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theawkwardterrier · 3 years

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Fateful Friends

The surprise part 2 of my Steggy Secret Santa gift for the very cool @sagesiren/@theeleganteuropeanwoman - a Peggy POV modern AU avec Bucky and Angie because they wouldn’t allow me to fit them in last time. A somewhat belated Chanukah gift for you - or I guess a very early one for next year?

Summary: An afternoon of helping out Angie leads Peggy to a chance encounter.

Read on AO3

“Carter,” Angie says, tapping a finger against her wrist even though she isn’t wearing a watch. “I love you, and it’s because I love you that I don’t mind telling you that you’re a big liar. You promised 11:30.”

Peggy sighs but saves the document she had been working on. Angie is right. Peggy had said they would leave at 11:30 and it’s already 12:15.

“We can stop at the bakery on the way,” Peggy offers, swiveling her chair around to reach for her purse and coat. “My treat to make up for delaying us.”

“Perfect,” Angie says brightly. She’s a bit flushed: she had refused to remove her parka since she got here nearly an hour ago as a pointed reminder that Peggy had promised only five more minutes, though she had unzipped it after about a quarter of an hour, and she’s also wearing a beret she keeps adjusting even as she insists that it makes her outfit. Still, she hops to her feet readily, hooking her arm with Peggy’s. “And this won’t be a drag, I swear. Just a girl’s day out, the two of us on the town, cleaning out my dead grandmom’s place.” She considers as they stop in the doorway to let Peggy flip off her office lights. “Okay, maybe we’d better get extra of the lemon pound cake to keep things fun.”

Peggy sighs. “Lead the way.”

There had been a bit of extortion involved in the whole business. Six months ago, Peggy had agreed to allow Angie to start setting her up. But after multiple mediocre dates (and one which ended in a well-deserved black eye for the man in question) she had begged off and refused to be convinced otherwise, even when Angie complained that this would ruin her credibility as a romance columnist and swore over and over that she had actually found the absolute perfect guy this time, the one Peggy would truly regret not meeting.

It isn’t that Peggy doesn’t want a relationship. She isn’t being too picky, and she hasn’t decided that her career should be her focus just now. But planning, the precise thing which has served her well her entire life in so many areas, seems to have failed her now. Online dating, singles mixers, allowing herself to be set up by friends, all the tried and tested strategies - nothing has led her to anyone she would even consider as a lifetime companion, and just this once, she has decided that she will leave things up to chance.

Standing firm on the dating question, however, apparently meant that Peggy was required to join Angie whenever requested and to do whatever favors she required in exchange for reneging on their original agreement.

In the end, though, spending a Saturday with her best friend is always enjoyable, even if they’re sorting the belongings of a recently deceased ninety-eight year old woman who Angie refers to as “the old bat.” They try to one up each other for the oddest item found in their cleaning, and eat their way through altogether too many pastries. As they trade off picking playlists, Angie even provokes Peggy’s competitive spirit enough that they both end up showing off their dance moves.

After eight hours of work, Angie decides that they have done enough for one day, even though they’re nowhere close to finished.

“Sixty years of crap isn’t going to shift itself in one try,” she shrugs cheerfully, searching within one of the scattered “keep” boxes for her other glove. “And I was forced to do all this out of oldest granddaughter sexism. I’ll come back next week and make my cousins help.”

Peggy laughs, retrieving the missing glove from beneath the once-fancy living room settee. The two of them gather the rest of their belongings, making certain the lights are turned out before they weave around the boxes to get to the front door.

On the threshold, Angie digs for the keys to lock up the brownstone, a beautiful Brooklyn property which her family couldn’t have bought with the help of a fairy godmother if they had wanted to try today. Peggy breathes in the sharp cold of the night air, turns to comment on it to her friend, then spins immediately back around as a snowball whizzes past her ear and explodes on the façade of the house just beside her.

A man’s voice from somewhere out on the darkened street shouts, “Bucky, what the—” Cutting himself off before actually verbalizing whatever curse he clearly wants to, the man changes tone, calling, “Peppermint hot chocolate for anyone who hits Bucky in the next five minutes.”

In the next second, the street comes so alive with childish chatter that Peggy can’t believe she didn’t notice the apparent army of little ones nearby. Over their whoops and cries, another man yells, “Not my fault that your shot went out of bounds. I just ducked - self preservation instincts, Rogers, if you’ve ever heard of them.”

Squinting into the dim streetlight, Peggy pinpoints where the second man’s voice is coming from, just as the thickly swaddled shape of him is tackled by several smaller forms and pelted with snow from all sides. Another shadow breaks away from the place on the street where last night’s half foot of snow has turned into haphazard forts on either side of a snowy battlefield, jogging toward where Peggy and Angie still stand on the steps.

“I’m sorry about the snowball attack there,” he apologizes as soon as he’s close enough. “We don’t usually drag strangers into our fights, or at least not before we’ve learned their names.”

Peggy hasn't been in a snowball fight since she was twelve - well, fourteen, if she’s being honest - declaring war on her brother Michael back at their house in Hampstead when they were both home from school for the term holiday. Perhaps she's been a bit infected by the lively afternoon or the stress of the past several weeks is finally catching up to her, but she finds herself turning and saying to a man she has never before met, "My name is Peggy Carter, and I'd be delighted to be recruited if there's room for one more, considering that hostilities have already been accidentally declared."

Apparently he didn’t expect a response like this, a strange woman deciding to take a chance. His eyes widen, but only for a moment before he says, "Well, sure, there's plenty of snow."

Glancing back at Angie, Peggy tells her, "There's no need to wait for me while I indulge myself in a bit of winter warfare, of course. Go off home and put your feet up."

But Angie instead looks delighted in a way that's almost outsized for her best friend taking her recommendation to relax a bit. "Oh, I'd never miss this," she says. "I'll just watch our things and spectate from over here." And she unhooks Peggy's purse from her shoulder and shoos her off toward the battlefield.

"Steve," the man says as they set off up the street together. "I'm Steve. Steve Rogers. By the way."

"Lovely to meet you," she says politely.

She isn't particularly prepared for this sort of activity - her boots are fairly practical for walking from apartment to subway stop to office though clearly are not meant to do much heavier lifting - but she ventures that it can be forgiven considering how spur of the moment the entire thing has been. However, Steve is not, Peggy notices, exactly dressed for the weather either. It’s a bit too cold for a waist length peacoat, thin gloves, and a loosely hanging scarf, and he seems to have half soaked through everything. When they pass under a streetlight, she looks up toward him and observes that his cheeks are flushed red, though it actually suits him quite well, making the blue of his eyes shine.

"Were you pulled into this under similar circumstances?" she asks.

He laughs a little shyly. "No, Bucky—My friend, Bucky - you'll meet him in a minute—Anyway, his mother invited a bunch of their family over for the afternoon, and between all the cousins there are a dozen kids running around these days. We just volunteered to keep them occupied."

She wants to ask exactly where he fits into the structure of his friend’s family, but they are nearing the place where the children are still shouting and pelting Steve's friend.

"I've brought someone else to even out the teams," Steve calls, and the kids leave off, coming to surround the newcomer instead.

After introductions have been made - Steve's friend Bucky gives Peggy a look which is strangely appraising but completely without objectification - Peggy is informed of the rules (no faces, no sand or rocks mixed with your projectiles, ten seconds of reprieve after you've ducked behind the walls of your team's fort) and assigned a team (Steve's, which sends a thrill running through her which she doesn't care to examine, settling for a decisive head nod and a small smile in his direction).

She had forgotten, in the years since she had last participated in a snowball fight, exactly how exhilarating it could be. Her careful plans for methodical stockpiling and adherence to ideal technique are soon thrown out the window in her haste to simply get the next missile prepared and launched at the opposition. As she and a small girl named Iris fling nearly loose snow at the other side of the street, she finds herself laughing more freely than she has in ages. At one point, she and Steve end up huddled against the wall of the fort next to each other.

"Your hands must be freezing," he comments, and when she looks down in surprise at her red fingers, she realizes that he is right. He strips off his sodden gloves and wraps his hands around hers, trying to press some heat back into them. It’s futile, considering that his hands, while larger, aren’t any warmer, but she doesn’t stop him. When he tries to pass his gloves over to her, however, she declines with a smile.

"Oh, I could never allow anything to interfere with my process."

"Right." He unwraps his scarf instead, offering it to her. "Maybe this way at least some of you will be warm, and you won’t lose your edge either."

She won't swear that it's feeling the wool still toasty from his neck which allows her to jump back into the fray with renewed vigor, but she certainly wouldn't swear otherwise.

Her watch and phone are buried within her coat, but it cannot be much later when the door to what Peggy guesses is Bucky's mother's house opens and a group of people starts to stream out, each member gravitating over to collect particular children. Peggy stands at the sidelines as Steve and Bucky are kissed on the cheeks and thanked for their babysitting efforts. Angie ambles over just as the last of the kids, little Iris, is taken off with a wave of her cheerfully red mitten.

“Enjoy yourself, English?” she calls, grinning as she picks her way down the sidewalk around the disarranged clumps of snow. “Haven’t seen you have this much fun in ages, although it’s also reminding me why I’m never playing laser tag with you again.”

“My skill doesn’t only apply to snow. I’m a bit of a laser markswoman,” Peggy tells Steve who has returned to her side, apparently having finished being showered with familial affection by Bucky’s relatives.

“Laser sharpshooter,” Angie corrects. “Laser sniper. Laser no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners—”

“Angie?”

Bucky has joined them, looking at Angie with surprise which turns quickly into a smile and a hug.

“Bucky Barnes!” Angie says after they’ve broken away. She’s still framing him with a hand on each arm but she lets go to give him a friendly whack on the shoulder. “I should have known there couldn’t be that many Buckys in Brooklyn.” Stepping back so she can face Steve and Peggy fully, she says, “Bucky and I are...I mean, Bucky’s mom and my mom are...Well, we’re...We must be—” She glances up, clearly trying to mentally map out a family tree.

“We’re cousins, somehow,” Bucky fills in smoothly. “Just like me and half the neighborhood.”

It occurs to Peggy that the situation might be awkward - they had just seen a number of Bucky’s relations leaving a gathering to which Angie clearly hasn’t been invited - but Bucky says, without apparent unease, “I guess you’re in the area to clean out your grandma’s place?” and then adds as an afterthought, “God rest her.”

Angie rolls her eyes, though not, Peggy suspects, at Bucky’s insincere tone. “My mother kept making noises that Jersey was too far to come for just the day and couldn’t I just take care of it, so I finally gave in.” She loops her arm through Peggy’s. “Carter here has been the perfect assistant - without her, I’d have either tried to keep everything or just backed the garbage truck up to the front door and set up a funnel.”

“You’d never - you might miss out on some heirloom to hold over everyone’s heads,” Peggy says with an affectionate elbow to Angie’s side. “And I certainly had my fill of fun sorting through objects from decades gone by, along with that snowball battling which capped things off perfectly. But I think it might be time that I started making my way home.” She truly has had a wonderful afternoon, the sort which will live fondly in her memory (including the feeling of Steve’s hands wrapped with such gentle and precise strength around hers), but the idea of a steaming bath and freshly laundered pajamas sounds absolutely heavenly at the moment.

“Oh,” Steve says softly. He extends a hand. “Well, it was nice to—”

“No,” says Bucky, shaking his head, and “No!” Angie adds with hasty vehemence.

“I’m sorry?” Peggy angles herself to try to see Angie’s face, but it’s Bucky who answers.

“You’re soaking wet, and I’m guessing that you don’t live on the next block. My mother would kill me if she found out I didn’t at least give you something dry to get home in.”

“It’s a lovely offer—” Peggy starts to demur, although she is now noticing that she’s quite chilly and it is going to be a bit of a slog home. Before she can get any farther, however, the door to Bucky’s family home opens up and a woman stands silhouetted in the spilling light.

“James Buchanan Barnes, I hope that you weren’t thinking of leaving these two young ladies out here in the cold without inviting them in to warm up.” She walks carefully down the steps, arms crossed over her chest, but she throws them open as she spots who is standing there. “Angie Martinelli, is that you? Wonderful to see you, sweetheart, come here!”

Angie releases Peggy to submit to a hug and a rapid-fire back and forth of greeting. Peggy suspects that their chances of making a smooth escape have just decreased rather dramatically.

“I’ve known Mrs. Barnes all my life,” Steve says quietly from over Peggy’s shoulder. “She’s never going to let you get away with leaving before you at least have on dry socks. And anyway, I promised hot chocolate to whoever managed to hit Bucky, and I definitely saw you paste him at least once.”

She smiles despite herself. “I believe it was peppermint hot chocolate which was promised.”

He laughs as their eyes meet, though his flick downward just after, a new flush filtering through his cheeks that she suspects has nothing to do with the cold.

“And who do we have here?” Mrs. Barnes asks, clearly finished cooing over Angie.

Peggy turns, smile still on her face. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Barnes. I’m Peggy Carter.”

“Get out of here while you can,” Bucky whispers fifteen minutes later, and Angie nods, telling Peggy, “If I ever need you to take a bullet for me, I expect you to remember this moment.”

“Why on earth would we be standing beside each other with bullets flying?” Peggy asks, eyebrow gracefully arched.

Before either of the others can reply, however, Steve takes Peggy’s hand from behind and tugs her away, whispering, “They’re not wrong,” as Mrs. Barnes returns with arms stacked with twenty-year-old photo albums.

“I promised Peggy something hot to drink,” he tells Mrs. Barnes more loudly. She waves them off, probably half from good hostess instincts and half eagerness to force the remaining two into a walk down memory lane.

It doesn’t escape Peggy’s notice that Steve doesn’t relinquish her hand until they’re safely in the kitchen, although it’s quite apparent where it is. She can’t say that she minds, however. With neither of them wet and frozen any longer, it’s much easier to appreciate the gentle solidity of his fingers, the press of their palms against each other.

Too soon for her to have cataloged the sensation entirely, Steve lets her go and starts moving around to the pantry and cupboards. Peggy stands watching him, curling her toes against the floor in the borrowed socks she is now wearing along with an absolutely divinely plush gray cardigan loaned to her by Mrs. Barnes. The lady of the house had insisted on adding the wettest items to the dryer - “As if I would let you back out into the street like that to freeze. My mother would come back and haunt me!” - which had included Peggy’s blouse and coat, though luckily not her singlet or her jeans (damp, but dark enough to have avoided scrutiny, so Peggy hadn’t needed to strategize a polite objection to wearing someone else’s trousers).

“I hesitate to offer considering my skills in this area, but can I do anything to help?” she finally asks.

Steve shakes his head as he sets a saucepan on the stove. “This is about the only thing I can make, but I can do it with my eyes closed.” He gestures her over to a seat, which she takes.

“Why was peppermint hot chocolate the one recipe you ever learned?” she wonders as he lights a burner and adds together milk, cocoa powder, chocolate chips, and a bit of sugar.

“I learned plenty,” he says, angling himself to see her and stir at the same time. “This was just the only one that stuck. My mom worked a lot, and plenty of night shifts. It was just the two of us, so I wanted to make sure she would come home to something warm and good after all of that. She passed a while back, but I still make it for Bucky’s family when I’m around - they’ve always been great to me.”

“Ah,” Peggy says, trying to sound normal and satisfied with his answer instead of a bit overcome by his factual sweetness, the way he seems completely unresentful of the multitude of Barnes relatives while he apparently has no family left. She clears her throat. “And what is it you do, other than distribute homemade hot beverages?”

He flashes a bit of a smile at her, tucking his hands into the pocket of the sweatshirt he had borrowed from Bucky’s old bedroom upstairs. His hair is adorably mussed from pulling it over his head, and Peggy can’t quite tear her eyes away.

“I run the art program over at the community center,” he says, turning to add a few drops of something to the chocolate mixture. From the scent which suffuses the air, Peggy guesses that it’s peppermint flavoring. “Afternoon classes, activities with the schools, workshops. My under-twelve group just put up a display at the local library if you want to go visit.” He sounds absurdly proud.

“How wonderful.” The words come out even more softly than she had thought they would. She tries to pull herself together with the crispness of tapping straight a stack of papers, but doesn’t quite manage it. The soft smile won’t leave her face and she wonders if it might be a permanent fixture now. Oh, they’ll certainly go their separate ways shortly, but she feels that there was some amount of luck involved in her having had the chance to meet him in the first place.

Blinking a little, he turns away and unwraps a few of the peppermint candies Mrs. Barnes has set out in a dish on the counter. “What do you do?” he asks, crushing the candies with the handle of a knife.

Feeling her smile fade a bit into something more businesslike, less touched by gentle joy, Peggy says, “I’m the policy director for a non-profit.” It’s her standard response, the beginning of a slow wade into the more detailed answer. It is also, she has to admit, the beginning of a test, one which nearly all the potential partners Angie had tried to set her up with ended up failing.

“Which one?” Steve asks, gliding unknowingly through the first level of scrutiny as he scrapes the crushed peppermints into a palm and deposits them into the pot, beginning to stir again. (Peggy still sometimes finds herself surprised at how many people are so eager to turn the topic back to themselves that they accept the most simplistic answer and move along.)

“The INRJ,” Peggy says. It seems that she’s holding her breath just a bit as she gives her usual pause. She finds that she does not want Steve to make a misstep in this. She thinks she might forgive him if he did.

“The International Network for Reproductive Justice, right?” The way he gives her a look, double checking, deferring to her knowledge: if there were truly points, he would have earned himself a bonus just then. “Back when it was the International Pro-Choice Network, my mom used to bring me along to play under the table while she was stuffing envelopes or phone banking.” He tilts his head to the side and adds, “Bucky actually reminded me of that a few weeks ago - he saw an ad for the symposium you were holding and thought I should check it out.”

“Oh, yes,” she says, using the reminder of work to shore herself up a bit from melting. “I was meant to speak about the effects of the global gag rule, but I ended up sitting on the tarmac at Heathrow instead.”

He makes a commiserating face. “They did say that the talk about adoption and foster care in eastern European countries was a last minute replacement, although the speaker was really good. I hadn’t realized that was supposed to be your spot. I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to speak; I would have liked to hear what you had to say.”

“Yes,” she says, slightly dazedly, the word nearly lost in the sound as he snaps off the burner. “Natasha is quite talented. She always gives a good presentation.”

