#also the fact they cut any songs and add their own is deeply insulting when they cut two of the universally best ones. Good for you IS the

[lofi-tophat]

Let’s talk about the 70s punk scene and HWS England

I sometimes feel that the fandom doesn’t give England’s love for punk/rock music much justice. Some authors usually write about this human AU in which Arthur wants to be a rockstar and some others plainly avoid the topic whatsoever. Which is a pity because I actually believe the whole character has a deep punk reference, specially regarding appearence (might expand on this in another post but basically, for me, England seems like some random bushy browed anime 70s punk guy who suddenly has to put on a suit and attend world meetings, which is both fascinating and hilarious).

So I thought maybe we could dive a bit into very general punk history and then I’d like to share with you some hc regarding England’s involvement with punk culture in general (if you just want to read the hcs just scroll down to the last paragraph with the bullet ponts).

My experience in punk stuff is actually that I’m kind of a metalhead lol. Metalheads and punks had and probably still have a deeply-rooted rivalry. However, punk influenced metal a lot, and metal also influenced punk. So I stumbled upon many punk facts while browsing about my favorite metal bands. 

Take this as historical hetalia... but counterculture historical hetalia :D (which is something we need more in the fandom, btw, I know military history is cool but its also cool how humans expressed themselves through art, fashion and music when they felt the pressure of authority and the frustration of society).

Historical context

Let’s return a bit in time and remember the 60s. The 60s were this blessed time in which people tried to defeat the establishment with peace and love. The hippie movement is from this decade and it influenced a lot on how people thought and behaved. In terms of counterculture, I must say this is a fascinating time in history (I recently discovered psychodelic science and its so incredible what was being talked back then).

Anyways, although a lot of young people were into this discourse of love and peace, some weren’t really that happy about it. In Europe, the post-war situation was sad and a lot of young people either were jobless or had the shittiest jobs you could imagine. Politics were also depressing. This was the origin not only for punk but also for other genres of heavy music, such as metal: People who didn’t want to be all happy and peaceful and had the need to express their frustration and anger, shouting about how society was fucked up. They needed an outlet.

Origins of punk

The origins of punk music are actually not quite clear. In fact, the US and the UK both claim that punk music was born in their country. Funnily enough, my country also claims to be the origin of punk (I’ll leave this mini-doc for you. Sadly, I don’t think this is a correct claim, mainly because their music was in spanish and I doubt that major punk bands took them as reference. Its a cool band tho).

I have to side with americans on this: The arguments for the american origins of punk are quite solid. The Ramones were the first actual punk band out there. They were active since 1974. Their music had all the elements of punk and, chronologically, they were the first ones performing this type of sound.

However, they didn’t have the aesthetic. That actually was a british invention. American punk had still leather jackets, jeans and sneakers. British punk? Well, remember all those ripped pants and shirts you commonly associate with punk? Yes, those were the Sex Pistols all along. They were the ones introducing the attitude and the style. The Pistols had some insane performances and a huge shock-value that can’t be found in early american punk. So you can safely say that your image of what a punk is is based mainly on the Pistols (also, for singing anti-authoritarian lyrics, they actually were managed by some dude who had a fashion shop. So yeah...).

Punk attitude or philosophy or whatever

The reason why I addressed the rockstar thing at the start of the post is because I find it curious. Punk is characterized by the whole Do It Yourself attitude and breaking with the establishment. Anarchism in punk is scandalizing people since there is no authority whatsoever. There wasn’t really any deep philosophy behind all of this, nor any political movement. Punk has nothing to do with a formal anarchist philosophy (which actually exists and has nothing to do with disorder). However, punk is characterized by the anti-establihsment lyrics. Remember, this is all about scandalizing people (which sometimes took great lengths). Presentations from british punk bands were also quite wild those days. They involved a lot of insults, spitting and, of course, pogo.

So, it is obvious that there is this deep concern about turning into a sellout, a pretty common fear in any underground scene. Authenticity was encouraged. Aspiring rockstars really didn’t have much mercy in the community so to speak, at least in this specific period. 

I would also like to add how punk had other aspects beside the music. For example, fanzines were pretty popular in the punk scene in the 70s and a great way to engage with what was going on with bands and music. I remember also this interview of this band in which they remembered how a very high guy decided to recite his poem while the band was playing. So, yeah, literature, illustration, fashion and other stuff were involved in the punk scene too.

British punk was also characterized by a very nihilistic attitude and a total disregard for previous influences. 1977, a song by The Clash, stated:

No Elvis, Beatles, or the Rolling Stones!

Now, for the important stuff: The music. Punk music is all about being simple. Punk musicians aren’t really known for their virtuosity in their instruments, something that actually inspired musicians from a lot of heavy bands later. In fact, the famous Sid Vicious from the Sex Pistols never could learn how to play the bass. So the band disconnected his instrument from the amplifier and he only had to pretend to play. The guy actually tried to learn how to play bass but music wasn’t exactly his talent. He had tons of punk attitude though, and that was the reason why his band didn’t kick him out. 

Vocals are usually shouted, the rythm is fast and the riffs are quite simple. In fact, there is this famous publication on a 1976 british fanzine that stated:

This is a chord

This is another

This is a third

Now form a band

HWS England and the 70s punk scene and onwards 

Thanks to his immortality, it is obvious that England had to experience the 70s in all their glory (what a lucky bastard). Was he there? Hell yes. As I explained before in some of my hc posts, nations represent the population more than their Government, so I really believe that England felt the frustration from that post-wwii decade and he probably also felt pissed about this. Working for the Government must have felt really frustrating during those years. 

In the past, he probably would have tried to take his ship and sail the seas or whatever, but that was not possible in the modern era. I guess that’s how he discovered punk. 

Now, rock existed in England before punk. I mean, the Beatles, duh. So Arthur wouldn’t have been completely ignorant about rock music in general. Contrary to popular belief I don’t imagine him being that much of a beatlemaniac though. Sure he likes them, but the music didn’t resonated with him as much. But boy, that first time he heard the Pink Fairies in 1971 (Yes, this was an actual band, a proto-punk band)? Yeah, he could relate more to that.

More detailed stuff here:

Pubs were crucial for the development of punk music. They were these spaces in which bands could play, a venue to discover new music. Yes, Arthur must have been a regular in a lot of these pubs.

Fanzines probably fascinated Arthur as an outlet for his own writings and silly drawings. He probably created a cringey pseudonym and collaborated with a lot of them. 

Its canon that England likes to critic american movies, and, taking from there, I think he’s the type of guy that has an opinion for everything. So I can imagine him also writing about what bands he enjoyed and what bands sucked.

Yeah, I can also see him being drunk and just reciting a poem while some rock band played behind.

With some ability, and a lil bit of tricks, Arthur could escape normal Government activities and perform with punk bands at nights. People were so into the music that he had no problem passing by.

Some cover art in CDs show Enlgland with a guitar and a bass (yes, not many people remember the bass cover art). So he probably plays both guitar and bass. He also probably plays the drums. Of course, he’s no virtuoso and he only knows the most basic stuff in those three instruments. I can see him being into songwriting tho.

Music equipment:

Guitar: Definetely a Telecaster

Bass: Fender P-bass and I can also see him having a Rickenbacker 4001

All these instruments are full with stickers. Punk instruments look really cool btw. (I wish my bass could look like those I see in certain punk bands)

England’s probably the kind of guy that doesn’t cut his strings at the head of his guitar.

He can actually play guitar/bass and sing at the same time.

England plays bass with a pick (what an asshole, we bassists know picks are not allowed)

Contrary to popular belief, I can see England appreciating good rock music from other countries and supporting them. He probably insists that punk music was born in the UK though.

1977: The Queen was going to celebrate her silver jubilee. And England had no problem with this. He really had none... but he HAD to be in that boat trip with the Sex Pistols. There’s no way he was going to miss that. He later had to explain his abscence that day to his Government officials (Btw, my hc for England’s relationship with his monarchy is “It’s complicated”. I can explain this later. Just remember that he was really pissed those days)

I can see Arthur in general being really involved with the scene. A lot of the stuff they were making actually matches with his canon interests and even personality. So he probably enjoyed those days and felt quite at home. I can even say that, for a long time, he hadn’t felt that kind of connection with his own people.

Although I can see England being attracted by the nihilism in the scene, I think his romanticism protects him from embracing it fully.

England had to live a double-life during this era. Not that it was new for him.

Arthur was pierced several times by some random, drunk teenagers. He doesn’t remember who tho. He was also drunk. Obviously his piercings close really fast, unless he has a permanent jewel in there.

I can actually see England expanding his music taste. Although punk is in his heart, it wouldn’t be strange for me that he’s overall a rock nerd and enjoys other genres, specially those with fast drum beats and heavy riffs. So I can see him having some metal favorites too, having a certain taste for prog rock and even digging into hardcore.

I’m still unsure if England would have been a massive Pistols fan as fanfics usually portray him. I mean, maybe? I would say he is definetely into acts such as the Pink Fairies (I mean, c’mon, its perfect). The Clash and the Damned probably also have a place in his heart.

After the punk scene dried out (the 80s weren’t that great for punk music although it was the birth of even heavier forms of music based on punk), England also was eager about the new genres flourishing during these times based on punk. Acts like folk punk might have had an appeal for him. He’s also fond of the punk-ish bands from the 90s like Green Day.

“Punk will never die!” shouted England while stage diving in some random small concert. He likes to support new bands these days.

The most fascinating thing, maybe in a more poetic sense, is that England’s immortality probably also helps him to keep up a punk spirit as much as his nationhood allows him, instead of aging poorly and angry like a lot of punk musicians... I mean, he aged poorly, but for other reasons lmao.

#hetalia #hws england #lofi-tophat: really long hc #in the next issue: America is a swiftie WITH EVIDENCE #I do enjoy some american metal bands but I don't see America being that much into heavy music #he probably doesn't even care if punk was born in the us or not so england maybe won that one #guys i could ramble forever with my music hcs but ill just leave you with Moldovas extensive pop collection #finland's passion for folk metal acts like korpiklaani #and cuba shouting AZZUUUUUCAAARRR in karaokes #btw pirate metal exists kind of as a subgenre but it exists and england is into it

[panda-noosh]

Hold Me While You Wait {Shiro x Reader}{The Rockstars Series}

The Rockstar Series: a series of fics documenting rockstar!Voltron falling in love.

Words: 14k

Summary: What a coincidence that the first person to catch you breaking and entering is also the lyricist for your favourite band.

Genre: angst

Warnings: swearing - violence - abuse  

Notes: masterlist - well the rockstar series took an angsty ass turn. 

--

The window was open. That was their first mistake.

   It was almost as if this stranger wanted you to crawl into their house. The open window, the fact that they were never home. It was the perfect setting for a perfectly set out plan – one you were going to put into action today.

  Lotor took the lead, struggling to fit his broad shoulders through the relatively cramped window panes that apartments on this side of town provided. You stood impatiently behind him, arms folded over your chest and eyes gazing up into the sky – nobody could see you, considering the stranger hadn't cut down their trees in a number of years.

    “Take your time,” you jabbed. “I'll just wait here.”

  “Be quiet!” Lotor hissed, before he finally managed to squeeze himself through the window. He stumbled, just barely catching himself on a small coffee table holding an empty fruit bowl. You followed in after him, managing to squeeze through a lot quicker.

  Lotor glared at you as if that very fact was an insult on his pride.

  You ignored him and started what you had come here to do; even though you knew you had all the time in the world, there was still a sense of rush that came with doing things like this. Zarkon would never forgive you if you and Lotor walked back to the house with nothing to show for the days endeavours – those were the worst kinds of punishments. He hated it when you spoke back to him, hated it when you were out late, hated it when you didn't pick up the phone, but the worst kind of punishments always came when the two of you didn't do your job right.

  The apartment was smaller than you were led to believe from the outside. There was a sofa, a small TV, a small kitchen and three steps leading to a hallway that directed you to what you assumed had to be a bedroom and the bathroom.

  “I'll take the living room,” Lotor said. “Stuff in here is heavier.”

  You nodded, refusing to argue. You darted up the three steps and headed for the first door you could see. Opening it revealed a bedroom, a double bed in the middle, a guitar propped up in the corner, multiple crumpled up pages strewn across the floor. You didn't fail to notice the half-open bin of notebooks at the end of his bed – where most people kept a hamper of clothes, another desk perhaps, this stranger kept a bin full of old, used notebooks.

    You would be lying to say the curiosity within you didn't peak, because it certainly did. You had broken into many, many houses in your time, and each one had a story of their own. Why did they choose that wallpaper? Why did they like the pattern on that sofa? What made them not want to get Sky and instead suffer through the limited channels of Freeview?

  For this particular house, why did this stranger decide to keep an abundant amount of notebooks?

  You couldn't give yourself the time to think of an answer. Downstairs, you could already hear Lotor shuffling around, the crinkle of his bin bag as he stuffed it full of possessions that were not his own. You shoved the guilt to the side and darted into the bedroom, unrolling your own bin bag and starting from the bottom.

  You started with clothes. Mens clothes, mainly consisting of black and whites, a few grey shirts thrown in for selections sake. They looked close enough to Zarkons size – he would be happy about that. He would praise you for those.

    You moved on to the wardrobe. Inside, another guitar was propped up. You ignored the twitch of your fingers, that voice in the back of your head that was telling you to just give it a go. Just this one time. But already you had passed boundaries that nobody should ever pass, and you didn't want to throw any further risk on yourself or Lotor.

  So you shoved past it and dug inside the shoe boxes that were lined up by the wardrobe wall. Inside was even more notebooks.

   You frowned. What the hell? Were you dealing with a collector? Were any of them actually used? You didn't know, but you wanted to find out.

  Lotor was still rummaging around downstairs. You were ahead of the game, had a few extra minutes to kill before the two of you would start going through the escape plan and getting the hell out of here...

