#( i fear i eat it up constantly . my useless knowledge finally has reason )

[etcnnante]

actually i loveeee overthinking random side characters and i think this time it should be scolippi and how much i think back on his character and how greatly he affected mista. i love their fight and how truly agonizing it is to see him go through it- how scolippi is the only enemy mista shows any kind of desperation to because of a stand he can’t defeat … he has a certain pain in his voice that we haven’t really heard elsewhere.

and i love scolippi, how his own devotion to his stand grants him his own stigmata … how, just like jesus had predicted fate 3 separate times- he predicted the deaths of bruno, abbacchio, and narancia … him being able to bring out such desperation out of mista, and him still showing compassion despite being beaten. i don’t see people often talk about him, but i do think he is an often overlooked pivotal aspect of part 5 in ways other side characters haven’t quite done.

[zims-left-shoe]

Dance of Doom (Zim x Female Reader)

LMAO I edited the title on mobile and the ENTIRE fic deleted itself but luckily I still have a og copy somewhere

"Hey, Sara-”

"Absolutely not, Dib. There is no way I would go to prom with you, even if you were the last person on Earth." With a final swish of her long blue hair, Sara walked away, leaving Dib to stand there with his finger still in the air, eyes slowly narrowing in disappointment.

"I was just trying to borrow a pencil." He sighed, sitting back down at his table. Naturally, he was the only one there. All the other students wanted to be nowhere near him, for fear of the contagiousness of his supposed craziness. From the other almost completely empty table on the other side of the room, a green boy sat, calculating eyes not leaving Dib for a second. Despite the years that had gone by, Dib was still hated by all of his classmates. But, there was one student in particular who hated his guts more than anyone. Said student rose from his own seat, meandering over to Dib, trying to look casual.

"Dib-stink. What is this...prom...that everyone is speaking of?" Both gloved hands gripped the table desperately.

"You're kidding, right?" After seeing the intense expression not fading from his enemy's face, Dib looked to him incredulously. "Zim, you've been in high school for almost three years now! How do you not know?"

"Silence! You will tell Zim all he wants to know about this...prom." Zim's eyes narrowed to almost slits as he leaned closer to Dib, trying his best to intimidate him. Sure, he had grown a bit. But that was only because he devised a serum to increase his height once others were beginning to grow suspicious that he wasn't hitting his growth spurt. He still wasn't tall by any means, only barely reaching 5'7" in his heeled Irken soldier boots.

"Fine, whatever. It's this stupid school dance that upper classman get to go to if they can find a date."

"Is this date required to be admitted?" The Irken was intrigued. He had been in a bit of an evil plan block recently, so any event was something he would consider.

"Well, no, you can go with friends, but last time I checked, you don't have any of those either." Dib snickered, only to earn a swift kick in the shin. "Oh, and I guess there's that whole prom king and queen thing. That shit's stupid." Dib looked bored, just waiting for the lunch bell to ring.

"King?" There was a new gleam in Zim's eyes, and behind them a plan was already forming.

Yes, if I can become king, then I can finally rule this school with an iron fist. And then the earth! He thought, letting the beginnings of maniacal laughter slip out.

"Tch. You need a queen to be king, genius. Good luck finding one of those. You're just as hated as I am!" Just after his final word, the bell rang, announcing that lunch was upon them. Dib snatched up his things, leaving Zim standing at the table with his thoughts.

"Oh, I think you'll be quite surprised, Dib-stink. I have the perfect candidate in mind." More maniacal laughter followed his words, a plan brewing.

(more under the cut)

-

Truth was, Dib did have a friend. One single friend who didn't think he was crazier than your local crackhead. That friend just happened to be you. You believed in all of the spooks he ranted and raved about. You were new to the school this year, and although you had only been friends since September, by April you had already been on several adventures together. Many of those adventures revolved around Zim, your alien classmate who was trying, and let's face it, failing to take over the planet. You knew what he was from day one, your suspicions being confirmed when you snuck into his base one night with Dib.

Now, although you would consider Dib your best friend, you had very different attitudes when it came to Zim. Dib viewed him as an evil space creature that needed to be annihilated. You, on the other hand, saw him as virtually harmless. He got in his own way constantly, so you didn't think there was much to worry about. Why not have some fun with him? It's not very often you get the chance to kick it with a being from beyond. Dib, however, would never let you befriend him. As you carried your lunch, on your way to your usual table with the Membrane kids, you were pulled from your thoughts by colliding with someone in front of you. Luckily, your food was still clutched in your hands.

"Geez, I'm really sorry. I was spacing out."

"It's quite alright, Dib-Slave." Zim showed you a sharp-tooth smile, and you were having trouble deciphering if it was genuine or not.

"I have a name, you know. And I'm not Dib's slave, I'm his friend."

"There's a difference?" The alien legitimately seemed confused by this notion. You sighed, trying to step around him. "WAIT!!" Zim screamed, grabbing you by the arm as you were walking past him. You whipped your head around, a slightly panicked look on your face.

"What?!"

"This...prom-dance-thing. It is Saturday, correct?" You quirked an eyebrow, not sure you were liking where this was going.

"Yes?"

"Excellent." A wicked grin spread on his face, his clawed hand not releasing your arm. "You will be Zim's date."  You couldn't help the laughter that escaped you.

"I thought you were supposed to ask people to prom, not tell them to prom." After laughing some more, you shook his arm free. "No. Now, maybe if you ask me, I'll consider it. See ya, Zim." You left Zim behind to mutter Irken curses under his breath, weaving through the lunch crowd to sit down across from Dib.

"What took you so long?" His eyebrow was raised as he fixed you with a suspicious glance.

