensical drivel.)

Y/N thinks about this, as she sinks into her tub, the burning water scalding against her skin. Harry had always driven her mad but he has never seemed half as angry as she was -- hell if anything he always seemed like he enjoyed it.

He was just absolutely rotten.

. . .

Harry thinks Y/N is just absolutely rotten.

There were many reasons that he had classified her as such, but namely what he was concerned about now was how she kept her shop closed on the weekends.

Who kept their store closed the entire bloody weekend?

It wasn’t so much that he wanted to see her -- Harry actually found the girl quite plaguy. Her opinions on his practice were priggish, not unlike the others like them he had met in the past. There has always been an unfaltering stigma that was carried with what he did, one that was quite hard to shake within the factions of other witches that are sprinkled across the world. He’s seen as careless, cruel, greedy, and selfish -- he doesn’t practice magic for the love of the world around him, to feel a deeper, spiritual connection with the fecund soil that covered the earth, or with the water gently slipping past rocks along a stream bank. They look at him and see someone who shakes hands with the devil and ruins lives for a cookie.

Harry lets them think as they wish, he has no patience to attempt correcting them. If they’d bothered to learn an inch about him at all before passing their judgment then they would have a clue about his true character, but the jury had already made the decision before Harry even realized he was on trial. They never really wanted to give Harry a chance, so he knew he would be hated no matter where he decided to reside. The pack mentality that they carry is the reason he has to move around so often though (more than any 25 years old was typically doing) he gets run out of a lot of areas because a group of soft witches decides he’s no good.

That’s what drew him to this place -- there was practically nobody. He could sense when there were more like him loitering around an area, and made an effort to keep a decently low profile so that he could stay around longer (but they always managed to find him), but here, he only sensed one. That had been good enough for him to know this was the right move -- the beautiful scenery surrounding them; the soft bed of dirt that Harry’s feet would sink into easily; the dense, damp fog that covered the forest floor in the early mornings; the lush, green trees and how life seemed to remain there when it was meant to be waning in the colder months -- all of that, had only been a plus.

When he’d met Y/N, he knew that she disliked him, but Harry had expected as much so it disturbed him none. If anything, he was delighted to have a purer witch than himself around, all things considered. There were no others that she could develop a hive mind with to drive him out of town, but she was no competition to the businesses that he provided, and when a decoction called for an obscure plant or an unsullied petal -- well, a Garden witch was not the worst kind to have nearby. She may be devout in her notions that Harry was a disagreeable, repugnant being, but she was good at what she did. Anything done with her plants was twice as effective as any other person’s flowers he’d used in the past, so it was necessary he bothered her often.

She refused to sell to him -- something about her doing business with a demon, or whatever she’d said -- but so long as he doesn’t go and cut them from the stem himself, she helps him out. Will give him the plants he needs, and in return, he doesn’t taint certain areas of the town and the forest that she declared were off-limits. It was a spoken commercial agreement that both of them went by and because of it, their lives near to one another were comparatively peaceful to any other situation Harry has found him in prior.

That didn’t come without its faults. They butt heads often, their bickering is nonstop, and Harry could think of many things he would rather do than have to stay in a room with her for longer than the ten minutes it takes him to get what he needs. It was fun to fluster her -- getting beneath her skin was an easy feat that he found a lot of joy in, and sometimes she gave him a run for his money. He always kind of liked making a normally mild-tempered person grump at him a little, if not for his impish ways, then so he could get to know them as their full self.

So he wasn’t mad that she was closed because he particularly wanted to see her, no, he was mad because he was exhausted. Absolutely drained. The business was incredible when you’re the only dark witch willing to do some questionable, immoral things, but that also meant long nights and incredible emotional toil -- it wasn’t a walk in the park to conjure up a bloody demon!

Ever since Harry had started this path, he’d had immense trouble sleeping at appropriate times, if he could fall asleep at all. He guesses this was what he gets in return for what he practices, and it could be worse so he doesn’t mind it too much, but it was still a hassle. It had been a good four years since Harry just had a good, peaceful night of sleep.

Up until he had moved here, of course, because the same little garden witch that thought he was the devil incarnate, made a tea he could brew that set him right to sleep. Kept him asleep the entire night too, which had always been an impossible endeavor spanning back to when he was a child, but there was something about her chamomile -- hell, it really knocked him out.

He tested his theory -- part of him thought that maybe chamomile was suddenly working for him, but no matter the brand that he tried, or the amount of tea he drank, none of it could compare to what Y/N’s did. When he visited her store, he took what he could to hold him off to the next time he came by. He hadn’t realized how low he was though when he had seen her last and she threatened to lace it with laxatives -- he should have taken two because he used his last bit the night prior to the one he’s suffering through right now.

And he could have gotten more this morning if she didn’t close her stupid shop on weekends!

If Harry were not positive that he needed to rest, he wouldn’t bother to be trying. There was nothing worse to him than the laying in his bed and waiting for sleep that refused to come...it felt like he was being stood up by a date. It hasn’t happened often, but enough that Harry could match the feeling low in his stomach, indicative of discontent and sadness while he waited. . . . .and waited. . . .and waited. . . .and waited.

It was useless -- the universe’s retribution for summoning spirits to the living world left him with what a doctor might diagnose as chronic insomnia, but none of the treatments did him any good. No mortal medicinal could soothe him of this ailment. So one would think he would be smarter about keeping a hearty stock of it at his disposal rather than one at a time, but Harry never claimed to be the best at planning ahead.

And now here he was, staring at his ceiling fan whirl, his cat at his side while he contemplated if breaking and entering her shop was against his morals (he had a few left, surprisingly).

God, she was so rotten!

. . .

“Have you felt weird lately?”

“Hm?” Niall’s face scrunches up in confusion, his mouth stuffed full of noodles he just slurpped into his mouth, “Wha’ d’ya mean?” He muffles out, reaching over to her side of the table for a napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth.

The record store that Niall worked at wasn’t too far from Y/N’s shop so if her day wasn’t too busy, she would step away from the store for her lunch break and seek him out. It was never a planned ordeal; Y/N would stop off somewhere to get them something to eat and appear at his storefront, the sharp ding of the bell knotted on the door alerted him of her presence. He was always one of two places: in the back, tuning the old guitars the owner would bid on different websites, or he was in the front thumbing through the record baskets, organizing and reorganizing them by name. Sometimes he would be sat behind the counter, with his feet kicked up just beside the register but Y/N scolds him for that (he’s always wearing a dingy, scuffed pair of shoes that have no business seeing the light of day, let alone be shown off to others).

His head would perk up, he would look toward the door, and his face would bloom into one of sheer delight as he would call over to her, “Oh, thank fuck! Thought I would go crazy if I had to listen to myself think for one more second.”

Today was no different. She brought him ramen from the place three buildings down from his own, where she bends down a street that feels more like an alleyway and the door is hidden beneath a brassy fire escape. The owners were always very kind to her, and since she came often and tipped well, they would give her free bowls if they were in the mood. Y/N never liked the idea of a one-sided relationship with a business, so she always brought them herbs, and gardenias to plant at home (they were the husband’s favorite). She takes their fliers and posts them up in high traffic areas too, and when they have their business cards made and an extra hundred or so, she slips them in the paper baggies that she gathers her customer’s things in before sending them on their way.

Niall was grateful. He did a little cheer, left his spot from behind the counter, and urged her to follow him to the back where the break room was located (if a customer came around he would hear the bell and duck his head out to greet them, but for the most part their Tuesdays were pretty uneventful). He told her he had sensed her coming so he already had two stools set out for them to sit on, and napkins placed in the middle of the table, but she’s almost a hundred percent sure they had been left like that last time she was here.

Try as she might to let her mind flee from the dark, hazed feeling that had overcome her last week, she couldn’t. Even as she listened to Niall prattle about some Gibson Les Paul custom that the owner purchased a while back, she struggled not to wonder what it was that was worming itself into her brain; slick tendrils of dismay overcame her. The true, unadulterated, execrable feeling only truly hits her in the night if she is outside the safety of her home or her shop, but otherwise, it was memories of this haunting aura that struck her throughout the day.

She couldn’t place her finger on it though, what it could be. There are feelings she garners when Harry summons certain spirits, but she can typically tell when he’s doing that, and they’ve never felt so. . .evil, before. What Harry deals with is evil, sure, but this was so smothered in turpitude that she couldn’t make it out. Like spilling black ink over a letter written in blue.

That’s why she asks Niall -- it feels too strong for it to be something only felt by her and Harry. It would also soothe her mind if someone had felt it as horribly and heavily as she did, considering it wasn’t affecting Harry enough that he would try to banish the damn thing before things went sour.

“Like, do things just not feel. . .off, to you?” She didn’t want to feed him any impressions of what she might be speaking about -- she would like to know if it were true to him. Niall is sweet as he could be, but not always when it was appropriate; he would tell her he did just to spare her from feeling foolish. It’s why she thought berets were her thing for about a month when really she looked like a washed-up indie artist trying too hard (Niall had agreed they weren’t her best fashion venture, but he certainly didn’t think they were that bad).

His face contorts in a pout as he mulls it over in his head, stabbing his fork into the noodles and catching a bit of pork on two of the pronks, “Hm, let’s see. . .” he looks like he’s spinning through a Rolodex, “I have not for the life of me mustered enough energy to have a wank in about a week, that’s some cause for concern,” when she responds with a blank stare, he holds his hands up, “Okay, fine -- Butternut was biting at the air when I took him on his walk the other night -- like. . .chomping at it, I was actually gonna ask you what that might be about.”

Now, don’t get Y/N wrong, any other time Niall would have told her that his great Pyrenees puppy was yapping and chomping at the wind, she would have brushed it off. “Niall, you’re just going to have to accept that he’s going to be a big, sweet dummy when he’s older.” But she was so desperate for something, anything -- because if something felt it other than she and Harry, then she wouldn’t feel quite as crazy.

“Sometimes it feels a bit like something’s watching me,” he tacks on at the end, taking the brown napkin from the stack in between them and dabs roughly at his mouth, “At night, when I’m walking Butternut, I get these chills but there’s no wind around.”

Y/N leans forward, thankful, “Yeah?” she presses, “Is it like -- describe it. What does it feel like?”

“Y’know, I do forget you’re a witch until times like these,” he leans back in his chair, a heavy sigh slides from his lips before he closes his eyes like he’s trying to place himself back at the moment, “I’ll tell ya what, it’s fuckin’ -- it’s a bit like I feel it right down to my bones, but then --” he opens his eyes, raises his closed fists and flicks his fingers out at her, “Poof, s’gone as quick as it came and I forget about it. My nan used to tell me that was the devil patting your shoulder, but if it went away quick s’because an angel kicked his arse out of there.”

It’s enough, Y/N decides, so she nods and relaxes back in her seat, “Okay, good.”

“Good?” His brows furrow, as he reaches for his can of soda and the aluminum can crinkles beneath his fingers, “Tell you that I get chills and you’re relieved? Should I be relieved too, or worried?”

“It isn’t anything to concern over, I don’t think,” she explains to him, “If anything changes I’ll let you know.”

Niall uses one of his fingernails to dig the dirt from beneath the other, “Did that Harry bloke muster some horrible demon up again?” His voice is laced with vexation. Niall wasn’t a hard guy to get along with -- he was loud and Irish, could chat up a storm about anything and everything, and while he could be scrappy at times, it was for all the right reasons. He was equanimous in most situations, even-tempered to a fair degree; if Y/N were in a situation where a cool, calm collected head would be the best approach then Niall was definitely the person she wanted on her side.

(Like when they had to drive home from a day trip to the massive lake just north of them, but the roads hadn’t been pretreated for the icy sleet that gripped the pavement. He drove them the whole way on the windy roads with little traction from the tires to the road, and was still bobbing his head and singing along to Ed Sheeran on the radio).

But Harry Styles? Oh, the mention of his name could dig right beneath Niall’s skin. Y/N would like to think that it was because he was so cruel to her, but she knows that there are two main reasons Niall is not too fond of him nor his craft. One of which is the fact that he slept with Liana (she happened to be one of Niall’s flings at the time -- there were plenty, but Y/N only remembered this one’s name because she shared it with a woody stem rooted to the forest soil that made for easy climbing), and the other, the fact that he had helped the captain of the opposing summer footie team with one of his enchantments to make them win. There are few things Niall cares for so deeply that he would dislike someone, but his sex life and his footie were two things a person just couldn’t mess up for him.

“No, it wasn’t him this time,” she clears her throat, pushing the rest of her ramen around idly, “It’s a bit too strong to be his doing -- more sinister too. He conjures mostly petty demons; the little ones that don’t have much better to do anyway. This is something. . .I don’t know, it just feels different.”

Niall sighs heavily, “Well, thanks for that, reckon I won’t be sleeping tonight,” he pushes the container away from himself to signify he’s done and when she takes a peek inside and sees nothing but a few noodles limp along the sides, “I like that you keep me in the loop, but sometimes I wish you would let me live in ignorance.”

“You know, I would apologize, but you’ve gone into an in-depth description of your arsehole to me so I thought any boundaries and forms of secrecy were long gone by now.”

His brows furrow features contorting into that of the same desperation he had come to her with two months ago, “Ugh, c’mon! You’re practically like a witch doctor or somethin’, I thought you would have a cream or something for it.”

“You had a hemorrhoid, Niall, for fuck sake! Even if I were a “witch doctor” then I would never let you put anything that came from my plants on your filthy bum.”

Niall stands, gathering their trash from the break room table but using his free hand as he passes her, he swats her shoulder, “You better be nice to me, or you’re gonna have to start eating lunch with Styles.” He steps on the level for the waste bin, throwing the trash in the bag, “Though I think you two would just end up hate fucking and the food would go cold.”

“No,” she rolls her eyes, “I would never let that Gremlin near my naked body.”

“Listen, I’m not saying I want the guy anywhere near your naked body,” he plops back down in his seat, “What I am saying is that you lot have such unbridled sexual tension it is practically palpable when I’m at the shop with the both of you. Maybe it’s ‘cos the two of you are the only witches, and opposites at that.”

Y/N snorts, “Maybe if we were in some enemies to lovers film, sure.”

After they finish their break, and Y/N realizes that she’s been with him for a little over an hour, they make plans to meet up tomorrow for a movie and she heads out. The air was cool -- when she had made her way over here the sun had been glittering rays down that bathed the world in gold, but it was now hidden beneath an overcast of thick clouds. Rain always carried a familiar scent just before it started to pour and Y/N had forgone a jacket, so she huffed her way back, breathless by the time she made it up the hill and saw Harry leaning against her door.

The sight of him makes her exhausted, but not in the usual way it does. He looks awful -- and typically he doesn’t! Y/N could admit that Harry was gorgeous; his hair always appeared soft, loose curls dispersed along the brunette strands, his eyes are a sea green, tender in his gaze when he wasn’t being an absolute prick and always bright (even when he was). His lips were pink, shaped perfectly, and his skin is typically smooth but even when he grows out his facial hair it still manages to look good. He had dimples. . .hell, Y/N would place a bet that he’d made a deal with the devil to look like that.

But today, he just looked worn down, and exhausted, like he might not have slept the entire weekend. His eyes were closed, his hands were in his pockets and his chin was tilted down towards his chest. If not for the way his head perked up immediately when her foot crunched into the gravel pathway leading up to her store from the small parking area (that was more so a beaten down, once grassy area now just dirt with tire tracks in it), she would have thought he was asleep standing up. There’s relief in his eyes when they meet her own, which she isn’t used to seeing from him, “Thank fuck.”

“You look horrible,” Y/N slides her hand into her pocket, pulling out her keys so she could unlock the door, “Budge over.”

“I feel it,” he rubs tiredly at his eyes, “Go on and open up quickly then. Why the hell do you keep your store closed on weekends?”

Y/N fits her hand over the knob, twisting it and shoving the door open with her shoulder. Thumper greets them at the door, nudging the top of his head against her ankle, “Do you work every night?”

“No --”

“I keep it closed on weekends for the same reason why you don’t work every night,” she heads toward the counter, settling her things down and reaching in for Thumper’s hay stash so that she could give him some, “What’re you here for? You usually come around to bother me later.” She chances petting at Thumper’s head for a moment, and since he was preoccupied with his hay he would allow it.

“Fuck!” Y/N startles, popping up from behind the counter, looking back up only to see Harry with wide, disgruntled eyes, “Where’s your chamomile?”

Her brows dip, “I’m out right now, so --”

“How the hell did you run out? Shit, what am I going to do now, hm? Shouldn’t you keep up with shite like this?” He’s going a mile a minute, he’s walking closer to her, distress was written all over his face and Y/N is alarmed to a fair degree -- Harry’s always seemed very collected and calm, it was seldom she ever seen him have more emotion than pure elation to fuck with her or displeased with her presence.

“ -- so I’m going to make more today. What’s going on with you? Why are you so pissy over it?” She finishes her previous thought, watching as he leans against the counter, propping his face up with his hand and she could now more clearly make out the bags beneath his eyes.

He rubs at his temple with the finger closest to it, “The only way I can sleep is with your bloody tea,” he grumbled, “That’s why I come around all the time -- well, that and to fuck with you, but mostly the tea.”

“Oh?” She reaches down, plucking Thumper from where he’d been positioned by her feet and setting him on the counter. He thumps his foot at her once but eventually makes his way over to Harry, sniffing at his chin before resting right before him. Y/N wasn’t necessarily doing it to be nice, but the energy he was exuding could really dampen the growth rate of her plants, and Thumper had a soothing way about him that drew all that negativity out. It was one of those odd little familiar powers that went unexplained for the most part. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged his shoulders, but the tension in them begins to dissipate as Thumper snuggles beneath his chin, “Reckon I pissed off some demon or summat -- usually it isn’t this bad. Without your tea, I can at least get to bed for three hours before waking up and catch cat naps during the day, but nothing was working this weekend. I think I’ve slept a total of two hours?”

“Christ,” she tuts her tongue, but her brain starts churning, “Do you think it has anything to do with that. . .with that thing, that’s around? That feeling?”

Harry huffs a sigh, “Fuck, here you go again -- Babe, listen, I can barely keep a coherent thought, so why don’t I just give you some money and you make that tea for me, alright?”

“That’s no way to ask,” Y/N chastises him, and though she is already beginning to gather the supplies she needs so she could go out and harvest her leaves, she taunts him, “You’ll have to say please, or I might just decide to wait on this batch.”

“Please,” he wastes no time in saying, “Pretty please harvest the chamomile so that I can sleep and I promise I’ll sit and theorize with you over whatever the fuck thing you’re feeling.”

Y/N could go through the trouble of doing a blood binding with him to ensure that he wasn’t lying to her, but she felt that was a little on the extreme side so she took his word for it. She could easily harvest her chamomile here at the shop -- she had two doors behind the counter, one that led to her garden, the field, and the forest outside while the other led to a backroom that was made into a little kitchen area. It was easier for her to do things here rather than at home and have to risk tainting them in transport; for the best results to any enchanted item, one has to seal it immediately and it should only be reopened prior to use.

She wouldn’t allow Harry to hover over her while she worked, so she sat him behind the counter and told him to not speak to any customers if they come through (“Wasn’t planning to,”) while she went to work. Y/N gave Thumper a look when he had started to follow her, and with a small thump of his foot (his way of saying Fine!) he hops himself into Harry’s lap and settles there. The tension once again eases from Harry’s features, soothing the pinch in his brow and the way his lips had been pursed in a frown.

It was silent as she set to work, and save for a few customers who filtered in and out (at least a dozen of them, only eight purchased something but her Mondays were always pretty slow so that was expected), there wasn’t much to disturb what appeared to be a dozing Harry. He looked much more peaceful than she’s ever seen him, and for a brief moment she contemplates sending Thumper back home with him, but she shakes her head physically as if to expel the thought from her brain. What was she going on about? She would give him his tea and send the heathen on his way. No matter how empathetic she felt for him (she had struggled with issues sleeping when she was a lot younger), there was no need to go out of her way. . .even if she could admit that the sight of him cuddling with a bunny was a little too sweet not to be documented somewhere.

She’s finished drying the leaves and carefully stirring them in the fine powder that she still had leftover from her last batch (there were many flowers from her garden ground up and enchanted with an incantation, which sounds like a simple enough task but the entire process took a little over a week -- the magic had to be purified several times, and the potential adverse effects had to be mollified. . . if she didn’t, instead of pleasant dreams of floating in clouds, her customers would be in an unsolicited astral projection) in a little over an hour. Y/N takes care to bag them delicately, adding a little extra in the two bags she would be giving Harry so that he would bother her less over it.

By the time she’s retreated from the back preparation room, she finds that Harry is awake now, eyeballing her Intimacy and Romance section. When he sees that she’s returned to the front, he holds up the small, cardboard parcel, “I didn’t know you doubled as a Pulse and Cocktails.”

“That’s a natural aphrodisiac,” she tells him, walking over to her empty chamomile shelf before she begins to fill it, “You might want to take some so your partners will actually desire you for once.”

“Oh, Honey,” he shakes his head, a look on his face almost like he pities her, “Don’ know a thing about how people desire me. Barely have to take my cock out for them to be gagging for it -- kind of how you are, but won’t admit it to yourself.”

Y/N kisses her teeth, “Alright lecher, come and get your chamomile then,” she plucks the two remaining bags from the box she brought them in and holds them out for him, “You should look into some spells to combat that though -- if a demon is purloining your sleep, then it’s probably still hanging around and like deluging your flat with negative energy.”

“Dunno’ if you know this, but I work with demons often, I’m always surrounded by negative energy,” he plucks the chamomile from her grasp, before reaching in his pocket and producing a small wad of cash that he places in her palm-- Y/N opens her mouth to decline it (she felt that his money was earned in a dishonest way and would not accept it for her flowers, because it felt as if she were disrespecting them. . .she would much rather give it to him for free), but he cuts her off, “Oh, hush and take the money. This is from a care package my Nan sent me, so it wasn’t earned in any rotten way, you spoiled brat.”

She sighs, clutching the money in her hands, “You still better keep your end of the deal,” Y/N tells him, “I want to talk about this. . .whatever that feeling is, around here lately. And I want you to be serious about it!”

Harry was already retreating, waving his hand up at her, “Yeah, sure thing, I’ll have my secretary get in contact with you --”

“Harry --”

“M’only joking. I’ll come around Friday.”

. . .

Later that night, with Thumper snuggled in her lap snoozing, Y/N looks into purging a home of sleep stealing spirits.

She’s only curious.

. . .

Sleep comes gradually, then all at once, like the shift between summer and fall.

Wind whistles past window sills singing shallow songs of change, while red apples ripen on their branches in the orchard during harvest season. The air grows colder in the mornings and at night, the day is still steeped in the sun’s benevolent kisses of heat at first until even that begins to wane. An aesthetic of reds, oranges, forest greens and golden hues occupy the minds of many as the leaves start to stain with color. Everyone waits with bated breath for true autumn to come around the corner.

And when it does, it’s with a cold slap of air against the face when they step outside. The air carries that distinct autumn smell, the world is chilly enough for thicker jackets and long socks, rain comes in sheets during the evenings, and the colorful leaves that had drooped from the trees adhere to the concrete, or in matted piles on the forest floor. Suddenly, the warm drink in everyone’s hand is a little less for the excitement and impatience for fall to begin, and more so to warm their cold palms from the onslaught of biting wind.

It isn’t autumn, and then it is -- just like sleep. Harry’s awake one minute, and then he’s passed right out.

Well, with Y/N’s help, bless her. Sure, she had been rotten before, but she made him a new batch and sent him off with two hearty bags full of tea that would soothe his worries and put his arse to bed. Plus, he had cuddled with her sweet little bunny Thumper for a while and he had a feeling the little bugger was exuding some sort of her soft magic unto him in the form of calming waves. When the rabbit sat in his lap, all the tension eased from his muscles and he sank into an otherwise uncomfortable chair like it was the softest mattress he’d ever been privy to. So by the time he came home, started the kettle, drank a mug full, and hot tailed it to his bed, he was asleep before his head could even quite hit the pillow.

It was so good. His dreams were pleasant, his sleep was heavy, and deep, and lasted around fifteen hours -- which in the grand scheme of things, made him feel a bit like a sloth, but he knew he needed it. He still couldn’t quite pinpoint what had happened that he just couldn’t sleep even a little bit, but he has no interest in investigating now that he had a full night’s (and partially day’s) rest. Plus, there was no time to do any exploring when he needed to make up for the work he’d missed in his time exhausted -- his powers are nowhere near as strong if he is tired, and it’s incredibly dangerous to be working with little sleep. He could mess up, and a mess-up could mean someone would likely end up possessed and -- albeit how interesting they are -- Harry’s intrigue with exorcisms ended after the seventh one he performed.

After he woke up, showered off, and ate brekkie, he sat down with his kitten and they cleaned his crystals and a few amulets before he set on preparing some of his finer elixirs, that he always waited until he was down to the last drop to begin making more canisters of considering how extensive the process was. It would be easier if he had someone else to help out, but the only other witch within 160 kilometers of him, he wouldn’t label as the type all too willing to help him break into a blood bank.

But he did have his kitten Oat. He was his little miracle -- Harry had been so sad when he learned that witches could have familiars, but the animal would come to him and he was supposed to just know. At that point, he’d been practicing for three years and the only feelings he could sense from any animal around him were fear and disdain, so he had thought that maybe he just wasn’t meant to have one. Which felt horrible. . .he loved animals.

One day, when the chill in the air rosied his cheeks and the cardigan he sported did little to shield him from the cold, he was taking a walk in the forest nearby. He’d left the trail, but not because he was working. . .if he were honest, he thought that the garden that Y/N kept out there was quite magnificent. It flourished even in the winter, a meadow of flowers that’s petals never frost, and the ground never grew hard. There was an air around it that made him feel warm and pleasant, so he visited often without letting her know. Which was what he was doing, walking through the small path that she had created so that she could tend to them (he’d seen her water them once when he’d come unknowing that she was there to cater to them).

And one moment he was looking at what he believed to be an oat grass, he heard a rustle from the bushes to his left that he looked toward (it was a bird flying away), and when his gaze returned to where it had once been, there a small kitten was laying. She was the kind of small that made his heart ache, with her eyes barely open as she yawned and stretched very wide -- she wasn’t there, and then she was. Harry always liked to say she was born from the soft soil of Y/N’s garden which was why her grey fur felt like clouds and she always smelled sweet as heliotrope. . .and, well, she smelled a lot like Y/N too. He may not be all too fond of the girl, but she did always smell nice.

She hadn’t grown bigger than one of his boots, the tiny little thing, but not because she was malnourished in any way (Harry always made sure she was well-fed), he just thinks she’s finished growing. He couldn’t tell her breed, but if he had to guess she was some mix between a munchkin and a ragamuffin cat. Harry knows all familiars have their duties and special abilities, but he wasn’t quite sure what hers was -- he just knew that he loved her to bits and pieces, and couldn’t ask for a better little ball of fur to sit on his shoulder while he made coffee in the morning.

What Harry did know, was that none of the demon’s he had ever conjured had ever bothered her, and she loved to be rubbed behind her ears.

So Thursday night, when the town grew quiet and the air was still, Harry ventured out with his tote bag slung over his shoulder. It was easy to move about relatively unseen in a place like this, that wasn’t so big there were people constantly looming around the corners of every nook and cranny, but wasn’t so small that everybody knew everyone’s business. It was a pleasant in between, where he could snake through the mouth of the forest, walk a trail and end up on the other side of town without having been seen by more than a few critters. He typically made this journey relatively late, without a worry or stressor in sight -- it only took him about an hour and a half to get everything done.

Today though -- today, he felt off. It hadn’t been immediately when he’d stepped outside, but after some time in his walk, goosebumps prickled his skin and the hair at the back of his neck stood on end. He couldn’t quite decipher what was making him feel like this when the wind hadn’t rustled the trees in a few minutes, but it put him on guard. He disliked the feeling and had only truly sensed it to this degree that night Y/N had originally questioned him about it. It was an unsavory sensation, and for it to even make him feel uneasy was saying something tremendous.

He attempts to ignore it, even though it only grew stronger the closer he was to his destination. He weaves through the trees, stepping over the thick roots, crunching over fallen leaves, and appreciating the scent of autumn as he goes. It was a nice night, despite the chill that ran just beneath his skin. . .it was the kind of night that he might go out on his balcony and sip on his tea until he grew weary enough to step inside. Oat liked to sit outside with him, curled peacefully in his lap and resting without a care in the world (she made him feel not so lonely all the time, which he appreciated immensely).

