#THE ART REQUESTS HAVE BEEN BOILING FOR A MONTH AT LEAST

[bear-cubs-art-things]

gonna empty my inbox then it's eepy time ^^

[boxofthings]

Originally was gonna write 09 soaproach angst but decided to fulfill this request that was sent months ago (anon I'm so sorry but if you're still around I hope you enjoy!)

This was heavily inspired by THIS art post by @miilkybnn (it hurts me deeply)

09 ghostsoaproach for all you masochists :)

Read on AO3

-- -- --

He can feel the painful snap of his fingernails underneath gloves that claw desperately into rust. The roof tile comes away from the sudden pressure of his weight.

There's heavy smoke in his lungs, and if the universe had given him an extra ounce of precious time, maybe he'd let the smell funnel down into his stomach, imagining for just a moment that it tasted like Villa Clara's.

His heart races as the hand that shoots out for him falls short by mere inches, and his body drops to the ground in a blackened hush.

It doesn't help that their worried voices screech into his shock-delirious brain as he comes to. If he were a less determined man, he'd stay right where he was, admit defeat and fall right back into that blissful, unconscious nothing.

"Roach!"

But he's not. Because despite his wounds, his defeats, his lack of a weapon, and the sheer absurdity of his chances of survival—he wants to live.

And if not that, then at least he wishes hopelessly to have a sendoff with blue and brown eyes to watch over him like guardian angels.

He pulls himself to his feet, limbs screaming at him for mercy, and he runs like it'll be the last time he ever will, and it just might well be.

Bullets and their casings fly through the air like deadly confetti, and Roach can only push forward as the captain's poignant concern rings deep in his ears.

He's probably been shot—multiple times likely, but there's a red over his mind that pumps wild adrenaline through his body. He wonders if, from the safety of the carrier, he must look like a madman.

"Thirty seconds! We're runnin' on fumes here!"

If he makes it out of this, if he lives to tell the tale, this'll be one hell of a conversation starter—one for the history books, that's for sure.

His chest is beginning to burn, and he can feel the familiar, dreadful indication that his legs are starting to drag like stones.

Not yet. 

The only thing that keeps his blood boiling with stubborn life is what awaits for him on that carrier, no doubt with bated breaths and mirrored anxieties.

Fifteen seconds.

Blades slice the air of the sky in pulsating waves; each gust feels like it hits Roach harder as he hangs onto his last drop of fuel like a fraying rope.

So close.

Sliding down the debris of the favelas, each bump another bruise to his body, he can only think of how hard he'll collapse after and if he makes that final leap.

"Jump for it!"

With his tank nearly empty, he musters the remaining energy he has and jumps with his whole heart in his throat. The murky waters below will not be as merciful as the ground of militia-ridden streets.

His fingers make jarred contact with the ladder of the carrier, and he clings to it with heaving breaths that rattle his entire body. In his ear, he hears the sharp intake of a gasp as Nikolai flies them further away from the chaos of gunfire.

He's alive. And he's damn well feeling it if his aching bones and bleeding flesh have anything to say for it.

As soon as he's dragged into the opening of the Pave Low, a deadly grip yanks him into a shuttering embrace.

The lieutenant says nothing at first, only holding him with a restlessness typically reserved for dying men.

"Fuckin' hell."

Fucking hell's right. He falls into Ghost's solid weight with laboured limbs and a pounding heart. If, from now on, the captain decides to bench him for his deficiency in acrobatics, he's not so sure he'll protest.

Behind him, he can feel how Soap's eyes pierce scrutinizing daggers into his back, and he fears the tongue-lashing he'll receive as soon as he turns around.

But when he finally releases from Ghost's arms and meets icy blues, there's a pause in the air from the silence that meets him.

Mouth set in a grim line, fists clenched at his sides, the captain is the epitome of tension. As he watches Roach longer with that look of grievance, his head hangs, shaking it frustratingly and turning away to speak to Nikolai.

Roach can't help how his heart drops down to his stomach, shame pooling hotly down his throat.

The post-adrenaline rush makes his head float, and he's not too certain he didn't earn a concussion from that fall. A shaky exhale takes with it the muscles that keep him standing, and all of a sudden, he feels the brittleness of his bones.

"Bug," Ghost says, hand intertwining with his, pulling him down gently to sit next to him. 

Roach acquiesces easily, slumping down like a sack of flour.

His lieutenant holds his hand tighter, and Roach leans his head on the older's shoulder. 

Despite this victory, he can't help but feel the looming fear of what will come next. His injuries hurt terribly, but he's content to sit like this for just a little bit, pretending for just a moment that everything will be okay.

– – –

The safe house they hunker down in becomes blanketed in a constricted silence as they wait for US forces to transfer them to their next location.

The captain ushers him to the kitchen, first aid kit supplies already splayed out on the table.

Roach feels the beginnings of a timer go off in the space between them.

His commanding officers bracket him, dabbing saline into his wounds and applying gauze over the reds that spread across his skin.

It's only when Soap begins to wrap bandages around his middle does the air around them suddenly freeze into a tangible outrage.

"You bloody fool," he hisses, fingers ripped away from the bandages and digging urgently into the flesh of his arms.

Beside him, Ghost goes still.

"Just how many jumps are you going to miss until it kills you?"

There it is, the bated agony that masks itself as scorn—the dam Roach had been anticipating to burst any minute since he'd made contact with that ladder.

There's anger in the air that feels sharp and critical, but Roach can't fight against it because the underlayer of that deadly heat swirls a deep, visceral anguish. Fear that threatens to rip them apart right through the heart.

"I-" his wretched throat scratches out. There are words he wants to say out loud, words that his captain and lieutenant deserve to hear, but that burn on his tongue trickles deep into his larynx, and it renders him quiet, like a pathetic coward in the face of blame.

"I'm sorry," his hands finish for him, fingers never heavier. And he watches as the captain's face falls so awfully, how the lieutenant turns away like he can't bear to watch him any longer.

Is this what they are doomed to be? Three lovers trapped in a perpetual cycle of fear and loathing, trapped in an echo chamber of a cacophonous "who will be next?"

There are no words to ease their ailing minds because, at the end of the day, who knows if and when they'll become lies?

A sigh. The hands gripped so tightly around his arms drop defeatedly. 

Soap wordlessly exits the room, leaving Roach with a heavy tongue of unspoken atonements. The unfinished wrap of bandages feels like it scalds his skin.

Ghost looks back at him, eyes crushing but quietly soft, something only reserved for Roach and the captain.

He takes up the space Soap had emptied and continues where the other had left off, holding the bandages with sure hands.

"He's just worried," Ghost says as soon as the wrap is secured, helping him slowly put on his shirt.

Roach can't muster the will to look Ghost in the eye, which is a first for them.

The other takes both his hands into his, urging Roach's gaze to land on him.

"Just–be more careful, yeah?"

The fingers that smooth over his battered hands shake like there's an all-consuming dread that threatens to spill right out of every pore.

In a second, they retreat, replaced instead by the warmth of a full body wrapped around him in a desperate embrace.

"You have no idea how it felt, watching it all from the Pave Low."

It's so rare to hear his lieutenant speak so weakly. Such a voice did not suit Ghost, or perhaps it did, as how else were battered and spent soldiers meant to sound? But Roach did not like knowing he was the cause for it.

"You're one hell of a fighter, bug."

So are you, he wants to say, but he knows Ghost won't care for it.

It's not just the sheer, dumb luck that keeps him alive. It's the two men he found at the wrong and right time, in the midst of a war that offers them no comforting promises for the future, but also bringing a lightness at a time where his life had never felt so dark.

He doesn't want to lose this.

He sees a small grin begin to imprint on the lieutenant's balaclava.

At the arch of Roach's brow, he chuckles minutely.

"It's just funny, 'innit? How the roles 'ave swapped." Ghost's eyes crinkle in soft reminiscence. "Years ago, it would've been me stormin' out that door."

Roach mirrors his smile. He remembers the start of it all, how the captain had so readily accepted Roach's affections, open and carefree, before the stakes of war had tipped so precariously to where it was now.

"Probably be needin' me to swoop in and save yer arse wherever we go," the captain had said after Roach had bashfully pressed cold lips to warm ones in an impulsive confession of love.

It was so easy to talk to Soap, as he was everything Roach had strived to be and more. A stable force in his life that made him feel nearly invincible.

And Ghost...well, he was much the opposite, almost averse to that same tenderheartedness that had won over the captain.

He remembers how he got shot, pushing the lieutenant out of harm's way, how the lieutenant had screamed at him once they arrived back on base, how Soap had held him back, and how distraught Roach had felt once he'd stormed out the room, a sizzling anger that took Roach weeks to understand was, in reality, fear.

It's so strange to look back on now, to envision a Ghost who was so pent up with wrath it followed him wherever he went.

It makes him realize how much has changed—is still changing.

Ghost takes off his sunglasses, and like this, Roach can stare into pretty browns that gaze at him lovingly.

"Back then, I just never knew how to express my damn emotions."

Roach brings the lieutenant's face closer to him, kissing slowly regardless of the fabric that separates them.

"You do now, though," Roach signs when they break apart.

Ghost eyes crinkle when he smiles. "Only for you two."

– – –

Ghost had shooed him away when he tried to help clean up the mess of bloodied cotton balls and scattered gauze pads.

He'd taken this as his sign to seek out the captain. Pushing the door to the only bedroom slowly, like a child in worry of waking their parents.

Soap sits on the edge of the bed, hands clamped together with his head hung low—lost in turbulent thought. It shoots right up at the creak of the door hinge.

For a moment, neither man knows what to say, Roach shuffling closer till the older has to look up at him.

When he opens his mouth, the captain's arms shoot up to drag the sergeant down onto his lap in the tightest hug he's ever received from the other.

"God, you're so stupid," he whispers, head burying deep into Roach's chest as if he wanted to be merged with it. "Why'd I get assigned such a dafty for a sergeant?"

A melancholic lilt seeps to his lips as he rests his cheek on Soap's head.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, as sincere as his love is true.

Soap's head lifts, hands flying to Roach's face, and he can see the desperate ache in those eyes. 

"Don't be sorry, you oaf. You nearly died." The crack in the captain’s voice strikes a chord so deep in Roach’s chest that it almost makes him cry.

There's a weight that sits like a thousand marble statues on the captain's shoulders, and with each passing day, Roach sees as that load drags heavier behind him.

"Funny how history repeats itself. First mission with my captain, nearly falling to my death. First mission as captain with my sergeant doing the exact same."

He'd said it right after their first stint in Kazakhstan.

It was meant as a jest to lighten the post-haze of a near-death experience, but Roach had seen the slight cynicism in the captain's eyes that he had yet to pick apart.

Weeks later, he'd sit outside the base during the quiet of the night, with MacTavish's cigar flicking soft light into the darkness, and understand, for the first time, that the captain was just a man, just like him. A soldier with burdens like everyone else.

"With every man that I lose on a mission is another ghost that haunts me when I go to sleep."

"It's not your fault," the sergeant had said then, and meant it earnestly, because how could Captain John MacTavish—the man who'd jump after you if you fell into a pool of molten lava if it meant even the slightest chance of saving you—ever be to blame for the death of a soldier?

But it was more than just that. It was the spectre of a past mentor, one that left daunting footsteps to fill that Soap had fought with every breath to satiate with justice.

It had made the beast of a man before him appear so painfully human, and Roach had only yearned for him more because of it.

Now, as they hold each other, Roach can see how that weight must feel like the most crippling force. And he knows how deeply every failure hits the other like real bullets.

When he'd nearly drifted off in the Pave Low, he'd caught the tail-end of a hushed exchange between Ghost and Soap. Voices tense, waiting to snap any minute.

"I couldn't catch him," the captain had muttered, broken off and deprecating.

Soap picks at the hem of Roach's shirt, inhaling sharply when he sees the bandage peek out.

"One day," he starts, and it's melancholic yet intimate like Soap had thought of it a million times. "There'll be a mission where I won't be there to catch you."

Roach frowns, seeing that familiar burden of responsibility that the captain readily throws onto his shoulders.

"It's not your job to."

Fists clench around his shirt.

"Yes, it is," he says fiercely. "If not as your captain, then-"

His mouth hangs open, words caught in the emptiness of the air around them, and Roach can't bear to look at that awful anguish in Soap's eyes.

Then as someone who loves you.

It makes his chest hurt how easy it all was before—or maybe not easy, but how much less consequential their actions meant back then—when their love had only been labelled as one-off jokes, when the task force wasn't stretched so thin and smaller than when it had started. When Roach could say he cared for someone and not have to worry whether they'd disappear to ash the next day.

"I'm sorry," Roach offers instead, "for making you worry." It feels like it's all he can say.

The smile he receives is bittersweet, but it's such a rarity nowadays to see anything happier. Even so, he wishes he could fix it—to smooth out those worry lines that make the other look so haggard.

The captain tilts his head, surging tentatively to capture Roach's lips in his own, and the kiss makes him think of everything that defines their relationship.

When rough lips touch his own, it's so familiar, like the nostalgia of a home that exists only in his mind. The tang of cigars and the bitterness of Earl Grey tea. How does he even begin to describe how intrinsically this love has changed him?

Such small things that he previously couldn't have cared less about now mean everything to him. And it makes him notice all the things that only he is meant to notice.

Like how Ghost prepares coffee in the mornings, despite preferring tea, all because the captain and himself once mentioned they only slightly prefer it to the latter.

Like how Soap begrudgingly supplies the base with that shitty off-brand version of Earl Grey that Ghost, for some reason, likes so much.

Like how when the lieutenant or sergeant go to bed aching, there's an unsuspecting bottle of painkillers and water glasses on their nightstands that they don't remember leaving there.

Like how little aspects of himself change to become a little bit more like the ones he loves.

Despite preferring coffee, he thinks he'd choose tea over it now.

And every time the captain offers out a cig, Roach easily declines because there's a much better way for him to enjoy the taste.

Every kiss they share is one that could be their last. So Roach savours every minute of it, commits to memory the feel of Soap's hands on his waist, the way the other breathes heavily as their lips intertwine in a longing embrace, the heat that emanates between them because the other is a living space heater, the way how every time, without fail, the touch of Soap's lips makes his heart soar like a teenage girl's on prom night.

I love you, he mouths against the other, and even though his soundless words disappear into the air, at least he knows the universe will bear witness to this truth.

"My sergeant," the captain purrs adoringly, and it makes the blood rush faster in his veins. "Just don't know when to die, do you?"

Their foreheads touch, an unspoken moment of peace between them that they pretend will keep them safe.

They know that today, they are alive, but tomorrow may not bring such luck.

The arms around his middle move to his thighs as Soap stands up abruptly, hoisting Roach up with him and moving towards the side of the bed.

Roach grins, wrapping strong arms around the captain's neck, even as he's laid down on soft sheets.

Soap pulls him till they're flush together, with Roach's back to his chest, and the older snakes an arm around his front, resting a hand atop Roach's heart.

"Just to make sure you're still alive by mornin'," Soap had joked the first time he did it. But it was after Roach had taken a nasty stab to the lung, and the captain's fixation with feeling for his heartbeat had not been lost on the sergeant at all. 

"In pain?" he asks softly into the crook of the Roach's neck.

The younger shakes his head, exhaling soft exasperation.

"Sorry. Just can't help but worry."

Roach knows how that feels.

He lets his eyes droop to a close, letting his hand climb atop Soap's, intertwining them so that they lock together solidly on his steady pulse.

He breathes in the captain's grounding, pine scent and hopes with every fibre of his being that they'll be okay in the morning—that after this shitstorm passes, they'll make it out the other end only slightly dishevelled. 

He always did have plans to introduce Soap and Ghost to his family one day.

 – – – 

Later, with his mind drowsy and battling the final drops of wakefulness, he'll feel the bed dip beside him along with Ghost's hushed "All good?" and the captain's answering kiss that calms the lieutenant's concern.

He'll lay in bed, held by two people he loves with all his heart, who love him just the same, and he'll thank the world for granting him this rare moment of tranquillity.

Tomorrow, they'll be extracted for their next operation. They'll break into the gulag and find whoever this prisoner is that Makarov hates so much, and who knows what will happen?

But until then, Roach will sleep, knowing that the two things important to him are safe next to him.

– – –

Brown eyes hidden behind a screen of shade, and Roach wishes he could rip them off.

His body aches, as does his heart.

Price's shouts carry over his earpiece, and he can't help but feel bitter.

He wishes to hear his captain's voice one last time, wishes for once in his life, Simon didn't wear those blasted sunglasses. He wishes, so pathetically, that it didn't end like this, with one piece of himself dead beside him and the other miles away.

His mind grasps at threads, trying to find comfort in the gaps where pain has not yet sullied.

Despite how lonely he feels, staring at the face of an already dead lover, he'll thank any God above that he'll join him soon, that at least two of them are adjoined, even in death.

In a way, all three of them are together, connected by a commlink that spans the entire distance of their longing, like a tether.

It's such a sad, desperate pull at a sliver of comfort, but it quiets Roach's aching chest just a little.

There's the tang of Earl Grey tea leaves on his tongue, and as he closes his eyes for the last time, he can imagine that the smoke that suffocates his lungs tastes like Villa Clara's.

[nethercomfies]

🌼 So this is love 🌼

Pairing: Albedo x reader

Content: Pre-relationship, realization of feelings, just very soft, features Klee as well, gender neutral reader

Word count: 868

Note: *taps mic* Hello, hello, does this thing still work? Hell yeah I'm back, in true Fern fashion with some soft Albedo because that's my jam :) Hope you enjoy!

Albedo never really cared for love. It was a foreign concept for him that he only read about in books, but nothing more than that. Nothing worth his time when he's always so busy with research and experiments, and important things like discovering the truth of this world (Or at least discovering what that's supposed to mean.) Between all that, there's no time for butterflies and anxiety, and whatever else the romance novels describe. Not to mention, it seems like love makes other people act a little silly.

Like Glory, who sits there day in and day out talking about how she can't wait for Godwin to come home, when probably everyone in Mondstadt knows that the very man she was waiting now has been meandering just outside of town for months, too scared to come back due to stupid pride, even tho he knows that his fiancé is scared out of her mind for him. Or Timaeus, who scribbles love poems next to his alchemy notes and gets distracted all the time, not even noticing when the potions he was mixing are threatening to boil over. Love seems to make people lose all sense, so Albedo has decided that he's better off without it.

Maybe that's why, as the two of you grew closer, he didn't recognize the signs at all, despite having read and heard about them so many times. The infamous butterflies that make him feel weird things whenever you smile at him. The way he suddenly falls into a daze while working as well, breaking out of it only to find small doodles of your face littered all across his notes. Or how sometimes his every thought gets consumed by a deep desire to just wrap his arms around you and never let go.

But love is such a foreign concept, so far out of his grasp that surely, that can't be it, right?

It's an innocent comment from Klee that makes him question his feelings for the first time.

"Big brother Albedo?" she asks, looking up at him with big eyes as they're walking home one day.

"What is it, Klee?" He smiles down at her.

"Can we invite y/n to our picknick tomorrow? Please?"

Albedo is a little taken aback. Usually Klee deeply treasures their little family outings. She refuses to let anyone get between her private time with Albedo, to a point where she even rejected Kaeya's request to tag along once. "You really like y/n a lot, huh?" He asks with a small chuckle. "I never saw you try to invite someone along to our outings."

"I like that they make you smile. It makes Klee happy too", the little girl responds, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Also, they make really good snacks so I want them to bring some to our picknick." She adds it more like an afterthought, like it's only secondary to her other reason.

Maybe it meant nothing to Klee, but it leaves Albedo thinking. Does he really smile that much when he's around you? People have commented before that he only ever genuinely smiles when he's around Klee, but no one has ever pointed out the same with you. Although, now that it's been called to his attention... He really does feel a lot happier around you. There's something about you that makes it easy for him to let down his guard. It's a strange realization and he still doesn't understand the meaning of it, but he takes a mental note of it and decides that it requires further investigation.

From that day onward, you're always invited to the family outings with Klee and Albedo. It becomes perfectly natural, like you've always been there. Like it's always been just the three of you, exploring Mondstadt together, having fun little picknicks or arts and crafts afternoons.

It's on one of these days that the realization finally hits Albedo. You're sitting on Albedo's couch, Klee fast asleep in your arms while he makes a cup of tea for the both of you. Albedo watches as you run a hand through the girl's hair, a gentle smile on your face as she snuggles closer into your arms. The soft glow of a candle bathes you in a warm light and he's overcome with the familiar urge to join you, to pull you into his arms and hold you close. That urge has been getting a lot more frequent lately, and he was never able to fully make sense of it.

But at this moment, something clicks for him. The urge to be close to you. The thought of how beautiful you look consuming his mind. The smile still tugging at his lips. The butterflies threatening to burst through his chest. All the pieces fall into place and the realization hits him out of nowhere.

He's in love with you.

[pomrania]

Okay, so I should write stuff about what I’m planning to do this month, for art. It’s not going to start today or tomorrow, but yeah.

First off, it’d be for mutuals and half-mutuals. “Half-mutual” is a term I came up with, because I didn’t know of any other term, and it just seemed to fit. It’s for when you follow my blog, and I follow your sideblog. (Or the other way around, but I don’t have sideblogs that people follow, so that wouldn’t apply to me.) I know there’s at least two different half-mutuals I have, one where I follow their cat blog and another where I follow their art blog; there may be more, even ones that are regularly active, but this is just off the top of my head.

I’m limiting it to mutuals and half-mutuals because I don’t think I could handle it unlimited; therefore, it logically follows that I think I CAN handle it with the given limitations. Which leads back into the perennial problem of people going “I don’t want to impose” or “I don’t want to give you extra work” or “I want other people to have a chance”. STOP WITH THAT.

Let’s take it in order. “I don’t want to impose.” If I’m asking you to give me something, and you give me the thing that I ask for, that is like, the exact opposite of “imposing”.

“I don’t want to give you extra work.” I’m not on salary. I’m not some minimum-wage employee getting paid the same amount regardless of how much I do or have to do. Heck, I’m not getting paid at ALL for this; it’s something I do because I WANT to do it. And if I feel like I can’t finish all of a thing in one day, you know what I do? I carry it over to the NEXT day.

“I want other people to have a chance.” This is actually a valid concern, but don’t worry, I have a system for dealing with that, and it’s worked very well in the past. Basically, you can only make a second (or third, fourth, etc) request once your first request has been done and posted; and that new request goes to the bottom of the list, like all new requests. I can explain it in more detail if needed -- either because you don’t get what I’m saying (totally possible) or because you don’t see how it solves the problem -- but it boils down to that the only way someone can monopolize stuff, is if nobody else makes a request.

If you keep following me, you’re prolly going to see the above stuff a LOT, as it keeps being a problem for every damn request-based art event I do. So like, just trust that I know what I’m doing, and I’m capable of making my own choices, and don’t try to make those choices for me.

