#for reference maybe half a stack can fit on the shelf

[kisaxiii]

.

[joy1579]

self indulgent

I've been sad. so i wrote a thing to make me less sad. maybe it'll make someone else less sad too or at the very least they can laugh at my “cringe” but either way it did make me less sad so goal accomplished.

Mc and jumin organize a bookshelf jumin asks what neko girls are and MC short circuits his brain for a couple of seconds. no smut just fluff

Moving hadn’t taken long. You had opted to donate your furniture to the local homeless shelter since Jumin’s penthouse was furnished with the highest quality furniture you could dream of. Honestly most of your things paled in comparison to the lavish goods Jumin considered tawdry. Still there were a quite a few boxes you had decided to save, filled mostly with sentimental keepsakes and the few odds and ends that catered to your specific tastes. You were practically finished by noon save the three or four boxes that sat in the main room next to the larger than life bookshelves. Certainly there was plenty of room on them. You never where a fan of negative space on bookshelves but if you were being completely honest that had more to do with how many books you needed to fit in such a finite space. Jumins bookshelves had plenty of room with just enough negative space to look perfectly balanced and while you knew Jumin had told you to do whatever you wished this felt intimate. Bookshelves where holy spaces after all, housing books that change hearts and minds alike that shape the soul and … okay so maybe you just really liked books and that made them seem important to you either way this was definitely something you wanted to do with Jumin. When you heard the door rattle with Jumin homecoming you bolt towards it excited to greet him after work.

“Jumin! Welcome home!” you cried bouncing in place as he made his way inside. You smiled as you saw the creases in his brown flatten and the stress slip from shoulders when he saw you. You waited all of 5 seconds for him to close the door giving you both some privacy from the bodyguards stationed outside before you pounced, leaping upon the business man wrapping your arms around his neck. You delighted in the deep honey of his laughter as he caught your waist in kind and kissed the top of your head gently.

“darling. I’m so glad to be home. How was your day? did you get settled?” Jumin asked as you pulled yourself back slightly giving him room to loosen his tie and set aside his coat.

“everything is in its place except um Jumin there is one thing I need if you don’t mind”

“name it and its yours”

“I wanted to share your bookshelves and I was hoping that maybe you could organize the books with me?” you admitted shyly. It had seemed like such a good idea in the beginning he could show you his favorite books, walk you through his favorite plots and tell you his favorite quotes and you could do the same with him. Yet now as you presented the idea to him you worried. What if he was to tired he had worked all day after all, what if he thought you too needy, or your books to childish. what if he didn’t want your books displayed in the living room because they weren’t very pretty, all of his books where gorgeous leather bound tomes or mint condition hardcovers, yours where second hand at best many where decommissioned library books or garage sale rescues, broken in battered and bruised by years of use. It would make sense to have them put away in a back room where they couldn’t tarnish the pristine collection Jumin had on display. Perhaps you where spiraling, working yourself into a nervous frenzy in the span of a few seconds.

“nothing would make me happier love. We can call the chef to start dinner and begin emptying the shelves for rearranging while he works.” You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face or the giggle that escaped your lips. The surprise on Jumins face was evident if only for a second before it gave way to a warm sort of fondness. “had I known simple redecorating would make you this happy I would have stayed home and done it all with you” he said affectionately running his fingers through your hair.

“it’s not that I just,” you paused face flushing a bit “books are a big deal, ya know? My dad used to tell me that every book you read becomes a part of you and that you can learn more about someone by the books they love than by the words they say so I wanted to share that with you” jumins eyes where so soft and gentle in that moment you felt your breath hitch “I want to know everything about you and, and I want you to know everything about me” suddenly his lips where on yours fervent and full of passion the hand that had been in your hair now on your chin guiding you too him. The kiss was short and when you parted from him he stayed close, just a hairs breath from your face.

Jumin voice was little more than a whisper as he asked “how is it that every day I manage to fall more in love with you?” you couldn’t help but lean forward and kiss him again an all too familiar giddiness bubbling its way through your soul. You loved this man more than life itself and you knew that would never change.

 “so your ‘Encyclopedia of Fairies’ should go next to the Catherynne M Valente series so we can reference it while reading agreed?” you giggled thrilled that his collection of mythological reference books slotted together with your fae fiction so perfectly. Puzzle pieces connecting to create a masterpiece.

“yes I think that’s perfect. I can’t wait to read her interpretation of such ancient mythos. I also have ‘The World Guide to Gnomes, Fairies, Elves and Other Little People’ if you’d like to add it to that shelf” he said grinning like a child at show and tell.

“oh my goodness yes! That’s perfect and your book on Romanian vampires should be near my ‘Dracula’ and ‘vittorio’ that way that shelf over there can be dedicated to the occult, hauntings, and psychic reference books”

“that sound wonderful and takes care of all the written word but we still haven’t found a place for your comics” Jumin informed glancing toward the woefully large stack of manga you had brought.

“not comic Jumin manga and yeah I think we’re out of space though. I um I didn’t think I had that many books. Sorry” you admitted not meeting his eyes. He tilted your head up to look at him.

“there’s no need to apologize it simply means that tomorrow we can go shopping for another shelf and the next day we can organize those. I’m quite curious about ‘la petite cossette’ you said these where Japanese but that is most certainly a French title.”

“oh I actually think you’d like that one a lot it’s about a man who falls in love with a woman in a cursed portrait its actually pretty tragic in the end.”

“How interesting” he mused retrieving it from the pile of books and skimming through it “the art is truly enchanting and you said that manga has its own subculture?”

“yeah from neko girls to shonen action tropes it has its own vocabulary, history and groups of people its really fun”

“neko girls?” Jumin repeated and your eyes widened at his confusion. This was definitely something he of all people should know about! You jumped up and sprinted to the closet you had filled earlier that day with the few cosplay supplies you had. At the time it had taken nearly half your pay check but if Jumin liked them right now the purchase then would be completely justified. You put on your surprise as quickly as possible before rushing back out to greet Jumin who had just made it to the edge of the living room to come find where you had gone. He froze for a second processing what you were now wearing. White cat ears that moved and twitched fairly believably and just as he was able to cope with that your made paws with your hands and tried your best “nya”. For a moment you feared you may have broken him. He didn’t move his face blank, eyes fixed on you. You tried again hoping to spur some sort of reaction from him “nya?” you said turning to the side slightly to show off the other half of your surprise a white tail complete with pink bow and bell at the base where it attached to your skirt. You tilted your head to look up at him through your lashes trying every trick in your arsenal to look as cute as possible but nothing. He was completely frozen. “Jumin? Hello?” now you were getting worried “darling are you okay?” you asked placing the back of your hand on his forehead to feel for a temperature. The second your hand touched him however his face flushed.

“neko girl.” He muttered “that’s neko as in cat” you could see him trying to calm himself. Fiddling with his shirt sleeves and attempting to stay in control. You smiled standing on your tip toes to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear.

“am I a good little kitten at least?”  you couldn’t contain your giggle as you heard him choke slightly before scooping you up bridal style.

“certainly not, in fact I think you’ve been a very bad little kitten.” He said his voice deeper than normal as he carried you back towards the bedroom.

[getitinbusan]

The Music Room -

Min Yoongi 18+ Smut

Part of the Lost Boys Series

JIN • NAMJOON • YOONGI •

Warnings: 18+ smut, MF sex, MF oral, A playful bite, Swearing.

Words: 3075

Summary: A stand alone series about a misfit friend group of seven boys. These stories are a day in the life snip it of who they are, where they came from and how they love.

The melody drifting up the barren hall floated through the air like it was made for your ears alone.

The poetic rhythm of the keys made you pause, listening enviously at the talent of whomever was playing.

But who was playing? It was 8 am on a Friday, the room should be vacant. Pulling up the music rooms schedule on your phone, you weren't wrong. The first spot of the day was yours for the entire semester. 

You knocked lightly. The sound stopped and the bench made it's familiar dragging noise across the concrete floor. 

Pulling the heavy windowless wood open by it's cold handle you peeked inside. He scrambled, seemingly embarrassed, shoving his sheet music into his backpack. 

"You should be more careful with your notes, don't want to ruin any masterpieces." 

"No fear in that," he mumbled.  "They're just a bunch of scribbled ideas."

 Pulling the zipper shut he slung it over his shoulder.  "Sorry, I didn't know this was your time slot." 

"It's fine." you tried to smile at him but he kept his eyes down.

"Don't you have the schools app? I can check to see when you're supposed to be here." You tapped the widget,  "What's your name?"

"It's fine, I'm actually not on the schedule." 

"Oh, why not? You sounded great. If you missed the cutoff you can still be added to a wait list. People drop out all the time." 

He looked up and grinned. By God if he wasn't the most beautiful boy you'd ever seen.

"I don't belong here." 

"Don't say that. I was listening and you're really talented, you deserve to be here just as much as any of us." 

"I don't though." His eyes met yours and you were done for. "I don't go here, I'm not a student." 

"Ahh, I guess that's a problem." 

"I already said I'm sorry," he got defensive. "I'll just get out of your way."

He started towards the door.

You tugged his backpack. "So is breaking into schools and playing piano a weird hobby of yours?"

You tried to lighten the mood, "you've got a little Phantom of the Opera University edition kink?" 

He laughed. "I'm not technically breaking in, I do have a key fob." He held up the school ID. "It's my roommates. And if you want to know about my kinks you're gonna have to get to know me a little better." 

You stepped closer and took it from his hand.

"Park Jimin, Performing Arts." Handing it back you eyed him up and down. "So what's your story….."

"My name's Yoongi."

Pulling a chair out from the corner you sat and rummaged through your backpack until you pulled out your breakfast. 

"Listen Yoongi, I was just going to sit here. I need logged practice time for course credit." 

You peeled your clementine, "So if you want to stay and play, be my guest."

He looked at you unsure, "Why would you do that for me?" 

You smiled and shrugged. "I like your face." 

Turning red he plopped his knapsack back onto the floor and reclaimed the bench. 

You waited until his fingers were just about to land on the keys. "I do have one condition though." 

He froze, "Yeah, what's that?" 

"You have to take me for coffee later and tell me your story. Agree?" 

"I Agree. But you didn't have to give up your time for that, I was going to ask you out anyway." 

You probably wouldn't have given up your time but you were intrigued. Park Jimin was an amazing dancer. The curious boy who was here on scholarship was often the subject of conversation in the dining hall. Not only was he good looking but he was a mystery. He hung out with the strangest group of friends, seven misfit boys who were proud to not fit in. In this small University town they stood out as odd, everyone referred to them as The Lost Boys. Yoongi, now being revealed to you as one of them, seemed harmless enough and the opportunity to get to know a piece of them was too good to pass. 

Walking and talking up the worn concrete path you made your way through the bustle of pajama clad students trying to get to class. 

"Don't you have to be somewhere?" 

"Yeah, but I don't care. I'd rather get to know you." 

"You should go, I'm not so important that you should lose a day of school over me." 

"It's all bullshit anyway Yoongi, it's not going to get me anywhere." 

He stopped abruptly, now just outside the small coffee shop. "You sound like a spoiled brat." 

You were shocked, who the hell was he to speak to you like that? 

"I'd kill to be in your position and you don't even give a shit about just squandering it away." 

He pulled the door open and looked at you crossly. "Still want that coffee?" 

You stepped in front of him and shot him a dirty look. "I do. You owe me AND because I'm a brat I'm going to order the fanciest thing on the menu. TO GO!" 

He silently walked behind you, following to the counter while you placed your ostentatious order. You stood studying him while he asked for an iced Americano. His blond shaggy hair skimmed his chocolate eyes and his sexy lips seemed to  always sit in permanent pout. They looked like they'd be nice to kiss. 

"You want to stop staring at me and take your expensive drink. You're holding up the line." 

You blushed, knocked from your daydream admiration by his deep voice.

You huffed while pulling the chair out, making a show of your annoyance, situating yourself at the corner table.

"I thought you were getting it to go?" he barbed. 

"Why would I do that when I can be a pain in your ass a little bit longer? You promised to tell me your story, let's hear it?" 

His inhale was deep. Anxiety? Apprehension? A mix of both? His eyes stared at his coffee while his fingers fiddled with the straw. "I want to be a musician." 

"Well I figured that much." 

"Listen, if you really want to know can you just shut up? This isn't an easy thing for me to talk about, I don't just tell everyone." 

"If you don't want to tell me don't" 

He cut you off. "But I do want to, for some stupid reason."

"What reason?" 

He exhaled with a smirk. "I like your face." 

You smiled, "Then please continue." 

"I want to be a musician. I write music and lyrics and it's all I've ever wanted my entire life."

He took a sip of coffee. "My parents didn't approve of my choices so I decided to move out on my own and live my life how I wanted." 

You nodded in understanding. 

"I didn't take into consideration how hard exactly that would be, but I'm a proud man, and there's no going back." 

"So what do you do? You're not a student, do you work?"

"Yeah, I deliver food and groceries part time. It doesn't pay much but the basics are covered." 

You looked down at your shitty expensive coffee in guilt, maybe you were just a spoiled brat.

"So whenever I'm not working I try to get as much practice and writing in as I can. I use Jimin's fob to get into the music room and that's where I am most nights...all night." he shrugged in omission. 

"So no time for a girlfriend?" you felt silly the moment it left your lips. 

"I didn't think so." He looked up for the first time since the conversation started. "But," he smiled, "I think given the right person priorities could definitely be changed." 

Talking into the afternoon time flew away. Several less expensive coffees later he looked at his phone and frowned. "I've got to go to work." 

He stood up and gathered his things. "But I'd love it if we could see each other again." 

You stood to go too. "Next Friday 8am? I can let you in with my fob?" 

"That sounds really nice." His hand reached out and his fingers brushed across yours as he took the tray from you. "But I was hoping I wouldn't have to wait that long. We're having a party tonight at our place...will you come?" 

You sat on the edge of the sofa watching the group around you getting drunk and philosophical. Definitely nothing like a frat party, these guys were a different breed.

His roommates were all handsome in their own way and something about them just set you at ease. No pretensions, no apologies, they were just who they were having fun.

Finally seeing him walk through the door your heart raced when his eye caught yours.

"I'm sorry I'm late, they kept getting orders." 

"It's okay. Your roommate..." you pointed to Seokjin. "The one with the really broad shoulders, he kept me entertained with some pretty good jokes." 

He scrunched his nose, "really, really sorry." 

You pulled a bottle vodka out of your purse and raised your brows. "Are you ready for some fun." 

He grabbed your hand and pulled you up from the couch until you were close enough to hear without having to shout.

"I'd like to grab a shower. Do you want to wait in my room for me? I mean...if you're uncomfortable down here by yourself." 

It was a no brainer, the sexual tension and chemistry you'd had all day was like a current of electricity running between you.

"Lead the way." 

You looked around his room while he was showering. Sure the mattress was on the floor but the bed was made and his clothes were hung neatly in the closet. His dresser was stacked with notebooks that were overflowing with lyrics. Pieces of paper with doodles and random words loosely spilling from between the pages. 

Pictures, they must be family, small resemblances in their smiles and it looked like he had a brother. 

He had a shelf full of colognes. Picking up the Paco Rabanne he walked in as you were pulling the cap off to sniff it. 

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to be nosey, I just wanted to know what you smelled like." Idiot, of all the creepy things to say. 

He smiled, "It's alright, I'm not hiding anything." 

"No," your cheeks flushed when it finally registered that he was half naked in front of you. "I guess you really aren't." 

"Shit, sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just forgot to grab my clean clothes before I went in." He opened a drawer to pull out a shirt. 

"It doesn't," you blurted embarrassed. 

He pulled his hand away from the clothing and raised his brows quizzically, "So you don't want me to get dressed?" 

You walked towards him, he was gorgeous. Water droplets still clung to his muscular chest like he couldn't afford the time away from you to fully dry himself. 

"I think," you stammered, "That I'd actually prefer if you didn't."

You placed your hand on his bicep and waited for his response. 

It didn't come from words, it came from two soft warm lips attaching themselves to yours. 

"You're a good good kisser Min Yoongi. Is your mouth that good at everything?" 

"You mean like singing?" He teased your lips with his while he popped the button on your jeans. 

"No," you giggled. 

"Then you must mean biting?" His teeth lightly bit the flesh of your thigh as he kneeled to lower your pants and underwear. 

"Nope, that's not what I meant either." 

"Oh, I know, you must mean eating?" His warm tongue found your clit and gave it a little flick. "I think I'm pretty good at it." 

You ran your fingers through his hair while he looked up at you hungry. 

"Prove it," you moaned." 

Stepping out of your pants you leaned back against his dresser. Ass resting on the edge he opened your thighs, a low mumble of, "fuck" drifting out of his mouth before he dove in. 

His large hands held you open while his silky tongue explored every crevice of your sex sending your senses into a frenzy. Coming up for air every so often he'd moan at the loss of your taste before inhaling and going back in for more. He wasn't methodical, his mouth was unpredictable. One minute his tongue would be deep inside you and the next he'd have his lips around your clit sucking softly. 

"Come over here with me."

He led you to the bed, taking off your shirt before guiding you down. Your eyes ran over his body stopping at the bulge under the tightly wrapped terry cloth towel. The wetness in between your legs grew just thinking about getting to see it. 

He laid down beside you, holding your face and kissing you while you reached to undo his shroud.  

Smiling, he pulled your hand away, "I'm not done with you yet. Tell me what you want me to do to you." 

You had to rub your legs together for friction, he was driving you wild. "This morning, when I watched you playing?" 

He smiled like he knew.

"All I could think of was how sexy your..." He stopped your words by hooking two fingers  into your mouth and rubbing them against your tongue. 

"You were thinking about how good these would feel inside you?" He kissed your neck, "You really know what you want huh?" 

"Some people even say I'm spoiled."

"Do you always get your way?"

He plunged them inside of you changing your words of, "I hope so," into a long drawn out moan.  

Kissing his way down your neck and over your collar bones his mouth lingered on your breasts. Skimming his lips across your nipples he watched as they hardened into excited little buds. A small smile graced his face, he was clearly proud of how he was making your body react. 

His long piano fingers played skillfully inside of you while he latched onto your nipple and suckled. Your heart beat loudly like it was part of the parties soundtrack, the music  reverberating through the floor as he fingered you. The whole unfolding scene felt like a dream. Dizzy and intoxicated from lust and heavy breathing you didn't want to wake up to a reality other than this one.

A thud outside the door snapped you back, your thighs clamping shut on his hand as you pulled the covers up to hide yourself. 

"It's locked, nobody can get in, don't worry." He pulled the sheet back off of you to continue his work. 

"Are you sure they can't get in?"

A loud moan rang through the hall and the thuds against the wall gave away the truth. 

"I'm sure they have their own agenda." 

You flopped back trying to regain the moment while his fingers  stroked your walls. 

It was distracting at first, people fucking right outside his door. But a few minutes of listening to their pleasure, of hearing their moans and the pleas of harder, you were more turned on than ever. 

He watched you unravelling at the  pornographic sounds. "You wanna cum when they do?" 

"Please..please," you begged in time with the drag of his fingers. 

The sounds escalating on both sides of the wall seemed to add fuel to the fires of both immanent orgasms. Just as the stranger in the hall screamed her end, Yoongi pumped and sucked harder until you finished longer and louder than your unknown counterpart. He laughed as he pulled his fingers out of you, the strings of excitement cleaned off with a lurid suck of his own digits. 

Your head was still reeling when he pulled his towel off. His thick beautiful cock looked so hard and ripe as he reached in his drawer for a condom. 

"Can I put it on you?" You took it from his hand and ripped the package open. Holding it between your fingertips you got closer and ran your tongue around the head of his cock. The taste of pre cum on his freshly washed dick made you ready for more.

Giving him a few deep sucks and pumps you needed him now. He watched while you rolled the thin latex tightly over his twitching thickness and straddled him, wasting no time to begin bouncing on his cock. 

Your kisses were messy, hands entwined in his hair, your breasts grazing against his skin with every thrust while you rode him. "Fuck, you feel so good." 

His hands gripped your ass squeezing as he moaned underneath you. Orgasm building like a hurricane, the eye of the perfect storm became more imminent with every slide of your pleasure point against his soaked pubic trail.

"Make me cum Yoongi." 

He flipped you swiftly onto your back and his hips picked up the pace to the finish line. Thrusting in between your open thighs his cock drove you to convulsively cum, your cunt squeezing his own warm liquid into the condom between you. 

He lay with his arms around you in silence. Your head on his chest listening to his heart slowly make it's way back to a normal pace.

"I can't promise you anything more than who I am. I don't have anything to offer you but dreams that may or may not come true."

He stroked your hair as he spoke his truth. "I'm working hard, but I can't guarantee that I'll ever amount to anything more than a delivery boy." 

You sat up on your elbow and stared at the man you'd just fallen in love with. "I want to share all of my time with you Yoongi. In fact, I insist you take it. I've heard you play and I believe in you."

You waited until your lips were just about to land on his. "I do have one condition though." 

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "Yeah, what's that?" 

"You've got to promise you'll write me a song. Agree?" 

His fingers splayed caressing your back, he couldn't help the huge smile that took over his face when he kissed you. 

"I agree. But you didn't have to give up your time for that, I was going to do it anyway."