  You convinced yourself. You reached forward and snatched one of the notebooks up, leaning back on your heels to read through it.

  Lyrics.

   Lyrics, poetry – whatever it was, it littered each and every page. The words were accompanied by tiny doodles, the words 'Smokey Saturdays' written across the top of one of the pages in big, bold lettering.

  So the stranger was a fan of Smokey Saturdays too.

  The fact amused you; you had been a fan of Smokey Saturdays for years now, having bought their debut album entirely on a whim when you and Lotor were out perusing the high street for Zarkon. You had been a fan ever since, and here you kneeled in a strangers home, getting ready to steal their belongings, only to get distracted by the fact that they had something in common with you.

  “It's a small world,” you mumbled, before Lotor's heavy feet came barrelling through the hallway.

  You whirled around just in time to see his red face appear in the entrance. He skidded to a halt, grasped the door frame and said three little worlds that sent your heart stamping into overdrive; “He's home early.”

  You had no time to think about your actions, to think about the bin bag you had left stranded on the strangers bed. You shoved the notebook back into his shoe box, slammed the cupboard door closed and followed Lotor out into the living room – the living room that lad been left an absolute mess by Lotor's grappling hands.

  You froze. “We can't leave it like this.”

  Lotor was busy stuffing towels into his bin bag. “We don't have a fucking choice, alright? Now help me haul this thing back down the fire escape. Did you get yours?”

  Your heart thundered as you shook your head. Lotor's gaze hardened, his mouth opening; he was on the verge of yelling at you, on the verge of telling you how stupid you were because you both knew what this meant – you would arrive home empty handed, and Zarkon wouldn't like it. He would lose his head. He would punish you.

  Nonetheless, Lotor was smarter than that. He was also aware of the time crunch, and refused to spend another moment dwelling on your failures – not whenever the man who owned this house was on his way upstairs.

  “Fine,” Lotor said, going back to his own collecting. “It's fine. We're fine. Maybe my bag will be enough. Now help me-”

  He swung the bag over his shoulder and darted to the open window. You stumbled after him, gripping the window frame-

  Lotor tried to squeeze through and got caught halfway. Your heart sank.

  “Not now,” you whispered. “Lotor, not now.”

  “I can't help it!” he hissed, struggling against the frame. “Fuck, this hurts!”

  He had managed to launch the bag through the window, but his body refused to follow. You shoved your shoulder into his side, but you did nothing besides cause him pain. He swung his head back, white hair billowing over his shoulder.

  “We'll need another method.”

 “Hurry up!” you hissed. “You said he was home!”

  “I saw his car pull into the car park,” Lotor replied, before he inhaled deeply, turned back to the window and-

  He fell down the fire escape seconds before the front door opened and a voice echoed out in the living room.

  “What the hell?”

  Of course there was nothing you could say to explain what was going on. You didn't even want to turn around, afraid of what you would see because it was obvious what you would see – the stranger would be stood there, and he would see you and he would see the mess Lotor had left behind. It wouldn't take him long to add two and two together.

  You pursed your lips and slowly rotated to face him. He stood in the doorway, handling a guitar case, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed with what was obviously exhaustion and shock mingling into one. He didn't look up to meet your eyes when you turned. He just stood there and stared, grip tightening on the handle of his leather guitar case.

  You recognised him.

  You recognised him, because he had been on the back of those albums you adored so dearly. You recognised him, because his name had been plastered over the acknowledgements of those very same albums, the word 'LYRICIST' stapled to his name. You had watched interviews with him, had never taken much notice of him because he wasn't part of the band but in more ways than one, he made the band.

  You swallowed thickly. This was Takashi Shirogane – Shiro. The man who wrote all the songs for Smokey Saturdays.

  He was a celebrity, and you had just been caught stealing from his apartment.

   You were so lost in your own thoughts that you barely registered the moment he looked up and met your eyes. They were a harsh grey colour, but you could only imagine they looked ten times more fierce now.

  You coughed, scratching the back of your neck. “I can clean this up if you want.”

   “Who the hell are you? And what did you do?” he barked. The anger had been released. He dropped his guitar case to the floor and darted forward. You flinched, half expecting him to grab you and toss you out the window, but he did no such thing. As you curled back against the wall protectively, he dropped to his knees beside his shredded sofa.

  “It wasn't – I mean, it wasn't me exactly,” you said, before wincing. “But that doesn't really help the situation, does it?”

  “I'm calling the police.”

  Your eyes widened. He stood up, headed towards his phone but you latched on to his arm before he could get very far. Where the momentum had come from, you could not pinpoint, but the sudden adrenaline rush that came with such a threat was unlike anything you had ever felt before.

  He looked down at where your hands wrapped around his bicep and raised a brow. A muscle continued to twitch in his jaw, a sure sign that he was still furious, and still had every intention to call the police on you.

  “Listen, why don't we just talk for a minute?” You were trying. It wasn't working.

  “I've got nothing to say to you,” he growled. “Get off me before I get you done for assault, too. It'll be easy enough with the theft charges.”

  “No, look, we don't have to go down that route.” Even as you continued begging, you uncurled your fingers from his arm. You stood back and watched him as he headed back into the kitchen – the window behind you was open. The fact you weren't running and clambering back out onto the fire escape was one that confused you just as much as it must have been confusing Shiro.

  He wasn't listening to you. He continued to stare, but the desperation in your voice was clearly not registering with him; he dialled those three essential numbers, pulled the phone to his ear-

  You dove for him.

  Hurting him was not your intention. You were wiser than that. Plus, you had eyes. It was clear that Shiro could overpower you in a matter of seconds if he so wanted; the idea of pinning him down was beyond even your imagination.

  Instead, you reached for the phone and smashed it against the sink.

  It shattered. Pieces of plastic and glass flew left, right and centre. A pain welled up in your wrist, and you bit your lip to stop from crying out because, at this moment in time, you had no right to be complaining about your pain. Blood dripped from a fresh cut in your hand, but you span around and darted for the living room before Shiro could mention it.

  “Hey! Hey, don't you dare!”

  You stumbled, catching yourself on an upturned piece of furniture. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That was so uncalled for. Jesus Christ, I'm making this worse for myself-”

    “You're gonna fucking bleed out, you maniac.”

    You jumped, turning just in time for Shiro to catch up to you. He grabbed your wrist and tugged you – not kindly – back into the kitchen, shaking his head.

  “You broke my fucking phone,” he mumbled almost to himself. “You broke into my house, ruined my stuff, and I'm sat here bandaging you up...”

   “I'm sorry,” you repeated.

  Shiro glared at you. “Stop saying that.”

  Never before had you been so confused.

  This wasn't how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to be in the back of a police car at this point, or at least handcuffed to a table leg as you waited for the polices arrival. However, you were doing neither of those things – instead, you were being lowered onto a wooden chair with a celebrity cradling your wounded hand. Blood welled up from the fresh cut, and it took everything in you not to pass out at the sight. It reminded you of Zarkon, something you did not want to think about right now – it brought you back to your punishments, the punishments that he would inflict on you if you eventually got home, the punishments he would inflict on Lotor.

  You shivered. Shiro's grip tightened on your hand, stilling you as he dabbed water onto your open wound.

  “I want answers,” he said, ignoring your clear discomfort. “I want answers, or else I'm calling the police and getting you arrested.”

  You swallowed thickly, looking up at him. He didn't look back at you, but instead continued to dab at your open wound with his black hair falling into his face. He looked so much taller than he did in interviews. His voice was a lot sterner, though you had a vague idea that that was more due to circumstance than anything else.

  “Anything,” you replied. “I'll answer anything.” And you would, because you could not afford to go to prison.

  “How did you get in?”

  “The fire escape.”

  “What did you take?”

  “Nothing.”

  He raised a brow. “Was that a lie?”

  “I'm still in your apartment. I didn't take anything. I never got the chance to.”

  “But you wanted to.”

   You paused. “I guess.”

   “What's that supposed to mean?”

  You shifted your gaze to the open fire escape. “None of it was for me.”

    He tested this statement out for a second, narrowing his eyes. “Did you find my address online or something? Was it leaked?”

  “No. I didn't even know this was your house until you walked in.”

   “You know who I am?”

 “Oh yeah. Big fan.” You cringed. “Sorry.”

   He shook his head, pushing his tongue into his cheek. “You're too young to be doing this kind of thing.”

   “I'm not much younger than you.”

   “That doesn't mean anything,” he snapped. “I would be too young to be doing this. It's not right. You have so much left to do, and you're spending your time breaking into other peoples houses.”

    “Not by choice, you know.” The words were out before you could stop them. Fear spiked in your system as soon as you realised you had spoken aloud, eyes darting back to the fire escape. Somehow, somewhere, Zarkon had heard that sentence and he was on his way to punish you right now, no doubt having already beaten Lotor to a pulp, maybe even to death. Your heart thundered in your chest, and you reached your good hand up to your pulse, pressing down on it as if that would-

  Shiro grabbed your wrist and lowered it. He was looking up at you now, eyebrows raised and mouth quirked. “Woah. Hey. What's wrong? You look like you're about to pass out.”

  “I'm fine,” you snapped, not entirely meaning to. You shook Shiro's hand off of you and stood up. Your hand was still bleeding. You ignored it. “Look, are you going to call the police or not? I can – I can help you clean up. I can get your stuff back. I just need to get back home before – before people realise I'm gone.”

   Shiro didn't answer. He just stared at you, a grey gaze that held so much emotion and power it almost made you stumble. In any other circumstances, you would have perhaps been hit with a wave of awe at the fact one of the most respected celebrities in your repertoire was standing before you, but the panic that had risen to the surface was blocking out any other natural, human emotion.

  You needed out. You needed to make sure Lotor had gotten home safe, was still breathing, that Zarkon hadn't gone too hard on him. There was no doubt in your mind that he would receive some sort of punishment – that couldn't be avoided – but Zarkon needed to understand this was your fault. You were the one who had gotten distracted by some stupid lyric book, the one who had left their bin bag on the bedroom floor, the one who had insisted Lotor go first, only for him to get stuck.

  You swallowed thickly and turned away from his gaze. “I need to go home.”

   “Your hand is gonna get infected.”

  “It'll be fine.”

  “No.” Shiro reached out, grabbed your hand and tugged you forward again. “It won't. Now sit down and let me get some bandages. And then you're gonna tell me who you're so afraid of.”

  ---  

   It was silent. It shouldn't have been silent.

  He should have been yelling. He should have been screaming, threatening you, asking questions you could never safely answer. He should have hated you, and yet he was sat cradling your bandaged hand in his own, refusing to look at you.

  You were good at profiling people. A trick Zarkon had taught you from a very young age, because he liked to know that nobody could slip past him – not when you and Lotor were around. Lotor was basically a human lie detector, whilst you had been trained to slip into the minds of others, get a glimpse of their next move before they had even done it.

  It was easy enough to do with Shiro. Though he was quiet, he wore his emotions on his face. Already he'd made a comment on your age, how you were too young to be doing this kind of thing. Judging by the way he refused to look up at you, the way he treated you so delicately, it was obvious he still believed that, and it was obvious that he was conflicted over whether or not to punish you for the crimes you had committed.

  His silence was good, though. Unnatural, but good. It gave you time to come up with a lie about why you had been so startled only a few minutes prior – something you were still ashamed to admit. Zarkon would call you all the names under the sun if he knew you had let your guard down so easily.

  “So when are you gonna start talking?” Shiro piped up.

  “When you tell me what you wanna know.”

  “I've already told you.” He looked up, your hand dropping to your side. “Who are you so afraid of?”

  You pursed your lips. “An awfully personal question for someone I've just met.”

   “A question you should be answering if you don't want me to call the police.”

   You faltered. “Good point.”

  He simply nodded. You were hoping he would talk some more, but he knew what he was doing – if he started talking, you would only stall further.

  You inhaled deeply. “It's just . . . . somebody I know. Somebody I've known for a while.”

  “Is this person friendly?”

  Your silence was answer enough.

  Shiro sighed, running a hand through his black hair. He crouched on the floor in front of you, one hand resting on his knee whilst the other tousled and messed with his hair. He chewed the inside of his lip, mind no doubt working at a million miles per hour.

  “It's okay,” you said. “If I just get home to him now, he shouldn't be too angry...”

  Shiro glanced up. “Do you wanna go home?”

  The question struck you into silence. Having lived with Lotor your entire life, you had grown used to the tactic of just falling silent whenever you wanted to lie; you could never lie around Lotor. You often forgot that not everyone in the world could sense deception as easily as him.

  By the time this realisation dawned on you, it was too late to backtrack your silence. Shiro had caught on to it, examined it and was staring at you intently. You bit the inside of your cheek and looked away.

  “This is – This is gonna sound ridiculous,” he started. “But you can stay with me overnight if you want. If you really don't wanna go back there.”

  Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Your jaw dropped open. Your mind worked at a thousand miles per hour, because nothing he had said made sense; he was meant to be fuming. He was meant to hate you! It was common practise, common knowledge that a person wasn't supposed to offer the person that had stolen from them refuge, even if they needed it. Even if the idea of going home was so gut wrenching it almost made them double over.

  But Shiro didn't look like he was joking. His face was relaxed, shoulders slouched with just an eyebrow peaking to show that he held any emotion to his words at all. It made your stomach flip.

  “You can't be serious,” was all you could say.

  “I can set a room up for you quickly,” he said, already standing up. “If I can't, I can just hire out a room across the hall for the night. It's not a big deal.”

  You scrambled up after him, wincing at the pull of your hand. “You don't have to do this. I tried to steal from you, for christs sake.”

  “And you clearly regret it,” Shiro shot back. “You're young. I'm giving you a chance.”

  “You keep calling me young as if that excuses anything.”