“The community health initiatives to reduce parent and child mortality in Sierra Leone sounded like amazing stuff too.” He’s still talking as he reaches into a cabinet for a pair of mugs, apparently not noticing her reaction. “I ended up donating to the hospital building fund after I got home.”

She’s told dozens of men over the years what she does for her job, and the responses have run the gamut from indifference to confusion to polite questions, from furious rants about the sanctity of life to pompous assurances of allyship. This is the first time she’s heard one of them discuss her organization’s projects with true interest, the first time everything seems to have been said genuinely and unprompted and without the aim of impressing her.

Which is why it does all the more.

“I was glad Bucky suggested it,” Steve tells her, setting her mug in front of her. He takes a seat across from her, his own mug in hand. “He’s been trying to get me to go to all of these random places lately, and the symposium was one of the more interesting.”

“I’ve actually been experiencing the same thing with Angie,” Peggy says, seizing on the topic as a way to keep her equilibrium. “In the last month she’s taken me to a wine and cheese tasting, a Broadway play, and an art showing at the Sage Gallery, which I actually think I would have enjoyed if I hadn’t needed to spend most of it in the stairwell on a conference call.”

Steve, who had been about to take a sip from his mug, lowers it back to the table. With care, he says, “Bucky tried to get me to go to a wine and cheese night but I had to fill in running a watercolors class at the senior center. We went to a Broadway play but ended up switching seats with mom and little kid so they could be on the aisle.” Voice dropping a bit, he adds, “And I had a showing of some paintings at the Sage Gallery three weeks ago.”

They glance in unison toward the living room, as if they might establish some facts by merely turning in the direction of their friends, but all they hear is the low sound of chatter and laughter.

“Angie has arranged so many dreadful dates for me in the past,” Peggy says, leaning over the table to speak to him quietly. “I told her she wasn’t allowed anymore.”

Steve nods. “When Buck sets me up, they always think I’m going to be just like him, and it’s awful to see their faces when they realize I’m not. I just wanted a break from having to sit through dinner with someone who was disappointed that it was me there.”

The mug is hot against her palms, and she finds herself taking in deep breaths of peppermint-scented steam. “One of these days, he’s certain to find you someone who isn’t an utter bloody fool, then,” she says, and though she truly means the words, they come out soft instead of sharp, an outstretched hand.

“I sort of think,” Steve says, tipping his chin up so his eyes catch the light even as they lock with hers. “I sort of think that he’s been trying.”

Later that night, once she’s tucked away in bed, she thinks about fate and design, the overlap between them, and decides that it doesn’t matter how the moment comes to be if she doesn’t do anything with it. She takes a deep breath and texts him: Your hot chocolate was quite good. Perhaps we could meet sometime so you can show me how to properly prepare it?

Not even a minute later, he responds: I think we can come to an arrangement.

Angie only gloats a little when she hears that a hot chocolate making lesson and a week of texting has led to the arrangement of an actual date. Bucky is not as gracious. Peggy can’t quite bring herself to care, and by the undeniable flicker of Steve’s smile, she suspects he feels the same.

#steggysecretsanta #Steggy fic #Peggy Carter #Steve Rogers #sagesiren

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sachigram · 4 years

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Telescope Now Chapter 6

((click here to read on ao3!!))

After the swirl of colors dissolves into nothingness, and Izaya can't tell up from down anymore, the first thing he's truly aware of is a bright, all encompassing light. He stares at it through blurry eyes, his lips turned down as he blinks and tries to make sense of it. His fingers twitch, and he looks down at his feet as best as he can, but he can't lift his head very much.

The second thing Izaya notices is that he's not alone.

“Iza-nii!”

He glances to his right and sees Mairu there, her eyes wide. Kururi is on the left, a soft smile on her face. Both of them are crying, and both of them are holding his hands.

“Am...” Izaya croaks. He clears his throat, swallows. “Am I dead?”

“Almost, you dumbass!” Mairu says. She takes the liberty of sitting on Izaya's bed. “You got hit by a truck! We didn't see it, but a lot of people did! They said you flew, and they said there was blood everywhere—“

“You died. Then you came back,” Kururi says, her gentle voice somehow cutting through Mairu's passionate spiel.

“Yeah, I was getting to that! A civilian gave you CPR on the scene, and then you got to the hospital and died! But they brought you back. You've been asleep so long.”

“Coma,” Kururi adds.

“How long?” Izaya asks. His entire body is stiff. He doesn't feel much like himself, but he imagines it might take a while to feel normal again.

“A month! A whole month!” Mairu says. She leans on Izaya and peers up at him. “We didn't call Mom and Dad. Your will said not to unless you died.”

“Oh, good. I don't want to deal with them,” Izaya says. He grimaces. “My throat hurts.”

“Water,” Kururi says, holding up a glass with a straw in it. She holds it still while he drinks.

“You had a tube in your throat. They said it'd be sore when you woke up.” Mairu nuzzles her face into his chest.

“Wow... Who knew you two actually liked me?” he jokes.

“Shut up! Fuck you! We just wanna be there to watch it happen when you die!” Mairu lifts her head and glares at him, her eyes watery. “You gotta pick something way cooler than getting hit by a truck. That’s way too easy!”

“Your crying face is so ugly,” Izaya says, and then he smiles when she starts crying even harder.

“Oh, yeah? So's yours! Yours is uglier!” Mairu swats him, and it's only then Izaya realizes he's crying, too.

“Must be a family trait.” Izaya groans at how heavy his body feels. “I'm still tired.”

“You can sleep again, if you want. But the doctor might want to check you first. Do you remember anything?” Mairu asks.

“A lot of things.” Izaya looks between her and Kururi. “You were dead, weren't you?”

“Huh?” Mairu frowns. “Us?”

“Yeah. You were dead, but then you weren't. We had a funeral.” Izaya struggles to remember details of it, closes his eyes when they become too heavy to deal with. “You haunted me... Was Shizu-chan here?”

“He was there when you got hit... Hey. Iza-nii?”

“Mm?”

He doesn't hear her reply before he falls unconscious once more.

***

Time passes. The first few days, Izaya isn't able to stay awake for long periods of time. Despite being out of it for a month, he feels his sleep wasn't restful, and he slips in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he wakes to the twins at his side, sometimes to the doctor, a stern looking woman with her hair swept in a tight bun. Sometimes there are nurses. Sometimes he's alone.

His injuries were extensive, a long list of things Izaya tunes out because it reminds him too much of Shinra's rambling. The doctor insists he stays a few days for observation, so he spends most of his time bored, but it's better with the twins around. They keep him company when they're not in school, and they don't leave until the hospital staff makes them. Izaya doesn't remember ever spending this much time with them, even when they lived together, and despite his eagerness to leave, he enjoys it. He missed them, he realizes, and he didn't even know how much until he almost died.

One day before he's discharged, he finds himself engrossed in playing Go Fish with them. They're all cheaters, so it erupts into a lot of arguing, and the twins keep ganging up on him, swapping their cards like they think he can't see. Sometimes he allows it, but for the most part, they fight until suddenly hours have gone by.

“Do you have any queens?” Mairu asks during their last game. Visiting hours are almost over, but they asked the nurse if they could finish their current game before the twins leave.

“Go fish,” Izaya says, and she pouts at him.

“Are you lying?”

“If I was, why would I tell you I was?” Izaya asks. Her eyes narrow suspiciously before she draws from the deck.

“Kururi, do you have any queens?” Izaya asks, and Mairu throws her cards at him.

“ Cheater! You're a cheater, Iza-nii!”

“Oh, you said queens. I'm sorry, I thought you said something else,” Izaya says, holding her off while she tries to jump on him. Kururi watches with an indulgent expression, and she quietly gathers all the cards back together.

“So you're going home tomorrow?” Mairu asks after she's worn herself out.

“Yes, and it's about time. I hate hospitals. It's the whole reason I have my own doctor,” Izaya says. Shinra hasn't visited, but Izaya isn't surprised. The only one to see him aside from the twins was Namie, who only did so after he blew up her phone and threatened to dock her pay.

“Okay, well we're coming over tomorrow night! And we'll watch movies. You have all the subscription services, anyway. Make sure you buy snacks!” Mairu smiles excitedly, and Izaya scoffs.

“You both have access to all my subscription accounts. You're like parasites. I'll make sure to buy lots of vegetables for you to snack on.”

“No! You better buy good snacks! I mean it!” Mairu raises her fists, and for a brief second, the twins look younger, the way they did when they'd cling to his legs and torture him for hours on end. He blinks and they're back to normal, young women who still torture him for hours on end, though they grew out of clinging to him long ago.

“Okay, okay. Text me what you want,” Izaya relents, leaning back into his bed. Both of them watch him thoughtfully.

“You're being much less of an asshole than normal,” Mairu says. “Is it 'cause we died in your coma dream?”

That's what the twins have taken to calling it, “Izaya's coma dream.” He recounted as much of it as he could to them, excluding the parts about Shizuo for obvious reasons, as well as omitting just how much he missed them. As it turns out, there were some accuracies to the things he dreamed, overlap between the dream and reality. Some of the things he experienced really was because the twins were speaking to him, usually while poking and prodding at him, demanding he wake up. His binder of old poems sits on a little bedside table, brought by Mairu, who read a few of them out loud and threatened to post them online if he didn't wake. Next to the binder are two vases of flowers, one sent by Simon, a coupon for sushi pushed into the stems, and the other sent by Shiki, a brief wish of wellness written on the card that came with it, though Izaya is certain it was for the twins' sake rather than his own. Izaya can recall the brief recognition of a floral scent in his dream.

The parts of his dream that didn't happen were his own torturous thoughts, some of them guilt-related, while others were things he's longed for but would never admit, even to himself. As for Shizuo, Izaya has no idea if Shizuo was ever really there or not. The twins say they don't know, but they think so, as they've seen him around outside the hospital. The nurses say they haven't seen anyone else when Izaya asks, though a few of them have conspiratory smiles he doesn't quite trust.

“Maybe my head injury changed my personality a bit,” Izaya suggests. “Turns out you don't annoy me as much as you normally do, but I reserve the right to change my mind on that.”

“Oh, blah blah. We'll see you tomorrow!” Mairu chirps, and she tackles him in a hug. Kururi joins a moment later, though her embrace is much gentler. They wave at him one more time before leaving him alone. He sighs and picks up his phone, planning to work a little to occupy himself, but someone else peeks into his room.

“Izaya-kun!” Shinra waltzes in, a ditzy smile on his face. “So, you cheated death again, huh? You really are like a cockroach!”

“How wonderful of you to say. Took your time in visiting, didn't you?” Izaya sets his phone down and smirks at Shinra, who rolls his eyes.

“What fun is there in visiting someone in a coma! You wouldn't have known I was here.”

“I've been out of the coma for a few days now. Besides, as it turns out, I was aware of a few things.”

“Really?” A spark of interest lights in Shinra's eyes.

“It was like a fever dream. Everything was just...jumbled. It was a strange experience, like my normal life mixed with nightmares and bits and pieces that didn't add up. I've already forgotten a lot of the details.”

“ Fascinating! Well, you're not the first to say such things. Some people can wake up speaking an entirely new language, you know? Some people live their lives as normal before finding themselves waking in the hospital.” Shinra takes a seat beside Izaya and pats his arm. “What parts do you remember about your dream?”

“The twins were dead,” Izaya says, looking down at Shinra's hand on his arm. “I couldn't really figure out how they died, and I kept seeing and hearing them even after they were supposed to be gone. It was like the more they haunted me, the more I realized they were actually alive, but no one believed me, and the more things I couldn't make sense of, the more I thought I was crazy.”

“Well, you are crazy, but not because of that. Sounds like some part of your brain knew you had experienced a trauma. It's not surprising you convinced yourself of a death in the family.”

“I thought of the truck a few times, too. Hell, maybe I was trying to tell myself they were the ones who got hit. Who knows?” Izaya sighs. “You were in my dream as well.. Possibly most suspicious of all was you actually being a decent friend for once.”

“What! I'm the best person you know!” Shinra wails.

“That's not saying much, but no, you're still one of the worst.”

“I won't take that personally because of who's saying it. Like you're a good judge of character.” Shinra crosses his arms. “Well. I'm glad you woke up, anyway. As much as you deserve horrible things, you're still my friend. It'd suck if I was suddenly down to one.”

“You're too kind, Shinra.”

“Shizuo-kun has been really...ah. He'd kill me if he knew I was talking about him to you!” Shinra shivers and makes a face. “But it's not like you'll be going out of your way to see him since you've got a broken leg. Not unless you want to go back into a coma.”

“I can't say I enjoyed it all that much,” Izaya says, though he certainly enjoyed certain aspects of it.

“He was pretty distraught. He said he was chasing you when it happened, said he tried to grab you, but it was too late. He hung around until the ambulance got there. I think he blames himself for it,” Shinra says.

“Well, I've gotten him hit twice now. I suppose he owed me one,” Izaya replies, and Shinra clicks his tongue.

“He owes you more than that! But Shizuo-kun is a good person. I'm sure he'll be happy to know you're going to be fine, at least until he kills you himself.”

Izaya keeps his face as impassive as possible, though Shinra has always been the one to see through it. They watch each other for a moment, lapsing into an easy silence. They've always coexisted well together, well enough that Izaya knew the dream Shinra was off, even if he couldn't place why.

“I don't suppose you want to play a quick game of poker, do you?” Izaya asks.

Shinra laughs. “Not with you! You're a cheater. Anyway, I only had a few minutes to drop by. I better be going now.” He stands, puts his hands in his pockets while he hovers.

“I'm going home tomorrow. I guess I'm stuck making dinner for the twins, so you can come mooch off me, if you want.” Izaya swallows, already knows what Shinra will say.

“Nah, I've got plans with Celty. We've gotten even closer and more in love in the month you've been asleep! I'll regale you sometime, since I know my true love gives you inspiration in your life!” Shinra grins, and then he pauses, tilts his head as he scrutinizes Izaya. “What's that look for?”

“Nothing. You're right, you're busy. I'm just still a little loopy,” Izaya says, and Shinra hums thoughtfully.

“Well, get some rest. Allow yourself to heal before you get back to your usual vile ways, and call me if you need! I don't know how often I'll answer, since it depends on what Celty and I are up to, but I'll get back to you.” Shinra smiles once again, and as soon as he came, he's gone.

Izaya shakes his head before he falls back in bed, laughter bubbling up before he can help it. He laughs and laughs, holds his sides when it starts to hurt, but he keeps laughing anyway.

“Vacation's over,” he says to himself, closing his eyes when they start to burn. He rolls to his side and keeps laughing, and when a nurse wanders in to ask if he's alright, he can't quite figure out how to answer.

***

Once he's back home, he begins to feel more like himself. Namie returns with her usual sour attitude, and he's taken by surprise when she volunteers to cook dinner. Usually, he has to torment her, and even then she'll sometimes still mess up the food she makes, usually by making it too sweet or too spicy. He watches her suspiciously as she bustles around, her back to him.

“Am I still in a coma?” he asks, pushing himself away from the desk so he can follow her around in his office chair. She scowls at him.

“I've been off a month, so I've had enough downtime. Besides, I expect overtime for this.”

“Right, that's fine. Hey, make extra, okay? My sisters are coming.” Izaya scoots back to his desk and starts typing, not realizing at first that Namie is staring. “What?” he asks when he finally notices her eyes boring into him.

“I thought you didn't like them?” Namie asks. She puts her hand on her hip. “All you ever talk about is how much they annoy you.”

“Yeah, well, they do annoy me, but they were pretty distraught by all this. I'll let them hang around until they remember they can't stand me.”

“Shouldn't take too long, then.”

“You can stay for dinner too, if you want. Mairu thinks you're pretty since she doesn't know any better.” Izaya leers at Namie, who looks very much like she swallowed a lemon.

“No thanks. Your sisters are almost as creepy as you,” she says.

“Ah. Well, the invitation is still extended.”

“Look at you, all hospitable. Never would've pegged you as the generous type.” She turns her back to him, and his grin stretches wider.

“As if you'd peg anyone other than dear Seiji-kun.”

She drops the spoon she's holding and stomps towards him, and since he can't run, he winds up scooting around in his chair, cackling as she slaps at him and chases after him, yelling about what a horrible pervert he is.

***

A month later, Izaya is meeting with Shiki about a job. Shiki has opted to come to him, since Izaya is still recovering, and Shiki can be surprisingly accommodating when he wants to be. Shiki arrives with two men who stand on either side of Izaya's door, and Shiki enters the apartment, bowing to Namie when she lets him in. He raises a hand when Izaya starts to stand.

“No need. You're in a cast, after all.”

“Thank you, Shiki-san,” Izaya says, leaning back into the couch.

“You look well.” Shiki walks to a cushy chair he favors during his visits. Izaya had Namie help him move it in front of the couch just for this meeting. “I hope your injuries aren't still bothering you?”

“Ah, just the leg. It broke in a couple of places, so the cast is on for at least another month.”

Namie returns then, places a cup of tea on the coffee table for Shiki, bowing before she goes back to the desk.

“My lovely secretary really makes this all so much easier. I'm truly blessed,” Izaya quips, and when she cuts her eyes at him, he winks.

“I hope she's being paid extra,” Shiki says, picking up his tea. He blows on it, watches Izaya with an amused expression.

“Oh, of course. She insists.” Izaya crosses his good leg over the cast. The worst part of it all is the itching . He can't reach inside the cast, and he's had an itch for the better part of the day.

“I'm glad you're doing well. We have other sources, but I admit you're one of the more pleasant to interact with,” Shiki drawls.

“What a compliment! Comparing me to the scum of the city is cruel, Shiki-san!” Izaya laughs. “I wanted to thank you for the flowers. I know you and Akabayashi-san checked in with my sisters while I was out. They kept the flowers you sent, dried them and made them into bookmarks. I'm glad to know they weren't alone.”

“Your sisters have quite a few friends, all seemingly older than they are,” Shiki says. “I often spot them around the city traversing with the wrong sort of crowd.”

“Family trait,” Izaya responds with a smile. “There are too many things to get involved with in the city, after all. At least they have people looking out for them.”

“It's heartening to hear you care for them. Usually you're so detached, Izaya-san.”

“You think so? We're just not an emotional family. Rest assured, I watch out for them in my own way. I keep them from kidnapping famous actors, at any rate.” Izaya reaches beside him, places a folder on the table for Shiki. Izaya spends most of his time online, but there's something so charming about paper files. He's glad to know Shiki feels the same.