[random-mha-thoughts]

Sleepless (LoV x Reader)

Pairing: League of Villains x Reader, platonic relationship

Shigaraki, Toga, Twice, Kurogiri, Dabi x reader

@riarora messaged me with the request: "So I was thinking platonic LOV x child reader (You can make them 18 if you're more comfortable, but I was thinking more like 14-15)The reader (I'll refer to them as she/her, but you can make it gender neutral) has really bad insomnia so every night, she would be pacing around, doing anything and everything to make sure no dark thoughts take over. Usually, none of the LOV would bat an eye, but considering the fact that she's a child, they feel sympathy, so they indirectly try to get her to fall asleep. Like, sending her on extra missions (always with protection of course) or changing her normal tea with sleeping tea, or maybe just straight up telling her to sleep."

Genre: Comfort

Word Count: 2,291

Tags:  @yuki-osaki​ @liviitehe​ @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog

a/n: Thanks for the request sweetie!  I hope you like it~

Wrote this while listening to a Shinsou playlist on Spotify and it was pretty chill to listen to, if y’all want the link you can comment or dm me and I’ll send it.  Something different, but I like how it turned out. It's twice as long as I thought it would end up being, but I think it fits.  It's a comfort story that I hope you guys will read even if you don't normally read stuff for the villains.  I really like it, I hope you guys read it if you need some comforting.  Enjoy~

Like a lot of people, I don't have the nicest thoughts.  Most nights, I'm trying everything to block them out and find the sweet release of sleep, whether it's trying to consciously think of other things to block them out, escaping out of my sheets to pace or run in place inside this small room I was given, or getting up to get a snack.  Unsurprisingly, none of it works.  The rest of the League constantly tease me about my dark circles making me look more villainous all I do is smile, because at least it means I'm part of something now.  I would ask them to get me something to busy myself, like a sketch book or a notebook to keep me busy at night, but they aren't my parents; they have no obligation to take care of me and they've already give me a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in.

Little by little, the perceived barrier between us broke down before I realized it.

It started when I took one of my late night trips to the kitchen only to see the light on already.  Toga's crooked but innocent smile beams up at me as she twirls a knife in her hand, leaning against the counter.  "You're up too, hmm~?  Wanna take a trip with me?"

We ended up shrugging on our jackets and masks, walking into the dark, brisk night to the nearest grocery store.  "You waited until 2 AM to get pomegranates?" I raised an eyebrow at her zipping straight to the produce section of the market.

"I didn't wanna go alone~" Toga casually responded in her singsongy voice.  "A little girl like me shouldn't be out alone at night.  Besides, late night shopping in a practically empty supermarket is the best time to go.  It's super creepy!"  She giggles, filling a plastic bag with three large fruits.

We returned to our hideout and she asked me to help her de-seed them.  I slide in next to her, taking the knife out of her hand.  Not like I had anything better to do.  What was I gonna do, sleep?  Sure, okay.

She sliced the fruits in half and held her hands over a large, empty container, using just her hands to push the seeds off the bitter white core, humming to herself.  "Are you sure there isn't a more...strategic way to do this?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at the mess she was making of her hands.

Toga just giggled and held my stare with her cat-like yellow eyes.  "When it gets all over your fingers, it kind of looks like blood doesn't it?" She shivered in ecstasy as she licked the scarlet juice running down her hands and the knife she cut them with.  "Mmm, so sweet."

While I continued, trying to avail to be as clean as possible, taking sips of the tea she made for us while we work.  I chanced a few tastes myself, chuckling at my own hands.  "You're right, it looks like we've commit murder."

"Right?" she chirped with the widest grin, "Isn't it fun?"

I made a better point to get more juice on my fingers before curling my fingers grossly towards her.  "I want your heart, Toga.  Give it to me!" I growled.

She giggled and held one of my wrists so she can lick some of the juice off.  "Too bad you can't have it."

After we finished gathering the seeds into the bowl, we sat on the couch, munching on them by the handful and finishing our drinks.  My eyelids kept drooping as I drank my tea.

"We should go on adventures more often," Toga purred as I near the end, taking my cup, laying me down, and covering my body with a blanket before petting my head.  Her voice singing, "Sleep well, (Y/n)" was the last thing I heard before drifting off.  It was the best night's sleep I'd gotten in a long while.

.

A few days later, Kurogiri stopped me from heading to bed while the rest went off.  "I heard you and Toga up late a few nights ago.  Why don't you help me clean up before going up?"

I agreed, mostly because I would be awake with my thoughts anyway.  He had me shining his glasses, climbing up a ladder to dust the top shelves of his bar, wiping down the counters, and organizing his liquor.

"Have some of this, child."  He set down a cup of tea and saucer on the counter while I was organizing his top shelf liquor, the clock flashing 1:57 AM.  "You've been a big help."

I climbed down carefully and stare down at the translucent, peach colored liquid carefully.

He noticed my cautiousness.  "How are you adjusting?"

I tilted the cup around, swishing the liquid around before holding it up to my lips.  "It's better than where I was before, thank you."

"I'm glad you're settling in and getting along with the rest."

"It's just Toga so far."  I sipped a good portion of the hot liquid, easing down my through smooth as the honey I can taste that he added.

"It'll take time for the others to warm up to you.  Shigaraki and Dabi especially don't take to strangers that easily, but they'll come around."  His cold, portal enclosed hand rested on my head.  "We're happy to take you in as our family, (Y/n)."

I smiled at his assurance of me, nodding in gratitude, but still hesitant about feeling that I fit in here.

We talked for a while more until I finished his tea and he sent me off to bed.  Though reluctant - I even offered to do more cleaning up to keep myself there - he insisted I leave.  I trudge to my room, the exhaustion in my bones and muscles more apparent than usual.  I know this old trick; even when I'm fatigued, my thoughts still keep me up.  But as I ease under the blanket and close my eyes, I feel myself pulled down into sleep without interference.  I started thinking there was something in the tea.

.

It took a while for Shigaraki to come around, as Kurogiri said.  He heard the rustling of me rolling around in bed on his way back from getting a glass of water from the kitchen.  "Hey, you still awake?"

I turned over and sat up.  "Am I bothering you?  I'm sorry-"

"You wanna come play games with me?"  It was an unexpected question.  He never talked much to me so I figured he wanted to keep his distance.

But I still agreed, ending up in his dark room where only the TV cast its artificial light over us.  He pulled up another pillow for me to sit with him, leaning back against the mattress and box-spring stack.  He resumed his game, some kind of RPG with amazing art and storytelling.  The main character had jet black hair and traveled with three other guys of varying talents and personalities.  They seemed to have a great relationship together as they trekked across their virtual world in a fancy car. (1000 brownie points if you know which game i'm referencing)

There was a hilarious part in the game where the crew rode on the backs of these fluffy, yellow birds that were the size of ostriches.  "What's the point of this part?" I asked curiously.

Shigaraki beamed at the screen, his chapped lips spreading in joy.  "It's just something you always have to do in these games."

My eyes remained glued to the screen.  Shigaraki wouldn't ask me if I wanted to play after one time, which I appreciated.  I'm not too good at playing games, I prefer watching other people play them from the sidelines.  I followed the complicated story line, impressed with how fleshed out the world is, the detail in the art, and the power system interface.  If I were better at gaming, I'd understand how amazing it would feel playing it; I was immersed in it even as a spectator.

The game got to a cave-crawling segment.  The eased up voice acting, ambient noise, and dimmed lighting made my eyes heavy.  I didn't want to fall asleep in Shigaraki's room, but I also knew that I wouldn't be able to sleep if I went back to mine.

"You can sleep if you want.  Get comfortable."

Though he didn't particularly use a motherly voice like Kurogiri, I understood he was trying to come off the same way.  I ended up laying on my head on my pillow, sprawling onto the floor on my stomach, the noise of the game slowly lulling me off to sleep.  In the morning, I would wake to a blanket pulled over my body.  It somehow became a weekly occurrence; we wouldn't talk to each other, but the silence was comfortable.  It was reassuring that I didn't always need that strange tea to put me to sleep.

.

Late nights with Twice are probably my favorite.  He's like a huge dad, or much older big brother.  I connected with him on a more emotional level than the rest.  If I found myself in the kitchen rummaging for snacks, he'd come up and pick out a bunch and sit us at the table with some tea.

"I have trouble sleeping too sometimes," he admitted, popping some chips in his mouth.  "I was lonely before I found these guys.  I had no one but myself, and the many versions of myself weren't the most forgiving on me either."

I stared down at my glass of warmed milk.  "So your thoughts were actually told out loud to you all the time?" I whispered softly.

"Yup."  He blinked before waving his hands in front of his face wildly.  "But that doesn't mean I had it worse than you, that's not what I'm saying at all!  Your problems are just as valid and important and-!"

"It's okay, I understand."

He offered a sympathetic lopsided smile.  "I know you've been through a lot, kid, and it probably feels like a lot and nothing at the same time.  The times when it feels like a lot will hurt, and that's okay.  You'll get through it and grow up to deal with it in your own way.  And there is a light at the end of the tunnel, believe me.  You can't see it now, but it's there.  Keep fighting through it."  He touched my hand over the glass.  "I'm here for you, we're here for you."

I felt like crying, suddenly choked up by the bitter nostalgia of missing my parents.  "You'd be a great Dad, Twice."  I tried to cover for my tears and unsteady voice by clearing my throat and rubbing my eyes.

He hummed in response.  "I've always wanted a kid.  Things never ended up that way though."

I found myself finally sobbing at his misfortune piling on top of mine.  "That's really shitty actually," I choked out.

He handed me a tissue to wipe my face with.  "Let it out, kid.  Sometimes it's good to just cry it out."

And I did, until I finally sobbed myself to sleep at the table, and Twice picked up and returned me to my bed, tucking me in like the soft dad he should've been.

.

Dabi remained the hard nose one, keeping his distance and looking down on me.  Like Shigaraki, walked by my room while I was tossing around, but he stood over my bed.  "Hey.  If you don't go to sleep, I'm putting you to work."

Put me to work he did, sending me out to fetch him snacks, cards, or cigarettes.  Once, he decided to join me and we ended up on the roof of our abandoned building after coming back from the convenience store.  The stars already dusted the sky as Dabi lit the cigarettes with his blue flames just for fun, watching them disintegrate into ash in front of his eyes.  I never knew how to get him to open up, he's too gruff for me to start a conversation with him, so I stuck to being mesmerized by his flames.

"What's on your mind that you can't sleep, kid?" he finally asked, breaking the awkward silence and cutting off his quirk to stare me hard in the eyes.

"N-Nothing."  I hated to admit it, but I'm scared of Dabi the most.  Both him and Shigaraki can end my life in a fraction of a second, but Dabi overall has the scarier aura.  "Just...thinking."

After a few more moments of braving his stare, he looked up.  "Yeah, we all do that a lot, don't we?  Us damn human can't help but think.  It'd be nice if we can pull the cord sometimes, yeah?"

"I guess," I answered carefully.

He studied me again out of the corner of his eye before flickering back up.  "Do you ever think that's why none of us survive well alone?  We need other people to distract us all the time because then we'd get stuck in our heads, and we all know how dangerous that can be if we're stuck there for too long.  It never ends well."  He adjusts himself, placing his hands behind his head to rest his neck.  "We all got demons, kid.  It's what makes us stronger, but you gotta grow from them first.  And I guess that's what the rest of us are for, so if you need us, you know what to do."

It was with Dabi that I realized he had a point.  I'm not alone anymore and none of the others seem to think of me as a stranger or a stupid little kid they have to be responsible for.  I'm a member of this group now, I should rely on them as support, just not in the traditional way.

How I ultimately ended up here doesn't help any of the awful things I tell myself or what happened to me, but being here definitely helps, especially when I'm surrounded by people who subtly share solidarity with for now.

[sam-and-buck]

At Home With Captain America

Fandom: MCU

Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes

Rating: G

Words: 7.7k

Also on AO3

“What can you tell me about how you got to know the Winter Soldier?”

Wilson chuckles. “The first time I met Buck—Sergeant Barnes—he ripped the steering wheel out of the car I was driving on the freeway. He got on the roof, punched through the windshield, pulled the steering wheel off. Just like that.” He mimes with his hands as he describes it.

This doesn’t sound like an auspicious beginning to me, but Wilson is laughing.

At Home with Captain America

By: Adrien Davis

Published: February 2, 2026, 3:35 PM 

To say I’m intimidated by interviewing Captain America in his own home would be an understatement, and I would never have thought to ask if I could do that if he hadn’t personally invited me. Normally, I’d start one of these articles by describing the location, maybe even throw in an anecdote or two about how I got there, but that’s not going to be possible here.

Sam Wilson lives on [REDACTED] in [REDACTED]. It was a windy day.

Here’s what I can tell you: it’s an apartment. A nice one. Two bedroom, two bath.

“Am I allowed to describe the inside of your house?” is one of the first things I say to him, after getting his permission to turn on my recorder.

“Go right ahead,” he laughs, arms crossed over the worn USAF logo on his gray t-shirt. “Just don’t put the street name in there or anything.”

Wilson gives me a moment to poke around. Whoever decorated this place has good taste; it’s no haphazard bachelor pad. There’s an exposed brick wall in the otherwise slate blue living room, several plants (which I assume are fakes—albeit convincing ones—since Wilson is, by his own admission, not home as often as he’d like to be), a sturdy walnut coffee table, and a magnificently squishy-looking red couch.

It’s unmistakably lived in, though. I don’t get the sense that the place has been scrubbed spotless or particularly arranged for my visit. There are two abandoned mugs on coasters sitting on the coffee table, along with several different remote controls, and a stack of half-finished books with dog-eared corners. A pile of mail has been pushed to the side. Next to the door, a wall-mounted coat rack holds several leather jackets in shades of brown and black, and at least as many sweaters, mostly navy blue, charcoal and maroon. The shoe rack underneath houses multiple pairs of black combat boots, worn running shoes, house slippers. And next to that, on the floor, a large, gleaming silver case with red detail that could only contain Wilson’s Falcon wingpack. The legendary shield is propped up against it, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

I’m trying to imagine how it would be to leave the house for him. Got my keys, wings, phone, shield, wallet?

There are pictures on the walls and the mantle above the fireplace, under the television. People who I can only assume are Wilson’s relatives by their similarly gap-toothed smiles. Veterans. Wilson in full air force gear next to a blond man I don’t recognize. Then Captain Steve Rogers, in the 1940s with the Howling Commandos, and in the twenty-first century by himself. Wilson with Rogers, and Natasha Romanoff. One conspicuously empty nail where a large frame would clearly fit. 

Scattered among these are several very old, dour black and white photographs of a dark-haired family. The first shows a mother, father and two small children, a boy and girl. The second is the mother and children only, taken some time after, judging by their apparent ages. The third is several years later still; the same children with light eyes and dark hair, but they’re teeangers now, and without parents. They look haunting and out-of-place among the glossy prints of Wilson’s big, happy family in matching 80s colorblocked tracksuits, or Wilson and his sisters in front of a Christmas tree, surrounded by wrapping paper and toys.

There’s also a wood-framed painting that stands out: an idyllic watercolor of a little farmhouse with a green roof and shuttered windows in a field. A small pile of lumber and a white mailbox make up the foreground. The most distinctive feature is the signature at the bottom: S.G.R. I know those initials. 

“Captain Rogers painted this?”

“Uh huh,” Wilson nods fondly, hands now in his pockets. “Man of many talents. Maybe every talent. Having a hard time thinking of anything he wasn’t good at.”

I hear the unstated in that. A tough act to follow.

I think, for purposes of journalistic integrity, I should probably insert my bias before we go any further. We had never met before this interview, but I am and have always been enormously supportive of Captain Wilson and the work he’s done, and have written myriad articles and think pieces about him over the past several years. He’s shown himself time and again to be a man of unshakable integrity and endless emotional intelligence, and frankly, I’m more worried about the poor sucker who’s going to have to follow Wilson. Rogers did a lot of great things, but among the best of them was choosing a successor.

I tell him as much and he smiles, looking down at his shoes.

“Yeah, I know that’s how you feel,” he says. “I requested you for this piece, actually, because of that. People are going to accuse me of wanting a softball interview here, and maybe they’re right. For this one, I think that’s what I need.”

I’m not sure what he means by that, but he continues before I can ask.

“We should probably do this in the kitchen.” Wilson indicates behind us with his thumb, after I’ve stood silently in his living room for probably way too long. “That couch is too comfortable. I end up falling asleep every time I sit on it.”

The kitchen is, perhaps, a little cramped. There’s a large, dark marble-topped kitchen island that just fits in the center of the room with four bar stools tucked under it. The cabinets are tall, with glass doors showcasing a massive collection of healthy, but non-perishable food. The shelf nearest us holds several well-used bags of pantry supplies: chickpea flour, arrowroot starch, raw sugar. There’s a pasta shelf above it, but no Kraft Mac in sight; everything is lentil-based, chickpea-based, black bean-based.

“Have a seat,” Wilson says, inclining his head towards one of the barstools. “Can I get you something to drink?” He opens the refrigerator.

“We have…” he pauses. “Water. Sorry, just got back from Ecuador this morning. Sparkling or still?”

I accept a glass of still water from Captain America. He sits down on the stool next to mine.

His house, or what I’ve seen of it, is homey in a way I can’t imagine any of the late Tony Stark’s buildings ever were, and I mention this.

“I lived at the Avengers Tower briefly,” Wilson tells me. “Tony liked everything streamlined, really modern. Kinda sparse for my taste. I needed some real furniture when I got out of there, you know? Like, things that were made by human beings. Stuff with ‘character,’ that’s what Steve would call it.”

“So you decorated this place?”

“I think it’s about fifty-fifty,” Wilson says, indicated with vague hand motion.

This is my in.

This interview, as you may have read on the cover description, is actually intended to be an exposé about the working partnership between Wilson and Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, but I didn’t want to be the one who brought him up first. 

All I knew going in is that they’re a package deal in the field, a unit. We’ve all seen the footage.

Also, Barnes lives here too, but evidently, he’s not home.

“What can you tell me about how you got to know the Winter Soldier?”

Wilson chuckles. “The first time I met Buck—Sergeant Barnes—he ripped the steering wheel out of the car I was driving on the freeway. He got on the roof, punched through the windshield, pulled the steering wheel off. Just like that.” He mimes with his hands as he describes it.

This doesn’t sound like an auspicious beginning to me, but Wilson is laughing.

“I hope he apologized to you for that,” I tell him, because I’m not exactly sure how else to respond.

“Oh yeah, of course he did, even though he knows I don’t blame him for it. He doesn’t remember it at all,” says Wilson. “There are a lot of gaps, to be honest. Most of it is gaps.”

What Wilson is likely referring to here is the decades-long period in which Barnes was under the complete mental and physical influence of the Nazi splinter group known as HYDRA. If you’re unfamiliar with the history of Sergeant Barnes, I’ll list a couple of great articles for you to read at the end of this one. I assure you, it’s worth your time. 

Wilson has without a doubt been Barnes’s most ardent supporter. He’s spoken out many times about not judging Barnes based on the actions he couldn’t control, and has masterfully refocused the national conversation towards Barnes’s invaluable contributions in World War II and in the recent war to bring half the universe’s population back into existence. Wilson has been quoted as saying, “The least extraordinary thing about Sergeant Barnes is his vibranium arm.”*

But perhaps Wilson’s most effective act towards building public confidence in Barnes was his decision to designate him as an almost exclusive mission partner. Even if the general populace has been reluctant to trust the Winter Soldier, it is abundantly clear that Captain America does, absolutely. Barnes is a constant in the footage of Wilson’s exploits. The moment he touches down on the ground after a successful arrest or negotiation, Barnes is right there. He’s been sighted treating Wilson’s minor injuries, tightening straps on the Falcon wingsuit before Wilson takes flight, and he stands quietly behind Wilson during almost all of his many public appearances.

Despite his ubiquitous presence in Wilson’s company, Barnes has remained elusive for comment. He has no social media, and the only public statement he’s made to date was in November of 2023, in support of Rogers’s decision to pass on the legacy of Captain America. Barnes expressed his categorical agreement that Wilson is “the best and only choice for this job,” describing him as both “worthy of the honor,” and “equipped for the burden.”**

“Is it fair to say that Sergeant Barnes almost comes with the shield?” I ask.

Wilson makes a face.

“No, it isn’t,” he shakes his head. “The shield is an accessory; my partner is not. I really don’t like it when people lump him in with the shield. It sort of minimizes how Bucky and I have made a series of conscious choices to be the way we are now. Especially because he’s experienced being fully stripped of his personal autonomy—as a veteran, I can say I’ve had a taste of that, but nothing like what he’s been through—and I think it cheapens his choice to do what he does if we imply that he, as a person, is a package deal with my title, you know?”

The therapist in Wilson is showing. In addition to his decorated military history and service as Captain America, he has a background in psychology, and a Masters degree in Social Work with a focus on Veterans’ mental health issues. He’s worked extensively with the VA as a leader in group therapy.

“So Sergeant Barnes is by your side day in and day out because he wants to be?”

This, Wilson has another unequivocal answer for. “Yes. He wants to be there, and I want him there. And here at home.”

“Tell me a little more about that,” I say. “After the...steering-wheel-stealing incident. Once he was more or less himself. Did you two hit it off right away?”

Wilson laughs again. “Not at all,” he says. “I think there was this resentment, kind of, in the beginning. Like I’m Steve’s best friend and no, I’m Steve’s best friend. Real elementary school stuff. He really got on my nerves; just everything about him annoyed me, and the feeling was mutual. Looking back…”

And here Wilson pauses for a moment. He chews on his bottom lip, and I notice all at once how nervous his body language has become. His fingers are drumming on the table, the line of his shoulders is taut, his leg is bouncing. He clears his throat though, and seems determined to continue.