  Shiro shrugged. “It doesn't. But I'm young, too, which means I know just how much life you have left to live. Life you won't be able to live if you keep doing what you're doing.”

   He wasn't listening. He was being generous for the sake of it, not knowing the true extent of his actions. Zarkon would come and find you eventually. He would grow tired of waiting for you to return home on your own like the good little lap dog you were, and he would come for you – with Lotor in his reach, it would be easy enough to get your location.

  He would kill Shiro for even trying to protect you, because in Zarkons eyes, there was nothing to protect you from. In Zarkons eyes, he was doing the right thing. Always.

  Shiro was heading towards his bedroom by the time you finally caught up to him. You tried to grab his arm, but he pulled it out of your grip and pushed open the door before you could; it was then that he saw the damage you had done.

  It wasn't much, not nearly as bad as the living room, but your bin bag was still slung carelessly on the bed, and there was no denying that you had definitely been rummaging around in his stuff. You faltered in the doorway – maybe this would be it. Maybe the evidence of your infiltration would finally break him, and he'd throw you out and tell you to never come back again – that's what he needed to do. That was the wise thing to do.

  But he simply inhaled, shot you a glare over his shoulder and said, “At least you didn't take the covers. You're gonna need those.”

   You closed your eyes. “You're fucking insane.”

   “Ah well.”

  ---

  You fell asleep and woke up in Shiro's bed.

  He had slept on the sofa downstairs, generously giving you his own bed despite your protestations. The two of you had been up until the early hours of the morning, with you questioning him on his motives, and him simply shrugging as if this arrangement meant nothing. He was too casual. He was treating you too kindly.

  Nonetheless, you had never slept better. You awoke with no pain in your neck, no pain in your lower back – not like you usually do. It was a good change, and you found yourself smiling as you hauled yourself from beneath his covers and made your way downstairs.

  He tried to clean up the living room. It was still a mess, the coffee table still broken, but it was beginning to look a little less messy than it had the night before. Maybe that could calm some of your guilt.

  Shiro was still asleep on the sofa when you walked in. One arm was draped over his forehead, the other dangling off the sofa that looked two sizes too small for him. His bare feet dangled over the opposite arm rest, the spare quilt bundled between his legs, his pillow long since knocked to the floor.

  Despite his cramped form, he looked peaceful.

  You made your way to the kitchen, pulled two mugs out of the cupboard and started the morning tea. It must have been the sound of the kettle boiling that roused Shiro into consciousness, as he groaned, rolled over and just barely managed to catch himself on the floor before falling flat on his face.

  You turned. “Good morning.”

  “You're still here,” was his immediate response, as groggy as it was. “I thought you'd have taken off by now.”

  “How is that any way for a person to say thank you?” You folded your arms over your chest. “I'm making tea. Do you drink tea?”

  “I'm more of a coffee person.”

   “Diabolical.”

  “What time is it?” He sat up, the quilt sliding down to show off his bare chest.

  “8:30.”

   His eyes immediately widened. He struggled against the quilt before stumbling off the sofa and grabbing for his phone. He opened it, groaned and ran his hands through his hair in that way you had seen him do so often the previous night.

  “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My alarm didn't go off.”

   You raised a brow. “Alarm?”

  “I was meant to be meeting Hunk and Keith at the studio today to go over some last minute details for the album,” he replied, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “I'm already a half hour late.”

   You frowned, despite the thumping of your heart and the urge to smile brewing in your stomach. You knew who Hunk and Keith were. They were the voices you heard on your albums, the guitar and the drums that pulled the songs together. You wouldn't admit it to Shiro, but the idea of meeting them was exciting to say the very least.

  You quickly reigned that hope back in, because it was pointless. Shiro would never let you meet his friends, because you weren't a friend. You were someone he took pity on.

  “I have to get down there now,” he continued. “Get dressed.”

  You faltered. “Sorry?”

  He clicked his fingers, already dragging the quilt back onto the sofa. “Get dressed. We're leaving as soon as possible.”

  You stumbled. “I don't have any clothes to wear, and I can't just-”

   “You can borrow some of mine,” he said. “Forgive me, Y/N, but I don't exactly trust you alone in my apartment at the moment.”

  You ignored how greatly those words affected you.

  “Go pick something from my wardrobe and meet me back down here.” He looked down at his phone, gritted his teeth and said, “Fuck,” one final time before you shot off upstairs and got ready.

  ---

   Shiro might not have called the police on you, but forcing you to appear in front of two musicians you looked up to wearing his clothes was punishment enough for your actions the previous afternoon.

  Even Shiro couldn't keep the small smile off his his face as the two of you approached the doors of the studio. His grey shirt reached your knees when you first put it on, and you were forced to tuck it into a pair of basketball shorts he gave you – basketball shorts that you were pulling up every two seconds.

  “This is humiliating,” you said through gritted teeth, trying to keep your voice low in the quiet hallways.

  Shiro glanced down at you, said nothing, but you made out the twitch of his lips. You rolled your eyes.

  Soon, you both stopped at a door made of glass, a black curtain drawn over it from the inside. Shiro opened the door, and your heart immediately lurched into your throat.

  Because they were there, and they were real, and this entire situation was actually happening.

  Your throat closed over. You forced yourself to follow Shiro into the room, even as your legs felt heavy and your palms became sweaty with nerves. You quickly dashed them along Shiro's basketball shorts, hoped you were being subtle enough for them to not notice.

  Keith turned around first, a black bass guitar propped up on his knee. His black hair was partly hidden beneath a grey beanie, and he wore a red jacket affixed with a black shirt underneath. A large brown belt dug into his abdomen, keeping a pair of dark, ripped jeans fixed upon his waist.

  “Look who finally decided to show up,” he said, strumming a few low tones on his bass. “Over half an hour late, Shiro. What kept you?”

  “Nothing,” Shiro replied without missing a beat. “I just slept in. What have you got so far?”

  Hunk had yet to turn around, but you were swooning nonetheless. His large bulk was huddled over a computer, a complicated looking program pulled up on screen. He was chewing at his thumb nail, his dark eyes narrowed and focused purely on what he was working on. In one hand he held the mouse, the other a single drum stick which he twirled round and round his index finger with professional precision.

  “We're doing the basic chords for Keiths solo,” Hunk replied without turning round.

  “So why am I here?”

    “We agreed that you would control the panel whilst I did the drums.” Hunk raised a brow, shooting Shiro a sideways glance. “Jesus, Shiro. You're usually on top of your game. What's wrong?”

  Keith raised a brow in your direction, the first sign of anyone in the room noticing your presence. “I think I can tell you the answer to that.”

  Shiro clicked his fingers in Keith's face, forcing the boys attention back to him. “Leave them out of this. They're just here because they didn't want to be left alone in my apartment.”

   “Apartment?” Keith said, slowly pulling himself out of his usual slouch. “You were in his apartment?” The question was directed at you. If you weren't still trying to figure out where your fluency of the English language had suddenly disappeared to, you would have replied with a snarky comment.

  But you could only stay silent, gaze bouncing between Keith and Shiro in a desperate attempt to get Shiro to acknowledge that he really needed to take the reigns right about now.

  With his eyes still glued to the computer screen, Shiro sent a swift kick into Keith's leg. “I said, leave them out of this.”

   Keith hummed, narrowed his eyes at you one last time before he stood up and headed towards the booth on the other side of the room. “Just tell me when to start.”

  Hunk sent him a thumbs up, and that's when business ensued.

  You hovered by the door, watching the magic unfold with utmost interest. It wasn't faked. You didn't grow bored, despite the fact that you were doing nothing. You watched as Shiro and Hunk took control of the panels, as Keith blasted his bass guitar in the microphone, closing his eyes and getting lost in the rock music you had listened to so many times by now.

  Rock music had never been your forte. In fact, music as a whole wasn't something you would say you particularly enjoyed – it was difficult to enjoy something you weren't allowed. Your memories of music consisted of you and Lotor sneaking around the house with your mothers old CD's, lowering the volume extra, extra low so Zarkon wouldn't be able to make out the soft bump of the bass guitar, the dull thump of the drums, or the harmonic voice of Lance McClain. The two of you would sit shoulder-to-shoulder and just listen, but it never lasted long. One of you would get paranoid that Zarkon could hear, and you would switch it off and scuttle back to your rooms before this paranoia became a reality. A lot of the time, you had to listen to one song in two sittings, purely because it was almost impossible to get all the way through a song without one of you getting cold feet.

  But this was different. This was the closest to a concert you had ever been, and you would be lying to claim it didn't make you feel alive. You would also be lying to claim that it didn't wake you up to the startling reality of just how little of a childhood you had really been given.

  “What do you think?”

  Your head shot up, eyes darting to Shiro. You hadn't noticed him standing up, but he was stood beside you now, awaiting your answer.

  You nodded. “He's good. He's always been good.”

  “I forgot you were a fan.”

  “Big fan.” You shrugged. “I'm glad you brought me here.”

   Shiro scoffed. “It wasn't a treat. I brought you here so you wouldn't steal from me again.”

   You frowned and looked away, quickly composing yourself. He had every right to bring that up. He wasn't exactly wrong that it was one thing letting you stay with him when he was in the house, but it was a completely different thing to leave you unattended in his apartment whilst he went to work.

  He wouldn't trust you, and he had absolutely no reason to.

  “We've got a few more seconds to record and then I think we're all gonna get something to eat.” Shiro looked down at you, spoke as if the words pained him to say. “Do you wanna join us?”

  Knowing you had nowhere else to go was the only reason you nodded along to his offer; you couldn't go home now. It was too late. If Zarkon didn't already have some of his men looking for you, it wouldn't be long until he did. You would be better off trying to lay low for as long as possible, no matter how odd the circumstances were.

  And so you waited until Shiro, Keith and Hunk wrapped up in the studio before you joined them for lunch at the cafe, located helpfully in the lobby of the studio. Shiro and Keith took your order and headed for counter. Hunk, on the other hand, joined you at the table, sitting down directly to your left.

  The big man leaned into you, a straw already dangling from his lips. You, Keith and Shiro hadn't even ordered yet, so it was a complete mystery to you as to when Hunk had acquired a smoothie of his own.

  “So,” he started. “Now that I'm not distracted by work, I think it's an appropriate time to ask who you are.”

  “Y/N,” you blurted out. “My name's Y/N.”

  Hunk hummed. “Have you been staying with Shiro long?”

   “Only last night.” My final night, because there was no way you planned on spending another day in his house. Staying in one place for too long would be dangerous, especially considering Lotor knew where you were.

  Hunk looked up then, glancing over at the counter. Shiro and Keith stood side-by-side, Shiro with his hands stuffed in his pockets and Keith doing air drums as he waited for his turn to order. Knowing the coast was clear, Hunk leaned in and said, “And how did that night go?”

  You jerked back as if Hunks words were a physical blow. You looked down at him, one eyebrow raised, hands clenching the leather of your seat. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  Hunk shrugged, playing the innocent card now that he could see you hadn't taken his question lightly. “I've just never known Shiro to let some random person stay in his house before. He likes his solitude. It's how he writes all those moody lyrics we're forced to sing.” He rolled his eyes. “Honestly, if it wasn't for the rock beats I put over them, those songs would lead someone to tears.”

   “I only slept in his house because I had nowhere else to go,” you admitted. It wasn't the whole truth, but you could see the tiny bit of reality in your words; that was good enough for you, good enough to release the guilt you may have felt if you were to have come up with an entirely different story.

  “Do you not have a family to go back home to? A house of your own?”

  “No,” you mumbled. “Shiro and I didn't exactly meet under normal circumstances.��� You were treading on thin ice now, getting closer and closer to a truth you did not want to admit.

  Hunk opened his mouth to respond to your eerie comment, but never got a chance to question you before two more people appeared at the side of the table – people you recognised instantly.

  The gasp escaped you before you could stop it. Your eyes popped open, hand clamping over your mouth. Shock overtook you, and you could do nothing but sit completely still as Lance McClain and Pidge Gunderson looked at you like you were insane.

  Hunk chuckled. “Y/N L/N, meet-”

  “Hi,” you squeaked out. “Nice to meet you.”

   Pidge raised a brow, fighting an amused grin. “Nice to meet you, too.” She turned back to Hunk. “Friend of yours?”

  “Friend of Shiro's.” Hunk gestured to the empty seats. “Go ahead and sit down. I'll tell Keith to get you something to drink.”

   Lance grunted, slumping down in the seat directly across from you. His knee nudged yours beneath the table. He refused to sit up straight, instead slouching until his shoulder blades were digging into the top of the chair. His head tilted back, his brown hair falling away from his forehead.

  Pidge rolled her eyes, sitting beside him. “Don't mind him.”

   “Is he tired?” you asked.

  “Exhausted,” Lance replied. “Do you know how difficult it is trying to get the ticket companies to just pick up the fucking phone? I've been making phone calls since eight am this morning, trying to figure out where the false tickets are coming from.”

  “We told you that Coran was gonna deal with that,” said Pidge.

  Lance shrugged, folding his arms over his chest. “I don't want Coran to deal with it. Nobody with a fake ticket is getting into one of our shows, and I'm going to be the one to make sure of it.”

  Pidge rolled her eyes again. “Forever the hero, aren't you?”

  “I better be.” Lance's head suddenly snapped up, his eyes trained solely on you. “Wait, who is this?”

  “I think Shiro might be hooking up with them,” was Hunk's casual reply.

  You squeezed your eyes closed, resisting the urge to turn and belt him across the face. “You thought wrong.”

  “Why would you think that?” Lance asked. There was now a glint in his eye. His attention had been piqued. He sat up straight and leaned across the table for details. Even Pidge – who so often pretended like she didn't care – glanced between you and Hunk with an eyebrow raised.

