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sunshine-theseus · 11 months ago

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Fools | Kyra Cooney-Cross x ND!Reader

Words: 4.3k

Summary: no one understood your mind, until you met Kyra.

Notes: Guys I have no knowledge of how Emirates is laid out, how meeting players off the pitch works etc, so I’m completely making this shit up I’m sorry. also sorry for the super long introduction, and the shit writing, I haven’t written in months.

Warnings: mentions of abuse - not proofread. i'm so sorry if this is so shit i genuinely haven't written in months. i wanted this one to be good so bad but i just don't think it is

the person who requested this has since deactivated so i actually feel so bad that i didn't get this out while they were on here. i'm genuinely so sorry for the past like 6 months.

I always struggled with social interactions. I didn’t understand it for a long time, why I always had to smile and hug people, why I had to lie about certain things like how I thought my aunt’s bright green hat looked, why I couldn’t ramble about Star Wars or the new penguin facts I just learned.

Then there were the sounds, and lights and the way things felt. Everything had to be specific, or I couldn’t focus. Sometimes if it was bad enough that I would have a breakdown, unable to do anything. My parents tried to scold it out of me when as a kid I couldn’t eat certain foods or wear the clothes they wanted. Sometimes if they deemed it worthy, I’d be met with the flesh of a palm against my cheek or bottom.

When I was 12, I presented the idea that maybe I was autistic to my parents. I’d researched it at school for a social emotional learning class we had to take, and I couldn’t help but notice the similarities I found within myself. If I think about it hard enough, I can feel every burning outline of the dark red hand marks that bloomed on my skin hours after the interaction, and the burning of my eyes as my stomach rumbled, drowned out by the music rumbling through my headphones.

At 17 I emancipated from my parents and moved to North Watford, renting out a small studio apartment above a record shop. I completed my final year of high school, working part time in the store, building a much-desired routine. The man that owned the shop and my apartment, and his young daughter, were migrants from Cuba, and more than happy to accommodate to my needs. They even chipped in to help me pay for my autism screening after I graduated high school.

I think they were the first people I willingly hugged ever.

I stopped masking when I moved, so the daughter, Elena; 5, took a few months to understand why I didn’t like touch or loud noises and why I didn’t understand some of the jokes she said that others usually laughed at. Not that I’d had the diagnosis at that time, but she was happy to just spend time with me. Every afternoon when I came back from school and started my shift, she’d beg me for more penguin facts, asking which was my favourite penguin. In return she’d spend the 2-hour shift drawing me something, usually a penguin, to pin on my corkboard at home.

I’d then help with her homework while Camilo closed shop and posted any online orders. It was a routine I cherished deeply.

Now, 3 and a bit years later at 21 years old, they managed to drag me to a football game. Equipped with headphones and a couple small sensory toys, as well as a hoodie under the “Miedema” jersey, the material of which originally had me tugging and prying the shirt away from my skin.

Elena and Camilo had been big fans of Arsenal for as long as I’d known them, going to every home game, begging me to join them every week without fail. I finally caved during a break in my uni courses, with nothing to do and Elena’s birthday falling on the day of a game, there was no other choice.

The newly 9-year-old basically imploded when she saw my printed ticket stub, tucked tightly into her birthday card. I gently ruffled her hair, which had become my version of hugging her, and showed her the 3 matching red and white #11 jerseys I purchased not long ago. She’d talked a lot about this Vivianne Miedema and how she wanted to be just like her when she grew up, but she’d never gotten a jersey, or seats on the bottom tier. Today was the day.

“Come ooonnn I want to get to our seats!” the pinky of her left hand links with my right one as her other hand is holding her dad’s, and she’s dragging us down the lane toward the entrance.

“Slow down Pollito! We have 20 more minutes until we need to be seated.” My special schedule for the day runs through my head as I check my watch. Plenty of time as long as the crowd keeps flowing.

“I wish you didn’t learn Spanish. It’s such a silly nickname.”

“But you’re my little chicken.” I send a joking frown her way and she replies with a toothless grin.

With the abrupt end to the conversation, we arrive at the gate. Showing the stewardess our tickets to be scanned, we then head toward our seats. As Camilo and I take our seats at the very front, instead of make way to their usual seats a tier up, Elena stops and looks back and forth between us.

“There’s no way you got us these seats.” Without a word I pull the girl in between us and she begins to ramble about how excited she is to be able to see the game so close, still able to be clearly heard through my headphones I manage to slip over my ears.

The game is drawn 1-1 just after half time, but Arsenal is close to having the upper hand. From across the pitch, Elena spots the tall and lanky number 11, Vivianne Miedema, pulling off her fluoro yellow bib and warm up shirt and lining up next to number 32 behind the fourth official who is prepping her sign. With a couple of whacks to my arm and an aggressive point of her finger, Elena makes me and Camilo very aware of the impending entrance of her favourite player, and another really attractive girl who is very obviously wearing her socks on the wrong feet. The thought makes me squirm but a shot on goal quickly manages to take my focus.

“Who’s the one coming on with Viv? You’ve never told me about number 32.” It’s hard to take my eyes off the girl as she jumps from one foot to the other, anticipating her entrance.

“Oh that’s Kyra Cooney-Cross! She’s Australian, she transferred at the start of the season. Jonas should play her more.” I acknowledge her words with a hum and a nod before we join in cheering Viv and Kyra on.

My eyes are glued to Kyra the rest of the game. Without any knowledge of how football works, I’m left to assume she’s good with the way she dances around players and passes the ball. It was weird, but her movement was so free flowing it would not be atrocious to confuse her with a ballerina. Elegant and calculated, no hesitation.

“Where are we going?” my pinky is once again linked with Elena’s as I drag her and Camilo through Emirates.

“Papa where is she going? The exit is that way.”

“I have no clue chica, but I suppose we should trust her aye?” with that, the father-daughter duo track behind me.

Eventually I stop just where the opening of the tunnel leads out on to the pitch and show a lady the pass I’d been carrying around all day. She smiles and begins walking down the tunnel, waving behind her as a sign for us to follow.

“What’s going on?” Elena asks once again, but I just follow the lady onto the pitch, where multiple members of the Arsenal squad are now loitering around, obviously waiting for something, or someone. At the front of the group is Viv, and when she spots the small girl behind me her eyes light up.

“Hi! You must be Elena. We’ve heard a lot about you!” she sends the girl a smile, but Elena doesn’t make any move to continue the conversation. My head whips to her and I nearly have to laugh from how adorable she is. Her jaw has dropped open and her eyes are welling up with tears, so I ruffle her hair and bend down to her height, removing my headphones.

“What’s up buttercup?” I lightly tap her head.

“That’s really her.” she whispers to me, her eyes not leaving the Dutch woman, who lets out a chuckle.

“Yes it is.”

“How?” I tap the side of my nose at her question indicating it’s to be left a secret.

“Can I have a hug?” Viv kneels on one knee and opens her arms and Elena suddenly breaks lose from her trance and runs up to her hero.

“It’s nice to meet you liefje, I hear you’ve been a fan for a long time. And today’s your birthday. How old are you turning?”

“Nine!”

“Oh wow, you’re growing up!”

“I know, but Y/N still calls me Pollito. I’m not a little chicken.” Everyone looking on bursts out laughing as Elena frowns, and while I join them, the loud sound simply reminds me of the lack of protection on my ears.

Elena gets whisked off to talk and play around with Viv and some of the other girls, who seem to all have taken a genuine liking to the young girl, Camilo following to watch over them. I stand firmly on the sidelines, fidgeting with an infinity cube and trying to forget the sudden scratching of my hoodie’s tag on the back of my neck and the tightness of my socks, when a now familiar face pops in front of me.

I don’t notice her at first, my eyes are closed and I’m trying breathing patterns in hopes that the overstimulating sensations with dissipate. It’s only when I open my eyes to check on Elena that I get the shock of my life. Number 32 is just standing in front of me, staring, waiting for me to notice her. no less than a minute ago she’d been spinning Elena around and laughing with her, which I’d found alarmingly adorable, how’d she get here so fast?

She doesn’t say anything, she just smiles and waves, and I realise she must think I can’t hear her with my headphones on, which many people tend to ignore. Wow she’s much prettier up close.

“Hi, I’m Y/N” I return her smile, but don’t make any move to remove the headphones.

“I’m Kyra.�� Her voice is muffled but her accent is incredible and like music to my ears.

“You played really well today.” Is she blushing? Red creeps up her neck and finds home on her round cheeks as she smiles brightly.

“Ah thanks, I try to give it my all. Hoping to prove I deserve more game time.”

“You don’t get played often?” another chuckle passes her lips and I feel my stomach tighten.

“Uh no. I take it you’re not a big football fan?”

“What gives you that idea.”

“Well rocking up to an Arsenal game with blue nails for a start.” I cock my head to the side and give her a confused look. I did a lot of research for today, there was no room for me to mess up.

“Chelsea, our biggest rivals, their colour is blue. It’s basically forbidden for an arsenal fan to wear blue to a game. Trust me, I learnt the hard way.”

I’m quick to hide my hands in the pocket at the front of my hoodie, fidgeting with my nails. How did I manage to fuck that up?

“You don’t really have to worry, just maybe keep it in mind if you ever come to another game. I hope you do by the way.” She flashes me a smile that makes me feel warm and I can’t help myself.

“You’re very pretty.” She’s about to reply when I glance down and notice her socks are still wrong.

“And I’m not sure if you know but your socks are on the wrong feet.” It’s quiet for a moment and I’m not sure if my common candour has once again overstepped. I can’t even open my mouth to apologise before she giggles.

“I knew there was something wrong. I keep doing it but no one tells me until after the game… and you’re quite beautiful yourself. If you don’t mind me saying.” My eyes continue to avoid her face as I bounce on the balls of my feet and try to refrain from shaking my hands, my most common stim.

“Thank you.”

We’re silent for a minute or so, which I don’t mind now that I’m more familiar with her. I continue to watch Elena and Camilo, who are now playing in a 5v5, Viv carrying the girl halfway down their makeshift pitch before helping her kick the ball. When her laughs echo through the stadium, joy breaking through her screams and from the yells of her dad who is playing a rather poor referee, I’m reminded of how much I love this family. I can’t help the smile on my face.

“Your sister is very adorable.” I glance to my side where Kyra now resides and contemplate telling her she isn’t my sister, but the words get stuck in my throat. If I were to say they weren’t my family after all they’ve done for me, then I’d be lying.

“Yeah. She’s basically my whole life.”

“Hey can I ask about the headphones? I mean you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want but-“

“I’m autistic. Struggle really bad with sound and other stimulants. I wear headphones to dampen sounds, especially in public. And stadiums are full of sounds.” My palms sweat a little and my breath is laboured for a moment. This is usually the part where people decide I’m a freak and never talk to me again.

“Oh cool. I totally get that, the sound thing.” That warm feeling returns. She doesn’t question anything, she just agrees.

Eventually the meet and greet had to end, but I manage to get a few of the girl’s numbers, including number 32’s. Something I hadn’t expected was that the team would love Elena so much that they wanted to organise season tickets and some more passes to meet up after home games. I couldn’t help but be a little proud of myself as the young girl rambled about how amazing it was to get to hang out with her idols, and the prospect of seeing them again.

Uni starts back up the following week, so I don’t join the two for a game for quite a while. Despite that, I find myself texting Kyra most days, a good morning and goodnight routine quickly being established. We ask each other questions about each other. ‘What did you want to be if football didn’t work out?’ ‘What made you want to study your course?’ ‘what’s your favourite thing about Australia?’.

She liked to ask me about parts of my autism every now and then. She wanted to know what things to avoid, what topics made me ramble for ages, safe foods. The only other people who had ever cared this much were Elena and Camilo. The two of which had definitely taken note of how happy I’d grown since the game.

“Who are you talking to Angelito? You haven’t smiled this big in a long time.” Camilo takes a seat beside me behind the desk of the store

There is no need to hide the blossoming relationship from him, so I turn my screen to show the messages between Kyra and I, a bold ‘No. 32’ under a very weird but unmistakable picture of the girl. He hums and smiles, lightly nudging our shoulders together.

“She likes you.”

“Pft no she doesn’t.”

“‘you’re so cute.’ ‘I really like you.’ ‘I’ll save that for when I take you on a date.’ With a winky face emoji. She literally admits she likes you. Twice.”

“I thought that was that flirty thing people do with their friends.”

“I know when people like each other.”

“How Milo?”

“I have a gift.”

“A gift hmm?” he just smiles widely down at me before taking my phone again. He begins to type something.

“What are you writing Milo? Milo!” I glance over his shoulder.

‘I really like you and would like to go on a date if you’re free.’ I’m about to scold him but three dots appear as Kyra begins typing.

“If this works you owe me an extra hour this week.”

“You are an evil schemer Camilo.” I say before squeezing his shoulder, a common sign of affection we’d developed.

‘I’d really like that. Tomorrow’s our day off if that works.’

I can’t help the squeal I let out as Camilo writes a response in confirmation.

“I’m going on a date.”

“You deserve this kiddo.”

Kyra and I agree on a dinner date at a restaurant I’d mentioned really enjoying a few months ago, that I hadn’t had a chance to visit since. I’d made the reservation, asking for the specific table I’d sat at the last time I came, and I’d already decided on what I was getting before I even hoped in the car to drive there.

I’d planned everything perfectly. The place, my outfit, what time I had to leave to arrive there 10 minutes before our agreed upon time. I hadn’t taken into account the car speeding through a red light and crashing into the car in the right lane beside me. Or the fact that due to the momentum I’d get caught between the 2 cars and the building on the corner of the street I was just about to turn down. No more than 15 metres from the restaurant but I’m trapped and the seatbelt is too tight and my head hurts. I’m crushed between my door and the centre console and all the sirens and ambulance lights approaching are too much and all I can do it cry.

If I could just reach my bag in the footwell of the passenger seat I could get my headphones to relieve some of the stimulation, but I can’t bend that way without my ribs screaming and whatever is poking my hip in my back making itself known.

I pray to every god I can name that I pass out, but no one hears as the jaws of life pry open my door. When were the other cars moved?

“Ma’am we have to cut you out. my colleague here is going to hold you up. Is that okay?” I don’t have any energy to say no, so I nod, waiting for some scissors to snip away at the seatbelt. Instead, I hear an electric saw whir to life.

“W- what’s the saw for?” my words are barely recognisable as they slur together.

“Ma’am everything is okay, just stay still for us okay?”

The sawing is over quicker than it begun, and the paramedics make an effort to move me as carefully as they can onto the stretcher, then into the ambulance. I make no move to complain about how the neck brace is itchy and feels suffocating.

A minute passes and through the newly developed ringing in my ears, I hear someone calling my name. they sound so far away but when I open my eyes again, Kyra is standing above me, next to the paramedic who’s hooking me up to monitors,

“Do you know this lady ma’am?” she asks me as I stare up at the girl I was meant to be on a date with.

“Yeah she’s my girlfriend.” A voice in the back of my head is worried that maybe that will freak Kyra out, but I know they won’t let her ride with me if we don’t have some close connection and for some reason friend does not cross my mind.

They allow her to take the extra seat beside me and she loops her pinky with mine. She keeps glancing down toward my stomach and taking deep breaths as we make our way down the streets of London. I try to see what she’s looking at but the brace doesn’t allow me to look that far down.

“You’re going to be okay.” She whispers as they roll me out of the ambulance, and she manages to quickly kiss me before I’m gone from view.

I don’t know how long I’m out for, but when I wake up there is a sterile white light beaming down on me and I have to instantly close my eyes. I’m quick to take note of the horrible feeling of the hospital gown I definitely wasn’t in when I’d gone under.

“Papa! She’s awake!” I let out a groan at the yell but and quick to smile once the voice registers in my head.

“Pollito.” My voice is no more than a whisper, hoarse and dry.

“Hey Angelito. How are you feeling.”

“Horrible. The light’s too bright and the gown is so itchy.” Neither Elena nor Camilo leave my side, but the light is off within seconds.