Harry was thinking about how that was precisely what he was going to do as soon as he returned home after he had emerged from the trees and walked through an expansive field, toward an old road that led him back into town and entered the blood bank (after melting the lock with one of his crystals). Though he sensed something strong when he was walking down the cold, dark hall. . .or someone that is, who -- before he could register their presence -- ran straight into him as they were peeling around the corner and nearly knocked him on his arse (but definitely knocked them on theirs).

“Fuck sake!” He cried out, steadying himself, looking down at the assailant, “Watch where you’re going, mate, or you’ll -- oh, Y/N?” He pauses, confusion laces through his brain as he recognizes her, “What’re you doing here so late?”

Y/N was on her bum, scowling at him as she gathered herself before flattening her palms to the cold, white tiled floor and pressing up to a stand, “I could ask you the same question.”

“It would be a silly one if you did, ‘cos you and I both know what I’m doing for a living,” he watches as she swipes her bum of the dust adhering to her sweatpants -- he had never seen her so dressed down before, in a dark-colored hoodie that just about swallowed her whole. She appeared much less ferocious this way -- not that she appeared very ferocious before, but he is always intrigued to see typically put together people in their sleep clothes. . .he thinks it says a lot about a person. From Y/N’s choice of pajamas, he could tell that she probably kept her flat on the side of too cold because she liked to bundle up. . .she felt safe that way, he would guess, and he would bet 50 quid that there was bunny hair all over it because -- despite his grumpy tendencies -- Thumper loved a good cuddle.

“I felt it again,” she says after a moment, her voice only above a whisper, though there was no security here -- or anyone, for that matter since the place closes at 7 PM, but her eyes still shift around like she’s a high schooler ditching class and the headmaster's down the hall, “. . .that thing, y’know, while I was getting ready for bed, so I followed where it felt grossest and came to check it out to see if it led me anywhere.”

Harry’s brows furrowed, “Well that was stupid,” he derides her, fixing the tote around his shoulder and shifting weight from one heel to the other, “What were you going to do if you found something, hm? Fight it off with your bunny and rose petals?”

Her scowl returns, “Piss off,” she utters before her gaze flickers to his tote and the reason he’s here becomes clearer to her than it had been before, “You shouldn’t be stealing blood. Isn’t that unethical?”

“It’s either this or siphoning it from a live vein, Babe, and while I’m aces at plenty of things, I have not been properly trained to set up an IV. I only take the blood that’s about to expire anyway,” He nods down the hallway, toward the refrigeration where they kept all of the baggies, “You might as well continue investigating while we’re here because it’s coming from that way -- plus you can make yourself useful by keeping the door propped open for me.”

In all honesty, Harry expects more fight than he was given considering how often she seems to object to every move he makes, but she merely rolls her eyes and starts ahead of him. The feeling does grow stronger the further they descend into the hallway and he knows Y/N can feel it too, from the way she shuffles just a little closer to him, and he can hear her breathing hitch to a small halt as they stood before the door and it felt like it had all been focused just behind the door. As strong as the taste of frozen orange juice concentrate, it made his face pucker just slightly as he raised his fingers toward the keypad and began punching in the code.

And there’s nothing.

Actually, as soon as they open the door, the dark, odious feeling that had been encompassing both of them disappears entirely. “Whoa,” Y/N pushes her hand against the door and keeps it open, taking one step inside of the room, “There’s a lot of blood in here.” His gaze flickers back at her, as she looks around, looking more intrigued than disgusted -- there was a lot of blood, 8 by 5-meter room just filled with it, so he could understand some of the awe. The more he returns, the less awe he feels, but he reckons that was to be expected.

“There are about five other refrigerators in this building too,” he tells her as he lowers to his knees, cracking open his tote, “This one’s computers are easier to get into though, and doesn’t say the date and time the amount was changed so nobody knows anything is missing. Easy peasy.”

Y/N nods, “Right. Stealing blood -- easy peasy,” she leans against the door, “What is it that you use it for?”

“It really depends,” he murmurs as he pulls out a rack, counting out the baggies he needed, “Some demons like blood more than ash, so they come when called and are more willing to help you out when given a little gift. There are a few spells that call for it, and elixirs are twice as potent — sometimes I have to drink it, which is...unpleasant,” he hears her shiver, “—but it makes the outcome better. All in a day's work.”

“Oh wow,” Y/N hummed, “That’s...different. I think the weirdest thing I’ve had to drink for a spell was doe milk and I felt guilty the whole time. Like I was taking it from a fawn that needed it.”

Harry huffed out a laugh — Y/N was a soft little thing, comparing drinking blood to milk — sometimes he forgets how sheltered her world of magic is compared to his own. It was easy to forget with all the spiteful words she could throw his way, but to see her out of her comfort zone. . .it’s refreshing. Not because she is less confident in her surroundings, but because she is more open to his own If someone would have told Harry they would be even remotely civil with one another in a room full of blood, he would have snorted before asking what they were snorting.

“I oughta call you Bambi then.”

He was on his last baggy of blood, checking the expiration date, and logging it into the computer when the dreadful feeling returned. Like a fly to rotting meat, it clings back to the room they were in tenfold. From behind him, a sharp clatter and Y/N’s squeal startles him to look back at her, “Harry!” She cried, pointing ahead of her, “The walls! L-look at the walls!”

Harry follows her finger, watching as a thick, black substance oozes from the wall’s coving. When Y/N had noticed as much, she knocked down a stray IV pole that had been left in here, and it lay at her feet where the same black ooze had begun seeping up from the trim of the floors. In all his time doing what he does, Harry had never seen something so odd, nor had he ever felt something this grotesque overcome his being. It makes him act quickly, and while he doesn’t speak, he does fix his tote over his shoulder and practically jog the short distance to Y/N, knocking her out of the room, grabbing the door by the handle, and swinging it shut. He had hoped to seal it in there, whatever it was, but when they look down at the floor, the goo bleeds beneath the door and they both take a startled step back, “Oh fuck me,” Harry mutters to himself, shaking his head.

“What the hell is this?” Y/N is panicked -- it’s very clear in her voice, and while Harry was a tad thankful not to be dealing with this alone, he can’t say that a soft which, who planted pretty flowers and made sleepy time tea was necessarily the backing he wanted in the event he had to exorcise a demon. He didn’t even have the proper tools for it. . .he didn’t know what he was exorcising, fuck sake -- “Harry, shouldn’t we --”

“We need to leave,” he states, pivoting on his heel and hustling down the hall, Y/N was quick to scurry behind him, though she still murmurs some protest.

“We shouldn’t just --”

“Listen, unless you have any idea what that is and how to clean it, let alone banish it to hell, I saw we have a better chance through those doors than we do staying in here for even a second more,” he told her, holding out his hands to the crash bar, shoving the heavy door open, only looking back to make sure that Y/N had made it through, seeing that the black ooze had been following them before he promptly slammed the door shut.

This was one of the back doors, so it spits them out to the graveled employee parking lot that dances along one of the many mouths of the forest that surrounded them. They’re both out of breath, adrenalin zipping through their veins in a tidal wave as their chests heave and they stare at the door. They wait for it to crawl beneath these doors. . .they wait for the building to either be overcome by sludge or combust from whatever sinister being had decided to preoccupy this space.

But nothing happens.

The wind picks up, the leaves rustle against the branches, and as if it were a gift from the Earth, the sordid feeling blew right away with it.

“What the hell was that?” Y/N asks for the second time.

Harry straightens out from where he’d been crouched, inhaling the cool air, appreciative to be in it.

“Do you think for a second, with my reaction, that I have any fucking clue?”

. . .

Y/N doesn’t have people at her flat often.

Actually, apart from Niall and a few maintenance men, nobody had ever really come over. Not for any particular reason, really, and not because she didn’t want them to necessarily -- the opportunity just rarely arose, or more so, she didn’t often allow it to. If she were going to meet someone then she would meet them somewhere else, and they would part ways after they were finished (again, apart from Niall, who would simply follow her home, kick his trainers off, and head toward her couch which he had told her was simply the comfiest he’d ever been on). Her home was her humble abode. . .it was where she came to destress after a long day, and where Thumper sometimes waited for her debating whether or not he wanted to nibble her bathroom rug to shreds.

Not to mention she had plants growing here too, and flowers that she held dear to her, and while people are more reluctant to go touching what isn’t their business at a store, they are much less disinclined to give that same respect to her plants. Once Y/N had a maintenance man over to fix her faucet and she’d walked out from her room to see that he was caressing her snake plant’s leaves. She couldn’t blame him -- the plant had a very encompassing presence about it and had a way of drawing people in if they weren’t careful. . .hypnotized by the way it made them feel. All of Y/N’s soil and seeds are charmed with special incantations and concoctions that took her years to perfect, she would be disappointed if they weren’t causing people to leave all semblance of professionalism to even for a moment feel as if they were in a room with such clear air, their lungs felt renewed and they deemed it necessary to get closer.

But then she had to apologize to her snake plant for nearly two days after! It had been so upset with her, she could feel it, so she started being even more careful about who she let in. If she was going to go out of her way to have someone over, then there was a good reason for it. . .or it was Niall.

And a demonic, gooey substance sweating from the walls of a blood bank, was well enough a good reason to have Harry over.

It took some coaxing on her part -- he was convinced that they needed to just go back to their respective flats and go to bed, but Y/N was adamant in vetoing the idea. “We’re supposed to talk tomorrow anyway, so we might as well just go ahead and do it tonight -- and you are not leaving me alone after whatever the fuck that was!”

After a good ten minutes, he finally relented as long as they could stop by his flat so he could get his kitten. Y/N hadn’t known that he had a kitten and thought maybe he would bring out some ragged-looking thing, but she was surprised to see through her windshield window that Harry was approaching her car with a small grey kitten. Her face contorts in the way everyone’s face might when they see something small and cute, “Look at her,” she coos once Harry opens his door, “What’s her name?”

“This is Oat,” he answered, holding her out for Y/N to pet, “Be careful, she’s vicious.”

Y/N pet at her head and Oat’s eyes shut as she nuzzled into her palm, “Oh yeah, what a panther.”

Apart from the nerves that had already materialized from what they had seen in the blood bank, she was a little worried about inviting him into her home. When she visualized her safe space, Harry was not typically who she saw sitting on her couch when she came in from the kitchen, holding mugs of warm tea. Yet there he was, introducing Thumper and Oat to one another (who merely sniffed each other, then immediately cozied against her olive throw blanket on the end of the couch), and Y/N is handing him his steamy mug.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, immediately nursing the mug between his palms and lifting it up to his mouth for a small sip -- the steam disperses around his face in plumes, “And it wouldn’t make sense for. . .for whatever that is to just be a demon.”

“What?” She inquires, taking her seat beside him on the couch, her body twisted so she was facing him entirely. Y/N had adjusted the temperature to something that would be a bit more suited toward having a guest -- when she’s alone, she keeps it ungodly cold so she has an excuse to bundle up in her clothes and blankets. There’s nothing like feeling safe in a cocoon of various fabrics with Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the telly.

Harry strategically places the mug between his knitted socked feet, steadying it there as he begins to play with the thick, brassy tiger ring on his index finger, “Demons are strong, sure, but if they’re gonna be that strong there’s typically two reasons for it: they have already inhabited that area, or someone is controlling them behind the scenes. I would be more inclined to believe the prior, but I’ve been going to this blood blank for about a year now and unless there were some pentagrams I’ve missed or a gruesome ordeal that never made the papers in the past two weeks -- then there’s no reason for that to have happened at the hands of a spirit. Even a blood demon isn’t strong enough to make what happened in there happen, and they literally feed off the substance in the room.”

“So you think someone summoned it or something? I thought you were the only one around here that did that?” Y/N probes, trying to look in his eyes but she keeps getting distracted by his rings -- how many did he have? She thinks he nearly has one on each finger, and he’s plucking them off and placing them on different knuckles as he speaks. Y/N wonders if it’s something he does in response to a stressor, like how she picks at her nails.

“I’m the only witch that summons things around here, but not even I could conjure something that feels that vile.” He explained, fitting the last ring against his knuckle before he pops the bones in his fingers, and Y/N watches as the skin stretches and moves around the muscles in his hands, “I think someone is trying to manifest something without the proper safeguards in place. . .the lack of protection charms, crystals, and spells can invite much more heinous creatures to the living world. They feed off shite like that -- naivety. . .thinking that any person could decide they’ll have a demon carry out a job for them. It’s easier for them to take advantage of them that way.” Harry exhales, running the pad of his thumb around the rim of the mug— she’s given him the one that has intricate, realistic drawings of beluga whales on it, not for any other reason apart from that one was her favorite and she liked to see it in use, “And with a full moon coming up? Recipe for disaster.”

“Oh shit,” Y/N holds her tea closer to her being, “That’s why the feeling is so profuse and disagreeable in the air then, ‘cos they aren’t containing it right? When I was looking into a little bit of what you do, I read that there are containment spells so the demon or spirit doesn’t have free range to do as it pleases, but the spell is dependent on the demon in question and the severity of its power.”

Harry looked pleasantly surprised, “Yeah, that’s right -- what’re ya looking up what I’m doing for?” He settles into her couch, “Have you got a crush on me or summat?”

If Y/N rolled her eyes any further back, she thinks they would have done a 360 in her eye sockets, “I fell down a rabbit hole the other night when I was trying to figure out why you couldn’t sleep,” an impish grin slides onto his mouth, “And not because I’m “in love with you” -- I just thought it would be interesting to know if your insomnia was the reason of a demon because that would mean one of my items combats against that and wins. My. . .most of my magic is based on prevention when it comes to dark things like that, not really to fight what’s already there.”

“So your flowers don’t like -- I dunno, Little Shop of Horrors it?” He teases, motioning to her Hoya plant that had just begun to bloom for her, “I reckon when I think of plant magic, I think of you snapping your fingers and thorned ivy whipping around to slow assailants.”

“No, none of that,” she laughs lightly, shaking her head, “They’re much too nice and gentle. . .they only want to help. And I’m rarely in a situation where I would need thorned ivy whipping around.” Y/N locks eyes with Oat for a moment, whose eyes close nice and slow before she reopens them and Y/N thinks she might just melt, “What do we do then? How do we stop it?”

He slides a ring with teddy bears from his pinky and spins it between his forefinger and thumb, “There’s nothing to do -- if we don’t know who the problem is, then we can’t fix anything.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, and the action makes his already loose cardigan slide down his arms, revealing more of the cream-colored shirt he wore with Smokey the Bear on the front reading Only YOU! can prevent forest fires, “All we can do is wait for the next fucked feeling and hopefully run into the person causing -- oh,” Harry pauses, motioning toward her, “You’ve got a new friend.”

Y/N’s confused, brows knitted until she feels a paw press against her shoulder and the telltale purr of a happy kitty. When she turns her head, she finds that Oat has snuck her way up to her, and is now attempting to perch on Y/N’s shoulder. She presses closer to the back of the couch so that she had a better footing, and in return Oat bumps at her cheek with the top of her head, “You’re so cute, stop it,” she murmurs, and when she takes a breath through her nose, she smiles, “She smells like my heliotrope flowers too! How are you the familiar of such a grumpy, cruel lug, huh?”

“Oi,” Harry mutters, “I resent that. I’m not grumpy or cruel, you’re just rotten.”

A retort plays at Y/N’s mouth but her phone screen lights up from where it’s sat on the coffee table and strays her attention. She’s confused -- the only person who would be messaging her this late was Niall but she’s almost a hundred percent certain that he was supposed to be out at the bar tonight. It is him though.

Fuck me, have ya looked at the news? Is this that thing we were talkin bout?

Harry is a nosy bugger, and after reading the message with her he reaches for her remote, “You told him about it?” He turns on her telly, quick to open her TV guide, “So he knows about you?”

“Yeah, he knows -- turn to 3,” she tells him, and soon enough the local news is playing out, big bold letters on the blue band stretched across the bottom of the screen.

MAN TO BE CHARGED WITH ATTEMPTED MURDER ON GIRLFRIEND

He turned the volume up, so they could hear the news reporter who was on site. There was yellow caution tape stripped around a house, police lights, cops walking around in the back, and frightened neighbors who had left the comfort of their homes to investigate what was happening. The woman on screen had long blonde hair that whipped when the wind blew and muffled her microphone feed, her face set stony as she recounted the events as the police had told her, “. . .has no recollection of the event, and is claiming the “walls” were dripping in blood and demanding that he do it. Jacobs is being taken in for further questioning and pending a psychiatric evaluation -- his girlfriend Amanda Wilson is being rushed to hospital that’s all anyone knows right now. Back to you Tom...”

“Oh, fuck sake,” Harry groaned, shaking his head, “Now this is a problem, problem innit?”

“Was it not before?” Y/N takes the remote from him, turning the volume down, “Do you -- does that sound like anything you’ve dealt with? That would try hurting someone like that?”

He presses his knuckles to his eyes, sighing, “Not that I remember -- I’ll have to do some digging. . .this is bollocks, you know how bad this is for business? Nobody wants to mess with dark magic when shit like this is going on.”

“Aish, don’t think so selfishly. People are in danger,” she tsks at him, “And we’ll need to -- what are you doing?” She asks as he removes his feet from where they had been on the couch, reaching down for his loafers like he was about to put them on.

“S’getting late,” he responded, “I was g’na head home --”

“No you’re not,” she told him, her face dropping in borderline disgust as he seemed genuinely confused with her, his face twisting, “We experience something like that, then see the news, and you not only want to separate, but you want to walk all the way home, alone, in the dark? No way, that’s too stupid, you’re staying here.”

Harry’s brows dipped in, irritated, however, he did stop reaching for his loafers, “But --”

“Listen, we may not be fond of each other but I’m not letting you put yourself in danger,” she tells him, before adding quickly, “And you are fucking not going to leave me alone after that! Are you mad?”

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d be doing you a favor without bothering ya with my presence. Never thought Miss. Good Witch of the North would want me breathing her air for too long.” He ripostes and it reinvigorates any distaste for Harry that had been easing throughout the night the more they spoke. He always did that -- always made her feel like she was some stuck up prick who never gave him a chance, but she would have if he hadn’t started out being such an arse to her. Sure, the circumstances they had met under weren’t fantastic. . .she snapped at him for taking her flowers without asking, but he could have just apologized -- could have said sorry, and they could have started over but he was immediately put off by her she presumes, because ever since he’d been nothing but cruel to her. His knocking her out of the room in the blood bank was probably the first kind thing he’d ever done for her, and she isn’t a hundred percent certain that she wasn’t just in his way while he was trying to get out.

So she glowers at him as she pushes from her couch, “Sod off. I’ll get you some blankets.”

He almost immediately replaces the spot that her body had been with his legs, stretching out as far as he could and his feet flop on the arm of the sofa, “Reckon you should make me some of that tea though, so I can sleep.” He called after her. Thumper hops off and follows after her, while Oat finds her spot at Harry’s side and cuddles into where his cardigan’s extra fabric bundles. Y/N goes to the closet in the hall that leads to her bedroom, pries it open, and reaches to the top shelf where she keeps her extra blankets and pillows. Despite how irritated he makes her, she grabs him one of her heavier quilts, because even with her heat kicked up higher than normal her flat has very poor insulation, and the night’s into early mornings get pretty cold. She’s about to grumble at him that he better thank her for this and the bloody tea, but when she returns to the living room. . .he’s asleep.

Harry just fell right to sleep.

She’s confused -- understandably, she thinks, because she remembers how much of a fit he’d thrown about her tea and how she was closed on weekends so he couldn’t have any of it. Had whined how he wasn’t able to sleep without the tea, and she had only given him peppermint tea tonight, so there was no reason that should have put him to bed.

Yet there he was, fast asleep with his arms crossed over his chest.

Tutting her tongue quietly, she unrolls the blanket she had chosen for him and strategically places it over his legs. She is careful to move Oat so that she doesn’t suffocate under the covers as she pulls them over, up to Harry’s chest before replacing her in the spot she had snuggled prior. She pauses for a moment before she leaves them, taking in a completely relaxed Harry -- not that he doesn’t seem relaxed all the time, but he’s just. . .calm. His muscles have melted against her couch cushions, his brow has soothed and his amaranth pink lips are soft and parted. Gentle, easy breaths slip through his mouth. . .Y/N thinks that she likes him like this. Not spiteful, or crass -- this Harry doesn’t seem to hate her. This Harry is warm and comfortable enough to just fall asleep on her couch.

Thumper thumps his foot against the floor, his not-so-silent request that they go to bed and Y/N snaps out of whatever hypnotic state she’d been in watching him rest. She feels creepy but shakes it off, reaching down to pick up Thumper by his belly and cradling him to her chest as she leaves the living room, keeping her lamp on for him in case he wakes up to have a wee or anything.

It’s when she goes to the kitchen to grab him a bottle of water to leave at the coffee table for him, that she can feel Thumper judging her. This is only confirmed by the way he is looking up at her when she looks down at him, his small, pink nose twitching, and she can just sense him repeating Harry’s tease of have you got a crush on me or summat? -- it’s not like he hasn’t questioned her before. She reckons if Thumper could actually speak and not just implant little thoughts of his in her head through whatever little bond they have, he would be very free with his accusations about who she might have feelings for.

Y/N rolls her eyes.

“No, I don’t,” she disagrees with him quietly, “What do you know about crushes, hm? You’re just a bunny.”

. . .

It had been a while since Harry had worked.

Though he was always hesitant to call it work, all things considered. Y/N had once described to him that what he did was lurk around seedy clubs and wait to be recognized by a sorry sap that wanted something they didn’t want to put much effort towards, and Harry can’t necessarily say she’s wrong. He preyed on the lazy; men and women who couldn’t be arsed to obtain a goal without the help of a little magic no matter how negative, and Harry couldn’t really fault them for it. One, because sometimes goals are unattainable with literally anything other than a demon's help, and two because he gets a hefty wad of cash in his pocket for his trouble. How hypocritical could he be to deprecate their usage of dark magic when he is doing the same thing. . .when he relies on that more than anything, even the silly little romance novels he writes so that nobody questions where his money’s coming from.

It was a Friday night, and since he was no longer tied to the commitment of meeting Y/N to discuss the horrible, no good, terrible thing that was slithering its way through town and apparently spurring bouts of attempted murder -- he was able to visit a club. Though Y/N had made him lock pinkies with her that morning, telling him to keep his eye out for anything suspicious that may or may not have led to the events from the night prior.

Promise me that you’ll keep informed on what’s going on there, okay? And promise me that you’ll tell me about it.

The club he’d visited was one of the more popular of the four he frequented, and within the walls, amongst the gyrating bodies in scant clothing and sweat-drenched skin, were many of his regular clients. One of which had been blowing up his phone for the past week telling him how he desperately needed help, and he needed it ASAP. Harry finally replied to his message with a simple time that he would meet him, and that they would discuss the cost once he’s explained what is being asked of him. This guy, in particular, wanted many frivolous things, and typically his requests revolved around wealth, though Harry thought he had more than enough. And while Harry could do a few simple spells that would bring the money gradually and don’t come with the dangers that a demon will, he refuses. Harry has always told each of his clients that a spell and a demon could do the same thing, but demons brought faster results, albeit potentially precarious consequences.

And when it comes to summoning, things can get a bit tricky. If the person who is summoning is the person who will benefit from the demon’s will directly, then it may come with a price, and that price may or may not be hidden between the lines. Especially when it is someone who has no clue about the actual process, offerings that could be made without including their soul for the taking, and spells that could be done that would protect them. After doing this for so long, Harry had developed and harnessed enough power that it was rare a spell every backfired or a demon ever bested him, but if Bradley Evans tried this himself, he’d be good as dead.

This is why, no matter how this man grates every open end of his nerves with a dull blade, he continues to help him. Again, Harry gets paid an obscene amount of money for what he does, so he sucks it right up -- and it’s not as if this money is just for him. He has people to take care of, his own personal gripes with the smarmy, rich, meat-headed pricks that want him to summon Clauneck for a trip to the Bahamas matter very little in the grand scheme of things.

He’s leaning against the far back corner, at a table that he’d claimed for the night and a cherry mango cocktail that wets his lips and stains them red. He really isn’t scouting for suspicious behavior like he had promised to, only because his mind had floated elsewhere entirely. Like how, after so long of only ever being able to rest with help of Y/N’s chamomile, he was able to fall asleep without the help of anything. He had asked her about the tea that she and he drank prior to him passing out unprompted on her couch, but she told him it was just a store-bought strawberry tea that was a guilty pleasure.

It perplexed him greatly. He only remembers her demanding him to stay the night because she didn’t want to be alone (and if he’s honest, neither had he after the night they had), he remembers her standing and him stretching out on her couch, and he remembers asking her for the tea that would help him sleep.

And then he remembers waking, feeling refreshed, and renewed. Confused, but reinvigorated, he had a wee before poking around in her kitchen for something to satiate his grumbly stomach. Y/N was still asleep -- he’d peeked his head into her cracked open door only to find her dreaming peacefully, relaxed, and content. As creepy as it felt to stare at her as she slept, he did watch for a moment. It was different to see her without the accompanied scowl he usually coaxed upon her face -- the blissful gleam that exudes from her now is the same that he sees when she’s tending to one of her gardens.

He brewed two chai lattes in her Keurig with Oat on his shoulder like a bird and she woke as he was taking the second mug, setting it on her kitchen counter, “G’morning,” she yawned, Thumper hopping behind her, looking just as sleepy, “Did you sleep through the night? I made you a cuppa and kept it in the microwave in case you woke up.”

His heart had lurched. . .a genuine clench that Harry had not felt in a while.

“Oh,” he blinked at her owlishly, “I slept just fine, but thank you.”

“Mm, good,” she was so sleepy still, Harry remembers wondering if she was even fully awake speaking to him, “I have sliced fruit in the fridge if you want, for brekkie.”

It was a domesticated scenario that Harry had not been privy to.

Had it been her flat? Maybe the plants that she had strewn about the room were all enchanted, singing sweet songs of sleep that lulled him to sleep without him knowing. All he could recall was feeling so unbelievably comforted and no matter how cold it was in that damn flat, he felt so warm. . .so warm, and it smelled so good, and Oat was snoozing happily at his side. Plus she had wrapped him in this quilt that was heavy and smelled nice -- he thinks, in that moment, he finally understood why babies liked feeling contained in a swaddle blanket. Regardless of what happened at the blood bank, and what they found out on the news, Harry felt safe in her flat. And he probably wouldn’t have left either, if he didn’t have to work.

He’s so caught in his reverie, that Bradley’s arrival truly startled him. A clearing of his throat catches his attention, dragging his unfocused gaze from the crowd of dancers to Bradly, dressed in a Lacoste polo that thought was ugly but he would never say it aloud, “Oh,” he straightened up, bringing the rim of his glass to his mouth and taking a small sip of it, “Right then, what can I do for you? Another trip to Barbados?”

Bradley shakes his head a little frantically, and it's only then that Harry takes in the actual appearance of him, that surpasses the Lacoste and zeros in on the panic that decorates his face, “I need like -- like a demon protector or some kinda spell or -- I don’t fucking know, or something.”

“Oh --” his brows dip, “What’s wrong? Is something bothering you?”

He starts to nod, then switches it to a shake of his head, and that morphs into a shrug of his shoulders, “I don’t know man, I just don’t feel -- I don’t feel safe. I wondered if one of those demons from before were like. . .after my soul or summat.”

“Not possible,” Harry dismisses the idea, setting his glass down on the high round table, “When I work with them we make a spiritual, contractual agreement that they are bound to. If your soul was not on the table, then it will never be on the table -- it must be something else,” he thinks for a moment before a slither of realization stokes the fire in his brain, that sets the coals aflame and heats the cogs to a churn, “What -- explain to me what you’re feeling?”

“Like something is watching me,” he blinked, crossing his arms on top of the table and leaning most of his weight onto it, the scent of liquor wafts over Harry’s face when Bradly breathes, “It’s heavy and. . .it’s like swimming in ink. It’s horrible and frightening, and I’ve never -- I’ve never been one to rely on vibes, but mate, they were bad. . .they were like -- vile. Vile vibes, man.”

Harry thinks, while his description is repugnant, he knows exactly what he’s talking about, but there wasn’t much he could do. Harry can make protection spells that are generalized but he doesn’t believe that any of them are strong enough to fend off whatever this thing is. In cases like this one, sometimes dark magic is not good to fight dark magic, it can only make it grow and fester like a nasty, infected wound. He really did not want to try that out on Bradley. . .he may not be fond of the guy, but he didn’t wish anything ill on him.

“You wouldn’t come to me for a protection spell, for something like that,” Harry begins, “You would need --” You would need Y/N -- is what is about to leave his lips, but it drops away. As much as it’s true -- as much as Harry knows that the reason he felt the safest he’s ever had in Y/N’s presence was whatever protection spells she had put in place and strengthened -- he couldn’t. The thought of sending someone like Bradley to someone like Y/N, makes him feel sick. “Give me one second, yeah? Stay here.”