  Hunk glanced at you. The fact that you were covering your face with your hands didn't seem to matter to him. “Shiro let Y/N sleep over at his house yesterday, and then he took them to work this morning.”

   Lance's eyes popped open wide, snapping to you. “Ooooh, is this true?”

  “Yes, but-”

   Lance reached over and grabbed your hand, giving it a firm shake. “Lance McClain. It's an honour to meet someone who can finally get Shiro to loosen the fuck up.”

   “What are you doing?”

  Shiro's voice startled the table into silence. Lance dropped your hand, grinned brightly as he placed his own hands on the back of his head. Shiro carried two smoothies whilst Keith sipped idly at his own on the other side of the table.

  “Absolutely nothing, my boy,” Lance replied. “Come, have a seat! It feels like I haven't seen you in ages.”

  Shiro narrowed his eyes, handed you your smoothie and lowered himself onto the seat next to Lance. “We saw each other yesterday.”

   “Only briefly. You went home early.”

  You grunted. He did indeed.

  “I was just talking to your good friend Y/N here whilst you were getting your smoothies,” Lance continued. “I was getting told all about how you spent the night together.”

  Shiro scoffed. “You make it sound like a lot more than what it was.”

   “That's what I was trying to explain,” you spoke up.

  Lance waved a dismissive hand through the air, as if you and Shiro denying any unspoken claims was irrelevant. “Are you two planning on taking this little fling to our concert next week?”

  You faltered. A concert?

  Growing up, you hadn't even been able to listen to music on CD's, let alone go to live shows. It was always something you wanted to do, always something you craved to experience, but at the time, it looked impossible. You had one job and one job only, and that was to serve Zarkon in whatever way he needed you to serve him.

  Now, here you were, being all but offered the chance to go and see one of your favourite bands perform live. It was enough to choke you into silence, enough for you to dart your gaze over to Shiro, silently begging for him to take the reigns and answer the question. At the end of the day, it was entirely up to him; if he didn't want you there, you wouldn't blame him.

  Shiro took a long, drawn out sip of his smoothie before shrugging. “We'll see.”

  And that was that. He put the lid on the matter quickly, swiftly changing the subject to instead talk about a new song he had been working on. Everybody else looked at you, gouging your response to such a simple reply, but you hid your emotions well enough so as to not provoke any suspicion. You were good at that when you wanted to be.

  As Shiro and the others fawned over Shiro's brand new notebook, already littered halfway through with fresh lyrics that they all critically analysed, you let yourself sink into the background. Your heart was still thundering. The conversation had distracted for only so long, but now the attention was diverted and you were allowed to dwell on the thumping of your heartbeat and the thrum of the blood in your ears; all of this was utterly insane. 

   You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the seat, inhaling deeply. It would come to an end. All good things did, and you knew that. You had trained yourself not to get your hopes up, and as much as it hurt to put that training into practise now, there was no other choice. Not unless you wanted to be completely crushed in the long run.

  ----

  You tried to protest. Not very much, but the attempt was there.

  Shiro took you back to his apartment after lunch. The others had broken up for practise, meaning Shiro had no reason to hang around; he claimed he had lyrics to catch up on, an album to plan that would not write itself; you tried informing him that you would be fine on your own, but he insisted on taking you back to his place.

  “Why are you doing this?” you asked him at one point during the drive. Your arms were folded over your chest, eyes still set firm on the window. You watched the road skip past, the trees and the houses, the children coming home from school. You imagined yourself in their shoes, just like you always did. They were living a childhood you had never been given – it was a bitter sweet feeling.

  Shiro didn't look away from the road when he answered. “I don't know what you're on about.”

  “Yes you do. You're being nice to me for no reason. I don't deserve kindness from you.”

  “I'll decide who I'm kind to, thank you very much.”

   You bit the inside of your cheek. “You should have called the police on me. You should have knocked me out, saw me as dangerous as soon as you saw the state your apartment was in. You definitely shouldn't be giving me a place to stay.” You looked at him. “It doesn't make sense, and I refuse to believe you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart.”

  It took him a minute to respond. You profiled him, slipping into his head without really meaning to – he had already proved to you that he wasn't a man to make rash decisions out of nowhere. He didn't want to be spontaneous, didn't want to risk hurting the career he spent years building up. He didn't even have to tell you that his journey into the music business had been a long and bumpy road; nobody loved their occupation like he did. Not unless they had to work for it.

  So why was he taking the risk with you?

  His jaw twitched. “Do you wanna put some music on?”

  You gritted your teeth behind your lips but did as he said; you knew an indirect order when you heard one. He didn't want to talk, and you could respect that. It wasn't your place to question him.

  When he finally pulled up, the two of you walked into his apartment in utter silence. He held his notebook under one arm, a pen clipped to the collar of his black shirt. You had come in barehanded, fingers knotted in front of you. The silence was heavy. Too heavy for you to feel any type of comfort.

  Shiro closed the door behind you and gestured to the sofa. “I'll get the kettle on.”

   “Let me do that. You've got work to do.”

  Shiro raised a hand. You paused, raised a brow at him. “I've got it. Sit down.”

    You sighed and did as he said. It didn't take a profiler to recognise when someone didn't want to argue.

  You tapped impatiently at your leg as you waited for Shiro to finish in the kitchen. All that separated you and the door was a broken coffee table and the knowledge that Shiro was only a few feet away; he would hear you, but when had that fact ever stopped you? It was strange. You sat there, perfectly still, listening to the buzz of the boiling kettle and you didn't even really want to move; you weren't entirely comfortable, but the idea of stepping outside and risking the sight of Zarkons men was a lot more terrifying than the idea of sitting inside with Shiro.

  You supposed you should have been grateful. You were still here. His men hadn't come for you yet – he hadn't come for you yet. Maybe Lotor managed to get away with just a mild scolding, or maybe he had taken his chance and run for good. Maybe the two of you had left Zarkon in the dirt, just like you should have done years ago.

  As soon as you set eyes on the page tucked behind a sofa cushion, you knew your thoughts were misplaced.

  It was an intuition. Maybe it was because you had been anticipating disappointment this entire time. Maybe it was just because you were good at this kind of thing – before you even reached over and looked at the page, you knew what it was. It was the same cream paper you had seen so many times, stapled on the walls of your childhood home, locked in some oversized binder that held details so descriptive and so tormenting it was difficult to bring them to the forefront of your mind. It was that same paper.

  You grabbed it. The handwriting was familiar. The weight of the words was familiar. The entire thing was familiar, because you had been at his elbow so many times when he had written these notes in the past. He was never happy when he had to do it, and it was very rare that the person the letter was addressed to lived long enough to take the chance Zarkon always offered them. It was more of a throw-away kindness than a genuine offer.

      Dear, my sweet little Y/N.

   I understand. I really do. We all do. You got caught, and you're embarrassed, and you don't want to face us. You don't want to tell us the truth of your failures. I understand.

    I'm giving you a chance to come back. A single chance, one that you would be wise to take because you have nobody else. Lotor is with me, safe and sound, but worried. You don't want to worry him, do you? You know how he gets when he's worried, and if he explodes at me, my little Y/N, I will not show him the same kindness I'm showing you.

    You were always my favourite. It would be sad to lose you just because of a little blip in the system. You can make it up to me. I won't be mad. I promise.

   Come home and see for yourself just how understanding I can be.

       Hugs and kisses,

              Zarkon.

  “What's that?”

  Shiro sat down beside you, had already grabbed the letter from your hands before you could protest. A quiet whimper escaped your throat. You wanted to sob, but you couldn't. You wanted to scream, but you couldn't. You wanted to jump up and run as far from this place as possible – but you couldn't.

  Not whenever Shiro's eyes turned and clicked onto your own, wide and desperate for answers you knew you could never give him. Not now. Not now that Zarkon's men knew where you were.

  Shiro was on his feet in seconds, throwing the piece of paper back onto the sofa. He darted towards the fire escape, checked to see if it was locked – it was. He bolted towards the door, did the same thing and again, the door was locked and secured just as he had left it after walking in.

  He turned to you. “What the hell is that?”

  “Ignore it.” It was a demand, not a suggestion.

  His face fell. “Y/N. Y/N, what the fuck? What the hell did he mean? Who is Zarkon?”

  You stood up abruptly. “I'm leaving.”

  “You're not going anywhere. It's obviously not safe for you-”

   “It won't be safe for you if you don't let me go.”

  Shiro stared. “And who's gonna be the one to hurt me – you or this Zarkon guy?”

  Your stomach clenched. This whole thing was a mistake – you had said it from the very beginning. Shiro had given you refuge, taken care of you, made sure you didn't go out into a world that wanted nothing but the absolute worst for you, but he would never trust you. He would never look at you and think you were worth anything, because your initial meeting had set off the time bomb that would go off as soon as Zarkon grew tired of waiting.

  Which wouldn't be long.

  Shiro's words told you only one thing – he thought you were capable of hurting him. He looked at you, and he saw the mess left behind in his apartment, the way you had snatched the phone out of his hand and slammed it against the sink, the way you barely winced when the glass sliced your hand. He saw something that wasn't there, an idea based off of loose statistics.

  You looked down at the ground and bit your lip. Maybe it was because you idolised him. Maybe it was because he was right – you were capable of a lot. You could have hurt him. You could have got up in the middle of the night and slit his throat. But you hadn't, because he was Takashi Shirogane.

  He stepped forward. “Come to the concert with me next week.” It wasn't an invitation. “That way I know you're okay.”

   You squeezed your eyes closed, clenching your fists. “This has gone too far already. I can't stay with you for another week.”

   “You can't go out there either,” he replied. He sounded desperate. “I read the note. I read the threats. I don't – I don't understand a lot of it, but I'm not stupid. Somebody wants to hurt you.”

   “He doesn't want to hurt me yet.” Why were you standing up for him? “He wants me to come home.”

   “And what's gonna happen if you do go?” Shiro stepped forward again, so close that you could feel the heat coming from him.

  Your silence was enough. It was always enough.

  Shiro hummed. “I'll take the sofa again. Tomorrow I'll get the guest bedroom set up so we both have proper places to sleep.”

   “Shiro-”

   He turned on his heel, snatching the piece of paper up. He didn't let you finish your sentence, didn't let you protest before he turned to the lit candle placed upon the counter. He tilted the edge of the paper into the open flame and watched the words burn.

  ---

  Days passed. Your anxiety didn't waver.

  Shiro was trying. He woke up every morning, and he greeted you with a smile and a cup of tea, made exactly how you liked it. He tried to make casual conversation, to the point where you could genuinely sit down with him and talk like he was a good friend of yours.

  But it wasn't enough.

  He tried to distract you, but it wasn't going to happen. Days had passed. Zarkon knew you'd received his letter. It was becoming clearer and clearer that you were ignoring him. You weren't planning on coming home, and that was going to make him very angry.

  You slid into Zarkon's head on this particular morning. Morning, because it was four am and you hadn't slept yet. Your mind had been racing as you tried to fight off the urge to profile the man with the dark thoughts, the man who had raised you, the man who had tormented you and clearly had no plans on stopping. But it was as the clock struck four that you let your thoughts go, the exhaustion making it too difficult to fight. You slipped into his head.

  He knew who the apartment belonged to. He was a smart man. He knew Shiro was a celebrity, so he wouldn't risk breaking and entering. No. He would wait until you were loose on the streets and then he would take his aim. He would wait until you were completely vulnerable – maybe in a public place? A place where you would least expect it. He would put snipers on the roof. You had seen him do it. He would take you down and he wouldn't think twice, but he wouldn't risk getting Shiro involved in the story.

  You squeezed your eyes closed and pushed your thumbs into your temples. His head was too scary for you. You had been profiling people since you could understand the basics of the English language, and even now you were unable to bare the process of slipping into his head.

  You were awake now. You came to terms with the fact that you would not be getting any more sleep and slid from beneath the covers of the guest bedrooms bed. You headed downstairs to the kitchen, flinched in the doorway when you saw Shiro standing by the counter, drinking from a carton of milk.

  “You're awake.”

  He whirled around. His hair was a mess, and he was in his usual bedtime attire of no shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His grey eyes widened when he saw you standing there, looking no more dishevelled than you had done when you went to bed that evening.

  “So are you,” he replied. “Have you slept yet?”

  “Nope.” You snatched the carton of milk from his hand and took a gulp, savouring the brain freeze.

  Shiro raised a brow, folding his arms over his chest and eyeing you like a father eyeing a sick child. It made you almost want to roll your eyes. “Did you have a nightmare or something?”

  “I don't have nightmares.” A lie.

  “So why couldn't you sleep?”

  “I just couldn't.” Yet another lie. Why the truth was so difficult to admit, you weren't sure, but you didn't intend on indulging him any further. “Why are you awake at this time of day?”

  Shiro shrugged. “I was finishing up some songs and kind of lost track of time.”

  “Really? What were you working on?”

  Shiro tapped the side of his nose and slowly turned away from you, snatching the carton of milk back on his way round. You pouted, both grateful for the sudden shift in mood and frustrated at the fact he wasn't going to tell you what it was he had spent his time working on.

  “Come on,” you grunted. “I'm a fan. You can't just tell me you're working on something for my favourite band and then refuse to tell me anything else.”     “The fact that you're a fan is a big enough reason for me to keep quiet. You might post it on a forum or something.”

  You scoffed. “You take me as the type to have some kind of fan account?”

  He shrugged, smirking around the lip of the milk carton. “You never know. I've seen some crazy things in my career.”

  You grumbled. “Fine. Don't tell me. When are you going back to the studio?”

  “Whenever the others can find time. They've been rehearsing for their show next week.”

   You faltered at the reminder – the show. It startled you that you had forgotten all about it, considering this was the first concert you would ever be attending, and it was the concert of one of your favourite bands. You should have been ecstatic, counting down the days, marking it on your calendar.

