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fiftyyearfilms · 3 years

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50 Years Later: The Still Sweet Legacy of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

Image source: https://people.com/food/gene-wilder-death-willy-wonka-pure-imagination/

I first watched Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory during the summer of 2001, when I was four years old. Sometime after the end credits rolled, I waddled into our little English garden and decided to have a nibble of one of the buttercups poking through in the grass. You will be unsurprised to discover that it tasted acrid and bitter and that I promptly screwed up my face and spat it out again. ‘But— but- -’ little four-year-old me thought, ‘—but in Willy Wonka’s garden the yellow butter-tea-cups are edible and filled with a breakfast brew! The toadstools and mushrooms ooze sweet white cream! And the trees don’t sprout boring old fruit, but giant jellified gummy bears!' According to my four-year old logic, in Wonka’s edible garden these synaesthetic saccharine delights could exist and so in our garden they could too. So was the bittersweet belief that ‘Anything is possible’ the film inspired - bittersweet because, of course, it's not true. Today marks the 50-year anniversary of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, which premiered in the United States on this day in 1971. Time reveals a legacy that is more sweet than sour.

The 1971 adaptation of Roald Dahl’s 1964 book ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ has an origins story that reads like a saccharine fairytale, complete with the requisite obstacles. Once upon a time, the story of Charlie Bucket and his lucky visit to a chocolate factory found its way into the hands of a 12-year-old girl called Madeline Stuart, the daughter of a Hollywood filmmaker, Mel Stuart. Madeline approached her father and asked him to make a film out of the story. In Stuart’s memory, his daughter’s innocent plea went something like this: ’Daddy... I want you to make this into a movie!’ A self-confessed chocoholic, Stuart said yes. And the rest was history? Not just yet...

The early 1970’s wasn’t Hollywood’s happiest hour. Low attendance and a struggling national economy meant that the U.S film industry was in a state of near-collapse and financing the movie was no easy feat; studios were cash-strapped. It was a stroke of sweet luck that the producer of the film, Mel Stuart’s friend David Wrober, had a connection to the Quaker Oats Company who, by happy chance, were looking for a way to break into the chocolate industry. In an unprecedented move in Hollywood, Quaker Oats agreed to finance the film on account of the fact that it would allow them to launch a ‘Wonka’ bar. A convenient if imperfect marriage was formed between the food company and the producers. A Happily Ever After? Still not yet...

There were active forces that didn’t want the candy man to make the leap from page to silver screen. Having long been vocal about Hollywood and its poor representation of black people, the NAACP objected to the adaptation because of the colonial overtones of the Ooompa Loompas in Dahl’s story (described as “a tribe of miniature pygmies” who were imported from Africa); they didn’t want additional attention being brought to the novel. The NAACP eventually suggested that “The solution is to make the Oompa-Loompas white and to make the film under a different title.” Mel Stuart agreed. The title was changed to ‘Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’, a change that would also benefit the marketing of the Quaker Oat Company’s ‘Wonka’ bar. After Stuart consulted with some black actor friends, it also was decided that the elf-like characters would be carrot orange with grass-green hair. Whether this amounted to ‘whitewashing’ or not is a matter for the individual to decide but changing the skin colour was the only way to adapt the book without making more significant changes to Dahl’s story. After all, it was the man himself penning the screenplay.

Image source: https://www2.bfi.org.uk/news-opinion/news-bfi/features/search-perfect-willy-wonka

Dahl’s screenplay - bloated and too close an adaption of the book, was eventually revised by newbie screenwriter David Seltzer, but the fantastical elements of the author’s story remained largely intact: chocolate rooms with chocolate waterfalls and rivers, fizzy-lifting stations that send Charlie Bucket and his grandfather floating to the ceiling, and elevators that fly straight into the sky. Harper Goff, famed for his work on the 1945 Disney film ‘20,000 Leagues under the Sea’, was tasked with bringing Dahl’s demanding vision to life in the art department. Then there were difficulties in casting too, and a cross-country search took place for the Oompa Loompas and the lucky ticket-winning children (lamentably, only white actors were cast). With scouting and sketching underway, producers had the formidable challenge of finding somewhere to shoot the movie. After considering the Guinness Factory in Ireland and – wait for it - a national monument in Spain, producers settled on the Munich Gas works and Bavarian Film Studios in Germany as the central filming locations. It was cheaper than America and the location’s foreignness to British and American audiences would work in the favour of creating a ‘Neverland’ story.

Tinged with sweetness and sourness, pre-production on Wonka came to a close in late August 1970 and principal photography began. For the adults on set, budgetary problems were an ongoing source of stress and the unusual marriage between Hollywood and the food industry was one of the main causes. Unlike Paramount or Universal, who might have expected the film to go over budget, Quaker Oats viewed the film as one long advertisement for their new bar and were unsurprisingly less sympathetic when the weather was bad and shooting had to be delayed or when something went wrong on set and more money had to be poured in (or, in the case of the chocolate waterfall, a specially sourced anti-foaming solution). The kids also had their tribulations (and were only renumerated £60 per week for their hard labour). Stuart was a tough director. So tough, in fact, that the child actors used to joke that they deserved Oscars for their roles (or for putting up with Stuart). He treated the young actors as adults and perhaps that’s one reason why the performances are so strong. But Stuart reflected that overall, it was like ‘one big slumber party’ for the child actors. Stories from the set include Paris Themmen, who played Mike Teevee, releasing bees from underneath a bell jar in Wonka’s chewing gum machine. Denise Nickerson (playing Violet Beauregarde) and Julie Dawn Cole (Veruca Salt) fought over Peter Ostroff, who played Charlie Bucket, and took turns being his ‘girlfriend’ day-by-day. After lunch breaks, Ostroff and Gene Wilder, who played Wonka himself, would walk back to set together sharing a chocolate bar. There was an excitable atmosphere on set and, filmed without storyboards or pre-production rehearsals, it translated into authenticity in the final film.

Image source: https://www.thedelite.com/willy-wonka-and-chocolate-factory-movie-facts-you-never-knew/

Filming came to a bittersweet end in November 1970, cast members said their teary goodbyes, and then seven months later, Willy Wonka premiered in the United States. While time has judged differently, the contemporary reception to the film was, at best, lukewarm. From a $2.9 million dollar budget, the film only made $4 million in theatres and ranked as #53 in the box office. There were a number of reasons for this. Several reviewers panned the movie; a critic from the New York Times called it ‘tedious and stagy with little sparkle and precious little humor’. The fun and spectacle of Willy Wonka didn’t sit well with an anxious and cynical audience. In the Vietnam era, The French Connection, The Omega Man, and A Clockwork Orange were in, and optimism and fun were out. The film also had to contend with the declining weekly movie attendance across the U.S, which reached an all-time low of 14 million in 1971 (from 44 million in 1963). On top of this, Dahl didn’t exactly enthuse about the final product. Finally - and this is what the director attributed primary responsibility to: a lacklustre marketing effort on behalf of Paramount Pictures.

But box-office results aren’t everything. Like sherbet - sour at first and then Oh so sweet, Willy Wonka has gone on to gain a mass following of fans and gained the all-desirable ‘cult’ film status. The phenomenon happened over time. Six years after the film appeared on cinema screens, it was sold to Warner Brothers and became one of their best-selling video cassettes. Then, periodic screenings on cable and network television over the following decades meant that it gained an even wider following and stayed within Western cultural consciousness. The never-ending references to Willy Wonka in popular culture - from The Simpsons to Austin Powers to Marilyn Manson’s music videos, is testament to this. The same could be said about the upcoming Willy Wonka origins story, whether it turns out to be a good film or not. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory currently stands as the second most watched film of 1971 on Letterboxd (the Goodreads of film).

Re-watching the film in 2021, it seems almost inevitable that the film has found new and wide- ranging audiences and there’s one main reason for it: a stellar and totally captivating performance from Gene Wilder. The director attributed the film’s longevity to the fact that ‘it was made for adults; it was not made for children’ and it was Wilder himself that brought the grown-up fun. Wilder’s Wonka is sarcastic and witty, ensuring that the final film ended up as a ‘story for children’ only as much as After Eights are for post-dinner treats and Yorkie bars are just for boys. Wilder created a more nuanced and entrancing character out of Wonka than what is portrayed in the book - a Wonka who is dishonest but trustworthy, sarcastic but still empathetic, indifferent but deeply caring, and aloof but charming. Sure, the sets seem slightly dated (the chocolate room in particular) but watching Gene Wilder sing ‘Pure Imagination’ is so wholly captivating that one almost doesn’t notice the set’s limitations. Creating, let alone portraying, such an enigmatic version of Wonka is a tall order, but Wilder made it looks effortless. As evidence of his skill as an actor, Willy Wonka shows Charlie little interest until the very end of the film and then within minutes conveys a parental love to the boy that seems entirely believable. Wilder’s tantalising hot then cold, sugary then sour, sweet then salty performance sustains the whole film.

From the outset, it seemed like the Wilder-Wonka synergy was made to be. Wilder was a relative newcomer to Hollywood in 1970, making his feature film debut in the 1967 film Bonnie & Clyde, but when he walked into the casting room at the Plaza Hotel in New York, Mel Stuart knew he was the man straight away – ‘That’s Willy Wonka!’ he said. Wilder himself immediately seemed to have an intuitive understanding of how to bring the character to life, agreeing to take on the role on one condition: he said to Stuart, “I would like to come out [of the factory] with a cane and be crippled because no one will know from that time on whether I’m lying or telling the truth.’’ Like a magician, Wilder’s Wonka was going to draw you in and keep you in the palm of his hand. To the child actors on set, the Wilder-Wonka symbiosis was very much real. Julia Winter recalled that between takes the kids would crawl all over Wilder yelling, ‘It’s my turn to sit on his lap!’. In turn, Wilder would tell them jokes and stories; he ‘never got cross’. I remember feeling the same captivation as a child watching the film: I wanted to spend time with Wonka. It was only some adults who missed the magic trick. Dahl criticised Wilder’s performance as ‘pretentious’ and insufficiently ‘gay’. Wilder himself recalled hearing talk of mothers saying that the film was ‘cruel to the children’, but he understood that ‘maybe some mothers felt that way, but the children didn’t feel that way...there are limits and they want to know the limits’. The continuing classic status of the film is evidence that the kids (and Wilder) were right. The Wilder-Wonka magic has survived 50 years without souring. The only bittersweetness in watching the actor sing and twirl across the screen is knowing he is no longer with us.

Image source: https://cometoverhollywood.com/2016/08/29/musical-monday-willy-wonka-the-chocolate-factory-1971/

If Gene Wilder carried the film, then what about the story itself? The plot is simple, heart- warming, and doesn’t deserve close scrutiny. Willy Wonka really is a ‘show’, the story is secondary to the individual charisma of Wilder and the spectacle of the image and music. We don’t know if Charlie will be happy or sad once he’s inherited Wonka’s factory. We also don’t know what happens to the rest of the children after they’ve been punished. But who cares? The audience is taken to a joyful fun park where you want to eat everything on screen and play with all the gizmos and gadgets, and where the music is so catchy that you can’t get it out of your head for days and weeks after.

Select ideologues have (and will) taken issue with the story, discarding it as gauche capitalist propaganda. One Marxist criticism of the story even gained enough traction that the director took notice in later years. The parts seem to be there: a businessman running a competition by hiding five golden tickets in his candy bars, competition from other candy makers, the Wonka-Oompa Loompa relationship, and a ‘Rags to riches’ story for Charlie. But one might ask if this is an unnecessary and selective reading. The parts for an alternative vision are equally apparent: from the wild and uncontrolled creativity and experimentation inside the factory to the joy found within the chocolate work itself, and from the relentless drive forward ‘You have to go forward if you want to go back’ to the end picture of the elevator shooting through a glass ceiling and into the skies. If a critic really wanted to make the comparison, such images would sit more easily in Soviet Russia than capitalist America. Wonka might have a capitalist wrapper but take a bite and look closely inside and its ideological filling is incoherent (it is, after all, entertainment). One could imagine how the film might be set in a collectivist community rather than a ‘capitalist’ factory, but it would have made for a worse film. It is the sense of unease that runs throughout the film that has made it timeless, whether its Wonka’s frustration with August Gloop for polluting his pure chocolate river, his fear over someone leaking the secret recipe for the ever-lasting gobstopper, his nightmares in the tunnel sequence, or his anxiety over finding a worthy heir for the factory, which finally manifests as a misjudged outburst at Charlie. It’s the fraught relationship between abundance and greed that makes for such compelling watching. Anyway, as the screenwriter stated in an interview, the film is ‘...not the function of sitting down and intellectualising... it’s the function of scotch tape, cardboard, let’s put on a show!’ Why spoil the fun and examine the parts individually when the sum of the parts is a universal message people need to hear now as much as they did in 1971? Reward honesty and integrity, not greed.

A moral message delivered in an almost subversive tone is another reason for why the film feels timeless. Instead of adults dragging tired and bored children around, the adults in this film are at the mercy of their kids and Wonka. Young viewers can marvel at the gluttony of August Gloop, the smart-mouthed Violet Beauregarde, the wanton bad behaviour of Veruca Salt, and Mike Teevee’s devotion to cable. It’s escapism at its best to watch other kids do what you can’t do: speak back to parents and yell and scream. It’s equally as tantalising when the naughty children are punished in fantastical ways. Augustus, drinking from the chocolate river, falls in and then gets sucked up a chocolate chute. Violet chews forbidden gum and then blows up into a blueberry the size of a small horse. Veruca falls down a garbage chute. And Mike finds himself sucked into a television. Best of all, the parents are equally guilty of bad-behaviour as the kids - and, boy, do they pay for it. Wonka might be a film for children and adults, but you can guess who’s going to really have the best time. It is little Charlie, after all, who wins Wonka’s factory at the end of the day.

In the scene where Willy Wonka drinks from a yellow flower-shaped cup and then eats the cup, the cup itself was made of wax. Gene Wilder had to chew the wax pieces until the end of the take, at which point he spat them out. Adults that once watched the film as children now know that flowers in the garden aren’t edible. Our eyes can pick up the small imperfections in the film - the sweets that look plastic and chocolate river that looks like exactly what it was - ‘dirty, stinky water’. But through a child’s eyes - even coming to the film half a century after its release, the film really can be a ‘world of pure imagination’. In another fifty years, will children still wander into the garden, pick up a buttercup, and bite into it with all the belief in the word that it’ll taste like sweet, white chocolate? As long as parents continue to show children the film, they will - and what a marvellous legacy for a film to have. Fifty years on, it’s safe to say that Willy Wonka has had a sweet and indelible impact on our sadly mostly inedible world.

Sources for post:

Mel Stuart, Josh Young, ‘Pure Imagination: The Making of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’, 2001.

Julia Dawn Cole, ‘I Want It Now! a Memoir of Life on the Set of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’, 2011.

Pure Imagination: The Story (Making) of Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0yyev_3S_Y4

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#Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory #1971

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joshstambourine · 3 years

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Lover, Leaver Pt. 1

"Ooooooh, I love your music ask idea... could you do a Lover, Leaver one with Danny? 👀" - @anditsmywholeheart

Okay. So.

I probably took this in a total different direction than you were imagining @anditsmywholeheart , hopefully you still like it 💜

I fought myself for a long while which way to go with this song prompt as the tune is so rock and roll, so at first I thought something fun and gritty but... the lyrics for this song give me such mythical vibes!

So I opted to go for something magical and fantasy based (this decision may or may not have have been swayed by my playing a shit tonne of Witcher recently. As well as helping my S/O with his D&D Campaign.)

Annnnnd surprise this one is not going to stay a one shot either! You guys are getting a magical series hurray!

Warnings: Cursing, Slightly NSFW

Word Count: 2891

Paladin!Danny × Sorceress!Reader

Taglist: @anditsmywholeheart @babydxll

The cold wind whistled over the heights of the keep. It was so crisp. Danny’s eyes drifted over the edge of the thick stone rail of the tower, snow beginning to dance down from the dark gray sky. Danny was fully aware of what was coming, it didn’t take a genius to recognize the kind of trouble that was coming towards him now with full speed.

Danny’s eyes were unmoving, locked on the horizon now. “Are you cold?” He soon let out, to the woman sitting on the ledge beside him. Or, I suppose I should say hovering over the ledge.

(Y/N) began to shake her head slowly, “Danny.. I can’t feel it…” She simply responds, her words taking to the air in a puff of curling mist. Many sorceresses like (Y/N) went through rigorous training so as to be unbothered by even the most extreme temperatures.

Danny was quiet for a moment, the only sound was the hanging bits of Danny’s chainmail clinking against his plate armor. “Ah… I almost always forget.” He admits with a weak laugh, his gaze fell upon her now.

He couldn’t help but stare as her hair was tousled in the cold wind, it was almost a strong enough wind to pick up the end of her heavy velveteen cloak and toss it up into the air. As long as Danny had known (Y/N), she had always been rather… stoic? That wasn’t quite the word. Perhaps simply serious was a better word. It wasn’t necessarily her fault, most mages and sorcerers had to go through many horrendous trials to be able to hold any place in the magic practicing society. Not to mention the amount of witch hunters roaming the land and pouncing on any person who practiced magic.

(Y/N)’s seriousness didn’t deter Danny, nor would it cause his affections to wain. The moment Danny had laid eyes on her… he had known.

Danny could almost hear the sound of the band playing again now. With a small blink of his eyes he was back in The Royal Curtain.

He was surrounded by happy music, and much happier people. Many were drunk out of their skulls, but of course that came with the territory. But these people were happy for reasons aside from just alcohol and good music; this tavern in particular was very well hidden, actually being in the cobblestone basement of the building. That meant, it was a safe haven for those who practiced magic as well as any who were nonhuman. There were many outlanders present here throughout the day: elves, dwarves, halflings, even a few lizard folk, the list went on and on.

The Royal Curtain was a place for people to just let their hair down and enjoy themselves for once without being spit at or much worse.

Places like the Royal Curtain also meant business for people like Danny; there were so many people wronged by others here, people who weren't protected from the monsters that were all around, and people who just needed help settling somewhere safe. This was the place he loved to be, a place where he could use his abilities and frankly his humanity for good.

Danny shuffled through the crowd, a smile always being clad on his features. He just couldn't help it when he came here. These folk deserved to be happy for a while.

He broke his way through the crowd and came to find a seat at the bar.

"Ah! Danny! What have we done to deserve this pleasure?" Inquired a tall woman from behind the counter, her skin white as a sheet, eyes a bland shade of gray. "Here to enjoy yourself for once?" She continued with a sly smile, long white curls falling around her paper thin figure.

Danny softly laughed, waving it off, "No, no, just business as usual, Nil." He explains.

Nil frowned a little, "You're going to work yourself to death you know." She tells him, beginning to reach for a glass. Nil was a part owner of this establishment, she worked at the bar in the basement while her partner tended to the upstairs level.

Nil was a being known as a changeling - a race that looked like it was created by someone who had a human’s likeness described to them but had never actually had seen one. They had no distinct features; skin, hair, eyes, they all were some shade of grey or a colour that was drained of most of its pigment. This of course, was for a reason. Changeling’s had the ability to change shape at will, and tend to have to learn to lie their way through their lives to survive; because of this most people assume that they are criminally inclined, which is almost never the case.

"At least it would be for a good cause." Danny cheerfully says, watching her as she poured him his usual glass of Fire Brandy.

Nil wore a warm smile, "We appreciate all the effort you put in. Honestly." She continues in a loving tone. She meant it, and Danny was well aware of this.

Nil had done many things herself in the name of protecting magic users and nonhumans. In fact she had led many revolts in her life. However, Nil was now a mother and certainly couldn't be expected to to stick her neck out as often as she had when she was young. Which meant people like Danny needed to step up, pick up the slack.

“So?” He lightly asked, hand taking the glass between his finger tips. “Anything…?” Danny continued, if anyone was going to know if someone needed help or something was happening, it was going to be Nil.

Nil lips pursed a little as she looked around the room, seeming to be thinking. Danny took notice of her hands, covered in scars and surprisingly rather bejeweled - a ring with the crest of a royal house on her hand, an odd thing seeing as she had never been much more than a street urchin. Danny never had the courage to ask Nil why she had the ring in all the time he had known her, he didn’t know if he would ever find out frankly.

“I know there is a family of dwarves needing an escort…” Nil lightly begins, “But… I don’t suppose you want to run the risk of having the guard notice your frequent travel out of the city lines…” She utters to herself, before biting her lip. “There is something actually.” She admits.

Danny leaned forward against the bar, taking another sip of the brandy. “Something?” He inquired,

Nil nodded, “It’s… not something I would normally expect you to get involved with. Sam is normally who I’d reach out to… he’s better with the arcane but…” She slowly muttered,

“I know… I still don’t know where he is Nil.” Danny lets out. Sam, a fellow clan member and friend had gone missing in the weeks previous. No one knew where he went, just that he left behind some form of note… all in the dead language. To this moment Sam’s brothers had been trying to find someone to decipher it, but it so far had been no use.

Nil frowns a little, knowing how important Sam was to him, but she continued on. “There is a Sorceress here somewhere. She is looking for help to find something... an artifact of some sort.”

Danny immediately grimaced, “Agh… Nil, you know I don’t get involved with that kind of bull---” He sighs, having already done too many errands for wizards promising to pay him a reward to fetch “a simple artifact”... it was always more work than it was worth. He had yet to meet a Wizard that didn’t short change him and proceed to complain about the “dings” on the item in question, as if it hadn’t existed for thousands of years before Danny came along.

Nil shook her head a bit, knowing how he felt about tasks like this. “I’m aware, but, I have been led to believe that this is different.” She continued, “Just help with hunting down some fellow sorcerers and getting more information. She had come in to ask if I knew a Vitalis Kein---” Nil explained, seeming to slow when it came to the name.

“And? Do you…?” Danny inquired with a perked brow, it was something about the way she had said the name, it just didn’t sit well with him.

Nil was quick to shake her head, “Not a clue. I have never had anyone by that name come through the inn.” She admits suddenly seeming at ease once again.

Perhaps Danny had imagined the little waver in her voice? He shrugged it off into the back recesses of his mind, ‘It was nothing I’m sure.’ He tells himself, hand moving to push back the few curly pieces of hair that had fallen from the ribbon holding his hair in place. “Is she still here?” He inquired,

“Upstairs I believe, Helgrim will know the room.” Nil says, lightly moving to refill a few tankards that had been slammed down on the bar.

Danny tossed back the rest of his brandy and began to stand, pulling a few coins from his satchel. “Thanks Nil.” He smiles,

“Come see me again soon! You still owe Syl a sword lesson.” She hummed, with a wide smile. Syl was her daughter, the girl was barely four years old but had a fire for swordsmanship.

“Tell her I’ll be her next week okay?” He laughed lightly.

Danny walked down the long hallway in the inn, searching for a room that was tucked in the far back corner, close to the back exit for obvious reasons. Those obvious reasons being that it was an easy escape incase of a raid. Danny’s armor rattled with each step he took, it was surprising just how quickly you could drown out a noise when it became part of your everyday life.