Y/N gave him her number that morning, telling him that it was silly for them to be unable to contact one another. Harry saved it into his phone and sent her a picture of Oat so that she would have his, but left it at that -- he had assumed, until this moment, that he would never have a reason to have her number. If he ever wanted anything from her he would just show up at her store.

But here he was, scrolling through his contact list to find her, pressing her number and holding his phone up to his ear. It only rings twice before she’s answered it, “Hello? Is everything okay Harry, did you get a lead?”

Harry laughs in disbelief, “What’re you, a detective?” He cleared his throat so he could speak over the music clearly, “I need you for something, and I’ll give you half. And before you get all high and mighty, it isn’t for anything bad -- one of my regulars is experiencing the same fucked thing we have only it’s more vile vibes opposed to blood seeping from the walls. Need a protection spell -- whatever you use for your flat and store.”

She’s quiet for a moment, long enough that Harry questions if his service dropped, but her voice reappears.

“Where are you?”

Fifteen minutes later, Harry is flagging Y/N down to his spot in the club where he stood next to Bradley whose friends kept coming around wondering if Harry was his pull for the night. Her jumper with a printed bunny right in the center made him chuckle to himself -- it was more than clear that she had not planned on coming out tonight, and if not for Harry, he thinks she would have spent three more hours at her store tending to the garden there if not for him. When she sees him, noticeable relief makes her shoulders slump, and as she gets closer, she reaches into her pocket, “Thank god,” she called over the music, “I’ve been in here for three minutes and if I got knocked into one more time I was going to lose it.”

She produces two things -- one is a tiny vial, with an unidentified green liquid, and the other is a small baggie of her tea. Harry takes both from her hand, “Thank you,” he murmurs, before dipping down closer to her ear, “Go over to that empty table near the bar, I don’t want this guy seeing you clear enough that he could ask you for anything ever again.”

Though she was confused, she listened to him, slinking her way over to the table while Harry turned to Bradley who had been looking at his phone, before both were placed in front of them, “Thank you,” he tells him, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. How much?”

“850,” Harry says without batting an eyelash. Typically his business runs closer to the thousands but he cuts the guy a break since he’s scared.

“Each or what?” Bradley asks as he fishes his wallet from his pocket, flipping the leather open and beginning to thumb through his bills.

“No, just 850,” he takes the bills from him, folding it between his fingers, “I shipped your crystals last week, did they come?”

Bradley nods, a big grin on his face, “Oh, fuck yeah dude, I almost forgot! I already transferred you the money for them right?”

Harry thinks it’s a shame that he doesn’t keep track -- he could really scam him if he wanted to, with these black crystals bathed in the water of Asmodeus (they increases stamina and aids them in not being shit in bed; it was a fucking full-day event to get Asmodeus to recognize the clear stream water, in an incubator that he checks every 15 minutes or so to see if the water has been touched red) “Yeah, you sent double the amount ‘cos your buddy wanted some too, right?”

“He loved them, mate, he’s way less narky too now that he’s getting his dick wet.”

Harry holds back a grimace, “Alright then, stay safe. You know how to contact me if you need anything.”

Bradley bids his goodbye and Harry seeks out Y/N, who is picking idly at her fingernails and bobbing her head slightly to the music. When he gets close enough to her, he starts on his spiel as he waves the money toward her,

“Listen, Babe, you used your plants to help him, honestly you deserve way more than this -- a fucking Nobel Prize probably,” he holds it out to her, “Here.”

She shakes her head, but not in the way she would if she were refusing it because she was disgusted by him -- no, instead she closes his hand around it again and presses it closer to his body, “No, no, you keep it, he’s your guy or whatever.”

Harry tilts his head, brows knitted, “But they’re your plants.”

“Yeah, but I would just feel guilty taking it from you so --”

He sighs, counting out 450 of it, taking her hand, opening her fingers, and sliding the bills into her palm, “Even split then. If you’re going to utilize something precious to you to help someone like that fucker, you deserve a little compensation for it. “

Y/N must realize that he wasn’t going to let it go, because she finally folds it in her hands, slipping it into her pocket, “What’s with that guy then? Why do you not like him?”

Harry can see it clearly; the image of his childhood self, his family struggling to make ends meet but going to primary school with the wealthier kids. The ones who laughed at his faded shirts, and holed winter coats -- who would ask him to their birthday parties and talk shit about the gift he’d scraped up coins for doing miscellaneous work around the neighborhood. He thinks about how he knew they would go home to kitchens full of food, and bountiful dinners that they would never appreciate, while Harry never took seconds because no matter how hungry he was, he made sure their bellies were as full as they could be. And Harry remembers how the headmaster did nothing to quell his worries because those kid’s parents could buy out the school if they wanted to.

He sees it all, and he hears it all, and for a moment -- selfishly -- it makes Harry wish he had never given Bradley the protection spell at all.

But he only shakes his head, “He’s just a prick,” he answers simply, before nodding his head toward the door, “Reckon we should get out of here, it smells like piss.”

It’s always a little easier to leave the club than it is to enter it, so they’re out in the cool air soon enough. A small line had formed outside since Harry had been in there last, and as they step out, a group of three is let in through the rope chain that the bouncer is policing. This part of town is always bustling late into the night, so neither feel the cold brush of fear they have been when they’re out in the dark -- or at least the relaxed way Y/N is looking around tells him that she’s pretty content.

“Do you want to get something to eat?” She asks him, pointing at the 24-hour diner right across the street, that had been strategically placed there because people who are drunk and high who just sweat out half their body weight love greasy food, “I skipped dinner today.”

“What a coincidence -- so did I.”

They got a booth in the far back corner, where the white and maroon tilted floor glistened wet from a recent scrub from the mop, and the air smells of lemon pine-sol. This along with the fact that the black leather seats were dusted of the crumbs that usually mottles them, Harry would assume that they had come just in time for their 12 AM clean up, where the first batch of besotted clubbers had left a mess and they were waiting for the second wave to come through. He didn’t miss the eye that the waitress had given them, looking them up and down like she was trying to decipher what state they were both in, but when neither of them wobbles in their stance, or slur through their words asking for a table, she relaxes and asks them where they’d like to sit.

After they get settled and order their food (Harry convinces her to get one of their malted milkshakes with him -- his favorite was strawberry and after she confessed that she never had their strawberry malt, he was insistent on her trying it), Harry’s curiosity is suddenly piqued as he thinks of something he hadn’t thought of before, “How did you make it over to the club so fast, hm? Do you just have jars of this stuff made laying around?”

Y/N sticks her clear straw in the icy glass of water she’d been poured, stirring it like there was anything to mix, and the ice cubes clink together soundly, “No, no, I actually don’t make protection spells unless I’m asked directly -- or usually that’s the case, but I was already in the middle of making some for you and me, so I had a little leftover.”

“For me too?” Harry inquires, genuinely surprised by the concept that she would make him something to keep him safe. She nods though, like it was silly that he thought she wouldn’t have, only this time she reaches into her purse and retrieves two much larger vials with little cork tops, and one bigger bag of the dried leaves, accompanied by a smaller one tied with red ribbon.

“I was doing some research while I was at work --”

“You do a lot of research, don’t you?” He cuts her off and she nods.

“Mhm -- and there’s this like. . .there’s this elder witch who lives an hour or so drive away from us who I think might be immortal, but that’s beside the point. She has this blog that I was scrolling through and she linked her email, so I messaged her and she sent me her number and told me to call her immediately.” She slides one of the vials over to him, along with the tree leaves, “When I did, she told us that we were in a little more danger than everyone else ‘cos like -- whatever this thing is could start trying to feed off of us, especially you. Said that we needed a potent protection spell, and I told her about mine. You feel safe in my store and in my flat right? Like -- like whatever that thing is couldn’t get to us?” He nodded, eyes fixed on hers, “So this is a version of that suitable for our bodies. The tea leaves are for your flat, and then this little bag here --” she points at the one tied closed with the small strip of red ribbon, “-- this is a tea version of it safe for Oat to drink.”

Not only had she made him some, but she also made Oat some too? As much as he disliked her before, he can’t help how this warms his heart, zipping through his body and makes him feel just as safe as he did when he was wrapped in her quilt snug on her couch. Harry wonders if this is what she’s like all the time with her friends. . .he wonders if this side of her, that researches and makes protection goodies, brews him a cuppa just in case he woke up in the middle of the night and comes out in the depth of night to the seedy clubs she despises just because he called and asked -- if that’s what they get to see. If that’s what he would have seen had their meeting been any different.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking the vial and the bags, looking at them against his palm, “A lot. You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“I did though,” she takes a drink of the water through her straw, “I may not agree with what you do but we’re the only two witches here and there is power in unity, even if our versions of magic are different. We have to be there for each other -- Thumper agrees, and that’s a lot coming from him because he doesn’t like much of anybody. . .he barely likes me,” she holds her hand up, the index finger of her other going from finger to finger as she lists off the ingredients, “So we’ve got fern, anise, leaves from the ash tree in the forest, fennel -- the nice old woman told me to hold off on the mugwort unless we’re planning on astral projecting or doing anything with divination, but if we felt that it was necessary we could wear a wreath of it around her necks. That’s an old wives tale though, I’m pretty sure.” She wiggles her fingers, “All that and a little bit of moon water, and we have ourselves a little protection spell! I dipped my finger in for a taste test and I’ll be honest, it’s awful and plant-y but I reckon we can toss them back like a shot and chase it with a sweet drink like juice or something.”

It hits Harry that he gave Y/N very little credit for what she did, but now as he’s looking at something that she’d made specifically with him in mind, that wasn’t just a glorified sleepy time tea, it puts some things in perspective for him. Sure, she’s been a dick to him in the past, but he was a dick too, about her magic. While he isn’t going to start kissing the ground she walks on, he decides then that he’ll be more mindful of her craft. Plus, from the amount of time that they’ve had to spend together in the past two days, she’s tolerable when she isn’t on her high horse about him summoning spirits and ruining the town. She’s even helpful.

“Thank you,” he repeats, “I really mean it, I appreciate this a lot.”

Y/N smiles at him and it’s a smile that he’s never been gifted before. A smile that makes him smile back, as she places her elbow on the table and holds out her pinky toward him -- she’s big on pinky swears, he’s finding.

“We’re looking out for each other, okay? I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine. . .I swear it.”

Harry locks his pinky with hers without a second thought.

#WRITING #WOOOOOOOOO #SPOOKY #YAHTZEE #I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT BECAUSE I LOVE IT LOADDS #AND I LOVE YOU LOADS #HAPPY READING :D #HARRY STYLES

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elsewhereuniversity · 4 years ago

Text

About Face

“Do you have any questions about your prescriptions today, uh…m-miss?” The pharmacist’s question is laced with assumptions about who you are. It’s not great, of course, but it’s also not worth your time to fight about today.

“No, I’m good,” your smile and voice are sugary-sweet, but your eyes are daggers as you take the bag and turn back towards the door. The heat and humidity are already staggering at 8 am and you are immediately made sticky by the brief walk to your car. As you start it up, there’s a brief chime of email-receiving from your phone, but you ignore it. Then there’s another ding, this time your lab-mate, Valerie, texting you.

Hey, u almost in? In like 30min. had to stop by pharmacy

K. Jill was looking for u. Also ugh that paper for tomorrow, I’m not even a birdsong person lol

Lol get over it, I had to read one of your fancy neuro papers last time. Did jill say what she needed me for?

Whatever lol. She didn’t say.

Ughhhhhhh

Jill, Dr. Dominguez, is your advisor, and you know you need to get her some figures and sections of your thesis soon, but these damn stats…well. There’s a reason you prefer spending your time traipsing off-trail through the wilderness over sitting in front of a computer all day. Not that this part isn’t interesting and important too, but come on.

Traffic is moving at a sluggish pace, of course, so you’re lost in contemplation and dread of the analyses you need to attempt running today, and the inevitable conversation with Dr. Dominguez that will have to happen at some point. As the traffic finally begins to move, you grit your teeth. Maybe it’s time to consider actually asking for help. I have no fucking clue how to do multivariate shit…You stare ahead as you inch forward, before a frustrating, jolting stop at a red light. Your eye is drawn to a kid crossing the road, wearing a grey hoodie. They look forlorn, for some reason you can’t entirely enumerate, and you glance back at them as the light finally turns.

The sun isn’t very high yet, so there are still some odd shadows stretching across the sidewalk, but you could’ve sworn that the kid had no face.

****

You manage to put the pharmacist and your grandma and the obviously-just-a-trick-of-the-light-I-mean-how-else-could-that-be faceless kid out of your mind for the rest of the morning and actually get some results you can work with from the analyses you’d been worried about. And when Dr. Dominguez pops into lab to talk to you, she is actually impressed at both the pace and quality of work you’ve delivered thus far. In fact, you’re feeling pretty damn good about everything, despite the earlier unpleasantness, so you decide to grab some lunch and hang out with some of the other grad students and lab techs.

Lunch-special sushi in hand, you plop yourself down at one of the rundown old tables in the work room. Valerie is there, along with Raul, one of the grad students from a micro lab down the hall, and Jackson, one of the general lab techs. Everyone says hi, but you’re only vaguely following the conversation as you dig into your spicy tuna roll. Something something TA stipends being cut. Which is such bullshit, of course, but nothing new. You’re just about to jump into the discussion when you get a Facebook notification. It’s your cousin, who tagged you in a post. You stare for a good five seconds at your phone.

Just remembering the good times with my cousin before he decided to be a transsexual.

And then a picture from when you were 14, a picture you’d thought you’d deleted from every conceivable online location. A picture that highlights pretty much every single aspect of your body that made staying in the closet completely untenable. Everything just always happens at once, huh.

“Fucking asshole,” you mutter, and are surprised to feel the hot prick of tears in your eyes.

“Becca, you alright?” Valerie asks, and you belatedly realize that everyone at the table heard you and is now staring. They think you were talking about one of them, or responding to something they said.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. Just something my cousin posted. She’s—she can be such a jerk. Don’t worry about it,” you say as you hastily wipe away the tears.

“What’d she do?” Jackson asks. Valerie glares at him so fiercely that he rolls his eyes and holds up his hands, “Just, like, if you wanna talk about it.”

You sigh. You’re not precisely going stealth, but you also don’t just talk to everyone about being trans. Have you actually come out to Jackson? Valerie knows, and Raul, but you don’t think you’ve ever directly talked to Jackson about it.

“It’s—it’s fine. Just, she posted a picture of me from before I came out, and I really hate thinking about any of it.” You speak with a bit more force than you intend.

“Why is that a big deal?” Jackson asks, taking a bite of his pasta. Valerie glares at him again and Raul just shakes his head.

“It’s just…it took me a long time to figure it out, and I don’t particularly like being reminded of that. And it’s not great for dysphoria, either.” You say this distractedly as you go to the post and untag yourself.

“That’s really rough,” Raul says, frowning.

“Sorry, what’s that word?” Jackson asks with a raised eyebrow, “I guess I just don’t get it? It’s just a kid picture of you, what’s it matter?”

And that does it. You stand abruptly, “I need to get back to the lab.” You hear Valerie and Raul berating Jackson as you walk away, but you’re just so very done. You toss the empty sushi container in the trash at the corner of the hallway, near one of the windows overlooking the main walkway through campus. And you nearly trip over your own feet as you swivel to double check something down below. A gray hoodie. A child with no face looking over their shoulder as they turn a corner.

****

You don’t mean to take the wrong street. It’s already been far too long a day between all of the inanity with your extended family and Jackson. And everything you tried to run after lunch was a bust, making you feel like Dr. Dominguez’s praise earlier was completely undeserved. Given all of that, you decided to get takeout again, even though you really should be cooking, so you’re walking to pick up your order. It is early evening, the shadows having elongated to embrace nearly everything, and while debating whether it’s even worth confronting your cousin about the jab, your feet simply take you the wrong way. You don’t even notice, until you’re standing in front of an empty park that’s three blocks over from where you should be. Or, wait.

Not empty. One lone figure, sitting quietly on one of the swings, wreathed in shadow.

You’ve been walking quite quickly, but over the course of a few steps have come almost to a stop. With a shiver, you glance around the area, but no parents or adults are in sight, and the figure looks young, even from a distance. 12, maybe? Maybe the kid lives in one of the nearby houses? Probably. Should you call someone? Who? Not the cops. They’d just as soon arrest or hurt the kid as help them. It isn’t that late, leaving the kid be is probably the most prudent course of action.

But. The kid feels…familiar. Even from a hundred meters, you can see that their shoulders are hunched, their hands are tight on the chains of the swing. The gentle creaking as those chains move with the slight shifts of the kid’s body is despondent in a way that is known to you, somehow. So, against your better judgement, you leave the sidewalk and walk across the damp grass to the edge of the playground. When you step onto the sand, the kid’s head jerks up and their shoulders tense further, raising almost to their ears. You stop walking and from the new angle a streetlight throws the kid’s grey hoodie into stark relief.

“Are-are you okay?” you have to clear your throat to get the words out and your voice sounds weak and tinny in the still, silent park.

The shoulders shrug. The kid is also wearing jean cutoffs, their scuffed sneakers unlaced.

“Do you need me to call someone?”

A sharp shake of the head, and then their hands release the chains and fall into their lap.

“Don’t need anything,” the kid’s voice is low, you can barely hear what they’re saying. Gingerly, you take the last few steps to the swing set and awkwardly settle into one of the worn rubber seats. Only after you have already done this do you think to question why you are so compelled to talk to this child who—maybe? how?—has been dogging you all day.

“I said I don’t need anything,” the kid says in an emotionless voice. Their face is still completely shadowed by their hood and shaggy hair.

“I just—look, kid, I think I’ve been where you are, and—”

The kid cuts across you, “I tried to tell them today. But I…couldn’t, I didn’t know how to, so I just ended up saying I like girly shoes and wanted some or whatever.”

Oh. So you were right. You know exactly what’s going on. In fact, you’re pretty sure you had that precise conversation, once.

“That’s tough,” you acknowledge, slowly pushing back in the swing, which creaks beneath you, “It took me a long time too.”

There’s silence. Then:

“That’s what I was worried about.”

You start and quickly glance over at the kid, who has finally turned to face you.

She doesn’t have a face, which, you suppose, really shouldn’t be a surprise. You weren’t seeing things, earlier. There’s just a smooth expanse of dark olive skin. The featureless head tilts to one side and she speaks again.

“I thought you might recognize me.” The voice is plaintive. With every word, you feel a sense of vertigo, like there is a mouth, somewhere, that is making those sounds, that it’s right in front of you, but you cannot perceive it.

You are breathing very rapidly, “I thought—how do you know me? What’s, I mean—”

“This?” the kid gestures at her face, “I don’t know, I can see but I can’t see myself, I dunno what’s going on. All I know is I was walking to the park and then I was here, or I mean, on the road this morning and saw you and I followed you and I just want to go home or just sleep or just melt away but I can’t, okay? There’s just nothing.”

Without noticing, you have sprung to your feet and are backing away from the faceless girl, the faceless girl who can’t tell her parents who she is. Who you are.

“I didn’t want to think about it,” you whisper. Why are you even responding to this? This is a hallucination, or a dream. You’re just reacting to the whole bullshit situation with your cousin and Jackson and that fucking pharmacy tech. Did you fall asleep back in the lab, is that it? You pinch yourself, but no luck, “I came out and that was what I needed. Okay? Why dwell on, on, on all of that shi—stuff that happened before?”

The girl is still sitting placidly in the swing, though her hands are once again clenched around the chains.

“I knew you were me, I guess. So I followed. I don’t think anyone else notices me either, not that that’s anything new,” The note of bitterness in her voice cuts you to the bone, “I thought maybe you—me, future me, whatever—would be able to…fix me? But nothing’s changed, has it?”

You’re backed up to the slide now, “Why are you doing this? What even are you?”

You slump against the side of slide, your knees suddenly weak, “This cannot—this is bullshit, I don’t know how you’re doing this, but—”

The faceless girl is in front of you now, hands jammed into the front pocket of her hoodie. She stands there, contemplating her future self, “I just want to understand,”

The kid, proto-Becca, or whatever or whoever she is, sure sounds like a kid desperately trying to make sense of something, and not some ghoulish nightmare creature.

“Just stop,” you say in a hoarse voice, “I just don’t want to think about it, I shouldn’t have to think about it, I just want to move forward.”

“Yeah,” proto-Becca abruptly falls to her knees, and draws them up to her chest. It takes a few seconds for you to understand the sounds that the kid is making are sobs.

You hug your own knees and contemplate getting up and running away and just forgetting about all of it: this faceless phantom of your childhood self, your relatives’ inability to accept your reality, the absurd, useless, pointless stats and analyses. You’re crying too, desperately trying to refocus on the here and now, instead of being drawn down into the rabbit hole of loneliness and regret and fear that always consumes you when you think too hard about those years in which it felt like your whole body was turning against you and you couldn’t find any satisfactory explanations for what you were feeling.

But the sounds of proto-Becca, of proto-you, sobbing into her knobbly knees bring you back to the present. Ironic, that. No matter what else, however she got here, whatever happened to her face, she’s a kid. She’s a kid. She’s. A. Kid. You were a kid.

You furiously wipe your eyes and nose and sit up, scooting a bit closer to proto-Becca.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” you say in as steady a voice as you can manage, “I was scared, and, and, and I lashed out. It’s not your fault, kid.”

She doesn’t lift her head, but the sobs are quieter.

“I mean, kid, no offense, but you don’t have a face. And somehow you’re me, right?” Okay, that came out meaner than you meant it to, “The truth is that I’ve done my best to forget pretty much everything that happened back when I was…you, I guess. But I can’t.”

She sniffles, “I’m trying to tell them, I am. But the boys at school, every time I try to talk to Mom or Dad I see those boys laughing and yelling and coming at me and I can’t, I don’t—know how I ended up here, or what to do about this or anything. I just want things to be normal.”

And, finally, you get it. Not why she’s here, or how, or what any of this means, but, at least, what to do. You’ve tried to help kids who were like you before. You’d never have told them that they needed to keep their feelings concealed, that they needed to not do anything so as to avoid reminding you of your own past. So why, then, are you doing it to yourself?

“Is it okay if I come sit next to you, maybe give you a hug?” you ask, as gently as you can.

You get a glimpse of the faceless face from behind the curtain of hair, “I—I think so?”

You get to your feet, a task far more laborious than you feel it should be, and cross to her. When you plop down by her side, she twitches, but it’s toward you. Slowly and carefully, you wrap an arm around her narrow shoulders, and hold her close. She’s still crying, and the hood has slipped from her dark curls.

“It’s okay that it’s taking time,” you say, “It’s really, really hard. I meant that. There’s…nothing out there. No one to explain to you, to, uh, us, what these feelings mean, really. I remember. I remember how much it feels like you’re just stuck in the same looped computer program. Endlessly completing the same actions with no idea why, only feeling like something isn’t right. And so scared of what happens if you do anything that breaks that loop.”

“That’s pretty much it,” she says with a note of wait, that wasn’t completely in my head???, “I don’t see how I can explain to anyone, especially Mom and Dad.”

“I think all you can do is be honest. There are some resources out there, although maybe they aren’t published yet,” you glance sideways at her, “But if you just…elucidate those feelings you’ve been sitting on, it at least opens the door to them comprehending.”

“I guess so,” she sighs, and then giggles, “But also, like, no offense, that was, like, a really freakin’ pretentious way to say that.”

You snort and ruffle her hair, “Whatever. Something for you to look forward to, then.”

She’s quiet for a bit and then, quick like a bird, she wraps her arms around you too, “So I’m gonna tell them, then?”

You shrug, “When you’re ready. Whenever that is. And I promise, you are no lesser if it takes a while. Okay?”

“But you’re still going to hate thinking about me, right? I mean, about how long it took me, you, to finally do it?” her head tilts.

You sigh, “I don’t know. It’s hard, I won’t pretend it isn’t. But I think I can at least say that it’s okay. That it’s not my, or your, fault.”

When you look up, her face appears. Smile first. Broad and full of braces, her quick and nervous brown eyes darting to your face and then back to her knees.

“You’ll be fine,” you say, giving her one last squeeze, “I’m the living proof, right?”

Her laugh lingers in the air as she fades away.

#transroadwarrior #stories #long post #about face #body horror #of the faceless variety #trans #transphobia #briefly #becca #proto becca #submission

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comfortablesilencebk · 4 years ago

Text

CHAPTER 01

Flying itself never bothered Y/N, it was always a freeing feeling to see the world beneath one's feet and feel the air on her body, this however is different from the other times Keigo took her for a flight. They are about 50 feet in the air, beneath them the city and streets. It is a pretty nice view and Y/N would enjoy it, if she wasn’t hanging in the air and trying not to let go of her bag or Keigo, while he tries to break his speed record. It’s the first time since months, maybe even years, that he flys her somewhere. Now that he’s a famous pro hero, people would recognize them and he never intended to put Y/N under the blinding lights of the press. At least that’s what he says. Y/N thinks she just became too heavy and tall for him, too fly her around like he used to when she was a child. She doesn’t mind it particularly because it only shows that she’s getting stronger but some nights she misses their little trips around the city.

„Hawks! Hawks, I’m gonna fall! Slow down!“ she yells, panicking and trying not to glimpse his grip as he takes a sharp turn right, almost crushing her into a building. The man above her only laughs and starts flying downwards for a landing. They land on an empty parking lot near U.A High and Y/N tries not to fall, while catching a breath. Maybe she doesn’t miss flying that much, she thinks to herself and watches him stretch his arms before turning her head back to the ground. The more she trains her quirk the safer she feels walking on the earth, knowing there is always something beneath her feet.

„You used to like flying,“ he says in an amused tone and even though she can’t see his face, she can hear his smile. Keigo is still smiling and he doesn’t even try to hide it. Just because he doesn’t like her plans for the future, doesn’t mean he isn’t proud of her and what she has accomplished. His chest could explode by the thought of his little Dove growing up and taking matter into her own hands. The man has to hold himself back not to pull her into a big hug.

„Not like this,“ she replies and takes the bag he's holding for her. The girl straightens her uniform, loosening the tie, so she could breathe freely and brushing her brown curls. “How do I look?“ she asks with a worried look on her face. Now that she’s only a few streets from U.A, the anxiety starts creeping up. It’s normal to be a bit excited or even nervous, it’s a new chapter in her life after all, Keigo told her but somewhere deep inside she’s still afraid everyone could see straight through her.

„Like a wingless chicken and now say UA,“ he grins and pulls out his phone to take a picture. His attempt to light up her mood fails but Y/N doesn’t have the heart to show it.“You should probably go. You don’t wanna be late on your first day, eh?“

„Right,“ she says but doesn’t move a bit. Y/N is still nervous and even a little afraid. What if no one will like her? What if the teachers recognize her? U.A is the best school in Japan, Y/N could fail and - no! Failure is something she doesn’t even dare to think about. She’s powerful enough to beat them all, even Todoroki and Yaoyozoru or whoever thinks they’re better. Y/N has formed herself into something powerful with tears and bones and she’d rather do it all over again than to look back.

„Dove, everything will be fine. You’ll do great.“ After the years they have spent together, Keigo can see past her mask whenever she’s nervous or uncomfortable and even how to calm her down. He lets one of his feathers fly in front of her nose, which let’s her crack a smile.“Let’s go.“

Keigo escorts her until they’re only a couple of streets away from the facilities. That’s where their ways part and Y/N walks alone towards the gates. Her mind is trying to find something she can think about other than all the things that could go wrong and so she just stares at the cherry blossoms. They have been her favorite thing about this world she entered years ago.

Being late has its advantages, Y/N notes and tries to calm herself down. There are barely any people in the hallways and she doesn’t have to choose a seat because there is only one left anyway. Just stay positive and calm, she reminds herself. Right behind a blond boy, who seems in a bad mood is the last free table. Y/N takes a seat and looks around the classroom. Only one door but the windows can be opened and the classroom is located on the second floor. 20 students, 7 girls and 13 boys. She recognizes Todoroki, who’s sitting in the back and Iida, sitting in the front. The pink girl and the yellow haired boy seem friendly and Y/N decides to talk to them later. If she survived this far she can surely make some friends, right? It was Keigo who taught her how to be charming and friendly, after all.

„Hey, I’m Sero Hanta,“ says the boy next to her, as he notices her looks, and offers her his hand, which she accepts with a smile. The boy has a bright smile on his lips and pitch black hair. His elbows look somehow weird but Y/N can’t see what they are.