Okay, rant over, what’s the other stuff I’ll need to talk about....

Subject matter. It’s “drawing pets as monsters”. Last year I got a lot of “vampire” requests, and I don’t know whether that’s because I put ‘vampire’ in the list of examples, or if people just really want to see their critters as vampires. I’d rather not, in general. Mostly because there’s only so many different ways to represent “vampire” and it can get boring after a while. I mean, I’m not OPPOSED to drawing critters as vampires, but I’d prefer that either a) it’s something you really want, as in “oh boy I can’t wait to see this critter as a vampire”, or b) you give me something more descriptive than just “vampire”; doesn’t have to be a vampire from a specific folklore or anything, “cute little vampire like you’d see on spoopy decorations” or “monstrous blood-sucker” would also work quite well for purposes.

Duration. Uhhh I have no idea; I think I’ll start with requests open for a week, and then see how that goes. And I’ll have to remember to put that in the post too; that it might be open for just a week, and it might end up as more than a week, I don’t know.

OH something else I need to make sure everyone knows, although I might not need to put it in the post itself. That once requests close, that does not mean that the EVENT closes; I’ll still be drawing requests that came in. This is something that people keep getting wrong and worrying about; is there a better way of phrasing it, that’ll be easily understood?

Also, my normal rules wrt the definition of “pet” will still apply; that is, a critter you have some type of connection to, past or present, and you can give me their name. The “name” thing is important because that’s what I do for file names, so without a name I can’t get past super-rough sketching (because I’m only going to put actual effort into a piece once I’ve saved it, which I can’t do without something to name the file, and I refuse to depart from my naming scheme).

[thefanficmonster]

Much Cooler

Corpse Husband & Emma Langevin 

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Platonic Fluff, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: There’s always a certain level of uncertainty when meeting someone you’ve only known online. There’s that sense of insecurity that your relationship with them will never be the same or - even worse - that their view of you might change for the worse. But there’s nothing more thrilling than seeing the person you’ve been talking to constantly for the past however long standing across from you. 

Requested by Anon. Hi dear! Thank you so much for your request and I’m so terribly sorry for how late it’s coming out but I hope the fic makes it worth the wait! Lots of love, Vy ❤

“CORPSE! Wake up you famous dumbass!“ is the first thing the poor man heard over the phone at 9 AM on this fine Saturday morning.

It’s more than enough to make him contemplate why he even decided to pick it up in the first place considering he wouldn’t have been very able to participate in the conversation due to his sleepiness. He also, of course, made the mistake of not checking the caller ID which apparently wasn’t necessary considering how recognizable that voice and accent are.

“It’s 9 AM, Emma.“ He states as a tired parent would to a child, “I’m concerned as to why you’re up so early. More so as to why you’re calling me of all people.“

He can practically hear her roll her eyes but he still smirks to himself, knowing she can’t contradict him or argue since he’s completely right with his claims. “Whatever. Remind me to never call you to congratulate you on a milestone again.“

Now that pokes at his attention with a stick. Lately, said attention has proven to be a hibernating bear, leaving Corpse with a lack of interest or motivation for anything but damn if that sentence wasn’t enough to roll him out of bed and hop on PC. “What? What milestone? Subscribers?“

“Nope! You got two million likes on ‘E-girls are ruining my life’! I can’t believe I have to tell you this! Didn’t you notice the numbers climbing?!“ Emma, as annoyed and sarcastic as she’s trying to sound, she’s obviously overjoyed on his behalf and is super proud of him and of the project she luckily agreed to take a small part in.

As his PC boots up, Corpse can’t help but roll his eyes at Emma’s comment, “Well unlike you I have better things to do than refresh a page over and over aga-” His sentence is quickly cut off when he sees the number of likes under the song for himself.

Knowing that he’d find it there didn’t change the feeling of seeing it for the first time at all. It’s so surreal and so hard for his mind to comprehend. Seeing as how little he thinks of himself, his content and his art, this is like his success coming to slap him across the face as if to punctuate to him how wrong that mindset is.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt if you offered to take me out for at least a coffee to celebrate, bro.“ Emma comments sarcastically, joking only halfway from what he can sense.

He smirks, “Trying to even the playing field, I see.” He replies, referring to the fact that he’s still a faceless mystery to her while her face is literally the cover art for one of his songs.

She laughs but is quick to dismiss his claim, “Nah, I might be a curious and nosey little shit on other occasions, but other people’s privacy is not something I dig my nose into. However, if I were to even the playing field between us it wouldn’t be appearance-wise. More personality-wise. For my sake and yours I choose to believe you are way cooler in person than you are through messages or on a call.”

This withdraws a genuine fit of laughter from Corpse who throws his head back, a few strands of hair moving aside to reveal his shiny eyes, “Well then, instead of giving me the benefit of the doubt, how about we settle it once and for all? Tomorrow? I’ll text you the location.”

Emma’s eyebrows shoot upwards as soon as she comprehends his words and the tone that leaves no room for her to assume he’s joking, “Wait what? How come you’re agreeing to this? And so easily? Nah, this a trap if I’ve ever seen it.”

Corpse laughs yet again, “No trap, Em. I just can’t have you doubting my coolness.”

                                                             *  *  *

The main reason as to why Corpse requested for this meeting to be today is because he feared that if he had more than twenty four hours to dwell on it he’d chicken out. Little did he know it was the same for Emma. Their friendship has only ever existed with the bridge of social media connecting them and they both can’t help but fear the other might not like who they are IRL. They fear they unintentionally become a different person or change things about themselves subconsciously when communicating with people online. Bottom line, they’re scared of letting the other person down with who they really are, unaware that their personalities are most likely the exact same because, as the people who know them can confirm, neither Corpse nor Emma are the type to put on a show in order to be liked. They would rather have no friends because of who they are than have friends and fans of their persona instead of the real them.

And so, while slightly afraid and anxious about this meeting, both of them see it as a relief test to see if the friendship is in fact as real as it’s seemed these past months.

Corpse was the one to choose the location of their meet-up, a location Emma didn’t even think twice about agreeing on, and ever since, they’ve both been counting the hours until their scheduled meeting time.  It’s not about impressing each other, at least that’s what they’re both telling themselves, but rather proving to the other that they’re worthy of their friendship. They might throw snarky and sarcastic comments at one another that others would give a side-eye glance to and question if their friendship is real, but they know the dynamic best and they sure as hell don’t wanna lose it or each other.

Best friends are the ones who roast each other after all - you can’t tell me I’m wrong.

The nervous Corpse fidgets with the insides of his hoodie pockets as he waits outside the café, having arrived ten minutes early because he couldn’t stand being alone with his thoughts in his apartment, judging every fragment of himself twice as harshly as usual. Emma, on the other hand, could barely bring herself to leave her home. She kept retouching her appearance, despite knowing Corpse wouldn’t judge her even if she showed up in pjs. To be fair she contemplated doing just that several times because her hair pissed her off enough to get her discouraged on her outfit altogether but she did eventually talk herself into pulling it together. She already knew she’d be at least five minutes late, but once again, she knew Corpse wouldn’t care.

He’d wait, cause that’s the kind of friend he was. Cause that’s the kind of friend she was for him too.

And boy did it take her less than a second to recognize him. She wasn’t even out of the car when she saw him and knew it was exactly who she was looking for. He too, as if with a sixth sense that registered her presence, shoots his head up from his phone to look up at her, their gazes meeting. There’s a brief moment of close-to-shocked silence, their eyes a bit widened as their brains comprehend that they’re within arm’s reach of one another.

That’s when Emma’s the first to break the bubble of awe as a wide grin spreads across her face and she runs to Corpse, wrapping him in a hug before he’s even realized the distance between the two’s been closed.

“Hey.“ She mumbles, her face hidden in his hoodie due to the height difference.

“H-hey.“ He replies, hesitantly wrapping his arms around her too.

“I was right.“ She says once she pulls away, “You are much cooler face-to-face.“ She pauses for a second, narrowing her eyes, “You’d be even cooler if you bought me coffee though.“

Earning a laugh from him, she’s guided into the café by the arm Corpse wraps around her shoulders, telling her he’s get her a milkshake cause he doesn’t want to see her high on caffeine. Needless to say, they both are, indeed, much cooler to one another IRL.

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[asterroidd]

cotton sweatshirt

↬  College AU

↬  Pairing: Levi Ackerman/Reader

↬  Word count: 2.6k

↬  Synopsis:  Fatigue was slowly consuming you, luckily your roommate is there to save the day

↬  Notes: Thank you so much for the request anon! I apologize it took so long before I wrote it. Anw, I hope you enjoy it!

↬  no proofread whatsoever, capn’

5th and 12th prompts: “Give me back my keys! I’m fine!” and “Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

    It was too much. All too much; the endless tasks, the studying, and numerous all-nighters that you had pulled by now.

    It was so taxing that your body couldn't keep up; eyes blood shot red from restless staring at the laptop screen, sunken cheeks due to the insufficient meal you are getting, and dark bags under your eyes that are evidently visible even from afar. If one would see you in such a state, one would assume you are a zombie or the living dead.

    Chewing your bottom lip, fingers anxiously taped against the wooden desk. Drained yes boring into the laptop screen as you tried your best to understand the text displayed in it. Your professor just had to be missing in action that week due to health reasons and as such couldn't attend most of the classroom session to teach. The replacement is just as worse—having no mastery over the lesson at hand that it only made it more confusing than before. So, you had to self-study for the sole sake of having a passing grade this semester. Finals weeks is looming around the corner and it's best that you understands the lessons beforehand so that you wouldn't have difficulty in studying once again later on.

    Your study session was supposed to be done before noon, yet here you are still hunched over the desk. A pencil at hand in attempt to take notes in the filler notebook. Your other hand curled up a fist full of hair, then ever so often tugging it in frustration. True, you did try to search online for other readings and videos that could potentially help you in your dilemma. Alas, you find yourself scratching your scalp and pulling your hair in frustration as you failed, yet again, to grasp the concept of the topic.

    Perhaps a book, you thought to yourself. There is a local library nearby—suppose a ten minute walk, could be even seven if you walked fast enough. For sure there are a handful of books there that could finally help you in understanding the lesson. And so with a drained sigh, you closed the lid of the laptop and stood up.

    You took in your surroundings; which was an utter mess. Eraser shards littered on top of your desk that some even fell to the floor due to you hastily sweeping them off. Mountains of books scattered around—some opened with a random item on top to act as a makeshift paper weight. Sticky notes plastered all over the walls and stacks upon stacks of paper everywhere. In short, your room looks like a battleground.

     Which it is; an academic battleground, that is.

    That said, you swiftly stuffed a handful of notebooks and pens into a small backpack so you could continue the study session at the library. Perhaps a change in environment would ease you off and clear your mind. When you exited from your room, you were surprised to see Levi lounging off the living room. A bowl of popcorn on his lap whilst lazily popping one in his mouth every so often. His eyes glued to the TV screen as it played a series, The Confession Tapes you presumed. Ever since you showed him the first episode a few days ago, he was so intrigued and thus became so hook with the story line.

    Oh, to have freedom and time for leisure activities like Levi. You would willingly kill just to have that.

    "I'll be heading off to the library for a while," you uttered under your breath. Levi turned his head towards your direction, slowly munching on the popcorn. "I might come home late so I'll bring the keys with me."

    He paused the movie momentarily to narrow his eyes at you. Levi looked at you from top to bottom, assessing and processing the current state you are in. Which was hell. You looked like a vampire that crawled out of your coffin after decades of isolation. Of all the years he and you had been roommate, Levi had practically memorised most of your mannerism and behaviour so much. And at the moment, he knew all to well that you would be, yet again, working yourself to the grave.

    With a sigh, Levi placed the bowl of popcorn on top of the coffee table before approaching you. "Can't you see yourself, idiot?"

    You scrunched up your nose in confusion. What does he mean by that?

    "When was the last time you ate?"

    You racked your brain for answers. When was it truly that last time you had a proper meal besides energy bars that you bought from the convenience store. You went silent for a moment, eyes cascading down.

    "I had instant noodles I think? Last night," you answered after a pregnant pause.

    "Then that means you have not eaten anything since this morning?"

    You only nodded in response, all too tired to argue back with him. All you wanted to do was to finally leave the apartment and resume your study session in the library. Where, in hopes, you could finally progress in.

    Levi clicked his tongue. No wonder you look like a living dead. You are barely getting any nutrition in your body at all! Being studious is a great thing—but being all too unforgiving and torturing one's body too much is an unacceptable habit.

    As swift as a fox, he snagged the keys from your hands. You, in your drained state, reacted poorly and sluggishly. Though, you gave him one ferocious glare.

    "Give it back, Levi." You held out your hand.

    "No. You should rest. You look like shit."

    "Give me back my keys. I'm fine!"

    Levi, much to your surprise, had a hint of worry in his eyes. Silence fell between you and him, eyes focused on each other. You thought of kicking him on the shin, then took the chance to grab the keys. But you find yourself unable to as your body slowly slumped over.

    You let out one tired sigh, eyes closing every now and then in drowsiness, but you can't give in. Not now. Not at least you'd finally understand and finish writing your notes. Still, exams is a couple of weeks away. Surely a brief break wouldn't hurt?

   You groaned, the floor beneath your feet swaying as you struggled to keep yourself upright. It was only then did you notice the ever growing itch in your throat which signifies tonsillitis, mucus flooding your nasal passages, and increased body temperature.

     "I'm fine. . ." you inhaled sharply. "Just—" you continued but was caught short when your knees buckled under your weight, causing you to lean forward. Luckily enough, Levi caught you just in the nick of time before you fell face first into the wooden floor.

     "Tch. Look at what you got yourself into," he huffed, palm pressing against your forehead. "You also have a fever, dumbass."

    Did you now? You let your head rest into his touch, relishing his cool touch against your flushed ones. Maybe you really need a rest.

   "How about you take a seat on the couch while I brew you a cup of tea?"

    "Sounds good. . ." you uttered under your breath.

    That said, Levi practically dragged your body towards the couch and helped you settle on it. Making sure that you are comfortable enough by placing pillows behind your head. The male crouched down to your level, bringing a hand up once again to your forehead to properly estimate your temperature this time.

    "Looks like a bad one. . ." he muttered.

    "You tell me. I feel like shit," you've managed to crack a joke despite your conditions. Levi rose his brow at you, shaking his head at your idiocy. Then you watched him as he removed his cotton sweatshirt that hung loosely on his figure. Suffice to say, you were beyond perplexed when Levi placed the article of clothing on top of your lap.

    "You're cold aren't you?" he shrugged his shoulders. "Wear that for the time being to keep you warm."

    That said, he soon disappeared inside the kitchen to perhaps brew you a cup of tea much to your delight. It is practically known that the male had an immense skill in brewing and perfecting the art of tea. And as his roommate, Levi practically forced you to learn how to brew yourself; mainly because he doesn't want you wasting precious tea leaves that are far too expensive to be wasted. You recalled the time spent with him, hours upon hours inside the kitchen while trying your best to not burn your hands as you, yet again, try to perfect boiling tea. Levi stood beside you, a scowl present on his face as he frowned at your blend.

    Do it again, he snarled. The temperature is not right.

    It was little moments such as those reminds you of how much of a stuck up bitch Levi is. Nonetheless, the male still have a special place in your heart as your roommate and perhaps crush.

    Gingerly holding his sweater in your hands, you took one deep whiff of his scent—despite mucus flooding your nose—relishing the soft floral scent of the detergent that he bought about a week ago. Yet, Levi's natural aroma gradually overflows your nasal cavity; refreshing and clean with a hint of musky scent. It was pure heaven.

    Blood rushed to your cheeks as you let his sweatshirt hug your body, encompassing you more with his scent. Truth to be told, it was your long time dream to wear one of Levi's clothing. Suppose it was the thought of you in his clothes that brings butterflies to your stomachs, or the pure concept of his smell flooding your senses. Either way, you liked it.

    "Hey. . ." Levi's voice boomed which slightly startled you. The male placed a mug full of tea on the coffee table before kneeling down and opening a pack of fever patch.

    "What flavor did you brew?" you mumbled.

    "Chamomile," Levi replied, brushing your hair away from your forehead. For a brief moment, he stopped to stare at your glossy eyes due to the fever. Small patches of sweat that peppered your skin that glistened slightly under the light. Not to mention your lips that he oh so long to get a taste of for months—but he wouldn't tell you that out loud. Red dusted his cheeks ever so lightly that you would've missed if it weren't for your keen attention to detail.

    Levi bit the insides of his cheeks, slapping himself internally to focus at the task at hand which it to place a fever patch on your forehead. That said, he carefully set it against your temples. Making sure that it is adhered on firmly as to not fall in case you tossed and turn in your sleep. A smile adorned your features as soon as the cool hydrogel rested against your skin. You mumbled a quick gratitude towards the male before snuggling deep into his sweatshirt.

    "Levi. . ." you started to which he hummed in response, helping you sit up. Then, the male gave you the mug with hot tea. Its heavenly aroma making you sigh in relax. "Come sit with me?" you asked, patting the space next to you.

    The male opened his mouth to argue; to refuse your request because he doesn't want to catch your germs and be sick himself. Though, with one look at your puppy-dog eyes and pouting lips, Levi knew that he wouldn't be able to resist you. "Fine. . ." he begrudgingly replied.

    You let out a small cheer of victory. Placing your head on top of his shoulder the minute he sat beside you. Even for just a moment—just for this day—you want to delve into your fantasies and revel in the company of the male. Levi looked at you from the corner of his eye, admiring how his sweatshirt that embraces your form. Due to him being quite short in stature, his clothes were not too big. So, naturally, most of his wardrobe would probably fit you. Which he has no complaints about.

    "Can we watch Kitchen nightmares?" you asked, taking one small sip of tea as to not burn your tongue.

    Levi shrugged, "Why not?" That said, he adhered to your request. Playing that one episode in the series that he knew you enjoyed watching despite the countless times you've already seen it.

    You relaxed back into the couch, letting more of your weight press against Levi as your hands cupped the warm mug in between. The brutal and fierce howls of criticism of Gordon Ramsey brings a small smile to your lips, and oddly enough, as well as Levi's. Watching Kitchen's Nightmares (as well as other shows that the iconic chef starred in) was a guilty pleasure, so to say, of both yours and the male's. There is just something so satisfying how the chef makes people humble down and admit their mistakes.

    One great thing that comes from watching his series was that Levi could learn a thing or two in cooking. Even though he was already great from the start. The male picks up a recipe or two just by watching the series, much to your satisfaction. Between you and Levi, he is the mother of the household, if you will. While you're just one lazy couch potato who would receive an ear full of scolding every now and then.

    Soon enough, you felt your eyelids closing involuntarily, yet you fought to keep them open. It was getting into the good part—the climax—of the episode and you didn't want to sleep through it. Though, you find yourself giving in and finally letting your eyes rest for once. You exhaled, rubbing your cheeks against Levi's shoulder blades in attempts to get more comfortable. The male shifted on the couch, allowing you to be cozy and warm with him beside you.

    In your dazed state, you swore that Levi slowly rest his head on top of yours. Nevertheless, you couldn't conclude if it was true since the sweet embrace of sleep consumed you. For the first time in that week, you finally had a good night's rest.

    Levi relaxed under your touch, finally relieved that you gave in and let your body get the rest it deserves after days upon days of continuous work. He contemplated whether to turn off the television so that the noise wouldn't bother you in your sleep, or keep it open since a part of him wants to finish the episode. Though, his thoughts were caught short when you murmured.

    "Levi. . ." you mumbled in your sleep, hands gripping his sweatshirt.

    "What?" he humored, despite knowing that you are in deep slumber and is probably sleep-talking.

    Then to his surprise, you whispered a phrase that he never anticipated would slip past your lips.

    "I love you. . ."

    He was taken a back, eyes wide while his mouth slightly hung open. Levi blinked once, then twice, trying to process if what he heard was real or was his imagination deceiving him.

    "Did you know you talk in your sleep?" Levi said, testing to see if you were truly asleep or was just toying with him. When he concluded that you were—in fact—knocked out and catching some Z's, he breathed lowly the three words he oh so wanted to tell you for months.

    "I love you, too. Brat." He snaked his hand around yours, intertwining his fingers around your hand.

    Little did Levi know, you were half-awake during his confession.

[kenkaodoll]

Kamiya Dojo Monogatari Tales 33 (JUMP SQ)

About Kamiya Dojo Monogatari:

Tales of Kamiya dojo is written by Kaoru Kurosaki and published along with the “Rurouni Kenshin Hokkaido” arc in JUMPSQ. The tale involves the Rurouni Kenshin character in daily life that takes time between Kenshin and Kaoru marriage until the epilogue chapter in the original manga before the Hokkaido Arc. Until this month (May 2022) there are a total 54 chapters in Tales of Kamiya dojo. This is an unofficial translation.

Previous Story: https://kenkaodoll.tumblr.com/post/683679430411943936/kamiya-dojo-monogatari-tales-32-jump-sq

“I'm sorry about this,”

Kenshin responded. Yahiko gasped again in surprise.

The man with the purse!

When he couldn't follow him at the police station, he thought it was over, but then, by some strange coincidence, he was holding out to them a copy of Jules Verne's "Around the World in Eighty Days".

Kenshin received the book.

“I guess you’re accomplished in both the literary and military arts.”

The man in the kimono looks at the reverse-blade sword strapped to Kenshin's waist.

“I have a request from my wife, that I have.”

Kenshin smiled and replied, but Yahiko's feelings were disturbed to the core.

“It is indeed a civilized world that your wife enjoys reading such French and Western translations.”

“Well, my wife is also being accomplished in the literary and military arts.”

“The author is famous for his outlandish stories, including one about a trip to the moon world.”

“Like Kaguya Hime?”

“I don't know what kind of story it is because it hasn't been translated into Japanese yet and I haven't read it myself because I don't speak French. I hear that it is quite popular.”

The man in the kimono and Kenshin were friendly chatting . Only Yahiko's heart was uneasy.

This man had a deadly poison in his purse. We should catch him right now. No, that's not going to happen.

Yahiko's thoughts whirled around in his head.

The words he had heard when he found the deadly poison wrapped in oiled paper inside the purse came back to him vividly.

Megumi had said at that time.

“There are only two ways to use poison. Either you kill someone or you die.”

If this man who was chatting with Kenshin in front of him was trying to kill someone and had poison, he should grab him and force him to let go of the poison package even if he had to be a little rough with him. But if he was about to die.... There was no point in being rough with him. There were plenty of ways to commit suicide.

Yahiko's head was on the verge of boiling over. He did not know what to do.

Even if he wanted to talk to Kenshin about it, he would not be able to tell him in front of this man. However, it would be strange to drag him into the shadows and ask him for advice.

