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imaginesandbandfiction · 2 years

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Harry Styles — Cherry

Fine Line Series Part 8

Masterlist

Don’t You Call Him What You Used to Call Me

Immediately following his second sold-out show in Tokyo, Harry hopped in a car and headed straight to the airport. Filled with pent-up anger and adrenaline, he was on edge for the entire 12-hour flight back to London and the 3-hour drive home.

Once he was back in Holmes Chapel, safely inside the four walls of his mother’s house, he collapsed in the old twin bed in his childhood bedroom and slept for sixteen hours straight.

He focused all of his energy on being present with his family and friends, going out with his old mates from school and hosting aunts, uncles, and cousins at home with his Mum. Always with a charming smile on his face, and with a story to tell about the tour. If he happened to pull out his phone and hover his finger over the call button on your contact information a few times a day, well, that was nobody’s business.

But late at night, after everyone had gone home and he was alone in his too-small bed, he scrolled through fan accounts on Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr, though he would never admit it to anyone. They had realized something was up during the Tokyo shows, and were speculating what went wrong. Some of them figured out that you had left early, reposting your Instagram stories from your hometown. The fans were edging towards the truth, but none of their theories was entirely correct. Since he wasn’t posting or attending any public events, they had nothing better to do besides speculate and though normally Harry would hate them prying, but he appreciated staying up to date with you, even indirectly. It became the only way he kept up with you, these late night scrolls, because watching your stories was too painful. He liked second-hand information better, it felt less like you that way.

One night, a post on Tumblr stopped him in his tracks. Someone had posted a photo of the cover of the Daily Mail with the caption “is this y/n?????” He clicked on the photo to blow it up all the way, studying the grainy snap.

“Fresh from split with model Kaylin Colemen, Rafe Kingsley steps out with a new girl!” the headline read. He zoomed in on the magazine, able to make out a tall man with dirty-blonde hair and… yep, that was you, in a green dress, walking half a step behind him. Harry looked up the article online, and read the entire thing three times before it really sunk in.

Rafe Kingsley, son of Charles and Amelia Kingsley, was seen attending the opening of his parents’ new gallery in Los Angeles, with a new woman on his arm. He’s been spotted with Y/N Y/L/N around LA for the past week, spurring rumors of a new romance after he and Model Kaylin Coleman announced their breakup last month.

The Kingsley Center Los Angeles is the first international gallery for artists-turned-gallerists Charles and Amelia, who also own The Kingsley Center London and The Kingsley Center Manchester.

He checked Instagram, typing your name in the search bar, and saw that your latest post was of you in the same green dress as the photo in the article, taking a mirror selfie with Rafe.

He threw his phone at the wall with a disgruntled yell, watching as it fell to the ground and cracked. The tears came on fast, hot and angry as they fell, his thoughts spiraling out of control. You had moved on, fallen in love with someone new, were engaged, pregnant, and buying a house together all within a few weeks, he was sure of it.

___

After that night, Harry was different. He stopped going out to see his friends, spending his days inside reading books and doing puzzles with his mum. Anne loved having the extra time with her son, but it broke her heart to see the light in his eyes dimmed so much.

One morning, over tea and a puzzle, she decided to ask him about it.

“Are you sure you’re okay, love?” She asked, her voice gentle, not looking up from the puzzle between them.

“‘M fine, mum,” he mumbled. She knew he wasn’t, but had suspected the entire time he had been home that it had to do with the girl he couldn’t stop talking about while on tour. He hadn’t mentioned her once since he’d been back home.

“Did something happen between you and Y/N?” He looked down into his tea cup, avoiding her gaze.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Anne nodded and stood up, walking around the table to wrap her arms around his shoulders, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. It broke her heart to see him so upset, but she left it alone, knowing that sometimes he just needed to feel things on his own for a while and he’d open up when he was ready.

___

You were back in LA, working at the studio again and staying in Rafe’s condo. He was an old friend from college, and when you couldn’t find a place to sublet, he offered to let you take his. He was traveling a lot, looking at gallery space in a different city every week for his parents, so you had the place to yourself. At least, at first. He flew back into town to attend the opening of his parents’ new gallery in LA and took pity on you, forcing you to get off the couch and out of your pajamas to go with him.

You had to admit, begrudgingly, that getting out had been good for you. The champagne had been flowing, and you were able to forget, just for a moment, the hollow ache in your chest that has been slowly getting bigger, eating up more of you every day. You laughed and chatted with interesting people from all around the world, but when you were back in Rafe’s guest room, all alone in the king-sized bed, the ache returned, twice as large as it had been before, and you returned to your not-so-healthy coping mechanism: doomscrolling the Harry Styles tags on social media.

It was weird, keeping up with your ex via thousands of fan accounts who posted every grainy, zoomed-in paparazzi photo and speculated about every aspect of his life. Weirder still was the fact that some of them posted about you. As a member of the tour crew, you had gained a small following of loyal Harries and some of the fan pages had theories about why you left the tour early. Because of course they had figured that out.

You supposed it could have been a lot worse, had you and Harry been in a public relationship, and you understood why Harry didn’t want to bring you into all of that. But it wasn’t his job to protect you, especially not without consulting you first. Even after all of his efforts to keep things quiet, the fan pages were speculating, inching closer to the truth.

The fan pages were relatively quiet that night, ever since the tour ended, things had been dying down. Harry was in Holmes Chapel, that much you knew, but his hometown was an iron fortress, the town was fiercely protective of his privacy. Gemma had posted a picture of her, Anne and Harry on Christmas morning and Harry had liked the post, but otherwise he was silent online.

You were still posting, trying to keep some semblance of normal to convince people (mostly yourself) that you were fine. Every post had multiple people in the comments asking what happened between you and Harry, why you left the tour early, and if you were dating Rafe now. Which you weren’t, he had always been just a friend, and you were still too in love with Harry to even think about dating someone new.

Eventually, the pain started to subside a bit, and you ached in a different way. When you scrolled through your camera roll, the tears that fell were out of longing, not anger and grief, and you just wanted him back. Sure, you weren’t thrilled with the crew having to sign NDAs, especially since you hadn’t found out until after it had already happened, but the tour would be over in 6 months anyways and then they were void. You and Harry could figure out what to do after that together when the time came.

You carried on much like you had been but with an extra spring in your step, and the thought of how to get Harry back was constantly in the back of your mind.

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likelightningafterthethunder · 3 years

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Like Lightning After the Thunder: Chapter Two: Reprieve

Fic Summary:

His breath wavered as he stared into Katsuki’s eyes. He knew he could get out if he tried. He could knock Katsuki out, hope that no one else would find them, and run back into the shadows where he belonged. Katsuki may have had him pinned down but he was in Denki’s range now and it would take little effort to send a charge through Katsuki to paralyze him temporarily.

It would take barely any additional effort to kill Katsuki.

As the sparks began to charge, lighting up the air around him, Katsuki refused to back down.

–

Katsuki always knew he was destined for great things.

He didn’t think he’d have to turn his back on all he’s ever known to get there.

Rating: T

Warnings: Eventual major character death, implied/referenced child abuse, psychological trauma

Other Tags: Bakugou Katsuki/Kaminari Denki, slow burn, alternate universe - canon divergence

Read on Ao3 (links to corresponding chapter) or read below

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Fic navigation to read the fic on tumblr

–

Katsuki wasn’t surprised to see one of his former classmates’ face on the news report with the tagline “found dead after hero-villain fight.”

The reporter gave a rundown of the fight that had happened a few days earlier on the other side of the city, between a small gang of villains and Ochako. The villains themselves weren’t very high ranking― potential to be B-rank if they were more organized as a group, but C-rank individually― but they had managed to cause a decent amount of damage before Ochako had arrived on the scene. The news replayed the footage taken live from the battle, showing Ochako using her quirk on larger pieces of rumble to assist the lower ranked heroes in the area with evacuation as she charged forward towards the villain group herself.

The footage wasn’t ideal. It was grainy from trying to capture the scene just outside of the limits of its scope and if it weren’t for the pink of Ochako’s hero costume, Katsuki was certain the camera person would not have been able to keep the camera centered on her. The footage continued until Ochako grabbed one of the villains, freezing seconds after the villain began to float. A red circle appeared around the villain’s face along with a mugshot before cutting back to the reporter.

In the aftermath of the fight, that one villain was never found.

Ochako had been frantic when they had met up after, her gaze thousands of miles in the distance every time Katsuki looked. She denied anything being on her mind despite it being so blatantly obvious that something was, but Katsuki chose not to question it. After all, if she had wanted to talk about it, she wouldn’t have asked to meet him.

The report continued to explain the search procedures that had taken place over the past few days before describing a call on the tip hotline that ultimately resulted in the discovery of the villain’s body. While they didn’t show a photo of the body, Katsuki couldn’t help but wonder just how bad it was for the report to completely skip over the cause of death.

In the end, Katsuki supposed it didn’t matter what caused the villain’s death. Ochako was certain to end up finding a way to blame herself, for not paying better attention during the fight, for not trying hard enough to find the villain after, for being the last person who saw the villain alive.

Even if she didn’t, there were parts of society that would make sure she would never forget.

Cheeky: can you meet up with me today?

Katsuki: Takeshi’s?

Cheeky: yeah

Cheeky: drinks/dinner on me after if you want

Katsuki: I’ll be there at five. Don’t be late.

Cheeky: got it!

Cheeky: hey wait why are YOU telling ME not to be late when I’M the one who asked YOU to meet me

Katsuki: You know why.

Cheeky: it was ONE TIME KATSUKI ONE TIME

Katsuki was at Takeshi’s gym a quarter before five, reserving their usual space and changing into workout attire before sending Ochako a text to let her know he was already inside. He started his stretches, looking up only when he saw a pair of pink sneakers approach the ring.

“You’re late,” Katsuki said, continuing his stretches.

“By five minutes!” Ochako dumped her water and towel on the bench next to Katsuki’s, quickly joining him in the stretches. “I was outside before five, waiting for you!”

“I sent you a text saying I was inside.”

“Yeah, like two minutes before five!” She huffed. “I was totally on time.”

“Whatever. Hurry the fuck up.”

They continued preparing in silence, speaking again only to confirm that the other was ready to start. This time, only a couple of the guests flinched when Katsuki charged forward at Ochako yelling out “die!”

After the fifth time a hit landed that Ochako would have normally been able to block with ease, Katsuki stood down. Her form had been lacking for the better part of the past hour, and there were a few times that her blows hadn’t hit with the full force Katsuki was familiar with. She didn’t even react to Katsuki’s change in form until Katsuki had walked over to the bench for his water.

“Wh― hey! What gives?” She frowned but joined him for a water break when he didn’t return to the ring right away.

“Don’t insult me,” Katsuki rolled his eyes at the shock on her face, “You’re distracted. What kind of fucking spar is worth the time when your opponent isn’t giving their all?”

“I’m focused on the spar! I’m totally and completely here! I wasn’t insulting you but I am now, you’re just saying that because of your enormous ego,”

Katsuki paused, looking at her directly in her eyes. She didn’t flinch.

But the longer he held his gaze, the more Katsuki could tell that she was holding back.

“First,” He began, “Don’t be cheeky with me―”

“Well maybe I wouldn’t be so cheeky with you if you didn’t call me cheeky all the time!”

Katsuki held back an amused smile.

“Second,” He continued, “I hit you five different times in ways that you should have been able to block with your eyes closed.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment, because what I’m hearing is that you think I could fight you with my eyes closed.”

“Insult. You didn’t fucking block the hits, dumbass.”

Ochako huffed, crossing her arms. “Whatever. I’m going to focus on the compliment part of it.”

“Third, you didn’t even notice I walked away until after I reached the bench.”

“I― I was expecting you to come back! That it was some sort of trick to get me to lower my guard or something!”

“And fourth, you speak faster when you lie.” He let Ochako stammer for a while in response, continuing when her shoulders slumped with a heavy sigh. “You sure this is the break you need? I don’t mind wiping the fucking floor with you if that’s what you want but you better respect my time back and fucking fight me with your all,” He shifted his weight a bit before adding hesitantly, “I can try to listen if you want to talk instead but that’s not really my thing,”

Ochako didn’t answer immediately, instead taking a drink of her water. Katsuki waited as patiently as he could, although he did offer her a glare to try to speed up her thought process.

She put her water back down and hit her knuckles together, briefly reminding Katsuki of Eijirou. ��Okay! One more round. I need to redeem myself before we leave for drinks,”

Katsuki grinned, shoving her lightly with his shoulder as he walked back towards the ring. “Whatever you say, Cheeky. You’re still going to fucking lose.”

“I’ll make you eat your words, Katsuki!”

She did not, but not for lack of trying. Ochako actually paid full attention to the spar after the interruption and while Katsuki still had the upper hand on brute strength, she was nimbler and lighter on her feet. Katsuki was fairly certain that had the shift manager not interrupted to tell them that their time was up that Ochako was only a handful of moves away from finding some “barely legal in a spar between friends but completely legal in a rules free battle against a villain” opening and winning the round. While technically neither of them had won, he did agree—after some teasing and pestering— to counting it as her point in their ongoing scoreboard, adding, “But if you want me to count it as eating my words, you’ll have to fucking try again.”

Ochako seemed to be in a brighter mood when they met up again post-changing in front of Takeshi’s. She bumped shoulders with Katsuki as he approached and began chattering about work and her day as they made their way over to the restaurant they usually ate at after sparring sessions. He didn’t offer much other than the occasional “yeah” and swear when her story necessitated it, but she didn’t seem to mind. She spared him from talking until after they were already seated and ordered their food and drinks.

“Oh yeah! I heard from Tenya that you finally sent in your response to the reunion! Do you know when you’re heading down to Musutafu yet? We should get on the same train so that the ride isn’t as boring— well, kinda, since you’ll probably not be talking,”

“Shut the fuck up, I can talk when I want to,” Katsuki scowled, rolling his eyes when all it resulted in was a laugh from Ochako. “I haven’t looked at the train schedule yet. The Shitty Four Eyes approved for both the 28th and 29th off though.”