„Takami Y/N, nice to meet you.“

It turns out that Sero is actually pretty nice and funny, she notes. He likes old action movies and sweets. Listens to music she doesn’t really know and taps with his foot. His open type and bright smile reminds her of Keigo. They keep talking until the bell rings and someone rolls in the classroom. A man with long black hair and a weirdly long scarf. Y/N doesn’t know him but Sero recognized him immediately. The underground hero Eraserhead or rather Aizawa Shouta.

„You know, Aizaw Sensei can erase someone’s quirk with his eyes! So cool right! What is actually your quirk? I can shoot tape from my elbows, how about you!“ Sero also talks a lot, Y/N realizes as the class gathers outside after changing into their gym clothes and he immediately ran towards her to keep chatting. The girl is a bit surprised that he came back to her, to talk and how friendly everyone seems. Y/N was the last girl to come out of the cabins, still a little anxious that someone might see her change, but as she finally came out she found Momo waiting for her so she wouldn’t be alone.

,,I can control bones that are in the ground and recreate my own,“ Y/N explains and smiles nervously. Her quirk might sound creepy to some and isn’t quite flashy. Pulling out bones of dead people or animals is not really a quirk of a hero, little girls look up to. It’s rather a quirk to cause harm but Y/N swallows the thoughts and memories.

„Does that mean you can create an army of skeletons?“ asks the blond boy from earlier and looks at her with big eyes. He’s standing right next to Sero and another boy with spiky red hair. They don’t seem disgusted by her, letting her relax a bit until the little voice she choked so many times to death murmurs a „not yet“ into her ear.

„You can talk about your quirks later.”

They all turn around and fall silent as Aiwawa Sensei appears behind them, his look as tired and bored as always. His voice is monotone but it somehow calms Y/N down and it’s not exhausting to listen, unlike many other people she met in life.

Y/N likes their first exercise. She worked hard on her abilities and now she can show off her quirk in a good way. Show them that she’s more than the things that they used to say. More than a murderer they want her to be.

„How far can you throw a ball?“ Sero asks as they watch the angry blond boy, whose name apparently Bakugou is, throw one of the baseballs over 705 meters. He doesn’t seem proud or happy about his score, only annoyed as if the whole exercise is just a waste of his time. This alone wouldn’t bother Y/N but it’s the way he looks at her when she answers.“Maybe 500 meters?“ He gives her a look that almost screams she’s too weak to even be in this class. Like she’s the one wasting everyone’s time. It makes her blood boil in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time. She won’t justify to an arrogant boy why she’s here. He's no one, yet she has to say something.

„Congratulations, you can throw a ball. Go play fetch with a dog.“ she murmurs to him and watches how his face turns from scorn into angry, giving her satisfaction.

„At least I can use my quirk useful. What do you want to do with your bones? Use them as chopsticks?“

Y/N has to admit, it’s not the best idea to start a fight on their first day but something about him makes her fingers twitch. She also doesn’t realize that he listend to them earlier, all she wants, in that moment, is to wipe away this stupid look on his face. The stupid boy seems to see through every facade she put up and hit her right where it hurts. First he thinks she’s taking up space and now she’s useless! “Breaking the bones in your body seems useful to me.“ Y/N regrets the words as soon as they fall off her tongue. This is exactly what she didn’t want, them to think she’s a thread.

„Takami! Bakugou!“

Both of them step away from each other and turn to Aizawa, who’s standing right behind them. The look on his face is terrifying and covers even the fact that most of the other students were watching them too.“I really don’t care if you hate each other but if you disturb my class one more time, I’ll expel you immediately.“ He doesn’t even bother to wait for their apology, not that Bakugou wanted to apologize anyway, and starts walking towards some other sports equipment.

„Can you really do it? Break someone's bones?“ Sero is still next to her, whispering while the man explains their next exercise. He doesn’t seem scared but rather surprised and Y/N wonders if he’s just hiding his fear.

,,No,“ Y/N answers with a low voice and notices how the boy next to her loses tension. She can only hope, her classmates won’t be afraid she might be a threat.

Y/N and Bakugou don’t talk for the rest of the day but that doesn’t stop them from comparing in every way possible. Bakugou would look provocative at her, whenever he scores higher than her and Y/N can’t hide her wicked smile whenever she gets a better score than him. He doesn’t even want to be better than the rest of the class, only better than her.

The classes ended quicker than Y/N thought and even though Aizawa Sensei told them he'd expel the student with the least points, no one was sent home.

By the time she steps out of the facility and checks her messages, Hawks and Kanai have already spammed her phone.

> From: Keigo

> 09:57

> Who‘s your new teacher? Are they nice?“

>From: Keigo

>11:49

> Found any friends? Just be yourself :)

>From: Keigo

>13:21

> Please, eat enough! And drink water!

>From: Kanai-San

> 13:27

> I hope you have a great first day! Don’t overthink too much and have fun. PS. Don’t overdo yourself and listen to your body

>From: Keigo

> 13:47

> Kanai is coming over tonight and wants to cook. Told him you want fried chicken :)

It takes Y/N about 2 hours to get home and thanks to Sero the train ride is just half as boring and long. He keeps telling her about the comics and mangas he reads and Y/N has to promise him to pick up at least one. By the time she enters the apartment, the whole area smells delicious and she can hear Keigo and Kanai talking. They end their bickering as she enters the kitchen to find the two men cooking. Well Kanai is cooking, while Keigo just sits at the breakfast bar and plays with one of his feathers.

„There she is! The next pro hero in its glory!“ The man with the red wings jumps off the barstool and walks towards her, to give her a welcoming hug. Y/N can feel her muscles relax as she puts her arms around him and inhales the cologne they gifted him last Christmas.

„Tell us everything! Who’s your teacher? Did you find any friends? How was-“ Keigo is being interrupted by Kanai, who hits him with a wooden spoon on the hand.

„Let the girl breathe, you chicken!“

Y/N takes the opportunity and sneaks into her room, to catch a breath. Her hand clungs around the door handle, as she closed the door and let the room fall silent. She catches herself staring at the mirror on the other side of the room. Her cheeks are glowing red from the cold air and her brown eyes have a happy shine in them. She looks strong, healthy and even happy. There is no visible evidence of the past. Y/N can no longer hold back a smile as the realization hits her. She’s a U.A student! A real student who goes to classes and eats lunch with their friends! She is becoming a hero, has potential friends, a home and even people she can call family. Her smile quickly turns into silly giggling. She has never been this happy.

index • next chapter

———————

I hope you like the first chapter and tell me your feedback! :) ❤️ ~ mars

#comfortablesilcence #bakugou fanfiction #bakugou katsuki #mha fanfiction #bakugou x y/n #mha bakugou #bakusquad #sero hanta #mha hawks

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pear-pies · 4 years ago

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音像世界 [Audiovisual World] - Sept 2006

a very wonky but delightful translation under the cut

Placebo ; We are the 21st century modern rock band Text/Interview with Zhang Weiwei/Xingyue

On the first day of "2006 Beijing Pop Music Festival", "Placebo" Perform on the main stage of the company. "Placebo" is hailed as "the most Record the distinctive British music yin", this is their first time on the Chinese stage. Long talk will undoubtedly be a feast for listening to you. Mission to the last century In 1996, one named Brian Moco )lkO) boy,’ painted Seven eyes Liangying, leaving pitch black Childish behavior: ‘The violent red color I'm learning girls like a demon Sing a song "Nancy Kid" When I vent without hesitation Stupid material life and The emotion brought by the ft world. From the moment on stage, cloth Who is the backlog in my heart Thrown in front of the world, lead Shoulder, reputation, obsession and even People band one by one "placebo" Horribly turned out, "(Radiohead)s" "'Oasis" (Oasis) Three The altar adds a stunning Household Don't one by one Lane was born into a wealthy Bank entrepreneur, mother Christianity. Childhood, Tossed in Scotland, Libby Between Schlossburg. Serious , And moved countless times Dogs have no fixed partners in childhood Jidu is lonely, even learning

The classmates and teachers in the school are also particularly alienated, plus , My parents ignored because of busy banking , The physical and psychological growth of his son, Bryan from 11 I have been learning from the streets, newspapers and magazines since I was Factory women give themselves makeup and always like to surround Women go round and round. When he was 16 years old, his parents gave him a copy Telecaster guitar, very sensitive to music Brian soon bought a real price A real guitar, and I've been obsessed with playing guitar ever since, So that everyone can often see it on stage Brian gently hugged the guitar one by one He plays the role of a mother in his life Important role. But in fact, Bryan’s parents Straightforwardly oppose him to engage in art-father- I want to let Brian inherit his career and become a Bankers one by one Blaine began to use gender boundaries Vaguely neutral dress to resist father and family Against pressure. Until the end, Brian and his father There is no longer any contact or exchange. In 1990, 18-year-old Brian left the family. Came to London alone and entered Gold Smiths Academy of Art and Drama Studies (British The prestigious Royal Academy of Art, "Blur" Former guitarist Graham Coxon Coxon) also graduated from the college J. Cloth at this time Ryan has been able to skillfully play a variety of instruments such as Ji Him, keyboard, bass, drums, saxophone, and even DJing, He also worked as a DJ in several clubs, but he was honest Say that I am not very good at being a DJ0 By chance in 1994, Brian Kensington subway station encountered a later career ride Stefan Olsdal,} Invite him to form a band with himself and join in one, Club performance. Osdo listened to Brian Immediately after the song was attracted, not only that, he , Put his Swedish friend Robert Schutz (Robert Schultzberg) pulls into the music Be a drummer (until 1996). Until later , Bryan also emphasized that Osdo accepted his The moment I invited to the band was my whole life E one of the unforgettable moments. During this period, Bligh En called the band "Ashtray Heart" (Ashtray Heart) Heart)0 After quickly gaining awareness, they The band was renamed "placebo". Soon, Caroline Records has recognized this and A different young band. In 1996, Robert Schutzberger The conflict with Brian increased and left the band, from Therefore, the position of the drummer has always been Steve Huey 特 (Steve Hewitt) instead. In the same year, the band The first album of the same name "Placebo" (Placebo) released Row. Singles "Nancy Kid" and "Young Rage" (Teertage Angst) immediately became a hit single, The stubborn and rebellious children of the entire Yao British Empire Was boosted by this three-person band, "placebo" It seems that they have been able to relieve their psychological barriers A great pill for manic heart. Just as Brian is different from Ordinary costumes-mascara, eyeshadow, full lips, ～ Nail polish, skirts, this series will only show up The characteristics of a woman’s body are now affected by a height,The British man who is less than 1.75 meters boldly and naturally used to dress himself up. The British media took advantage of the trend and gave him the title of "fashionable Bowie". "Media reporters like to make boo heads. Maybe it's because life in the UK has always been so dull and boring. That's why they were surprised when they met me and yelled. I like "Sonic Youth" and "Sonic Youth". "Pixies", I prefer to dress myself up as I want to appear on the stage, in the MV and even in life. I just enjoy such an open-self lifestyle." Brian shrugged and said softly. In a tedious and lengthy interview after a TV show performance, Brian deliberately pointed the guard ｝l to the male reporter’s chest, so that the reporter was tossed by the sly Brian that he had no intention of continuing the interview. Go on, while Hewitt and Stephen are laughing together. After the album of the same name was released, the band easily got the mainstream record company Virgin In November 1998, he quickly recorded and released the second album "No "Without You I'm Nothing". This album has a rare change in the depth of the lyrics and Brian’s vocals compared to the first album. Brian in "Pure Morning" lowered his throat and reluctantly sang "Send charcoal in the snow." "A Friend in Need A Friend Indeed" (A Friend in Need A Friend Indeed). A famous sentence like household. Bryan, dressed in black, jumped out of the building and walked straight down the wall. The MV for this song was also planned by Bryan. A keen listener can find from this Xin album that the alcohol, drugs, and erosive relationships in "Nancy Kid" have changed to the mixed emotions and emotions toward urban men and women in "Every You Every Me".

The rhetoric of the low-level media is more intense. Every large-scale live performance, "placebo" In order to pursue the perfect sound effect comparable to the recording studio, Always bring fixed musicians with them Stage performance, and these fixed musicians also accompanied Placement has gone through a worthy 10 years. Although But on the stage they always hide without light In the dark, but they are the same as the "placebo" three The relationship between the members is like a formal team member. Observant Fans will also find that "Velvet Gold Mine" These regular musicians also participated. And "Ann Placement" "Believe in Me" held in Paris (Soulmates Never Die) large concert now The DVD and MV compilation are everybody’s Placement" a precious treasure that loyal fans must collect, The Paris concert not only included the "placebo" essence Cham’s hot live performance also hides a 30 Minute tour documentary, including how the three escaped Avoid the chase of fans and talk about the fun in the lounge Bryan teaches you how to draw eyeshadow and sightseeing Precious fragments of time crazy Stefan. "Placebo" will play an electrified style The ultimate is the new album released this year Meds; compile the album cover with "Sleep with the Elves"

It’s exactly the same, it seems to come from the same designer hand. As Brian said, in the past 10 years he’ We work hard to find a position and style that suits us, Looking for an invisible limit. Bryan and Le The team has been trying to get out of this restriction, out of them Have experienced, followed, intoxicated, avoided A sensitive area that has been and moved by. Although cloth Leith now has a child named Cody Zihe ~ a touching wife who maintains a stable relationship with him One by one wife, son, and teammates are all Bligh En is deeply loved one by one, but Brian is uneasy in his blood The molecules make him feel full of emotion and sensitive heart The world has never changed. Now the "placebo" starts Putting aside some long-standing conventions, in the new album Significantly reduced the iconic guitar distortion, the band Focus boldly with a more fashionable electrified style With drugs, alcohol, and love, it’s like a giant record jacket The naked, twisted, and shouting woman, "Ann The placebo" bravely broke free from the past System", more calmly standing in the British rock music front.The growth of the Bone Association Band? I am very happy with the growth of the band. Our growth and success are all through long-term hardship...Shan:1 Linde. It’s been an almost uninterrupted tour for 10 years. This is a relatively old-fashioned way of running Cantonese. "(The tail is also what we like very much. The live performance of the mountain and the constant currency" requires that you can get yourself in it. In the early days of the band’s establishment, we had already decided to deliver the music to our listeners in the most direct way. What do you think of the development of Yaoi’i Gun Music? "Lonz Ferdinand" (1,s,i Pordinand), "Arctic Monkeys" (Arctic Monkeys). "The Kooki"; do you think they really have "material"? Just because they are from the same island does not mean they are anointing Le Buya! What is in common. Of course "Franz Ferdinand" and "Arctic Monkey" must be influenced by the music of IJ Moji {Fei, in my heart! Bu! . He is a very good band in J1IJ4 II. Especially the L tail, "Arctic Monkey r", their "material" lies in the quality of their Shule creations. They are very humorous, full of the strong vitality of the factory, modern city, and very British creative style. What they are telling Very interesting, but also very "human", very A true story is a very realistic expression Present form. I think if the "street boy" (The Streets) is a rock band, they ' It will be the "Arctic Monkey". I personally have always been very happy Happy "Franz Ferdinand", from their first An album begins. They are from Scotland and also It brings another kind of cultural experience. What I want to say is that although there are so many Success bands are all from the UK, but they don’t Not necessarily have something in common, nor is it necessarily It means that rock music in the UK will be more Good or worse. Good is good, bad is good Is bad, there is no need to divide by region Standards. What kind of concept do you hold on creation? We are a rock band, just like I We are a modern rock music team. We enjoy using various tools and equipment The possibility of creating music. Rock music is not only It’s a simple guitar with electronic elements Not only can be used in a certain kind of special music In the category. The key to its function depends on you How to use it and how to integrate it better In your own music category. Was the grunge trend in the U.S. Has any influence on you or a British band? You like Is Grunge Fun? I never really liked it Grunge, I have never heard of "Nirvana" (Nirvana) Music until Kurt Coben (Kurt Cobain) passed away. For me, "nirvana" Too mainstream T0 I am more interested in those very Alternative bands, like "Sonic Youth" (Sonic Youth), or the late 70s, 80s Post-punk band in the early years. What do you think of as a British band American culture? We ourselves think that "placebo" is a European bands. Of course we were founded in London. Half of my blood is Scottish, history of drummer The name "Friend (Steve Hewitt) is of British descent, Stefan Olsdal is a Swedish. We Speaks many languages, Stephen speaks 5 languages, I speak French and English. We grew up in Europe There are K people from the I1 family in Zhou, we see ourselves as Europeans, I don’t think I have any special UK Pity. We can, will historically and geographically The music of the country and the era is biased. Ok Meeting the music and blood should be interpreted, and it is truly I found it at Ill lii.} I don’t care if the music comes from Which country, as long as it can move people. but I I want to say: "I'm very happy that I will be in Europe Life". Countless tours and publicity all over the world make people Enjoy it? I enjoy the tour, but not the publicity. But it is equally important. In the past 10 years, We have been through live performances all over the world Accumulated a group of very loyal and sincere fans. Every year, the number of our fans grows very much View. Although it takes a lot of time to do this, it also gives me We added a lot of fun. You know there are many "placebos" in China Fans? They are very obsessed with "placebo" The violent distortion guitar and your charming voice, even Even when playing the piano is hot, many fans want to know the invitation, What do you think of your fans. Ah, haha, of course I hope so. "I must wait until Ij comes to Beijing in September to learn about Chinese musicWhat a fan is like, I look forward to it very much. It’s not just heterosexual people. Placement", many gays also like you We, what do you think is the reason that makes "Ann Does "Placement" attract different fascinating groups? Great! I think this is great! I think For our honesty in emotions and the truth in life Desire to communicate, um, if our music can move people, it must be physically,There are three aspects, both mentally and emotionally. You are now a father What kind of impact? The kind of perplexed and perverted Dong Is Xijijing completely far away from you? Honestly, no. As for myself Those who are confused and perverse, maybe less A little bit. But now there is another person Let me care, need my protection, so that it will not be this Hurt by a huge bad world. You have always loved to dress up, you still Do you love applying black nail polish to yourself? I have not bought black nail polish for many years Yes, but I still paint eyeliner and eye shadow. I do Did not try to do anything special through these performances Communication, in addition to thinking that people should dress up, Freedom in dress, choice and preference, not affected by Constrained by any established standard. If hard If any message is conveyed, it is freedom. But I do this entirely because I like it, I think I look great like that, like a The mentality of a lady with makeup. How do you think a man should make his evening watch more cultured and tasteful? I think in the 21st century, men should be free, Wear what they like and dress up like they like Huan look. In comparison, women are more They can wear skirts or they can wear Pants, they can make up or not, They can look bright and beautiful, or they can watch Go up and take control. In the 20th century, men’s The choice has become so small. Looking back, Louis France in the fourteenth period, and the restoration period In Great Britain, men used to love makeup that much, Their clothes are so gorgeous and they look so good elegant. So we just trace the roots in history. The media will use it when evaluating "placebo" Keep your eyes on such things as "male and female", "gorgeous", ) If you have to symbolize, how can you give yourself Has it been defined and classified? A modern rock band. A 21 The modern rock band of the century. Let me show you and all Some magazine readers confirmed that "placebo" is not Hermaphrodite, the "placebo" members are all men, Everyone is.

In addition to work, the three of you often Play together? The three of us spend time together Family and love have more time. So when we After we got home, we gave all the time Family material lover, ha ha. Can you chat online? No, it never happened. I know net Some people on the network will call themselves Brian Mok, Husband ,,’’No~1 million That would definitely not be me. If you are online I met someone like that and I visited Brian Mo But my blog or Myspace, I read my Diary, you have to believe that it is definitely a lie. I Will not publish their life information on the Internet, I am a privacy-conscious person. What's the story of the performance in China this time ? What are your expectations for the Chinese record market What? Just like going to Thailand and Korea, through hosting Party’s invitation, we’ll come and we know people We like our music, so we can play for them We are also very happy to play. As for the record market, I Really have no idea. I just look forward to acting I hope to bring an outstanding performance. Please describe you in one word or sentence " 3 people. Just one sentence. Have you seen "Starship Fans Is this TV show "Star Trek"? Oh, your country may not broadcast it. Stephen It's "Mr. Spock" (Mr. Spock) It’s ‘Dr. McCoy’ and I’m "K Captain Kirk" (Captain Kirk)

#gonna post sappy nostalgic stuff for my bday lol #sly brian did what to the journalist...#👀#sleep with the elves.... please tell me thats the official chinese album title!#literally the most expensive thing i bought in china lol #placebo #brian molko #steve hewitt #stefan olsdal

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mynameisdreartblog · 4 years ago

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Structural Isomers 2

Leo: 2,3-Dimethylheptane. It’s just… my life is so average that I gotta force myself into others’ situations; how else am I gonna get a thrill? Do you feel me, Viz? <The amusement park ride begins to take off, revealing the mildly broad view of the Guatemalan cityscape. The smell of barbeque holds back the tears Oro was ready to shed because ferris wheels strike a particular emotional nerve for him.> «Uh… my advice is that what you’re doing isn’t necessarily a bad thing. To be philosophical, nothing anyone does is bad.» Even murder and like, murdering children? «Yeah, not even that can constitute you as a bad person. And that’s true ‘cause everyone alive now has come here with a purpose, and those purposes can manifest in many ways in our lives.» <The carriage buckles a bit, enough to make noticeable the snot on Oro’s hand> ...You sound like you’re heading into some wacky territory, but I’ll bite. <Viz takes another bite into the corndog that seemingly materialized from his pocket> «So, because of this highly encoded model of fate, that means that even the worst shit that happens to you happens for a reason.» Even cancer and like, terminal cancer? «Redundant, but yes.» Hmm… <Oro takes a small bite of Viz’s corn dog while he’s distracted> I think there’s some moral holes in that, Viz. «It’s funny ‘cause that isn’t real either!» Okay, you’re just fucking with me now; may Jesus find your lost soul. «Sounds like you can’t see past yourself!» <The carriage buckles again but harder, knocking the corn dog out of Viz’s hand and revealing the loogie Oro was hiding.> So you’re saying that it’s commendable for me to put myself where I don’t belong? «Hold on, I never said that, but… actually, you should just be proud for who you are. Take yourself as you are, and you can then begin to do the same to others. Forget about the idea of souls and deeper selves entirely.» Whatever you say, homie.

Taurus: 3,3-Diethylpentane. «Gresham.» <He peeks his head from washing the dishes to divert attention to the voice that called him> What is it, Sanjay? «Hmm, I was gonna ask you questions about how nonsensical this world is, but my mind immediately shifted to asking you how you got to this point.» This point? Like, the quality of life I possess currently? «What else?» I would’ve preferred to point out the ridiculousness of this whole ordeal, but I understand your shift. Shoot! «Do you think the ways you’ve gotten to where you are now were… unethical?» There’s a lot you’re holding in your mouth when you ask a question like that. As a lover of difficult questions, I won’t answer that until the day’s done. «Uh-» No complaining, or I’ll cut your pay by 30%. <Sanjay thinks to himself> That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to him about: He has to be aware, right? There’s no way his skull is that dense, and his jokes are too clever! <Gresham finishes washing the last remaining plate and slides it atop the rack. Afterwards, he walks back to his usual position in the restaurant and waits for any new service.> [...] <Sanjay flicks his used cigarette from his mouth and onto the elaborate ashtray outdoors. In impatience, he goes back inside and demands the accountability he thinks he deserves> «It’s been three hours and nobody has shown up; you want to start removing that answer’s date back?» <Gresham breaks his inhuman concentration to make a firm statement> Clean up your ashtray first. «Are you teaching me an ecological lesson? Is this some lesson of your Tantra?» No, I’m just conscious about any numbers of fires that could emerge from cigarettes. «Fine.» <As Sanjay begins to go back outside, Gresham speaks again> Trust me, I wish I could escape the clutches of this cast we thrive and suffer under. However, no matter where I go, the world still refers back to where I came from. Is there value in not persisting forwards but backwards? <Sanjay looks back with hesitation, thinks briefly “the Manusmriti?” but scoffs at his datedness> Also, If you walk out, I’ll assume you’re doing terrible things, so don’t. «What about the-» The ashes will know where to go. «Why do you put on this faux mystic attitude? You’re a restaurant owner!»

Aquarius: 2,6-Dimethylheptane. <Aukai finds herself awake in her unsheeted bed, further disorganized beyond possibility. She forcefully motions her lips and breathes words of lucid wisdom through her dry chords.> There’s an anxiety that grips me sometimes, and it’s that every passing second I don’t recognize the artistic potential of something, it gets lost to time. What I fear the most is my head getting cracked wide open, losing consciousness, and awakening to a future that robbed me of beautiful scenes for new pieces. «This anxiety seems… unlike you.» <Aukai is surprised by the fact that her client is awake. Fear would gain control of her if it weren’t for him snoring afterwards, indicating it’s sleep-talking> Men are more beneficially judgmental when they’re asleep, huh? Whelp, I can leave while the night’s still middle-age. <Aukai gets dressed, particularly struggling to get her galoshes back on to weather the incoming rain. Once outside, she dashes through the rain almost oafishly, betraying the expectation of feminine grace. She thinks to herself> Even beyond how ridiculous it sounds, the life of an artist is a religious one: One where we’re conflicting our reality with the one produced on canvas. Well, that’d make the process more like the foundations of a religion than the application of it. The completeness isn’t there yet, but hopefully I can figure it out by the time I’m home. <The moonlight becomes secondary as the artificial lights create new scenes at every corner, torturing Aukai’s poor, traumatized eyes. She simply looks into her hands to avoid all these temptations.> [,] <There’s now tears mixing in with the raindrops, and on the way home, Aukai is stopped by an obstacle she couldn’t see coming. Facedown in the asphalt, she looks up to see a beautiful scene, etching itself into her eyes to haunt her next gig.> G-goddamn you <Aukai pounds her fist into the ground.>

Pisces: 2,2,4,4,-Tetramethylpentane. <Maghazi is walking down the crowded afternoon streets of Dakar, gleefully filling his lungs with the smell of pollution and fried fish. Here, he feels at one with the natural world, leaving no space for false misconceptions of the monism he lives and, well, breathes. Here, there’s people he can both condescend and praise, leaving ample room to leave a web of both shrinkage and growth. His baggy pants are scruffed from the leftover paint of the bricks he vaulted and leapt over for the style of the action: Something to move the body he believes serves no purpose other than preserving the valuable brain.> Hmm, my ears are pointing me somewhere ambiguous: 20 meters away. <It appears he’s detecting something his senses designated as important to him. Despite this, he was never really the opportunistic personality, at least never one that took what was in front of them. Maghazi takes more determined steps, inching closer to the source> If I had to guess, it’s likely a drone chip. They don’t exactly make their existence a secret <He rubs a special knob on his glasses, enabling a process we can’t witness or understand> …Found them. <Maghazi stumbles upon the source, which is a group of teenage boys in an alleyway kicking around a hacky sack, which he believes to be the source of the signal. Wondering how to approach, Maghazi comes to only the most optimal method> Oh, it looks like I’m substituting today. «Man, who are you talking to?» You guys: Who else? ²«Nobody agreed on that.» I never said it was democratic. All I need now is to be in this space and access to that hacky sack. «Get your own.» What if I told you it was an explosive device ready to go off and I was the only one who knew how to disarm it? «We’d die happy then.» <Maghazi is irked as there’s no other plans of approach left. In defeat, he walks away with a hunched demeanor. He thinks to himself how humorous it’d be if the hacky sack blew up like in his absurd hypothetical, but he’s quickly disappointed by the unpoetic reality> Nothing’s gonna happen.

#Zodipunc #Zodiaccupuncture #Leo #Taurus #Aquarius #Pisces

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suicidalcatz · 5 years ago

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DOG DAYS ARE OVER : CHAP 10

Pairing : Jake Kiszka x reader

Genre : College AU

Previous parts : Prologue ; Chap 1 ; Chap 2 ; Chap 3 ; Chap 4 ; Chap 5 ; Chap 6 ; Chap 7 ; Chap 8 ; Chap 9

Masterlist : Here

AN : Oh my God I made it this far. So, I’m writing part 13 atm, it does seem extra long but the beginning of this chap is only the 26th page of my doc. It’s always a very stressful experience for me to share my fics, I think I’m really scared to disappoint you. I hope you won’t/don’t hate y/n and that she’s relatable for you, she has a lil temper. Last angst chapter before fluff, fluff and more fluff. Again, please feel free to let me know what you think of it, I love chatting with you and it can help me improve my writing ! Thanks for the love and support, and for embarking into this journey with me.

Chapter 10 : Why didn't you tell me ?