“You are very lucky to have a good wife. Moreover, I can’t believe you’re going to have a child soon. I wish I could share in your happiness,” he praised Kenshin.

Hearing this, Yahiko involuntarily thought to himself.

Why are you boasting about your love life when I’m so distressed!

The man must be a good listener. A normal Kenshin would not talk about his family so easily.

“Oh yeah, I've been doing this sort of thing for a while now.”

“Oro?”

Kenshin received a leaflet from the man.

"The Small bird association Speech Meeting" includes the location, date, and time of the popular speech meetings of the day.

“Please come. We must make this world a better place for the children who will be born in the future. I hope to change the world for a better place for them than a world that is convenient for only a few powerful people.”

Here it is! Yahiko snatched the leaflet.

“I'm interested. Kenshin, take me to the speech meeting!”

Is this man trying to kill someone else or is he trying to die himself? We don't know that. But it is one or the other. Either way, I can't leave him alone.

Yahiko felt that even if he didn't know what to do, he should at least get involved with this man as much as he could.

“Oro? Yahiko, since when have you been interested in freedom and civil rights, that you have?”

Kenshin looked at Yahiko doubtfully.

“Ah, no… uhh ..”

Yahiko was flustered. He had no idea what the speech meeting was about.

“It says small birds association on it. I thought the name "swallow" would be nice.”

“Oh, you've got a good eye!”

The man broke into a smile.

“There is a folklore in "ancient Chinese" that said, "How can a small bird understand the aspirations of great bird"**. It means, "the commoners like a swallow or a sparrow  cannot understand the aspiration of a big bird like the hero". The Meiji Restoration was accomplished by the aspirations of the big birds. But politics is not only for big birds, it is also for us small birds living on the streets. That's why I named our organization "Small birds association". We want suffrage for all the people of the country. We aim to establish a constitution to protect the rights of the people and not allow the government to be tyrannical.”

Apparently, the man was an activist in the civil liberties movement.

“Does uncle speak at these meetings?”

The leaflet says the speakers "Rokkakubashi Wataru" and "Kishine Michinaga.

“Yes, that's right. My name is Rokkakubashi Wataru over here.”

“My name is Myojin Yahiko.”

He told his name, so Yahiko quickly returned his.

“Yahiko-kun, please come to the next speech. You must be accompanied by a parent or guardian.”

“Oh, okay. Will you go with me, Kenshin?”

“I don't mind, that I do.”

“Then it's decided! I'll buy the book and go home.”

Yahiko walked swiftly to the back of the store and called for the clerk who was serving the customers.

・

“Can you tell me the reason?”

Kenshin asked Yahiko in a quiet tone as they left the bookstore.

“Yes, I wanted to talk to you about it, but I couldn't tell you in that place.”

Yahiko told him that the man called Rokkakubashi was the owner of the purse.

“Megumi said that there are only two ways to use poison: to kill someone or to die yourself. He doesn't look like he’s going to kill himself, so I think he’s trying to kill someone else.”

“It is not good to assume so easily, that it is.”

“Besides, Rokkakubashi Wataru sounds like an alias.”

“As for the family name, there are a surprisingly large number of people who change their names after the Meiji Restoration, that I know of. For example, Saito Hajime is now called Fujita Goro, isn't he?”

“That means there is a possibility that he might have been a manslayer at the Bakumatsu.”

“I told you that it is not easy to judge. In my eyes, he was not such a bad person, that he was not.”

“Anyway, he's got a deadly poison in his purse right now, and I'm going to have to see how he uses it.”

“Then, there is even a possibility that he will use it right now, that he will.”

At Kenshi’s point, Yahiko shouted, 

“Ah! You’re right!”

I screwed up. Yahiko was in a hurry.

He should have rubbed his wallet while Kenshin and Rokkakubashi were chatting in the bookstore. Well, it was too late to do anything about it now.

“What if he kills someone?”

“Hmm. Then, shall we go after him, that we should?”

He was still in the bookstore.

If he waited, Rokkakubashi would appear in not much time.

That's what he thought.

No matter how long he waited, Rokkakubashi did not come out of the store.

Yahiko, getting impatient, went back into the bookstore and asked the clerk about the man's whereabouts.

“I've seen that customer looking at groceries,” he replied.

The bookstore and the general store were in the same building, but had separate entrances and exits. It seems that Yahiko, who was watching the entrance of the bookstore, didn't see him leave the store through another door.

“Once again, I’ve missed him!”

Yahiko couldn't help but raise his voice.

“I can only hope that nothing will happen, that it is.”

Then.

“Oh, Ken-san.”

They turned around and Megumi was there.

“Why are you here?”

Yahiko had been frustrated because things were not going his way and spoke harshly to her.

“Oh, a fine thing to say. I came all the way to the Nihonbashi area for you.”

Megumi laughed meaningfully.

“For me?”

“I went to Takiya to ask about the deadly poison.”

Takiya is a drug wholesaler who is believed to be the source of the deadly poison.

“I didn't think it would be easy to divulge customer information, but we have an old friendship, and I thought it was a bad idea. Besides, I asked you not to mention the poison to the police for my own convenience. But then I thought about it. Someone is trying to kill someone else or die by themselves, and that fact will never change. So, if I could stop him using the poison. It would be some kind of atonement for my sins. I thought of something out of character, even for me.”

“So, did you find out who bought it?”

“Yes, I did. It seems he was not Takiya's regular customer, so they told me briefly. But I only knew his name. If he is a regular, they would know who he is, but they don't tell you. If he is not a regular, they can tell you the name, but no more. I'm not a good detective.”

Megumi smiled bitterly.

“That guy's name! Isn't he called Rokkakubashi?”

“What? No, it's not. The name on the account book was Kishine Michinaga ”

“I see. Wasn't it Rokkakubashi?”

Yahiko was disappointed.

But Kenshin.

“!”

He took out the leaflet that Rokkakubashi had given him earlier and looked at it intently.

“This... This is him, isn't it?”

On the leaflet, it says the speakers are Rokkakubashi Wataru and Kishine Michinaga.

“It's true! Hmm? But Rokkakubashi had the deadly poison and Kishine bought it. Does that mean these two are conspiring to kill someone?”

Yahiko explained to Megumi, who did not know what was going on, what had happened so far.

“I'll expose them at the speech meeting!”

Yahiko clenched his fists.

Notes: *)Jules Verne : French author, his work ‘Around the World in Eighty Days’ was first translated into Japanese in 1878.

*)Kaguya Hime: The Legend of Princess Kaguya

*)How can a small bird understand the aspirations of great bird: Only hero understand hero

*)Bakumatsu: the end of the Edo period.

*)Nihonbashi: shopping district in Tokyo

.…..continue in chapter 34…… https://kenkaodoll.tumblr.com/post/684041390726987776/kamiya-dojo-monogatari-tales-34-jump-sq

TLnote(1): translating Japanese is so hard because the sentence structure is very different compared with the English also the style of writing is different, plus there’s a lot of figurative, poetic language and things that sounds not making sense if it’s directly translated into english. So forgive me if this is very weird to read, and please tell me if you want give corrections. TLnote(2) I will provide the original Japanese text for correction if any of you who read have better knowledge of Japanese language. Just dm and I’ll send the file. TLnote(3) Dtninja had translated some earlier chapters in his website. You can go and check on there.

[copias-thrall]

Cause I'm Young and I'm Here and So Beautiful

A look into the rise and fall of Mary Goore's flash-in-the-pan modeling career.

~12.5K Mary Goore/Reader *drug/alcohol use; mentions of past child abuse; brief homelessness; plot no porn; POV shift*

This fic was inspired by and is very loosely based on Aurelio Voltaire's early days in NYC in the 90s, though I have set it in Boston in the early aughts. 😊

Many thanks to the artists who did commissions for this! 🥰

One Way Streets

Mary stepped off the regional rail and gripped his backpack. He had $72.57 in cash rolled into his socks and a give-em-hell attitude.

When he’d packed his bag the night before, he wasn’t even sure if he’d go through with it, but he couldn’t stand being home anymore. Some of his friends had told him he was crazy.

"Three more months, dude. You got this. Just finish high school, then bounce."

But they didn’t have to live with his dad and the step-monster. Every day was a new indignity. Having them bitch about his music and his style was one thing—that he could have dealt with—but everything else had just kind of…escalated.

Now that the kiddies were older, they’d turned into gremlins. They’d somehow sensed that Mary wasn’t their beloved older brother—he was some sort of half other. They’d stopped questioning why "mom was so mean" to him and had accepted that she was because there was something wrong with Mary. They realized they could be little shits and blame everything on him.

And dad just didn’t care. He’d throw up his hands and say, "I have to live with her"—as if Mary wasn’t in the same boat.

Dad hadn’t stopped her when—in a rage—she’d smashed every single vinyl album Mary had owned because the twins ruined her nice tablecloth. He’d shrugged when she cut all Mary's guitar strings so he couldn’t play "the devil’s music." He’d held Mary back when she took a match and burned all his secret stuff that Mary kept under his bed—action figures, books, guitar mags, journals—in the backyard because he got detention for smoking. He hadn’t said a word when the police showed up after she came at Mary with scissors because he’d dyed his hair black and he’d pushed her away before she could scalp him.

Mary thought for sure he was going to get carted off to jail as she screamed about him terrorizing the family and being afraid he was going to kill her sons in their sleep, but the officers had just looked at her bored and told her being a teenager wasn’t a crime.

So, no: Mary couldn’t wait 3 more months.

He’d scraped together what money he had left from his secret shifts working as a busboy under the table at a local dive downtown, packed his backpack with the essentials, and walked the 5 miles to the train station instead of going to school.

Eighteen was 10 weeks away. He could fudge it for a few months, especially since he could already get away without using his fake ID to get into shows most of the time.

So, to the big city it was.

He shifted his weight and tried to pretend that he belonged here in Boston, but actually facing the busy streets was a lot different from looking at a bird’s-eye view map. He had a printout in his pocket, but he didn’t want to look like a doe-eyed tourist. So he set off down the seemingly labyrinthine streets in the direction he could have sworn was the correct one.

It wasn't.

When he came out a side alley into Faneuil Hall, he almost wondered if he'd gone through a fairy portal, since he was clear on the other side of town. Begrudgingly, he checked his creased map, and set out once more.

And ended up spit out by the State building.

Finding the hostel turned into a fraught adventure, and he got turned around several times more. When he tried to ask for directions, most people pushed past him while one lady shoved $5 at him. He used the cash to buy a hotdog, and it was the vendor who ultimately gave him directions in his thick, Southie accent.

Of course, making it to the hostel ended up being just part one. The rates were almost double what it stated online ("Sorry, honey—that site hasn’t been upgraded since the 90s."), and two nights were practically all his savings. Mary had thought he’d at least have a couple of days to find a job, not 36hrs.

He left the hostel, wondering for the first time if maybe he shouldn’t go back home…but he decided it was a nice day out. Surely there was some place he could hunker down. Just for the night.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the cops at every fucking turn telling him to move along. And any place out of line-of-sight seemed to already be inhabited.

He finally found a place behind some rocks in the Seaport where he didn’t think he’d be murdered in his sleep, curled around his backpack, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Mary woke up damp from the dew and the morning sun streaming into his eyes. The birds were creating an awful racket, but Mary guessed it was as good an alarm clock as any.

He ran his fingers through his bird's nest of hair, and he made his way back to the South Station. The men’s room may have smelled like a sewage treatment plant, but at least it was free. He had expected it to be mostly empty at the crack of dawn, but it was full of commuters making that last run to the head before they had to take the train 2hrs out of the city for work.

And it was a sight: a bunch of suits with their fancy lattes washing their hands, and Mary in the corner trying to surreptitiously wipe down with paper towels under his Misfits t-shirt and his shredded jeans. At school, he’d have probably gotten into several altercations by now—no one would have let him just turn into Mary Goore without a fight—but this was Boston, and no one gave him more than a cursory glance.

Just another college kid.

It emboldened Mary to go full-out in the kind of way he had only done when going out to the punk shows downtown at night: kohl all the way around his eyes, and some on his cheekbones; mascara because his lashes are long and thick, and he knows it (his dad had said it made him look hard, and Mary had sneered that maybe that was what he’d been going for. But maybe it had been because he’d liked the way it had made his green eyes pop.); a smear of the step-monster’s fanciest matte lipstick on his full lips; and airplane glue in his hair to give it that lift.

He made a kissy face at himself in the mirror, and headed back out.

It was a nice Spring day—almost boiling in the direct sun—and it tempted Mary to wear only his battle vest, but even he kind of figured applying to jobs half dressed was a mistake.

He walked all over the city, trying not to get lost, looking for any kind of work—dishwasher, busboy, barback—but all he had to show for it was blistered feet and a raging appetite. The only good part of the day was that he noted any restaurant or bakery that looked like it might toss perfectly good food at the end of the day.

He and his friends had become experts at dumpster diving in his podunk town, and he felt confident that he had a good feel for a jackpot. Mary staked out a bakery and was rewarded with a find of "old" bagels. He shoved as many as he could into the nooks and crannies of his backpack before slinking off to the Commons to inhale at least two of them.

Cold, stale dough never tasted so good.

He watched the tourists and the professionals walk by in ones and in groups while he ran his bare feet through the grass. Some laughed with each other as they sauntered down the path while others seemed singularly intent on their ultimate destination. A pack of dogs ran and played with each other as their owners looked on fondly, and nearby the baseball diamond hosted a casual game.

Mary counted his lucky stars that his first week in Boston was April at its kindest—always mild during the day, even when it turned cloudy, and a few times even downright warm. The nights turned chilly, though, and it had Mary in more layers than an onion. If the birds or damp didn't wake him, his butt cramps from being curled in a tight ball all night did.

He spent those days walking around the city proper looking for work. He wasn't adventurous enough to make the leap across the bridges to Cambridge just yet, but his travels gave him a good sense on how the different sections of Boston connected—and showed him potential places to crash at night. He didn't even mind living off day-old garbage food and drinking from bubblers (he'd bought a water for the express purpose of reusing the bottle), but the barren wasteland that seemed to be the job market was beginning to weigh on him.

At home, he could always find a shit job if he was willing to put up with shit hours and ridiculous requests. Here, though, Mary was just one of many desperate people willing to do desperate work.

And he didn’t look particularly trustworthy or reliable.

@dipendancesld

Hashtag WTF

I’m scrolling through Insta on the T, and I’m way down the rabbit hole of hashtags. New content was at a minimum this morning (how can I follow accounts in triple digits and only see the same 4 posts?!), so I’d started with some art tags and ended up where I usually end up—trolling social media for blurry pictures of my boy.

His band has been a local staple for years—or at least that’s what he told me on our first date. I had just moved from New York after a nasty breakup, ready to start fresh, and I’d seen him at a coffee shop hanging posters for his next show in his leather jacket, asymmetrical Metallica crop top, and stomping boots.

Fresh had never looked so good.

Then, a few months back, an online publication had featured his band in the year’s 50 best bands "you’ve never heard of," and now the band's starting to gain traction.

He’s starting to gain traction.

Finding the new online content of him first has become a game the two of us play. We had to stop counting images posted from the popular fan accounts because Mary's now acquaintances with most of them, and I said it was hardly fair to snipe me that way. Mary had pouted—but it was to cover up his grin. So now we troll for the pictures of his latest gig or at his favorite haunts from either his  casual fans or one of his new ones. I even have a whole range of hashtag typos saved if I really want to triumph, since Mary just doesn't have the attention span.

I usually win, though, by virtue of not keeping Rockstar Hours—and because Mary doesn’t have a smartphone. Mary delights in spending the wee hours while I'm sleeping finding new content, and I'll often wake to one he's pulled up on my laptop and a "suck it" sticky note stuck to my monitor.

(But I’m reigning supreme.)

There’s a thirst tag I sometimes comb through (for reasons), and today I’m desperate for that morning serotonin to keep me from dozing off, which is why I stumble across a particularly convincing cosplayer in some…risqué poses and outfits.

The dude is really good, and I have to admit he really does have Mary’s mannerisms down pat. He’s younger and a little skinnier than Mary is now, but his facial expressions are on point. I zoom in to see the contouring technique because he's using one of those filters to make it look old…and that’s when I sense something off. I can’t quite place my finger on it, but usually there’s an uncanny valley to his serious cosplayers, and this dude looks so real. He’s even 100% accurate with the mole placement, which is something I never see.

My heart does a flip-flop.

Is that…actually Mary?

Foundling

Mary's sixth night in the city, it rained. It was more of a brief Spring shower, but it was still enough to soak him and his backpack through. He shivered through the early morning hours until the sun came up, then he made his way to the Commons to lay his belongings—and himself—out into the sun to dry.

By midday, he had a slight sunburn across his nose, but most of his things were dryish—though the food was a soggy lost cause. He cut his losses and decided to buy a sausage from the hotdog vendor, even if that meant he was down to $52.37 in his sock bank.

It was the most amazing thing he'd ever eaten in his entire life (sometimes he still dreams of it), and he gobbled it down as he sat in the grass and watched the show of people pass by.

He could take today off from his job search.

Just another Groundhog Day of rejections.

A gaggle of kids about his age walked past, and he lit up when he saw them: studs and bright hair and cuffs and combat boots. They ran and shrieked and shoved at each other, and Mary had never felt such longing to be a part of something.

Not that nebulous feeling of "my world is out there somewhere," but "my world is right there if I can just get to it."

And he realized maybe he could.

These were his people.

Mary hopped off the bench and approached the boisterous group.

"Uh, hey…guys."

The pack stopped and looked him over, confused but not hostile.

"Oh hey, man" said a girl with green fins and a studded, leather jacket.

"Hey."

I have nowhere to go. Can I go with you?

"Sorry, I forgot your name."

"Oh, you don’t—"

A guy in a tight striped shirt, snake bites, and blue hair interrupted him.

"Shit, were you in my intro into film class last year?"

Mary was a high school dropout.

"Nah, dude. I’m new and shit."

…But he wasn’t stupid.

A curvy white goth with bleached blonde hair and a cream princess dress smiled at him.

"Aww, that’s rough, honey. If you think about it, they really ought to give transfers on-campus housing. It sucks to be so new and away from the action."

Mary nodded. "Yeah. Sucks."

"Well, we’re going to The Pit, wanna come?"

"If you guys don’t mind…"

"Fuck, the more the merrier!"

Mary smiled as they assimilated him into the group. He found out the goth’s name was Vanessa ("But call me Vanity."), green fins was Alexa ("Or Alex. I’m trying it out."), striped shirt was Billy, and the two other punks were Mandi (Manic Panic red) and Aaron (band tee, spiked collar).

No one laughed at him when he introduced himself as Mary or asked him why he had a girl’s name.

They took him onto the T at Charles MGH, and Mary marveled at the setting sun over the Charles River before the train ducked underground to barrel in Cambridge. At Harvard, they ushered him off the train and directly into The Pit, and Mary almost cried when he saw the pit rats there playing hacky sack, strumming guitars, and smoking cloves. Mary watched as his group high-fived, bumped chests, and hugged nearly everyone there before introducing him as if they’d known him for years.

He was shit at hacky sack, but he accepted a round on the guitar and shared a clove with a white girl who had a rat's nest of hair.

"Fuck their beauty stands," she said when she caught Mary staring.

Mary smiled and pointed to his own mess of hair. "Fuck ‘em," he repeated.

She cackled and handed him a brown bag with what he expected to be whiskey, but tasted like turpentine.

She laughed harder at his face as he coughed, and she pounded him on the back.

"Moonshine, dude. Lenny makes it in his bathtub."

"Which one is Lenny," Mary asked as he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Oh, he’s not here. He goes to MIT. We have a strict trade agreement—booze for pot. I’m Katie."

Head fuzzy, Mary had made out with her until Aaron tugged on his arm.

"Shit dude, we gotta go before the T closes. You live close to here?"

"Uh…"

"Aww, I think he got into Lenny’s moonshine," said Vanity. "If he’s a transfer, I bet he’s at some shithole in Allston. You in Allston, honey?"

Mary just nodded.

"All right then," said Alex, taking charge. "We’ll put him up tonight. There’s no way he’s gonna make it back to Allston by himself, and I’ll be fucked if I’m trekking out there without a BU party to crash."

Mary wobbled slightly as Alex took his arm in his and led him to the T.

"Ok, we gotta go now or we’ll all be hoofing it."

They took Mary back to their dorm by the Hatch Shell and signed him in as a guest.

"Is this ok?" Mary asked warily—he didn't want to get kicked out in the middle of the night.

Mandi patted him on the back.

"We do it all time. No one really gives a shit. Vegan Mick dropped out 2 semesters ago and they don’t even check for his ID."

That night, Mary slept in the common room on a lumpy couch that was half as long as he was.

It was heaven.

The next morning seemed like the end, and Mary slumped as Vanity to sign him out. For one brief day he'd been a part of something, and now it was back to Mary, party of one. But Vanity took one look at his face and asked if he wanted to get breakfast at the dining hall.

Of course, he wanted to…but he thought of the dwindling cash in sock bank and hesitated. Vanity, bless her, misread his trepidation.

"It's on me, sweetie. I know most transfers don’t opt in. Too expensive when it’s not bundled. No worries, I got a ton of points I don’t use."

Alex and Aaron were already half done with their food when Vanity and he joined them, and they looked on in amusement as Mary ate half the breakfast buffet.

When the subject of classes came up, he shrugged off questions.

"None this morning."

Alex narrowed her eyes at him.

"What year did you say you were?"

"Sophomore."

"Not a freshman?"

Mary shook his head. "I’m not a freshman."

She seemed about to ask another question, so Mary quickly changed the subject.

"I thought I’d spend the day applying for jobs. You guys know of any place that’s hiring?"

"No work study?"

"No."

"What kind of work you looking for?"

"Shit, anything. I’ll sweep the fucking floors."

They bandied about ideas, places for Mary to try, but no one had any leads. Too soon, some unknown gong had them scurrying to get to class.

Mary suddenly panicked.

"Hey, do you guys mind if I spend the night again? I mean…"

"Yeah, sure," said Vanity. "Aaron?"

"Yeah, man. Meet me after class and I'll swipe you in."

It apparently was a time-honored tradition, passed down from upperclassmen to underclassmen, on gaming the guest system. Most kids used it to essentially move their significant others into their dorm rooms, but a handful every year used it to give haven to others who had questionable housing situations.

So, just like that, Mary had a place to rest his bones.

@dilfpassing

A Deeper Look

I’m so intent on scrolling through the comments on the grainy pics—which I'm sure now are actual scans—that I completely miss my stop, and I have to put my phone away so I can wheeze lightly jog my way to where I work as a receptionist at an alternative hair salon.

It’s really important that I start a good hour before we open so I can return any calls left on our voicemail first thing in case I can fit anyone in today. Which means I have to shelve my find for now, much to my irritation.