Finally he had found the door to the room; it was strange… the few steps that were closest to the door Danny had begun to notice the air get heavy. A soft… tingle? Yes, a tingle, running up and down his spine. His lips parted, ‘Magic?’ Danny thought to himself, recognizing the feeling. ‘She wouldn’t be stupid enough to be exuding so much here could she…?’

As his fingertips touched the door handle soft purple sparks climbed his fingers, they burned as they climbed to his knuckles. Quickly Danny recoiled his hand; his eyes watching as purple runes sizzled and glowed in the wood of the door.

‘Fuck--- a protection spell.’ Danny thought, suddenly realizing that he wasn’t dealing with a novice. Danny knew he wouldn’t be able to touch the door, that burn was a warning --- any use of force and he would more than likely be shot through the wall due to the reverb… he had learned from experience. Sam had once cast protection on his bedroom door… it wasn’t a fun time for anyone.

With a huff, Danny moved to begin digging through his satchel. Eventually tugging free a yellow crystal, holding it tight he moved it closer to the door --- within an instant it began to glow. He brought a second hand up, with both hands he moved the crystal to draw opposing runes in the air. As he did so the air got heavier and heavier, more electricity rising before---

CRACK!

The crystal shattered in his hands. However, the door had creaked open without any further opposition. With magic, things always came at a cost. You couldn’t expect something without giving nothing. Carefully Danny began to skulk forward, pushing the door open, it was dark in the room… pitch black almost.

Danny could see billows of mist brushing by his feet, he looked at it curiously. Hand reaching back for his sword with uncertainty, “Hello…?” He called, his voice echoed back as if the room went on forever. Danny’s fingers began to clutch at the hilt of his blade, eyes moving over the darkness keenly. Every step he took into the room he could feel the air get heavier and heavier, and… oddly enough to smell more and more like flowers. “Hello…?!” He called again a little louder, voice seeming to echo even farther.

A loud crack made him jump, quickly looking behind him to see that the door had slammed shut behind him. Danny felt his eyes widen as he quickly began to make his way back toward it, he only made it a few steps before he heard her.

“I’ve been expecting you.” A woman's voice echoed at first not seeming to have any particular location, almost rattling through his head more than anything. Danny didn’t know where to look, his lips parting unsure what to say, “Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.” Said the voice again, this time right by his ear.

Danny spun around, eyes wide with disbelief when he found himself staring at a now sunny space full of flowers, it… was almost a greenhouse or royal garden, but something about it told him that wasn’t quite it. As he looked up there was no glass ceiling… and no sun either, just a black sky full of stars. And yet this space was filled with bright and beautiful daylight, it causing the dew on the plants to glisten.

Danny looked back behind him but only found more shrubbery and flowers growing wildly; nervously he began to take steps forward. Danny had no idea where he was going, or where he was even… only that there were flowers of every sort and shape. Danny could hear the fine gravel under his boots crunch with each step, it was a change from the creaking floorboards of the inn.

A small purple butterfly took to the air as Danny passed, fluttering ahead of him softly. Danny watched it curiously, noticing that it seemed to fly in one spot for a time as if it was waiting for him to follow. Danny eventually did so, eyes staying open to anything that could happen. ‘I hate sorcerers.’ He thinks to himself, being all too aware of the kind of things they pulled to show their “unimaginable power”. It didn’t impress Danny in the slightest.

The butterfly made a few brisk turns, leading him down many paths until they came to a space where falling water could be heard. As soon as the sound was able to be heard the butterfly disappeared into purple mist; Danny could only sigh and shake his head. Everything here was most likely an illusion of some sort, many magic users created something of… a study den if you will. A place where they felt safe to practice their magic, though this place was all in their imagination… part of a meditation.

Danny continued forward to find a pond with a small fresh water waterfall running into it. “It’s about time.” The woman’s voice spoke again, as his eyes came to meet the owner his cheeks immediately turned a fiery red. Danny was quick to lift his eyes skyward; the woman before him stepped out of the water completely naked without any shame.

“Ah-- a shy one I see.” She uttered out loud, pulling her fingers through her wet hair.

“Not at all, just… a gentleman.” Danny responded, not wanting to look down at her until she was fully clothed.

“A gentleman would have knocked before entering my chambers.” She responded, with a subtle grin.

“I would have knocked, but I know better than to even flick a protected door.” He tells her, it was a strange feeling having his eyes upward. As a general rule Danny thought it safer to always keep his eyes on people he wasn’t sure could be trusted, somehow though, looking away from her came instinctually.

“Fair,” She utters, taking a seat on a large stone by the water. She didn’t seem inclined to put on any clothing at all, exuding all the confidence in the world. “Good god man, you can look at me. I won’t bite.” She tells him.

Danny struggled to lower his gaze back to her figure, “Just--- can you put on a towel or something? Please?” He responded,

“You realize this is my realm, I don’t have to do anything you ask me to.” The woman tells him seriously, “In fact I could have removed your clothing if that was my intention.” She admits, arms folded, but abiding by his request. She moved to place a loose robe over her shoulders.

“Now tell me. Are you here to help me Danny?” She inquires, not bothering to tie the ribbon around the waist.

Danny cleared his throat as his gaze finally came upon her, “I… well I came here to get more information.” He tells her, eyes lingering a little on her facial features. It was true what they said about sorceresses… they were always enchantingly beautiful. Danny almost fell into a dream-like state looking into her eyes, “Like… what you’re doing here in a city that wants your kind dead first off.” He finally continues.

“Oh,” She hummed, “Nil didn’t tell you?” She says, no expression coming to her features. She slowly locking eyes with him,

“...I’m going to kill the King.” She says.

//So this was incredibly fun to write. I just got so freaking lost in it. It's up to you guys if you want me to do a separate fic series following the Kiszka brothers as this one is just Danny for now! If so, leave me some ideas for what race or role yall think they would have!

Fun fact is actually a character I play in a D&D session my S/O runs! You'll definitely get more information about her as the story continues on.//

#greta van fleet #josh kiszka #josh gvf #danny gvf #jake gvf #jake kiszka #sam gvf #danny wagner #danny wagner x reader #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet roleplay #gvf fanfiction #gvf magical #gvf imagine #lover leaver

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ainawgsd · 4 years

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The golden poison frog (Phyllobates terribilis), also known as the golden frog, golden poison arrow frog, or golden dart frog, is a poison dart frog endemic to the Pacific coast of Colombia. They may appear innocuous due to their small size and bright color, but wild frogs are lethally toxic. The average dose carried will vary between locations, and consequent local diet, but the average wild P. terribilis is generally estimated to contain about one milligram of poison, enough to kill about 10,000 mice. This estimate will vary in turn, but most agree this dose is enough to kill between 10 and 20 humans, which correlates to up to two African bull elephants. This is roughly 15,000 humans per gram. Like the other poison dart frogs, P. terribilis is harmless when raised away from its natural food source.

P. terribilis is the largest species of poison dart frog, and can reach a size of 2.1 inches as adults, with females typically being larger than males. Like all poison dart frogs, the adults are brightly colored, but they lack the dark spots present in many other dendrobatids. The frog's colour pattern is aposematic (which is a warning coloration to warn predators of its toxicity). The frog has tiny adhesive disks on its toes, which aid climbing of plants. It also has a bone plate in the lower jaw, which gives it the appearance of having teeth, a distinctive feature not observed in the other species of Phyllobates. The frog is normally diurnal.

P. terribilis occurs in three different color varieties or morphs. The largest morph of P. terribilis, mint green, exists in the La Brea area of Colombia, and is the most common form seen in captivity. The name "mint green" is actually rather misleading, as the frogs of this morph can be metallic green, pale green, or white. The yellow morph is the reason it has the common name golden poison dart frog. Yellow P. terribilis specimens are found in Quebrada Guangui, Colombia. These frogs can be pale yellow to deep, golden yellow in color. While not as common as the other two morphs, orange examples of P. terribilis exist in Colombia, as well. They tend to be a metallic orange or yellow-orange in color, with varying intensity.

The golden poison frog's skin is densely coated in an alkaloid toxin, one of a number of poisons common to dart frogs (batrachotoxins). This poison prevents its victim's nerves from transmitting impulses, leaving the muscles in an inactive state of contraction, which can lead to heart failure or fibrillation. Alkaloid batrachotoxins can be stored by frogs for years after the frog is deprived of a food-based source, and such toxins do not readily deteriorate, even when transferred to another surface. Like most poison dart frogs, P. terribilis uses poison only as a self-defense mechanism and not for killing prey.

P. terribilis is a very important frog to the local indigenous cultures, such as the Choco Emberá people in Panama's rainforest. The frog is the main source of the poison in the darts used by the natives to hunt their food. The Emberá people carefully expose the frog to the heat of a fire, and the frog exudes small amounts of poisonous fluid. The tips of arrows and darts are soaked in the fluid, and remain deadly for two years or longer.

The golden poison frog, like most other poisonous frogs, stores its poison in skin glands. Due to their poison, the frogs are deterrent to predators; P. terribilis poison probably kills any predator, except for one snake species, Liophis epinephelus. This snake may be resistant to the frog's poison, but is not immune. The poisonous frogs and birds themselves are perhaps the only creatures to be immune to this poison. Batrachotoxin attacks the sodium channels of nerve cells, but the frog has special sodium channels the poison cannot harm.

Since easily purchased foods are not rich in the alkaloids required to produce batrachotoxins, captive frogs do not produce toxins and they eventually lose their toxicity in captivity. Though all poison frogs lose their toxicity when deprived of certain foods, and captive-bred golden poison frogs are born harmless, a wild-caught poison frog can retain alkaloids for years. It is not clear which prey species supplies the potent alkaloid that gives golden poison frogs their exceptionally high levels of toxicity, or whether the frogs modify another available toxin to produce a more efficient variant.

The main natural sources of food of P. terribilis are the ants in the genera Brachymyrmex and Paratrechina, but many kinds of insects and other small invertebrates can be eaten, specifically termites and beetles, which can easily be found on the rainforest floor.

P. terribilis is considered to be one of the most intelligent anurans. Like all poison dart frogs, captives can recognize human caregivers after exposure of a few weeks. They are also extremely successful tongue hunters, using their long, adhesive tongues to catch food, and almost never miss a strike. This success at tongue-hunting implies better brainpower and sensory perception than some other frogs.

Golden poison frogs are social animals. Wild specimens typically live in groups of four to seven (average six); captive frogs can be kept in groups of 10 or even 15, although groups that rise past that number are extremely susceptible to aggression and disease. Like all poison dart frogs, they are rarely aggressive towards members of their own species; however, occasional minor squabbles may occur between members of the group.

Family groups of golden poison dart frogs assemble into large breeding gatherings once or twice per year. While peaceful towards others of their species at other times, the male frogs can be formidably aggressive while competing for a breeding space.

P. terribilis frogs are dedicated parents. The golden poison frogs lay their eggs on the ground, hidden beneath leaf litter. Once the tadpoles emerge from their eggs, they stick themselves to the mucus on the backs of their parents. The adult frogs carry their young into the canopy, depositing them in the pools of water that accumulate in the centre of bromeliads and water-filled tree holes. The tadpoles feed on algae and mosquito larvae in their nursery. After metamorphosis is complete, parent frogs lead the froglets to an existing group.

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10]

#golden poison frog #golden frog #golden poison arrow frog #golden dart frog #phyllobates terribilis #poison dart frog #frog #amphibian august #amphibians

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moonchildsaurora · 4 years

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The Racer who chased supernovas

»»—— Crew Member #7 of Space Pirates ATEEZ ——««

all aboard The Perihelion, welcome to the co-pilot’s log system! here you’ll be able to access the crew’s profiles should you wish to read about their journeys: (no nsfw content)

[CAPTAIN] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

“your wings have always existed, all you have to do is fly and fly high for the winds will be at your command”

the other individual that you could pick out from a crowd, especially by his high-pitched laughter

full of charisma and a youthful soul, he attracts all kinds of attention and has trouble reigning in his recklessness at times

Wooyoung is an Alxil-Rolgrie mix who survived on his own in the lower district of Liyutania, the other member of The Perihelion who didn’t really know the meaning of family until his path crossed with the others

[database file: Rolgries are very much human-like beings, only distinguishing features are their strikingly light-coloured hair (that comes in shades of ivory, lilac, silver and/or coral), heterochromatic eyes and slightly translucent pale skin. This is due to their inherent ability to camouflage with their surroundings, like a chameleon, if they so wish to. Alxils are a nomadic sub-group of Dark Elves, preferring to keep to themselves. Having darker hair along with a more ash-grey skin, glowing red eyes and defined elongated ears]

Wooyoung seemingly took on more of his Rolgrie heritage in terms of physical appearance & ability. His hair is of a lilac-coral mix (that resembles the hues of sunset as Yeosang once said), an indigo-coloured left eye & violet-coloured right eye, slight translucent ash skin and the Alxil elongated ears

his camouflaging ability came to him since his youngling years though he didn’t really master it until his adolescence. Used to need all the concentration he could muster just to hold a full blend or to make sure it was the correct blend in the first place but now he could hide his entire self easily with his eyes closed

this has proven to be extremely beneficial for him to make his way around town undetected and a free-‘get-me-out-of-this-mess’-pass

though Yeosang made him pinky promise not to use that during their childhood games of hide-and-seek because he knows Woo would cheat to win

“I would never!”

“…you literally have been standing there all this time and I’ve just walked past you at least 10 rounds making me look like an idiot”

“gotta admit that was pretty fun-OW OK OK!!”

the lower district community did look out for Wooyoung, knowing that the cheeky kid meant well and he was just trying to get through each day at a time

sometimes one of the more empathetic merchants would allow Wooyoung to sleep on a spare rug under their tents, other times young Wooyoung would be lucky enough to find unoccupied shelter on his own to stay the night. Elderly food vendors would drop off extra scraps to make sure he wasn’t going to bed on an empty stomach at least

has had a few rough run-ins with the Uppers that caused him to be defensive by instinct and personally biased towards their aloof, ignorant nature although his view significantly changed after meeting Yeosang

initially he thought the young half-Suva was an oddball because why would an Upper remotely be interested in knowing his name, least of all saving him from face-planting on the ground too?

the warmth he felt on that day was by far something foreign for him to feel especially after how Yeosang complimented his appearance and shared his oshiadilla bun. With the meekest “thank you” Wooyoung marked that day as friendship achievement unlocked

when Yeosang spontaneously invited him over for dinner Wooyoung spent majority of his time just gawking and taking in the sight of the Kangs’ residence, too afraid to touch anything in case he’d accidentally broke it, “is that really a golden fountain in the middle of your courtyard?!”

young Wooyoung got terribly confused as to why there were so many forks, spoons and knives for one person to use at the dining table too

he became a constant around the residence so much so that the Kangs adopted him and it took him a good whole month just to process the fact that he was now a part of a family, he belonged somewhere – Wooyoung would never trade anything in the galaxy for this

the first time Yeosang ever saw Wooyoung cry was when his parents surprised them with their new school uniforms and supplies. His mother helped fitted their uniforms, embracing both her sons closely afterwards and all Wooyoung could think in that moment was damn did it feel good to have a mother’s embrace

it also felt really good to receive Yeosang hugs too, not really knowing just how touch starved he was

academic studies wasn’t really his thing but he did try his best, being street smart was more up his alley, “no matter! Education is important and everyone should have an opportunity for it, so long as you come home knowing something you didn’t know the day before,” were the encouraging words his adoptive parents would give

he holds high respect for Yeosang’s intellect and wouldn’t shy from proclaiming loudly & proudly, “THAT’S MY BEST FRIEND AND OLDER BROTHER!” whenever Yeosang did his thing in the classroom even though he’d earn a forehead flick from a flustered Yeo most of the time afterwards

Yeosang may not be as openly affectionate as Wooyoung is nor show that he actually cares in an obvious manner, but he did make it crystal clear just how important Wooyoung is to him after punching a classmate who had nothing better to do than rudely reiterate the differences between Wooyoung’s ‘kind’ and the rest of them

from that day on Wooyoung swore to have Yeosang’s back, just as much as he had his. He almost cried out of fright that Yeosang had put himself and his reputation on the line to protect him. Ended up crying in bed at the overwhelming gratitude that he felt from receiving the amount of love that he himself still wasn’t sure if he deserved

“don’t you dare think otherwise, and besides the only one who’s allowed to roast you as per sibling’s obligations is me”

before Wooyoung joined The Perihelion as Hongjoong’s fighter/main gunner, he was the up and coming Drifters Arena’s rookie champion in podracing

as a youngling he’s snuck into the Arena a couple of times to watch the races and it wasn’t till years later, for a birthday treat did he return to the Arena (this time purchasing a ticket properly, courtesy of his family). Wooyoung not only found his passion in flying but seem to have a natural flow for it too

he learnt the basics and started practising with the other rookies by having casual races. Effectively catching the attention of a previous retired champion, Redline, who saw potential in Wooyoung albeit his messy improvised manoeuvres and technique solely based on instinct when in race mode

Wooyoung had to get Yeosang to slap him just so he could tell that he wasn’t dreaming when Redline asked if he’d be interested to train under his guidance

“IS THIS THE REAL LIFE OR IS THIS JUST FANTASY?”

“stop being such a drama queen! He’s right there you know?”

more yelling ensued when Redline set Wooyoung up with his very own podracer, a second-hand from the mechanics but reliable enough to still function decently. Over time with his winnings Wooyoung was able to spend it on extra parts and resources to spruce up his beloved baby; Aurora (yes he was very proud of the name he came up with for his podracer)

‘Little Speedstar’ was the nickname that Redline gave him but Wooyoung wouldn’t have it because, “I’M NOT THAT LITTLE”

“no you’re just vertically challenged that or gravity is just against you” Yeosang would snicker in lowkey

to say that it’s stressful watching a podrace would be an understatement according to Yeosang (anything goes in a podrace and racers aren’t conservatives when it comes to playing dirty at times), but it gave him nothing short of pride and joy watching Wooyoung effortlessly dance through the skies and be the first racer to cross the finish line

Wooyoung loved and appreciated seeing Yeosang amongst the crowd, it was a grounding factor for him before every race. What wasn’t a normal occurrence for him though was seeing his best friend being manhandled by an odd bunch of strangers

with post-race adrenaline kicking in and the need to protect strong he didn’t think twice about yelling at the group and power stomping towards them, not stopping even when he thought, “well damn, hello gorgeous” as San stepped defensively in front of Mingi to shield Wooyoung’s attempted swipe at him to get Yeosang back

fortunately over time more trust was established and their bonds were less of a rocky road, if anything Mingi empathised the most with Wooyoung for having similar backgrounds and lack of family in their early years of their lives

the other combo package deal that Hongjoong got with Wooyoung and Yeosang officially joining the crew

Wooyoung adapted fairly well to his new nomadic lifestyle and just when he thought his world couldn’t have grown any bigger, it did; now his family extending to that of the crew (he still dislikes being sent to Hongjoong’s room and will always complain to Seonghwa because, “I’m your favourite son right?”)

San became his go-to whenever he needed to fill his daily quota of affection

the party don’t start till him and Mingi walks in, drinking buddies along with Jongho (Wooyoung has a very soft spot for the youngest) & Yunho. Is openly smug about the fact that he’s got one of the best alcohol tolerance on board

when Jongho installed blasters onto Aurora, Wooyoung had dubbed it the glo-up of the century. Not only could he fly to scout/retrieve/act as a distraction but he could f i g h t now – he could make things explode (chaos levels have increased)

accidentally became the other half of the reason as to why Hongjoong banned any sexytimes on the ship and a sensitive content blocker feature was added in the Yunhogizers after Wooyoung sent a spicy photo to the group chat instead of his private fling

“Mother did NOT raise you this way”

major pouting over having bro privileges revoked but he’s been cooped up making a dozen new starcatchers for Yeosang and also has hijacked Seonghwa’s kitchen to surprise cook dinner for the crew as an apology literally wrestled a Grandu [database file: equivalent to a giant crab, a food delicacy] into the pot to boil and learnt that cutting onions truly is the demise of every being

all in all never forget (1) Wooyoung loves his family, very much (2) anyone who messes with them is sure to become target practice for him

(moodboard made with love, by @s1ardusk ♡)

#ateez headcanons #atzinc #aurorateeznet #atinyforatiny #pirate ateez #pirate ateez au #ateez au #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #jung wooyoung #ateez wooyoung #ateez drabbles #ateez writing #ateez fic #Perihelion Crew #pyx writes

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forthewoolfy · 5 years

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Happy Birthday, Shouta Aizawa! To celebrate, the amazingly talented @standard-fiendart and I will post the first illustration and a long sample of chapter one from our collaboration Dragon Fruit, a fantasy EraserMic AU featuring Dragon Slayer Shouta and Cursed Dragon Hizashi! Dragon Fruit - Story by Standard-Fiend and ForTheWoolfy, Illustrations by Standard-Fiend, Writing by ForTheWoolfy

Chapter One

A Dragon’s Nest

‘When tracking dragons, it’s important to understand the different signs of nesting between age and status. One does not want to wander unprepared into the den of an ancient and territorial alpha, or a cave housing a clutch of eggs and a protective parent.’

It wasn’t easy being a dragon slayer: the hours were long, the job was isolating, the casualty rate was predictably high, and while it wasn’t a thankless job – if anything everyone was always exceedingly thankful – Shouta Aizawa always chalked that one down as a negative. He worked best while on the move, and although it was difficult to turn down the kind offers of a hot meal and a comfortable bed, he hadn’t taken this job so he could settle. (More underneath!)

If a town was safe, there was no reason for him to remain. In the words of a song he’d heard years ago:

‘Twas better to be all alone.’

The sun glinted off his authentic dragon-scale armour as he marched through the small town with head held high, his raven black hair tied in a messy ponytail. A dirty green cape trailed behind him, kicking up whenever it was caught by the occasional gust of wind. The hunting arrows rattled in their quiver, his bow dipped and swayed with every step, and his dark blue robes parted slightly to reveal a worn leather doublet beneath it all.

Every piece of clothing was covered in frantic patches and unruly stitches, while everything he needed to survive weighed down his several bags. At his side hung a sheathed sword, the scabbard made of dark wood, native to his distant homeland, while the hilt was curiously ornamental to anyone keen enough to notice.

He could feel eyes watching him from behind closed shutters, but only a few had the courage to open their doors and mumble some sort of greeting, typically along the lines of ‘Thank the lord you’re here’ or ‘We’ve been waiting for you’.

No, it wasn’t easy being a dragon slayer, but the townspeople were only half the problem.

When Shouta had been a young child, he’d listened to heroic tales of brave knights and vicious dragons, and he’d been drawn into the fantasy as easily as any other youth. In reality, there were no brave knights, but there were plenty of vicious dragons. They came in so many shapes and sizes, with tempers as fiery as the flames they breathed, and the numerous scars than lined Aizawa’s firmly built body were testament to the many he’d removed.

They were beautiful beasts too, majestic and intricate, but he kept that unique observation close to his heart.

He wouldn’t consider this area adequate territory for a dragon, but a slew of reports suggested a beast was setting up a nest nearby, despite the poor conditions. Livestock were disappearing, farmers had found telltale scorch marks in their fields, and a few had even reported seeing a ‘golden serpent’ slipping between the trees. Aizawa wasn’t so sure about that last point: he’d never encountered a golden dragon and he doubted he’d find one around here.