“Nice! Well, when you figure out when you want to head down, let me know and I’ll be your Anti-Explosion Time buddy for the ride down,”

“Oh fuck off.”

Ochako laughed again. Katsuki hoped this would be the extent of the reunion talk but she continued, “It’ll be great to see the entire class again, don’t you think?”

“You make it sound like we never fucking see anyone. I literally saw you a few fucking days ago and you spend half your weekends with Frog Face or Four Eyes or the fucking Nerd or whoever the fuck,” Katsuki pointed out. “We see basically everyone at the Billboards too,”

“Don’t be such a bore, Katsuki. Reunions are different from the Billboards. We don’t have to deal with those ‘damn extras’ at the reunion,” She put on her best Katsuki impression at “damn extras,” extending her palms outwards and adding a playful “Boom! Pow!”

“I don’t fucking sound like that.”

“Yes you do. I’m the great Katsuki Bakugou! Die you fucking piece of shit! Boom! Bam! You fucking extra! Bow before the king! Boomboom!”

Katsuki let the faintest hint of a smile slip. “I have never said ‘bow before the king,’”

“Oh come on Katsuki, you tried to name yourself King Explosion Murder, don’t deny it. Even if you’ve never said it, you’ve definitely thought about it.”

He scowled, muttering a “fuck off”, refusing to acknowledge that yes, yes he had thought about saying it once or twice.

“So you admit that I’m right!”

“Fuck off, I said no such fucking thing.”

“You didn’t say ‘no’ either though.”

“I’m demoting you to a fucking extra, you shitty fucking extra.”

Katsuki was given a brief break from any potential cheeky response from Ochako when the server stepped in with their drinks. They raised their glasses, a silent toast to making it another day alive, to making it as far as they had come, to their friendship.

To the silent understanding that there were some struggles that were best left unshared.

He didn’t press further about whatever it was that was stressing her out, even if he had a strong feeling about what caused it. She didn’t comment on the circles under his eyes or how his mind seemed to wander after she brought up certain high school memories. They talked, ignoring their stressors, and for a while, they could pretend everything was fine.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bakugou katsuki #Kaminari Denki #bakukami #kamibaku #katsuki bakugou #denki kaminari #bnha fanfic #mha fanfic #story #from the creator

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mongoosefangs · 2 years

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11/11

This got way too long for Twitter and it's a doozy so here goes.

I'm celebrating a birthday today. The birthday of the most important person I'll never actually get to know in life. This time around I wanted to talk a little... or a lot... which is why I elected to post this on Tumblr instead of Twitter (that, and I'm not quite ready to hemorrhage all my followers there yet) so... thanks if you clicked through to this post! I will try to keep this coherent (alcohol is involved) but it WILL be extremely sentimental and personal and weird. Wikipedia is there if you want dry facts... but I'm here to discuss what's important to me. So, let's talk about my favorite person not currently living, the inspiration for my perpetual tagline on every social media site, and probably the strangest artist in my music library from an objective standpoint. Let's talk about the quote-unquote Last Castrato, Alessandro Moreschi. If you've heard of him before it might be because I've tweeted and posted about him very occasionally, and if you've been following me for a *really* long time online then you know it's not a new thing. We know his name today because he's the only surviving example of an antiquated and frankly bizarre phenomenon in music history. Out of all the castrato singers who performed in opera houses or church choirs throughout Italy and the rest of Europe for some three hundred years or so... he's the only one who lived long enough, and late enough, to be recorded for posterity. And I need you to understand that it really wasn't so very long ago. He only died in 1922. There are still people alive today who bridge that gap between his lifetime and ours, a thought which makes me want to cry every time I think about it. He wasn't even that old, at 63 when he went. That gap may well have been even smaller. It's easy to look at an old black-and-white photo and think it's been such a long time but it's not, all things considered. It's really not and honestly, I think he'd have more in common with us today than he had with the likes of Farinelli and others of his kind. Because you also need to understand that by the time he came onto the scene, it was already pretty lonely and had been for the better part of a century. The fad was already over. This isn't the time for a big tangent on castrato history in general (though I could certainly do that sometime) but the short of it is that he got into the Sistine Choir in 1883, spent the next thirty years at the forefront of the Pope's personal hype squad, increasingly surrounded by people who wanted him out. And it's a miracle he ever got recorded at all- because the Gramophone Company never actually came with the purpose of doing so. See, in 1902 they were coming to Italy to record Enrico Caruso. But he was busy, so they went to Rome in the meantime hoping to record the voice of the Pope. And they got told "no, don't bother him, he's over 90 years old." So they were like "uhh well... can we record his choir then?" and it was like "sure I guess" so that's what they ended up doing. It just as easily could have not happened that way. They came to the Vatican again in 1904 and they were supposed to be recording the Mass but they took the opportunity to shuffle off into like... a side room of the chapel I guess, and record a bunch of music that had recently been banned under the *new* Pope. And by that time Moreschi really shouldn't have been there at all, because castrati were straight up banned from the choir at this point, but apparently his tenure didn't count for nothing. Technically he's not in the choir if he's conducting or performing solo. Right? Lmao. In any case, we have 17 tracks in all. Seventeen grainy, fuzzy cylinder recordings are all that's left of an entire musical tradition spanning centuries. So... how do they sound? Well... they tend to come with a lot of disclaimers. "Vocal techniques were different back then." "Moreschi was already old when he recorded these." (he was 42-44, but I digress.) If you've never listened before, then I can tell you that whatever you're expecting to hear when you try to imagine a castrato singer, it probably isn't that. And you don't need to be an expert to know that he wasn't perfect, subjective tastes in music and/or voices aside: there are moments where he very obviously fucks up, flubs notes, or sounds audibly nervous in at least one of the early recordings. Critics will say that he wasn't all that great, and the only reason he's remembered at all is for being The Only One Of His Kind, and like... that's fair, honestly. He's not perfect. He sounds weird a lot of the time and if you do listen then I ask that you keep an open mind. But like... here's the thing. If it had been any other singer in his position, we'd still remember them today for the same reason, regardless of skill, and I will always go to bat for Moreschi *because* of his flaws, and this is ultimately the difference between myself and the critical expert listener. You went in expecting to hear some otherworldly angel, and you were disappointed. I may have gone in expecting to hear some otherworldly angel... but I was overjoyed to find a human instead. Out of all the singers it could have been, all the voices that might have been preserved... you have one little man standing on the edge of history, disconnected from the great age of his predecessors, staring down a future with precious little room for the likes of him, imperfect in song and appearance: heavyset and not (as far as I can glean) especially tall. Do you understand? Do you? Of course I wish we could listen to more of them, I'd love to hear the real Farinelli at least as much as he probably would have- but if history will only permit us to hear one, then I would never want it to be anyone else. I'm glad that Moreschi gets to be remembered as he was. Old, strange, and flawed. I look at his photos and I am literally less afraid to age and be myself. I'm so proud of him. I would not change a single fucking thing. My only regret is that I can't know more about the person he was outside of his music. If he ever wrote any kind of memoir, it's been lost to time (and this is the case with... pretty much all of the castrati actually, but that's a topic for another day) and I would give pretty much anything for the ability to ask him... about his hopes and dreams and fears, his likes and dislikes- hell, I'd ask him what it was like to live through the *previous* global pandemic and increasingly scary political shitshow. I wish I could know anything about him at all. ...The hundred year anniversary of his death is coming up very soon, in April 2022, and I may or may not be slightly panicking about the fact that I *probably* won't make it to visit his grave. But for now, in my time zone at least, it's still his birthday, and every 11/11 I try to keep it light and remember the joy and strength that his legacy gives me. He'd be 163 years old today. It really wasn't so long ago. It wasn't. Happy birthday, Mr. Moreschi. I see you from across the ages, friend. Thank you for being you.

#i don't use livejournal anymore so like. this is just what you get sometimes

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askgianthopespeak · 3 years

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Exhausted that’s what you were. You had been struggling vigorously for the past night in an attempt to try and break free of your tangled prison. But to no avail the unwavering grip of the stern fishing line would refuse to budge all this time. And now that it was leaning very well into Mid-day you were starting to lose energy, Your strength withering away little by little like a burning piece of wood being devoured by sporadic flames.

Letting out a shaky sigh you decided to just plop Down for a another one of your often mini breaks in an effort of course to try and conserve any leftover energy you had. Slowly closing your eyes and relaxing your head on your arms, You would wriggle your tail slightly in discomfort. Your glistening luminescent scales beaming brightly against the warm rays from the sun as you did so.

Now still as a statue and looking much like a beached seal, Your ears were tuning into your sandy surroundings. The roaring and thundering crash of the calm waves reaching up to lightly kiss the shore each time. Sounded so loud for something so far away from your reach. Opening your watery eyes A small tear would slowly slither down onto your arms, Your shoulders now slightly shaking as you inhaled the salty dry air.

Not so far off in your direction at least a couple or so few metres away. Your acute ears caught the sound of claw like nails gently scraping atop of the grainy terrain followed along not very far behind by steady and confident striding footsteps. “What is it my beloved Supernova Silver Fox, Did you manage to find something ?” gundham Called to San-D.

Squinting slightly you could just make out a small fluffy white and orange ball of fuzz, It was a type of land creature you had never seen before that was just a tad bit bigger than you, Following right behind it was was a mysterious looking twolegs, He had a slim and sturdy looking build along with a broad chest, And snaking around his neck a violet long scarf adorned with strange symbols on the end, His baggy swimming shorts shifted around as he advanced closer and closer.

“Wait he’s coming closer and he’s almost here! , Crap I need to get out fast, I can’t have him selling me off to some shifty twolegs NO WAY!! ” Your brain screeched and suddenly your fight or flight response was kicking in, Wildly rolling and thrashing about you grunted gritting your teeth as you let out a sharp pained hiss. “Come on come on come on release me pls, You Stupid manmade material” you grumbled beneath your breath.

But it was too late your squandering and pitiful efforts didn’t seem to be in your favour cause now ꫝꫀ and that fuzzy looking creature was here. , Your heart pounded in your chest and ears and it felt as if your blood had ran cold ,Shakily whipping your head over to the deva and then up at gundham, You could see the expressions they wore, San-D gawked at you with big bright and curious beady eyes,While gundham peered down at you with wide owlish eyes as he covered his mouth in astonishment.

(So after his initial surprise, he now kneels down and starts to help and try to untie you. While the rest of his devas try to help him and san-D, By gently gnawing at the line. But what doth thou do once free ? )

(Woof that was a lot idk. xD I really wanted to try writing a small piece for this offical manga panel I found on tumblr a bit back, And yeah twolegs that’s a warrior cats ref, Anyhow this is just one more thing I wanted to submit. ^^) Ps- the perspective in this pic screams g/t does it not ?

———————

// YOUR FUCKING BRILLIANT HOLY SHIT THATS- WOAH- //

#Mod Logan #WOAH #AMAZING #THIS IS-#submission

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cafemizudashi · 2 years

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Nostalgia Pt0: Anemoia, nostalgia for a time you’ve never known

It is always the same. I find myself in bed, late at night, lost in thought, checking something on the phone when suddenly it hits. In this case, I really should have seen it coming. The installing of old games, checking old equivalents of interests of mine...

Specifically today, the trigger was Kowloon Walled City, City Pop, and old consoles such as the original GameBoy.

Why these topics? Because I am interested in big cities, Japanese music, and videogames. But why these in particular? I was not alive during most of that time after all. Let us first check what all these topics are.

Kowloon Walled City by Atlasobscura

Kowloon was built naturally, it grew and grew up until 1993, when its demolition started. It offered many amenities for its residents, such as doctors, technicians, water sources... And although the Urban Hell looks and the many drug, gang - triads -, gambling... problems, people often talk about it fondly.

I do not have any connection to this place whatsoever. It perhaps may not even be the best example. But I find something about this strangely familiar.

Matsubara Miki, Best Collection by Spotify

City Pop on the other hand was created as an introduction of occidental culture into the 70s and 80s Japan. The music takes inspiration from funk, R&B, and soft rock among others, and you can tell by the funky bass, the techno piano, and the unique drums. Again the only connection I may be able to make is Spanish 80s ballads, which my parents used to play when they were my age.

Pokemon Gold by The Orion

Then for my latest example is the original GameBoy / GameBoy Color. These were released in 89 and 98 respectively. I was born in 1998, so I have not experienced them at all. I have no older siblings nor family who may have exposed it to me. I did start with the GameBoy Advanced later, but the feeling is different.

I returned to them recently, even bought an original GameBoy second hand. And It definitely feels like I have experienced this before.

It turns out that, of course, the internet has a word for this feeling. According to The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows:

Anemoia - n. nostalgia for a time you’ve never known.

That is exactly how I feel about some of these. And I know I am not alone on this.

Very prevalent in my generation is the liking for things that have old qualities attached to them, even if they may not be.

One of these would be Lofi music. A style that aims to replicate the Low Fidelity aesthetic of older mediums such as VHS or cassettes. These are mostly recent, but perfectly exemplify it. And it is not as easy as creating some pixel art game, or some grainy sounding music.

My favourite is old songs but it's lofi remix. But there are other, more modern, lofi videos on YouTube.

Undertale does this to perfection. At least to me, when I first played it I felt as if I was playing an older title of my childhood.

The game was of course brand new, but everything from the art to the music had that aura. And it is strange that my generation has this love for old things. Such are the Vines compilations that still roam around the internet - even though Vine has been discontinued for years already. Or your family is asleep and you’re playing minecraft on a cool 2012 summer night.

So it is not that farfetched that new pieces are created to scratch that itch.

Who knows, maybe as I grow older I will experience nostalgia for these things I am now exploring, a nostalgia towards a fake nostalgia. Like having the freedom to write a blog post at 3:30 in the morning - after my previous one was deleted completely, thanks Tumblr.