“Looking back, I can see where it was coming from. It wasn’t clear to me at the time, but now I get it. There was this one time, it was during the fight over the Accords. We barely knew each other at this point. Buck and I, we’re fighting Spider-Man—who neither of us had ever even heard of before, like, that afternoon—and he pins us to the floor of this hangar with that goo he shoots out of his wrist. Really gross. I manage to get Redwing [Wilson’s drone] to fling Spider-Man out the window. So we’re just laying there, me and Bucky, stuck. And he goes ‘you couldn’t have done that before?’ And I just turn to him, and I’m like, ‘I hate you.’”

At this, Wilson really starts cracking up. He relaxes visibly, just a little.

“Did you mean it?”

“I sure thought I did,” he says, still chuckling. “Like, I wasn’t about to take it back.”

He continues: “Anyway, so after Steve, you know, passed on the shield to me, that’s when things really changed. Actually, back up a second. After the whole Accords incident, we ended up sending Bucky to Wakanda for like… to hear him describe it, it’s like we sent him for a two-year spa retreat. They unscrambled his brain as best they could—and really, I think it’s a good thing they couldn’t do any more because I wouldn’t wish some of his memories on my worst enemy—and he spent like months meditating in a hut and milking goats and going to therapy every day. When I met up with him again, I barely would’ve recognized him.”

“So that’s kind of when you guys reconciled? The arguing stopped?”

“Oh, it never stopped,” Wilson says with a grin. “We still argue all the time, about all kinds of things. Just ask Rhodey [Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, aka War Machine] or Scott [Lang, Ant-Man] or anybody. But the dynamic shifted a little, I think. Bucky’s got… Like I can’t imagine some of the stuff he’s been through, but he’s just kind of learned to roll with it. He is hands down the most resilient person I have ever met. Easily. It was real hard to keep hating him when he was so dead set on getting me to like him, too.”

“Can you walk me through the process by which you two decided to live together?”

“Yeah,” he says, and the nervousness is back. He smooths his hands on his thighs over his jeans. “So, basically, once I got the shield, we’d just barely come back. Like everyone else who got… I—I still don’t know if this is like an okay question to ask people. Do you mind me asking if you were dusted?”

I don’t mind. “Yeah, I was.”

“So you get it,” Wilson says. “Might be the most vulnerable I’d ever felt. I got nothing. Nowhere to go, just the clothes on my back. Then Steve hands me this shield and this enormous legacy—and I look back and there’s Bucky, standing a couple of yards behind me, nodding like, yeah, it should be you. He was the first person who knew, and he’s been right by my side ever since.”

“So you decided to stick together?”

“The original conversation about it was pretty logistical,” Wilson says, rubbing his beard. “There was so much going on, it’s hard to remember exactly what was said, but I think it was along the lines of him offering to fetch the shield for me while I learned how to throw it, and stuff like that. Just easier to do when we’re together 24/7.”

“So rooming together didn’t actually grow out of field partnerships?”

“It was definitely the other way around,” says Wilson. “Basically, I’d get a call from the powers that be that there was something I had to go check out, and it was easier to just walk across the hall than to pick someone else, try to wake them up, and then have to rendez-vous and strategize.”

“I’ll bet,” I say.

Wilson nods. “Easier and faster. Bucky can go from dead asleep to fully geared up in under three minutes. The first few times were like that, with me just knocking on his bedroom door like ‘hey, I need—’ and he comes barreling out covered in knives thirty seconds later like, ‘where are we going?’ We just… clicked. And I’ll be honest; I was really surprised. He’s got my six, I’ve got his, and I never question it. I started asking for him specifically on all my assignments after that, and Fury [Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.] and everyone caught on quick that that’s how it was gonna be. I don’t have to ask anymore.”

“Do you see this continuing long term?” I ask.

Wilson doesn’t hesitate. “Definitely.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Sergeant Barnes now?” I ask. “Clearly you’re partners in the field, and roommates, but…”

Wilson takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking, but he clasps them together in front of him and looks me straight in the eye.

“As of last month,” he says slowly, “Bucky and I are married.”

In the spirit of my interview with Captain America, who stands for honesty and justice and integrity, I think you deserve to know the truth. I want to say that I didn’t drop my recorder, but I did. It clatters to the floor, luckily undamaged.

That startles Wilson into a laugh. For the second it takes me to retrieve my recorder from under my seat, I wonder if he’s kidding.

“Come on,” he says. “Say something. I’m getting nervous.” He’s smiling, but not joking.

“Congratulations,” I blurt out. “I...really?”

“Yeah.” The tension leaves his body in a rush. “We, uh, it’s official.”

I’m struggling for questions at this point. The talking points I was planning on hitting in this interview are all suddenly moot, and I decide to throw out my mental to-do list entirely. I finally settle on, “How long have you two been together?”

“A little over two years,” Wilson answers. “About three months after I took up the shield.”

“How did it happen?”

Wilson grins. “Uh, well. I had sort of been…having feelings about him, you know, for awhile. Actually, it’s more like I had noticed that I was having more-than-friendly feelings in the few weeks leading up to that. I think the main reason we had so much trouble getting along in the beginning is that it took some time to process those feelings as attraction. So in a way, I was interested on some level right from the get go.”

“Even if that person wasn’t...behind the wheel of their own brain, so to speak—” I start, but Wilson interjects.

“I see what you did there.”

“—I think it would take a lot for me to be attracted to someone who had previously tried to kill me.”

“Less than I would’ve expected, that’s for sure,” Wilson says. “But it’s not like I was checking him out while he was busy tearing my wings off my back; I’m talking about once he was mentally present in his body. That was like...two years after the whole steering wheel incident, and I hadn’t seen him at all in the interim. I didn’t even know where he was during that time.”

“So it had at least been awhile since he had tried to kill you?”

“Oh yeah. And plenty of other people tried to kill me in those two years, and they weren’t even sorry about it. You gotta adjust your standards, you know?” he says with a laugh.

“Anyway, if you ask him, he says he’s been all in since the moment he saw me back in Wakanda after his little vacation. Now we’re talking about four years since the steering wheel thing. Me, Steve, Nat and everybody; we landed in Wakanda and Bucky’s there. He and I look at each other over Steve’s shoulder, and like, bam, that was it for him. 

“And then there’s five years where neither of us exist. We get back, we fight the monsters, Steve gives me the shield, and while all this is happening, apparently Bucky has come to the conclusion that he’s in love with me. After that, he was just waiting for me to catch up.”

“And he just knew you’d get there? Did you give him any indication that you were interested, or…?”

“I definitely did, but not intentionally,” says Wilson. “He’s very perceptive—like way more than I was giving him credit for—but I think it’s a combination of that and me not being as subtle as I think I am.

“Because, see there’s this invisible line I’ve drawn here—at least that’s how he was thinking about it—and I keep dancing a little closer to that line every day, the line being the no homo line; the point where you can’t take it back. The flirting, I mean. I, of course, think he has no clue and that I’m being slick about it. Actually, lemme ask—how much detail are you looking for here? Like do you want to know the whole story or just—”

“Lay it on me,” I tell him. “Just however you want to tell it.”

“Alright. Where was I? So I’m just there going back and forth on whether or not it’s a good idea to risk this roommate-partner-buddy thing we’ve got going here by trying to make a move that, frankly, I have no clue if he’s gonna be receptive to. You have to remember we’re talking about a guy from the Great Depression here, like that’s the time period he grew up in. I’m no historian, but I think it’s common knowledge that if you were a man who was attracted to men back then, you mostly kept that to yourself. The chances of him bringing up his sexual orientation unprompted are very low. And like, I’m 90% sure I’ve caught him looking before, but that’s never a guarantee, you know?

“So, instead of sitting down and having a mature conversation about my feelings, I keep doing this thing where, for example, say he’s trying something new with his hair, and I’ll say something nice about it. And then I follow up immediately with, ‘Almost makes up for your ugly mug,’ or whatever, which—I mean, he’s such a good-looking guy, like what ugly mug, obviously I don’t mean that. And he’s not stupid, he knows what he looks like. So he picks up on what I’m doing, doesn’t say anything, and lets this go on for months.

“Eventually, there’s one night… We’re on the couch, watching like, I don’t know, Seinfeld or something. Whatever was on. He’s reading a book on my tablet, looking all relaxed and handsome. I can’t have that, so I start egging him on like I usually do, and I guess I got close enough to the line that he just puts the tablet down, turns to me and says, ‘Sam, you know there’s no line, right?’ 

“And I’m going, okay, what does that mean? Like, is this a conversation I was previously a part of and forgot or...? Where is this ‘line’ thing coming from? And so I ask him—I think I just said, ‘What?’ At that point he looks me right in the eye, and he goes, ‘You can kiss me if you want to.’” So I did, and he was ready for it, like no hesitation. Like I said: waiting for me to catch up.”

This, as you can imagine, is far beyond the level of detail I could have ever imagined I’d get about Captain America’s love life in my wildest dreams. I decide to ask a new question, because I feel like I’d be pushing my luck to delve further when he’s already been so open about this experience. 

“Who proposed and when?” 

“Ooh,” says Wilson, “I guess technically I did, but I’m gonna go on record saying that one was a group effort.”

“Well, now you’re gonna have to explain that,” I tell him. “What’s a ‘group effort’ proposal look like?”

“Hmm. I backed myself into that one, didn’t I?” he says. “First, I want the record to show that before I called you guys to set up this interview, I specifically asked Bucky if there were any us-related topics or whatever that were off-limits to discuss and he said ‘No,’ and I said, ‘Are you sure?’ and he said ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ and I said, “You better be sure, because whatever I say is gonna be public knowledge after that,” and he said “I know, I get it, Jesus.” Then I dropped it because he sounded like he was getting kinda irritated. If he didn’t want me to tell you any of this stuff, that would’ve been the time to speak up, so here we go:

“We were at… Well, I can’t tell you exactly where we were, but let’s just say we were working. There was nobody else in the room, but we were getting ready to go out in the field; seemed like it was gonna be a pretty...intense situation out there. I had my whole suit on, he was calibrating his arm, and the conversation ended up at living wills. As you can imagine, that’s an important thing to have when you’re in this line of work. So he proceeded to tell me that the last time he’d updated his was never and that his next-of-kin was nobody. And I was like, ‘So what, your grenade launchers are all gonna go to the state? I don’t even get the red one?’ and I’m just giving him a hard time, you know, and he’s like, ‘Sam.’ 

“And then, my god, he just goes all the way off about how much he loves me and trusts me and I—we don’t usually go there. I mean, we’d been on the same page for a long time as far as, we’ve established that we’re in love, this relationship is going well, but it’s not something that we’d verbalized in any real depth. That’s just a level of like, exposure, vulnerability, I think, that doesn’t come naturally to most people, myself included. 

“So he just keeps talking—and I think it’s fair to say he’s not a very talkative guy most of the time—and I’m standing there with my jaw on the floor because he is not holding back, and this is all clearly unrehearsed. Like, this is just how he really feels about me, apparently. By the time he’s finished, I’m crying, he’s crying, it’s a mess. And so I open my mouth, and I have no idea what I’m gonna say to all that, but what comes out is, “Will you marry me?” I wasn’t planning on it, but suddenly I just knew. Best decision I ever made.”

“And you’ve made some very important decisions in your life.”

“That’s right. I know which ones I’m leaving out by saying this was the best, and I stand by it.”

At that moment, as if on cue, the lock clicks, and Sergeant Barnes walks through the front door carrying two very full bags of groceries on his vibranium arm. He tosses a set of car keys into a little dish and locks the door behind him.

“Hey, babe,” Wilson calls out, catching his eye.

“You did it?” Barnes asks.

“Yeah.” Wilson tilts his head up.

Barnes rounds the corner, pecks Wilson on the lips with all the comfort and familiarity of a couple who have done it a thousand times. I hear him murmur, “Proud of you,” under his breath.

Barnes sets the groceries on the counter in front of me as Wilson introduces us.

“Call me Bucky,” says Barnes, reaching out with his right hand to shake mine. There’s a silver band on the fourth finger, and when I look back over at Wilson, he’s slipping his wedding ring out of the pocket of his jeans and putting it back on his left hand.

“Wasn’t sure if I’d be able to go through with all this,” he says, gesturing to me and my notepad. “I took the wedding pictures down in the living room too, before you got here.”

“I knew he could do it,” Barnes tells me. His voice is low, soft, and so quiet, a hint of an old Brooklyn accent underlying his words even now, despite everything he’s been through and everywhere he’s been. He shrugs out of his nondescript hoodie and tosses it on one of the unused stools, grabbing a kettle and putting it on the stove.

“Hibiscus or chamomile?” he asks me, pulling two boxes of tea bags from one of the grocery bags and letting me choose before turning to Wilson. “Bad news, hon. They were out of your whole wheat pita.”

“Again?” says Wilson, with feeling. “Really?”

“They only had the gluten free. I guess I could check the other store tonight, but it’s supposed to rain later, and I kinda don’t feel like going out again,” Barnes says, head buried in the cupboard as he stacks cans. “I was thinking maybe I could just try making ‘em. How does that sound? How hard can it be, right?”

“‘How does homemade pita sound,’ he says,” Wilson repeats, jabbing a thumb towards Barnes. “Can you believe this guy?”

“I honestly can’t.” It’s the truth. My brain refuses to reconcile this man with the supposed playboy I read about in my 11th grade history textbook, nor the internationally feared assassin.

“Is that a yes or no on the experimental homemade pita?” Barnes asks Wilson, still deep in the cupboard. “No promises on quality.”

“That’s a yes, Buck,” says Wilson, then he turns to me. “Don’t listen to him; he’s a great cook.”

The Winter Soldier is a great cook, I write in my notes. And then I realize this is my moment to shine.

“I actually know a good recipe for homemade pita,” I tell them. “It’s whole wheat.” That gets Barnes’s attention.

“You do?” he says, pulling out his phone. “Can you send it to—hmm.” He frowns. “Sam, it’s not showing the thing.”

“What thing?” Wilson asks, taking Barnes’s phone from his hand. “Oh, yeah, that’s cause it’s set to Contacts Only, Buck, you have to switch it to Allow Everyone.”

Wilson looks at me, smiling. “Bucky here hates technology—”

“—I don’t hate technology—”

“Oh yes you do, you won’t even let me get you an iPad—”

“Yeah, for what? What do I need it for? I wouldn’t even use—”

“You wouldn’t use one, huh? How about I stop letting you borrow mine for a couple of weeks, then we’ll see how you feel.” Wilson turns to me, passing Barnes’s phone back to him. “He should be showing up on your AirDrop now.”

Sure enough, I’m able to send the recipe link to Bucky’s iPhone. He thanks me and starts scrolling right through it, argument apparently totally forgotten.

As Barnes continues to read, periodically checking on the kettle; Wilson excuses himself to help put away the rest of the groceries, which are mostly produce. 

“I hope you have like, immediate plans for these,” Wilson says, inspecting the avocados as he pulls them out of the paper bag. “They are ripe, man. Tomorrow’s gonna be too late for them.”

“Yeah I do, I was gonna make grilled chicken and avocado sandwiches for dinner,” Barnes replies. “I got tomatoes, swiss cheese—”

“What’s all this about pita then if we’re having sandwiches?” Wilson asks.

“No, the pita is the bread here,” Barnes explains. “You stuff everything in the pocket. I’m gonna have to get started pretty soon; probably gonna double the rising time since it’s cold out.” Wilson hums in apparent approval of this course of action.

I lose Wilson to the refrigerator for several minutes. He stands back up after arranging things in the crisper to his liking.

“Any chance I could get a peek at those wedding pictures?” I ask.

“Oh,” says Wilson. “That okay with you?” He turns to Barnes, who nods, carefully steeping bags of tea in three steaming mugs, and then leads me back to the living room. 

Wilson has stashed two silver-framed pictures in a drawer of the coffee table, apparently in anticipation of my visit, and he pulls them out to show to me. Both are taken in front of a familiar-looking farmhouse, which I struggle with for a moment before placing it as the exact one in Captain Rogers’s watercolor painting that’s hanging to my left. Wilson’s suit in the photo is a matte but brilliant shade of cobalt; Barnes wears black.

One is of just the two of them, arms around one another and foreheads together. It’s almost too intimate to look at; I feel as though I’m intruding on something intensely private, even though Wilson is standing right here offering me a glimpse of it.

He puts that one back up onto the mantle.

The next is them in the center of a large group that consists of some people I recognize and others I don’t. Familiar faces include Dr. Bruce Banner [The Hulk], Clint Barton [Hawkeye], and Maria Hill [Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.]. Also present: King T’Challa of Wakanda and his sister, Princess Shuri. There’s a young girl in a white dress, carrying a flower basket and missing a front tooth, standing in front of [C.E.O. of Stark Industries] Pepper Potts. Next to them is a teenager with floppy brown hair doing an indescribably awkward double thumbs up.

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at him.

Wilson snorts. “Some punk. Family friend.”

That picture gets hung on the empty nail next to Captain Rogers’s painting.

Barnes knocks quietly on the doorway behind us. “Tea’s ready.”

An awkward silence settles in with us once we sit back down in the kitchen, Wilson and Barnes next to one another, and me across from them. I flip through my notes, taking a sip from my mug.. My drink is sweeter than I was expecting, because apparently the Winter Soldier has added agave to the hibiscus tea he made me. It’s delicious.

Barnes eventually breaks. “So whatcha go over so far?”

“How we got together, how we got engaged,” Wilson answers him. “In detail too, so if you don’t want that published, you’re gonna have to grovel at the journalist yourself, because you said—”

“Oh my god,” says Barnes, old-school New York sarcasm dripping from every word. “How dare you tell people about the best thing I ever did, huh? Now they’re gonna think I’m like, a sensitive, good guy, and here I’ve been coasting along on this murder cyborg image. What have you done, you dick?”

Wilson rolls his eyes.

“So...you’re okay with it?” I ask them, absolutely ready to scrub the record if he hesitates.

“You kidding me?” says Barnes. “Every other week comes up some new atrocity I committed against my will in like...the 70s, and you think I’m gonna be upset with people knowing that once in a while I say nice shit to someone I love? Write it. Please. Knock yourself out.”

Okay then. Since Barnes seems willing to talk, I ask them if I can throw them a few questions I have for them as a couple. Barnes looks as though he wasn’t anticipating this.

Wilson turns to him. “You wanna be here for this?”

Barnes nods slowly, hesitantly, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“You’re okay?” Wilson asks. “You decide you’re done at any point and I’ll end it. Or you can go hang out in the other room, your call.”

“I’m good for now,” Barnes decides. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“You can ask whatever you want,” Wilson says to me. “I can’t promise we’ll answer everything, but go ahead and shoot.”

“I guess the first question I have is: what’s the hardest thing about navigating your jobs as a couple? What bothers you the most about that?”

Wilson exhales loudly. “I mean, the obvious answer is the danger,” he says. “The nature of what we do is fundamentally unsafe. I think it goes without saying—I’ll still say it—that we’re always aware that one of us might not make it back from a mission, which is...” Wilson trails off for a moment, shaking his head. “You don’t get used to that feeling. The fear.”

“Mm hmm,” Barnes agrees, from behind his mug.

“And,” continues Wilson, “I’m also aware that by doing this interview, I’m putting Bucky in additional danger. I’m not naive enough to think that the people working against us won’t try to use my relationship with him as leverage against me.”

“That makes sense,” I say, because he’s absolutely right, and pretending that public knowledge of his marriage doesn’t put them both in a new kind of danger seems disingenuous. I face Barnes. “Your turn.”

“Racist assholes,” says Barnes immediately.

Wilson smirks and cocks his head in agreement. “Sometimes I think I’ve talked that subject to death, other times it’s like I could never hope to address it enough. Today feels like the first one.”

A diplomatic, but clear answer. Time to move on. 

I’m about to ask the next question when he adds: “Another thing that gets under my skin is how it’s like Bucky’s image in the eyes of the general public is totally dependent on me hyping him up all the time. As far as I’m concerned, he’s proven himself a hundred times over, and yet if I’m not on T.V. reminding people of that every day, it’s suddenly like ‘oh, the Winter Soldier, can we ever really trust him?’ 

“I just… It bothers me. I want us to come to a collective understanding that everything that happened happened to Bucky, not because of him. It kinda circles back into another of the things I’m passionate about, which is mental health care and awareness. I think if we as a society were better about recognizing and addressing mental illness, and particularly Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation about my husband.”

Barnes’s face is getting pinker and he says nothing, but he’s smiling a little at Wilson, who puts an arm around his shoulders.

“Anyway, we can move on,” says Wilson, his expression going easy again. “Just had to get that out there one more time.”

“Hopefully this one’s a little more pleasant,” I say. “What inspired you to come forward about your relationship? I know you guys—” I gesture between them, ”—have been together for a couple years, so why now?”

“I want to go on a date in public,” says Bucky. “I haven’t been on a date since the 40s.”

“That’s right,” says Wilson. “We’re doing all this so I can take him Denny’s and hold his hand over a $6.99 Super Slam.”

When I finish laughing, Wilson continues. “Part of it’s because we realized it’s gonna get out there whether we like it or not. You already knew when you got here that we lived together, and that’s because that information got leaked to the public last week, so it was always just a matter of time before people found out anyway. I’d rather have some control over that narrative; better you hear it from me and Bucky, how we want to tell it, than in some tabloid.”