Mornings are super-busy because apparently there are some people in the world that like getting up with the sun and want everything done by noon. (June Cleaver’s salon lets me get away with a lot—like coming to work in denim short-shorts and ripped tights, free hair colors, and a snarky attitude—but late start times aren’t one of them.) I honestly don’t have room in my brain to obsess about the pictures because I’m too busy answering calls, making coffee, settling accounts, and giving the new customer spiel for the 57th time to a walk-in.

It’s just after midday, when Penny, the shampoo girl, collects my cash for the salon-wide sandwich run, and I finally have a moment to breathe. And obsess.

I take out my phone again, and I have to retrace my steps because of course the app has refreshed, which is why Sonia has the time to look over my shoulder.

"Missing dream boy’s dick so much you gotta spend your lunch hour ogling pics of him on the internet?"

I zoom in on the one of maybe!Mary in his underwear.

"Who does that look like to you?"

Sonia makes a guh sound in her throat and backs away.

"I don’t need to see your intimates!"

"That’s the thing! It’s not mine!"

"Your boy’s nudes get leaked??"

I wave my arms around.

"I don’t freakin’ know! They may not even be him. Fucking. C’mere and help me out!"

Sonia warily creeps back over, and so does Ryan, since all the yelling has attracted him.

The three of us peer over the phone as I scroll through the images again.

By the time Penny comes back with lunch, we’ve gone back and forth on who’s in the images—Mary or a fake—and I haven’t been able to do any actual research. The afternoon rush starts, and I have to table the whole thing again, having made no progress at all.

It isn’t until near-closing, when most of the other stylists have gone home—and it’s only June who does the post-work crowd—that I can really dig into the matter.

A deep dive and a couple of defunct, decade-old forums later, I find that what I took as an aspirational hashtag was actually the name of a zine called "Heroes."

There’s like, zero online trail about it—except for a few other grainy scans of other pages of articles, poetry, concert pictures, and art—but it seemed to be an early aughts missive for local underground culture and color.

It still doesn’t explain why Mary’s in there in various states of undress and poses.

Or why Mary has never said a word about it to me.

Stripped Bare

Mary settled into a sort of routine. He spent most days looking for a job—any job—with his backpack full of food from their dining hall. Most nights he rotated couches on different floors so the RAs didn’t notice that he basically lived there.

He made friends with Vegan Mick for about 5 seconds until Mary had eaten an entire Rotisserie chicken from 7-11 in front of him. Mick had launched into a whole spiel, and Mary had pointed out that Mick's jacket and Docs were made of leather. He’d only meant it as a joke—a callout in answer to a callout, like he'd do with his friends back home—but Vegan Mick had turned purple, then iced Mary out every time he saw him after that.

Oops.

The brief friendship had lasted long enough, however, for Mick to give Mary some tips and tricks of being homeless.

Homeless.

That had been a tough pill to swallow. Until Vegan Mick had put Mary’s situation like that, Mary had just thought of himself between places.

But it was true: he didn’t live anywhere. He skated by on the kindness of his new friends, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the ruse of "transfer student who didn’t like his shithole apartment and was too busy job searching to concentrate on classes."

He still spent a few nights a week finding an out-of-the-way place outside to hunker down in or huddling in with Katie and a few of the other gutter punks under their boxes in the corners of the T stations. He knew they would have been more than happy to make room, anyway, but Mary always emptied his backpack of all the pilfered dining hall food for distribution amongst them.

It honestly wasn't so terrible now that he had friends and a warm place to go on cold or rainy nights, but.

He needed an actual place to live. To afford an actual place to live, he needed a job. To get a job, he needed a place to live.

It seemed like a catch-22, and he began to despair that he’d never get ahead…until Mandi offered him a leg up.

Mary was sitting on the grass in the Commons in the shade, thinking that with summer coming up, maybe he could fudge it until the gang came back in September. There was always Katie and The Pit, and Mary was sure he could chip in somehow.

Mandi sat down next to him.

"I thought that mess of hair was you, Mare."

"Hey, Mandi. What’s kicks?"

"You still looking for a job?"

Mary put his head in his hands and sighed.

"Don’t remind me."

"You over 18?"

Just last week. But Mary hadn’t said, since they thought he was a Sophomore.

"Yeah."

"Wanna be at least 21?"

Mary grinned at her.

"That’s what my fake ID says."

She laughed, a tinkling thing.

"You got anything against strip clubs?"

Mary furrowed his brows at her.

"Uh…what’s the right answer here?"

She shoved him playfully.

"Do you want a job?"

"Yeah?"

"Then say no."

"No. No problems with strip clubs." He squinted at her. "Are they looking for male strippers?"

She laughed again.

"Definitely not." She canted her head at Mary. "I mean, you're very pretty, Mare. I could probably put you on as one of the girls…even with these triple As," she flicked playfully at his nipple, which had him grunting and batting at her, "but I was thinking more behind the scenes."

Mary held up his arm and made a weak muscle.

"I don’t think I’d be much of a bouncer, Mands."

"You said you’d wash dishes, sweep floors and shit, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the club I work at—"

"The club at you what now?"

Mandi gave him a strange look.

"Yeah. The strip club I work at."

Mary’s eyes bugged out.

"As a…waitress?"

"As a stripper, Mary. Duh." At his dumbfounded look she shook her head. "It’s kind of extra credit, as a dance major. I’m going to turn it into my thesis. Plus, I make hella bank."

She swept her arm across the park that made up her college "campus."

"How else do you think I can afford this rock-and-roll lifestyle? Not all of us are here on scholarship or mom and dad’s dime."

She tilted her head at him.

"I thought you’d get it."

When Mary didn't respond, she touched his shoulder.

"Mare. I know you don't go here."

"W-what…? I…"

He looked at her, wide-eyed as the blood drained from his face.

"Hey, it's ok. I'm not gonna tell anybody. Not if you don't want me to."

Mary looked down. "Thanks." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know that means I've got no address."

Mandi bumped his shoulder and waved his words away.

"A lot of the girls dance. Paddy is used to dorm rooms as addresses. You can use mine."

Mary looked at her, hoping he could convey every ounce of gratitude he was feeling.

She grinned and punched him in the shoulder.

"So, you up for it? Sweeping floors and bussing tables?" She leveled a look at him. "Cleaning up puke?"

Anything.

"Fuck, I’m desperate, Mands. I’ll hold their hair back if it means a paycheck."

"That’s the spirit!"

***

Mary was sure Patrick was part of the mob—or at least in cahoots. The guy had taken one look at Mary’s ID and had said, "But how old are you really?" and Mary had said, "Nineteen."

Patrick had thrown up his hands. "Well, you ain’t gonna be serving alcohol anyway, kid. Your job is to do whatever I tell you. Some asshole breaks a bottle, you clean up the glass so the girls don’t hurt themselves. Some idiot ralphs all over the toilet seat, you scrub the shit out of that fucker. A bachelor party leaves a table a hot mess, you better be out there clearing off the table for the next one, got it?"

Mary had nodded.

"You show up at 5 to help the girls set up the bar. You stay til whenever it takes to close down—but you only get paid 'til 2am—and you get an hour to eat, unpaid. You don’t bother the girls, and," Patrick had leaned in, "you don’t steal from me."

Mary had gulped and nodded emphatically.

Patrick had jabbed a finger at him. "That includes the booze. If I get fucked because some snot-nosed, underage kid is drinking with my good friends Jim and Johnnie, I’m gonna be very put out."

"Got it, sir."

"Don’t call me sir. I’m Paddy to my friends, so you can call me Patrick."

"Yes, Patrick."

Patrick had looked him over.

"You get paid as an independent contractor just like the girls, so you gotta deal with your own taxes, you got that? I’ll start you at $10 an hour."

Mary’s eyes had gone wide. Back home he was lucky to get 5.

"Ten…?"

Patrick had tilted his head again.

"No, you’re right, 12. Do a good job, and I’ll think about raising it to 15."

Mary had to physically stop his jaw from dropping.

"You do weeknights for now so if you fuck up it’s not that much of a problem. If you don’t fuck up and the girls don’t hate you, you can get weekends. Deal?"

Mary had sat up straighter. "Deal." He’d held his hand out, but Patrick had just looked at it until Mary pulled it back into his side.

"Ariel vouched for you, so I’m giving you a shot. Don’t make her regret it."

Mary had shaken his head as Patrick had handed him some forms to fill out.

"Come back at 4 tomorrow with these and we’ll get you started. Now, get out, I got shit to do."

Mary had taken the forms and skedaddled.

Mandi was outside waiting for him, all smiles.

"Did you get it?"

"Yeah, but fuck—your boss is scary."

"Nah, he’s a teddy bear."

***

The job was awful.

The puke was an almost nightly occurrence, and by the end of the first week, little cuts covered Mary’s hands from the broken glass. The customers were loud, rowdy, and acted as if their mother was going to clean up after them.

Mary swore he would never get the beer smell out. It now lived in his soul.

One dude punched Mary and broke his nose for no reason Mary could tell before the bouncers dragged the guy away. The girls gave him some tampons to stop the bleeding, and Mary finished his shift.

Patrick paid Mary in cash at the end of every week with a "It’s your job to report that, not mine," and at the end of the month, Patrick bumped Mary up to $15/hr. He worked 5 days a week because, according to Patrick, "The Lord gave us a day of rest, and you get one day off per week."

Mary never reported a single cent to the IRS.

The girls loved him, and joked that Patrick had gotten them a pet. They showed him winged eyeliner and smokey eyes and how to contour. They guffawed when they watched him try out their shoes like a newborn deer. On slow nights, they tried to show him pole techniques.

He saw the gang less and less because by the time they were getting out of class, he was going into work, and when he was done work, they were crawling into bed. Fortunately, the desk sitters seemed to forget that he wasn’t an on-campus "student" and didn’t even bother signing him in anymore. There were a few sticklers, but Mary found that—while back home he was less than scum—here, he attracted all the right kinds of attention…and a smirk with the right compliment went a long way.

By the time their school year ended, Mary had saved up $1,000 (and he needed to transfer his money out of sock bank and into the ripped lining of his jacket).

Even though they didn't know just how much they'd saved him, Mary showed up on the last day as thanks to help them all move their stuff into family cars or rented trucks. They hugged him goodbye and said to ring them next semester.

Mandi bopped him on the nose and told him to keep his nose clean.

Mary took a sublet in Allston with 2 BU kids and a Berkley grad student. The "room" was a closed-in porch with a sleeping bag left by the last resident—but it was $400 a month until September, utilities included.

At first, Mary didn't know why the gang was so snobby about Allston, but the summer seemed to be one continual party. It didn't matter what day Mary got up, there were always broken beer bottles and stale beer on their front stoop, and the apartment had a designated watering can for washing away the vomit that dripped down from the top porches to their own.

But he took it in stride, and when he wasn’t at the strip club or sleeping, he was partying with the BU kids, or letting the Berkley grad show him better string fingering techniques.

Mary still tried to get out to The Pit with what groceries he could spare, but Katie had moved on with some of the others to do a protest tour with an activist street band that had come through town, and without her or the gang, it made Mary feel lonely.

By the end of the summer, Mary had saved up enough money for first, last, and security. He even had some left over to buy more than ramen and some new clothes. To Mary, it felt like a million dollars. He rented a garden-level apartment in the cheap part of Jamaica Plain for September 1st and spent that entire day with the BU dudes driving around in their rented truck for Allston Christmas’s best furniture finds.

Mary ended up with a mattress that he hoped on a wish and a prayer didn’t have bedbugs, a mismatched set of dishes, plastic drawers that were slightly warped, and a broken futon frame he swore he would fix. Throw in a few sets of slightly used string lights, and Mary’s cave felt downright homey.

When the gang got back, he simply told them he’d dropped out.

"Yeah, I just don’t think college is for me. Music’s my real passion, you know?"

Alex had groaned.

"I knew that Berkley kid was gonna be a bad influence on you."

Mary shrugged.

"My grades were shit anyway. But I’m still around, you know. The strip club’s only a block from campus."

"Because we saw you so much then," deadpanned Billy.

"Hey! Stop piling on Mary," said Vanity. "He’s following his path."

Mary shot her a wide smile.

"Thanks, Vanity."

Patrick finally gave him a little more leeway with his days off, and Mary started taking Saturday night to join the gang in Harvard Square for the shadow cast of Rocky Horror. One of Aaron’s classmates, Amber, was in it, and they all wanted to support her.

Mary felt that something again. That thing that told that this was his place and his people. This eclectic group who got up in front of strangers every week in their underwear for free enthralled Mary.

He and Amber bonded immediately, and Mary began going even without the gang. The cast welcomed him in as an honorary groupie, and Mary's friendship with the gang waned. There was still Mandi to cavort with at the strip club, but now when Mary wasn't there, he was at any one of the Rocky crew's apartments getting high and playing dress up.

"You’ve got such a Look, Mare," sighed Amber. "I’d kill for your cheekbones."

"I’d kill for your tits."

She slapped him playfully. "Don’t be gross."

"No, I’m serious. Someone once put it in my head that I'd be a hot chick."

The girls had giggled and proceeded to dress him up in bras and corsets with cutlets. They added a wig, and the glo-up surprised even Mary.

Still buzzed, they went out for girl’s night and hit up all the bars in Fenway and flirted their way to free shots from the dude bros before batting their falsies at bouncers to let them into the clubs ahead of the line and without the cover.

The cutlets eventually became a nuisance—and soon they were all flapping them about above their heads as they danced—but Mary had loved the feel of the lace and satin corsets against his skin.

When they’d all collapsed in a pile at the end of the night, Mary wondered if they’d tell him where to get some lingerie for himself.

***

By August, Mary was ready to quit the strip club.

He was tired of cut fingers (they were making it hard to play the guitar he’d bought), the drunks, and the sick everywhere. Now that he had a little cushion, he thought maybe he could at least find something with better hours.

Mandi had graduated and was well into a summer internship at Disney in hopes they’d bring her on as a dancer.

Alex had also graduated and moved out to LA to make it as a film editor.

Vanity and Aaron had started dating after finals, and they had moved in together in Cambridgeport for their last year.

Billy had stopped going to classes before dropping out altogether. No one seemed to know what happened, and when they called his home, his mother just said he was unavailable.

There didn’t seem to be much reason to stick around the Grid anymore, and it was a bitch of a commute back to his place if he wasn’t going to hang out with the Rocky crew. He landed a job at a record store that was walking distance to his apartment.

Patrick seemed surprisingly sad to see him go, saying, "Ah, the good ones smart up," and gave him a $500 bonus for not "fucking up."

Tim, one of the older Rocky people, turned out to not live too far from him, and when Mary started hanging out there, so did the party.

Now that Mary was no longer shackled by the strip club’s hours, his world opened a few more degrees. He spent his nights dressing up while he watched the cast rehearse. (When he showed them a move or two he learned from the women at the club, they tried to get him to do a guest star as Frank. But Mary had shaken his head and said that wasn’t the kind of performing he wanted to do.)

When they weren't rehearsing, they dragged Mary to TT The Bear’s, The Middle East, and The Milky Way Lounge for underground shows. They took him to fetish night at ManRay after a trip to Hubba Hubba for pleather and lingerie, and Mary made a lot of new friends.

Sometimes, Mary would show up to work straight off a night out in his club clothes, eyeliner smudged and lipstick smeared. It should have got him fired, but his boss just shrugged.

"I used to keep rockstar hours too."

Mary still wore all his old vestiges—his battle vest and his ripped jeans—it was just that now he sometimes added a corset and heels.

Wherever Katie was now, he hoped she knew he was still fucking their beauty standards.

ry.omen Insta

Answer Me This

I practically vibrate the entire way back to our place. I'm still trying to wring information out of the internet like it's too-wet clothes, but the only thing I accomplish is making myself motion sick on the bus, so I put my phone back in my pocket and breath through my nose.

When I get home, Mary is sprawled across the couch in his pjs with various limbs hanging over sides and edges as he watches some extreme sport show on my laptop.

I wonder if he just got up, but I see the start of dinner on the stove, so I decide not to snark at him.

"Hey," he says without looking up.

I am, however, gonna need some answers on "Heroes."

I gently close the laptop, and he meets my eyes.

"What?"

I climb onto the couch, and Mary’s limbs recede like vines to make room for me as I scroll through my phone to my photo app where I’ve saved screenshots.

"Lucy," I say in a terrible accent, "you have some ‘splaining to do!"

Mary squints at me and takes my phone, his expression morphing into one of surprise.

"Shit, babe. Where’d ya find these??"

"So they are you!"

He chuckles.

"Christ…I haven't thought about these in fucking years."

"Mind telling me what the fuck?" I ask, my hands on my hips.

I'm only half joking.

Mary grimaces at me.

"Ah."

"I'm gonna need more than that, mister."

He rubs the back of his neck.

"Fuck, you know those were hard times for me."

I know about his family, the homelessness. I know he tried out a lot until he found a life that fit. He'd given me the overviews with occasional anecdotes filled with names I never remembered.

But none of them included naughty pictures.

I worm my way under his arm.

"Yeah, I know, Mare."

His hand strokes down my arm.

"I mean, shit. I was kinda an asshole, you know?"

I wrap an arm around his chest.

"You're still kind of an asshole, Goore."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

When he doesn't say more, I poke him hard in the side.

"I’m literally dying here."

He laughs a little.

"Fine. But you gotta remember you asked."

Model Behavior

One day, Mary was walking down the street on his way to drinks with the new friends he'd made the weekend before. It was a good day. He wasn’t hungover as fuck, his makeup was only smudged artfully, and he was pretty sure he was going to get laid.

A guy in a leather jacket and tight jeans maybe a few years older than Mary stopped him on the street.

"Hey, man! I love your style."

Mary batted his eyelashes at him. "Thanks, dude."

"You ever think of dark modeling?"

Mary squinted his eyes at him.

"Dark what now?"

"You know—modeling but like," he gestured up and down Mary’s form, "for dark beauties. Show the world beauty isn’t cookie cutter."

"For like what? A website or some shit?"

The guy dug into his pocket, pulled out a card case, and handed one to Mary.

Heroes Greg Karson, Photographer/Web Design Butera School of Art

Actually, Mary had heard of this. It was a zine about the local happenings around town—concerts, art shows, parties, etc. There was a stack of them next to "Rrriot!" in the record shop. He’d flipped through one occasionally, mostly interested in the band reviews.

"We’re really on the lookout for anyone with the right look. You know, wear stuff you already own."

"So like a street fashion spread?"

"Well, we might do a little more with it, but—you know how it is. Most of the budget goes toward printing costs."

Mary perked up.

"Would I be paid?"

Greg laughed.

"Peanuts, my dude. But yeah. Even if it’s a T token. You interested, then?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Mind if I take a few test shots."

Mary smirked at Greg.

"How do you want me?"

"Just natural."

Putting his hands in his pockets, Mary arched his back and gave Greg his best snotty hipster face.

Greg dug out a digital camera from his carrying case and took a dozen or so pictures of Mary from different angles while telling him to turn this way or that.

Afterwards, the two of them huddled over the camera and scrolled through the shots.

"Aw yeah, this one. I love the attitude. The guys are gonna love it. You have a number where we can reach you?"

Mary gave him the number of the record shop. (His apartment had a phone, but he’d never gotten around to wanting to pay for service.)

Later, he and Amber looked up the Angelfire website on the back of the card. It was one page that contained the mission statement, bios of the creators, and locations to pick up the zine.

"Omigod—you’re gonna become a famous model, Mare!"

"Yeah, right. You know most of it ends up in the trash, right?"

But when Ben called, Mary said he was game. He directed Mary to a co-op in a converted warehouse in Dorchester, and Mary brought his favorite clothes in a borrowed duffle.

A girl in cat pajamas opened the door and pointed at a set of metal stairs with her cereal spoon.

On the second floor, Mary found Greg setting up a makeshift studio. A girl with multiple piercings and yarn dreads leaned against the wall in her black babydoll dress.

Mary sidled up to her.

"You here to model, too?"

She gave him an unimpressed once-over.

"I’m the art director, asshole."

Mary flushed hard as she turned to Greg.

"Couldn’t find one with brains?"

She turned back to Mary.

"I don’t know if you thought this would be a good way to meet chicks or what, dude. But I’m letting you know right now that I’m here on my day off to make sure this adheres to our aesthetic, so if you're not serious, fuck off."

Mary rubbed the back of his neck.

"Shit, sorry. I was expecting a dude named Ben."

She waved her hand in the air as if dispelling Ben.

"The Bens are morons. Good idea, terrible execution. I’m here to make sure we remain true to the idea of 'Heroes,' so don’t fuck up my shoot." She gave him a once over. "Christ. You have any experience?"

Greg turned from where he was testing the white balance.

"Angelique, stop harassing the talent. We get it, you have a degree from RISD."

Angelique snorted.

"As if I don't hear you going on and on about being a professional photographer. 'Hey, lemme shoot your portfolio, baby.' Whatever. As if we're not your only professional credit."

"Hey—you wanted a photographer for peanuts? You got me. You wanted models for peanuts? You got him."

Mary gave her his full snaggle-toothed grin.

"I take T tokens."

Angelique sighed, then pasted on a smile.

"Hi! So happy you’re here!" Her smile drooped. "You got your wardrobe in there?"

"Yeah."

Mary handed her the duffle, and she handed him release forms.

"Here: sign these"

She pawed through his offerings.

"Not bad, not bad." She pulled out a corset and his heeled boots. "We'll keep you in your jeans and have you wear your jacket over your corset. Cool?"

Cool.

The shoot was as professional as a shoot in a warehouse in what Mary was taking to usually be a living room could be. Angelique directed Greg with what she wanted. Greg called out positions and expressions for Mary to pose in.

It was surprisingly hard work, and by the end of a solid hour, his smirking lip was getting tired. Angelique and Greg scrolled through the shots, murmuring to themselves and nodding.

Mary waited—greeting at the other inhabitants as they squeezed by on their way either up or down—until Angelique approached him.

"That’ll do. You mind if we post on our website?"

Mary preened.

"Yeah, that’s kosher."

She handed him a pen and pocket notebook.

"Write down a quick bio."

He scribbled down a quick elevator pitch

Into general skulking and metal \m/

and handed the notebook back to her.

"Great, thanks."

She handed him a $20 bill, her eyes skimming him up and down.

"Next time we should show off those hip bones. Just jeans, I think."

Mary perked up. "Next time?"

"We’ll call you."

***

"Omigod, omigod!"

Amber perched on the record store counter, flipping through "Heroes," as Jon peered over her shoulder.

"Mary…look at you!"

Mary tried to swallow his smug smile.

Failed.

"Yeah. I’m hot shit, ain’t I?"

She bopped him on the nose with the newsprint.

"Don’t be vain."

He showed her his toothy smile.

"I like to think of it as confidence."

"So did Icarus."

Mary snorted and went back to putting prices on the new CDs.