Nikon 35Ti by emulsive.org

But do try to give it a look. Perhaps if you are interested in cameras try researching about the 90s film cameras, and take some lofi on your way. Or if you are interested in music check some older synthesizers. You may not know what you have never experienced, perhaps you were 10 years late to experience it, that does not mean you have to miss it completely.

#nostalgia #anemoia #weeklyproject #reflectivepost

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mcrmadness · 3 years

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Madness draws: Behind the Scenes of the “Alleine in der Nacht” die ärzte fan comic.

A few weeks ago I posted this comic:

This post is yet again just another drawing behind-the-scenes post but You can go and reblog the original post here.

And as always, all my ramblings are under the cut!

This one was relatively easy to do because I just woke up one morning and internally died from laughter because this idea just happened like a random pop up window in my brain. I wrote it down to my phone notes and later on also into my sketchbook:

I was laughing out loud when I was drawing those images, Bela’s face still is cracking me up :D And because I’m yet again trilingual with my comics, there’s only one word in my mother tongue and it’s: Bela laulaa = Bela sings.

And other fans might recognize the lyrics of the song, I needed to write them down in order to decide which ones would fit the comic the best.

This one is then again me trying to see how it will fit on a A4 paper. Originally I saw it in my head more like a short, regular comic strip with 3 panels but somehow I couldn’t get it to fit into 3 panels. And 4 panels was too many in a row so I decided to go for a full page then. That caused bits of trouble to me because I normally don’t draw the comic book faces THAT big and it’s surprisingly hard to draw them in bigger scale. (With pencil drawings it’s the opposite, the bigger the better. It’s much easier to draw an eye the size of a finger instead of a size of a tip of a needle.)

Here’s the first sketch! Just the shapes to see how and what I need to draw. Sorry for the awful photo quality again, my phone’s camera has really gotten really bad after these 3 years of use...

Anyhow, the third panel caused me some troubles because I knew how I wanted Bela’s arms and hands to be but I didn’t see them that good in my head so what I did next was to try different postures into my sketchbook:

I also tried this foreshortening technique I saw in a video of after a Tumblr post, even tho I don’t find that too hard to do myself anymore but it was still interesting and can really help making the eye and brain to see the image in 3D. So here I finally figured that I wanted Bela to have is arms like he was singing something very theatrically. I think it turned out pretty good.

Next I struggled with the bedsheets and I figured that I am a bit too good at blocking out information when I draw because I tried to draw unmade beds from reference photos and I’m able to follow a line but also able to completely not see any other lines around the line I’m following. Like I’d often follow a line to somewhere and suddenly notice that wtf there’s SO MUCH MORE lines all over the place in the photo but I just did not see them.

^Here’s two pages in my other sketchbook that I got for the comic stuff especially because the paper is actually white. The bigger sketchbook has light yellow tint to the paper so it can mess up with the colors when I need to try out and look for perfect colors from the colored pencils. (This sketchbook is also smaller aka A5 because Derwent sketchbooks are expensive but this was the only A5 one with a bit grainy paper in white. The A4 one is cheaper and from Mont Marte.)

After a while I was done with the besheet and the rest of the second sketch. I don’t have a photo of the comic with just the lineart, only a photo where the first panel is already colored and now I actually need to talk about the coloring.

That caused me lots of trouble because I really love playing with lights and shadows in everything (drawing, photographing... everything) and I do know how to do the night effect in black and white, but I have only once before done that with colors and it’s never that easy. Plus that one was my first comic when I started drawing again in 2018 and it was not that good to begin with.

I run some tests with the pencils, as well as some shading tests:

Käsi = hand, iho = skin. I use Derwent Flesh Pink (I have a 72 set of Derwent Watercolour pencils) for the skin color and was then trying out other colors to see which one would look the best for shading. It was actually really difficult to do and my sister suggested that I’d use only cold colors but like... how do you use cold colors on a skin without making the character look dead? :D

I imagined that there’s a moon shining in from a window that would be behind the “camera”. I almost ruined the first panel because I wasn’t exactly sure what was I even doing and what did I want from the colors:

Here’s the lineart and almost finished first panel in colors. I really liked the lineart and this would have looked so nice in black and white too, maybe even better. But I just saw that blue background so strongly in my mind that I just had to go for it.

The first panel was really difficult to do like I said and I almost ruined it at some point. But it also taught me something because with the rest of the panels I knew to start with the skincolors and end with the black (I started the first panel with black, I think... kids, never do that, always start with the light colors! :D) and I think the last panel is the best what comes to the colors in the final comic. I also added light blue here and there to make it look more like the colors of a moon at night:

I’m actually very happy with all of the other colors in this panel! It also reminds me of a book I had and used to read as a child. It was about this girl that went to an appendix surgery and all the images were drawn with either colored pencils, pastels or crayons and it looked grainy the exact same way as this one too. It also had lots of red and orange and brown colors in it. (I wonder if I still have the book here...)

Then there’s also the title and “Das Ende”. Originally I was going to do the late 80s logo they have e.g. on the 80s live vhs/dvd but then I just saw another post in my dä blog’s queue and I just needed to do this logo instead!

I had just a couple of weeks prior ordered a pack of white Sakura Gelly Roll pens and needed to test what would make the best compination and with which black!

I also had bought a white paint pen but it’s useless. As you see, it just looks grey after it dries and it just... doesn’t look nice. Plus it takes so much time to dry AND it’s extremely messy and I have paint more in my hands and a puddle on the paper but barely none where it should be. So my choice for the logo was to use either Pigma Microns or Promarkers (I think I chose the latter) and the thickest Gelly Roll aka 10. This was the result:

And I’m actually super happy about how it came out! Couldn’t do that good looking spots on the letters because can’t make splashes with a gel pen so I did a few bigger ones here and there and then just poked everywhere with the pen to make it look more random. You can actually see how it’s slightly whiter than the paper if you look closely, but it’s not too strongly whiter so it looks pretty nice like this.

So, this was less work than the “Widumihei” one but it was also an interesting piece to draw. And I think I have now this comic drawing more freshly in mind so that drawing the next ones (there’s three waiting for sketching already) will be much easier as well :)

#here take the last behind the scenes post then #I mean next ones are going to be actual new drawings because now I'm done with these I had in mind #mcrmadness draws #mcrmadness draws: behind the scenes #my comics #dä fanart #die ärzte

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pinof · 4 years

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lately I’ve been going through people’s inactive tumblr archives and rbing stuff but I have a feeling that maybe some of them might’ve been stolen gifs, how can you tell if it’s stolen?? (i definitely don’t want to contribute to stealing stuff so if something is stolen I immediately delete it but sometimes I fuck up and don’t realise til people have already started sharing it from me)

i always struggle to find a way to answer this in a way it makes the most sense because i, as a gifmaker, can spot almost immediately who exactly the gif belongs to

everyone has their own unique style: coloring, sharpening, font, text size, etc but i’m gonna attempt to recreate what the most obvious type of stolen gifs post looks like using my own gifs: newer ones and ones from my archive, way back when i first started giffing since my technique has evolved so much so most people that steal gifs like to make giant mix matched compilations out of them aka posting a ton that don’t look the same in the slightest in one big post example:

caption example: i love these moments so much!!! why don’t we talk about them more? see how none of these resemble each other at all? different font look, the gif movement speed, different shape/size, different colorings, some more grainy than the others, etc all those factors are what you should keep in mind and are a dead giveaway to stolen content i’ve never seen a gifmaker not make things match at least in some way in a set and yes it is true that a person’s style changes over time but like if you’ve followed someone for a long time that you know makes original content, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about reblogging old stuff posted by them

#taylor talks

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luvdsc · 3 years

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sam is super talented!! i'm actually like one person away from him? like one of my mutuals is a close friend of his which threw me for a loop, but apparently he's super thrilled every time his art does well, and it's kinda funny because i cannot imagine his world where his art isn't known? like it's so good it's inevitable it'd go viral!!

and yeah, i was very lucky!! i think my parents don't really mind when i do as long as i don't break laws or rules and i'm healthy?? which i appreciate but i think it's nice to have ambitions set ? like where they encourage sports and everything, i never did clubs or extracurriculars

i do a mix! graphite, colored pencil, acrylic and oil paint, etc :) i started with traditional, it just takes a very long time so i do digital if i don't have a lot of free time!

picasso's bothers me too !!! i tend not to share that because it can be an unpopular opinion but it hurts my eyes and i don't like his composition because abstract pieces have never been my cup of tea. i feel like it can definitely be a genre that's just used to say.. oh yeah it's meant to be abstract i didn't mess up LMAOO

it is hyunjin, yeah!! i drew it during his hiatus when stay though stray kids was doing an underwater photoshoot, and i wanted to make sure he wouldn't be left out <//3 i had to use like four photos of his side profile and one reference of a random person underwater, but i'm really proud of it! and the sicheng and ten ones, i only sent you my favorites haha, there are quite a few portraits i finished i'm not that happy with!

i use the gaussian blur pretty frequently (like to mix the flat colors for hair or clothes) and a blur brush on 50% opacity to blend everything i need to in order to make my works softer! i use krita if that helps!! i think i have a skin tutorial i did a while ago on my blog, and my voice is kind of grating because i was sick but i think it displays my process... kind of well?

i think grainy works and sharpness can be really good though!! i tend to oversoften mine and make it look airbrushed, but i recently downloaded some pore brushes which should help with that!!

the first landscape was actually acrylic paint, one of my traditional works!! it was a graduation gift for someone, so she can have some art in her dorm room <3 and her room is sage green decor-wise, so it fits in really nicely!

and thank you for the compliments,, your art is really nice too!!

like this was a recent work of yeonjun i don't really like,, i have more works i'm not a fan of then ones i do enjoy haha! but i feel like it's good to share how the oversoftened stuff looks, and also just works i get lazy on towards the end of drawing them!

the felix one is older, and one of my "sharper" ones, as you can see i really got lazy on the hair, it's just scribbles at that point haha, but i still love it!

and that drawing of haechan has a pop art background, sort of, which i think is fun! my style is variable and they all are different qualities, but i think enjoying it is the most important part!

i know you don't like to dm minors, but if you want to,, for art things, like the brushes or techniques i use, or in general, my inbox and messages are always open! and i turned 17 on the 8th, so i'm not a super young minor djsfdkfj

also sorry for the lack of emojis <//3 i'm on desktop

hi, sweetpea, i'm so sorry for the late reply! the tumblr app is super wonky and it only shows the first ten asks i get ?? so i've been going by that, and my older messages are starting to appear 🤧 butt omg that's so cool that your friend is friends with him?? :o his art is absolutely amazing oh my gosh, of course it's a no brainer his art will always do well 🤩🤩

we love supportive parents 🥺💗 yeah, i agree, it's definitely important to have ambitions set though because you need to live your life and be able to support yourself. it's not good to solely rely on your parents or other people forever 🤧

oooo nice !!! i also do a mix of those, but i ultimately prefer painting since it's not as rigid (?) as traditional drawing - like things look completely off if i draw something out of proportion, but it somehow works with paint?? idk how to explain it, but for me personally, i think there's more room for creativity with paint 💓 how long does it take for you to complete a digital drawing on average? :o

ashldkfjahsl YES that's exactly how i feel about his art too 😭 i don't particularly care for most abstract art, but i really love jackson pollock's art! 💘 i like abstract art that doesn't have a still life subject or landscape or something if that makes sense? it's just so fun and therapeutic to toss some paint around :')

omg they're absolutely amazing 🤩 i love them all sm 💗 all your art is so beautiful!! do you print them out and hang them up in your room?

aaa thank you so much for telling me how to do it !! i love love love that art style with the blurring because it just looks so soft and dreamy 🤍✨✨ i'll have to try those techniques out when i start a second drawing :') and i'll check out your video! and omg i didn't even know they had pore brushes?? i need to do more digital art aksldhflajkds

omg that's so nice !!!! do you gift your art to your friends often? they're so lucky 💟

asukdhfalkshflaksd what the heck, wdym these are art pieces that you got lazy on???? THESE ARE STUNNING HOW DO YOU NOW LIKE THEM OMG I'M IN AWE 🤩🤩🤩 yeonjun's lips look so so pretty, and felix's freckles and his hair omg 💓💓 hyuck looks sooo good, too !!!! and i love sunflowers !!!!!! 🌻🌻🌻

and omg thank you, lovebug, i may have to take up that offer if i ever finish my first drawing and attempt the soft look for my second one :')

#asks #seoulbinz

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comic-brew · 4 years

Text

On Smoldering Ashes

Chapter Two: If any more blood is to be spilt

@whumptober2020 days 3. Held At Gunpoint, 6. "Stop, Please", 9. "Take Me Instead", 14. Branding and 21. Stitches (Altprompt)

Series summary: Bruce Wayne has gotten vulnerable. Bruce Wayne has found love. His love and his kids are all he needs to find happiness. Some sick concept of fate doesn't like him being happy.

Notes: Forgive me for I have sinned. Oh god, oh lord, what in the blazing hells is this. Shitty shitty but I'm tired and late *drops mic* (37 mins/4.6k words I've exhausted tumblr's paragraph limit)

Warnings: RATED MATURE. Graphic depictions of child abuse and torture, graphic depictions of violence, blood, swearing, heavy I guess angst

AO3 | Prev Chapter | Next Chapter

***

"Why" Dick hears Bruce's voice implore. "Why are you doing this? I thought-"

Bruce's merely balancing on his toes inches from the end of the cliff, Dick can figure just by the way his voice wavers like it has only ever done no more than a couple times in the past.

Cecile knows this. She knows Bruce, and she knows this. And quite possibly she's enjoying it way too much.

"Because, dear, who can say they're getting paid to practise their hobbies?"

Dick can only gawk at her, an frankly that's the only thing all the others seem able to do as well.

Hobbies?

They're nothing but a plaything to her.

It doesn't seem right. This shouldn't be happening. Dick should be helping B plan the wedding that made him beam just at the thought of taking place.

Not being held in an unknown location by his could-be step mother.

They really dodged a bullet, but in doing so they fell right into a different trap.