"Yeah, the craziest thing just happened. Zim asked me to prom. Well, more like demanded me to go with him, but obviously I said no." Taking a spoonful of the disgusting substance this school called food and putting it in your mouth, you watched Dib's expression morph from confused to panicked.

"I knew it! He's up to something. I just don't know what." His hand instinctively clenched into a fist, gears in his mind turning to figure out a strategy to stop him.

"Maybe he just wants to go and knows I'm the only other loser here besides you." You chuckled, brushing a few stray strands of hair behind your ear.

"Just look at him!" Turning around to see what Dib was gesturing at, you were greeted by the sight of Zim furiously typing on some alien device, then scratching notes on another. After a few more moments of this, he stood up and left the cafeteria.

"Okay, so maybe it is a bit suspicious. But when has Zim ever succeeded at anything? I'm sure it's fine." After a beat of silence, you tapped Dib to get his attention. "You know, going to prom might not be so bad." A slight smile graced your face, hoping your prompt had landed. That maybe, just maybe-

"You're joking. I mean, prom with Zim? He definitely has some sort of agenda, and-"

"Christ, take the hint, Dib." You muttered, decidedly not hungry anymore. Dropping your uneaten garbage in the trash, you walked out of the cafeteria. However, it seemed you had someone waiting for you. "Oh, great, you're back." Not only was Zim standing in the hallway staring at you expectantly, GIR was sitting next to him, dog suit and all.

"Dib-Slave! Er, I mean, Y/n!" The Irken waved frantically, hoping you would approach him. Deciding that you had nothing better to do, you allowed your feet to lead you to the terribly disguised alien.

"What now?" You groaned, just wanting to mourn the stupidity of your best friend in peace.

"You said I must ask, not tell. So, Zim has prepared something very special for you. Be honored!" You felt a chill run down your spine. Whenever Zim said he had something special for anyone, it usually ended in pain and misery. Zim made a motion of pulling something out from behind his back, and you screwed your eyes shut, preparing for something horrible. A loud cannon sound echoed through the hallway, causing you to jump, but your body soon relaxed as all you felt was something like flower petals raining down on you. You peeled your eyes open to the sight of rose petals strewn everywhere on the ground, GIR's head open and filled with more of them. You took another glance around, watching GIR grabbing petals and stuffing them into his mouth, eating them.

"They taste like marshmallow!!" The tiny robot screamed, although you doubted that to be true. Raising your eye level, you saw Zim holding a sign, smiling proudly.

"Will you be the schneeblywoop to my zeegleblorp?" You read aloud, not having anything clarified. "I have no idea what that means." You had a hard enough time trying to decipher Zim's terrible handwriting without all of the unknown space knowledge.

"It doesn't translate very well from Irken." Zim mumbled, looking to GIR for help as he shuffled his feet.

"Tell her how you feel!" GIR whispered, although it was more of a quiet yell.

"Oh, this should be good." You smirked, ready for Zim to scream about how useless and stinky you were, and then he would eventually get all frustrated and run away.

"Human, you are much less disgusting than every other wormchild in this PITIFUL excuse for an academy. And while Dib is annoying, you are, erm, tolerable." He played with his fingers, not enjoying the position he was in.

"Okay, well if that's all, I'll be leaving-"

"NO! I mean, uh...there is more!" He looked borderline desperate at this point, every feature on his face pleading with you. Obviously he really wanted to you accompany him to the prom for whatever reason. "You saw through my INGENIOUS disguise right away, which proves your intelligence. Consider yourself honored, you have impressed an Irken elite." GIR shoved him in the leg, letting him know that was not the thing to say. He jumped, switching tracks immediately. "I mean! I would be..." Zim exhaled through gritted teeth. "...honored..." He grumbled, as if acting humble to anyone but his Tallest was a chore. "...if you would be my lovepig at prom."

"Lovepig…?" Your expression was mixed, surprised that he was trying this hard, because, for Zim, this was definitely trying, but also slightly offended that he called you his lovepig.

"DATE!! I mean date." He waved his hands frantically, throwing the sign down. "Please?" Dropping down on his knee, he kneeled at your feet. He really wanted this bad. Plus, he almost never said please.

On one hand, there was the fact that he was an alien hellbent on destroying mankind (although he was very, very bad at it), but on the other, it's not like you had a date. You thought back to your subtle yet failed attempt to get Dib to ask you to the dance, and had your answer. Why not? Besides, a horrible half-baked plan for doom might be fun.

"Fine, Zim. I'll go to prom with you." Zim seemed beyond pleased with your answer, jumping up from the floor immediately.

"YES! VICTORY FOR ZIM!" He pumped his fists in the air, a grin spread wide on his face.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Just pick me up at seven on Saturday." Had you made a mistake? It was quite possible. You supposed this meant you had to scramble up some clothes by the end of the week.

-

"Computer! Tell me all that you can find on this Earth event, prom." Zim sat down in his base, red bug eyes gazing intently at the humongous monitor above him. The computer sighed heavily.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes!" The Irken hissed, antennae flattening against his head in irritation.

"Fine. Prom. An Earthling high school formal dance where boys typically wear tuxes and girls wear dresses. There's no point in it really, just something supposed to promote fun. There's also a king and a queen, usually a couple, that are voted on by the school."

"Yes! And once Y/n and I get voted king and queen, we will rule the world!"

"Um, I don't think that-"

"I must find fitting attire! Thank you for your service, computer!!" Without listening to whatever reason the computer was attempting to speak, Zim shot up to get clothing from who knows where.