He’s right about that: they would undoubtedly have been outed one way or another. Their status as “roommates” was reported by TMZ a week and a half ago, and there was a Buzzfeed piece only yesterday, rife with gifs, entitled 15 Times Captain America and The Winter Soldier Made Us Wish We Were Their Third Roommate, that ended on the note of how Wilson and Barnes are “absolute BFF GOALS.” Wilson continues:

“But I think the biggest reason is that we decided, together, that we actually think it’s good for people to  know. I’ve seen firsthand the impact that having a Black Captain America has had on the Black community and on the national topic of race, and we think—we hope—that a Captain America who is a member of the LGBT community will have a similar effect. 

“The people who already hate me aren’t going to like me any better or worse for being bisexual, but some bisexual teenager out there is hopefully gonna read this article and feel a little bit better about themselves than they did before. That’s really the impact I want to have here. Got anything to add, Buck?”

“Actually, yeah,” says Barnes, staring at the counter in front of him and fiddling with his wedding ring. “I grew up gay in thirties. The idea of being able to just...tell people, that’s still amazing to me. The fact that I’m sitting here talking about it with a stranger and you’re not screamin’ in my face right now…”

“You do know I’m not straight either, right?” I ask him. I’m not exactly shy about that, it’s the kind of thing most people can tell just by looking at me.

“Even so,” says Barnes, finally looking me in the eye. “You fool around with a fella back in the day—or worse, you make a pass and he turns you down—then he knows about you, and then it’s like, what if he tells someone? Some of the worst shit I ever saw came from people who found out that way. So, other gay guys. Basically you never felt safe.”

“What about Captain Rogers?” I ask. “Did he know?”

“Oh yeah, Steve knew,” says Barnes with a dismissive wave of his hand, like that ought to be obvious. “He wasn’t gonna tell anyone; I got too much dirt on him.“

“Pfft. He’s messing with you,” Wilson interjects, directed at me. “There’s no dirt on Steve anywhere; believe me, I’d know by now if there was.”

“I want you to guess how many times I’ve had to clean up Steve’s puke,” says Barnes in a total deadpan, leaning forward. “Whatever number you think it is, the real answer is higher. 

“This again,” says Wilson. “I keep telling you Buck, Steve throwing up on you at Coney Island isn’t the big scandalous story you seem to want it to be.”

“Sam wasn’t there, he didn’t see it,” Barnes insists. “We were with these girls and they just left us standing there by the Cyclone, covered in hot dog chunks. Actually, that part was kind of a relief ‘cause one of ‘em was definitely jonesing for me to kiss her before that, and I really didn’t want to. 

“But seriously, after everything we went through together, I knew I could trust Steve with anything. And that made me luckier than most—at least I had one person. Lots of guys had no one. 

“Anyway, my reasons for coming out with all this are probably more selfish than Sam’s. You know some of those Nazis—we’re callin’ ‘em something else these days, like ‘alt-right’ or whatever, but I know a Nazi when I see one—they have this crazy idea of what I was like back in the day. They’ve got this fantasy, like a golem of toxic masculinity with my face on it, and I just want to publicly shit on their dreams. Every date I ever went on with a girl was a total sham, and I was scared down to my bones that someone would figure that out. I fight because someone needs to and I’m good at it, but I hate hurting people and I’d much rather be sitting here cuddling on the couch with a man. This man.”

Barnes is grinning big and wide by the time he finishes—a real, genuine smile that brings out the sparkle in his eyes—and suddenly I feel like I’m catching a glimpse of what Wilson must be seeing in him. Wilson himself is laughing.

“I like how you snuck your little buzzword in there, baby,” he says. “Toxic masculinity. That’s one of Bucky’s things he learned about from his Wakandan therapist. 

“Obviously super important,” Wilson adds, lest I think he’s making light of something serious.

“I think it’s great that we’re talking about it so openly now, especially with respect to the military.”

Barnes tilts his head in agreement, checking the time on his phone. We’re probably approaching the point at which he wants to get started on that pita bread, and I’m definitely in his way.

“So what’s next for you guys?” I ask.

“Isn’t that always the question?” Wilson asks, taking Barnes’s right hand in his left and resting them, intertwined, on the countertop. “Sometimes it’s aliens. Sometimes not. Who even knows anymore?”

“Hopefully, a whole lot more of this,” says Barnes, looking down at their hands.

Wilson smiles. “Well, that’s a given. That’s always.”

This is when Barnes gets up to pull a stand mixer out of one of the cupboards, and I read that as my cue to take my leave. I end my recording, Wilson thanks me for stopping by, I promise to give him an advance copy of my writing to make sure he’s comfortable with what I said, and I find myself standing back on the sidewalk of [REDACTED] moments later.

I’m not typically in the habit of including as many details about the dinner plans of my article subjects as I have here—and I’m certainly testing the limits of my editor’s patience with the word count—but in the spirit of Wilson’s wishes for what his coming out story will mean to the people of America, I wanted to emphasize how human his marriage is. 

Barnes and Wilson have extraordinary jobs that they are undoubtedly uniquely suited for and that most of us will never fully understand, but they are also two people who have been through a lot of hardship and found happiness and peace in one another. And that’s something that most of us do understand: love, the human experience that transcends the divisions we give ourselves.

*From a press conference Wilson gave on May 7, 2025.

**From a statement written by Barnes and issued through a S.H.I.E.L.D. representative on November 1, 2023.

For further reading on Barnes, the author recommends: 

1. Greatest Generation X: The Impossible Life of James Buchanan Barnes, by Ariel Guzman, published in 2025.

2. R.Y. Uhlencott’s column “The Wolf of Brooklyn” in the October 2024 issue of Time covers the basic timeline and trajectory of Barnes’s life.

[paperbackrevolution]

“Book People”: a response

I have been thinking about an essay I read on Jezebel for the last while. It fit in so nicely with something I have been mulling over for months: readers. I mean serious readers. The kind of people that track their reading, that keep up with the publishing industry, that can relate to bookish memes, that overthink how their bookshelf is organized, and that seek out like-minded readers to interact with on social media. This essay, by Joanna Mang, uses a phrase for these kinds of readers: ‘Book People’. Mang uses it in a derogatory manner, and I have heard it used as such before though in those cases I believe the phrase Book Snob would have been more fitting. For Mang, Book People, are not the good sort of reader, but I want to unpack that in a bit.

Mang’s article is titled “We Have to Save Books from the Book People”. I actually only found it through a response written at Book Riot by Tika Viteri (“Back-Talking the Tone Police: Book People are Not Your Enemy”). Essentially, after rereading Mang’s essay a half dozen times (to try and follow the meandering argument and to seek what the point was) I think Mang is arguing a few things: that classics should still be taught in high school and not argued about on twitter, that English teachers bear no responsibility to encourage reading, and that Book People are bad for liking books a whole lot and have a Secret Plot to keep the publishing industry running. What any of this has to do with the title of her article remains unclear.

Mang opens her essay by complaining about people complaining on twitter. Specifically, people that are complaining about the classics they had to read in high school. The Great Gatsby, The Scarlet Letter, and Catcher in the Rye are all mentioned. Even more specifically Mang is upset at the redundancy of these arguments, that they come up again and again. I mean she is definitely correct, because once someone talks about something no one else is allowed to talk about that thing ever again. Ever. Right? I doubt it is the same person rehashing this conversation daily, more likely Mang has stumbled across or perhaps actively searched out these conversations as they are being had by different people. I mean as far as I know there are more than a handful of people using twitter, right? And if it is the same person dredging up this conversation daily, I have a suggestion: unfollow them. Problem solved. But then if that had happened, we would not have this essay to unpack.

Mang seems upset that people on twitter say that they felt forced into reading books that they did not enjoy. According to Mang anyone that disliked these books did so because these books are classics that they just failed to understand. Mang mentions that with a good lesson plan anyone can like classics, but perhaps they did not have a good teacher with a good lesson plan or maybe it is because they just did not connect with the book. Not everyone must like classics simply because they are part of the canon. A book’s inclusion within the canon does not mean that it is necessarily enjoyable to read or study for every single person. It simply means that it was influential in some way. I can recognize and value the significance of a classic novel and still also dislike the reading experience.

I did find it ironic that these conversations on twitter are doing exactly what Mang says she encourages her students to do: “When I teach literature, my goal is to give students the tools and confidence they need to attack and write about texts, to “talk to” the text rather than receive it passively” (Mang 2021). On these twitter threads we have people reflecting back on books that they were required to read in school. But because they are engaging with these texts on twitter it cannot count as the same thing? I have come across some fascinating analysis on classic books on social media that would have made my English professors proud. I fail to see the problem here.

Mang then goes on to speak about the notion of whether certain books should or shouldn’t be taught in school to avoid “turning kids off” reading, since this is often an extension of those twitter conversations. This is something that people in education have been honing for years. A quick google search reveals many theories, pedagogies and lesson plans that can help encourage reading. Teachers and other education experts are out there exploring options to encourage reading in their students. Why though? Why do we want turn children in to readers? Mang suggests that Book People have an odious plot to save the book-as-object which I will unpack in a moment. But maybe it is actually because it increases empathy? Or because it builds vocabulary? Because it prevents cognitive decline as we age? Because it is a stress reducer? Might even make you live longer? Improves general knowledge? Improves writing skills? Aids sleep? Could even help prevent alzheimers? I think it could be at least one of those reasons, especially since most of these studies explain that these benefits do not come from reading those three books back in high school but as a sustained habit over a lifetime. Though Mang, an educator, also states in her article “It’s not an English teacher’s job to make students love reading; an English teacher’s job is to equip students to read and communicate” (Mang 2021). Which I think is certainly true, but (thankfully) many other educators are attempting to go beyond the pressure to yield good test results and are still trying to help their students become readers. Of course, as Mang does mention, the formation of a sustained reading habit is based on more than a single factor (Mang mentions “parental attitudes, family wealth, the student’s disposition and other sources of stimulation”). Why this should excuse English teachers from even trying to encourage reading is lost on me. Further I also wonder what the point there is in teaching students how to actively engage with books if they are not continuing to read outside of school? Why bother with English class at all if this is the case?

I am not here to say that schools should not teach classic literature or should not encourage students to engage with the canon, I am here, however, to say that we can also all go on to complain about it on the internet afterward. If someone does not find value in these conversations, then they are free to tune them out.

After talking about education and American schools’ reading lists, Mang finally gets to the part about Book People. Mang differentiates between readers and Book People stating:

“A reader is someone who is in the habit of reading. A Book Person has turned reading into an identity. A Book Person participates in book culture. Book People refer to themselves as “bookworms” and post Bookstagrams of their “stacks.” They tend towards language like “I love this so hard” or “this gave me all the feels” and enjoy gentle memes about buying more books than they can read and the travesty of dog-eared pages. They build Christmas trees out of books. They write reviews on Goodreads and read book blogs and use the hashtag #amreading when they are reading. They have TBR (to be read) lists and admit to DNFing (did not finish). They watch BookTube and BookTok. They love a stuffed shelf but don’t reject audiobooks and e-readers; to a Book Person, reading is reading is reading” (Mang 2021).

Let’s dig into this before we get to the conspiracy. Just because I am baffled by the snobby tone of this paragraph, and I do not understand what is wrong with any of this.

A Book Person has turned reading into an identity: Just as many people do with any hobby, they tend to entrench themselves within it. People who hike seriously can and have turned that into an identity, they’re hikers. But just about everyone can walk so hikers should then not make their hobby part of their identity? Sometimes people really, really enjoy something and it becomes a big part of their daily life. What is wrong with that?

A Book Person participates in book culture: A culture can form around a social group. So, if we have a hobby group, which is a kind of social group, it is not hard to imagine that eventually a culture would build up around it. So then, yes, people would then also participate in that culture.

Book People refer to themselves as “bookworms”: What I am most puzzled by are the quotation marks, as if this nickname is something strange and new. The first known use of the phrase bookworm dates back to the 1590s and is defined as “a person unusually devoted to reading and study”. Yeah, it is a little dorky, but many hobbyists across various hobbies have silly names for the people of their hobby. Star Trek fans call themselves Trekkies or Trekkers and apparently train enthusiasts call themselves railfans. It’s a hobby thing.

and post Bookstagrams of their “stacks”: As for this, I think this is an example of a fascinating development among readers. Robert A. Stebbins, a scholar of leisure activity and hobbies, has long denied that reading could be considered a ‘serious’ hobby or what he refers to as a Serious Leisure Pursuit (SLP). He has maintained that reading is a prime example of a casual pastime, and even explores his stance in more depth in the book The Committed Reader: Reading for Utility, Pleasure and Fulfillment in the Twenty-First Century. He argues that reading cannot be a SLP due to the solitary nature of reading and the lack of a social world. To Stebbins a social world is a social network group made up of hobbyists and others connected to that hobby. Social media has changed that, however, allowing serious readers to form a social world and also find ways to make the act of reading more social itself. Book clubs have always been an attempt by readers to make reading more social. But social media allows these attempts to get closer to the mark. Readers on twitter host reading sprints to encourage people to read together at the same time. Others host read-a-longs on various platforms such as instagram to encourage a more engaging version of a book club that invites readers to read the same book section by section. And some booktubers (Book People on youtube), host live videos that invite their subscribers to grab a book and read with them. I will digress here for now, but this is something I plan on exploring more on this blog in the future. Put simply, what Mang is disparaging here is actually evidence of reading achieving SLP status under Stebbins’ hobby model. This is simply an active social world of readers.

They tend towards language like “I love this so hard” or “this gave me all the feels”: This is simply how people tend to talk on the internet? Especially amongst fandom communities, of which there is huge overlap in bookish communities. This is hardly exclusive to Book People.

and enjoy gentle memes about buying more books than they can read: memes are things people share on the internet. I am failing to see the issue with this. Again, not something exclusive to book people. What I am starting to see here is that Mang seems to take issue with internet culture in general, more so than with Book People.

and the travesty of dog-eared pages: Only Book Snobs care if other people dog-ear their own books. I am using the phrase Book Snob to distinguish between avid readers and people that find the book-as-object almost sacred. There can be overlap, certainly, but not all Book People see books this way.

They build Christmas trees out of books: No books were harmed in the making of those christmas trees. Oh, is this where the title comes in? Are we saving books from becoming christmas trees? I promise it doesn’t hurt the books.

They write reviews on Goodreads: I am confused by what is wrong with this. Mang stated earlier in her article that and I quote again, “when I teach literature, my goal is to give students the tools and confidence they need to attack and write about texts, to “talk to” the text rather than receive it passively.” How is reviewing a book not doing exactly that? Not all reviews are as aggressive as an essay can be perhaps, but it is still an act of engaging with a text rather than simply consuming it. Further, many Book People likely either have access to or want access to ARCs (advanced reader copies) from publishers and part of that deal is writing an honest review in exchange for the free copy of the book. So that would be them holding up their end of that deal. I am uncertain if Mang takes issue with goodreads in particular or with writing reviews in general.

and read book blogs: People that are active within a hobby often seek out other like-minded individuals. And beyond that most book bloggers are reviewers. Meaning people may be seeking reviews of a book to help them curate their reading selection.

and use the hashtag #amreading when they are reading: another example of Mang’s dislike of internet culture. People use hashtags to help get their media piece to others that may enjoy it or find commonality with it. They are using this form of metadata as it was intended.

They have TBR (to be read) lists: I think non-serious readers have TBR lists as well, but I think they tend to be more unconscious in nature. For example, a non-serious reader may vaguely know that there are some classics that they want to get to, or maybe the latest hyped general fiction novel. Book People are hobbyists, and if we used Stebbins’ model, they are serious hobbyists. They take their chosen leisure pursuit seriously and as such it is on their mind a lot because they intend to spend a significant amount of time pursuing that activity. So, it seems only natural that they may want to organize the content that they want to consume. It appears to me that Mang is more upset that this hobby group has formed in-group vocabularies. This means that only people residing within the group will understand some of the words or phrases used. This is a natural progression of language. You need words to succinctly capture the meaning of something. In this case, many readers have lists of books they want to read, rather than saying all of that it gets shortened down to TBR.  

and admit to DNFing (did not finish): Are we saving books from not being fully read? Many of the books that Book People are reading are for enjoyment. If you are not enjoying something, why would you continue it? Do you watch the entirety of a season of a tv show that you are hating? No. Finish a snack that is making you want to vomit it back up? No. Same logic for books. To suggest you must complete a book simply because it is a book is more like Book Snob behaviour. This seems so common sense that I am again inclined to point to this as evidence of Mang’s distaste for in-group vocabularies more than the idea of not reading a book.

They watch BookTube and BookTok: This is further example of the community and social world that readers are setting up on the internet. People typically like making connections and further, making connections over something you share in common is natural. The internet made this easier, and social media has made it easier still. This is just evidence of readers seeking connections with other readers.  

They love a stuffed shelf but don’t reject audiobooks and e-readers; to a Book Person, reading is reading is reading: This line is fascinating. Because following this, Mang’s article takes a turn toward a conspiracy about how Book People are trying to save the book-as-object since ereaders have threatened the physical book. And yet here, as part of her definition of Book People, she disparages Book People for finding value in ebooks and audiobooks. Mang herself becomes the Book Snob here, rejecting other book formats. Ebooks are convenient, you can have access to hundreds of books from your chosen device (I like to use my phone personally not an ereader). And audiobooks are great for when you are performing another task such as chores or driving. Both formats also allow people with disabilities better access to books. Audiobooks are perfect for people with visual impairments or who struggle to read. And with ebooks the size of the font can be changed to allow the book to be turned in to a large print book as needed and can even allow the font to be changed into a dyslexic-friendly font. To suggest that ebooks or audiobooks are not real books or don’t count as books is just blatantly ableist.

Let’s get to the conspiracy now. Mang claims that reading became an identity and a culture in response to the decline of interest in reading. She also continues on to say that not only is reading threatened by other media and diversions, but that ebooks and audiobooks distract from physical books. And so with the book-as-object threatened by television and alternate book formats, physical books became more precious. She even goes as far as to say books are fetishized. And then Mang says, “This could be why those arguing that classic books alienate young readers suggest 21st Century titles as substitutions: if we want to keep the book alive, we have to read, and more to the point buy, the books being produced now” (Mang 2021).

So let’s make this clear. According to Mang, Book People are people who have made reading an identity and revel in book culture. And Mang also already said that Book People “love a stuffed shelf but don’t reject audiobooks and e-readers; to a Book Person, reading is reading is reading”. But then Mang changes her argument and says that all of this is about the physical book. So, the people that complain about classics they read in high school on twitter, some of which are Book People, are all actually attacking classic literature because it may turn children off reading which would be bad because that would mean that less people are reading books regularly which is bad because then it means that less people are buying books which is bad because the book-as-object is precious and must be protected and perpetuated.

Riiiiight. I believe Mang conflated Book People with Book Snobs partway through this essay. They are not one in the same and by Mang’s own definition, Book People see any format of book as worthwhile. Meanwhile a Book Snob would uphold the physical book-as-object as the supreme format. So saying that Book People are behind this conspiracy simply does not hold up under scrutiny. Not that this conspiracy should carry much weight at any rate.

But then Mang wipes that argument away, saying that Book People are not that practical. That actually their purpose in complaining about classics books on twitter is solely to revolutionize American schools’ text selection policy. Further Mang seems to think that people ranting about their least favourite classic novel on social media is all about putting pressure on teachers and public education to shape their students into model human beings. When in reality, sometimes one simply needs to whine about a bad book, even if it’s a classic.

At the end of all of this, I am left simply confused about this essay. Firstly the title: “We Have to Save to Save Books from the Book People”. What books are we saving from Book People and how exactly do we go about doing it? Are we saving classics? Or are we saving the current school reading list books? Or physical books? Or ebooks? Perhaps it is that books are somehow being ruined by those that worship that book-as-object? I propose that Mang just thought it sounded good, especially seeing as how it does little to pertain to the wandering argument of this essay.

Secondly, I am also confused about what exactly is the point of this essay. The three main conclusions reached at the end of it seem to be that 1) arguing about classics on twitter does not impact text selection policy in schools, 2) teachers bear no responsibility in encouraging their students to make reading a habit, and 3) that books are not sacred objects. So what?

While I disagree with Mang’s essay, I do still find value in some of the points she brings up, and in her definition of Book People. I have been casually curious about the leisure studies, and where committed readers fit within leisure studies, for the last couple of years. Mang may not understand what she sees before her, but she did see something. It is that insight that has finally spurred me to dig into the social world of committed readers, or as Mang calls them, Book People.

[angst-fairygodmother]

Omg I've been binge reading all your Klaus fics and can I just say you are an AMAZING writer and I'd straight up buy your novel in a heartbeat if you write one. The way you use words and make me feel things, I can't even! ❤️ I saw your requests are open so I wanna request a Klaus fic where the reader takes care of him after he comes home all messed up.. like runs him a bath, gives him a haircut, cooks him food and puts him to bed...You can make it NSFW too in the end, I surely won't complain ;)

A/N: Listen, I think like 25-50% of why I love Klaus is the mere concept of caring for him when he needs it, so this was an excellent prompt. Thank you so much! (I hope you enjoy it even though it didn’t end up getting NSFW) Word Count: 2197 Content Warning: T - withdrawal, references to drug use

You weren’t really paying attention to the familiar hallway of your apartment building, too busy juggling groceries in the struggle to find the right key. You had lived in this building for three and a half years now, it wasn’t like you needed to look where you were going, instinct guiding up the stairs and along to your own front door. Which is why when a figure lurched out of the shadows, stumbling toward you, you were completely unprepared. You screamed, dropping both your keyring and the bags of groceries on your arms as you threw your hands up in defense. The back of your mind registered the sound of something cracking, probably your eggs as they hit the tile floor. The rest of you was focused on the hundred and twenty or so pounds of human body crashing into you. You felt the fuzz of ragged fur and well-worn leather beneath your fingers as you tried to steady the both of you.