His family's unable to speak, stunned by the sudden revelations. He can't blame them, nor can he blame Jason for cursing under his breath.

Barbara's the first to snap out of their trance.

"What could you possibly want that Bruce's money couldn't get you?" she asks. Her true goal though, expertly weaved inside is search of Cecile's motive.

There's none.

Cecile giggles. "Oh dear. It's never about money. It's not personal either, if that's what's bugging all of you. And although my client does pay a fair amount, in reality.. pain and suffering are simply way too enjoyable."

Client, Dick notes. Somebody's paying for this. Somebody that most likely knows who they are when night falls. Somebody dangerous.

Cecile then turns to look directly at Bruce, as she expertly hides her poison inside cheerfully spoken words.

"And you, love, with as many kids as you have here,-" she says, and Bruce's face crumples, "-are going to be a very, very interesting subject"

Duke shakes his head in disbelief at the woman.

"You're sick"

Cecile sits back and ponders on this statement for a bit. Just for a split second, so it's enough to pass across that message, but not quite long to let them be freed from that entrapping mist of concurrent desire for knowledge, and repulse keeping them bound to every word that falls from her lips.

"Perhaps I am" she ventures.

"Perhaps we're all sick, just in different ways. Have you ever thought of that?"

Dick has in fact thought of that, but his answer would never share meaning with Cecile's. How different really are they from the people they fight? They lock all those costumed freaks up in Arkham, but they themselves could very well be described in the exact same way. Sometimes he wonders if they're insane for choosing this life, and the answer that his mind spits out is always yes.

Every life they save is worth it. That's the truth that makes him continue to put on the suit every night, even though the wounds inflicted on him the previous night are still healing.

But are they really making a difference? Aren't they just lunatics running around in kevlar and spandex. Isn't all the grime and mold of the city simply feeding off of them like leeches?

Dick can't focus on that now. Questioning his life choices might have to wait until he's not that tied up.

Heh. Tied up.

Meanwhile Cecile has exploited the moment of nonplussed silence she's created to tighten her sleek ponytail.

Keeping the attention to herself. Every move is calculated to milliseconds.

"Okay, so here's how this is going to go" she begins, clasping her hands together, then motioning towards their hanging limbs. "Do you see those cool little bracelets on your hands?"

On cue, nine heads tilt upwards to test Cecile's statement. And there, right on his forearm Dick can spot a faint blue light shining dully on what seems to be the middle of a silver-like device.

"Those give us, the immense pleasure of electrocuting you whenever you folks might try to escape, or cause any unwanted trouble" she informs, with her mouth taut into a completely mechanical smile.

"Or.. you know. If we're just bored and feel like it"

"And this little screen right in front of you, it's pretty bland now, if you ask me"

She then starts pacing around in the segregated room, seeming to find great amusement in hearing how her heels click against the concrete.

"Well what if I told you the sight will get more entertaining?"

Dick doesn't like this.

"Before you ask, I will not spoil the experience for you. But I will give you this: you will be the stars of a grand performance. You in particular, circus boy should be thrilled by this fact"

He flinches when he mentions him in that way. It's then that his mind fully comprehend just how much she knows them.

It's not just some kidnapping, of those they've had many before. But it's never been like this. Never has a stranger gotten so close only to betray them for laughs.

Some could argue that it was a similar case when Jason had come back, but Jason had always had a motivation. A goal.

Cecile's doing this for nothing else than pleasure.

Before he can compose himself and reply her voice strikes again, this time in the form of a snarl. "So? Any volunteers?"

No, Dick doesn't like this at all.

"Leave them alone" Bruce demands, only it's not precisely Bruce anymore. Not only has his voice assumed the dark edge of the Knight, but his speech is completely neutral, apathetic. Somehow, his emotional state is even more prominent that way.

"It's me you want to get back to"

"Oh, no" Cecile frowns. "No, no Brucie. This is not about you. Hell, it's not even about them. It's about me. And I say it will be nicer to leave you for last."

She rests a finger on her chin contemplatively, but it's fake. It's all fake, and provocatively so. Cecile's head twists around so that her malicious glare lands on Damian.

"How about our little asshole over here?"

No. Not Damian. Never in a million years. Never in a billion years.

"If you value your life you'll stay away you imbecilic Jezebel" Damian hisses, but Cecile makes no motion to enter their space. Instead, the man in black leaves his post to disappear behind the door Cecile had previously entered from, most likely leading even further away.

"I do value my life"

He comes back with three more identically dressed men, one slightly leaner than the other, and one slightly taller.

"Plenty, for that" she says loftily, and while one of the men returns to his post by her side, the other two barge in through a barely visible door next to the right end of the glass.

There's an outrage as the men quickly advance towards the boy. Everything's blurry and spinning and his ears are ringing so that Dick can't quite figure out if he's shouting along with his brothers and sisters or if he's simply been trapped in a lucid dream all this time.

Voices and bangs and thuds and yells, it all gets lost in the end. So much thunderous noice, yet still it can he broken down to its core. Raw and frantic cries of dissent, repeated over and over in a canon, until the words and senses are but a blurred collage of ire and desolation.

Cecile whips a rectangular device from her suit's pocket and before her finger has enough time to hover above one of the polished buttons, the last is pressed and Damian's body is released from the pipeline.

The boy wastes no time, immediately lunging for the men, and despite any rust slowing down his joints because of their inactivity, he manages to hold off the two men looming over him with size thrice his own.

Dick wants to hold hope inside his heart, but he knows it's futile. He also knows Damian is aware that this fight was lost before it even began, but his baby brother isn't a quitter, nor a coward by his own standards.

If Cecile is startled by Damian's fierce resistance, she doesn't let it show. Her finger finds the device held loosely in her grasp, and a different button is pushed. Sparks that are birthed from the device on Damian's forearm begin to climb throughout his every inch of flesh, until he soon collapses to the ground -like lifeless weight.

The men drag him out of their view, and Dick swears he witnessed a smirk manifesting on their faces while they yelled with all their might, yet completely powerless.

***

It starts with low and hollow grunts. It starts with insults, it starts with defiance, it starts with barely discernible hisses.

Most importantly, it starts with no image.

Only screams. Separated by breathless gasps.

"Please, stop"

Dick's heart shrinks into his chest, sinking deep, deep down, until his lungs are under too much pressure to expand.

The screen flickers to life only after the first hollow screams have subsided.

It's.. not a good sight. Nobody expected it to be.

The room is small and dark, the camera feed is black and white and grainy, but that doesn't help in reducing the horror.

The image focuses enough for Dick to make out Cecile finishing stitching deep gashes on Damian's torso back together in the worst way possible.

Cecile retracts her hand hastily, like she's forgotten something. She lolls her head to the side, waving primly towards the camera.

"Stay tuned for a surprise" she whispers almost conspiratorially before turning to Damian, severing the thread with her own fingers, picking at flesh and stretching it out until he's bleeding again all over the gurney he's tied onto.

Damian struggles not to let her hear the sound she would find oh so hedonic. He grits his teeth and grinds his jaw, but groans emanate from him without his consent.

Cecile sets the sutures and her other tools on a filthy table standing miserably beside her.

"Your brother's such an ass" she declares almost smugly, while shifting in her place to face the camera

Without a warning she pokes a finger inside Damian's open wound, evoking a strangled yelp of agony. Soon enough Cecile's retracted her finger. She brings her hand up to her face. She makes a show of admiring the fresh blood coating it, before she tastes it.

She giggles nonchalantly, but there's that certain grace to everything she does.

"Don't worry. We're not done yet"

No. No, this can't happen. He can't let this go on any longer than it already has.

He has to take his place. He'll take his brother's place. Just, god. Just please listen..

"Take me instead!" Dick screams at the top of his lungs, and the dread climbing up his ribcage seeps into his voice. Bent in ways abnormal, tuning in with his despair.

"Do you hear me?!"

He's flailing around wildly and almost hysterically, his voice is getting hoarser by the second. Kicking and bumping the air, but the chains are relentless, so that he's supposed to sit idly by and watch while his little brother is being tortured.

All alone in a dark room.

The man standing tall and unmoving on the other side of the glass only smirks slightly.

"Leave Damian alone!" Dick roars at the screen, and roars at the man, but he knows it's pointless.

Cecile smiles once again to the direction of the camera as she elegantly walks away from Damian, leaving him alone strapped to the gurney -panting, sweat dripping down his forehead.

Damian's head follows the woman even as she disappears out of Dick's sight. The boy's face crumples. Breathless pleas escape his trembling lips, in swift exhales of air that hold no power.

"Please no"

She reemerges cradling an incandescent piece of metal. The sickening calmness on her face is doused in its fiery glow, and all Dick can utter as he goes deathly pale and still is a breathless "No"

Dick finally has enough contact with reality to register his brothers and sisters' own twisting and shouting. The sounds are earpiercing but all hollow to his ears, and Dick only does acknowledge their existence by sight of tears on enraged faces, jaws snapping open with enough force to dislocate, muscles toned and clenched uncomfortably, bodies bent and struggling, in futile attempts to raise enough force and reach the glass to perhaps create a distraction.

Dick can't figure out the faces from his peripheral vision, nor does he care enough to try.

"No."

His eyes are stubbornly fixed on Damian's own, shining wide with terror as the metal illuminates his skin more and more clearly on the screen. On Damian, desperately tugging against the straps keeping him bound to the gurney to no avail, struggling to be freed before the red-hot iron burns the exposed skin of his chest.

"No.. please no" Damian mumbles, and he looks so small. Smaller than a child his age should look. More frightened than a child his age should be.

Dick had promised -to him and to himself- that he'd always be there for his little brother.

He watches helplessly as the metal sizzles the first layer of flesh. He watches as his little brother writhes and squirmes helplessly under the red-hot iron melting into his skin, and he realizes he can't keep his promise.

No, no, no, no, no

Damian is screaming with all his soul and all Cecile does is laugh. Cecile is laughing, and Damian is being tortured because Dick couldn't keep his promise.

He failed him.

"Take me!"

Please no. Not Dami.

Every inch and acre of Dick's skin feels set aflame, but the pain is nothing but the child of wildfire blazing and burning in his chest. Its smoke has filled his eyes with tears burning like acid.

Failed him.

In his ears buzz cracking woods and falling towers. Not his brother's screams and pleas for mercy, not the echoes of laughter, not the thundering cries of their family.

Failed.

And because of his failure his little robin is expected to endure agonizing pain, as also the wounds inflicted on him are what make Dick's failure not only discernible but grievous.

Failure equals repercussions.

Failure equals punishment.

Perhaps it's irrational, and perhaps he's lost his mind long, long ago. Perhaps this is all a nightmare that he can't wake up from, but Dick's senses don't deceive him.

His every cell is howling in despair but yelling and praying are not enough to relieve them of their pain. Flowers buried deep in ice, frantically searching for sunlight- too frantically to know that they're dead.

Dick failed him. Dick should have been the one punished for this failure.

Only moments have passed but the agony grabs them and twists them, draws them out until seconds can't be told apart by eons.

Dick's eyes are fixed on the form spasming on the screen, but those eyes are empty and hollow.

Their azure blue has evaporated, their glossy white has been burnt to the ground. Obsidian vortexes shining with the life they've stolen from his soul in the half light, is all that is left of them.

Damian's voice is rough from the perpetual screaming, but Dick can hear no more.

So he prays to whatever deity listens that Cecile is reached by his own cries tearing through his throat with fading intensity. Perhaps so loudly the air is grazing his vocal cords more harshly than it should.

Perhaps so loudly he is already silent.

But Dick won't mind it even if they fail to produce a sound ever after these, as long as his flesh is torn and burnt instead of Dami's.

The flesh being torn and burnt is his, in a way, but not in any way that matters.

The iron is removed and Damian's face slowly appears behind the sparse smoke of his own smoldering skin.

***

Cecile reappears behind the glass, walking ever so elegantly towards the barrier separating her from them. She peers at each and every one of them in amusement, deaf to te insults so full of hatred being hurled at her from every corner.

She smiles at the teary paths staining Cass and Barbara's cheeks,

"You fucking-"

"-embodiment of evil and-"

"go-"

She laughs at the veins popping on Duke, Jason and Stephanie's necks as they shout their lungs out, feebly attempting to stop the world from sinking,

"I'm gonna fucking kill you"

"Jay calm down-"

"You repulsive.. abomination-"

"-to hell-"

She gracefully snickers at Tim and Bruce's state of dishevelled resignation, a progression of the rage and agony to the point where they're no more prominent than their breathing,

"You hear me? You're going to burn-"

"Don't you dare tell me to calm the fuck down, replacement"

"-in hell"

"He's right Jason, this doesn't help Dam-"

"you'll wish you were dead before I get my hands on you"

But she stops in her track when her piercing hazel eyes land on Dick. So visibly worn out, yet determinedly burning holes through her with his glare.

She stops, and can only regard him in newfound interest.

Dick doesn't shift in his place. Doesn't bat an eye as he speaks with the power of a thousand thunderstorms enhancing the calmness in his voice.

He's made up his mind.

It's his failure.

His decision.

"You'll stop" he says, almost nonchalantly.

Cecile cocks an eyebrow, scoffing.

"Excuse me?"

"You'll bring Damian back here with us. And you'll stop."

Cecile smirks ever so slightly. "I'm afraid I'm not quite done with your brother yet. Besides, why would I do that?"

"Because you will" Dick growls, but soon enough he masks his outburst beneath a carefully tailored poker face.

Something unreadable passes across the woman's face. Dick assumes she's caught up to his thinking. Of course she has.

"Well, you wound me!" Cecile exaggerates, clasping a hand to her chest. Overacting the entire thing, on purpose no less. She's proven to be too much of a hypocrite for Dick to know she's only acting terribly on purpose.

His stomach is urging him once more to let its contents out, only this time he's not sure it's just a lingering side effect of the drug.

"Although, while wounded, you can consider me intrigued."

Dick swallows thickly. He hopes Cecile doesn't hear him gulp as loudly as he sounds to his own ears.

