[[Read more work because I have enough words to clog every dash on the planet rn. And a quick tw for wrongfully diagnosed mental illness.]]
[[Read more work because I have enough words to clog every dash on the planet rn. And a quick tw for wrongfully diagnosed mental illness.]]
I still can’t figure out how people make stuff like that.
“I would like to know too..”
You separate the batter or frosting, individually dye the colors, and strategically fill the pan color by color. To swirl batter you can use a toothpick or a pastry spatula. For the frosting to be swirled you need to put the two colors into a pastry bag in even amounts side-by-side or layered, and then squeeze it in a circular manner with the right fuck what’s the name of the plastic thing you screw on the bag. Can’t remember. Somebody knows what I mean.
“Oh okay…well I don’t think I should attempt this…”
“It’s really not that hard. You might stain your hands, though.”
(( am I the only one who wants to know why Sniper knows how to make rainbow cupcakes?))
[[His official answer is that he has a sister. Which is really his excuse for almost everything. MY official answer is that, being raised by a single mom and being the middle child, he was stuck with most of the chores. Including cooking. All the time. He did not like this at first.
What’s a ten or twelve year old stuck with making dinner every night going to make? A fucking cake. CAKE. FOR. DINNER. Once a week. Every week. Until he was caught and learned that if you eat something that isn’t cake before you eat cake, it’s totally okay and your mom won’t be upset. Once he finally decided cooking wasn’t a horrible curse from the gods and was actually enjoyable, he started experimenting. Presently, he’s quite the cook. Ordering take out just happens to be easier.]]
The ending of May arrived with an added spike in paranoia. Hagiri would not be living alone and his security rig would soon be responsible for more than just his life. A frustratingly last minute realization, the last person he lived with came bearing no such problem. Still, ordering something… advanced - technologically speaking - the psychic grumbled under his breath. Cursing himself with blame and for going soft. He wasn’t thinking like a soldier. Like a Marshal. Like a bounty hunter. Like a protector. Like a man who took lives for a fucking living. Hagiri was trained better than this. Now was not the time to lose his edge. It was the time to step things up. Bug every angle at every entrance - any disturbances caught on camera and beamed silently to his phone. That was a reasonable start.
Oh, the wonderful world of militant grade technology. And people still thought the internet took until the eighties. So cute.
Any fingerprint or retina scanner would be too conspicious - not to mention too high for Amanuma to contend with. A pass code wouldn’t be too bad. The padlocks had to stay; representations of security serving more as a calming ritual. At the last lock knowing a quick sweep of the flat promised likely promised the opportunity to to turn off. To be at home.
How queer a thought.
Regardless, one system offered a keypad over a titanium covering. A correctly entered four digit code popped open a door to access the other locks. The model looked more like a mail box, the top appearing as if it opened. Identity theft was still rampant. A far-fetched idea, but plausible. Too late to change his mind anyway, entering a code Amanuma would catch easily. Hell, making a code with the brat in mind.
Condensed to four digits, representing four letters. Upon further thought, Hagiri decided not to explain the origin of the numbers to Kiyoshi. Maybe give him a convoluted answer - it was all based on three.
“Follow me here, two and three make six, my second lucky number so two is first. Nine is three squared so it’s second, right? And then one plus two is three! It’s perfect, Kiyoshi, everyone thinks my lucky number is four. They’d never catch it.”
In a strange way it was true. Hagiri’s lucky number was four. Was. Four members in a family. The association with death. It fit him just fine for many years, and those years were long over. He had something different. Hagiri’s make shift family - psychics of dark pasts. A band of three cult refugees no one else could ever fully understand. If the protective and generally upstanding behavior the gunman exhibited towards the two didn’t qualify for redemption, he was glad to be damned.
The only way Hagiri would admit such a thing was to cover up a code that was itself already a code expressing - ugh, he cringed - love.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
The gloves were left unceremoniously on the seat of his motorcycle, a rock holding them in place with a short note.