Staying wrapped in a blanket in the comfort of my bed sounded like the best week-end plan. I didn't want to do anything else, anyway. Crying was the first thing I did when coming home last night, and it lasted a good portion of the night. Mandy had follow me soon after I hurried out of the room, concern all over her features. At some point I cried myself to sleep in her arms while she silently stroke my back. It sounded overly dramatic and made me feel pathetic in addition to everything else, but I had got my hopes up so much that the fall hit hard. Terribly so. Understanding that I needed some alone time (as much as our shared room allowed it), Mandy let me be, keeping herself busy with work, some Netflix, or going out from times to times. I heard her put on her shoes and coming next to me, probably waiting by the door before leaving. I couldn't see her, however, because my body was facing the wall, keeping my eyes fixated on the old yellowed paint.

- Dude, you can't stay in bed all day long listening to Fleetwood Mac.

- Oh yeah ?, I croaked. Watch me.

Stubbornly keeping my back to her, I slightly moved the blankets to cover my head. I felt hollow, at best. I wanted to cry, but there was no tears left. My eyes felt dry, probably red and puffy, and my chest wouldn't stop aching like someone had just stabbed my heart. It felt awful. I felt miserable.

Mandy quietly stayed a while longer behind me, before she spoke softly.

- I know it hurts sweetie.

This simple, compassionate sentence had my eyes instantly watering, and before I realized it, a sob found its way at the back of my throat, making me shake under the covers.

- It hurts so much, so fucking much.

My sobs became more erratic, to the point that I don't even know if she could hear me correctly, but in an instant she was by my side, taking me into her arms, shushing me gently, putting me to sleep.

My nights were sleepless, my naps were restless, my dreams were all filled with nightmares. I couldn't help seeing Jake's face over and over in it. Sometimes people would make fun of me for believing he could've wanted me. Other times, my mind would just show me his face, or replay unwanted memories. Some part of me knew it wasn't the end of the world and there was no reason for me to get this worked up over a heartbreak because it could've been way worse. He could've intentionally led me on. He could've cheated on me. He could've taken advantage of me for sex. What happened was nothing in comparision, it was just a disastrous twist of fate. Plain bad luck. But somehow the fact that no one was to blame in this situation felt even more cruel. Like some invisible force had decided to not let me be happy. And listening to Fleetwood Mac wouldn't help improve my mood, but at the moment I didn't wanted to feel better. There was something strangely comforting in feeling miserable. I wanted to let it all go, all the tears, all the pain, no matter how long it would take.

When I heard the door open again, I hadn't moved an inch from when Mandy had previously left. Even with my earphones on, I could hear some murmurs in the kitchen. She knocked on the doorframe to notify her presence before speaking up.

- Sweetie, someone's here to see you.

There was an uncomfortable edge to her voice that actually made me curious, before some more footsteps approached my way, keeping a safe distance. They were being too fucking cautious not to offend me or whatever, like I was some damn porcelain doll, and while it annoyed me, it really made me realize how alarming the state I was in must've look from an outside point of view.

- Hey, I think I owe you some explanation.

I recognized this raspy and low voice, very slightly different from Jake's. It made my heart skip a beat because of how much they sounded alike, and I turned to face him just to be sure. Josh looked as apologetic as ever, and I knew why. I didn't feel bad for him at all. Thank God he had remorse.

- I have nothing to say to you.

- I knew you had a crush on him, said Josh anyway. It was obvious... the painting, the time you spent together, even the way your face lit up just seeing him. I tried to prevent this ending, I swear, and I'm so, so sorry-

- I know what you did.

Sitting up, scrubbing the dried tears out of my reddened cheeks and nose with the back of my hand, I gave him a cold stare. In the corner of my eye I could see a tense Mandy not knowing what to do with herself, and if she was questionning ; yes, it was a terrible idea bringing Josh here.

It all came to me just before I fled from the party, but I got too engrossed in my heartbreak to really think it through. But now, with his guilty looking face just few meters away from me, it all clicked into place. His odd behaviour whenever Jake and I spent time together, his seemingly jealous fits, the way he interrupted us whenever we were getting closer. It wasn't jealousy at all. It wasn't him being left out, or whatever bullshit he had told me.

- You knew all along, I said as tears blurred my sight, you knew he had a girlfriend. You didn't tell me. This could've been avoided if you had told me.

My throat had never felt this constricted. Now, adding to the weight of sadness, humiliation, emptiness, and wretch, was betrayal. Which made my shame sentiment grow bigger and my anger begin to rise. Slowly, Josh nodded his head. Of course he knew, it was his twin.

-I didn't know, I, I wanted to protect you-

- I need you out. I don't want to see you.

- Doll let me-

- Get out.

I didn't have the energy to shout at him, and his fucked up logic. Duality splitted my mind in two, tiredness of this whole situation and anger. The latter won over, making me throw whatever came to my hand when Josh closed the door behind him. He knew all along and he didn't tell me anything. He knew I had fallen for his brother, he saw it, and he didn't tell me. I couldn't believe it, that hit me hard, and made almost as much damage as Jake being in a relationship. They both broke my heart that day.

The night finally came after what felt like the longest day ever. I didn't move. I didn't shower. I didn't eat. One thing I wanted to do was going back home, to my parents' place and listen to their stories, letting them forcefeed me, or put a blanket on me as I would fall asleep on the couch during movie night. However, I didn't have money to afford buying a train ticket, and it was too far away for them to come pick me up. They were getting old, I couldn't bother them if it wasn't an emergency. So I lied awake in my bed for another night, and I'll do the same the next day.

I was doing a good job of lying half dead in bed all Sunday before Mandy interrupted my mourning with her sudden life goal of making me snap out of it. It started with her pulling out the covers, and confiscating my phone.

- No more depressing music for you, I've had it. We get it, you're sad. We all have been there, you included. Guess what ? Staying in bed all day won't make you feel better, so you're gonna move it and take a nice and long shower because we're going out.

Seeing her this determined, fists on her hips, actually surprised me.

- I'm not, I muttered into the pillow.

- Oh yeah we are. There are plenty of boys in the world, you're stronger than that. So you better get your pretty ass in the shower before I kick the hell out of it.

To be honest, she had a fair point, and I obliged reluctantly, finding myself getting dressed up faster than I expected. By foot, we were a good hour away from the downtown, and with that infernal weather there was no way we were gonna walk, so she ordered a Uber for us and pushed my sorry self inside. The center of the city was crossed by the river, where the best bars were, and about half of our school's students hung out in this area, so it was always crowded, even in December. Teenagers and young adults were drinking cheap beer, smoking weed and/or selling drugs. It was the perfect place to meet new people. We could already see people chatting noisily by the docks, some dudes peeing on the river, others playing the djembe or singing together in circles, passing the joint. The street was usually so crowded that when a police car went by to see if everything was in order, it rolled with difficulty, honking everybody standing in the middle of the road. Mandy's strategy was simple : getting my mind off of Jake. She wouldn't even say his name, and had me take a shot every time I did (which I didn't anyway). Despite all her efforts, I couldn't say I was into it. The night went by with me staying in the back as she befriended everyone, fake-smiling now and then when they tried to chat with me. Focusing on what they said has proved nearly impossible, so I excused myself, pretexting I had to go to the bathroom. I needed some alone time. I didn't even feel like drinking anything, even a soda. It was too crowded, too noisy, smelled like booze and beer too much, it was... everything was overwhelming for someone who had just lied motionless in silence for two whole days.

The bartenders didn't say a word about me coming into their bar in the sole purpose of using their toilets. I don't even think they saw me at all with all the yelling people lined up against the counter to get their drinks. The crowd was compact, and my frame nearly got smashed between strangers' bodies when I tried to come through it, tripping over when I got out of this sea of limbs, and finally bumping heads with some drunk dude.

- Sorry, we said in unison, lifting a hand to our head.

The sound of my name made me gaze up, reporting my attention on something else than the floor. Josh. Of course. Could my luck be any worse ? At this point I must say that I wasn't even surprised. He looked far too drunk, and smelled a disgusting mix of whisky and beer. Trying to wave him off before passing him didn't succeed, because he grabbed my wrist, saying we should talk, pulling me outside on the busy street where I just came from.

- Josh I don't want to hear-

As a response, his index finger pressed sloppily against my lips, shushing me, making me frown.

- I didn't get to say everything I needed, did I ?

At this point I wasn't even annoyed, just tired and sorry for the both of us. He looked almost as miserable as me, and was he alone ? My eyes shot glances from side to side, waiting for his friends to pick him up, or worse, his brothers. But nobody seemed to care about us, let alone witness us.

- Whatever, let's talk.

Sending a to text Mandy beforehand in case she thought I was once again locked in the bathroom, I let Josh walk me to the bridge at the end of the street, far from the crowd. The wind kept brushing our faces at full speed, making my ears ache and my fingers sting. It was so cold outside I couldn't understand why everybody kept coming at the docks, this was the worst place ever in Winter. Josh sat on a step leading to the top of the bridge, only wearing a light suede jacket, not bothered in the slightest by this awful weather. The boy kept looking at his feet, his mouth a pout, his gaze unfocused, looking deep in thought.

- Josh if you're not going to say anyth-

- I didn't know what to do about it, he interrupted like he didn't hear me at all. I panicked ? You have to believe me, doll, I'm so sorry about it. What should have I done ? You're my friend and he's my brother, what a shitty situation. It wasn't my place to tell you, it was his. He should've known, it was so fucking obvious to everyone except him, what an idiot...

Josh began rambling, shaking his head in disbelief. I felt my cheeks color at the new knowledge that everybody knew about my crush on Jake except himself. My shame level was about to burst, it was so embarrassing.

- He doesn't know ?

Needing to confirm this, I barely whispered but the boy heard me, staring intently into my eyes before shaking his head no, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

- He's an idiot, commented Josh. Can't even see his relationship has been going to the dogs since months now. And I'm deeply sorry his incompetent ass put you in this situation. Now I obviously can't beat him up for you but I do can steal his socks to piss him off.

What ? Josh kept rambling on and slurring, to the point I didn't know if he was talking to me or to himself. So Jake's relationship wasn't all great... It happened to everybody, I guess. It didn't rejoice me in any way, however. If anything, I felt empathy for him. Maybe it's not that he was oblivious, but that he wanted for this to work so much he willingly chose to ignore that his relationship was falling apart. According to Josh's mumbling, their love was dying. Knowing Jake better now I could picture him genuinely trying his best to make things work, even though there wasn't anything he could do about it, and it made me sad. Because who knew this feeling of helplessness better than me ? It made me see things from a new perspective. Why was I even fighting with Josh ? Again ? It was futile and childish. I felt betrayed out of anger and sadness. It didn't mean he handled the situation perfectly, oh no. But staying mad at him wouldn't change anything. Jake wasn't going to quit his girlfriend anytime soon and I didn't wish him that. I couldn't live a lie either. Now at least I knew he was in a relationship, and I could finally move on. And while doing it, I could help a friend.

- It's alright Josh, I interrupted his monologue. Come here, let's go.

Josh took the hand offered to him and with some difficulty, I helped him up, letting him wrap himself around me, hugging me tightly, making me giggle.

- Where are we going ?, he whined in my shoulder while I called a cab.

- Home.

#gvf fic #gvf x reader #gvf imagine #gvf fanfic #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka imagine #josh kiszka fic #greta van fleet fic #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet #jake kiszka

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carbrakes-and-stakes · 5 years ago

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Character development : 30 questions

1. What makes them happy? What do they think would make them happy?

Alain had to learn to be satisfied with simpler things, although it was not always the case.

He is happy whenever he works on a big project, such as the complete renovation of a vintage car. The house he bought belonged to an old couple and so he plans to flip it entirely, room by room. A job well done bringing him joy, it’s likely that he’ll feel quite pleased once he is done. A pint of beer or a glass of scotch at the end of the day are both satisfying to the hunter.

Alain takes great pleasure from a job well done whether it's at the garage, in his garden or in the kitchen.

What he thinks would make him happy are things he can’t get and he would rather forget about it. He looked for his mother for a while but never got a clue as to who she could be. He wouldn’t say no to his family losing everything either. A bankruptcy would humble them all.

2. How do they feel about their appearance?

Alain is aware that he is rather attractive and fit, especially for his age although staying fit requires that he exercises daily. Having to hike around at night does help with that task.

People tend to not believe him when he tells them how old he is. Don’t call him a vampire, please.

He mostly feels good about his looks although he sometimes wishes he were a bit taller.

3. What would their ideal friend be like? (Have they had any luck finding such a person?)

Alain does not speak a lot at first although he can get talkative around people he feels comfortable with. His ideal friend is someone he can trust, who shares a few interests with him whether it's cars, astronomy, cooking or any other of his hobbies. Their ideal friend is calm, humble, curious about everything, has a good sense of humor and is respectful of others, and most importantly, won’t drag him to social gatherings.

4. What kind of people do they hate?

Aside from his family and vampires, Alain cannot stand people who think too highly of themselves and doesn’t like people who talk a lot despite having nothing interesting to say. Gossiping is not something he enjoys either although he hears a lot of things, being a shop owner. People who are completely unpredictable are avoided at all cost as he finds them unreliable, selfish, and to be more of a danger than anything.

5. What offenses do they think are unforgivable? (Or IS anything guaranteed unforgivable)

Being a vampire. Lying to his face (unless it’s to keep a secret). Divulging a secret (doesn't have to be his secret).

Otherwise he is a rather forgiving person, as he understands that you can make mistakes. He would be quite the hypocrite if he did not allow people to get a second chance. A second, not a third. Don't expect to gain his trust back easily if you've upset him.

6. How well do they keep promises or commitments? Do they expect the same of others?

Alain is loyal and honest and won't make a promise if he does not believe that he can live up to it. Commitment takes time, but once he commits to something or someone, he stays true to his beliefs.

He does expect people to respect their commitments and will be very upset were they to betray them.

7. How long does it take them to warm up to people?

It can take a while as Alain has trouble allowing people close. It's fair to say that the way things ended with his family left a mark. However, common interests are the quickest way to get Alain to be interested in having a conversation with you. Bonus points if you own a dog.

Alain isn’t too good at socializing however, and appearing as distant often makes it difficult for others to warm up to him.

8. Do they keep any important rituals or routines?

His days are organized around the same routine : Breakfast. Training. Work. Running. Dinner. Nap. Hunting. Sleep. Restart. On Sundays, Alain goes hiking or eventually spends time home baking or gardening, working on a project.

9. When distressed, do they seek solitude or support from others?

Solitude. Alain isn't one for sharing. He knows that he should open up more about what troubles him but has yet to find someone he trusts enough for that.

10. If someone comes to them with a problem, how do they respond? (Advice? Sympathy? Taking it into their own hands? Blowing it off completely?) How does this it vary based on who’s asking?

He won't respond to someone he doesn’t know well and will advise them to ask someone else first.

Depending on whether he can help fix the problem, he will take it into his own hands if he cannot just provide advice. His advice/intervention can sometimes appear as controlling but it's only with the idea to improve their life/solve their problem. He'll have to know every details and facts before doing anything however, and analyse the situation carefully before he can offer his help.

11. How do they feel about physical contact? What are their personal space requirements?

Alain is really not fond of hugs from strangers or people he barely knows although he'll enjoy them if they come from a friend.

His personal space is basically a bubble with a 3’ (1 meter) radius. He'll often claim to have a cold at social gatherings because saying he doesn’t like to touch others is often seen by others as a douchebag move.

12. What do they do to relax? (What if they’re prevented from doing that thing?)

A glass of alcohol, a walk or eventually a joint will all manage to appease Alain. He can get quite anxious and has had panic attacks in the past from being unable to unwind. He can also get cranky when he feels anxious, getting angry at people for no real reason. If Alain will later apologize for overreacting, he doesn’t like having to do it.

13. What do they get excited about?

Telescopes, space exploration, astronomy, vintage cars, car renovation projects, hiking up a new mountain, tasting new food, etc. Sometimes he’ll be excited about an event, but get very anxious about it in the days before the event. It’s only once he’ll start having a nice time that the anxiety will go. This has sometimes led him to not go somewhere he wanted to. Nowadays, he tries to force himself into going anyways.

14. What do they consider the area of their expertise? (Are they right about that?)

Vampire extermination and the renovation of vintage cars. He's aware that there’s always more you can learn and is mostly humble despite being also proud of his skills. As far as sword fighting is concerned, he does not have much he could learn from a teacher, but when it comes to cars, he’ll often take lessons to become more specialized.

15. What are their blind spots or biases? (Do they know about them?)

Alain does not like to analyze his feelings and often pretends that everything is okay. He can convince himself of that.

Since he doesn’t trust a lot of people, he hunts alone and has been in situations where he was seriously injured. As humbling as almost dying can be, Alain is too stubborn to change his ways completely. These days, his dogs accompany him and have proven to be rather useful.

16. How active is their imagination? (Do they use it to advantage? Does it tend to run off with them?)

Alain is imaginative when it comes to practical things, mechanics, and crafts and loves using his hands to make his ideas come to life.

17. How good are they at reading other people?

He is not good at it although he isn’t aware of that. In his eyes, everyone is ill intended and self-centered at first. There are very few people who don't have this negative vibe to him and they are people he will more easily engage conversation with.

18. How easy or difficult is it for other people to read them?

Most people are convinced that he's grumpy and some have different theories as to why. For instance some say he's grumpy because he was not on his parents' testimony, some other say that it’s because Audrey left him and vanished.

19. How comfortable are they with animals (pets, other domesticated beasts, wild animals)?

He’s very comfortable around animals but he has a habit of being careful around animals that are not his.

20. To what extent are they concerned with other people? Do they tend to serve others, protect their own, or only look out for number one? (In other words, is their priority “you,” “us,” or “me”?)

Alain’s motto could be “If I die that's fine, but nobody else is allowed.” He has been raised since he was a child to believe that he had to protect his younger sister, and he’s been trying to protect people ever since.

21. Do they enjoy challenges or avoid them? In what areas?

He likes a challenge as far as his day job is concerned. He was not afraid to buy an old house even if that meant having to spend most of his weekends repairing everything, piece by piece.

As reckless as he can be, he’ll never try to face an elder vampire on his own and is strategic when it comes to hunting, a result of his many years of training.

22. How well do they deal with injuries or ailments?

As he heals faster than regular humans, he doesn’t usually worry too much about his injuries. Only bad ones leave a scar anyways.

He wishes he could say that he got used to the pain but that’s not really true. He doesn’t fear getting injured however, even if he wants to avoid that at all cost.

23. What qualities do they most want to be associated with? What’s the highest compliment anyone could pay them? The gravest insult?

Alain would rather be recognized for his work, his success than for things he has no control over. Still, he does not know how to take a compliment.

The highest compliment would be to praise him for his work as a mechanic. But if you try to suggest that all he achieved, he couldn’t have done without his family, whether he wants it or not, you probably will get headbutted before you’re done talking.

24. How comfortable are they with being the center of attention? Do they want recognition for their works? (Can they even take a compliment in the first place?)

He is not used to it and would rather stay on the side lines, where he feels most comfortable.

He gets recognition for his works and appreciates it when it comes from professionals. As far as personal compliments are concerned, he’ll briefly turn bright red.

25. How willing are they to take risks? What factors might affect their decisions on that front?

He’ll take risks if this means rescuing an innocent from harm. But that’s only if he thinks that he can get away with it. He can usually trust his judgement on that, but you never know when you’re wrong before it’s too late.

26. How competitive are they? Do they expect to win or think they’re going to lose? Can they take either outcome gracefully?

He used to let his sister win on the occasions when he had the advantage in a fight, back when they were training in martial arts or fencing as children and as teenagers.

He’s not a sore loser, but he will be quite smug if he wins. He will often taunt vampires and insult them.

27. How much do they care about etiquette, politesse, propriety? Do they have the same standards for themself as for other people?

If Alain curses a lot, mostly in French, he knows a lot about etiquette and will behave appropriately according to context. He feels more comfortable in relaxed environments but can make quite an impression where it's not expected of him, a mechanic.

28. Do they guard personal information closely, or is it all free for the asking? Is there something they would never tell anyone?

He doesn’t like to share information about himself, and aside from Audrey, there was not a lot of people who knew how he was brought up as a child, what kind of childhood he had, about his time at the Ring, and there’s only a handful of people who knows what he does at night.

He doesn’t like talking about his childhood, about Audrey, and obviously he doesn’t talk about the supernatural to anyone but those in the know.

29. Do they assign more weight to actions or words?

He likes to think actions are stronger than words, but he can be fooled by words anyway.

30. How decisive are they? What do they do if they have trouble making a decision?

Alain has to be spontaneous while he hunts or when he’s working. However making decisions in social context is a lot more complicated as he tends to over analyse what people want from him or think of him.

#character development #about #this is VERY long

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stolen-ass-name · 5 years ago

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Brick, rose, squash, bronze, marigold, feen, olivw, peackock, navy, lapis, coral, snow, frost, ivory, hazel, iron, black, raven, slate, penny, taeny, brown, alabaster, sand, redwood, maroon, rust, leather 🐴🇫🇮

Your love of Dion is the best thing that's happened to me all year

Brick - What are some things you dislike?

Hmm... bugs, bad movies, homophobes, peas, peppers, alcohol, cigar smoke, Hazbin Hotel and not being able to put what's in my mind on paper!

Rose - Would you consider yourself a romantic person?

Ah... A bit... I mean, I don't know if I'm able to perform romantic stuff that well, unless it's, like, self sacrifice, but I do like hand-holding and rose petals and whatnot... And I wouldn't deny a romantic date with a boy that likes me.... Also I yearn

Squash - Do you live in an agricultural setting? If so, are you a farmer or something of the sort? What kind of crops do you grow?

AH! I used to go a farm when I was little! The farmers kinda adopted me, since I could help out with work. It was like a second family, and I knew that whenever I needed a break from city life I could go there and wind down... We grew a lot of things but I mostly helped out with wheat and rye, and also in the orchards, where the apple and orange trees where! Can't turn down some equine strength when it's offered to you (っ’-‘)╮ =͟͟͞͞🐎ﾌﾞｫﾝ

Bronze - What is your favorite way to warm up when it’s cold

I lov kotatsu... But, I cannot use one whenever the other team members are around because I don't fit well under them and they make fun of me... Can't help being dumb thicc when I have horse heinds! I also like blankets (and a lot of times I steal everyone's pillows and just pile them up and sleep on them...)

Marigold - What types of flowers are in your setting? Do you have a favorite?

Ah, now that I live in the city I just see whatever government sanctioned greenery there is in parks and whatnot... But I like the random orange trees there are... And back when I lived in the farm I really liked wild clover blossoms!

Fern - Would you enjoy running a flower shop?

Hmm, I think so! The flowers are very pretty, and I really like the smell! I think bugs and bees would be a big problem for me though...

Olive - What is your Greek personality type? (sanguine, phlegmatic, choleric, or melancholic)

Hmm, hang on let me look that up!

*20 minutes and a wrong test later* Sanguine

Peacock - Are you a more flashy person, or do you like to blend in?

I think nature already gave up on making me blend in... I like to be flashy tho! And it's pretty easy now too

Navy - have you ever been on a boat/sailing? does it exist in your world? did you enjoy it?

I have been on a boat but I was in the sun the whole time and got a bit sunburnt. Also my fur is black, so I overheated... But I guess if I were to be on a more comfortable boat I would go again! The sea is nice, and I like seeing the dolphins!

Lapis - What is your opinion on religion and the afterlife?

Don't like organized religion, but Christianity really went hard with the Aesthetics! Also Ancient Greek dodecatheism was fun, and so are the stories from Norse Mythology... As for afterlife, I have no thoughts... I just hope it gets better!

Coral - Do you have a strong moral code? What are some moral things that you feel strongly about?

Hmm, my moral code is pretty set on things like human rights and whatnot, but if I recognize someone has more knowledge or experience in a subject, they become easy to move and change, like sand! So if I ever do something bad, please let me know! I will listen!

Snow - Have you ever seen snow? Do you like it? What do you like to do in the snow?

Hmm, back home I had seen a lot of snow! I moved down south so I only see snow on vacations and whatnot... But snow is awesome, when it's fresh! It kinda freezes my hooves, so I have to wear special shoes, but other than that it's pretty fun to be in! I don't really like snowball fights winter sports, but I do like making snowmen!

Frost - What do you like to wear in cold weather?

Top is a regular skiing jacket. And thick caparison for the rest! I don't get cold that easily, since I can just let my back fur do it's work into he sun, but I do like to be self-reliant! I also have to hear ankle braces if there's thick snow, and I need special shoes for ice and stuff... At least it doesn't snow where I am now!

Ivory - Do you play any musical instruments? If so, which ones and how well?

I don't play any instruments, but I would like to learn how to play a harp or a flute!

Hazel - What kind of folklore/myths/stories are told in your family/community?

I'll tell you my fave, the Hulder and those ladies with the big boobs, that feed fishes, but it's been a while since I heard the story about them and I can't remember their name at all now 😂 sorry grandpa

Black - What is the darkest thing you’ve ever done?

Almost stomped some people to death, but I was justified, they were harassing a pride parade!

Raven - Can you fly? If not, do you ever dream about flying?

I can't fly, but I have been levitated by Beau-san! I like floating and stuff, but I prefer running, it has more impact!

Slate - If you could erase any memory from your life, would you do it? If so, which memory would you chose?

I would, bc some things are kinda traumatic, and I don't like thinking about them. But they're mostly movies and stuff I shouldn't have seen at the age I'd seen them...

Penny - If you could make a substantial living doing anything, what would you do?

Being a stay-at-home house-husband... And being a pro hero, but I guess I'm already doing that.

Tawny - Cats or Dogs? (or any animal for that matter)

I like both!!! All animals are good, even if some are more awkward than others, or harder to deal with, they're all good and lovable!

Brown- Where do you call home?

Number1's house, the HQ building and any of my boyfriend's houses

Alabaster - What is the most recognizable thing about you? What are people most likely to notice about you when they first meet you?

..... The fact that I'm a horse. Also the prominent marks on my face and my strength I guess... As for personality and stuff my loud voice, my anxiety and how fast I talk, I guess... That's what I've been told.

Sand - Have you ever been to a beach? If so, what’s your favorite thing to do at the beach?

Oh, yeah, I love the beach! I like swimming and running around, mostly, but I wouldn't be above making sand castles and stuff!

Redwood - How tall are you?

A little over 2 meters tall!

Maroon - What are you most passionate about?

My job as a hero, my friends and my boyfriends! Love my boyfriends. OH, and my fans!

Rust - Have you thought about becoming old? Can you become old? Are you scared of being old? What do you think about elders?

Hmm, I don't see anything wrong with being old... I would like to be the reliable old person that I didn't have when I was a kid, that would help out and tell interesting stories and stuff... I do think that elderly people should be respected, but not be kept above their mistakes! It's never too late to learn how to be a better person!

Leather - How “basass” would you say you are?

I'd say pretty badass, like, on a scale of 1-10 probably a solid... 8!

#asks #my ocs #Dion

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ikke-secret · 6 years ago

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Learning Korean

BTS reacting to you learning Korean

A/N: I might’ve gotten a little carried away with some of them, so a few are a bit longer than others. Some of them have a little bit of teasing (☼), while other’s are fluffy (♡), and one has some angst (❄) :))

Taehyung 480 words ♡

Your heart was beating violently against your ribs as your eyes darted over the many different suitcases on the baggage carousel in front of you, wishing so badly for yours to come soon.

You could barely focus on the mass of people standing around you as the music pumped loudly in your ears.

You’d promised to call when you landed, but you can barely get a hold of your phone, your hands were shaking too much.

Your eyes returned to the suitcases drifting slowly by you, as you caught something red out of the corner of your eye.

A wide smile split your lips as you checked the name tag, ‘Y/N Y/L/N’ – today was not the day to steal someone else’s suitcase.

You heaved it off the carousel, and it thudded to the ground.

It was a wonder it didn’t burst since you’d packed so many things that you were lucky to even get it on the plane.

You twisted around on your heels, heading in the direction of the lit-up exit signs.

A ball formed in your throat, making it almost unbearable to breathe.

Your fingers tightened around the handle, as they got clammy from the nervousness coursing through your body.

You repeated the sentences you’d practiced over and over again, whispering them out loud.

Your caught sight of the exit doors about thirty meters away through the dense crowd.

Your breath hitched in your throat the moment you walked through the double doors.

You skimmed over the mass of people standing in the arrival hall, some with flags from different countries and others with signs, that you proudly read in your head.

You couldn’t see the familiar face you were looking for

Suddenly, all the air was forced out of your lungs, as a pair of arms encircled your body, lifting you off your feet.

You didn’t look at the person’s face, you already knew who it was.

You could recognize Tae’s laughter everywhere.

When he set you down again, you stumbled around to face him.

You threw your arms around his neck and clung to him.

He nuzzled his nose into your hair and breathed in deeply.