  But once again, Zarkon had crawled into your mind and stolen those remnants of normal human emotions. Even when he wasn't physically there, he still somehow managed to alter the thoughts in your brain.

  “I was thinking we could get you some clothes for the night,” he continued. “Don't get me wrong, you suit my shirts and my shorts-”

  “I absolutely do not.”

  “But this seems like a more. . . formal event. We're gonna have to get you something nice.” He lowered his voice. “Something to make you stand out.”

   Your breath hitched. You looked down at the attire you were wearing now – a pair of Shiro's old boxer shorts and an oversized Nirvana shirt that he claimed he had worn back in high school. It was one of the only shirts in his wardrobe that wasn't completely plain.

   “How about tomorrow?” He glanced at the clock. “Well, today, I suppose. We can go out after breakfast and see what you like.”

  You nodded dumbly. Shopping. Clothes. New clothes – something you very rarely got to splurge on.

  Shiro grinned and kicked himself away from the counter. “Good. I'll see what I can do.”     ---

  “You look...”

  “Just tell me you hate it. Just tell me you hate it, so I don't have to embarrass myself any further than I already have.” Your eyes were squeezed shut. Your hands were curled into tight fists at your sides. Your shoulders were bunched up around your ears-

  Shiro's hands on the back of your neck startled you back to the present. “Would you calm down? I was gonna say you look beautiful, but I didn't want to make you more flustered than you already are.”

   Your eyes snapped open, darting immediately to Shiro's own. Over the past few days, you had grown used to those storm grey eyes, the way they always managed to be the first thing you noticed. Even in a room full of people, Shiro's eyes stood out.

  He smiled at the eye contact and gently turned you towards the dressing room mirror. Your breath hitched, because it certainly wasn't the Y/N L/N who had been cooped up in Zarkon's home who stared back at you. This was different. The clothes hung loose on your body, but it somehow worked. A pair of black skinny jeans, a dark orange button up shirt that showed a tiny bit of your chest, tucked half into the jeans, half hanging out around your sides. Along with it, Shiro had insisted you try on a pair of grey ankle boots.

  You looked good. You looked expensive.

  “This is too much,” you said. Shiro stiffened. “I don't even have the money for the top, let alone the jeans and the boots.”

   You started towards the dressing room, already tugging on the buttons of the shirt, but Shiro caught your wrist. You whirled around, startled at the sudden action but immediately your face heated up at his amused expression.

  “What have I said now?”

  “Just go get changed and put the clothes in the bag,” he said. “I can't believe you thought I'd make you pay after I offered to take you shopping.”

 It took a minute for his words to settle in your brain. “Wait, what? No. You're not paying for my stuff.” You said it with a scoff and a roll of your eyes, as if the idea of Shiro paying for you was a joke.

  Shiro narrowed his eyes. “You do know that I'll just buy it anyway. Buying you an outfit isn't going to put me into bankruptcy.”

  “But I'm an adult, and I shouldn't expect-”

  “Just go get changed,” he groaned, throwing his head back like a child having a tantrum. “It's my treat, alright? Now go!” He nudged you towards the dressing room door, leaving no room for argument.

  ---

  The crowd was big. Much too big for your liking.

  You thought you'd be fine. You were excited, craved to hear the music that had been promised – the music of Smokey Saturdays. The music you had grown up listening to, no matter how stealth you had to be to do so.

  But a crowd like this was dangerous. A crowd like this could hold so much danger and you wouldn't even be aware of it until it was too late.

  That was why you stayed as close to the edge of the room as you could possibly get. You tugged on your dark orange shirt, silently cursing your lack of carelessness – orange wasn't exactly a subtle colour. You would stand out amongst the array of people in black rock shirts and leather jackets. But it was too late now. Shiro had already disappeared back stage, and you were left to your own devices as you waited for the show to start.

  You were on high alert, even when the first chord was played and suddenly Lance, Keith, Hunk and Pidge appeared on stage.

  You wanted the breath to be sucked from your lungs. You wanted to jump up and scream and lose your head, perhaps even faint, because that was the concert experience. That was what the articles said.

  But even Lance's melodic voice and Shiro's gut wrenching lyrics could not pull you back to the surface. The crowd had swallowed you up. The realisation that you were completely vulnerable was suffocating you until you were shoving through the crowd in search of an exit.

  In search of Shiro.

  He had become a constant comfort. You hated to admit it, because it was dangerous territory to be on, but he had. Any time he saw you growing panicked, he was by your side, making sure you remembered to breathe, letting you know that everything was going to be okay no matter how terrible things felt in the moment. He was there for you, and you needed him to be there now.

  The music blocked out the sound of his voice in the beginning. You were on the verge of running, tackling people to the ground in any attempt to get to the exit. Zarkon's written words came back to the forefront of your memory, reminding you just how thin the ground you were walking on truly was. He was going to get you if you didn't leave now. He would have figured out that the concert was happening today and he would follow you until-

  A hand wrapped around your waist and dragged you backwards. You stumbled, getting ready to cry out but a low, deep voice cut you off before you could do so. It was close to your ear, the stench of smoke on the culprits breath.

  “If you scream, this entire place goes up in flames, and everyone with it is going too.”

  You clamped your mouth shut, curled your fingers into the palm of your hands. Crescent moons indented into your flesh. It kept you grounded, because you recognised that voice. He had come for you directly – what a strange move on his part.

  “Zarkon.” His name was a curse. It burned your tongue. “You found me.”

  “As I promised I would,” he replied. “Are you enjoying your little break, Y/N? Your little taste of freedom?”

    “I was going to come back.”

  “Bullshit.” His spittle slapped against your ear. You didn't wipe it away, too scared to move. “You and that Shiro bloke were far too enamoured with each other to remember little old me, weren't you? He took your mind off of things. He made you feel special.”

  Zarkon had taught you everything you knew about profiling. He could slip into your head just as easily as you could slip into his. You wanted him out. You didn't like him tracing your thoughts without even trying.

  “This man who should have hated you gave you a place to stay, a comfort blanket, gave up his own bed for you-”

   “How do you know that?” You knew the answer. You just needed to make sure your voice still worked.

  He continued as if you hadn't spoken. “So what were the chances you were going to give that life up to come back to me, hm? Me. The man who gave you a home for your. Entire. Life.” He punctuated each word by pinching your hips. You squirmed against him, pain flaring through your body. “You call it growing up, I call it being an ungrateful little bitch.”

  The first song ended. Zarkon leaned forward. His grin was against your ear. “Pretend we're dancing. Pretend we're just enjoying the show.”

    You did as you were told, because that was all you could do. That was all you had ever been able to do. It hurt – physically strained you – but you put a smile on your face and swayed, cheering to the sound of Lance's voice. The lead singer didn't even look at you as he addressed the crowd, already panting from the performance of the first song. He messed with his ear piece, taking it out to listen to the unfiltered screams of his fans – you wanted him to hear you. You wanted him to get the hint, hear your desperation even as you grinned and pretended everything was fine.

  He put the ear piece back in and announced the second song. The band started to play. They started to jump around on stage, and the crowd only got wilder.

  Zarkon took his chance.

  He made it look so casual. His arm was resting on your waist, and he was grinning from ear to ear – that's all it took, really. The crowd parted for him as he led you out towards the back door of the club, nobody questioning the tears brimming in your eyes. They took one look at your smile and just assumed you were perfectly fine.

  The fresh air hit you like a wave. The crowd was gone. You no longer had any security around you, no witnesses. If Zarkon were to kill you now, he would. He could, because he was good at what he did and he knew that.

  You broke out of his hold as soon as the door swung closed. You were trapped in the alleyway. Nobody was here. The music was too loud, thumping through the walls. If you were to scream, no one would hear you.

  The smile on Zarkon's face told you he knew that.

  He stepped forward, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I don't want an explanation.”

  “Where's Lotor?” you asked. “I want to see Lotor.”

  “He got home safely.” That meant nothing to you. Not coming from him.

  You wrapped your arms around your middle.

  Zarkon sighed. “Did someone let you dress yourself this evening?”

   “Don't treat me like a child.”

   “Shiro must really care about you,” he continued, talking with a childlike drawl just to get under your skin. “Buying you all these expensive clothes, giving you a roof over your head – a refuge, if you will. A refuge from me and mine.” Zarkon grinned. “You used to be mine. Do you remember that?”

 “Why are you talking?” you demanded, stepping back. “You're mad at me. You lost your control. You lost the one thing you thought you had forever, and you're mad.” You were profiling him. His nostrils flared. “Why are you talking then? Why don't you just kill me and get it over with?”

  Zarkon grinned even deeper. “I taught you better than that, Y/N. Use your skills. Use the skills I gave you – you tell me why I'm not killing you right now.”

  You slipped into his head again. It was easy. The answers were laid out in front of you, but you wanted to ignore them because sometimes pretending it wasn't there was easier than falling victim to an obvious truth.

  Your voice trembled when you spoke. “This isn't about me. You're not mad at me, you're mad at Shiro. You're mad at him for keeping me away from you.”

  “Go on...”

  “You're keeping me alive so I can watch you make him suffer. You're preserving me.”

  Zarkon shrugged. “Guilty.”

  “You can't hurt him. People will know. People will care.”

  “You say that because you care,” Zarkon pointed out. “But when has that ever mattered to me?”

  The door behind Zarkon swung open. You knew even before you looked up who it was – it was a gut feeling. You were yelling before you could stop yourself.

  Zarkon swirled around and laughed. He laughed at the expression on Shiro's face, the draw back of his shoulders, the flare of his nostrils. Shiro didn't move from the doorway, because of course he didn't. He didn't know who this crazy man was. Chances are, he saw you get dragged backwards and followed you out. But he didn't know that this was him, the author of the cryptic note that had been mysteriously left tucked behind his sofa cushions.

  “Shiro,” you cried out. “Go back inside. Now.”

  “Oh, no, no, no!” Zarkon shoved you with his shoulder. “Where's the fun in that? There's enough room in this ballroom for another, I think.” He grabbed Shiro's hand.

  And he twisted it.

  Shiro's eyes popped open in surprise and pain. He grunted, his knees trembling beneath him, but he was strong. He managed to swing his other arm around and catch Zarkon in the jaw just enough for the older man to release his hand. Shiro took the chance and stumbled to the side, gripping his wrist.

  “What the hell?” he exclaimed.

  Zarkon growled and whirled back around. “So you're a feisty one, are you? That's okay. I've dealt with worse.”

  “It's Zarkon,” you said, eyes pointed on Shiro. “You need to go. You need to-” You grabbed for Zarkon's collar, tried to pull him back, but you weren't as strong as him. Zarkon taught you how to be sneaky, how to profile people, how to get around without being detected. He was wise enough to know how bad it would be if he were to teach the people who hated him how to fight.

  Zarkon's elbow slammed into your chin, knocking you backwards. You grabbed for the wall in any attempt to keep yourself upright, but there was no use to it. Your fingernails welled up with blood and you fell to the floor with an 'oomf.'

  Shiro made to rush towards you, but Zarkon hooked him in the stomach before he could get very far. Shiro kicked out, slamming his toe into Zarkon's shin like a child – it was the only thing he could do. One of his wrists had already been broken, and now he was winded.

  Zarkon simply grinned at Shiro's sad attempts. “You know, Y/N – I don't really know how I feel about you letting this excuse for a man protect you. Clearly he doesn't know what he's doing.”

   “Zarkon, let him go,” you wheezed. Your vision was growing blurry. “Let him go and I'll go back with you. I'll do whatever you want.”

  “No,” Shiro grunted. His voice was barely audible, but you could make out the definition of desperation in its undertones.

  Zarkon sighed. “I find it very cute that you really believe you're not going back with me if I kill him.” He turned. “We both know that's impossible. Once he's dead, you'll have nowhere else to go. Your finger prints will be all over the crime scene. You'll be known as the person he let into his house, the stranger who showed up out of nowhere. You'll be the first one on the suspects list, and you'll have nowhere else to go except back home with me, or prison.”

  You shook your head. “I'd rather go to prison. I'd rather die than spend another minute in that hell hole you call a home.”

  Zarkon's nostrils flared. You hit a nerve. You meant to.

  He stepped forward. “There you go again with that ungrateful attitude. I think you're forgetting that I gave you everything. I kept you breathing. You and Lotor were mine.”

  “We were never yours. We were just too young to go anywhere else.”

   “And where is Lotor now, huh? Lotor came running right back to me after I asked him to ransack Shiro's apartment. He respects me.” Zarkon slammed his boot into your side. You squeezed your eyes closed, bit so harshly into your lip that blood dribbled down your chin. “You, on the other hand, need to be taught a lesson. I thought I'd raised you to know better, but I guess I was wrong.”

   You caught your breath. It was a gasp. Maybe it would be your last one. With the pain you were in, you were beginning to sink into that hopeless mindset of I hope so.

  “I guess you were,” you managed to choke out.

  Before blood sprayed out from the side of Zarkon's head.

  You cried out, jerking back as well as you could when his body tumbled to the floor. His legs wobbled, gave out and then he was beside you, and there was blood pouring from a wound in his skull, and his eyes were closed, and your breath escaped you, and-

  And Shiro's arms were wrapped around you. His lips were pressing into the side of your head. His tears were soaking the side of your face as he rocked back and forth and whispered soothing words in your ear that were probably meant more for him than for you.

  You panted, looking to the rock at Shiro's side. The rock he had just used to knock Zarkon unconscious. The rock stained with that monsters blood.

  Shiro's words fell away. They crumbled. You listened as they descended from words of comfort to one simple phrase that captured the nights mood perfectly.

  “Oh god.”

  This, he spoke on repeat until the ambulance arrived.

  ---

  “Lotor has been taken into questioning. He was asking about you.”

   You nodded at the police woman, still dazed from the slumber she had woken you from. “Is he going to jail?”