Finally you registered the sweaty, washed-out face.

“Klaus?” you asked, recognizing your neighbor.

He had only moved into your building a few months ago, but you two had quickly become friends, chatting – okay maybe you, at least, were flirting but it’s not like it was going to go anywhere, not really – in the mailroom or when you passed each other coming and going. A few times, you had invited him over for dinner or he had talked you into spending more hours than any human reasonably should watching movies, stretched out together on his couch. But you had never seen him like this.

“Oh hey, Y/N,” he trilled, trying to act normally even as he swayed again and you reached out to brace him. “Don’t mean to be a bother, but I’m…not doing so hot and I didn’t know where else to go.”

You frowned in concern and ushered him inside, only belatedly remembering your groceries and going back for them after you had guided him to a seat in your living room.

“What’s wrong?” you asked as you began to put things away and waited for him to settle. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you just got dragged through hell and then spat back out the other side.”

He chuckled, more of a defeated escape of air than an actual laugh. “I feel like it too.”

You frowned at the eggs, completely ruined. The carton of orange juice was dented and wouldn’t sit right on the shelf but it was whole. Tomatoes: bruised, blueberries: free range in the grocery bag. Klaus didn’t seem inclined to say anything more, not that he had really said anything yet, anything of substance.

“You said you didn’t know where else to go?” you prompted, trying a different angle.

“I haven’t had anything in days,” he explained vaguely before doubling over to press his head between his knees. “Christ I feel like shit,” he groaned.

Something about the way he said it registered in your mind enough for you to figure out what was going on.

“Withdrawal?” you asked simply, moving to sit on the couch, turning your body into the arm of it so you could face him.

He nodded, looking up at you with red-rimmed eyes.

“So why come to me? I don’t…I mean I can’t help you get a fix.”

“I know. I didn’t think you could. I just didn’t want to be alone.”

“Okay. Do you need anything? Is there any way I can help?”

He shrugged, shivering despite the sheen of sweat on his brow. His tongue darted out to lick his chapped lips and you tried to resist the urge to trace its path with your eyes. He looked like he just might curl up in your chair and go to sleep, and if that was what he really wanted, you would let him. However, he was sick, and he had come to you, and if he couldn’t tell you what he needed, you would just have to try everything until something helped.

A moment later, you had put the kettle on for some tea and were handing him a drink of cool water.

“Here, drink this,” you said, pressing the thick green glass into his hand. “I’ll make you some tea, mint to help with any nausea, but that’s going to take a bit to be ready. Are you hungry? I was planning a bolognese but I can do something lighter instead. Maybe some soup?”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that, Y/N…”

“When is the last time you ate?”

He frowned, blinking heavily and turning his head to stare into the space beside him as if your end table held the answer to your question. “I can’t remember.” He paused. “No, we had waffles…was it really that long ago?”

“Right,” you said, a little concerned that he almost seemed to be having a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. “That settles it, I’m making dinner.”

Decision made, you stood once more and began bustling about your kitchen. He grimaced as you chopped the vegetables and herbs for the stock and you winced, apologizing quickly and trying your best to chop quietly.

“So why are you…I mean why haven’t you…used…in a few days? I’m not an expert but isn’t cold turkey super not the recommended method to break an addiction?”

“Hm?” he asked, startling as if you had woken him from dozing. “What was that?” He turned around in the chair to blink at you over the counter.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you had fallen asleep, you can go back to it if you want…”

“No, no, it’s fine. But I didn’t hear your question.”

“Oh, well I was just wondering why the cold turkey? Especially since it doesn’t exactly seem planned?”

“Dealer got picked up,” he said, stifling another yawn. “Most of the others around are too scared of the cops to take a new client.”

You nodded, surprised at how casual he was being about the whole thing.

“It’ll blow over in a few more days, and everything will be fine. I hope.” His voice dropped on the last remark and you weren’t sure you were supposed to hear it, so you decided not to comment.

Instead, you watched with a frown as he stifled another yawn.

“You know, the soup’s going to take a while, if you want to try and get some sleep while you wait?” you offered.

“Oh no, I couldn’t. Sleep is when they find me easiest. God so many grabbing hands. And the screaming. Always screaming.” He shivered, not from cold or the lack of chemicals or for the drama, but in obvious, genuine fright.

“Oh.” You frowned and bit your lip. “Is there anything I can…do?” you felt yourself flush with embarrassment as soon as the words left your lips, certain that they would sound far less innocent and well-meaning that you had intended them.

“Well,” he drawled, trailing off in thought. “Sometimes they’ll stay at bay for a bit if I’m not alone?”

“Okay. Well, there’s not really a lot of room for both of us on the couch, so we could take a nap in my…bed…but, and don’t take this the wrong way, you’re kind of gross…so would you mind maybe showering first?”

He laughed, high and light and it made you smile, sounding a bit more like his usual self. “No offense taken. Ooh, do you have a tub? I would love a bath…”

You raised your eyebrow curiously but nodded.

His hands clapped together giddily.

You padded to your room to dig out a spare towel and were about to give it to him when another thought occurred: he had nothing to put on after except the clothes he was currently sweating through and hadn’t been cleaned in who knew how long. Rooting through your drawers you eventually found a pair of fluffy pink and blue striped pajama pants and an old t-shirt from the Led Zeppelin concert you had gone to in high school which looked like they might fit him.

“Y/N, you are an absolute angel,” he said dramatically as you handed him the stack.

“Can you handle it on your own or…?” you trailed off, feeling awkward about your unspoken offer to help him bathe, but only a few moments before he had been practically falling asleep into his glass, and he had been unsteady on his feet in the hall.

“Oh I’ll be fine,” he said, waving a hand dismissively before he suddenly turned his puppy-dog green eyes on you. “Unless you wanted to. It really helps me relax to have someone wash my hair for me…”

You felt the hot blush creep across your face and down your neck again as you bit your lip.

“O…okay…” you stammered nervously.

“Perfect, now I’ll just go in there and slip under the suds and I’ll shout for you when I’m decent.”

“There’s nothing decent about you,” you muttered under your breath. “And I think you might be trying to give me a heart attack.”

He winked at you as he passed you and you knew he had heard you.

~

A few moments later, you had set the soup to simmer low on the stove and were kneeling on the uncomfortable tile of your bathroom floor behind Klaus. Your fingers were buried in his sopping hair, gently lathering the practically candy-scented shampoo into it. His eyes were closed, head tilted slightly back, exposing the column of his throat to you tantalizingly, and the sounds he made, practically purring at your touch, had you thinking all sorts of untoward thoughts. You had to keep reminding yourself that you were just trying to help him and that it probably meant nothing to him in his muddled state.

Finally, after maybe a little longer playing with scrubbing his hair than necessary, you scooped up some of the water to rinse away the soap. As you did, your fingertips brushed along his exposed neck and shoulders and he moaned.

“Do that again. Please,” he begged.

Heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it behind him, you did as he asked, dancing your fingertips along the planes and angles of his skin before digging them in just a little, gently, massaging him.

“Christ, Y/N, that feels so good,” he sighed.

‘The water’s getting cold,” you pointed out, a little breathless from the way he said your name. “And you’re going to turn into a prune if you spend any more time in there. You should probably get out.”

He turned his head, craning to look at you. “Would you like to stay and watch?”

Caught off-guard, you stared at him, gaping like a fish out of water, your mouth opening and closing. Then you stood, racing from the room, his lilting laughter following you. You practically threw yourself onto your mattress, hoping that the few minutes it would take for him to get out of the tub and dress would be enough for you to calm your frantic pulse before you actually exploded.

You also realized that you were in a now-damp pair of jeans and a button-down and that wouldn’t be very comfortable if you fell asleep in it, so you quickly changed into a baggy shirt and shorts, settling them on your hips just as the door creaked in and Klaus entered, bare-chested but fitting into your pants better than you ever had.

“Why are you doing all this for me, Y/N?” he asked, sitting beside you, still tousling his curls with the towel.

“Because you’re my friend and you asked me for help,” you said as if it were obvious.

“You could have turned me away and told me not to bother you with. Other people have.”

“No I couldn’t have,” you smiled softly. “I care about you too much to do that.”

Suddenly his lips were on yours, surging forward hot and hungry and desperate. You moaned as his tongue parted your lips somewhat forcefully and he pressed you backward onto the bed. You fingers tangled into his hair, tugging on it and causing him to inhale sharply. One of his hands, still chilled and shaking slightly, found its way beneath your waistband, sliding easily past the slightly worn elastic. You hissed as he moved your underwear out of the way and made contact with your skin.

“Klaus…wait…” you gasped out, pushing at his shoulders to move him away from you.

He pulled back immediately, looking at you with a mix of concern and fear.

“What is it? Did I…?” he murmured, apology already dancing on his tongue.

You reached up to cup his face between your hands, caressing softly and trying to brush the worried wrinkles from his brow.

“No, Klaus, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you whispered. “I just…I think we should take it slow tonight, okay?”

He nodded carefully, clearly unused to this kind of tenderness, and you leaned up to kiss his cheek before pulling him down beside you, curling around him and running your fingers soothingly through his shaggy hair. He sighed contentedly, snuggling closer and burying his face in your neck.

[petchricor-creates]

Self Discovery Ch. 1: Questions

Kid had never really asked his father where he’d come from. He knew he was a fragment of his soul, but that still begged the question, where had the body come from? It was the day before his fifteenth birthday that he decided it was about time he knew the answer to that question.

warnings: drowning

links to other places to find me and this story

Kid had never really asked his father where he’d come from. Well, he’d asked once when he was much younger and had gotten the answer that he was made from a fragment of his soul. But that still begged the question, where had the body come from? Death was a god, certainly, but he didn’t have the ability to create organic beings in any way, so where had he gotten a body to put the fragment into?

It was the day before his fifteenth birthday that he decided it was about time he knew the answer to that question.

“Heyya, Kid!” Death greeted him with a happy bounce. Although he wore a mask and Kid had never seen his face, he’d never had any trouble understanding how he was feeling or reading what little expression his mask gave. 

“Dad, I have a question,” Kid said, taking a seat in the golden chair Death often provided for him. Death didn’t respond other than to tilt his head slightly, waiting patiently for the question as always. “I know I was made from a fragment of your soul, but where did you get the body to put the soul in? You’ve always said I’m half human, after all.”

Death was silent a moment before sighing, sagging slightly. He clearly knew this day was coming. “I’ll tell you, but the answer may not please you. It may even send you down a rabbit hole.”

Kid scowled, nodded. “I’m prepared for that. Now please, tell me.”

“Very well. You were a given to me as a gift, from Life.” Kid’s eyebrows went up. “Fifteen years ago, Life showed up in this very room holding you as an infant. She had taken a piece of my soul and put it into a stillborn baby.”

“So I was stolen?” Kid tried not to sound upset but it didn’t work. Death put his hands up in defense.

“I don’t know the details of where your body came from, she didn’t tell me. She merely told me that you were a human body with a fragment of my soul and gave you to me without further explanation. Life is fickle like that.” Kid looked down at his feet, shifting one of them so that they sat at a symmetrical angle.

Did this mean he had a mother? Was his soul entirely reaper at all? He had so many questions that he could tell his father had no answers to. He took a deep breath and raised his head. “Where can I find Life?” 

Death sighed and shook his head. “I do not know. Life rarely comes to the human realm, I haven’t seen her since that day. I’m sorry Kid, but I have no other answers for you.” Kid wanted to fight that, something deep within him wanted to throw a fit, but he refrained. It was clear his father was genuinely sorry and had nothing else to offer him. Getting angry wasn’t going to help anyone.

“I understand, thank you.” Kid stood. “I have a lot to think about.” He rounded the chair and headed towards the exit.

“Kid.” 

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Yes, dad?”

“I love you.”

Kid smiled. “I love you too, dad.” He waved and continued on his way out. He watched his feet as he walked, hands in his pockets. He knew the hallways of the academy pretty well by now so he knew where he was going without looking. It was after school hours so no one was here, so that made the possibility of running into someone slim. 

There had to be some way of contacting Life, right? Most Gods had some kind of ritual or temple or something where you could summon them. Some were long lost, certainly, but there had at least been something at some point in time. His best bet was to check out the library first. Maybe there was something there that could help him. 

He changed his course from the exit to the library. Surely, there was something that could help him there. This method hadn’t failed him yet. Well, that was a lie, it had failed him a few times but more often than not it was successful. 

“Oh hey, Kid, what’re you doing here?” Kid looked up from his feet as he entered the library, spotting Maka headed his way with a handful of books. “I figured you’d be home by now.”

“I have some research I have to do,” he told her with a shrug. “What are those for?”

“Oh! Just some light reading for the weekend.” He raised a brow, eying the stack of books she was carrying. Light? She smiled awkwardly at his questioning stare.

“Well, we all have our obsessions,” he said with a teasing smile. Her eyes narrowed as she blushed in embarrassment.

“I’m not obsessed!” she shrieked. He waved her off with a fond smile, stepping out of her way.

“Of course, of course. Well, I’ll let you get to your “light” reading.” The air quotes did nothing to calm her anger.

“Oh shut up!” She huffed and stormed out of the library as Kid waved at her, heading over to the counter.

“Ah, Death the Kid, hello! What can I help you find today?” He didn’t even have to show his student ID anymore, the librarian knew him from his constant research projects.

“I’m looking for anything and everything you have on the goddess Life.” The librarian simply nodded and went to look. Kid couldn’t help but snort a little at how used to this the man was now. It didn’t take long for him to come back with a piece of paper. “Thank you.” Kid smiled at him and went to walk away but stopped once he got a look at the list. He turned back to the librarian, confused. The librarian shrugged with a sigh. “Sorry, but that’s all I could find.” Kid scowled and looked back at the single book listed. Not promising.

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” Kid continued on his way to find the book. It didn’t take him long, as the librarian was very good about organizing the books exactly. He grabbed the large, ornate book from the shelf and chose a table to sit at.

Gods and Goddess. A reference guide

Kid sighed heavily. If this was the only book they had on Life, he had a feeling his luck was going to run out very quickly. He opened the book and took a look at the table of contents, which listed various gods and goddesses. He knew most of them but there were a few he’d never heard of. 

“Aha! Page 364.” He flipped through the book until he found the desired page. The word Life was at the top of the page in pretty cursive letters. He took a moment to revel in the symmetrical gold and black design. “Oh, how beautiful.” He ran his fingers over it, delighting in the odd texture against his fingers.

He shook his head to clear it and started to read.

The book was of no help. All it told him was how little they know about Life, how no one had seen her in a very long time and that they had yet to find if there was any way to summon her at all. There were some ancient texts that suggested there once was but they were all very vague and gave no clear instructions, if instructions at all.

He growled in frustration and slammed the book shut. “Damn it.” He replaced the book and threw out the paper. He bid the librarian goodnight before leaving.

He had so many questions that he so desperately wanted answers to but how was he ever going to find them? The only person who had ever spoken to Life that was still around was his father. Well, as far as he was aware anyway. He could rightfully assume perhaps someone like Excalibur had met her once upon a time, given how old he was, but who knew if he had and if he had met her getting the actual answers out of him would be like trying to do Liz’s eyebrows.

“Oh hey, Kid, you’re home late.” 

“Hm?” Kid looked up from his feet, realizing that he had somehow walked all the way home without noticing. And he was wet. Had it been raining? “Oh geez, you’re soaked. Patty, bring a towel, will ya!?” “Okay, sis!”

“Hey, are you okay? You look really out of it.” Liz frowned and looked him over.

“My father answered my question and I now have more questions than answers,” he told her. Patty bounded over with a full sized towel. “Thank you, Patty.” He took the towel and started to dry himself off while also sliding out of his shoes.

“The question about your human body? What did he say?” Liz helped remove his jacket and dress shirt. Kid felt no awkwardness, he was completely comfortable with his partners. They’d lived together for years, they knew each other inside and out.

“Apparently, I was given to him by Life, as a gift. He said she stole a fragment of his soul and put it into a stillborn’s body.” Both girls froze, mouths wide open in shock. “Yeah, that was my response too.”

“So, wait, does this mean you have a mom?” Patty asked, all excited as she bounced on her heels.

“I don’t know, though it’s possible.” Kid shrugged and headed towards his room for some dry clothes. “I tried to look up if there was a known way to contact Life, so I could ask her myself, but found nothing.”

“Oh geez, I’m sorry, Kid,” Liz said as she followed him. He sighed as he walked into his room. 

“It’s alright. I’ll try something tomorrow, but right now I think I just need some food and sleep.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll warm something up for you.” Liz closed the door and Kid listened to her receding footsteps for a moment. Once they faded into silence he let out another sigh and started changing into pajamas. 

He decided to wear his black ones with little white skulls on them. They were the softest and had been a gift from his father, so they were his favorite ones. He only wore them for special occasions, such as movie and game nights, or that time Soul and Blackstar had slept over. Tonight wasn’t really an occasion, his birthday was tomorrow after all, but he felt his disappointment and anxiety were a good enough reason to break the rule, just this once.

He slipped his slippers on and headed for the kitchen, where he could smell the leftovers Liz had reheated for him. He smiled faintly. He really couldn’t have asked for better partners. Sure, there had been a rough few months when they’d first moved in but now they worked together so perfectly and it was wonderful. Kid loved his weapons, truly he did.

He poked his head into the kitchen, spying the leftovers sitting at the small kitchen table with a glass of milk on one side and one of water on the other. He smiled and sat down, eating his food in silence. The warm food and comfortable pajamas did make him feel a bit better. 

Once he was finished he rinsed his dishes and put them in the sink. He poked his head into the dining room, where Patty was coloring and singing to herself. 

“Good night, Patty. Don’t stay up too late,” he called out to her. She grinned at him.

“I won’t! G’night, Kid!” He smiled back at her and headed down the hall. Liz’s door was open a crack and he could hear soft music playing. He knocked lightly on the door before poking his head inside.

“You headed to bed?” Liz asked as she finished pulling on her pajama shorts. Kid nodded.

“Yeah, I’m going to need sleep if I’m going to continue my search tomorrow.” 

“Alright. You know where I am if you need anything. G’night, Kid.”

“Good night, Liz.” Kid closed the door to the exact spot it had been earlier before heading back to his room. He shut off the light and slid out of his slippers. He stretched as he walked over to his bed, falling straight into the middle of it. He let out a sigh as he crawled under the covers and stared at the moon through his window until his eyes drooped closed and he fell asleep.

A𝝮

Kid felt cold water against his back, seeping into his clothes. He scowled and opened his eyes, faced with an endless black void. Startled, he sat up and looked around, seeing nothing but blackness all around him. The only thing there was him and the pool of water below him.

“Hello?” he called out as he got to his feet. The only answer was his echo. He started to panic a little. “Hello!?” Still no answer. “Liz? Patty? Anybody!” He listened to his echo go on and on until it faded into nothing and just the faint sound of trickling water was left.

The panic welled up in Kid’s throat and he started to run. He knew it couldn’t solve anything but the base instinct to move was too strong to resist. He called out a few more times with the same amount of luck. He screamed as his foot slipped on the water and he went tumbling forward.

Instead of hitting ground, however, he fell straight through the surface and into the pitch black waters below. He held his breath and tried desperately to swim back to the surface but no matter how much he swam he couldn’t reach it. He was running out of breath.

His body convulsed and he sucked in water. His lungs were on fire and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. His body was twitching uncontrollably as he tried to make himself swim through the pain but to no avail. 

“Wake up.”

A𝝮

Kid’s eyes snapped open as he awoke with a scream, throwing himself up in bed. His body was so covered in sweat that for a moment he feared the dream was real but reality set in and he realized it couldn’t be. 

“Kid!?” Patty kicked the door open, wielding Liz and looking ready to kill someone on the spot. “What happened? Why’d you scream!?” Kid sighed and wiped the sweat from his face.

“Nothing, it’s nothing, just a bad dream, that’s all.” Patty scowled and Liz lept from her hands.

“Are you okay, Kid? You don’t look so good,” Liz said, going over and pressing a hand to his forehead. “Well, you don’t feel warm or anything. Do you feel alright?”

“I feel fine.” Kid threw off the covers and stood up. “Like I said, it was just a nightmare.” The pair didn’t look so sure but clearly didn’t want to press him.

“Well, okay then. Breakfast is waiting, whenever you’re ready.” Kid watched them leave. Once the door was shut he let out a sigh and fell back onto the bed, rubbing his eyes. How had something so bizarre seemed so real? Even now that he was thinking clearly, he could still remember the sensation of falling into the water and drowning very clearly.

“It wasn’t real,” he told himself. Saying it out loud didn’t seem to help much. He did his best to push the dream out of his mind as he got dressed. He decided to focus back on the matter of finding Life and getting answers. Maybe he could check other libraries? Though it was unlikely that any library would have a book that the DWMA didn’t at least have a copy of, especially when it came to things such as a Goddess. 