"The camera loves you," said Jon, who was always quiet and reserved as you please…until he put on Frank’s corset and heels.

Mary had tried flirting with him, but Jon always ducked his head and played it off.

"Thanks, man," said Mary, giving him a softer smile.

"So??"

"So what, Amber?"

"Are you gonna do it again?"

Mary shrugged.

"I mean, if they call me, sure."

But he was kind of hoping they would.

When the next issue came out weeks later, Mary stared at the cybergoth on the pages and felt himself deflate. Listlessly, he thumbed through the delicate print, barely skimming the section devoted to the World/Inferno Friendship Society’s set he’d been at the week before.

He set it down with a sigh before he picked up his guitar and plucked out a tune he was trying to coax into a riff.

By the time a Ben called again, Mary had given up the modeling thing as a one-off.

"Hey, dude—thought maybe you guys forgot about me," Mary said in a teasing tone.

The Ben on the other end chuckled.

"It’s like herding cats to get shit out. Nah, dude—we definitely want you to be one of our regulars. You in for next Saturday?"

He was.

***

Over the course of a year, "Heroes" had Mary come out multiple times for shoots. Mainly, Mary wore his own clothes and did his own makeup, but occasionally, Angelique wanted something specific.

"How comfortable are you with boudoir shots?"

"With what?"

"Like a pinup, but more…saucy than sexy."

I'd pose nude if you paid me enough.

(Sure, he was a noodle boy, but he knew he had the goods.)

"Yeah, I’m cool with that."

Angelique brightened at him.

"Great!"

She picked up a set of complicated leather garters and thrust them at him.

"Put these on."

Mary had only ever worn lace garters—mostly out to clubs, but occasionally under his ripped jeans for an extra pop—but he found he liked these even more, liked the way they emphasized his thighs.

"Hey—where’d you get these…?"

(He was already thinking of what he could pair them with for goth night.)

"Local leatherworker. He mostly does pieces for Renn Fairs, but he'll also do custom. I can give you his info."

She led Mary into what was clearly someone's bedroom.

"Don't fuck anything up, or Joye will never let us use this again."

Mary shot her his best shark smile.

"Hey, I only mess up the sheets if someone asks."

Angelique gave him a flat look and called for Greg.

(But when he draped himself over the bed and told Greg to "Paint me like one of your French girls," Mary could have sworn she almost smiled.)

On one memorable occasion, she brought in a guy whose rope bondage demo she watched at a sex convention.

"Put on some of that lingerie and we'll truss you up. You ok with that, Goore?"

Mary ran his fingers over the coils and gave her a wolfish smile.

"You know I'm game for anything."

She gave him a vulpine smile of her own then, and she looked down at him from the height of her platformed boots.

"Good. I thought you should be submissive for once."

Mary had no witty rejoinder for that.

He listened with interest as the guy carefully explained what he was going to do, complete with pictures, and he relaxed easily into the process. (They put bunny ears on him, and it would be much, much later that he got that particular joke. Well played, Angelique.)

The ropes hadn’t let him do much posing, but Mary had kind of liked the constriction, and his thoughts were already on asking Amber to help him create a more versatile version for fetish night.

He’d left that day with a new kink…and the guy’s number.

"Why not just do one big shoot?" he asked another time. "Get it all done in one big bang!"

Angelique held up his garments to eyeball over him.

"Honey, we never even know if there's gonna be a next issue. The Bens spend most of the time arguing. My god you should hear them—Ben bankrolls the whole thing, so he says he should get final say on shit, and Benji wants total artistic control because it was his idea, because 'he's the graphic designer', and because it's his Kinko's employee discount they use."

She gave Mary a curled-lip smile as she tossed a few items at him.

"In the end it's this bitch you're looking at who gets shit done."

Mary began to change (they were long past modesty).

"How'd you get involved?"

"Went to school with Benji."

"Ben too?"

"Neg. The Bens are childhood friends. Ben works some cushy start-up job, so Benji lets him bankroll them both. Rent, utilities—everything. I love Benji to death, but he's a giant mooch."

"Shit, that must be nice."

Angelique shrugged. She stood back to appraise Mary's look.

"It's fucking lame. But it least it gets us fucking paid."

Mary didn't say I'd do this for free. Instead, he struck a pose and said, "I'm just happy for the exposure."

Angelique rolled her eyes and went to fetch Greg.

***

That year and a half would become a nonstop party with Mary as one of the VIPs; he wouldn't say no to anything—be it casual sex, club appearances, or whatever drug the current pretty thing was offering him in the bathroom.

But recognition started slow.

At first, it was customers who would leaf through the zine and recognize Mary.

Then, it was the occasional scenester who’d stop him on the street in JP as he walked about, and Mary would pose for grainy cell phone pics.

Soon, he was being approached at shows and clubs. The first time it happened, Mary was high off his new infamy and ready to please. A woman in a black bandage bra and pleated skirt with bondage straps approached him, and Mary was already thinking of what he could do with those.

"You look like that guy in ‘Heroes’!" she'd shouted to him over the music.

Mary had flashed her a crooked smile and leaned in.

"Maybe I am the guy in ‘Heroes’."

She'd given him an exaggerated once over before sidling closer with hooded eyes.

"I dunno…you're wearing way more clothes."

Mary had pulled his mesh top down by the collar in a tease as he'd curled over her.

"Take me somewhere more private and I’ll let you do a comparison."

She'd compared him all night.

And that was before he and the other "Heroes" models formed their own posse.

The Bens had thrown a BBQ and had invited everyone they'd ever met. There were people packed into their little 2 bedroom in Brighton, spilling down the back stairs, and equally packed into the little square of shared backyard. Ben had taken the 12-pack of 'Gansett beers Mary had brought, then introduced him to the other dark models.

"Now you're all here!" said Ben. He slung his arm around Mary. "Guys, this is Mary. Mary this is Mayhem, Lesley, Lola, and Bryan."

Mayhem was a rivethead, and Mary took to him instantly, but he was wary of the others. Lesley was the cybergoth who'd been in the first issue after him, and Mary still felt a bit salty at them, even though Mary knew by now the Bens rotated the models. Lola, the romantic goth, reminded him enough of Vanity that he felt guilty for losing touch with her and had him projecting a little. Bryan was a metalhead, so: competition.

Mary had thought they'd get along like cats and water, but weed, booze, and "Never Have I Ever" went a long way to creating a shared bond.

And there it was again. That pull. The magnetic force telling him that he'd found the place he was supposed to be. They quickly coalesced into their own pack, calling themselves the "Deathbutantes" (because they always killed it when they debuted for the night).

It had been rare for Mary to miss Friday and Saturday night shenanigans with the Rocky crew, but now, every night was Friday night. There was always a show or a concert or club that one of them knew about—and if they couldn't get lucky with the local color, they'd just go home with each other.

Mayhem taught Mary what Lola jokingly called the "grab a bat" dance, and the two of them cut quite the picture on the dance floors.

Lesley took to Lola, and the two of them could always be counted on for scintillating conversation in dark corners when Mary's limbst needed a break from flailing about.

The clubs weren't really Bryan's scene—take him to a sticky hole in the wall with concrete floors and a stage close enough to feel the sweat from the bands, and he was in heaven—but he liked to come along to hang. He'd drink PBRs, rub Lola's feet when she invariably abandoned her heels for the evening, and argue with Mary about the purity of death metal.

Mayhem and Lola weren't really into live music of the screaming kind, so—while Lesley, Bryan, and Mary bounced off each other in the mosh pits—they'd save a "home" base at one the bartops.

Amber noticed Mary's diminishing presence and stopped by the record shop to call him out.

"So you're not dead! Could've fooled me."

Mary was organizing the albums into order, and he grunted at her.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm a cad. I'll make it up to you."

"You missed game night."

"Sorry. Jethro Tull played some tiny venue in nowhere Mass, and Bryan was salivating. I mean, Jethro Tull. Can you blame me?"

He looked at her, arms out wide in supplication. But she just blinked at him.

"You have no idea who Jethro Tull is, do you?"

"Sorry, dude. But christ, Mare. You should have invited me. I'd've gone. Maybe I would have even liked them. Now you'll never know."

"I could just lend you an album."

"Nope! The moment passed. Too late!"

Mary riffled through the stock and shoved a Jethro Tull CD into her hands.

She tapped it against her thigh.

"So, when do I get to hang?"

"I can get us into 80s night free."

"No, I mean, with your cooler friends. Your 'murder models', or whatever."

"You wanna hang out with the Deathbutantes?"

Amber scrunched her nose.

"That's so fucking pretentious."

Mary kind of liked it.

"Dunno if they're really your scene."

"Oh? And what's my scene?"

"Musical theater on crack."

She mock gasped at him, "Called out!" before smacking him with the CD. "Whatever. You love musical theater on crack."

Mary draped his arm around her shoulders.

"Yeah, I do. But I don't live it, you know? You guys have your niche—and fuck…I love to visit—but it's not mine."

Amber looked up at him, her expression serious.

"So the Dumbutantes are your niche?"

Mary shrugged and went back to shelving.

The Rocky crew had been good to him. They'd taken him under their wing, no questions asked, and helped him realize things about himself. Tim had taken him to the ER when Mary had come down with a serious case of the flu. Matty had taught him the basics of sewing. Gretchen had held him after a bad trip. Omar and he had had many drunken heart-to-hearts about their shitty home lives.

And Amber was his best friend. She'd been his #1 cheerleader for years and had never been afraid to call him out on his shit.

So yeah, he loved the Rocky crew…but they laughed at anyone who took anything too seriously. Mary would show up to game nights in his latest creation—with everyone else in pjs or jeans & hoodies—and they'd tease him about trying to impress the wrong people. He'd try to talk about the newest guitar god he'd been mainlining, and they'd make snoring noises at him.

How could he explain the kinship he felt with the Deathbutantes? That they were as serious about music as he was, that they just…got why he felt the need to dress the way he did to express the way he felt inside on his outside.

Instead, he said, "I'm just trying shit out, Ambs." He quirked his eyebrow at her. "I gotta do something while you guys do your real-person jobs."

(Amber had recently started as a junior marketing assistant at the American Repertory Theater. "Purely mercenary," she'd said. "Maybe it'll give me a leg up during auditions.")

She made a disgruntled scoffing noise in the back of her throat.

"Fuck, don't remind me. I actually gotta go to bed a reasonable hour now."

"Don't worry." Mary winked at her. "I'll keep ya honest."

"That sounds a lot like my head in a toilet, Mare."

"I'll hold your hair back."

She gave him a good-natured shove, and he pretended to cower.

If she wanted to cross pollinate, who was Mary to stand in her way? So, he invited her out the next time the Deathbutantes went to a show, and it went exactly like he thought it would.

They disliked her, and she was equally unimpressed. They thought she was too loud and frenetic, and she thought they had no sense of humor.

"I fucking told you," Mary had snorted as they sat on the curb sharing a clove.

"Shut the fuck up, Mare."

But she'd put her head on his shoulder.

"They make you happy, though. So I guess I approve. Just as long as I don't have to play nice."

Mary still hung out with the Rocky crew—there were still game nights and drug-fueled sex parties and theater games—but the Deathbutantes introduced him to the underground scene. They always seemed to have insider knowledge about the best up-in-coming bands and the secret shows. Theme nights at the goth clubs were always a must, and they rarely missed one. Sometimes, Angelique would crash, and they'd take the commuter rail to Providence to party at Club Hell before collapsing in a sweaty, smeary pile at a friend of a friend's hole in the wall.

As a bit player in the Rocky crew, Mary had been another made-up face in the crowd. As a certified member of the Deathbutantes, Mary became the face.

They all did.

The owners loved them because they bought round after round at the bar, and if word got out that the Deathbutantes were there, their admirers came to spend money as well. The employees loved them because they were fun and talked to them as equals. The clientele loved them because they were pretty young things.

Sometimes, though, Mary wasn't in the mood to party or get laid, so he talked to the DJs instead. He'd buy them rounds and stay past closing to help them pack up while they talked about the history of punk and 80s new wave and nu metal. There was one in particular, Dave, that Mary even considered a friend.

The two of them would sit in the club past closing, sharing a whiskey and talking about life while the bartenders closed down and cashed out. Occasionally, Dave's other friends would be around, and they'd all walk back to his place; he'd fool around spinning in his home studio, and they'd drink box wine as they danced and laughed before Mary would have to sit on the ground in an intoxicated exhaustion, good for only thumbing through Dave's vinyl collection.

Mary was just happy to talk shop with another music aficionado, but Angelique had pointed out that he should leverage his minor clout.

They'd been waiting for Greg to finish setting up, and Mary had been struggle city after a particularly hard night out. It was all he could manage to sit there quietly and hope some god would put him out of his misery.

"You need to get your shit together," Angelique had said out of nowhere.

Mary had cracked a puffy eye and had slowly (as to not bring the nothing in his stomach back up) turned his head to her.

"As if I haven't seen your melted ass on the floor wanting to die."

"Fuck, Mary. You've turned it into an art form."

He'd closed his eyes and given her the finger, but that hadn't stopped her.

"You wanna be a rockstar, boy? You can't just sit on your ass and hope the right person on the right night hears you. You're effervescent and charismatic—heads turn when you walk into a room and not just because of your skinny jeans—but you need more than air, Mary, which is all you are right now."

"Fuck you, Angela."

She'd clapped in front of his face, and she was lucky he didn't Exorcist bile all over her.

"You're a fucking pain in my ass, Goore. I'm doling out the good stuff, try not to bite my hand off, k?"

"All right, all right!"

"You wanna start that band? You wanna get play and amass fans? Well, make that demo you're always droning on about and give it to those DJs you're alway fanboying over. Fucking network, Goore."

At the time, Mary had been too hungover to care, but her advice would sink in…

Eventually.

For the time being, Mary was content. He loved the attention, and it made him feel invincible, made him feel like it was finally His Time. And he was going to make up for every slight, every unfair situation, and every beat down with sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.

With his newfound nightlife, Mary's day job had become an afterthought. He started sleeping through opening shifts, but with the extra foot traffic Mary brought to the store, his boss seemed resigned to let Mary slide (after a stern talking to and a pay docking).

The shadow cast had started using him as a mascot of sorts, and he was happy to show up on Saturday nights and hype up the waiting line with a pseudo striptease. (Even if it was sometimes to kick off his evening with the Deathbutantes and not hang with the cast after.)

Mary started a band ("auditioning" any and all of the many admirers who said they’d be more than happy to join it), and after a few false starts and a couple of lineup changes, they began working on an EP. (At least, when Mary showed up to rehearsal, they did.)

A Boston Phoenix reporter got wind of the Deathbutantes and called around about doing a story on them. The Bens were excited about the exposure that meant for their zine, and Angelique and Greg were excited about what it could mean for their careers. Mary did a brief interview over the phone where he answered questions about his style and talked about his dream of making his band a household name.

Mary saw his name up in lights, and he was reaching for it, full speed ahead.

But then things turned.

The story fell through at the last minute with no further explanation or contact by the reporter.

His boss finally fired him after Mary showed up too high to function too many times—or not at all.

The shadow cast had a turnover, and suddenly he was old news—a cringey hanger-on.

A trip to the clinic and a round of antibiotics for an STI had him way more wary of who he hooked up with.

"Heroes" lost momentum when imitators popped up and Ben cut off the gravy train.

Angelique moved to NYC for "better opportunities," and the Bens took their brand of counterculture to Portland, OR.

Greg took down the website when he got offered a legit job as an apprentice at a food magazine, and that was that.

The physical zines were cheap things, most ending up papering the sidewalk after trash day or lining the bottom of cages. Without the online presence, did Mary's "modeling career" even exist?

Mary was a little sad to see the era go, but when he woke up in Maine on the hood of some girl's car and only a hazy recollection of how they'd gotten there, he was beginning to see Angelique's point. He needed to get his shit together if he was ever going to become a rockstar. And frankly, he kind of felt like he needed to spend an entire month eating carrots and hydrating.

The 24/7 party had always been an ephemeral thing; it had been sand passing through his hands in a finite amount as he'd tried to hold onto it

He put himself on detox, and waking up sober for the first time in months felt like a revelation. And as it turned out, playing the guitar without badly shaking hands was way, way easier.

He found another job in another music store, and his starter!band was bringing butts into the smaller venues, like Toad.

He still had his old Rocky friends and the Deathbutantes. The club and venue owners still let him in for free, and Dave was always happy to give his demos a spin. By anyone's else's measure, he was steal one of the scene's darlings.

But Mary was beginning to realize that he needed to stop seeing himself as that scared kid who’d arrived in Boston 4 years ago with only a backpack, $72.57 to his name, and void where his family should be.

He needed to stop finding people to please into loving him.

Instead, he needed to live for himself and let them love him for who he was—fuck ups and all.

@slimylayne

Epilogue

"Honestly, that’s probably the reason I even got a band together," he says. "I was still kind of shit at guitar, but people came to see ‘Model Mary’ perform in his underwear."

He shoots me a smirk.

"I’m sure there’re pictures out there of me looking more glam than metal. I kind of played up the whole pinup thing for a while."

"Fuck, I would kill, literally kill to see that."

He pulls me into his lap until I’m straddling him.

"I could open up my underwear drawer and show you right now."

"Goore, you temptress."

I lean down to kiss him, and his hands sneak under my shirt, but I pull away again.

"I kinda thought I knew all your torrid secrets by now. Shit, how come Dave's never needled you about it?"

After 2 years with him, I’m surprised I hadn't even heard a peep from his oldest friend.

Mary snorts.

"Dave would miss shit hanging off his nose. Great dude, amiable as fuck, but he's always had fucking tunnel vision for his music."

I smirk at him.

"Sounds like someone else I know."

Mary pulls a face at me, and I apply kisses to every line until he laughs and bats me away.

"But really, Mare—how come you never told me about your brief career in blue steel?"

He blows out a breath, his hands smoothing up my thighs.

"Fuck. Cuz maybe I was a little embarrassed at how off the rails I was then, ok? Didn't want you to know what I fuck up I was." He takes my hand and kisses my palm. "And even I know it's a shit move to pitch woo at someone by telling them about banging half of Boston."

I make a face at him, and he laughs.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought."

His hands rest on my waist.

"Christ, everything about that year's a bit fuzzy, and it was like 10 years ago. Sometimes it feels like it happened to someone else, honestly. And shit—most of those people aren’t even around anymore. College kids who moved on and 20-somethings that grew up and moved who knows where. I used to watch Amber have—what is it when it’s four people?—and now she lives in bumblefuck Pennsylvania with 3 kids. After she left, I just kinda drifted away from all that."

He shrugs, his eyes downcast.

"I’m sorry, Mare," I say as I smooth his eyebrows.

He shrugs again.

"I mean, we all kinda keep in touch. It's like the only reason I have Facebook."

"When was the last time you even signed into that?"

Mary grins at me.

"Lola's birthday."

"One of the models? What happened with them?"

Mary bites his lip and thinks.

"Mayhem found religion after an OD and kinda ghosted everyone. Lesley followed a girl to New Hampshire. Uh…Lola pursued a PhD for something sciencey involving renewable energy with sugar beets in Idaho, and Bryan moved back to Florida to care for his grandma, who raised him."

Mary leans his head back on the couch and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"I mean, shit. We were fucking babies back then. Head empty except for a good time and unlimited potential."

I run my fingers through his hair.

"You miss it?"

His eyes pop open to look at me.

"Fuck no. Not for a million dollars. Too many question marks." His eyes glint as he runs his hands down me. "I like what I got going on right here."

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss his forehead. The fucking sap.

Mary picks up my phone and scrolls through the pictures again.

"Fuck. I used to be goddamn adorable, though. Half this shit wouldn’t even fit me anymore."

I squish his little potbelly, and he grunts at me indignantly.

"Do you still have any originals?" I ask.

He shakes his head, his eyes wistful and his smile sad.

"Nah. Got destroyed when my roof collapsed and leaked everywhere. Fuck, landlords are useless. Glad we fucking own now, babe."

He scrolls up, scrolls back down.

"Just these four?"

I nod.

"Yeah. They were the only ones I found���and I did a lot of searching."

"Christ, I think there were at least 10."

I smile ruefully at him. "It’s not gonna be long anyway before they make their way into the popular tags and shit starts coming out of the woodwork."

He tosses my phone onto the table.

"Whatever. Just shows that I’ve always been cool."

And then he’s kissing me again, his hand tangling in my hair.

"You know, I’m your family now, Mare. Just for you."

He brings my hand up and kisses it.

"Fuck, I know that. Why’dja think I put a ring on it?"

[andromedia5]

I love your writing!! Can I request 7 for jaytemis from the swifter writing prompts

A little bit of a self harm trigger warning, nothing graphic, no one’s actually cutting just discussion of it. That’s kinda why it took me a sec to write this, I kinda Victor Zsaszed again this week and idk . . . But I enjoyed this prompt and I hope you guys like it, kinda healing vicariously through them. Also wrote this for @theperfection who requested more jaytemis.

She hadn’t expected anyone to find them. Artemis was no stranger to hiding scars and she usually didn’t around Jason and Bizzaro. They had seen them, trailing up her arms and back, the graveyards of battles long over. They wouldn’t have questioned any of them. She still preferred to keep her legs covered.

Those carefully hidden scars on the inside of her calves, all about an inch in length, covered by her suit, jeans, boots, and when absolutely necessary, she would simply keep her legs pressed firmly together and let the scars hide themselves. She didn’t like seeing them; that was why they were so bad, she had never been able to look at the cuts long enough to bandage them. Each scar was precise and careful, never impulsive or messy because Artemis had meant them all. Everytime she had missed Akila, every moment when she would have killed for her to bump her shoulder against her own, tease her about how seriously she was taking something. She didn’t deserve to mourn someone she could have saved.

Artemis had been curled up on the couch of the woman who might have been the personification of the failings of the American foster care system dressed in frills and lace when she had felt rough fingers brushing at her ankle. Her eyes had snapped open as she shot up, pulling up her feet on instinct. The book Jason had been reading when she had drifted off was propped open on his thigh and he had been pushing up the ankle of her sweatpants. A dusty rose color spread across his cheeks at having been caught. “Sorry, sorry, I just,” he pulled her ankle towards him again and she kicked out, scrambling backwards to the other end of the couch. He dodged her attack, rolling off the couch and looking up at her, puzzled.

“What in the Goddesses's name are you doing?” she hissed at him. Everytime, every single time she was beginning to think he might have been tolerable, every moment he was quiet enough to be at least moderately ignorable he had to go and ruin it.

“I’m sorry, Art. I’m just, shit I didn’t know,”

Something in her stomach dropped, “Know what?”

He tilted his head, brown curls falling over his forehead as he gave her a look. “C’mon, Princess don’t give me that. I’m not that stupid,”

“And yet you could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, taking her typical route out of conversations with him, using her longer legs to walk away.