“I more meant physically. You were hit pretty hard.” The screeching of tyres, the smell of burnt rubber, the flashing lights, all rush back to me. So does the pain.

“Now that you mention it. What’s the damage?” it’s meant as a joke but I’m trying not to cry.

“3 broken ribs, 2 fractured, a torn vastus lateralis in your thigh, a lot of muscle damage in your back. It’s going to be a lot of physical therapy kiddo.” The thought has bile rising in my throat.

“Fuck me.”

“It’s okay, we’re going to be here the whole way. All of us.” By now I could know the voice in a crowd of people.

I turn my head and there she is. Kyra is sat in one of the uncomfortable hospital seats with her hand on top of mine.

“If it’s okay with you, Camilo, me and some of the arsenal girls are going to sort out a schedule to take turns helping you with PT. Viv was really hoping she could give some tips considering how long she spent doing PT.”

“That sounds perfect. But please tell me one of you has my pyjamas. I need to get out of this gown.”

There was no lie in how difficult rehab was. I had an hour appointment at the hospital every day and additional work at home that Milo, Kyra and some of the arsenal girls happily helped with. The hardest hurdle was amount of physical touch that was required. My physical therapist, Jordan, always made sure I knew when she needed to touch my leg or something, but that did very little to sooth the feeling that crawled beneath my skin. She was able to dim the fluorescent white lights and allowed me to wear my headphone which did help a small amount.

Kyra basically moved into my room above the shop. Milo insisted he could do all the work of getting me around the house and the shop, but we knew he couldn’t while maintaining the shop and looking after Elena. Elena tried her best to help by making me breakfast. She gathered pre-made versions of my safe breakfast food and carefully place them separately on a plate, with a glass of orange juice every morning. After the first week she realised I’d be in a wheelchair and struggling to move around much for much longer than she thought, so she quickly gave up on that idea and began making me penguin drawings at school.

I’d adapted to having Kyra around much quicker than I expected to. When I moved in at 17, it took me months to get used to the layout and the fact that I was alone, despite Camilo and Elena living in the house across the road. I adapted to Kyra’s presence within weeks.

After the second week we’d decided it was easier to share the bed rather than her sleeping on the couch, which had been the biggest change. I struggled with it the first few nights. I had a sleep routine that was already disrupted by the injuries, now I had to take another person into account. But she was so warm, and I felt so safe in her arms. Whenever I woke up from a nightmare about the crash, she grabbed me an iced tea and my headphones and would ramble about whatever interests she had recently developed or whatever was happening at training.

It was in the second month things took a more serious turn. Well serious for our relationship. I was sitting at the table chopping the vegetables for dinner while she begins cooking, when I took a minute to just look at her. The warm lighting softened her features, her quiet humming to whatever song was playing carried throughout the room, the smile that seemed to never leave her face sat perfectly on her lips as she listened to me ramble about the newly discovered yellow king penguin. She was so radiant and attentive, and she was never annoyed at me when I was overstimulated or wanted to infodump. She was seemingly unaffected by my rehab and most importantly unaffected by my autism. After a life full of negative interactions and losing people because of one thing I couldn’t control, I’d found a family and a partner who embraced me.

I didn’t realise I was crying until she turned and asked me what was wrong.

“I’m just grateful.”

“For what?”

“You, Milo, Elena. I love you all so much.” I didn’t realise I’d said it really. I was just being candid, as I always was.

“You love me?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation even as it dawned on me.

“Well, I love you too.” There is a split second between the end of her sentence and the meeting of our lips in a kiss.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” I ask as we pull away.

“Wait- I thought- when you called me your girlfriend on the ambulance I kind of took that as you asking me to be your girlfriend.” She begins laughing.

“What? This whole time I’ve been nervous about actually asking you and you already thought I had?” I can’t help but join her laugh.

“We’re such fools.” She whispers, and we kiss again.

I'll always be a fool for her.

#woso x reader #woso fanfics #wsl #womens soccer #arsenal fcw #kyra cooney cross x reader #kyra cooney cross

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gmasttin · 2 months ago

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Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé

| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.

| Chapter 2 is already out!!

| 3.6k words

| A/n: I read the book “Really Good, Actually” by Monica Heisey and after binging a bunch of romcoms, I decided to finally start and post one. A lighthearted story, with some romcom vibes, that I’d actually been thinking about writing for quite a while. I hope you enjoy it, and sorry for any mistakes, it's the first one I've ever written and as it's obvious, English is not my first language. Enjoy <3.

Chapter 1

Back when life was simpler, and all you had to worry about were Tupperware containers, briefs, and whether you’d make it to the 7 p.m. Pilates class.

Some mornings, you wake up with this strange sense of clarity, like everything’s aligned. The coffee’s just right, the subway arrives on time, no one crushes your toes with a pair of impossible stilettos in their rushed way to their fancy offices.

This is not one of those mornings. You’re not sure if it’s because of the weird dream (the one where you’re marrying Louis, your ex, except he’s the one wearing that wedding dress you kept eyeing, and of course, his mother steals your spot at the altar), or because you ended up arguing with your own mother again, over text, at 12:47 a.m.

But something’s off.

You feel it in the way your toothbrush slips out of your hand, at least three times. Or how your coat gets caught on the door handle right when you’re running late. Also in the fact that, for some reason, you’re wearing two completely different shoes and don’t notice until you’re already in the elevator.

You don’t go back to change them. After all, no one looks at your feet in a marketing agency. Unless you work in fashion. And you don’t work in fashion.

You work in “emotionally driven brand storytelling strategy.” Which is just a fancy way of saying you come up with excuses for people to buy things they don’t need.

At 9:08, you get to the office. You know this because the biometric check-in clock reminds you, like a threat. You throw on your jacket with the defeated air of someone who already knows there’s no hot coffee left for her.

There are two people in the office's kitchen: Lucía, who always looks like she’s either about to cry or fall in love, and Guillermo, who speaks with an exaggeratedly British accent that no one really understands.

“Morning,” he says without looking up from his phone.

“How are you?” you reply, not because you care, but because silence feels even more aggressive.

“Busy. So busy. We have that pitch with the Swiss skincare brand at eleven. And then there’s the meeting.”

Ah. The meeting.

Your boss had announced it yesterday on Teams with the gravity of someone introducing the new Messiah:

“Tomorrow, we have an important meeting. Very important. Like, potential long-term strategic client important. I need your best brains, team. Bring attitude.”

You head back to your desk, a white table that’s far too small, which you share with three other people and a dying plant everyone pretends not to be turning their backs on.

On your screen, thirty-seven tabs are open. Nine are unfinished briefs, three are online clothing stores, and one is a search for: “how to tell if you’re having an emotional breakdown or just sleep-deprived.”

You take a deep breath. Open your calendar. The event is there:

10:30 – Confidential meeting.Subject: Project Star.Attendees: Management, PR, you.

You. Lowercase. Like a typo someone forgot to fix.

You try to focus. Take a sip of your coffee (cold). Open the Excel file with your corporate smile, the one you once practiced in the kitchen mirror. But it doesn’t last.

Because at 10:28, you get a direct message from HR:

Marta (HR): | Head up to Room 5. They’re all here. Including him 👀

Including him.

Who is him? And why that emoji?

Room 5 is the good room. The one with the Scandinavian sofas and the fancy capsule coffee machine. It’s almost always empty, as if reserved for things that matter. Or for people who earn more in a year than you will in your entire career.

When you walk in, the first thing you see is your boss, wearing that smug “I closed this deal even though I didn’t do anything” smile. Then three people you don’t recognize. Suits. Serious. A woman holding a folder full of documents, and two men who look like they haven’t laughed since 2017.

And then you see him.

He’s sitting in the corner of the sofa, staring at his phone like it’s blowing up. White shirt, sleeves rolled up, expensive watch. The kind of person who doesn’t need an introduction because you’ve already seen his face twenty times—on bus stop billboards, Nike campaigns, and a live-through nightmare involving penalty kicks and your grandmother’s best friend, who is Argentine.

Kylian. The footballer. That one.

Your first thought was: He’s even better looking in real life. Your second was: Don’t look impressed.

Your boss catches your eye and motions for you to sit down.

“This is Y/N, our trusted creative director,” your boss says in that tone he uses when he’s trying to sound cool and young, despite he is entering his middle 50’s.

You smile as best you can. Your heart’s pounding like it’s doing cardio on your behalf.

Kylian looks up. And for a fraction of a second, he looks at you.

Not in a “who are you?” kind of way, but more like “right, so you’re the one who’s supposed to fix this.”

You sit down on the opposite end of the sofa. Far enough not to seem intimidating. Close enough to pretend you’re not trying to seem anything at all.

Your boss clears his throat. That thing he always does right before saying something that sounds like a headline but means absolutely nothing.

“Well, as I was saying, this is a special project. A unique opportunity to… rewrite the narrative.”

“Rewrite the narrative” is his new favorite phrase. He’s been using it ever since someone said it at a networking event and he jotted it down on his iPhone, right next to gems like “pivot from authenticity” and “emotional capital.”

“Kylian is entering a new chapter,” he adds, as if talking about a divorce or a spiritual awakening. “His team wants to work on his personal brand from a more honest place. More connected. Something… human.”

Kylian says nothing. Still staring at his phone. Like none of this matters. Like he’d honestly rather be out training in the rain or under 600-watt studio lights.

One of the women across the table finally speaks. She looks like she handles PR. Her voice sounds like one of those self-help podcasts that tell you everything happens for a reason while selling you a course on productivity.

“We want people to meet the real Kylian. Not just the athlete. The boy who grew up in the suburbs, who loves art, who’s investing in cultural initiatives for young people.”

The boy who loves art. Right. Like every bored millionaire who collects neon sculptures and Warhol prints they don’t even understand.

“We’re thinking of a series of documentary-style content—something intimate but visually strong. Also, a small social media campaign where he speaks directly to the audience. No filter.”

Your boss nods, enthusiastically, as he adds.

“And that’s why we have Y/N. Our top creative. Brilliant. With a unique sensitivity. She knows how to connect with difficult audiences. She’s worked with NGOs, tech start-ups, an inclusive pottery workshop…”

Your name, your career, your work, it all sounds like it’s being read out loud at your professional funeral. You smile. Because that’s what’s expected.

You turn toward Kylian. He looks at you. Finally. As if he’s only just now mentally arrived in the room.

“You write the scripts?” he asks. His voice is deeper than you expected. Like someone who doesn’t rush his sentences.

“I write the ideas,” you reply. “The scripts too. But if everything goes well, no one will remember the words. Just how it made them feel.”

You’re not sure why you said that. Maybe because it sounds like something a brilliant creative would say. Maybe because you’re just a little tired of being treated like a walking PowerPoint.

He nods. Says nothing else.

Your boss clears his throat again. There are more details, of course: deadlines, photo shoots, potential trips, a budget no one dares to say out loud. Words like “engagement,” “authenticity,” and “rebranding” hover in the air like LinkedIn mosquitoes.

And you, meanwhile, are sitting there wondering how this even happened. How you went from creating ad campaigns for titanium frying pans to looking into the eyes of someone who’s probably going to be the next football legend.

At the end of the meeting, he stands and everyone follows.

You stay behind a little longer, unsure if you should head back to your desk or pretend you need to go over your notes.

He turns at the door. Gives you a quick glance. Like he’s not sure whether to say goodbye.

“So, I guess I’ll see you soon,” he says.

And without thinking too much, you reply: “Looks like it.”

Later, in the office kitchen and dining area, Lucía looks at you like you just had dinner with Brad Pitt, her eternal crush.

“So? What was he like? Was he nice? Did he talk to you?”

“He asked me one question.”

“And? How was it? Can you tell he’s French?”

“Not really. You can tell he didn’t want to be here.”

She laughs. “So basically, just like you. Soulmates.”

You pour yourself more coffee. Even though it’s already noon and you know you shouldn’t. But you need something to remind you you’re still awake. That this wasn’t just a celebrity reality show fever dream.

Your boss messages you on Teams:

“Great impression. He liked you. Work your magic.”

Work your magic. As if it were that easy. As if magic weren’t, almost always, just logistics and anxiety.

You spend the afternoon going through the briefing. They’ve sent you a 17-page document titled: “A New Era: Humanizing the Legend.”

The title alone makes you want to jump out the window.

The phrases are full of vague objectives: — Position an emotional identity. — Connect with non-sports audiences. — Turn notoriety into relatability.

There are black-and-white photos of him. One with a vintage bike. Another reading a book with no title. A third holding a little girl (his niece, according to the caption). You wonder which parts of all this are real. And which ones you’ll have to invent.

You start jotting down notes. On a post-it, you write:

What if instead of pretending he’s “the guy next door,” we show him as someone who also had to fight for what he truly wanted? Distance as truth. Fame as fracture.

You like that sentence. Fame as fracture.

You stick it to the edge of your monitor. Right next to another post-it that says: – Call the dentist. – Stop stalking Louis. – Buy tampons.

The next morning unfolds like the mornings of the past six months: fast, half-hearted, with a light drizzle of anxiety—which today, for obvious reasons, feels slightly more intense.

You’ve been summoned to a more intimate meeting. Proposed by his PR manager. Just you, the PR manager, and him.

It’s in a coworking space in Chamberí that looks like a Pinterest café with people-pleasing issues.

When you arrive, they’re already seated. He’s wearing a cap. And sunglasses. Indoors. As if he didn’t want anyone to recognize him.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he replies. Dry. Tired. Then silence.

The PR manager talks for eleven straight minutes. You know it because you count it mentally. He nods occasionally, as if he’s listening. But you watch him and know he’s not really there. So you go for it.

“Sorry. Can I ask something?”

They both turn to you. The PR manager, with a thin smile, the kind that expects you to compliment her long monologue where she’s said everything and absolutely nothing. The kind of monologue that’s made you consider requesting medical leave and handing this project off to someone else, if all future meetings are going to be like this.

“Do you actually want to do this?” you continue.

He blinks. “This?”

“Yeah. The campaign. The rebrand. Are you actually interested in it, or are you here because someone told you to be?”

The PR manager shoots you a look that could be categorized as brand sabotage.

Kylian, however, laughs. A short laugh. But a real one.

“Does it matter?”

“A lot. If you’re not into it, it’s going to show. And if it shows, everyone’s going to see it. And if they see it, they’ll call you fake. And, then we’ll have to redo the whole campaign, but this time using the drama as the hook.”

He looks at you. “All right. I’ll try.”

“Try what?”

“To care.”

You nod and make a mental note: Functional sarcasm. Potential sense of humor. Possibly shy (or just reserved, does he not like me? If so, bad start). Possibly just fed up.

They send you clips of him “for inspiration.” Interviews. Matches. Viral moments.

There’s one in particular. A phone-recorded video on a plane. He’s on his phone. Someone off-camera asks if he’s nervous about the final. He answers:

“No. I’m tired.”

Tired. Not in a physical sense. Existentially tired.

That’s the crack. That’s where you can slip in.

The next day, he shows up at the office. Unannounced. Wearing a watch that probably costs more than a year’s rent on your flat, and the look of someone who Googled “how to dress normal” this morning and gave up halfway.

It’s four in the afternoon. You’re working the late shift today, you swapped with Mireia so you could work in a quieter environment, with fewer people to distract you while you try to figure out how the hell you’re supposed to frame this project.

“I’m here to work with you,” he says, walking toward your desk. The desk you’ve been saying for over a month now that you’ll tidy up, because honestly, it’s starting to get embarrassing. And now the embarrassment is fully devouring you from the inside out.

“Did you bring ideas? Proposals? Do you want to change something in the project?” you ask, because you’re not entirely sure why he’s here.

He doesn’t trust me, does he?

To be fair, your boss didn’t exactly sell you very well. And you wouldn’t trust someone either if they looked like they hadn’t been laid properly in five months and seventeen days (which, if asked, wouldn’t be too far from the truth), to run the documentary that’s supposed to reinvent your public image.

“No.”