Maybe Maka had read something? Did Ragnorak know? He was pretty old after all. Kid rubbed his face and took a deep breath. He had zero leads and it was killing him. He buttoned the last button and headed to the kitchen.

“Happy birthday!” Kid yelped and jumped a little as he entered the kitchen, staring down at the pancakes being presented to him by Patty. There were sprinkles in them and a rainbow candle stuck exactly in the middle of the top one. Warmth welled up in his chest as he smiled.

“You scared me,” he said with mock offense. Patty giggled, bouncing a little.

“Wooorth iiit!” she said with a grin. “Blow out the candle! Blow out the candle!” Kid shook his head in amusement and blew it out, snickering when she cheered. Liz removed the candle and threw it out as Patty handed him the plate.

“Thank you, girls,” he said it softly, getting him two concerned looks. He smiled at them. “I think I needed the pick me up after yesterday. The dream didn’t help either.” They nodded in understanding and headed to the table to eat their own breakfast.

“Oh hey, Soul called and invited us to a basketball game, you wanna come with?” Liz said, sipping her water. Kid considered that a moment as he sat at the table with his pancakes.

“I think I will, yeah.” He took a sip of milk. “I’m sorry I scared you this morning.”

“It’s okay, Kid. Not like you wanted to have a nightmare!” Patty smiled at him and he smiled softly back. He started to eat his pancakes in silence, trying to calm his racing thoughts that refused to stop. He just wanted answers, that’s all. Why were they so hard to find?

Hopefully a game of basketball would help clear his head.

A𝝮

It was a free for all and Black Star was winning by a few points, with Soul fast on his heels. Everyone had to buy a candy bar for whoever got to ten points first and they both wanted it bad. Kid wasn’t hardly playing, he was pretty sure he didn’t even have a single point. His mind was still racing, trying to solve his problem but to no avail. He didn’t think anyone noticed, though.

“THREE POINTS!” Black Star screeched. “That’s eleven points! I win! WHOO WHOO!” Black Star threw his arms in the air and ran in a circle around everyone, chanting his name eagerly. “I get six free candy bars! Hell yeah!”

“Yeah yeah yeah, rub it in why dontchya,” Soul grumbled, holding the ball against his hip.

“Kid, are you alright?” Tsubaki asked quietly. Even though it was barely above a whisper it managed to get everyone’s attention, even Black Star ’s. So now, everyone was looking at him. “You weren’t hardly playing the game at all.” Kid looked at them all.

He was sure he could trust them. Well, maybe not Black Star, he was a bit of a blabbermouth after all. Then again, what harm could this secret even do? If he did blabber about it, all anyone would know was that he was a fragment of his father’s soul, which most people already knew or assumed, and that he was a gift from Life.

He sighed and sat down on the concrete. “I asked my father yesterday where I came from. All I’ve ever known is that I was made from a fragment of his own soul, but he always said that I was half human, so it didn’t really add up. He told me that I was a gift from Life, that she took a fragment of his soul and put it into a stillborn baby.”

“What, the fuck,” Soul said quietly. He sat down beside Kid. “Dude, that’s crazy. Does that mean you have a mom?”

“Maybe? I’m not sure about that one myself, honestly. I tried to see if I could find a way to contact Life, ask her myself, but I found nothing.”

“I donno if that’s such a good idea, Kid,” Maka said as she sat down, taking the ball from Soul and placing it in her lap to lean on. “I mean, what’re you gonna do once you find Life, anyway? What if she tells you about the birth mother and father or whatever? What then?” She glared at Soul as he grabbed her backpack and rummaged through it, exclaiming in victory once he found a granola bar.

“I have more questions than just the birth parents of the body Life used.” 

“What kind of questions?” Soul asked through a mouthful of granola bar.

“My soul, for starters. It’s blue, my father’s soul is yellow, so I’m concerned.”

“You could just have Stein take a look,” Maka pointed out. Kid looked down at his feet. She wasn’t wrong but he felt the need to ask Life herself.

“There’s nothing wrong about wanting to find the birth parents, y’know,” Tsubaki said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Even if that was the only reason, that would be okay.”

“But that’s not fair!” Black Star shouted, stomping his foot. Everyone looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Kid can’t have three parents when the rest of us don’t have any!”

“Hey! I have my parents,” Maka snapped. Black Star waved her off.

“Yeah but your mom isn’t around and your dad is crazy.” Maka grumbled in reply, clearly not wanting to agree with Black Star, even though he wasn’t really wrong. Kid sighed and put his chin in his hand.

“I just want to know. I don’t like not knowing things.” Everyone nodded and hummed their agreement and understanding, clearly recalling how he acted when he hadn’t known what his father and the academy were up to. He had been ready to fight his father, for crying out loud.

“I wish we could help you, but I really have no ideas,” Maka said with a frown. “Sorry, Kid.”

“It’s alright, I appreciate you all listening to my woes.” Kid stood up, everyone following suit. “See you all tomorrow, at the party?”

“As if we’d miss your birthday and a Halloween party all in one,” Soul said with a grin. Kid smiled. He’d never really had enough friends to have a real party before. He was admittedly pretty excited about it. “You guys better now forget my candy bars!” Black Star called as him and Tsubaki headed home. The others all grumbled their agreement and bid farewell as they parted ways.

“This Life stuff is really bothering you, huh?” Liz said as they walked home, Patty singing in the background as she lagged behind. Kid shrugged.

“I’ll admit, it is getting to me. But, maybe Maka is right, maybe it’s not such a good idea.” Liz just nodded, clearly not knowing what else she could possibly say. Kid didn’t blame her, it’s not like she had something useful to add, after all.

Once home Kid decided to just go straight to bed. He was emotionally drained and not really hungry after the late lunch Maka had brought for them. He changed into his usual pajamas this time, plain black with a skull that rested over his heart. 

He curled up under the blankets and stared out the window. He felt so frustrated. There had to be an answer, right? There had to be some way to get in contact with Life and find the answers but it felt like no matter what he did he wasn’t going to find it and it was starting to piss him off a little. 

He took a deep breath. It had only been two days, he couldn’t start getting upset already. Besides, he had a birthday party tomorrow, he shouldn’t spoil it by getting all worked up. He closed his eyes and turned over, nuzzling his face into his blankets as he fell asleep.

A𝝮

There was a sharp sound, like the ringing of a bell, that awoke Kid. He was staring up at the dark void again. He scowled and sat up, looking down at the water that rippled at his movement. This again? He’d never had a recurring dream before. He’d also never been aware he was dreaming, at least not to his knowledge.

“Hello?” No answer, though he wasn’t surprised this time. He scowled and looked around, even though he already knew there was nothing to see. What was this place?

Kid shrieked as something grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him under the water. He struggled to swim upwards but whatever it was had a good grip on him. An arm wrapped around him, claws digging into his chest as he was pulled down. The hand on the back of his shirt let go and grabbed his face, shoving down hard. A foot came up and pushed down on his chest, like he was being used as leverage.

The force of the blow made him gasp, making water flow into his lungs. Fuck, not again! He grabbed onto the person’s leg, trying to see through the water and his drowning haze. He got a glimpse of red and bright, white light. They kicked him in the face, his grip too loose to fight the pull into the depths of the water.

[missjanjie]

can I get a uhhhhhhh branjie lesbian au where B is a high powered business woman and V is her new too gotdamn sexy secretary

this was…longer than it was supposed to be bcs i enjoyed it like, a lot lot

-

Brooke Lynn is a confident, powerful woman. It takes aspecial type of person to become the youngest woman to hold the position of CEOin the company’s history, but she fit the bill. She had seen it all, heard itall, and was still under thirty-five. Nothing had ever been able to shake hercool, even demeanor.

Then she hired Vanessa.

It was an objectively good idea from the beginning – Vanessahad the qualifications and experience, all of her references raved about her,and she nailed the preliminary interview. By the time Brooke Lynn got tointerviewing her, she pretty much had the job in the bag. The fact that Vanessajust happened to be the most gorgeous woman she had ever laid eyes on was justicing on the cake. No one could accuse her of having an ulterior motive if shehired the best woman for the job.

And for the past couple weeks, Vanessa has worked diligentlyas Brooke Lynn’s personal secretary, her desk in the small waiting room thatseparated the CEO’s office from the rest of the floor. Even the employees hadto go through Vanessa to get to her boss, a fact they had come to live with. Sometimesthey joked that Brooke Lynn spoiled her, but she – for the most part – earned everythingshe got.

Yet Vanessa still made Brooke Lynn’s life difficult. It wasthe way she smiled, the way she walked, the way her clothes fit her body. A ‘proper’boss might have told her to keep skirts below the knee and blouses covering herchest, but she could never get herself to deprive herself of seeing somethingso gorgeous.

It didn’t take long for Vanessa to catch on, either. Thiswasn’t the first employer to be attracted to her, but it was the first woman –a strong, beautiful one – and that made all the difference. So, she decided tostart pushing her luck. Her skirts got a little shorter, she left more buttonsof her blouse undone. When she was called into Brooke’s office by lunch break,she wasn’t surprised. “You wanted to speak with me, Ms. Hytes?”  she asked, shutting the door behind her.

What did she want to speak about, again? Brooke Lynn justrealized she’d forgotten why she called her secretary in. Her eyes quicklydarted around, landing on a stack of books on one of the tables. “I need you to…organizethose and put them on the shelves,” she instructed.

“Oh, okay!” Vanessa chirped, taking the books a few at atime and putting them away. She could feel her bosses’ eyes on her, especiallywhen she reached up to put a book on a high shelf or bent over to get to a lowone.

And Brooke Lynn ‘cool as a cucumber’ Hytes broke her pen withhow hard she had bit down on it when Vanessa shelved a few books on thebottom-most shelf. “You’re not wearing panties,” she observed, a rosy tintspreading over her cheeks.

Vanessa smirked to herself and took her time standingupright. “Laundry day,” she answered as nonchalantly as her voice allowed. “Besides,it’s freeing. Good for the body,” she hummed and turned to properly face BrookeLynn.

Brooke’s brows rose in interest. “Is that so?” she bit downon her lip. “And the short skirt just happens to be the only clean one?”

“Exactly,” Vanessa giggled as she made her way behind thedesk, standing less than a foot away from Brooke Lynn. “You got ink on your blouse,”she pointed out. “Maybe you should take it off, you know, before the stain setsin.”

Brooke glanced towards the door for a split second, thenturned back to Vanessa with a smirk. “I guess you’re right,” she hummed, takingoff her top and setting it aside. “You’ll have to run it to the dry cleanerlater,” she chuckled, resting her hand on Vanessa’s thigh, inching up her skirta little at a time.

“Of course, Ms. Hytes,” Vanessa cooed, pushing herself up tosit on the desk, which hiked her skirt up further.

Brooke couldn’t stop herself from licking her lips. “You cancall me Brooke,” she assured, moving a hand up Vanessa’s thigh, then up furtherto undo the rest of the buttons of her top. The view of a half-dressed Vanessasitting in front of her was almost too perfect – she swore she was about towake up in her chair, alone and sexually frustrated.

But then Vanessa kissed her, pulling her closer with thegrasp she had on the back of her head. In the process, she knocked Brooke’supdo down, letting her long, blonde hair flow over her shoulders and down herback. She only pulled back to properly take off her top, her bra falling to thefloor soon after.

Brooke hiked Vanessa’s skirt all the way up, leaving it morelike a belt around her waist. She stood up, standing in between her spread legsand placing her hands on her hips. She kissed down to her breasts, teasing andgroping them with her hands and mouth.

Vanessa pressed her lips together to stay as quiet as shecould, her head tilting back and her chest beginning to heave with sharperbreaths. She leaned forward, getting Brooke’s bra off without losing thecontact.

Brooke let out a pleased hum as she slipped her hand betweenVanessa’s thighs, gently pumping two fingers in and out while she balanced onthe desk with her free hand. Whenever Vanessa would start to get loud, Brooke wouldsilence her with a kiss until she eased her fingers out. “You’re gonna have tobe good on your own now,” she cooed as she dropped to her knees.

“What do you—oh,” she couldn’t help letting abreathless moan when Brooke’s tongue mimicked her fingers with its steady, deepmovements. She bit down hard on her lip, struggling more and more to be quiet.

Brooke savored every whimper and whine Vanessa let out,almost intentionally pushing her limits. Even after Vanessa came, she didn’tstop. She rubbed against her clit with her thumb, smirking at the way Vanessa’sbody shook and trembled. Reluctantly, she stopped a moment or so later,standing upright and licking her lips. “Maybe you should have your laundry daysmore often.”

[dazstormretro]

My Final Retro Memories - Sept 1999

Now in my final year at uni me and a group of mates had decided to move out of our dilapidated student house and return to dorms for one final blowout. So in the September of 1999 with my bags packed and both my PlayStation and N64 boxed up I arrived back in Derby to finish off university in style.

Unfortunately as the year progressed the workload on my university course increased dramatically leaving less time for video gaming. Saying that I still tried my best to fit in the odd hour here and there. My next purchase would be Final Fantasy VIII in the October of this year on the PlayStation (probably not the best choice when your trying to write a dissertation!)

Having loved the previous instalments in the series I was looking forward to this particular title with great excitement. I must have invested a good chunk of time into FF VIII but unfortunately due to my course work stacking up and the stop/start nature of RPG progression the game eventually ended up on the shelf, yet another uncompleted Final Fantasy game.

Feeling I needed a change of pace and having recently watched Saving Private Ryan next up was Medal of Honour. A brand new game created by Steven Spielberg which would kick off the trend for WW2 first person shooters on consoles. Medal of Honour was indeed a fantastic addition to my PS1 collection. Taking on the role of Lieutenant Jimmy Patterson I soon found myself being completely immersed in war-torn Germany. With many varied objectives and missions to complete I must have played through this game countless times over the coming months, I especially enjoyed the sniper based stages, taking out Nazi soldiers with the perfect headshot was extremely satisfying.

Throughout 1999 and into 2000 I consumed yet more episodes of the X Files, enjoyed watching Peter MacNicol in Ally McBeal and first came across Spaced created and staring the very talented Simon Pegg. Crammed full of nerdy references to tv shows, movies and video games Spaced was (and still is) such a great show featuring zany characters, hilarious scripts and summed up the late 90’s to a tee.

Fast forward to June of 2000 and my university career had finally come to an end and I was thrust out into the real world to try and carve out some kind of career for myself. Having a full time job defiantly effected my gaming time during this period. I stopped buying the latest gaming magazines, new consoles past me by and most of my spare time was taken up with girlfriends and socialising.

Not being on the pulse of the latest console releases during this time may have actually worked to my advantage as in the July after saving up some cash I purchased Perfect Dark for my N64. Launching late in the N64’s life meant a lot of people missed out on Rare’s latest first person shooter.

Being a massive fan of Goldeneye which I had played to death the year previous Perfect Dark was an obvious choice. I remember it took me a good few weeks to save the £60 needed to purchase the title plus some extra cash to buy the memory expansion pack which was needed to play the game, increasing the consoles RAM storage capacity to 8 MB.

Once again I would jump into this game with both feet, playing and replying missions over and over. In fact I would play this game on and off for the next two years up until I finally sold my Nintendo 64. Like Rare’s previous shooter you took on the role of a secret agent (this time a female lead called Joanna Dark) and set about completing various missions armed to the teeth with futuristic weaponry and later in the game a sidekick alien by the name of Elvis?

Still to this day I enjoy a quick half hour session on Perfect Dark, taking out enemies with the Laptop Gun, launching grenades into glass elevators with the SuperDragon and watching the blood fly.

Perfect Dark was my last memorable exciting gaming purchase from back in the day. As a kid the anticipation of receiving a new game to play was overwhelming. Reading reviews over and over, researching every last bit of detail all while counting down the days until it’s release was so exciting. At the point of buying Perfect Dark I might have been in my early 20’s yet I still remember that buzz of finally receiving my copy after saving my hard earned cash over the summer.

That Christmas there would be no video gaming related items, instead I had asked for a Sony portable mini disk as my main gift. Gaming was once again starting to take a backseat with only the occasional Perfect Dark shooting rampage occurring.

Everyone has their own perception of what they class as retro. In my mind my retro gaming memories finished around 2001 when I sold my N64 and handful of games for beer money at a local videos games shop (a regret which I still have to this day). I would go onto purchase Final Fantasy IX on release in the February of this year but this wouldn't last long before also being traded in and like my N64 my PlayStation was soon after sold to help fund a lads holiday to Greece. I do remember going over to my mate Robs house the day he purchased a Sega Dreamcast and playing multiplayer Power Stone well into the early hours which was great fun but not enough to convince me to once again join the side of Sega. By mid 2001 I was consoleless and and it would remain that way for over a year. This was the first time since receiving my Sega Master System back when I was eleven that I didn’t video game.

By no means was this the end of my love for video games, far from it. In late 2002 I would once again join the console generation after purchasing a PS2. Over the coming years I would continue play games in my spare time owning such systems as the PS3, XBox, Wii and most recently a PS4 and Nintendo Switch. In fact my interest in video games (both modern and retro) is just as involved now as it was in my teens. Granted my multi-player gaming sessions have dwindled over the years and that initial excitement of getting a new game or console doesn’t have the same appeal that it once did but video games still rule in my book.

Nowadays my gaming time is evenly split between actually playing games and both reading and watching YouTube videos relating to the latest gaming news or retro perspectives. I also enjoy whipping out an old issue of Mean Machines or Super Play once in a while to get a little nostalgia kick. Only time will tell if this hobby will continue into my later years but as of 2019 I can’t see any signs of it slowing down.

So that’s the end of my my retro gaming memories. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about my adventures in the world of video games, maybe it’s even helped spark a few gaming memories from your own gaming past? I must admit I’ve thoroughly enjoyed casting my mind back and reliving some of these amazing times from my childhood.

Since first playing Roland on the Ropes on my brothers Amstrad 464 back in 1988 which lead to my Sega Master System the following Christmas I’ve been hooked. I feel very lucky to have lived through so many momentous gaming moments over the years. From the UK launch of the Mega Drive to the Super Nintendo, the now famous Sega vs Nintendo wars, the heyday of the video games magazine, the 90’s arcade scene through to the launch of the first PlayStation. These are just a few examples of how great the 1990’s were to a young gamer like myself, exciting times indeed.

Anyway that’s enough waffling from me, it’s back to my man cave to see if I can remember how to play Goldeneye with that bloody controller!

[dazaaaai]

(person from ur tumblr): CAN I JUST SAY THIS BLOG IS AWESOME :D I cant believe I found another person who likes bsd! btw Im Kunikida's wife, nice to meet you. Tell ur hus that Kunikida wants an explanation regarding the sudden disappearance of his nb XDD Aaanyways, to get to the point, I was hoping maaaybe for a prompt like: Kunikida sick w/ cold and a sweet Dazai takes care of him...?

HI THERE!! Sorry this is so late omg it’s been almost half a year but BLESS!!! It’s always good to have more people who like the Bungalow Wild Pups :D hello Mrs. Kunikida it’s a pleasure to meet you as well, I’ll be sure to tell Dazai to attend to the case of Kunikida’s missing notebook XD And yes !! You may of course, have your request! I think it’s not as fluffy and one-on-one as you wanted, but I had a lot of fun writing, so thank you for requesting and I do hope you enjoy it as much as I did typing it up!!

This Can’t End Well

⋆pairing: none that are mentioned!⋆ characters: Doppo Kunikida, Osamu Dazai, Akiko Yosano (main); Atsushi Nakajima, Junichirou Tanizaki, Kenji Miyazawa, Edogawa Ranpo, OC (secondary); Fukuzawa Yukichi, Kirako Haruno and the clerks (mentioned)⋆genre: mostly comedy, fluff near the end⋆ rating: K+⋆warnings: mentions of vomiting and other sickness symptoms⋆words: 2051→  summary: Kunikida’s definitely sick, and neither the Agency nor he himself are entirely certain what to do. Dazai, however, has a plan…

   This couldn’t end well.

    He didn’t want to admit it. It was shameful, and he had work to do! He couldn’t just slack off, couldn’t just stay at home… He had a schedule to keep to, an ideal — there was no way he could allow himself to be lazy, no way he could allow himself to act like…

    Dazai pinches his cheek, “Kunikida-kuuuun. You look awfully red.”

    Kunikida growls, “Well. Maybe if someone weren’t standing here trying to annoy me to death, my complexion would be a lot paler.”

    “I don’t think it’s just that,” Dazai hums, moving his hand from his cheek to his forehead, Kunikida doing everything in his power to keep typing and not snap Dazai’s wrist. “Kunikida-kun, I think you have a fever!”

    “Absolutely not,” Kunikida quickly swats his hand away before returning to his ever-important document. Click-clack, click-clack…

    “I think maybe Yosano-sensei should take a look at you.”

    “Absolutely not.”

   And then, to Kunikida’s horror, his body completely betrays him. His nose seizes, his lip quivers, his face scrunches up…

   He does an awful, awful thing.

   He sneezes.

   “Bless you, Kunikida-san!” Comes Atsushi’s voice from across the desk, from where the tiger boy is sitting, on the other chair.

   Kunikida swiftly wipes his nose with a hanky, returning to his typing.

   “You know,” Dazai says, leaning against his chair. “Our little photographer says that where she’s from, a single sneeze means bad luck, or very simply, ‘be patient.’ Maybe your work can wait?”