Whatever colour the beast was, hopefully it hadn’t found a mate yet, or else he’d be dealing with two angry parents and potentially young, and there were very few things he hated more than having to slay defenceless fledglings...

However, judging by the amount of livestock that’d disappeared lately, the beast was probably alone, so it was better to deal with it now, before it found a mate and had a chance to breed. Spring was fast approaching, afterall, so time was of the essence.

He reached the field where the most recent sightings had been reported and examined the area, his armour making a rough scraping sound as he moved. The scorch marks were several days old, but that didn’t mean the beast had left the area, especially if it was building a nest.

He removed a thick leather glove and let his fingers brush over the blackened ground, feeling the rough texture beneath his skin. It was impossible to discern whether the beast was male or female, for this pattern could’ve fit either. Hopefully it was the latter, for a male would begin to gather more and more food to attract a mate, and when the livestock ran out, its eyes would turn to the people in the town…

Shouta straightened up and glanced around the paddock, noting the old wooden fencing. He trailed along the field’s perimeter, slowly and methodically, his sharp eyes scanning for…

Bingo.

His boots crunched against the ground as he stopped and ran his fingers over several deep gashes in the fence, where a beast had scrambled over to escape with its kill. Aizawa pulled his glove back on and unfurled a scroll from his belt, steady eyes running over the blotches and fine ink lines. According to the map, there was a mountainous area to the north-west.

Aizawa put the scroll away and examined the claw marks more closely, trying to gauge the size of the beast. It was certainly an adult, but was probably still quite young, which would be both a blessing and a curse: it wouldn’t have a mate yet, but sometimes the younger ones were more aggressive over territory, especially if this was its first spring since coming of age. He withdrew a bandolier of small leather pouches from his bag, each sealed tightly to retain the contents inside. He counted each one and stopped at the fifth, before he pulled out several blue feathers and proceeded to tie them into his hair. The wind brushed through them, fanning out their unnoticeable scent, and he grabbed a handful of dry dirt.

His face and armpits were quickly smeared with the grime, creating dark streaks over his pale skin, and the remainder was purposefully poured into his boots. The feathers and dirt would mask his scent for a while, at least until he found the dragon’s lair amongst the foothills and caverns. A few nearby farmers who’d come out to watch looked at him as if he were crazy, although their faces blanched once he accidentally made eye contact.

Aizawa almost cursed himself. Once he’d habitually looked away from people, to hide his shame, but when working with dragons...

“You see his eye?” one farmer growled in a rough, callous tone. “Boy’s got a demon eye.” The group made some religious signs for protection, but their cruelty was ignored.

Now wasn’t the time to think about that: he had a job to do. He hopped the fence in an impressive leap and started north-west into the forest, leaving the superstitious farmers behind. As he moved, he made sure to run his palms over the trunks of trees. It would rile the dragon up, to have some of its territory claimed by a human, but that was the entire point: they were easier to fight when they were blinded by rage.

It was an odd balance of leaving his scent and masking it, but there was a reason Aizawa was still alive by this point in his career. To kill thy enemy, one had to know thy enemy.

He was surprised by the minimal territorial marking though: there were a few scratches about, and a few trees where bark had been rubbed away by scaly skin, but these were few and far between. This was peculiar, especially for a young adult, who’d typically overcompensate their territorial marking.

Was it a female then? Or perhaps the dragon had been distracted by something…

The environment shifted subtly from the flat forest to rockier slopes. The trees were more spread out here, making it ideal for a wyvern, but that contradicted the other patterns the monster had left. Perhaps the dragon had been orphaned at a young age, and was inexperienced...

In the distance he spied several small cave openings, and a brush of warm wind told him he was nearing the nest: dragons always kept a fire blazing at the heart of their caves. He crested a small hill to find a short drop on the other side, with claw marks raked into the graveled slope. Heat washed up from below, and he noticed the telltale flicker of a flame-cast shadow. In the distance, the sun was already nearing its final descent behind the horizon, the sky painted in luscious hues of orange and red.

It hadn’t taken him too long to find the nest, and that was exceedingly peculiar, despite his dedication to the job. Dragons were usually better at hiding their homes, and even the selection of this area was peculiar. Gravel was an obvious giveaway for claw marks, so most beasts avoided territory with it, not to mention the lack of trees to hide the entrance with. Honestly, judging by the rough markings on the ground, it almost looked like the dragon had recently fallen over the ledge, but a dragon wouldn’t be that inept… right?

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abonlineboostup6 · 4 years

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Smartphone Buying Guide - Buy Best Mobile Phones

There are a couple of belongings you got to confine mind while buying the proper smartphone for yourself. You must identify what does one use your smartphone for. This guide takes you thru the entire process of choosing the simplest mobile .

Smartphones have snaked their way into almost every living moment of our technologically-fueled lives. More people are buying smartphones, and therefore the number of options is additionally increasing. Choosing a smartphone from such an awesome list of options might get confusing, so we made a guide that helps you choose the simplest smartphone for your needs.

You can check our extensive best smartphones buying guide for starters, but we recommend you to see out our guide the way to pick the proper smartphone in 2020.

WHAT to think about BEFORE BUYING A SMARTPHONE?

SMARTPHONE PERFORMANCE: PROCESSOR AND RAM

Your smartphone processor, also referred to as the chipset or the SoC, is that the component that's liable for almost everything working on your smartphone. it's essentially the brain of the system, and most of those processors also come equipped with AI capabilities that essentially make your smartphone as ‘smart’ it's today.

A capable processor not only allows your device to function seamlessly but is additionally capable of enhancing other factors. One example is image processing. Samsung phones, as an example, comes in two variants - one hosting the Snapdragon chipset (the latest one being Snapdragon 865+). In contrast, the opposite one employs Samsung’s in house Exynos processor (the latest being Exynos 990). Some reviewers have explicitly stated that there's a tangible difference in not just the processing power of the 2 variants, the Snapdragon being much snappier, but also the image-processing abilities.

So, once you choose your smartphone, it's integral to understand what processor you’re getting along side it since the performance directly correlates with it. Popular ones include Snapdragon, Apple A13 Bionic, Exynos 990, and Kirin 990. Apple processors are known for his or her raw computing power, and Snapdragon processors are the closest equivalent within the Android realm. you furthermore may have lower-powered processors for mid-range and budget devices like the Snapdragon 730 and 730G, Snapdragon 675, MediaTek Helio G90T and G85, and more, that are commonly found in lower-priced 2020 smartphones. If you’re on a budget and don’t mind sacrificing some power to save lots of money, consider buying phones with one among these processors since they drive down costs quite bit. Buying Guide

Coming to RAM, this refers to system memory that smartphones use to carry data that active applications are using. some of your smart- phone’s RAM is usually spent by the OS , to stay it run- ning. We’re not getting to get into the nitty-gritty of RAM usage during a phone since it involves explaining terms like kernel-space which can find yourself taking tons of room during this article. Having sufficient RAM can allow you to possess a bigger number of apps running within the background, which significantly affects your multitasking experience. However, some smartphones are breaking all barriers and installing a whopping 12-16 GB of RAM in their smartphones. That’s definitely overkill for smartphones, especially if you don’t plan on switching between 10-20 apps at an equivalent time. If you’re a light-weight smartphone user, someone who only uses their phone for calls, texts, What- sApp and lightweight browsing, you'll easily escape with 3-4 GB RAM. For power users, something round the ballpark of 6-8 GB is perfectly fine.

CHOICE OF OS

It boils right down to two options - Android or iOS. the selection is really more complicated than you imagine since both operating systems have a large list of pros and cons. If you’re someone who enjoys tinkering around together with your device and customising it to your heart’s content, you’re Team Android. If you wish an easy , powerful OS which gets constant software updates and is supported for a more extended period, you’re Team iOS. Nevertheless, Android is additionally almost as powerful but almost as simple, although the present Android version has become much simpler to use than the times of Gingerbread. Just know that iOS, as an OS, is sort of limiting, in some cases. as an example , you can't sideload apps from the web if they're not available on the App Store, the split-screen mode still isn’t a thing on iPhones (just iPads), you can't customise your home screen (although iOS 14 may include widgets), and you actually cannot use launchers to completely change the design of your phone. However, iOS comes with a plethora of benefits also , like iMessage, FaceTime, regular software updates, and therefore the biggest of all, minimal bloatware, and no adware! We’re watching you, Xiaomi!

PREFERED interface

You also need to confine mind that numerous smartphones accompany their own skin or UI (user interface) smacked on top of Android. OnePlus has OxygenOS, a clean skin that's quite on the brink of stock Android, Samsung comes with One UI 2, which has improved by leaps and bounds from its TouchWiz days, MIUI on Xiaomi phones, which is an ad-fest but is well-optimised, ColorOS on Oppo and Realme smartphones, that's heavily inspired by iOS.

Remember to undertake and knowledge the UI before buying the device to ascertain if it works for you.

A GOOD DISPLAY

Smartphone display sizes seem to be ever-increasing and are continually pushing the boundary of what we’d expect a smartphone display size to be. They’ve reached the ‘phablet’ realm with displays even reaching up to six .9-inches!

However, within the age where content is being consumed increasingly on our pocket devices (hard to call them that now), this might not be a nasty thing. we propose anything above 5.7 inches so you'll really immerse yourself into games and media. As far as display types go, you've got LCD and AMOLED displays. AMOLED displays have variants like OLED or Super AMOLED (in the case of Sam- sung) and have better contrast and darker blacks. They also assist in saving battery since they close up all the black pixels on the phone to display ‘true black’. Buying Guide

Next, you furthermore may have various resolutions like Full HD, Full HD+ Quad HD. While QHD does provide crisper images, the difference between FHD and QHD isn't too jarring, especially to the untrained eye. you ought to also check the screen protection on your device. Gorilla 5 and 6 are usually utilized in current-generation smartphones, and that they provide reasonable protection for your glass sandwiches. However, we still recommend a case strongly.

THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF STORAGE

The current standard is 64GB on lower-end models and 128GB to 512GB on flagships. With swift sharing apps and technologies, most folks import every single GB of knowledge from our previous phones to the new ones. So, adequate storage is important . We recommend that you simply don't go under 128GB since it'll offer you enough breathing space to stay your data also as download apps to your heart’s content. Also, keep an eye fixed out for phones with expandable memory storage. Buying Guide

BATTERY LIFE that matches YOUR DAILY REQUIREMENTS

The golden standard of battery life in flagship smartphones is 6+ hours of screen on time. Anything with higher capacities can mostly allow even heavy-users to power through. Flagship phones, also as some mid-range phones, also can reach 8-10 hours of screen on time, which is brilliant. The goal is to urge a phone which will a minimum of pull through one whole day of intensive usage. So, ensure to see battery tests online before purchasing a tool . Also, attempt to research if the phone you’re planning on buying features a decent power-saving mode. Buying Guide

CAMERA QUALITY THAT JUSTIFIES the worth

In 2020, multi-cameras are the norm and phones with only one rear camera are extremely rare now. you always get a primary lens which sports the very best MP count, a camera lens , and a wide-angle shooter. And then, you furthermore may have a couple of extras that some manufacturers add like the ToF (Time of Flight) sensor, macro lens, and colour filter lens. We, at the Digit Labs, are fans of the fisheye lens due to the magnitude of images you'll now combat phones. Capturing sprawling scenes isn't a drag anymore! The camera lens , when done well, can produce spectacular bokeh shots too. However, if this trend just isn’t for you and therefore the growing camera bumps enrage you, it might be best to shop for older phones with one primary lens or newer ones like the iPhone SE 2020. Also, don’t go MP hunting, higher megapixel-count doesn’t always mean better images since the sensor size is far more integral to producing good photos.

Smartphones have also been employing pixel-binning, which essentially turns four or more pixel into one big pixel, that adds clarity and detail to the image. Also, for now, attempt to stray faraway from the 108MP sensors since they’re pretty rough round the edges at the instant plagued with image fringing and autofocus issues.

MISCELLANEOUS THINGS to think about

Wireless charging

Gaming Mode

Fingerprint sensor vs Face Unlock

Bluetooth version

IP Rating

Dual sim

Reverse wireless charging

Stereo speakers

NFC

Dual-band Wi-Fi

WHAT to not CONSIDER?FOLDABLE DESIGNS

While the planning evolution is innovative and smart, it's just too early to be completely reliable. Our verdict? Hold off on buying foldable phones for a couple of years .Buying Guide

5G SMARTPHONES

In a country just like the US which is slowly but surely seeing widespread 5G integration (low band or mmWave), sure, choose 5G phones to futureproof. However, 5G integration in India remains a ways away, and therefore the proper rollout is years away. So, it makes no sense paying more to get a 5G phone.

#best smartphones buying guide #Buying Guide #Best Buying Guide #best smartphone overall #gsmarena top 10 smartphones 2020 #best android phone 2020 #flagship phone #compare flagship phones

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mgmirani · 5 years

Text

A Second Chance

(Reuploading this post since Tumblr mobile somehow ate it)

So! This is my entry for Soukoku Week 2019! ( @soukokuweek19 ) I’m not entirely sure how this word vomit turned into something vaguely coherent but I love it and these two adorable morons (mainly Dazai - he’s definitely the bigger moron).

This was originally written for Day 3: Reaching out but, as it went on, I realised it had drifted away from that so now I’m tagging it under Day 7: Free Day!

Hope you all enjoy reading!

Title: a Second Chance

Prompt: Day 7 - Free Day

Pairing: Soukoku (Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya)

Words: 7787

Summary: It’s a few days after the fight with Lovecraft and Dazai realises that maybe, just maybe, leaving his ex-partner alone in a field after he passed out from exhaustion wasn’t the best decision he could have made. And...wait, when did he start thinking the Chibi was pretty?

(Note: this work contains no triggering or explicit materials)

Four years…

It had been four years since he’d last seen Chuuya and yet, in that Port Mafia holding cell, fiery red hair blending into the red light, blue eyes flashing as they looked up at him, it had felt like no time had passed at all.

More time had passed since then and yet the memory was as clear in his mind as if it happened only yesterday.

Chuuya…

Ignoring Kunikida’s increasingly frequent (and loud) attempts to get him to do his paperwork, Dazai continued to slouch on the couch, eyes closed as he pictured the scene in his mind.

Thoughts of that encounter, naturally, lead him to thoughts of their second. This time, Chuuya had been bathed in blue from the light of the full moon. Red and blue...the same colour as Chuuya’s hair and eyes. It seemed almost ironic.

That encounter had taken place less than a week ago. The Guild was officially defeated thanks to himself, Chuuya, Atsushi and Akutagawa (although how on earth Lovecraft had survived to apparently jump into the sea, Dazai had no idea and no wish to understand) and things had returned to a semblance of what could be considered ‘normal’ for the residents of Yokohama.

...With the exception that there was still an uneasy truce between the ADA and the Port Mafia. Dazai held no illusions that the truce would last overly long. It was only a matter of time before they were, once again, at odds. The question wasn’t if, but when and how the uneasy peace would come crashing down.

“I used Corruption because I trusted you.”

Chuuya’s remembered words drifted through his mind and he shut his eyes more tightly, deliberately trying to turn his mind away from the accusing tone. Chuuya had been tired (he always was after using Corruption) and, though his tone had been exhausted, Dazai had still heard the reproach clear as day.

He hadn’t been entirely truthful in his answer to Chuuya’s question regarding why he hadn’t stopped him as soon as the fight was over. Oh sure, it had been fun to watch Chuuya throw about singularities like it was nothing but that hadn’t been his entire reason.

Chuuya had looked...beautiful.

The blue light, the red markings...the contrast and the sheer power that Chuuya had exuded...he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Even when he wasn’t fully in control, Chuuya always captured his attention: be it to tease or admire.

Not that his Chibi was aware of the admiration. He was far more used to the teasing, the little comments that got him all riled, all the remarks that had those pretty blue eyes flashing with anger or frustration. Dazai couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t resist putting a spark in those eyes just because he wanted it directed at him.

Was this healthy? Absolutely not. But, then again, when had Dazai Osamu ever done anything that was in his own best interest?

...okay, scratch that. When had he ever done anything for his own personal health? He was well aware that he was, in truth, rather selfish despite his attempts to be better.

He cracked open an eye to watch as Atsushi bickered with Tachihara and sent pleading looks to Kyoka for help. The girl, predictably, ignored the unsubtle requests for aid and continued to do her own work. The girl was still on a bit of an emotional high after becoming a full member of the ADA and was determined to keep up with everyone else despite the fact that she was still only fourteen and so, technically, shouldn't be expected to do the same amount of work as everyone else. Then again, she’d been in the Port Mafia and no one remained a child for long there, especially not someone who had already killed 35 people. Dazai should know. He’d long since lost count. Even so, as he stared at Atsushi’s face, tiger-gold eyes shining brightly as he gesticulated wildly, Dazai felt a smile turn up the corners of his lips.

He’d made himself better and that was reflected in Atsushi, in Kyoka, in the relationships he’d managed to somehow scrape together with the other people in the ADA despite how much of a pain in the ass he made himself. He still had a long way to go but, he thought, he’d reached some sort of state in which Odasaku might approve.

And yet…

“I used Corruption because I trusted you…”

And yet, when it came to Chuuya, he had so easily fallen into old habits. It had felt so natural, so right to tease him, to encourage that temper he was still so well known for (even if it was far more difficult for others to bring it to the surface nowadays). Dazai hadn’t even really thought about what he was doing while he interacted with Chuuya, his words and actions flowing like a well-rehearsed script which he had no need to alter, as familiar as breathing and as easy as closing his eyes at the end of a long day.

And yet…

And yet, should he not have done better?

“Take me...to the extraction point…”

Chuuya had trusted him to step in when he used Corruption and Dazai had (at his own pace). Chuuya had asked him to take him somewhere safe after using Corruption and Dazai...Dazai had left him lying on the ground in a field at midnight with his hat and coat folded neatly beside him. He’d left without so much as a backwards glance.

Chuuya had been fine and he’d known that he’d be fine. There wasn’t anyone else around when they’d left and the location was isolated enough that no one was likely to come across him so Chuuya hadn’t been in any real danger.

Still…

Asking himself if he’d done the right thing was rather redundant. He knew that he hadn’t and it was niggling at him, like a toothache which he couldn’t do anything about or an itch that he just couldn’t scratch. The urge to do...something, wouldn’t leave him alone.

There was, of course, the choice of just ignoring the problem until it went away. That wasn’t an option though. They were in the same city and their organisations were likely to either ally or antagonise each their on a regular basis from this point onwards. He was going to run into Chuuya again sooner rather than later so that was completely out of the question.

What then, should he do? Should he do anything? Would Chuuya be surprised that he’d left him there? Probably not.

That thought had Dazai frowning to himself. He’d gotten used to living up to people’s expectations of him, especially when it came to Atsushi. He’d been able to help him, to help Kyoka and the Agency as a whole that living down to Chuuya’s expectations rather than up…

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

He thought of the surprise that would’ve been on the Chibi’s face if he’d woken up at the extraction point and wished that he’d actually done it. He was sure the reaction would have been amusing. The anger would, of course, have also been amusing but the thought of eliciting a different reaction from the fiery redhead…

Dazai resolved that, the next time they crossed paths, he would do that. He’d make sure and take care of Chuuya if only for the surprise that would cross those expressive features, the confusion that would be hastily covered up in those pretty blue eyes…

...pretty?

Dazai blinked to himself. Since when had he thought of Chuuya’s eyes as pretty? He’d thought so earlier but he hadn’t noticed doing so at the time. Sure, he found him attractive in an “if I wasn’t attracted to women” sort of way but who didn’t? But actually considering him pretty? He’d always thought Chuuya interesting, fun to poke at and, yes, beautiful with Corruption tracing over his skin but…

...when had this happened?

Not important - alright maybe important but not the main thing he needs to focus on right now. He found Chuuya pretty but surely that didn't mean anything. He wanted to elicit more reactions from the Chibi, positive ones and not just negative ones. He wanted…

...he wanted Chuuya to look at him the way Poe was currently staring at Ranpo while the other was...looking at him.

Ranpo smirked, corners of his lips lifting up in a knowing expression, glasses reflecting the midday light coming in through the windows and Dazai felt his back stiffen.

Deciding to cut his losses, he stood, making it look as natural as possible and not like he was choosing to run away from those too-perceptive eyes, and strode purposefully from the office. Kunikida’s calls for him to return to his desk were, of course, ignored.

It was as he was closing the door taht he heard it.

“Finally.”

He paused, waiting to see what Ranpo would say next. There was nothing for a few seconds before the silence was finally broken.

“...um...what do you mean Ranpo-san?”

“Dazai finally got a clue,” was the only response Ranpo gave and Dazai felt a brief flicker of relief that the detective hadn’t said anything else. He was even more grateful that, at this point, Ranpo hadn’t actually met Chuuya.

Hmmm...now there was a thought. That could be amusing.

Mentally shaking himself, Dazai strode out of the building, debated a moment before heading back to his apartment. He wanted a quiet place to think so he could plan how best to reach out to Chuuya.

..and to process what he’d realised while lounging on the Agency’s couch this afternoon. He couldn’t exactly freak out in public now, could he? Well, he could, but he didn’t feel like drawing attention to himself for a change. Perhaps later when he was in the mood to draw interesting expressions from people other than his Chibi.

Wait...his Chibi?

Well, of course Chuuya was his. They had made that bet hadn’t they? Would Chuuya even remember it, he wondered, with everything else that had happened during those few days. Dazai did though. How could he forget the sound of Chuuya’s head hitting the console or the yell of frustration quickly cut off by surprise as he’d ducked down behind the machine, trying not to be noticed by his so-called ‘friends’ from that stupid gang. Really, Dazai had done him a favour. If they were that easy to turn against him, they didn’t deserve Chuuya anyway.

He stepped more quickly, determined to get home as soon as possible.

He had to think.

—————

Chuuya still lived at the same address.

Dazai wasn't surprised.

What did, however, surprise him, was the easy way the key turned in the lock.

Huh...Chibi hadn’t changed his locks in the four years Dazai had been gone. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Putting said thought to the back of his mind for later consideration, he opened the door on silent hinges and carefully stepped inside.

Chuuya liked his comforts; that included a thick, soft rug which made it incredibly easy to walk silently through the quiet flat. It was about half an hour from sunset and the light filtering through the windows was fiery, tinting everything in shades of gold, copper and red.

As he looked around, he noted that, alongside the locks, very little had changed. Perhaps there was a new piece of art and he was quite sure that the loveseat he remembered had been replaced by a large armchair but, other than that, it was like stepping back in time.

This seemed to happen a lot where Chuuya was concerned.

Dazai had to be careful. He couldn’t let himself slip into old habits. He was here to reach out, to prove that he had changed over the last four years.

…..by sneaking into his flat with the key he’d swiped when they were 16.

Baby steps.

Silently acknowledging that, perhaps, this hadn’t been the best plan but committed to following it through nonetheless, Dazai stepped further into the flat. It was as he was passing a small table that he noticed it; the hat.

Chuuya never went anywhere without that stupid hat so, therefore, the only conclusion Dazai could draw was taht Chuuya was somewhere in his flat.

...and he hadn’t noticed Dazai yet.