After five minutes or so you pulled back and grinned widely at him, and he at you.

You inhaled sharply, at the sight of being right in front of him instead of seeing him through a screen.

It was now or never, “Hey Tae, how are you, have you missed me? I’ve missed you,” You said, voice shaking from jittery nerves.

It wasn’t much, but it was definitely Korean.

He stared at you in disbelief, since he’d never once heard you say more than one word in Korean before.

His arms embraced your body once more as he replied so fast that you didn’t even understand a single word he was saying.

“Calm down with the Korean, I’m far from fluent.”

Namjoon 341 words ♡

”What do you want for dinner?” You called to Namjoon as you popped your head through the door into the living room, where he was watching some tv-show.

He lifted his eyes when he heard your voice and became instantly both curious and cautious. A huge grin was playing on your lips, and he could tell you had to be up to something.

“Why are you smiling like that?” he muttered verily.

You waved your hand dismissively and went over to him.

“I was thinking pizza,” you continued, and the fact that you didn’t answer his question made him even more suspicious.

“Sure,” he played along, reaching for your phone, but you moved it out of his reach.

“Pepperoni pizza?” You already knew what his favorite kind was.

You typed the number into your phone, feeling your heart beat fast.

He didn’t say a word as you pressed the phone to your ear, grinning almost painfully now.

“Hello,” said the voice on the other end of the line, and your heart jumped into your throat.

“Hello,” you croaked, eyeing Namjoon out of the corner of your eye.

He looked indifferent, he’d heard you say hello in Korean a bunch of times before.

“I’d like a large pepperoni pizza,” you continued.

Now he looked impressed, his mouth fell open and his eyes widened in shock.

You gave the man your address, stumbling on a few words, but it was Korean none the less.

After hanging up, you looked incredibly pleased with yourself, but it was nothing compared to Namjoon.

He tackled you onto your back and lay in between your legs, kissing every inch of your face while you giggled.

“You’ve learned Korean?” he asks in Korean.

When you understand exactly what he said after a few seconds of thinking, your smile widens.

“Not for long, but I’ve been practicing ordering a pizza for weeks now,” you replied, but you didn’t know how to say it in Korean, so you just said it in English.

He pecked your lips, “You’re so cute.”

Jin 301 words ♡

Jin stopped as he passed by the open office door, which neither of you use very often.

A creak of light escaped through the slightly ajar door.

Making as little noise as possibly he peaked through the door and spotted a sleeping figure on the desk.

You had fallen asleep at some point during your studying.

Jin knew he’d left the studio way past two am, so it was at least three now.

Why hadn’t you gone to bed already?

He could hear your heavy breathing and decided not to wake you up.

Carefully he sneaked his arms under your body and lifted you from the chair with ease and carried you upstairs into bed.

You curled into a ball the moment he tugged the covers around you.

He quietly went back to the office to turn off the lights.

His eyes landed on the book lying on the desk and for a moment he was too startled to comprehend exactly what it was.

He picked up the book and read what you’d been writing.

The sentences were simple and said stuff like the woman is hungry and he does not have a dog.

The computer screen was black, but it came to life when he moved the mouse.

Window after window with YouTube videos and Korean dictionaries.

He opened the Duolingo page where it had asked you to translate something.

However, you hadn’t translated it correctly, in fact, you had just written I don’t know in Korean.

He grinned to himself, happy that you’d decided to learn Korean.

The smile didn’t vanish from his lips as he slipped into bed and wrapped his arms around you. “I love you,” he whispers in your ear.

The following few seconds were quiet before you tired voice mutters back, “I love you too.”

Jimin 337 words ♡

“You have to see it from my perspective,” you said through an exasperated sigh and dropped your head in your hands.

He giggled at you and pointed at the sentence again, “han-gug-eo han jul a-se-yo,” he dragged out each syllable, and you repeated him shortly after.

“No, I don’t speak Korean,” you answered the sentence, even though you weren’t actually supposed to.

Jimin couldn’t hide how much he enjoyed helping you learn Korean – he especially loved it when you got so frustrated that you scoffed at the people who wrote the book.

“You’re adorable when you’re frustrated,” he commented and dropped his head into his hand, gazing lovingly at you.

You pushed his shoulder, “You’re supposed to be teaching me Korean and not flirting with me,” you wined.

He grinned widely at you and spoke again, but this time you didn’t have a clue what he was saying.

“Translate that into English,” he ordered and looked at you with a look that told you that he knew you hadn’t understood a word.

“How am I supposed to even begin,” you complained, throwing your hands into the air in frustration.

He snatched your pen from you and began scribbling a sentence down on a piece of paper – or maybe sentence wasn’t too accurate, the alphabet still looked like symbols to you.

You’d often expressed your annoyance with it, why did they have to have such different letters.

He slid the paper over the table to you and ordered you to read it.

With a dramatic eye roll, you did as you were told.

The sentence was fairly short, which made you more determined to do it right, “Naaa… rang sa-gu… i.. llae…“ you tried, and afterward glancing up at Jimin with a grin on your lips, “How was that?”

He returned your smile, “Amazing, and I’d love to.”

You frowned, “What did I just say?”

He shrugged and took the piece of paper back.

“What have I gotten myself into?” you moaned and dropped your forehead against the table.

Hoseok 267 words ☼

“Let’s do the nasty,” You muttered in very broken Korean and wiggled your eyebrows at Hobi, who looked at you dumbfounded.

You had no idea whether your sentence was even remotely correct or not. You’d used google translate to make it because you doubted that Duolingo had a course called “Dirty talk”.

A puzzled expression settled on his face as he tried to put two and two together, which to you meant it had been far from correct.

It seemed to click for him after a few moments in deep thoughts.

Laughter rippled through him as he giggled like a mad person.

He turned to his back and pulled you with him, so you were on top of him.

“What even was that?” He muttered, not knowing if it was best to ask you in Korean or English, so he went with the safest option, which was English.

You shrugged, “I’ve been trying to learn Korean, and I wanted to impress you, but it clearly didn’t work,” You pouted, and he kissed your lips.

“I’m happy you’re trying to learn Korean, but it didn’t make any sense,” he giggled and closed his eyes while trying to hold back his laughter.

“You tell that to google translate.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me to help you?” He questions, stroking your hair behind your ears as if the sweet gesture was going to make you ask him.

“And sit through hours every day of you mocking my accent and lack of progress? No thanks.” I joked, and he laughed.

“I would never...” he said innocently and crossed his heart.

Jungkook 326 words ☼

“What do we have here?” Jungkook announced as he strolled into the bedroom with a yellow notebook, decorated with drawings on it that you’d drawn out of annoyance, every time you were seconds away from giving up on learning Korean.

He sat down at the end of the bed and held up the notebook, “Is this your diary?” he asked with a teasing tone.

You threw yourself at him before he could even think about opening it. Even though it wasn’t your diary, it somehow felt just as private. It was a surprise after all.

Although it had startled him momentarily that you’d thrown yourself at him to get the notebook, he quickly regained himself within a second.

He threw the book away, so it was out of both of his and your reach.

He grabbed you and somehow managed to pin you to the bed with him on top of you.

He held your wrists in his hands, “I bet you’ve written a bunch of fantasies about us in there,” he wiggles his eyebrows temptingly, causing blood to rush to your cheeks.

“It’s not my diary,” you admitted, quickly debating whether you wanted him to think that you wrote your sexual fantasies about you two in your diary, or if it was worth spoiling your surprise.

Even though the first option seemed to turn him on, you chose the second one.

“It’s my notebook.”

One of his eyebrows rose, “What do you need to take notes for?”

You took a deep breath before replying – if he was going to laugh at you, so be it, “I’m learning Korean.”

It was clearly not the answer nor the language he’d been expecting.

“What?” he muttered as if he’d forgotten his own mother tongue.

“I. Am. Learning. Korean.” You repeated, dragging out each word while grinning from ear to ear.

He mirrored your expression, “For me?”

You only got to nod once before his lips were on yours.

Yoongi 673 words ❄

”You’re doing so well,” my teacher, Mr. Lee, clapped his hands together, smiling proudly. He closed the book in front of him and wrote a few words down, both in Korean and English.

“I’d like you to read a little about the genitive for next time and do the translation exercises on page 21, okay?”

You smiled and nodded taking the note from him with your newly assigned homework and stuffed it into your pocket.

You jumped when you suddenly heard your phone ring loudly from your bag.

You smiled even wider when you saw who was calling, “Hey,” you greeted, purposely not calling him a pet name in front of Mr. Lee, feeling it would be a little inappropriate.

“Hey baby, when are you coming home?” he questioned, while you pulled on your jacket.

You glanced down at your watch, “Twenty minutes, do you want me to pick up dinner on the way?”

“I’ll see you same time on Friday?” Mr. Lee broke in.

You gave him a thumbs up while waiting for Yoongi’s answer, but he remained silent.

“Are you still there?” you muttered into the phone.

Silence.

“Who was that?” he finally asked.

You mouthed a goodbye to Mr. Lee and rushed out of his classroom.

“What?” Your brows knitted together.

“Who was that man?” He repeated.

Your heart jumped in your chest, as you tried to come up with an excuse, but all you managed to say was, “Oh, nobody.”

Another silent pause followed your words, you had definitely said the wrong thing.

“Who was it, y/n?” he said again, less like a question this time.

“It’s really nobody,” you repeated, feeling yourself speed up to reach your car quicker.

“I’d like to know who my girlfriend is scheduling to meet up with several times in a row.”

You couldn’t tell him that you were taking Korean lessons, it would ruin the surprise. You would just have to explain it to him when you came home.

“I’ll be home shortly, I’ll explain everything then.”

He responded with an okay which was cold as ice, and you knew it would be one hell of a task making him believe a lie.

He hung up.

Something told you that today wasn’t the day to take your time getting home.

You sped along the streets and made it home in less than ten minutes.

You could hear the television in the living room when you entered the hallway.

Without taking off neither your shoes nor your coat, you hurried to the living room.

Yoongi was watching the news, which he rarely did, he found them depressing.

“Hey,” you muttered cautiously.

His eyes shifted to you, he was clearly trying to suppress his anger, “Hi.”

He didn’t say another word as you sat down.

“I promise you Yoongi, it was nobody,” you said for the third time.

“I have a really hard time believing that,” he hissed, turning his attention back to the television.

You caught a few of the words that they were saying in the news story, but you could barely feel any joy in it.

“Yoongi please believe me,” you murmured, reaching out for his hand, but he pulled it away and got up, “I’m going to head out,” he announced grabbing his keys.

You quickly get to your feet, “Why?”

He didn’t reply and stalked toward the front door.

You had to run to reach him before he reached his car.

Your arms wrapped around his torso from behind, holding him back.

“Just leave it y/n,” he told you but didn’t move.

“I’m not cheating on you,” you mumbled into his back, knowing that that was exactly what he was thinking.

He turned around, slipping out of your arms.

An exasperated breath blew through your teeth, “I’m just learning Korean to surprise you.”

Relief flooded his face as he stared at you in disbelief, “What?”

You moved closer to him and embraces his body again, “I would never cheat on you.”

He exhales deeply, folding his arms around you.

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soldierwinterthe · 6 years ago

Text

bounty on my head

Summary: After killing the son of a notorious crime boss, the latter puts a price on your head. While you are alone, around the city, some men try to kill you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: a lot of violent scenes, and a lot of blood

A/N’s Note: I admit it, I was inspired by the film 'John Wick', with Keanu Reeves. I LOVE that movie, literally!

Feedback is always appreciated.

If I had known that after killing that son of a bitch, his stupid father would have put a price on my head...no, the son of a bitch would still have died at my hands. He was a known criminal and a murderer, and my job was to eliminate him.

Except that, now, all the assassins in the world when they see me, they try to kill me; up to fifteen million dollars up for grabs. When I found out, I thought I'd kill me alone; they are a lot of money, few people have had these kind of bounties.

Anyway, if I had to be careful first, now I have to watch my back every five minutes.

Every person who comes close to me, sitting next, or ask me a information... it could be a killer ready to kill and to collect its reward.

Then, I'm not that type of person who hides in a bunker, and waits that things pass, and that people forget.

People will never forget – especially when it comes to money. Today, tomorrow, or in ten years, I will always have the size on my head, and someone who wants me dead.

Unless... the only way to make the size disappear, is to delete it. And only the man who requested it can do it. But the problem is that I don't know where he is. Mr. Letun is very good at hiding.

The sound of my phone shakes me slightly; even before I pick up the phone and see who's calling, I already know who it is.

Barnes.

Bucky worries too much; yes, I am his girlfriend, and he loves me, but he also knows that I'm an expert killer in hand-to-hand combat, ranged combat and firearms. Not to brag, but I could kill my enemies, and in the meantime do the manicure.

"Hello?"

"Y/n, are you okay? Where are you?"

I roll my eyes; from his tone of voice, I realize that Bucky is more worried than usual. I know he does it because he's really scared that something bad happens to me, but sometimes I feel like he doesn't trust me.

"Yes, Bucky. I'm fine."

In the meantime, I go into a bar. Bucky kept me locked up at the base for almost a month; he even asked Tony not to send me on a mission. Saving people is the only thing I can do, and I can do it very well; instead, Bucky wants to keep me segregated.

So, I decided to do it my way; while he is on a mission with the others, I got up from the couch, I turned off the TV – now I saw all the programs on Netflix – and after taking a shower, I went out. I didn't want to go to a specific place, I just needed to breathe, and know that I am a free person.

The problem is... my boyfriend. I was convinced that he would be back in two days, but – of course – he had to come back early on the exact day I left.

Even before entering the bar to have a drink and enjoy the evening, the phone rings, and it's him. But his call doesn't intimidate me, I will not go home until I have had at least a couple of glasses of whiskey.

"Y/n, where are you? I am coming to pick you up."

"Bucky, I don't need it. I'm perfectly safe; I'll be back home in an hour."

Before my boyfriend can reply something, I hang up the call, putting the phone back in its place.

Bucky will not ruin my evening; when I come home, will he be angry with me? Damn, yes. But I don't care; he must understand that I can protect myself.

About half an hour later, and a bottle of borboun almost finished, I pay the bill, and I get out of the bar.

It's dark outside, the moon is not visible in the sky, and the street lamps don't seem to want to work tonight; just the night I go out. It's not a coincidence at all.

I walk towards the park – it's the fastest way back home, and at this time, even the least crowded. In the meantime, I start counting the killers around me.

Two boys kissing on a bench; a woman with a clearly empty stroller; a man who walks the dog; a group of boys chatting and joking among themselves, in the middle of the park. Three other men, dressed as garbage collectors, who collect the papers that they themselves have probably thrown to the ground.

In all, I count sixteen people in the park, and they're all serial killers. I remain calm, trying not to show any emotion; in fact, I'm not scared. I should have, but the killers are trained for this.

And then, I feel safer with my two Glock hidden under the skirt, the butterfly knife in the right boot and the knife in the left one.

I'm going out always armed – the danger fills the streets of New York more than I wanted – but I thought it was a good idea to bring some extra weapon.

I went out with the knowledge that they would follow me; to be honest, I feel rather offended by the fact that there are only a few people.

I pass the center of the park, and, exactly after 257 meters, one of the garbage collectors emerges from behind a tree, with a crossbow in his hands; he shoots an arrow, and I can avoid it by a whisker. I run towards him, and I can put him k.o. with one shot. They must have sent the weakest first, because if they all fight like the guy lying at my feet... it will be easier than expected.

Someone is behind me; I turn around, meanwhile I pull out one of my guns.

She's the woman with the stroller, and it's closer than I expected.

The bullet hits the woman right in the head, but not before her knife jabs into my right shoulder; make sure the woman is dead – the pool of blood in which I find her is a tangible proof – I pull out the knife from my shoulder with a sharp blow; pulling it away slowly would only cause more pain.

Despite everything, the wound is not very deep, and moreover, I have already eliminated two killers; only 14 are missing.

After the first two, the others go to the strong manners; the two garbage collectors still run towards me, firing me with machine guns. I hide immediately behind some bushes, but one of them strikes me; now I have a bullet stuck in my right calf. It seems that the right side of my body is the most painful one. From under my skirt, I pull out the other Glock; holding the two guns in my hands, I go out of my hiding place, and I shoot.

At first almost blindly, but when I recognize the shadows of the two men, I shoot a couple of shots, and they fall to the ground.

Fortunately, the park at this time is completely empty, and my weapons have a silencer. At this time, so many shots would attract dozens of people, and the police would soon arrive.

I walk quickly towards the exit of the park, and it seems that I manage to get out of there unharmed... or almost.

I walk in isolated streets – I know perfectly well that others are still following me, and I don't want to endanger innocent people – but the leg begins to limp. As much as I can withstand the pain, I have to hurry up.

Just round the corner, in front of me there are the two guys who were sitting on the bench and the man who took the dog for a walk; the two guys run towards me without weapons. We begin to fight, and between fists, kicks and martial arts moves, I can also put them k.o.

The man with the dog is still in front of me, his hands clasped behind his back; he walks slowly toward me, and showing me his hands, I notice an ax. Seriously? I bet that when he doesn't kill people, this guy uses the ax to break the wood. Anyway, this guy doesn't seem too good either.

The ax leaves me some superficial wounds on my arms, but finally, I stick the weapon on the man's head.

I'm covered in blood – and it's so much that I can't figure out what mine is, and which ones I killed – the leg is now losing sensitivity, and the shoulder wound... no, that has fortunately lost little blood, and what's left around the wound is starting to get dry.

Only the group of boys is missing; eleven people, and I can go back to the base, where a doctor and a lot of morphine are waiting for me.

Less than a mile from my point of arrival, the boys show up; one next to the other, like 'Pussycat Dolls', each of them has a gun in their hand. They start shooting me, I hide behind a car; these don't have silencers, and every shot echoes in my ears.

However, I prepare myself for the counterattack; while they continue to shoot me, I count the bullets I have: 8. Too few to kill them all, but enough to kill eight.

I tear the mirror up close to the car, and help me with it to see where exactly each of the killers are; they are divided, but I can still see them all.

I start shooting: a couple of them behind a car, one behind a phone booth. I can eliminate six, while two bullets missing the target.

Fuck.

I'm out of ammo, and I remain only with the knives; now that I think, I should take the crossbow of the garbage man. I would have made sparks with that.

Suddenly, silence; no noise, no gunshot. They too have no more bullets. I pull out my two knives, and, coming out of my hiding place, I throw the butterfly knife towards the boy near the Chinese restaurant; I hit him, and he falls to the ground.

Four boys remain. They all come towards me, with sharp knives; they hit me in the back, in the stomach. With my knife, I cut the throat to one of them, to another I stab him in the heart; a woman shakes my hair, she pulls them. For the pain I close my eyes for a second, and hit with my knife behind me, blindly.

The blade hits something, and the woman's grip on me slackens. I turn around, and the woman is on the ground, with my knife stuck in the temple; only one kill remains.

He's behind me, and I turn around, ready to eliminate him, and go home.

As soon as I am healed, I will find that son of a bitch of Mr. Letun, and I will torture him until he delete my size.

The man is in front of me, and to my surprise, he draws a gun. He points me straight in the face, but I can lower it in time, the bullet doesn't hit me in the head, but it pierces my left side. I can perceive the bullet perforating the organs, and coming out of the other side of my body.

The adrenaline helps me; I remove the gun from the hands of the man, and with the butt of the gun, I hit him as many times as I can. He fell to the ground; I grabbed his gun, and I shot him.

I approach the woman, and I shoot her too; for safety.

I pull out the charger, four bullets.

I should be able to walk less than a mile – even because the murderers are all dead. I think.

Limping, I finally enter the Avengers base; in the main room there are Steve, Nat and Tony. They turn as soon as they hear the door open, they look at me with an upset air. I must look awful.

"Good evening. Would any of you be kind enough to call a doctor?"

I cough, and cover my mouth with my hand; I look at her, she is dirty with blood.

Fuck.

"A doctor. Now."

"I want to see her."

When the doctor saw me, she thought I was a zombie; a normal person doesn't survive all the wounds I had.

But she still managed to pull the bullet out of my leg – the one in my side had already come out, just as I had foreseen – to mend the shoulder wound, and to disinfect all the cuts I got.

"Actually, she said... she doesn't feel well, and she doesn't want to see anyone, Mr. Barnes."

Yes, it's true. I told the doctor not to let anyone in, and for anyone, I mean Bucky. I know exactly that he will give me a long lecture; in fact, I think he already prepared it when he came here.

And I also know that it will not follow my requests, and will enter like a madman into the room.

Sitting on the couch, I look at the sack full of transparent liquid, which falls drop by drop into my veins. Damn, right now I would kiss the man who discovered morphine.

The door behind me opens, and heavy boots throw closer to me. He took more time than expected to enter.

I move my eyes from the morphine to my boyfriend, who has his perfect blue eyes fixed on me. He doesn't look at my body covered with cuts, Bucky looks me in the eye, never blinking.

He starts to make me uncomfortable.

"Then? Don't you say anything? You will play the game of silence, or you will start with 'Did I tell you?'" I say, imitating his voice in the final part.

"There is not much to say. The bullet holes, the shoulder wound, and the dozens of cuts and bruises on your body speak for themselves."

I roll my eyes; Bucky is not the type that remains silent, especially after what happened to me. I can see the pulsing vein on his neck; he tries to stay calm, but he can't very well.

"Come on, Bucky. We both know you will not resist making me a lecture. so let off steam, go ahead. I am listening to you."

"This is all a game for you!?" Bucky says, approaching me a step closer.

Long ago, when I met Bucky, if he had approached me so threateningly, I would have retreated. Not because I was afraid, but because he was still in its 'high danger' phase.

Now, instead, I know the meaning of every gesture; it took years, before learning to know him.

"No, it's not a game. Sixteen fucking murderers tried to kill me for fifteen fucking millions of dollars! They shot me, beat me, and one of them even had a fucking ax!"

I take a deep breath; the dose of morphine that the doctor has prescribed for me, I think it's not enough; the pain in my leg is starting again, and I don't want to feel it at all.

Bucky continues to remain silent, I lie on the bed, tired like never before; trying to get closer to the morphine bag, to increase the dose, Bucky anticipates me.

"You can't increase morphine."

"Please, Bucky. My leg hurts so badly."

He looks at me, even looking at me, as if to peer inside, know what I'm thinking.

Finally, Bucky approaches morphine, and slightly he increases the dose.

I remain silent, and I thank him with my eyes.

In one corner, there's an armchair, and that's where Bucky sits, not even for a moment glancing at me.

I close my eyes, and fall asleep.

I wake up about a couple of hours later; the first thing I look for is Bucky; he is still there, napping on the armchair.

He always seems so calm, while he sleeps; I wonder if he has ever dreamed me.

I remember the first few times when Bucky was afraid of sleeping with me. He still had not overcome the brainwashing trauma, and the night ended up waking in a sweat bath, completely frightened.

I knew what was happening, but initially I gave him space, and time to recover.

Then, one day, one night to be exact, I couldn't sleep; Bucky and I had gone to the cinema, and then we'd walked the streets of the city.

It had been a perfect evening, and there in my bed, I thought about how we had greeted each other; why Bucky had not kissed me, why he had not even hugged me. So, I went to his room, not even knocking, but Bucky felt my presence at the exact moment when I closed the door behind me.

He turned in his bed, while I was already near the edge. Without saying anything, I lay down beside him, and Bucky automatically wrapped his arms around my waist.

It was the first time Bucky and I slept together, and things have been different since that day.

I look at the morphine sac, now completely empty; in fact, the leg doesn't hurt me anymore, and I feel better.

Only now I realize that I still stain with blood; now it has dried up, and my hands are sticky. Without making too much noise – I don't want Bucky to wake up – I get out of bed, and head to the bathroom.

I open the shower tap, and after having painstakingly removed my clothes, I throw myself under the water.

I know it's a very obvious thing, but the hot water that falls on me is perfect; it loosens the muscles still tense, and it makes me feel much better. It calms me, physically and psychologically.

I am still under the water, when, suddenly, the curtain in front of me opens abruptly; I scream in fright, and pull the curtain toward me, to cover myself.

It's Bucky.

"What the hell, Bucky! You made me die of fear."

"I had to make sure you were here."

"What? Did you think I had left the water open, and I had run away? If you have not noticed, at the moment I still look like a limping old woman."

"As if you had never done it. Leave the water open, and run away."

Okay. Yes, I did it. Bucky and I were not dating yet, but his room was not far from mine; recently. I was part of the Avengers. Since I was a... newbie, I couldn't go for a stroll alone.

But I didn't even want to stay closed in my room; so, one day I went out – making everyone think I was in the shower.

When I returned, however, I entered the wrong window, and found myself lying in Bucky's bed. While he slept.

Come to think of it now, I laugh, but I try to hold back. If I laughed now, Bucky would get even more pissed off.

Now my time of relaxation is over, so I close the tap.

"Can you hand me the towel, please?"

Bucky stares at me for a few seconds, looking a bit 'strange.

"I promise you that while you take the towel, I don't run away. Also because, it's behind you, I wouldn't even have time to get out of the tub, with my leg hurting."

With the towel finally around my body, Bucky and I go back into the room; while I change, he does nothing but stare at me, and I don't know whether to feel excited, or uncomfortable. Probably the second one. Maybe.

"What do we do now?" I ask him, after wearing one of his T-shirts, and sitting on the bed again.

"What do you think? We find Mr. Letun, and torture him, until he cancels the size. Later, we kill him. For safety."

"Are you convinced you want to do it? He has a rather... broad army."

"Who cares! Bucky, what happened tonight, it will happen every time I leave this base. I don't want to remain forever locked up in a room. I want to live."

Bucky looks at the floor; I have never seen him in this state; he's worried, I know. What I don't know is whether his concern. concerns me, or Mr. Letun.

I get out of bed, and going to the armchair where Bucky is, I sit on his legs.

"I know it will not be easy. And I know I fucked up."

"Exactly, you shouldn't have gone out."

"By crap, I meant to have killed Letun's son. I should have killed not only his son, but him too. And instead, I let it go, and now I am in this mess."

Bucky rolls his eyes; poor man, he was convinced that I was sorry to be out; despite the wounds, the cuts, the bullets... I don't regret being out. I really enjoyed it.

"I'm tired of this situation. I don't want to spend the rest of my life like this, locked up in a room to prevent someone killing me. Bucky, I have to find Mr. Letun, and I have to kill him."

"We have to."

"What?"

"We have to find him. I will come with you, I certainly will not let you go alone."

I smile, for what Bucky has just said. Although there was no need, because I knew perfectly well that he would help me.

A couple of days, a week maximum – the doctor said I have to rest for at least a month, but I will never do it – and I will get back on my feet. And I'll find that son of a bitch.

Forever Tag: @doro7winchester - @cirunia - @frickin-bats - @giftofdreams- @ria132love - @flirtswithdanger - @littlenerdgirl16 - @nanie5 - @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester - @jerk-bitch-and-an-angel - @disneymarina - @ironmanlover24

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #imagine bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier imagine #imagine the winter soldier #the winter soldier fanfic #the winter soldier fanfiction #avenger #avengers #gif #tumblr #bounty on my head

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terresdebrumestories · 7 years ago

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For tonight, it’s enough.

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Digimon Adventure 01/02/Tri RATING: General Audiences. WORDCOUNT: 4 660 words PAIRING(S): Taiyama CHARACTER(S): Taichi Kamiya, Yamato Ishida, and a small cameo from baby!Garurumon. GENRE: Scratch disk. TRIGGER WARNING(S): Vague-ish references to the fact that Taichi lives under a dictature. SUMMARY: They’ve been meeting in secret for fifteen years. The night Taichi discovers there’s a way to end that turns out a lot less happy than he would have imagined. NOTE: This fic is approximately 3k words longer than I ever intended it to be, and also probably calls for a lot more worldbuilding, but I’ve been working on it unreasonably long so let’s call i done here. RIP me.

DIGIOTPWEEK 2017: [Day 1: Coffeeshop AU]

Entering the Belows has always been, and, Taichi’s pretty sure, will always be the worst part of visiting Yama. Dodging the Pluckers is hard on the heart and nerves, but he’s had almost fifteen years to get used to that part. He’s perfected the art of sneaking out of the house without notice, and moving from shadow to shadow fast enough that even a full bloom night like tonight doesn’t seem like that much of a challenge anymore.

Getting to the actual Belows, on the other hand, sucks. The first time he went there, he was running away from Pluckers, stolen sweets rattling under his shirt as he crawled past the protective barrier and dove into the collective shit of the Flower’s inhabitants. There’s no other way into the realm: you have to take a deep breath, pinch you nose closed, and let yourself sink into a city’s worth of detritus until you reach the bottom and the filtering spell spits you back on the other side, clean and smell-free but ready to puke your guts out.