"You'll stop. Leave Damian alone" he says and although his heart is beating a hundred times faster than it should, his stare is unyielding.

"And you'll take me instead"

Cecile eyes him half incredulously, half entertained, for moments that feels like an eternity. Dick is convinced his soul has already left his body, and the woman is simply left staring blankly at his hanging corpse.

She's still staring vacantly at his direction, with no indication of the fact changing.

But then she chuckles.

She chuckles, and soon snickers are finding their way up her throat one after the other, until her shoulders are shaking with laughter.

Yet the laughs escaping her are perfectly normal. Perfectly contained, just the average sound that could be prompted by an oddly funny joke. A joke so ridiculous it fulfills its purpose.

Perhaps that's the most terrifying part. How human it is.

And Dick is showered in cold sweat when he repeats himself, voice sounding just a little more tight and frantic than need be, but Cecile pays him no mind, laughing silently on her own.

Cecile -most likely pointedly- ignores his protests, which are growing more and more despondent as he's fumbling for words, caught somewhere in the crevasse dividing dread and ire.

"Do whatever you want to do to me! Just-"

He's just a child. Just an innocent child.

"-just leave Damian alone. And take me." Dick says.

An innocent boy caught in the crossfire of a war he never swore to fight, but was instead compelled to win.

His brother caught in the crossfire. His Dami.

His fault.

Dick's stuck in a loop. It doesn't end, it never does. Once it's starts there's no end to look forward to, there's merely one he can imagine, and they won't let him follow it.

All air leaves his lungs. Everything seems so peaceful when the flames tingling his heart have no more smoke to give.

"Take me."

His fault. His responsibility.

"Dick, no," Bruce pleads from behind him. Only then is it that he realizes the rest of them have grown silent, all eyes on him, reflecting the light nearly pensively.

Only then is it that he realizes he's been toeing the line of hysteria. That he doesn't know how to stop.

"B, I have to. I can't let Damia-"

"And I can't let any of you!" Bruce snaps. Dick is taken aback, only not due to the sonorous anger redirected towards him. Rather by the tears he can see glistening all over his father's irises.

Tears.

Shining all across his father's eyes.

Under the enemy's scrutinus gaze, and still he let the sorrow swim all the way up to the surface.

Cecile has stopped laughing. Openly at least, as her palm is covering her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle the giggles, perhaps not wanting to disturb the show. The bright smile lighting her eyes betrays her nonetheless.

"You're my son, Dick. I can't let you do this. I can't let another of my children do this" Bruce concludes, never ending eye contact.

Never trying to deny the tears.

All Dick wants is to give in to the pain of his own, and let Bruce wipe at his eyes and tell him it's all going to be alright, just when he was little.

But he isn't little anymore, is he?

Is he?

Is he strong enough?

No. Not a question. He has to. He has to be-

"I was dead, I should go in next. There's nothing she can do to me that I haven't already gone through" his brother's voice cuts in, disrupting the debate that's been won in his mind, long before it even started.

"Half of us have died, Jason" Stephanie counters. "I don't mind going myself"

"You're not going Steph"

"I'll go then"

"The hell you are, replacement. You didn't make the cut for our club the first time, you'll not make it now.

"Are we seriously having this conversation right now?"

Cass clears her throat to get their attention.

"Me" she offers, and immediately after she's met with loud protests.

Dick watches as the others continue to fight between them, arguing on who should trade places with Damian. They can't understand that he has to do it. He doesn't expect them to. So when Cecile laughs and asks who's it going to be?, his decision is adamant.

"Like I said. It will be me" Dick insists.

He's not little anymore.

"No." Bruce says sternly. "No, you won't go. Do you hear me?"

He is strong enough. He has to be, so he's going to be.

Dick hears him, although elects to ignore him, staring proudly ahead, at the two men walking inside to retrieve him.

Bruce then is yelling, and the others protest, some are still fighting over which one of them should take Damian's place but it's already too late. The cuffs clink open and the two men go to stand by either of Dick's side as soon as his feet touch the ground.

Dick doesn't fight them. He doesn't mind being pushed around with his arms pressed behind his back so tightly his already sore muscles hurt as his arms are straining to bend backwards despite his flexibility. He doesn't mind, because he's doing it for his brother.

As long as his brother's safely reunited with the others, it doesn't matter whatever they might do to him.

Dick sends one last look to his family, and another full of a different kind of love directed right at Babs. He hopes his eyes delivers the thousand messages he doesn't have the time to relay with phrases.

The room is left in hush when the door slides closed behind him.

As far as looks go, Dick's were farewells.

As soon as Dick's dragged into the small room whose horrid purpose he's seen on camera, he spots Damian sitting upright against a corner, with a gun pressed to his temple.

Dick's shoulders stiffen and a breath catches on his throat. Still, it's all going to be alright. It's all going to be okay. Damian's going to be okay.

"I'd advise you not to try anything smart, or-"

"I won't" Dick interrupts sharply.

Cecile stands to the side and gestures towards a skeletal armchair with untied restraining straps. Dick shudders at the thought of how many people have suffered on this same chair, and his stomach fills with dread as the knowledge that he's next settles in.

"Grayson wh-"

"It's okay Dames" Dick says softly, scrambling to regain his composure as he's forced onto the blood stained metal by the men.

He winces when they securely latch the straps around his wrists and ankles, so tightly the leather is pressing into his skin, disrupting blood circulation.

Damian looks hurt and afraid, so Dick does his best swallow his own accelerating fear and suppress the shivers running down his spine, triggered by the icy feeling of metal on his skin.

"Everything is going to be okay"

Dick locks eyes with him and plasters something that feels like the poor excuse of a smile on his face, but he knows it must appear somewhat comforting to his little brother.

Masking his unraveling self beneath a charming smile and a lighthearted joke has always been his gift and curse.

Cecile clasps her hands together impatiently and nods towards the man holding the gun. He hastily shoves Damian into the arms of the leanest of the men, while his extended arm is turned around to point at Dick's head instead.

Damian yelps and as his arms are restrained behind his back, the hideous burn on his exposed chest comes into Dick's full view.

Dick's breath hitches despite himself and.. and..

It's...

The ghastly tendrils of burnt skin spreading across his little Robin's chest that spell out the word brat…

Dick could never describe the utter despair and pain and sorrow and ire and helplessness he feels, yet he doesn't have the time to stare right through the monstrosity etched onto his little brother's flesh as suddenly his chin is being pushed uncomfortably upwards by the barrel of the gun being pressed firmly against the soft skin right above his neck.

As Dick gulps, his Adam's apple bobs almost visibly on his inconveniently prolonged neck. The underlying dizziness finds the perfect opportunity to strike him again as his head slightly lolls backwards.

He no longer sees Damian, but amidst the sounds of his heartbeat echoing from inside the veins and taut muscles in his neck, a small and strangled Richard finds its way to his ears.

"I'm fine" Dick assures, even though he's nothing but. "I'll be fine. Love you, lil bro"

The absence of an answer doesn't concern him as much as that of shuffling or any indication that Damian is guided out of the room.

That is, until a delicate stray sniffle rips his heart apart.

If he could glance at his little Dami, he'd be able to see his reflection fall from his watering eyes in teardrops that he can no longer contain.

Dick can imagine the silently crying face, and so he shuts his eyes closed harshly, trapping inside all the pain and anguish lest it makes way to the surface

With a wavering voice he demands:

"Now let Damian go"

When he reopens his eyes with a breathy gasp he's all alone, bound to the metal skeleton of the chair.

Relief floods his heart.

If any more blood is to be spilt, it shall be his.

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admiralty-xfd · 4 years

Text

This is chapter 6, to start at the beginning go here for A03 and here for Tumblr. Thanks for reading!

Chapter Six: Thick and thin

The weeks passed in a blur; a daze of improbable happiness. It seemed every day their relationship was getting even better, which he’d thought wasn’t possible considering how perfect it felt that very first night.

As for the X-Files, Scully seemed to be enjoying herself on their cases, perhaps even more so than before. It was entirely possible his own mood was having an effect upon the way he saw hers, and he acknowledged that to himself, but he couldn’t deny that things were going well, really well.

Something they’d agreed upon verbally was a certain amount of discretion as far as the bureau was concerned. He respected her boundaries at the office (mostly) and her fraternizing rules in the field (sort of). She certainly never complained or pushed him away whenever he stole a kiss or a touch.

One day in mid-April, all of that changed.

Skinner called both of them into his office and closed the door. From the look on his face Mulder knew they were in trouble; he’d seen that look before. But he couldn’t recall so much as a missed report. He wondered what on earth this could possibly be about.

“Is there something you two want to share with me?” Skinner asked bluntly.

“What do you mean?” Mulder asked.

“The producers at FOX sent the raw footage of your case in Los Angeles for me to review and approve before airing. Is there anything on this tape I shouldn’t have seen?”

Mulder looked at Scully, and she was just as confused as he was. Was this about the case? Was Skinner as embarrassed by Mulder’s behavior as Scully had been?

“I thought you told us the FBI had nothing to hide,” Mulder said carefully. Besides the fact that the case remained unsolved, surely there was nothing on that tape any crazier than half of the theories he had espoused to Skinner in this very office.

“I’m not talking about the case,” he said, looking at them meaningfully. “I’m talking about you two. Having something to hide.”

Mulder suddenly felt all the oxygen leave the room. Was there something incriminating on that tape? He replayed the events over in his mind, recalling that he and Scully had remained entirely professional while working that case. Sure, they’d gone back to her motel room afterwards and engaged in some unpartnerly behavior, but that was well after they’d left the cameras behind.

Scully hadn’t uttered a word, and didn’t seem to be planning on it, either.

Mulder called Skinner’s bluff. “I can’t imagine what you’re referring to, sir,” he said.

Skinner’s face echoed that of a bedraggled father as he stood, removed a VHS tape from its sleeve, and inserted it into a nearby VCR.

The grainy footage showed the exterior of their Los Angeles motel. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Scully next to him and feared the worst. Surely the camera crews hadn’t followed them back to their room. This was some kind of trick, it had to be. Skinner suspected something was up and was probably feeling them out.

The camera zoomed towards the window, which was mercifully covered by curtains. Skinner fast-forwarded and there was nothing to see but a closed door and the timecode ticking up. Two hours, three hours. Four hours. Just when Mulder was certain there would be nothing incriminating, he saw the door open, and Scully emerged, followed closely by himself. That was it. The image turned to static.

Skinner set the remote down and leaned against his desk, looking at them expectantly.

“...Well?” he said pointedly.

Mulder looked at him, confused. “Am I missing something?”

“What were you doing in Agent Scully’s room for four and a half hours, Mulder?” Skinner asked with the slow enunciation of a teacher explaining something to a four-year-old.

Scully’s face turned white. She was the worst poker player ever.

“Um. Sleeping?” Mulder tried. It wasn’t really a lie. Technically.

Skinner eyed them both. “Look,” he said, leaning forward. “I’m aware of what’s going on between you two, okay? I’ve known for a while. This is just the first time I’ve got any physical evidence.”

“Evidence of what, sir?” Mulder asked, ignoring his ‘known for a while’ comment. “So we were hanging out together. What’s the problem?”

“Mulder,” Skinner warned. “I’ve been able to get ahold of this tape before it got to the higher-ups. But I’m not the only one who’s seen it. And word travels fast around here.”

“This is a violation of our privacy, sir,” Mulder declared, pointing at the tape. “This was well after the case was over. They had no right or reason to follow us.”

“You and Agent Scully signed a 24-hour release,” Skinner explained. “If they found you interesting enough to follow, they were well within their rights.”

“I think we’re done here,” Mulder said, standing up. “Scully, we don’t have to listen to this.”

She wouldn’t look at him, instead staring pleadingly at Skinner. “You won’t let anyone else see this, will you?”

Mulder’s jaw dropped. He didn’t understand. They still had plausible deniability. Why was she outing them to Skinner like this?

“I promise I won’t,” he told her. “But you two need to be more careful. They’re out to put an end to the X-Files, and any excuse will do.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said simply, and stood. “Let’s go, Mulder.”

He watched her leave, gobsmacked. “But… this is ridiculous,” he said. “They’ve got nothing!”

“Let’s go, Mulder,” she said, warningly.

He glanced at Skinner again, annoyed, but Skinner looked deadly serious. Mulder didn’t want to make this a bigger deal than it was, so he obeyed, following her out of the room. She didn’t look at him the entire journey from Skinner’s office to their own, and when they got there, she closed the door behind him.

“I knew we shouldn’t have done that, I knew it,” she said to herself, her hands going over her face.

“What’s the big deal, Scully?” Mulder asked, honestly. “It’s not like they have any actual proof.”

“They don’t need proof to destroy us, Mulder!” she said firmly. “To destroy me!”

“You?” he asked. “Scully, this isn’t about you. It’s about the X-Files. It’s about me.”

She shook her head. “You don’t get it, do you?” He didn’t. “This is most definitely not about you, Mulder. If word of this gets out…” she looked around the office frantically, moving away from him, standing behind his chair. She bit her lip, thinking hard. Her expression was inscrutable.

She looked so upset he immediately backed down. “Scully, tell me,” he said. “Tell me what you're worried about.”

“It’s not the same for you, Mulder,” she explained. “You could sleep with anyone you want to in this building and the worst that would happen would be a clap on the back and a high five.”

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” he said, walking over to her. He pulled her in close, knowing full well it was probably the last thing he should be doing right now, but making her feel better any way he could was all he wanted. Luckily, she let him. He wrapped his arms around her and laid his head on top of hers. She took a deep breath against his chest and he could feel her calming down.

It gave him pause that she was so concerned about this. Surely anyone who found out would have to know this wasn’t about how it looked on the outside, but about what they were to each other. Did she think this was just a game to him? Just a temporary situation?

They both stood in the middle of the basement office, arms around one another in silence for a long time. It felt like there were things they both needed to say, but as usual, they were struggling to make themselves heard.

She leaned back and looked up at him. “We need to be more careful, okay?”

He nodded. “Whatever you need, Scully.”