Pausing all movement, Dazai closed his eyes and focused all his attention on his surroundings, listening for the slightly rustle of cloth, the faintest screen from deeper into the fat.

Nothing.

Turning his head to better peer into the living room, Dazai confirmed that, yes, Chuuya wasn’t in there, waiting to ambush him. Nor, it appeared, was he in the kitchen.

Logically, that left only one place.

The bedroom door was shut and, aa he approached, Dazai felt a shiver of anticipation go through him. He hadn’t managed to sneak up on Chuuya in quite a while and this was definitely going to result in an interesting reaction.

He may be here to make amends with the Chibi but that didn’t mean he was above drawing out some fun reactions. Just because hw wanted Chuuya to look at him...more positively...didn’t mean he was going to give up antagonisinghim. Where would the fun be in that?

Moving slowly, Dazai reached out and opened the door. It was as quiet as the rest of the flat, swinging on silent hinges as Dazai slowly and carefully opened it enough to slip through and nothing more.

Chuuya was lying in bed, head turned away from the door and towards the massive window on the oppositee wall. Yokohama was lit by crimson light which spilled over Chuuya, blending perfectly with his hair which was fanned out behind him on his pillow.

Dazai felt his breath catch slightly but resolutely ignored it.

Still..

Dazai removed his phone from his pocket and took a picture, thankful he had the camera sound turned off. Chuuya was asleep and he doubted he’d get this chance again any time soon.

Putting his phone away as he stepped further into the room, Dazai was careful to keep his steps light. Chuuya’s bedroom had a wooden floor, a deep cherry wood which matched the furnishings. Said furnishings included the massive four-poster bed which was set against the wall between the walls containing the door and window respectively. The red curtains (and why was he not surprised?) were pulled back, tied neatly to the bed posts with thin braided chords.

The blankets, of course, matched the curtains perfectly and Dazai wondered when exactly Chuuya had time ti pick out such things and how his little ex-partner managed to reach the top of the four-poster bed. Did he have a footstool hiding somewhere or did he just use his gravity manipulation?

This rather random (and entirely amusing) train of thought was cut off when Dazai managed to get a good look at Chuuya’s face.

What he had initially taken for redness from the setting sun was, in fact, revealed to be a deep flush accross his normally pale skin. Now that he was closer, he could hear that, although Chuuya was indeed asleep, his breathing was shallower than would be expected and there was a light sheen of sweat accross his forehead.

He also noted a few dark purple bruises tracing their way accross Chuuya’s skin, disappearing below the blanket. It had been a few days since the incident with Lovecraft and his partner (honestly he couldn’t even remember his name; he was that unimportant) and yet the bruises looked like they had only appeared yesterday.

Dazai felt his stomach drop and a pang in his chest.

Chuuya, apparently, hadn’t been fine.

This...changed things.

—————

Chuuya cracked his eyes open, knowing that something was wrong but not having the energy to deal with it. He felt like his limbs were made of lead and, when he tried to sit up, his head started spinning badly enough that he immediately paused all movement.

Fuck he hated this.

It had been four years since he’d used Corruption and, somehow, in those four years, he’d managed to forget exactly how painful the aftermath was. It could, however, just be that it was worse this time. His body wasn’t used to it anymore.

And, he thought bitterly, it wasn’t as if spending the night in a fucking field out in the open had helped.

Damn Dazai…

“Don’t worry...I got you.”

Yeah fucking right. That was why, at dawn, he’d had to drag himself to Mori’s office, give a delayed report and then drag himself home only to collapse in bed without even being able to change. He’d woken up hours later with the beginnings of a fever and, despite how much it ached and how much he didn’t want to, he’d made himself change out of his filthy clothes, strip the bed and put on clean sheets since he’d slept in his bed without changing out of said filthy clothes, and preprared for about a week of hell.

He’d been conscious for perhaps four to five hours of the last few days, his body demanding that he sleep while it healed from the use of Corruption and fought the fever. Admittedly he wouldn’t have been able to do much even if he had been awake considering how difficult and painful it was to move at this point. His body felt like one giant bruise and, upon waking for the second time covered in sweat and dizzy as fuck, he vowed that he was going to hunt Dazai down when he was able and kick the shit out of the lying bastard. Killing him would be too easy (and likely what the bastard wanted) so Chuuya wouldn’t do that. No, he’d just make him wish he was dead.

A noise from just beyond the door had him turning his head. He almost immediately regretted it, his temples throbbing, but he forced himself to ignore it, fingers twitching under the blanket. What had caused that sound? Was someone in his flat? Who could it be?

As he was preparing to do...soemthing (his brain was far too foggy to come up with anything coherent) the door opened further (he was sure he’d closed it before crawling into bed) and, who should walk in, but the person he was currently planning the maiming of.

“Dazai...”

The name was hissed between clenched teeth, coming out as little more than a croak. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the bandaged bastard in his bedroom doorway.

Dazai had paused, like he was surprise Chuuya was awake, and Chuuya felt his temper flare.

How dare he. How fucking dare that asshole break into his flat after what he’d done. How fuckign dare he!

“Nice to see Chuuya’s awake,” Dazai commented, his tone far quieter than his normal boisterous delivery but Chuuya couldnt’ focus on taht right now, too overcome with the absolute rage he felt at seeing Dazai so soon after being abandoned in a fucking field at midnight after using Corruption.

“I’m gonna make you...wish...you were dead,” he got out through gritted teeth.

“I know,” Dazai replied, not seeming phased by the threat of physical violence and, right now, Chuuya wasn’t all taht surprised. He doubted he could threaten a kitten in his current state, let alone a slippery bastard like Dazai.

“The fuck do you want,?” He growled, deciding he didn’t have time to deal with Dazai’s bullshit.

“Chibi needs help,” was the immediate reply and Chuuya felt himself tense.

Help?

Dazai thought he needed help?

The bastard thought he needed help after what he did?

“Get. Out.”

“Not until Chibi’s feeling well enough to toss me out himself,” Dazai returned immediately. Chuuya snarled.

What an utter bastard. What was he getting out of this? Was he just here to make fun of the fact that, currently, Chuuya couldn’t throw a pillow, let alone Dazai’s lanky ass? Yeah, that must be it. He was here to be a bastard.

What else was new?

“Her to gloat then? Should’ve known.”

Dazai blinks, affecting a surprised expression which Chuuya wasn’t buying for a moment.

“Gloat?”

“Yes, gloat,” Chuuya repeats, feeling some part of him settle now that he’d figured out exactly why Dazai was here. The bastard would taunt him for a while, maybe make a half-hearted (and entirely unhelpful) effort to aid him and then fuck off back to his detective agency until the next time he needed Chuuya to hit something he couldn’t talk his way around.

Dazai, it seemed, wanted to draw this out though since, unlike what Chuuya was expecting, he didn’t immediately drop the act nd start taunting him. Instead, Dazai made a “wait here” gesture (which was rather ridiculous since he could barely make himself roll over, let alone get out of bed right now) and left the room.

What was he doing? Was he trying to put him on edge by making noise where Chuuya couldn't see or reach? Was he breaking his shit so Chuuya would have to clean up the mes when he could drag himself out of bed? No, that would be too simple and blunt for Dazai. He had to be up to soemthing else.

Sounds reached his ears but he couldn't figure out what they were. All he could do was lie there and wait for Dazai to return.

He must’ve dozed off again because the next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes and turning towards a weight he felt on the bed. Dazai had returned and sat himself on the edge of the bed, perching like a bird that knew it would have to take flight rather quickly at any moment.

“What do you want now?” He grumbled, too tired to put up too much of a fight. His anger had, apparently, given way to tiredness while he’d been dozing and Chuuya couldn’t find the strength to muster it again. What was even the point? Perhaps this was a good thing. If Dazai couldn't get any interesting reactions from him, he might go away faster. Dazai was, after all, like a spoilt kid with a shiny toy. That toy was, in this case, Chuuya (loathe as he was to compare himself to such a thing). If Chuuya didn’t react, didn’t give Dazai anything to work with, he’d move on to something else more shiny, more fun to poke at with a stick to watch its reaction.

Dazai didn’t reply to him, instead turning and picking something up from the bedside table he sat beside. He heard the sound of water slouching about before something cool and damp was pressed against his forehead.

Wha…?

Dazai, not noticing his confusion (or more likely pretending not to notice - that bastard noticed everything) turned away from him. Chuuya wanted to reach up and throw the cloth at Dazai’s stupid face, put enough weight behind it to cave in the bastard’s fucking skull ike he deserved but, again, he couldn’t make himself move.

When Dazai turned back to him, he was holding a bowl in one hand and...a spoon in the other.

“No,”

“Chibi needs to eat.”

“I said no!” The anger was back, blazing in his chest. So this was his plan then? Not just gloat but try and humiliate him too? Probably taunt him while he fed him like a fucking child. Fuck that. He wasn’t going to accept it. Whatever it was was likely poisoned anyway (be it deliberately or because of the shitty bastard’s inability to cook anything without somehow making it toxic).

“Chuuya needs to eat,” Dazai repeated, as if he thought using Chuuya’s actual name instead of that stupid fucking taunt would make a difference.

Chuuya closed his eyes and turned his face away. If Dazai wanted him to eat whatever it was, he’d have to force it down his throat. He heard a sigh and felt himself bristle more. What did that bastard have to sigh about? He wasn’t the one stuck in bed with a fever and covered in bruises because his fucking partner had abandoned him after a mission.

His train of thought was rudely interrupted when he felt...something, sliding through his hair.

What the…?

It was soothing, rhythmic and...very pleasant. Unbidden, he felt his body relax, muscles that had been tensed to do...soemthing...uncoiling like an unwound spring.

It was as he felt himself lean into it that he realised what it was and tensed all over again.

Dazai was petting him, running his fingers through Chuuya’s (undoubtedly sweaty) hair, fingers playing with the strands before returning to massage his scalp. He really was out of it if he hadn’t been able to recognize what Dazai was doing.

How pathetic.

“Chibi’s always been the most stubborn when he’s sick,” Dazai murmured and Chuuya held in a snort.

“Who was the one who acted like he was dying from a cold?”

“It could’ve turned into pneumonia,” Dazai defended, tone indignant.

“You are such a fucking drama queen,” Chuuya muttered, eyes slipping closed again as he let himself enjoy the physical contact. He knew this was a trick of some sort (it was Dazai - there was always a trick) but, with how little energy he had right now, he was willing to enjoy it before the bastard pulled something else.

Hadn’t he been angry not a minute ago? He tried to concentrate on the feeling but couldn’t. He was still angry, still furious with the other male but he just didn’t have the energy to express it properly. His mind was also vaguely foggy (probably from the fever) so that likely wasn’t helping.

Fuck this situation and fuck Dazai Osamu. When this was over, he was going to pay the bastard back for this, one way or another.

“Hmmm…” Dazai made a non-comical noise and Chuuya’s thoughts were forcibly dragged back to the present moment, to the feeling of Dazai’s fingers tangling themselves in his hair and rubbing gentle circles against his scalp.

“Chuuya never eats after Corruption. I suppose that hasn’t changed.”

The comment caught Chuuya off guard. Weren’t they just talking about how much of a pain Dazai was when he’s ill?

“...Your point?”

“Chuuya should eat more.”

Yes, Chuuya should drag himself, in his current state, to the kitchen and make himself something to eat. That would go absolutely wonderfully he was sure. His expression clearly must have conveyed his thoughts because Dazai once again held up the bowl.

“No.”

“What if I eat some?”

“Your a suicidal maniac. If you eat it, it’s definitely poison.”

“Chuuuya,” Dazai whined and Chuuya fought back a small smirk at the tone. It felt good to annoy Dazai, even just a little. For all he knew the bastard could just be putting it on but he’d take what he could get in this situation.

“And what if I didn’t make it?”

“Then where did you get it?” Had Dazai raided his cupboards to find something? He couldn’t remember what was in there. Did he have a few tins of soup stored somewhere? It was possible.

Dazai, for once, kept his mouth shut and, instead, tilted the bowl so that Chuuya could get a good look at the contents and, at the same time, ensuring that he had the opportunity to smell whatever it was.

As he breathed in, the familiarity of the bowl’s contents hit his senses and his eyes widened minutely.

How the…?

“This is still you favourite, right?” Dazai asked, tilting the bowl further towards him.

“...how the hell do you remember that after four years?”

“You ordered me to get it for you often enough. It’s hard to forget.”

Hesitantly, Chuuya leaned forward and took another, deeper sniff of the revealed bouillabaisse. He’d discovered a small cafe not long after moving into this flat, only a few streets away, and had fallen utterly in love with their food. It hadn’t taken him long to get into the habit of eating there once a week or, on the odd occasion where he didn’t feel like being out in public, having the staff prepare him a meal which he would then eat in the privacy of his own flat.

The bouillabaisse in the bowl had been one of the first things on the menu he’d tried. There was just something about it that Chuuya couldn’t quite put his finger on. All he knew was that it had become a routine rather early in their relationship that, after using Corruption and returning home (normally dragged there by Dazai or one of his minders), he’d have someone fetch him a bowl of bouillabaisse from that cafe, eat it and then pass out for a few days.

Apparently, Dazai had remembered…

It didn’t mean anything. Just because the bastard remembered this was his favourite thing to eat when he was ill or post-Corruption, didn’t mean Chuuya was going to eat it.

“Come on,” Dazai coaxed. “How will you feel better and throw me out if you don’t eat anything?”

“...Are you seriously trying to use logic? You, of all people?”

“Chuuya says that like I’m not logical.”

“Are you implying you are?”

“When am I ever not logical?”

“March 5th, five years ago.”

Was it his imagination or were Dazai’s cheeks turning a little red? Nah, it was probably the light coming in through his windows.

“Chuuya’s being mean when I came here to help him feel better,” Dazai pouted and Chuuya snorted slightly.

“Since when do you help anyone but yourself?”

The mirth fled Dazai’s face, leaving it blank. It was only in the absence of emotion that Chuuya realised just how much of it Dazai had been exuding. The gaze looking down at him felt...empty and, despite how warm he felt, he had to fight back a shiver.

This was the Dazai he remembered; the one that could go from playfully vicious to cold, ruthless and unnerving in less time than it took you to blink. And there Chuuya was, practically helpless lying in bed with those deadened, blank eyes staring down at him.

“Four years ago.”

Chuuya blinked, confused.

What?

“Well...that’s perhaps a bit generous. Maybe about a year and a half ago.”

“Had Dazai...answered his question?

“What the fuck?”

It was only when those dead eyes flickered that he realised that he must’ve asked the question aloud.

“You see,” Dazai continued. “I didn’t join the Agency right away. I had to lay low for a few years, keep my head down, show I could stay out of trouble before they would...deal...with my record.”

“So what changed?”

If Dazai was in the mood to answer questions (even if Chuuya was more than half convinced that his ex=partner was just spouting bullshit to mess with him), Chuuya was going to get as much out of him as possible.

“Something.”

“Feel like giving specifics?”

“You’ll be the first to know when I figure it out.”

“Yeah right.”

That gaze was still unnerving but he forced himself to ignore it. He’d worked with Dazai for three years and, even if it had been four since they’d last done so, he still remembered this. Act normal. Depending on his mood, he’ll pull himself out of soon enough. (Yet another reason Chuuya was sure that, had Dazai not been in the Port Mafia, he would have been ordered by someone to see a goddamn therapist a long time ago).

“I only really noticed after I met Atsushi.”

“The tiger brat?”

“The very same.” There was a smile creeping back into the corners of Dazai’s mouth, his eyes gaining warmth that had been absent and Chuuya felt a surge of...something...in his chest. So those Agency brats could get Dazai to show emotion (genuine from what he could tell) after about a year while Chuuya had known Dazai for three, nearly four, and hadn’t managed to elicit anything other than taunting, annoyance and the urge to set a bomb under his car?

Fan-fucking-tactic.

“Then why aren’t you bothering him?” He succeeded in keeping the bitterness from his voice, barely, and forced himself to relax again now that those dead eyes were no longer directed at him. Fuck; he hated that look.

“Atsushi’s not the one lying in a bed with a fever.”

“Funny thing, neither would I if you hadn’t left me in a fucking field.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

They were going in circles, their conversation going nowhere. Or, at least, that’s how it felt to Chuuya. It felt like he’d take a few steps forward but then Dazai would say something and there’d they’d be, right back to where they started; the fact that Dazai had broken into Chuuya’s flat while he was unconscious after leaving him, exhausted and alone.

“Give me one good reason why I should trust you.”

“...and if I can’t think of one?”

“Then congratulations; that’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me in the last seven years.”

“Will Chuuya eat now?”

“You’re not going to go away until I do, are you?”

“Like I said; I’m not leaving til Chibi’s well enough to throw me out himself.”

“Fucking...fine.”

Dazai blinked down at him, surprise flashing accross his features before it was once again masked behind that pleasant, charming smile he so often liked to wear.

“If it’ll make you leave sooner, fine. I’m too sick to deal with your bullshit. If it’s poisoned, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your shitty life.”

“Whatever Chibi says.”

“Shut up and help me sit up. I’m not lying here while you spoon feed me like an infant.”

“But Chibi’s as small as-“

“Finish that sentence and I will maim you”

Dazai once again set the bowl to the side and, far more carefully than Chuuya would expect from the bandaged bastard, helped me into a semi-sitting position, back pressed against the mountain of pillows Chuuya insisted on keeping on his bed. Chuuya was sure to keep his movements slow so as not to aggravate his injuries or spark another bout of dizziness.

“Why does Chuuya have so many pillows?”

“Why are you so interested?”

“No reason, just curious.”

“I’ll believe your ‘just curious’ line when you go a week without getting slapped.”

“It’s day six, I’m sure I can manage.”

“Sure you can.”

“Want to bet on it?”

“Right now, fuck no.”

“Chuuya’s no fun when he’s ill.”

Chuuya didn’t dignify that with a response, merely gesturing for Dazai to hand him the bowl. Dazai seemed hesitant but Chuuya’s glare intensified and he gave a put upon sigh, as if he was the one being inconvenienced in this situation, before handing the bowl over.

Chuuya propped it in his lap carefully, making sure there was no chance of him accidentally tipping it over, before taking his first spoonful of the bouillabaisse. He closed his eyes as the taste hit his tongue. It had been a while since he’d managed to visit the cafe and this was, admittedly, just what he needed.

Movement drew his attention and, as he turned his head, he noticed Dazai hopping off the bed and heading towards the door. Suspicious of what he was doing but not being able to follow, Chuuya returned his attention to the bowl in his lap and continued to eat.

It was as he was finishing (he stil had about a third of the bowl left but he couldn’t make himself eat any more) that Dazai returned, two slightly steaming mugs in his hands. Chuuya couldn’t stop himself raising an eyebrow when he realised exactly what was inside them.

“Really?”

“Chibi kept it in the same place.”

“The minute you go, I’m changing the locks.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t anyway.”

“I forgot you had a key. Trust me, I will.”

Dazai made no comment, simply taking the bowl away and replacing it with the steaming mug of chamomile and spiced apple tea he’d procured from Chuuya’s kitchen.

The scent, like that of the bouillabaisse, was familiar, calming and made Chuuya relax further into the pillows. Breathing in the fragrant steam, he could almost pretend that the aches and pains were non-existent, that he wasn’t still overly-warm and uncomfortable from fever and that Dazai, bandaged bastard that he was, actually gave a damn rather than this pretence he was putting up for some unknown reason.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he murmured, tone soft as he took his first sip. The warmth traveled down his throat and settled in his stomach, pleasant rather than the uncomfortable warmth he felt everywhere else.

“...I know.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because…” Dazai paused but Chuuya didn’t look at him, didn’t want to see what emotions were passing over his face. He couldn’t trust that anything he saw was real. “Because I’ve changed and, the other night, I acted like I would have four years ago and...I didn’t like it.”

There it was. This wasn't about Chuuya at all. It was about Dazai feeling guilty that he’d not stuck to whatever precious morals he’d managed to scrape together over the past few years.

“And,” Dazai continued, capturing Chuuya’s attention before his thoughts could primal any further downwards. “I realised I should’ve been a better partner and taken you to the extraction point.”

As if he was going to believe that horseshit.

“So you think taking care of me now makes up for it?”

“No,” Dazai admitted and Chuuya was tempted to turn, to see what affected emotion was on that face but he resisted, keeping his eyes closed and breathing in the sweet scent of his tea. “But I’m hoping Chuuya wil find it in him to give me a chance to do better next time.”

“And what if, next time, you just say fuck it and don’t stop me?”

Because, as much as he’d cursed Dazai after waking up and dragging himself to Mori’s office, as much as he’d ranted and raved about how he should have known better than to trust the bastard to do what he’d asked...he’d still held out some shred of hope that Dazai would do what he’d said. When they were partners, Dazai had occasionally taken off after Chuuya had used Corruption but, in those circumstances, there were almost always other members of the Port Mafia around (typically Hirotsu) who would make sure he got back safe. This time, it had just been them so his only option afterwards had been Dazai.

And Dazai had abandoned him there.

It wasn’t a big step from ‘not taking me somewhere safe after using Corruption’ to ‘not stopping me when I use Corruption’.

“That won’t happen.”

And Chuuya had to look at him, had to see his expression because what the hell?

Dazai’s tone nad been sharp, almost commanding. As he met that amber, steely gaze, Chuuya felt something in him react (though what it was, he couldn’t be sure). Dazai’s eyes were determined, focused on Chuuya like he was the only thing that mattered in that moment. He couldn’t remember a look like that ever being directed at him before.

“And why’s that?” The words left him almost involuntarily, tone not quite biting as he locked gazes with Dazai, willing himself to see through whatever act teh bastard might put up, ready to focus on any microexpression that might slip through the cracks.

“Chibi’s not allowed to die.”

“What’s it to you if I die or not? Newsflash; you’re the one that left, not me.”

“Chibi’s not allowed to die,” Dazai repeated, as if by saying it again he could make Chuuya accept it. Not happening - he was sick, not oblivious.

“Why do you suddenly care?”

“Chibi wouldn’t believe me if I told him.”

“Try me.”

“Chibi’s pretty when he’s angry.”

That statement caused Chuuya to nearly spill hot tea over himself as he stared, incredulous at Dazai who was now deliberately not looking at him.

What. The. Fuck.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“I told you.”

How the hell was he meant to react to that?

“I have no idea how to respond to that statement and, right now, part of me is sure you’re just a hallucination brought on by fever.”

Dazai let out a small chuckle at that statement, turning to look at Chuuya again. That warmth that had been in his eyes when he’d talked about Atsushi was...directed at him. When had this happened? How was he supposed to react to this? Was this really Dazai Osamu? It didn’t seem likely but…

...but an imposter wouldn’t have known about his favourite food when he was ill, wouldn’t have reacted when he brought up that particular event in March five years ago, wouldn’t have teased him quite so much if they were trying to get into his good graces. There was too much that was so purely Dazai that the only conclusion he could come to was that he was, in fact, speaking with the real him.

And that thought was mildly terrifying because…

Dazai Osamu told him, to his face, that he was pretty.