You raise an eyebrow. Definitely doesn’t trust me. You think. Or maybe his PR manager sent him to spy on you, because she also doesn’t trust how you do your job, especially after you, let’s be honest, gently shredded hers the other day.

He grabs a spare chair and sits next to you, stealing Pablo’s seat, who’s now watching the interaction from the water machine like it’s a live episode of something he didn’t know he needed.

“These ‘meetings’ usually happen with PR,” you tell him. “You don’t have to be here. They can send you the details.”

“I don’t care,” he shrugs. “It’s a project about my life, right? I should know what’s being said. And what’s not.”

Then, with just the right amount of cheek: “Got any coffee? Pour me one.”

You stare at him. Did he just tell me to make him coffee? Like I’m his assistant?

And you stare a little longer. He holds your gaze, half-smirking, half-testing. That kind of expression that doesn’t fully commit to being rude or polite. As if he hasn’t decided which version of himself is most useful in a Madrid office on a Tuesday afternoon.

You inhale. Slowly.

“We don’t have personal assistants here.”

You get up. Walk toward the coffee machine without looking back. Spine straight. Jaw set. Your version of saying don’t mess with me without saying it.

“Then make us both one,” he adds from your chair, like that somehow makes it better.

The laugh escapes before you can stop it. Dry. More of a stylish snort than a laugh, really.

“Sugar? Or do you want me to draw your logo in the foam?”

“No sugar. I'm in season, gotta watch the sweets.” He says it softer this time. Almost like an apology.

When you come back with the two mugs, he’s already leaned into your monitor. Arms crossed. Eyes fixed on the project timeline you’d left open.

“All this... you do it alone?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Did you think I had a team?”

Now he turns. Looks at you fully. Something’s shifted in his face, like irony was the password to get into his world.

“No. It’s just... a lot.”

You shrug.

“It is. But hey, at least no one makes me chase a ball for a living.”

He laughs. An unexpected one. Brief. Almost sweet. And that’s when it hits you: He’s not just looking at you. He’s watching you. Like he’s trying to figure something out about you that’s not in your resumé.

The next forty minutes, you work in silence. Or at least, what passes for “working” when two people are hyper-aware of each other and there's a quiet tension in the air that neither of you knows how to name yet.

Every now and then, he asks something. About the script tone. The order of the clips. Whether his accent is “too French” for a voiceover.

“Do you think I should speak Spanish in the videos?” he asks.

You consider it.

“If you want people to see you’re making an effort, yes. If you want to sound perfect, no.”

“I want to sound real.”

“Then leave it as it is. With mistakes. With pauses. With ‘ehh’ and ‘I don’t know.’”

He nods. And something opens there. Just a crack. A window slit. But it’s real.

He’s smarter than he looks. You realize that somewhere between the conversation on narratives, social media, and how to show vulnerability without sounding like a performance. He has opinions. He asks. He listens.

And you... You’re confused. Because you don’t know if this is still work. Or if you’re slowly being pulled into the gravity of it all. Of him. Of this moment.

At some point, he laughs at something you say and looks at you like you’re brilliant. Not beautiful. Brilliant. And for some reason, that disarms you more than any physical compliment.

The next day, at 10:36 a.m., the unofficial break time for Lucía, as if the universe had conspired for this conversation to happen, Lucía shows up at your desk with a cookie in hand.

“Was it real? He was here? Pablo told me.”

You raise your gaze to meet Lucía’s eyes, like she’s reached the juiciest part of a novel she can’t stop reading. You simply nod and turn your attention back to the monitor of your computer.

“So, how was it?”

You glance at your empty coffee cup resting next to the mountain of discarded post-its, all with ideas that still don’t quite fit this project. Ideas that seem to wander like echoes, failing to capture the essence.

“Strange.”

“Strange good or strange bad?” Lucía insists, now sitting on the edge of your desk, making it feel like an interrogation.

You sigh, gathering your thoughts.

“Strange ‘I want him back.’” You admit, letting yourself be pulled into that mix of confusion and realization you’ve been keeping to yourself.

You told her about that strange back-and-forth, that feeling you couldn’t quite describe, but Lucía, after hearing it, defined it as “professional flirting in disguise.”

“We’re not flirting.”

“Of course you are. It’s just that instead of telling him you love his smile, you told him his current storytelling is weak and redundant.”

“Because it is.”

“And he looked at you like he wanted you to write his biography and emotional resume.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Girl, I’m telling you, as a friend and as someone who’s seen all the seasons of The Bold Type, that guy cares more about your feedback than winning the Ballon d'Or.”

Exaggerations aside, something was there. A subtle thread of mutual curiosity, something that was growing without you realizing. And now, here you were: immersed in a project that would last several weeks, working alongside him. Defining the tone of his communication, developing digital pieces, planning interviews… All while trying to maintain your composure and stay focused on your workday.

You’ve come to the conclusion that it all boils down to the fact that you were bored.

You could say it was the algorithm. You could blame a well-executed digital strategy. You could use any excuse, really, and not be lying. But deep down, you know it was that. Boredom. The deadliest of mental states.

And there you were, last night, a Wednesday, with your emergency bun and a lopsided dinner in front of you, watching a video of Kylian Mbappé talking about motivation in a square format with black-and-white subtitles. He wore a white shirt, the collar a little stretched, and several buttons undone. And you wore what was left of your self-esteem and a glass of supermarket red wine.

The worst part is, the video wasn’t bad. The worst part is, it actually seemed sincere. It was in English, with a strong accent and a hesitant intonation, like he was afraid of offending the language. He said things like, "you can’t be your best version if you don’t know who you are," and you nodded. YOU NODDED. After that, you turned off your phone as if it had slapped you and went to bed without washing your face. Because boredom doesn’t just make you vulnerable; it also makes you lazy.

You told Lucía the story as if it were some ridiculous anecdote. Something to laugh about during her unofficial coffee break. But Lucía, who is not just your coworker but your version with steroids, looked at you as if you’d said something important.

“Girl, what if this is a sign?”

“A sign of what?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That you need a change. Or a quickie. Or both.”

#kylian mbappe #kylian x reader #kylian x you #kylian mbappe x reader #kylian mbappe fanfic #mbappe #football x reader #football x y/n #kylian mbappe x y/n

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penandpaperdreams · 2 years ago

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Are your characters too “perfect”? Struggling to give them negative traits?

I’ve definitely fallen into the trap of making my protagonists and side characters too “perfect” before. It’s an easy mistake to make, but it can lead to your characters feeling one-dimensional if you’re too afraid to make them seem morally grey.

Here’s a very simple method:

1. Take a character’s main positive trait. Let’s take Hermione Granger, for example - her intelligence is a defining aspect of her character.

2. Exaggerate it into a negative trait. In the instance of Hermione Granger, she can come across to the other characters as a know-it-all. She’s not always portrayed as perfect for her intelligence, which is what makes her character more interesting.

Using this method, we have a number of options for negative traits for an intelligent character - patronising, arrogant, smug - to name a few.

I use the Fatal Attraction theory for this, which suggests that we fall out of love with someone for the same reason we were initially attracted to them. So, if you grew to like someone because you liked how strong and dominant they are, you may become tired of that down the line when their behaviour is controlling.

I’ve illustrated a few examples for how to exaggerate common positive traits into negative ones in the image above, but I have a few more examples to share so you really get the idea:

1. Comic relief / funny - can’t be serious, humour as a coping mechanism

2. Dark and mysterious - emotionally distant

3. Creative - aloof

4. Loyal - neglects own needs, willing to hurt for those they love

5. Compassionate / empathetic - overstepping boundaries

6. Honesty - overly blunt

7. Responsible - too serious

8. Humility - lack of self-belief

9. Trusting - easy to manipulate, overshares personal information

10. Perceptive - rude

11. Flirtatious - inappropriate

12. Organised - controlling, “neat freak”

13. Easygoing - lack of care about serious matters

14. Flamboyant - can be too much for some

15. Spontaneous - puts self in danger

Of course, you don’t have to do this. You can just have a character be spiritual and creative without making them out-of-touch and aloof. It’s completely up to you!

Using a method such as this, even if you only apply it subtly, adds a touch of realism to your writing by making your characters feel more well-rounded. It means that their negative aspects are truly coming from a part of them, rather than selected at random and mashed together from a list online.

#writing #writing tips #writing advice #character design #character building #character traits #characterisation #characterization #characters #personality #character personality #writingblr #novel #novel writing

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scary-grace · 2 months ago

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Enough to Go By (Chapter 26) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

Chapter 26

The mingled scents of disinfectant and antiseptic rouse you from unconsciousness, and your mind comes back online in pieces. The room you’re in is fluorescent-bright, like a hospital. The air smells like a hospital. You’re not lying flat, but reclining, the same as you’d be in a hospital bed. The evidence suggests you’re in a hospital. Whose hospital?

You open your eyes, but they’re blurry and crusted, and when you raise one hand to rub them, it stops halfway. You pull a few times, confused, before the answer occurs to you. You’re in the heroes’ custody. You might have gotten away from Hawks, destroyed Hawks’s quirk, but you didn’t escape after all.

How long have you been here? You blink until your vision clears and sit up as far as you can go, looking around the room you’re in. You’re alone in a room with white, featureless walls, the kind most hospitals have been phasing out because they make patients feel like they’re in an asylum. There’s a door in one wall and a window next to it, but you can’t see out of it, so either it’s specially treated or there’s no one there. It’s quiet in the room other than your breathing and the hum of the machines they’ve hooked you up to.

The door opens, and someone steps through. Or rolls through. The man is in a wheelchair, and his face looks familiar. You know he’s a hero, but he wasn’t at the battle, and there’s a reason — he’s one of Stain’s victims. “You’re awake,” he says. No kidding. “As you might have guessed, you’re in custody. I’m not here to ask you questions, just to explain your medical condition.”

You nod, and the man reads off a tablet, stumbling over some of the phrasing and terminology. “You came in with a spiral fracture of the right radius and ulna, as well as a superficial laceration to your throat. In addition, you sustained whiplash injuries when your fall was broken. You’re consistently tachycardic, and your blood oxygen level is hovering at eighty-nine percent, which is why you’ve got that thing on your face.”

You can’t see it or touch it, but you’ll bet it’s a cannula. It won’t matter. As long as Tenko’s out there fighting, getting injured, your quirk will sap your energy to keep him healthy. “You’re also anemic, deficient in vitamins D and B12, and experiencing the effects of severe sleep deprivation. We took you off of sedation three days ago. You’ve been asleep ever since.”

“I’ve been here for four days?”

The hero grimaces. Apparently he wasn’t supposed to tell you that. “Because of all of the above issues, you can expect your healing process to move at a slower rate than a healthy person’s would,” he continues. He glances down at the tablet again and an awkward, uncomfortable expression crosses his face. “Finally, you, uh — you had a miscarriage. It says you were four to six weeks, er, along.”

Your mind goes completely and totally blank. The hero looks even more awkward than before. “Sorry,” he says. “Anyway, that’s it. Somebody will be by to read you your rights soon.”

He turns and wheels out the door, and you slump back against the bed. You’re in custody. You’ve been here for at least four days, and somewhere out there, Tenko is still alive. The heroes have you, but they didn’t win — but you don’t know who else they captured, and you don’t know how whatever is happening is going. You’re not badly injured, but you’re not in great shape, and until recently, you were pregnant.

You’re not going to think about that. It’s not even slightly important. What’s important is figuring out where you are, how long you’ve actually been here, what’s going on outside — and more important than the rest of it, figuring out how to get out of here, so you can get back to Tenko, where you belong.

The hero said someone would come to read you your rights, but instead of that, a quartet of armed guards comes in. One drops a set of clothes on the end of the bed while another uncuffs your wrists, and then three of them turn their backs while the fourth one — a woman — watches you change out of the hospital gown. Out of the hospital gown, and into an orange jumpsuit, which tells you exactly where you are. You wonder what you’re being charged with. At this point, they probably have a list of things.

Once you’re changed, they don’t cuff you — just surround you, shepherding you down the hall. You do your best to orient to your surroundings, peering over the guards’ shoulders and trying not to trip over your own feet. The more you look around, the weirder things get. You might be wearing a prison jumpsuit, but you aren’t in a prison. You’re in a school.

You’re in a school, and the room the guards hustle you into used to be a classroom. There’s a chalkboard at the front of the room and a blond man you don’t recognize sitting behind the desk. He looks like he’s barely awake, but when you step through the door, he sits up, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Over there,” he says, and the guards direct you into a chair on one side of the room, then set up a chair directly across the from you. “Thanks. You all can wait outside.”

The guards file out, and the man comes from behind the desk to sit across from you. “Under ordinary circumstances, we’d be able to hold you for twenty-three days without filing a charge or reading you your rights. Under martial law, however, we can hold enemies of the state indefinitely. Want to guess what kind of law we’re operating under, Saintess?”

You don’t need to. If Hawks was right, if the country’s descending into civil war, then you know exactly how bad your situation is. “Still,” the man says, “at times like these we ought to be civilized, so I’ll inform you that you have the right to remain silent, as well as the right to an attorney at trial. If you can’t afford an attorney, the government will appoint one for you. Do you understand these rights?”

You nod. “Now, in the interest of transparency, I’m going to show you just a few of the cards in my hand,” the man says. “This is what we know about you.”

He starts with your name, then your age, then your birthplace. The schools you went to, the jobs you held in high school before starting your apprenticeship, your friends. “A bunch of delinquents, but given who you associate with now, these guys might as well have been angels,” the man says. You grit your teeth and keep quiet. “I already know you dragged one of them down with you. Kiyohara Kazuo. You know he used to be a hero?”

“It’s not my fault he isn’t one.” You won’t let a lie like that stand. “He didn’t drop out of UA because of me. That was on you.”

“You know what wasn’t on us? Convincing him to pass classified intel on to his ex-girlfriend who’s screwing Shigaraki Tomura.” The blond man’s mouth twists around Tenko’s name. “You’re listed as quirkless since birth, but you must have something pretty special going on to convince a hero to switch sides like that.”

“Or maybe you didn’t give him a good enough reason to side with you.”

The blond man scoffs but doesn’t challenge you. “Here’s the thing, though — our records have you living your perfectly boring little life until a year and a half ago. Then you show up at the ER with some weird injuries. Nine months later your clinic gets stuck handling casualties from Kamino, and three weeks later you blow up on a crisis counselor. She called it a case of PTSD. I’d buy that, maybe — except then a yakuza thug posing as a delivery driver collapses from radiation poisoning on your doorstep, and later that same day you drop off a kid the League of Villains kidnapped at the police station. The day after that, you vanish off the face of the earth. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, we started hearing about a member of the League of Villains none of us had ever seen. Or at least, we thought we’d never seen. Turns out you were right under our noses the whole time.”

He shouldn’t be surprised by that. You aren’t. Your quirklessness took care of everything — part shield, part invisibility cloak, ensuring that no one with the power to stop you would ever see you as a threat. “But I don’t want to talk about that,” the blond man says. “I want to talk about this.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic bag containing one of your quirk-canceling bullets, needle exposed, already spent. “We’ve seen quirk-canceling bullets before. But we know damn well that these are manufactured differently than the previous versions we’ve encountered. Who made them?”

“I did.”

“Cute. Who made them?”

“I did,” you repeat. The blond man scoffs. “I made them. It was me.”

“Sure. And I bet you made all the Nomus too, right? And you’re the one who Frankensteined Shigaraki into the juiced-up psychopath he is today.” The blond man shakes his head. “Don’t make me laugh. Who made the bullets?”

“I made them,” you snap. Is this really where you’re going to lose your cool? Yes. You have to vent it somewhere, and nothing you say about this will damage Tenko’s position, whatever it is, wherever he is. “What, you think being quirkless means I’m brain-dead or something? I made the bullets. If you think about it, doesn’t it make more sense that a quirkless person would create something like this? The rest of you are too obsessed with quirks to even think about taking away someone else’s.”