“You're already done?” Shiki asks, leaning forward to take the folder. He looks impressed. “You've hit the ground running, Izaya-san. Ah...in a manner of speaking.”

“Hit the ground limping, at the very least.”

“Thank you. Akabayashi-san will be happy to put some hoodlums in their place. He's been getting antsy. It's been quiet without you around.”

“Coincidence, I'm sure! I'm happy to hear the city was quiet while I was in the hospital. I'd hate to miss too much excitement.” Izaya falls silent as Shiki reads over the papers. The TV is on, but it's muted. A home improvement show is playing.

“Very good, Izaya-san,” Shiki says, standing. “Sorry I can't stay and finish the tea, but I have work to do.”

“No apologies necessary. I hope you'll forgive me for not walking you out?” Izaya says, and Shiki arches a brow at him.

“I've excused you for more, haven't I? Get well soon, Izaya-san.”

Shiki leaves with the men, and Izaya uncrosses his legs, flops dramatically into the cushions.

“God, how pompous. Being in a room full of men in the middle of a 'Mine's Bigger Than Yours' contest is the worst,” Namie drawls from the desk.

“Oh no worries, Namie! Yours was definitely the biggest in the room!” Izaya looks up at the ceiling as he puts his arms behind his head. “We should order lunch.”

“You're not going to insist I cook for you today?” Namie asks.

“I'm craving ootoro! I haven't had it in so long. Doesn't Russia Sushi sound good?”

“I'll order it,” Namie says. “Can't risk you changing your mind, after all. I'd rather not have to make anything.”

“You can have Simon deliver it. We both have too much work to do to leave the office. As it turns out, I have a coupon!”

Simon arrives about an hour later with his usual booming voice and blinding smile. He waltzes inside and places his giant hand on Izaya’s shoulder.

“Izaya! Good to see you. I heard you lost fight to truck!”

“Oh, yes, it was a close one. Thanks for the flowers,” Izaya replies.

“Flowers good for health, but sushi better. I'm glad you used coupon!” Simon hands the bag to Izaya and waves joyfully at Namie, who waves back before going into the kitchen to grab drinks.

“Would you like anything before you're off, Simon? I have some bottled tea,” Izaya says.

“No, no. It busy day. I best get back.” Simon looks closely at Izaya and gives him a smile. The next time he speaks, it's in Russian. “I don't guess this near death experience changed you much?”

“ Of course not. A tiger never changes his stripes, does he?” Izaya says, also in Russian.

“ No, he doesn't. I hope you return to the city soon, Izaya. It misses you. But I also hope you don't mess it up too much. I love the city.”

“ As do I, Simon.”

Namie returns and hands Izaya a glass of iced tea. She sits in the chair Shiki vacated and opens the bag, passing Izaya his food before opening her own container. She frowns.

“We didn't order all of this,” she says.

“On house for pretty lady and Izaya!” Simon says, and then he bows to her. “Get well gift.”

“Thank you,” Izaya says, happy with all the extra sushi. He pauses. “No specials, right?”

“No. We know you picky.” Simon offers one last smile before he makes his way out. He stops when he reaches the door, turns to look at Izaya over his shoulder. “Shizuo was there today. He asked about you.”

“Did he?” Izaya asks, keeping his face neutral. That was definitely the kind of thing Simon could have said in Russian, so he knows there's a reason Simon said it where Namie could understand.

“He troubled by what happened. You should call him, make amends. You two have been fighting so long.”

“Shizu-chan knows where to find me. He also has my number. Trust me when I say I have no desire to see or speak to him, especially with my leg the way it is,” Izaya says, and then he eats a piece of ootoro, keeping his back to Simon.

“I see,” Simon says. “Tigers are not cowards, Izaya.”

He leaves before Izaya can respond.

“What was that about? Even Simon knows about your monster crush? How pathetic are you?” Namie asks. She never looks as happy as she does while being antagonistic. Izaya likes that about her.

“It's not exactly a secret Shizu-chan hates me. Apparently we're a bit of an urban legend around here.” He withholds a comment about Seiji, knowing they'll only bicker back and forth. Mealtimes are meant to be enjoyable, and Izaya doesn't want either of their bitterness to taint the food.

The door bursts open suddenly, halting the conversation.. Namie jumps, almost dropping her takeout, but Izaya has gotten used to Mairu's grandiose entrances by now. She gallops inside, Kururi trailing behind her, and she pounces on Izaya from behind, leaping over the back of the couch.

“I-za-nii!” she sing-songs, and then she steals a piece of his sushi. “We're staying the night tonight! We didn't ask first, since you might've made some excuse for us not to.”

“Great,” Izaya says. Kururi rounds the couch to come sit beside him, and he hands her the takeout bag.

“Oh, guess who we saw today!” Mairu chirps, rearranging herself to sit on Izaya's other side. Her legs kick out, shaking the whole couch. “Shizuo-san! He was working with that guy and that pretty girl! He asked us about you, and I told him if he wanted to know, he should see you himself, and you know what?! He didn't get mad! Isn't that amazing?!” She bounces in place.

“Mairu,” Kururi says calmly, and Mairu stops moving as if she's been shocked, looks wary of Kururi, probably due to the spray bottle Kururi keeps for these occasions.

“Since when did everyone decide to mention that moron to me so cavalierly? I thought we all knew not to mention us to each other,” Izaya says, and Namie rolls her eyes while the twins both sigh in unison.

“Iza-nii, how are you this stupid?” Mairu asks, and Izaya glowers at her.

“All men are stupid,” Namie replies.

“Oh yeah? Even your darling brother?” Izaya asks her, and rather than react to it the way he hoped she would, she just shrugs slightly.

“Sure. He's with that bimbo, after all.”

***

By the time Izaya gets the cast removed, he's so pent up with extra energy that his skin feels as if it's vibrating.

He hasn't stayed locked inside the entire time by any means, but he's had to be careful and on guard, usually accompanied by Namie or Shiki's men, who generously drive him to and from headquarters when Shiki is too busy to meet at Izaya's apartment. Izaya hasn't been able to go off by himself the way he likes, and he definitely hasn't done any work outside of his office, not wanting to risk being injured again while he's been on the mend. If there's anything Izaya hates about humans, it's their limitations, and that goes double for his own.

He opts to have Shinra remove the cast rather than go anywhere else. Shinra's chatter is obnoxious, but he's more convenient to deal with the majority of the time. He's cheerful as he works, prattling on and on about Celty, speaking so fast that Izaya can hardly decipher any of it, not that he's trying very hard to.

“There we go! All finished!” Shinra says happily when the cast is fully off.

“ Finally,” Izaya groans, reaching down to scratch at his skin. “It's been driving me insane.”

“So what now?” Shinra asks. “You're all healed. It's like the accident never happened.”

“I wouldn't say that. I certainly remember it well.”

“What about the dream you had? Do you still remember it?”

“Parts of it,” Izaya says. “Some of it's fuzzy, but I remember highlights.”

“You got off easy, but I'm sure you know that. Fate's always been kinder to you than you deserve!” Shinra stands and stretches before he gathers his things. “You should talk to Shizuo-kun, by the way. He's been moping around lately, and it's intruding on my time with Celty!”

“ Why does everyone insist I speak to that imbecile?” Izaya asks with a grimace.

“Because you want to, and because he wants you to.” Shinra grins and closes his briefcase. “Sometimes things really are that simple, Izaya-kun.”

***

It's business as usual after the cast comes off. Izaya leaves Namie to handle the paperwork and the computer files, and he roams around the city, happily resuming his usual activities. He's on his way to a cafe to grab some coffee when he sees a familiar van parked across the street, anime girl on the door shining as if she was just washed. Izaya chuckles to himself and makes his way over, lifting his hand in greeting when the van's occupants notice him.

“Izayan!” Kawisawa launches out the door and is in front of Izaya before he can so much as blink. You're all better! Did your brain get scrambled in the accident? Have you seen the error of your ways?”

“Rest assured, if anything, I'm worse now,” Izaya says, and she grins at him.

“You look well, Izaya,” Kadota says.

“Aw, Dota-chin, don't flirt with me in public! I'm shy, you know?” Izaya asks, batting his lashes playfully. Kadota rolls his eyes, clearly trying to hide a smile.

“Tell me, Izayan, is it true Shizu-Shizu was there when you got hit?” Kawisawa asks, yanking on Izaya's arm. He frowns at her, worried she'll rip his coat sleeve. “Did he carry you to safety? Did he give you mouth to mouth?! I need to know! Paint the picture for me! So there you are, injured, gasping for air, and in your line of sight, before it goes all dark, you see him, the man of your dreams, crying and gripped with fear at the very thought of losing you—!”

“Kawisawa-chan, you've got quite an imagination,” Izaya says, tugging his arm free from her. “I can't tell you what happened, unfortunately. I was a little busy trying not to die.”

“If you don't know, that means I could be right!” she shouts, practically foaming at the mouth. A hand reaches out of the van and grabs the back of her collar, tugging her inside.

“She's been like this since it happened,” Yumasaki says, poking his head out and giving Izaya a little wave. “She's asked Shizuo too, but he won't answer her at all, so she's just been going wild with the theories. She wrote a story where Shizuo was on a horse when he saved you.”

“A horse?” Izaya asks.

“It's not impossible! Celty-san has a horse, and they’re friends!” Kawisawa shrieks, and then the van shakes as she grapples with Yamasaki. Kadota sighs before he hops out of the van and slides the door closed on them.

“So you're doing better?” he asks.

“Can't complain. Should I take it personally that you didn't visit me?”

“They were only allowing family when I tried. We spent some time with your sisters, though. Made sure they were eating and gave them rides home when visiting hours were over. They were pretty messed up over the whole thing.”

“I'm glad they had some friends around. They're still being a little clingy, but I suppose that's understandable.”

Kadota grins and puts his hand on Izaya's shoulder. “Maybe the truck did scramble your brain, huh? You're being nice to your sisters. Never thought I'd see the day.”

Izaya shrugs. “They're not so bad as long as they don't get splashed with water or fed after midnight.”

Kadota laughs loudly, and Izaya smirks up at him.

“So what brings you here, Dota-chin? Did you need a caffeine fix, too?” Izaya asks.

“Nah, Togusa is in the store over there. Some kind of magazine article on Hijiribe Ruri. He's still obsessed with her. I'm sure he knows all there is to know, but he buys everything they release on her anyway.”

“How tragic for him she's taken,” Izaya says.

“He'll get over it. Hey— Do me a favor okay? Between us. Wait a while before you fuck with Shizuo again. He's working through some stuff,” Kadota says.

“I've got no desire to see him, believe me. It's more likely he'll spot me and attack all on his own.”

“I dunno, man. He's pretty messed up about what happened to you. Maybe you guys could use this as an opportunity to finally bury the hatchet. It's been peaceful lately.”

“The natural state of things isn't 'peaceful'. Something will happen whether I'm involved or not,” Izaya replies. “Besides, Shizu-chan will get over whatever he's working through, and he'll be the one to throw the first punch, just like always.”

Kadota makes a face. “I really, really don't want to prove Erika right here, so all I'm gonna say is that Shizuo isn't acting like someone who saw the person he hates most almost get killed. He's acting like he almost lost someone important to him. Maybe you guys should talk, at least. I'm not saying you’ll be all buddy-buddy, but it's worth a shot, right? I know you don't hate Shizuo as much as you claim to. You're actually pretty easy to read.”

“Am I?” Izaya asks. “Careful, Dota-chin, you're making a lot of assumptions.”

“Somehow, I think I can take you if I had to.” Kadota ruffles Izaya's hair, and Izaya huffs, shoves Kadota away, and tries to straighten his hair with his fingers. “I mean it, okay? Just talk to the guy. Shizuo is level-headed when he wants to be. Just don't piss him off and he’ll listen.”

“You're giving me an impossible task, you know?” Izaya mutters petulantly.

“Yeah, but you're smart. You'll figure it out.” Kadota smiles and crosses his arms before he chuckles softly. “You crazy kids.”

“Just kiss him when you see him!” Kawisawa shouts, and Izaya looks up to see her face pressed in the window of the front seat. “Words don't matter! It's about the passion!”

“Christ.” Kadota grumbles and shakes his head. “I'm really never gonna get a moment of peace if she's right about this.”

“As if you've ever been a huge fan of peace,” Izaya says. “Personally, I find it to be overrated.” He waves before he makes his way over to the cafe, and when he looks back at the van through the window, he sees Kadota and Yumasaki fighting to hold Kawisawa down, and when Togusa returns to the van, he takes one look at the scene before turning and walking away.

***

Funnily enough, Izaya sees Shizuo again at Sunshine 60.

Izaya is finishing up a meeting with a client, exiting the restaurant when he spots Shizuo walking past with Tom. He wonders if Shizuo is there for work, but it's more likely they're just hanging out. Tom and Shizuo are actually friends more than coworkers, and Izaya keeps in mind that Vorona might be lurking around too, as fixated on Shizuo as she is. Rather than approach as he's always done, Izaya stays still and waits for them to pass, and as soon as they're out of sight, Izaya finds himself taking the familiar path to the roof.

It's a clear night out, and it's freezing. Izaya huddles into his coat and stands near the edge, looking down at the specks of light below. So many people, all of them living their lives, and despite their numbers, Izaya finds he feels alone. Part of him wishes he bought a bottle of sake along, but it would've just been for the sake of nostalgia. Izaya still tries hard not to think of the dream, but like most things to do with Shizuo, Izaya finds it creeping into his mind often. He sighs loudly, watches his breath cloud in front of him.

“Why the hell am I mourning something that never even happened?” he mutters. The twins are alive, he's alive. In the end, that's all that really matters, right? Everything else is just remnants from a dream.

He tenses when the door opens behind him. He already knows who it has to be, but he's surprised all the same to see Shizuo there, hands in his pockets, a weary look on his face.

“Shizu-chan, what a surprise. Did you follow me?” Izaya feels the weight of his knives in his pockets, and they comfort him. This is the real Heiwajima Shizuo, one who hates Izaya and wants him dead, one who chased him into the path of an incoming truck, intentional or not. Izaya can't let his guard down.

“Haven't seen you in a while,” Shizuo says. He's not wearing his shades for once, Izaya notes. Shizuo's eyes are oddly earnest when they're not covered and aren’t full of rage. That's one detail Izaya got right in his dream, at least.

“Aren't you always telling me to stay out of the city? Maybe all it took was a truck ramming into me to make me listen. Really drove the threat home.” Izaya sits on the ledge, facing Shizuo, his back to the abyss below.

“Don't,” Shizuo growls. “Don't make it into a joke.”

“Why not? It's kind of funny, isn't it? Some part of you must think I deserved it. I certainly think I did.” Izaya tilts his head to the side, studying Shizuo. “What's eating you, Shizu-chan? Usually you would've launched at me by now. Look, I'm even on the edge of the building! I've made myself an easy target for you!”

“I said to fucking quit it!” Shizuo shouts. His voice echoes around them. “I didn't come here to fight with you, okay? For fuck's sake, flea, you almost died in front of me, so stop being an asshole for once in your life and listen to me, 'cause I have shit to say.”

Izaya mimes zipping his lips, and then he gestures for Shizuo to keep talking. Shizuo glowers at him, seeming to be on the edge of some kind of breakdown. It's fascinating, and Izaya feels the innate urge to keep pushing Shizuo towards that edge, eternally curious as he is to observe results.

“Well? Are you going to talk, or is the fact you're having thoughts at all making you short-circuit?”

“I hate you,” Shizuo says in response, and Izaya wonders if this is supposed to be profound in any way. “I really do, okay? I hate you so fucking much that it keeps me up at night. Every problem I've had, every time some fucker comes at me with a weapon, all I think about is you, and how you probably had something to do with it. You're a terrible fucking person, and I've spent years thinking of how I wanted to kill you, how much better my city would be without you in it.”

Izaya keeps his face impassive as Shizuo starts pacing. Clearly Shizuo is experiencing enough emotion for both of them, after all. It looks exhausting.

“I told myself at first that no matter what happened to you, whether you woke up or not, that I didn't care. I didn't want to care. It was what you deserved, and maybe you actually deserved worse, but goddammit, Izaya, I keep reliving that day over and over again, and all I can think of is how I wasn't fast enough to save you.” Shizuo stops pacing, turns and looks at Izaya, a helpless look in his eyes. The strongest man in Ikebukuro, helpless. What a thought.

“I see,” Izaya says, not really knowing how else to respond. “So you feel guilty.”

“'Guilty' doesn't seem strong enough,” Shizuo says, back to pacing. “I don't feel responsible, I don't feel like it was my fault, I just—“ He pauses, throws his hands in the air, and growls in frustration. “It felt like a waste, Izaya.”

“Because you wanted to kill me yourself?” Izaya prompts.

“No, because it was too fucking easy, too fast for that to be the end!” Shizuo snarls and exhales deeply before continuing. “You know, all that time I chased after you, and you were never scared. You came back over and over, and I never even thought about what I'd do if I actually caught you. It was just a goal, one of those things you tell yourself to keep you going, but I think... I think I was happy you kept coming back, in some weird, fucked up way. You were the only one who kept fighting with me no matter what. I hated it, but I think it was...a comfort, too. I got used to you coming back. I thought you always would.”

Izaya thinks of the Shizuo in his dream, the one who laughed and toasted his whiskey mockingly to Izaya. “You're the most stable thing in my life.”

“Part of me kept waiting for you to show up and say it was all a joke. I didn't... Fuck.” Shizuo groans, makes a violent gesture with his hands. “I didn't want to think about you actually being gone.”

“Tell me, Shizu-chan, did you come to see me in the hospital?” Izaya asks, and Shizuo looks up at him sharply, an oddly bashful expression on his face. “Would you believe me if I said I could feel you there?” Izaya remembers the comforting pressure of a hand in his, one too large to be either of his sisters'.

“Shinra said you dreamed...” Shizuo mutters. “Said you woke up spouting some shit about the twins being dead.”