“No more consorting on assignments,” she said firmly. “I mean it.”

He nodded, as dreams of any future late-night case rendezvous flitted away like a frightened flock of birds. “Okay.”

She looked at him for a minute, then turned to grab her coat. “I think I’m going to go home for the day.”

He blinked. “Why?” He looked at his watch, which said 4:19. They’d be leaving in less than an hour anyway, presumably together.

“I just need to get out of here.”

“All right,” he said dubiously. “Do you want me to turn in our field reports?”

She shook her head and took the neatly stacked pile from the desk. “No, I’ll do it.”

“Will you… still come over later?” They’d had plans to stay at his place.

She looked thoughtful. “Yes, just… let’s be careful, okay?”

He’d never seen Scully behave like this. He wondered where all this paranoia was back when they’d been bugged by the NSA, or the DOD, or all manner of government agencies that had tailed them for far more diabolical reasons.

“Okay, I’ll make sure there are no camera crews outside my place.”

She looked at him. “I’m serious, Mulder.”

He nodded. Now wasn’t the time for jokes, clearly. “Sorry. Message received.”

She turned to go, and when she was gone he felt the first stirrings of real concern that this relationship was not going to be the smooth sailing he’d hoped it would be.

In any event, he was prepared to do whatever she needed to make her comfortable. To get them to a place where they could move forward, truly forward.

***

Scully stepped into the elevator after turning in the reports. She hit the down button, backed up against the wall, and as the doors slowly closed a hand darted between them, followed closely by a male agent she didn’t know. He was blond and tall and sweaty.

He stepped into the elevator and glanced over at Scully as he pressed his own floor. The doors closed and they were alone with the quiet whine of descent.

The man did a double take and something like recognition crossed his face.

“Agent Scully, right?” he asked her.

She wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries, much less inside an elevator, so she nodded politely and stared straight ahead.

“Yeah,” he said in a long, drawn-out voice. “I thought it was you.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, not really wanting to engage, but at the same time mildly curious as to his meaning.

“Oh, nothing.” He stepped closer, too close, until he was standing right beside her. She shifted slightly away from him, but there wasn’t much room for her to move. “Just heard something about you.”

A chill went up her spine and her cheeks felt hot. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew exactly what this was.

“I like what I heard,” he drawled. He was breathing heavily. She felt bile rising in the back of her throat.

She looked up at the indicator lights as they ticked down floor by floor. Just a few seconds to go…

A few seconds was all the man needed to reach an arm out behind her and grab her backside.

*ding*

She didn’t have the time or the wherewithal to look for a badge before the elevator doors opened, granting her the sweet relief of escape. She charged forward, not wanting to cause a scene that would surely uncover everything she’d been trying so hard to hide, and brushed past the people waiting to step in.

She had no idea what floor she was on, so she waited around the corner for the elevator to depart, then decided to take the stairs instead.

The tears didn’t come until she was safely inside her car.

to be continued...

#txf fic #msr #my fic #up in your arms #admiralty

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cablecorvid · 3 years

Text

The Night I Werked For Slenderman

Ah, the early 2010s, they were really much simpler times. I spent my days doing what most emo kids in their late teens did back then- sitting cross legged in my computer chair and scrolling through Tumblr. I would absentmindedly fiddle with the laces on my checkered Van's while I read through my friends' profiles, reblogging pictures of my favorite bands, and creating posts that were oh so relatable and original, ranging from "lol XD I'm so random" to "I'm so dark and edgy, and nobody understands me" depending on how I felt that day.

It was a night just like any other, just another Wednesday evening when I should have been sleeping before school in the morning. Me being me, the angsty 18 year old guy that I was back then, I had deliberately chosen to stay up late. I was keeping with my typical Tumblr routine, just clicking on various hashtags and hoping from topic to topic, my favorite songs streaming from YouTube on a separate tab.

I had always likened myself to the Mad Hatter, but you might as well call me Alice, because that night I fell down the most life-changing rabbit hole I would ever find. This was the night I discovered the realm of the Creepypasta.

It was like a whole new world had opened up to me. I went through so many posts, each one introducing me to or teaching me about the greatest creations of classic Creepypasta- Jeff the Killer, Smile Dog, Ben Drowned, one right after the other. After several hours of scrolling and clicking and almost a whole can of Monster, I was engrossed, disturbed and intrigued. Images of so many terrifying creatures had filled my mind; I had read just about enough on this topic for one night and was planning on finding something new to look at when I told myself I'd scroll down to one last post...

That was when I saw him. The tall man in black. The crown prince of Creepypasta. The one, the only, Slenderman. He seemed so simple, and yet so unnerving. The grainy black and white photo attached to the post sent chills down my spine. I was hooked, I just had to learn more. Before I knew it, another hour had passed. The can that once held my energy drink was empty, and I wasn't going to stop reading until I was thoroughly versed on all things Slender.

I don't remember what was on before, but I took just a moment to change the song playing on YouTube. Everyone has that one guilty pleasure song that makes them want to bust a move, and I found mine right at the top of my "recommended videos" list. Now, an important side note: the 2010s were a wild mix of pop culture advancements. Alongside the rise of the Creepypasta and the Emo genre, a new dance trend had come into the limelight: the twerk. My best friend, Victoria, who ran in the "cool" circles at school, had attempted to teach me, but I hadn't ever been what you would call good at it. I turned the song on, clicking back on the Tumblr tab on my browser, and kept scrolling, dancing in my chair and singing along while I read.

Over the sound of my music, I heard a tapping noise. I thought it must be the wind or something. I ignored it until again, I heard it, a tap tap tap coming from my window, louder this time. I turned around and felt my heart drop, letting out a scream. The pale, faceless figure I had been reading about was standing outside of my house, his long black tentacles snaking out from his body and, every so often, bumping against the glass with another tap. "This can't be real!" I said to myself, stifling another scream. I turned around to turn off my music, but instead of my regular browser the page was a background of static and, to my shock, the still image of a hyperrealistic set of asscheeks, clad in black formal trousers. It looked like they could pop out of my monitor at any time.

I jumped out of my chair and ran across the room. This can't be happening, I told myself. But, in my heart I knew it had to be. I turned around and he was still there, and he was… Shaking. His menacing form blocked the moonlight, casting a long thin shadow that wobbled through my room. We stared at one another for a little while until I caught my breath. A tendril pressed at the edge of my window, trying to open it. I realized that I hadn't locked it after my last time sneaking out of the house, but it was far too late to do anything now- eventually, after, prodding and pushing, the window gave a creak as it opened and the noodly appendage slipped inside. It curled and gestured towards Slenderman, as if it was beckoning me to come forward. I don't know what possessed me to do so, but I made the decision to go outside and face him, man to man.

I made my way through the house, through the kitchen to our back entrance, hoping desperately with each step that he would be gone by the time I got out of the house. My hopes were dashed when I threw the door open and stepped out into the chilly night air. I realized then, as I laid eyes on him, what he was doing- it was something that I can’t fully describe even to this day. Slenderman, the internet legend himself, was throwing it back in a way I had never seen before, and may never see again. He turned his head slowly, menacingly, his eyeless gaze landing upon me.

No story I read could have prepared me for this encounter, for that itty bitty waist and the round thing in my face. Slenderman, they called him? I beg to differ. Those thighs, that booty? He was thicc. So very, very thicc. He stared at me, unflinching. I stared back in shock, examining the scene before me. One of tentacle-like tendrils made its way towards me, the same beckoning motion it had in my bedroom. I took a step forward. “Okay, big guy. What do you want?” I said aloud, my own courage surprising me.

Slenderman slowed to a stop, then stood straight up. His height, his stance, it shook me to my core. Then, he slowly took his former position once more, his hands on his knees, and waited, his unseeing glare seemingly peering through my very soul. “What do you want?! I already asked you.” Slenderman tilted his head quizzically. He raised his hand slowly, gesturing to me, then returned it to its place on his knee.

My eyes widened, the realization hitting me. “Do you want….. You want me to…. Join you?” I sputtered. He nodded slowly, and I paused. What was I doing? Was I really about to twerk with a being so powerful he struck fear into the hearts of anyone who saw him and could make me disappear without a trace? I told myself that if this really could be the last night of my life I might as well have fun with it. I placed my hands on my knees as he had and nodded to him. It was then that Slenderman started to twerk once more. I slowly shook my head, he slowly shook his ass. I heard the music from my computer grow louder and he really got into it. I tried my best to keep up but there was no way I could match his technique- he was just so advanced and so fluid in his movements. His hips moved in ways that no human could ever compare to, shaking what his momma or whatever unholy creature that made him gave him.

I can’t tell you how long we werked it for, but I could feel my legs growing tired. I wouldn’t dare stop until he was ready to, though I was afraid he could go on forever. I tried to follow his form, shaking it to the beat of the music, but I knew I wouldn’t last much longer. I was almost ready to admit defeat, to collapse after the vigorous dancing that I’d been doing.

My saving grace came in the form of my mother’s voice, and I spun around just as she flicked a switch and flooded the kitchen with light. “What on God’s green Earth are you doing out here, blaring your music at this time of night?!” My mother screamed at me as I put an arm up, shielding my eyes from the sudden illumination.

“It’s not what you think Mom, it’s!-” I turned to look back at Slenderman, but, to my surprise, he had vanished. Not a fleck of dirt on the ground was disturbed where he had once stood- he had completely and utterly vanished.

“I don’t want to hear any lip from you! You get back inside this instant, turn off that racket, and get yourself to bed! Do you hear me?”

“But Mo-”

“No buts!” Mom snapped, grabbing my arm and pulling me indoors. As she shut the door behind me, I thought to myself. If only she knew what I had just experienced. Maybe she would have known that “buts” were the whole reason I was out there in the first place. I promptly went to my room, turned off the music, and slept like a rock. When I woke in the morning, I questioned myself. Could it really have been real? Did that actually happen? I knew in my heart that it could be, that it was, and that it did.

It’s been years since that night. I don’t think of it all that often, but anytime I’m in the club or dancing in my room and bussin it down, I get a chill and the memories come flooding back to me. Not out of fear, no no, simply out of my mad respect for the best in the game. If there’s any lesson that I hope you take from this story, dear reader, it’s this: If you should find yourself in the presence of the creature of your nightmares, don’t throw away your dreams. Throw some ass. You may just be alright after all.

Source: The Night I Werked For Slenderman - u/SkeletonicKeys on r/Iconpasta

#slenderman #slenderverse #wtf do i tag this as #creepypasta #its almost 3am #reb please go to bed #not mine #not my work

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buttercupsfrocks · 4 years

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Yo, tumblr! And a belated happy 2020 to you!

Sooooo, my horrendous workload has come to a halt, (35 student dissertations since you ask), and it would appear that my health concerns were almost certainly stress related. And, while the situation responsible for most of said stress is still ongoing, I’ve taken what measures I can to ease things and alleviate stress in other areas of my life. They haven’t quite come into play yet but I’m cautiously optimistic.

Meanwhile I’ve been wearing quite a lot of clothes and here are some grainy photos to prove it. I have to edit the hell out them post-shoot, and my need to bump up the exposure setting has resulted in my looking somewhat anaemic, for which I apologise. I was aiming for dewy and ethereal when I put my slap on, which probably amounts to the same thing.

Now here’s a turn up for the books. I’ve realised of late that my personal style is starting to evolve. Or devolve. Or something. Sixty hit me hard last year in a way I wasn’t expecting. I’m usually pretty good with birthdays but sixty felt significantly different. I don’t think it’s internalised ageism but, to me, sixty is officially entry level Old. C’mon, I’m embarking on my seventh decade, haven’t seen a period in nine years, and live with a laundry list of medical conditions, all of which run in my family apart from my clapped out thyroid. I have an Old Git’s Oyster Card that enables me to travel around London for free for the next five years, (by which time the card will probably have been axed and the state pension age raised to ninety), and undeniably have fewer years ahead of me than behind. I’ve also become rounder round the middle than I was before and while I’ve learned to live with my scar, I feel self conscious about wearing a really low neckline these days. All of which seems to have had a knock on effect on the kind of clothes I find myself drawn to lately.

Tumblr, I’ve embraced the prairie dress. Or, to be more precise, re-embraced it. I tried to resist the capacious charms of this denim Monsoon number. I tried to remind myself that this is the kind of dress I used to wear back when I’d forgotten what it was like to have a choice; the kind that made me feel 60 when I was 35. And then I remembered that I am 60 now so it’s probably okay to wear it. I wouldn’t mind but I’ve been royally slagging off the trend for what Karen and I dubbed the Sister Wife look ever since it hit the catwalk in late 2018. And here I am with not one, but two in my wardrobe. (The other, which I’ll share soon, was a sales score from AND/OR at John Lewis and is even more capacious than this one).

I don’t feel obliged to dress differently because of my age and I don’t believe anybody else should. I will certainly never forgo the opportunity to wear bright colour and loud pattern as often as humanly possible, and you may prise my “undignified” novelty jewellery out of my cold, dead paws. All the same I find myself leaning more and more towards the lagenlook aesthetic. Maybe it’s just something that happens naturally to arty-farty women? An inexorable slide into wafty kaftanhood.

Maybe I’m overthinking it?

Missed you, tumblr.

