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carawenfiction · 3 months ago

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So...remember how I said in that update post how I might MAYBE do a TSS rewrite and post it for free?

"Maybe" quickly turned into "definitely happening". Instead of making it outside of COG, however, the finished product that's already published will be updated with the rewritten files. This means that if you've already purchased TSS through COG, you'll have the rewritten version available. That's how I originally intended to go about things with the old rewrite and is the better option here to avoid potential complications.

I've been in contact with COG and they've let me know that I'd be able to do what I have in mind even if this results in a different wordcount and very different scenes/plot points and a different kind of main story.

I realize that this announcement is probably pretty jarring since my last post stated that I wasn't sure about doing a rewrite but that I wanted to if I had enough time. After making that post, I started creating an outline for the rewrite mostly for fun...and one thing kind of led to another. I want you all to know that I wouldn't be making this post at all if I wasn't sure about this. It's because I've already begun the process and feel incredibly motivated and inspired that I can do this that I'm making this announcement.

This rewrite is not going to be like my old attempt at a rewrite, though. It's an entirely new one that I feel much more confident about.

So far I've written the outline for the rewrite and started reworking already existing scenes from chapter 1 as well some new ones. I'm happy to say that the difference between how the rewrite process felt years ago compared to now is like light and day. It seems like those years I've taken away from TSS were very healthy and helpful in giving me some distance and letting me figure out what kind of story I really want to tell.

My plan is to rewrite book 1 and then make 1 full continuation after that. Instead of a trilogy, it looks like this version of TSS will be 2 volumes, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it'll be shorter than originally intended. I think it's more doable for me to rewrite the first book (starting from scratch while also using some already written scenes, since I've been assured I'm allowed to do so) and then make 1 complete continuation of it rather than trying to fill stuff out over 3 different entries, and I think it'll serve the plot and story as a whole to do it that way.

That being said, I fully understand that some - or most of you - might have trouble trusting my word after me failing to do the rewrite I wanted to years ago and not delivering a second book. That's completely fair. This time I'm not rushing things and I don't feel any pressure to do this. It's not something I do out of dislike for the original, but rather out of love for what it could be and what I could make it into, if that makes sense. I'm taking as much time as I need to and am not putting any pressure on myself to do this.

My other project takes priority right now so I can't dedicate all of my time to the rewrite, but I'm working on it when I have time over or get stuck. It's actually pretty nice to alternate between two different stories that have different settings and has helped a bit in avoiding writer's block.

Here are some differences between TSS and the TSS rewrite (most of the changes I made to the old rewrite no longer apply):

The rewrite will be told in second-person point of view ("you" instead of "I"). The reason for this is that when I first started TSS I was really unused to the second-person POV, but after having spent years in the IF space it's now the other way around. It'll make writing much easier for for me, and I hope it won't feel too jarring for people who are used to the first person POV.

The Shadowman and Jealene (now "J") will both be genderselectable just like the main cast. The Shadowman will be genderselectable later on, though - it might sound strange but I think it makes sense when you have more context. J plays a bigger role than they did in the original and their personality is a bit different in this version.

Some side characters (such as most of the hideout) will be cut. This is because they felt really underdeveloped to me in the full game and didn't serve much of a purpose. Instead I'm focusing more on the main cast + a few key characters to ensure the story plot stays focused and you get more time to develop bonds of various kinds with the main cast instead.

The relationship system will look a bit different. Instead of bars showing a percentage of approval, I'll write a description of each character and what they think of you. The descriptions will shift when the character starts viewing you differently, whether that's due to rivalry, romance or friendship. My hope is that this will allow for a more nuanced relationship system/descriptions. I'll also adjust the options a bit to try and make choices more nuanced and am thinking of including the option of having ex. a heart next to a romantic choice for those who want to know for sure what they're getting into. The different responses (such as shy, flirty etc.) will stay but some of it will probably be reworked. Essentially what I want to do is allow for a wider range of MCs and how the characters respond to the MC.

The MC is going to have more agency in certain ways. I've included something plot-relevant to the main character that can potentially change the dynamic between them and the group a bit, but it all depends on how you play it.

The tone might be somewhat different. Not entirely, of course, but there are some parts of the old TSS where the characters sound a bit younger than they are supposed to be, where tension and seriousness has been sacrificed in favor of humor and where some of the interactions aren't the way I would prefer for them to be. I've gotten older since writing TSS (gasp) and my tastes have changed, as has my writing to some degree. In order to do a rewrite I'd have to write in a way that's most enjoyable for me and that I feel best fits the story I want to tell. That's not to say that there isn't going to be silliness etc., but I'm adjusting the tone somewhat and putting more time and effort into descriptions and the writing overall.

The narrative will be different, even though the overall story itself will mostly stay the same. I'm keeping a lot of elements and also aim to introduce new ones that I believe will strengthen the story and make it a more enjoyable game overall.

I think those are the main differences I can give away right now without spoiling anything. I'll make sure to post updates when I've got more to share! Once the demo for the rewrite is finished, I'll post it on the forums and link it in an intro post on here.

Thank you all for sticking by me throughout the years. I hope you'll find some comfort in returning to this world, as well as new things to ponder and excite you in this new upcoming version of the story <3

The Azuridia and Quaiel chibis are done by the amazing madebysalfi

#the shadow society #tss #interactive fiction #update #if #carawenfiction #cog #choice of games #hosted games

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gallusrostromegalus · 1 year ago

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I am constantly procrastinating working on my original fic by writing fanfic. Any advice for how to refocus and finish my novel?

Well. The novel probably needs a nap.

Procrastinating is a symptom that something is preventing you from doing the thing you "should" be doing. Most of the time it's an unrelated, but actually higher priority task like resting after an illness (society is fucking lying about anything else being more important) or filing your taxes (actually this one is pretty important).

...but if you're procrastinating on one creative project with another creative project, you're not procrastinating: something about the novel is off right now, the fanfic is more appealing to you.

Consider the following:

You may be writing fic because it brings you more joy than the novel. If you really want to get back to the novel, figure out what would make working on it more enjoyable. Engagement from a beta-editor? Skipping this really boring scene and coming back to it later? Adding more smut?

You may also be writing fic because it's got a lower spoon coat than the novel and you need to conserve your spoons right now. Any extra stress in your life? Moving? Toothache? Recovering from Covid? Annoying roommate? Sick family member? It's an election year? ANY of those could soak up extra spoons and make your novel too expensive for your spoons budget. Let it take a nap, and come back when you're feeling better.

You may be sharpening your artistic skills on a lower-stakes project before going back to the novel. This is pretty normal- even Michaelangelo took breaks to work on other pieces while sculpting The David, both for a change of pace and so he could try something out without fucking up the big block.

Fortunately, you're writing, so you can always try writing the challenging scene a dozen times in different docs or save the parts that were good but don't not in a spare parts bucket doc.

Or keep working on that fic, it's helping you learn on a subconscious level.

You don't love the novel right now. This is alright. This is usually temporary, and the solution is the same- put it aside and work on something else.

Maybe you are just bored of the novel. That's fine and normal, you just save all the documents to your hard drive and come back later. When the fic inevitably gets boring too, you'll come back to the novel and either go "oh hey this kicks ass!" And return to it with renewed enthusiasm.

...Or you'll come back to it and go "oh. This is actually a piece of shit" And that's okay too, because there's nothing more useless than polishing a turd, but that turd is still valuable as compost. You learned things writing it, and you can still rifle through the novel for good lines or scenes or turns of phrase and put those in your spare parts doc to ferment into The Good Shit in the back of your mind.

HOWEVER:

If you are experiencing a different phenomenon wherein you are actively distressed while writing the fic- either out of misplaced guilt, or the fic isn't actually fun you just feel compelled to do something, or absolutely every creative endeavor is stressing you out, you may be experiencing a serious mental or physical health issue and you should see your GP or a specialist ASAP. Pain is an indicator that something is wrong. Do not ignore your body's warning light.

That sounds really dramatic and hyperbolic but realizing I was not enjoying ANY creative work was the symptom that finally got me to sit down and go "huh. All these random pains, irregular sleep cycle, frequent migraines and weird bouts of vertigo aren't normal either, I should get this looked at." And it turned out I had dangerously low blood oxygen at night from undiagnosed sleep apnea. I have a CPAP machine now and it's AMAZING.

I really hope this is regular artistic shuffle and not a serious health concern, but if you're experiencing creative stress AND a bunch of other shit, it may be serious.

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wildemaven · 1 month ago

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chasing stillness | jack abbot

pairing - jack abbot x ofc!alix miller, rn word count - 2587 content warning - 18+ blog; lots of self reflection, use of ‘you’, Alix :39, lighter skin tone, has an a good amount of tattoos covering her body, has short hair that’s long enough to be pulled back, an avid runner:, established friendship, lots of feelings— but neither of them seem to be brave enough to share with the classroom, sarcasm and friendly banter, mention of divorce, mention of blood but nothing too serious, no y/n, please let me know if I failed to list something. a/n - I originally had something completely different I was going to post for these two first and then I started writing this and things went in a different direction. So you’re getting this first and then other thing will come later. I feel rusty with my writing but it was fun to dive back into it. Anyways, gonna go hide now! Next | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The notebook sat open on the kitchen counter—the one filled with countless grocery lists, to-do tasks and other personal details worth noting—next to your keys, ball-point pen and the bland energy bar you still needed to scarf down.

Outside the sky was beginning its transition from late afternoon to early evening— clouds backlit in a soft gold as the sun slowly inched toward the city’s skyline.

You stood in a pocket of fading light that filtered through the kitchen window, one foot on the bottom rung of a stool as you finished lacing up your well-worn running shoes. With both feet now firmly planted on the hardwood floor, your eyes drift to the blank page. You grab the pen, clicking once, twice writing a single line:

Goals, Guts & Zero Guilt— Just Fucking Do It

You stared at the words for a while. The way they loop, cross and connect with purpose.

It’s not the first time you’ve attempted this list. You start it every week, chickening out and turning the page allowing other lists to become your priority in the following days— you were a pro at hindering your own growth. There were times you’d flip back to the page, reading the words over before leaving on your run to work then flipping to the first blank page pushing it off for another day.

But today felt different. And so you add:

run because it feels good, not because I’m outrunning anything

I’m not a failure because my marriage failed

Starting over is a new beginning, not a punishment

Stop hiding from the idea that someone might care

You pause. Pen hovering as you internally debate the last point, then adding:

“Because You Matter” - Ask Jack, someday. Maybe

Because you matter. Those three words had been tormenting you since he’d said them to you the night of PittFest. There was a softness in the way he had spoken to you in that moment, dialing back his grit and satirical tone. This wasn’t an Attending giving his post-mass-casualty speech. It felt vulnerable and raw— like there was more he wanted to say than he allowed himself to.

Because you matter to the hospital? Because you matter to us? Because you matter to him?

Your fingers trace over the edge of that last line. Not crossing it out or underlining it or avoiding like you had been for the last year. Just acknowledging it— a possibility, at some point.

The vibration from your watch pulls you from your thoughts. It’s an hour before your shift starts. You grab your keys, bag—tossing in the forgotten energy bar you’ll now contemplate eating mid-shift—and zip your hoodie halfway.

Running to work wasn’t efficient. It didn’t make sense, especially before a 12 hour shift in the emergency room where you were on your feet for hours on end. But it made you feel something. The closest to being in control you’d felt in a long time.

It gives you time to carve out space in your head— clear the static. Respite from your psyche and the stress of work you sometimes carry longer than you should. The hum of the city and the rhythm of your feet pounding against the pavement always made the perfect soundtrack as you descended the steps of your apartment building and head toward Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center.

The sky had deepened to a darker shade, streaked with ash-blue clouds. The first stars were just beginning to emerge—faint little beacons welcoming you to the night shift.

As the hospital comes into view, you slowed to a jog. Breathing steady. Legs warm and heavy with a pleasant fatigue. You wipe the sweat from your forehead with the sleeve of your hoodie.

A single bus sits in the ambulance bay— vacant and waiting for the next urgent departure.

You're five minutes past your normal arrival time, but take a moment to fully collect yourself. Eyes closed, you draw in a long breath, then exhale deeply. And again.

The whirring of the mechanical door sliding open cuts through the air, the bustle of ED spilling out and echoing across the concrete that surrounds you. Your pulse is a deafening thud in your ears— not from exertion, but the flicker of movement in front of you.

Jack.

He stands just beyond the entrance doors. A cup of coffee in one hand, badge clipped to its usual spot on his pants pocket and his gaze fixed on the watch strapped to his left wrist—an old relic from his service days, still faithfully ticking.

“Five minutes slower than the other day.” Jack says, finally looking up at you. Surprise flickers in his eyes, quickly replaced by a smirk. “Should I be worried you’re losing stamina… or just trying to give me a head start?”

“Is this where I start regretting sharing my location with you?” You ask, entirely teasing. Cold air nips at your bare skin as you peel off your damp hoodie. The ink on your arms rises beneath a trail of goosebumps as a breeze sweeps through the emergency bay.

You’d been working together for the better part of five years, riding the unpredictable waves of ED nights that swung between full-blown chaos and ghostly quiet. Him, Jack Abbot— the cool-headed Senior Emergency Medicine Physician that everyone turned to when things fell apart. You, Alix Miller— the well respected R.N. and anchor who always knew where everything was, anticipated what needed doing and had the kind of deadpan wit that made Jack look forward to shift change.

Somewhere along the way, between split-second triage calls and vending machine raids at 1 a.m., you’d carved out a rhythm— easy, constant. The kind of friendship built on trust, sharp banter and just enough stolen glances and lingering silences to keep you both pretending it was still just that.

Jack chuckles, shaking his head, slipping his free hand into his pocket. “If you didn’t want me keeping tabs, you shouldn’t have accepted the request.” His eyes skim your ink, but he keeps his tone light. “Didn’t want to crush your spirit two runs in a row.”

He pauses, his smirk softening just a touch. “Miller— you good, though? You look like you ran more than just miles today.”

Because you matter.

“Yeah— yeah I’m fine. Got a late start. Slept like shit and probably should have stretched out more. Nothing I can’t handle.” You say with your best convincing tone, hoping it’s enough that he buys into it.

“You sure?” Jack’s head tilts slightly, offering you an opening— a quiet invitation to lay it all out. You’re not surprised he doesn’t buy it. He knows you too well. All you can offer is a reassuring smile and a nod.

“I need you in there.”

“You’ve got me, Abbot.” You say, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze as you pass him and step through the doorway.

It was 3:45 am when you found a moment to sit, most patients waiting on lab results or family to be released to. You sank into the chair, muscles heavy, mind foggy with the weight of too many hours and not enough rest. At least it was Friday— the end of a long, punishing week finally within reach. You held onto that thought like a lifeline.

Jack was taking advantage of the brief lulled atmosphere leaning against the counter of the nurses station with a half-drained cup of sludge, watching as you scribbled down notes onto your beloved fluorescent pink square sticky notepad with the same energy as a dying flashlight— your use of them was prevalent, adorning all surfaces around the hub of the Emergency Department.

“Is it your pen giving out or is that your soul?” Jack asked dryly before gulping down the last bit of his black coffee and tossing the paper cup into the overflowing trash can.

You didn’t look up as you peeled another square from the pad, crumpling it in your hand and tossing in the same direction. “Both, unfortunately.”

“You’re ridiculous.” He shook his head and grinned at your quick response, huffing out a snort just barely audible over the patient monitors and hushed murmuring among the other nurses and residents.

“Go home, Miller. That’s the third time you’ve written ‘Abbot’ with two T’s.” He says, eyeing you with mock seriousness. “Pretty sure there’s a 23-gauge needle around here somewhere. I could drain whatever ink is left in that pen, take you behind Curtain 4, and make it permanent.” He unfolds his left arm, pointing to a spot on yours. “Right there, just above that little leaf thing on your forearm. You’ll never forget it.”