-

Ripping a brush through your h/l h/c hair for the final time, you took another look in the mirror. Your dress wasn't fancy, in actuality it wasn't fitting for a formal event at all. It was a simple f/c skater dress, but at least it had pockets. You were sure that Zim knew nothing about prom, and wouldn't be surprised if he showed up in his Irken invader uniform as he did everyday. You didn't have much more time to wonder as the doorbell rang, sending you flying down the stairs, calling a quick goodbye to your parent(s). Opening the door revealed a sight you thought you would never see. Zim stood on your doorstep, clad in a dark pink suit jacket and matching pants, a black tie tied around the collar of a lighter pink dress shirt. He thrust a small bouquet of flowers into your arms, and almost immediately you were suspicious. Sniffing them showed that they were not poisonous, which you had sort of expected. They were normal, untampered with, earth flowers.

"Who are you and what have you done with Zim?" You spoke cautiously, still following him down the sidewalk regardless.

"Silly Dib-Slave. I am Zim!" He looked like he just suddenly remembered something. "I mean, Y/n!"

"Right. This is just...so not like you."

"What are you talking about? Of course this is most definitely like me!" Zim just seemed to take notice of your appearance as well.

"You look..." He trailed off, and you rolled your eyes.

"What? Adequate? Sufficient? Not as stinky as I could be?" You were preparing for this to be a long night, already bracing for whatever jabs would be thrown your way.

"Pretty. I was going to say pretty." His tone wasn't exaggerated, or strained to any degree. He seemed genuine, or as genuine as Zim could get.

"Oh. Thank you." You cursed yourself for the warmth you felt rise to your cheeks. "You're not so bad yourself." After walking in silence for a bit, Zim was the first to speak again.

"So...I know this is a dance, but what are dates supposed to do at prom? Like, specifically." The alien looked to you expectantly, hoping for answers.

"Do you not have dances on your home planet?" Quickly looking around for any eavesdroppers, Zim shook his head.

"Not really.”

"Okay, well...obviously you dance, but usually the pair that goes together does...I don't know, couple stuff."

"Couple stuff?" The Irken wore a mask of confusion.

"Yeah, like..." You took hold of Zim's hand, intertwining your fingers with his own. He just about jumped out of his own skin. You let go, wondering if you had offended him. That gesture could have been a war instigation on Irk for all you knew.

"I didn't say let go." He grumbled as he swiped your hand up again, eyes trained on the sidewalk. The rest of the walk was mostly quiet, with some small talk and jokes being cracked here and there, mostly about nonsense. Surprisingly, Zim could be quite humorous when he wanted to be.

Once you had stepped inside after paying for tickets (which Zim complained about), the situation you were in finally began to sink in. Normally, schools would rent out some other building to hold prom in, but your particular school had zero funding for the school activities department, or so the staff said, so it was being held in the gym. Everything was dark, save for a few lights with thin colored paper over them to try and create some ambiance. There was a snack table with punch, but you were a bit afraid to try anything considering what the lunches were like. The punch didn't look horrible, save for the strange bright purple hue. Now that you thought about it, it would be better suited as a substance in Zim's lab than a drink at a school dance. There were several students dancing, groups of friends and couples included. The music was loud, and the students were thrashing about wildly, some dancing and leaving zero room for Jesus.

"That's dancing?" Zim asked, his tone filled with both wonder and disgust as he pointed a single claw to the mass of teenagers grinding on each other.

"Welcome to American public high school." You sighed, cringing as the collective horniness was almost palpable. "But no, see?" You gestured to some kids on the fringes dancing to the music as normally as you could ask for.

"Hmm, yes...let's dance! Since that is what normal human worm babies do at these functions."

"You know, it would really help if you wouldn't refer to all humans with weird names." A sigh slipped past your lips as he dragged you to the dance floor, on the edges with the tamer kids.

"Ugh, gross, Zim's here. Let's go." The group of teens that had been gathered dispersed, some moving closer to the epicenter of the dance pit and others to snacks.

"You should be honored to dance near Zim!" Your date screamed after them as you simply shook your head.

"Forget them. We're just here to have fun."

"Yes of course. And also to take the crown and rule over this place of filth as king with you as my slightly less mighty queen!" He began cackling at the top of his lungs, earning looks from a few, but most didn't even bat an eye, as they were used to it.

"What? Oh, you must be talking about prom king and queen." Your words were broken up by your own laughter. "That will never happen. That shit's a popularity contest, and last time I checked, everyone hates us."

"Says you. Everyone loves us!" As if to prove his point, Zim waved to Torque Smacky who was dancing with Jessica. "Hello, Smacky!"

"Go die, you green freak!" He called back, moving deeper into the mass of children to disappear from Zim's view.

"See? My Tallest say that to me all the time, and they love me!" A grin split his face, and you couldn't help but smile too.

"Yeah, okay, whatever you say." Before you knew it, the two of you were dancing together in your own little corner of the dance floor that everyone else seemed to evacuate. Zim was doing strange little jigs that GIR had most likely taught him, while you were more swaying to the beat of music and moving your feet in time. To your utter amazement, Zim seemed to be having the time of his life.

A bright and exciting song faded out, and the song that faded in was slow and mellow, the couples around you already joining together and swaying to the music.

"Um..." Zim stopped dead in his tracks, unsure how to proceed. You hadn't slow danced much, but you felt okay about bullshitting your way through it.

"If you want to skip it, it's fine. There's always that punch back there that's probably just Kool-Aid mixed with rat poison." A giggle fell from your lips, and Zim seemed to perk up.

"No! Zim shall conquer this...uh..."

"Slow dance."

"DANCE OF SLOWNESS!"