   “Nonsense! I do not procrastinate,” But his voice sounds stuffy — stuffier than usual, Kunikida’s sure Dazai would remark — and his eyes feel weary. His throat is scratchy, too…

   “Uh-oh,” Dazai coos. “I think somebody’s definitely sick.”

   “No.”

   “You really don’t look so well, Kunikida-kun.”

   “I’m fine, Dazai!”

   “You’re sick,” Dazai’s teasingly insistent, turning to his subordinate, “Atsushi-kun! Doesn’t Kunikida-kun seem sick to you?”

   Atsushi glances nervously between his two superiors — one wears an easy-going smile and the other’s glaring daggers at Atsushi, as if daring him to speak up.

   “W-well,” he begins. “Kunikida-san’s a logical man… Why would he come to work if he wasn’t feeling well?”

   “I don’t know,” Dazai hums. “Why don’t you ask him?”

   Atsushi takes one look at Kunikida, yelps, and buries his face back in his paperwork.

   “I am not sick, Dazai,” Kunikida says, with a sense of finality — he refuses to accept any prolonging of this discussion. He has work to do.

   But then…

   Coughs.

   It’s a small, tickle of sorts, within the back of his throat, at first. Then the tickle turns into scraping in his lungs, and soon enough Kunikida’s hacking up spit and bile into the palm of his hand, desperately trying to keep the contents of his stomach inside his body where they belong.

   “Kunikida-san?” It’s Junichirou this time, he’s walking by with a stack of folders and binders. The boy’s bright red eyes gaze at Kunikida with concern, “Are you alright? You don’t look too good.”

   “Tanizaki-san, I assure you, I’m in perfect health—” Kunikida says, but ends up being unable to continue as another coughing fit wracks his chest.

   Junichirou frowns, “You should go lie down in Yosano-sensei’s infirmary, if only for a bit. It’d help a lot — I can take over what you need to do for today from here, if you need me to.”

   Kunikida dismisses him with a wave of his shaky hand, “No, I insist. I have it under control.”

   He returns to his typing, only to realize upon hitting a certain point in his document, that he needs to refer and source something from a case they’d solved last year — the files to do with that are not on the hard drive belonging to the computer he’s currently working with. In fact, they haven’t been digitized yet, so they’re on a shelf against the walls of the office, a little ways away from where Kunikida’s working.

   All he has to do is get up and get the binder. Simple, right?

   Not right. He gets up and is immediately hit by a wave of dizziness so intense that both Atsushi and Junichirou shout at once, “Kunikida-san!”

   They rush to his side just as his head’s about to hit the ground and catch him, the two younger, weaker boys barely holding the man upwards, dragging him back to his seat, which he collapses in gratefully, and while breathing heavily.

   “You definitely need a break,” Junichirou puts a hand to Kunikida’s forehead, tutting when he feels the high temperature of his skin.

   “No no,” Kunikida insists, but when he sits up he again finds himself dizzy, collapsing back once more in his seat.

   “Everybody needs to rest sometime,” Atsushi says, voice soft.

   “I can rest at night, when I’m asleep…”

   “Kunikida-san,” Junichirou continues. “We’re going to take you to Yosano-sensei and see what she thinks, okay?”

   Kunikida’s face manages to pale, at least, in comparison to how red it is from his fever. “Oh no.”

   Dazai cackles maniacally, “How exciting! Gotta get treated by the scary scary doctor when you have the suds, Kunikida-kuuun…!”

   “Is he alright?” Kenji asks, poking his head out from behind Atsushi and Junichirou, who’ve been waiting outside of Yosano’s office for about half an hour.

   He was asking this question to Yosano, of course, who’d finally unlocked the door and stepped outside, seeming bemused in expression but smiling gently at Kenji, then laughing.

   “Oh he’s fine,” she replies at last. “He’s just sick.”

   “I knew it!” Dazai yells cheerily from across the floor.

   “So he really is sick?” Junichirou bites his lip, “Can you heal him?”

   Yosano shakes her head, “No. My ability only works on injuries, and is mostly intended for the life-threatening kind… It can do nothing for psychological damage, medical problems you were born with, nor, in this particular case… The common cold.”

   “He caught a cold?” Atsushi’s almost in awe. “That seems so strange. He’s always seemed so healthy and hard-working.”

   “Finally took its toll,” Yosano sighs. “It’s a sign that he needs to rest.”

   She then narrows her eyes, looking all around at the Agency members.

   “Whatever you do,” she begins, tone deadly serious and commanding. “Do not let that man leave his bed. I don’t care if he begs or pleads or cries, he will not work today.”

   “B-but,” Atsushi tries to argue. “Yosano-sensei! You know Kunikida-san is so very, u-um—!”

   “Doctor’s orders,” is Yosano’s firm reply, as she exits the Agency with her heels pattering against the marble. “Now, I’m off to get cough syrup for the patient. Do what you will to make him feel comfortable, if you feel like it — though I’m sure he’d rather you all be working in his absence.”

   The door shuts, and a silence falls upon the members of the Agency.

   “What…” Atsushi trails off. “Now?”

   “Isn’t it obvious, Atsushi-kun?” Dazai laughs, coming to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “We take care of Kunikida-kun until Yosano-sensei returns from the pharmacy.”

   “How do we take care of him though?” Junichirou looks at Dazai, curious. “We’re not doctors.”

   “Oh, pish-tosh! It’s just a cold, right? Everybody has home remedies for a cold! Why not throw some suggestions my way, and I’ll see what I can do for my beloved coworker!”

   “Dazai-san,” Atsushi’s surprised. “I didn’t know you cared about Kunikida-san so much.”

   Dazai puts a hand to his chest, as if he’s completely and totally offended. “Why! Atsushi-kun. I’m struck at the very idea that you thought I don’t care about him. Nothing could be further from the truth! He takes such good care of the Agency, why don’t we return the favor for a change?”

   There are slow, then enthusiastic nods amongst the younger Agency members, but Ranpo simply cackles from where he sits, sucking on a lollipop.

   “Oh yeah,” he shakes his head, eyes ever closed in amusement. “This can’t end well.”

   “Now now,” Dazai claps his hands together. “Ranpo-san, don’t be so pessimistic! So, which of you lovelies has an idea for what we could do?”

   “Well,” Kenji taps his chin. “Honey will do the trick, if he has a sore throat.”

   The brown-eyed girl sitting next to Kenji sticks out her tongue, “Honey. Yucky! I hate that stuff. I have a better idea,” she gets up off her seat, and skips off to the front door, “I’m going to go down to the café, ask Lucy if she has any maple syrup. Same effect, tastes much better!”

   Before anyone can stop her, the door is opened and shut once more.

   “Maybe something hot and warm to eat,” Atsushi turns around. “Like soup.”

   “Atsushi-kun, can you cook?”

   “M-more or less, but—”

   “Wonderful! Accompany the little princess down to the cafe and ask if you can use their kitchen and ingredients — be sure to tell them to put charges on your tab, alright?”

   “B-but!”

   “You’re the one who suggested it, not me. Now go, go go go!”

   Atsushi sighs, getting up and doing so.

   “What should we do?” Junichirou and Kenji ask in unison.

   “Hmmm,” Dazai tips his head, thinking. “You two should take care of Kunikida’s work while he’s away from his keyboard. I’m sure he’d appreciate that tons!”

   Junichirou furrows his eyebrows, “His work is really complicated, at least to me. I’m just an errand boy, Dazai-san…”

   Kenji nods in nervous agreement, “Yeah. And I still don’t know what a computer is, let alone how to use one!”

   Dazai laughs, like it’s not a problem at all. “You’re two capable boys! I’m sure you can figure out.”

   They exchange glances, then get up, bowing lightly, saying, “We’ll do our best!”

   Dazai waves them off happily, then turns to the infirmary’s door with what can only be described as a grin akin to that of the Cheshire Cat.

   So begins his fun…

   “Y-Yosano-sensei!” Kunikida splutters as the woman enters her office once more, having returned with the cough medicine she’d promised.

   “Hmm?” Yosano raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow in confusion. “Kunikida-kun, you’re acting so scared as if I might treat you with my ability.”

   “This is worse,” he whispers. “So much worse.”

   “What happened?” Yosano rolls down one of her gloves to check her watch, “I couldn’t have been gone more than forty minutes.”

   “Dazai happened.”

   And Kunikida, with a dying voice, though Yosano insists for him to rest his throat, regales her on all the awful things that have occurred in those devastating forty minutes that Yosano was absent.

   First, Atsushi and his little friend come back up into the Agency, one with a pot of hot soup, and the other with a big urn (that’s the only word that comes to Kunikida’s mind, as it was just so large) of maple syrup, both insisting that he eat it all.

   He, er, had expelled most of it, to his utter humiliation and to Yosano’s complete unsurprise.

   And then, it got worse… Dazai came in and tried to cheer him up, as it were, by driving him “COMPLETELY UP THE WALL” and constantly poking and prodding him, pretending to give him a soothing massage when really he was nearly breaking Kunikida’s foot to go along with his disease.

   Then, to top it all off, Junichirou comes in, maybe five or ten minutes before Yosano’s return, only to tell him that he finished all of Kunikida’s work… When Kunikida asked Junichirou to show him, Kenji waddled in with the laptop, and after seeing the state it was in, Kunikida could do nothing but scream.

   Kunikida’s end up sent home for the week — and the detectives are given a thorough scolding from the President. Ranpo laughs about it nonstop, every day up until Kunikida returns…

   And once he does, nobody goes near him, not even Dazai.

   They know if they do…

   It won’t end well.

   But, when Kunikida arrives, all better now though even angrier than usual, to sit at his desk…

   He finds a little card perched on his laptop.

   He takes the small, thick paper, and unfolds it to reveal the words, surely in one of the members’ neat calligraphy…

We’re sorry!! Get well soon, Kunikida-san!

   And it’s signed by every one of the detectives and clerks, even Dazai and Ranpo.

   So maybe it did end well, after all.

[captainhookcaptainfreedom]

Study Buddies. Just Study Buddies. (a Sherlolly fanfiction)

This was written for @katfevre for the Sherlolly Fic Exchange 2017.

Prompt: Sherlock and Molly at university. They keep running into each other in the library: looking for books in the same section, hiding/studying in the same secret corners. Small polite exchanges develop into longer conversations, which develop into a friendship and eventually into a snogging session in the book stacks.

Molly Hooper was a scholarship student. The only reason she was able to attend the “Doyle School for the Gifted” was her brilliant test scores. That and the abnormal love she had for anatomy at the age of 11 which had intrigued the school board and admissions staff. She had been accepted into the school at age 12 and had been going there for 5 years now. As a senior, Molly Hooper would be expected to complete a final (and impressive) research project before heading off to university. Most Doyle students could choose to go to whatever university they wanted. Molly, however, knew that her family would struggle to fund her future academic ventures and knew that she had to make this last year at Doyle count. In order to do this, Molly found herself studying in the library every day for many long hours.

William “Sherlock” Holmes was from a so called “legacy family” at Doyle. His older brother, Mycroft, had attended the school. As had his mother. His mother’s father had gone to Doyle and his father before him. The Holmes had always been students at Doyle ever since its conception. It was expected that Sherlock would not be the last Holmes to attend Doyle School. Of course, that was the opinion of the school and of the Holmes parents and ancestry. The opinion of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, that they would be the last two Holmes to attend Doyle. Mycroft was not inclined to procreate anytime soon due to his extreme lack of interest in women and his abundant appreciation for the male form. Sherlock had proclaimed on more than one occasion that he found everyone, no matter their sex, far too dull to even be bothered with and that he had no intention of ever tying himself to one of them permanently. Sherlock preferred to throw himself into the quest for knowledge, useful knowledge. During his senior year at Doyle, unlike most of the teenage boys running rampant on the property, he’d spend most of his time cooped up in the dusty old library.

 Doyle School for the Gifted was attended by students of all sorts. The one thing they all had in common was that they all were “gifted” in some way. Not all were the blatantly intelligent like the Holmes brothers or even Molly Hooper. Many were intelligent in certain areas, but some simply had impressive talent. Doyle employed staff of all sorts to meet every need of their students. Even their stranger needs would be met. Molly’s own small circle of friends displayed this. Molly herself did as well.

She had a therapy cat. His name was Toby. He had been a gift from her father and was the only thing that helped calm her down after a bout of her social anxiety. She was allowed to keep him in her dorm room. There were vets available to her in case he ever needed anything. If needed, she was even granted permission to carry him with her to her classes.

Then there was James Moriarty. Molly was friends with him, or at least she was friends with parts of him. She was friends with what they (their little group of friends) kind heartedly referred to as “techie Jim”, “gay Jim”, and “shy Jim”. There were probably a few other “Jims” she got along with, but those three were what she deemed Jim’s best. Jim Moriarty had a personality disorder. A multiple personality disorder aka dissociative identity disorder. Despite this apparent “setback” to Jim’s learning, he’d instantly been accepted to Doyle. Jim was beyond clever. Somehow, Doyle had gotten ahold of expert therapist and counselors to work with the Moriarty boy and attempt to help him when his darker personalities came out to play. Occasionally, they were unsuccessful and James would attempt arson or suicide, but they always found him before anything went too far.

Then there was Sebastian Moran. He was Jim’s right hand man. Sebastian would stay by Jim’s side through all the personalities. (Molly had noted more than once that “gay Jim” was the most likely to willing and excitedly stick to Sebastian side.) He himself had a few anger issues and had been called a sadist more than once. He’d been accepted to Doyle at 16, far later than most. He’d already been sued twice when caught hunting on private property. Doyle didn’t mind the criminal record.

Of course, there were also Meena and Mike who didn’t seem to have special needs of any kind.

Molly was content with her small and odd group of friends. She had no interest in pursuing new ones. The mere thought made her skin crawl.

 Sherlock Holmes had no need for people. He had no friends. Well, he had one friend at Doyle. John Watson had somehow wormed his way into Sherlock’s nonexistent social circle. He had easily grabbed the title of “best friend”.

 A blur of black and purple rushed into the Doyle library. It was Sherlock Holmes. His sharp, pale features were an extreme contrast from his dark hair. Already there, in a quiet and dusty corner, was Molly Hooper.

Sherlock took a seat at the opposite side of the large library from Molly. The two did not even notice each other’s presence.

The librarian at the Doyle School, a lovely older woman with a spunky attitude by the name of Martha Hudson, knew both Molly and Sherlock very well. She had not been fond of the previous Holmes students, but she thought Sherlock was an absolute dear. She had declared Molly Hooper to be “as sweet as pie” the first time they had met and her opinion of the girl had lasted. When the old grandfather clock in the library rang out that it was already midnight, Mrs.Hudson collected her things and left the library, locking the doors behind her. All the students had been gone for hours. Well, all the students but two, Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes. Neither student reacted as Mrs.Hudson left for the night. They had both gone through this before.

 At around 2am, Molly Hooper stretched out her arms, rolling her sore shoulders. She had sat here looking over these endless documents for hours. None of it even seemed to be helpful to her research. She got up and wandered the stacks, knowing that it always helped her think. As she passed the shelves she would occasionally stop and pull out a book she thought might possibly help her project until she reached her destination. She already had five books in her hands, but knew that she must fit one more. Trying not to drop her selected tomes, she reached up, stretching her short body, and barely grasped her fingers around the desired item. A play. A Shakespearean play. Today it would be Much Ado About Nothing . Last night it had been Romeo and Juliet . Tomorrow night it might be -

Molly stopped. It was missing. Richard III was missing. Molly knew she had put it back after she’d pulled it a couple weeks ago. No one else came into the Shakespeare section. No one. At least, she didn’t think so. She had never seen anyone other than her there before.

Molly turned around, her brain preoccupied with what had happened to Richard III , and instantly knocked into something very solid. Something that should not have been there. Something that was actually a someone.

“Holy fucking hell,” Molly shouted. Her breath coming in gasps as she stared shocked at the other body. The body she was sure had no business being here at 2:30 in the morning. “You scared me half to death,” she accused him. The library was only dimly lit at this hour but she could still recognize her companion. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock freaking Holmes.

He eyed her. “I didn’t realize you were here. The library is closed after all.”

Molly started turning red from anger (but perhaps also a bit from embarrassment. She had shouted so crudely and all her books had fell from her arms onto the ground. It made her look careless and as much as he was a prat, Sherlock Holmes was a gorgeous and frightfully intelligent prat.) She stumbled over her words as she begin, “I have, I mean, Mrs.Hudson she gave me special permission to be here after hours. Not just today. I’m here every night. She gave me a key. It was only because I explained that I needed the extra time and resources for my research. I don’t sleep anyway. She verified my insomnia with the nurse and-” Molly closed her mouth realizing she had already said too much. She was rambling. She didn’t want to ramble in front of Sherlock Holmes! Well, at least Jim had said her rambling was cute. Maybe Sherlock would think so too. Who was she kidding? Of course he wouldn’t. Wait, that’s right. Sherlock was here. What was he doing here? “What are you doing here so late - er, early?”

Sherlock stepped past her. She had not noticed the book he carried in his hand, but he slipped it back on the shelf. “Mrs.Hudson has let me stay here as long as I please since I was thirteen. I can assure you that I as well am here almost every night.”

Sherlock the turned away from her and walked out into the depths of the library, disappearing within the shelves.

“Huh,” Molly sighed. She collected her books from the floor and the turned back to the Shakespeare shelf. Richard III had returned to its rightful place. “Huh,” she repeated to herself.

 The next day, Molly scoped out where Sherlock sat in the library. He spent much of his free time during the day there, just as she did. She only wasted a few hours finding his preferred spot.

That night, when Mrs.Hudson left, Molly collected her belongings and moved across the library to where Sherlock sat. She quietly placed her things down on the table  next to Sherlock and sat.

He didn’t startle, but raised one perfect eyebrow at her. “What are you doing? You can’t sit with me.”

Molly smiled. “I just thought it might be nice if we spent the night together. Um, the nights here. Studying.” She was already flustered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, you were wrong. It will not be ‘nice’.”

Molly was not about to give up.

Their first few nights together (studying! Only studying!) were filled with poor jokes on Molly’s side and contempt from Sherlock. Eventually, however, he would start to smile just a bit when she laughed at something delightfully morbid. He also began showing her his research on bees. She was instantly enthralled. He found that she made

a good research partner. Molly was more than willing to help out anyway she could. Sherlock even found himself interested in her own work on human tissue. Dead human tissue.

The days turned into weeks turned into months. Then, one night they were both there. Molly had left earlier but come back around 3am, never wanting to miss a night with Sherlock. She had gone to attend the Christmas party that Jim was secretly hosted in the dorms. She knew Sherlock wouldn’t come but had silently hoped that perhaps he would show up. She knew she looked nice. Her hair done up and her makeup a brilliant shade of red. So, when she went to see Sherlock she left herself done up. Hoping to evoke a reaction.

She did.

Sherlock found himself looking at her again and again that night. He wanted to kiss her. He’d never wanted to kiss anyone before. But Molly, Molly Hooper.

It’d just be an experiment. Sherlock said that to himself over and over. It’d just be for science’s sake.

So he kissed her.

Her lips were soft. She tasted like mint and ginger. It was positively brilliant. She was positively brilliant. Molly sighed into the kiss. This. This is what she had wanted. He was what she had wanted. Needed really.

Sherlock would never admit it, but he needed her too.

And since experiments always should have more than one trial, he kissed her again.

I'm fairly certain I hadn't posted this on tumblr yet. If I did - well, lucky tumblr gets it twice!

[corruptoverlord-blog]

I see the Moon in your eyes

Summary:  “It was one thing to be in a fire, but being the cause of one was an entirely different ordeal. At least, that’s how Dan saw it.”

Warnings: graphic depictions of being in a fire, mentions of death, cursing

Word Count: 2,781

Being in a fire accident was one of the worst things anyone can experience, especially being on an elevated floor, where your only hopes of escape are either endless stairs, 15-feet high windows, or even death, which would considerably be the best choice. But that's all besides the unbearable smoke clouding your eyes and throat while the only thought going through your head is 'I'm going to die, I'm going to die, right here, right now, in a pile of ash.'

From all this, it's very difficult to grasp that a certain individual who has absolutely no sense of survival or a sense of anything, really, survived a very dangerous fire on the fourth floor of a building, and it'd be even harder to comprehend that that individual had to be the one and only, Dan Howell. It was perhaps his destiny to die a very foolish death, such as accidentally falling down a high amount of stairs or even just collapsing from how downhill his life was heading.

And indeed it was, for he had just been in a massive fight with his boyfriend, who was now probably his ex, a few days ago, and he was constantly being threatened to get fired at work for not meeting certain deadlines. And to top it all off, here was Dan, sitting in the back of a firetruck with a heavy blanket around his shoulders and an abandoned oxygen mask thrown next to him while the not-so-on-fire building stood in the distance.

It was one thing to be in a fire, but being the cause of one was an entirely different ordeal. At least, that's how Dan saw it.

The day had been all like others, unpleasant and absolutely tedious, for doing the same thing, stacking disorganized books and placing them back in their correct order alphabetically while listening to absolute silence beside the other workers shushing people who spoke a bit too loudly, was something that became very annoying and dull after a while.

There were times when Dan had to interrupt people for doing something they weren't supposed to be doing, such as eating a full-course meal while staining books with grease, something Dan found very, very aggravating, or talking on the phone obnoxiously while other people were trying to cram knowledge into their heads before finals, otherwise he'd get in trouble and even closer to getting fired.