Tonight is as unpleasant as ever, and experience is the only thing preventing Taichi from bending over and emptying his stomach in the Esholeu as soon as he lands. Well, that, and Yama’s hand on his shoulder, steadying him into an upright position with little circles of his thumb over Taichi’s collarbone. Taichi closes his eyes and leans into the touch with a sigh, throwing his arms around Yama’s waist and letting tension leave his body with every new breath he takes.

Yama smells like plants and wet earth. It took Taichi several months before he learned to recognize the smells, used as he was to the dry dirt and gas fumes of the Flower, people and houses fighting the vertical, almost soil-free fields they depend on for scrapes of space that won’t ever be enough. The Belows are always wet, though, the air heavy enough in Taichi’s lungs that the crack in the ground he uses as a way back to the Flower never seemed quite as oppressive as it should have. He probably owes his life to that lack of fear, but it’s not a topic he’s very keen on exploring.

“You’re early,” Yama says.

He’s frowning, a glare pinching at the edge of his blue eyes, strands of yellow hair escaping from the half-ponytail he keeps it in, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips that betrays the anger.

“I was too eager to wait.”

Yama rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t protest, opting to lean down for a kiss instead.

He’s been taller than Taichi since they hit their last growth spurt around sixteen, thinner and narrower than him forever, thanks in part to a mostly meat-free diet. It’s hard to maintain cattle underground, after all, and while Yama has a knack to get animals on his side, it doesn’t make his surrounding any more amenable to them.

“I was careful,” Taichi promises when they separate. “I’d know if they’d spotted me.”

“Ae doyoi uràai uy portàkàkam.”

“I don’t want me hurt either,” Taichi replies with a smile, leaning just far enough away from Yama to meet his gaze, “I swear I’m being careful, but it’s been three weeks!”

Three weeks of merchants from the other side of the Flower milling and bustling in his father’s shop, haggling over the smallest bronze seeds as if they couldn’t have spent half their weight in copper and still live comfortably for the rest of their days. Three weeks of running errands for people Taichi wishes he could have punched in the face and kicked out of his family’s home instead of being at their beck and call for the duration of their stay.

The Podmasters may insist on calling money ‘seeds’ but the truth is you can’t eat gold any more than you can eat bronze, and merchants shouldn’t be able to finagle for the price of something even they can’t live without. They do, though, and that means Taichi needs to stay home from time to time, just to make sure no one takes too much liberty with his parents’ hard work.

“Three weeks is definitely too long,” Yama agrees, but when Taichi moves in for another hug the back slung at his hip squirms and yelps with startling force.

“What’s in there?”

“A surprise!” Yama replies with a grin he visibly struggles to keep under control, gaze dropping to his bag as he pushes several pieces of linen cloth out of the way, “one of two, actually, but for now...meet Garu!”

Taichi would love to say he remains appropriately stoic, retaining the poise and control befitting of a nearly-twenty-seven-years-old-adult. He would really, really love to. The truth, however, is that the second Yamato gets the puppy out of the bag, Taichi is cooing like there’s no tomorrow and grabbing at the air until Yama plops the little fur ball in his hands.

It’s bigger than regular pups, almost the size of a full grown dog of the smaller breeds, with coarser and thicker fur. There’s no mistaking the oversized paws though, the eager eyes and the clumsy attempts at a waddle as soon as Taichi settles it in the crook of his arm. He coos at the not-so-little thing for a long moment, entranced by the blue stripes in the white fur and the gleaming but somehow adorable teeth that snap in his direction as soon as he gets too close to the puppy’s neck.

“I’m sure I look ridiculous,” Taichi says when he realizes Yama hasn’t said anything in the past few minutes, “but this thing is adorable! Where did you find it?”

There’s no way to be sure, but if it does like other dogs Taichi’s seen and doubles or triples its size, there’s no way its breed was meant to evolve in the tunnels of the Belows.

“That’s the second surprise, actually. You’ll have to trust me to get to it, though.”

At first, Taichi blinks, but it doesn’t take him long to frown. Of course he trusts Yama. He would never haver handed him his heart if he didn’t. Well, yes, he probably would have come clean about his feelings, if only out of principle, but he would have given the manner of it some thought beforehand, not just kissed him out of the blue, thank you very much.

Yama seems to be waiting for an answer, though, so Taichi nods and follows Yamato further inside the tunnels, until they reach the point where the Esholeu splits into the Iàkon and the Nopon—the Protector and the Criminal—and, for the first time in fifteen years, they follow the Nopon.

The river, Yama explained once they’d both learned enough of the other’s language to understand more complex sentences and thoughts, has been forbidden so long even the Killa forgot what’s on the other end, and living in the Belows requires too much time and efforts to allow for exploration of paths that have already been marked as undesirable—better plow on under the Flower and make more space where safety can be hoped for.

Taichi’s been curious about the Nopon from the beginning, of course, mostly on the ground that, having braved, survived, and even befriended the terrifying Creatures of the Belows (by which he means: all but charmed Yama’s people in spoiling him with the most uncanny specimen of fruits and vegetables they can find each time he visits them) there’s not much else that can hurt him but, well. The Belows are at least as vast as the Flower, and that’s big enough to host almost ten thousand souls, animals not included. Taichi never strayed from Yama’s birth level—there are others, lower down—but he still hasn’t been able to exhaust its surprises after fifteen years. It’s not like his life was lacking in adventures or discoveries up until now.

He’d be lying if he said the very choice of path didn’t make his heart race, though.

“I heard a sound coming from here about two weeks ago,” Yama explains as they follow a leveled but rough path similar to what they find on the banks of the Ikon, “and when I found Garu I wanted to see where he’d come from. I promise you I wasn’t disappointed.”

Taichi nods and follows him. Under the thin soles of his boots, the ground grows rougher, more uneven, chunks of the path gone to the Nopon and too many years of disuse. The light of sun stones from the entry point is almost entirely gone now, but Yamato doesn’t make any move to pull his out. Taichi is about to request it when there’s a gush of air against his face, and he can’t help a gasp of surprise.

It wasn’t violent, let alone painful...but it’s stronger than the kiss of warmth following a particularly fast carriage, stronger even than the fans Taichi and his family keep flapping about their faces in the summer. There’s a fresh smell on the air, too, something like plants, underlined by a sharp coolness he’s never felt before, and Taichi gropes until he finds Yamato’s hand and squeezes his fingers tight.

Garu is most definitely not a creature of the underground.

It just didn’t occur to Taichi to wonder where this ‘not underground’ place the creature came from could be.

“Be careful,” Yama warns when Taichi slows down, trying to understand what he’s seeing, “I almost fell the first time.”

Taichi blinks when a tug on his hand and a thin cloud of cold water bring him back to the present, and gapes when he realizes that, only a few meters ahead, the Nopon vanishes.

There’s almost no sound to it, just the rush of water hitting stone one last time, followed by utter silence, like the ground below is too far for the impact of water on stone to be heard from their spot. The river comes to this point, gives one last little wave in farewell, and drops down, down, down, so fast and so far Taichi is almost afraid to lean out.

“Keep your eyes on me and one hand on the wall,” Yama says, smiling as he takes Garu from Taichi’s hands and sets him back into the bag, “it’s very narrow for a while.”

Taichi, his heart firmly lodged somewhere in his throat, nods and grabs the back of Yama’s green shirt before he can do something ridiculous like sob. He’s careful not to look at anything but Yama’s neck as they walk, focusing his thoughts on the way his muscles shift under the fabric just so he won’t think about the larger-than-life gap below his feet, or the little hands of air trying to pull him off the path and into the abyss. They take ten steps, then twenty, and then they reach something large and smooth enough to have been a road, once.

Taichi clings to Yama’s tunic until they get in the middle of it, and then he crumbles to the ground.

“Are you alright,” Yama asks, barely audible over Taichi’s clacking teeth, “do you need to retch?”

Taichi, used to swallowing nausea down by now, shakes his head and swallows around the thickness in his throat, hoping against hope to get his heart and stomach back away from the vicinity of his wisdom teeth. His knees trembles. His back, neck, armpits and palm cover with cold sweat. Yama rubs at his neck and murmurs words of reassurance in both their tongues, forehead brushing Taichi’s temple in a show of sympathy.

Eventually, Taichi starts breathing again.

“Better?”

“Yes,” Taichi manages, strangled and thin against the air, but sincere, “but I don’t think I’ll be up for that again any time soon.”

“That’s fair. If you’re feeling better, you should look up, though.”

Taichi obeys, expecting to find a larger, higher version of the milky and dust-stained dome he’s lived under all his life. Maybe a cleaner one, too, to account for the brighter light—even during Full Blooms, the Flower never gets that kind of brightness at night.

When he actually processes what he sees, though, the air is all but stolen from his lungs.

Overhead, something as vast as the Earth looks down at him, blue background speckled with an infinity of bright spots like diamond dust spread on a dark fabric. They shine down, clustering in thicker clouds of silver, swirls of white mingling with the last drops of something purple that’s so far away, Taichi feels like he’s looking at the end of the world.

There’s a wall at his back, yes, and a road that leads up it—back to the Stem, probably—but anywhere else he looks the world stands: no barrier, no walls of brick with pompous names, no Pluckers ready to catch and shoot him if he even looks like he’s thinking about getting too near. No threat of vanishing for being out at night, no looming notions of torture should he slip and reveal he even knows the way to the Flower’s sewers.

His heart beats too fast and his blood rushes too loud, the foundations of his life howling as they crash to the ground and pummel at his lungs, his ribs, his eyes.

He’s crying before he manages to find proper words for what he feels.

Yama’s hand finds his, soft and unobtrusive, like they’re standing in one of the sacred places if his people instead of...instead of—Taichi’s throat tears into a sob, and he has to close his eyes. Bury his face in his hands and shy away from the vastness around him, a thousand lifetimes of lies rushing at him like a flood.

There’s nothing Outside but the Wilds. The Wilds will kill you. They will take you, they will grind you, they will poison you until you feel each and every part of you die before your brain can shut it down. The Wilds turn life into monstrous shapes, too many limbs or too little, too little lungs, too little strength, too little of anything to make a viable child.

The Wilds are forbidden, because the Wilds are Death.

Well, Taichi’s in the Wilds now, with a Riverling, no less, and he’s never seen anything half that beautiful.

“Sorry,” he manages after a long while, “I just—I never thought—”

“Me neither,” Yama says, voice barely above a murmur, “I wasn’t any better when I got here, trust me.”

Yama brings their foreheads together, and Taichi leans in until their noses touch, sighing in relief when Yama rubs them together. It’s an old gesture between them, soft and worn like comfortable clothes, the intimacy of it more familiar with every year that passes.

It does more to settle Taichi’s heart than anything else in the world.

“Better?” Yama asks for the second time.

“Mostly,” Taichi confirms, unsure how much better he’s feeling exactly, “do you have many more surprises for tonight?”

“One more. We’ll have to run if we want to catch it, though, and you won’t like it.”

Taichi leans back away from his partner, eyes snapping up to meet the frown on Yama’s brow as he tries to decipher what could possibly be left to shock him. There is a world. There is a world outside the Flower, and they can live in it! It’s too much—too intense, too vast—to process in one night but...there is a world. There is an entire world around, and they can go! They don’t have to be afraid of it—or at least, no more than the kil are!

What could possibly make this anything other than good news?

“Trust me,” Yama insists when Taichi says as much, his tone far more somber than the situation should allow, “you need to see this.”

So they rise.

Taichi follows Yama farther down the abandoned road and onto a bridge over the abyssal depth below them. He ignores the sharp jab of pain that blooms in his ribs halfway through, pushes harder against his legs when they threaten to give up, and lets Yama use a hand to pull him forward, his other arm supporting Gabu’s bag so the poor pup won’t get too jostled by the move.

They reach the end of the bridge eventually, seconds before Taichi’s lungs can actually catch fire and burn him from the inside out, and Taichi actually falls in exhaustion this time, dust-filled lungs unprepared for that kind of effort. No one in the Flower ever runs that much. It’s just a way to die faster.

“Turn around,” Yama tells him, tugging at his shoulder until Taichi gives a begrudging twitch in the right direction, “come on, turn around! It’s about to start!”

With supreme effort, Taichi finally manages to twist around and face in the right direction. At first, grass fills his vision, but a rapid squint brings the bridge—and the impossibly deep gap behind that—into focus. Beyond the bridge, a stone pillar wide enough to support the entire Flower and then some, the road he and Yama walked on snaking up the rock from the shadows, and going on until it meets the Stem.

From the inside, it’s nothing more than a smooth wall of green stone, poxed with countless arrow and bullets where people tried to climb it over the years. Taichi lost friends to that wall, some too brave and some too desperate to stay away. He’s watched neighbors and passing visitors turn their heads away so they could pretend it wasn’t really there, because no one likes to be reminded how close to their home the Wilds are. If the Stem failed, they’d be the first to die, or so they thought.

From the outside, the Stem is still green, but messy and soft with vines, flying shapes too wide to be birds floating around it like they belong there, like there’s nothing in the world to disturb them. Inside, you can get Plucked for looking at the Stem too closely. Outside, it almost makes you want to go in there for a nap.

Then, all at once, the winged creatures flee.

“Stay down,” Yama warns.

Some of the creatures are bright and colorful, some are dark and sleek as stone. One of them looks like it’s made of fire. There’s a thousand shapes, a thousand colors, more cries than Taichi can hear all in the span of a second as the creatures rush over their heads, close enough to touch, and plunge into the Wilds with the intense urgency of the truly terrified.

On the other side of the gap, the top of the Stem glows blue—a bright, sapphire color so intense it burns at Taichi’s eyes and makes him want to look away, the milky white petals of the Flower’s dome shining brighter and brighter, until even the largest of the silver circles in the sky seems dimmed by it.

One by one, the petals unfurl without a sound. Each gap frees a new volute of smoke, easy to track in the light of the dome, thick curves hovering in the air for a moment before it falls back down like pollen. Taichi watches the cloud fall and fall and fall, heart back in his throat and stomach thick with a dread he doesn’t want to name, doesn’t want to face.

He’s debating whether to turn around when something moves on the Stem. A winged shape—not a bird, or anything Taichi could name—propels itself from it, wings beating too wild in the air, like it already knows it’s lost.

The way it drops like a stone before it’s halfway thought the gap sends fire and blood in Taichi’s heart.

It beats and boils under his skin, flushes his cheeks and stings at his eyes as his hands clench into fists. His vision clouds, ears filling with a roar so strong he has to let it out—scream into the void of the night until it feels like his throat is about to rip out of him and take his soul along for the ride, until he’s bent in half and almost sick it.

Ten thousand people—ten thousands of lives, of families, of frightened people and mourning friends, ten thousands of lifetimes wasted away, millions of lives lost to black lungs and respiratory failures! And all this time, all the while, during all those funerals, everyone kept saying ‘it could have been worse’, kept thinking how much better they had it than in the Wilds, how much more toxic the air out there must be, and all that for what?

“They’re keeping it in! All that filth, all that sludge, they’re keeping it—and no one knows! Everyone thinks we’re protecting ourselves from the Wilds but we’re just keeping this in!”

“Taichi,” Yama tries, but Taichi is too furious to stop now, and he repeats:

“They’re keeping it in! You don’t know—you have clean air Below! you’ve got clean air and clean water while we stay in that damned Flower’s poisoned air, all that because they wouldn’t let any of us explore! They clung to their fear and—”

“Taichi!”

“What?”

Yama doesn’t speak right away. He gives Taichi time to calm down first, breathing and pulse slowing down to something a little closer to the ordinary before he says in a soft, sad tone:

“It’s midnight.”

Midnight. The second round.

There are Pluckers in the streets right now.

They have to have seen.

They have to have spoken.

The Podmasters can’t possibly not know.

Taichi falls to his knees, so dumbstruck he barely even notices Yama’s hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

“I’ve always wondered why we even had filtering spells in the first place. They’ve been there for as long as any of my people can remember.”

“It was to keep you safe,” Taichi realizes, throat too weak and too raw to manage more than a toneless drone, “to keep our poison out.”

Slowly, with infinite care, Yama gathers Taichi in his arms and holds him there, the tight embrace a slim lifeline against the revelations of tonight.

There is a world outside.

There is a world outside, that they’ don’t have to fear.

There is a world outside they don’t have to fear, and they’re poisoning it.

Maybe not all of it. Maybe not all at once. But they are.

Worse, still, Taichi’s people are being poisoned themselves. Knowingly. Purposefully.

He was so shocked, after meeting Yama, to learn he and his brother had never lost a family member. So shocked to realize there was a place so very close to him, where children grew to know their great-grandparents and knew they’d live until their eighth decade, maybe even longer!

He wasn’t even twelve, when the two of them met, but by then Taichi already had half a dozen names on the list of people he lost. Koushiro. Iori. Two older brothers, and one younger sister that died so fast Hikari doesn’t even remember her. There were neighbors and friends and passing acquaintances and so many names he already knew, by then, he’d never be able to properly remember them all.

And now, he knows they died for nothing. Worse, they died because they were made to.

Taichi doesn’t even have the will to hide his tears in Yama’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Yama says in his native tongue, “I’m sorry. I wish it could have been a good surprise.”

A surprise, indeed. Seeds, Taichi wishes he could hate Yama just now, even for an hour, even for an instant. But then, what could he have said? ‘Sorry, love, but I think your elders are poisoning you’? Ha. Taichi would never have believed him—not until they fought and Taichi’d been dragged here and saw this for himself.

Maybe he should have suspected. All those stories about the Kil, those nightmarish legends, they were false, too, after all...but those were people. People can fight, can do terrible things and change and become good people. Memories turn to legends and myths, twisted with every mouth and every fearful set of ears. Legends about the Kil are cruel and false, yes, but they have excuses.

There’s nothing to be said in defense of what Taichi learned tonight, nothing to make it less terrible than it seems.

For a long, long time, Taichi stays in Yama’s arms, soaking up their warmth as he tries to sort through the evening, reason and explain things to himself. Eventually, though, there’s nothing to do but face the truth that’s been nagging at his ribs as soon as he understood.

“They need to know. The people in the Flower. They need to know about this.”

Yama hums in agreement. It vibrates in his chest, against Taichi’s shoulder, firm and sure.

Not a trace of surprise about it.

“You know what I was going to say the second you saw this,” Taichi realizes, “didn’t you?”

“Yes. I would have done the same in your place.”

There’s a pause as they find each other’s hand and hold on tight, only broken when Gabu starts whining too loud and Yama has to get him out of the bag.

“I don’t know if you’ll want to talk about it with me, considering I waited so long to tell you but. I have ideas.”

Maybe Taichi should be angry. Yama could have said things earlier. Even if Taichi wasn’t going to believe him, even if they would have fought about it, he could have been more direct, he could have avoided the pseudo surprise route. There are many, many things he could have done differently tonight, maybe even better. He told Taichi, though. He knew, from the second he saw this, that sharing the secret would take them on a path that may end in any number of horrible ways, and he still shared.

Say what you will about his methods, the thick and thin of it is, there’s never been anyone else in Taichi's life he felt so confident in relying on. Besides, even if he wanted to change that—even if he wanted to break from fifteen years of friendship and almost two years of something they’ve both tried really hard not to call love, well.

The only access to the Wilds goes through the Belows. He’d be stupid to cut himself off from that based on something he’s already forgiven.

“I do want to hear them. I assume they’ll be better than anything I can think of.”

Yama snorts and rolls his eyes, but he knows better than to banter just now and, not for the first time, Taichi feels grateful for the years they’ve spent learning each other’s ticks and quirks. It saves time and hard feelings.

“Let’s not do that tonight though,” he says, “let’s—”

The sound of a thousand pairs of wings cuts Taichi’s sentence short as the creatures from before fly out of the Wilds and back toward the Stem, apparently determined to get back to their nests as soon as they possibly can. They make a mighty racket, screaming and singing in the night air, almost like they’re forestalling the conversation on purpose.

Laughter bubbles in his chest before he has time to realize he’s still capable of it.

He’s still scared. He’s got no idea how he’ll go about telling his family about Yama and all the things he’s seen tonight let alone anyone else. He’s Outside, though. Outside, and free, and for one he’s not worried about coming back before the third round of Pluckers hit the streets. The revolution can wait another day, can’t it?

There’s a world outside. It’s vast, and beautiful, and terrifying, but he and Yama can exist together here—not in stolen moments sneaked out from under the Pluckers’ nose but together, as partners and equals, and equally new to the things they see.

For tonight, it’s enough.

#digiotpweek #Digimon #Taiyama #Yamato Ishida #Taichi Yagami #Digimon Adventure 02 #digimon adventure 01 #Digimon Adventure Tri #Digimon Fic #Fanfiction #15n #20n

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scoutshonor56 · 5 years ago

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The Uninvited Guest

Have you ever had an uninvited guest? You know, the one who promises to help around the house, get along with the wife and kids, stay in the background, kick in some money for food and bills, just until he finds a job and moves out in a timely fashion…

…and then does none of the above? Now, 8 months later, the wife is one more “incident” away from filing for divorce, your kids are hardly ever home, and the funds are getting so lean you’re pulling extra hours at work to compensate (and avoid homelife) and even brown-bagging it for lunch. I know some countries that probably feel that way - it certainly reminds me of our relationship with the Middle East.

As I watched American troops withdrawing from Syria last week, being pelted with rocks and potatoes, angry mobs of Kurds shaking their fists and holding up signs, I had nothing but shame for my country; shame and anger. Yup, shocking even those in his own party and members of his cabinet advisors, our reality-challenged Moron in Chief announced that he was bailing on strategic ally, the Ukraine, in his fairy tale effort to spin his own story and “Bring our troops home!”

Oh BOY, that phrase has such a positive ring to it! It smells of mission accomplished, implying some sort of victory! Tears and hugs, excited dogs, welcome home parties, and a return to mom’s Sunday beef stew and apple pie with the family!

Whooo-WEE did that one push the bullshit meter needle into the red; all we’re doing is moving the tokens around the board, and not very far at that. They are already being re-deployed two steps over, primarily back to Iraq. This occupation - let’s call it what it is - has become a marathon game of insanity and blood, where there is no end and everybody loses. It’s an open scrum played on a dangerous field of rock and sand with no rules, no boundaries, and goal posts that were torn down long ago - just make shit up as you go along.

I know it’s been a long time, so it’s understandably easy to forget, but the invasion of Afghanistan began on October 7, 2001, and soon expanded into Iraq on March 19, 2003. Meaning in two short years, we will have reached the twenty-year mark, the longest war by far in America’s relatively short history. There are teenagers today who have known nothing but this occupational war. It has literally become part of our national fabric, background static in our everyday lives; and like an ever-present mild tinnitus ring in your ear, you soon learn to live with it, tune it out. Put a WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS bumper sticker on your car and carry on with your day, feeling secure that you’ve done your part.

It’s filler for the media when they run short of something more “interesting” to prattle on about, something more eye-grabbing! This war is sooo old news – it has no cute, fuzzy animals doing funny things, not even any chesty cleavage for God’s sake! And where are the celebrities, the Hollywood scandals!? Oh never mind, switch the channel to “America’s Got Talent”, or “Dancing With the Stars”, or “The Voice”…

Again I ask myself, why is it that America, in all it’s nationalistic hubris and arrogance, simply can’t imagine the horror and hatred generated by military occupation of one’s own country? What if it was us that had M2 Bradley fighting vehicles and Humvees patrolling our streets, troops banging down our doors, searching our homes, families rounded up in our streets and being harshly interrogated in a language we don’t even understand. The ever-present “accidental” shootings and beatings, tempers flaring, hospitals, social events, and schools bombed, all justified with the flippant term “collateral damage” - OOPS!

Proud cities laid in ruin, jobs lost, and forced mass migrations pushing you here, there, and then back again as the bloody conflict moves from place to place, country to country.

And I might add this is something we’ve had a lot of practice at over the last century; this is far from the first time we have flexed our misguided muscle in a world that we continue to see through our myopic American eyes. “Surely everyone shares and envies our values and culture, right?” Granted, there may have been a time not long ago when this was true, and the premise still holds some validity today, but no ride lasts forever, and this is a new century with a new game that is already seeing a lot of new players. It’s time this country and its people came to grips with the reality that as of 2019, we comprise 4.27% of the world’s global population.

Many might say, “Well yes, but we’re liberators, not aggressors…”

To which I would say, let’s hold off on the flag waving until such results are achieved – until then, and after almost 20 years, the distinction to me appears rather blurry. Or more to the point, let that call be made by the hapless bystanders and victims caught in the middle; let’s ask them if all the sorrow and rage is/was worth it. Then let’s be honest and open with the American people and tally up our cost, and then put it on the scales of justification:

According to a study at the Watson Institute at Brown University, the combined cost of this war in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq so far is just shy of, and soon approaching, 6 trillion dollars; that’s trillion.

According to this same study, there have been an approximate total of 500,000 people killed, and that’s not even including another half million deaths attributed to Syria, a bloody skirmish we joined in 2014. How much of that can be directly attributed to our involvement? Certainly debatable I grant you, but you can cut those numbers in half and they still represent a staggering figure.

According to Military.com a record total of 321 active duty members of the American military took their own lives just last year - that’s almost an average of one a day. I’m no psychologist, and I’m sure there are a myriad of complex reasons, but quite frankly I don’t find it that difficult to understand the feeling of hopelessness and absurdity as you contemplate a life that you used to know fading from your day to day reality. Home? Home will never be the same for you, especially if you are one of the maimed and scarred…

Maybe I’m being idealistic or naïve, or reading too much “fake news”, or simply not clear on how we keep score in such endeavors, but I’m not seeing much of anything on the plus column here yet…

Meanwhile, let’s imagine a parallel universe where America embraces a much more effective and sane method to “win the hearts and minds” of countries in turmoil, who are tipping on the brink of political and social chaos. What if we took a tiny chunk of those trillions of dollars, let’s say 5 or 10 billion, and built schools to educate, libraries, and hospitals. Sent over professional and knowledgeable advisors instead of soldiers to help with a country’s medical needs, sustainable farming techniques, and developing new industries to generate a stable economy. How do you think the rest of the world would judge us then? How many nations would not only become willing allies, but maybe even emulate this humanitarian effort that recognizes we are all people sharing the same planet.

Now for the bonus feature that enhances life here at home – we could utilize a couple of those trillions of dollars to rebuilt and modernize our roads and bridges, our water management systems, airports, and mass transit infrastructure. I can’t tell you how many documentaries I’ve watched where American engineers grade all of these areas as antiquated and sorely in need of repair or replacement. Did you know nearly 85% of our bridges were built before 1970? Major airports around the world put ours to shame. As our climate rapidly changes, flood management has now become a major concern here in America. We could greatly expand and improve renewable energy, making it more cost efficient and readily available.

Improve our schools and pay our teachers a competitive wage. Why would any country not treat the education of its citizenry as a top priority? Schools are the very soil in which we carefully nurture the human seeds of a globally successful and competitive society, critical today more than ever. According to an international study done by the Pew Research Center in 2015, our educational system rates middle of the pack, or worse – how do you think that bodes for our future in a rapidly changing and developing world?

And we would still have plenty left over to maintain a robust Defense Dept.

Instead, we continue to feed an insatiable Defense budget. A gluttonous monster that holds sway over our politicians and lobbyists. Last year alone we spent more than the next seven countries combined, and yes, that includes China and Russia. Our military budget for 2020? $738 billion, and it goes up every year.

While we now have a record breaking deficit of over 1 trillion dollars, military spending eats over half of our discretionary budget annually. Why do we continue this madness of “might makes right”? Pursuing peace through aggression and intimidation, carrying the biggest club? According to The Wall St. Journal, America has more than 400 military bases around the world, located on every continent but Antarctica. As of this year we have an inventory of over 6,000 nuclear warheads – now that’s what a call a redundant backup…

This is exactly the madness that retired five-star general and former president Dwight Eisenhower warned about in his farewell speech at the White House on Jan. 17, 1961. He called it “the military-industrial complex”, referring to the growing and dangerous union of our defense contractors and the armed forces.

His successor to the highest office in the land, John F. Kennedy, once said:

"And we must face the fact that the United States is neither omnipotent or omniscient - that we are only six percent of the world's population - that we cannot impose our will upon the other ninety-four percent of mankind - that we cannot right every wrong or reverse each adversity - and that therefore there cannot be an American solution to every world problem."

Just maybe it’s time to try a little harder at getting along; to lead by example, instead of might. America first? Great, I’m all for it - let’s start in our own backyard, because it’s a mess.