"Riiigghht." He shuffled closer to you, staring at you and looking as if he was doing complex math equations in his head. "Ugh, here." You took his hands and placed them on your waist, hooking your arms lazily around his neck. He was incredibly tense, his fingers digging harshly into your skin. "Loosen up, would you?" You winced in pain until he lightened up with his hands.

"Now what?"

"Now you just...you know."

"No, I really don't-" Cursing under your breath, you took the lead, slowly swaying with him like the other couples. "This is what qualifies on Earth as dancing?"

"I guess. It's kind of boring, isn't it?" You asked, finally making eye contact with him for the first time since the song started. "You can move closer. I don't bite."

"I knew that." Zim shuffled closer. Now there was barely any space between you, although it never seemed to get awkward.

"Well, I guess I can scratch dancing with an alien off of my bucket list."

"Dib-stink is missing out." Zim smirked, seeming proud of himself. Now that you thought about it, you were having much more fun with Zim than you thought you would with Dib. No offense to your friend, but if you brought him, he would have been solely focused on whatever Zim was, is, or would be scheming. Zim had even appeared to have forgotten about whatever his obsession was with prom king, and gave the impression of being fairly distracted by you.

"You know, I actually am having a surprisingly good time."

"Yes, yes, Zim is great." Despite the words themselves being supercilious, his tone was quite passive. For once, his massive ego didn't seem to matter to him. The soft melodies of the slow song faded out, the energized tunes resuming once more. You brought your arms back to your sides, waiting for Zim to take his back as well. A few more seconds passed by until your staring appeared to register with him. He quickly removed his hands, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Don't worry about it." You dismissed his very out of character nervous behavior and began to dance again, the Irken following suit.

A boy approached the two of you with a paper on a clipboard, pen in hand. "Hey, do you guys want to put your names on the ballots for-"

"SILENCE, STINK BEAST! Can't you see that we're having, what's the word...FUN?!" You couldn't help but laugh. You did feel sorry for the kid, he was just trying to do his job, whatever it was.

"Okay, sorry! I guess you guys don't want to be on the ballots for king and queen."

"BEGONE WITH YOU!" Zim violently shooed the boy away, who ran screaming towards the snack table. Clearly, Zim was not listening to what the kid was saying. Perhaps he changed his mind about the whole thing after all.

After some more dancing, the king and queen were announced, and while those who got it were irrelevant to Zim, he was still pissed. You decided to drag him outside before he hurt someone, most likely himself on accident.

"Argh! Stupid human popularity!" Zim kicked at nothing as the two of you stood outside the school in the dark, a light breeze blowing. You sighed, leaning against the wall of the building. For a minute there, you saw someone who wasn't just some evil alien invader. You saw someone who you thought was having genuine fun. All it took was one look at your disappointed expression. "Don't make that face. It makes my insides feel all...squelchy." Zim decided that the best way to cheer you up was to start rambling. "Don't be sad, soldier. I know being the absolute rulers of the filth hole would have been great, but perhaps they aren't deserving of our GREATNESS! Besides, on the bright side, I think I have a new mission! I already tried to study human courtship a long time ago with Tak, and it went horribly, but that was only because she was secretly an Irken bent on eradicating me. But, maybe it's time to..." Zim trailed off, which was quite alright with you considering you had stopped listening the second he had called you soldier. He had his eyes trained on the many couples walking out since the dance had just officially ended. A few were saying goodbye and walking in separate directions, but before departing, many would plant a kiss on the other's cheek. Zim seemed to be fascinated by this.

"Sorry, you were saying?" You doubted he said anything important, but you figured it would be rude if you didn't at least ask. However, you received no response. You continued to stare forward, about to call it a night, when you felt a strange sensation on your cheek. It almost felt like Zim's weird little alien tongue licking your cheek. It was gone as quickly as it presented itself, so you turned your head to look at the alien beside you.

"What? That's what they're doing! It's NORMAL." He was getting all defensive, huffing and crossing his arms, puffing his cheeks out as if pouting. You giggled, shaking your head a bit. He meant well. He really did.

"I think it's more like this." You pressed your lips quickly to his cheek, pulling away twice as fast. He blinked rapidly, then shook his head as if trying to reboot his brain.

"U-Uh, yes! Thank, thank you, Y/n! I will note that." He coughed once into his hand, staring out and just above your head. "Good work.”

"What, no Dib-Slave?"

"No Dib-Slave." You smiled, because although he wasn't looking at you directly, he wasn't insulting you, or trying to destroy the earth. He was just...being himself. An absolute dork, yes, but himself. Not Invader Zim. Just...Zim. Crazy, stupid, Zim. 

[kareofbears]

blinding lights, chapter 2/4

Their height gap is a wide one, but in no way is Sumire going to let Akechi keep looking down on her. “It became my business the minute we wanted the same thing: to fix this reality.“

—

Akechi and Sumire have to traverse through the events of the third semester without Akira (or rather, against him).

Read on AO3 or you can read below! whatever works for you :-)

They both agreed to meet at noon at an address of Sumire’s choosing. Considering that Tokyo is still in a post New Year’s mindset, the streets and the stores that reside there are fairly sluggish; only a few elderly couples and a handful of families with toddlers tugging them along are mindlessly walking through the streets of Shibuya.

Akechi takes one look at the restaurant. “No.”

“Huh?”

“No,” he repeats, glaring at the adorable restaurant with no small amount of disdain. “Why here?”

“I thought that a small, public setting like this would be smart,” she scratches her cheek. Maybe she’d misheard when—”Kurusu-senpai mentioned that you liked this type of food, back before school went on break.”