“It was my life, but it wasn't. There were details that didn't add up, and the people around me were... wrong. Not necessarily better or worse, but not themselves. I found myself surrounded by others, and wouldn't you know it, that's when I realized it couldn't be real.” Izaya leans back a bit, crosses his legs in front of him. Shizuo looks on warily, as if prepared to leap forward in case Izaya leans back any further. “I was forced to take a good look at things, at various versions of my life, like hundreds of mirrors surrounding me. It was like being inside a telescope.” Izaya forces a smile. “Part of me didn't want to wake up.”

Shizuo sighs softly, and he steps forward, takes the liberty of sitting beside Izaya on the ledge. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his cigarettes.

“So what now?” he asks.

“Well. I suppose this is the part where I tell you that your feelings are a normal trauma response to what you saw. I could've been anyone, Shizu-chan, and you would've felt just as guilty because you were there to see it happen,” Izaya says.

“Fuck that, it wasn't anyone. It was you.” Shizuo lights his cigarette and inhales deeply. “You were just so lifeless, folded all wrong like a ball of paper. I got your fucking blood on me.” His head tilts slightly towards Izaya, though he keeps staring forward. “It was you, flea.”

“Mm. So it was.”

“You're being weirdly understanding about all this. I kind of thought you were gonna throw a knife or something when you saw me,” Shizuo says, flicking some ashes away.

“I'm not ruling it out,” Izaya promises. He turns to Shizuo and smiles at Shizuo's perplexed little frown. “I suppose I'm just not surprised. To me, this isn't our first conversation about this.”

“Huh? What, was I in your dream or something?”

“You were. You were there more than anyone else, if you can believe it.”

Shizuo's face flushes, and he coughs slightly on his next exhale.

“You know,” Izaya begins, “I'm not sure exactly what it was I experienced. I can say it was a dream, but at the same time, it could've been a glimpse into another universe, another timeline. I saw so many things, some of them I can't remember clearly, but I remember you being there. It made me happy, Shizu-chan, and it was hard to know you wouldn't be there anymore when I woke up.”

Shizuo stiffens, his fingers clenching around the cigarette until it snaps. He curses when it burns him, and he throws it away with an angry little huff before he turns back to Izaya.

“I had dreams, too,” he says. “Nothing as weird as yours. Mostly just about us in high school, I guess since that's the most time we ever spent together. I kept wondering how different things might be if we ever tried to get along.”

“'What if' is a dangerous question, isn't it? Let's consider it progress that we're sitting here now.” Izaya smirks at Shizuo, who immediately narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Shizu-chan missed me.”

“I did not,” Shizuo says defensively, and then his eyes widen as if the thought only just now crossed his mind. “Or...I did? Fuck. I think maybe I did.”

“You don't know?” Izaya asks, and he can't help but laugh at the bewildered expression on Shizuo's face. It's been so long since he's laughed like this, without bitterness or malice. It really is just funny.

“Fuck you! Stop laughing!” Shizuo glowers, seeming to sink into himself when Izaya only laughs harder. “You're the worst. I hate you, I really do.”

“Then why did you miss me?” Izaya lilts, and Shizuo crosses his arms, looking pointedly anywhere but at Izaya.

“Maybe I'll still kill you. Shitty flea, you piss me off,” Shizuo mutters, mostly to himself. Izaya can hear his teeth grinding.

“Relax, would you? I missed you, too.”

In an instant, all the anger drains away from Shizuo's face. He turns to Izaya, his mouth slightly open in surprise.

“You were with me, but it wasn't really you. I missed my Shizu-chan! Another is no good for me.” Izaya stands and stretches, aware Shizuo's eyes are still on him. He takes a few steps towards the roof entrance.

“Wha... Hey! Where are you going?” Shizuo asks, following after, as always.

“It's cold. I'm cold.” Izaya stops abruptly and turns to face Shizuo, who stops just short of ramming into him. “Let's go get a drink somewhere warm.”

“Like, uh. Like a date?” Shizuo clearly has all the experience of a fumbling teenager, and it's so charming somehow, so unlike the Shizuo in Izaya's mind, and that's enough for Izaya to know this is really happening.

“Yes. Like a date.”

Shizuo smiles, and Izaya finds he doesn't mind that he can't recall what the other Shizuo felt like or smelled like, doesn't mind having to learn it all over again. All that matters is this: Shizuo walking behind Izaya, holding onto the back of his coat with a gentle hand, directing him to a bar down the street that has a special on half-priced bloody marys. Shizuo laughs, says it's perfect for a flea like Izaya, and Izaya savors every second of it, orders a bloody mary just to make Shizuo laugh harder.

In another universe, they never come near the truck, and life resumes as normal. In another, Izaya doesn't confront Shizuo that day, and Shizuo never knows Izaya is in the city. In another, Izaya is killed instantly, and in another still, he never wakes up, and Shizuo is consumed by grief he can't explain, and a confession he'll never voice.

But in this universe, Shizuo sits in a cozy booth across from Izaya, their feet touching under the table as they talk and laugh together until the bartender is closing down. They step outside, and Izaya turns to leave, is startled when Shizuo's hand grips the back of Izaya's coat and tugs him closer. Izaya laughs delightedly, and he tugs Shizuo along to Shinjuku while Shizuo tries very hard to look annoyed by it. They wind up sprawled together on Izaya’s couch, TV playing lowly in the background, and when they wake up curled into each other, Izaya smiles sleepily, lifts his hand to Shizuo’s cheek, and kisses Shizuo as easily as if he’s done so a thousand times, and will do so a thousand times more.

#telescope now #Shizaya #Izaya Orihara #Shizuo Heiwajima #halloween fic #this is the end! thanks for reading you guys <3

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arizonaconservativegal · 3 years

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First of all, thanks for replying. And thanks to the people in the notes who followed up, as well. In terms of interests, while I would love someone who shares a lot of them, I really only have one that's necessary. As an aspiring game developer, games are my art form, especially the world building and the mechanics and systems in place. I want someone who shares this love, who I can bond over with. Anything else would just be icing on the cake. In terms of appearance, I'd prefer if she were shorter than me by a good amount, ideally at or below 5' 6" but I'm fine as long as she's not above like 5' 10". I'm not the leanest person myself, I've got a little belly, but I'm working on it and slowly losing weight. I don't mind if she's a little chubby either, but if she's really fat I just can't go with that. I'm probably a little hypocritical here as I'd obviously prefer someone who's in shape, but I can find some heavier women attractive as long as they're short and feminine. I dislike body modifications, and would prefer someone without any, but I could deal with a few small tattoos and a few piercings, as long as they're not gauges or septum piercings. And obviously she needs to want kids (but not have any), needs to be not a full-on leftist (I'm fine with a centrist, conservative, or ideally a libertarian), and just have a nice personality that gels with mine. I tend to be a pretty low-key, somewhat boring person, and have trouble dealing with people who have "big" personalities. I find that at my age, it's hard to find someone who wants kids but doesn't have any, and who likes games but isn't butch or seriously fat or really punk or whatever. Those are pretty much my lines in the sand, appearance and personality-wise. Do I have too many of them? Are there things I should care less about? As I said, I've never been in a relationship, so I really don't know what's important and what's not. I'm just basing what I want on what I personally prefer.

And I know what I need to do to become more attractive, myself. Lose some weight, get a better job, move out. Is there anything else I need to do, and what should I prioritize? Right now I'm thinking about trying for a raise at work, but I'm also worried it'll put me over the pay limit for subsidized healthcare, and I've got a lot of health problems that are out of my control. I'd need to jump to a job with actual benefits to make it really worth it, so it'll be hard just moving up gradually.

And finally, just because I'm spilling everything out here anyway, there's a girl at work who recently broke up with her boyfriend of 5 years who I've been becoming quite friendly with. She's always enjoyable to talk to, and she seems to like me at least as a friend. However she's not got a lot in common with me. There's a guy who clearly likes her, and she has a friend that's probably into her, and I knew her ex and they all have a similar look that's very different to me. I think she also tends to go for "bad boys" and I'm definitely not one of them. She recently asked about my interests and stuff kind of probing more deeply, but since I basically haven't had any friends for years I don't know if that's just what's normal or if she's actually a little bit interested in me. Honestly I'm not sure what to do or if I should even do anything. She's basically a normie and I'm borderline autistic. I'm not used to anyone actually being interested in anything about me and I don't know how to tell one kind of "interest" from another. And considering she's a coworker and I enjoy her company, I don't want to fuck anything up. What do I do?

Ok there's a lot to unpack here...

First of all, I'm not going to be that person who tells you looks don't matter because let's all be honest here for a second, they do and anyone who says otherwise is lying for internet morality points. Obviously if you're going to date someone, you need to not be repulsed by their physical appearance.

But. Looks are not the most important thing and they're also not permanent. Plus in my experience, the more you get to know someone, the more attractive they become to you because you just see people differently when you love them. So don't worry so much about finding the most beautiful girl you've ever seen, or being the most handsome guy she's ever seen. When it's right, that stuff will handle itself.

(Also, I'm not saying you did this, but if you put all that in your online dating profile, please delete it immediately because it will scare women off if it's public and even if it's just for the algorithm, you're probably losing a lot of potentially good matches by being too specific)

I would think a little more about personality. It can be a lot harder to define that than appearance, but that's the part of her that you're going to really fall for. What does "big" personality mean to you? Does that mean just being loud, or is it a certain kind of humor, or just being extroverted or outgoing? Think a little about the people you enjoy spending time with and figure out what it is about them that makes you want to be around them. Interests are a good starting point, but try to think about what drives those interests and how they express them.

And think about you too. How would you describe yourself? I'd guess with your interest in game development, you probably have a big imagination and attention to detail, yeah? Do you have a dry sense of humor, maybe? Are you a patient person? Do you prefer to be busy or to take it easy? When you get stressed out, what calms you down? What are your values in life?

Think about what kind of person complements all that. Remember you're looking for a partner, someone to build a life with. That means the two of you have to make a good team. You'll bring out the best in each other and compensate for each other's weaknesses.

As for the changes you think you need to make, I'm going to let you in a little secret about women: there is nothing sexier to us than a guy who has his shit together. And that doesn't mean you need a fancy law degree and a six figure office job and a mortgage. It means knowing who you are and what you want and be working a clear, realistic plan to get there.

So yes, everything you mentioned is probably a good idea because it sounds like that will help you have more confidence and get on more solid ground with your life and future. But as for what you should do first, just focus on what is best for you, not for some hypothetical future wife you haven't met yet. It sounds to me like you've still got some healing to do and that needs to be your priority.

But when you're ready, the only thing to do is start talking to people and go on lots of dates that will mostly go nowhere. That's okay. The point is to meet girls and see if there's enough there for a second date, then maybe a third, and so on. You're not looking for something that's perfect right away. You're just looking for a starting point to build something more from.

In your case, yes, you probably do need to find a girl who at least has some interest in video games. It's going to be too much of your life for her to not at least be willing to indulge you when you want to talk about the game you're working on. I would guess that there are a lot of girls in "nerd" category who maybe don't know much about video games but would be interested if someone they cared about wanted to show them. Or if you really want to start off with just a pool of people who are as interested in game development as you, I'd hazard a guess that there are conventions or online forums on the subject. Maybe check out some of those and just start talking to people. Maybe it goes nowhere. Maybe you make a new friend. Maybe more. Who knows?

As for the girl at work, I think you're setting yourself up to get hurt. Girls who go for bad boys don't usually change their habits easily. She may be interested in you because you're not like her ex and she's trying to try something different, but that doesn't usually last. It isn't that you're doing anything wrong, it really is just how girls like that are. And it doesn't make any sense but it's how it is.

In general though, if you're getting to know a girl and you're not sure if she's looking for a friend or a boyfriend, it's okay to ask. Don't be creepy about it or anything, but it's okay to say something like "I just want to make sure I'm not reading too much into this." And be prepared to drop it if she says she just wants to be friends.

(Also my rule for dating coworkers is this: if it's a job you plan to stay at long term and you work closely together, the answer is no. If it's more of a temporary thing or you really only pass her in the hall once a week, that's probably okay as long as your company doesn't have some policy against it)

Bottom line, you're overthinking this. Love isn't logical. You can make all the plans and checklists in the world and none of them matter because that's just not how it works. Trust me, if it was, I'd be married by now too.

All you can really do is be the best version of yourself for you, meet a bunch of people, probably get your heart broken a couple of times along the way, and eventually you'll find someone who makes it all worth it.

As a side note, are you in a good church? If you're a person of faith at all (and I'm an atheist, so no judgement if you're not), I think having a community like that around you would be good for you right now.

#anyone else want to give the dear abby thing a shot?

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sparkles-and-trash · 4 years

Text

My fav 3 versions/interpretations of South Park characters thing!

I’m so sorry this took much longer than anticipated, I was gonna do it Friday but then I had a panic attack for the first time in forever because my CFS have been real bad lately and I was in such bad shape my BFF had to come and smack me back to life, and Sunday was suddenly full on breakdown day, a bad BPD episode and yeah, it was rough, but today I’m doing better and I realize nobody really cares about my personal issues lol but I just have a need to excuse myself here and I realize that’s kinda dumb but here we are ANYWAYS I hope these are okay, and that these are in no way the RIGHT interpretations, just my personal favorites!

Kyle:

suggested by the wonderful @otherluces <3

I’m not gonna lie, I love nerdy, preppy Kyle. Sweater-vests, collard shirts, doesn’t realize how attractive he is Kyle, oblivious to people having crushes on him Kyle, set on Harvard to become a lawyer and fight for justice and argue for a living, yanno?

I also really like the more dorky and nerdy Kyle, where he has really niché interests that he gets totally invested in and talks about 24/7, loves reading and studying, but not just to get good results, but because he genuinly enjoys it.

The last version I can think of with him, is the tall, lanky and kinda hard to read Kyle. He keeps a lot of his feelings to himself, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them. He plays basketball, he’s good at it too, and while he does well in school and everyone expects him to go into law, he has some totally different dream he keeps to himself for now. He kinda perks up a bit when in smaller crowds, esp with his cloest friends, but he still carries a lot of secrets that some time needs to come out.

Tweek:

suggested by my new fren @soft-craig-and-tweek ^^

I like Tweek in so many ways these were hard to pick, but I’mma try to narrow it down a bit and not go totally off haha

I actually quite enjoy the jagged, tired Tweek, the one who with help from friends and family manage to get off the meth his parents feed him secretly, but who still struggle with withdrawal, dark bags under his eyes, kinda pale and with sharp features, but he’s still a sweet and kind boy, a boy who wants to make the right choices and change the world to a better place, but who still has a darkness he carries, and the fact that he never gives up that fight is what makes him so special

and okay I have to be honest, I do love myself some sunshine boy Tweek. This Tweek still has issues, he is maybe even more anxious than the last one, but he’s also just as vibrant and energetic as he is anxious! He is an artist, he paints with bright colors, he composes beautiful, hopeful melodies, he feels everything so much, and he is a contagious and exciting person to be around. Cannot dress for the life of him. So much mis-match and odd outfits, but it kinda works?

The last one I’m gonna mention for this wonderful boy, is the more alternative Tweek. He writes obscure poetry, he watches too many conspiracy theory videos on youtube, he draws the monsters in his mind, and he writes the scariest, most hauntingly beautiful stories on the internet, and people online love him. He has no idea how to deal with being popular in that sense, because irl he is the type to not belong to a certain friend group, but he does go along well with most people on a surface level. Dark circles, shaky hands, crooked and cute smiles, baggy t-shirts and ripped jeans. When he first opens up to someone, he really, really does, and he will always support and be there for you. If you deserve it, that is.

Nichole:

also suggested by @soft-craig-and-tweek <3

I love nerdy Nichole who isn’t afraid to show it! Maybe she’s a streamer or youtube gamer even, I can def see her writing fanfiction, and being hella good at it too! Makes quite a name for herself online, and hangs out with the boys a lot irl, has game nights with the boys from Board Girls (even Cartman sometimes), is funny in a sarcastic way, but never mean.

Popular girl Nichole is also a favorite for me, but not in the “classical” sense. I imagine her to be a sporty, maybe on both the basket and volleyball team, captain for the basket one, she’s a born leader, she’s kind and fair, but can also be strict, and people always trust her to be honest and true.

Artsy Nichole!! I imagine her in bright yellow dresses and with her hair flowing and free, with flowers in her hair, freckles on her face, a big, genuine smile, a loud laughter that is so contagious, she loves spending time with Jimmy because they have a very similar humor, and she’s a theater kid, she sings like an angel and can act, oh boy can she act, she can make anyone laugh or cry in just a blink of an eye, she’s just a human sun-ray and I love her a lot

Butters:

suggested by @kinguidamundo, thank you so much!!

I love edgy Butters soooo much??? Like, he’s still a kind and bright boy, but he can also stand up for himself a lot more, he likes fashion a lot, he gets tattoos and piercings, he explores tons of ways to express himself, he’s a yes-dude, he goes out on dates a lot, but isn’t ready for a “real” relationship yet, but he enjoys meeting people and testing out himself around different types of people! Also he is a bi icon change my mind jk u can’t

I have a weak spot for the kind of soft and timid looking Butters too, who wears pastel colors and have big, innocent eyes, he is genuine and kind, but he carries something darker inside, something he isn’t sure how to deal with, something that scares him, but in reality it’s just normal feelings, anger, resentment and fear, but he’s lived his life ignoring them so much they catch him off guard at times. He learns to live with them slowly, and he does so with lots of help and patience from friends and loved ones.

Okay, last one, totally self-indulging here, but yeah, happy sunflower boy is also a big favorite. He is more confident than the previous version, but in a gullible way if that makes any sense? He believes the best in people, and if he is proven wrong, he’s willing to try to help them become better people, if they want to or not! This is honestly the version I love most with Stan, Butters being the ray of sunshine in Stan’s life and Stan being the realism to keep Butters grounded and them both supporting each other so much? Fuck yeah that’s the good stuff.

Clyde:

suggested by @horrorpumpkin, ty sm friend! <3

Himbo Clyde!!! Jock dude who genuinely loves sports, he’s a team player, and while he might not be super intellectual, he is very socially smart, he is kind and empathic, he is funny and likable, he always tries his best to make everyone feel included, and while he loves chicks a lot, and is a sexual dude, he does it with nothing but respect and admiration for the ladies!

Bisexual disaster Clydeeee <3 obv being bi isn’t a personality trait, but he is very open about it, he wants to be confident and good at flirting, but goddamn is he a MESS! He’s also a huge supporter of every single relationship his friends is in, he loves love, in all shapes and forms, he is emotional and kind and awkward in an endearing way.