-I know you didn’t ask for anything, but I couldn’t help thinking you might enjoy these. Shishi
Two AM was never an ideal time to wake up, though the streets were empty by that hour on a Thursday and Hagiri figured it’d be foolish to waste the opportunity. Not sparing a thought for anyone he might wake up in the process. Pushing open the shed door, he couldn’t help but notice that which was out of place. The man picked up the note and laughed. Succinct, no frills, exactly how he would’ve wanted it. Not that he enjoyed hand outs or gifts very much in the first place. It was nice not to be forgotten, he supposed for the moment. An old, fraying glove slipped off each hand and were then replaced by the new pair. The design was different, refreshing in a way, though they managed to match his boots better than the last pair he’d owned. Hagiri never put much thought into accessories while living in the company of other civilians. Dressing up was for disguises, with contacts he was plain enough to see through otherwise. Fingers flexed to get a feel for the material and gauge how quickly he could break them in.Looking down at the bike Shishi chose to lay the gloves upon, Hagiri concluded his decision had been made for him: mounting the vehicle and speeding into the night. Not once catching sight of the blue haired demon before hitting a highway, choosing speed over safety as he always would.
The boy’s bathroom on the second floor was the perfect place for a between class smoke. He’d finished half before a well intended nudge from a buddy brought him back to earth.
“Yo, Kaneda. We’ll be late for English.” Daisuke ran the sink to snuff out the flame of his own cigarette.
“Kaname.” he corrected, irritated enough from being in the building. “This isn’t Neo-Tokyo and I don’t care about English.” The boy flicked an ash harder than he intended, friend rolling his eyes.
“Don’t be like that, man. You’ve got the hair, the red jacket, and isn’t that your favorite movie anyway? It sounds cool, just go with it.” Daisuke was flippant in his reply. “Quit being Mister Doom and Gloom, huh?”
Hagiri blew a lung full of smoke into the other boy’s face, “Dunking your head in a toilet sounds cool, too, but I haven’t done that yet. I’ll get there when I get there.” Daisuke gave a light shrug and left for their class, leaving Hagiri alone. Leaning back against the cold tiles of a school bathroom and staring at the speckled ceiling boards in annoyance.
English. Kaname hated learning English. There were too many tenses. Did he have to learn another style of writing? Especially with silent letters and words with seven meanings. Why did he even pick such a stupid elective? Every other day he was stuck speaking a language he didn’t understand. Damn language teachers. “No Japanese beyond this door, fuck you.” Kaname didn’t care if he was late, he wanted it to be four o’clock so he could start his job or tomorrow when he could finish putting a carburetor together. At least that elective didn’t suck.
Around then he felt the filter burning the tips of his fingers and huffed. Dousing the flame as his friend did, Kaname Hagiri went shambling to to another day of, “Hello, my name is. How are you? Are you hungry? Where’s the bathroom?” Just as he had the rest of his first two months of high school. Tedious. Stupid and tedious.
That night, however, changed his view on the language considerably. Walking into his new place of employment, a little bell on the door announced his arrival. Incense nearly smacking him across the face in the little record shop. A couple - Americans, he guessed by their accents - offered a warm welcome and began to show him around. Signs all in both English and Japanese. The room felt alive in its own way, probably from the turning record currently featured in the establishment. Kaname could pick out a few words here and there - he thought he could. Once in a while, a line would make sense. Midway through his tour, the boy paused to point at the turn table, “English?” He tried not to find the kind laughter of his employers grating as they affirmed his suspicion.
“The Clash. Old record, a classic!” the husband’s eyes brightened, assuming the teenager was more interested in the music than just the money he’d get at the end of the week. “Playing music in English keeps us less homesick,” the man put an arm around his wife, “Japan has some amazing bands, but it’s nice to hear a language we grew up with.” The explanation was jovial. Kaname would grow to expect this attitude from them. Nothing seemed to bring the two down.
His features were tinted with confusion, “I… I never thought English could sound so… nice.” he winced at his own words. Nice? He described the Clash as nice? It was all he could think of at the time. He tried to shrug it off, it was hard enough to admit he liked any aspect of the language at all.
The man’s wife piped up, “Oh, it can sound better than this!” her voice held a promise - one she would keep up over the years. Exposing him to more and more sounds from America and the United Kingdom. “Are you trying to learn it at school?” The boy gave a slow nod - trying wasn’t exactly the word he would’ve chosen. “It’ll be easier if you hear it often,” she gave a wink, “perks of the job. We can always help you with it, too.” It was hard to feel uneasy around the couple. Maybe it was their energy. No, that was stupid. Kaname had long since tried to avoid thinking about that sort of thing near anyone besides his sister. It always led to trouble. He nodded again, this time with more confidence. Rubbing the back of his neck, the boy responded, “That would be very helpful, actually. Teacher’s don’t make it interesting, I can never get into it enough to get it.” An awkward laugh. “Might be failing at this point.” The woman offered him another kind smile and pat him gently on the shoulder, “Well, we’ll see about that.”