“That would be a bird wing, and I’m just seeing if you’re awake enough to catch it. As thrilling as that infection sounds— I’ll pass. Besides, it’s Friday— I leave when you do.”

Jack’s house was a charming Craftsman bungalow located exactly two miles from the hospital. With two bedrooms and a small tiled bathroom, it was furnished in a way that perfectly reflected his laid-back personality, subtly underscored by the crisp precision of his military background. Every detail, every piece of his life arranged throughout the space, felt intentional—quietly ordered, effortlessly him.

Your house was on the opposite side of town— ten miles from Jack's and twelve from the hospital.

It had become a normal occurrence since PittFest.

Just crash at my place, Miller. It’s closer. You shouldn’t be running home like this.

You hadn’t argued. Too tired. Too wrung out. And maybe—though you hadn’t let yourself think it at the time—too grateful for the way he’d said it like it wasn’t a question.

He’d drive. You’d ride in silence. The blackout curtains made it easier to fall asleep fast and hard the second you laid on the couch. You’d sleep a few hours, pull together some sort of meal for the two of you from whatever he had in his fridge, then call a rideshare, or sometimes—on the rare days he wasn’t back on shift—he’d take you home himself.

He told you it was for convenience. That it wasn’t safe to run home after a twelve-hour shift, not with the streets as empty and strange as they were before dawn.

But the truth was quieter, heavier.

He just wanted to make sure you were safe.

Little did you know it eased something inside him— like he’d tucked you into a space where the world couldn’t get to you, at least not for a few hours.

Now, over a year later, it was just a normal routine between you two.

“Fair. But I’ll have you know, it wouldn’t be my first.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I was pretty popular in the barracks for my stick-and-pokes. Practically a professional.” he murmured, eyes drifting back to the monitor above the nurses’ station, reading and rereading the stats, analyzing each one to see where his presence was needed most, mapping out his next move.

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” you said with a teasing smile, eyes lingering on him as you rolled them just enough to let him know you weren’t entirely unimpressed. “Alright. Go do your thing and work your doctor magic, Abbot.” Peeling another square, wadding it into a ball before tossing it to where Jack was still leaning with his arms crossed over his chest, hitting his bicep and falling to the floor.

“That’s what I do best. And I look damn good doing it.” Propelling himself forward and smacking the top of the desk with a grin before heading around the counter toward the patient in room twelve.

Some people dreaded night shifts, but you had grown accustomed to them—thrived on them. The darkness brought fewer questions, fewer forced smiles. While the world slept, you became an expert at stitching things back together— arteries, skin, and the real-life stories unraveling at 2 a.m. in multiple trauma bays. A nightly rhythm of chaos that gives you purpose.

When morning arrives, as it always does, you trade the steady hum of machines, overhead pages, the metallic tang of blood, and the sharp sting of antiseptic mingled with burnt coffee for the quiet calm of the city as you step outside.

Jack walks ahead, as he always does, his canvas bag slung high over his shoulder. The morning light casting long shadows across the walkway leading to the hospital’s parking garage. He scans the path without thinking, eyes sweeping over every corner, every parked car— familiar or not. It’s the soldier in him. Those instincts etched deep in his bones, even in peacetime. There’s no threat here, not really, but he still walks like there might be. One step ahead. Always ready to shield, to take the hit before it ever reaches you.

Because you matter.

The flick of Jack’s unlock button sets off a rapid series of beeps as you near the black truck. He’s already at the passenger door holding it open, leaning casually against the frame. He doesn’t say anything as you approach— just observes you quietly. Your dark grey scrub top is rumpled and half-tucked and the loose waves of your hair are barely contained in your favorite clip— clear signs of a long shift.

Somehow, he always looks like he’s stepped out of a GQ centerfold— every curl perfectly in place. The greying five o’clock shadow doesn’t take away from his looks— if anything, it makes them worse in the best way. Like he needs the added charm on top of everything else he’s already got going for him.

There’s a flicker of nervousness in him that catches your eye just before you climb into the truck. His head is angled down toward his boots, his weight shifting from one foot to the other, only lifting his gaze once you’re standing right in front of him. And when he looks at you—really looks—it’s as if time stalls just for a moment. His head tilts in that signature way of his and he gives you a little nod that seems to say, I’ve got you now.

You toss your bag on the floor and slide into the seat. Your legs feel unsteady, almost jelly-like..

The sun glares harshly through the windshield as Jack pulls out of the garage and merges onto the busy street, making you wince. You groaned, quickly flipping the visor down, trying to block what you could. Jack chuckled quietly to himself, turning the dial on the radio up just enough for a country ballad to fill the truck cab— something about a neon moon.

You slump back in the seat with a quiet sigh, searching for some semblance of comfort to get through the last stretch of the short drive. Your thoughts start to dissolve into that familiar haze that always follows the slow burn-off of post-shift adrenaline. And like clockwork, your eyes are already drifting shut by the time he turns onto his street.

Jack glances over once, careful not to wake you, then pulls into his driveway. He let the engine idle for a second longer than necessary, just watching you breathe— steadily now, not like earlier when you were leaning over a coding patient with shaking hands and blood coating your gloves.

He didn’t wake you until he absolutely had to.

You stirred with a soft sound, slightly dazed as if you’d just woken from a year long slumber, blinking slowly at the front door.

“You’re home,” he said.

You smile sleepily at the the sentiment, but don’t bother to correct him.

#jack abbot #dr jack abbot #Dr abbot #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x oc #jack abbot x ofc #dr jack abbot x you #the Pitt #wildemaven writes #dr jack abbot x ofc #jack x alix

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moonyswolfie · 5 months ago

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Study Session

A/N: So I just finished a torturously long exam session and this fic is a result of all the stress and mental breakdowns I've accumulated like Pokemons during this time. I actually wrote this piece between two of my biggest and most difficult exams, hence the N.E.W.T.s coming in to play. I hope you enjoy and if you relate, I'm so sorry! Remember that you are strong and no amount of academic stress can bring you down!

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Potter!reader

Masterlist

The table you were sat at in the Library was so crowded with textbooks and parchments that you could not see the wood any longer. Notes and cheat sheets, explanatory scrolls of parchments, quills and bottles of ink covered the entire surface. Hell, Lily even brought a dictionary. Merlin knew what use would a muggle dictionary have when it came to magical terms, but you learned a long time ago to never question her genius.

It was N.E.W.T.s season and to say that all 5 of you were stressed would be an understatement. James thought that once you passed your O.W.L.s, the N.E.W.T.s would not be as scary as everyone made them out to be. It was an exam session, a very long and tiresome and perhaps crucial exam session, but it wasn't Voldemort, right?

Wrong. The stress was growing by the hour and despite having two more weeks at your disposal to revise and memorise all you needed to, it didn't feel like enough.

But then again, was it ever enough?

You've been preparing for the N.E.W.T.s since the beginning of the school year, forcing yourself to attend every class and take a ginormous amount of notes that you knew would probably end up useless or lost somewhere at the bottom of your book bag. Still, you couldn't bring yourself to pause. Failure was not an option.

So far you tackled Charms, Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts, all of them easy and rather entertaining subjects, if you were to say so yourself. Right now however, you were stuck on the same Potions chapter for the past four hours and were just about ready to scream, cry, Avada Kedavra yourself or better yet, all of the above.

"Hey, Sirius?"

He hums and looks up, noticing your twitching eye and the exasperation rolling off you in waves.

"Y/N, are you okay?"

The concern was palpable and it caught the attention of your boyfriend in an instant, yet Remus knew better than to pester you with questions right now. He was adamant about rest and health being your first priority, but considering his own overcrowded study schedule, he would be a hypocrite to point it out at the moment. He did, however, push a goblet of water in your direction, which you eagerly accepted and gulped down in seconds. You weren't exactly allowed food or beverages in the Library, but what Pince didn't know would not hurt her.

You thanked Remus and handed the goblet back, before turning to Sirius and taking a deep breath to regain your composure.

"I have been rereading this chapter for the majority of our time here and I still don't understand the origins or the side effects of Amortentia when used for a longer period of time. No one really bothered to detail on them in any of our textbooks and I am not sure anyone ever subjected themselves to testing it out and then writing a memoir about it. However, Slughorn oh so graciously announced us that it might be included in the advanced exam topics. Do you happen to have anything on this? I know he mentioned some in class, but I didn't catch all of them."

"I think I do..."

He shuffles some parchments and knocks down some books, thus earning himself a stern look from Madame Pince, but ultimately finds the notes and hands them over.

"There you go, love."

You smile and thank him, humming while you scan the information. For such a chaotic human being, he had the neatest handwriting you've ever seen.

It doesn't take long for you to find the part about side effects, however there was nothing you didn't already write down yourself. Thankfully though, Sirius was the type of person to absently write down everything he heard so you found other helpful pieces of information. This was why you asked him for the notes in the first place, instead of Remus or James. Remus, much like yourself, only wrote the parts he was less certain of, whereas James didn't write anything at all. And Lily, Merlin bless her, she was a growing disaster when it came to writing information down. There was, contrary to her claims, no method to her madness.

You rolled up the parchment once you were done writing, yet kept it close, just in case you needed it again later. Sirius was studying for Transfiguration, so he wouldn't miss the notes anytime soon. Lily turned to you, ready to ask a question regarding a Charms lesson she was too sick to attend, but stopped and frowned, browsing the page spread out on the table in front of you.

"Y/N, why are your notes bilingual?"

You turned and followed her gaze to the margins, specifically to the terminology you borrowed from Sirius...

You unscrolled his notes again and placed them next to yours, looking from one to the other with a bemused smile. Next to the name of the potion, you drew a little arrow and wrote amour et obsession, which would have been inconspicuous, had you not added une potion délicate and l'amour impossible devient possible.

There were a few more next to the ingredients list and some corrections made regarding the mode of preparation. As you scanned the two sets of notes, you noticed that his were entirely in French, while you half translated, half copied your added bits.

You didn't know what was funnier, that you mindlessly wrote the information in Frenchglish, or that you didn't notice it was in another language to begin with.

English was your mother tongue, yet like every other pureblooded offspring, you were forced to attend a variety of language lessons to determine which ones you would be more skilled in. Romantic languages proved to be your forte, so you stuck with French, Italian and Latin. It wasn't easy in the beginning, seeing as they are all mere variations of the latter, therefore making them ridiculously easy to mix up and combine in the oddest of sentences, but you persevered and were now fluent in all four.

Regardless, slip ups like the one you were tiredly staring at now were not unheard of. You were certain it was a testament to how tired you truly were. Perhaps Remus was right, you should rest more.

But then again, this was not a simple exam session. It was the one that would determine your entire future. You could sleep when you're dead.

"You write your notes in French?"

Sirius' head shot up immediatey, confusion written all over his face.

"Yes?"

By now everyone's attention was on your exchange, which deepened his frown. James looked like he missed everything until that very moment, Remus was watching his best friend with a raised brow and Lily was silently shaking her head, smiling. She didn't know how she ended up with the lot of you, but she knew she loved you dearly.

"French is my first language" Sirius added, as if that was all the explanation you needed.

Sadly, it did nothing to clear up the confusion. When neither of you said anything, he added "doesn't everyone take notes in their first language?"

Despite Remus being the only other person in your group who wasn't a native English speaker, therefore making him the best candidate to answer his friend, you all shook your heads, your faces betraying different levels of amusement and fondness. It was a rather endearing situation.

"I don't take notes in Welsh, if that's what you're asking. I don't think I can even translate half the things correctly. Besides, the spells are in Latin, so imagine how that would look on a piece of parchment."

You chuckled at the mental image of magical notes looking more like pages taken from that muggle author's book, Tolkien. Lily followed and you both received a glare and a pointed "shhh" from Madame Pince. Honestly, it was a wonder she wasn't kicking you out at this point.

"Wait a second" James turned towards his best friend "ALL of your notes are in French?"

Sirius nods. Poor baby looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"But don't you..." you frown, unsure how to formulate your question "I see you writing constantly. If the Professor speaks, you write. How..." you groan, burying your face in your hands and shaking your head "my brain hurts. You look as if you write down everything that is said in class, so I assumed that you do?”

You peek an eye up only to be met with Sirius chuckling silently.

“I do write mostly everything that is said in class, but first I summarize it and I guess it’s easier to summarize it in French. I find it easier if I reformulate the information because it shows I understood the concept, but to avoid learning something mechanically and forgetting it when I flip the page, I use my own words. The only issue is that sometimes I forget the word I need in English or there isn’t even a word in English for said thing to begin with. Thus French. And no one really asked me for my notes before you so I didn’t see any reason to put any effort in translating them. And you didn’t seem to have a problem with it anyway.” he adds with an amused smirk, remembering Lily’s previous comment about your notes

You mask your chuckle with a cough and glance at your notes again.

“That is actually a great idea, Pads, I might have to start doing it myself.”

“NO!”

The lot of you was startled by James’ whisper-shout. You gave him a bewildered look, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Are you alright, big brother?”

“Don’t you dare. I know you and your disturbingly brilliant mind. If you start implementing this method, you’re going to write your notes in Latin” he squints, an accusatory look in his eyes “and where am I going to get my last minute notes from then?”

That was it, you couldn’t hold it in any longer if you tried. You burst out laughing, prompting an exaggerated “SHHH” to be directed your way.

“This is your last warning, if you cannot keep quiet, I suggest you move your little study session to your Common Room.”

Madame Pince was stern, yet you couldn’t fault her this time. You were loud and you certainly disturbed a few of your peers seated at nearby tables.

“Sorry” you whisper with a sheepish look.

You returned your attention to the table just in time to catch Lily placing a sweet kiss on James’ cheek, mumbling “don’t worry, my love, I won’t leave you noteless” which seemed to lift his spirits immediately. As grossed out as you were by their affection sometimes (what are sisters for after all?), you couldn’t help but smile at the scene. You were really happy he found his better half, even if it happened to be one of your best friends.

But after all, you did return the favour, did you not?

Remus’ hand found yours under the table and he squeezed it affectionately. You squeezed right back and smiled up at him, mouthing “I love you” and delighting in the beautiful smile that took over his face for the rest of the day.

#harry potter #remus lupin #james potter #sirius black #marauders #fantasy #fiction #my writing #writers #potter!reader #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x potter!reader #james potter x lily evans #james potter x sister!reader #sirius black x potter!reader #sirius black x reader #james potter x reader #N.E.W.T.s

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velvet4510 · 7 months ago

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Why Magneto’s Storyline in X-Men: Apocalypse is The Worst (it’s not just Cherik)

Ok I just need to vent because this has been chewing away at my brain for far too long.

Cherik is far from the only reason why Erik’s family plotline in X-Men: Apocalypse is some of the stupidest, sloppiest, and most character-ruining pieces of writing I’ve ever seen. Haters may say “oh you’re just upset because he married someone who wasn’t Charles.” But, like, aside from the fact that the original timeline already established that Erik’s top priority was always the fight for mutantkind and he had no interest in settling down - whether that had anything to do with his feelings for Charles or not - the problems with the Apocalypse writing go WAY beyond just him & Charles:

Erik would never abandon his cause at this point. By the end of DOFP, Erik has just been imprisoned for a full 10 years thanks to the JFK situation. Meaning he has spent a full decade being forcibly inactive in the fight for mutants. And he just learned that all of his fears about humans and mutants came to pass in the future to the level where a time-traveler had to be sent to change the past. And he was so set on averting that future that he tried to kill his friend and the sister of the man he loved, and then made a whole speech on international TV begging for the mutants of the world to fight alongside him. This is the POLAR OPPOSITE of a man who would feel like settling down and walking away from the fight within the next decade. The Sentinels being cancelled did NOT make mutant life easy overnight; Stryker was still up to no good, and there is no way that there weren’t others like him doing the same. Yes, Raven’s actions made a very positive difference, but I think we have enough brain cells to agree that this did not mean things for mutants immediately became sunshine and rainbows to the level where Erik - the most (understandably) paranoid character in the X-Men series - would even consider taking a break, let alone giving up the fight permanently. Knowing what he did about the possibilities of the future would’ve made the Erik we know double down on his commitment to his cause and follow up on his actions in Washington.