Can’t leave out crybaby Clyde, can we now? He’s a bit of an awkward bean as well, but he owns it a bit more. He is kinda like a puppy, a cute, excitable and emotional puppy who loves his friends, video games and lazy movie nights, kinda chubby, he loves baking and does it a lot with Tweek, he is also a huge nerd for Harry Potter and totally geek out over it with Kyle and Nichole sdhlksgdhl

Kenny:

suggested by anon!

First up I guess I should put my high school AU Kenny. I know it’s controversial, but I imagine this Kenny to be more on the quiet side, but not really in a shy way. He’s just a bit of an observer who doesn’t speak unless he really sees fit, and while he still has his crude humor and is kinda rumored to be sleeping around a lot, he actually struggle with intimacy issues. He never imagined them to include sexual stuff, but turns out they do, and balancing being sexually open and curious and having these issues ain’t easy on the boy, let me tell you that.

This one is kinda heavily inspired by Luces, but I love him as kind and loyal, but also a bit more chatty and charming, but not for his own gain. He wants others to feel good about themselves, in social settings, his friends, during sexy times, he is selfless and good, but he is also living for the moment, he is a likable and wonderful guy, but he does still only REALLY open up emotionally to people he really trusts. Not traditionally attractive, but interesting looking in a way. Lots of freckles, bit of buck teeth with a big gap between his front teeth, messy kinda curly hair, long straight nose. Always wears baggy hoodies and worn out jeans, shrugs and gives that lopsided smile when people ask him about anything personal.

Mysterious Kennyyyy. You think you know him, everyone does, but in reality, very few have seen the real him. He likes people, and he likes to help them, he’s always down to listen to people’s problems and help them, he wants to inspire kids like himself to never give up and think there’s only one path for them, because he knows there is not. Volunteers at the animal shelter with Stan, works part time at Tweek Bro’s and is good buddies with Tweek. Had a early sexual debut, slept around a bit and got his heart broken unexpectedly when he was a Freshman, so there are some walls there now, but he ain’t usually one to turn down someone who’s up for it and whom with he has good chemistry either.

#kyle broflovski #tweek tweak #nichole daniels #leopold butters stotch #butters stotch #clyde donovan #kenny mccormick #south park #south park headcanon #south park headcanons #sp #South Park tag #sp kenny #sp butters #sp clyde #sp nichole #sp tweek #sp kyle

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an-ambivalent · 4 years

Text

Uchiha Therapist: Part I

Synopsis: Yandere! Madara x Reader x Yandere! Sasuke

[Name] is a struggling post graduate psychology student who has more on her plate than she can handle. Between her practicums to gain work experience and writing reports, to trying to maintain a decent lifestyle and look after her own mental health, there is little to no time left to work an actual paying job. Yet, money is essential for survival. So, she does the next best thing that has been trending recently to assure a good paycheck; she becomes a sugar baby. The only thing is, [Name] is unaware that she’s become sugar baby of the Madara Uchiha, the notorious CEO of Uchiha Corporation. She is also unaware of the fact that she’s the therapist of his nephew Sasuke Uchiha, who has begun treading over the professional boundary of a patient, and has started developing an abnormal fixation for his therapist since she seems to be the only one who actually understands him.

Warning: Although this story will come to contain yandere themes that can be triggering or uncomfortable to read, there are no yandere themes present in this chapter. It does have mentions of negative and tiring thoughts that may be triggering. Read at your own risk. This work is purely fictional and any yandere or other toxic behaviours that may be present in the future, know that I do not condone such behaviour.

Word Count: 4K

Story start; A day in the life of [Name]

On the night that started it all, when [Name] was feeling particularly disheartened and dissatisfied with her life, she had vented her frustrations and sorrow to her good friend Ino Yamanaka. Although many things in her life were going right, and she was privileged enough to have the chance to pursue her wanted career, it came at a cost. Her entire life schedule was fixed around her post graduation studies, other little spared time was for cooking and doing chores, and the rest was for sleeping. [Name] lacked the time for earning money, and doing things that were higher on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs — dating to find someone to create a meaningful connection with, or working on her previous hobbies.

The two friends had been consuming enough booze to be a little more than tipsy but not enough to be drunk. Some words were slurred, the fine motor control had decreased a bit, and with their faces slightly flushed, Ino was convinced that she had the best idea to [Name]’s problems.

Giggling at her own idea, Ino had snatched [Name]’s laptop from in front of them, and tapped various keyboard keys for joogle to search up. Once she saw the results, she clicked on one of the many websites shown as a result, and after a few more minutes of more clicks and keyboard taps, she had turned the laptop towards [Name] to see, with a triumph grin on her face.

“A sugar daddy,” Ino claimed proudly.

[Name] raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“A sugar daddy — it’s the perfect solution for your troubles. Not only will you get to earn more than enough, it covers the dating aspect too! Someone to spend your time with, to sleep over with — just without getting too attached. You’ll have a social life once again that doesn’t consist of you drinking booze with me or our other friends and you can finally afford to look decent again,” Ino explained straightforwardly.

[Name]’s eye twitched. “What do you mean finally afford to look decent again?” she inquired in a low voice, and glared at Ino, who smiled sheepishly at her.

“Well you’ve been a fashion disaster for sometime now—“

“Sorry I don’t have rich parents like the rest of you to buy me extravagant brands,” [Name] retorted, and a tick mark of anger bulged on Ino’s head.

“Well Sakura is a commoner like you too and even when she was a starving student, she still had a fashion sense. You don’t need to buy something expensive like jucci to look decent!” Ino snapped, and [Name] scowled at her.

“Whatever. This discussion is pointless anyway since I’m not going to become a sugar baby,” [Name] responded, and went to grab a bottle to consume more alcohol. However, the uneasy and anxious expression that Ino wore made her halt amidst her movements. All of a sudden, a cold shiver ran down [Name]’s back, and she felt a sense of dread building up in her gut.

“Please tell me you didn’t,” [Name] pleaded and Ino winced inwardly, before she turned the laptop around to show [Name].

“I did… I already signed you up. You have a date with him this Friday night.”

“INO!”

That was the gist of how [Name] had become entangled in her predicament with Madara Uchiha, and what was meant to be nights for [Name] giving her daddy some casual sugar, turned into an diabetic sugar addiction.

It was baffling really, how as children, people can be better in following orders than they can be as adults. And for someone like [Name], who had been studying psychology for years now, and began to work with the theories, one would think that practicing what she preached would be easier; she was great at helping her clients, but not much at helping herself.

“Make sure you don’t go with strangers” — a lesson that had been engraved in children at school and from their parents for their own safety. It was one of the most basic rules of common sense to evade danger; however, it was the rule [Name] failed to follow. Instead of not going through with her fixed date with a sugar daddy, who was a complete stranger and who knows pose what danger, she had gone through with it. And she had not even taken any caution to have their first meeting in a public place, no. She had gone to his home, which was the only place he accepted for their meeting, because she was too anxious to say no or not go through with it.

She really wondered how she was able to help her clients so well when she could not even manage her own anxiety.

So, now, here she sat. Since by Ino’s definition, [Name] was a walking fashion disaster, the blonde had refused to let her go without her help. Their tastes differed, but even [Name] had to admit that Ino had done an incredible job in helping her choose an outfit that was suited to her tastes. Granted, it was skimpier than what she usually wore and more figure defining, but it did make her look really nice. She did not look like a savage mess with evident dark eyebags who appeared to have just gotten out of bed and went to work straightaway like she did on a daily basis. But she felt exposed and uncomfortable in the setting she was not accustomed to.

The penthouse she had been invited to was extravagantly luxurious; the small dining for the two of them (her and soon to be her sugar daddy) was right next to the giant window in the living room that showed a beautiful night view of the Konoha city. Lighting in the room was ambient and romantic, and there was a small pizza, that looked ridiculously expensive for what it's worth, and red wine settled before her. While she did not want to indulge in such luxury, feeling on the edge of the seat because of how her sugar daddy to be was scrutinizing her with calculating onyx eyes, and never being the one to refuse free food, she mindlessly ate it, refusing to meet his eyes.

“You know, usually you’re supposed to make conversation and sell yourself to try and convince me of why I should stick with you rather than someone else,” Madara spoke, and this was so abrupt and unanticipated on [Name]’s part that she froze half way through biting her food. Her cheeks felt hot in embarrassment, and she awkwardly coughed loudly before looking up at Madara. Although he found her antics to be somewhat adorable, he kept a straight face. After all, to gain the attention of a man of his status, there were many who did the strangest things to appease him. Madara was not a man to be tricked so foolishly.

“Why should I sell myself when you haven’t convinced me to why I should be your….uh, sugar b-baby rather than s-someone else’s?” [Name] responded. She had started off strongly, but near the end when it came to referring to herself as a sugar baby and realisation of the situation sunk in, she felt herself become more flustered.

Now, it was not odd for people to be intimidated by Madara. However, acting in confidence at the same time, and to question his authority, that was new. The corner of his lips twitched upwards in amusement. He leaned back in his chair and raised a fine black eyebrow at [Name].

“And why should I have to sell myself to you? I’m the one who, essentially, is paying for everything,” he challenged, and [Name] scoffed at him.

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s really costing you,” she mumbled under her breath, before clearing her throat. “Someone else can pay me too.”

“You had no reviews on your profile, you’re lucky that I even chose to click on it. Usually, it’s hard to get started since no one bothers with anyone with no reviews.”

[Name] shrugged. “That was your own choice, don’t shift the situation onto me. And besides, how do you know it's only reviews that count online? I might know a lot of other sugar daddies I had in my past that desperately want me but it's lucky that I chose to give you, a stranger, the chance.”

Madara was amused by the fact that [Name] had used his own logic against him, and could not help but smirk. Even though it was more than obvious through her behaviour that she was an absolute newbie to this, he decided to humour her.

"Well, I am an Uchiha," Madara said simply, as if that sole reason explained everything.

[Name] blinked in confusion. "Uhhh, okay…? Well, I'm [Surname]. That explains why you should choose me.”

This time, her response really did leave Madara confused. His eyebrows were furrowed and there was clear confusion written on his face.

“You don’t know the Uchiha?” he asked incredulously. The urge to sigh in an exaggerated manner and snap at him was strong, but [Name] decided against it. With the way he spoke in that condescending tone, and expected [Name] to treat him as if he was of utmost importance, made it more than obvious to her that he was used to being treated as the highest authority. Perhaps he was of importance and not watching herself around him could lead her into a huge mess. But [Name] did not particularly care about his status or whatever he had going on that made him expect her to seemingly kiss the floor he walked on. If she cared about authorities and sucking up to people, then she would not be training to be a therapist in the first place. There were going to be times when she would have to fight authorities and regulations with her sweat and blood for the sake of her clients. And really, if [Name] did care, she would not have been here in the first place -- having dinner with a complete stranger.

“Uh I do?” she said, but it sounded more like a question. Madara opened his mouth to respond to her, but he shifted the focus of the conversation to another topic. He felt even more perplexed by [Name] now because how could she not know the Uchiha?

“Nevermind, it’s not of importance. Tell me, why are you in this line of business? You don’t seem,” fit for it, he wanted to say, but chose his words carefully. “The type to want to do this.”

In response, [Name] felt flustered. She wondered if it was really that obvious that she was not used to it and Madara was simply humouring her. She could very well tell him the truth that it was because Ino had tricked her into it. However, that would make her seem gullible. Now that she may be committing to this, she knew she needed to build a good reputation for herself. She decided to tell the half-truth.

“I need the money,” she answered in a murmur, before she brought the glass of wine to her lips, and took a huge drink from it.

Madara watched her with analytical eyes as she downed her alcohol, taking no moment to savour the taste. He had also noticed how she was on her third plate of their dinner and wondered if she had any decency and how she was capable of eating so much.

“Your job doesn’t pay you enough?” he asked in a genuinely concerned tone, before he followed [Name]’s example and downed his remaining wine in one go too. He had never done that before, and after finishing it, he had to admit there was an odd sense of satisfaction of not savouring its every taste and drinking it all together at once.

Madara was staring at her with anticipation and worry embedded deep in his ebony coloured irides. Frankly speaking, [Name] had not have someone look at her with such concern in a long time. Generally, on the rare occasions she did speak freely about her worries, whoever she shared her problems with would give her their own input rather than simply listening to her and asking her the right questions that would help her discuss or figure out her own problem. The sight of it made her heart beat faster, and she unknowingly found herself talking before she even what she was doing.

“It’s not that… Well, actually I don’t even work. I barely have time to breath, working is my last priority right now,” she murmured, nervously fiddling with her fingers, as she observed Madara from the corner of her eye.

“While I cannot relate to your financial struggles, I understand the situation you’re in. Becoming so busy because of a goal you once had, that you question whether it’s even worth pursuing it anymore. You lose sight of who used to be and the things that brought you pleasure. There’s always something to do that you can’t even remember the last time you truly felt alive,” Madara said thoughtfully, and his words caused [Name]’s eyes to widen.

“And no matter how much you want to try and change things, it just feels like you’ve been stuck in the same cycle and it keeps repeating over and over and over again,” [Name] murmured, sighing dejectedly. “I really hate the world.”

Madara chuckled at her declaration as he lifted another bottle of wine that was on their table.

“Me too. Why don’t we discuss more things we hate about the world and learn about what we in common over more wine?” he suggested. The edge of suspicion and tenseness he held before was no longer present. Instead, he was now feeling much more relaxed than he had in awhile, and felt intrigued about [Name]. The twinkle in his eyes in hopes to talk to her more caused her lips to stretch into a cute flustered smile.

“Sure.”

____________________

It was the week which was like the last and there was no change but stress levels felt higher. Even after a decent ten hours sleep, [Name] felt exhaustion crawling like bugs underneath the epidermis layer of her skin. Dark bags were swelled prominently underneath her eyes. Her hair was tied carelessly in a messy bun that fell to one side; it wasn’t pretty like the one’s beauty gurus showed. It was loose but the knot was tight enough to make the weight of the hair feel too evident with each passing moment. Taking a quick sip from her steaming mocha, she greeted the administrators on the front desk that were the first point of contact between clients and the therapists who worked further back in the office. This office was where [Name] was presently working to gain practice experience in her second practicum. Generally, students in training were simply meant to observe and learn. If permission given by their supervisor, they could step in. But in [Name]’s case, for the sake of the story’s plot, the office she had chosen this time were understaffed. And since she already had finished one practicum and had quite a lot of other experiences from volunteering under her belt, she was trusted to work independently with whatever clients may be assigned to her.

“Good morning Moegi and Konohamaru,” [Name] greeted, and the two looked up from their screens. When they noticed it was [Name], they beamed at her and returned her greeting in response.

“How was your weekend [Name]?” Konohamaru asked, as he handed her the appointment schedule of everyone she would seeing today.

[Name] was ready to give her autopilot response of it being "okay" and then quickly shooting a "how about you" like she usually did. However, before those words left her mouth she paused to ponder: truly, how had her weekend been?

It was okay. Actually, it had been more than okay.

It had surprisingly been a lot of fun. When she had went through with her sugar daddy date, she had somewhat expected that she may end up having sex with a rich man she would not have been attracted to and receive compensation for sleeping with him. But that had not been the case. Madara was quite attractive, and although the dinner date had begun with a few subtle jeers thrown at each other, she had ended up having a good time with him. The fact that she felt safe enough to be vulnerable with him in the way she didn't even feel that level of comfort with her friends, and shared things she hadn't even known she was bottling up - - it was such a profound experience. To go from discussing their hatred for many things, to confessing secrets and feelings they weren't judged for, but rather, listened to, to getting so drunk that they sang cheesy songs and ended the date with their own unplanned karaoke night, it left an odd feeling of satisfaction and joy in [Name]'s chest that she had not felt in a while. The knowledge of knowing that she would be seeing Madara again soon left her feeling embarrassed.

"It was," she began, and she covered her face with one hand to hide her embarrassment. "Really nice and fun. I had a good time," she murmured somewhat quietly. Then, right away, she scurried off towards her office before they could question her further or talk about their own weekends.

[Name] had left Moegi and Konohamaru surprised with her response, and the two turned to each other wondering if they had heard right.

It was after lunch when [Name] was indulging in some [favourite fruit] iced tea, hoping some sugar would help her stay awake when she had an appointment with a client she would be seeing for the first time. She had settled her drink on the table beside her, walked through the hallway, and into the main office with reception and waiting area for clients.

It was there she saw a young man not much older than herself. He had warm ivory skin and black hair bangs that framed his face. The back of his head looked like a duck’s butt. He must have heard her footsteps because before she even called out his name, he had looked up. When her eyes met his, she took a sharp intake of breath because he looked oddly similar to Madara. The way his obsidian eyes scrutinised her made her feel uneasy. Nonetheless, she gave him, what she hoped appeared to be a welcoming and reassuring smile.

“You are Sasuke?” she assumed, and he stood up.

“Hn,” Sasuke responded simply, and at the lack of any greeting or even a facial expression caused [Name] to sweatdrop. But nonetheless, she carried on like she did with all of her patients.

“Before we start your session, did you want anything? A hot chocolate, coffee, water?”

Sasuke raised an eyebrow at this before he replied nonchalantly. “A black coffee.”

[Name] nodded and just before she could speak once more, a head of messy black curls invaded her vision and she was greeted with a smile that was almost too falsely cheerie for her taste.

“Hello! I’m Shisui, Sasuke’s cousin. And stoic face over there is Itachi, Sasuke’s brother. You forgot about us Miss. Therapist,” Shisui greeted brightly. At his exuberant persona, Sasuke glared at him. The one who he had introduced as Itachi, sighed, and [Name] looked at them apologetically.

“Oh sorry, I didn’t notice you. Can I get anything for you as well? If you’ve been with Sasuke until this point, I can assume you’ll be staying with him.”

Itachi nodded and stepped up front and held out his hand for [Name] to shake, which she obliged to almost instantly.