The blond man laughs bitterly. “When you put it like that, it does make sense,” he says. “Most of us rely heavily on our quirks. Take them away and most of us are a lot easier to defeat. Leveling the playing field really is your only move. Tell me how you did it.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No,” you say again. You cross your arms over your chest. They haven’t restrained you at all. There’s nothing to stop you from launching yourself at your interrogator and clawing out his eyes. “Is that really what you want to ask me?”

The blond man raises his eyebrows. “What else could I possibly ask you?”

You’re not going to give him ideas, but if you were in his spot, you can think of a few things. Anything about the League’s vulnerabilities. Anything about their quirks. Anything about the PLF’s strategy, capabilities, or ultimate goal. Based on the man’s response, he’s thinking along similar lines. “You mean, about what your friends are up to? Sorry to disappoint you, but we have other prisoners to talk to about strategy. We’re really not interested in Shigaraki’s pillow talk.”

He’s trying to bait you, you think. He wants you to blow up at him and reveal something useful. Your siblings used to do the same thing — needle you until you got mad, then use your anger as an excuse to try their quirks on you. “If you had anything useful going on, Hawks would have told us about it,” the blond man continues. “So you can either tell us who makes the bullets or I can put you back in your cell.”

“I told you who makes the bullets.”

“Then you’re going back to your cell.” The blond man summons the guards, and you get to your feet. “I wish I could say it was nice to meet you, Saintess, but it wasn’t. We’ll see each other again when you’re ready to be honest.”

“I was honest,” you say, but the man turns his back, and the guards hustle you out of the classroom again.

You weren’t in a cell before, but you’re clearly headed for one. The guards take you down a different hallway this time. One side of this hallway is made up of windows, and when you peer out, you can see columns of smoke rising across an unfamiliar skyline. The sky itself is cloudy, roiling, purplish-grey shot through with orange. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it looked like the end of the world.

You don’t know what kind of room your cell used to be, but whatever it is, it’s split in half. The other side of the room is full of fog, so thick that you can’t see through it. The longer you look at it, the more ominous it seems. “Who’s over there?”

“A friend of yours.” The guard who watched you change clothes tosses a blanket at you. “Have fun.”

A friend? Your mind goes instantly to Kazuo, who you know is in police custody, but it could just as easily be Mitsuko or Ryuhei. Or maybe it’s one of your new friends — someone from the PLF, someone from the League? Or they could have been sarcastic, and it’s one of your enemies. The door shuts behind you, and the fog begins to shift. You back away until you’re against the far wall, which doesn’t feel even close to far enough, and watch as an all too familiar figure emerges from within it. Your jaw drops. “Kurogiri?”

Kurogiri’s wearing an orange jumpsuit, same as you. Something about him looks odd, and the longer you look at him, the clearer you can see the outline of a face within the mist. His footsteps are unsteady. He looks disoriented, and when he speaks, it’s in the cadence you recognize as belonging to the older brother. “Where’s Tomura?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he captured?”

“No,” you say. You’re sure of that. “He’s still out there.”

“Is he safe?”

“I don’t know,” you say again. “I’m sorry, Kurogiri.”

Kurogiri shakes his head. “I’m — not. Not —” he grimaces, eyes narrowing to slits. You’re not used to seeing him with facial features. It’s weird. “Not Kurogiri. Shirakumo.”

“Shirakumo,” you repeat, puzzled. “Who’s Shirakumo?”

“I’m the one who protects Shigaraki Tomura,” Kurogiri or Shirakumo or whoever he is says. “Like you.”

You remember him saying that once, a long time ago. “I tried,” you say. “I’m sorry.”

Shirakumo’s expression shifts. It looks like he feels bad, or something. It’s hard to say. “How long?” he asks. “Since they took me?”

“Months.” You think back. It was before you left Yokohama, during the League’s involvement with the Shie Hassaikai. The last time you remember seeing Kurogiri, it was when he brought you and Tomura back to your apartment from the crashed plane. “Six months. What have they been doing to you?”

“They’re helping me.”

That doesn’t sound right. “What?”

“My friends.” What little you can see of Kurogiri’s expression through the mist softens. “They want to help him, too.”

No, they don’t. If the friends Kurogiri is talking about are heroes, they want to kill Tomura. Heroes aren’t against killing people. Hawks was fine with killing you. “Who are your friends?”

“Shōta and Hizashi.”

That tells you nothing. “Are they heroes?”

“Teachers.” Shirakumo almost looks proud of them, even as his features shift, trying to settle into neutrality. “They teach here.”

You knew you were in a school. “Which school?”

“UA.”

You’re at UA. Since when is UA a prison for captured villains? Shirakumo is studying you, head tilted, concern breaking through the mist. “How did they get you? Tomura wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.”

“He didn’t let anybody hurt me.” You feel your chest grow tight, feel your eyes begin to sting. “I’m the one who messed up.”

You did. You couldn’t get away from Hawks without winding up captured. You couldn’t keep Tomura from getting distracted during the fight — and getting hurt right now, if your slowed healing and symptoms of physical stress are anything to go by. You couldn’t convince the hero who was interrogating you that you were the one who made the bullets, which means they’re still looking for the doctor and his lab, which means access to the Nomus and the means to make them could be lost at any second. You fucked all of that up, and you got Kazuo in trouble, and maybe Mitsuko and Ryuhei, too. And then there’s the other thing, the smallest, stupidest mistake, the one that would have been so easy to avoid. You were stupid about sex, so you got pregnant, and you didn’t know it, and now you’re not pregnant anymore.

It’s not what you’re upset about, not really, but it’s the easiest thing to be upset about. Easier than thinking about how you might never see Tomura again. Your eyes well up, and when Kurogiri or Shirakumo or whoever’s in charge of the mind and body at the moment asks if you’re okay, you ignore him. You sit down with your back against the wall, draw your knees up to your chest, and rest your forehead against them as the tears drip down your face.

“No.”

You know, just from the voice, that Kurogiri is back in the driver’s seat. You look up and find him watching you from the far side of the glass. “No,” he says again. “They are watching. Do not let them see even a hint of weakness.”

Right. They’re treating you like a villain. You are a villain. Villains don’t cry. You wipe your eyes and sit up straight in a hurry. “Besides,” Kurogiri says, “you cannot believe that Shigaraki Tomura will leave you here. Which will be more beneficial to him once he has liberated you — your tears, or any information you might gather about your surroundings?”

Kurogiri’s right. Tenko won’t leave you here. He’ll come to find you, and when he does, you want to be ready to help him as much as you can. Crying won’t help at all. You make eye contact with Kurogiri and nod once. He nods in response. “We are the ones who protect Shigaraki Tomura,” he says. “Welcome back, Saintess.”

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

There aren’t windows in the room they’re keeping you and Kurogiri in. Kurogiri gets to leave more often than you do, and he always sounds like Shirakumo when he comes back — and because he sounds like Shirakumo, he’s a lot more willing to talk to you about what’s going on out there. Shōta and Hizashi tell him a lot more than your interrogator tells you, at least. You spend hours staring up at the ceiling, turning it over and over in your head, watching the picture of what’s happening in Japan come together slowly. It’s not pretty.

You never expected it to be pretty. You weren’t that naive. But the scale of the destruction you’re hearing about is horrifying. Every time Shirakumo comes back, it’s with the report of something else that’s gone. Shiroiwa — gone. Musutafu — gone. Morioka — gone. Nagano — gone. Civilian casualties are lighter than expected, courtesy of the PLF giving mountains of advance warning of where they’re headed next, but heroic casualties are sky-high. No matter who they throw at the situation, the heroes don’t have a good way to stop Gigantomachia. And if what Shirakumo says is true, most battles end the instant Tomura sets foot on the field.

You and he had talked about ways to destroy the old world, and you’d agreed on wanting at least something left to work from, but it sounds like Tomura is leveling cities to the ground every other day, leaving nothing there but dust — or, in the case of the city the two of you were born in, leaving a crater in the earth two miles wide. You can always tell when there’s been a heroic counterattack, because you can always tell when he’s being hurt. You get nauseous, lightheaded, tachycardic, short of breath, as your body strains to match whatever punishment Tomura is taking. The vast majority of the times you’ve been allowed to leave your cell, it’s to receive medical treatment for a condition no one can diagnose, a condition whose origin you wouldn’t admit to even under torture. They might have a way to erase quirks. You can’t breathe a word without risking Tomura.

Even with Super-Regeneration, he’s suffering. You’re starting to think that the injuries he takes during each battle are the only reason Japan hasn’t been completely laid to waste already.

Your interrogator is getting frustrated with you. Frustrated with Shirakumo, too. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he explodes, after you ask him about the rumor that more heroes than civilians have died in the fighting. “Does he just run to you with everything?”

“There’s not much else to talk about in there,” you say. “If you don’t want him to talk to me, put one of us in a different cell.”

“See, we can’t do that,” the blond man says bitterly. “We have to keep Shirakumo on the straight and narrow. Part of his rehabilitation is giving him someone to look after.”

“And you picked me?”

“Yeah. He knows you, you look pathetic as all hell, and you’re the closest he’s going to get to Shigaraki in this lifetime.” The blond man rolls his eyes. “Somebody who’s not me decided that the constant information leakage is less important than helping him feel like himself again.”

You agree with them, whoever they are. It’s not like you have anyone to tell. “Who’s himself?”

“Shirakumo?” The blond man raises his eyebrows. “Why should I tell you that?”

“There’s not much else to talk about in here,” you say. “You ask me about the bullets every time. My answer doesn’t change.”

“Because it’s true.” The blond man rolls his eyes, like he does every time, then hits you with the last thing you were expecting him to say. “It is true. The bullets haven’t made an appearance in any battle but the first one, and nobody we’ve captured from your side has known the first thing about them. Even the highest-ranking creep we bagged — silver hair, blue eyes, bad attitude —”

“Ice bitch.”

Your interrogator wheezes. “What?”

If you ever see Dabi again, you’re going to tell him about this. You clam up, and after a few seconds of poorly muffled laughter, your interrogator sobers up. “Even he doesn’t know about where the bullets came from,” he says. “So either it’s somebody we’ve never heard of making them, who’s suddenly stopped in spite of the fact that they’d be an invaluable weapon in this war, or you’re a mad scientist in addition to being Shigaraki’s quirkless arm candy. Which is it?”

“I answered you the first time we talked,” you say. “The answer hasn’t changed.”

“Well, the questions are about to. How’d you do it?”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“Things will maybe go a little easier for you once this is over if I can tell the prosecution that you cooperated,” your interrogator says. “And since we just found out you haven’t been lying to us the entire time, your case for being a trustworthy source is pretty good.”

You are a trustworthy source. You haven’t lied at all. But you don’t buy your interrogator’s change of tune for a second. “Are you hoping to make some of the bullets yourself?”

“Are you joking? We’re not all savages like you.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “I know the charges you’re holding me on. There’s some serious stuff in there. But it’s taking quirks away that makes me a savage? Those are some messed-up priorities you’ve got there.”

“Someone who’s quirkless wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand just fine,” you say. “I understand that you’re asking me how I made them to see if you can reverse the process.”

Your interrogator stays quiet for once. You can’t tell if you’ve thrown him or not, but you can’t resist taking a final potshot. “You’re at war. You aren’t winning. And you’re here questioning me about how to get four people their quirks back. Like I said — your priorities are really messed up.”

“Four people,” your interrogator repeats. “You hit five.”

“Four confirmed quirk cancelations. I’m pretty sure Eraserhead cut his hand off in time, and I didn’t get a chance to shoot him again.”

“Oh, so you would have?” A spark of anger flares in your interrogator’s face. “It wasn’t enough to end two students’ careers before they began? You had to take out a hero, too?”

“I’m not the one who brought kids to fight a war,” you say. You’ve triggered something here. You don’t know what it is. “Targeting Eraserhead wasn’t personal. It was strategy.”

“You just said you were going to shoot him again. Didn’t you trust your bullets to work on the first shot?”

No, you didn’t. You didn’t end up adding All For One to the mix inside them, which means there was a time lag of about four seconds before the cancelation occurred. Eraserhead almost certainly cut his hand off in time. “I wanted to make sure.”

“You disgust me.” The interrogator laughs. It’s an awful sound. “You’re quirkless. The world you live in would be hell if it wasn’t for heroes. Your life has probably been saved by heroes more times than you can count. And how do you repay us? By quite literally hopping into bed with the villains and —”

“Repay you?” You can’t lose your temper. You can’t. “Being a hero is a choice you made. I didn’t ask you to do it. And I’m going to take a wild guess that you didn’t choose to become a hero just out of the goodness of your heart. There’s big money in being a hero, isn’t there, Present Mic?”

You weren’t quite sure when you said the name, but Present Mic makes a mocking bow. You keep talking. “The government takes my taxes and pays you to be a hero, and you make money off your radio show and sponsorships, but that’s not enough, is it? I’m supposed to kiss the ground you walk on, too?”

“Given where your mouth has been, I don’t want you kissing anything I’m going to touch.” Present Mic’s mouth distorts into a sneer. “Lifting the Hero Killer’s talking points now, are we? Have you ever had an original thought in your life?”

“Have you?” you fire back. “Villains don’t just fall from the sky. Society creates them. You have to, or else you and Eraserhead would both be out of a job.”

“And now we get to it,” Present Mic says. “I’ve been wondering how somebody who looks like the dictionary definition of civilian could justify siding with Shigaraki. You’re going with the “it’s our fault for not saving him” defense? Really?”

“I wouldn’t give you that much credit.” That should be enough, but the words slip out of your mouth anyway. “It’s my fault, too.”

Present Mic gives you a weird look, opens his mouth — and then his phone pings. He glances down at it, and when he looks up, his expression is full of rage. “That abomination you’re defending just obliterated Yokohama. Why don’t you stop pontificating and start telling me exactly how to get the heroes you crippled back into the field?”

Yokohama’s gone. Your apartment’s gone, the clinic’s gone, your friends’ houses are gone. Are your friends gone, too? Did they get out? You sink your fingernails into your palm and try not to let it show. “You’re a hero. You’re fighting a war, and you’re losing. Why are you wasting time talking to me?”

Present Mic’s eyes flash. A low hum travels through the air, and for a moment, you’re certain he’s about to unleash his quirk on you. Then the air stills. “You’re right, Saintess. You are a waste of time.” He turns to leave the room, throwing the words back over his shoulder. “Midoriya should have let you fall.”

You’ve been wondering who caught you. Which of the heroes would see a falling villain, a villain who’d just crippled a beloved hero, and decide it was worth it to catch her. You’d assumed it was someone who was thinking of your strategic value — if Hawks saw you as important enough to use, then clearly you were worth keeping around. But somehow you don’t think that was Midoriya’s reasoning. Everything you know about Midoriya Izuku, everything you’ve heard Toga swoon over or listened to Tenko bitch about, tells you that Midoriya Izuku acts on instinct. He wasn’t thinking about strategy when he saved you. He saw someone in trouble and wanted to help.

That reminds you of someone else, too. Someone who’s just wiped the city you found each other in off the map. You dig your nails deeper into your palm and wait for the guards to bring you back to your cell.

But they don’t come back. You sit there for ten minutes. Half an hour. Two hours. No one comes for you. You aren’t chained to your chair — you can move around — but when you try the door, it’s locked. There’s nothing in the room but your chair and the one Present Mic usually sits in. Four hours. There aren’t windows, either. Five. Six. Seven.

You’re hungry, and thirsty. Something must have happened to Tenko in the battle for Yokohama, because your heart is racing at a hundred and forty beats per minute, and no matter what you do, you can’t catch your breath. You lie down on the floor as spots fill your vision, elevating your legs to try to keep some blood flowing to your head, and stare up at the ceiling. The connection between you and Tenko is omnipresent, but blind. You can’t see where he is, feel what he feels, know what he’s thinking. All you have are memories.