“Did he now?” His tone is light, but his jaw looks worryingly locked in place. “How kind of him.”

“We can go somewhere else—”

“No need,” Akechi narrows his eyes at the bright neon signs once more before going through the glass double-doors. “I’m not so petty as to refuse a restaurant for no good reason.”

“Okay,” Sumire says for a lack of better response, following him in. Why Akechi has such a fierce vendetta against eating at an IHOP, she’ll probably never know.

They were seated right away by a flustered waitress. Akechi smiles at her, charming and non-threatening. It’s almost kind of jarring seeing it now.

After she shakily hands them the laminated menus, she stumbles away to the kitchen—no doubt to rave about how sweet the detective is in person, how approachable.

“Finally. I was afraid I’d snap at her if she’d stayed a moment longer.” He starts skimming the menu, ignoring her curious stare. “You have a question.”

“I do, but I don’t want to come off as rude.”

“I’ve dealt with people who would dispose of me if I so much breathed the wrong way,” he flips the page. “Give me some credit.”

She thinks of the halls in Shujin, filled to the brim with rumors and hate and animosity towards her. This aspect, at the very least, can act as a middle-ground between Sumire and the boy in front of her.

“You’re not really the Detective Prince, are you?”

“Of course I am.”

“But it’s an act, isn’t it?”

He chuckles mockingly. “Everything is an act, Yoshizawa. There isn’t a single person out there who isn’t pretending in some way or another. But, if you’re referring to how I’m no longer keeling over to lick people’s gum off their shoe, then sure, I’m not really the Detective Prince.” Akechi pauses when her eyes dart toward the kitchen. “Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. If it’ll benefit me, I can be whoever I need to be.”

The door to the kitchen bursts open. Akechi smirks. “Exhibit A.”

The waitress returns, slightly red and clutching the handle of a steaming coffee pot like a lifeline.

“On the house,” she blurts out as she pours the hot liquid into their mugs. “Um, are you ready?”

They give her their order (Sumire gets a breakfast platter with double pancakes while Akechi seems adamant on not ordering anything on the breakfast menu, asking for cream and sugar instead). When they finish, Akechi flashes the waitress a smile, tilting his head so that his brown hair brushes his shoulders, and induces yet another wave of red to flood towards her cheeks.

She scampers away and Sumire gives him a look. “Did you trick her to...get coffee?”

“To prove a point,” he corrects. Lifting his mug, one sniff has him grimacing. “Leblanc has truly spoiled me. This smells rancid.”

She lifts her own mug; it smells delightful. “That sounds exhausting, having to constantly change how you act.”

“Perhaps. But if it gets the job done, then I can’t complain. Survival, after all, must come before anything else, only closely followed by the notion of winning. Many times, those two coincide.”

“And if you get caught in the act? What happens then?”

“That doesn’t happen.”

“Sure it does,” she picks up her teaspoon and absentmindedly stirs the contents of her mug. “Why else would you be interacting with me without your…persona?”

“You think you caught me in the act?” He asks, an eyebrow arched.

“Oh, no, not at all. But someone must’ve figured it out for me.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “It’s a bit of a stretch to say ‘figured it out,’ but in a way, yes. It’s more coincidence and luck. Less figuring out and more,” Akechi pauses. “A different perspective.”

Leaning back into the (slightly sticky) faux leather of the booth, he folds his hands together in a polished manner. “Are you sufficed with this interview? Or is this an interrogation?”

“I thought it was more of a nice chat,” she replies.

“Chat?” Sumire freezes. Akechi’s voice had dropped an octave, and her stomach along with it. “Chats are what people have when they’re gossiping about what some boy is doing after school, or when they have the luxury to waste time. Chatting is what friends do, Yoshizawa, and forgive me if I wasn’t clear enough. However,” he leans forward, his red eyes dark and lips pulled back ever so slightly. “Being allies with the same goal does not make us besties.”

He leans back, and Sumire can only stare at him. She tries to push away the intense waves of disappointment, irritation, and embarrassment at tricking herself twice now. A million words are stuck on her tongue like a fly caught on sticky paper—struggling, but an ultimately fruitless endeavor.

“Okay,” is what comes out. Clearing her throat, “Let’s focus back to the matter at hand then, shall we?” Sumire spoke timidly, but not out of fear of the man in front of her, but rather in fear of scaring him away. It’s obvious he has a bus load and a half of issues, but they’re allies and right now, they don’t have anyone but each other. This is one objective she can’t afford to slip up on, and with her knowledge of the Metaverse being shaky at best, she needs all the help she can get.

“Let’s.”

As he’s about to continue, the waitress returns with Sumire’s staggering order, Akechi’s sugar and milk (in tiny, blue capsules) and mysteriously straightened hair. “So sorry for the delay,” she says, most of her attention on a boy who seems infinitely more interested in the creamer than her.

“Thank you,” Sumire blurts out when he doesn’t reply, more to fill the awkward silence than anything. At least it seems to snap the waitress out of whatever disappointed stupor she’s in, after the detective had a full one-eighty on his personality.

The waitress walks back, shoulders drooping, and Sumire points a side eye at Akechi. “That was mean. Kindness has its own benefits too, you know.”

���Alright, Maruki. Can we get a move on?”

“Please.”

Akechi folds his hand over each other. “I mentioned that I’ve worked with the Thieves in the past.” At Sumire’s nod, “I believe that can be used to our advantage.”

She frowns, and picks up her fork. “Our advantage? Did you learn something back then?” She starts cutting into her pancakes, the scent absolutely mouth-watering.