“You know, you don’t have to say anything,’ Dazai commented, that stupid, warm expression still in his eyes and the corners of his mout turned up in a small smile that looked far more genuine than anything Chuuya could remember seeing during their three years together. “”But you asked so…” He shrugged, as if he didn’t really care whether Chuuya responded or not.

“You expect me not to say something after that?”

Dazai shruged again, as if he couldn’t care less what Chuuya had to say.

“So, what does Chibi have to say?”

...that was a good question and, unfortunately, it wasn’t one he had an answer to. This...was never something he thought he’d ever have to deal with. Dazai had never, to Chuuya’s knowledge, admitted an attraction to another male. And for said male to be Chuuya of all people…

“When, exactly, did you…?” How did he even finish the question?

“Yesterday,” Dazai admitted.

“...and how did you come to this realisation?”

Keep talking, keep asking questions. Maybe it would start to make sense if he just kept asking questions.

This time, Dazai didn’t answer and Chuuya felt a surge of annoyance. Dazai had been surprisingly forthright so far but he’d known that, at some point, he’d clam up and stop answering.

“I...think I’d prefer to tell you that some other time.”

Wait, what? Dazai wasn’t refusing to answer the question, just refusing to answer it now?

“So…” Chuuya began, eyes narrowed as he put the pieces together. “You break into my flat, bring me food, say you’re going to look after me until I feel well enough to kick your bandaged ass out and now you’re saying you think I’m pretty (which you only realised yesterday!) but you’re not giving me a reason why you suddenly think this even though I know you’ve only ever been attracted to women?”

Dazai shrugged again, the motion easy and careless. Chuuya let himself flop back against his pillow mountain, lifting an arm to cover his face so he wouldn’t have to look at the bandaged bastard, not caring at the uncomfortable sensations from the bruises as he did so.

“You’re really something, you know that?”

“Is that a good thing?”

Chuuya didn’t dignify that with a response, just kept his arm over his eyes and tried to proces the last few minutes of their conversation.

“This still doesn’t change anything,.”

“I know.”

“Then what do you want?”

“For you to give me another chance.”

“And if I don’t?”

Dazai didn’t reply for a while and Chuuya was, once again, tempted to look at him but resolutely did not. He did lower his arm but kept his eyes closed. He lifted the mug of cooling tea to his lips again and finished it off in a few small sips. Wordlessly, Dazai took it from his hand and he heard it being set down on the nightstand.

“Then you don’t.”

“Just like that?‘

“Just like that.”

“You’re not going to try some stupid shit to win me over?”

“Would it work?”

That...was a fair point. Chuuya knew Dazai’s tricks, had seen them used often enough that he could practically recite them word for word, rehearsed gesture for rehearsed gestures. If Dazai tried any of his normal shit with Chuuya, he’d know and kick the bastard’s ass for it. The fact that Dazai had acknowledged that, had admitted that his normal methods wouldn’t work on him...

“And besides,’ Dazai continued. “Why would I trick you into something like this/‘

“Because it would amuse you. You’d find this sort of shit funny: don’t even bother denying it.”

“Maybe,” Dazai admitted. “But I’ve decided that if anything happens, I don’t want it to be because I tricked you into it.”

Chuuya was once again having doubts that this was, in fact, the real Dazai Osamu.

“Just ...think it over. I’m not expecting an answer any time soon.”

‘And if you never get one?”

“Then I’ll just have to live in hope that I’ll get one one day, won’t I?”

With that, Dazai once again left the room, taking the dirty cups and bowl with him. Chuuya was left alone with his thoughts which were currently roiling, unable to concentrate on any one thing for longer than a. Few seconds before soemthing else captured his attention.

He did’t know how to feel, didn’t know how to react. This was no t something he had ever considered a possibility under any circumstance and, now that he was fed and relatively comfortable, he didn’t really want to think about it. As quickly as his mind was flitting from subject to subject, he could feel it also beginning to slow as his body decided that, having been awake for a decent amount of time, it was now time to return to unconsciousness so that his body could focus on healing itself.

Gingerly, he shuffled back under the covers so only his head was supported by the pillows and curled up on his side facing the door. He opened his eyes, watching for Dazai. His eyes were drooping however and, as he closed them, he was vaguely aware of the sensation of a hand running through his hair again as he drifted off to sleep.

———-

A few weeks later, head in Dazai’s lap and fingers once again stroking through his hair, Chuuya couldn’t help but think that, maybe, just maybe, it was worth giving Dazai that second chance.

#soukokuweek19 #Soukoku #Day 7 #free day #Nakahara Chuuya #Dazai Osamu #Dazai is an idiot #sfw #Chuuya needs a hug #bsd #bungou stray dogs #skk #dazai x chuuya #bungou stray dogs bsd #fanfiction #soukoku week #idiots in love

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catsarticles · 4 years

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The £15 delivery that can save the planet, and your dinner?

‘Veg box’ schemes (but in fact these boxes can also contain fruit, eggs, dairy produce, meat and cupboard staples) are a way of getting (mainly) local, seasonal, and sometimes organic, farm produce delivered to your home.

Courgette and vegan ricotta pasta, with homemade lettuce pesto, and roasted tomatoes on sourdough

Why choose a veg box?

Veg box schemes have developed to meet some of the environmental challenges that exist within the food chain, from farm, through our supermarkets, to our plates, and then too often into our bins.

The value of edible food wasted in the UK is around £19 billion (Waste and Resources Action Programme (“WRAP”) (2020) report). Reducing food waste is an effective solution to fighting climate change, as recognised by the inclusion in the United Nation’s Sustainable Development Goals of Goal 12 – halving per capita global food waste. This proposed 50% reduction would lead to a reduction of the carbon footprint by 1.4 GtCO2 equivalent per year (UN FAO (2015) report). For context, that is over four times the annual CO2 footprint of the UK (source: Global Carbon Project).

All food products generate their own carbon footprint through emissions related to transportation from farm to plate. The worst offender is air-freighted food, which tends to be used for highly perishable foods including fruit and vegetables. Around 0.16% of food miles are estimated to be by air-freight (Poore & Nemecek (2018) report). For most food products transport contributes to up to 10% of that product’s carbon footprint (Poore & Nemecek (2018) report). Defra statistics (March 2020) show 53% of food consumed in the UK originates in the UK, and Farmdrop’s website estimates that just 23% of fresh fruit and veg sold throughout the UK is grown here.

Supermarkets overuse single use plastic and packaging, often on fruit and veg that comes already packaged nicely in its natural skin. Customers are incentivised to buy these items - the team behind the 2019 BBC series ‘War on Plastic’ found that there was a price difference of 42% between the same items packaged and without packaging in Tesco, with the loose goods costing significantly more. The team found that residents in one single street in Bristol collectively had 7,145 pieces of plastic in their kitchen. Helped by programmes such as the BBC’s Blue Planet II, we are recognising the many different types of tragedy caused by industrial pollution and the discarding of plastic waste, as well as recognising the resource intensive production and disposal of plastic.

In addition to quantifiable environmental impacts, it’s a truism that fresh, seasonal food is tastier. And veg boxes have faced an unexpected challenge and opportunity in being able to provide food to millions of households who are forced to seek produce in different ways to usual due to the coronavirus pandemic. A YouGov study undertaken between 7-9 April 2020 found that 3 million people have tried a veg box scheme or are buying direct-from-farm for the very first time, as a result of the pandemic.

Garlicky, lemony spring greens stir fry

The larger players

There are a number of websites offering differing versions of the veg box concept. I considered in brief some of the larger players: Oddbox, Eversfield Organic, Riverford, Boxxfresh, Farmdrop and Abel & Cole. The companies distinguish themselves in different ways. Oddbox claims to be the only company that rescues fruit and vegetables, and their business model is to deliver misshapen and surplus produce. This is to directly counter the problem that supply chain food waste makes up 30% of the total UK food waste (WRAP (2020) report) The majority of other companies offered meat, dairy products, eggs, bread, and cupboard staples alongside a veg box, or had the option to purchase items separately (i.e. not as a veg box bundle). These companies buy from mainly local suppliers and farm partners, with Farmdrop working with more than 450 producers. Companies like Riverford plan box contents and order in advance from their suppliers, aiming to grow only the amount they expect to need. Eversfield Organic and Riverford offered almost exclusively organic certified products (for brevity, and because it was not a feature of all of the veg boxes, I haven’t written about the benefits of organic produce to biodiversity, nutrition, and emissions).

None of the companies offered exclusively British grown produce. Oddbox state that you could receive bananas, avocados and mangos in your box, however this is produce that has already been, or would be, rejected as ‘imperfect’ as part of an imported crop. Riverford state that 80% of their veg is UK grown across the year, and they never air-freight (Farmdrop and Abel & Cole also make this commitment). To maintain quantity and variety of produce, Abel and Cole do not claim to rely solely on British or local suppliers, but aim for transparency, and do offer an All British veg box.

All the schemes pledge to reduce, and continue working on reducing, packaging, and make any packaging recyclable or degradable. Riverford currently estimates that its veg boxes contain 82% less plastic than the equivalent packaged products from major UK supermarkets.

Apple crumble

My review of Oddbox

My small fruit and veg box came with a brochure telling me the origins and reason for inclusion in the box of my produce this week. I received: a box of red grapes (from South Africa, imperfect colours), 4x apricots (Spain, surplus), 4x apples (UK, surplus), a box of cherry tomatoes (Spain, surplus), 2x courgettes (Spain, too small), 5x potatoes (UK, surplus), 9x white onions (UK, too small), a head of spring greens (UK, surplus), a head of green ‘living lettuce’ (UK, surplus), and a bag of salad leaves (UK, surplus). Overall I was slightly surprised that not all of the produce originated from the UK, however Oddbox explains that these products would have otherwise gone to waste and have not been imported for the purposes of the box. Some of the items deemed imperfect for sale were a little more ‘wonky’ than equivalent products that I could have picked up in supermarkets, but none of the items would be unsaleable, in my view.

This week’s small fruit and veg Oddbox

The brochure explained that the inclusion of two leafy salad items was due to the British leafy salad season just beginning, and the sudden crash of food service items they were destined for. This made a lot of sense to me, although quite how I was going to eat all of that lettuce made less so.

The quality was without exception fantastic. Apart from the courgettes and tomatoes, I would have been unlikely to choose any of these items in the supermarket, however I decided to get creative and avowed to not waste a thing. I hoovered up the grapes as a snack, and then supplemented the box with a couple of vegetables that I already had in, herbs from my windowsill, and a well-stock store cupboard, and came up with the meals included in the photos in this article. I also made a huge potato curry with onion bhajis, which, despite my best efforts, I couldn’t make presentable.

In order to avoid generating any food waste, I froze most of my spring greens. You can freeze most vegetables, and I recommend lightly cooking them first. Pestos are also fantastic ways of using vegetables, and I made a pesto from the abundance of lettuce we received, which we then used on bread, pasta, and as a salad dressing. I didn’t this week, but another great way to use leftover or awkward vegetables would be to cook them into a frittata, or savoury crepe (chickpea/gram flour can be use to make both as an alternative to using eggs and milk).

The tomatoes, grapes, salad leaves and lettuce were packaged in plastic. In my opinion only the salad leaves needed any kind of additional packaging, so the packaging was a little wasteful. The produce is not organic, which is a shame, but overall I liked the fact that this produce might have gone to waste otherwise, and was impressed with the selection and the quality for the price paid.

Simply dressed salad with homemade courgette fritters, and sweet chilli sauce

Critical thinking

Although food wastage from farm to plate should of course be discouraged, household food waste makes up 70% of the UK’s total food waste (WRAP (2020) report). Oddbox estimate that households waste 25% of their weekly shop, on average, which amounts to over 10 million tonnes per year (Friends of the Earth, 2020). Veg boxes on the most hand are not like markets where you can choose what you’re getting, you just get a selection of local food that is in season. For fussy eaters, or consumers strapped of time or kitchen skills, it could be a challenge to fully use all the produce that comes in a veg box, particularly when the vegetable may be more unfamiliar or difficult to incorporate into a modern diet. Although some companies have tried to mitigate the wastage of their products (Oddbox allow three exclusions per delivery, and Abel & Cole and Boxxfresh are fully customisable), tailoring boxes is in some ways anathema to the purpose of the boxes, which is to provide consumers with fresh, local, seasonal and available food. I found myself eating very differently than I would usually, and creating dishes to use up the ingredients that I wouldn’t have usually made (lettuce pesto and courgette fritters, for example). This was an interesting challenge for me, but in the current times I have more time to plan my weekly menu upon seeing the boxes content, and spend more time in the kitchen than usual. Given that a huge amount of the problems associated with food waste are in the journey from fridge to bin, veg boxes aren’t a complete solution to food wastage, and instead we must collectively improve our food skills, including meal planning, storage, and creative use of leftovers.

The cost of the boxes may also be a deterrent. The medium sized Oddbox (7-8 varieties of veg and 4 types of fruit) costs £14.99, and Farmdrop’s equivalent costs £12.75. The organic box from Able & Cole contains 7 portions of veg and 2 portions of fruit costs £19.95, and the medium offering from Eversfields Organic and Riverford (8 varieties of organic vegetables) costs £15.25 and £15.35 respectively. Compared with supermarket shopping, the items will generally be more expensive per item, however if you did a direct comparison with fully organic produce in a greengrocers the price would be equivalent, or less. Anecdotally, however, users of these boxes think they have saved money, as the boxes mean that more meals will be plant-based and encourage cooking from scratch (both of which are cheaper ways of eating). Additionally, there is a premium to be paid for a vastly superior taste, as one colleague said: “potatoes and tomatoes which actually have flavour!” Of course everyone will make individual choices based on their budgets, and whether such choices ultimately represent value.

Salad with roasted butter beans, tomatoes, and a coriander and jalapeño ‘mole’ dressing

In terms of corporate responsibility, I saw some criticism of companies like Abel & Cole, who inevitably have overheads and shareholders to pay. Abel & Cole however are a certified B-Corp and as a part of this have made a large amount of their company information public. In general, the ethos I saw from these companies is what you expect of companies operating in the market for environmentally conscious consumers: they recognised that every element of their business always had room for improvement (be that choosing and paying local producers, packaging, deliveries, farming standards), and that a truly sustainable business had to be positive in each of these areas. All the companies seems to be trying to improve on the 9p received by producers for every £1 spent in a supermarket (People Need Nature (2019) report), and veg boxes are a way for smallholder farmers to supply more directly to the public.

I wondered about delivery emissions of veg boxes from supplier to doorstep. It appears unequivocal that delivery services are no worse for the planet than independent shopping trips, assuming that the majority of households do their shopping in a car. Exeter University found that because home delivery consolidates many people’s shopping journeys into one, it is generally more efficient than going shopping in your own car (Coley, 2009). Abel & Cole adapt their daily delivery routes to minimise fuel consumption, and Oddbox deliver overnight to take advantage of quieter roads. In addition, the commitments to avoid air-freight address the largest source of delivery emissions. However, the position is more nuanced in terms of growing tasty, out-of-season produce that customers demand at home in the UK. A 2009 paper compared the environmental impacts of importing Spanish field-grown lettuce into the UK during winter with lettuce produced in the UK in heated greenhouses, and found that importation from Spain produced fewer GHG emissions (Hospido et al, 2009). A similar picture holds true for crops like tomatoes grown in warmer European climes, compared with greenhouse grown in the UK. Anyone who eats seasonally will understand the challenge of maintaining a variety of produce acceptable to the usual consumer in the UK at certain times of year, and given that a large draw of these veg boxes are the quality of the produce, some element of food importation seems inevitable.

It’s less about where our food comes from (although there are of course a number of reasons apart from purely environmental ones that may influence why you choose UK suppliers), than what we are eating. Data from the US shows that substituting less than one day per week’s worth of calories from beef and dairy products to chicken, fish, eggs or a plant-based diet reduces GHG emissions more than buying all of your food from local sources (Weber & Mattews, 2008). There are massive differences in the GHG emissions of producing a kilogram of different foods, with plants consistently being the lowest (lamb and cheese – 20kg CO2 eq, beef - 60kg CO2 eq, peas – 1kg CO2 eq, source: Our World in Data). Producing livestock for human consumption contributes 14.5% of annual GHG emissions (Friends of the Earth, 2020), and is resource heavy - more food is obtained from a given area of land if we consume plants directly rather than pass them through an animal first. 40% of arable crops are fed to animals (source: Food Climate Research Network, 2020). The IPCC estimate that by 2050 a global switch to a plant-based diet would reduce global CO2 emissions by up to 8 billion tonnes per year, relative to business as usual (IPCC, 2019). The meat and dairy options in the boxes offered by most of the companies considered may at least have the effect of encouraging consumers to think more about where their animal products are coming from, and to re-think the narrative that these are essential products, especially eaten in the quantities eaten in the UK today.

Vegan apricot cake and cream

Ultimately we have power as consumers, and every pound spent is a conscious choice. I encourage you to examine your own shopping habits, and whether you could shop more seasonally, locally, organically, and plastic-free. Although it is certainly not the only option, it may be that the easiest way to do this is to take up a subscription to a veg box, and find one that works for you, your tastes, and your time available. Reconnecting with the food on our plate and its journey to get there makes us all more conscious consumers, and can bring great enjoyment, both in times of pandemic and beyond.

Catherine Lucas

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patty-writes · 5 years

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crowley + “I wondered when you were going to wake up. You almost didn’t survive.” ?

→ Word count: 1,683

The sky was crying above the dead Tokyo as its tears were washing off the blood and dust from an empty, dreadfully silent streets. Quiet, steady sound of the droplets hitting the ground were such a contrast to the amount of screams, shrieks and explosions which were filling up the air barely few hours ago. The shots and agonizing whines were now replaced by a soft melody, sweet music played by the nature on the graves of those who died in the battle. Such a poetical, melancholic image, the death itself looming around soundlessly as everything was calm now—as if the war between humans and vampires has never happened.

You woke up suddenly, as if you just remembered about something very important and took a deep breath, only to start coughing immediately when the dust filled your lungs, scratching it and burning. Senses, though, were coming back to you arduously, first allowing you to feel that you were, indeed, laying on the hard ground and something was stabbing you in the ribs, and only then letting you move your hands and look at your own surroundings. Reaching to the forehead, you realized that it was covered with the cold droplets and the rain still didn’t stop when you managed to sit and simply observe in silence.

Tokyo was dead.

High skyscrapers, once majestically reaching the sky and shining in the darkness with dozens of neons in various colours were now reminding you of a graves, bent under the merciless strength of the passing time. The nature was taking back what was once belonging to her, covering the buildings with moss, rust and mold, allowing the wind to break through the glass, the rain to carry the ground and mud on the roads. There was a puddle nearby, one big enough so a car wouldn’t be able to drive through it and the straws of grass were starting to cover the black asphalt around it, peeking from between the crushed pavement bricks. The vehicles still seemed to be left in a hurry, scattered around the streets with open doors and windows, rotting on the inside just like this whole world seemed to.

You could clearly hear the wind dancing between the empty buildings, whispering about the life which once abandoned this place, ghosts of the past still so present and vivid like your own memory of this place.

And yet, you were there. Sitting on the damp street, covered in dust, sweat, rain and blood—nevertheless alive. You were breathing, feeling the droplets on your skin and the fear trembling in your heart. Ironically, what troubled you the most in that moment weren’t the fact that you were completely alone, on the contrary, it was the possibility of someone being there which made your knees shake.

Cursorily checking your body for any wounds you found none which you should be especially worried about. Considering the place you woke up in, you assumed that once there was still a battle, the nearby building crashed and fell down, and you were extremely lucky to barely hitting your head and losing consciousness instead of getting buried alive under the heavy construction. For how long, you didn’t know, although the silence surrounding you was giving a sign that it wasn’t as short period of time as you hoped for.

You carefully managed to stood up and keep the balance. The uniform you were wearing was now reminding you nothing but a poor imitation of the one you put on this morning while preparing for the fight. It was just as miserable as everything around you now and suddenly you thought that maybe it all didn’t make any sense.

The apocalypse didn’t make sense.

The war didn’t make sense.

Living in a world like this didn’t make sense either.

You couldn’t localize your weapon anywhere near so you assumed that it must have been lost under the rubble. Cursing under the breath, you decided to go back to the base or at least to find any living soldier of the Japanese Imperial Demon Army so you could company them back to the safe place. Still, you couldn’t get rid of the feeling that none of them stayed alive after this battle and the shadows of the silhouettes laying on the ground away from you were enough of the proof that this gut feeling might not be wrong.

They truly died, slaughtered by the vampires whose white coats thrown on the streets showed you that they were not the only victims. Their almost immortal bodies turned into the dust, wipping them off of the world as if they never existed, now washed away with the falling rain down to the dirty sewers. And that was it, that was the end every single warrior had to face one day, until all of this would become nothing more but a history full of anonymous fighters trying to prove their rights.

It didn’t make any sense.

You were going to move forward, walk away from this terrible place, wishing for nothing more than a peaceful rest, when you abruptly heard a shuffle coming from behind your back. Turning over the shoulder, you noticed that you truly weren’t alone there and the man standing barely few steps from you, who seemed to sneak up to you completely soundlessly, was the last person you expected to see. You could clearly feel the blood drown from your face when your eyes landed on his broad shoulders, familiar features and the little, pitiful smile playing on his lips.

The vampire was holding someone in one hand by their neck—now bent in an unnatural angle, their face pale, almost blue due to the effect of getting their blood completely sucked off of the veins.

“I wondered when you were going to wake up,” Crowley Eusford hummed. “You almost didn’t survive.”

So he was waiting for you. He must have found you long before you woke up and waited for you to open your eyes again—what for? He could kill you back then when you weren’t conscious, feast upon your blood until you would be just as dead as the corpse he was still holding. Prehaps it wasn’t as fun when the victim didn’t struggle?

Your body was paralyzed. There was no way you could simply run away, the beast was much faster than you and it would be nothing but a waste of energy, which you didn’t have a lot of already. The fate of your own, upcoming death was standing in front of you, so mesmerizing, and it had the face of the devil. Bloody eyes stared at you with hunger and amusement, as if he was waiting for your next move after he started the game.

“Seems like one little lamb got separated from the herd,” he chuckled and threw the body on the hard ground. The loud, empty thud caused you to shiver and yet you still couldn’t take your eyes off of him. “Aren’t you going to escape? Fight? Beg for your life?”

Heavy clouds above you were passing, taking the rain to the different parts of the city, leaving you both in soaked uniforms and hair clinging to the skin. The sun must have been touching the horizon because with every passing minute, it was getting darker and soon you would find yourself in the pit of hell—solitude and starving vampires being your only company.

“I’m tired, “ you confessed, surprising both yourself and the vampire with those words.

Crowley blinked few times, confused. He clearly wasn’t expecting this kind of an answer.

“I’m sure you are.”

You remembered about those soldiers who were forcefully taken by the vampires from the battlefield, intended to be tortured until they would reveal informations about humans, Army or its further plans. Anything the Queen would consider as useful. Was the same thing going to happen to you? Did Crowley let you live because he wanted to take you to the palace and there interrogate you in the most terrifying way you could imagine?

It was so quiet around, you could almost hear your own heartbeat.

“It doesn’t even make any sense,” you continued and vaguely gestured around, looking at the rubble you woke up on.