Erik wouldn’t risk starting a young family at this moment in his life. Erik was a Holocaust prisoner, his people were massacred, his mom was shot when he couldn’t move the coin, and then Charles was shot when Erik accidentally deflected a bullet into him, and then every member of his Brotherhood save Raven were captured and killed. Not only is this more than enough grief for one character to have, but the man wouldn’t dare risk having a new family of his own when everyone he’s ever loved has gotten hurt (largely because of him), and when he’s an international fugitive. That is no time to risk being selfish, and he would know. He would’ve been the first to realize that a potential spouse and child would also end up killed, and so he’d avoid that altogether. In fact, he wouldn’t even consider it, because, as mentioned, he wouldn’t leave his cause behind. You know, if he was actually in character.

Magda is a human. At this point, Erik hates humans. Again, he has just been imprisoned by humans for 10 years for trying to save a mutant, and he just learned that in the future, humans would’ve wiped out mutants, exactly as he feared. Everything that happened in DOFP would only further inflame his already-passionate hatred of humans. He is not in the mental state to even begin to consider Charles’ philosophy and give a human a chance at a relationship, let alone marry a human.

The family lives in Poland. The country where Auschwitz is. The country where Erik and his family and people was imprisoned, tortured, and executed. The country where Erik had to watch Shaw kill his mother. Basically the LAST country in the freaking WORLD that Erik would want to ever see again, let alone spend the rest of his life in. Erik is fluent in multiple languages - he is shown to easily converse in French and Spanish in First Class - and has been all over the world thanks to his Nazi hunting, so if he really needed to flee the U.S., there were a hundred other countries he could’ve gone to and blended into (Canada, France, Mexico, anywhere in South America, heck, he even could’ve discovered Genosha during this time). But in the original timeline, he didn’t leave the U.S. at all despite being a national fugitive after escaping his plastic prison, and he never did get caught again, so….

Erik’s first meeting with Magda is completely OOC for him. Erik mentions that he told Magda who he was the first night they met and he trusted her then. EXCUSE ME??? Erik Lehnsherr does not trust strangers. Erik Lehnsherr does not tell the complete truth about himself and his past to just anyone; look at how deeply Charles had to probe before Erik opened up to him. This stupid line was obviously shoehorned in just to make their relationship seem like perfect soulmates and thus ensure it is doubly tragic when she gets thrown in the fridge 5 minutes later (more on that in a sec). Obviously the intention is for the audience to go “aww, he instantly trusted her, she instantly accepted him, this is true love…” Give me a break. You’re really telling me that Magda met this stranger one night, found out he was none other than the international fugitive who apparently killed the U.S. president and just tried to kill another president on live TV, and went “oh, no problem, honey, let’s make a baby and live the cottagecore dream!” That’s some BS if I’ve ever heard it, and I’m convinced the writers subconsciously knew it; there’s a reason that is revealed in a throwaway line rather than shown onscreen, because then nobody would’ve bought it.

Fridging. Magda and Nina exist in the movie for one reason and one reason only: To get brutally killed and give Erik even more grief and trauma so that he’ll seek revenge on the entire world, aka do what the plot demands of him, aka have the same journey as he did in First Class (more on that in a sec). That’s all. Neither of them are any more than one-dimensional plot devices. They are not characters at all. Magda isn’t even named in the actual movie (he doesn’t even say her name when she dies) - it’s so obvious they didn’t even know what her name would be when they made the movie. This is textbook fridging, and one of the worst examples of it of all time. It’s all the worse considering that Erik never met Magda in the original pre-DOFP timeline, meaning Magda originally most likely lived a long happy life and died old in bed. But now, she gets fridged just because the writers didn’t know what more to do with Erik. It’s misogyny of the highest level.

A parenthood story for Erik was already set up. DOFP already hinted at Erik being a father, with Peter’s comment about his mom. So if the writers wanted to show Erik as a father, and to include Magda, they already had a solution that would seamlessly flow from the previous film - make Erik and Peter’s relationship one of the centerpieces of the story, and let Magda be Peter’s mom! (You know, like she is in the comics!)

It doesn’t contribute anything new to Erik’s character development. From a screenwriting POV, this is unforgivable. May I remind you that Erik’s entire storyline in First Class revolved around grief and trauma for the loss of his family and people, especially his mom, and seeking revenge for it. Giving him a wife and daughter just so they can get killed too adds absolutely NOTHING to his character development. It’s merely retreading everything that already happened in his arc: he loses his family and goes on a roaring rampage of revenge. Completely superfluous, right down to Charles insisting that there’s good in him beyond the pain. The redundancy becomes apparent even in the dialogue, where Charles literally says “I told you since I first met you there’s good in you too.” The script itself can’t help but point out that all of this has happened before and literally nothing new has been added to Erik’s character arc.

See? It’s not just because of Cherik. Erik’s story in X-Men: Apocalypse is an atrocity in basic screenwriting and character development, on every level. And I will always despise it.

(Please tell me I’m not the only one who feels this way…)

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 9 months ago

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You Need Only Ask [professor!Marcus Pike x librarian!reader]

Read on Ao3

Pairing: History of Art professor Marcus Pike x art library reader/you (cishet female)

Tags/Warnings: Kind of pining idiots but only one is pining, everyone is being professional but it's clear that Marcus is a pining idiot, implied coworkers to lovers.

Summary: Professor Marcus Pike is one of those cliché absent-minded professors - or so you think, but maybe there's another reason why this brilliant academic is acting a dumb fool around you?

Words: 3,534

A/N: This was inspired by an ask sent to me by @just-here-for-the-moment for a fic ask game thingy. Here's the original ask and my reply. I didn't write it exactly like that (main difference is my fic is set in modern times), but I hope y'all still like it!

”Good morning.”

Your customer service smile in place, you look over your shoulder.

”Morning, Professor. Just give me a second and I will be right with you.”

He hums, and you turn back to the bookcase where you were just about to finish re-shelving returns. Once done, you join Marcus Pike, Professor of Art History, at the desk. He’s tapping his fingers, almost impercievably, against the surface of the old solid wood desk, and you stifle a sigh. He didn’t have to wait that long.

”What can I do for you?” you ask politely. Professor Pike is never rude, but he is the typical professor type: absent-minded, a little awkward, his research always the number one priority.

“I looked for this book in the online catalog, but as I suspected, you don’t have it. It’s probably sold out, too.” He gives you a piece of paper before both his hands disappear into his pockets.

“Another inter-library loan, then?” you state, looking at the title. It’s in French, and you know immediately that your library doesn’t have it. Professor Pike is not the most computer-skilled person, so you usually double-check every book he asks for in the database, but this one you know you don’t have.

“Might have to go international for this one,” you tell him. “Canada or Europe. That’s coming out of your department’s budget, you know that.”

“I’ll make room,” he shrugs, looking towards the door, like he can’t wait to get back to the comfort of his own office. “And could you please give me more time with the last one you got for me? I need it for a bit longer.”

“I’ll contact the lending library,” you nod. “I’ll let you know.”

“Great. Thank you.”

The “Sure thing” has barely left your mouth before Pike is out the door, the sound of his steps against the stone floor quickly disappearing down the hall. You shake your head before sitting down to look up the book for him.

As you work, you once again wonder how people like Marcus Pike get jobs at all. Someone as introverted as that would never have a real shot at getting a library job, which requires people skills, patience, and the ability to stand in front of people. But when it comes to academia, it seems like all you need is credentials and a good research profile, and you’re hired. Unlike you, who had to fight tooth and nail for this position. You have Master’s degrees in art and library science, educational and language studies, job experience, and it was still almost impossible to get this job. People who have these jobs never seem to retire but just sit there, year after year, until they eventually sprout roots that fasten them to their chairs.

But you’re here now, since five years, and while Pike’s predecessor never showed his face in the library but sometimes sent you cryptical emails requests that took you half a day to decipher, it’s nice to see that the much younger professor actually frequents the university’s special arts library.

Finally locating Pike’s book in a university library in France, you quickly find the instructions for ILL’s, and send a loan request. After that, you apply for more time for Pike’s previous book, and by afternoon, you have confirmation for both books: one will be mailed out later during the day in Europe, the other has been renewed. You let Pike know through an email, before performing closing duties in the library. Your computer pings just as you’re about to turn it off, and you see that it’s a reply from Pike. Clicking it up, you see the very unlikely response:

>>Amazing, what a service. Just bill the department, I’ve got it covered. Thank you so much 😊 <<

Shaking your head in disbelief at the informal tone, you turn off the computer, clock out, and go home.

Professor Pike is back two days later, now asking for a book that’s available. When you tell him so, he clears his throat, gaze flickering away from you.

“Could you maybe show me where it is?”

“Sure.” You’re curt, because this isn’t the first time. It’s an easy enough book to find, and every item in the library is labeled, and the database even has an interactive feature where you can click on the item’s call number to open up a layout of the stacks, showing the correct shelf in red. It has freed you up a lot now that most patrons can easily find their literature themselves, but some people just want you to do everything for them.

“You know, Professor, you could maybe my start of term library tour useful,” you dare to tease him as you walk before him to the right case. “Most freshmen find it very helpful, and they can usually manage their own information retrieval after.”

“I think maybe a little touch-up course would do me good,” he replies, voice a little tight. “But I like personal service.”

You find the book, pull it out, and hand it to him.

“That’s what I’m here for,” you tell him easily. “Anything else I can do for you?”

He swallows visibly.

“No, thank you.”

He uses the self check-out this time, and leaves quickly without saying goodbye. You shake your head, and catch the eye of Mandy, a Master’s student who works on her thesis in the library almost every day.

“Strange fellow, that one, isn’t he?”

She gives you a peculiar look. “I guess so.”

One thing that you appreciate a lot about your job is the building itself. The campus was built in Collegiate Gothic style in the middle of the 19th century, and compared to the nearby city library with its white surfaces, glass walls, and modern design furniture, the much quieter arts library still seems more alive. The library houses more books than one would think when first seeing it, and it has the charming nooks and crannies that are so common for old houses.

You’re standing in one of those nooks one day; an alcove that houses folios, a cart of tall books parked next to the step stool that you’re standing on. You hear someone enter the library, shout out a “Hello!” as you usually do to let patrons know that you’re in the stacks, and receive a low answer. Mindful not to hurt your wrists, you pick up another folio from the cart, and put it back in its place.

The sound of footsteps stops at the desk, and you pick up the next book.

“Be right with you!”

The patron moves again, slowly walking towards the corner where you are, as if looking for you. You turn your head just as you see Professor Pike come around the corner of a bookcase.

“Oh,” he clears his throat. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” you nod, picking up the next book. “Almost done.”

“I got your email about the book from France. They sent it rather fast.”

“I was surprised, too,” you admit. There’s one book left, and you really should get down from the stool, move it, and get up again, but you’re lazy. You reach, getting up on your toes, just barely getting the book into place when you feel the stool slip from under you. You gasp, a thousand thoughts rushing through your head during the split second you’re in free fall, and then you land softly, not on the floor, but against a corduroy chest, strong arms holding you.

“Shit, that was close!”

You’re tongue-tied, wide-eyed with shock, heart in your throat and going a mile a minute to make up for the missed beats.

“Are you okay?”

You slowly start to realize that you’re in the arms of Marcus Pike, who caught you when you fell from the stool. And he’s still holding you.

“Yeah, I, yeah, fine, I’m good.” You babble, moving uncomfortably to let him know to let you down, which he does with the utmost care. Your legs are wobbly, and Pike keeps a hand on your waist to make sure you won’t fall.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you now giggle, embarrassed but simultaneously exhilarated by the rush of adrenaline. “That wasn’t stupid at all, was it? I’ve been thinking about having that stool replaced, but I never got around to it, haha. I guess it takes an accident for me to get my thumb out of my a-, I mean, to get it done.”

Your cheeks are heating up, your hands are shaking as you grab the handles of the cart, kicking the accursed stool to the side.

“That was really scary, though,” Pike tells you in a low voice. “You could’ve really injured yourself.”

“Yeah, thanks, I mean, thanks for catching me.” You bite your lower lip and force yourself to look at him. “I’m so embarrassed. I should’ve been more careful.”

“Just glad I was here,” he shrugs, slowly following you as you march to the desk. “Although one could argue that had I not been here, you wouldn’t have tried to restack that heavy book without moving your stool. Sorry if I stressed you.”

“You didn’t,” you tell him lightly. “I sometimes cut corners like that. It’s fine, no harm done.”

You park the cart in its spot behind the desk, and turn to the shelf of reserved books.

“Here’s your inter-library loan. Due date four weeks from now, if you need it for longer, you know the drill.”

“I do,” he replies quietly and accepts the book from you. Holding it in one hand, he carefully opens it with the other, and thoughtfully browses through it. You sit down, flustered and still a little shaky, hoping that he’ll leave so that you can nurse your wounded pride, and maybe have a drink of water.

“It’s about these eighteenth-century art frauds in Europe – “

“I know. I read the title,” you cut him off, more curt than you meant to. Pike closes the book and nervously fingers the paper slip in it.

“You read French?”

“I even speak it.”

A smile breaks out on his face. “Of course you do.”

You stare at him, frowning as you try to understand what his deal is, and why he’s suddenly smiling like that. It’s never happened before.

And you’ve never noticed what a charming smile he has. It reveals a dimple in his right cheek that makes him look younger than he is – not that he’s old in any way, he must be around your age, somewhere between forty and fifty. The smile makes you even more shaky, and you can’t stop staring at him. He eventually notices, the smile dies down, and he lowers his eyes.

“Well, thanks,” he mumbles, turning around and walking away briskly, leaving you to stare after him, wondering what the hell happened.

Mandy comes in from her lunch break, waves a hello, then stops when she sees you.

“Is everything okay?”

You nod dismissively. “I’m fine, Mandy. I just… almost fell from a stool. But no harm done.”

She expresses her sympathies before going to the study area. You take a deep breath, and disappear into the back room for a glass of water.

There’s tittling in the stacks, but you don’t pay it any mind: it’s part of library life, especially on a campus filled with hormonal young adults. It’s not until your hear Professor Pike’s name mentioned that you stop writing on your keyboard, and strain to hear better.

“He’s the best lecturer here.”

“And he’s so fucking hot, don’t you think?”

“Cara! He’s a million years old!”

“No, he’s not, he’s like the youngest of the faculty, except for Langley, but she’s a woman.”

“Well, I’m bi, and she’s fine too.”

Shameless giggling ensues, and you have to stifle one as well.

“Wouldn’t mind doing some extra credit for Professor Pike…”

“That’s so tacky, Mindy.”

“Come on, like you haven’t thought about it.”

The girls appear from the stacks, carrying literature over to the self service check-out.

“I just think that his lectures are amazing. He can explain literally anything so that I get it. And he knows so much.”

You stare at your screen, but you’re listening to the students.

“He should lecture more, why doesn’t he have any classes?”

“Duh, because he’s a professor, he has other things to do.”

“I’d give him something to do…”

More giggling.

“I’m serious! I ended upw atching that Youtube lecture twice just because he’s so good!”

The girls borrow their books while talking, then nod good-bye to you as they leave. You nod back, then hit up Youtube, and type in Professor Marcus Pike.

You find a video of him giving a lecture on the history of art, and open it. And your jaw drops.

The man in the video is confident without being cocky, talkative, engaging, contact-seeking. He speaks clearly, even drops a couple of jokes, and he walks around the podium in the auditorium. If it wasn’t for that corduroy jacket with the leather patches at the shoulders, the one that you had enveloped around yourself last week, you wouldn’t have recognized the man.

You close the video and chew your lower lip. You always thought Pike was this nutty professor who didn’t know how to behave around people and preferred books to socializing. But the man in the video is nothing like that. So what is his problem when talking to you?