But thankfully, it was barely a week after finals, and most of the rows were empty except for a few nerds who came to pick up some summer reading, so Dan didn't expect anything to come out of today, even if he was dreading going home and maybe meeting eyes with his (ex?) boyfriend he was in a fight with for almost a week now. And he didn't want to admit that he missed being with him, for he normally was always there to cheer Dan up with stupid jokes or random facts after a horrible day at work combined with the fact that Dan had to sleep in his old room that they now refer to as the 'guest room.' Not only did Dan miss the cuddles after dark and the giggly nights they'd spoon each other, but he also had a slight fear of the dark, leaving him embarrassed to leave the lights on in the bedroom.

He was doing the same thing he does every day, stand on the stool he used because of how he couldn't reach the top shelf even though every adult in the vicinity could do so and rearrange books in their correct order. Sometimes he read a few, mentally laughing as he read a bit of straight erotica then getting yelled at, making him drop the book and ruin everything. Then that was when Dan saw it out of the corner of his eye while stepping down from the stool.

There was a man calmly smoking a cigarette, and Dan sighed in annoyance and realized he was the one who had to tell the man to stop fucking smoking in the library beside the many signs that read, 'NO SMOKING.' Dan felt himself lose even more hope for humanity.

Dan didn't even prepare himself before strolling over to the rebellious man, who was now glaring at him angrily from eyeliner-covered eyes, holding the cigarette sassily.

"Hi," Dan smiled sarcastically, "I was wondering if you could stop smoking," he said simply, gesturing to the sign behind the man, who turned around and grumbled something under his breath before throwing it on the floor, stomping it out half-heartedly and walking away.

Dan glared at him as he walked down the stairs to the third floor, and Dan muttered something about people being rude under his breath as he looked down at the cigarette with a frown before moving to pick it up, but he heard a whispered voice calling him over. He noticed it was his friend who worked here, Louise, and she was sat at the main desk, pointing to the computer screen in front of her as she had a large grin and wide eyes.

"Dan! Dan, look!" she whispered quite loudly, gesturing Dan to come over, and so Dan did, marching away from the dropped cigarette and ending up at the desk, where Louise just had a video of a celebrity she and Dan talked about quite often. And, being Dan, he sat atop the desk and talked with Louise before heading back to where he was, completely forgetting about the cigarette on the floor.

-

It was a little over five minutes after the encounter when people began evacuating the building, and it was a little over five minutes after the encounter when Dan was completely oblivious to this considering he was shielded by everything by a large bookcase he was working at. He hummed along to a song, shoving a few books over and stacking them into the shelf before he saw it.

There was a lot of flames. That's all he could remember. The orange and yellow colors scattered across a curtain and were quickly spreading around the carpet, and suddenly Dan felt very hot from the flames and the immediate rush of panic that flooded his body. He stared, frozen, like he always did in a drastic situation, sadly, until he saw something that made him react.

The steel entrance door that stood all across the other end of the library, being at least thirty feet away from Dan, was being held open by one of the main workers that worked at the library, and he was escorting frantic people down the stairs before he quickly looked around to see if there were any other people, and, failing to spot Dan, followed the rest of the group and shut the door behind him. Dan felt a scream rising up to his throat as he saw flames begin to close in on the door.

His main thought was to give up and embrace that this was the way he'd die, in a building and being stupid enough to not notice there was a fire in the room he was in and being so insignificant that no one bothered to go back and save him. His vision got blurred by the sudden black smoke that immediately clouded his throat, and Dan inhaled it in a frantic manner, sending him into a coughing fit as he stumbled over desks to make his way towards the door, his only means of escaping.

Flames were spreading so quickly that Dan had to step on desks to maneuver his way across the room safely all while coughing through sweltering heat that made his skin slippery and shiny with sweat along with the black ash from the smoke surrounding him.

When he finally reached the door, he cried out as he pulled at the handle and realized it was locked, cursing everything in sight as he desperately began banging on the door, choking on sobs and choking on smoke. But with every distressed 'help!' that escaped his rotten throat, he knew no one would come and save him unless he gave a sign from outside the building,

He frantically looked around for another escape, spotting a window showing the large moon outside, and it gave Dan a form of encouragement before making his way back, quicker than before. Dan's breathing was very heavy by the time he was halfway there, and he felt his head begin to spin due to how much smoke he had inhaled. No matter how hard Dan tried to control his breathing to not inhale as much, he couldn't from how badly he was panicking. With blurry vision and overheated skin, Dan finally touched the ground as he stumbled his way over to the window, which was a few over five feet ahead.

It was Dan's such great luck that he had knocked over a large bookcase hard by complete accident, the one he was working at minutes before. He looked up at the window a final time with tears streaming down his face, the moon showing him a new emotion he'd never felt before in his life. It was indescribable to him; it felt like a massive weight of serenity even though he was absolutely sure that he would die in a matter of seconds.

And as the bookcase inevitably fell towards Dan, who embraced the sudden feeling, his eyes still being held open as he tumbled over, his body being crushed by the bookcase. The moon was shielded from his view, making Dan subconsciously reach out weakly towards the window with a shaking hand, displaying how badly he wanted that emotion once again, but he had been dragged away from it in a flash.

Dan longed for that feeling.

-

Fortunately, for no one in particular, Dan was eventually dragged out of that dreadful bookcase, barely breathing from the unhealthy amount of toxic smoke he'd inhaled a few minutes earlier. Ironically enough, the bookcase that had prevented Dan from escaping had actually helped him, for it emitted a loud crash and provoked Dan's wretched, final sob-scream, letting the people downstairs know there was still someone, hopefully alive, on the top floor.

So then here was Dan Howell, his being mentally and physically exhausted and letting himself cry from everything that had just happened. Thankfully enough, there weren't any reported deaths, only injuries, and Dan choked when he heard that from a local news reporter. It was his fault, after all.

He couldn't get the last few conscious seconds he had while on the fourth floor out of his mind when he looked at the glowing moon outside the window that gave him an unknown, indescribable feeling, and he didn't know why, but he wanted to feel it once again. It was like everything he had done didn't matter, for he finally found peace. Peace with himself and the world.

It still terrified him; the way he had given up right at that moment and fucking accepted his death like it was nothing. But it was amazing, and Dan wanted nothing more than to relive that moment and stay there for as long as he could. He knew he'd never, ever feel just that, though.

There was a sudden catch to this peculiar emotion, and it was one he knew very well. It was dissatisfaction. He knew that as he had quickly come to terms with his death throughout that short time, his life was incomplete like he hadn't lived it to the fullest or done something he should've.

"Excuse me," a polite and gentle voice spoke, startling Dan, who blinked up at the woman, knocking him out of his thoughts, "would you like to contact someone?" She waved a phone in one hand, and Dan nodded and took it in his shaking hands.

Dan then stopped and stared down at it for a while, wondering who to call. His first thought was obviously his (ex?) boyfriend, but he knew that he most likely wouldn't pick up. Then he thought about his family, who he spent days trying to avoid them, and he knew that if he called them, they'd never let this incident go. He'd be better off without them knowing.

He sighed deeply as he read the number he'd typed in before hesitantly pressing the call button and shakily raising it up to his face, having to use his other hand, which was shaking just as bad, to help him get a firmer grip on the device. Dan closed his eyes as the dull, repetitive noise emitted from the phone before feeling his lips twitch at the voice coming from the receiver.

"What did you do?" A slightly loud voice said, and Dan smiled weakly as he imagined him sassily putting his hands on his hips like he did when he was angry.

"Hi, Phil," Dan whispered, his head falling and staring down at his lap.

"Are those sirens?" he said suddenly, panicked, "what did you do, Daniel?" He said in a worried tone, and Dan smiled even wider at how he knew his (ex?) boyfriend would always use his full name when he was upset or mad at him, and frankly, that had been the case for almost a week now.

"Can you-" Dan began, forgetting he was weak from his voice, sending himself into a coughing fit before continuing in a small, raspy voice, "can you come? I'm-I'm at the library."

Phil quickly ended the call, and Dan didn't know whether Phil was coming to help and drive him home or if Phil was completely done with Dan and made him walk home by himself or get a ride from his friend, which was most commonly going to be the case. Their argument had been about Dan constantly getting himself into trouble, and of course, this had to be the circumstance Dan was currently in.

But Dan decided not to dwell on that too much and focus on recovery, coughing a few times and slowly grabbing the oxygen mask to take a few refreshing puffs of air before setting it beside him and shifting a bit before leaning against the side of the truck and closing his eyes. He'd worry about everything else when he woke up, unless he doesn't, which Dan kind of hoped for considering how bad of a situation he was in right now.

-

Dan was dreaming about the moon and how much of a calming factor it suddenly felt towards him in the few minutes he got an uncomfortable sleep before being woken up by gentle hands on his arms, the person in front of him softly but firmly repeating his name. He opened his eyes slowly, meeting the familiar ones he saw every day and smiled half-heartedly, his head being picked up by the softest pair of hands he'd ever felt.

"Holy shit, Dan," Phil whispered, eyeing the way Dan's skin was shiny and littered with flakes of black along with the few bruises he'd acquired while on the desperate search for escape, his thumbs running over his cheeks lightly, calming Dan down quickly.

"It's nice to see you, too," Dan mumbled weakly, his lips pulling upwards in a small smile as he gazed lovingly at Phil through squinted eyes, the thought that Phil was still pissed at him in his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to feel any hatred for Phil at the moment from how dazed and exhausted he was.

"God," Phil cried out suddenly after Dan spoke, his arms suddenly around Dan, who tensed at the touch but soon slumped into it, the smile staying on his worn down face as he realized this was the first physical contact Phil had given him in a long time, closing his eyes.

"I missed you," Dan whispered, barely audible, into Phil's neck, and he felt Phil let out a small laugh against his shoulder. Dan forgot how much love he actually felt for him, due to the lack of attention they'd given each other, but he felt so relieved that he was finally back in his loving boyfriend's arms, and knowing that they were both okay made that a million times better.

"I missed you, too," he heard a mumble across his shoulder, the arms around him tightening.

Dan gazed up at the glowing moon a final time, feeling a final tug in his heart for the emotion he wanted but ending up succumbing into the familiar feeling he had longed for, realizing it was all he needed. It was a different type of peace, anyone could tell, but he loved it either way.

And Dan felt satisfied.

[gaperezmakes]

Original Fic Fest Day 2 & 3 – Romantic & Non-Romantic Relationships (Black Empire | Iblan Light)

Oof, that’s a title. Anyway, it’s day 3 one of them of @originalficfest and I missed yesterday because I was enjoying a lovely day on the beach with my girlfriend and dogs. The dogs are not fans of waves.

Anyway, I’m gonna condense my Day 2 and 3 posts into one (two, really, but this one is the first one) to try and keep things less cluttered on your end! Hooray!

Anyway, Day 2 is Romantic Relationships day, where you get my Black Empire entry which talks about Synoth and Orvyn. A little background on their relationship:

At this point in my writing, Synoth and Orvyn are not yet in a relationship (mostly because I haven’t figured out how to get them there). They find themselves coming together because they are outsiders. They’re not ostracized--both command the respect and admiration of their subordinates, peers, and superior--but there’s just something that separates them from everyone else (my clichéd vagueness is intentional, as this is revealed in the next book in the Black Empire series).

Eventually, I’ll get to the point where they’re like “Dude, I think I’m like, into you, man. Like, romantically?” “Aw, dude, really? I thought it was just me, bro.” (It will be more eloquent, of course.) And then they have to play the we-are-but-we’re-not-gonna-tell-anybody game (you know the one). And then they’re found out and Dante’s like “Guys, whatever. I’m 300 years old, you don’t think I’ve seen two dudes fall in love before? What do you think this is, some [insert reference here]?” And then he says some Deadpool-esque 4th wall breaking witty thing BECAUSE DANTE IS A FUNNY AND ORIGINAL CHARACTER DO NOT STEAL (oh gosh, my bad, that was way more aggressive than I intended).

(Also all of that will be better worded, but I need to get there first.)

Anyway, you’re not here for me talking. You’re here for hot Synoth/Orvyn action! Well, I can’t deliver that, but I can give you this:

Orvyn sat down at his desk, rubbing his eyes. What even was the point anymore? What even were they fighting for anymore? The incident report sat opened, the pictures inside scattered around. It was a brutal scene. A group of paladins had been caught attacking a couple of magi. In their statement, the paladins all said the magi started the altercation, but the magi claimed the attack was unprovoked. The Deathwatch Guardians said they would look into the incident, but the Warriors of Light also wanted to conduct their own investigation. He had just left a joint meeting between him, Ellis, General Trace, and the King. Nobody was happy with this situation.

He heard a knock at his door. “It’s open.”

Synoth peeked his head inside, “You busy?” Orvyn shook his head, still covering his face. Synoth walked up to the desk and noticed the photos. “So you saw that too, huh?” he sighed.

“Yeah,” Orvyn rubbed his scalp. “This is not what I wanted to deal with today.”

“I know,” Synoth walked behind the chair and put his hands on the paladin’s shoulders. “This isn’t even the first time this week.”

“I can’t feel anything through this jacket, and you know that.” He didn’t even try to take it off, shrugging Synoth’s hands away instead. The mage moved to stand by him instead. They looked at the pictures together. “Where did we go wrong?”

Synoth just shook his head, “I have no idea. Everything all seemed so much easier before--well, you know.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, “I just wish the General would trust us to handle this. I feel like we’re only seeing an increase in incidents like these because of their constant interference.”

“I don’t know if it’s the General as much as it is the King,” Synoth picked up one of the pictures of the magi.  He winced, “Those are some nasty bruises.”

“I just don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“You’ll do what you do best, love.” Orvyn looked to Synoth, who was smirking, “You show them that you’re the boss for a reason.”

“Sure, the boss,” he rolled his eyes, “At one time, maybe. Now I’m just a glorified doorman.”

“You are not.” Synoth gave Orvyn a serious look, pointing at the rank on his shoulder, “You are Grand Paladin Sigurd Orvyn. I don’t give a damn which high-and-mighty full-of-themselves over-glorified paladin wants to come on down here and say he’s better than you. You were not given these stars and bars--you earned them.”

“They are not over-glorified paladins.”

“I’m gonna be honest: I don’t see much of a difference. My point is that you can’t let them think you’re just as small and insignificant as they are. You’ve stood up for yourself against everyone else on your way to the top. Sure, it turns out another mountain peak was hiding just behind this one, but that’s no reason to think that what you’ve done isn’t amazing.” Orvyn still didn’t look convinced. “I’ll be right back.” Synoth took a step back and with a snap, he was gone.

Orvyn was about to look back at the incident report when Synoth suddenly reappeared and slammed a huge sheet of paper onto his desk. The paladin was startled, but then looked at it. His eyes darted around the intricate details of the divine spell circle. His fingertips ran across its edges. Synoth walked around and pulled up one of his sleeves. The white lines of his (supposedly) temporary tattoos were a stark contrast against his black skin.

“When we went into the past, just before Retribution closed the Gates, do you think any of those people would have believed you if you said that you--an Ancenian--are the Grand Paladin of an Order stationed here in Capital City? No, and why? Because”

“Ancenians can’t be paladins.” They said in unison.

“That’s right. And you know who else would have agreed with them? Every. Single. Paladin. In. This. Army. And you’ve proved them all wrong at every step of the way.” Synoth looked Orvyn dead in the eyes, “You know who didn’t say you couldn’t do this? Iblis of Creation. You weren’t told: ‘Here, give this to somebody else.’ You were told: ‘Do this because I know you can, and you know you can’.” The mage took him by the hands, “Time and time again you forget to believe in yourself. But that’s okay, because even when you can’t, I will.” Synoth held Orvyn’s face for a brief moment, then gave the paladin a light slap on the cheeks.

“Now, get out there, show the Warriors your spine, and show your paladins that you are still the same old boss that they know and--tolerate, really. You’ve come out on top before, you just gotta do it again.”

Yeah, I’m not great with huge, passionate, character-to-character moments. These quiet, intimate moments are more my speed. But that’s okay. If you’re still interested, feel free to keep reading below!

Anyway, now we move into the next day’s prompt: Non-romantic Relationships. For this prompt, I want to focus more on the friendships that get less attention in the books (enemies and rivalries get lots of attention because they’re great for conflict). So for our Iblan Light entry for Day 3, we’ll look at the dynamic between Swift and Cerina. I don’t think there’s ever a moment where these two just hang out with one another. So let’s make that moment!

“HOI!” Cerina jumped up in her seat, yelping as Swift suddenly popped in behind her. She whipped around and tried to punch him, but Swift, ever aware, caught it. He just grinned stupidly at her.

“What--why--how--?” She brought her fist back, taking a second to realize just exactly who was there with her. Cerina looked at her fist, opened it, and opted to slap Swift instead.

“Ow,” Swift rubbed his cheek, “Fair’s fair, I get one next time.”

“I wouldn’t hit you if you didn’t surprise me like that. What are you doing here?” Cerina picked up her chair, which had fallen back.

“I believe your man needs you to babysit me for an hour or two,” Swift sat down on her bed and looked around. Cerina had at least three calendars posted on her wall. Upon closer inspection, there was one for the Union, one for maritime, and one he didn’t recognize, but assumed was local for Uwaye. A small bookshelf was filled with about fifteen thick books, filling the shelf not only side-by-side but stacked on top of each other where they fit. Otherwise, her room was kept fairly neat.

“Where do you keep your clothes?” He asked, noticing there were no dressers in the room.

“In the closet and in the drawers under the bed. What do you mean ‘babysit’?”

“Babysit might be a generous term. I have found myself in a situation that I can’t get myself out of, so Iblis and Dusk have to solve my problem for me.” He frowned and shrugged, “I don’t like it, but I am a little more fragile than they are. It shouldn’t take them too long.”

“So, what do you expect me to do? I have to finish this paper.” Cerina’s desk was full of papers and books, just as thick as the ones on her bookshelf. Several crumpled sheets of paper surrounded the desk.

“On what exactly are you writing about?” Swift picked up an errant paper ball near the bed and opened it up. It was full of crossed out numbers, a scribbled-through chart, and a couple of half-erased drawings.

“Whether it is beneficial to incorporate fertilizers and use magic to boost the growth of plants or, if not, which is better.” She shook her head, “It’s a question we’ve already conclusively answered, but my professor demands we do a lot of first-hand research.” She pointed to four pots sitting on her windowsill. “We’ve been working on this all semester. It’s the biggest paper I’ve had to write all year.”

“If it’s such a waste of time, why are you doing it?”

“Because it’s a huge portion of my grade, and I have this same teacher next semester for a much harder class.”

“Ah, sucking up, I see. It’s a good thing I’m an expert in that.”

Cerina chuckled, “No, I’m taking this class to figure out how she teaches and grades. Plus, it does help that she knows who I am going into her next class.”

“Alright, well if you’re busy, then I want to stay out of your hair. So, tell you what, you take a break for ten minutes. I don’t know how long or hard you’ve been working, but a break can’t hurt. So you take a break, escort me somewhere where I can eat, and just leave me with like 20 Qiiv, or whatever the equivalent is around here.”

“I’ll do you one better since you need somebody to babysit you.”

“Rude. I already said I don’t need babysitting.”

“We will go and eat dinner because I haven’t yet and Iblis has told me multiple times that I need to stop skipping meals.” Swift suddenly stopped her as he grabbed onto her shoulders.

“You’re skipping meals? Is everything okay? Are you doing alright?”

“I’m fine,” she pushed his hands off. “I just get wrapped up in my schoolwork, or actual work, and just kinda push meals aside. I’m not starving myself on purpose.”

Swift just started shaking her instead, “No girl, no! You do not skip meals you need to eaaaat!”

“I. Got. It. We’re. Going. To. Eat.”

“Good.” Swift stopped and walked to her door, “Let’s go!”

“Well give me a second, I have to get dressed.” Cerina was wearing a plain t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants with “SNU” printed on the left leg. “I’m not going out in this.”

“I figured, but I will wait outside.” Swift stepped out. As he looks out from the door, he sees another young woman sitting at a small round table. She was staring at him. He stared at her. He raised a hand nervously, “Hi?”

“INTRUDER. DOGGO, ATTACK!” Suddenly a log that had been laying on a chair sprang to life. It took on the rough facsimile of a dog and pounced on the ground before Swift. Swift, not one to be intimidated, immediately lit his hands on fire. The woman, surprised by the flame from what she assumed was a frost mage, quickly stood up and started casting some kind of spell. The three of them waited in a tense standoff, the air growing hotter in the room.

“Okay, I’m rea--” Cerina opened her door and bore witness to the fight about to break out. She sighed. “You stop,” she shoved Swift aside, ruining his focus and canceling his spell. “You sit,” the dog-log immediately sat down and started mimicking a pant. “And you calm down; he’s with me.” Confused, the young woman also stopped casting her spell. “My boyfriend teleported him here to keep him out of trouble. This is Swift. Swift, Lindsay. We’re going to eat dinner and when I come back, hopefully he will be gone.” She turned to Swift, “Let’s go.”

I’m gonna cut it off there because otherwise it’ll get just kinda long-winded and boring. But I do think I’d like to have more Swift & Cerina fun times. Anyway, that’s it for my first entries for Days 2 and 3. I’ll have Entry 2 (Romance - Iblan Light, Not-Romance - Black Empire) over here if you want to check it out cause you’re a cool person who likes checking things out.