Tenko didn’t use to have nightmares. Not as a kid, not when you met him as an adult — but after he came back from receiving the quirks, he did. You always knew when he had one, because he’d lie there shaking in the dark for long moments before he turned to you. It felt like he was trying to drown himself in you afterwards, sometimes with sex, sometimes through kissing, sometimes just by crawling into your arms and holding you tightly enough to make your bones ache. If he stayed awake long enough, he’d tell you what he dreamed about. Never the whole dream. You knew that by the way he hesitated. But enough of it to give you nightmares, too, if you didn’t already have your own.

It was the quirks. Even the copied quirks carried imprints of the last moments their owners possessed them, and sometimes a little more than that — and the last moments before a person’s quirk was stolen by All For One were terrifying. You remember holding Tenko close in the dark, your body folded around his, trying to soothe him. “It didn’t happen to you,” you remember saying. “You’re safe.”

“It happened to them.” Tenko sunk back into your arms, pressing even closer. “When this is over. Promise.”

“Promise what?”

“You’ll take them away.” Tenko’s voice caught for a split second, then blurred almost into incoherence. “I don’t want them anymore.”

You didn’t even know where you’d start. “Tenko —”

“Promise.”

“I promise,” you said. “I love you.”

“Love you.” Tenko settled even closer, already falling asleep. You were glad he could sleep. At least one of you needed to rest.

You didn’t know how, but you started thinking about it. You’re still thinking about it now — how to remove the quirks the doctor transplanted into Tenko, which ones you’d leave, which ones he’d let you leave. Would he want Decay gone, too? How would you get rid of something that’s in his hands? You don’t know. But there has to be a way. As the hours tick past, you let it consume you, the question of how you’ll bring Tenko back to himself, how you’ll make sure the nightmares leave him for good. He’s winning the war. You’ll find each other again. Everything will be fine. If you tell yourself that enough times, maybe it’ll come true.

You don’t mean to fall asleep, but when you wake up again, you aren’t in the classroom anymore. You aren’t in your cell, either, or in the room where you first woke up after you were captured. You’re in what looks like a proper infirmary, with softly painted walls and multiple beds. The ones that are occupied have curtains drawn around them, and you can hear the soft hum of life support machines. You’re not on life support, are you? You raise your hand to your face, surprised to find that you aren’t being restrained, and find a cannula tucked under your nose, again. That’s not great. But it’s not life support, either.

“You’re in our medical bay,” a weirdly familiar voice says from next to you. You glance over at the chair next to your bed and nearly jump out of your skin.

It’s All Might. All Might is sitting there, looking like a skeleton with a mop of blond hair, eyes sunken and shadowed, with a file and a tablet folded in his lap and what looks like a nurse’s call button in his hand.

<- Chapter 25 Chapter 27 ->

taglist: @frog-fans-unite @enyaaa2222 @tannyr98 @shigarakislaughter @deadhands69 @f3r4lfr0gg3r @lvtuss @issaortiz @evilcookie5 @aslutforfictionalmen @lacrimae-lotos @xeveryxstarfallx @stardustdreamersisi @koohiii @cheeseonatower @shikiblessed @warxhammer @agente707 @handumb @boogiemansbitch @baking-ghoul @atspiss

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shimura tenko x reader #shimura tenko x you #tenko shimura x reader #tenko shimura x you #x reader #reader insert #man door hand hook car door #please hold

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guidaozongshi · 8 months ago

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On Sakura and SasuSaku's apparent popularity in the eastern fandom

One of the widely regurgitated talking points in favour of the Sasuke/Sakura relationship is that it is the most popular Naruto pairing in Japan and that Sakura is a very popular character but western fans apparently fail to understand the nuances of their relationship unlike their eastern counterparts. These claims range from half-truths to complete nonsense

Firstly, let's talk about Sakura's reception in Japan.

Kishimoto infamously said that girls would come up to him to complain about Sakura and that he really struggled to make her likeable. But you don't need his statements to arrive at the conclusion that she is not well received.

Take a look at the Naruto Character popularity polls by Shounen Jump taken during the run of the manga.

Character Poll 1 , as of Chapter 60

1. Kakashi Hatake – 22,692 votes

2. Naruto Uzumaki – 16,729 votes

3. Sasuke Uchiha – 13,674 votes

4. Iruka Umino – 7,128 votes

5. Sakura Haruno – 3,055 votes

Naruto had just started to take off , with Team 7 being the main focus, yet look at the difference in votes for the members. Iruka, a character that barely appears overtook Sakura. What's ironic is that this will be the highest position she would ever receive because her popularity gets worse.

Character Poll 2 , as of Chapter 107

1. Naruto Uzumaki – 2,788 votes

2. Kakashi Hatake – 2,635 votes

14. Sakura Haruno – 359 votes

14th Position! Despite the fact she is from a trio of characters that are the most focused on. Not only the other Konoha rookies rank above her but even Gambunta ( the frog ) overtakes her.

In Character poll 3 , 4 ( chapter 199 ), 5 ( chapter 245 ), 6 ( chapter 292 ) and 7 ( chapter 531 ) her ranking becomes 9 , 10 , 8 , 12 and 12 respectively , while the other Team 7 members never leave Top 4. Characters with less panels and appearances repeatedly overtake her.

It is not an exaggeration to say that she was widely disliked as a main character. She has been repeatedly bashed, on Japanese online forums as well as by the author. ( more on this later )

All this of course doesn't mean that she doesn't have a fanbase, oh she has! a very loyal one and a particular kind at that . Women who love Sakura tend to be fans of Shoujo/Josei , something you can notice if you have come across SasuSaku artworks.

When Naruto ended , the majority of their comments were congratulating Sakura on her long one sided crush being finally reciprocated and how happy they were for her. Sasuke fans couldn't care less about the relationship as her character has hardly any effect on his story ( that is, until Gaiden came along and angered many people)

There is a noticeable difference in how JP artists portray their relationship in comparison to their western counterpart. The former portrays it as a 'puppy love' like between an idol and a fan. The appeal of the relationship comes from Sasuke, who is the classical male ideal and Sakura who is deeply ' loyal' to him , who then gets rewarded for it. It is one of the reasons why it only shot up in popularity post-ending.

On the other hand, the latter seems to believe that Sakura is Sasuke's equal, that she challenges and influences Sasuke, despite the fact that she becomes a doormat in front of him and according to Sakura's own words she couldn't come close to Sasuke's heart.

I have discussed why some Japanese fans like Sasuke/Sakura as it may appeal to their taste but these fans don't make much of the fanbase.

Case in point, one of the most hyped SasuSaku material i.e Sasuke Retsuden only managed to sell about 17k copies for the weeks it charted, in Comparison Naruto J Novels 1-7 sold about 470K when it was in circulation back in 2008.

Even the manga adaptation piggybacking on the anime couldn't even sell 40K copies for the first volume.

There was a time when Sasuke's name alone would be enough for a manga to sell out but the truth is that not only the majority of Naruto fans have moved on since 2015, even the loyal fans aren't interested in this content.

After Gaiden came out, Both Sakura and her relationship received harsh criticism, the 2channel threads kept bashing her and Kishimoto of the poor handling of the relationship.

Some of the snippets

"..with the release of Gaiden, the author just had worsened what was already bad. I guess he lost his willpower to write.”

“I was expecting before Sasuke and Sakura’s feelings would be shown in Gaiden but was edited out...because back time I thought I saw some spoilers that Sasuke and Sakura had gotten closer.

But now there’s no way there was some edit, no, this whole thing is a fucking lie.”

"A natural progress of loving, to slowly get accustomed and come to love someone, yeah I can’t imagine this with Sasu/Saku. Such extremely weird couple, how are they supposed to get used with each other over time? This is the vibe I get.

This relationship feels weird in my head, maybe I’m asking for too much to find a reason behind this.

But Kishimoto’s Sasu/Saku bonds is completely empty, I guess it’s funny that there’s nothing to add in it.”

"Sakura’s feelings is over the top terrible. She’s able to be happy with this..”

The thread is VERY long but you get the gist of it.

Fun fact : In 2015 Sasuke/Sakura was 6th most voted couple that should Break-Up by Japnese readers

Accusing others of not understanding their relationship because they apparently don't get their supposedly "culturally contextual relationship" is quite stupid and laughable because it's also hated by many Japanese people. It's only popular with a specific set of audience.

Which brings me to the other argument.

"Sasuke/Sakura is the most popular Naruto couple in Japan"

While this might be true today, it has not always been the case. Sasuke/Sakura shot in popularity post-Naruto ending while the most popular pairing throughout the run of the series (Sasuke/Naruto) declined. ( If anybody has the pixiv stats from 2012/13 , please feel free to add)

Take a look at this Naruto couple ranking list in Japan from 2012 ( the rankings are based on Google Japan results if I am not wrong)

サス��ル (SasuNaru) —- 166,000 res.

ナルサス (NaruSasu) —- 78,400 res.

サスサク (SasuSaku) —- 54,700 res.

There's quite a large gap.

Even in 2016, 2 years after Naruto ended and many Sasuke/Naruto artists deleted their artworks or moved on from the fandom , it still rivaled SasuSaku in popularity on pixiv

SasuNaruSasu サスナルサス 9.502 works

SasuSaku サスサク 8.150 works

For other East Asian countries, I wrote about how SasuNaruSasu is the largest pairing in China with no close second . I am unfortunately not familiar with the Korean fandom.

I will make a separate post for the Chinese Naruto fandom but they are very brutal against the Sasuke/Sakura relationship.

This is the general sentiment there :

Sasuke married Sakura to atone for his mistakes

10 K Likes

#anti sasusaku #sasunaru #narusasu #naruto #my post #anti ss

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the-garbanzo-annex-jr · 16 days ago

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by Kassy Akiva

Scott Hayes, 48, will likely avoid trial after shooting an anti-Israel man who tackled him last September during a protest in Newton, Massachusetts.

Hayes was charged with assault and battery with a dangerous weapon and released on a $5,000 bail last year after he shot Caleb Gannon, a man wearing a pro-Palestinian pin, who allegedly charged through traffic and attacked Hayes. Hayes pleaded not guilty and said shooting Gannon in the stomach was an act of self-defense.

A judge ordered that Hayes will not go to trial for the charges of assault and battery if he completes a probationary period that was agreed upon by Hayes’s lawyer and the district attorney’s office.

The conditions of the probationary period will remain in effect until September 13 — the day after the anniversary of the incident — and require Hayes to stay out of Newton, except for attending religious services, medical appointments, or passing through the city while traveling elsewhere. He is also prohibited from contacting Gannon, must complete an online course on civil discourse, and will have his license to carry a firearm suspended until that date.

Another condition requires Hayes to seek and apply for employment, including at least three job searches a week. After the incident, the Iraq War veteran lost his job conducting natural gas leak detection, surveys, and inspections for a company contracted by National Grid, one of Massachusetts’ largest utility providers.

If Hayes violates the conditions, he will go to trial.

In March, Hayes said the office of Middlesex County District Attorney Marian Ryan backed out of finalizing a disposition to resolve the case outside of court after both sides disagreed on the terms of the pretrial probation. The main point of contention was whether Hayes should be barred from entering Newton — a city he has been free to visit since October, when a judge lifted his ankle monitor requirement and restrictions on entering the suburb where Gannon lives.

“Today’s agreement was the second best option,” Hayes told The Daily Wire. “The first would have been a full dismissal of the charges immediately but the DA played politics with my case instead of following the law. The Commonwealth brought a very weak case to the table that in most states wouldn’t have made it this far along the process.”

Hayes said that Ryan’s case relied on two of his social media posts from 6 months before the incident.

“I know what I did on 9/12/24 was right,” Hayes said. “I have no regrets for my actions that day as it saved my friends’ lives. My attacker was actively trying to take my firearm from me and I am sure he would have committed murder if he had succeeded.”

#scott hayes #caleb gannon #newton massachusetts

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deadatsuko001 · 2 months ago

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A list of types of people I completely despise:

1. zoophiles

2. pedophiles

3. rapists

4. proshippers and anyone who supports/promotes incest

5. people who do drugs for fun and also pushes people into it "cause it's fun"

6. people who cry about their problems but don't even try to fix them

7. people who make everything a competition

8. people who bring race, gender, nationality and anything like that into fights (that's not a valid argument you dumb fuck)

9. people who fake mental illness, lie about their life and stuff like this (people actually go through shit. fucking shut up)

10. rich people (they always have an annoying personality)

11. these brainlets that sais "my mental illness is so silly/makes me look hot" (you don't fucking know the hell people with real problems go through)

12. people who have everything they want/their life is perfect but they try to find any minor inconvenience to cry about

13. pedobaiters/zoobaiters (understandable from point 1 and 2)

14. people who have fucked up fetishes/kinks but not as a coping mechanism (like being into mentally ill people or liking age playing)

15. people who like olives (sorry this one is a joke. I just don't like olives. moving on...)

16. people who think all cases of murders are bad and immoral

17. people who say "at the end of the day we all bleed red" (yes, we all are humans but some of us are bad and some are good. fucking put your brain at work)

18. people who destroy their life on purpose to attention farm

19. narcissistic and histrionic people (not a problem with you personally as long as your actions don't affect someone else. fucking stop putting innocent people down)

20. teachers. yes. all of them. no exceptions

21. people who can't see the bad things behind immigrants (think about it cause this is NOT about the families and people who are trying to live a better life)

22. people who make kids without wanting them even tho in their country abortion is legal (this is more about these women who make children then hate them or dads that leave)

23. people who don't believe in mental health

24. people who support patriarchy (it's 2025 and we still didn't evolved)

25. people who make fun of others for doing mistakes/typos in English (Emily, not everyone is American. get out of your bubble or attend geography classes for once)

26. sensitive people (and by this I mean these who call everything asianfishing, racist, anything chronically online like that)

27. religion wars (can we fucking accept already that we come from various places with different backgrounds? of course we are different you stupid shit)

28. also people who push their religion on others (it literally doesn't work like that)

29. people who talk with so much pride about their religion but they did all the sins in their book

30. presidents and anyone who works in the governments (no exceptions. they're all liars and money hungry)

31. people who sais they're broke (or really are broke) but have enough money to buy themselves expensive stuff (buy yourself some food, you're dumb?)

32. only fans influencers (men and women. men and women. exception: cases where money is really really needed and employment doesn't pay you enough because of this fucked up economy we live in)

33. people who get in relationships because "they're bored" or "needed a plot"

34. people who sexualize sex (it sounds hypocritical but I'm more talking about these sex workers or these who fuck around for fun. bring back seeing sex as something that bounds your soul to the person you love even if it's before marriage or you change partners. shit happens in life and it's understandable)

35. people who pick on others for no reason

36. people who do bad rage baits (bring back pineapple on pizza type rage baits)

37. people who try to be edgy (no one is scared of you, fuck ass. calm down)

38. people who get in dramas that aren't theirs

39. people who support the bad sides of AI (like using it to generate nudes of someone or to put down artists)

40. people who don't listen the others' part of story (misunderstanding or misinformation exists, dumbass)

41. people who put their partners over their kids but also people who totally forget about their partners after they get kids

42. people who get married too fast (you don't know what might wait for you after the wedding. wait. life isn't that short)

43. people who judge others for things that don't affect them

44. people who glamorise bad people/actions for no reason at fucking all

45. people who try to be something they aren't (for example forcing yourself to listen to a type of music you don't like just because you want to be tuff. literally just stfu)

46. people who put labels by how someone looks like

47. popular people (most of them have fucked up personalities)

48. people who start fights they can't handle

49. people who sees your warning about your mental health but then expect you to act like a normal person

50. people who sais an artist's songs aren't good just because their reputation is problematic

51. people who put labels on people because of their past

52. people who make lgbt their whole personality (you know what I'm saying)

53. people who promote shit like pornography to kids/on apps frequented by minors

54. people who make out in public

55. people who act like they know everything but you can tell they know shit when they start to talk about a subject

56. posers.