Navigating to Facebook, you search his name, finding him easily enough. He doesn’t seem to be very active, but his professional profile is listed.

His status is set to “single”, which surprises you, but you think no further of it. You click on to photos, finding only a few, most of them outdated.

“Good afternoon.”

You look up, startled at the familiar voice. Seeing Marcus Pike’s face, you close the browser window quickly.

“Sorry,” he quickly apologizes. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No worries, I was just… working.”

He clears his throat. “I’d like to return this.”

You accept the book from him, recognizing it as one of his previous ILL’s.

“Thank you.”

A couple of students come in, saying hello to both of you before disappearing into the stacks, phones in hand, library catalog probably open in their mobile browsers. Marcus looks after them, moving his weight from one foot to the other. You put the book to the side.

“Anything else I can do for you, Professor?”

He almost jumps at the sound of your voice.

“Um, no, thank you, I have to get back to work, grad student coming to see me, um, thanks, I’ll let your know if I need anything.”

He leaves the library, and you’re almost laughing. What the hell was that?

As soon as the students have found and borrowed their books, and you’re alone in the library with Mandy, she gets up and comes over to the desk. You smile your mild customer service smile at her, but she returns it with a wry grin.

“You know that he likes you right?”

You blink, not understanding. “Excuse me?”

“Professor Pike. He likes you.”

You shake your head to show her that you have no idea what she’s talking about, and she laughs.

“Oh, come on! The way he stutters and stumbles when he’s here. And he talks about you all the time, every chance he gets.”

“He what?” Your voice goes up, and you clamp your mouth shut. Mandy nods.

“He always tells us to use the library, and ask you for help. The librarian there is really competent, we’re lucky to have such a professional at our service, that sort of thing.”

“Why do you think that means he likes me?” you ask, cheeks heating up. This is stupid, this girl is half your age, and you’re talking like both of you are in middle school.

“Because he’s super confident in class, in meetings, whenever he talks to anyone, except you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Hello!” Mandy rolls her eyes. “Earth to librarian lady! He’s like a flustered cinnamon bun whenever he’s around you – “

“Cinnamon bun?” you interrupt her, incredulously.

“Cutie patootie in old folk speech,” Mandy smirks at you, and you scoff.

“I know what a cinnamon bun is.”

“Whatever. He comes here constantly, doesn’t he? I sit here most days, and no other faculty member visits as much. He’s here practically every day, asking you the simplest questions. He’s into you.”

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about, Mandy,” you mumble, hands fidgeting in your lap.

“Alright, if you say so,” she smirks. “But I know what I’d do if I were you.”

Later, when she leaves the library, wishing you a good weekend, you open up the browser window again, Pike smiling charmingly at you from his profile picture. You look at it for a long time before logging out, and getting up to reshelf returns.

Friday afternoon in the library makes for slow hours. It’s usually empty – even Mandy has left – and while it gives you the opportunity to prepare for next week, there are Fridays when you’d rather just close up, if you could, and go home early.

A quarter to four, when you’re impatiently tapping your foot for closing time, Marcus Pike shows up again. Mandy’s words echo in your head, making you nervous for the first time, but you manage to suppress that, instead turning on your professional persona.

“Back so soon?” you ask him lightly

“Yeah, I need a book.” He seems to understand himself how stupid that sounded.

“You’ve come to the right place.”

He tells you the title, and you look it up.

“It’s in, call number N5198-5299,” you inform him, then looking up at his hesitant expression. “It’s in the corner over there.”

“Um, could you show me? I’m not good at this.”

“Okay.” You get up and walk around the desk. “But it’s a class that you use a lot, Professor, you should be accustomed to it by now.”

“Marcus.”

“What’s that?”

“Call me Marcus. I don’t much like titles anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

You take him to the right stacks, walking in between the heavy cases. It’s a tight squeeze, this one, and the book is located further in. You pick it out, and turn around, only to find Marcus standing right behind you.

You’ve been in this situation before, many times even. Worst times were when you worked in the city library, and creeps would crowd you between the stacks, not trying anything but coming closer than necessary.

Your heart misses a beat, but you’re not uncomfortable. Instead, you smell something familiar and comforting, something besides old paper, leather covers, and ink. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s Marcus’s cologne, the corduroy, his shampoo: earthy but fresh, a little like the forest after rain, but with an undertone of old leather armchair.

You wet your lips, and hold up the book he asked for.

“Your book.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t take it, so you lower your hand. He clears his throat, but this time, he doesn’t look away, but straight into your eyes.

“I was wondering…”

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“There’s this classic movie festival this weekend, and I was wondering…”

“If I wanted to go with you?” you finish his sentence for him, as he takes too long for you to wait. He blinks, then smiles that sweet smile again.

“Exactly. Yes. Would you?”

“I’d like that.”

“Really?” The smile seems to broaden even more.

“Sure. Tomorrow?”

“Perfect. I can pick you up, if you want to. At six?”

“Perfect,” you echo, now smiling widely yourself. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath this entirely time.

“Perfect.”

The desk phone rings, startling both of you. The book falls from your hand, and you look down at it, then up at Marcus.

“I need to get that.”

“Of course,” he nods. You make a little movement with your head.

“I need to get past you, Marcus?”

“Oh, yes, of course, sorry.”

He backs out from between the cases, letting you out as well. His cologne seems to rub off on your arm when you brush past him, hurrying to the desk. You answer the phone and try to focus on the person calling, take a couple of notes, and end the call just as Marcus comes walking to the desk, book in hand. You check it out for him, give him your number, and he smiles again as he thanks you. You follow him to the door so that you can close up after him.

“I’ll call,” he promises as he steps out. You nod, hand on the door handle.

“Looking forward to it.”

He raises the book as a farewell, then starts walking down the corridor. You’re about to close the door when you suddenly step out, calling his name.

“Marcus!”

He turns around immediately, and now that he’s standing with his back straight, instead of hunched over, you notice how tall and broad-shouldered he is.

“Yes?”

“For the record… you’re into me, right?”

He chuckles, his ears turning pink. “Yeah, I’m into you.”

“Just checking,” you grin. “See you tomorrow.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike fanfic #my fic

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scoutofmymind · 4 months ago

Note

hey babe I’m not the anxiety attack req anon but wow do I need to read that!!!!!

That Funny Feeling — { Luigi x Reader}

Content: panic attacks, anxiety disorder, sweetie boy Luigi, friends to lovers, Disney World (lol), Ms. Anxiety is referred to as ‘her’, Bo Burnham lyric reference, lots of pet names, comfort

Wc: 4,101

Notes: You and Luigi have known each other for over a decade, and in that time, Luigi has found himself rather well versed in handling your anxiety attacks. But what sets him apart isn't just his ability to help you through these moments — it's his perspective on them.

Hello my pookies. This request is super recent but I felt compelled to write it! As someone who struggles with anxiety (especially during winter months) I felt generally responsible for portraying the feeling of anxiety disorder as realistically as possible, and with that being said, please take care of yourself — if you think reading this will cause any anxiety, or trigger you in any way, please do not read!

There’s plenty of other things to read on my bloggy 💕

I deleted this original ask on accident, if it wasn’t already obvious, so original anon (maybe) responded to my Hail Mary with another ask:

Now I’m thinking I had several anons asking about anxiety attack reqs bc the original was just a general request (no mention of an exam or gettin freaky) about reader having an anxiety attack and being comforted by Luigi through being his sweetie self and physical touch.

Anyway, I added a good girl for you, anon. 💋

There it is again, that funny feeling.

That funny feeling.

You still remember the first one.

Where all of it started.

Disney, of all places, where dreams were supposed to come true, or whatever.

You and Luigi were dancing around the Just Friends label, though his willingness to endure a fourteen-hour road trip with your family spoke volumes. He'd claimed the passenger seat next to you without hesitation, making this his third family vacation with yours.

Your parents drove ahead in their own car, leaving you to manage your bickering tween siblings with Luigi as your sole ally.

The separate cars were your mother's idea — a stroke of genius, really.

After last year's catastrophic drive to the beach with everyone crammed into one minivan, personal space had become a priority. Your father had joked it was for everyone's sanity, but you knew it was mostly for his.

Looking back, the warning signs had been writing themselves across your day in bold letters you didn't yet know how to read. Strange sensations you'd never experienced before crept in at the edges — moments where the lines on the pavement seemed to ripple and dance, pulling your focus until the world around you blurred.

There were seconds, terrifying and fascinating all at once, where you felt yourself floating somewhere above your body, so disconnected from the earth that your own name became a foreign whisper in your mind.

The tingling started subtle — a live wire of sensation that would spark without warning, racing up your spine like lightning searching for ground.

It would burst at the base of your skull, sharp and electric, gone almost before you could process it.

These symptoms, these peculiar feelings that should have set off alarm bells, you dismissed as exhaustion, dehydration, anything but what they really were.

Honestly, Disney hadn't exactly topped your travel wishlist — you'd dreamed more of quiet European cafes or hidden mountain trails — but you'd sooner wrestle an alligator than voice any complaint about being at the self-proclaimed happiest place on earth.

Besides, there was something almost supernatural about the way Disney's magic worked its way under your skin, seeping into your bloodstream with each step closer to the kingdom.

The transformation from cynic to believer happened somewhere between the parking lot and your hotel room, as if crossing that threshold stripped away your carefully cultivated teenage skepticism.

Suddenly you were giddy with possibility, enchanted by the little touches that made everything feel surreal — Mickey-shaped waffles that were too cute to eat, chocolate-dipped strawberries appearing like edible rubies on your pillow, and Luigi's laughter mixing with yours as you both sprawled across crisp hotel sheets, talking well past midnight despite knowing tomorrow's alarm would be merciless.

But it was nothing caffeine couldn’t fix.

"C'mon," Luigi's voice carried that edge of concern you'd grown familiar with lately, his elbow gentle against yours as you sat at the hotel's breakfast bar. His dark brows pulled together, creating that little wrinkle you usually found endearing. "That's your second espresso."

You knew exactly what prompted this — either that pretentious health documentary he'd made you watch last week, or those endless conversations with his med school friends.

The last thing you needed was an interrogation before your first ride, especially from someone who'd once tried to survive finals week on nothing but Red Bull and prayer.

"It's basically just a double shot, Lu," you murmured, your voice honeyed with practiced patience. You speared a chunk of pineapple with your fork and lifted it to his lips — a tried and true distraction technique. "People do it all the time." The people in question being you, most mornings before school, but you kept that detail to yourself.

Some lectures weren’t worth inviting, and you were running out of time to get the most out of the breakfast bar, at least with the crammed itinerary your siblings had planned.

The sensation hit you almost the moment you passed under the wrought-iron gates.

The press of bodies, the shuffle-step of crowds being herded through winding queues, it all started to feel suffocating.

That strange disconnection from earlier crept back, stronger now, but you pushed it down. Blamed it on the Florida heat, on too much sun, on too little sleep — on anything but what it really was. But then the world started to narrow, your vision tunneling until all you could see was a pinprick of light ahead, everything else fading to a nauseating blur of color and movement.

You fled.

No destination in mind except away, away, away from the crushing weight of too many people in too little space.

Luigi had been waiting in line for god knows what when he noticed you'd vanished.

He found you later — minutes or hours, time had lost all meaning - wedged between two meticulously manicured topiaries. Donald Duck and Goofy's cheerful forms cast dappled shadows over your huddled figure as you pressed your head between your knees, desperately trying to remember how breathing was supposed to work.

Each gasp felt like trying to suck air through a coffee stirrer, your lungs burning with the effort of simply existing.

The moments after he found you exist only in fragments, like a film reel with missing frames.

Your focus had narrowed to the simple task of staying conscious, counting breaths that refused to fill your lungs properly. But you remember Luigi's panic with startling clarity — the way his usual steadiness shattered into sharp-edged fear.

He'd never seen anyone like this before, and the sight of you — normally so composed — crumpled between cartoon shrubbery sent him spiraling. His voice pitched higher, words tumbling out faster, convinced your heart was stopping or your brain was hemorrhaging or any number of catastrophic scenarios his medical friends had planted in his mind.

It wasn't until you'd gone completely still, retreating so far into yourself that even his increasingly frantic questions couldn't reach you, that real terror seized him.

The last thing you registered was the sound of his footsteps pounding against pavement as he sprinted away, shouting for help.

He'd left you there, alone in your private apocalypse, while the happiest place on earth continued its cheerful orbit around your collapsing world.

Somewhere nearby, a child laughed.

A parade song played.

And you forgot how to exist.

Over the years, you became fluent in the language of your anxiety — learning its dialect of triggers and tells.

Though most attacks still ambushed you without warning or reason, appearing like sudden summer storms in a clear sky, there was a growing anthology of things to approach with caution; hot and crowded spaces, lack of clear exits, too many consecutive nights of poor sleep, too many drinks the night before. Some rules could bend; others were steel-rigid boundaries you'd learned to respect.

Luigi, ever the engineer at heart, remained steadfastly convinced that those two espressos had been the match that lit the powder keg that morning at Disney.

He'd quote studies about caffeine's effects on the sympathetic nervous system, ticking off statistics about heart rates and cortisol levels with the same intensity he once used to memorize roller coaster heights.

You'd let him have his theory — it was easier than arguing, and his concern came from a place of love.

In the decade since that morning in Disney, Luigi has watched you wage war with an enemy he can't see or touch.

For someone whose world operates in binary — in clean ones and zeros, in problems that can be debugged and solved with enough careful coding — watching you battle something so abstract and unpredictable has been its own kind of torment.

"I mean it," he'll say, dark eyes serious in that way that still makes your heart skip, even after all these years. "If I could just understand the variables, map out the function that triggers it..." He trails off, but you know what he means.

Luigi has always believed in learning through data, in breaking down problems into manageable chunks until a solution presents itself.

But you've made him promise never to wish this on himself.

There are some kinds of knowledge that come at too high a price.

Still, watching him move through life without this constant companion of fear sometimes fills you with a complicated mixture of relief and envy; his brain doesn't betray him with false alarms and imagined catastrophes, and it doesn't make him better — you both know that — but God, there are days when you'd give anything to experience that kind of mental quiet, even if just for an hour.

Dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant had become almost routine when organized by Luigi's circle — a mix of brilliant minds who'd evolved from awkward coding camp kids into successful engineers, plus their equally accomplished partners.

The old social anxiety that used to accompany these gatherings had faded to background noise, manageable enough to let you focus on the menu rather than escape routes.

In fact, nothing lately had set off your internal alarm system.

No triggers lurking in dark corners, no unexplained spikes of dread.

For the first time in recent memory, your mind felt.. Well.. Quiet.

Your therapy journal — a habit maintained since the Disney incident — reflected this unprecedented peace.

The past few weeks had been remarkably clear, like someone had finally adjusted the lens through which you viewed the world, even compared to your good years, this period stood out as exceptional. A far cry from that morning a decade ago when you'd found yourself becoming intimately acquainted with topiary versions of Donald Duck and Goofy.

But there she is, joining the table unannounced — anxiety, that vindictive ex who always seems to know exactly when you've finally stopped checking over your shoulder; the moment you dare to relax, to think maybe you've somehow outgrown her, she kicks down your door without so much as a courtesy knock.

It starts in your chest, right after a sip of wine — expensive stuff, carefully selected by the sommelier with his practiced French pronunciation; one moment you're admiring the way the wine catches the light, and the next, your ribcage feels like it's being crushed in a vice.

Oh, fuck.

Your mind immediately launches into its familiar spiral of worst-case scenarios, each thought more catastrophic than the last.

When did you last have wine?

Could you have developed an allergy?

Is this anaphylaxis?

Your throat isn't closing up, but maybe it will.

Should you be able to feel your heartbeat this clearly?

Is this what the beginning of cardiac arrest feels like?

The rational part of your brain — the part that's been through this dance a thousand times — tries to remind you that you're fine, that this is just anxiety's signature move.

But panic has always been louder than reason.