  The lady pursed her lips. “If his story is the same as yours, he'll be okay. You two are victims in this.”

   You nodded again. It was all you could do, words no longer computing. There was a phrase you could think of; goodbye, maybe. It seemed like the decent thing to say as the police woman gave you a warm smile, squeezed your fingers before she exited the hospital room.

  You should have said goodbye.

  “You didn't even give her a goodbye.”

  You looked up as Shiro entered the room. His wrist was cradled in a cast. His lip had been split open. He was shirtless again, revealing the bruise that was slowly forming on his lower abdomen.

  You smiled at him, the first person you had properly smiled at since you had been locked up in this hell hole and questioned until your voice was hoarse.

  He sat beside you. “The others are in the waiting room. I told them it would be a bad idea to overwhelm you right now.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Shiro's grey eyes softened. A small smile formed on his lips, and he spoke through a light hearted chuckle. “Yes Y/N. I'm fine.”

   “You've never had to . . . you've never had to do that before, have you?”

  A cloud shadowed his expression. “No.”

   “I'm sorry,” you croaked out. “He was after me, but he blamed you. I should have known better than to ignore his note, but-”

  “Don't, Y/N.”

  You faltered. “What's wrong?”

  Shiro ran his hands through his hair, inhaling shakily. “Don't apologise. Don't try and pin this on yourself. He's not here any more – the police have him in custody. You don't have to think about it. You can move on.” He reached over and gingerly touched your fingertips, silently asking permission. “We can move on.”

  You swallowed thickly. Slowly, without any comment, you flipped your hand over and intertwined your fingers with his. He looked down at the point of connection, a tiny, tiny smile gracing his face that had you unable to fight the smile that took over your own.  

  “He was the one that made you break into my house,” he said. Again, it wasn't a question. “You and that Lotor guy.”

   You nodded. “We've been ransacking places for him since we were eleven. It doesn't excuse our actions, but-”

  “You were brainwashed.”

“We were scared.”

  Shiro nodded. He nodded as if he understood, even though you knew he didn't, and for some reason that didn't frustrate you like it used to. He was trying to understand. He was trying to make sense of a situation that didn't make any sense, and you were grateful for his attempts.

  ---

   Shiro took another sip of his coffee. And another. And another, until he eventually tilted his head the whole way back and downed it.

  You looked up from the documentation in front of you, raising a brow. Whilst you were busy going through the piles upon piles of documents the agency had given to you to read over, Shiro was busy trying to come up with lyrics for Smokey Saturdays new album.

  He was clearly struggling a lot more than you were.

  “This isn't fair,” he grumbled, slamming his coffee cup back down on the table. “How come you're a natural profiler and I can't even get a hook down?”

  You chuckled. “That's what's got you so stressed?”

  “Of course it is.” He turned his notebook in your direction, letting you look at what he had done so far; once upon a time, Shiro's lyrics had been his most prized possession. It took a good six months of living together for him to finally trust you enough to let you read what he wrote.

  On the page, however, was not words, but a simple drawing – two stick figures. One in a detectives hat, and one with a guitar.

  Your cheeks warmed. “You're so cheesy.”

  He grinned from ear to ear, yanking the notebook back. “Isn't it perfect? Love of my life – the FBI profiler! And me – the lyricist who genuinely can't get a hook down.” He frowned, flicked his eyes to your own. “I wasn't joking about that. This song has been driving me crazy for weeks.”

  You rolled your eyes, putting your pen down on top of the pile of suspect profiles given for you to study. “You just need inspiration. I've seen you do it before – you get an idea, and you come up with something amazing. It'll hit you eventually.”

  Shiro pouted, looking down at the page. “There is one thing that usually sparks some inspiration in me.”

   “What's that?”

  He looked up. He didn't say anything, simply puckered his lips and leaned forward. You raised a brow, immediately gripping on to what he was getting at – your stomach flipped in that way it always did, and despite the heaps of work you had to get done, you couldn't help yourself when you leaned forward and kissed him.

  He hummed against your lips, pressing a hand to the back of your neck, gently stroking the chain of the necklace he had gotten you – the necklace that held the key to your shared home. The first home you and Shiro had bought together.

  You pulled away quickly, picking up your pen and shaking your head. “This is why I never get any work done when you're with me.”

  Shiro's eyes were still closed. He dragged his tongue along his lower lip, nodded, and then his eyes flicked open and he started writing.

  You watched him with your jaw hanging open. “Are you serious?”

  He smirked. “I told you. You inspire me.”

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[livingonmyown]

This is a theonsa fic which I wrote about 2 years ago. It’s not finished and there are probably tonnes of mistakes in it, but I hope that you will like it. Maybe someone will be even willing to continue the story. 

Sansa Stark has been always fond of tales and songs about brave knights and virtuous maidens. Therefore, she felt absolutely delighted when her father Lord Eddard announced that he wanted to organise the Archery Tournament in Winterfell to celebrate his daughter fifteenth birthday. Sansa squealed from joy tugging her friend Jeyne Poole to the godswood where they could talk freely about upcoming event.

-        Did you hear that Jeyne? My own Tournament!! I am wondering to whom my father sent the invitations?

-        Oh Sansa, you are sooo lucky! – Jeyne sighs equally excited by the news. – It is Archery Tournament so I hope that Theon will participate. He is the best archer after all!

Sansa pretty blue eyes squints a bit after Jeyne heated confession. In her mind she had already pictured Prince Joffrey Baratheon himself joining the tournament while her friend had to spoil everything by her absolutely improper crush on her father’s ward.

-        Theon Greyjoy, Jeyne really? – Sansa says calmly but with enough disapproval in her voice that Jeyne blushes and nervously tugs her scarf. – I thought that you already grew up from this absolutely improper fancy? You know what they say about him. – Sansa stops herself knowing that even mentioning Theon’s atrocious behaviour with serving girls was unladylike.

Jeyne doesn’t reply only her red cheeks betray her confusion and before Sansa has chance to continue, she hears familiar but unwelcome voice.

-        And what is said about me my lady? – Theon asks with his usual mocking tone, suddenly appearing from one of the godswood trees.

Jeyne let a small whimper ready to run, but Sansa holds her arm and meets bravely Theon’s mischievous eyes. They are green and blue just like the sea in a sunny day and Sansa unwillingly had to admit that they are quite pretty. This thought makes her angry and gives her courage to reply.

-        Eavesdroppers... – she begins with as much dignity and contempt as she can muster, but quickly she is cut off by Theon.

-        Eavesdroppers often hear highly interesting and entertaining things – he smiles crookedly, clearly amused by Sansa’s defensive behaviour.

-        Theon – she says coldly hoping that she sounds intimidating -   you are not a true ... knight. She blushes a bit knowing that she insulted him, but Theon only laughs and replies with mocking courtesy.

-        A very apt observation Lady Sansa. I hope that you will meet plenty of knights on your tournament.

He bows ostentatiously towards them and Sansa could swear that he winked towards her friend before disappearing between the trees.

-        Oh Sansa what have we done? – Jeyne voice trembles as if she was on the verge of tears.

-        Oh please Jeyne it is only Theon – Sansa replies shortly, but she feels pang of guilt in her chest. Theon left them still smiling from ear to ear but she caught his eyes which had darkened like sea before storm.

**

Sansa wakes up abruptly to a loud knock on her door.

-        Wake up sister you cannot sleep through your name day – Robb’s voice echoes through the thick wooden door.

Sansa pretty face brightens on her brother’s comment and she quickly gets up from the bed and runs towards the door.

-        Robb! – She swiftly opens the door, throwing herself on Robb and only her brother confused face tells her that she was clad only in her night shift.

-        Happy Birthday sister – Robb announces slightly embarrassed, which quickly was followed by Sansa’s embarrassment when she hears low mocking tone of voice behind her brother.

-        Happy Birthday Lady Sansa – Theon bows and slowly drags his eyes all over her body. Sansa feels as if she is completely naked and before saying any excuse to her brother she slams the door to her chamber forcefully.

-        Seven Hells! What are you doing Sansa?  - Arya scowls at her sister from her bed. But Sansa is too much flustered to come up with any reply. She still feels Theon’s heated gaze on her, almost as if he was undressing her with his eyes. And she hates the fact that despite of his outrageous impertinence she feels thousands butterflies in her belly.

**

Sansa spent a great deal of time in front of the mirror before choosing dress for her birthday. She goes with a blue gown decorated with mirish lace. She hopes that today she will meet a true knight or maybe even a prince. But whenever she tries to imagine her ideal prince her mind conjures pictures of Theon’s cocky smile and mischievous glint in his sea eyes. ‘Go away from my head’ she growls inwardly and rushes to meet her family and guests in the great hall.

When she enters the hall all eyes are on her and Sansa beams from happiness. Her parents look so proud at her and everyone else seems to be in awe of her beauty.

-        Sansa – her father, Lord Eddard, takes her hand and leads her to the dais where she takes an honour seat. She looks curiously around the table, trying to find those young fine men who will take part in the archery tournament today. She skims through unfamiliar faces which all looks plain and nor prince like at all. Her eyes stop on a man whose crude features and pale blue eyes are almost too distracting to look at. His pale skin deeply contrasts with his black hair, his thick red lips curled up in a malicious smirk. He catches her eyes and deliberately looks down her neck until it settles on her exposed cleavage. Sansa feels as if hundreds of tiny warms crawl under her dress and looks away from the stranger, trying to hide her distaste.

-        Dear friends – her father raises from his chair to greet guests – thank you for joining us to celebrate fifteenth birthday of my beloved daughter Sansa. Lord Eddard nods in Sansa’s direction and she smiles fondly at him, trying to forget about the horrible stranger. She hopes that whoever he is he won’t participate in the archery contest.

-        Today – Lord Eddard continues – we would like to invite everyone with archery skills to join the tournament on my daughter birthday. The winner will have chance to spend time with my lovely daughter on her birthday picnic. In the evening we plan a great feast with dances.

Cheer and excited voices echoes through the hall. Sansa also smiles although with less excitement than before.

**

Robb escorts her towards dais built especially for the tournament. The dais was facing the ground where targets for archers had been set up. Sansa is placed between her friend Jeyne and sister Arya, who was utterly unhappy for being force to wear a decorative dress and forbidden to take part in the archery contest.

Ser Rodrik Cassel takes a stand and starts reading list of contestants while Sansa eyes involuntarily look for Theon. She hasn’t seen him since the unfortunate meeting in the morning. From Robb’s account she knew that he was helping with setting up the targets and she was unwillingly disappointed that he didn’t enter the tournament. Sansa thought back about his unexpected appearance in the godswood when she told him boldly that he was no knight and when he heard how she chastised Jeyne for calling Theon the best archer. Truth to be told he was the best archer she has ever seen, even her brothers couldn’t match with him and Sansa wished that she never had said that.

-        Ramsay of House Bolton – Ser Rodrik announced the next participant and Sansa recognises the stranger from the morning, his pale eyes burning wholes on her skin. She forces herself to smile and hears her friend’s whisper.

-        Ramsay Bolton is a dreadful man, but very skilful archer they say.

Sansa looks at Jeyne with growing anxiety.

-        What do you know about him?

-        Only terrible gossips. That he likes to hunt young girls and... – Jeyne stops abruptly as Ramsay walks past giving Sansa look as if he has been already claiming his award.

Both girls shiver slightly and Jeyne adds shakily.

-        Don’t worry Sansa Theon is better archer than Ramsay for sure.

But then ser Rodrik finishes reading the list of participants and Sansa heart sinks.

-        My lady – ser Rodrik turns to her – please give signal so the tournament can begin.

-        One moment ser Rodrik – Sansa lips move before she can think – one contestant is missing. Please forgive me.

And without further explanation she hastily walks out from the courtyard. Her mother, Lady Catlyn, looks anxiously after her daughter but Lord Eddard calms her down.

-        She is a bit nervous that’s all.

**

Sansa runs towards godswood hoping to find Theon there. “what if he went to winter town to meet with one of those awful women?” She shakes that unpleasant thought although she is ready to strangle Theon if that would be the truth. She enters the goodswood with pounding heart feeling her own blood racing through her veins like a hot stream.

She finds Theon near one of pools, shooting arrows to one of old trees. All of them reached pricelessly marked spot and Sansa sighs with relief.

Theon turns head towards her and smirks.

-        How is the tournament my lady? Have you found your knight already?

If she hasn’t been so stressed she could strangle him right there. But she doesn’t have time to argue or to explain. Therefore, instead of fighting back she throws in one breath.

-        Theon, you have to come with me. There is a man in there, an awful man, who is said to be very skilful archer. If he wins the tournament I will have to spend time with him alone and...

-        And what this has anything to do with me? – He asks her with enough arrogance that in any other circumstances she would just walk away. Instead she simply answers.

-        You have to join the tournament and win it.

-        Are you serious? – He raises his brows in surprise mixed with amusement. But Sansa is deadly serious.

-        Yes!

-        I have never in my life taken part in one of these stupid competitions and I'm not about to start now. – Theon replies lightly although his eyes watch Sansa attentively.

-        But - right now - out there the – Sansa stumbles on her words, feeling more and more miserable with every passing second.

-        Just go to Robb or Jon they are pretty good archers too. – He adds more gently seeing the distress in Sansa’s eyes.

-        I cannot ask my brothers to win for me. – She says miserably.

-        Why not? – Theon gives her a confused look.

-        Because that is pathetic. – Sansa replies meekly.

Theon sighs ostentatiously but asks with amusement in his voice.

-        And chasing me around godswood and begging me to participate?

Sansa looks directly into his eyes and replies desperately.

-        Also pathetic. But that is a pathetic I can live with, where that pathetic is truly pathetic pathetic, and ONLY you can save me from the double pathetic. Please – She pleads in one breath.