“Yes. We are here to oversee my little brother’s recovery at my Father’s orders and make sure there is progress,” he explained simply. His words were harsh. It was evident in the way Shisui had become tight lipped, and how Sasuke had now averted his glare onto Itachi. [Name]’s eyes shifted to observe their reaction and then returned to Itachi who was looking at her stoically. It wasn’t too obvious. However, she noticed with the way Itachi’s jaw was clenched more tightly than it had been before. This change in his body language clearly indicated that he had not wanted to say what he did and he did not want to be here. And from the intense glare Sasuke regarded him with, [Name] safely assumed that whatever was going on with Sasuke, Itachi seemed to be a part of it. Underneath Itachi’s pretty eyes, she noticed a sense of tiredness that was all — physical, mental, emotional and more. She saw that same sense of exhaustion on her own face each day.

The session had not even started and this was already turning out to become so complicated. [Name] hoped she would still have her sanity by the time she graduated and came to do this full-time. There were some of her colleagues who never bothered with rules or following basic procedures to assure their clients comfort and wellbeing. Lucky for her clients, she did. And when she needed to, she would bend over backwards and willingly go beyond her capabilities for them.

She knew from the way they all held themselves, and particularly with how Itachi had spoken that they were of important status. Their ‘father asked [them] to be here’ was a subtle way of implying that she could get in huge trouble if she did not comply with them. But [Name] just didn’t care.

She turned to Sasuke with a stern look on her face and motioned towards Shisui and Itachi.

“Do you want them there to support you or would you feel more comfortable with just you? Either way is fine. It’s your decision,” [Name] said smiling at him.

The three raven-haired males that had been introducing themselves moments ago stilled and their eyes widened in shock. Shisui was the first one to snap out of it.

“Uh, Miss. Therapist, I don’t think you know—“

“I know what I’m doing. Please refrain from implying such things and let my client decide for himself,” she retorted, narrowing her eyes. Shisui went to warn once more, but he was stopped by Itachi, who shook his head.

Itachi’s gaze went to Sasuke, and then back to [Name] as he spoke.

“I’m sure she knows what she is doing. We all wish for Sasuke’s wellbeing. We won’t intrude if he doesn’t want us to,” he proclaimed. That was his way of hinting for Shisui to drop the subject, and reassuring both Sasuke and [Name] that he was on their side, particularly with Sasuke, letting him know that he would not let their father find this out.

“Aniki,” Sasuke murmured in disbelief, staring at his brother for a few moments. Then, he looked back at [Name] to see she was still giving him the same sweet and gentle smile she had greeted him with.

Maybe, perhaps, this time, signing up for therapy would be worth it. Maybe he could allow himself to talk to her and not fear judgement and consequences like he had with his previous therapists.

“I’d like it to be by myself,” he murmured, looking away from her with slight pink cheeks. As his eyes had drifted away from hers and met Shisui’s, who gave him a warning look, his shoulders tensed and his eyes snapped back to [Name] right away. “P-Please and t-thank you.”

He did not need to glance at Shisui again to know the oldest male was now grinning at him.

Seemingly, his politeness seemed to be unexpected and Sasuke wanted to scoff at how [Name]’s eyes had lit up in pride. It almost annoyed him because did they really think he was that dimwitted?

“You’re welcome. Now, follow me please. Shisui and Itachi, our session will be around an hour so you can come to pick him up in that time,” [Name] said. The two of them nodded and waved the two goodbye as Sasuke followed after [Name] to her office.

-------

A/N: (tbh, uhhh, I plan for this to be a yandere story [whispers: eventually] but this chapter is fluffy. I honestly don’t know where I’m going with this or if I’ll add more Uchihas as love interests and turn into a reverse harem for [Name], I’m gonna make shit up as I go along and hope it turns into something decent lol gang gang. I just need to write a story I can write without worries and just enjoy the process of it rather than caring about where it leads. So yeet. I hope you join me on this journey <3)

#yandere x reader #yandere sasuke #yandere naruto #yandere madara #naruto #madara x reader #sasuke x reader #naruto x reader #uchiha x reader #akatsuki x reader #naruto imagines #naruto headcanons #possessive #sasuke uchiha #madara uchiha #ambivalent writes #uchiha therapist part 1

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zoryany · 4 years

Text

Starry Gets Personal

hello, friends and followers! this blog is primarily for fandom, writing, and the odd miscellaneous sort of post, and I don’t get super personal here very often, but recent events have spurred me to open up about a couple aspects of my mental health, specifically my experiences as someone who has been diagnosed with both Borderline Personality Disorder and Bipolar II.

I will go into a bit more detail, below the cut, because this is very personal and I know not everybody wants to read a big long post about mental health, but my tl;dr version is basically that... my mental illnesses have caused me to do and say some pretty awful shit. they’ve caused me to make some decisions that I absolutely regret. and these things that I’ve said and done have had very real and very harmful consequences for myself and others. but I am a person who is capable of growth. of recognizing when I might be slipping up. and sometimes things go sour anyways. but I do not wish to be defined by my mental illness. nobody should be.

now, if you wish to keep scrolling, by all means, I hope your day is wonderful. if you’re interested in some more details, click on... potential cw for discussion of self-harm, suicidality, abuse and substance use (all fairly mild, no explicit details)

now, I’m not interested in publicly airing dirty laundry. there are certain boundaries I will not cross in the telling of this tale. I have permission to share things about myself, but I have no interest in smearing anyone else, so details will be omitted or altered where possible, and vague when not.

I’ve had some difficulties with friendships before. some have been because of petty, young girl “pal” bullying, some because we’ve just fallen out of touch, and some because there’s a perception that I’ve somehow changed. it can take me some time to open up and be more vulnerable with people. while I try to be open, I’m much more likely to offer up a shoulder to cry on than to ask for one myself. then, as I get more comfortable with people, I will ask for a bit more support. and often, all I really need is a bit of reassurance, a sign that there is care, and I’m pretty good at self-soothing from there. I can have incredibly violent mood swings, at times, but they die down fairly easily, as is common in borderline. in addition, I have never self-harmed. I have never been actively suicidal, beyond the odd time of “wow, not existing right now would be really rad, wouldn’t it?” I am incredibly lucky, in this regard, because the statistics regarding borderline, bipolar, self-harm, hospitalization and suicide are incredibly grim. but that is not me, and because I am taking medication and regularly seeing my therapist, I am actively making sure it will never be me.

in addition to BPD and bipolar, I have ADHD. these things combined mean rejection and abandonment sting real bad. to the point of a straight up meltdown / tantrum bad. and I am willing to call some of my episodes meltdowns or tantrums. this is not true for all people with these conditions, but for me, that’s kinda what it feels like. these intense feelings just need to flare up and burn themselves out for a bit and then I’m usually fine within a few minutes, hours or, in the most extreme cases, days. these emotional episodes are not always related to abandonment or rejection, but they can be, and they can lead to some pretty nasty things. I can dissociate. I can enter a state where I genuinely don’t recognize what I’m saying. and I like to compare them to fire that has been inadvertently fueled far more than expected. the fire cannot help that it flares. it cannot help that it lashed out and was stronger than anyone meant it to be. that does not heal the burns it caused, though.

earlier this year, I had a pretty... rough falling out with a friend. for the duration of our friendship, both my borderline and bipolar were undiagnosed. I had received a depression diagnosis before and borderline was suspected at a couple of points, but neither diagnosis was confirmed or treated until after the friendship ended. while I was able to make do when things were generally good, the lack of a diagnosis or treatment for either borderline or bipolar made things extremely difficult when things got bad.

the two of us were online friends for nearly two years, and we had gotten really close. spoke every day, hung out most nights, shared a lot of very personal things with one another. it felt really good to have that kind of connection with someone. because it felt so good in these early stages, and because I was undiagnosed at the time, the friendship developed into one that didn’t really have clear boundaries.

it is important in a relationship with a person who has BPD to establish boundaries. I have been determined to be much more careful about these boundaries since receiving my diagnosis, because I cannot place that responsibility solely on the other person in any sort of relationship. I have also seen the consequences of carrying forth with a relationship that does not have boundaries, and I do not wish to subject myself or anyone else to that level of pain.

now, again, I will not go into a great level of detail, but I would like to discuss the last week or so of this friendship.

I began to feel that this friend was pulling away from me. I also just so happened to be PMSing, which can amplify symptoms of my mental illnesses. this friend wished to take a bit of a break. I have never had a friend who has actively asked for a break before. it felt like confirmation that they were pulling away. I did not react well. I cannot recall all of the details. I dissociated through a lot of it. but I do remember that I said some horrendous things both over text chat and voice call. things that were manipulative. things that were abusive. I lashed out, I hurt, sought to make my pain felt, was angry...

these things really hurt this former friend. so much so that they did end up leading to them calling it quits. they no longer felt safe in the relationship. that led to even more lashing out on my end, even more hurt, and it was all around unpleasant, to put it mildly. there is a very real pain that can spring up with BPD, and it doesn’t always isolate itself to the person who has the disorder.

I have not spoken to this friend since we called it quits. one week later, to the day, I saw a psychiatrist and received my diagnoses: Borderline Personality Disorder, Bipolar II, ADHD and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I am taking medication. I am seeing a therapist. I have grown as a person since this experience and gained new tools to handle extreme emotional situations.

there are still times when impulsivity will flare up and I’ll spend more money than I should on things I don’t need or over-indulge in substances at a gathering. there are still times when my emotions get the best of me. I still occasionally fall into hypomanic episodes and become someone who may not quite be myself. these are things that have placed strain on me, my family and my friends. but I am working on them. continually.

I do not think that people with mental illness, disorders or disabilities should be exempt from critique of their actions. I know that my actions have consequences, and I have seen them multiple times. what I refuse to believe, however, is that I am a fundamentally terrible, awful, abusive person because of these actions. coming to terms with my diagnoses and my symptoms has been a journey, and while I do regret a lot of things I have done or said over the years and wish I could change countless outcomes, all I can do is to continue to press forward and strive to be the best me I can be.

thank you for making it this far. I hope that if any of this resonated with you, whether you share a diagnosis with me or have other similar experiences, then you may feel some level of reassurance. and I hope you all understand me just a little bit better. all love to you!

Starry

#starry things #I feel it's important to be open about mental health #so I'm going to share this #and I understand if this is a bit heavy #i just wanted to share my story #borderline personality disorder #bipolar #bipolar ii #adhd #bpd #mental health #mental health things #mental illness #personal

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diningpageantry · 5 years

Text

Put A Ring On It

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19934752

Epilogue of “It’s A Handheld Disaster”

Word Count: 2165

Summary: After years of being together, Baz finds the perfect spot to propose at.