Luigi presses his temple against the side of your head, that familiar gesture of affection he's perfected over the years. Like some oversized, obsessed feline marking his territory, "What you gettin'?" His warmth bleeds into your skin. "You've been here before, right?"

But you're too busy wrestling with your own mind to fully process his presence.

No, you're not dying.

You're not dying.

You are not dying.

But what if..

Stop it.

Please, not here.

Not now.

His words filter through your panic in fragments, like trying to catch radio signals through static.

Been

here,

right?

"Mm-hmm." The sound escapes like a breath you'd forgotten to release, your head bobbing in what you hope passes for a normal nod.

The menu before you becomes your anchor, though the carefully curated descriptions of dishes blur and swim across the page, words dissolve into abstract shapes, then into nothing at all as your vision tunnels inward, focused on the growing storm in your chest rather than the $95 risotto description you're pretending to contemplate.

Around you, life continues its normal rhythm.

Someone laughs at a joke about crypto drama, wine glasses clink, a story about a failed startup makes its way around the table, but you're watching it all through thick glass, separated from reality by an invisible but impenetrable barrier that arrived unprompted and appears to have packed for an extended stay.

"Mm-hmm what, angel?" Luigi's voice cuts through the fog like a lighthouse beam, momentarily illuminating a path back to shore, and you blink to find it again while your shoulders automatically square in an attempt at casualness that feels as obvious as a neon sign. "You with me?"

He's learned over the years to modulate his voice just so — keeping the concern tucked beneath layers of practiced calm. Luigi knows now that panic is a mutiny; your mind's crew turning against its captain, led by powder monkeys convinced each breath might be their last.

In these moments, you're a ship without stars to guide you, your internal compass spinning wild and useless.

He's discovered that once the storm hits, there's no turning back to safer harbors, no amount of retracing your wake will stop the waves from coming.

The panic has to run its course, has to drag you through its depths before it will release you back to the surface.

Like a riptide, fighting only exhausts you faster — you have to let it carry you out before you can swim parallel to shore and break free.

This is what your therapist tells you, what Luigi reminds you, what you know somewhere in the rational corner of your mind that's still functioning.

There's no fighting the abduction when it comes.

Resistance only makes the ship sink faster.

But believing it while you're drowning?

That's still a lesson you're still learning.

Your focus narrows to a single champagne bubble in Luigi's glass, watching it rise with desperate fascination, as if this tiny sphere of effervescence holds the secret to staying grounded. Your chest constricts further, every sense heightened to painful clarity — the scratch of silk against your skin, the too-loud clink of silverware, the overwhelming scent of truffle from three tables away.

Your body screams warnings in a language you're fluent in by now, though you wish you weren't.

The message is always the same.

This is it. This is how you die.

"Just have to go to the bathroom." The smile you manage feels like origami folded from sandpaper, but you place your napkin on the table with practiced grace.

Even as your insides are being shredded by panic, your muscle memory remembers its manners.

You navigate your exit with the poise of someone whose nervous system isn't currently attempting a coup, only to discover what can only be described as panic attack architecture at its finest — a single stall bathroom, complete with what appears to be a leather wingback chair, because apparently this is the kind of establishment where people need to sit contemplatively while powdering their nose.

Some interior designer's questionable choice about bathroom furniture has just become your salvation.

Later, when you're back to being a person who can form coherent thoughts, you'll want to write a thank you note to whoever decided that this bathroom needed a seating area.

Right now, though, all you can focus on is the mechanical process of existing; spine straight against the leather, shoulders rolled back, lungs remembering their one job.

Time dissolves into a blur until a familiar silhouette materializes before you — all black turtleneck and chocolate waves, appearing like a storm cloud in reverse.

Luigi crouches, his words filtering through your panic; a light through murky water. "You didn't lock the door." It's not an accusation, just gentle explanation.

"Worked in my favor, though." His forearms settle across your lap, warm and solid, while his fingers wrap around your torso with practiced care, his thumbs finding their place beneath your ribs, pressing with deliberate pressure — a physical tether to the present. "Feel that?" He looks up at you from his crouch, studying the vacant expression he's come to know like a seasonal forecast. "Where am I?"

Where am I?

The question echoes through the static of your mind like another signal cutting through the white noise.

It's become your lifeline over the years — Luigi's idea, one of his elegant solutions to a complex problem, the kind of simple brilliance that's pulled you back from the undertow countless times.

"You're in my belly." The words come out barely above a whisper, but they're there. You focus on the steady pressure of his thumbs against your skin, the thunderous beating of your heart against them, proof that you're still here, still existing, still breathing.

He hums softly, a gentle "Mm-hm, good girl." that doesn't quite reach through the chaos of your thoughts, but his thumbs pressing steadily into your sternum somehow breach the mutiny of your mind. "Where am I now, darling?"

Your brows knit together as new anxieties stack themselves like stones — the table of colleagues wondering about your extended absence, the inevitable questions about Luigi's disappearance, the mounting social debt of disrupting such a carefully orchestrated evening.

"My chest." The words escape as a whimper, and Luigi's expression shifts with recognition.

He knows exactly where she's made her nest tonight — that malevolent stowaway, that hijacker of peaceful moments, that pirate who turns calm waters treacherous without warning. She's taken up residence behind your ribs, squeezing your heart like it's treasure she means to keep.

"Mm — yeah," he breathes between a gentle nod, one palm spreading wide across your sternum, the other a steady presence on your back.

The pressure feels overwhelming for a split second, like being caught between two closing walls, but then- "Breathe with me, baby." His voice is low, steady. "Breathe in for me."

Through the crackling fizzle of your thoughts, his voice cuts through like a clean line of programmed commands, and you draw air in through your nose, your body remembering this familiar subroutine even when your mind is caught in an infinite error loop.

"Out." He demonstrates, his own exhale warm against your skin as he presses his nose to your cheek. A soft, approving hum vibrating through him when you complete the cycle — one successful execution of this breathing protocol you've practiced countless times.

For the next six minutes, your world narrows to this simple command-and-response; his gentle prompts, your body's gradual remembrance of how to operate its most basic function.

Input, output.

Inhale, exhale.

Reality still feels like you're underwater, everything distorted and just out of reach.

The sensation draws a physical response — your fingers curling into the soft wool of Luigi's sweater, anchoring yourself to something tangible, your brows pinched together. "I'm-" The apology dies as the first tears breach your defenses, and you remember belatedly that Luigi's already witnessed every shade of your darkness.

"Shhh," he soothes, rubbing solid circles into your chest while the strap of your dress slides rebelliously down your shoulder. The scene would be quite the tableau for any accidental witness — especially since Luigi hadn't thought to lock the door after pointing out your own oversight. "We gotta get her out of there." His lips curve into a gentle smile.

The her being that wicked thing that's made a home in your chest, coiled around your lungs like a python, squeezing tighter with each passing second.

"It's always at the worst times." Your voice emerges paper-thin as you stare at the ceiling, fighting against tears that threaten to break free; you know if you let go now, you might flood this whole restaurant with the weight of your shame. "I'm so sorry."

Luigi shakes his head, though your gaze remains fixed upward.

"Look at me," he whispers, nudging his nose against your neck to encourage you to look away from the ceiling while his hands maintain their steady orbit — one drawing circles into your chest, the other tracing constellations between your shoulder blades. When you finally lower your head, he meets you halfway, forehead pressing to yours. "You never need to apologize for this." His nose brushes yours, a gentle reassurance, before his lips find your cheek. "There is nothing to be sorry for."

But there is, and the weight of it sits heavy in your throat.

Because you are sorry.

You're horribly, terribly sorry for all the moments Luigi has sacrificed to tend to you — his hands learning the maps of your distress across chest, head, and belly, working to exorcise that wicked presence.

You've pulled him from meetings, from deadlines, from life itself.

He's tracked your hazard lights down empty highways, found you pressed against brick walls in city alleyways, breathing into paper bags.

He's always been right there, though.

And every episode has refined his expertise, until caring for you in crisis has become as natural to him as breathing — though that knowledge only adds another layer to your guilt.

Sometimes you worry — no, that's not right. You're always worrying — about what would happen if this all fell apart.

If Luigi woke up one morning and decided he was done being your sanctuary, done pressing his thumbs into the spaces where your demons nest, done chasing away the thing that makes your heart hammer and your fingers go numb.

What if one day he craves simplicity — a love story without footnotes, without having to keep a mental catalog of triggers and remedies, without having to scan rooms for exits and quiet corners just in case she decides to visit.

But in reality, Luigi doesn't carry these thoughts at all.

Not even a whisper of them.

To Luigi, loving you isn't a burden — it's as natural as the way his hands know exactly where to press, as inevitable as his instinct to follow when you disappear.

He doesn't see himself as a therapist or an exorcist.

He sees himself as the person who gets to love you, who gets to be there when you're strongest and when you're struggling to remember how to breathe.

Every time he finds you — whether it's in bathroom stalls or behind steering wheels or pressed against alley walls — he’s not thinking about what he's missing; he’s thinking about how brave you are, how you keep fighting even when your mind turns traitor.

He's thinking about how you still show up, still try, still love with your whole heart even though this disorder has taught you how quickly things can shatter.

You see yourself as a compilation of crises.

He sees you as complete.

Where you count the times he's had to rescue you, he counts the times you've trusted him enough to let him in during your darkest moments.

Your fear of being too much is met with his certainty that you're exactly enough.

"You know what I think about?" Luigi murmurs against your temple, his hands still tracing those steady circles. "I think about how strong you are. How you feel everything so deeply, and still get up every morning. Still love so fiercely." His voice drops lower, meant just for you. "Still choose to trust me with this part of you."

One of his hands slides up to cup your face, thumb catching a tear before it can fall.

You're still trembling, but it's different now — like aftershocks rather than the main event. "Remember our first real date? When we decided after three years to stop playing the just friends shit?” He asks suddenly, a soft smile playing at his lips. "When you had a panic attack at the theater, and I found you outside?"

He doesn't wait for your response, knowing how words still feel too heavy on your tongue.

"You apologized then, too. But all I could think was how brave you were, coming back in to finish that awful movie." His forehead presses against yours again. "That's when I knew, you know. That I wanted to be the person that would always find you.” You sniffle gently, reaching your hands to cradle his face into them as he continues, "I'm not going anywhere."

Your breath catches — not from panic this time, but from the sheer weight of his words settling into your chest.

They nestle there, pushing against the lingering tightness, making space for something warmer.

"But I-" you start, the familiar litany of apologies rising to your lips like muscle memory, and Luigi shakes his head, the movement gentle against your forehead.

"No buts," he says softly, firmly. "Remember what we talked about? No apologizing for the way your mind works." His fingers trace the line of your jaw, steady and sure. "I see you surviving. And I see you letting me be part of that. Do you know how much trust that takes?"

"I keep waiting," you whisper, the words barely audible, "for it to be too much."

Luigi's laugh is soft and tender. "And I keep waiting for you to realize that too much isn't in my vocabulary.“

#this was very… tender #I’m crine #this is my second time trying to post this #I can’t believe I deleted the original post #I seriously wanted to crash out #anyway.. enjoy my lovelies #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #req #Luigi mangione

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voidcat · 4 months ago

Text

— keep it under wraps

characters: dazai osamu/reader, (mentioned: yosano akiko)

wc & synopsis: 2.2k – Practiced crafts under years of experience comes like second nature, an extension of one's body, almost like breathing. Yet you find yourself like a newborn deer with its shaky legs, afraid of the world it is born into as you are tending to man whose body you've treated and familiarised with after countless times before. (minor wound dressing, nothing explicit)

notes: hello! long time no dazai writing. this one's special for me. originally, i thought i'd break my dazai-silence with something different instead we got this. if you're familiar with my series A Case Of Bad Luck, you can take it as an extension of it (-cannot blame me for wanting to start with a fic for my favorite ongoing series ahaha.) It can be read independently but it's implied reader and Dazai have met in the past, long enough to have left an impact on each other. Leaving Yokohama and returning years later, this is their first proper confrontation/acknowledging one another.

The day’s peace is interrupted by sudden commotion by the front door.

5 minutes prior Dr. Yosano receives a call which results in her now forgotten cup of tea. From the sounds you can hear in the next room, you can make out the telltale signs of preparations for a possible operation. If you’re lucky it’s simple suture work at best, if it’s a bad day, she’ll have to use her ability.

And you hope, and pray if there’s anyone there, that it won’t have to come to this. Anything that further upsets and hurts her makes your stomach turn, leaving a sour taste and colder memories in their wake.

When the detectives rush in, she immediately looks over to divide their situations one by one. The information Kunikida provided beforehand helps with the makeshift triage, and within a blink of an eye, you find yourself alone in her office. Standing there under the bright light.

Before disappearing behind the door, she waved a hand off saying it was no hassle, that she can handle it herself, “You should attend to anyone else who might need assistance.” It is a simple request, a basic statement. But the look flashing before her eyes told you otherwise.

Worry pooling in her eyes, regret and an apology.

For what? You wanted to ask for a second but the faltered coughs coming from the room made you feel selfish for even holding her up for this long.

Dr. Yosano’s normally chatty room now contains you cold and empty. What is usually your escape and solace now feels to be swallowing you.

You’re aware of him, his faint breaths but you make no move just yet.

Just a few more seconds of courage, just enough to push down your thoughts and memories from reaching the surface.

During the call, Kunikida had said it was one grave injury and one minor. And the first thing Dr. Yosano had asked was if they needed to go through with the plan.

You hadn’t even bothered asking then, maybe you should have.

Your silence only must have suspected more, her gut feeling proving closer to truth each day.

So to the grave injury she went, and to the minor one you- due to the priorities of the cases and because her ability wouldn’t have worked on him any way, so it was better to be doing a basic wound dressing.

You swallow once, thickly, your throat hurts. Behind you you can her footsteps towards the examination chair.

You allow yourself one more moment, close your eyes, take a deep breath in and out. Open them.

It’s been years since you’ve last been alone in a room with Dazai Osamu.

Ignoring his gaze on you, you walk up to the cabinet to get the materials you need.

It should be a basic injury, so the basics will do.

Legs swinging in the air, Dazai watches you with keen interest.

After months of dancing around the topic and ignoring one another altogether, there is a lingering curiosity in how things will progress from here on.

How much longer can you keep this up, is the real question.

It’s been taking its toll on you lately, he can tell. Skeletons in your closet, you never let the past drop fully, always have to go back and tamper, seek out a pile of bones when in dire need of talking. Isn’t it tiring? Aren’t you exhausted?

You look nothing like what he last saw, maybe that’s an improvement, a small victory in your book.

You seem to have come a long way, moved on, moved away, started fresh.

Clearly not enough from how you came back all the way here.

To push away the standard practice and instead sign up to work under her, under the Armed Detective Agency.

Almost as if a part of you still seeks it.

“Good evening, sir.” You say the word wincing, force of habit. “Could you take off your coat for me?” you say, rest of voice unfaltering, practiced decency and greetings to the notch. Your eyes watching his every movement, you wait for any sign of pain to locate the wound.

Maybe it’s not as much of a standard treatment. You do call everyone here with titles rather than names after all. You keep a distance, closest you are with is the doctor and even then you don’t drop titles of respect and the walls separating you from everyone else.

Dazai is uncharacteristically silent- for his persona he has crafted and wore here at least. It is unnerving to a degree but not the first time you’ve had to endure this thick silence in the air, lingering, waiting for any sign of weakness to suffocate its victims.

Or it could be just that. Lost in thoughts. If you recall the details, he wasn’t in charge of this case originally, but as it grew and the roots spread, more focus was shifted its way.

Something appearing innocent in the mirage of a ball of cotton and sinking anyone foolish enough to approach it with no caution.

There are many examples of this in nature- angler fish, rafflessia, a peculiar man wrapped in too many bandages for his own good hiding secrets and burdens too much for his body to contain.

Dangerous beings, predators lying in wait.

You take Dazai’s hands and inspect each digit, forearms and up to his shoulder.