He jogged a little to keep up with her. “Art. Hey, Artemis, will you just hang on a sec?” his hand wrapped around her wrist and she spun around to face him.

“Do you have a death wish, little one?”

Jason smirked up at her, “Yeah, clearly, have you not been paying attention? Listen, I'm sorry, Red. I just didn’t realize,”

“You don’t know what your talking about,”

“I don’t?”

“No, you don’t. In most situations and this one is no exception,”

“You know you’re really self absorbed, right?”

“I beg your pardon, I’m self absorbed? Do you have any-” Jason pulled his sweatshirt over his head in one swift motion, revealing rumpled hair and narrowed eyes. His gray t-shirt was around the same shade as the Red Hood suit and almost seemed to be a lounge version of his uniform. It wasn’t until he rotated his arms slightly, exposing his forearms and a series of scars she could recognize as easily as ones caused by a certain type of blade. The angle, the length, the depth, it was all the same albeit a little more erratic. Artemis felt her mouth open into a small o. Jason looked uncomfortable but still determined.

“I’d, uh get really angry when I was a kid. I mean I still do but,” he ran a hand through his hair and she felt her eyes following a particularly dark scar (indicating it was more recent) that was exposed by the movement.“They were almost like panic attacks and I’d just need to,” he punched his fist into his palm “Bru-Batman would never spar with me when I was like that. Said if I was angry I wasn’t gonna learn anything so what the hell was the point. First time it was an accident, I was thirteen and had smashed a glass, was kinda having a tantrum. But I got cut on the edge of it and . . . it was like I could breathe again. I broke a razor apart about a week later,”

“And no one stopped you?” she demanded, momentarily forgetting her annoyance, rage boiling in her stomach at the thought of this child; Jason.

“That’s the thing, Arty,” he said, shooting her a sardonic smile “I’d already gotten pretty damn good at hiding scars before I ever got one on purpose”

The silence filled the room for a second, neither one meeting the other’s eyes. “Look, Artemis, I’m not gonna do that whole ‘you shouldn’t do that to yourself’ shit. I know it’s fucking annoying but . . . just, you’re not alone, okay?”

Mercifully Bizzaro chose that moment to walk in causing Jason to scramble back into his sweatshirt and begin to plan tonight's mission.

It was late when they returned. Bizzaro had left as soon as they had gotten back as he had been doing recently, leaving the two of them alone as they put away their respective weapons and armor. She didn’t know what it was that made her decide to say what she did but for some reason after she had removed the cuffs on her arms she heard her own voice.

“I’ve been clean for a few weeks,”

Jason turned to her, seeming as surprised as she was but pulling his mask off and shaking his sweaty hair out of his face. “I’ve got about a month and a half,”

“So not since you’ve met Bizzaro and I?”

He shook his head, switching out the magazines on his guns and folding up his holster.

“Say what you want about our whole team but it’s hard to find the time to . . . that, when you’ve been busy raising hell with a missing amazon and a kidnapped clone.” He pulled out a knife, seemingly out of nowhere, reminding her once again that he was a lot better at this than she gave him credit for. “You know um, Roy told me about this thing they do in rehab for anniversaries. They pick like a symbol or a tracker and use it to celebrate their progress,”

“I see,” Artemis reached for a stray pen, pulling the cap off with her teeth and took his hand in hers. She held his wrist steady, thumb over his pulse point, his heartbeat a steady rhythm through her own hand. The star she drew smudged a bit and bumped over the vein on his forearm but it was there.

He traced the star, looking strangely at peace considering how much they had blown up that night.“Why are we doing your symbol?”

“Because it was your idea,”

“Fair,” he took the marker from her hands, fingers brushing against her own in a way that made her stomach twist embarrassingly. He reached for her leg, pausing about an inch away at meeting her eyes as if for confirmation that this was okay. She nodded and he wrapped his hand gently around her ankle, eliciting a radius of goosebumps as he carefully drew a lopsided star. Jason put the cap back on the marker and looked back up at her, smiling as he raised his arm, “Scar bump?”

Artemis pulled away and got up. “We’re not doing that,”

“C’mon, Red,” he called after her, throwing the pen at her retreating back playfully. “You know there’s also this great Taylor Swift song? You ever listened to 1989?”

[drakewalkerfantasy]

The Truth of Pain (Tatum x F!MC)

Summary: The Truth will come out eventually, but are they ready for it? And what will happen when truth will be out. Will they be able to protect each other or will they be torn apart?

Words: 3465

Rating: T

Warning: none

Authors notes: I really hope you will enjoy this. Please let me know if still want to be tagged and what I can improve. I hope you will like this chapter, it’s not what I initially planned and I really didn’t have much time to proofread and make it perfect and I hope the next part will be better

 First part: The art of Foreign Affairs

Second part: The Secret of Foreign Affairs.

It was 8 o’clock sharp when Tatum heard Demarco’s worried and slightly panicked voice over the radio, informing the team he couldn't locate Claire. Slightly cursing and grumbling under his breath he pressed his fingers to the ear piece, thankful that even though he was off duty until later today he had connected to the radio in time not to miss the message.

“Copy that,” he replied through the gritted teeth, checking for any messages from Claire, but as he suspected there were none. “Demarco, leave it with me. I will find her... No… I don’t think that backup is necessary.... Yes… No... Wait in her suite. Demarco, this is an order,” said Tatum before disconnecting.

Heavily he moved to the door peeking outside. Cursing, when he saw three guards standing in front of Blaine’s door. His body ached with every step he took while he walked toward there, stopping in front of the guards. His impression - unreadable, knowing that even though he made friends with some of them they still will do their job, which meant not letting the bodyguard of the enemy's country into the room.

“Let me in,” requested Tatum, his hand already moving to the handle to push the door open only to be stopped by one of Hayes’ bodyguards.

“Mendoza, you know it’s against the protocol.”

“Claire is there and that is against the protocol either. So I'm not going anywhere till she leaves with me,” grunted Tatum.

“She isn’t there. Don’t you think we would know if she would be with Hayes? Unlike Rutherland’s bodyguards we know where our charge is...”

“How convincing... wasn’t it him, who was almost expelled a few weeks ago for a security breach... or wasn’t it him, sneaking away from you whenever he wanted? And wasn’t it him you lost in Rutherland few months before the start of the semester?”

“At least he never was spotted with his pants down with some mystery lover,” guffawed one of the bodyguards’. 

Lucky bastard. thought Tatum narrowing his eyes, feeling how his fists clenched from the memory.

“Don’t make me…,” seethed Tatum, feeling the need to punch something. He knew that he could trust Claire, but Blaine... he wasn't so sure if he could.

After 10-15 minutes of heated conversation Tatum firmly moved one of the bodyguards’ aside groaning from the pain that the effort took him, but finally getting inside the suite followed by Ardona’s bodyguards. Moving as quickly as he could toward the bedroom. 

“Mendoza, you cannot just enter like that,” hissed one of the bodyguards’ trying to reach for Tatum to stop him right outside the door.

“Miles, just try and stop me,” he seethed, whirling around with an angry glare in his eyes before throwing the door open and marching inside without another glance back.

The blood roared in his ears when he walked inside, but even through the rage that was boiling his blood he still could hear two gasps and exclamations following his entrance.

“Hey,” exclaimed Blaine, when the door opened hiding a smirk behind a shocked expression. “Didn't your mother teach you that you have to knock before you enter?” he asked, while making a show from the way the covers slipped from his naked torso, while another pair of hands firmly held onto her half not letting it slip even an inch lower.

“Claire, stand up,” roughly said Tatum, ignoring Blaine. His eyes unmoving on her, while hers widened and moved around the room looking anywhere but him. Guilt? Fear? he thought, knowing that even if it was, it still wasn’t what everyone would assume happened. He knew her well enough to know as much. Regretting the way how his own voice sounded, rougher than expected, sharper then it should have been. And knowing that she thought he was angry with her, but he wasn’t. He was angry about the situation, about the fact she was ready to cause another scandal, only to stir her mother's attention from him. He was angry about that, but not on her... never on her.

He could see how the blood drained from her face, when their eyes finally met, and a silent conversation trespassed between them.

“What are you doing here? I thought Demarco is on duty?”

“I knew you would do something reckless the second he informed me you weren't in your suite. God... What were you even thinking? I knew it was a bad idea to sneak out to him. Why would you even think of something like that?”

“Don’t you see why? Apparently, someone in my security details is a snitch, who passed information on us to my mother. So I needed someone who isn’t you to see me with Blaine so my mother wouldn’t do anything to you and would think her plan is working whatever her plan even is.”

“But you ARE with me...”

“Yes, I’m. But she shouldn’t know it. She should think I’m with Blaine and was all along.”

“You are stubborn.”

“But you still love me.”

“Yes, I do,” murmured Tatum in a voice quieter than a whisper, with a tender smile.

“Nothing happened,” simply stated Blaine stirring them both from the conversation they had, not even noticing that they had one. The one where they didn’t need words to have, and the one they mastered through years of friendship. Blaine’s hand placed under his head on the pillow watching between Tatum and Claire before looking behind Tatum at his bodyguards on alert. “You three can leave and close the door behind.”

“But Sir,” tried the bodyguard Claire remembered from their visit to the children’s hospital a few weeks ago.

“It’s an order,” said Blaine, waiting for the door to close before moving his gaze back to Tatum. “You can relax. I know Claire is in love with someone else and this someone unfortunately isn’t me. It doesn’t take a genius to put 1 plus 1 after the photo we all saw yesterday to realise that she isn’t interested," his eyes fixed solely on Tatum who still was looking at Claire the smirk playing at his lips and his voice taunting, "but I guess even if she would place a billboard in a Rutherland’s capital’s city square declaring that she is in love with that person or would scream that from the tallest tower in city this person still would be either blind or stupid not to get a message and still doubt her. So if this person even for a second could think Claire is capable of cheating, this person doesn’t deserve her.”

“Blaine, don’t...,” said Claire quietly, her gaze still holding Tatum’s, knowing that he didn’t think even for a second that this was what had happened. But also knowing that deep down he was still jealous and hurt that she was ready to play the game her mother would want her to play. Still doubting if he even deserves her and that hurt.

“I...,” he tried, swallowing thickly. His eyes meet Blaine’s knowing that he is right... he doesn’t deserve her, and even not because he could think for a second she could cheat on him. He knew she wouldn’t, simply as this, he just knew. But the voice of her mother mixed with the voice from his past whispering that 'never say never' was louder than that, and he could do nothing to silence them. “Claire, please...,” softly said Tatum, his eyes pleading with her, watching how she slipped from under the covers letting them slide from her body. The summer dress is still on her body with the slightly lowered straps to make her look nude. His eyes moving to Blaine, who followed her, the low rise jeans still snugly around his hips.

“I see you tonight,” said Claire to Blaine, her hand brushing Tatum’s passingly on the way to the door, sending a million of sensations through him. His finger hooking with hers just for a split second squeezing it slightly before letting go.

“You shouldn’t say that in front of him or he will think you are planning an escape route already and will triple your security details, ” laughed Blaine putting on a t-shirt with a wink.

“Blaine!!! I meant you picking me up at 6 for our date,” laughed Claire before she left Blaine’s room with Tatum just a step behind.

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

It was already 6 in the evening when Blaine knocked on the door. The bouquet of pink roses in his hand and a charming smile on his face. Tatum lowered his gaze feeling how uncontrolled spark of jealousy coursed through him, watching Blaine bending lower to press a soft kiss to the back of Claire’s hand lingering for a moment longer before handing her flowers. Wanting to be the one who would take her on the dates, who would bring her pink roses just because she loves them so much and to be the one who would hold her hand in his. He could see how Blaine looked her over with a smirk, his voice lowered to a loud whisper, still holding her hand.

“You cleaned up nicely.”

“You look not as bad yourself,” smiled Claire before meeting Tatum’s gaze, reading in them just how good she looked and how much better this long beautiful blue gown with a bare back would have looked on his bedroom’s floor. The single thought and the heat in his gaze, the one he masked behind the mask of stony expression sent a rush of desire through her, making her pulse race and for a tiny blush to colour her cheeks. “Ummm,” she cleared her throat, snapping her gaze back to Blaine’s. “So where are you taking me?” asked Claire, accepting Blaine’s hand to help her out of her suite.

“Where would there be fun in that if I would tell you?” he teased her in reply, leading her to the limousine that waited for them, while Tatum took a deep breath following them side by side with Blaine’s bodyguard. His body still hurting, but he went forward ignoring the pain, knowing that any second of him being distracted by it may cost Claire’s safety and he couldn’t allow it.

The drive to their destination wasn’t awkward, even though Tatum felt how the tension in his body intensified every time when Blaine lowered his voice beckoning Claire closer to him and whispered something that made her blush. Protectiveness and something resembling a spark of jealousy made his own body shift closer to Claire’s. Every nerve in his body was on alert and aching. Knowing that that was a dangerous move to do, a reckless one, but he still couldn’t resist it, feeling how Claire’s hand found her way to his behind their backs. Her body shifted just slightly cloaking the view of their intertwined fingers. Her thumb running gently over the bandage covering his knuckles, squeezing his hand and not letting it go until the limo stopped, meantime still taking the part into her flirtatious conversation with Blaine. 

Tatum could feel how her hand slipped from his the moment the car stopped, but not missing the last squeeze of her hand with a light tremor in them. His hand squeezing hers before finally letting it go, not missing the nervous expression passing over her face clouding her smile just for a split second. And he instantly knew why, when his eyes fell to a crowd of photographers readying their cameras just outside the limo.

“God,” mumbled Claire, swallowing heavily. “I know that they want us to be seen together, but did they really need to invite this many paparazzi,” nervously asked Claire.

“No kidding,” whistled Blaine before offering his hand to Claire, lowering his voice to a quiet whisper. “The good thing about going out with me is that I don’t give a damn about these sharks... and another good thing is... I don’t really think they even expect me to behave knowing my reputation or that I will not try to sneak away,”chuckled Blaine with a wink.

“But...”

“No but’s. Do you trust me?” asked Blaine bending closer to Claire, his voice soft and gentle against her ear, not giving a damn for a sharp pointed look that Tatum threw his way.

“I do... but our bodyguards may get in trouble for that and I... I don’t want that to happen,” finally said Claire with a sigh and a worried expression.

“Not if we play our cards right,” winked Blaine. “That involves delivering exactly what our parents want... they don’t expect me to sit at some stuffy restaurant and behave myself. They expect me to run off with a beautiful girl, sneak away from our bodyguards and paparazzi, because everyone knows that everything I do for cameras is to piss my parents. And if I do something secretly... It means that it’s real and something I care deeply about. So why not enjoy ourselves far away from that farce and give our parents exactly what they want from us?”

“The show...,” the realisation downed at her. “The show, that is believable enough for them to get what they want... us together likeable to the public, creating a rumour that it’s real and not PR company your parents and my mother try to pull off thereby setting up even more of the population against them. Blaine, are you sure that they will not get in trouble,” asked Claire, subtly looking at Tatum who grunted while getting from the car, holding the door open for them and waiting for Blaine and Claire to follow him.

“I give you my word, so... are you in?”

“I...,” spoke Claire, chewing at her bottom lip still contemplating her answer before finally saying. “Fine... I’m in. But if anything happens with T...”

“Nothing will happen with him," interrupted Blaine. "And I promise you will not regret it,” he whispered with a smile before helping Claire out of the car under the intense glare from Tatum. And as soon as Claire and Blaine stepped out onto the street the camera flashes blinded them as reporters started to shout questions at them.

Blaine’s hand gently placed on the small of Claire’s back, leading her through the crowd with the help of their bodyguards, noticing that despite the best effort from Tatum he could barely stand, grunting every now and then when some of the most insolent reporters tried to get past him. His teeth gritted, taking a shaky breath before requesting yet another reporter to back off, his hand now and then gripping his side before continuing to clear the path for them.

The questions that were asked, and ignored with flourish by Blaine and Claire, were the same she used to hear for the past couple of days. Most of them about the scandal, some about the feud between their countries and her mother’s political career and what that could mean to her. And some, as everyone hoped would be, the questions if Blaine is that same mystery lover that everyone is talking about. Carefully Blaine led them through the crowd toward the restaurant that was supposed to be their date’s location, meantime thinking of the quick escape plan for them until one of the reporters asked for proof that they are together.

Shakily Claire turned to face Blaine, feeling how her heart was pounding quickly in her chest. And he could feel how her body tensed under his hand. Her eyes widened slightly, and her hands curled around the lapels of his suit jacked neither pulling or pushing him away. And by the look in her eyes he instantly knew that she felt like a deer caught in a headlights. Her breath elevated, while her eyes sought someone behind him, locking her eyes with this person. Blaine’s hands gently grazing the bare skin of her back, trying to soothe her with his touch. His face lowered to hers feeling how her breath hitched in her throat and she swallowed. His lips just inches away from hers wanting to kiss her, but first wanting to make sure that she was okay with it even though he knew this is part of the deal. At least that was what she asked him to do. 

The voice of his father rang in his ears: Do something you are finally good at. Date the girl. Kiss her and make her forget about this mystery lover of hers. Make her look good and pretty. Sneak off to make it seem real to you. And probably then you will at least make something good of yourself. 

And if that girl wouldn’t be Claire he would never agree to that but in that case he couldn’t say no. But now, he wasn’t sure if this was such a smart idea after all as he liked her, more than he probably should, and more than he liked anyone else since that night only a few months ago before he got here. Trying to push the thought away about the annoyingly sparkling eyes, the same shade of chocolate brown as Claire's, but with the different sparkles of silver and gold swirling in them.

“Are you sure you are okay with that, if not we can go for a hug,” he asked with a concern lacing his voice, watching her nod and swallow.

“Yes... I... We need to do the whole show... you know for mum... for that to be believable. I’m sure my friend...,” she choked on the words trying to meet Tatum’s stoic expression, who was standing just a few feets away from them. But he made a hell of a job not to meet hers. She sighed in defeat. Not buying even for a second, that this didn’t impact him as much as it did her. Knowing him way too well not to miss a fire burning in his eyes, and the way how his fists clenched. “I’m sure he will understand,” whispered Claire, lowering her eyes.

“Okay,” he said, softly pressing his lips to hers without waiting for another invitation. His kiss was gentle and warm and leading, but it wasn’t Tatum’s and it was all she could think of. And she knew that he could feel it too. His lips lingering against hers for a moment longer as if savouring the feel of them for the last time before finally pulling slowly away. Pulling her in a tight embrace shielding her from the press so they wouldn’t see her tears. After a long heartbreaking moment she gently pushed him away finally putting on a forced smile, the fake one as fake as this date is... not knowing if he ever will have anything real.

They could hear how the press shouted their approval taking pictures, making the bodyguards get themselves busy with the amount of paparazzi trying to take a better shot of the happy couple, and as on cue Blaine saw an escape route. Quickly, he leaned to Claire nodding toward the narrow alleyway just behind the restaurant, stirring her away from the crowd until the freedom seemed so close and Claire could feel how she finally could breathe again, finally not suffocating by the amount of attention from the press.

“Where do you think you are going,” ceased someone through gritted teeth, when Claire felt a firm but gentle hand gripping her forearm. She instantly gasped and whirled around to face no one else but Tatum who was glaring at Blaine.

“Busted,” shrugged Blaine, letting go of Claire’s hand and nonchalantly leaning against the wall of the building. 

“Care to explain?” seethed angrily Tatum.

“We are ditching my bodyguards and I’m taking Claire somewhere where she will be able to enjoy her meal. Not so pompous as this place. Care to join us?” Smirked Blaine. “And no worries we will be back before the opera.”

“Opera?”

“Yes, they are sending us there and we definitely need to be seen there...” shrugged Blaine before looking back to see if anyone else noticed their absence. “Dude, we don’t have much time so either you go with us or we go without you,” said Blaine looking behind the corner.

“Tatum, please,” softly spoke Claire.

“Claire, it’s unsafe,” tried Tatum before she stopped him with the press of her fingers to his.

“Tate, if you will go with me… with us it will be the most safe place I can be without paparazzi breathing down my every step. Please, Tatum. I need it, I really do.”

“But what about his parents and your mother,” finally asked Tatum.

“This is exactly what they would want for paparazzo to think, that this is real. And this exactly for what we are going. So my question stands are you coming with us? Or will stay behind, I’m good either way.”

“Fine… I’m coming."

Tagging: @choices-bound​​​​​​ @jamespotterthefirst​​​​​​ @mercury84choices​​​​​​ @k2624​​​​​​ @thefrenchiemama​​​ @choicesreal​​​​​​ @starrystarrytrouble​​​​​​ @boneandfur​​​​​​ @walkerswhiskeygirl​​​​​​ @sophxwithers​​​​​​ @ramseysrookiex​​​ @suitfer​​ @gardeningourmet​

[biberrymuffin]

So, I know a lot of people love the Minecraft AU that people have come up with here on Tumblr and on Twitter and stuff(Especially the one made by @pastatiger here on Tumblr which is really funny and cute and if you haven't yet please check it out). I've been kinda thinking of it less as a Minecraft AU and more of a Twitch Streamer Luz Noceda AU in the back of my mind. But anyways, last night, while I was sleeping, I came up with an amazing spin on the Twitch Streamer Luz Noceda AU,,, Twitch Streamer Camila Noceda AU.

Okay, okay, so hear me out.

After Luz goes off to "camp" (we all know she's really on the Boiling Isles but this would be more focused on Camila and she doesn't know that), Camila becomes disturbed after realizing that her house is a lot more quiet and empty when coming home from a long day of work at the hospital. So, she does what any other lonely, single mother with suddenly a lot more free time would do and snoops around her daughter's room and through her things to try and cope with Luz's sudden absence. Of course, she finds the typical Luz things like The Good Witch Azura Novels, posters, and merchandise, as well as Luz's pet snake and his terrarium(which she is making sure to lovingly take care of while Luz is gone), but she also finds things like half-written in journals (of course filled with The Good Witch Azura fan fiction), sketchpads filled with some of Luz's artwork(with more The Good Witch Azura art but also some highly detailed drawings of reptiles and otters) and hand-crafted sock puppets that strangely look like Camila and Luz themselves as well as a few of Luz's high school teachers, and some old skulls of some dead animals Luz found in some antique shops around town that Camila is mildly concerned about; believing that her daughter may have brought roadkill into their shared home.

Becoming even more curious about the strange things her daughter may have been up to while she was off at work, Camila begins to go through Luz's computer as well. There she finds mostly what she expected, apps like Google, Twitch, Minecraft, Steam, and a plethora of other games that Luz enjoys and would rant about to her mother. But she also spies the OBS app in the corner of Luz's screen and becomes confused, so she clicks on it, finding Luz's streaming set-up. Now Camila knew Luz enjoyed Twitch in her free time, as her daughter would often rant to her about her favorite streamer's she watched on Twitch, but she thought that her daughter was only a casual Twitch user(despite Luz asking her for her help filling out forms when she earned Affiliate on her channel) so her finding her daughter's streaming set-up was a bit of a shock. Unbeknownst to Camila, Luz had gained a decent following on Twitch, mainly of other The Good Witch Azura fans thanks to her fan fictions she wrote and posted online, as well as for her art streams where she drew fan art live, and for playing Minecraft.