0 notes

j-esbian · 7 years ago

Text

The Approximately Week-Long Tale of Alyabug and Chlo Noir

on ao3

Part One

Words: 5.6k

Part 2 of 3

Chloé felt like a little kid, if little kids were allowed to cartwheel around rooftops. The experience was exhilarating and new and exciting, and she couldn't get enough. She was Chat Noir. Or, Chat Noire, now.

She was still a little miffed at Plagg. She'd anticipated his arrival and had ordered the smelliest and most expensive of cheeses to welcome him, and still he'd settled for boring old Camembert. Chloé resolved that by the time she was through with him, she'd have refined his palate.

She completed another lap around the block and closed her eyes, allowing the breeze to comb through her ponytail and brush against her mask. It was odd. She’d barely registered the new feeling, sensing the black in her lower periphery and the weight on her nose as akin to little more than a pore strip. Now, though, it blocked the wind from most of her face.

Adrien had planned the meeting-slash-training-session-slash-hero-tutorial-he-never-got to take place at the Trocadero, but in her eagerness she had arrived far too early. The only people around were civilians, a fact she noted with muted thrill as she realized she could no longer be counted as such.

But where was Ladybug, anyway? All this pacing was making her more impatient, and she was dying to see Ladybug and have a real face-to-face chat. Maybe a little more; she certainly wouldn't object to sparring, in the name of practice, of course, with the city's interest and the citizens’ safety at heart. Face-to-face, hand-to-hand, heart-to-heart--what did it matter? She was sure to have snagged Ladybug’s heart before her stint was up. But that was neither here nor there, and nothing would ever happen if Ladybug never even showed up .

Chloé knew it was unjustified for her to be so agitated; she’d brought it on herself by showing up so early, after all. Still, wasn’t arriving on time--early, even--the mark of a responsible person? Wasn’t punctuality supposed to be one of the trademarks of a noble hero, such as--

A clattering noise sounded from behind her, and she whirled around, clumsily groping at her belt to draw her weapon. Then she recognized the red disk dangling from a streetlight a few meters away, caught in a tangle of black wire, and she heard the tell-tale whir of Ladybug’s yo-yo retracting. Her shoulders relaxed, and she clasped her hands together, an awed smile blossoming on her face as she anticipated what was sure to be an impressive superhero landing.

It wasn’t.

Something tumbled toward her in the night, red on black on red on brown, but Chloé barely had time to register it before she was slammed into. With her luck, of course, and in her awe and anticipation, she managed to be standing perfectly at the end of the trajectory of whoever was at the other end of that yo-yo.

They collided, and Chloé tumbled to the ground painfully. Turns out her suit wasn’t completely impervious. Her butt would be sore for a while.

She opened her mouth to complain to Ladybug. It was an accident, sure, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still deserve an apology. Couldn’t she watch where she was going? But then she froze.

The Ladybug on top of her had brown eyes, brown skin, brown hair. That was enough to give her pause. But strangely, the thing that most caught her eye was this strange new girl’s headband. As she pushed herself up and off of Chloé, streaming incoherent apologies, a pair of antennae bobbed above her head, still wobbling from the fall. Chloé’s hand reached up involuntarily and batted at one of them; it swung away.

Ladybug stopped speaking, and stared down at the girl underneath her. Her pupils were comically wide, and a smirk twitched underneath her mask as she batted again and again at Ladybug’s antennae. She tried not to be cross; she’d been excited about this costume, and if her new partner tore it apart…

She had to admit, though, Chat Noire looked ridiculously cute. Like a kitten, almost.

Ladybug swept her hair back, breaking Chat’s hands away from her headband, and she seemed to snap out of a trance. Chat grinned bashfully up at her. “Sorry.” Then she frowned. “Wait, you’re the one that fell on me. Why am I apologizing?”

Ladybug grimaced. “I know. I’m so sorry. This thing takes some getting used to, huh?”

“Yeah…” Chat replied. She shook her head. “Sorry, who are you? Where’s Ladybug?”

“That’s me.”

“But you’re not--” Chat faltered and tried again. “You’re not the usual one.”

“Nope!” Ladybug agreed. “I’m a temp, just like you.”

“Right,” Chat said slowly. “It’s just… I wasn’t expecting you. I was expecting… the other one.”

Ladybug wilted. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m new too. I guess we’ll have to figure this out together?”

Chat, oddly, couldn’t find it in herself to continue to complain. Maybe it was Ladybug’s eyes, so incredibly warm and soft and wide and extremely close…

She realized in a shock of embarrassment that she had been staring, open-mouthed and silent, instead of answering. As first impressions go, this had to have been one of the worst she’d ever made. Thank god they could go their separate ways in a week and she’d never have to worry about it again.

Chat cleared her throat. “Yes. Of course, we won’t be able to do anything together if you’re still pinning me to the ground.”

Ladybug’s cheeks darkened. She didn’t seem to realize until that point that she was hovering over Chat, but as soon as she had mentioned it her arms felt the full fatigue of holding her up in a plank pose. She stood up and offered a hand to her new partner, who took it cautiously, and she pulled her up.

Chat brushed herself off, then eyed Ladybug appraisingly. “First things first, I suppose. You should really learn how to use that yo-yo properly. Here, let me show you.” She reached for it, but Ladybug drew her hand back.

“Yeah, I don’t think normal tricks are going to be much help,” she said defensively. “You can walk the dog, and that looks cool and all, but it doesn’t get me between buildings.”

“I know that,” Chat snapped. Her cheeks darkened, and she muttered, “I cosplay Ladybug sometimes. I know some of her moves.”

“Really?”

“Look, forget it,” Chat said, clearly embarrassed. “I just don’t want you falling on me again.”

“N-no,” Ladybug stammered. “I mean, that’s actually really cool.” She grinned slyly. “Think you’ll ever need a partner to cosplay Chat?”

Chat laughed. “How about we focus on now, when you’re the Ladybug that we need,” she said, grinning.

Chloé’s first experience in escaping to play the hero came quickly, which was challenging. They always seemed to come after her specifically, anyway. Still, she managed to dash away and transform, and when she returned to the scene, she found that Ladybug had beaten her to the punch.

Literally. The first thing she saw was Ladybug’s fist connecting with today’s villain’s jaw.

They went flying over Chat’s head, and only then did Ladybug notice her.

“Chat Noire!” she said brightly. “Just in time.”

She drew level with her partner and together they faced their opponent, who was already struggling to stand back up.

“Do we really have to resort to punching?” Chat whined.

Ladybug laughed.

“And besides,” Chat continued, “there's a real person in there.”

Ladybug’s smile slipped a little. “Oh. You’re right.”

“Did the cat catch your tongue so easily?” the villain sneered. “I have to say, you two aren’t what I expected at all. If Ladybug and Chat Noir will give their miraculouses to just anybody, perhaps you should give them to me.” She spread her hands and said magnanimously, “This doesn’t have to be difficult.”

Chat narrowed her eyes. “Hold on, I recognize you.”

“What?”

“No, no, I do,” she insisted. “You go to my--to Collège Françoise Dupont. You won the weather girl contest a few months ago.”

Ladybug goggled. “Mireille?”

The girl stomped her foot, and her signature bobbed hair swished out around her face. “No! I am the Punisher, and you’re getting off the subject! Miraculouses, now, please!”

Chat tapped her chin for a moment. “Hmm, I don’t know. I’m holding onto this for a friend, and I think he’d be pretty mad if I gave it up to someone else.”

“And I don’t have a snappy comeback,” Ladybug said fiercely, “but you should know by now how this always plays out.”

Chat suppressed a giggle. This was a serious situation. She shouldn’t be finding it cute.

“So give it up,” Ladybug continued. “You haven’t won before, you won’t win today, and you’ll never succeed, as long as I can do something about it.”

Chat shot an impressed smile to her partner, who returned it with a confident wink. Meanwhile, the Punisher yawned widely at them.

“Are you done?” she asked. “Cute speech. It’s okay, though. You don’t have to tell me you’re afraid to get your hands dirty, Chat Noire. I kind of figured that out already.”

“I would prefer not to,” Chat agreed. “I just got a manicure, and I’d hate to ruin it so soon, even with the gloves.” Quick as a flash, she whipped out her baton and extended it, sending its tip sweeping across the ground towards the Punisher’s ankles and knocking her feet out from under her. “Luckily, I don’t have to.”

Before she could stand back up, Chat hurried over and planted one foot on the small of her back, pinning her down. She gave Ladybug a cheeky thumbs up, then looked down. “Where do you think the thing is?”

“The what?” Ladybug asked, coming over to join her.

Chat waved her hands. “You know, the thing. The evil thing. The bad guy… thing.”

“Oh! The akuma!” Ladybug squatted down and addressed the Punisher. “I don’t suppose you’d tell us?”

She scowled, but said nothing.

“What about that?” Chat asked, pointing to a ray gun sticking out of her belt. “Isn’t it usually in the weapons?”

“Probably,” Ladybug agreed, reaching over and plucking it out. She spun it around a few times and pointed it at her partner, squinting down the sightline experimentally. “I wonder what it does.”

“Why don’t you shoot it and find out?” the Punisher asked sardonically.

Ladybug shrugged, and before Chat could stop her, squeezed the trigger.

A bright blue bolt issued from the gun and struck Chat Noire in the chest. Immediately, she started cackling uncontrollably.

“You, ha ha, shot me!” she said with difficulty. She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, and with her feet on uneven heights, she almost fell down. She doubled over, still howling with laughter, as Ladybug dropped the gun on the ground.

“I’ll undo it in a minute!” she promised frantically. She pounced on the gun, stomping on it with both feet, and with a resounding crack , it split down the middle. A small black butterfly flew out.

Ladybug threw her yo-yo at it, hoping the weapon would know what to do. It did, opening up and swallowing the butterfly, and within seconds the akuma was purified.

Chat straightened up, gasping, and took her foot off of Mireille’s back. Ladybug rushed over and threw her arms around her partner.

“Oh my god, we did it,” she said, giddy with disbelief.

Chat, however, didn’t return the hug. She leaned back in Ladybug’s arms and frowned. “You shot me,” she repeated irritably.

“Yeah, but you got better,” Ladybug scoffed.

Chat tried to stay mad, but the effects of the laughing gun still lingered, or maybe the significance of what they had just accomplished finally sank in. She beamed and sank into her partner’s embrace. “We--we just defeated our first akuma!”

“I know!” Ladybug lifted Chat up a few inches, spinning her around, and the two of them squealed in excitement. It felt… unreal. But they had done it.

Mireille rubbed her eyes in confusion. “What… happened? Who are you?”

“We’re--” Ladybug blinked stupidly and turned towards her, dropping her arms. “I’m-- She’s-- Ladybug and Chat Noire?” She gestured towards her outfit, as though it should have been obvious.

Chat crossed her arms. “And we just saved you from Hawk Moth. You're welcome.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess.” Mireille still sounded confused, but she simply walked away in a daze.

Chat turned back to Ladybug, still breathless with exhilaration. “What next?”

“Well, I should probably get back to class…” Ladybug said reluctantly.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“B-but we should meet up tonight!” Ladybug blurted. “You know, patrol the city, keep an eye out, look for bad guys.”

Chat grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ladybug grinned back. “Eight o’clock. I'll bring sandwiches.”

Chat thought about eating cheap fast food, and touching the grease-stained paper it would be wrapped in, and shuddered. “I'll bring the food. You just need to bring yourself,” she said, punctuating her statement by tapping Ladybug lightly on the nose.

And then she ran off before she could embarrass herself further.

Alya had a few hours before she had to suit up again, which gave her plenty of time to think about her latest encounter with Chat Noire. There was something familiar and comfortable about her new partner that she couldn’t place, although she wanted to. She wanted to recognize the feeling she gave her. It was a nice feeling.

Tikki was playing games on her phone, so she pulled up her computer and began searching. As the manager of the school blog, she had a lot of resources at her disposal, and she was very good at utilizing them.

“Hey, Tikki?” she asked after a few minutes.

Tikki looked up. “What is it?”

“Can you, like, sense when another miraculous is nearby?”

Tikki’s little brow furrowed, and she flew over to sit on Alya’s monitor. “Why do you ask?”

Alya fidgeted nervously. “It’s just--I’ve been thinking about earlier, and wondering how Chat Noire knew what school Mireille went to. That’s, like, a really specific thing to know. So she probably goes to the same school as her, right? And I go to the same school as her. So…”

“Alya...” Tikki warned.

“It was just a thought!” Alya whined. “Listen, it’s not like this is a permanent gig. What if I want to stay friends with her? If we go to the same school, there’s a chance we know each other already.”

“I understand,” Tikki said. “But you can’t know each others’ identities while you’re working together. No one can. It’s too dangerous--”

“Do I know Ladybug?” Alya interrupted. “I mean, if she trusts me enough to do her job for her--”

“We’re not getting into this,” Tikki said firmly. “It’s dangerous . I know you won’t believe me, but trust me when I say that even the tiniest slip-up could be catastrophic. Do you know why Hawk Moth wants the miraculouses so badly?”

Alya shook her head.

“Because with their power, he can literally become a god,” Tikki continued. “He cannot have them. And he’s smart. So, what if I tell you who Ladybug is, and you get akumatized again? Do you remember anything Lady Wifi did?”

Alya shook her head again. She had sunk down in her seat, chagrined, but her eyes were sparkling with curiosity.

“Exactly. What if he could access that information? Or, if you knew Chat Noire’s true identity? He could go through her to see if she knows anything.” Tikki sighed, and smiled sadly up at her. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be harsh. It’s for your protection; I hope you can understand that.”

“I do,” Alya said. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She turned back to the computer. This conversation was over.

Tikki laughed humorlessly. “Being a hero can’t be one hundred percent perfect, Alya,” she murmured.

The days passed slowly, and their daily patrols were uneventful. They held hands and wandered the city, keeping an eye out for dangers that never showed up. So by the fourth day of their stint, their patrol walks had become fairly mundane, and they used the time instead as an opportunity to talk and take in the gorgeous sights of Paris from up high.

Chat Noire had been waiting for a few minutes at the top of the Eiffel Tower, anxiously wondering when her partner would show, when Ladybug dropped down breathlessly next to her.

Chat arched an eyebrow. “Is this going to become a habit?” she asked. “Me showing up early, you showing up late?”

“I am--” Ladybug flipped open her yo-yo, and the display flashed the time at her. “Three minutes late,” she said pointedly. She sat down next to Chat and nudged her playfully with her shoulder. “Give me a break. The city looks different from up here. I took a few wrong turns.”

Chat huffed, but her heart wasn’t in it. “I wasn’t worried about you,” she lied. “I just thought the food might be cold by the time you finally decided to show up.”

“Ooh.” Ladybug grinned. “What did you bring me?”

Reaching behind her, Chat pulled out a thick paper bag with a flourish and set it on her lap. “Well,” she began theatrically, digging around. She pulled out a few containers and stacked them on her partner’s lap, identifying them as she went.

“I don’t really like soup, but there’s some lobster bisque, so if you want it, feel free to have it all… I brought some sliced bread, too, because there’s this really good cheese spread. I think it’s Brie and cherry, and there’s some nuts in it. So that’s this one… Oh, I forget what this one is exactly, but it’s really good. It’s, uh, linguine with, like, a garlicky mushroom sauce, and there’s eggplant and tomato and spinach and probably some other stuff. You’re not allowed to have all of that because some of it’s for me… Ooh, and I managed to snag some angel food cake.”

“You’re my angel,” Ladybug said in awe. She had already cracked open the soup and was gulping it down, savoring each creamy mouthful. “Where do you even get all this stuff?”

“They’re just leftovers from a fancy hotel.” Chat shrugged.

Ladybug looked up in alarm, and her partner snickered at the mustache that she now sported. She faintly heard Chat ask if she wanted a spoon and reached out automatically to take one, but her mind whirled. Le Grand Paris was right there; it would be perfectly reasonable to assume that’s where Chat got the food.

No wonder everything she brought always seemed familiar. Alya would recognize her mother’s cooking anywhere.

She panicked for just a moment, before the rational voice in her mind spoke up. It was completely unreasonable to think that this strange coincidence would be enough to blow her cover. How would Chat have even made the connection? She was just being paranoid.

Still, for the rest of the night, she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that Chat might have been onto her. That meal meant something important, and she kept remembering the conversation she’d had with Tikki. She tried to be careful for the rest of the night, and she only hoped that Chat didn’t think she was acting too suspiciously. At least, she didn’t give any indication that she thought Ladybug was acting strange.

A few hours later, they sat on a different roof, dangling their feet over the edge and kicking the sign for a shop that had long since closed for the night. Chat was resting her head on Ladybug’s shoulder as they looked down at the people that passed by.

“Hey, so, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Chat said suddenly. She tilted her head and looked up at Ladybug. “How long are you here for? I mean, am I going to show up tomorrow, and you’re just… gone?”

“I--I don’t know,” Ladybug said, taken aback. She hadn’t thought to ask Tikki about any of that, which, now that she thought about it, seemed foolishly short-sighted.

Chat straightened up and looked at her skeptically. “What, Ladybug didn’t tell you when she gave you her earrings?”

“Uh, that’s not… I mean, she didn’t really…” Ladybug stammered. “I just kind of came home one day, and they were there. Hang on, how did you get yours, then?”

“I know Chat Noir,” Chat said. “He’s, like, one of my oldest friends.”

“Wait, you know the real Chat Noir?” Ladybug asked incredulously. “Like, the actual dude himself, when he’s not wearing the suit? Just, like, a normal guy, who also just happens to be Chat Noir in his free time?”

“Um. Yes…?” Chat said slowly. “I mean, I’ve known him forever, and he’s terrible at keeping secrets. One day I was hanging out with Chat Noir, and I called him by his real name, just to see if he’d slip up, and apparently that was the first time he realized I knew. So when he needed to go out of town for a bit, he asked me to keep his ring safe and keep an eye on things for him.” She shook her head. “So, does that mean you don’t have any idea who Ladybug is, like, at all? How does that even work?”

“I don’t know,” Ladybug admitted. “I mean, I’ve tried to figure out who she really is in the past, but that... didn’t really turn out all that great. Like I said, it just kind of… showed up. And when I asked Tikki--that’s Ladybug’s kwami--about it, she said I wasn’t allowed to know. Which I get. Like, the point of a secret identity is that it’s a secret, and nobody else knows about it. But you mean you know Chat Noir? What did his kwami have to say about that?”

Chat shrugged. “Not much, really. He mostly just makes fun of the fact that I tried to treat him like an actual cat and stinks up my entire room with his gross cheeses.”

Ladybug hummed. “Interesting…”

When Alya returned from patrol that night, she was too tired to even close the window behind her, and barely remembered to slip off her transformation before crashing face-first onto her bed. As her breathing slowed and she drifted off to sleep, Tikki looked at her worriedly.

Tikki was still asleep when Alya awoke the next morning, and although she might have been faking it, Alya left her alone and went down for breakfast. When she returned, however, Tikki was definitely awake, and pacing the room anxiously. Alya closed the door behind her, and Tikki flew up to her.

“I need to speak to Plagg,” she said urgently.

“Who?”

“Chat Noir’s kwami.”

Alya crossed her arms. “Yeah, what gives? How come he’s allowed to tell people his identity, but Ladybug’s not?”

“He’s not,” Tikki said. “Alya, this is--This could be really bad.”

Alya, who had been packing up her backpack, faltered. “Oh,” she said, trying to maintain a level composure. “Well, I can talk to Chat tonight, okay?” Tikki gave her a grateful smile, but the two of them knew a lot could happen in twelve hours.

On the metro on the way to school, Alya remembered something else from the night before. The train car was relatively empty, so she unzipped her bag and whispered, “Hey, Tikki? How am I supposed to return the earrings?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, yet,” Tikki said. “When Ladybug comes back, she’ll just pick them up, the same way she dropped them off.”

“That seems complicated,” Alya commented. “What if I see someone taking them? I’d know it’s her.”

“You won’t,” Tikki assured her. “Ladybug’s really good at that kind of thing.” She sounded proud, which Alya thought was a little odd, considering they were talking about sneaking around and stealing things, which seemed to her to be decidedly non-heroic attributes.

“But what if I do see someone taking them?” Alya pressed. “How am I supposed to know if it’s the right person? I mean, what if it’s just a regular thief?”

Tikki frowned. “That doesn’t seem very likely.”

“Yeah, but what if--” Alya was interrupted just then, as they pulled into another stop and people began to fill the car. The bench shook as someone threw themself down forcefully next to her.

“Hey, Alya,” Kim said. “Lose something?”

Alya pulled her head out of her backpack. “Uh, yeah, I was just looking for my phone.”

“You mean that phone?” he asked, pointing at the one in her hand.

“Yes, well, obviously I found it,” she said. She pulled the zipper closed. “What’s up?”

“You know, Max pointed out something interesting last night,” he said. “You haven’t updated the Ladyblog in six days.”

“And?”

“ And ,” he continued. “I think I know why that is.”

Alya had always thought it was just an expression, but in that moment, she actually felt her heart stop. “Yeah? Why’s that?” she asked, resting her forearms on top of her bag in a casual yet protective gesture.

Kim shrugged. “They’re not here.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” Alya scoffed. “They’d never leave Paris hanging.”

“No, no, no, no, no, don’t you see? They didn’t.”

Alya stared at him flatly. “Hey, Kim? Could you try being a little less dramatic, and actually make some sense?”

He glanced around furtively and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close. She glared at his hand and removed it, but he wasn’t deterred, and whispered, “They’ve been replaced.”

Alya frowned. “What? It’s just been slow the past couple of days.”

He squinted at her. “Has it really?”

“Uh…” She looked at him carefully. “Yeah?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Talk to Alix. The other day, she saw--well, she wouldn’t tell me what, exactly, but she saw something weird going on with Ladybug and Chat Noir. I heard her telling Ivan.” He looked at her impassive expression. “You’re not getting nearly as excited about this as I thought you would.”

She shrugged. “Should I be?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replied. “I’m giving you a huge story, here! I know your blog’s kind of dried up lately, and a hot story like this could be just the thing to boost your views--”

“Okay, first of all?” Alya interrupted. “That’s not a story; that’s a conspiracy theory. Secondly, the reason I haven’t updated the Ladyblog in a few days, not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve been really busy lately. Marinette’s out of town, and I’ve had to take notes for her and collect all her homework and stuff so she’s not too far behind when she gets back, and on top of that, I’ve had to go to all the student council meetings. Do you know how often those are? Every other day, Kim. I’m the deputy; I usually only have to go once a month. So, I’m sorry if you think my blog’s been boring or slow lately, but I actually think it’s super convenient that nothing important has happened lately, because I’ve got enough to do as it is!”

Kim lifted his hands in surrender. “Jeez, okay. I was just trying to help.”

“Well, don’t,” she replied shortly.

Alya pulled out her phone, but no matter how pointedly she ignored him, she could still feel Kim tensed next to her, wanting to say more.

They pulled into the last stop before school, and she took the opportunity to switch seats. When he saw she was standing up, he opened his mouth to say his piece, but she cut him off with a glare.

“Save it for Reddit, dude.”

As she made her way to the opposite end of the car, she passed Max. They made eye contact, and he waved politely, but she shook her head and pointed back to where she had been sitting. “Your boyfriend is a conspiracy theorist.”

Alya tried to avoid Kim for the rest of the day, but even if she was Ladybug for the week, she couldn’t be so lucky.

It was a nice day out, so she spent her free period outside, trying to get a head start on her homework. With patrol taking up most of the night, she wouldn’t have the time to finish it later. Across the courtyard, she saw Alix, Mireille, and Max talking, but she didn’t pay them much attention until Kim walked over to them and pointed towards her.

Oh, God. She tried to ignore them, staring pointedly at her homework, but when a shadow fell across the page, she had to look up.

“Oh! Hey, Alix.”

“Hey,” Alix returned uncertainly. “Kim said you wanted to talk to me about something?”

Alya’s mind whirled. Out of the corner of her eye, she had the vague impression that Kim was giving her a double thumbs-up, and she groaned internally. He didn’t know how to leave things alone, did he?

“Uh… Yes! Actually, I did.” Alya managed a nervous smile. “I was wondering… if you’d want to go see a movie after school?”

Alix blinked. “Oh. Sure!” She grinned. “Was that all?”

“Um… yeah.”

“All right.” Alix winked. “It’s a date.”

She turned and walked over towards her friends again. Behind her back, Alya returned Kim’s gesture--with both her middle fingers.

Unsurprisingly, Ladybug was late for patrol again that night.

Chat Noire chuckled as she landed next to her. “Now, don’t feel bad,” she said. “I brought sushi, so it was already cold.”

Ladybug didn’t smile. “Thanks.” She shoved a few pieces of sushi in her mouth and chewed fervently; then, cheeks bulging, she turned to Chat. “Mm, yeah, ‘n my kwami needs t’ talk t’ yours.”

Chat wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, what?”

Ladybug swallowed heavily and tried again. “My kwami’s really freaking out. She said she needs to talk to yours.”

“Now?” Chat asked.

Ladybug shrugged. “Probably.”

Chat barely had time to finish the bite of sushi she was on before Ladybug grabbed her hand and tugged her away. They ducked into a nearby store, which was, thankfully, nearly deserted. The teenager behind the counter gave them an impressed look as they walked by. “Nice costumes!”

Chat grinned at her partner, but she just kept walking, leading them to a bathroom in the back. With that, she released Chat’s hand and locked herself in a stall; a flash of pink light later, and a small red kwami phased through the stall door and looked at Chat expectantly.

“Um, one second,” Chat said awkwardly. She slipped into the other stall and dropped her transformation. Plagg didn’t even bother with his usual complaining; he just flew away.

“Tikki!” he said exuberantly.

Tikki didn’t sound as excited to see him. “Plagg,” she said flatly. “What has Chat Noir done?”

The two of them spoke quietly, and even though Chloé strained to hear them, they took precautions so that she couldn’t. So instead, she turned her attention to the stall next to hers. She couldn’t see anything from where she was standing, but she heard someone sit down on the floor. It was odd. That was Ladybug, except she wasn’t at the moment. But Chloé didn’t know what else to call her.

“Is everything okay?” Chloé asked tentatively. “Ladybug?”

Ladybug sighed. “I don’t know. Sorry. I’ve had a long day.”

Chloé cleared her throat and asked, “Do you want to… talk about it?”

“It’s kind of personal,” Ladybug said. “I don’t know really know if we’re allowed to talk about that stuff, I guess. But thanks.”

There was silence for a few moments, then, she continued, “Sorry I was late again today, by the way. I had a date that ran late.”

Chloé’s chest froze. “Oh.”

It was stupid, really, to be angry. They barely knew each other; and anyway, Ladybug--whoever she was right now--might already have a boyfriend. It was silly to get jealous, and stupid of her to think that just because they flirted, it meant anything. They were in the suits, and they both knew it was just a temporary thing. Chloé was probably reading too much into it. Maybe what they had was just regular superhero banter.

“Did you have fun, at least?” she asked sharply.

Ladybug laughed, genuinely laughed , and it went on for almost a solid minute. “No,” she said, when she had finally calmed herself down. “That’s the worst part of it. I only went because I thought she was onto me about the whole Ladybug thing.”

Chloé couldn’t help but perk up a little at that. “So, she’s…”

“Not my type,” Ladybug finished. “I think we both kind of made it into a friend thing, anyway.”

“So, you’re--” Chloé could feel her cheeks heating up as she stammered her way through her thoughts, and it was a small consolation that the girl she was talking to couldn’t see her face. “I mean, do you… You don’t normally go on dates with girls, then?”

“Oh, I do,” Ladybug answered cautiously. “Like I said, she’s not really my type.” She paused. “I usually go for blondes.”

Chloé felt a huge grin split across her face, and she swallowed hard, trying to contain it. “That’s funny. I usually go for Ladybugs.”

Ladybug laughed again. “Man, I’m really going to miss you when the week is up,” she said.

“Me, too,” Chloé sighed. “Maybe we could meet up sometime. We could even have dinner at a real table.”

“I’ll try to show up on time,” Ladybug snorted.

“If it’s for you, I don’t mind waiting,” Chloé said.

She heard the clanging of something against metal, and Ladybug said, “Hey, look up.”

Chloé did, and saw a hand fluttering at her from the top of the wall dividing the stalls. She reached up and laced their fingers together, and tried to ignore the fact that she was in a public restroom, touching things that were probably dirty and sticky and disgusting. She was holding hands with Ladybug, without gloves to separate them, this time.

And it was nice.

#miraculous ladybug #ml #chickenscratch #i'm the worst but it's back!!!!!!! lmao sorry i literally cannot comprehend the passage of time!!!!!!!!!!! its been two months wtf!!!!!!!!!!

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