On his left arm the gauze has gotten crimson red, smelling of iron.

Slowly your hand trails down and finds the start of the gauze tucked under the wraps as your eyes roam his torso for any signs of multiple injuries.

This isn’t proper examination, not really.

You should’ve checked his breathing too, looked for his intercostals, listened to his lungs, asked him what had happened and where else he got shot.

Yet you’re aware the attempt would’ve been futile, from the moment his coat was off and your hands were on him, you knew there wasn’t anything else.

Sometimes you think, and fear, that you know his body better than your own.

Unwrapping the gauze with sharp and precise movements, you reveal his forearm.

Still littered in cuts and patches of dry skin here and there. He must be wrapping it too tight at some areas because the body hair has grown at uneven lengths there.

After all these years he still cannot do his bandages himself, but tucks the end just the way you do.

Something about the notion makes your heart ache.

It stings, to think how much yet how little has changed.

Your fingers still dance on his skin with the same precision, and his body responds with the same touch starved state, hairs on end for a moment until he adjusts to the heat coming from your body and care coming from your hands.

It intrigues Dazai how despite everything, even from the very start you still hold him like something delicate, fragile, handle him with care one would only have for something they value greatly- even if not that grand, there’s still care to an extent.

You hold the materials with a confidence now, Dazai notes. Boldness of someone who knows what they’re doing, you’re swift as you lay down what you’ll be needing, you open few packs of gauze sponge and pour iodine tincture without taking them off yet. Place them side by side, cut strips of gauze and nonwoven plaster, already calculating how wide you’ll need each piece- an extra cut in the middle of each, he notices.

His wound is nothing big, even left with his preexisting bandages, he would’ve been fine- or so he said until Kunikida started going on a lecture about infections and what-not. Big deal! If the universe wishes for your paths to be clashing so soon, well he will have no complaints.

Satisfied with the set up, you wash and disinfect your hands again.

This is the same routine you’ve always done, know by heart, hands moving on their own. It’s fascinating how muscle memory resurfaces even after so long, the bodies and the nerves are truly amazing. It comes to you as second nature by now, to undo his bandages, look over for any signs of concerning signs, even in the dim lights you can tell apart what is his body’s usual and not.

Grabbing the first gauze sponge, you wipe the wound off with one swift motion, toss it to the side and grab another one. Starting from the center of the wound, to the outside you wipe it in one circular motion, toss this one when you’re done with it and wait a few seconds.

Placing a smaller one on top of his wound, your hand then mindlessly goes for the pieces of plaster and you apply them carefully over the gauze. Not too tight nor loose- enough to let the wound breathe, your fingers linger a moment too long on his skin when you’re done.

With a slight shake of your head, you retract your hand immediately and reach for the gauze strip.

Despite all the discordance and circumstances out of your control, it’s the small routines that have helped you keep you somewhat grounded, to keep going. And despite being one of your greatest sources of said disturbances, Dazai had become a part of the said routines as well.

As familiar as the night time, his presence had become something comforting, as all kinds of feelings swirled like an impending storm from within, ready to burst out of your chest at any given time.

There was nothing normal and everything odd with your run-ins with Dazai, were you to think about it. Each one weirder than the last, and growing into something much twisted, roots of the ivy digging deeper, maybe it’s the unfamiliarity that brought comfort, the change that comes with the unknown. At nights, you had some resemblance of a control. At nights, it was just your room and the bright, faraway lights of nearby signs illuminating your room, he fitted right in instead of standing out. Eyes trained on your body, silent and waiting for your signs. An illusion maybe but a taste of control nonetheless.

You’d like to think he enjoyed it somewhat too, the opportunity to observe you in a shade tad different, inspect a side to you you’re yet to experiment with.

And each night, you chose to hold out to him that beacon of compromise, an olive branch, restocked on gauze in the house- not that anyone noticed it lessening in amount.

It’s the same hands moving then, with the same routine like a ritual on themselves.

Yet you’ve grown, and changed. Your eyes no longer carry the same light of empathy as they once did. You’re more distant now, tried your best to keep him at a arm’s length so far, and it worked to an extent.

If that’s how you want to play, then fine, he’ll play along. It’s only so long until you lose control again.

And when it does, it’ll be Dazai who’ll be there in wait, the only one to know how to handle and cradle you, how to assess the situation to the best of opportunities.

You wrap the area of his wound and the rest of his arm separately. Firm in your touch, you tuck the end of the gauze despite fixating it with an extra piece of plaster.

“Your wound will need redressing and inspecting to see how it has healed.” You give notice.

With a nod of his head, he flashes one of his smiles, not reaching his eyes. “Thanks, there!-”

“Doctor.” you correct him, the word leaving your lips like cold metal.

“Well, thanks doc.” Dazai says, his smile morphing somewhat wicked. Now the edges of his mouth crooked, lids dropped slightly and a hint of poison to his voice, the man you’ve known comes oozing out of the cracks he so carefully filled.

You can never fix something to where it was, nor cover up the cracks with polish. There is no as “good” as “new”, it’s either, and even then the judgement depends entirely on the experience and the person.

“We’ll be seeing you later, then.” you say, to bid him away. And for once, Dazai complies without resistance, his smile never faltering and eyes never leaving yours, ‘I see you, and I see this gimmick you’re trying to pull.’

Hopping off the stretcher, he reaches for his coat with his uninjured arm, not bothering to button up his shirt; he stops by the door, hand stroking your bandage work for a moment.

Neither of you make a comment on the lack of time you’ve given him to come visit Dr. Yosano’s office again. After all old habits die hard, and both of you still remember the specifics as clear as day.

A part of you wishes to yell then, or push him by the chest, say there’s no pretending, that this is who you are, truly, at heart, that you’re a good person with nothing left to hide now.

Regardless, if it’s a show he wants, you’ll give either way- you always do. And with sharp eyes he'll wait for you to squirm and fall, and once more you’ll stand tall with your head held high, chest heaving with the weight of his gaze. Sooner or better, you’ll accept his fingers are intervening within the strings of your fate.

#a case of bad luck #dazai osamu #bungou stray dogs #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x you #dazai x reader #dazai x you #bsd x reader #bsd x you #gender neutral reader

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hihello-pinky · 1 year ago

Text

Sight (5)

Suna Rintarou X F! Reader

Sometimes, it takes losing someone to finally see them. He wished he knew this before, but Rintaro had to learn this the hard way.

Genre: Angst, Romance, Hurt/Comfort

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and in no way represents my views of the original anime/manga characters.

WARNINGS: nothing, just fluff, and OH, did not go through proofreading lols

Word Count: 1.6k

Surprise quick update! I know I said in the last part that things are about to get downhill starting from this chapter. However, I really enjoyed writing this one that I had to cut out the angst portion. So... this is also quite a short read. Happy reading, though!

Kindly reblog, like, and/or leave a comment if you loved this chapter and let me know what you think! xoxo

part one part two part three part four

kofi ~~

˚✧₊⁎⁎⁺˳✧༚ - - - ˚✧₊⁎⁎⁺˳✧༚

“I’m very happy, Y/N,” Dr. Hirai says in front of you as she examines the papers. “These results look good. You haven’t been stressed much lately?”

You beam at the woman. “I guess so. My headaches have rarely occurred as well.”

”Great.” She smiles as she picks up her pen and starts to write. “I’m going to prescribe you some vitamins and supplements. But remember, rest and sleep is top priority, okay?”

You respond with a nod, akin to a child receiving instructions from their parent on the first day of school.

As you wait for Dr. Hirai to finish writing the prescription, a knock comes on the door. After the doctor’s “Come in”, your husband’s head peeks inside.

”Hi, Doc.” He greets before looking at you. “Hey. Something came up at the company and I have to go there. Would you want to wait for me at the cafe across the street?”

Other times you would have felt disappointed about his need to leave, but the mere fact that he’s informing you - through a cute peek at the door nonetheless - makes your heart flutter instead.

“Okay, sure.”

Rin shoots you a smile that almost melts your heart. “Great. I’ll keep you posted.”

And just like that, the door closes again. You turn to Dr. Hirai to see her looking at you. “Anything’s the matter, Doc?”

The woman just smiles before handing you the prescription. “Oh, nothing, Y/N. Nothing.”

˚₊⁎⁎⁺˳༚ ˚₊⁎⁎⁺˳༚

You watch the busy street through the window, your hand tapping a pen against your journal. You’re not one to miss writing daily but these past several weeks, you have been too preoccupied to jot down your thoughts.

Then, there’s also the matter of an irrational fear.

Truth be told, you’ve been happy since that night Rintarou admitted his attraction to you; the night he asked you to give him a chance and for you two to get to know each other.

You’d love to pen down those memories but there’s a voice at the back of your head telling you that it’s a bad idea. That it’s a prelude to something terrible happening.

You place your pen on the table and flip through the older entries on your journal, only to remember the entries you are looking for are no longer in the notebook’s binder. You had them removed and placed in a box the day before you asked Rin for divorce, thinking that it's time to give up on trying to make things work for both of you.

But then, things have changed now.

Or have they really changed? That voice in your head asks in skepticism.

What if, just like before, this “peace” is a fluke? What if Rin ends up hurting you again?

You close your eyes tightly and rub at your temples. You shouldn’t be entertaining this kind of thoughts. Overthinking and worrying about things from five years ago…

”Hey, Y/N? Is that you?” A familiar voice brings you out of your thoughts and you open your eyes only to be met by a friendly smile.

”Oh,” you say in pleasant surprise, “Hi, Hajime. What an unexpected meeting.”

The older guy's smile widens as he gestures for the seat across you. You nod in reply, closing your journal and putting it at the side.

”What brings you here?”

”I had a check-up with my doctor at the hospital across the street. How about you?”

At your question, Hajime scratches his nape. You notice his ears redden and you try not to smile at how boyishly embarrassed he looks. “Um, I’m visiting someone.”

”A friend?”

He locks eyes with you and groans at the teasing look that you know is visible on your face. “Okay, okay. She’s not technically a friend. I… met her one night through an accident, my motorcycle bumped into her. Thankfully, her injuries are not serious.”

”Oh my god,” you cover your mouth in reflex. You compose yourself before continuing, “I’m assuming she’s okay, though?”

Hajime waves his hand in front of you. “No worries! She’s fine and getting better. In fact, she’s about to get discharged tomorrow.” He suddenly clicks his tongue. “Am I bad to feel sad about her being discharged? I won’t have a reason to see her anymore.”

This time, you’re not able to stop yourself from laughing. “Hajime, that’s silly! Why won’t you just ask her out? Or her family and friends, maybe? You probably have met some of them, right?”

He smiles sheepishly and it’s a contrast to his usual demeanor when in the playground with his son. “I’m nervous to ask. Also, her family’s not here. She very recently moved back to the country from living abroad several years before. She also mentioned she has yet to reconnect with any of her old friends.”

”Oh, I see. But isn’t that reason enough to ask her out, if you’re really interested in her?”

”I guess so…”

Seeing the flush on your friend’s face makes you smile. “Who would have thought you’d get yourself in a classic meet-cute scenario?”

”Ugh, Y/N, please stop teasing me.” You know he means to reprimand, but Hajime still joins you in your laughter.

˚₊⁎⁎⁺˳༚ ˚₊⁎⁎⁺˳༚

“Fuck.” Suna resists the urge to throw his phone after the screen died on him. The battery had been on the verge of dying and he couldn’t find his charger anywhere. So, he’s on the way to the cafe, hoping that you didn’t decide to go somewhere else.

As he approaches the entrance, it amazes him how he’s quick to spot you in a crowd now. He sees the baby pink dress you’re wearing, your cardigan looking soft and comfortable over it. He also notes that you had tied your hair into a bun, a few strands framing your face.

And then he notices you’re not alone. To his dismay, he recognizes the person you’re currently with. Before he knows it, Suna is already brisk-walking the short distance from the entrance to your table.

You notice his presence as you look up at him and smile. That very sweet and innocent smile instantly calms him down a notch. He takes a deep breath. “Hey. I wasn’t able to send you a message, my phone died on me.”

”That’s okay.” Then, gesturing to your companion, you ask, “Rin, you remember Hajime?”

Suna tries to sound as nonchalant as possible as he faces the man. “Yeah. What brings you here?”

Hajime gives him what he assumes to be a friendly smile and Suna reminds himself that there’s no acceptable reason why he should give in to the urge to punch the smile out of the man’s face. “I was gonna visit someone at the hospital.”

Before Suna can respond, the man quickly checks his watch as if suddenly remembering and curses under his breath. “Oh, shoot. Uh, I should go.” He gives a wave before going over to the counter to make his purchase.

Suna shakes his head, a small scoff leaving his mouth. “Rin,” you call his attention. “Let’s go?” He watches you zip your bag close and before you can put the strap on your shoulder, he swiftly grabs to carry it for you.

If he didn’t turn his back as soon as he does so, he wouldn’t have missed your blush and smile.

˚₊⁎⁎⁺˳༚ ˚₊⁎⁎⁺˳༚

Once you reach Rintarou’s car, he asks if you have your phone charger with you. As you say yes, he asks again if you would plug it in the car’s charging port as he maneuvers the car out of parking.

You do as he asks and, as you place his phone on the console, notice some things that spark your concern.

”Rin?”

”Yeah?” He responds, eyes ahead.

”I know we both have sweet tooth, but didn’t we agree not to give Risa and Ryuu too much candy?”

”Huh?”

”Lollipops and gums,” you answer, finally tearing your eyes away from the items that had caught your attention. You turn to Rin and watch as the confusion leaves his face.

To your surprise, he only chuckles in response. “Those aren’t for the kids, Y/N. They’re mine.”

Now, it’s your turn to feel lost. “Huh?”

Rintarou bites his lips. “I’m trying to quit smoking. I heard those are nice alternatives.”

”Oh.” You’re at a loss of words for a moment, remembering the many times you have told him in the past that smoking is bad for the health. As you struggle to find what to say, Rin continues.

”It’s gonna take a while though. To be honest, this isn’t the first time I’m trying and it’s really hard.” A small laugh. “I’ve been smoking even before I was legally allowed to. But god, I do hope I can finally quit this time.” He shoots you a quick smile. “I don’t want my wife to leave me because of nicotine problems.”

And just like that, whatever response you’ve been able to come up with in your mind gets forgotten, chased away by the butterflies in your stomach.

Rintarou has been doing this a lot lately: calling you his wife.

Of course he had done so in the past, but they were all said in mockery, with the intent to spite and hurt you. It’s the very opposite now. He knows he makes you flustered and you know he enjoys seeing you blush.

You turn your head to look out the window, hoping he can’t see your very red face. Behind you, he laughs a little. It does not help in calming the beating of your heart. “What’s the matter, Y/N?”

”Shut up, Rin!"

to be continued.

taglist (lmk if you wanna be added or if you changed your user): @warrior-of-justice @alisa--things @wolffmaiden @kurookinnie @simp-nerd-16 @alex-is-100 @k4g3hika @harukaaaaa172993 @themoonreflectsthesun @lvjycrow @cantbedenied @sweetlikerockcandy @sirimiripetrichor @yamiakari-chi @noideawhothatis @nervouscoffeetaco @lovemyfamily4ever-blog nervouscoffeetaco kamukayakmonyet yuqixidle ieathairs cantbedenied gariben beomeomgyu esmeisdrunk-blog 123j456l iluv-ace semitje @justablogforreblogs @alienvarmint @itohsi @tamimemo @mshope16 @jeonsfizz @syndyj @susuarin @ssc7514 @tkooooop @lialoveskaisersomuch @dilucsleftshoelace @bakingcuriosity @appepel

#haikyuu angst #haikyuu x reader #suna rintarou #haikyuu fic #haikyuu fluff #suna x reader #suna angst #haikyuu!!#suna fluff #suna rintarou angst #sunarin #sunarin angst #sunarin fluff #suna hurt/comfort #sunarin hurt/comfort #sunarin x reader #suna rintarou x reader #suna rintarou fluff #haikyuu hurt/comfort

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mooshs-crack-headcanons · 4 days ago

Note

If you're writing for doom now could we get doom slayer's first time with a gender neutral s/o please? Thank you 🙏

I literally did the classic doom guy grin upon opening this ask I was ready and waiting for it and hope this doesn't disappoint!