Saying those words made you feel a little bit better, as if something you were bottling up for a long period of time was finally let free. You heard the heavy steps when Crowley approached you but you didn’t turn to face him, instead waited patiently as he stopped close to you and looked at the same direction.

The ruins of Tokyo were spreading in front of you like a painting, the realistic panorama of an unspoken disaster.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “It never did.”

“Never?”

“Never. And the longer you live, the more purpose it loses. Authorities are dying and you never find the reason.”

“That sounds rather depressing.”

Crowley only shrugged.

“You’re not that dumb for a livestock, you know?” he admitted suddenly, causing you to look at him, only now realizing how close he was standing next to you. You’ve never had an opportunity to be this close to a vampire and not to try killing him, nor fighting for your own life.

“I’m sure I’m not the only one.”

Crowley gave you the look which showed expressively what he was thinking about it and before you could react, he turned on the heel and simply walked away in the same direction he came from. Surprised by his actions, your gaze followed him and as if he could read your mind, Crowley slowed down for a moment only to say:

“I’m not going to kill you.”

“Why?” The question left your lips involuntarily and for a single moment you couldn’t say whether it was only about what he was doing right now, and not the whole fate which somehow brought you two together to meet in such an odd place and circumstances.

Crowley peeked at you and smiled, adjusting the weapon in the sheath by his belt, before leaving you all alone on the street.

“I’ve already eaten, livestock.”

#crowley eusford #crowley eusford x reader #crowley #crowley x reader #owari no seraph #ons #seraph of the end #crowley imagine #crowley eusford imagine #crowley eusford scenario #crowley scenario

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southern-skies-blog1 · 5 years

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yeoldontknow · 6 years

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The Heart Of Winter

Author’s Note: from this prompt for the followers milestone drabble game. HAPPY BIRTHDAY @softkim2 I LOVE YOU!!! JIN LOVES YOU TOO! Prompt: 21: He’s a bad kisser. Pairing: Jin x Reader (oc; female) Genfre: fluff; angst; humour Summary: One year after Jin almost kissed you at your company’s New Years Eve party, you try to make him jealous, only to find out the best way to solve problems is by talking. Rating: PG-13 Warning: some strong language Word Count: 4,939

If you're being honest, you're not entirely sure why you brought him.

Bringing dates to parties is a wholly natural and normal thing to do, expected by couples and their friends - expected by most when you have paired off, found love. Those around you are suddenly eager, suddenly curious and impatient to share your happiness. Bringing dates to parties is natural and normal, but, for you, something about Jimin's presence isn't quite right.

True, he says at all the right things. He fills your cup before his own, always with the correct amount of vodka and always with a soft, delighted smile playing at his lips. He is unafraid of dancing; dancing well or dancing badly, he does not judge. This is not a scale he considers, not even a scale that exists. Dance, he thinks, is a freedom, and you often think this is what drew you to him from he very beginning - the confident way he held your hips on your first date and the sudden, unexpected way he was happy to make a fool of himself.

He is unafraid of dancing and he is unafraid of making people laugh.

Without you by his side, he moves through the crowd with ease, speaking with your friends and colleagues as though he has known them all his life. Every time he pauses, lets himself be welcomed into a conversational bubble, he regards his partners as though they were the most important people in the room. Sometimes, you think, he is the sun and he is kind, ensuring that all those around him feel safe and warm and included. And, more than this, he makes Jungkook laugh, loud and hard, and as though he has never been shy at all.

There are many reasons, on paper and in your mind, that account for why you brought him, but there is only one that matters.

Everywhere you look, Jin stands and presides. He emerges in the corners of your vision, a thick, shadowy presence that makes your skin feel taught and your mouth salivate. Regardless of your focus, he becomes the natural focal point, standing by windows and illuminating the space as though he were all the light in the room. His broad shoulders effortlessly catch your attention, make your head turn until your gaze latches on to the somewhat exquisite slope of his arms.

The unapologetic way he laughs, almost ugly in its force and often shrill in its tenor, makes your ears ring. In his hand, he clutches his drink like a cross, brings it to the fullness of his lips as he listens to your boss talk and talk, nodding absentmindedly when he feels the time is right. Glasses perched elegantly on the bridge of his nose, he looks regal and he looks noble, completely out of place and far too charming for a holiday work New Years eve.

Jin is the reason, as poor of a reason as this is, because you wanted to make him jealous.

You wanted to make him jealous, and now, so close to midnight, you are unsure if he has noticed at all.

LAST YEAR

Even outside, standing on the roof in the chill of the air, Jin could make the world feel small. Looking down at you, his irises swim, thoughts moving and racing, unable to be caught by either of your hands, and your perspective begins to shrink. With you, he appears terribly different. In the office, he is called a shark, but with you he is impossibly soft. Soft, and bright, and made of nothing but his most gentle smiles.

It's a clear night, crisp enough to make your breath turn to mist as it hits the air, and his skin glows, incandescent beneath the light of the moon. Below you, the city is loud and alive - horns honking and lights shining. Motion is happening, life is occurring, urgent and insistent on the streets of New York but, for you, time has stopped.

In the silence, Jin licks his lips, tongue peeking out to wet the flesh and yours follows, the natural instinct of following wherever he leads.

'Are we even allowed to kiss at work events?' you murmur, mesmerized by the way his cheeks turn pink. You're unsure if it's your question or the chill as it presses against his skin, but the shade looks good on him. You decide, then, that every shade matches his tone - ever colour is his colour.

'I mean...' his voice fades, uncertain. 'Surely? We're not even on the same team.'

It strikes you then, what you asked and what he's implying. You hadn't really meant to ask about kissing him, hadn't even meant to be so explicit. But then, you hadn't expected him to reciprocate - not with so much eagerness. You feel almost as if you had unlocked the door, and he had thrown it open.

'Oh...' you breathe, eyes suddenly going wide.

'Sorry,' he laughs, shaking his head and shifting his weight on his feet. 'That was bold.'

'No, no.' You're quick with your words, eager to reassure him and eager to keep the tension that has grown between you. Against your teeth and tongue, it feels like progress. 'I think we both know that there's something a little more than friendship happening here.'

He takes a step closer to you, trying to close the distance, regardless of how small it is. The warm from his body radiates into your yours, your coat suddenly becoming uncomfortable.

'I've been polite, you know,’ he smirks, the light of the moon giving him a halo.

Tilting your head up to maintain eye contact, you swallow thickly. 'Polite?'

'Taking it slow,' he clarifies, cocking his head to the side as his eyes dart briefly to your lips, 'and being almost too careful because we work together.'

Furrowing your brow, you bite your lip, hoping he can feel the pressure of this phantom touch. 'Is this slow?'

'What else would it be?'

'I don't know,' you tease, playfully, 'it feels like we haven't moved at all.'

'Well, then,' he nods, seductive smile spreading across his features. 'That's slow.'

Feeling bold, you take a cautious step forward as you study his 'Syrup in winter?'

Jin hums, eyes dancing in the moonlight as he takes you in, the intensity of his stare making you shiver. 'More like the melting of the Iceman.'

You can't help but giggle, luxuriating in the closeness of him as you reach a hand to play with the sleeve of his jacket. 'At least we're on the same page.' Tearing your eyes away from his face, let your gaze walk down the length of his neck to the elegant windsor knot of his tie. Saying what you want to say is difficult, makes your throat feel tight and your tongue heavy. Looking at him as you attempt to speak feels like it will hurt, so instead you study the fabric of his clothes and let the cotton be his ears. 'Listen, I just want to make it clear...'

But Jin gets there first. 'How you feel?'

'Yeah,' you nod, still unable to look at his face. His beauty would make you causing an interruption in your words, rendering you ineloquent. 'Or at least, that I'm always of the opinion that if it's good, it's good and it should stay. You should make space for it.'

'You're saying...' Something in his voice sounds pleading, hopeful, and is this that makes you lift your eyes once more.

Emboldened, you take a sharp inhale of breath, letting the chill dry the edges of your nerves. 'If you feel the same then we should try.'

Letting one another fall silent, you simply regard one another, relaxed and content. In your joints, optimism flutters, sanguine in all it promises. A holiness has grown somewhere in the night, the concrete of the roof suddenly impossible and magical. You consider the moon a disco ball, the shadows on the streets your friends, your witnesses to the inherent grandness of this moment.

'It's past midnight,' Jin mumbles, unable to keep himself from smiling.

'I don't think we need permission from time to kiss,' you offer, voice thin and slightly bewildered.

Closing the distance, Jin reaches for your waist and pulls you to him. Through your clothes, his touch is electric, heated, and you stop yourself from hissing at the contact.

'Me neither,' he smirks, leaning down to hover just above your lips.

The door to the roof swings open with a bang, the metal of the handle resonating of the metal handle of the stairs. Jumping at the sound, you both turn your heads to see who has interrupted you though you do not break apart.

'Wooaaaaa,' Taehyung exclaims, shocked and startled to see you there. Immediately his tone changes, words slurred with alcohol as he teases. 'What's going on here?'

'Nothing!' Jin states, loud and brash, releasing you to drop his hands to his side. 'Just getting in a midnight kiss before it's no longer fashionably late. Literally, nothing.'

It’s impossible, you think, for the shattering of your heart not to overwhelm the noise of the city. In your chest, the fragments rattle, a clamour of rejection that makes the blood rush in your ears. How easily he dismissed you, how easily he felt he could toss you to the side. Turning to look up at the hard line of his jaw, your heart sinks, fingers suddenly numb with anxiety. No one had told you he could be this way, so changeable and mercurial, happy to deny even his own wishes if it meant saving his pride.

Stepping away, expression cold and impassive to mask your hurt, you scowl. 'Thanks, Jin.'

Turning for the door, you don't bother to pause or listen to his explanation. You think you deserve more than anything he could offer.

'Ah, fuck,' Jin exclaims, frustrated, and the sound follows you all the way back to the company holiday party.

NOW

One year on and still you look at him exactly the same way, pining and longing and lingering far too long to be considered appropriate for an office space. A thousand times a day, his name crosses your mind, racing through and in between as you stare at your computer, your phone, at the files that litter your desk. You hold his name against your tongue, sucking and savoring the flavor until it holds no sweetness at all, at which point you release it only to take it back in.

Jin, for you, is a cycle of craving that never once has had the audacity to cease. Sometimes, when he sits in meeting room seven, leaning back in his chair as he listens and and speaks, mouth moving without sound reaching your ears, you think about what you have to lose. What would you truly lose if you stormed in, turned him his chair and kisses him fully on the mouth, the way he should have? What would you lose if you stormed in, and shouted, said everything you had wanted to say for the last several hundred days?

These, the risks, are piled high, higher than you are truly willing to climb, but still you count them.

What's to lose: your job, your pay-check, your pride, friends, and, most of all, him.

You think you'd be okay losing some or most of them, but he is the one thing you do not compromise.

And so you brought Jimin, a dalliance that was not meant to last past the first date, but seems to have stuck well into the fifth. When you're being easy on yourself, you remind yourself he is not really your boyfriend, merely someone you hope to wean you off the one thing you cannot have. When you're being honest with yourself, you remind yourself that this is what it means to use a person, and you let the weight of the guilt and the self-loathing that comes with such a thing fill your chest like dirt. Roots form in your lungs, thick and brittle and making it hard for you to breathe. It is hard to look at Jimin, and to breathe easy. It is impossible to look at Jin, and to breathe easy.

Instead, you think you have grown gills, taken to the water of your emotions and learned to survive beyond the normal capacity of human will, and only now are learning what it means to be compassionate - with everyone, including yourself.

'It's almost midnight,' Jimin says, coming to stand at your side with another glass of champagne. 'Did I mention you look beautiful?'

Against your best judgement, you sigh, taking the drink and feeling the guilt eat away at your throat. Dressed to the nines in his three-piece suit, Jimin is everything a person could want. He’s handsome and charming, polite, considerate, and kind, and he’s making all of this impossibly difficult. You know that he should, that you deserve this kind of shame. He deserves someone better than you, someone who does not look at his smile and wish it belonged to someone with fuller lips; someone who does not watch him dance and wish he was slightly less skilled - he deserves to be wanted, not merely acceptd.

For a moment, you ask yourself if you could be that kind of person - the person who wants him. But then, your eyes find Jin as he pours Namjoon a drink, and you know, full well, that it could never be you.

'I love your co-workers,’ Jimin announces, trying still to pull you from your thoughts. When you turn to face him, he fixes you with a warm, knowing smile. 'They're nice.'

'Jimin...'

Releasing his own sigh, he takes a large drink of champagne before he speaks. 'I know what this is.'

'Sorry?' you blink.

'You haven't taken your eyes off that guy the entire night.' He tilts his head in Jin’s direction, eyeing him up and down with pursed lips.

'Fuck,’ you curse, running a hand through your hair. ‘ Jimin, I'm so sorry. I'm such an ass.'

'No, it's ok,’ he laughs, raising his hands as though he means to smooth your edges.. 'I thought it was odd you wanted me to come to this so early in our...whatever this is. I'm blonde, but I'm not stupid.'

Pressing your hand against your forehead, you squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassed. 'Please be mad at me.'

'Why would I be mad?' he questions with a snort. 'I got a free dinner and a ton of drinks tonight.'

'Because I'm an ass,’ you repeat, keeping your eyes closed.

'You're human.’ Opening your eyes, you watch the way Jimin shrugs, nonchalant and wholy unphased. In the dim light from the part, he seems to shimmer, magical in the way he remains nonplussed. ‘You fuck up and can't help how you feel.'

Rolling your eyes, you can’t help but smile. 'I could at least try.'

'Nah,' he laughs. 'That guy has an incredible body structure. I can't compete with that. I'm sure every woman here thinks about it - shit, even I will tonight.'

'Jimin -'

'I know,’ he presses, tone confident. ‘I'm so funny. I hope that guy is funny.'

Returning your gaze to Jin, the hairs on your arms stand on end, gooseflesh raising at the sound of his laugh. You wonder if it will always feel like this with him, magnetic and as though he is a black hole trying to pull you in. 'He can be.'

‘He sounds awful,’ Jimin states, flatly. ‘People should be funny all the time.

At this, you cock your head back and laugh, the sound rising above the din of conversation, glorious and wholly unlike the person you have been for the last year. It’s easy with Jimin, to pretend that you are a whole and happy person, because he makes it so easy to be playful and light.

'He can be,’ you nod, watching the way the champagne swirls in your flute with a distant smile. 'He makes dad jokes and sometimes is chaotic, and often makes me so mad.' Momentarily you pause, unsure if you should continue. But you do, knowing it is a truth that still lives inside you, knowing it needs to be said. He broke my heart.'

Jimin doesn't hesitate. 'He sucks. I hate him.' He scowls at Jin, watching him move through the crowd with a frown that puts dimples in his cheeks.

'Yeah, I tried that.' Your gaze meets Jimin's as you both watch Jin, your heart starting to flutter. 'But he's smart and he's kind, and he's human, too. It's important you know that he is kind.'

'Kind people don't hurt people,' is Jimin's reply. He says it so simply, you almost falter in your understanding of your feelings and your impression of the man who has consumed your thoughts for the better part of three years.

Pulling your gaze back to Jimin, you feel a closeness grow between you both, a familiar tether of understanding. 'I think my biggest flaw is that I can't get over him.'

'No it isn't.' He shakes his head as he turns to face you once more, sipping idly on his champagne. As he sips, you can almost see the wheels turn in his mind as he decides what to say. 'You sometimes chew with your mouth open.'

You can't help but laugh in surprise. 'Oh, my god?'

'I know we're only on date five,' he clarifies, smile easy and warm, 'so this isn't as profound as whatever else you have going on at home, but I just wanted to make you feel better.'

Unable to help the pull at your cheeks, you fix him a smile that feels both genuine and amicable. 'Thank you.'

'No problem.'

'Can we still be friends?'

You mean it, think that you need someone like Jimin. Someone who tells you the truth but ensures that it does not hurt, not in the vulnerable way that makes people hurt and feel exposed. Since you met him, he's brought aspects of sublime peace to your life, days and nights spent with him that make you laugh in a way you have not experienced in ages. He's different, not at all the person you expected to welcome into your life. And while it is true that you do not love him the way he deserves, still you think you do love him - love him in a way that keeps people close throughout the years of a long life.

'Can I still kiss you at midnight?' he bargains with a seductive smirk. 'Like a goodbye?'

'Of course,' you say, no hesitation in your answer.

'Then yes.' He extends his hand, offering to shake on the deal. 'Absolutely. I really do like spending time with you, but to be fair I didn't think the chemistry was enough for me.'

Shaking his hand feeling sheepish and apologetic, you sigh. 'I think that was my fault.'

'Don't blame yourself for everything.' Bringing his hand to your shoulder, he offers you a reassuring squeeze before turning back to look at Jin. 'Blame him for some of it.'

Resting your hand on his, you keep your hand still and enjoy the contact, glad it will not be the last you feel it.

'I will,' you say, feeling the natural pull to Jin once more. 'I absolutely will.'

Midnight stays with you, long after its passing and choosing to linger on your lips.

Standing on the roof of the building, it baffles you how much as changed in a year. The location of this roof, and of this restaurant, is different, down and across town to provide you different scenery and different sounds, but they reach you just the same. Life below you continues, hurried and rushing, the sound of people passing and people laughing reminding you that there is movement. Everyone and everything is constantly propelled forward, cacophonous and sometimes unwilling, no single moment appearing as the one the came before.

And so you wonder why you are stuck, unchanged and often immobile.

Jimin's kiss stays on your lips, an echo of goodbye and hello that morphs into a single, pleasing moment that did not set your soul alight. It's the first time you have kissed someone in years, the first time you have let yourself do such a thing, even though it was not with the person you wanted most. He held you, close and comforting against his chest, and kissed you as though he wanted you to remember him. Truthfully, you know he was helping - hoping that Jin saw and hoping that Jin hurt - but still, you feel as though you have hurt everyone, including yourself.

Hugging your jacket tighter around your body, you hum, glancing back down to your drink as you swirl it in the glass. You've gained a friend but still you feel alone, impossible alone, and imagine a life without Jin at all. You could change companies, could even switch departments to change floors, but you know that you would never. You'd never change so much of yourself just to get over a man - especially someone who would not do these things for you.

A breeze moves over your face, not quite the wintery gust you would expect so late in the season, but enough to make your bones feel numb, much the same way as your heart.

'He's a bad kisser.'

Jin's rich, smooth tenor cuts through the peace your have made for yourself, startling you and making you jump.

'Jesus, Jin,' you curse, turning to face him.

Hands slung casually in his pockets, he stands straight and tall, though not altogether confident. The tell-tale droop in his shoulders gives away his worry, eyes moving over you in hurried motions to read you, to see you, to touch without touching. Worry has painted a line into the corner of his mouth, and, in dim light of the city's natural glow, the muscles in his cheek twitch from the tension in his jaw.

'You scared me,' you continue, somewhat distracted by the way the wind moves through his hair.

'That kiss scared me.' Coming to stand beside you, he leans over the railing and watches the cars pass below.

Your blood boils, a flush spreading along your chest and neck. Anger rushes to your tongue and fingertips, body suddenly taught with frustration. 'Come off it, Jin,' you huff. 'You don't get to say shit like that. Not now.'

'I'm being serious.' Turning to face you, you're taken aback by the serious expression that paints his features. His gaze penetrates you, breath catching in your chest from the force. He does not falter, not for a moment. 'He doesn't know how to hold you.'

Swallowing thickly, you turn away, watching the street below once more and giving yourself room to breathe. 'Give him a break, it's still early days.'

'He doesn't hold you right.' Jin says it again, words sharp and pointed this time. Even without looking at him, you can feel the way he stares at your profile, the heat from his gaze making your ears burn. 'He slanted put his mouth on yours like he was learning how to drown - he didn't even realize how lucky he was.'

'Okay,' you snap, turning to face him and not bothering to let yourself wither for him. 'At least he kissed me.'

Jin scoffs. 'That's unfair.'

'You dismissed everything we had going for us, Jin.' Placing your drink on the brick below the railing, you turn to face him, suddenly feeling volatile. 'You didn't even try to defend it.'

'I called after you!' he exclaims, not backing down. 'I admit it was a shitty joke, but I was scared.'

'Bullshit,' you bark, not buying into his excuses. 'That is such a shitty, stupid reason, and you know it.'

You hold one another's stares for several moments, words living and dying on your tongue for you have too many to offer. They are all the words you've planned and all the words you could not expect, burning to ash in your mouth to make room for the ones that carry the most spite.

'Besides, Jimin isn't afraid. He's not a afraid to fuck up kissing me, cause at least he knows he's trying and he can learn.'

Jin falls quiet, running a hand through his hair and tugging it back as he closes his eyes. He's beautiful, so impossibly beautiful, and you hate that even now, even at this moment, you fall all over again.

'I know I fucked up,' he admits, quiet and soft, and suddenly reforming into the man you remembered him being.

'Do you?' you press, urging to hear him say it.

When Jin looks at you, hurt swims in his eyes. A pout pushes out his bottom lip, slightly and just enough for you to notice the change. 'You think I don't think about it?'

'I don't really know what you think,' you shrug, voice softening against your will. 'You don't speak to me very much.'

'Because it hurts.'

Rolling your eyes, you scowl. 'What are you, three years old? It's going to hurt sometimes, but you still try.'

'Speech goes two ways, Y/N.' Jin steps closer, leaning forward with indignation taking shape in his posture. 'You didn't try talking to me either.'

Cross your arms, you regard him with what you hope is an austere expression, not wanting to give up on what you deserve. 'You never said you were sorry.'

Mirroring your posture, Jin studies you, confused. 'I thought it was obvious I was.'

'Yes, your silence was terribly explicit,' you quip, sarcasm dripping from your words. 'How could I have not noticed.

'You know,' he begins, bewildered and laughing at nothing at all, 'for someone whose eyes follow me everywhere you're pretty oblivious.'

'Sorry?'

'Every day after,' he begins, stepping closer and making the air between you suddenly tight and warm, 'I waited near your desk to talk but you never looked at me. You kept giving me the cold shoulder. So I waited at our lunch table to talk, but you moved seats without even telling me. And when I sat at the table with you, you spoke to Sabine the entire time and wouldn't engage.'

Jin leans forward, eyes darting to your lips briefly before returning to yours. He swallows hard, and you find yourself distracted by the way his adam's apple moves, by the tendons in his neck, by the smell of his cologne. You want him, you know, you will always want him, even if he makes you so furious you often cannot speak.

'And then I kept booking meeting rooms near your office because I want to be near you,; continues, voice low and rich. 'I always want to be near you.'

In the aftermath of his words, you watch the way he breathes. He breathes and he sighs and, perhaps, he yearns, just as much as you.

Shaking your head to pull yourself back, you groan. 'This is so stupid. Is that supposed to make me feel better?'

'I don't know what it's meant to do, but it's the truth.'

'People fix things by talking, Jin,' you explain, hands flailing. 'You could have been explicit or made this conversation happen.' Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back and moan. 'God, this is so frustrating.'

It happens so quickly you can barely comprehend it.