Theon sighs again but his eyes are shimmering with glee and hidden pride.

-        I can’t believe I am doing this. – He mutters before taking his bow and arrows.

Sansa is so happy that without thinking she takes Theon’s hand and almost drags him to the courtyard.

#theon x sansa #theonsa #theon greyjoy #sansa stark #my fic #sorry for my english #i just love them so much #got #feedback is very welcome #one scene based on gilmore girls fans will know which one :)

[evescole]

In Too Deep // Bucky Barnes

word count: 2,450

pairing: (bucky barnes x natasha romanoff) x reader

warnings: angst & sadness, cursing, some dark thoughts, not a happy ending kids

summary: you finally reach a breaking point with bucky and his relationship with natasha

a/n: oh look eva’s writing about her life again. this literally sucks sorry i’ve been so inactive the words just don’t wanna work rn. inspired off the song In Too Deep by Why Don’t We. part two for Dancing On My Own!

part one

masterlist

ask me stuff

--

The weeks following your revelation to Steve didn’t get any better. In fact, it only got worse.

Your emotions had overwhelmed you full force leaving no escape at all from what you were feeling about Bucky. Your thoughts constantly wondered to your two best friends, curious as to what they were doing behind closed doors and if they remembered who you were at all.

Conversations with Natasha were easy as anything but when it came to Bucky, you couldn’t breathe. Speaking to him made you stumble and tense up. You wanted to do nothing but cry. You knew you didn’t mean anything to him near what Natasha did, and it hurt. At this point, you just wanted a friendship. You wanted him to acknowledge you and be there, even if you weren’t by Natasha’s side.

As someone who completely loved physical attention whether it be hugs, holding hands, soft touches, anything, it was hard to stay away from Bucky. The ex-soldier had totally come out of his shell and generally warmed up to the idea of physical affection, something he was sure to give Natasha each and every second possible. It hurt your heart to watch her push him aside when she wasn’t in the mood to be touched, knowing your skin was aching to feel whatever he would give.

“I’m done,” Natasha’s voice was loud and clear as she stormed into your room, anger evident in her features. “I’m so fucking done.”

You frowned at her current state. “Why? What happened?”

The redhead paced back and forth for a few moments before settling herself on your bed. “I love him, Y/N, I really do, but,” She sighed deeply as she tried to regain her composure. “He just can’t see that he’s wrong for once.”

You chuckled and moved your gaze back to your tablet. “Yeah, I can tell. His head’s always up his ass, Nat. We know that.”

“And I get that,” She exasperated, “But he doesn’t get that I’m trying and as much as I want to spend time with him, I have things to do. Training, you, the rest of the team, I just-”

“It’s balancing,” You hummed as you pushed your device away, knowing the following talk wasn’t going to end pretty. “That’s what happens in a relationship. You balance.”

“He said you don’t matter as much as he does,” She whispered as if she didn’t want to tell you, but felt obligated. “We were fighting on the way back from the club and he said he should be my top priority before you.”

The air slipped from your throat at her words. They hit your conscious harder than they should’ve. You constantly reminded yourself that Natasha and Bucky were the ones in the relationship, that it wasn’t you and you couldn’t push yourself in. As much as you wanted Bucky to hug you and cuddle you and be concerned about you, Natasha would always be his top priority. Now, he was just putting your thoughts into reality.

“Oh.” Your eyes burned with tears but you stopped yourself from crying. You knew deep down you shouldn’t care. They didn’t care about your feelings anywhere near as much as you cared for theirs. “Well, I mean, that’s fine.”

You were constantly worried about not being enough, of losing the people you valued the most in your life, and Bucky just threw that right in your face without a second thought. You couldn’t tell Natasha that, though. You couldn’t reveal to her that you cared about Bucky more than just a friend, ever.

--

The next time your feelings were torn apart came a bit sooner than you liked. You had been filing papers with Wanda per Tony’s request thanks to his secretary being sick that week. Bucky decided he had nothing better to do with his Friday night since Natasha was on a mission and stayed to watch you work.

You were beginning to grow frustrated with the amount of papers Tony wanted organized, the stack seemingly never ending. Music played softly from your tablet on the table but your nerves were too fried to even bother.

Bucky had thrown himself on the couch in Tony’s office, his phone hovering inches from his face as the light reflected off of him. When you got close enough, you could practically drown in the scent of his cologne as you inhaled deeply.

“Hey, did anyone go with Nat when she left this morning?” His voice almost echoed through the silent room.

“Why? Jealous it wasn’t you?” Wanda joked as she shoved a file in the drawer. A chuckle escaped your lips at her words as you bit back a witty remark that would only add to his already grumpy mood.

“Why do you laugh like that?” Bucky moved his phone from his face to mock the noise that you made. “It sounds so weird.”

Wanda glanced at you, frowning at the clear presence of sadness on your face. Bucky’s comments were usually sarcastic and out of context but he seemed to be in a particular mood today. This wasn’t the first insult he had thrown at you either. They had been constant since the moment he entered the room and it didn’t look like he was stopping any time soon.

“Bucky,” The redhead snapped, disbelief clear on her face. “Why are you being so mean to her?”

Bucky laughed, his charming face crinkling with the action as he looked to you. “She knows I’m just joking. Right, doll?”

You hummed a response as you focused on the papers in your hand. It wasn’t worth speaking up because you knew he didn’t care. Obviously he was speaking honestly and maybe, just maybe, the insults would help change your feelings towards the super soldier.

This insulting behavior continued on all the way up to the holidays. Thanksgiving allowed the team a few days to visit family and not train or go on missions and you were fully prepared to use it to your advantage. Each day was planned with Natasha, both of you excited to spend the days off with each other to catch up and relax. It was her idea to include Bucky, something you found yourself okay with despite what you knew was right.

You didn’t like the fact that Bucky and Natasha had such a major influence on your emotions like they did. You wanted to be fine without them and to not wonder what they were doing alone, but you couldn’t help it. It also didn’t put you in a better position that Natasha told you more details about their relationship than she probably should.

You ended up curled up on the couch as a comedy movie played across the screen. Natasha was cuddled up in Bucky’s arms just inches from you as they laughed. Pulling the blanket closer as you glanced at them, your happy attitude started to crumble apart.

The sound of a text filled the room as Nat pulled her phone from the couch cushion, a small grin on her face. You ignored it and kept your attention on the movie, figuring it was probably Clint. The noise resounded again, this time Bucky grabbing his. A frown pushed at your lips as you saw Natasha’s name on the screen.

They were texting about you.

A pit settled in your stomach as you watched them exchange messages, oblivious to the fact that you could see right over their shoulders. Once you reached your limit, you stood up and grabbed your stuff before leaving the room without even saying goodbye.

The moment your bedroom door shut behind you, the tears broke loose. It didn’t matter that you were freezing in the cold of your room, or that your phone was dead next to you and you were starving. You couldn’t believe that they did that to you. You always gave them the benefit of the doubt, seeing as they were two of your best friends but damn.

Maybe they didn’t deserve you after all.

--

“What’s wrong?”

Bucky’s voice was a shock to you as you froze in your spot. You didn’t want to speak to him, not now. Your thoughts had been tearing into you all day long and you couldn’t handle having a conversation with the person causing it.

“Nothing,” You answered as you skipped the song playing on your tablet. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” Bucky sat down next to you on the couch and pulled the device from your hand. “Talk to me.”

You sighed and leaned back against the cushions, finding it interesting that he only wanted to talk to you when it was convenient for him. “Just overthinking.”

“About what?” He pressed as he looked back at you.

“Long story,” You mumbled, hoping it would push him away. It did the exact opposite.

“I’m ready to hear it.” When you didn’t continue talking, he sighed, “Y/N, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want you to tell me.”

Pulling your knees to your chest, you released some of the thoughts haunting you, including parts of your fears of losing him and Nat. You were embarrassed to have let the idea even in your mind, knowing it would be better if you cut them both out no matter how much you didn’t want to.

“You’re never going to lose me and Nat, I promise,” Bucky consoled as he set your tablet aside. “No matter what happens, we’re always going to be here for you. And I know it’s scary being in your head, but you can always talk to me. That way you’re not alone and nothing bad happens.”

That was it. That’s what hurt. The fact that he said you could always come to him but you knew. Oh, you knew that only applied when Nat wasn’t around. If she was there, you were invisible to him, and you couldn’t even be surprised anymore.

--

It continued like this for a while. Bucky and Nat would argue, you’d hear about it from both of them, they’d make up, and you’d be thrown in the shadows until you were relevant again. It was tearing you down with each confrontation or minute spent near them. You didn’t know how much longer you would last before you broke down and just spilled to them.

Your friends and family constantly reminded you that neither Bucky nor Natasha deserved your attention and love, and even you knew that, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. The good times were so valuable, so memorable that you didn’t want to even think about losing them. They truly brought you out of your shell, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

You tried to distract yourself by jumping head first into constant training with your other teammates and any little chance you could find to escape the compound. It began to get easier. You felt a little lighter, like things were slowly getting back on track since you weren’t hovering over everyone’s favorite couple.

Then, it just happened. You couldn’t stop it. You didn’t mean for it, but it did.

Bucky approached you one day, curious as to why you had been pulling away and dead set on getting an answer. He seemed hurt and it set off a burn inside you to see him feeling even an ounce of what you had been through.

“Did we do something wrong?” He interrogated as he followed you to the training room. “You just stopped talking to us.”

You ignored him as you pulled your hair up before going to tie your shoes. If you spoke even a word, you weren’t going to be able to shut up.

“Y/N!” He groaned as you stood up and walked towards the treadmill. You could hear him huff and before you knew it, you were being spun around. “Answer me!”

“What do you want, James?” You shouted back as you clenched your hands in his grip. “How much more of me are you going to use before you let me break?”

The anger was instantly replaced with confusion as he loosened his grip slightly. “What do you-”

“I’m exhausted, Bucky! I can’t win with you! You only talk to me when you need someone and other than that, your attention is on Natasha. And I get it, I really do. She’s your girlfriend, but fuck, I thought I was your friend!” You didn’t bother stopping the tears streaming down your cheeks as you let all of your pent up emotions burst. “You guys act like you don’t want me around and I can’t keep tearing myself up over this!”

Yanking your hands from his grip, you brushed against his shoulder as you stormed past him. His footsteps were right behind you, despite your desire to be left alone.

“Don’t walk away from me!” He jumped in front of you, stopping your escape. “Come on. Talk to me. Natasha’s worried and so am I. We just want-”

You scoffed, “Oh, you’re worried? That’s new.”

Bucky sighed and brushed your anger off as best as he could. “We care about you, Y/N. I don’t know why you think we-”

“I sit here and I suffer and you can’t get your head out of your ass to just look at me for once!” You snapped, “Bucky, I don’t think you get it. I don’t want to be here anymore. And not just the compound, I don’t want to be on this planet anymore! It’s. Not. Worth. It.”

Bucky stepped back with shock evident in his features. You hadn’t even mentioned anything to him about the way you had been feeling, but then again, why would you? After what he and Natasha had done to you, he couldn’t blame you. He just wished you would’ve said something sooner.

His lack of response was enough of an answer for you. You just shook your head and gave him a sad smile. “Goodbye, James.”

The sound of your shoes against the floor was almost nonexistent as Bucky stood there. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed as he just relieved the argument and every interaction he’s had with you since he and Natasha became a thing. His chest started to feel heavy with guilt as he realized what they had put you through. It was no wonder that you snapped.

With a deep breath, he began walking. Not after you, though. No.

He had a date with Natasha, after all.

--

masterlist

#bucky x natasha #bucky barnes x reader #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #Winter Soldier #black widow x winter soldier #winter soldier imagine #winter soldier x reader #natasha romanoff #avengers imagine #avengers x reader #wanda maximoff #x reader #reader insert #marvel cinematic universe #marvel imagine #bucky barnes x natasha romanoff #angst #marvel #mcu #james barnes x reader

[microsuedemouse]

Yes mom please tell us your favourite Canadian David Headcanons Like I, the mere European, have no clue about Canada at all but I'd gladly embrace all of your Headcanons 😄😄

oh boy okay you asked for it pal

(for the record: you may consider all of this as canon to Run Away Home, and I will tag it as such, but you may also adopt these for your own use if you wish! lmk though, I’d love to know which ones y’all like!)

in RAH I’ve been headcanoning David as coming from Hamilton for simplicity’s sake - it’s where I live. let’s go deeper: when I was six my town and in fact the whole county of Flamborough was amalgamated into the city of Hamilton. much of Flamborough remains relatively rural. so:

David’s mom lives in a nice suburb somewhere and he grew up there on the edge between urban and rural areas, knowing people from both (okay so this is just my life shut up)

His grandmother and grandfather, though, owned a small farm out in the more rural area and he spent a lot of time there as a kid, especially in the summers.

he went to college at Mohawk and got an apartment in the city… this is truly just my RAH-specific background but here we are so why not share

He loves Hamilton’s art community and its nature and parks and many many waterfalls

He LOVES to go camping wherever he can, with a special fondness for Banff and Algonquin

like 80% of us, he got his first job at Tim Hortons. Unlike 80% of us, he did not utterly hate it and can even still eat the food.

he grew up watching a lot of American TV/consuming American media, like the rest of us, but he also loved the fundamental Canadian stuff - Fred Penner’s Place and Crazy Quilt and Mr. Dressup and Big Comfy Couch were all major childhood staples alongside things like Mr. Rogers. Like all of us, he cried when Mr. Dressup passed away and still has weird random memories of Nanalan’ that he doesn’t think he could explain if he tried. He owned all of Fred Penner’s albums as a kid and will still buy new ones, and see him live any chance he gets, because Fred Penner is a national treasure. (He has tried teaching Fred Penner songs at camp, but for some reason the kids never seem to be into it.)

when he outgrew little-kids’ TV he still watched a lot of Teletoon and Family Channel stuff. He’s seen all of 6Teen.

his coffee order is a double double (two creams, two sugars).

he unironically dresses like a Canadian pretty often - flannels and the good ol’ Canadian tuxedo (denim jacket worn with jeans) are totally normal to his wardrobe.

he learned to drive a tractor before a car.