Disclaimer: Trans masc doom slayer, he's one of those characters I literally don't see as cis so that's my default for him going forward I hope that's alright. Switch Doom Slayer, slight AFAB genitalia terms used for him, and btw also SELF INDULGANT PLOT 🗣

(Gender neutral reader)

Sex is kind of a... touchy subject for him. Just something he never really had much interest in, growing up he always wanted to be military and over his teenage years and into adulthood that was his main focus, his main priority, get good grades and be fit to serve. So he never really did have the time for - that - hell even if he wanted to its not like he really had the skill to so casually talk to people not even fathom getting to know somebody to get into that position in the first place. Not to mention the other factors... with himself, his body, so more ways than one he wasn't at all interested what it had to offer. After all he wanted to be a marine, saving people's lives, that was obviously more important than self pleasure.

But that was... thousands of years ago. And here he was now, the Apex Predator of Hell, the Hellwalker, the Doom Slayer. Still a virgin.

He honestly could give less of a shit, it was a complete understatement of how much of a low list 'priority' (if you could even fucking consider it that) of his considering the unfathomable amount of bullshit he has had to put up through since the Phobos Incident in his original universe.

He's had propositions, all by very ballsy Night Sentinels that actually had the courage to actually come up and talk to him during the rare instances of the Maykrs having him out during non combative down time, still on their leash however, akin to taking a dog on a walk or said dog would bark and growl and snap at the confines of his enclosure dispite the shock collar - and they found that annoying. And a risk.

All propositions he said no to, which he didn't even need Maykr control to decline for, he was much more interested in trying out new weapons the Sentinel barracks provided for him in their training grounds and they were interrupting him getting to play with his new toys. Honestly? It was just rude of them.

And still, after the Ahzrak's crushed head, the Maykrs betrayal, the Sentinel civil war, Valen's betrayal, spending all that unfathomable time with him in that cave, getting shoved in and gasping out of that sarcophagus and continuing his bloody war path it was still the farthest thing from his mind.

Then he met you.

You were... different than people he's met. With how long either people having either fear him, hate him, or respect him but not really as a person but for his strength and conviction instead - you actually took the time to understand him, you actually... treated him like a person. He can't even remember the last time someone did that, probably somewhere in his old ancient life but even still.

He thought at first it was only because he saved your life and gave you a place to stay at the Fortress since you had no where else to since the demons laid your home in ruins, everyone you knew dead - he knows that feeling all too well as well after all. But no, seeing how you carry yourself spoke loud and clear that it wasn't just for base gratitude or some debt, you were kind - genuinely thankful but very kind. With how polite you were to VEGA and how you actually made effort to talk to the Slayer himself, even when he isn't the most social in the world and sometimes his actions could be interpreted as rude: like you speaking to him in one sided conversation as he walks over to his workbench to work on his guns, but he's still listening, hanging on every word you say even if on the outside it's hard to show that. But you keep doing it because you understand that he's listening, never pressuring him to comment on anything until one day he surprises you and does.

Looking back on it he thinks it the first ever thing he's verbally ever said to you, up to this point he's been communicating through slow nods and slight hand gestures. It obviously takes you by surprise as you fall silent in the doorway. He doesn't look all the way back but he glances from the corner of his eye to see the cute flustered look on your face.

Oh you were something truly special.

After everything he's been through it's hard to genuinely scare him anymore, however, coming to terms on his own feelings towards you? Terrified him to death. He recognizes it the mere instant it sets in and it causes a whole body panic within him that his entire being has to stiffen up to contain if not he would completely loose himself.

Scenarios, bloody ones, run through his mind at night for weeks on end. He can't control them, invasive fears that drag him along every time he even thinks of closing his eyes. He's seen so much violence, so much cruelty, so much death. He couldn't imagine what he'd even do with himself if he lost you. But he takes all of it in silent stride, self contained, heavy on his shoulders. Like he always has.

He should've known better you would be quick to catch on. Quick to confront him.

He can't look you in the eye as you address him, asking what's wrong, he's about to set out on a mission with his weapons laid out before him for final assessments to be fully equipped when you've stopped him. There's a knot in his throat as he turns away and is about to pull over the helmet onto his head before you stop him by placing your hands on his arms and tugging them down so you can properly see his face - which only makes the knot swell as he sees you from the corner of his eyes still verting away from you.

You're so... gentle with him he's not exactly sure what to do, his body briefly stiffens all over but his bones simply melt with your warm touch he can't help but slowly relax as you just gently hold him. Your palms are so soft as they come up to greet the roughness of his face, his brows narrow together for a bit before he finds your not directly looking at him either - until you notice he's looking at you and you stare at one another. Your eyes are really pretty.

In a snap the moment ends end you let go of his face and clear your throat, cheeks tinted.

"I know fighting helps you clear your head so I'm sorry for keeping you... just promise you'll come back safe, alright?" You ask him to promise, uneasy he swallows and nods, about to grab his shotgun from off the table next to him before suddenly your hand is back cupping his cheek and pepping a quick kiss on the partnering one by standing on your tiptoes. Before his brain even process it your scurried off to the other room, leaving him standing there.

His hand that was on the shotgun unclasps it and slowly, clumsily, finds it's way onto your kiss.

Oh.

Things are... a little bit different afterwards. Neither of you have really said anything about feelings necessarily out loud but there's more physical affection than before. It scared him, honestly, but if there's one thing about you he's come to really love and appreciate it's exactly how patient and slow you were willing to take things - even if it meant just learning how to hold hands for awhile. His hands are so much bigger than yours, they swamp them when gently he entangles them. He felt like just with your hand alone as if he was holding the entire world.

Kissing was another thing, anxiety sweltering in him the first couple times, but again, thanks to your help it was something else to mentally conquer. He loves kissing you, how soft your lips are, how they taste so nice, it nearly makes him dizzy - makes you dizzy too, hell, smugass in him thinks he just might have a talent for it (he teases, he teases)

Then there was the elephant in the room, the topic he wasn't sure if ever he could come out and say but you had to figure it out on your own one night.

You've helped him treat injuries before, nothing too severe as his body with all thousands of years of Hellic bullshit has adjusted to quite a lot to inhuman degrees, but he was still human at the end of the day. One mission he'd been to careless and too lost in the rage and blood-lust that he had came out with a large gash on his size that would be impossible to treat on the field, the Slayer Suit can only fix so much, so he comes back through the portal pooling with blood that pours out of the wound from his exposed breech in his suit and he can barely only hold on to consciousness to hear your panicked plea out from him before he collapses on the floor.

He wakes up staring at the ceiling of his room, VEGA's voice loud in his ear over the entercom yet muffled until sleep fades from his being bit by bit, last part he hears clearly is stern warnings that he should've listened to the retreat suggestions when the armor faulty was urgently reported - but the last hoard of demons were circling that village, he couldn't just abandon them.

"It appears you didn't hear my suggestion the five times I had sent it. In future reference, would six suffice?" He knows the AI means well but he can't help the cheeky middle finger.

He then looks down to get a proper look at the state of himself, he laid shirtless in bed with bandage wrap around his stomach. Your doing, too human of work to be one of the Fortress' drones. That being said he looks at the deep ugly scars underlining his chest with a deep sigh, his head falling back to the pillow propped under him.

Guess he couldn't make up a freaky cool war story about those, huh? Shit.

His hand itches around the old Argent implant in thought. He should be honest with you, he's always honest with you, he's just... never had to tell anyone, like this anyway, recruitment people for the Marines knew but never really gave a shit he thinks - he was really big and really good with a gun, perfect solider material. Why would they give a shit what's in or not in his pants? But with you it's obviously different.

Speaking of you, the door to his room clicks and slides open automatically as you come in with your arms completely full with the thick and deceptively heavy box of a medkit - on instinct his body moves to get up and go help you carry it only for the sharp stabbing in his side to remind himself of the shape he's in. You quickly set the box down to ease him back properly in bed, which he relents, letting his bones jelly out as he watches you huff through your nose before with an (admittedly cute) growl you lift the box over onto the edge of the bed before popping it open revealing the large packs of blue healing gel and rolls of bandages - treating him did take a lot of resources after all.

"How are you feeling?" You ask, not looking at him directly but he could make out you glancing over at him from the corner of your eye to receive his usual non verbal response; which this time he leaves as a light uneven nod - he wasn't dead. That should be good enough. With one pack of gel in hand you step over closer to his bedside.

"Is it alright if I change your bandages? They're stained now the gels worn off." He looks down at himself, he spots the red tinted spot on the cloth but he stares longer further upwards directly underneath his chest. He swallows then nods once more.

You already did them once why bother asking to do it again? Just do it. He would add if it weren't on the physical strain it takes to speak. But then he realizes how that'd sound and remembers the patience you have with him, this was clearly just a part of it. You undo the bandages off of him and set them off to the side somewhere, his wound still bled from the cracks of the dried blue healing layer that ate slowly to his recovery, normally with regular humans it wouldn't take a whole bunch but he's anything but ordinary so for wounds of this extent he couldn't just shake off it takes several to really do anything to him, or maybe it was because of how adjusted he was to Argent engery long to this point it had the same less effective functionality to him, like taking the same kind of medication every time your sick. But over thousands of years.

You open the pack and begin to lather his side with it, the gel drying and sealing icy cold with that prickling feeling he's use to. Then another pack, and another, and another and so until eventually the area grows numb with full effect. He eases back into the mattress without even realizing he'd tensed up, that being the sign for you to take that enough had been applied and you grab the bandage roll to begin wrapping around him, though making him sit up slightly to get it on more proper.

"Couple more hours it'll need to be reapplied again but it did look much better than it did." You tell him, beginning to put supplies away. It's quiet for a long moment.

"You had me scared, you know? Coming back like that - why didn't you retreat when VEGA told you to?" You don't sound angry at him, you're very calm all things considered, but it still doesn't deter the guilty feeling in his stomach.

"People."

You look at him. So soft and sad it hurts. You reach over and hold his hand.

"You can't help people when you're hurt." He knows. And he knows you know.

"I'm sorry. It was a stupid mistake - adrenaline - got to my head and... moved wrecklessly. It was stupid."

Especially so, he's been doing this for unconceivably long he should know better but he slipped, anger got the better of him and he took to long on an execution to react to a Marauder blade catching him like that, taking advantage of weak point he deliberately left open not wanting to abandon the village to repair his suit. Ignoring VEGA's several warnings. Though, on this level of a fuck up it did make him feel like a rookie Marine again - in a sick and twisted way.

You draw him out of his thoughts and slipping memories when you lean over to press a soft brief kiss to his lips, still holding a comforting squeeze on his hand. Before he can bring himself to respond you rest your head on his chest, still sitting on the edge of the bed beside him but now tucked into him and using him as a pillow. Whatever he was going to say didn't matter then. He looks down at you, how your eyes were lazily closed but still clearly awake, you looked so... delicate, small compared to him. It takes a lot of strength to gather the courage but gently, so he doesn't accidentally harm you, he pats your head.

A passing while it hits him, the dread and discomfort he was feeling about his scars and what they meant had completely faded away. Here you were laying on them, didn't address them once.

...but he had to. It would eat at him if he didn't.

You'd nearly fallen asleep until he gently shakes you awake, pushing you to sit up with serious intent to talk. He tries the best he could explaining, honestly he isn't sure how to explain the exact feeling he's always had since that day Grandma Taggart put him in that Easter dress and it felt horribly wrong and how on the other hand how rightfully good it felt dreaming of being a combat hero just like his great-great grandfather BJ Blazkowicz, the man who literally killed Hitler. Both at the age of nine. He wasn't sure if it made sense, it was how he explained to his parents and they were luckily very supportive, but they were also his parents... so to cut it short your potential reaction terrified him. But it shouldn't, he know it shouldn't, and with how you just look at him confirms that.

"You're still you. You who have all these admirable, brave, kind, heroic-if-not-self-sacrificing aspects. You made yourself. You're the man who saved me and showed me there is still justice in this cruel existence - the man I fell in love with."

He's so distracted of the dam of relief of your support breaking that he nearly doesn't catch the last part you said. Bronze eyes turn wide, lips parted, he looks at you as if he thought himself in a dream and looks to nearly start slapping himself awake until you press another kiss to his lips, this time he stiffs but ultimately melts into it. More relaxed by each second.

When you two pull away there's a haziness in the air, carefully, you move to properly lay at the Slayer's side being mindful of his still present injury only tucked away behind a good couple tight circuits of cloth and wrap your arms around him to take in his warmth, head buried in his neck. The haze grows tiring, sleep creeps heavy on his eyelids and you too seemingly are not that far behind as your yawn is warm on his skin. The lights in the room dim, embarrassing reminder of the AI omnipresent throughout the whole Fortress but particularly now in this room. But nevermind that, he looks down at you and your sleepy form with the desire to speak - however his throat seems to be against him as he strains to, seemingly reached his limit of words tonight. But maybe it was for the best as now he could be up your soft snoring.

He loved you too.

He loves you so much. So much it still terrifies him, however, like always you're there to quell his fears, his doubts, second thoughts, you comfort him in a way he has never been before. You were something so truly special to him. Before long... desires strike.

Very brief at first. Surges that come from sudden touches, grazes, glances. But he's able to quickly shake it off without really realizing it.

...until he does.

He realizes when his touch lingers for a couple moments too longer, his eyes start to wonder when you're not looking, you start visiting his dreams...

He's deeply ashamed of it, so embarrassed with his face a scolding red he doesn't think he's felt in anyway besides letting out extreme rage on the battlefield, speaking of, there's where he takes it out on - either waking up in the dead of night and immediately mad dashing to his training arena to let of steam or if really, really, really bad he'll set off on a quick mission to slaughter some demons in hope to settle himself out.

So, not healthy ways to take care of it. He's aware of that. Still feeling ashamed.

He should've expected you to figure it out at some point, after months of this he's grown unintentionally distant from you, and he should've also expected for you to address it in some way.

Half dressed in his bed wasn't how he would've expected it however.

There seems to be a delay in between his eyes and brain to process the shocking sight before him, you usually always come to greet him when he returns home from demon excursions and you not being there this time is what led him to search without properly stripping off his suit, his boots are practically cement in the ground as he stands in the doorway of what had become in the past year your shared bedroom. But maybe he should've assumed something was up, VEGA had seemed purposely aloof and dense on where you could've been located or what you had been doing when he asked, you two must've planned on this.

...but how could he be upset when you wore one of the baggiest shirts you owned that were pushed up to reveal his boxers underneath around your thighs? He wasn't a religious man but good God.

He doesn't need to be talked into, he wants and needs you, the fear and anxiety is still there and eats at him but he knows with you it's going to be okay - he couldn't do this with anybody else in every universe and realm imaginable but you.

First piece of the armor to come off is the helmet as he stands by the edge of the bed and you up on your knees practically rip it off and toss it across the room to meet him in a feverish kiss. One by one each piece is removed and fallen to the floor with a heavy clunk, leaving him in only the tight black bodysuit he wears underneath. Your lips never part, your fingers find them tight short cropped dark brown hair that your drag him down so you can fall on your back, parting the kiss in heavy breaths as you feel yourself up and let the shirt ride up your stomach to expose more skin, your spine then arches as you softly plea for him to touch you.

He treats you so gently as if one wrong move would break you, he's a big man after all - his hands have ripped and tore through hordes of legions of Hell alone in his self brought bloody crusade against demonkind, they've been twisted, crafted for violence for so long... deep down unknownst to himself he's been desperate for human touch but he's scared to death of not being capable of returning it, even more so of it decaying completely and his affection hurts you - or worse. He kills everything he touches.