57. people who follow trends and make a big deal out of it (excessively)

58. people who hates kids (we get it that you don't want kids in the future but stop saying you wouldn't feel bad if you would beat up one, you failure piece of meat)

59. people who beat up/kill animals (not including food)

60. people who use others' trauma as comebacks (still not an argument, you insensitive shit)

61. people who think you should just take hate from others just because you're older (I will argue and fight with whoever pisses me off. I don't give a fuck if you're 3 years younger)

62. any type of abusers

63. people who can't tell the difference between words and actions

64. people who hates on others just because they're a beginner at what they're doing

65. people who cry about their weight but never touched a gym in their life

66. people who promote eating disorder or sees it as something cool (said by someone who never had one. this is living proof you guys aren't woke)

67. people who sais smoking/drinking is for pussies (some of us use it as a coping mechanism. maybe you should just put a cock in your mouth and stfu)

68. people who think they're better than others for never having sex or not feeling sexual attraction

69. people who doxx as an argument (unless that doxx is really deserved)

70. people who bullies others to death and feel proud of it

71. people who don't take accountability for their actions (you fucking pussy)

This list will keep getting updated. Idc if you're mad at it. If you get mad then you know you're the problem.

#digital diary #chronically online #basement dwellers #doomer #shut in #girl rotting #jirai lifestyle #menhera #yanblr

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satoshi-mochida · 3 months ago

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BOKURA for PS5, PS4 delayed to summer - Gematsu

Publisher Kodansha and developer Tokoronyori have delayed the PlayStation 5 and PlayStation 4 versions of two-player puzzle adventure game BOKURA from their previously planned April 18 release date to sometime this summer.

BOKURA first launched in Early Access for PC via Steam on February 14, 2023, followed by a full release across Switch, PC, iOS, and Android on August 10, 2023.

From today until April 17 at 9:59 a.m. PT / 12:59 p.m. ET, the PC version of BOKURA will be on sale for $1.79, or 70 percent off its standard $5.49 price point. All versions of the game include cross-platform support.

Here is an overview of the game, via Kodansha:

About

This is a two-player only puzzle adventure game. It is a two-player game played on two devices. Although it is a cooperative game, what you see on the screens of both players is completely different. For example, although they should be looking at the same person, to one it looks like a storybook animal character, while to the other it looks like a robot. (The difference in perception causes the objects on the field to work differently in each world.) Players share what only they can see with their partner through conversation. They continue their journey by cooperating to solve riddles and puzzles. Players can also play online while talking to each other at a distance. The basic game system is a side-scrolling puzzle adventure with a two-player cooperative element. During the course of the story, players are faced with a number of critical choices. Depending on the choices made, the story will unfold in several different ways.

Story

Two boys who ran away from home discover a “dead deer” on their journey. Seeing it, they faint and everything they see in each other’s eyes becomes different. One is the world of animals, the other is the world of machines. The boys must unravel the mystery that happened to them. Can they return to their original world?

Key Features

The main difference between this game and other games is that you need a partner to play with.

You cannot play this game alone or against the computer (CPU).

Two players are always required.

In other words, this game starts by deciding “Who will you play with?” The game starts with the decision of “who to play with.”

The total playing time is about three to four hours. During that time, the two players discuss with each other and reconcile their perceptions, solve problems, and make critical decisions

#Bokura #Tokoronyori #Kodansha #co-op game #Gematsu

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sweetmariihs2 · 11 months ago

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SOFIA THE FIRST ˚ ୨୧ ⋆ 🪻₊ ⊹ BRAZILLIAN MAGAZINE - MASTERLIST

(it was also produced in other countries but the versions I own are all brazillian) (this commercial is in spanish)

youtube

I made this "masterlist" to make a compilation of all the links of all the magazines that I scanned and posted here on Tumblr. Instead of interacting with each one of those posts, you can interact only with the masterlist, and it will be a lot easier to access (and support with reblogs, if you want to, of course)

I only own the following editions: 2, 8, 9, 10, 12, 14, 15, 18. They're the only ones I'm going to scan at least for now. Also, every magazine has around 20-30 pages so each magazine will be divided in more than one post.

2nd edition:

I didn't scanned this one. This magazine is in spanish and it came from Argentina. It's not brazillian but it's from the same collection of magazines. I couldn't find the brazillian version due to most of this collection being lost media.

8th edition:

part 1

part 2

part 3

9th edition:

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

10th edition:

part 1

part 2

part 3

12th edition:

part 1

part 2

part 3

14th edition:

part 1

part 2

part 3

15th edition:

part 1

part 2

part 3

18th edition:

part 1

part 2

part 3

5th and 20th editions:

That was all :)

They're difficult to find, so I just own these ones. Originally I was planning to upload these at Google Drive, but some complications got in the way and I decided to post them here. Maybe I'll add more, but for that I will need to buy, scan and then post each part before adding it to the masterlist.

I also tried to make a "bingo" to mark the ones I own but I couldn't find many of these covers and that's why there are missing spaces here. We can't find even just the covers on the internet please help

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columbiauniversity-schoolboard · 1 year ago

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‎

With the end of the semester approaching fast, Columbia wants to settle out a guide for this year's summer if any students might be interested.

L͟e͟a͟r͟n͟ m͟o͟r͟e͟

NYC Residential Summer

Whether you are enrolled and pursuing a degree at Columbia College or the School of Engineering, are a graduating senior completing your degree this academic year, or are simply planning to attend one of University's select summer programs, Housing offers options for living on campus during the summer semester.

Online Summer

Join our programs from anywhere in the world and experience interactive classes with high-achieving peers and dedicated instructors, engaging co-curricular activities, and resources like our online library. Monday through Friday, students will join their virtual classrooms to refine their academic skills through a variety of activities—class discussions, debates, simulations, individual and group projects, Student Life workshops, and more.

College Edge: Summer

In the College Edge program, students in grades 11–12 truly get the college experience by earning college credit as they learn alongside Columbia’s undergrad students on our Morningside campus. Students will also receive academic advisement and professional development opportunities.

Columbia’s Summer Course

Columbia students may choose to enroll in summer courses to catch up or get ahead in their academic programs, fulfill prerequisites such as Core requirements, or explore new fields. Whether you’re interested in exploring a budding passion or fulfilling degree requirements, consult with your advisor for approvals and to ensure that you meet the eligibility requirements to register or enroll in Columbia Summer courses.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ☟ SESSION DATES ☟

FULL SUMMER TERM (X)

Dates

May 20–August 9

SESSION A

Dates

May 20–June 28

SESSION B

Dates

July 1–August 9

SESSION G

Dates

May 20–June 14

SESSION J

Dates

June 17–July 12

SESSION H

Dates

June 3–June 28

SESSION R

Dates

July 1–July 26

Registration Dates ☏

Late registration, which is the same for all students, takes place on the second, third, fourth, and fifth days of each session. For some courses, permission from the instructor may be required. A $50.00 fee will be charged during the late registration period. A $100.00 fee will be charged after the late registration period.

Registration for the summer semester will be accepted below with a students name and their term or a teacher and their class.

OOC NOTE: Just like how Student Mods may decide they want to continue through the summer, Teacher Mods should be able too. So, please, comment your respective characters below if they will be able to be present through the summer unless they are absent.

#academic calendar

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singukieee · 1 year ago

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'24 A R C H I V E

—of fics I've read or been reading. this archive is being constantly updated!

[back to NAVIGATION]

♡ : works I'm following closely

☆ : my ultimate favourites (mostly finished)

① : oneshots

Might as well be drunk in love

ceo!bts x reader

In which your friend thought it would be funny to give you a love potion, and in which seven CEOs accidentally drank it.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Strange

idol!bts x businesswoman!reader (jin focus)

You and Jin grew up in an orphanage together. With no parents or family to take care of you, you both looked after each other. But it all changed when he was eventually adopted by a loving family, leaving you all alone. What happens when you're now a grown, successful adult working with him and his six boyfriends?

American Mate ♡

hybrid!idol!bts x human!reader

The Hybrid K-pop group BTS is on tour in America; of course, things don't start out the way they should, but after an encounter with Y/n, things change but will everyone follow Fate?

To Love, To Heal

bts x fem!reader | neighbor au

You’ve thought you’d healed from the pain. The feeling of insecurity, the pain of knowing you’ve given you’re all for it to all blow up in your face, making you the fool. After the antagonizing heartbreak from your ex- husband, you’ve found it hard to open up to anyone since. It’s been years since the breakup, and you’ve thought you’ve moved on and in a way you completely did. You may not harbor any feelings for your ex-husband anymore, but you’ve found that your heart isn’t as open as you initially thought- especially when seven kind and handsome men are striving for your love and affection next door.

House of Addams

bts x private investigator!reader

Private investigator!reader is hired to look into the deaths, disappearances, and disturbances in the small town of Farrow's End, where she meets a gang of weirdos that help her along the way while she vehemently denies her attraction to all seven of them.

Strawberry Princess ♡

hybrid!bts x hybrid!reader

When a certain hybrid starts to appear whenever Jungkook is at the gym, an immediate pull is felt between the two and their eventual friendship soon is spread to the rest of his pack.

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 | CH 10 | CH 11 | CH 12 | CH 13

Neighbors

influencer!bts x animator!oc

A story where a girl who is barely present in social media doesn't know that her new neighbors are famous online stars.

Green ♡

rabbit hybrid!single dad!jungkook x fox hybrid!author!reader

In which you got set up on a blind date with jk, but you didn't know he came as a package. Even tho it started with a misunderstanding, it might be a start for something beautiful.

CHANTAJE ☆

ceo!bts x actress!reader

Being under the watchful eye of the media and your fans, your managers are in desperate need of regaining back your popularity after other influencers who hate you cause mayhem to your life. what best way to do so by having you pretend to be in a relationship with the popular 7 who are known to be intensely wealthy and stoic? will you be able to regain their trust or will they go with their promise of damaging your reputation even more?

Penny for your Ghosts ♡

hybrid!bts x hybrid!reader | ghost hunter au

The world is haunted. There's ghosts, so many in fact that sometimes it feels like they're taking over the living. Incidents are on the rise, ghost related injuries and deaths are getting worse and more common, fear is taking place in hearts of those still here.

And the only ones who are born with the gift, with the ability to see, hear and fight this epidemic, are hybrids. Between the countless agencies and corporations ran by humans exploiting hybrids' gifts for profit, you desperately try to apply your gifts and end up at a small shunned hybrid ran agency fighting to help people and gain respect.

Change My Mind

idol!bts x makeup artist!reader | soulmate au

As a make-up artist, you were expected to glamorize your clients with brushes and products that cost a week-worth of food, not to befriend them outside of work, let alone have them save you from dates yet here you are five years later as one of their closest confidants. Being a stylist of the world's biggest boyband is no easy feat, someone is doing flips, someone can't stay still and one's asleep but its fine, you can work around their chaos but what you can't do is accept the fact that they're your soulmates.

Dragonheart

dragon!bts x knightess!reader

The Gong-li Empire has been on the peak of its power for a little over a millenium, and there was a very simple reason for that - dragonkind. When the first emperor of the Li Dynasty struck a deal with a witch that would allow him to bind dragons to the crown and force them into obedience, it was the beginning of its reign of terror and the end of freedom for creatures as old as nature itself.

Now, a woman hoping to change everything enters the ranks of the elite dragon rider unit among the imperial army and meets seven men that not only change her life, but help her change the fate of the whole world.

Moonchild ♡

werewolf!bts x reader

Working at a coffee shop that only opened in the late hours of the night was the most exciting thing about your life, really. You never had that many friends, your love life was nonexistent, and you just couldn’t explain the feeling of not belonging that chased you no matter where you tried to find your place. It was when seven very handsome strangers came into your life that weird things started happening around you and within you. Could they be the ones to fill in what’s been missing? Or would getting involved with them and their world put you in danger?

['21 ARCHIVE]

['22 ARCHIVE]

['23 ARCHIVE]

#san recs #bts recs #bts fic #fics recs #hybrid bts #bts x reader #bts #bts fanfic

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nostalgiclittlespace · 7 months ago

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Insight on dissociative disorders and age regression?

Later on I want to make a post simply discussing the dissociative aspects of age regression, but before I do that I’d appreciate some insight from people with conditions such as DID, OSDD, depersonalization/derealization, and other similar experiences. This is for 2 reasons.

Firstly, of course, is that I want to hear about other people’s experiences, and become more educated on the why and how others in the community use regression to cope. Really the only literature and education you’ll find on age regression is through people sharing their stories online, so furthering these conversations and discussing them openly is something really important to me, and others as well I’m sure.

The second reason is more personal. I don’t use this blog to vent very often, and this isn’t even really that, just to discuss my experiences with dissociation to see if anyone can relate and/or provide some advice because I’m trying to figure this all out. Anyway, here it goes: I’ve known for a long time that I experience some about of dissociation. I have episodes where I feel like I’m completely cut off from my body and the world, that I’m in a dream, and I can’t react emotionally—this namely happens when the depression gets bad.

I don’t really think I have alters. I don’t have memory gaps or precise differing identities, or even a trauma that would have caused me to split. (Everything I experience is just caused by me being neurodivergent, depressed, and stressed as far as I know) That being said, I know I’m extremely compartmentalized. Just in the way I regulate my emotions and actions, sorting them into what I’m allowed to feel, what I’ll react to later (when I’m alone), etc.

When this happens I’ll often get mood swings, ranging from a few minutes to several hours. I’ll jump from being extremely depressed, can’t get out of bed, to loving life and feeling amazing. The “I’m so exhausted, I can’t do this,” to “I’m living my best life.” With these swings, my general perceptions and motivations change too; I could be really angry at someone when I’m in a low, but feel sympathy for them at a high. What I perceive as someone crossing my boundaries or taking advantage of me at one moment seems perfectly reasonable later.

I especially feel this is relation to my age regression. I slide around in ages, usually to reflect what the situation or my emotional state calls for. These ages will also coincide with what I’ve mentioned above. When I’m in that really dark, lonely place, I feel like I’m regressed to 10-12. When I’m cheerful and playful I feel between 5-9. Moody but functional is 13ish, being the mature responsible adult of the family feels 20 something (older than I am bodily even)

I’ve seen very mixed opinions on endogenic systems, but could this be something similar? Like I said, I don’t have PTSD, just ongoing stress, that causes the shifts in personality, demeanor, and mental age. And I don’t think I’m bipolar, as everything I experience is rooted in dissociating, I don’t have extreme manic or reckless episodes, it’s almost always dictated by outside influences, and my depression isn’t severe enough is really impede daily functioning, though I might be wrong. I don’t even know how to put it into words, but the depersonalized, mood swings, and age regression combined just make it hard to get a clear picture of myself and my identity. Does anyone else relate to this? Is there a specific dissociative disorder that can explain it? I would really appreciate it if anyone would share their thoughts, even just to rule some stuff out, suggest what to look into, etc.

Thank you all for sticking around for this rambling, I appreciate it.

Happy regressing, everyone :)

-Marty

#sfw interaction only #sfw regression #age regressor #agere blog #age regression caregiver #agere little #age regression community #agere community #sfw agere #little space #Age regression discussions #did osdd #did system #did agere #osdd regression #dissociation

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moistvonlipwig · 1 year ago

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9, 10, and 12 for BtVS and/or AtS!

9. worst part of canon

OK, I'm splitting this into 2 answers, one for BtVS and one for AtS. For BtVS there are many contenders I could choose from -- I think Willow's magic addiction arc completely derailed her character, I think Spike's attempted rape of Buffy completely derailed both of their characters since the network was never going to get rid of Spike which meant that S7 had to be in large part about Buffy forgiving him, I think Buffy's choice to activate the potentials worldwide without their consent fundamentally undermines the themes of the show -- but I am going to go with the actual Slayer mythology they came up with in S7 because it is so incredibly racist.