Jin cups your face between his hands, his palms warm and comforting even in the January cold, and your eyes snap open at the contact. Easing your face down, he peers into you as though he were reading your very soul. You feel him there, a phantom inside your heart and your chest, making rooms inside your body in which he will live. He will live there and he will die, because you want him to. You want him to be yours so badly, you think your blood as re-coded itself, changed DNA and shape to match his - to invite him to you.

'Can you just tell me if you feel the same?' he whispers, urgent and desperate. 'If the feelings are still there?'

'Of course they are.' You wonder if this is how soulmates feel, if this is how great loves claims a person - with fury and with rage, all burning down into something magnificent.

'Then what the fuck are we doing?'

'I...' you begin, unsure what he's even saying. 'What?'

'Let me show you how you're supposed to be kissed.'

Pressing his lips to yours makes you both suddenly crumble. It's an onslaught of emotion - of fear, of delight, and of change. Instantly, you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers teasing the hair that you find. He sucks at your bottom lip, but does not tease your mouth apart with his tongue. There is reverence in the way he kisses you, slow and passionate, turning you blood into liquid gold. Sighing against his lips, you find your breath comes in a small whine of pleasure, and it makes his chest rumble with a laugh.

Against your mouth, he is exquisite, likely crafted to be your match.

Between your hands, he is marble, a statue that has formed from your wanting and your craving, and he holds you as though you are the most important thing his fingers have ever touched.

And around you, the music of the city chimes, alerting to all those who might not have heard, that you are his.

You are his and he is yours, and never would you let him go again.

#jin x reader #kwriterskollection #kpopwonderlandtag #noonanet #jin fluff #jin fanfic #jin au #jin fanfiction #jin scenario #bts au #bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts scenario #bts fanfiction #kim seokjin

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callumturncr · 6 years

Text

A Different Path [Sirius Black AU] - Part 5

Summary: Post-graduation AU in which the reader, Lily and The Marauders have just joined the Order of the Phoenix. As tensions are at its highest in the First Wizarding War, the reader, who likes Sirius Black more than she would like to admit, is framed for the murder of Marlene McKinnon.

Parts: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8

Author’s Note: I know I said I was going to update in the weekend but I managed to get this part done early so here it is!! Updates hereafter will be on Sundays though. Hope you enjoy and once again, please feel free to message me if you want to be added to the taglist :)

Warning: Brief mention of a torture scene, through means of the Cruciatus curse.

Gif is not mine. Words: 3k

Just as Moody had promised, Y/N’s trial took place two months later.

She stood outside Courtroom 10, accompanied by two Dementors on each side. Their festering hands were wrapped tightly around her and she felt subdued by the icy cold radiating from them.

As they lead her into the chamber, she took in her hazy surroundings. The full court was present, rows upon rows of tiered benches seating various witches and wizards. In their plum coloured robes, the Wizengamot straightened up once she entered, their mouths set in a thin line and looking as if they had tasted something sour. Barty Crouch wore the same expression. Y/N was taken aback by his appearance for it looked as if he had been the one sent to Azkaban – he was incredibly gaunt and his skin looked stretched thin over his skull. Only Moody, who was seated next to him, seemed eager to start the trial.

There was a single chair in the centre of the room which her Dementors all but shoved her into. They drifted back out and the heat slowly returned to her, but once she looked down, Y/N realized it was from the burning sensation of the chains on her seat. Like gold veins, they wound up her arms, glowing brilliantly and rooted her to the spot. She looked back up to the court expectantly.

“Y/N Y/L/N, you have been brought from Azkaban on the insistence of Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody, for your trial,” Crouch announced. She had the feeling that perhaps this was all for show. “Should any new evidence come to light regarding the murder of Marlene McKinnon, the council may be prepared to order your release.”

It was his turn to look at her impatiently. Moody caught her eye and gave her the subtlest of nods. For the first time, they would listen to her.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N opened her mouth to speak.

Sirius Black never thought he would find himself back at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was exactly the same as he had left it three years ago; Hagrid’s cabin was nestled at the edge of the Forbidden Forest with smoke pouring out the chimney and the Black Lake stood still in the centre of the grounds, foreboding as ever. The Hogwarts castle stood tall against the bright blue sky and the chatter of the students echoed all around him.

He carried a large box in his arms; Dumbledore had asked him to bring over some documents from the Ministry, claiming it was critically important he went through them today but Sirius was pretty sure Dumbledore had asked him to bring them specifically so he wouldn’t be moping around. Lost in his thoughts, Sirius almost barreled into a tiny First Year student coming down the stairs at full speed. He flushed as a bunch of girls giggled nearby, quickening his gait.

“Sirius, come in.” He heard Dumbledore before he’d even stepped inside the office properly.

“Couldn’t this wait Professor?” he asked, exaggerating a sigh. The Headmaster however, seemed solemn. It was unnerving – Dumbledore was usually cheerful, even in times of peril.

“I take it you have figured out there must be another reason why I called you here?” he spoke, walking further into his office and gesturing Sirius to follow.

“Yes,” answered Sirius. “I thought it was just because you wanted me to do some work. I know I’ve been absent lately.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Not entirely. You see, there is actually nothing special in that box. I only charmed it to be heavy, mimicking the weight of books.”

Fighting the urge to huff, Sirius opened his mouth.

“Sir, I–”

“You’re a bright boy Sirius. Had your thoughts been less preoccupied, you might’ve picked up on my trick.” He stopped in front of a bowl-like structure that was carved from stone. Runes decorated the exterior and the inside was filled with a silvery substance that looked like neither gas nor liquid.

“Why go to that length?”

“I did not think you would come if I told you the real reason.”

Sirius glanced sidelong at Dumbledore. He wanted to believe that his previous Headmaster was only speaking in his ordinary riddles but the serious look was back on his face as he motioned Sirius to step forward.

“What is that?” he asked instead.

“A Pensieve. One uses it to review memories. I thought you might like to see something,” Dumbledore replied. He wanted to protest but the Headmaster had already leaned forward and placed his face into the shallow stone. Having no choice, Sirius mimicked the actions.

Feeling as though he’d been sucked inside the bowl and through the narrow column it was perched on, Sirius reached out to grab onto something as he fell. But what he was falling towards – he had no idea; the blinding white substance surrounded him on all sides and Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, as if he hadn’t been falling at all, he found himself standing in what looked like a bar. The floor was made of polished, dark wood and the tables were empty, though he could hear voices upstairs.

At the far end, a soft snap caught his attention. Two figures had Apparated into the lounge and one broke away to the left. Stepping closer, Sirius realized with a jolt that it was Y/N and Marlene. Dumbledore’s arm stopped him before he could move and with a burning shame, Sirius found he did not know which one of them he wanted to run to more.

“They can’t see you. We’re in a memory.”

“I don’t want to see this,” he seethed. “How could you possibly think I wanted to see this?”

“Because you need to know the truth.” Dumbledore replied firmly, blue eyes piercing over his half-moon spectacles. “It’s the least you owe them. Both of them.”

Sirius said nothing more. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange had appeared in the time his attention had been focused on Dumbledore and were engaging Marlene in a fierce duel. The former’s wife, Bellatrix, had popped up right next to Sirius and was taunting Y/N.

He saw the fear play out across her features as she let Bellatrix talk away, eyes darting to the window every few seconds. Y/N was no doubt remembering what he had told her about his cousin. She sized up her up and Sirius could practically see the gears turning in her brain, as if her thoughts were displayed in speech bubbles. And then Bellatrix said something that caught both their attention.

“The amount of time I spent listening to my wretched cousin pine for you,” she complained in the memory.

It was barely noticeable but he saw Y/N freeze up for just a moment, staring at Bellatrix with wide eyes and Sirius wished Dumbledore wouldn’t see the flush that had crept up his neck. He didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed that she’d found out about his feelings at a time like this or angry that she’d still betrayed him knowing. He shook his head to expel the thought just as Marlene threw a spell their way, interrupting the conversation. Y/N broke into a run for the window, seemingly unaffected by the words. Sirius tried to ignore the lurch in his chest – of course she hadn’t cared.

The battle that ensued after the flares had been set off was nothing like Sirius had ever seen. Y/N and Marlene were fighting the Death Eaters with furious concentration, somehow slipping out of the way of every deadly green beam arcing across the air. They kept helping each other too, shouting for the other to watch out. This particular detail made Sirius incredibly angry – Y/N had kept up her act and fooled Marlene until the end. He wasn’t sure if he could bear to see the look on her face once she found out Y/N had deceived them all.

Dumbledore, who had remained silent throughout the battle, suddenly spoke up. “Any minute now.”

Before Sirius could question what he meant, the lights overhead died out. A shiver ran through him; he was reminded of the last time he’d seen Y/N and how the lights had faded in the kitchen once the Dementors had come. Though they were not after him, Sirius had never felt fear like that in his whole life. Not when he had run from home, not even when he remembered his mother.

That same fear clawed at his throat now as Peter stepped out from behind the shadows.

But the Death Eaters did not attack Wormtail.

No, Wormtail walked right between where Y/N and Marlene were being held, his gait confident as if nothing was amiss. Sirius had never, not once in his entire time at Hogwarts, seen Peter like this.

“Peter said he was upstairs the whole time…” he began. “He said he was upstairs fighting other Death Eaters.”

“It seems we have all been played for fools, Sirius.” Dumbledore’s voice was sombre.

“There– there must be some mistake,” Sirius whispered back because there was no way this was happening. There had to be an explanation. “Have they used Imperio on him?”

Dumbledore only looked at him. It was as if his heart had stopped beating entirely, as if the blood running in his veins had been replaced by lead. A slow sense of dread crept up inside him and Sirius found he could not breathe. If this was true… he couldn’t even begin to fathom what he’d done by calling Crouch that day Y/N had come to Godric’s Hollow.

A scream tore out of his mouth as Y/N dropped to the floor, consumed by the Cruciatus curse.

It was such a terrible sight that Sirius wanted to look away but his eyes refused. They remained rooted to her thrashing form, gathering tears. His knees buckled underneath him and he scrambled in his haste to get to her but Dumbledore had grabbed him again, his grip incredibly firm. Bellatrix and Rodolphus flourished their wands in glee but Sirius was shouting, shouting along with Marlene. He heard her beg Peter, beg to make them stop and it seemed an eternity before Y/N was finally released. She lay there gasping for breath.

The Death Eaters had started talking in the memory again but Sirius could hardly hear. His ears were still ringing with screams; Y/N’s echoing the loudest.

But apparently, Wormtail had one more blow to deal.

Sirius could do nothing but watch, helpless, as Peter’s carelessly aimed ‘Avada Kedavra’ struck Marlene. From where he was, he could see it had only just missed Y/N, who had run to push her out of the way. Y/N, who promised to bring Marlene back, had been prepared to die in her place. Y/N, who had begged him to listen. Y/N, who he had helped throw into Azkaban.

It was as if the floor had fallen away beneath him.

His expression must’ve have mirrored hers as he watched her shake Marlene by the shoulder, crestfallen. Wormtail had resumed his Animagus form and was scampering away like the rat he was, leaving only Y/N and the Minister’s son, who performed the Forgetfulness charm on Dorcas and Dedalus before disappearing too. Sirius, somehow finding the strength to crawl over to both girls, had barely even reached out to touch Marlene when he felt himself being yanked upwards, the misty white of the Pensieve surrounding him once more.

“No!” Sirius choked out, grasping at the air to get back to them. “No, take me back. I want to stay with them, take me b–”

They had returned to Dumbledore’s office. A startled Fawkes let out a screech at their arrival, eyeing both men beadily. The Headmaster let Sirius calm down, hands clasped firmly on his shoulders.

“How do you have that?” he asked, struggling to get his sentence out. “When did you see her? It’s her memory isn’t it? Y/N’s.”

“Calm down Sirius,” Dumbledore helped him off the floor and ushered him into a seat. Handing him some water, Dumbledore perched on the edge of his desk. He did not answer the question however.

“Do you see now? Do you see why I have urged you to not make Pettigrew the Secret Keeper?”

“Pettigrew,” Sirius spat, draining the goblet in one go. He remembered how Peter had left hurriedly last week, claiming he had to go see family. “Where is he? Scampered back to his vile friends?”

Just thinking of Peter made Sirius seethe with fury. Shy little Peter, always hanging in the shadow of him and James, had outmaneuvered them all. And he had won; Sirius had let him. He felt sick as he remembered the look on Y/N’s face when he’d defended him, claiming Peter would never betray a brother. How blind he had been.

Sirius felt disgusted with himself.

“I presume so. But that’s good for us; he can’t interfere in the plans regarding the Potters.”

Shifting the conversation back, Sirius enquired Dumbledore again. “How do you have her memory?”

Dumbledore was wearing the same solemn expression as before. “Alastor and I visited Azkaban two months ago.”

“Two months?!” Sirius was very nearly shouting. “It’s… it’s October now, why have you kept her in there if you knew?”

“We haven’t,” he replied calmly. “The… arrangements for her trial have not been easy to make.”

“Trial?”

“It was today. Should be finished by now actually.”

Sirius felt as though the air had left him again. If he had been at the Ministry today, he might’ve seen her. Dumbledore continued, confirming his thoughts.

“I asked you here because I didn’t know how you would react if you came face to face with Y/N,” he said softly. “And also because you needed to see tha–”

The door to Dumbledore’s office almost flew off its hinges as Alastor Moody entered.

“Albus!” he bellowed.

“Alastor, what’s happened?” Dumbledore had gone hurrying to meet him.

Moody was panting like he’d run through the castle grounds and up the stairs but a hint of a smile broke out on his face, making it look more lopsided than usual.

“Trial finished around twenty minutes ago,” he said. “I Apparated to Hogsmeade then tried to come here as quickly as I could once it was done.” He sat down next to Sirius, taking a swig from his hip-flask. “They’re going to let her go.”

“She’s free?” Moody’s fake eye circled in its socket to look at Sirius.

“You’ve shown him have you?”

Dumbledore nodded.

“Right,” Moody acknowledged. “Well, she’s not free just yet. Crouch sent her back to Azkaban while the Ministry works to find Wormtail.”

“What?” Sirius gasped before Moody had fully finished. “Was it not clear that Peter was the one who fired the curse?”

“It’s the Ministry, Black. They’ll have a hard time trying to save themselves the shame of convicting the wrong person,” Moody said. “They also want to look into the fact that the curse was fired from her wand–”

“But Peter was using it!” Sirius couldn’t help interject.

“You trying to tell me boy?” he growled back. “Crouch used both Legilimens and the most powerful Veritaserum on her today. And that still wasn’t enough for the Wizengamot.”

“When are they letting her out then?” Dumbledore questioned. Moody took another sip out of his hip-flask.

“After the threat to the Potters passes,” he answered. “Which is what we’re meant to be focusing on,” Moody added, gazing at Sirius sternly.

“Frank and Alice too,” sighed Dumbledore.

“That’s bloody messed up,” Sirius exclaimed. “We know all this because of her and she gets sent back to Azkaban for helping!”

“And who was it that got her sent there in the first place?”

Moody had evidently, had enough. His electric blue eye was trained directly at the younger boy, as if looking right through him. Sirius stopped in his tracks and stared, unable to form a response. His fists clenched, his nails digging into his palm but his anger wasn’t directed at Moody. The rage curling inside Sirius was all for himself.

“Alastor!” Dumbledore’s voice was low, but the warning echoed it in all the same. “Sirius, why don’t you go back? Tell James, Lily and Remus what you’ve seen?”

Sirius wanted to stay to argue but he knew Dumbledore and Moody had done everything in their power. It was all up to the Ministry now. He got up, thanking the former and muttering an apology to the latter. Reaching for the door handle, he hesitated.

“How did she look?”

Moody’s expression softened but only very slightly. “Like hell. But it’s a goddamn miracle she didn’t turn into how they usually do when left with the Dementors,” he answered honestly. “Surprised me as well. After all, she was only 19 when convicted.”

It was painful to hear. Sirius gave Moody a nod and turned to go but his voice filled the office again.

“Black?”

“Yes?”

“You should know… Y/N didn’t give up the memory for the trial, so it could be used as evidence,” he said in a grave voice. “She gave it once she heard the prophecy about Lily’s son, to save him and all of you. She didn’t even know about the trial until I was about to leave.”

The heavy feeling settled itself once more onto Sirius’ chest. All of a sudden, Dumbledore’s magnificent office was too small and he couldn’t breathe. Y/N, who had been ready to give her life for Marlene had saved them yet again, with absolutely no reason to. Not after they’d turned their backs and left her to rot.

Sirius wondered if he would ever stop owing her.

“Thank you Sir,” he said in a thick voice before pushing open the great oak doors and walking out.

He tore through the grounds, past the Great Hall and the Entrance Hall, past the Black Lake with the Giant Squid and past the students milling about until he had reached Hogsmeade. There, he squeezed his eyes shut and thought of Godric’s Hollow with its quaint little church and brown-roofed houses. He opened them again to find himself standing in the very place he’d imagined.

Sirius made for the Potter house, almost running now. He was out of breath by the time James opened the door. James’ smile vanished as soon as he saw the state Sirius was in. Lily stood a little further back, her expression also one of concern.

“Sirius, what–”

“James,” he barely got out. “James, we’ve made a terrible mistake.”

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yuki7900archive · 6 years

Text

Random Drabble: Broken

This oneshot is a little different to my other ones. This is more of a vent than anything. I’ve been wanting to write this for ages, because I think getting feelings out is important, but trying to explain all this I find really difficult. Even when I read over this it feels like it isn’t right. But I can think of any other way to explain.

- - -

Jay wasn't sure what was wrong with him, but he knew he was broken. There was nothing more infuriating to him, as a fixer and inventor, than not knowing where the problem was and how to mend it. It annoyed him more when people said he was fine, because he knew he wasn't fine. He just knew that something was wrong with him. The issue however, was trying to explain it.

His mind was just a pool of bad memories, conflicted thinking, worrying, fearing, screaming. It made sense in his head, whilst simultaneously it didn't. He understood, or at least he thought he understood, but trying to use words to write it out or speak just never worked. Even though he used the words in his head and repeated them a thousand times over, aloud or on paper they didn't seem correct. That's what he was dealing with, a broken mind that was determined to stay broken.

He'd woke up in the morning, feeling groggy and tired (which was rather ironic when he thought about it, elemental master of Lightning and all). Edna came and told him to get up for school. He didn't want to, but he had to. If he had the choice he'd stay cocooned in his blankets all day, hidden from everybody. Unfortunately life didn't work like that, and going to school was the law, which was a giant shame.

He'd dragged himself out of his bed reluctantly, groaning and slumping to the bathroom to clean himself up and look at least a little presentable. He'd stood at the sink, washing his hands and face and getting off any dirt marks from oil or dust that could easily get smudged on his skin due to the environment he lived in. As he did that he'd checked the mirror and stared at his reflection for a good few minutes in dismay. He'd looked at his freckles, his mess of brown curls, his illuminative blue eyes, the shape of his lips, his rounded face, his eyebrows. He examined every part of him and it lead to the same conclusion of self-loathing. Why did he look so ugly? Why did every other human on the planet look normal and yet he didn't? It's like they all looked like a human, and he did too but a different human. A human that wasn't human. Humans in general as a concept was weird anyway, I mean really think about it for a second. Think about the Earth forming and God looking down at the tiny mass of rock and water and going "Hey, ya know what this needs? A soft, curvy, spongey little human." And then BAM. Now we're here. Why did all the others look normal and like they should, and yet he was cursed not to be?

With a sigh, he'd left the bathroom and dressed himself ready for school. He threw on something comfortable and also something a little big on him so people couldn't make out his slightly chubby body shape. He'd covered up as much as possible because who wanted to see his grotesque features that we'd already discussed in the bathroom? He'd worn a white, long-sleeved shirt and then covered that up with his large, bold blue cardigan with the orange lightning bolt in the centre. He'd matched it with a thick, orange scarf, one his Ma had gotten him years ago during one particular winter season where it had been colder than usual. He'd put on a pair of beige trousers so the material didn't cling fully to his legs and also didn't stand out with the rest of his outfit. He had to have a bland colour thrown in or else he'd draw too much attention. Not that his outfit wasn't already doing that with the scarf and cardigan.

Next was breakfast, which some mornings he felt sick eating. This morning was sadly one of those times. He was starving but everything he ate just tasted sickly and off. He'd forced it down anyway because he knew he'd feel better when he did, he just had to go slow and not rush or he feared he might throw up everywhere. Plus his parents would nag about to him about having balanced meals, and he didn't want his parents worrying. They did enough for him as it was. They adopted him and raised him when his own parents wouldn't. He should be grateful for that.

The moment breakfast was over he'd collected his bag and made his way to school. He'd walked along the street, panicking every time he went past another person in case they assaulted or attacked him. He walked quickly and tried to block everything out with music on his phone, anything loud. It was mostly N-Pop, being the anime fan he was. That made him weird apparently, so he stopped telling people he liked it. One less reason for people to hate him. He strolled along and kept a neutral face to hide the fear he truly felt inside. With each person he passed he would hold his breath. He didn't know why. He just subconsciously held his breath. It was a pain when he had such a far way to walk to school, it made it ten times more difficult as he would tire himself out so easily. Then he didn't start breathing again until that person was far away from him. He'd had to take his headphone out in order to breathe though. Because what if he breathed too loud? Then he'd look stupid. He'd also have to tap his fingers in time with the music, he just had to. He felt weird not doing it, even when he got weird looks off people. In his mind he seemed less weird for doing that than doing nothing.

This kept up the entire journey, even upon arrival at school. The moment he turned that corner and saw the front of the school, all the kids stood there and talking away as they waited for first period, his stomach filled with an usual feeling. This feeling he couldn't describe, but he had gotten so used to it everyday he didn't even have to think what he was thinking because he already knew too well what he was thinking (I know, confusing). All because of that unease in his body. He figured this feeling was what judgement was. He walked up the path to the front door, sneaking his hand up his cardigan sleeve and scratching his skin viciously as a replacement for biting his nails. Everybody stared at him, even when they weren't. He knew they were watching him, all of them. They may not have been staring right at him but he knew they were. He could feel their eyes on him. And when he went past them, his head kept down at the ground, he heard laughter from a group of girls nearby. They were talking about something else, nothing to do with him, but they were definitely laughing at him. He knew they were laughing at him. Why were they though? Could they see his ugly body? Was his face so disgusting that it was funny? Or maybe his entire existence was just a joke in itself.

Jay felt a tap on his shoulder, prompting him to take his headphones out after his entire body screamed to run away. What if this person was a murderer? A kidnapper? What then? He'd played right into their hands. Then they'd kill him and bury his body somewhere nobody would ever find him and so no one would ever know what happened to him and he could never tell anyone because he'd be dead.

Thankfully though it wasn't either of those things.

"Hey," Cole smiled at him. Jay relaxed a little. It was just his best friend. "You okay?"

"Yeah." No.

"Good to hear. You ready for first period?"