That fear is always in the back of his mind even when he tries his damndest to pretend to you it isn't.

His large hands are warm on your skin, traveling and caressing everything he can but nothing too grounded. His face is buried in your neck peppering kisses along the base of your throat, taking in your soft hums and feels almost dizzy with your fingers in his hair encouraging his movements. Your thighs are wrapped tight around his waist as he sat stiff on his knees in between your legs and bent over top of you on the bed.

"Flynn, Flynn," You huff in pleasure, encouraging him to do more - but it hits him... he isn't exactly sure what 'more' is. Okay no, he knows what 'more' is but he doesn't... how does he...? What is he doing?

"Flynn?" As always it doesn't take you long to notice. He stares down at you honest, he tries speaking with no success.

You study his face, your eyes drifting downwards then noticed how his arms holding himself up above you slightly trembled - something he didn't even realize - it clicks for you.

"You haven't... oh." There's several emotions across your face, all in some kind of thought, before you lean up and guide him to reverse your positions: him on his back and you above him.

"I can take care of you if that's okay." He looks at you for a long moment, an inner fight within himself that he succumbs to one side completely, he needed you more than anything.

'Please.' He mouths.

You didn't expect him to be this loud, you know, given how he carries himself normally. And honestly? He didn't either. But he can't help all the noise that slips out, how his chest pants and rocks for breath, the mere instant you touch him - delicately if barely at all your fingers graze at his folds that got him shooting his head back further into the pillow at his head and his thick thighs, marred with centuries old battle scars, tremble upon themselves as he still manages to keep them bowed back for you.

Your touch lit his skin on fire that not even the deepest pits of Hell he's literally has crawled out of out could compare - and you basically hadn't done anything to him yet.

He doesn't falter, you have stopped but he grips on the mattress (mindful he doesn't tear it) underneath him and lightly raises his head up to look at you with large bronze colored eyes.

"..." His mouth hangs open, all of his might he tries to push words out but he physically can't, they knot and bunch up in his throat and stab at him if he further tries pushing it. But it's okay as your hands, so small and delicate compared to his mass, feather-light trace up the churning muscle of his stomach and up to his chest where you gently push him back down.

He looks at you then everything fades, fear, anxieties, everything melts away. Only replaced by calm. He peers down to see how the top of your hand is barely masked by the thick layer of chest hair and he slowly reaches up cup it, make you hold down on him in your palm tight. He was still with you through this... you now in between his legs.

He hums, he groans, whines, and curses through barred teeth as your fingers pump his hole - one or two or three fingers weren't nearly enough so you practically have your whole hand in there fucking him senseless. His body twitches, pulses, almost spasming with his how good he felt but he tries not to make too sudden or harsh of movements not to accidentally hurt you as he is still very much larger than the average human, but it's rather quite difficult when you're treating him this well.

But he needed more.

He wants to plea but physically can't form the words, only pathetic noises left in their wake as his hips bounce to meet your thrusting hand - it felt good, so good that tears blot in his eyes he fails to realize until you bend down to kiss them away. You actually keep kissing, your fingers still keeping quick pace at him, you kiss under his jaw to his neck to his chest to his stomach - lower and lower until your crouched down with your breath so electrifying on his sex as you hover before you completely engulf the fat numb of his clit in your mouth. All struggles of forming words together are completely shoved out.

"FUCk!" He shouts out, eyes wide, underneath him not just the sheets tear but as well as the mattress with claw marks left by his hands.

His chest heaves with every breath he takes, you suck and swirl your tongue around him at the same time still fucking his hole with nearly your entire fist it's easy to be over stimulated but he's hanging on every second in pure ecstasy.

"-more, more, more, more, more-" He huffs, hands clutch tighter onto the tore mattress even if he has the desire to grab ahold of your head to encourage an even faster pace but he's terrified of accidentally hurting you being not in control of his own strength to something so... intense like this. He'd rather you in control of the reigns.

He gasps as he suddenly feels dragged high without warning, the churning that's been building in his stomach snaps and his eyes roll to the back of his head as pleasure like he's never felt before washing over him. His body feels hot, his bones melt, and the only grounded feeling he has is the twitching he's aware of around your soaked hand.

He's wheezing, actually wheezing to catch his breath, feeling starts to return to his body just has you slip your hand out. He looks at you in what he'd probably guess if he were to look at himself as pathetic but you in return look at him soft; small smile on your lips as you meet to kiss him again - letting him have a taste of himself.

"How was that?" You ask.

'Good.' He mouths.

"You okay for more?" He still feels woozy but he nods, a wicked grin flashes across your face.

"Good."

Before he can question it or gather the strength to lift himself up to see what you were pulling from out under the bed he sees its a box. You hand it over to him, who sluggishly finally is able to sit up to open it and-

It was a strap-on.

Oh so you really planned this.

He couldn't help but to laugh at it at first, dumb looking green toy that was at a.... generous size - you called it fitting, he's a big man after all - but you know what? As stupid as it looked? It felt right, on him. Seeing a cock on him, even if it was green (you added green was also his color, so) and seeing your tiny hand stroking around such a big size REALLY starts doing something to him.

You put your mouth on it, even if it technically did nothing seeing your mouth stretch and gag around it really does more to him - even bucks his hips but he controls himself not to accidentally hurt your throat. His moans are low and huffy, completely contrast to the whining mess he was earlier, his eyes fall slacked and lazy as he watches you until you come up gasping for breath.

You've already been out of your shirt but putting his large hands on your hips do you make him take his boxers off you, grabbing and groping handfuls of ass as he goes and you wiggle free to be both completely naked together. The plastic of the strap is warm and wet from your previous activity but it brushes nicely against your thighs before you can't help yourself but rock into it.

"Flynn," You hum and you moan until you grab a hold of it and align it with yourself, hovering over it to look at your lover for one last confirmation. "-ready?"

"Please." He breathily pleads.

You sink yourself so full down onto it that your breath disapates from your body and you forget how to breathe for a second, his touch on you to keep you straddled riding on his waist being the only thing keeping you grounded.

"Are... you alright?" You flash him a dumb grin.

"Yeah. Your dicks huge, you know?"

He looks away from that, clearly flustered. His dick. Validating praises seemed to do something. You keep that in mind. Small movements at first you keep a steady rhythm. He goes along with it, encouraging your movements by his hands guiding your hips with each increasingly wet thrusts.

They grow faster and harder over time, you cooing out praises seem to increase them further until you are no longer in control of the rhythm as you are throughly fucked up and down until suddenly your pushed to your back where you loose control over your own voice. He leans over you, holding your legs up over his shoulders as he fucks you so deep - all previous fears and insecurities he's shown over the night gone, as he finally trusts himself with you, he won't hurt you.

"I love you," He says taking you by complete shock as he hasn't voiced the sentiment out loud before.

"I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I-" Over and over he repeats raspy and strained as his voice tends to be but it means so much to you - you mean so much to him - he choices to fight through whatever pain to make sure it is said loud and clear and is known and you are loudly coming around his cock while he says it to absolutely cement it.

Sweaty and exhausted you two lay in each other's arms once it's all through. Somethings different, yet at the same time it isn't, your skin is so soft under his touch as he traces his fingertips down the width of your back as you're nearly dozed off. It's calm, he has a peace of mind he hasn't had in literally thousands of years - demons the furthest from his mind. It was nice. Really nice. He never wants it to end even though you both know it has to, Hell never quits nor runs dry with demons. But for now? This was more than fine.

Would really like and appreciate to know what you think about what you read in tags on reblogs I absolutely thrive off it, thank you for reading 🫶

#doom #doom the dark ages #doom eternal #doom 2016 #doom slayer #doom guy #doomguy #doom marine #flynn taggart #doom slayer x reader #doom guy x reader #doomguy x reader #doom marine x reader #flynn taggart x reader #mine #n.sfw #sin content #non request related

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olivetreedraws · 6 months ago

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Something incredible to me in Beast is just how... wrong Dazai was so often (and, by concequence, Gin). And how he was wrong in a very opposite was from og!Dazai's thinking.

Getting the memories from og!Dazai gave him many advantages, but it also held him back when it came to actually seeing the other people around him. Especially Atsushi and Akutagawa. He was convinced about being born good or evil and innate natures, which is something the story disproves time and time again.

In his mind, it didn't matter that he'd groomed Atsushi for almost five years into being the white reaper. It didn't matter that he killed himself infront of him after making himself the central point of Atsushi's frail sanity. It didn't matter that he fired Atsushi from his one remaining purpose. Why? Because Atsushi was "born good" in his mind because he was good in the original world and therefore any evilness groomed into him would be easily undone without any lasting consequences in his mind.

If he saw Atsushi being reformed slowly by Mori, he'd get to the wrong conclusion. He'd attribute it to nature rather than to Mori being able to rehabilitate him.

And this also shows in his treatment of Akutagawa. He thinks of Akutagawa as being inherently bad because he was in the mafia originally. The whole story is him being victim to confirmation biases when it comes to him and, because of that, the same happens to Gin. His idea with Akutagawa was never, at least to my understanding, to make him into a good man of the Agency, but rather have the ADA hold him under their care to unleash against threats. He didn't believe Akutagawa could become a proper ADA member (because he wasn't originally) but believed that the Agency would take him in anyway (because they took in Dazai and Kyouka in the original universe) and keep him from lashing out unless there was an enemy ahead of him.

And Gin gets fed this belief. It's why she doesn't talk like there will be a point in which Akutagawa might be reformed into a good person. Or that what he needed was to learn to calm down and organize his priorities. She believes he cannot change because that's what Dazai has taught her. Akutagawa's objective by the end of Beas isn't finding her anymore because he needs to better himself for himself and to prove Gin wrong. Not to reach her expectations or demands, but to prove her wrong, to show he is capable of change.

And, surprisingly enough, it's Atsushi who has the best take about Akutagawa in the final chapters, even though in Akutagawa's mind all of their judgements were put as if the same. From Atsushi's words, at least, Akutagawa is described as someone who is bad, who can't understand or separate violence from their objectives and who'll prioritize the violent option above even his objective, but he never expresses the opinion or feeling that that's his nature or he was born, likely because Atsushi know better than anyone how much someone can change or be changed. Atsushi doesn't think Akutagawa is a good person, but doesn't see him as someone incapable of becoming one (which does have some beautiful implications of SSKK always being able to understand esch other better than other can, even if they don't react or deal with the knowledge all that well).

And Dazai in the original universe thinks a lot more like Beast Atsushi than Beast Dazai (I could write a whole novel about the similarities between Original Dazai and Beast Atushi, because oh my god are they interesting). He doesn't believe in good and evil as something inher of someone nor does he see good and evil as concepts that are set in stone, but rather something personal to individuals. It's why I think even if Dazai was sent back in time to the exact point Beast Dazai received the memories, he would have gone through a completely different route when it came to changing the outcome of things. But also because he's changed since leaving the PM and it doesn't seem like Beast Dazai ever really grew up after getting the memories, he stayed both childish and a child.

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tsukimefuku · 1 year ago

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the letter ꕥ higuruma hiromi

summary: reader writes a letter for an absentee. one that she will never send.

tags: f!reader, implied past relationship, higuruma x reader, angst, break up, longing and general heartbreak.

wc: 1k

notes etc.: this is actually my original style of writing in my native language before i began writing in 2nd(?) + 3rd person pov on ao3 and tumblr this year. it’s different from what I’ve written so far, but I hope you guys enjoy it. the style translation was hard, holy shirt. song → shake it out (florence + the machine).

ꕥ collection of stories: "jujutsu partners au" → masterlist

i like to keep my issues drawn ꕥ it’s always darkest before the dawn

I was debating if I should start this with “hey, Hiromi”, “hi, Higuruma”, “dear” something, and I still haven’t arrived at an answer. The first sounds too casual for what we have become — and what are we now if not strangers? The second, however, is just too impersonal, and I don’t need such a stinging reminder of how much I’m not entitled to your first name anymore. At last, “dear” to start a letter is just tacky.

Alas, I digress.

I don’t quite know what possessed me to pick up a pen and a piece of paper (analogical, just like you’ve noted me to be) to blurt out the swirling hurts in my mind, but I guess I still had a lot to say, even if you weren’t here long enough to hear it.

Here goes nothing.

You might be wondering how I’m doing (at least I hope so), so I thought I’d let you know.

Tonight, more specifically, I’ve been for an insurmountable stretch of time — were it hours? Minutes? Days? Out of my priorities, tracking time has not been one of them — staring at the empty vacuum making its presence known by my side. It seems to mock my stare, that longs, against all odds, for a miracle — for you to simply materialize right there, out of thin air.

Seriously, you should see the mess you’ve made when you left.

You left an emptiness of shoes, black suits, wet towels on the bed, cup marks on the furniture, scratches of morning beard, warm legs under the covers — an emptiness of body that has been giving me nightmares. You came in, flipped everything upside down, blew up my walls and made so that every edge, vertex, color and smell of this heart and bones surrounding our leftover life would incessantly scream for you.

It’s like my misery extended beyond myself and resoundingly expanded against the walls of this house.

But… even though I wish you were here with every tiny part of myself, I couldn’t ask for you to stay. I know it wouldn’t be fair. You’d never ask me to betray myself, and the least I could do was to love you in the same earnest way.

You wouldn’t be the man I loved if you didn’t go. I wouldn’t be the person you loved if I asked you not to (I apologize for the past tense, it’s one of those truthless comforts I’ve decided to give myself for the time being).

You still linger here, though. I still keep your gaze close to my chest, your face pressed against my skin, your warm voice caressing the edge of my ear and your hair stroking through my fingers, even if it’s just my soul pretending for a minute.

A long minute.

You know, it has been hell without you here. The couch cushions wrap around me like your arms, the bed always bounces by the time you used to get up, and the kitchen smells like your favorite take-out meals (because God knows we’d set fire to this building if we so much as dared turning that stove top on). The window reflects two back at me when only one is looking at it, and my hiking boots are dearly missing those black oxford shoes. My coat hanging on the edge of the closet is also dearly missing your crumpled black ties sprinkled around the room (of course you took weeks to properly wash and organize them — when you ever did).

Oh, and the bed.

The bed is just not the same without that stupid, ridiculous blotch of water your towel would always leave on it.

A huge chunk of our house is missing.

I know I can’t let my selfishness kidnap you from what you need to do — and I do know you need it. But damn, sometimes it’s hard to fight the urge of hopping on the first train your way, grabbing you by your wrist and asking you to become once again part of my wallpaper, my duvet, my pillows. Just promise me you’ll make all of this pain worthwhile, even if you ran away with ten thirds of me.

Ever since you left, though, I learned a few tricks to mask your ever so present absence. I can pull the pillows towards the middle of the bed, eat in the living room and read in the kitchen, being sure to slowly put all my pieces back in place.

It’s harder to notice an empty chair across the table when you willingly choose to sit on the ground.

However, I didn’t want to do that. Not today. Call it insanity, clarity, or just meet me in my madness like you always so kindly did.

Today, I wanted to let you invade me, come into my house with my full permission and go on turning everything upside down once more. That way, I can almost feel you there. To me, at least for now, that’s good enough (or as good as I know it’s gonna get).

Your muted way of sharing our space could be so, so silent. That quietude brought me the deepest of peaces.

Unfortunately, I never anticipated the silence from your absence would be so loud, and not peaceful at all. It has been hammering at my breathless heart for days.

I miss you.

I love you, too.

***

With a sigh, you put the pen down and stared at the paper sheet for a minute, your own calligraphy so foreign with a pain you hadn’t let out properly ever since Hiromi… actually, Higuruma stepped out that morning.

Considering your options, you resigned, and pulled the letter in a crinkled messy ball, tossing it in the garbage can.

No need to talk to a voluntary absentee. No need to bother him, either.

You got yourself back up and picked up two pairs of keys, the blue buttoned shirt and made your way out of the apartment, not failing to hear the rumbling echo the door made when it slammed closed.

An echo that only happens in truly empty places.

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