#Fatshion #Plus size fashion #ootd #plus size style #Monsoon #John Lewis

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imnotinclinedtomaturity · 5 years

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Love Yourself: Chapter 35

title: Love Yourself summary: A lot of things about Dan’s life are pretty great. He gets to make the music he wants, he’s got a great fanbase, and his manager is his best friend. A few things about his life suck a bit more. He’s currently lacking inspiration, he’s rather lonely, and he’s stuck in a rut. Dan’s been going to the same coffee shop for years. It’s quiet, it’s quaint, it’s near his home. Most importantly: none of the employees give a shit that’s he a world-famous singer. Things change when he meets the new barista. chapter words: 5.5k story words: 289k (so far) chapter: 35/? rating: e warnings: language, alcohol, sex mentions, some bi/homophobia, eventual explicit smut, some depression, consensual d/s undertones genre: singer!dan, coffee shop au, barista!phil, slow burn [[ao3]] [[first chapter]] [[previous chapter]]

a/n: hello all! apologies for the VERY long wait. i had this chapter in basically this exact same condition a MONTH ago and didn't post because i intended to be nice and add to it. however, i kept NOT, because tbh i'd always planned to end the chapter here, and didn't want to end it here just because of the long wait, and then the wait became longer... and then it became a whole cycle.

but i had an impulsive moment tonight, and basically demanded the ever-lovely elizajane's attention and cleaned it up for posting. i knew i'd just sit on it for ages if i didnt post, and the odds of adding it to it was probably low. now that it's out there, the odds of me moving forward and writing shoot up dramatically haha.

thank you each and every one of you for your never-ending and ever-present support. i love how patient and enthusiastic you are, even when i make you wait literal months for a chapter. my work life has been very hectic lately (i'm applying for a big thing this fall and it's a lot of time and effort and writing), but i promise i'm dedicating actual time in the next week to actually sitting down and sketching out how i want to get from here to the intended ending. i want everyone to experience the ending i have in my head for this fic, and i wanna figure out how to make that happen for all of us.

***************

Taking a break from the world and enjoying each other’s company was a wonderful decision. And sure, they had spent half the day working, but they’d been working together. In bed. Alone.

This was a development that Phil was very okay with. For one, working in bed was a lot more comfortable than the chairs at B&G. And while skype calls were better than the coffee shop, where Phil was at least able to sit on his sofa instead of a stiff chair, they didn’t hold a candle to this setup. Because in this new arrangement, Phil had been able to reach out and touch Dan anytime he’d wanted. And Dan could touch him back — in fact, Dan had spent the majority of the day touching him back.

Plus, once they’d finished their work, they’d been able to set computers and journals and pens aside and focus on each other. Three hours, a nap, and another round of making out later, Phil was feeling… content. He couldn’t quite place the feeling. It was domestic and warm, nice in a way he hadn’t ever really experienced before. In a way he very much wanted to experience for as long as possible.

It had been a solid twenty minutes, maybe thirty — Phil couldn’t see the clock from his current position — since Dan had settled in Phil’s arms again, arm looped around Phil’s bare waist, head tucked into Phil’s shoulder. For a while, Dan had been tracing faint, tickling designs on Phil’s side, but somewhere along the way, the movements had stopped. Phil was beginning to wonder if Dan had fallen asleep again. It wouldn’t have been that surprising; in fact, it might have been the only explanation for Dan being this quiet and this still for this long. Quiet and still weren’t exactly Dan’s normal behavior.

Curious, Phil grazed his fingers up and down Dan’s arm, keeping his touch light enough that it wouldn’t wake Dan if he was asleep, but just enough that Dan would still be able to feel it if he was in fact awake. Phil was surprised when Dan let out a quiet hum. Stilling his fingers, Phil turned his head to peek at Dan’s face. His eyes were closed, but his lips were quirked up into a small smile, giving away the fact that he was undoubtedly awake. Awake — and maybe, just maybe, happy. Phil’s mouth twitched up into a small smile of his own — Dan’s happiness made him happy.

“That felt nice,” Dan murmured, just a smidge of petulance in his voice. Phil took the hint and resumed gently stroking Dan’s arm. “Good boy,” Dan mumbled, so quiet that Phil could barely hear him.

Chuckling, Phil bit back a quip about how Dan was the good boy here, because now didn’t seem like the right time for that. Now was too soft of a moment to have a serious conversation about it, and it certainly wasn’t the right moment to… derail with sex. It was too nice. So instead, Phil relaxed quietly and let his fingers draw aimless paths from Dan’s shoulder to his wrist, enjoying the moment.

“This is nice,” Dan murmured again, this time sounding nothing but pleased as he wiggled closer to Phil, his head burrowing ever so slightly deeper into Phil’s shoulder and his grip tightening just a hair.

“It is,” Phil agreed lowly, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the moment.

A beat of silence passed between them, and Phil wondered if Dan was just as reluctant to break the reverie as he was.

But the silence couldn’t last forever — Phil didn’t expect that it could. A few minutes later, Dan was tilting his head up to look at Phil, his eyes already filled with dread. “I’m beginning to feel a bit badly about ignoring the rest of the world, though.” Dan didn’t sound like he felt guilty, his voice the same serene, easy tone as before.

“Get up on the count of three?” Phil offered, stilling his hand on Dan’s bicep.

“I don’t feel that bad,” Dan whined with an exaggerated eyeroll.

Phil giggled at the adorable manchild in his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of Dan’s head, his fingers once again resuming their path. “You can count at whatever pace you want, silly old bear.”

Dan’s gaze softened, and his lips shifted from an immature pout to a playful smirk. “Fine, but we’re starting at negative five,” he compromised smugly, sounding sure that he’d gotten the best of Phil.

“Deal,” Phil agreed readily. His desire to move Dan was half-hearted at best, really only driven by Dan’s ambivalent efforts to get up.

Dan, apparently satisfied with Phil’s response, settled his head back into the crevice of Phil’s neck, and looped his arm snugly around Phil’s stomach. Burrowing his head closer to Phil’s chest, Dan murmured a quiet and unconvincing negative four.

It took Dan fifteen minutes to count to zero, and another ten to get to three. True to their agreement, though, Dan pushed himself up and out of Phil’s arms as he called out the last number. Seeming to capitalize on his momentum, Dan swung his legs to the floor and climbed out of the bed, swiping both their phones off the nightstand.

“Is it time?” Phil asked, unable to curb his reluctance, even as he caught his phone when Dan threw it at him.

“It’s time,” Dan confirmed, still standing by the bed. He didn’t sound any more pleased about it than Phil felt, but he was already in the process of unlocking his own phone, so Phil figured there was no escaping reality at this point.

Pressing his thumb to the home button, Phil unlocked his phone, only getting as far as his home screen — where there were approximately fifty thousand notifications — before he was sidetracked by a sharp what the fuck from Dan.

For a second, Phil was torn on what to do first. It seemed like every app had at least a dozen notifications — and some had literally hundreds. His finger froze, debating if he should open his email or twitter or instagram or tumblr or messages or whatsapp or —

Jesus, even Phil’s calendar app had notifications. That never happened, not outside of previously-discussed meeting invitations at least.

“What in the actual fuck?” Dan muttered, drawing Phil’s attention up; Dan, and his confused distress, seemed like a better place to start than the notifications anyway. Everyone else in the world could wait — and not just because they weren’t right in front of Phil.

“What is it?” he asked, trying his best to keep the apprehensive fear out of his voice (and doing a bang up job of it, he was certain).

“I— someone— last night—” Dan stopped and started several times, his voice growing higher and higher pitched with every attempt, his eyes still focused on his screen. Each start gave no more insight to his increasing distress than the last.

“Dan,” Phil urged, his voice just this side of commanding. He was nervous and increasingly worried, and his anxiety was already getting the best of him.

“There’s— picture,” Dan finally spat out, voice strangled, panicked.

Realization — and his own fair share of fear — washed over Phil, a deep sense of dread churning in his stomach as his mind flashed through image after erotic image of what could have been photographed from last night: Dan blushing at the table while they talked about rimming, Dan straddling his lap in the club and grinding down, Phil pressing Dan against the bar and feeding him limes in the most suggestive way possible, Dan grinding his arse into his crotch and dancing on a crowded and anonymous dance floor…

Phil’s imagination was saved the effort of conjuring up more wonderful but wildly inappropriate memories by Dan thrusting his phone into Phil’s face, far too close for Phil to actually focus on the image on the screen. Calmly, or at least in some version of what Phil hoped seemed calm but probably wasn’t, Phil plucked the phone out of Dan’s hand and held it at a reasonable distance, preparing himself for the worst.

His eyes adjusted, and he took in the picture.

The first thing Phil noticed was that the photo was dark and grainy, but there was no mistaking it was them, not with Dan’s brown curls and dark clothes, and Phil’s dark quiff and brighter outfit. Still, it was far better than any of Phil’s fears — it wasn’t from the restaurant or the club or the dance floor, they weren’t grinding or kissing or teasingly touching each other.

The picture didn’t scream platonic friends, but at the same time, there wasn’t anything explicitly confirmatory about it. There were no obvious hickeys, no lips pressed against lips or throats or collarbones, no hands straying to explicitly private parts.

There was still a shred of plausible deniability.

Oddly enough, the picture seemed to capture the same thing Dan’s new lyrics had — the softer, more romantic and gentle part of the night, the part where they’d sunk into each other. The part where they were full of lust, but undoubtedly full of something else, too.

No, the photo wasn’t some dirty, grainy shot of them at their horniest. It was taken from the back, which explained why they hadn’t noticed the photographer — although the absurd amount of alcohol probably explained that equally as well. They were stopped at a crosswalk, standing side-by-side on the corner, their arms looped around each other’s waists.

Or, well, Dan’s arm was looped around Phil’s waist. Phil’s arm was a bit — a lot — lower. His hand wasn’t so much gripping Dan’s hip as it was the side of his arse.

The placement of Phil’s wandering hand wasn’t great, but compared to their faces…

Dan’s head was tipped sideways onto Phil’s shoulder, chin angled up so his mouth was very obviously accessible for Phil’s. Phil’s own face was turned to look at Dan, bent down at an unnatural angle, his expression a blurry picture of fondness.

Phil couldn’t help but wonder why the photographer — whoever they were — shared this moment, and not the one immediately after. The moment where Phil was nearly certain he’d closed the small distance between them and kissed Dan’s begging lips.

It looked coupley, of course it did, it couldn’t not. But there was room to spin it.

Probably.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Phil schooled his face into a neutral expression and lowered the phone — not that it mattered that much; it wasn’t like Dan’s phone was big enough to hide Phil’s entire face, and Phil was certain that his initial expression hadn’t been the most… composed of all reactions he could have had.

“Okay,” Phil said shortly. His one-word response was clipped, monotone. Drawing a deep breath, he tried his best to sound a bit more alive, a bit more positive, when he continued. “Could’ve been worse, all things considered.”

There. That was a true statement.

Dan raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, shrugging his shoulder in a noncommittal I guess fashion. He snatched his phone out of Phil’s hand and studied the picture for a second longer before looking back up to Phil.

“You can’t tell if either of us are hard, I guess that’s something,” Dan finally conceded. He pursed his lips, his mouth scrunching to one side as he stared harder at his screen.

“True,” Phil agreed, genuinely thankful for the small victory — he knew he’d been at least semi-hard for a large part of the previous night, and he was pretty sure the same went for Dan, too. Phil’s branding could handle some drunk walking and cuddling with a friend (or someone more, his audience didn’t need to know the specifics). He wasn’t sure how well his branding would mesh with stiff cocks and hot lips and groping hands, though.

Twirling his own phone between his thumb and forefinger, Phil trained his gaze on Dan’s face, carefully watching for any minute hint of emotion. Dan’s expression was steadfastly neutral, albeit pinched, though, making it nearly impossible for Phil to read what Dan was thinking.

“What next?” Phil finally relented when the silence went on for too long. The desperation to do something — whether it was responding to every single tweet they’d been tagged in or deleting every contact who’d messaged them about the picture — was gnawing at Phil’s nerves and his fingers were itching to do anything at this point.

Antarctica could be nice, Phil thought. At least penguins were cute. And probably easier to please than excited fans.

Dan sighed, dropping his attention back down to his phone. “I reckon we should start by seeing what people are saying,” Dan mumbled, already tapping about on his phone as he collapsed back onto the bed, his back leaning against the headboard, his side pressing up alongside Phil’s. “No point in talking ‘bout what we want to do until we know what everyone’s thinking.”

“Great,” Phil agreed, an uncharacteristic note of sarcasm creeping into his response — maybe it was from being around Dan so much, or maybe it was the only way he could cope with the severity of the current situation. “Reading through all my twitter mentions is exactly what I want to do right now,” he huffed, punctuating his complaint with an eyeroll.

Dan and his sass were definitely beginning to rub off on him.

Whining aside, both Dan and Phil opened their twitters. Phil swiped directly over to his mentions, impatience getting the best of him. Almost all of them mentioned Dan too, and a not-insignificant portion were in response to the original tweeted picture of them. Phil had learned from experience: the more people responded to the source of gossip, the more people the gossip reached.

As Phil scrolled through his tweets, he gathered that most people's reactions were positive — ranging from excited keyboard smashes to multi-tweet threads of encouragement, support, and firm warnings to respect his and Dan’s privacy. Somewhere in between the extremes, though, were a bunch of overly intrusive, speculative tweets that had Phil groaning. There were tweets that tried to guess at the context of the photo, tweet threads that in-depth speculated on the nature of his and Dan’s relationship, back-and-forth tweets arguing about the timeline of their romance.

It was too much to keep reading, and besides, Phil had well gotten the gist of it all by now. He glanced over at Dan, mainly to see his reaction, only to find that Dan was scrolling through a hashtag that Phil had only noticed in passing, not fully registering its popularity.

#Phanconfirmed

“There’s a hashtag?” Phil asked wearily, despite the fact that between his feed and Dan’s screen, the answer was obvious.

“It’s trending,” Dan confirmed, his voice still flat as he scrolled through page after page of tweets. “Worldwide,” he added.

“Fuck,” Phil mumbled, incapable of much else at this moment. Dan might have been hung up reading tweets in the hashtag, but Phil was pretty certain he didn’t have it in him at this moment in time. Closing out of the app, Phil switched over to his calendar, then his voicemail, then his messages.

Just from the badges on the apps, Phil knew it’d be bad. All things considered, though, he wasn’t nearly as prepared as he should have been. “I’ve got eight missed calls, five voicemails, and three virtual meeting invites from my manager,” Phil said, half to himself and half to Dan. “And a rather demanding text.”

And those weren’t even counting the ones from PJ and Martyn and his mum. Now definitely didn’t seem like the moment to deal with those.