As a refresher, in 7.15 "Get it Done" Buffy finds out through a ritual that places her in the shoes of the First Slayer (who, in another classic racist BtVS move, is never named by the show) that the Slayer was created when the precursors to the Watchers, the "Shadow Men", forced the spirit of a demon into a human woman. Which, OK, sure, but the actual scene frames this act as a metaphorical gang-rape perpetuated by a bunch of nameless black men against the First Slayer -- who, again, is represented in this scene by Buffy, a white woman. Which is bad enough, but it doesn't actually end there -- in 7.21 "End of Days" we meet a "Guardian", one of a group of women who created the Scythe and hid it away from the "Shadow Men" (terrible name with racist undertones) so it could one day be used by the Slayer. This woman, who is presumably from the same geographical location & time period as the First Slayer & the "Shadow Men"...is a blonde white woman. Because of course she is. :| Anyway, it's awful and racist and I hate it so much.

For AtS, there are also many contenders --I think Fred's death is hideously misogynistic, I think the implication in 4.15 "Orpheus" that Angel & Angelus are literally two different people is deeply damaging to the character & show, I think the fact that all the narratively important female characters are dead before the finale speaks for itself -- but I have to go with one specific, oft-underdiscussed yet crucial aspect of the Jasmine-possessing-Cordelia arc in S4. Which is that the audience is not let in on the fact that Cordelia is not herself until 4.12 "Calvary", and in 4.07 "Apocalypse, Nowish", Jasmine has sex with Connor while possessing Cordelia, an act that we the audience are meant to find objectionable & disgusting even without knowing about the possession. But because the audience does not know about the possession, the blame for this act of pseudo-incest falls on Cordelia. So for six straight episodes, the other characters and the audience are not just permitted but actively encouraged by the show to blame & vilify a woman for her own rape. I think that's utterly vile and it's by far the worst element of the S4 debacle. If I could change only one thing about the show, it would be that.

10. worst part of fanon

I know you've said you aren't so tapped in to the online side of fandom so I am truly sorry if I am the one who must inform you that there are a sizable number of people on this website who are very attached to the idea that Spike (yes, that Spike) is a lesbian. I don't just mean they make jokes about it; there are entire metas about why Spike is actually a woman and why Spuffy is a lesbian relationship. So, uh. If you didn't know. Now you know.

12. the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

See this is tough because the culture has changed so much on this site that I don't even know who's unpopular anymore! Cordelia and especially Dawn used to be unpopular on Tumblr but I don't actually think they are these days. I don't think Gunn is unpopular either though I do think he's underappreciated. But in terms of actually unpopular characters I am going to go to bat for my mans Connor Angel. I do think the writing did not always serve him very well but his actions are completely sympathetic if you get inside his head and he is also so so funny and sassy like all 3 of his parents. (Angel, Darla, & Cordelia. NOT counting Holtz. He can choke.)

#thanks so much for this ask i love kvetching about the buffyverse and its fandom <3 #occidentaltourist #well love is love and not fade away #it's what you do afterwards that counts

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elkvillage · 11 months ago

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I'm moving to France in the fall for grad school (exciting!) and would just like to elucidate all the steps involved, perhaps as a warning: 0. Figure out the french education system to see if I should apply to the first or second year of the French master's program (it's the second) 1. Apply online to the university 2. Print out the application and mail it to them (?!) 3. Wait for offer, accept it 4. Register with messervices.etudiant.gouv.fr 5. Pay the CVEC fee 6. Register for the university by providing personal information and information about past and future studies, and identification documents 7. Pay tuition 8. Register through the university systems (email, etc) 9. Provide the identification documents again, this time through a different interface that is manually verified 10. Provide a different identification photo after the first is rejected 11. Get proof of registration, use this to apply for housing 12. Create Etudes en France account, complete application 13. Pay extra for expedited processing of said application because the university only gave the offer this month ---- present time ---- 14. get processed application, complete french visa application 15. Take the train to the nearest french consulate, attend in person interview 16. Receive physical visa, hopefully in time 17. Go to france, move in, ... 18. Validate visa in France 19. Register with french social services 20. Register with post office, open french bank account, ... This of course is not counting the steps where I attempt to do one step, and then realize that it has secret prerequisites that i need to do first (which was most of them!)

#I realized moving countries and universities would require a lot of admin but the amount is staggering #My poor understanding of french has also not made this easy :P #Minnesota should join the schengen area

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hide-in-imagination · 2 years ago

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"Roads That Cross... even when you don't want them to"

You can read the previous chapters here: (1),(2), (3), (4), (5), (6), (7), (8), (9), (10), (11), (12), (13), (14), (15), (16), (17), (18), (19), (20), (21), (22), (23), (24), (25), (26), (27), (28)

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

“Don’t you think it’s suspicious that we always excuse ourselves from the dinner table at the same time?”

Ámbar’s voice didn’t sound at all worried while asking him that, merely curious, with a little tint of amused mischief. Then again, Simón thought to himself, her voice always had that ring to it.

Ámbar turn on the lights as they walked into her bedroom, and Simón shut the door behind them. “Everyone knows we’re together; I don’t think it looks weird.” He took some steps and wrapped his arms loosely around Ámbar’s waist. He smiled. “They probably think I just say goodnight to you and go to my room.”

“If they knew,” Ámbar said, and then tilted her head up to kiss him, cupping his jaw. “Do you think I’m a bad influence?” She asked next. “For making you break the rules?”

Simón held her hand against his cheek. “I would break them a thousand times over in order to see you,” he said with a fond smile. “But I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I love how you make me feel.”

Ámbar gifted him with one of those rare smiles, the kind she only ever showed to him— Warm and sweet, softening all of her features into a face of adoration. “I love it too.”

She placed a soft kiss on his lips and then a short peck on the tip of his nose before pulling away.

“Would you help me?” She asked, crossing her room over to the closet. “I bought some new bedsheets and a bed cover online and they arrived today. I thought we could put them on now since we gotta make the bed anyway.”

“Yeah, of course.” Simón had already grown used to the mundane activity of making the bed with Ámbar. He started by grabbing the pillows and moving them out of the way. Then he pulled the current bed cover and tossed it to the floor too.

Ámbar came back from her closet with the new bed linen in her arms. Everything was almost completely white as far as Simón could see. The new bed cover was the only thing with a design, although it was very minimalistic, just some grey lines along the borders. This surprised him a little, not really because of the color but because it all looked very… plain, not a word he would associate with Ámbar.

“So… no more black bedsheets?” He commented. If she liked the new ones better, he had no issue with it, of course. Well, except one, maybe. “You looked good tangled in them. It contrasted with your skin.”

Ámbar looked at him, eyebrows slightly raised. “You’re in a good mood, huh?” She said amusedly, bumping him with her hip as she passed him to leave the linen on her center table. Simón laughed. “Does that mean it went well with Luna? You talked things out?”

Oh, right. Earlier, during pillow talk, Simón had mentioned to Ámbar that he was thinking about maybe having a talk with Luna. It all started with Ámbar telling him about her conversation with Emilia and how it saddened her a little because she could relate to her, and, although it hadn’t lasted very long, they used to be kind of friends. From there, Simón had told her about his own worries about his friendship with Luna, and Ámbar had supported his idea of talking to her to try and clear things up.

“Yeah, it went well,” he told her. “We talked about things that maybe we should’ve talked about a long time ago.” He reached over to the bed again and pulled out the blanket they had added to their arsenal once the weather started getting cold. “I think it was good for both of us. Actually,” he laughed a little to himself, “some things came up that I had no idea about. I wasn’t expecting that at all.”

Ámbar was working on taking all the bed linen out of their plastic bags. She looked at him curiously. “How so?”

Simón hesitated.

Could he tell her what Luna had told him? Should he? Would Luna get mad at him if he did? But it was just a past thing now, it didn’t matter anymore— Anyone with functioning eyes could see how Luna and Matteo looked at each other. And it didn’t sit right with Simón to hide things from Ámbar.

Plus, hadn’t Luna told Nina back in the day that he was in love with Ámbar? And then even Jazmín found out and made a video about it.

Ámbar was starting to look at him weird for taking so long to answer.

Alright, whatever, she owes me one.

“Okay, I’ll tell you, but don’t tell Luna I told you,” Simón asked of her. “Don’t tell anyone, actually.”

Ámbar’s lips quirked up. There was that mischief in her eyes again. “Oooh, I’m liking this already.”

“So,” Simón balled up the blanket and tossed it to the side, “basically, Luna told me she had feelings for me at some point.” He moved around the bed to pull out the old sheets and leave the mattress bare. “Weird, right? I had no idea. I guess things are kinda even between us now,” he said, amused.

Ámbar was standing perfectly still. If Simón hadn’t been busy with the bedsheets, he would’ve noticed the way her eyes zeroed in on him with the laser focus of a hunter.

“At some point when?” She asked.

“The beginning of this year—”

“I KNEW IT!”

Simón startled. He turned around to find Ámbar gesticulating wildly with her hands.

“I knew it! She was always all over you and staring at you longingly— I knew she was getting ideas! Ugh, how I hate being right sometimes.”

Simón blinked, wrinkling his brows a little. “Okay but, that’s over, she’s way past it now,” he tried to reason.

Ámbar whipped around in his direction. “Well, she better be! She had her chance and she didn’t appreciate it, so she better not start regretting it now because you are with me— With. Me. She can go cry me a river somewhere else.”

She stood with her arms crossed, looking away in the purest image of a tantrum Simón had ever seen. She must have felt his stare because she looked back at him after a while, her mouth pressed in a sulking way. “What?”

Simón couldn’t help it— He was smiling. “You’re adorable when you get jealous.”

Ámbar glared at him. “Don’t you dare start trying to make me jealous on purpose or things are going to get pretty ugly.”

Simón went to her and wrapped his arms around her. “I would never,” he said, dropping a small a kiss on her forehead.

“Mhm,” Ámbar acted skeptical, but the smile on the edge of her mouth was evident. She detached herself from him. “Just help me make the bed.”

They worked in relative silence for the next few minutes, only interrupted by little phrases like “You grab that side and I’ll grab this one” and “Do you think if I paid Maggie enough she’d make this bed again? Because I miss the days when I didn’t have to deal with these things.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not so bad. Look.” Simón put the pillows back against the headboard as the final touch. “Voilà. A total piece of art. We could even do this for a living.”

“My dream job,” Ámbar deadpanned.

“And you know what the best part is?” He said with a smile.

“What?”

“Not a single blanket fell on my head this time.” Ámbar’s face changed immediately. “I was a little worried at first, you know? I mean, I learned the hard way that you and blankets seriously don’t mix,” Ámbar rolled her eyes, “but I said to myself: Simón, you have to do this. You gotta face your fears. You can’t—”

Ámbar threw the old blanket on his head.

“…I guess I spoke too soon.”

Ámbar started laughing.

“Welp, nothing to do now,” Simón kept up the act, putting his hands on his hips. “Guess I’m stuck like this forever. Unless some very generous and very beautiful girl was willing to help me—” Ámbar pulled the blanket off him, allowing Simón to see her pretty smiling face. “Ah, here she is.”

Ámbar shook her head. “How can you be so silly and so cute at the same time?”

“I have a gift.”

His lips vibrated with Ámbar’s laughter when he kissed her. Simón pulled back and held her hands, interlocking their fingers, and they stayed just like that for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes.

Simón’s thumb ran over the back of her hand. “Do you remember that day when the whole blanket thing happened?” He asked her.

“Obviously,” she said, and it warmed his heart that that memory stuck with her as well after all these months.

It was the first time Simón saw her with her whole black getup and her ‘I don’t care about anything or anyone’ attitude. She’d been so determined to hide herself behind cynicism and hostility, swore that was all she had to offer to the world. Simón knew otherwise, but he also knew, from the scars he bore, that he had to stay away lest he got new ones. That day was a confirmation of his fears… and also of the fact that staying away from Ámbar was the last thing he wanted to do.

It was a contradiction and an internal battle, and it all started right then when that blanket fell on him, when Ámbar inched her face a breath from his own and taunted him to admit he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Now here they were, months later. Being this close to Ámbar no longer brought a sense of danger, and knowing everything he knew now, he couldn’t help but wish they’d gotten here sooner.

He let go of her hands in order to hold her lower back. “You know what I wanted to do back then?”

Simón didn’t wait for her to answer— He knew that Ámbar could see it in his gaze. He pressed his lips against hers, with more feeling than before, with the craving of someone that finally got what they’d been needing. Ámbar curled her hand around his nape, wrapped her arms around him tightly as she returned every bit of passion he infused into her mouth. Simón slid one hand into her hair and pulled her closer, securing one arm around her frame. I can do this now, ran through his mind. I can kiss her now, as much as I want, and she loves me, and we’re together.

It was at moments like this that it hit him just how lucky he was.

They pulled apart slightly to catch their breaths. Ámbar’s eyes had darkened, and in them, Simón could see his own reflection. I wish it could always be like this, he thought. If he could engrave Ámbar into his retinas, he would.

She lowered her gaze to his lips. “You know what I wanted to do back then?”

Ámbar put both hands on his chest and pushed him onto the bed, promptly climbing on top of him. A bright laugh bubbled out of Simón. He responded to her enthusiastic kisses until his cheer melted into desire, for he could never not want this breathtaking girl.

Her hands delved under his t-shirt, feeling up his body as her lips left his to devour his neck.

Simón closed his eyes, stretching his neck and letting out a soft groan. “I wouldn’t have complained, you know?”

Ámbar stopped her ministrations and sat up, giving him a look with an eyebrow raised.

“…Fine, I would’ve,” he conceded. Damn his stupid moral compass.

Ámbar smiled and leaned down to kiss him again. Simón held the back of her head and wrapped an arm around her, keeping her against his body as he rolled and switched their positions, bringing her underneath him. Ámbar chuckled against his lips, and it was his turn to exchange these sounds for sighs and moans. Simón wondered if this euphoria would ever fade, if there would come a point in the relationship where they would stop wanting each other all the time. Most probably so. In the meantime, Simón would enjoy the moment.

He prided himself in the fact that Ámbar only seemed able to form a thought when both their torsos were bare.

“Wait,” her hands went to his shoulders, his own currently busy with the buttons of her pants, “the bed cover is new.”

“It’ll get dirty anyway,” Simón mumbled against her skin, not interrupting his kisses down to her navel.

“Simón…”

He groaned, dropping his face on her stomach. He knew separating from her for five seconds wasn’t an agony but sometimes it felt like it. “Fine.” He rose on his hands and pecked her lips. “I’ll bring a towel.”

The bed cover might end up getting soiled anyway if he did his job right, but at least she couldn’t say he didn’t try.

**********************

Afterglow was a luxury Ámbar had only really gotten to experience with Simón. Before, the handful of times she was with Matteo, they hugged a little after the deed was done, but he always wanted a shower immediately, or something to eat, and it wasn’t like Ámbar wanted to stay there covered in sweat either, so they usually parted ways relatively quickly and got dressed.

Ámbar was lying next to Simón now with her head on his chest, and she felt no desire to move any time soon. There was something so relaxing about listening to his heartbeat. She couldn’t explain it, but with him, she didn’t care about the sweat or about food or about anything really. Apart from the obvious clean up, that Simón always took care of because he was sweet like that, Ámbar was more than happy to stay under the sheets with him snuggling like this. To feel his arms around her, to bask in his body heat and his scent. Sometimes, one of his hands would slide up and play with her hair, just like now, and Ámbar would think— This is what total peace must look like.

“I think I’m gonna repaint my room,” she said after a while, not because she needed to fill the silence, just because she’d been toying with the idea for some time and she wanted to share it with him. Maybe it was her greedy nature that, not content with being physically connected with him from head to toe, wanted to connect with words as well.

“Really?” Simón said, curious. “I thought you were joking the other day.”

“I was, but now I really think a change is due here.”

“Mmm.” Ámbar felt the vibration of his voice against her cheek. “I was starting to get used to the punk rock.”

That made her smile. “I think I went too overboard with it all,” she lamented nonetheless. “Minor changes would’ve been better. Now there’s no way to take off all the black, so I’ll have to repaint the whole thing.”

“You’re going back to pink?”

“No, that’d just be the same as before.” She didn’t have a clear image of what she wanted exactly, but what she did know was that she didn’t want to go back to how it all was. “What about grey?” She said, tilting her head up to look at Simón. “That’d be like middle ground with the black.”