During her snooping, she accidentally hits the Start Stream button on OBS and begins a broadcast, causing Luz's viewers to become confused(since Luz is a good streamer and let her viewer's know beforehand that she was going off to summer camp and therefore would not be able to stream for a while). Luz's viewers begin to flood the chat with questions like "Didn't you say there wouldn't be more streams for a while" as well as exclamations like, "Surprise stream!", and "Pog!", as well as more questions when they realize that the person on the other side of the screen is indeed not The_Luzura but an older woman who looks very similar to her. When the chat begins to realize exactly what's going on they freak out and send messages like, "Mom Reveal!" and "OMG it's Mama Luzura!", etc, etc. Camila notices the movement from the chat box on the side of the screen, she then realizes that she accidentally went live and apologizes, to which chat is very forgiving, she then begins explaining what got her to accidentally starting the stream and asks the chat how long her daughter had been a streamer without her knowing. Chat explains stuff to her to the best of their ability and ends up encouraging her to start her own channel and stream in her sudden free time while Luz is off at "camp", to which Camila is hesitant of, but eventually ends up caving and creating her own channel.

She ends up streaming things like Just Chatting where she talks with Luz's viewers who came over to her new channel(which she named Mama_Luzura based off Luz's channel) while she knits, and also gets into cooking streams where she shows off how to make traditional Dominican dishes, and also dabbles in playing some of Luz's favorite video games like Minecraft as of chat's request and also out of her own curiosity and the desire to grow closer with her daughter. She gains a bit of her own following on Twitch, while Luz is off traversing the Boiling Isles, and even makes it to Affiliate, getting donations, and earning subscribers. Eventually it gets to the point where Twitch is one of the only things keeping her happy and going while Luz is away, as well as Luz's "letters" she's been receiving from camp, and it becomes a part of her daily routine to stream on Twitch and to talk with her viewer's in the new Discord server that one of Luz's moderators helped her set up.

When Luz finally returns home from "camp" wearing some kind of cape, with two older looking women with heterochromatic eyes and strangely pointy ears, a group of children she assumes are Luz's friends she made while at camp who also have pointy ears, and a weird looking dog thing with a skull for a head in tow, Camila is to say the least quite surprised. But after noticing that the older woman with the grey hair and snaggletooth looks at her daughter with the same expression she has many times and that the dog-like creature and her daughter's newfound friends all look at her with such fond admiration(especially that girl with the golden eyes and the green hair), she begins to warm up to the strange group of Luz's newfound friends, and learns about her adventures on the Boiling Isles.

She continues streaming even after Luz's return because she quite enjoys it. When chat asks about Luz's strange new friends with the pointy ears, and the dog-creature who can talk? who sometimes pop up in the background of her streams, she just tells them that they're Luz's friends from camp, and that she's happy that Luz was able to find some friends who love her for who she is.

Luz on the other hand, explains everything that happened on the Boiling Isles and even has a few of her friends, like Willow, Gus, King, and (of course) Amity join her streams. Chat believes that they're all just some strange cosplayers, and that King must be some sort of animation, but there are a few viewers who believe their crazy story about witches, demons, and a whole other world outside the Human realm.

Luz and Camila end up bonding over the whole experience and their shared Twitch communities and end up becoming so much closer than they were when Luz was supposed to be sent of to that summer camp all those months ago.

So, yeah, that's basically the idea I had last night. I might write a fan fiction about it, but we'll see I guess. I hope the idea was as enjoyable to you guys as much as it was for me to think up.

[slashmebois]

Distraction

“Heyyy I wanted to ask for a mini fic of vincent getting distracted form his work by a goofy S/O who wants his attention. He's just precious and deserves a precious S/O who's obsessed with him. 🥺🥺🥺 Thank you! 🖤”

 This is such a cute idea!! I had such a fun time writing this one. Thank you so much for this request <3 Credit to @thesightstoshowyou for their banjo headcanon for Bo

 Vincent was used to people interrupting him. Bo was his main antagonist, tending to require some form of medical attention after each chase. Sometimes Bo would come down to the basement just to nitpick Vincent’s process as he worked with helpful phrases such as “Wouldn’t have done that” and “Is it supposed to look like that”.

Lester wasn’t much better when he was around. Vincent would ask for a moment to wrap up his work, and whilst Lester had the best of intentions- his mouth often got away from him. “Oh man Vince, you’ve gotta see this cool skull I picked up today”, “Vince, you won’t believe what these city slickers said to me”. But Vincent could listen and continue working on his sculptures and paintings regardless. Or he had been able to at least.

Recently he found himself more and more distracted by you. You had rocked up into town a few months ago and wasted no time in making their affections for him clear (once he had saved you from his brothers’ murderous grasps). He was of course smitten with you, the way you talked, the way you looked, the way your smile crept onto your face. By his standards you were a walking piece of art, too beautiful to remain stationery.

So, he had tried to reciprocate your feelings, although he was not bold enough to outright say “hey I’m in love with you, I’d follow you to the ends of the earth. Is that cool with you?” and honestly it would be a mouthful coming from the guy who mostly communicated using ASL and the occasional spoken word. But still, he couldn’t figure out the right way to express himself and every time he started to let himself melt into his work and try to figure it out, you were in the corner of his vision and every logical thought he had died.

But even more than that, he was starting to think you were actively trying to distract him, although he couldn’t quite put a finger on why…

---

You have been trying for days to get Vince to take a break from his work so you can initiate operation date time. But oh man is it hard. Okay sure, he’s starting to take longer to finish his projects, but that is not what you want. You don’t want to slow his process down you just want to spend time with him away from this boiling basement.

The first few days you would just stand at his side and ask about what he was doing and sure he paid attention to you but he kept working. The next few days had been a series of you singing loudly along to his classical opera in shrill tones, before switching the radio over to some popular tunes and repeating. Vincent had eventually got up, and you thought you’d done it, but then he just switched the radio back to classical as you pouted at him. Besides that, you had tried baking for him, reading aloud from a book, playing a very old, out of tune banjo you found (probably Bo’s but you doubted he knew how to play), and doing cartwheels. The last one had spooked Vincent into getting up and catching you, and worriedly dangling you from his arms in mid-air whilst he looked pointedly towards the large boiling pot of wax.

You are just about out of ideas so you go to the only people you can rely on for information on how to distract Vincent- Bo and Lester.

You find Bo in the garage and yell out to him. His hackles rise and he turns round with a gritted smile,

“Please, don’t do that. This was a respectful town before you came along”

You stick your tongue at him and he rolls his eyes, “What do you want? Actually. Let me guess, it has something to do with Vincent hmm?”

You mock gasp, “how did you know, are you a psychic!?!”

He laughs, “Nope, just full o’ shit. C’mon, spit it out already.”

“Well, how would you go about distracting Vincent?”

“I hope you’re not distracting him from his vital work here y/n” you give him puppy dog eyes and he sighs, “alright, alright. I guess he works hard enough. I dunno, play some loud music?”

“Tried that already, what else you got”

“Uhh, have you tried injuring yourself”

“Th…that is the worst idea”

“Alright, okay. No need to get mean. OH!” his loud exclamation makes you jump a little, “how about ruining one of his paintings. That would definitely get his attention”

You fix him a look, “whose side are you even on?”

“My own, do you have to ask? Anyway, that’s all I got- take it or leave it” he waves you off and turns back to…well whatever it is he does in his spare time, don’t know, don’t care.

You groan, you were definitely leaving those ideas alone. You should have known Bo wouldn’t be much help. You start seeking out the other brother in the hopes that they’ll have a better idea.

 Lester is at the edge of town on the other side of the flooding, sat on the back of his truck petting Jonesy.

“Hey Les!”

He looks up and smiles, waving to you, “You stay there, I’ll come over to you. Wouldn’t want you getting your pretty clothes all dirty!”

He hops over, Jonesy in arms and sets her down on the other side. Lester smells about as good as usual, but hell you’ve actually got used to it by now, and you know his job is important so who are you to complain.

“Well hello (miss/sir), what can I help you with today”

“Well I was wondering Les, you know any good ways to distract Vincent. I asked Bo, but his ideas were all dumb”

Lester cackles, “well of course they were, Bo’s just a pretty face when it comes down to it”, you laugh along with him, “Hmm, lemme have a think”

Lester looks around, as if searching for inspiration. His eyes light up, “How about showing his some sorta collection? I show him my knives sometimes, wanna see?”

“Not right now Lester, I’m on a mission. But maybe tomorrow? But that’s actually a pretty decent idea. What else you got, hit me?”

Lester looks a little uncertain.

“Don’t actually hit me Les, it’s a saying”

He looks relieved, “riiight, right. I knew that. Okay, idea number two coming up”, his eyes close tightly shut and he makes a strained noise, “ooh ooh ooh!!! Craft something for him!! I helped him craft those knives he has and he looooves those”

“Lester, you are so much better at this than Bo. Thank you, thank you!!” you grab him in a hug in the excitement, promptly remembering the smell but then deciding fuck it- nothing a shower won’t fix.

 As you head off, Jonesy follows you and Lester motions at you to take her with you. You head back to the house feeling pretty positive. You have some pretty seashells and rocks in a box from various visits to places in your room. Once you’re home you head up and grab the box before heading back down to Vincent.

“Hey Vince, how’s it going?”

He pauses and looks over to give you a thumbs up. You sit on a stool nearby and a take a deep breath before giving your newest plan a go.

“I was just thinking about some trips I went on where I got these cools shells, look at this one, it’s…” you drivel on and Vincent does falter for a moment but keeps his resolve.

Unbeknownst to you, Vincent has a sinking feeling in his stomach. Oh god. You wanted to leave. Why else would you be talking to him about all these trips. Your words were no longer reaching his ears as he could feel the guilt eating away at him. His stomach churned, how was he supposed to fix this. His hands kept moving on autopilot but he’s not really paying attention. It’s not long before his hand slips whilst crafting a nose. He grunts frustrated with himself.

Vincent’s grunt interrupts you, and you trail off the end of a sentence thinking he’s annoyed with you. You look up at him from your box and realise the nose of his latest sculpture is looking pretty wonky. So much for distracting him. All you’ve done is fuck up his work.

“Sorry” you mumble, but he’s too focused on fixing the mistake to hear you.

You sigh and put down your box of shells, walking over to where Jonesy has placed herself. You grab an easel and some paints and lie down next to her, passing time with a fingerpainting project.

Vincent fixes the nose, breathing in relief when it forms properly under his hands. He’s about to gesture to it to show you that VIOLA! He fixed it, but he realises you’re no longer on the stool, the only sign of you the discarded box of shells and rocks. He dejectedly reaches towards it, looking carefully over them. Maybe he should let you go. You clearly loved exploring and this town wouldn’t allow for much of that. His dark thoughts start to descend on him but a warm giggle interrupts him and he glances over to your new location. He nearly gasps at how full his heart is at the sight before him.

Jonesy, not happy with no one paying attention to her, has walked through your paint palette and onto the easel to lick at your face. You laugh and push at her,

“What are you doing? Silly girl. Guess it’s a collaboration piece now!”

The dog ignores any protests and continues to try to grab your attention. Vincent struck by the view makes his way over and kneels, ruffling Jonesy’s ears and glancing towards you.

You look up at him, a little shocked, before smiling wide.

“About time you took a break Vince”

He cocks his head to the side, but lies on his belly with you, looking you deeply in your eyes.

And then he splats a hand in the paint and onto the easel before you can track what the heck he’s doing.

You laugh in surprise, “Oh, really? You wanna be a part of this collaboration?” You gather paint on the tip of your index finger, “that can be arranged” you flash him a cheeky grin and lunge towards him, trying to land the paint on him.

Vincent dodges out the way last minute and thus starts a game of cat and mouse round the house. And Vincent swears he can’t imagine a time when laughter filled the house this much.

[camilieroart]

Testimony of a French person during the pandemic.

I’m the french person. This testimony is featuring my school’s pressure and a lowering mental state.

I have been quarantined at home since March 2020. I have gone out maximum 20 times, always being really careful. For me and others.

I have a constant source of informations on what is going on in France and the world, and this causes a big flow of anxiety. I spent the entire summer vacation in my house, working on my project and being really productive. I didn’t see anyone, didn’t go anywhere. Just me, my parents and our two cats.

My classmates, however, aren’t as worried nor careful as me, and most importantly not as informed or free to act as they wish. So, they have gone out, and been to beaches and seen people, like the government said. Because yes, as soon as the summer vacation started, the French government declared that the virus was gone and that everyone had to go out and pay for stuffs, and spend money, to “keep the economy rolling”. Of course the Covid was still there.

As the start of the school year was closing in and that people in France had been getting sicker and sicker due to the craziness of the summer holiday, we thought that they would cancel, or at least push back the day. But no.

Around that time, I had also lost my uncle and my grand-mother (not due to the coronavirus), and the pressure of staying home this long, and having constant awful news about outside and how there wasn’t a glimpse of hope was having terrible effect to my mental state.

As back to school day arrived, we had made the decision to not send me back, although the government had said it was “mandatory”. However, I have worked hard all my life to get a diploma and go to a good college and have a degree, and I wasn’t giving up yet. So, we lied. Well, not really. We said we had to bury my grandmother and it was true. So I didn’t come the first week. The second, I catched a cold, and couldn’t make it due to the coughing. The third, I had a stomach ache...

My mother hates lying. She loathes it. It was incredibly hard for her to do so. But she did because if I went, I would probably kill my other grandma and maybe kill my parents. And have scars for life. And contaminate strangers.

What about my classmates, you ask ? They all went. I was the only one, of my whole class, to not have gone back. And boy, was I glad I did. I kept talking to my friends, and I heard how the teachers didn’t respect the safety distances nor put the masks correctly. I heard how in the cafeteria they were all sitting at the same table, pressed against eachothers without a mask. At that time, I already had heard horrible things and how poorly it was handled.

One week, as she had one of the CPE (head of the supervisors) on the phone, my mom had the first breakdown I have seen her have in years. She started crying and explained everything. She cried, and argumented and I was so shocked to see her like this. The truth was out ! I didn’t go to school because the safety stuffs the government put in place was bullshit.

We expected me to be kicked out in the following minutes. But, they couldn’t. I had been giving back all the homeworks and assignments I could, showing I wasn’t quitting. So, they couldn’t kick me out for being a quitter, and they couldn’t kick me out for trying to keep myself, my family and them safe. So they didn’t. Instead, they tried to push me into resigning.

At that point, it had been 5 months since I had really gotten out for something else than groceries. I hadn’t seen anyone, friends or even acquaintances for months. The school and news had been horribly stressing me out, and I had my first breakdown. Around a day after, we had a call from the school’s nurse. She asked me if I was okay, how I was doing, if I was sick... And that I should really go back to school. It’s senior year after all. I told her I heard they handled it badly. She called nonsense and stupid rumors, telling me lies that I immediatly understood were lies, selling bullshit and trying to force me to come back. I was very polite, made her understand that I would be trying if the situation got better, and hung up. It took us a minute to understand that she was trying to get evidence of me being kept home against my will and called social services. She didn’t call for my health at all. Thankfully, I handled it very well and we never heard back from her.

Not long after that incident, I heard of something that happened in my school that made me mad beyond understanding. Since the interns at the boarding school were forbidden from going out, the school decided to put a movie for them Wednesday afternoon. They said they asked students about what they would like to see but I highly doubt it. So, that Wednesday afternoon, when my classmates, seniors in highschool, with TONS of homework they had been working on where called in the auditorium for “informations” they had no choice but to go. The informations were given, and they were about to leave to resume working when the CPE and the deputy director stopped them.

They said my classmates HAD to see this movie, it was mandatory. Let me insist on the fact that they were around a hundred, all in a closed space, in the middle of a pandemic. Yes ? Great. So, my friends protested, saying that they had to work and didn’t want to stay. The deputy director started cutting them off to keep repeating some bullshit like “we made that for you” “we listenned and gave you this” “we worked hard on this”, like 5th graders. Until they said “I’m your superior and I order you to stay. Now shut up and take a sit”. My friends were astonished but did as asked. Which was incredibly unsafe and even dangerous (closed space, no safety distances...). And that movie that was “for the students” and “they worked hard on” was a goddamn movie about the Shoah. And I SWEAR TO GOD, there was panic attacks in the room, breakdowns, terrible reactions, and they didn’t give two shit about it.

And a day or so before, the nursed called to say I had to go back because it was “safe and everything was ok”. I was boiling.

After that incident, one of my teachers requested a call with me to talk about the class I had been missing. Very aware of the manipulative state of my school at that time, we were really careful, and a bit worried about it. Turned out it was a call of a genuine teacher that actually wanted to talk about the classes I had been missing and the homeworks I had been giving ! Of course he quickly tried to get convince me to come back, but I handled it well, once again. It was the highlight of my day.

At that point it had been 8 months since I had last been really out.

I had severals other breakdowns, mostly due to the ungodly stress I had been under because of school and news. I had been stressed out for 8 months now, and what had to happen, happened.

I had a burn out.

My mental state was so low I couldn’t even do what I love. I couldn’t write, I couldn’t draw. All I could do was watch shows and movies, or stare at the ceiling for hours. This was incredibly frustrating and scary. I couldn’t do my homeworks, and we feared I might get kicked out.

Then a miracle happened. Which is sad it got to that, but it was one. My teacher got quarantined, and started online classes. I had my first class of the year on November 14th. And I was there ! I answered tons of questions, and it kind of shocked everyone in class to realize I existed and was still trying to follow the classes.

It allowed to get better, and keep a very small following of school.

A week ago I have been able to do my Spanish homework. I am slowly getting better, trying to avoid stress and work as much as I can.

What I haven’t been able to talk about but did happen :

-One of my classmates caught the virus and she realized it a week later. The school said it was useless to quarantine her now and let her go back to class. The first thing she did was take off her mask and lean in everyone she was talking to. -I haven’t got any of my art classes since the beginning of the year. My teachers made the class believe they were giving it to me when they didn’t. I am specialized in art. -One of my classmates have been diagnosticated with depression. We’re 17. Several others have depression tendencies. -The school is trying to ignore us by not responding to anything we send, hoping we’ll resign. The pressure is still there. -We learned recently that many other parents and students had done the same thing and the schools have put pressure on them too. Some threatened the family. We hadn’t hear about it until now because schools are covering it up -Schools are covering numbers even inside. Most teachers doesn’t even know if a kid has Covid or not. If the teachers get sick, they are forced to immediatly go back to school.

This has been written the 22 november of 2020, in France.

Linked to this post

[bird-in-a-cage]

49 and 114, together or separate, for harringrove

Hi! Thank you for the requests, the rest of the list up for grabs is here. I’m super pleased to inform you that you have unlocked my super special Serial Killer AU which has been brewing in my head for months, and I promised the two people that know about it that it would never see the light of day.

But then a certain actor decided to play a serial killer while the whole world was going deeper into the shit and I listened to an endless amount of true crime podcasts during lockdown and well, here we are.

Completely and utterly inspired by this piece of art by @awrble that frankly should be in a gallery but has instead been living in my brain rent free ever since I first clapped eyes on its beauty.

So, I present to you anon, and you all, my serial killer AU

#49 Please just breathe

She didn’t even scream. That was the worst part. 

Not being picked up off the side of the street in Harrington’s fancy BMW that was just crawling at a snail’s pace. Not his voice, deep and demanding but phrasing his carefully chosen words like a question. Wanna go for a ride Hargrove? The illusion of choice. Not being driven out to the middle of the woods near dusk in total silence, Steve just staring forward like he was looking into the next county but driving with one hand on the wheel like it was a casual affair. And that Billy wasn’t sat next to him with a knife in his pocket for his own protection, heartbeat drumming through his fingertips.

Billy wasn’t stupid. He’d read the news.

It wasn't seeing Nancy Wheeler on her knees and terrified, looking like she’d been stranded out here for days, tied to a tree by her wrists and neck like a backyard dog on a short leash. Cheeks dirty except for tear tracks. It wasn't being ordered out of the car and forced to hear her cry and beg, looking up at Steve like he might show an ounce of mercy. It wasn't being frozen to the spot and just watching his lean form kneel down to her height as she sobbed, cupping her cheek like muscle memory. Something they used to do everyday in the halls.

She should have screamed. Turned and bit his hand. Chewed off a finger. Billy should have stepped in to help. To stop all this madness and put an end to it. But they were both stuck in time. Trapped in the sludge.

They found Carol without her tongue. Thrown into a heap in an abandoned bus at the junkyard. She'd been there for a week before anyone found her, slowly starting to decay in the Indiana heat. Some poor kid just looking around for something to do stumbled into a horror scene. He’d probably never sleep again.

The worst part wasn’t hearing Steve say, smooth as silk without any hint of irony, looking right into her big watery eyes, “Don’t cry Nance. It's just bullshit right?”

She should have screamed. But she didn’t. Billy should have moved to help her. But he couldn’t. All they could both do was just watch as Steve swung a nail bat at her head.

The wet crack was sickening. It rang out through the silent air louder than a gunshot. Nancy Wheeler died silent. Almost accepting the situation. Like she knew what was coming. She died before seeing the manic grin spread across Steve’s features. Wild and untamed. Like he’d been waiting to do this. Blood pooled as she slumped forward, just held up by ropes. A part of her skull was missing.

“Come check she’s dead.” Steve was rolling the nail bat around in his hands, bits of skin and hair and bone were stuck to it, talking to it more than the only other alive person around. Billy could only move then, like he’d been waiting for instruction all along before his body was free. He slid to his knees in the dirt. Her skin was still warm under his fingers, but the rope around her neck had choked her if the hole in the side of her head didn’t finish the job.

Please just breathe. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.

No amount of will would fix any of this.

They found that Jonathan kid without his eyes, face down in the quarry. Already starting to bloat in the stagnant water.

Billy scrambled to his feet when Steve stepped closer, backing up towards another tree to put some space between them. People had been going missing for months. There was a killer in Hawkins. Billy thought he’d at least escaped that leaving California. But it seemed the curse followed him. The paranoia. Always having to lock your doors. Be careful of who could already be in the back seat of your car. Someone could always be following you.

Everyone they found, Carol and Jonathan and now, eventually, Nancy, all linked back to Hawkins High. They were all teenagers. That was all the police had. Everyone had been killed in a different way, dumped a different way. There was no pattern, no clear motive.

Except Billy knew. Knew because he was next.

Carol turned on Steve, took her loyal band with her. Once friends, then distant and a gossiper when he was no longer King. Jonothan was a peeper. Made the King angry once upon a time. And Nancy, well, Nancy broke the King’s heart.