Notes: this fic has been a long time in the works--as in, i started it nearly two months ago, didn’t have a laptop for a month and a half, and finally was able to finish it tonight. this goes out to @the-lincyclopedia, who i promised this to a while ago (i’m sorry it took so long omg). i hope y’all like it!!!

~~~~~~~~~~

“You really won’t tell me where we’re going?”

The cellophane wrap around the flowers squeaks as I squeeze the stems, letting them roll in my hands as Baz’s fingers keep snuggly wrapped around my bicep. I feel his index and middle finger tap a few times while the soft rumble of his voice just barely escapes the thundering noise of the underground.

“No.”

My lips press together as I huff, staring out into darkness.

Fucking drama queen, with his blindfolding and romantic gestures.

“I hate you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

I can’t stop myself from smiling, even if it’s a tiny smirk. “Never have. Doesn’t change the sentiment, though.”

His hand curls tighter, pulling the fabric of the nice shirt he made me wear. The car jostles, and we roll our feet with the track’s bumps. It isn’t really jarring, but instead a bit calming. Baz’s head drops to the top of mine, settling there as his hair falls down and brushes my cheek. I move to push it off, but it falls right back into place.

“Do you not trust me?” Baz murmurs, his hand sliding down to mine as my nose wrinkles.

“Of course I do,” I protest back, taking hold of his hand and pressing out palms together. His fingers sink right into place. “After nearly half a decade, I don’t think I have much a choice, do I?”

Pause. “No, not really.”

“Thought so.” We lean against one another, the car of the train rocking a bit and starting to squeal into the next station.

“Mind the gap between the train and the platform,” it stirs, the masculine voice speaking over head before changing to, “This is, Bakers Street.”

Baz gives my arm a good tug, leading us out of the Tube as I blink curiously. Yes, sure, there’s a few things around here that are worth the trip. Like that one shop with the fantastic lemon poppy muffin, or the zoo, and of course the Gastrell museum, but it’s all usually a bit of a splurge given our usual budget (especially since his father stopped sending cheques once we graduated).

“Can I take off the blindfold yet?” I ask, feeling him pull me out towards the stairs.

“Not yet,” he calls, steps ahead and voice getting lost amongst the crowd. In hopes of keeping him close, I tighten my grip and carefully follow him step by step.

The crowd keeps around us, and finally breaks as we rise up into the outside, city air.

It’s a change in volume now. Moving cars, passing busses, and the remarkable scent of the nearby street cart vendors.

Baz drifts close enough that I can take hold of his bicep, feeling the slight chill of his skin underneath as I walk closely to his side. “How far?”

He hums beside me, other hand closing around our joint ones as the wrap for the flowers audibly catch on his face. “Not even five minutes--will you hold up until then? Please?”

I sigh, dramatically, and tighten the hand around his arm. “Five minutes?” I enthuse dramatically. “Better be for the bloody Queen.”

“I thought I was the queen of this town?”

“Drama queen, maybe.”

I feel a pinch at my arm, and I can’t help but smile, tugging him closer as we slow our strides. His hand circles around mine, rubbing my wrist and soothing my nerves as we step in time together. It feels like we’ve always been like this--in synch. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but we’re always in this rhythm.

I wonder, sometimes, if that’s what made me fall in love with him. The beat. A nonstop back and forth. A pace to our connection.

Something irreplaceable. Something I don’t know if anyone could ever replicate.

We weave about and walk in time until we get to a stop. He tugs my arm back, looping his free hand around my elbow as I halt and turn at his will. Suddenly, he lets go before steady hands work around my skull, unwrapping and untying the careful knot in my blindfold.

Once it falls, I see it in fine, carved lettering.

“The Huxley Gastrell Museum”

I turn slowly back, barely seeing the excitement contained on Baz’s face as he tries to gesture up cooly. “Well?”

“Holy shit,” I laugh. I don’t have much else to say, or do, besides hug him tight, nearly making the flowers fly everywhere as I exclaim “Holy shit!” once more.

He smirks proudly, arms circling around me and tugging our bodies together. Keeping mindful, I carefully tuck my face into his neck and press a soft, slow kiss to his skin. It’s a bit cold to the touch, but easy to indulge in.

He hums, clearly grinning as he speaks. "Happy anniversary, my love."

Pulling back, my face starts to hurt from all the smiling. "Fuck you, and your surprises," I breathe cheekily, nose brushing his as I go in for the kiss.

We laugh together before he hauls me into line, letting me practically curl around his bicep and kiss his shoulder as often as I like. Screw anti-PDA bullshit, he's getting all my affections.

“How long have you been planning for this one, then?” I hum, glancing around the street as I think through it. Sure, he’s been putting in hours at the bookshop he’d took the job at last year, and we’ve been eating out a bit less, but I’d figured we’d just been saving generally.

Not that this is expensive, or anything. Just not something we tend to work towards spending money on. Still, not a terrible surprise by any means, regardless as to how deep we are (or really, aren’t) in the fandom, nowadays.

It isn’t like we abandoned our love of it at all--quite the opposite, really. Our bedroom practically has a shrine, after all. Stacked special editions, antique copies of the book. Copper busts, the collector’s item dolls. Hell, Baz even got the same type of violin that Gastrell plays as a holiday gift two years ago that just sits there and collects dust as a display centrepiece. It feels like, sometimes, we appreciate it more than we did when we were younger.

But our worlds changed.

We found new ways to cope. New ways to love.

Healthier things to enjoy.

Our blogs are still up, but just shifted a bit. Mine ran out of focus and is mostly my shitposts now, while he’s moved towards more life-updates sort of shit. He’s got enough followers accumulated over time that they shockingly care about what we do now, but the overarching urge to post about Gastrell has died down.

Now it’s just people asking about our lives (and Penny’s too, by relation). It’s a bit amazing that people actually care about shit like our relationship, but it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy when people ask if we’re planning on getting married. Which, we agreed that we’d wait until we were done schooling to figure out that far into the future.

Although, now that we’re done, it feels like neither of us have mentioned it. And, while it doesn’t feel awkward, it still comes back into my mind every now and again as a question. I tend to ignore it. Figured we’ll talk about it when he’s ready.

But now? Now we’re in a happy place, regardless. Separated from the past now, and moving towards a new life.

Which excludes most of our old online life--guess isn’t a shock, anyway. Given the fandom’s practically dead along with it. Still, we read reread the stories, rewatch the better episodes, and always use it as our go-to for a costume party.

But it feels like history, now.

It’s still part of our history--Huxley and Sammy. Part of their story has become part of ours.

“Planned the museum idea a month or two ago,” he says, a bit self-righteously (still a prick, after all this time). “Good idea, though, isn’t it?”

“Suppose so.” I shrug up to him as we step ahead. “Lucky guess, but good idea.”

“I never guess on these sorts of things.”

“Liar.”

Together, we wrinkle our noses up to one another, then follow the line as it scoots closer, people piling into the bottom of the shop.

We’ve been down here before--we came here the first week we moved into London. Which, strangely, feels like centuries ago now.

We didn’t have much money to do anything, but we just wanted to peer inside, given this space is free. Fiona bought us some housewarming mugs here that day.

I smile when I see the same ones, looking over them as we brush past and head towards the ticket booth for the proper parts of the building.

Baz pays with cash as I lean against his arms, trying to get a good look up and sniffing my flowers happily. It looks like what I’d imagined from the book--especially with the way Baz peppers in emphasis on details.

He reads a story aloud whenever I can’t sleep. We’ve gotten through all the stories twice now.

I tug on his sleeve again as he’s thanking the ticketer, practically buzzing as he laughs at me and finally follows along as I dash up.

“Why don’t we start at the top?” Baz says gently as I practically skip my way upwards. “Work our way down?”

I shrug, nodding silently as we brush past other people stopping off immediately at the second floor. I tug him along, taking some steps two at a time to get up and finally start to look about the space. And, while it isn’t quite boring, the third floor fascinates us both a bit more, despite the wax sculptures feeling a bit creepy. I’ve never quite been one for lifelike shit that isn’t living, after all.

Still, it’s interesting. The staple items--the ones to gawk at. The ones I tug his arm over, watching him grin as I excitedly sneak in references.

He stays a bit silent most of the time, his hand in his jacket (which I probably should make fun of him for--it feels a bit too warm for thicker clothes). Sometimes I catch him staring at me instead, which I tease him a bit for, but he nudges my arm and rolls his eyes as his response.

“There’s only one Gastrell Museum,” I remind him at one point.

He shrugged, which made me feel a bit off, but I shrug away the thought. Maybe something to talk about later.

I do catch him after we make it down to the second floor, though. Give him a good peck on the cheek as we huddle into a corner.

He raises a brow as I stare up, one hand settling onto his chest.

“Just… wanted to say thank you for a fantastic present,” I whisper. “I don’t know if my anniversary breakfast quite lives up to this one.”

His face breaks into a private grin, eyes rolling as he kisses my cheek back. “I thought the pancakes were an excellent effort,” he whispers, making my cheeks flush.

Effort is the right word for them.

“Thanks,” I scoff softly before we step into the main room, glancing briefly before deciding to head through the back rooms first before taking it all in.

It’s fun to gaze around the bedrooms, sure, but I’m practically bouncing on the balls of when we make it back to the main one.

Baz lets go of me as I take a step closer to their armchairs set up, borderline vibrating as I peer around the space in front of me. “Hey Baz,” I start, going to spin around as I speak. “Can we take a picture of--”

I nearly drop my fucking flowers, staring wide-eyed as he exhales, kneeling down and staring up at me with raised eyebrows.

“Holy--”

His smile and hand movement cuts me off as he opens a box, grinning like a madman. I swear, I’ve never seen him this genuinely joyful. Half makes me wonder if he’s just having a laugh, but fucking hell, the ring that he’s got int here looks expensive and old. “Simon,” he says gently. “I could give you a year’s-long speech about why I love you, but it’s never going to properly summarize how I feel. You have been, and still are, the most important thing in my life, and I’d be honored if you--”

“Stop rambling,” I laugh, bending down to grab his face. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

He blinks, a little taken aback by my response, but ends up just pushing himself up and snogging me, right in the middle of the room.

Screw the fannish shit I wanted to do--kissing Baz in the middle of the Gastrell museum is probably both the best possible and most appropriate thing for us to do here.

After all, it is part of our history.

#it's a handheld disaster #carry on #snowbaz #fanfic #fanfiction #fic #mine #ficlet #one shot #simon snow #tyrannus basilton grimm-pitch #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #baz pitch #simon #baz

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gibsonmusicart · 4 years

Text

What's Fair In A Record Deal

By Chris Standring

I recently re-read Courtney Love's famous "rant on the major label cartel", a fascinating and inciteful criticism of the major record company contract system from a signed artist's perspective. If you haven't yet read this you can read this here in the A&R online reading room. For those of you who are not up on this drama, Courtney Love sometime ago expressed her dissatisfaction with her own record deal and artist deals in general, deeming them to be corrupt, an "act of piracy" and exploitative. She goes on to say that it would take millions of record sales for an artist to recoup promotional money spent in order to see any money at all from record sales. It is a very long, yet thoughtful essay on the music business seen through the eyes of a successful artist. I would like to offer my take on this subject if I may indulge myself, and offer a personal opinion on what changes might be made in order to exercise a more fair record contract situation. Courtney is absolutely right when she talks about artists not making money from record sales. I think that first I should quickly point out (for the benefit of lesser experienced artists) that there are two royalty sources that an artist is technically able to benefit from. The first (and Courtney's main concern) is "artist" royalties. These are royalties due to an artist from record sales. Usually, an artist can be offered anywhere between 10 to 20 royalty points depending on his/her credibility, etc. The second royalty source is "mechanical" royalties. These are royalties payable to the songwriters. Last time I checked the statutory rate was around 7 cents per song (possibly changed again by now). A songwriter who writes 100% of an album's worth of let's say 10 songs will, therefore, make 70 cents per album sold. This is payable from record one. It is therefore extremely beneficial for artists to write the music they record! Anyway, the only real drama with mechanicals is that labels somehow get away with paying artists only 75% of the statutory rate, which means labels are effectively withholding 25% of the copyright income. There is absolutely no reason for them to do this apart from the fact that they have always got away with it! This is one thing I would like to see changed. Very successful artists can usually negotiate 100% of the stat. New artists, very very rarely. Let's go back to our "artist" royalties because this is where ALL the problems really lie. Let me explain what the problem is really all about. Let's say a major label has just signed your band "The Ahmesh Conspiracy" and offered you an exorbitant amount of money. Your attorney has negotiated an artist royalty of 15 points. Traditionally not bad for a new artist. Here's the way it works... Every single promotional penny spent on promoting your record, be it video costs, indie radio promotion or retail programs, etc, is recoupable from your royalty points in some way, depending on how your contract is set up. Some things are charged to the artist at 100%, some 50%. What this means is that in order for you to recoup let's say $100,000 in promotion, the record company will have to receive income almost 10 times that amount before you clear that recoupment. (Don't forget, you the artist won't see a penny until your recoupment is clear). How is this so? When $100,000 of income goes to the record label, only 15% of that goes towards your recoupment. You are recouping at a snail's pace because you are recouping at 15% of the pie! That means that realistically, you can never really make money because if records are selling well, the label will continue to spend X amount of promotional dollars which in turn gets recouped at the 15% snail's pace. It's a complete joke! While you are going more and more in debt, the label may be making millions! It takes an Elton John or Mick Jagger to make artist royalties. Pretty frightening huh? So how have artists been existing up until now and what is there to hope for? Firstly, smarter artists become hip to the fact that they HAVE to write their own material. Secondly, once they have a hit record, if they are really smart they will have their attorney attempt to re-negotiate certain things in order to keep everyone pacified. (Let's face it there is nothing more counter-productive than a reluctant artist!) One of those things may be to "clean slate", which essentially means to have the label wipe their recoupment bill from a previous record. This is only possible from an artist with a very successful CD, however. There has to be a tremendous amount of positioning to pull this off. Aside from living off publishing income (mechanical royalties), a successful artist can always tour. The more successful an artist is the more the band can be "guaranteed" high-performance fees. A successful artist touring can command thousands of dollars per show which record companies do not take a hand in. This is an important revenue for artists. So this is the way it has been up until now. I say "up until now" as nothing has changed yet, but with people like Courtney Love going to court over this, things may indeed take a turn, whether it be now or later. I would personally like to see two important things changed in standard recording contracts: Firstly, regarding artist royalties, artists should be able to recoup at (at least) 50% (50 artist royalty points) until their debt is paid. Once their debt is paid, then a lower artist royalty rate might then be acceptable. The sheer fact that labels recoup from artists at such a pathetically low rate means that there is no hope for artists to make money this way. There has to be a new higher percentage to recoup at. Secondly, regarding mechanicals, as I mentioned before, I would like to see it made illegal that labels can even offer 75% stat. It HAS to be 100%, non-negotiable. Finally, and something I want to say that Courtney will probably disagree with, is that labels should make the lion's share. Why? because I believe that anyone who stumps up the money in the first place should make a larger percentage. Otherwise, artists should do it on their own (and of course are doing that now, but usually with complications as there is little money to play with). I am more than happy to see artists sign a record deal where a record label makes more money than them, especially if an artist is new, undiscovered and needs a huge promotional break. That takes a ton of money. Money artists don't have on their own. That's why we have record deals. HOWEVER, this aside, I want to know I too can not only eat but make good money if I am signed to a label that has me signed to a contract for 7 frickin' albums!! That's a long long time to be tied up let me tell you. Especially if CD's are selling and you ain’t collecting! So, sure, I want to see big changes, it's high time! I think it has to be in perspective that's all.

Source: Music-Articles.com

#musicindustryblog #musicindustryarticles #musicindustryadvice #musicbusinessarticles #recorddeals #musiccareertips #musiccareeradvice #UnsignedArtists #unsigned bands

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angrylizardjacket · 5 years

Text

sharp dressed {Joe Mazzello}

@yourqueeniac asked: Hey friend, its been a rough week. I was wondering if you could do some Joe comfort/cheering up? I just really need some Joe cuddles right about now.

@80sfeel asked: please GOD can you write joe x reader comforting reader after a long hard day? (i stan you so hard and i’ve had a rough day and i could use some fluffy joey)

Anon asked: Please write something disgustingly domestic with Joe!

A/N: 1493 words. Nonbinary/transmasc reader, no pronouns used at all, just that the reader is wearing a binder and a suit for the awards show. this is incredibly self indulgent and has been sitting in my drafts half written for a month, it sort of fits the prompts, but not 100% so i hope it’s okay. no time like the present. it’s just a little thing i hope you enjoy.

The night of the Golden Globes was dripping with glamour; you’d been dressed to the nines, well tailored suit over a new binder, makeup impeccable and eyeliner sharp; your stylist team had really outdone yourself. You’d spent enough time squishing your chest around beneath your binder to get it to sit correctly for your first actually tailored suit that you felt justified in your vanity, and before you’d even left your hotel room you’d taken a bunch of mirror selfies in the rich, colourful suit you’d chosen for the occasion. It was a night of partying, of watching your favourite people earn awards they had so rightfully earned.

You took pride in your friends, and of course your boyfriend, who had spent half the night drunk and taking photos for Instagram that would just pour gasoline onto the fire that was the shipping wars between the people who shipped him and Ben, and those that shipped him and you. It was all in good fun, of course, you’d been with Joe for almost three years now, and still going strong, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t added fuel to the Ben/Joe fire online yourself.

But as the party began to die down and people started heading back to their hotels, you could feel yourself getting tired and antsy as you looked through your Instagram feed. The cast and crew of Bohemian Rhapsody were wrapped up in a group hug as people started to announce their plans to leave, and when Joe spots you off to the side, frowning at your phone, he reaches out, calls out, and pulls you in to the group’s embrace.

“Something’s on your mind,” Joe’s playing with your hand in the back of the car taking you back to your hotel. The gnawing discomfort in your chest is something you’re painfully aware of, and it’s not the usual aching discomfort of wearing a binder too long; this one is new.

“I don’t know,” you sigh into the silence that permeates the back of the car, leaning across the empty middle seat to rest your head on his shoulder, before unclipping your seatbelt as the car stopped at a light, shifting to close the gap between the two of you. You both know how tired you are; he doesn’t press the issue, just wraps an arm around you and tucks you closer to his side.

His hand is warm in yours where he holds it all the way through the lobby, into the elevator, keeping you close where you’re both starting to tip into drowsy.

“Also, I don’t know if I told you this,” and he’s smiling a little in the slow moving elevator, because he knows he definitely has, “but you looked incredible tonight,” and he says it anyways because he loves the way your face lights up with bashful joy whenever he says it.

“Thank you,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his cheek, but then as you think over it, your expression starts to fall as you as pulled into your own mind, your own thoughts.

“There it is again,” he reaches up to tip your chin up gently, concern in his eyes when his gaze meets yours, “something’s up.” You can’t really form your thoughts into words, merely humming with discontent and shifting away from him to avoid his gaze. “If you want me to drop it I will,” he assured, and as the elevator door opens, you stepped out, considering your next words carefully.

“No, I mean I don’t mind talking about them - it’s nothing serious; not about us -” you assured quickly, a look of relief passed over Joe’s concerned face.

“I was worried there for a minute.”

“But it’s not like, your stuff to deal with, like it’s not stuff that someone else can fix, I just gotta get over myself, you know?” There’s a moment that stretched between the two of you as you stand at the door to your room, Joe frowning with the keycard in hand as he tries to decipher what you’re trying to say. “I’m worried the internet likes Ben more than me.” You blurt out, and Joe’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise as he opens the door.

“Are you jealous?” And there’s not even a hint of teasing in his words, he’s genuinely concerned, but you have to laugh. You’re not even a little bit surprised by Joe’s confused look, it wasn’t even close to the reaction he had been expecting.

“I have no doubt in my mind that if you wanted to be dating Ben, you’d be dating Ben,” you grinned, and Joe thought on that for a moment before making a noise of agreement, and stepping in to give you a kiss.

“He’s not my type,” Joe agrees, stepping through to the rest of the room, toeing off his shoes.

“And that is?” You asked with a grin, and there’s mischief in his eyes as he throws his response over his shoulder.

“You.”

“Gross.” You snorted in response, but before he could protest you’re stepping in close and wrapping your arms around him. “Get that sappy shit out of here,” voice soft, you can’t help but smile before you lean in.

“Absolutely not,” he grins in response, and closes the gap between you before you can protest, not that you would.

“What are you worried about, just about the fans’ reactions in general?” By the time you’ve broken apart, started to actually undress, he’s back to your initial concern, and there’s that uncomfortable sensation worming back into your chest.

“I just know that,” and you actually hesitate for a moment where you’re unbuttoning your dress shirt, “things can be intense online, like they’ve been intense before but not like this, you know? And I know I love you, but it’s just hard when people either hound me for information about you, or send me nasty messages because I’m supposedly “ruining your relationship with Ben”.” You’re breathing hard when you finally come to a stop, dress shirt crumpled on the floor where you’ve thrown it, concern etched deeply into the lines on your face. “I block them, but I’m just worried one day I’m gonna snap and be nasty back, and then you’ll not be able to be seen with me because I’m ‘problematic’ or some shit.” You’re even shaking a little now, your mind flooded with all the nasty and cruel messages you’d been sent by supposed fans since the release of the film.

“Hey,” Joe’s by your side in an instant, holding your shoulders gently, voice so gentle and caring that it’s like a life raft in the ever growing sea of your dark, internet-related thoughts, “I love you, and telling people to fuck off for harassing you isn’t going to change that; nothing on the internet is going to change that - that place can be awful, I know.”

It’s like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding as you surge forwards into his arms.

“Thank you,” you breath, and he hums assurance, hands warm on your back, before he’s tugging at the edge of your binder.