He made a face.

“Yeah, you’re right, grey’s too sad.” She laid her cheek on his chest again. “Maybe if it was silver—No, ugh, forget I ever said that. Red? No, orange with golden hues. Lime green?”

“You know, it’d probably be easier if you just paint each wall a different color. Otherwise, you’re gonna be deciding until next year,” he told her, earning a playful swat from her. His laugh shook her head.

“You’re terrible,” she complained fondly. “Also, in that case, I’d have to figure out how to make them all match and, trust me, that would be a hassle. So, stop teasing me and help me.” She sat up, holding the sheets over her chest. “Keep in mind that light colors make the room look bigger.”

Simón also sat up, leaning against the headrest, and thought it over. “Um… what about light blue?” He proposed. “It’d bring out your eyes,” he told her with a smile, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders to tuck her to his side again. “But I’m biased because I like blue.”

“It would bring out my eyes…” Ámbar looked around assessingly, imagining it. “But I don’t know…”

“Orange sounded good.”

She gave him a look. “Let me guess, you also like orange?”

“Busted.” He laughed. “But it also looks good on you. Well, everything looks good on you.”

Ámbar smiled and started playing with his necklaces. She loved doing that, running her hands over his chest and curling her fingers around his guitar picks.

Suddenly an idea came to mind.

“What about purple?”

Simón looked down to where she was holding his purple guitar pick and back to her eyes.

“Purple?”

“Yeah, like a very light purple. Just like…” She turned the guitar pick between her fingers to make it shine, “just like this when it catches the light. It’d be different from the old pink but not too much. But also different enough that one could notice the difference.”

She looked up, curious to see what he thought. Simón’s eyes were already on her face, looking at her with that glistening mix of fondness and disbelief that Ámbar still couldn’t comprehend how it could be directed at her, as if she were so utterly wonderful he couldn’t believe she was real.

“I like purple,” he said softly, with a small smile, warm as the chocolate of his eyes.

It was her who couldn’t believe he was real. Who thanked God for being alive every time she saw him smile.

They kissed softly, reveling in the simplicity and marvel of the contact, and parted with a short peck, like a see you soon of their lips, the send button on an I love you text. They stayed closed together, eyelids shut, just feeling the warmth shared between their bodies and the serene little world that only existed right here, with them, for them, and no one else.

Ámbar ran her thumb over his cheekbone. A little bit of beard grazed her palm. She wondered if he would let her shave him someday, just because.

Delicately, Simón nuzzled her nose with his. “I love you with my life, you know that?”

Ámbar smiled big and inhibited like a little kid. “Me too. To the stars and back.”

Simón shifted and Ámbar instinctively knew to lay her head on his shoulder, where it belonged. They cuddled up together. Simón kissed the top of her head, right before letting his body sag comfortably against her, relaxing completely.

“Wanna take a bath with me?” Ámbar asked after a few breaths.

“Mmm tomorrow,” Simón mumbled.

“We won’t have enough time tomorrow; or do you want to get up at 6 am?” She joked.

Simón whined. “Okay.” He started getting up, every movement slow and heavy. “Wake me up if I fall asleep.”

Ámbar rose on her hands and leaned in to kiss him shortly. “Always.”

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

If Ámbar were to envision her perfect day, it would go something exactly like this.

She woke up next to Simón and they got ready for the day together, all while he tried to make it absolutely impossible for her, hugging her from behind at random intervals and smothering her with kisses.

They had breakfast together, talking about whatever came to mind— old stories they hadn't told each other yet, how they preferred their tea, their favorite foods to have breakfast with, opinions about a TV show Ámbar hadn’t watched but Simón seemed very passionate about, or a song Simón hadn’t heard yet she thought he might like.

On Ámbar’s perfect day, the sun was out even if it was June, and while it was still kind of cold, Simón's hand in hers kept it warm as they walked to the Roller.

Today really was shaping up to be that perfect day. The next box to check on her list would be to have lunch together with her boyfriend, but she told Simón she wasn’t sure when she'd be free for that.

"I have a meeting with the accountant today and I don't know how long it'll take."

Of course, Simón understood. “Oh, right, you told me about that.” He glanced at one of the tables where some customers were calling him over and lifted one hand in their direction, signaling he’d be there in a second. “Well, I’m gonna be around here, so just, let me know when you have the time.”

“You don’t have to wait for me, you know?” She said, feeling a little bad. “You can eat with the guys every now and then.”

“Sure,” Simón said, shrugging. Then he leaned forward with a smirk, placing his hands on the table between them. “But why would I do that when I can have much prettier company?”

“Hey!” Pedro exclaimed from the bar. “I resent that!”

The couple laughed and Simón parted from her table. “Good luck with everything today.”

“You too,” Ámbar told him. “If there’s any problem just let me know.”

Nothing of notice happened during the next few hours though, so morning turned into afternoon with tranquility and Ámbar managed to maintain her good mood, even despite the fact she’d been doing so much planning and math this day she feared she would see Excel spreadsheets in her sleep.

It was a fortunate thing she’d always been good with numbers. Throughout high school, she thought it would come in handy when she studied Business and followed her godmother’s footsteps until she inherited the Benson fortune and everything that came with it. Now though… she could explore other options. Luna would inherit everything anyway. Sure, she could still study Business and, hell, maybe even run the Roller one day while actually knowing what she was doing. But possibilities were endless. Maybe she could become a full-on event planner— She had some experience already and she enjoyed it. Or maybe she should go for a more traditional career, like medicine. She’d always been good at science too.

Then again, she was good at many things because she was smart and worked hard, but it didn’t particularly mean she liked them. She liked being good at something, but would that be enough motivation to build a whole career around?

Thankfully, she didn’t have to think about those things now. And her current job was going well, thanks to the invention of calculators, Microsoft Office, and soon, too, the help of Ana’s accountant friend. Having some of her guidance would make everything much easier.

Footsteps approached her from the left.

“Hello, Ámbar.”

Speaking of which— Right on time.

Ámbar smiled and rose from her seat to greet the woman.

Thump

Wait.

Thump Thump

This is not—

Thump Thump

Nono, she is—

Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump

Surely, somewhere out there the will of the universe cackled.

She should've known there were no perfect days for someone like her.

“What are you doing here?”

It was really a testament to Ámbar’s lifelong experience in hiding her emotions that neither her mouth nor her voice trembled when she spoke.

“Ana called me,” Silvana said. “She said you needed help, so I came here to help you.”

She had a tentative smile on her face. Just like that day. Just like that day when she told her—

Ámbar blocked the memory. “You are the accountant?”

Her luck couldn’t be this bad. This had to be a mistake, or a joke, or a nightmare—

“Yes, that’s my profession,” Silvana replied simply, demurely, like a disgusting goody-two-shoes. “Actually, that’s how Ana and I met a couple of years back. I didn’t know her daughter went to your same school. I was so surprised when I found out.” She was holding her bag in front of her, her grip tight on the handle. She was nervous and trying to hide it. “She told me you’re the manager of this place now.” A smile. “I’m very proud of you, Ámbar.”

‘Proud’?

It took all of Ámbar’s self-control not to scrunch up her face.

Proud of what? You don’t know me. You didn’t want to know me!

This was sick. This was seriously, tremendously fucked up— She was going to barf.

‘I’m very proud of you, Ámbar.’

When was the last time her godmother told her that?

How dare she say this?

She didn’t know all that Ámbar had done, how hard she’d fought to get to hear those words from Sharon, all she’d suffered, cried, hidden, and destroyed, and now she wanted to come here and say that as if it was nothing?

Ámbar straightened her spine and looked her in the eye. “Yes, I am the manager,” she said, cold. “And as the manager, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

This woman’s words meant nothing. She was nothing, and Ámbar wanted her out of her sight.

Finally, the hopeful, calm mask of Silvana faltered. Her brows furrowed. Her smile died. “But Ana said you needed help with the finances. I can help you, let me—”

“I don’t want anything from you, I thought I had made that perfectly clear,” Ámbar said, short and sharply. This woman didn’t deserve to get a reaction out of her but she didn’t deserve her kindness either. “The only thing I want is for you to stay the hell out of my life. If I had known you were who Ana meant, rest assured that I would’ve never asked her to call you. I have enough problems already for you to come and give me more.”

A shadow of misery befell Silvana. Sadness, guilt— Both emotions covered her face, and Ámbar thought, good. She should feel bad, she should feel guilty. But it didn’t make Ámbar feel any better. Nothing about this woman would ever make her feel anything positive, that she was sure of.

Silvana’s pleading eyes looked into hers. “It was never my intention to cause you any trouble, Ámbar,” she said gently. “I know you’re angry. You’re hurt. I understand perfectly but, if you could just give me a chance— I just want to get to know you and for you to know me.”

She took a step forward, a minuscule one.

Alarm bells blasted through Ámbar. Composure abandoned her.

“I want nothing to do with you! Can’t you understand that?!”

“Hey.”

Simón��s voice.

Simón’s voice cut through the sirens and reached her ears as he came to stand by her side.

“What’s going on?” He asked with worry. His hand came around her waist, a gesture so familiar Ámbar wouldn’t have even noticed it normally, but she did now.

She noticed because all of her senses were on high alert. She noticed because, suddenly, that point of contact seemed to be an island in a sea of turmoil. More than that, she noticed because Silvana noticed.

The woman looked from Simón and back to Ámbar again with something brewing in her eyes— Something knowing. Understanding.

A lightning of rage struck Ámbar. This woman didn’t deserve to know about Simón. She didn’t deserve to meet him, didn’t deserve to even know he existed.

So when Simón looked at Silvana and asked, “Who is she?” Ámbar was quick to clarify.

“No one,” she spat out. “She’s leaving.”

Silvana’s face fell. “Would you at least take my number?” She begged desperately. “E-mail? I could help you from afar, you don’t have to see me.”

“No, thanks, I can handle it on my own,” Ámbar said flatly. “That’s how I learned to do things; I’m used to it.”

Silvana grabbed the strap of her purse harder. Her eyes were shining now, coated in unshed sadness, but she swallowed any more pleas and nodded, resigned.

“I understand,” she said, and Ámbar hated, hated, detested, how the devastation in her voice affected her even in the slightest. “I’ll be going then.” Her mouth opened as if she were going to say more, but she seemed to think better of it and caught the words before they could leave her. Silvana pressed her lips together. She turned to Simón instead.

“Take care of her, alright?” Her small, brittle voice asked him.

Ámbar saw red. A storm of rage and other indecipherable emotions broke out inside of her and her hands balled into fists as she tried to contain it, to not scream at the woman every insult she’d ever known. Her whole body was tense. It was a good thing that Silvana left immediately because she couldn’t take this anymore. Even after she could no longer see her Ámbar felt like she was shaking.

“Are you okay?”

It was Simón’s voice again, gentle as the hands he brought to her arms. He stood in front of her, searching her face with features contorted in worry, eyes trying to catch her gaze.

Ámbar had a hard time looking at him right now, or at anything, really. No, she wanted to say. No, I’m not okay. She wasn’t even sure what she felt. She didn’t know if she wanted to scream or break down crying.

She parted from him and sat back at her table. Simón followed, grabbing a chair to sit in front of her. “Who was that woman? Why did you kick her out like that?”

Ámbar breathed deeply. A weird numbness was taking over her body. She couldn’t tell him it was her biological mother. Her mind felt mixed up but whatever part of her brain was in charge of avoiding danger was working in overdrive because she knew that if she told him, then he’d ask how she knew, and if she said Silvana had approached her last year the day of the Vidia competition finals, then he’d know she learned back then that she wasn’t Sol Benson.

Of course, she could lie and make up some other situation in which they had met, but if she lied to Simón now after lying to him what felt like every single day lately, she was going to suffocate and be seriously ill all over the Roller’s floor.

She joined her hands on top of the table, trying to center herself. “She’s an old associate of Sharon,” she said— a half-truth. “They go way back but I only met her last year.”

Simón’s concern only seemed to grow upon hearing Sharon’s name. “And what was she doing here? Did she come on Sharon’s behalf? Did Sharon send her to talk to you?”

“No.” She doesn’t need to send anyone to talk to me, she does it directly. “It turns out that she is Ana’s accountant friend.” Ámbar could spare a brief humorless smile for the irony. “If I had known, I would’ve never told her to contact her.”

Simón frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand— Is she that bad?” He asked, confused. “She looked… very sad. Maybe she regrets working with Sharon. I mean, you say she was associated with her but, what exactly did she do for her? ‘Cause if she was just her consulting accountant, maybe she didn’t even know what Sharon was doi—”

“I just don’t want her near me, okay?!” Ámbar snapped. Out of all things in this world, the last one she wanted right now was to listen to arguments about that woman’s presumed innocence. “I have reasons to want her far away from my life, so if you ever see her around here again, I want you to get her out. I say that as your boss,” she ordered curtly.

Simón looked taken aback, either by her outburst or the content of it. It could’ve been both or neither, Ámbar didn’t much care right now. She maintained her fiery stare on him until he recovered and uttered a reply. “Okay,” he said in a quiet voice. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

Ámbar nodded. “Good.” She brought her laptop closer to herself and focused on the screen. “You can go back to work now, I’ll get back to this.”

Different tabs filled her vision again, but she was too aware of Simón’s presence still in front of her. There was a tentative air upon the table. Ámbar could feel his eyes on her and it rubbed her the wrong way.

She looked up sharply. “Work, Simón,” she sent him away. “I don’t pay you to sit here with me, I pay you to work.”

Whatever had been on Simón’s face turned sour, harsher. “You don’t need to talk to me like that.”

“And how do you want me to talk to you?” Ámbar responded.

Simón stared at her. Ámbar got ready for a counter, a rightful reproach at her tone of voice, an offended complaint. She wanted to fight. She wanted to break something.

Simón’s flare of indignation extinguished in front of her eyes, leaving him with an exhale.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said tiredly.

He got off the chair and walked away.

Ámbar was left a little disoriented, recalibrating.

It took a moment for the guilt to hit.

She cradled the feeling with sick satisfaction. Dug every cutting edge of it into her palms and then added the bloody fragments to her ever-growing collection.

Ámbar drowned herself in her work. She forced her foggy brain to read, calculate, organize, until her head started pounding, and she was relieved, because the physical pain was distracting enough to almost forget the last hour of her life.

She told Pedro she wasn’t feeling well and took her work home.

She didn’t have lunch with Simón that day.

…

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

So. That happened.

Some of you might not know this, but back when season 3 was airing, many people in the fandom were theorizing that Silvana could be Ana’s accountant friend, because we were Delusional™, and in the end she wasn’t and we never saw her again, which I believe is horrendous. So, one of the things I decided early on while writing this fic was that I would make that fandom theory come true and bring Silvana back a bit because I feel like that storyline deserved a little more development, at least.

(Don’t except to see her much though.)

With that being said, I’m happy to announce we’ve officially reached the ‘decline’ part of this story— the ‘everything goes to hell’ arc, if you will. But there’ll be good moments sprinkled in between to balance it out, don’t worry.

Fun fact: the original title of this was “With an accountant” but I figured that made it too obvious what was going to happen so I changed it.

Another fun fact: The only time Simón has seen Ámbar in orange was this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14GYSCGOu-w )

Finally, I noticed something very funny happens here that I wanted to clarify. Simón says “I thought you were joking the other day” while talking about Ámbar’s room, because for them it’s only been a few days, but chronologically, in the time that has taken me to write this fic, it’s been 3 years since that happened SKDJNFKS 🤣😂 So, if any of you RIGHTFULLY don’t remember, he’s referring to chapter 15, the last conversation they have in there.

As always, thank you all so much for your patience, I can’t believe it’s been five years! I’ll try to finish this in no longer than 2 more years because 7 is my favorite and lucky number. See ya around and thank you for reading <3

#simbar #simbar fic #simbar fanfic #soy luna #soy luna fanfiction #My Writing #roads that cross

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