But Billy had taken this throne. Taken his crown and shoved him down into the unwashed masses without a second thought. Without warning.

The switchblade in his pocket felt useless to such a grin, pure freedom and lack of wills. Eyes wide and full of joy. Like a kid staring at an ice cream truck on a hot summer day. Steve’s hands and cheek were speckled in blood like freckles. Exaggerated moles that already marked his skin. Some were so dark they were barely different.

“Don’t look so scared,” he smiled. Billy must have looked terrified, horrified, anything but easy and relaxed which was all Steve was giving off. “The first is always the worst, but it gets easier. It’ll get easier for you.”

He held out the nail bat for Billy to take. He grabbed it before he could think, holding it to defend himself against whatever was going to happen next. Surely Billy was next. His heart was hammering up against his chest, threatening to break through. Nancy didn’t even scream. Billy would go down swinging.

Steve just chuckled, amused at something, looking Billy up and down once before going to untie Nancy. She slumped on her side but face down, pressing into the dirt. The final indignation. He gathered up the ropes and walked back towards Billy, close enough that with one good swing this could be over. They both knew that. And still. Billy stayed frozen. Years of Neil had worn him down, in the face of true horror and fear he was stagnant. As always. Only able to fight when it didn’t matter, when the anger had boiled up enough inside it had nowhere else to go other than fists and kicks. Neither fight nor flight. Fear and dread blocking out every logical idea. Steve walked back over to his car and popped open the truck with a small clunk.

“I’m gonna need that back. Thanks for taking the fall though. You’re a real amigo.”

Billy looked down at what was in his hands. The bat. It all suddenly clicked together like the most horrific jigsaw. Prints. Billy’s fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. And he’d just accepted it like a christmas gift around the tree or a thoughtful valentine over dinner. Who were the police going to believe? Steve Harrington; Hawkins high society prince who’d never been in trouble with the law before and whose family practically owned half the town, or Billy Hargrove; moody out of towner who’s arrival matched up almost perfectly with the rise of dead teenagers and who already had three speeding tickets?

Billy didn’t have a choice now. He dumped the bat in the trunk as fast as he could without looking desperate, without giving anything away about how he was fucking terrified. About how he could feel his heart in this throat threatening to choke him. Like Nancy. 

“Knife too please. I saw you playing with it at lunch the other day. Everyone says I’m dumb but I’m not stupid. I know who to keep an eye on.” The smile in which Steve spoke through was chilling. Like he didn’t know he was doing anything wrong. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe in his mind this was just how things were meant to be. Billy threw the small switchblade in the trunk too, before he had a chance to see what would happen if that smile faded. Steve handed over his keys in return. 

“I want to go home. You can drive partner. We have someone to visit in the morning.”

Maybe Nancy not screaming wasn’t the worst part after all.

[jojo-daydreams]

Hello Natalie! How are you? How is your day? Have you ever seen the official art with Mista and Trish dancing, where Trish is grinding on the gunslinger? Since requests are open, may I kindly ask you for a MistaxReader where R is quite jealous because of this but Mista tells his feeling for her, with amazing NSFW? I hope I am not bothering you too much ❤️ if yes, I am so sorry! Thank you so much ps:If you don’t know the picture, I can show it to you xxx

I decided to combine these two since I think they can go well together !! hope that’s ok !! (*´꒳`*)

i’m assuming is this picture yeah ? I hadn’t seen it before and its ….. Really something ….

also … amazing nsfw ???? u did not come to the right place for that my friend !! Regardless, I hope you both like it !  ﾍ(=￣∇￣)ﾉ

10 - “I like it when you say my name like that.”

N// S// F// W// Under the cut !!!

———————————————

Finishing off another drink, you try your best not to look back over to the scene that’s suddenly got your blood boiling. Unfortunately, you are not successful.

Frowning, you watch as Trish continues to dance with Mista. ON Mista. Sure, you hadn’t told anyone about your feelings for the gunslinger, but still. You pout, turning back around to face the bar and using your finger to push the ice in your glass around. You should’ve just told Mista how you feel already. You’d had plenty of chances. Giorno sent the two of you on assignments together often enough.

You were just too nervous though, the thought of him rejecting you scared the shit out of you. Losing your friendship with him was too terrifying a prospect to risk it. Mista was one of your closest friends, he could always make you laugh, he was always a pillar of support for you when you needed it, he was always willing to listen to you complain about your problems, he was always able to bring joy to any situation you were in, his ass always looked great no matter what pants he was wearing.

You start tearing your napkin into shreds, hands feeling restless. You were friends with Trish too, so you were really mad at her per say. Sighing, you blow a strand of hair out of your face. Jealously was such an ugly thing, and it was making you feel icky but you just couldn’t help it.

As if sensing your foul mood, Mista suddenly appeared at your side.

“Hey, why the sour face?” He says, cheerful as ever, his cheeks tinted red from the dancing and drinking.

Still frowning, you glance at him before looking away.

“I just. Don’t feel well, that’s all.” Not exactly the truth, but not a lie either, per say.

Jerking back, your eyes widen as Mista’s hand suddenly comes in contact with your forehead as he tries to check your temperature.

“You don’t have a fever?” He says unhelpfully. Neither of you are drunk, but you’re both at least a little buzzed, and its hot in this place anyway, so you’re not really sure what he was trying to accomplish with that. Sweet lovable Mista.

You shake your head with a huff, pushing off the bar you’d been leaning on and tossing some change on it as you started to leave.

“Yeah it’s… something else. I think I’m gonna go home.”

Mista blinks in surprise, confused at your sudden departure, and follows after you quickly.

“Wh- wait what? Leaving already? At least let me walk you home!” He says, scrambling to leave some money on the bar and catch up with you when you don’t slow down at his request.

The two of you walk a few block in a very uncomfortable silence, which is unusual for the two of you. You’d spent hours with Mista in silence before, and it never felt this awkward. He starts speaking at the same time you decide to break the silence.

“Did I do something wrong-“

“Y’know I can walk myself home-“

He stops, furrowing his brows at your words.

“What’s wrong? Did I upset you somehow? Whatever it is that I did, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” He says, his dark eyes are shining in the low lamp lighting. His full lips are pouty as he apologizes, and you watch them in sort of a trance. They just look so damn kissable.

When you don’t respond Mista clears his throat, and your eyes snap back up to his.

“Oh, um. Sorry. It’s nothing worth mentioning. I’m not mad at you.”

“Not mad at me …. But….?” He says, trying to encourage you to continue.

Sighing, you continue.

“I’m. I guess I’m just mad about you. Dancing.”

Mista tilts his head, confusion coloring his face.

“You’re mad… that I was dancing. I didn’t know I was that bad at dancing.”

Realizing what you’d implied, you lift your hands up, shaking your head as you take a step back.

“Wait, that’s not what I meant. I just guess I wish you’d danced with me.”

Mista’s eyebrows shoot up, and his hands dart forward, grabbing yours.

“Oh.”

“Oh.” You parrot, train of thought focused entirely on how warm and strong his hands feel wrapped around yours.

“I uh. I wish you’d danced with me too.”

wait. what.

“Wait, what?”

Mista swallows, dark eyes meeting yours, his gaze felt heavy and its making you feel a bit… nervous?

“I wanted you to dance with me too, I just. I guess I’m too nervous to ask. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything. I mean I WANT you to, of course. Do things for- WITH me. But um. I’m putting my foot in my mouth so I’m gonna stop talking… now…” He says, trailing off awkwardly.

You stare at him for a moment, trying to process what’s happening. Is Mista saying he’s interested in you? Is your crush confessing to you right now?

“What do you want me to do?” You say, finally, voice intentionally even.

“Ideally you let me kiss you.” He squeezes your hands, “Please.”

You’ve barely gotten out a breathless yes before he crashes his lips against yours, pulling your hands to his chest to keep you close.

When you pull away, both of you catching your breath, you decide you’re feeling bolder now, and you glance at up at him through your eyelashes.

“Why don’t you finish walking me home huh?”

Mista watches you carefully as you talk, and at the mention of walking you home, the original purpose of the evening, he seems to snap back to into himself. He lets go of your hands, stepping back a few feet to give you both some breathing room. It wasn’t a particularly hot or cold night, but he can feel a drop of sweat rolling down his back.

“Sure, sure.” He says, reaching back out to grab one of your hands as he leads you along once again.

—

When you do finally get to your apartment, you invite him inside, relishing the blush that settles on his face as he looks down shyly, asking if you’re sure you want that. Which, of course you are. You’d only been dreaming, literally, of having Mista over like this. You’d woken up on more than one occasion hot and bothered after a dream about him that’d felt all too real.

When you make it to your room, which takes a while, or at least longer than it should, because Mista seems intent on stopping you every five steps to steal another kiss, you close the door behind the two of you. Turning around, you can see Mista taking in your room- eyeing all the decorations thoughtfully.

“Is it what you thought it would be like?” You ask, teasing him a bit to hide that you’re actually pretty nervous. Mista had been over to your apartment plenty, but never in your room, and now it has you questioning some of your more childish decorations.

“Yes and no… it’s very you. I like it.” He says, putting you at ease.

Smiling, you give your head a shy shake, stepping forward and gently placing you hands on his hips, sliding them slowly down to the waistband of his pants. Dragging them forward, you brush lightly over the obvious bulge in them, thumbing the button questioningly.

You can hear his shaky exhale as he shifts a bit, nodding minutely to give you the go ahead. The rest of his clothes and yours are shed quickly after that, and you drop backwards onto the bed, Mista sliding on top of you, seemingly unwilling to part from you for longer than necessary.

Sighing into the string of kisses you share, you slide your hands from his chest down over his abs, enjoying the way they flex in response to your touch. You can feel the way he’s grinding his cock against you, his mouth hot on your neck now, and your already wet- you’re ready to go all the way, you’ve been ready for what feels like months now.

You grind your hips back up against him, urging him to get on with it.

Lapping at the last bite on your neck, Mista pulls back for a moment.

“You sure?” He asks, giving you a final out.

Your response is just to roll your hips up again with a low moan of his name.

He smiles in response.

“I like it when you say my name like that. I could… really get used to that.”

Mista takes a breath to steady himself, and you lift your arms, winding them around his neck. You dig your nails into his back as you can feel him slide in slowly, so fucking slowly, and once he’s bottomed out he holds still, sucking in a harsh breath through his teeth.

You sigh at the feeling of fullness. It feels so very right, being here now with Mista like this. You’ve loved him so long and now, finally, you have him in your bed.

When he still doesn’t move you give him a gentle nudge in the right direction by wiggling your hips, flexing your muscles a bit.

“F-fuck, babe, give me a minute here I’m just. I need a minute, then I’ll make it good for you.” He says in a breathy voice as he lets out a small laugh, dropping his head to your shoulder to steady himself.

You grin at him. Of course he’s worried about that right now.

“You sound tense, Guido.”

You can feel him nip at your shoulder, his energy coming back.

“I’m trying not to make a total fool of myself in front of this girl I’m really into, so I guess I am.”

Tilting your head to the side, you capture his lips again, and when you bite at his lower lip you can feel him buck his hips against you, drawing a moan from both of you, and that enough to get Mista to set a steady pace as he starts fucking you in earnest.

Winding your arms around him tighter, you can already feel the coil in your stomach getting tighter and tighter, and you reach down with one hand, wedging it between your bodies so that you can rub your clit.

Mista moans as he watches you touch yourself, the feeling of you getting tighter and tighter around his cock bring him closer and closer to the edge.

The hand that had been marking up his back still slides up, your fingers trying to find purchase in the short hair at the back of his head as your vision goes white, the combination of Mista finally, finally, fucking you and your own fingers working yourself just how you know you like it finally making you cum, and you let out a loud whine of Mista’s name as you clench around him.

The feeling of you cumming on his cock is too much for Mista, and after a few more sloppy thrusts he pulls out of you as he comes, his cum painting your stomach.

The two of you stay just like that for a few minutes, catching your breath. The room had felt so hot this whole time, but it feels like its cooling rapidly. You can feel Mista’s cum and your sweat drying uncomfortably on your body, and yet you can’t bring yourself to care. You felt like you were floating right now honestly. A combination of that hazy post orgasm feeling and the still somewhat unreal feeling of being here with Mista makes you feel so light and happy. And it must be showing  on your face because Mista is looking at you with a dopey grin.

“So…” He starts, glancing away for a moment, “That was fun.”

You try your best to turn your face away from his as you snort, laughing damn near obnoxiously. Only Mista, you think, only he would say something like that after a night like this.

“Yeah, we should do it again sometime.” You reply finally, when you get your laughter under control. You mean it, but your tone is teasing. Despite that, you can see Mista’s eyes light up.

“I’d like that, I uh. Like you.”

Smiling at him softly, you place a gentle kiss on his cheek before replying.

“I like you too, Guido.”

[samwritesforyou]

ARMY ZIP drabbles

JOURNEY

you and joon have been pretty close friends since you first came to this new highschool. your family has been moving around a lot, so you never stayed long in any schools, until this one.

your mom eventually got to know namjoon’s mother and they became friends as well.

there were always some activities for your class, and one day it was a trip for the whole day, where teachers took all of you to the place that was very similar to some kind of jungle.

it was no surprise to find this type of  surroundings in australia, so nobody was really super stoked by it.

but the exciting part was, that your main partner for the day was joon, and together you’d get lost, just enjoying each other’s company.

to avoid punishment, joon took the situation under his control and called the teacher in charge, bluntly lying about the fact that you two have gone home already. you two didn’t mind spending more time together, especially in this beautiful scenery.

after all you’d find your way out of there and joon would walk you home from the bus station, because it already got dark, and he would give you his grey jacket, because you said under your breath a silent, “how much colder can it be..”

your mom was waiting for you on the porch already - pretty mad - and joon took all the blame on himself, apologising and saying that you two got lost because of him.. she actually forgave the both of you and even invited joon to stay for a cup of tea.

the whole time beside the dinner table you couldn’t take your eyes off him, and he did the same, captivating your eyes with his..

in the hall you were just simply talking about how much fun the whole day was and you both ended up in a warm hug towards the end of your conversation.

since you’re both still underage, your mom makes a firm statement that she will drive namjoon to his own home and as you waved him goodbye you were smiling, because.. damn, he forgot to take his jacket back from you. and you couldn’t help yourself but realise that it smelled just exactly like him.. like home.

PERFECT

yoongi was this perfect friend. you didn’t know him for too long, but it didn’t matter. your personalities clicked and you started to spend a lot of time together.

he was the best baseball player in the whole school and you were fortunate enough to always be by his side, whenever some victory happened.

but what you missed on - in the early stages of your friendship - were the losses, the bad things that happened.

one day you were just passing by the slightly opened door of the changing rooms, when you heard a slight whimper.

you immediately stopped and carefully peeked through the crack, trying to inspect who’s inside.

you saw light hair and a small posture, crouched on the floor near the lockers, shuddering their shoulders, with arms wrapped around their knees, as they desperately tried to hide the sounds that sometimes escaped their lips.

it didn’t take you long to realise who it was..

“yoongi?..” you called, softly, opening the door further and making your way inside.

“i fucked it up.. i fucked it all up,” was all he said, burying his head even tighter to his knees.

so he wasn’t perfect, after all, huh? everyone kept painting yoongi as this cold and professional kid, but they just never got to see the more emotional and vulnerable side of him.

perhaps he didn’t let them see it.

didn’t want them to see it.

but he let you. and when you dropped down on the floor next to him, consoling him and patting his hair, he let you.

when you leaned towards him, he started to cry even harder, letting his emotions out, and finally felt how it was to be truly supported by someone.

that’s what true friends do, right? being here for each other in good and bad times.

ZOMBIE

it was the end of it all. the world has gone insane since last week, when a massive zombie virus broke out... somehow.. to the whole world.

Nobody knows exactly what or how it happened, but even though everyone was fairly “educated” on the apocalypse matter from all the movies and books, loads of people were still getting turned on a daily basis.

in other words, it was terrifying, and not as adventurous as in the fiction.

you were fortunate enough to find yourself, after days on the road, in the abandoned house, still filled with some leftover foods around.

you just did your evening routine and came back to your “room”, where you stood by a small window, looking out and trying to concentrate your attention on the lightest of sounds.

and you finally heard it. a zombie was approaching from the hallway, their grunting clear as day for your careful hearing.

you had no weapon, no help around..

you didn’t know exactly what was your plan, but.. something will have to do.

you grabbed the nearest brick into your palm and squeezed hard, getting nervous.

the undead person already came into the view, feeling your presence and moving in your direction.

when there were only a few meters between the two of you, the gunshot blazed through the air.

the body fell to the floor and you saw a man standing in the hallway, rifle in his strong hands.

“hey.. you okay?” a man said, fixing his freshly dyed purple hair.

“yeah..”

“good. i think you could use a friend in this apocalypse,” a man smirked and gave you a bag with some food, by this making a peace pact between you.

STREET

hoseok was an international student from korea, who was studying art and dancing majors.

you were friends for some time already, but both of you never had time to actually hang out outside of the school grounds.

you were into filmmaking and your study hours were crazy, to say the least.

but finally, summer holidays were approaching. you didn’t make any plans, because most of your friends went travelling, and your buddies from the dorms were supposed to leave to go back to their lovely families.. you just didn’t have that.

one of the final days of the semester before the big break, you were just wandering around the campus, finally having nothing to do, after months of hard work..

and suddenly your phone rang. it startled you, on the screen showing “hoseok” with his number underneath it.

you picked it up, of course.

“hey, are you in town?” you heard an exciting tone on the other end.

“yes, actually..”

“wanna hang out? come to that park near the school, in 20 minutes?”

and it was settled. when you dragged your ass over there, you came perfectly on time and hoseok was already waiting for you, sitting on top of the many big cans that were laying around here.

he simply handed you the graffiti colour. you couldn’t help yourself but to make a surprised expression, but took the paint anyways.

“let’s create something!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet and started to dance around, filling the walls with some slogans and pictures of all sorts.

he noticed you hesitating at first, and gently put his elegant hand on your back.

“heyy,  don’t be afraid, it’s my first time with this kind of medium too! i just figured we could do something for the first time together and not worry about the result that much, most important thing is just having fun, isnt it?” he smiled at you warmly, and you just couldn’t help it and put your arm towards the wall, spraying his name on it.

YOUNG

it was one of those days, when everything seems quiet, slow and kind of lazy.. it was just another weekend in your small city, far far away from all the excitement of the bigger metropolis.

you were fortunate enough to meet one of the closest people in your life here, though.

you came over to jimin’s place, as you have previously agreed on.

he made you some tea. kettle boiled in the silence of his apartment and you smiled at each other, when he picked your favourite kind.

you knew each other well. and jimin knew even better about your current struggles, as of the problem that you’re trying to become a tattoo artist, but it wasn’t quite working out yet.

he was always trying to help and make things better.

so when you ended up in his room, he took out a marker from his pencil-case and showed it to you, excitedly.

“what should i do with it?” you chuckled, but sadness still prevailed on your face.

“draw on me,” he simply said and put the tool firmly into your hand, “imagine i’m the canvas and you’re about to ink my skin.”

“okay..” it seemed a little weird and embarrassing at first, but after a while you both got fully into it and your passion literally blossomed in front of his eyes and reflected there as beautiful sparkles.

“youth?..” he asked, looking at his arm, with a genuine warm smile.

“youth. let’s never forget about this. when we’re still young, you know?” you smiled and then jimin started laughing with his angelic voice.

“i like it! write more, please..”

you ended up writing things like “i  me”, “happy song :)” and a big “nevermind” in some really rough, but pretty font on his ribs.

“i really like this one..” jimin said, truly amazed.

and a few years later, after you’ve finally made it out of the small town and owned your own tattoo studio, jimin came with a request of nevermind on his ribs.

MAFIA

it was really risky to try and accomplish this mission and you knew it.

there were literally myths and stories going around this mafia, especially their leader.

nobody never described how he looked, just that he was ruthless and never spared their enemies.

all the other heads of gangs had exceptions for some people, but not him.

and when you were caught, illegally transporting some dangerous.. “items” by one of his people, you were immediately captured. this wasn’t supposed to happen and now you knew your fate.

you were held hostage for some days, but now you’re finally on the way to meet the master head behind all of this.

you were pushed into this luxurious room, doors closing loudly behind you. but it was empty..

after the uncomfortable silence the backdoor of this strange place opened and you saw him come in.

his expression was grim and intimidating, but changed in a heartbeat when your eyes met.

“taehyung?..” your voice cracked in between the pronunciation of his name and you were just.. astounded.

you were close friends until last two years, because you suddenly lost contact with each other.

“are you okay?” he immediately rushed to you, uncuffed your hands and wrapped you in a warm hug, dropping his stern facade this instant. in that second all your memories from when you were younger and just having fun together popped up in your head and you couldn’t help but only hug him tighter.

when you pulled away after a while, you cupped his cheeks with your hands and stared into his eyes, “how the fuck did you get into all of this mess?”

you just wanted him to stay this innocent and pure boy you always knew..

“i should ask you the same thing then,” he frowned his brows and pouted.

“i guess we’ll have to figure it out somehow..” you turned your head towards the doors, that slowly clicked as someone was clearly ears dropping you.

“now it’s only you and me, partner.”

MESSENGER

you were just an ice cream truck worker, giving out yet another frozen treat to a happy family in front of your face. ugh. you didn’t like your job one bit. but what can you do in summer, when you don’t have enough money from your usual income like drawing or writing articles, right? next second you look up from your phone and another customer is standing there. “can i get some ice, please? just ice,” he says firmly and tries to keep up a smile, but it breaks a few times, because the man looks genuinely injured on the side of his head. “are you sure? you should call a doctor for that-“ you can’t even finish your sentence when he just pulls his hand into the ice-cubes container himself and pushes it against his temple, part of the ice melting and some of it falling down. suddenly he’s checking his phone and then frantically looks around, not loosing his cool image. then his eyes dart back at you and he says, “do you think i can hide behind the truck? you’d still stand there so its not suspicious that the truck is here by itself?” he really seemed to be in a hurry, so you just nodded your head yes and he was already crouching next to you, in a still position. soon a group of bulky men appeared, coming to you and asking if you havent seen a younger guy with longer brown hair, tattoos and piercings. you have, and he has been hiding just next to your legs. “no, i’m sorry,” you said with an innocent smile and eventually they went away. when the air was clear, the man finally stepped away and most adorable smile appeared on his face. he was holding a small transparent package, full of white crystals. from all the happiness he kissed the package and then patted you a little awkwardly on the shoulder. “thank you so much for covering me. i’m jeongguk, by the way,” he stretched his tattooed arm towards you and you shook hands. “can i get an ice cream now?” he said, a little bit embarrassed, as he stood in front of the truck now, like a normal customer.