"Yeah." No he wasn't. He never was. A classroom filled with other teens, all shouting and being annoying? Not his cup of tea. Too much noise and his brain felt like imploding, and when that happened he would have a meltdown and would start crying in the middle of class, then they'd call him a crybaby and tell him to grow up, even though he couldn't help it. He couldn't help it when noise was too much and he had constant noise in his head. He didn't need triple the amount he already had because people couldn't just shut up and get on with learning—

"Same, I've got my playlist ready." Cole grinned cheekily, making Jay laugh a little. He wished he could be like Cole. He wished he could listen to music all day and pretend that nobody else exists. But he doesn't learn that way, and if he didn't pay attention then his grades would slip. Not that his grades were more than average anyway. He was only just passing three quarters his subjects, acing only three of them and struggling to get through the rest. Damn Cole for being naturally smart. He was envious. But he shouldn't be. He felt awful. Cole was his best friend yet something about him just made the brunette feel so angry. His attitude? The fact he didn't care? The fact that he was actually liked. Unlike him.

The conversation between them carried on the rest of the morning as they stood by their lockers. Jay's mind was fairly quiet, distracted with what they were discussing up until everyone else arrived. He greeted all of them, they greeted him back. The topic changed to something else, their attention focused on a fascinating fact Zane had found out about how bread is made, followed by Lloyd's bullying issue. They all focused on that, everyone chatting and having their own input on the matter. Except Jay. Jay just stood there, saying nothing and listening instead. His friends all had something to say, they all talked and made their points but not the brunette. He had thoughts on it, but what did it matter? His opinion had already been said and repeated. Besides, did anyone really want to hear what he had to say? Probably not. They'd think he was dumb. Even though, like I said before, the opinion he had was similar to others in the group, that wouldn't stop them from thinking he was stupid. Or just a copy cat that couldn't form his own opinions. One of the two. He could see the look in their eyes whenever he spoke, the disinterest and uncaring. They'd gloss over whatever he had to say before someone more interesting than him said something more intelligent and he'd be forgotten about. Their eyes would light up again and the conversation would resume without him. So again, what was the point in telling them what he thought?

The bell rang for class, making Jay sigh to himself before him and his friends made their way through the corridors. Students stared at them all. More of the staring, the constant staring as they mocked and sneered and judged. And all the boy could do was be consumed with the voice in his head asking questions he didn't have the answer to. Why were they watching him? Why did they hate him? What did he do? What was so bad about him? Could they read his mind right now? Maybe they could. Maybe they were laughing at how unbelievably pathetic he was.

They all got to class and sat down in their seats, bringing out their textbooks as the teacher walked in and shushed them all. She began teaching her subject to the class, lecturing and writing notes on the board for students to copy up ready to revise for a test later that week. Jay scribbled down his notes in his book, his right leg bouncing up and down rapidly without him even realising for a good few minutes. When he did he halted immediately, cursing at himself. He began to write again, but he totally lost his rhythm from before. When he did gain it back, his leg started bouncing again. Eventually he gave up on trying to keep his leg still, accepting that his body was never going to cooperate with him, and just wrote down what he needed to as it was way more important.

Halfway through the lesson the teacher began asking questions, and his heart sank. He hoped, he begged for him to be ignored. He averted his gaze and kept his pupils locked onto the writing in his book. She called upon certain people and they gave the answer. Right or wrong, they didn't care much, nobody did. Not until—

"Jay?" He was asked a question. He thought he knew the answer, but what if it was incorrect? What if it wasn't even close to the correct answer and everyone knew this? They'd all laugh at him for being so stupid. They'd whisper and make fun of him, tell all their friends who weren't in their class who in turn would tell their other friends and so on until the whole school knew that he was an idiot. "What do you think it is?"

Say it. He told himself to say it. It didn't matter if it was wrong. But it did. It really did. Even when it didn't, it did. But he had to give some sort of answer, so he needed to say it. But, what was his answer again? What was it? He had it in his mind and now it was gone. He had to say something, anything that came to mind, anything at all. His brain was in a frozen stand still and he couldn't say anything. He forced himself to speak but nothing, no matter how hard he tried, came out.

He spent five seconds opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, followed by slowly sinking into his chair and hiding half his face in his scarf as he blushed furiously, small squeaks escaping his mouth. Some people in front turned to look at him, that same old expression he knew too well. You guessed it, judgement. He could feel other students behind him burning holes into his head, laughing to themselves at the shrivelling wimp before them. He was totally pathetic and he knew it.

"Alright, anyone else know the answer?" The teacher left him alone, having sighed a little. The students turned back around and began focusing again, but Jay was totally lost in his own mind. He stayed curled up in his seat, burying his head in his left arm and scribbling on his paper with his right. He went to the very back of his book and doodled, drawing a whole manner of things to help take his mind off the embarrassment he felt. He started in the top left corner and drew a planet surrounded by a dozen baby stars. From there he drew outward. He doodled random hands, an extra detailed anime style eye, even wrote some words and favourite song lyrics in a variety of typefaces ranging from block to cursive. His favourite drawing on that page, the one he'd put the most effort and time into, was the one of Nya. It was a quick sketch but he was proud of it, as he was with every drawing he did of her.

When the time came for class to end, Jay never left first. He packed his things slowly, allowing everyone else to clear out before even thinking of leaving himself. His friends would be waiting outside for him anyway. Today was no exception either. He left and all five of them stood there, looking at him sympathetically. Kai gently rubbed his arm and hugged him whilst Cole ruffled his hair.

"You okay bro?" The brunette asked him.

"Y-Yeah. I'm fine." He wasn't.

"Don't worry about them." His best friend nudged him gently. That was easier said than done, Jay had thought bitterly. "We know you're smart."

The rest of the day played out exactly the same. The same looks, the same uneasiness. However there was a brief moment of joy for the small brunette. He had been in Science, one of his best classes. He was seated next to Nya as she was his lab partner. It was one of the few classes he enjoyed (that and Art class). That lesson was different to the one earlier that day. He was called upon to answer another question, but this time he was certain his answer was at least 60% correct, so this time his nerves were not as evident. He stuttered as he spoke, and was a little on the quiet side, but his teacher had nodded with a smile when he'd got the right answer, and Jay felt overwhelmed with joy. He grinned at his teacher before turning to look at Nya, who gave him a thumbs up. She knew the reason for his happiness wasn't just getting it right, but also being able to answer and not freeze up like usual. He felt so happy and gleeful at his achievement.

For two seconds. Then he heard students snickering behind him, and saw other peers looking at him and rolling their eyes. That's when it all came flooding back again. And suddenly he didn't feel so good anymore. What kind of loser gets excited over answering a question correctly? Him, it seemed. The boy hid his face again and got to scribbling. He just wanted to go home.

When school finally had ended for the day, his friends had taken him along to the sushi bar to get food. He didn't really want to go out, he wanted to get back to his house and just eat there, but they were his friends and he felt bad saying no. So even though he was drained of any energy to be sociable, he spent another hour with his mates. He didn't make conversation, just let everyone chat amongst themselves and pretend he wasn't even there. Or at least he stopped trying to talk when they ignored him three times he'd tried to speak. Perhaps he was being too quiet and they couldn't hear him, or maybe they just didn't care what he thought. Whatever. He was just there to be there he supposed. Did any of them really want him there? When he just sat fiddling with his scarf and not joining in with them and taking an interest in whatever they were chatting about? Maybe it was a waste of time to even bother hanging out with them. They probably invited him out because they pitied him staying inside all the time. He could be at home doing homework, or painting with his mom, or helping his dad with mending. Instead he was sat here with his friends, all of them too engrossed to pay him any attention. But that wasn't fair of him. He was being selfish. He couldn't have all the attention, no matter how much he craved it (and he craved it badly). But he craved the good attention, not the bad, which is why half the time he didn't attempt trying to obtain it as all it lead to was him feeling shitty as everyone silently looked between each other and said nothing. Kind of like what happened in Science when he felt proud and then realised what a sad little worm he was. Why should he be proud of something that small? He really was the worst creature on the planet.

Nya had given him a lift home, knowing his neighbourhood wasn't the safest place in Ninjago. He didn't want her too but she insisted, so he felt bad complaining about it. It wasn't as if she was safe driving him home either. That didn't stop her from parking her bike to talk to him before he went inside.

"You sure you're okay Jay?" She persisted, climbing off her motorbike and walking over to him. He clutched the strap of his messenger bag and squeezed the material in his hands. He really did hate lying like he had been. He couldn't tell her what was wrong though because it was selfish. It was attention seeking. He knew it was. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't okay but he knew that was the part of him talking that just wanted someone to give him the attention he wanted. The attention he wasn't allowed to have.

"Yeah." He nodded and smiled, but she was unconvinced. She hummed and stepped forward again, bringing him in for a hug.

"It's okay to tell me. I won't tell anyone, I promise." She muttered softly, rubbing his back as he flushed. Maybe he should tell her what was bothering him. But how did he explain it? And how much did he explain? Did he explain just the day or every other day too? Sure it would take all night to try and untangle every little thing in the awful mess that was his mind, but at least then maybe he could finally fix himself. Nya was smart, just like him, she'd know what to do. And even if she didn't she'd try. She'd try so hard. She'd look after him.

"Really. I'm fine." He hated himself. So much. She was offering help and it made sense to accept it, why did he turn it down? Why did he pretend every single time that everything was fine and he was fine? Why couldn't he just bring himself to say it?

Nya pulled away with a sigh, a frown on her face. "Promise you'll text if something's bothering you, yeah?"

"Promise." Already broken. Just by saying he would he had already lied yet again. What a shitty person he was.

She gave him a small smile and a ruffle of his hair before taking off back home. She zoomed off and left Jay in the dust, who looked after her with sad eyes before trudging back to his house and heading inside, slamming the front door shut.

His parents weren't home just yet, probably working or doing shopping. Jay didn't mind. He wanted alone time anyway. He let his bag fall from his shoulder and flopped onto his bed with an angry sob, tears spilling from his eyes. Why was this so complicated? He knew what he wanted, at least, he thought he did. He wanted help but at the same time why did he want help? He was smart! He could figure it out himself! Eventually...

As if anyone could understand him anyway. He couldn't even understand. Or he could, but...couldn't? He didn't know.

He groaned and buried his head in his pillow, gripping his hair and tugging in frustration. Why did this have to happen? What went so wrong in life that caused all of his? He was fairly certain other people didn't feel how he felt. Normal people didn't fret over literally everything, they didn't care about every detail, they just got on with it and didn't feel like crying every two minutes. God, what was the point of it all? Why even bother? Maybe this was how it was always going to be. He was going to spend his entire miserable and worthless life being a waste of space.

He hoped tomorrow would be better than what today had been. But it never was. It was always the same. Always broken.

#im nervous tbh about posting this #but i just #i needed to get it out somehow #im sorry #ninjago #lego ninjago #lego ninjago movie #the lego ninjago movie #tlnm #cinemajago #jay walker #movie jay #abbyfanfics

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rei-fletcher · 6 years

Text

WIP Part 2

The instructions said to bring a kerchief for hair and an apron. At the shop she found a wide variety. The colours, patterns, and features were overwhelming. Finally she chose a set that had the cartoon character on it that she had chosen for her application skin. She tied the apron in place and went to find her station.

“It looks like we’re baking buddies.”

Ed appeared. She had a black apron. It should have stood out awkwardly, but instead it looked very professional. It looked cool. Her kerchief had flames on it.

“You got a set, huh? It’s really cute.”

Compliments were sometimes hard to respond to. As she decided she saw Ed’s expression begin to take on a familiar look. A sort of confusion, embarrassment and regret that made every social interaction an awkward agony.

“Thank you.”

Ed’s retreat was halted.

“I like your kerchief.”

She made a face and laughed, adjusting it. “Thank you. The whole idea” — she gestured to the mandatory baking attire — “is so much like a little housewife. At least I can do it my way, right?”

They began measuring. She checked and double checked each amount. It was better to measure twice and cut once. They’d taught her that aphorism to help explain response lags. Ed was watching her a lot. The little swell of anxiety was prone to make her clumsy. She concentrated hard on her work so she didn’t make a mistake.

“What brings you to baking class?”

“My-” She reminded herself that her pregnant friend was a lie meant for the application. Two workstations away the men from the first lesson were messily attempting to mix the wet ingredients.

“I was told it was a good place to meet people.”

“Men, you mean?” She laughed. She felt bit of her anxiety uncoil.

“Maybe that’s what they meant, after all.” She watched Ed stirring the dry ingredients. Her arms looked too strong for the task. “Why did you come?”

“Hm? I promised my sister. I think she thinks it’ll be a gateway class.” She looked up and shrugged. Her expression seemed almost embarrassed. “I didn’t really like school. Only made one semester at university. Even my brother finished, but not me. She’d like me to go back. Do something with my life.”

“What do you do?”

“Intake secretary at the art collective.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Small talk worked the way they said it would. Ed chatted for awhile about her job.

“It’s all right,” she concluded. “But I really always wanted to be one of those people who were passionate about their work. I wanted to find something that spoke to me.”

They poured the batter into the pans. Ed opened the oven door, face lit by the glow of it.

“Whoosh! I think it’s preheated.”

She admired the smooth surface of the batter for a moment, pleased at how evenly they were portioned, before stepping back so Ed could put them in the oven. They washed and scrubbed the workstation according to the notes she’d made.

“You must have done well at school.”

She thought about it carefully. The Centre’s school was different from the ones other people went to. There had been a seminar to explain it.

“I like following rules. So I don’t get into trouble.”

“No smoking in the bathroom for you, then?”

She looked at her, trying to decide if she were joking.

“Did you?”

“Once or twice. It really isn’t healthy, but I wanted to try. Just to see.”

The cakes came out. They were pleasingly golden. Their surfaces were smooth, as the instructor said they should to be.

“I should give it to my sister,” Ed said, then cut into it anyway. “Need to prove that I’m doing my best.”

Her knife was hovering over the perfect surface of her own. It was better to give a whole cake, wasn’t it? Then it could really make an impact. It was a kind thing to do.

She pushed her cake over. “You can give her this one.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t. I was…it isn’t important.”

She felt her cheeks burn. Was it wrong? Strange enough for her to turn away?

“Well, thank you,” Ed said. She seemed embarrassed, so maybe it was her error.

“You’re welcome.”

“Sorry,” Ed said. “I wasn’t expecting such a nice present.”

They shared the other one, and she declined leftovers. She didn’t need more than her piece, and Wyn didn’t eat. And he shouldn’t be back for awhile anyway. It would be spoiled by then.

“Are you coming back next week?”

“Yes. Two times a week, so I can make baked goods.”

Ed’s eyes sparkled. They were brown. Not as glamorous as blue eyes, but somehow kinder. Emma was glad to have brown eyes herself. “You need a picture for your profile, you know.”

“I do?”

“Definitely. Here, I’ll take one for you.”

She stood still for the picture. Ed fiddled with the screen for a moment, then hand the pad back to her. Her own face peered out above her name. She looked surprised, even though she knew the picture was being taken, and worried. She looked too small for the frame. She needed to practice a picture face. One that looked normal.

“Thank you.”

“I like taking pictures of cute things.”

She reached up to touch the cartoon kerchief. It was a good idea to have bought it, then.

The application lit when she returned home.

“How was your lesson?”

“It was nice. Fun,” she added.

“That’s wonderful to hear! Maybe you have a secret passion for baking!”

The voice was full of excess enthusiasm. It was the fun. She needed to use stronger adjectives more often, so it wouldn’t get so excited.

The application went on a bit while she stood in the dark. Her mind drifted to Ed. She pictured a slightly smaller version of her, otherwise unchanged, smoking in a bathroom that looked like public bathrooms. It was probably secret, so she would be alone, she guessed.

Some vices were acceptable. It was normal. That’s why she’d said she was going to the pub. Drinking alcohol in a social situation was an acceptable vice. In other contexts alcohol was deviant. Drinking over a certain amount while alone, for example, could be an indicator of degenerating mental health. Smoking wasn’t healthy — she didn’t want to die — but maybe she should find something like that to do.

“Are you still there? Did you fall asleep?” The application’s voice was full of teasing humour.

“I’m here.”

She was afraid it was going to offer to send Wyn again.

“I should wash my baking things. I might go buy some things tomorrow. To practice.”

The application liked that idea, and bid her goodnight. She went about her work, trying to imagine herself indulging in vice.

It was cookies, the next lesson. The instructor greeted her cheerfully. She went to her workstation and started taking things out. Ed wasn’t there, and she was seized by sudden fear. She must have said something wrong. She was too odd about the cake. She didn’t think it was wrong to offer cake.

“Hello?”

One of the men from the first lesson, who had talked about meeting women, stood at the end of her workstation.

“Hi. I’m Jeff. I don’t think we were introduced.” He paused. “So, my partner isn’t here, and it looks like yours isn’t either. I wondered if you wanted to pair up?”

She did not. She didn’t want to be alone, because it would be odd to be alone when no one else was, but she didn’t want to be his partner. Her understanding of this was absolute, in a way almost nothing else in her life was.

She needed to have an acceptable reason for her refusal.

“I don’t bite. Promise.”

She was saved by Ed’s arrival. She strode through the door, still taking off her leather jacket. She heard her apologise to the instructor, weaving between the tables.

“Sorry I’m late! I think the ASeL were doing one of their stupid protests.” Ed looked at Jeff. “You horning in on my baking buddy?”

He lifted his hands. “I’ll just go over here and play it solo.”

Ed watched him leave. “Yeah, you do that, Jeffery.” She paused. “Oh, fuck. Were you flirting with him? Did you want to buddy up?”

“No. No, I didn’t want to. He came to ask.”

“I know you’re here to meet people.” She rattled around the cupboards.

“That’s what I was told to do.” She saw the flame kerchief sticking out of Ed’s bag and wondered if taking it out would be helpful. Or welcome. Would it be rude?

Ed surfaced with cookie sheets, and ended her internal debate by doing it herself.

“My sister said to say thanks. For the cake. She said it was delicious.”

“We made it together.”

“Yeah, but this was her real thank you, not her sisterly duty thank you.”

The instructor roamed the room, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, sprinkled with witty comments that made the students chuckle.

“I wonder if she’s really that spontaneous, or if it’s a script.”

Emma watched the instructor. Didn’t people usually speak spontaneously? They’d practiced with scripts at the Centre, always with the understanding that success meant working without them. She had passed all of her tests before she left, though her pace was only just within parameters.

They had been told to bring something to carry the cookies in. She had bought a waxed box. Ed had a bag. She watched the delicate cookies break.

“I’m sorry!” Ed laughed.

“Pardon?”

“I can see you wincing. I’m used to tougher cookies.”

“I think they’ll all fit in my box.” She folded it together.

“That’s for yours.”

“I’ve eaten many already. Maybe you can give them to your sister again?”

“We’re going to make her fat.”

We.

“She must look like you, so it would be hard for her to gain too much weight.”

Ed cocked her head, smiling. She hesitated in packing the box. Was it the wrong thing to say? What if her sister were adopted? What if they were for some reason not genetically related? What if it was the sort of genetic quirk that made each sister take on different qualities?

“She’s always dieting. Running on a treadmill, you know.”

There were a few left over. They sat on the steps of the education centre. There was a small light in the sky at the edge of the upper city. The security lights burned overhead. A brisk wind was shaking the trees, it felt damp, as though it were going to rain, but not quite yet. Ed had zipped her coat against it. Whenever she moved it creaked a little. It smelled nice. It seemed like a really old thing. Hundreds of years. Thousands of years. Humans had been wearing it. There were other, better things, now. Even this jacket wasn’t from a real animal. But the sense of it was comforting somehow, as though it were real and old and solid.

“Cookies are good to give to coworkers,” Ed said. “You don’t work with anyone to give them to?”

“I don’t have a job right now.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

She’d been let go. The lady had been nice, and given her a positive letter for her file.

“Just nothing customer-facing, my dear.”

That hadn’t been in the letter, and she hadn’t had the courage to tell the Centre. The application hinted that she might need more lessons. She’d promised to do better at the next interview. Now the application was looking for a new place for her.

“They didn’t like how I talked to customers. They said I should be working on my own.”

“What did you say to customers?”

She thought about it for a moment. She’d tried to pinpoint the event that had triggered the firing, but no matter how many times she replayed her final weeks in her head, she couldn’t think of which thing it was.

“I think I took too long. Or I made them nervous somehow.”

“Huh. Sounds like bullshit.” She shrugged. “Customers are all assholes anyway, you know.”

“But…I’m sometimes a customer.”

“Me too. And we’re all raving assholes, until we go home and bitch about everyone else.” She smiled. The security lights made her glittery eye shadow sparkle like stars. Her makeup was art.

“I bet you’ll find something good soon.”

“I hope so.”

It was the appropriate thing to say. But she didn’t mind, actually, staying home. Or at least she didn’t mind not having to talk to strangers and coworkers. Workplace etiquette was so hard to navigate. It didn’t matter how much she studied it, she was wrong as much as she was right.

“Where do you live?”

“Not far. Only a few stops.” She pointed at the crowded monorail gliding along.

“I can give you a ride.”

“You have a car?”

Ed grinned. “Nope. When I choose a rebellious image, I go all in.”

It was a bike that she had. As they got close she tapped a button on her tablet and it came to life, humming to itself. The tech was alien. They’d given many gifts, and people hated them coming but took the gifts. Now it was old enough that everyone except fanatics like the ASeL used it all the time. An intake secretary probably wasn’t wealthy, but Ed could afford a personal machine.

She gave her a protection field to put on, and climbed onto the bike. She hesitated. Bikes weren’t so dangerous, now. They were mostly used for delivery, and in petty crimes. Would someone think she was a criminal?

“You can trust me.” It was rude to refuse without good cause. It was probably better to accept the ride. She tried to analyse it beyond her own wants, like they were taught at the Centre.

That stopped her. Want. She wanted to do it. She wanted to ride Ed’s bike with her. She clambered on behind her, not very gracefully.

“Hold on to me.” Emma clutched the sides of her jacket. “Tighter.” She squeezed her hands. “Like this.”

Ed guided her arms around her, folding her hands together against her stomach. Then they were flying over the ground, leaves and bits of grass and paper swirling up in their wake. She pressed her cheek against her leather-clad back, feeling it warm.

The street flashed by. Emma squeezed tighter.

Ed went far, far out of the way, careening up and down the hills, finally reaching a wide, empty highway and raced the river that ran along its side. Out there the upper city vanished. The moon emerged from behind it, full and so bright and white that it carved sharp shadows even in the night.

They made a wide circle. The city sparkled like a shining mountain, rising in layer after layer, into the sky. When she turned to look the other way there were stars and wide, empty plains.

For the whole of the ride she was suspended. Everything was out of her hands. So there was nothing to worry about.

She was stiff from holding on when Ed finally took her home. Coming away from her and climbing down off the bike were accomplished with clumsy movements.

“Did you like it?”

Her face hurt. She touched it, and found a broad smile.

“Very much. Thank you. Thank you so very much.” She ordered herself to stop talking. Repeating oneself wasn’t good.

Ed smiled. “Are you sure about the cookies?”

She nodded. “I hope you can enjoy them.”

She was half way to the door when she realised that she hadn’t said goodbye properly, and came back to do it.

The quiet dark of her apartment embraced her. She went to the window, reluctant to let the feeling dissipate. To her surprise Ed was still waiting. When she turned on the light and lifted her hand in a tentative wave Ed waved back, and only then rode away.

The application pinged. She flinched.

“Emma, you’re so late.

#wip #writing #romance #scifi #fiction #short story

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