“Not quite. Most of the intel I gathered from them were useless. Never in my life did I need to know about half of the bakeries in Tokyo, or which days of the week were the most plentiful in terms of grocery sales. Really, it’s all garbage. However, three things were clear by the time my truce with them had ended.”

He plucks a single capsule from the table, inspecting it with interest. “One: Kurusu Akira is very good at what he does. It pains me to admit it, but he’s powerful, much more than lets on. His ability to utilize multiple Personas to fill in any holes his team might have, the natural tendency to anticipate his opposer’s attacks. This made me knock out the initial strategy.”

“Which was?”

“Battle him on the spot,” he answers nonchalantly. “Beat some sense into him, in whatever form that may be. However, as history decides it, that plan was doomed to fail before it even began. Maybe as a last resort.” Sumire very nearly asks him what on earth he could be referring to in terms of history, but Akechi continues before she works out how to ask without setting off another aggravated landmine. It’s a lot like her floor exercises; one misstep can be her downfall.

“His power also extends past the Metaverse,” Akechi crosses his legs neatly. “He’s made a plethora of confidants splattered across the city, ranging from ridiculous to slightly worrying. The most crucial of those confidants, as you can imagine, are his pesky friends.”

Placing the capsule back onto the table delicately, he continues. “The second is what I’ve mentioned before, back in the palace—Kurusu would walk backwards into hell for his little troupe. However, the very notion of teammates demands more than one side of the party.”

He begins to stack the capsules on top of each other until a structure is created on top of the polished table (they both pretend not to notice the elderly couple eyeing them with annoyance). “And finally, number three—” Akechi leans back, gazing uninterestedly at the miniature pyramid made out of eight creamer capsules. “Is that every single one of his teammates would do the same for him.”

Like a lock and key, the pieces of it click in her mind. When he lays it out like that, it’s almost obvious.

Sumire gestures to the pyramid. “May I?” At his nod, she (reluctantly) moves her barely-touched plate out of the way and considers the structure before her.

“Kurusu-senpai is doing this for his friends,” she states.

“Indeed.”

“So, if we plan accordingly…” extending her pointer finger and, carefully, prods the base. All eight pieces fall over, the one at the top crashing down to earth the hardest.

Sumire looks up to see Akechi smiling at her, if one would be willing to call it that; it’s slightly too sinister to be called a grin, with the way his eyes are filled with subsided manic energy, though it’s shadowed by the forelocks of his brown hair—he’s the spitting image of a classic Disney villain if it were an R-rated film.

“Now you’re playing the game.”

—

The plan was simple. Straight forward.

It wasn’t too different from a hostage situation—you can’t make a move if the hostages are held over you as leverage, forced to comply with whatever the gunman wanted so long as nobody gets hurt. Take away the citizens and suddenly the situation gets a lot simpler.

Maruki had, inadvertently or not, held a gun to the Thieves’ heads with Akira playing negotiator. All Akechi and Sumire have to do is remove the hostages from the scene safely. If Akira, the negotiator, can’t be reasoned with, then they’ll just have to place their trust in the rest of them to convince Akira themselves. They just need a bit of a wake-up call.

Really, it’s a simple solution to a complex problem. All that’s left is the execution.

—

YS: are you there? i’d like to ask you something. AG: What? YS: i understand that splitting up would be smarter to make this a lot speedier and id like not to stay in this reality any longer than necessary YS: but after thinking about it, isn’t it better to do it together to guarantee success? if we can’t fail on convincing them that their reality isn’t real, then doing it together is probably a good idea! AG: That may be true. I’d like this entire fiasco to be over as soon as possible. YS: same! And you also know them way better than i do :) AG: Please don’t remind me. YS: noted AG: Are you opposed to meeting in leblanc tomorrow? We can begin our plan there. YS: starting with Morgana-senpai? that’ll be good actually. he’s the only one i at least kind of befriended AG: You’re aware that he’s not here, right? That he is not physically reading the word ‘senpai’, right? YS: yes AG: Just making sure.

Leblanc is blessedly empty when they enter, the blunt yet strong fragrance of coffee beans seeming to waft from every direction with only the slightest hint of smoke drifting towards them from the bright orange tip of Sojiro’s cigarette. He tilts the corner of his lip up at their entrance, even as his eyes light up with curiosity.

“Morning,” he greets, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and snuffing out its embers on the ashtray. “Sorry bout that, shouldn’t be smoking in front of you kids—Niijima gives me a nasty look whenever I do it. So, what can I do you for? If it’s coffee you want, it’s on the house.”

“As tempting as that may be, we’re going to have to decline,” Akechi answers. He’s once again donning a mask of pleasantness, layered so thick that Sumire has to wonder how she ever believed it. “However, we’d love to speak with Morgana for a moment, if you don’t mind?”

“Sure,” Sojiro jerks his head at the wooden staircase. “Head on up.”

They nod their thanks and make their way upstairs.

Sumire had learned early on in her life that she wasn’t someone who was prone to falling for jump scares. Horror movies aren’t really an issue for her and haunted houses were always more of an interesting location to gauge visitors’ reactions rather than try to get anything out of it herself. Often times, it is psychological horror that affected her, the creepiness of it sliding into her mind that causes her to shake and tremble.

Even though Akechi had reminded her once more, even if she spent a good amount of time trying to picture if, even though on a technical level, she knew what she would be looking at—

“Yoshizawa? Oh, Akechi too! I didn’t expect to see you guys here.”

—Nothing could have possibly prepared her for the sight of human Morgana.

He’s sat on what she’s almost sure is Akira’s bed, though it’s a futon placed on top of a bunch of grocery pallets. He has dark hair that could be mistaken as black had the sunlight from the window not shined on him, and the only remnants that could have resonated his cat form is his once-collar turning into a gold chain paired with his bright, blue eyes. With a manga perched on his lap, he looks like an ordinary boy that she wouldn’t even think twice about.