“You want some help with this?” And it’s not even a sexual thing, at least not right now, but he’d seen you struggle with it too many times, and he knows the drill by now. You accept easily, pulling it up as far as it can go without straining yourself, and ducking a little so Joe could pull it off the rest of the way, tossing it to the side to deal with tomorrow.

“I love you too, you know that? ‘m very grateful for you,” you muse softly, wrapping your arms around him, your chest pressed to his as you both stand in your suit pants in the middle of the dimly-lit hotel.

“Get that sappy shit out of here,” he smirked in response, and you can’t help but laugh as he peppers your face with kisses. When you pull back to start undoing your pants, you click your tongue. Before you fully move away however, Joe ducks to press a quick kiss to a red mark the binder had left on your chest, not that it had been painful or too tight, you’d just been wearing it for a while.

“I haven’t even started with the sappy shit;” you snickered, though there was a fondness in your eyes that you couldn’t hide as he moved back, “your movie won a goddamn Golden Globe tonight, if you think I’m not gonna spend the night telling you how proud I am, and how much I love you, among other things that I know you’re gonna enjoy, you’re dead wrong.”

“Best damn night of my life,” Joe breathed, and you laughed, loud and bright and unselfconcious as your pants dropped to the floor.

“So far,” you corrected, “we’ve still got the rest of the award season to go.”

#joe mazzello #joe mazzello imagine #joe mazzello x reader #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #borhap cast #borhap cast imagine #bo rhap #bohemian rhapsody imagine #the angry lizard writes

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the-sky-fell-blossoms · 5 years

Text

Not as Easy the Second Time Round [NESTR] (Part 2)

I found myself at work after that intrusion. It was a welcome distraction after baring myself in front of a stranger. There was only one person I'd ever consider thinking about doing something so unnecessary with, and he was proving to be exceptionally hard to get in touch with.

Jihuyn always made it a habit of probing me for anything on my mind. No matter how irrelevant it may be to me in my opinion. He’s always had accurate hunches in regards to how I was feeling, often before I even began to feel it myself. Now, when I've never been more confused, it was morbidly poetic he's nowhere to be seen. I constantly found myself in need of one of our talks. One without a tape recorder and false pleasantries. Jihuyn would tell me everything wrong with me. Give me vague and sentimental advice, I wouldn't know where to begin with following. He'd pat my shoulder and smile warmly. Although debatably useless, the comfort from the teal haired man made up for that in leaps and bounds.

I, in return, would let Jihyun know when he's being too emotional. Give a practical approach to the problems the soft-hearted Jihuyn put himself into. Tell him point-blank he's being stubborn or ridiculous. Ironically it was him who was the more close-minded out of the two of us. I would relent when proven wrong. Jihuyn often chose to hang on tighter to his own stance and dig himself into a worse situation than necessary.

I sighed, or maybe it was a groan. Even a glass of wine wasn't taking the edge off tonight.

Usually, on nights like these, I'd open the Chatroom. I'd open the app and there'd be a new update waiting for me. Luciel insisted that maintenance was his highest priority, he would never let work get in the way. Years ago he claimed not to be a liar nor fool when it came to things so serious as a possible threat. I would take every update as proof as such. Although annoying when I was planning on sharing an update of my own to Assistant Kang and inappropriate when something important needed to be discussed regarding the RFA. It was at least a testimony that Luciel did take his responsibility for the RFA seriously.

I didn't tonight however, I was spending less and less time online. I remained oblivious to this fact until I was graced with a call from MC. Claiming everyone was concerned by my disappearance. More so than Yoosung's.

That made sense. What right did I have to mourn more than someone who's lost both their best friend and their cousin in the same year? Luciel was someone I met who happened to share a common goal. Although, the RFA was a family and treated themselves as such. To Luciel they must have had such an estranged relationship. Second to none but the one the redhead shared with my own Assistant.

The connection Luciel had with Yoosung, it was palpable. You saw it in both of their eyes, although they held vastly different things. I often prided myself on being able to read those around me. It was obvious there was more there. The subtext in Yoosung's words. There was no way the older of the two missed that. I was certain even the newcomer MC felt it after only a day although she said nothing. It would have been a pleasant relationship. Luciel would have never smiled more than teasing Yoosung for kisses and hugs, Yoosung would have accepted whatever he felt without looking back and made him feel that he was needed at every turn.

I stared down at my drink in deep thought. Yoosung indeed had better justification in his mourning. I'll have to make a note to pay him a visit. Perhaps out to dinner. Yoosung would never refuse an invitation to free food. Maybe while out I'll take the opportunity to talk to him about working for me in the near future. Luciel would be pleased to know the blonde wasn't left to wallow on his own again. When Rika left us, Luciel was away with work, not returning until just before the funeral. His return mere days before and he didn’t even seem aware of the passing. He immediately asked for Yoosung. They drove together to the funeral later that week. Comforted him, or at least attempted to after he got into a screaming match with his mother at the reception. There was only one time that entire night he ever left the boy’s side. It was to speak with Jihyun and I.

Everything today went back to one of the two. Jihuyn… Luciel. My thoughts recently indulged in clear bias. It is hard not to think about them, however. When Rika passed and Jihuyn started his disappearance act, it was the same.

The only difference is I’m not as sure I should be mourning at all. At first, I did, blinded by loss and the news that Luciel had not been retrieved when Prime Minister Choi was brought into custody. All I could think was the worst. Everything was spinning and it was as if I was suffocating. Luciel was gone. The man I watched grow all those years. He was taken from us. I stood there trying not to let emotions, I didn't know were coming, take over. My breath through my nose short and hectic.

It had, indeed, been a hard time.

But after a week, I got a sudden call from Yoosung. Whatever spirited him to do such a thing was beyond me. What willed me to answer, even more so. "You… Understand. I saw it on your face. Seven always teased that reading you was easy if you get a feel for how you looked when you actually couldn't care less. And Venn diagrammed your faces. I didn't get it, but then… at that moment when they told us… I think I got it."

I said nothing. What Luciel joked about to Yoosung was none of my concern, nor why. How you would even go about following his inane instructions wasn't at all a can of worms I wanted to indulge in either. How I came up in conversation. There were no topics to touch on. I wanted no part in acting like a widow, reminiscing. I didn't want to remember.

"I really miss him…" I steadied my breathing, that week I had buried myself in my work and pathetically called Jihyun. Perhaps by the hour. "He always said he'd be gone, that- that he might not make it to see the end of the year." Yoosung was crying, I couldn't bring myself to end the conversation or change the subject. I sat there at my desk like a fool listening to the boy bare his heart to me in some desperate attempt for connection. "He always said not to worry, that we should keep going, be happy, and keep going even if… I just miss him so much."

"I do too." I do not know what possessed me to say that, but I kept going. "No one could have known this was going to happen. Not even Luciel." Had he known he wouldn't have been taken.

"No." He chuckled, even through a sob, "he just thought he was talking about leaving forever. I told him we'd help him, everyone in the RFA would. If anything happened. But we couldn't. We tried, everyone, even Saeran. So why…"

I paused at this. "He… was very adamant about protecting everyone no matter what. Were something to happen, he'd take any measure."

"Yeah…"

After that, I let him go on about anything that came to mind, classes, how everyone was keeping up, Saeran. I didn't say much at all, but he seemed not to notice. Or perhaps he didn't care. He didn't come to me when Rika had her time, and Jihuyn would have mentioned it if he had given him the same treatment I was receiving. He said i understood, that he saw. But even in retrospect, I have nothing to have any kind of understanding on.

It was troublesome to dwell on. But I'd be forever thankful for that call. It gave me some kind of hope. Luciel had training, means and years of resources. They had not found a body and Prime Minister Choi had admitted to nothing.

I reminded myself of this, though foolish to keep faith in such a small, minute, possibility. It was a possibility. Until the day I identify a body. It's a possibility.

It is a possibility I found myself resigned too. I am not personally one for betting, but Luciel proved himself to always be a safe one.

…………

He was there again, this time by himself. He stood in the door frame in a hoodie that seemed much too big for him. It did nothing to make him seem more comfortable or fool the CEO into thinking he wanted to be here. If anything he looked like he was barely holding in a sigh when the man opened the door. He was tired but tried hard not to slouch, his expression cold and unimpressed by the other. Which was not unwarranted, Jumin had just gotten home from work and was reasonably disheveled. Company had not been on his mind that night. Though from the other’s expression it probably wasn’t on his either. He stepped out of the way wordlessly and let the smaller male in, pulling at his tie with intentions of removal, preferably. He’ll regret his lack of manners later, after he had a drink. The silent gesture luckily didn’t go unnoticed, after a moment his guest stepped in and made a B-line for the couch. For the best.

Jumin stepped back in and went to the kitchen to fetch what seemed to be two minutes overdue. “Is there anything you would like? I remember you had opted out of a glass last time you were over.” He said pouring a glass for himself. Fortunately, his fatigue had not made him forget all manners.

“No.” He looked over through his wire glasses. His golden eyes just as piercing from here. They kept eye contact for a short while before Jumin pulled away and sat with him across the couch, bottle and glass in hand. He seemed to tense as the ravenette got closer. Watching as if there was a chance he’d pounce at any second, Jumin made no reaction to this, however, simply taking off his jacket and sitting down with practiced elegance. He still felt the other’s eyes on him but he simply sat quietly and put his drink to his lips.

They sat like that for a while, Jumin didn’t mind, however. It was perhaps what he was going to do anyway, he was thankful that he wasn’t being distracted from his alone time. Luciel seemed more than happy to sit there and stare until dismissed, and while he did not want it, the company was not despised. He was most likely in a good mood or maybe just in the mood to drink and be stared at.

By his third drink, however, Luciel seemed antsy. And while Jumin usually couldn’t care less normally. He was feeling talkative, and he was interested as to why the boy paid him a visit tonight. The wine doing its job of loosening him up.

“Why are you here?” Didn’t mean he was any less blunt, however. He still kept in the back of his mind that Luciel was a guest but all parts of his mind slipped into parts they didn’t belong. Constantly fixing the leaks before talking is a skill he is well versed in though.

He nodded his head as if thinking of how to answer, his curly bangs shifting lightly over his hooped glasses. He seemed pensive, as if he really didn’t want to say the wrong thing, somehow sitting up straighter, his hand gripping at the velvet of the couch. “V said I should see you. I don’t really know why.” He cut himself off prematurely. He obviously had more to say. Jumin was getting a better feel for the boy, or at least when he was uncomfortable, a constant state for the boy. But he seemed well adapt to silence. So Jumin just took another drink and decided it was best to continue.

“I spoke to V shortly on my way home. The conversation had no real subject, but he seemed interested in when I got in. I should have suspected something sooner... “ It was a short conversation, Jihyun hung up as soon as he got the estimate. There was really no time to question his behavior. “

“I believe he wants us to bond for some unforeseen cause.”

“Perhaps I’m secretly a clone gone wrong, or an illegitimate child.” The redhead mutters to himself, in all honesty, Jumin was surprised he answered at all. He finished his glass and hummed in thought at the statement.

“Well, there was this one time I decided to indulge in a commoner stylist. There is no telling what they did with the snippets… and there was the one time when I was five and had my first sip of wine… That night was rather blurry. How old are you again?”

“I’m 17…” Jumin looked him over. He looked much younger than that. He almost didn’t believe him. Luciel hardly seemed surprised at someone openly studying him. “My birthday is pretty soon.”

“Ah, sometime in the summer?”

“Yeah…” He seemed uncomfortable, whether it was about his age or his birthday, wasn’t certain, but Jumin took note. Leaning forward towards him Jumin squinted as if looking for something he found in the other’s eyes after a moment.

“So it’s possible.” He whispered as if telling him a secret.

Luciel blinked caught off guard for a moment. Jumin could tell the second the joke had registered in his head. The beginning of a smile ghosted over the smaller male’s lips before he turned away and muffled a laugh, which was also taken into note by the older man. After a pause, he turned back once again expressionless. “Very.” In one word he lost all the tension in his shoulders. Oddly enough, Jumin also felt himself lean back.

No, he didn’t mind the unexpected company at all. He’d sooner die than admit this to Jihyun, alcohol speaking or not.

#Mystic messenger #mm jumin #mm luciel #juciel #jumin x Luciel #jumin x 707 #jumin han #luciel choi

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papersandkeyboards · 5 years

Text

5/31 to 6/5: (everything else and) Prom

36th WEEK, MAY 31-JUNE 5, 2016.

English class has always been interesting to me. If I think about it, English class (be it here as a first language, or back home as a second language) is always more fun than Indonesian Language class back home. In my class in Rainier Beach, which is IB English Language and Literature, we read classics and Shakespearean plays and interpret those. (don’t get me wrong, I had to read The Scarlett Letter for English Lang class during my short stop in Houston and it was painful, but something about how English teachers’ way of teaching is so interesting and, of course, not boring)

For the semester’s big project, however, we were told to make podcasts. About anything.

I understand that podcasts aren’t much of a thing in Indo, but the simplest way to explain podcasts in a nutshell is audio lectures, audio books, discussions, serial stories, or anything about a topic. And honestly, it’s not even just lectures. You can talk about anything in a podcast (in my Theory of Knowledge class, we listened to a series of online podcasts entitled “Serial”, which covers a story for each season that is told in an interesting and comprehensive way).

But this time, Mrs. Shaw doesn’t limit us to just audio, but we can put visuals in it as well. So, basically saying, our big project was to make an audio or video file talking about things which has our arguments in it. And we could do it individually or in groups of three, max.

Me, being myself who essentially resents group works can be quite an individualist, of course, decided to do the podcast by myself.

And me, being myself who almost always aims to be anti-mainstream, chose a topic that most people would hate and throw rocks to after the first glance.

I argued that zoos aren’t necessarily inhumane to animals. For a side that believed that zoos are downright cruel and disgusting, I stood against them.

Of course I know people aren’t always going to agree with me, but as a (used-to-be) debater, I tried to smother everything in good wording (and some solid arguments can i get a hell yeah), and at the end, all I need to be satisfied was Mrs. Shaw saying “you got a point.” (aka “hmm iya juga ya”).

It was an enjoyable school task to do. Ehe.

Anyway, the next two days, Wednesday and Thursday, were two sacred days we all students acknowledged dearly as Early Release days. The neverending amazement of Seattle has turned me into somewhat a Dora the Explorer, even though it was clear that I have always been a damn-straight home person back home. Would rather stay home that being somewhere else.

But an exchange student logic was that you’re missing a lot of you spend a lot of time at home.

So Kira and I hit the waterfront and rode the Seattle Ferris Wheel.

And the next day I spent by myself, visiting the Seattle Art Museum and indulging my fangirl side by watching X-Men: Apocalypse.

Remember I mentioned once that it was the time of SIFF—Seattle International Film Festival?

Karen, Eric, and I looked up the showtimes and movies, trying to find anything interesting, and of course the choice went to an Indonesian movie, entitled “Copy of My Mind”, so we watched it on Friday evening.

It never occured to me that films in film festivals aren’t those up the regular theaters. Most of them are months old before the time of the festival itself, some even a year old or more. But I guess that’s the point of having film festivals: as a platform to promote films, because almost all of them don’t include big starry actor names, and all of them aren’t in a franchise.

Copy of My Mind, however, was starred by Chico Jericho and Tara Basro (blame was on me for just recognizing these names for the first time), and soon after the movie started, I got why I’ve never heard of this film before back home: it would never be able to air in Indonesia. Simple as that.

As usual, my movie-goer sense was so much indulged in cheap plots of franchise films where every message is shown explicitly during the film with a mandatory happy ending and a bonus of occasional car explosion, so when I saw the ending of Copy of My Mind, I was disappointed. I didn’t get the message.

(later I googled the film and it turned out to be a hard-core social and political satire towards my own country) (so yeah, go watch it guys) (majukan perfilman indonesia)

On Sunday, I was reminded by the remaining days I have by attending Nouha’s goodbye party. She would leave three days after the goodbye party, which is June 8, and I’m still staying here until the end of the month, but surely it sucks to remember that you have to leave eventually.

But the goodbye party was a fun one—sliders, chips, other typical tasty American barbecue snacks in the backyard, people bringing going-away presents, and of course, pictures.

(I swear the pictures were up somewhere but now I couldn’t find them)

---

Aight. That’s quite a brief (???) summary of how the first 5 days of the week went. Whereas I usually said the fun part comes in the weekend, this WHOLE week was full of fun and things to do (thank God for early release). HOWEVER, though, however,

this weekend was Prom.

That’s right, everyone, you heard it. The infamous American High School Prom.

....

Gitu aja sih. Ehe. OKAY. Prom in Beach... was definitely UNLIKE Proms in other, harshly saying, white rich school everywhere else. But the part where people ask other people to Prom, well, that was done everywhere, I guess.

I was walking the hallway when Rebecca and the others stopped by and Rebecca asked me, “Nabila, who are you going to Prom with?”

“...????? I don’t know??? No one asked me to.”

“It’s America, you can do whatever you want. Why don’t you ask somebody?”

yaela yang bener aja lu dasar ampas kepala.

Jadi gini sih. The way Prom works (or at least in my school) is that only the seniors are invited, unless the seniors ask somebody else from other grades—juniors, sophomores, freshmen, or people from other school—to be their prom date, then those persons are also invited. And I know Kira is a junior, so I asked Kira as my prom date so she can experience prom and everybody is happy. Also because Rebecca and Emily were committees so there are fellow juniors there. yaela padahal karena emang gaada yang ngajak dan akhirnya ngajak temen sendiri supaya tidak garing

I didn’t take too much trouble setting up a promposal—Prom proposal—unlike those who are seriously dating—a friend from Theory of Knowledge class made a poster and got his football team to promposed his girlfriend, it was very sweet—and because I was an awkward unromantic piece of shit, I asked Kira to be my prom date during stretching before softball game.

She was appalled. At least she wasn’t repelled, which was good. Good thing she didn’t expect a canon of flowers or posters or an orchestra playing for her to be promposed.

And that’s the story on how I got my prom date.

Which was totally not unusual, because at Prom night I found out that Alex asked Justin, a junior, so that Justin can experience Prom with his senior fellows too. Zion, who is gay, asked Nina out of friendship. A lot of people do that that night. Many people even went with their squads instead of being in pairs.

When Kira was scrolling through numerous online shops to find a dress, I bought mine in Nordstrom Rack—which was basically Nordstrom but they sell old stuff that were cheaper (because I didn’t feel like spending hundreds of bucks on a dress I’m gonna wear, like, once or twice for my whole life). Not only I bought it in Nordstrom Rack, I also bought it last Febuary, which was before Winter Ball. That being said, I used the same dress as what I wore for Winter Ball. Which was good, because I didn’t want to waste money on dress I would most likely use once. The admission ticket was around $40 anyway, while other schools my AFS friends were in charged around $80-100 for it. sekolah saya miskin emang, tapi asik.

Sementara ada temen-temen saya yang ‘melamar Prom’ pakai poster, bunga, permen karet (dia nawarin sekotak permen karet gitu trus pas dibuka ada tulisannya ‘Prom?’ trus dikasih bunga, lucu abis sih), ada juga temen yang asal ngajak cewek manapun yang kebetulan lewat, dan kalau ditolak, geser dikit trus ngajak cewek lain terdekat. But then again, I didn’t know how significant a prom date is—whether being asked to be prom date equals being asked to be one’s girl/boyfriend, or is it just a one-time occasion thing?

Whatever it was, I do know that at least Prom in Rainier Beach High School doesn’t shun single people. Yay. Nabila can go to Prom without worries.

HOWEVER.

However, around a week before Prom, I found out that Indonesian Students’ Association of Seattle University (ISASU), which was like a couple blocks from my house, was holding some sort of event, and guess who came as a guest star.

....

NO.

I DO NOT LIKE HOW THIS TURNS OUT.

I REALLY DON’T.

After contemplating which one is rarer: to experience a classic American high school Prom night every exchange student wants to be a part of or meet a massive Indonesian dazzling pop-star in person, I did what I thought was best for me: I chose Prom and let go of Raisa, with the arrogance of “I’m Indonesian, she’s Indonesian, we’ll meet again but I only have this one chance for Prom” without realizing that that will least likely to happen.

I came to Kira’s house on Saturday afternoon, June 4, 2016, and ate Indomie for pre-Prom dinner (Prom dinner paling tidak modal sepanjang sejarah manusia). Then we had a photoshoot in which Kira and I look like a happy couple of lovers. Then Laura drove us to the venue. Which was a not-so-big space in SoDo but enough for the whole class lah.

(pic credit to whoever took this)

Long story short, it was fun. At first it wasn’t really because both Kira and I did not know many seniors despite some people I recognize from classes I am in, so we talked with Emily and Rebecca. Then people I know started to show up—Nina, Justin, Zion, Alex, Gretar, and others—and we danced. What was fun about it was that everyone didn’t dance with their dates, but mixed in into big groups of friends and was having a pure hyped-fun time instead of a romantic one. (not to brag but Nina and I did some duets and we were killing it) (kapan lagi bisa hacep dan meliar kaya begini ya)

The King and Queen of Prom, instead of voting, was done by a raffle (maybe so that everyone can get a chance instead of a cliche competition of popularity). Rony got King and Antoneyah got Queen. There was also two photo booths, an elegant one with a sofa and a fun one like a photobox along with hats and fake mustache and other stuff you could use.

(’twas Rebecca, Emily, Rony the playboy, me, and Kira)

(terus baru 3 tahun kemudian AFS menggerayangkan gerakan AFSPride)

(mampos kenapa w pendek sekali, bahkan dalam standar orang indonesia)

(tUH udah naik tangga pun masi lebih pendek)

THEN, the event continued for whoever wants to join everyone to the Seattle Ferris Wheel, while free tickets were provided! We sporadically went to the Ferris Wheel by Uber—some people didn’t come due to curfew and probably an after-party somewhere (I finally convinced Kira to join after many considerations. Since the Wheel was closer to my house, she agreed to crash in my house after).

Lucu banget aih. Anak-anak remaja pakai baju-baju bagus, sebagain berpasang-pasangan, dan sebagian lagi bergerombol kelompok, dan rame-rame masuk ke kereta Bianglala.

(’twas Gretar, Alex, Justin, me, Kira, Zion, and Mohamed)

Kapan lagi kaya gini huhuhu seneng.

It was—I don’t remember—a bit after midnight? After we were done Kira and I took an Uber back to my house, had ice cream in my bed while watching Monsters University, and fell asleep halfway through the movie (and my laptop ran out of battery).

---

Aaaand that’s probably as close I could ever be with Raisa: in the same city, neighboring neighborhood.

But at least, thinking back, I would not trade the experience I just had with anything else.

Salam dari penghadir Prom Rainier Beach High School dengan style hijab paling cantik (karena memang satu-satunya),

Nabila Safitri.

#langkahanakbangsa #rbhs #prom

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