“Shit,” Dan cursed under his breath. “I should probably check mine, too,” he conceded, this time a little louder.

Phil tore his eyes from his screen — he didn’t particularly want to keep staring at Marianne’s assertive call me asap message anyway — and watched as Dan tapped through his own phone and message apps.

“Sixteen calls, nine voicemails, and ten texts from Louise,” Dan read off unnecessarily, still sounding like he was in a state of shock. Tapping back to his full message list, Dan continued, “Adaline texted five times, too. I’m sure those aren’t hunting for gossip at all,” Dan huffed, dropping his phone and burying his face in his hands.

Phil made a sympathetic noise. His brother wasn’t much of a gossiper, but his whole family knew Martyn was more likely to get dirt out of Phil than anyone else, so he was willing to bet his brother’s texts had the same intentions as Dan’s sister’s.

Dan rubbed his face, clearly agitated. “Fuck, I don’t even want to think about what my parents are saying — I kind of put a moratorium on discussing my love life with them.”

As much as that statement piqued Phil’s interest, he couldn’t bring himself to focus on it right now; his mind was too focused on his own parents — and the fact that he'd barely gotten around to telling his mum anything. He’d shot her a text while they were waiting to board their plane to New York, just a vague message about how she might be seeing his name pop up in celebrity gossip columns and yes he was dating someone and no he didn’t have time to call her and regale her with the details right then. That definitely wasn’t enough anymore, not given the fact that there was now actual photographic evidence of Phil intertwined with a very obviously famous boy that his mum would definitely recognize. So Phil filed Dan’s stray comment about keeping his parents and love life separate into the discuss later part of his brain.

Turning his focus back to the problem at hand, Phil tried to search for a solution. “We should call them, right? Our managers, I mean,” Phil asked, uncertain and unconvinced with his own suggestion. “Or should we talk about this first, just us?”

Dan clicked his phone off, chucking it haphazardly into his lap, and rolled his head to face Phil. His face was still tense with stress, his eyes lit up with something far too close to regret for Phil’s comfort.

“I’m sorry I was all over you last night, I feel like this is my fault,” Dan lamented, his eyes fluttering shut for a few seconds. It wasn’t an answer to Phil’s question, it was just an… unnecessary apology.

“Hey,” Phil said softly, nudging his shoulder against Dan’s and tipping his head up with gentle fingers on Dan’s chin. Their gazes finally met, and Phil pressed a sweet kiss to Dan’s forehead. “Last night was just as much me as it was you,” Phil assured him.

“Yeah, but I was the sloppy, needy one who practically begged his boyfriend to take care of him,” Dan rebutted, his face still filled with far more remorse than Phil ever wanted to see on it.

“Shush,” Phil admonished kindly. “You may have been a bit needy, but I was more than willing to take care of you, baby. I don’t want you to ever feel bad for asking for what you need, I want to give it to you no matter what.”

Dan’s eyes snapped shut again, his breath coming a bit heavier than it had been a minute ago. A tense moment passed before he finally spoke.

“Fuck, Phil. You can’t just say shit like that,” he grumbled, eyes batting open and boring into Phil’s. “Not if you’re not willing to fuck me, anyway,” he added, a hint of a smirk toying at his lips.

“Later, babe, after we deal with this.” Phil kissed Dan’s forehead again, this time letting his lips linger for a few seconds before pulling back and letting Dan’s chin dip back down. Gaze trained on the top of Dan’s head and eyes tracing the messy curls, Phil’s mind drifted back to the problem at hand.

Fiddling with his phone in one hand as he searched for what to say next, Phil’s mind fumbled through vague, half-formed ideas. But before he could articulate any of them, the harsh, unexpected vibrating of his phone derailed his thoughts. Even as he glanced down, Phil could already guess that the call was from his manager — in hindsight, the buzzing really shouldn’t be that surprising, given all the other missed calls.

“I can let it go to voicemail,” Phil offered, making no move to answer the call. “That way we can talk first.”

“No, it’s fine,” Dan sighed. “Stalling won’t make things any easier. Just… figure out what she’s thinking and don’t agree to anything major, and I’ll do the same with Louise and then we can figure it out together.”

“Mmk,” Phil hummed in agreement, swiping to answer the call at the last second. “Hi, Marianne,” he greeted when the call connected. His voice had none of its usual enthusiasm, and his attention was only half focused on the call — the rest of it was watching Dan dial his own call, presumably to Louise, as he made his way to the bathroom and shut the door.

As much as Phil wanted to know what was happening with Dan’s conversation, the separation was probably for the best. Phil was certain that he wouldn’t be able to focus on his own conversation if Dan was still in the room.

Marianne didn’t beat around the bush; there were no pleasantries, no polite inquiries about his trip to the US. Instead, she jumped right into the crux of the drama.

“Phil, I didn’t push you to address the rumors when Dan came out,” Marianne said, her voice stern and leaving no room for discussion. “But you cannot ignore two scandals in a week.”

“I —” Phil started, intending to push back. But even as he pieced together his rebuttal, he knew she was right. His silence would only fuel the rumors, and besides, he felt like he needed to tell his audience something. In the past, he’d always been open about his friends, had always regaled his audience with tales of his travels, had always acknowledged any drama he was dragged into.

Phil sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he was definitely going to have to do something publically. “Fine, you’re right. What do you have in mind?”

“The sooner you respond, the better,” Marianne answered immediately, sounding like she’d already thought this through — and she probably had. Unlike Phil, she’d known about this for almost the whole day, not a handful of minutes. “I think you should move your liveshow up to tonight. You should probably start by saying that you’re in New York with Dan, even though that’s well obvious at this point.”

Phil huffed a laugh, but Marianne continued without pausing.

“You can let the picture come up naturally — I’m sure plenty of people will be asking about it. Don’t just answer the first one on a whim though, wait until you find one that you feel comfortable answering. One you think can be a good opening to the topic. And then you can tell your version of the story.”

“Okay,” Phil said slowly, his mind already fast-forwarding to the liveshow, spinning the story different ways and imagining how his audience might respond. Sighing, Phil asked the question he knew Marianne would answer anyway, but that he just wanted out of the way at this point. “I know you have an opinion about what I should say, so let’s hear it,” he mumbled, resigned. At this point, he had no idea what he should do, and he was open to just about any suggestion.

“Of course I do,” Marianne said. Phil bit his lip, waiting with bated breath to hear her assessment. “But,” she continued after a second’s pause, “this isn’t just about your career, it’s your life. And it’s Dan’s life, too. Whatever you say, it needs to be what’s right for the both of you, and I can’t answer that.”

“I — yeah. You’re right. Thanks,” Phil said gratefully before running through the logistics of the liveshow. One of his favorite parts about working with Marianne was that she wasn’t overly controlling, especially when it came to stuff that would actually impact Phil’s personal life.

“So…” Marianne broached tentatively. “Do you think you know what you want to do?”

Phil cast his gaze about the room, his eyes catching on movement from the hallway; the bathroom door was opening and Dan stepped out, one hand aggravatedly rubbing down his face.

“Not yet, Marianne,” Phil answered, his eyes trained on Dan. “I’ll figure it out before I go live tonight, though.”

“Sounds good,” she agreed politely. There was a brief pause before, “Phil?”

“Mmm?” Phil hummed in response, thrown off by the uncharacteristically tentative tone.

Marianne took a deep breath. “Do whatever you think is best,” she said, strong and sure. “You have my full support.”

“Thanks,” Phil murmured, taken aback by the sincerity of the moment — he always had known Marianne cared for him, she’d been his manager for years after all, but their relationship was always based on business. They weren’t like Dan and Louise, they weren’t friends first and professionals second.

The unconditional support, while perhaps surprising, was certainly welcomed.

“I’ll let you know what we decide,” Phil promised softly. After saying goodbye, he hung up and turned to Dan, who was already off the phone with Louise and hovering near the entrance to the bedroom.

Phil tapped his phone against his thigh, his nervous energy needing some outlet. He glanced down and saw that the screen had gone back to the last thing he was looking at before the call came through — twitter. “So Marianne wants me to—”

“Do your liveshow tonight,” Dan finished for him swiftly. He moved further into the room, sitting back on his side of the bed. “Yeah, I gathered.”

Turning his attention to his phone, Phil navigated back to his profile. He clicked on the picture and gave it a good, long stare, trying trying to analyze it objectively. Trying to see it through his audience’s eyes.

Trying to decipher his own feelings about it.

“What do I say?” Phil asked, holding his breath. His own indecisiveness aside, he needed to know where Dan’s mind was at. Phil knew Dan hadn’t wanted to get into the specifics with their audiences, but, well, things had clearly changed. And now, Phil had no idea what to expect — he wasn’t sure if Dan would want to hold onto that shred of deniability, or if Dan’s newly-loud bi-pride would mean he’d want to fully embrace the implications of the picture.

At this point, Phil wasn’t even sure how he wanted to handle the picture. Objectively, he knew the most on brand way spin it: find the most platonic, innocent angle and double down, deny any sexual or romantic implications. He didn’t need to say it out loud, didn’t need to hear Marianne say it, to know it was the most AmazingPhil reaction he could muster up.

But even as he played out the fabricated story in his head, he was pretty sure he hated it.

Phil glanced up at Dan, waiting with bated breath for his reaction. For several seconds, the world was silent; it was just Dan biting his bottom lip, his eyes trained on the photo on Phil’s screen, and his face betraying absolutely no indication of what was going through his mind. Finally, his gaze flitted back up to Phil, his eyes clouded and unclear. “That I was drunk and cold and you were taking me back.”

Phil quirked an eyebrow, a million follow-up questions immediately badgering his mind — the same follow up questions that everyone would have. Where were they before? What had they been doing that got Dan drunk? Were other people with them? Was Phil drunk, too? Had this happened before? Were they going back to the same room? Was Dan this touchy with everyone when he was drunk, or was that just Phil?

Dan shrugged but didn’t avert his gaze. “That’s enough of an answer. If people want to assume that back meant to a shared room, fine. If they assume it’s to a different room in the same hotel, fine.”

“Mmm,” Phil hummed noncommittally, just enough to show Dan he was listening.

Dan’s eyes shifted to the desk, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Phil had known Dan long enough to recognize his thinking face, so he waited, swallowing back all the questions he was tempted to ask. Finally, Dan continued, once again meeting Phil’s gaze, a spark of resolution in his eyes. “I don’t want to lie,” he said firmly. “But also, the past few days have been… a lot. Significant. I wanted to… let them stand alone. And my relationships — I’ve always tried to keep my personal life private, but I also haven’t exactly ever been forced to ever own up or deny them.”

Phil nodded slowly. “That’s fair,” he agreed, his words like molasses. He understood Dan’s points, he really did. He was so, so thrilled that Dan didn’t want to hide this relationship — a distinct change from the relationships Dan had described having with other boys (and most girls, for that matter). Nervously, Phil cocked his head. “And, hypothetically, what if I’m forced to confirm or deny?”

It was an entirely unnecessary question, really. Phil was planning to do a liveshow — the audience was always entirely separated from him, there was never a way for them to know for certain which questions Phil had and had not seen. Unless literally every single question was about Dan, Phil’s hand wouldn’t be forced.

But still… Phil wanted to know. He needed to know where Dan stood, where his mind was at right now. So Phil stared at Dan curiously, brow cocked and head tilted, until Dan finally responded.

Once again, Dan shrugged, but this time it wasn’t as… apathetic. This time, it was just… resigned, maybe? Phil couldn’t quite tell; he didn’t like not being able to read Dan’s body language.

“I’m not gonna dictate what you should and shouldn’t say to your audience,” Dan said, lips pursed. “If you feel backed into a corner, say whatever you want. I know you’re not gonna fuck me over.” Dan rubbed his hands over his face, nervous energy lacing the movement. He dropped his hands and looked back at Phil. “Like I said, I don’t wanna lie, but I also don’t wanna make you feel like you have to tell your audience anything in particular.”

“So just to be clear,” Phil started, a smile creeping onto his face and into his voice. “If — for some reason — I have to say yes or no, it’s okay if I say either?”

“Phil.” Dan’s voice was low and uncharacteristically sincere, his pupils blown wide, and his hand twitching like it was fighting back the urge to reach for Phil’s. “I’m having an amazing time with you and I’m...I’m in this... for the long haul,” Dan’s gaze flickered to the side, resting on his black notebook next to his leg. His words were slow and deliberate, like he was carefully selecting each one.

Phil couldn’t tune out the butterflies that were beating against his stomach, and could barely bite back an overly enthusiastic me too.

But Dan ploughed on before Phil could say anything, and maybe that was for the best. “I’m having trouble imagining a world where it’s not eventually completely obvious what you are to me, so...” Phil’s mind jumped to all the possible whys behind that statement; he couldn’t help it. Dan’s lyrics and album theme flashed through his mind, but so did Dan’s instagram posts and flirty tweets.

Dan’s eyes finally shifted back to Phil’s, determined, tenacious. “So I’d rather not lie,” Dan said, sure and confident. “If they know something for certain, I’d rather it be the truth. Because I don’t want to spend the rest of — of —”

Dan’s gaze dropped again, and Phil bit his lips, holding back a smile as he imagined what the rest of Dan’s sentence might be, what it might mean. Everything Dan had said today seemed half shared, just a small portion of what Dan seemed to want to say. Phil didn’t want to be overly presumptuous, to pretend he knew what Dan was thinking, but he felt confident in his guesses to the end of at least a few of Dan’s sentences.

Dan opened and closed his mouth, over and over, not speaking. Finally, he sighed, and Phil expected him to say something, anything, concrete — more because Dan was strong willed, and less because Phil couldn’t predict what he might be thinking. But instead, Dan rose up off the bed and headed for the bathroom, halting just before the door. Eyes trained on the floor, Dan muttered, “If you have to say something, say whatever you want — I trust you. I’d just prefer it to be the truth.

#phan #phanfiction #phanfic #slow burn #singer!dan #barista!phil #phan au #coffee shop au #au #ly #mine #iminclinedtowriting #love yourself

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