It's a really unnerving thought.

“Hello Morgana,” Akechi says when Sumire can’t seem to find her words. “May we speak to you for a second?”

“Of course! Make yourselves at home. Er, sorry it’s a little messy,” he stands and clumsily beats the run-down couch with his human hands. “Don’t know how I never noticed the mess in here before—”

Sumire leans to Akechi, eyes never leaving the fussing boy. “You’re right.”

“About?”

“This is truly harrowing.”

“You overheard that conversation?”

“—But better late than never!” Morgana finishes, giving the sofa one last pat and gesturing for them to sit. “Oh, and just let you know, I can’t stay for too long; Lady Ann wants me to carry her stuff while she walks around Shibuya and, well what kind of gentleman would I be to say no?” He laughs, so elated that it’s almost like they missed out on a gut-busting joke.

“That’s fine, this won’t take long, Morgana-senpai.”

Morgana juts his chin out, poorly concealing his smugness. “Anything for you, Yoshizawa! Just like back in Odaiba.”

He blinks, brow creasing. “Odaiba...with Akira.” His tone turns confused, like the words that were coming out of his mouth were leaving without his consent. “That was a wild day, we just found a Palace. And you had your awakening, and I was so shocked and….” A hand comes up, clutching his head and eyes scrunched tightly. “I was…”

Sumire and Akechi lock eyes, the same thought going through their mind: it’s the same reaction that Akira had. A weight left her shoulders, knowing that just as they planned, it wasn’t difficult to remind them of the true reality.

What they didn’t expect was for Morgana to disoriently glance at them and say in a quiet voice, “I gotta go...take a walk.”

“Wait, hold on—” Sumire tries.

“Feel free to stay, but I, uh, have to think,” Morgana moves towards the staircase, only half-glancing at their perplexed faces before escaping.

They don’t move until they hear the bell ringing downstairs.

“That could have gone better,” Akechi sighs, voice tight with mild irritation.

“I don’t know why I didn’t put two and two together and predict this. I mean, that’s pretty much my reaction, too!” She throws her hands in the air. “I was too distracted by how Kurusu-senpai reacted.”

“Well, as we learn time and time again, Kurusu is the exception, not the rule.” Akechi moves to lean against an old work desk, and rather than normal student supplies littering it’s surface, it has strange-looking metals and hardware. “While it’s a shame to have failed in recruiting the cat, all is not lost. As long as we can convince one of them, it’ll at least be enough to make Kurusu hesitate. That’s all we need.”

“Is that the best move?” she asks, walking around the room and inspecting the fun little knickknacks strewn about. It’s probably not the most courteous move of hers to look at someone’s room without permission, but she can’t help it. “Should we try and convince Mona-senpai?”

“It’d be a waste of time, especially while we have six other people to speak to, and our time frame is limited as is.”

“Maybe they’ll naturally come to realize it, without our prompting? He already seemed pretty on the fence about his memories.”

“Perhaps. But like I said, I don’t do gambles.” Sumire peels her away from the realistic-looking ramen bowl just in time to see the flint in his eyes. “And hell would freeze over before I let this counterfeit reality become the real one.”

Sumire smiles, though her eyes are just as hard as his. “I understand the sentiment.”

They regard each other for a long moment.

Akechi readjusts his coat. “We should leave and try again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good. Oh, maybe Boss is still up for the free coffee he mentioned.”

“Ugh, finally some good news.” They head down the stairs. “Hopefully we can make it quick—don’t want to take any chances.”

“Chances? I thought you liked the coffee here.”

“Oh, I do. But the regulars here might put a bit of a damper on the—”

The moment Akechi’s foot hits the main floor, the door to Leblanc swings open once more and a young girl with bright orange hair bursts in.

“--Situation.”

—

YS: who should come after Morgana-senpai? AG: It doesn’t matter. AG: But there are a few people who I want to postpone, if possible. YS: that’s fine, but why? AG: No reason, but if we can guarantee that we’ve convinced the others before them. AG: It’s a stroke of luck that Morgana’s wish was easy to figure out, but we have no such advantage afterwards. However, I have a select few...intuitions, for what their wishes might be. YS: that’s better than nothing! Lay them on me. AG: For some of them, nothing may be the better option.

“Ah, did you forget something?” Sojiro chides, chuckling. “I told you to double-check your bag before running off.

Futaba slaps her forehead. “Gah, I know, but there’s no way I’m missing out on a day of Akihabara with mom! It’s like getting the motherlode cheat in the Sims.” She hops over the counter and slides behind the bar, very nearly knocking over the yellow landline. “Agility plus three!”

“We have guests, Futaba, and business is hard enough as is without you jumping around.”

“Huh? People? Futaba scans the cafe, her mouth rounding to a perfect O as she is, in fact, not alone. “People! People I know!”

Sumire waves, charmed at the other girl’s exuberance. “Sorry to intrude.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. It’s nice to see this place having some people around to move the dust every once in a while,” gesturing to the wall of canisters, her arm outstretched like an experienced realtor. “Feel free to have whatever you’d like, free of charge!”

“Futaba,” Sojiro exasperates, with no small amount of adoration laced in every syllable. He turns to them in a what can you do? gesture. “She’s right, though. Say the word and I’ll brew something up.”

Futaba gasps. “Mom! She’s still out there waiting. Oh, big brain idea comin’ in!” She redirects her outstretched hand to point at them, still standing awkwardly at the staircase. “I’ll bring mom in here and introduce you both!”