You keep typing, but all I can read is “I should stop threatening the kid with telekinesis who’s ready and waiting to throw me into the void.”
I’ve heard you have friends there.
Maybe it’s time for a visit.
*Face goes dark* What have I ever done to you?
It wasn’t me. All I could do was watch.
You wouldn’t remember.
I wouldn’t remember…?
I wouldn’t remember?!
What the HELL wouldn’t I remember?! I’ve only known you for a few years! And I remember everything that happened for those few years! So what the Hell are you TALKING about, Sniper?!
Hagiri laughed quietly to himself, his head bowed until he could compose himself. The gunman faced the reaper again, winking quickly, and correcting her, “You’re proving my point already.” He took a step closer, “Thirteen years, five months, two days, and about 20 hours.” Eyes up and irises left, squinting a bit as he recalled the exact time. Things can’t only be forgotten. They can only be ignored.
He laughed again, louder, with a touch more of malicious intent than he’d had in mind, realizing the best part. The big joke. The absurdity of life’s mysterious workings he’d read about so much. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have joined the seven.” Hagiri didn’t sound angry. It was more a dawning of knowledge. Something he hadn’t realized until now, something like going to get something from the fridge and wondering what happened to the terrorists in Back to the Future.
At least, that’s the example he would use. Just a lightbulb switched on. The way events triggered and memories unraveled. Everything lined right up. Botan just happened to be the first domino. Unfortunate.
Anonymous asked: Favorite part of Mitarai's body?
Answered this on February 22nd, according to the archive I just searched through. Still hasn’t changed:
“He has one of the most breath taking scars I have ever seen in my entire life.
My second favorite spot is everywhere else.”
I elaborated a few days later, I think, with this:
“Well. There’s this one scar of his, right? He doesn’t like it but it’s the most incredible scar I’ve ever seen. I like scars. They show what a person’s made of. What they can live through, where they’ve been, what they’ve done, who they were and who they’ve become. I don’t know. It’s this thing I have, I guess. I love that scar. Every time I see it, I can never tear myself away. It’s one of those things, you know? Those little things about a person someone loves. Like watching it rise and fall with his breath at night when I can’t sleep.”
Anonymous asked: Mitarai!
I’ve done nothing to deserve him. I don’t get it. I don’t know what redeemable qualities he finds in me.
I know I find something beautiful in everything he considers a fault. I know he’s compassionate and well intended. I know he deserves better than the home life he has. I know how to read the different shades of red on his cheeks. I know his scars glitter in the sunlight brighter than diamonds and far more precious because they are his. I know I’d be hard pressed to find anyone else worth re-evaluating 20 years of heterosexuality for. I know I want to give him the world and take him there to see it. I know I have a hard time letting go of him in the morning because I’m not used to having someone who’ll stay and every time he has to leave I feel like he’s never coming back. I know when he’s not here I sleep on his side of the bed. I know his eyes are the same color as the ocean and they affect me the same way. The same sense of being a tiny fragment facing an all encompassing tide of things much greater than I could ever hope to be. I know he is selfless. I know I can show him the things I lock away from everyone else. I know if this isn’t love, then it’s the closest that I’ve ever been.
But I’ll never know why he thinks highly of me and even if I did, I would never understand.
It was no secret the gunman enjoyed coffee. Besides tap water, coffee was the only fancy drink with which he bothered, save for alcohol but that was another animal entirely. What he did keep secret was how he never faced caffeine withdrawals when tracking a target through the wild. It was a simple reason, funnily so. One he didn’t even share with Kiyoshi, keeping up the charade of needing coffee in the morning to function. A complete fallacy born of habit and embarrassment.
Decaf. It was always decaf. Hagiri didn’t need caffeine because he never drank caffeine. Avoiding most teas because of it, refusing soda (he’d take his whiskey straight, thank you), and always brewing or ordering decaf. Hagiri didn’t know why he found it embarrassing, maybe because people generally assumed otherwise, but no.
Black Cat decaf coffee: freshly ground, no sugar, no milk, no cinnamon, no chocolate. Just plain, strong tasting coffee. Bitter and burns left on the tip of his tongue. Secrets were not always monsters buried beneath his skin. Sometimes it was merely a personal quirk. An inside joke he shared only with himself. Small things. Nothing awful. The kind of secret that would only make Kiyoshi laugh. He needed those. Silly little things to keep the darker secrets - those that weighed him down in the hours preceding dawn - from being released.
Nobody needed to know those.
Even Hagiri didn’t want to know those.