Gwen is surprised and delighted when he tells her he’s been drinking since he was nineteen, and then she’s disappointed when he points out that’s legal drinking age in Ontario.

he normally drinks ciders (not especially Canadian but just my hc lol), but he does like a good Caesar or Canadian whiskey (he just calls it rye).

also: he learned how to open two capped bottles with each other’s necks (no bottle opener) at a bush party once. he likes that this information shocks Gwen and decides not to tell her that he ended up there because he absolutely misunderstood what a ‘bush party’ entailed.

(admittedly all of these drinking headcanons come out of a fic I started and haven’t gotten around to finishing. idk when I will so I’ll go ahead and share here)

he doesn’t love winter but it takes at least 40 cm (~16 in) of snow and/or a windchill of -30°C (-22°F) or lower to stop him from going about his day.

as I noted in that other post, he loves Letterkenny because it’s just so damn accurate - he’s known so many people like the characters in the show! It’s definitely cruder than he’d like and he’d die of embarrassment if the campers or someone found out how much he loves it, but it’s just so funny. (what he doesn’t realise is that no one at Camp Campbell would be able to make full sense of the show.)

he also loves a good Rick Mercer Rant

he’s enjoyed his fair share of Corner Gas, and some Trailer Park Boys, too.

He loves Murdoch Mysteries and got a kick out of Republic of Doyle as well.

He’s read all of the Anne of Green Gables books and grew up watching the cartoon often. He still gets emotional when he thinks too much about Anne and Gilbert.

Canadian music, MY DUDES. He loves the Barenaked Ladies, Great Big Sea and anything involving Alan Doyle, the Arkells (he’s from Hamilton, it’s basically required), Lights, Alanis Morissette, The Tragically Hip, I could go on….

like literally the rest of the country, he watched the televised final concert of the Hip - it was in August 2016, so he was still at camp and had to watch an online stream that wavered in quality, and then he watched a recording again when he got back home - and cried his eyes out at the end.

He’s been to every province at least briefly, but never to the territories - they’re next on his travel list. Canada is huge and beautiful and he wants to see as much of it as he can!

he speaks pretty decent conversational French, but gets really nervous when he messes up or forgets a word, and the more nervous he is the worse he gets. it snowballs and often ends in him panicking.

he’s a very, very bad skater and absolutely useless at hockey. he’s okay at lacrosse and downhill skiing. he can handle cross-country skiing or snowshoeing pretty well, though!

and he spent every winter tobogganing down local hills. okay, he still spends every winter tobogganing down local hills, even after it was outlawed. no one pays attention to that law.

he LOVES maple syrup. and maple taffy. and maple cookies. and everything else maple. he and his mom have been tapping the trees on her property every year for as long as he can remember.

he wouldn’t tell you he cares much about sports, but if you insult the Leafs, the Blue Jays, the Argos, the Habs, or the Ti-Cats, he gets suddenly and irrationally defensive. he barely follows the games so he doesn’t even know why he gets so defensive.

(if pushed, Ti-Cats over Argos, and Leafs over Habs, even though being a Leafs fan is outrageously depressing.)

He would probably take a bullet for Wayne Gretzky. Again, he doesn’t know why. He just would.

On the note of Gretzky: you know the little cheers that kids add to the lyrics of ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’? After the line “you’ll go down in history,” many American kids add “like George Washington!” Like other Canadian kids, David says, “like Wayne Gretzky!”

He has been known to compulsively start singing “Don’t you put it in your mouth” when trying to stop campers from putting shit in their mouths.

He has also been known to remind kids to “stay alert, stay safe!”

He also still wants a house hippo. Damn it. We all still want a house hippo…

in general he makes a lot of references to Canadian ads that we all remember vividly but no one outside of the country knows about. “MoooOOOM, Aidan cut me in HALF again!”

if presented with enough rocks he will just start building inukshuks. sometimes he does this at camp and the kids wonder what the fuck these weird rock structures are.

his wallet is still full of Canadian Tire money. they have points cards now. and yet he can still never get rid of the Canadian Tire money. it is eternal

he has a rim roller on his keychain. once Max asked what it was and David only sighed deeply. “another free coffee…” he said distantly

he, like most of us, has a very love-hate relationship with Toronto.

he calls it T.O. or T-dot, usually.

one time he was talking to an American who goes to Toronto sometimes for business, and they made a passing comment about Union Station. David’s eye began to twitch.

He learned to drop his ‘eh’s while in the states when he was still a camper, because other campers used to make jokes about it sometimes. they slide right back into his vocabulary the moment he gets home.

he still pronounces ‘roof’ in a way that strikes the kids as weird, and still uses Canadian spellings most of the time - colour instead of color, grey instead of gray, etc.

the boy loves ketchup chips. and all-dressed chips. and poutine. and back bacon. and aero bars, and kinder eggs, and actual smarties. I could go on.

I just scrolled up and saw how long this list has gotten so I… I will stop. but oh my god, I could go on forever, probably. Canadian David is good shit. I will be your Canadian David consultant if you want.

#Camp Camp #cc David #cc Run Away Home #Nonnies #you opened a real can of worms my friend #in fact you destroyed the can and now there are worms everywhere #apologetic Canadian worms all trying hard to stay out of your way

[viktuurificwriters]

Getting to Know Reiya

AO3 profile

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 If you’ve been in the Yuri on Ice fandom for a long time now, then I bet you’ve already heard of Reiya. She is the author of the highly acclaimed Rivals series on AO3. The series’ first fic, entitled Until my Feet Bleed and my Heart Aches, is the YOI fic with the most number of kudos and hits.

Reiya ( @kazliin ) even has her own group of dedicated readers, who form a sub-fandom within the YOI fandom. Her blog is proof of that–being comprised of replies to the variety of asks she receives daily, different posts about the Top Ten’s of Yuuri and of Viktor in the Rivals world, reblogs of different fanarts and fanvids about her stories, and a whole lot more.

Any fan of Reiya would take pleasure in scrolling down her blog. From it, they can know some exclusive facts about her writings, like where she gets ideas, which of the two fics in the series was harder for her to write, and others. But with the plenty of asks Reiya answers each week, such facts get buried away in her blog and could never be seen again (unless you’ve decided to devote yourself in searching through each of the pages, which would probably take hours.)

Therefore, this post has been made to compile some of the basic stuff that everyone needs to know about their favorite writer. Learn more about Reiya and her works right under the cut.

Even though Reiya writes fanfics about YOI, she admits that she doesn’t really watch anime. She became interested in Yuri on Ice when she kept seeing it on her dashboard around episode two or three. She was also curious about it being a figure skating anime because, as a child, she used to dream of becoming a figure skater herself.

Before YOI, Reiya used to write for the Marvel fandom. She didn’t write a fic for seven months after her last Marvel fic due to writer’s block, but then she found Yuri on Ice and it gave her the inspiration she needed to write again.

“The source material is wonderful and there's so much potential in it for both canon verse fics and AUs,” says Reiya. “And as a member of the LGBT community, it was so wonderful to finally see a canon, healthy, happy queer couple, so it gave me a lot of inspiration to write.”

As soon as Reiya started watching YOI, she kept imagining different scenarios to put the characters in, which she thinks is a good precursor to starting a fic. Yuri on Ice was also a new fandom, with new material coming out each week–getting reader response and feedback was very high.

“Inspiration to write is so heavily based on getting response for what you do,” Reiya adds. “Being in a big fandom like YOI and having so many people being enthusiastic over my fic really pushed me to keep writing.”

And so, Reiya started writing what turned out to be the most popular YOI fic ever.

In coming up for the idea of UMFB&MHA, Reiya was really interested in the challenge of turning a fluffy and loving couple into rivals and in an enemies-to-lovers situation.

“The middle came first, then the beginning with how the whole rivalry started and then the doping scandal and then end,” she says. “I think I dreamed up the whole thing over the course of about a week and then finally sat down to plot it all out properly.”

Her biggest challenge in planning out the fic was figuring what Viktor could do to make Yuuri hate him. She knew that it should never be malicious on Viktor’s part. Viktor can be insensitive at times and speaks before he thinks in canon, but at heart, he’s never intentionally cruel. Eventually, Reiya settled on making Viktor say something tactless that he thought was helping, but actually cut Yuuri really deeply.

“We know from the other characters saying it that Yuuri really hates losing and he's a very determined character who rises well when he's challenged, like with Yurio during the Onsen on Ice,” answers Reiya when asked if she can see Canon Yuuri as the kind of person who’d resent someone for so long even though he had just been a kid when he felt insulted. “So I think the seed is there if something happened to him in his formative years to send him sown a different path.”

In the fic, Yuuri was insulted by Viktor when he was an insecure twelve-year old. According to Reiya, he took the insult far worse than an adult Yuuri would and it really shaped him. “The insult also grows with him over the fic,” she explains. “When he thinks back on what Viktor said, it becomes worse and more hurtful because his mind is distorting the memory as he grows older.”

When Reiya writes, she has to do it in big chunks. She doesn’t like writing only a little for an hour and a half and then stop. She needs to sit down on a weekend and write for ten hours straight. She prefers getting into the zone when she writes, so she needs to be in a peaceful place with a single song looped playing for hours in the background in order to help her focus.

Ten hours is the maximum time she allots on a weekend, but often, if the deadline for the next chapter was approaching, she’d come back home from university on a day she had reserved for writing at five and then writes until midnight, with only a break for a dinner.

“Since I take two weeks to write a chapter and maybe 30-50 hours, it means I can do it all in big chunks with free days to live my life rather than writing non-stop all the time,” says Reiya.

Once Reiya is in the writing zone, everything else is easy. But getting in that zone is what’s difficult. Sometimes she can spend hours writing and not be able to focus at all that she can’t make the words flow.

“Before chapter 14, my exams were approaching and I was studying all the time and not writing, so the day before I said I'd post the chapter, I still had a huge chunk to write,” she shares. “I pulled an all-nighter to finish because people were so excited for the next chapter and I didn't want to let them down!”

The pressure of her fans has been hard on Reiya, but she finds that she usually works well under it. The expectations terrify but also motivate her at the same time.

Reiya loves writing, but sometimes it can be very exhausting. She finds it very difficult to write the sex scenes in her fics. Before the Rivals series, she had never written a sex scene so it was great exercise in learning how to write them. Even then, she still struggles, especially now with the second fic in her series, entitled Of Bright Stars and Burning Hearts, where she has to rewrite all the sex scenes from UMFB&MHA in Viktor’s POV.

In terms of emotional writing, the hardest scene for her to write was first part of the third chapter of OBS&BH. Viktor is a very optimistic character and it was very hard for Reiya to put him in a position where that optimism gets crushed.

The responses of people who read Reiya’s fic is what keeps her writing. She is incredibly grateful and lucky to have so many people enjoying her fic. The pressure and the expectations may be terrifying, but she thinks it's worth it.

Reiya’s advice for aspiring writers:

(The italicized text are Reiya’s exact words, but with minor errors corrected.)

Don’t compare yourselves to the big fics and don't write what you're not comfortable with. Almost all the big fics in any fandom were written right at the beginning when popularity is highest and when people read the fics with the most kudos first.  Once a fic is on the first page it's very difficult to knock it down or get another fic up there instead. It happens in every fandom. If you come into a fandom later and write, don't feel down by comparing yourself to fics like that. Popularity doesn't necessarily mean it's the best fic out there, and just because your fic isn't the most popular, it doesn't mean it isn't good. I know it seems patronizing of me to say that, all things considered, but YOI isn't my first fandom and I know how hard it can be when you feel like people care so much more about other fics than yours. I've deleted or stopped fics before because I felt like no one cared. But you know what? People do and you should always write what you want to write regardless of what anyone else is doing. You never know, to someone out there, your fic might make their day.

As for not writing what you’re not comfortable with, don’t be pressured into writing something just because all the other fics are like that or people want it. If you’re not comfortable with writing sex scenes, then don’t write them. If someone wants your fic to go in a certain direction and you’re not sure about it, don’t do it just to please someone else. Write for yourself first and everyone else second.

I think a lot of writers (and I include myself in this) can get caught up comparing themselves to other people and trying to please everyone which is never a good way to go.

[Bonus] Random Facts about Reiya:

(The italicized text are Reiya’s exact words, but with minor errors corrected.)

1.       Favorite Viktuuri Headcanons

I love the idea that Yuuri can hold his alcohol really well and Viktor can't! I also love the hc that they both learn each other's languages and end up speaking a weird mash of Japanese and Russian all the time. I also love most sappy romantic hc about them once they're living together in St Petersburg because I'm a sappy romantic at heart.

I also love headcanons about them being the worst rivals ever now that they're both competing. Like, they're supposed to be serious competition but they can't stop making eyes at each other and teasing each other all the time during competitions

2.       Favorite YOI song

Yuri on Ice

3.       Favorite YOI scene

The proposal scene because it's so atmospheric or the kiss scene because that was the moment when I could finally scream “I fucking said it was going to become canon! I CALLED IT PEOPLE.”

4.       Favorite color

Blue

5.       Waffles or pancakes?

Pancakes

6.       Ice cream – Chocolate or vanilla?

Chocolate

7.       Viktor or Yuuri?

How dare you try and make me choose?

8.       Pineapples on pizza or not?

I'm a normal human being, so no.

9.       Coffee or tea?

Coffee. There's no blood in my veins; there is only caffeine.

10.   Scrambled eggs or sunny side up?

Sunny side up

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