Akechi stiffens on her left. “No need, we were just about to—”

“Ah, ah, ah! Nope!” she interrupts, already halfway out the door. “I’ll be back before you can recite the national anthem.” Futaba runs out, leaving the ball ringing behind her.

“That girl is a whirlwind,” Sojiro says gruffly. “Hope she didn’t scare you off. Especially you, Akechi,” he ducks behind the bar, rummaging through its shelves. “You ran out real fast last time you came in here.”

Sumire’s eyes dart towards Akechi when he doesn’t answer. “Are you okay?”

He’s about to answer when Futaba decides to burst in for the second time, chest heaving and face pink. A grin takes up every crevice of her features as she clutches the hand of a woman looking fondly at her. “I come bearing gifts! Well, a gift.”

Sojiro sighs. “Sorry Wakaba, can’t reign her in like you can.”

“You’d be a fool to think anyone reign her in,” Wakaba laughs, before tilting her head curiously at Akechi and Sumire. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“They’re friends with Akira and I!” Futaba says, chest puffed out. “Yoshizawa and Akechi, meet my mom—” For a split second, Futaba’s eyes widen before grabbing the counter’s ledge. “Nngh…”

“Sweetheart?”

“Futaba, what’s wrong?”

Sumire turns to Akechi, a clear question in her eyes. What triggered it?

“My head,” Futaba groans. She removes her glasses and rubs her eyes furiously with her palm.

However, the minute she pulls her hand away, Futaba’s eyes open and Sumire feels her stomach lurch uncomfortably. Those are no longer the eyes of the girl playfully giving away the contents of a humble coffee shop to mess with her dad; they’re the eyes of someone who’s confused, shocked, and, above all else livid.

And she’s directing it all at Akechi.

“Mom,” she says, voice trembling. “I feel better, so let’s go.”

Wakaba frowns. “Are you sure? You look so pale."

“Don’t worry! I just—I just really want to go.”

Futaba throws another glare at Akechi and an inquisitive look at Sumire before leaving, her previous energy sapped away.

SIghing, Wakaba gives them an apologetic look. “Sorry about that. Futaba has such a one-track mind. I’ll be sure that she apologizes—”

“Don’t,” Akechi says. “She doesn’t have to apologize for anything.”

“Oh, that’s very sweet of you," some of the tension in her shoulders dissipate. “I’m so glad to have people like you looking out for my Futaba.”

Akechi doesn’t say anything, even when Wakaba gives them a wave, following Futaba out to the backstreets of Yongen.

It was quiet for a long moment.

Sojiro clears his throat. “You still up for that coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Akechi replies, his voice possessing an odd quality to it. “I must get going now. If you’d excuse me,” In a few quick strides, he’s out of the door.

Sumire bows quickly. “Thank you for having us,” she says politely before following him out.

Looking left and right, Akechi is briskly heading towards the station. She catches up to him with ease.

“You knew that would happen,” she says flatly.

He keeps walking. “I did.”

“And you didn’t tell me? Didn’t you think that, I don’t know, would have affected our mission?”

“I didn’t tell you because it’s none of your business, and if I’m not mistaken, that’s still the case.”

“None of my business?” She ups her pace and stands in front of Akechi, forcing him to stop in his tracks. With him standing six inches taller than her, their height gap is a wide one, but in no way is Sumire going to let him keep looking down on her. “It became my business the minute we wanted the same thing: to fix this reality. I’ve come to understand that you’re not interested in being friends, but do not go against your own word by refusing to see me as an ally.”

They stare each other down for a few seconds, a handful of the neighbourhood’s residents whispering about them and scuttling away in fear that they might get caught in the middle of some teenage spat.

“Fine,” he relents. “It wasn’t the best move to withhold information. This won’t happen again. But,” looking around, there’s still some people milling about, an old man dutifully listening to the radio. “Not here.”

“Do you promise?”

Akechi scoffs and moves around her. “Would you like to pinky swear?”

“Akechi.”

“Fine, yes, I promise. Are you really such a goody two shoes that you need a damn contract?”

Sumire frowns. “Goody two shoes?”

“As straight laced as the student council president herself,” he confirms, pulling out his commuter's card as they near the station. “At least Niijima broke out of it once she realized what she was fighting for,” he looks back at her. “Have you?”

Clenching a fist, she says, “You have no idea what I’m fighting for. And I’m still not sure if you know what you’re fighting for, Akechi.”

His gaze hardens. “I know damn well what I’m fighting for. Not everyone has philanthropy running through their veins. That’s Kurusu’s job.”

A crowd of people exit their trains, filling up the station. By the time it dissipates, Akechi is gone.

—

YS: shouldn’t we try to approach Sakamoto-senpai first? YS: i’m sure kurusu-senpai doesn’t play favorites, but he IS his best friend, and, well, in love with him. it would be smart to guarantee that he’s on our side AG: True. Whether we like it or not, that jester is an important factor to the success of the mission. AG: But that’s why I think we should save him for last. It’s better to guarantee everyone first and then Sakamoto as a last resort. YS: (´;︵;`) AG: ...What. YS: that’s rude to sakamoto-senpai. he’s really nice! AG: No, I mean what is...that? YS: an emoji? i love them, they’re very expressive. AG: Stop that. YS: .·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·.

Instead of taking the train right away, Sumire decides to take a look at the inner workings of Yongen.

It’s a lovely little area—away from the insatiable hustle of Shibuya but close enough in case you want to indulge yourself in shopping and the never ending waves of shoppers. Yongen is like it’s younger, humbler cousin; small groceries, a quiet movie theatre, batting cages, and of course, a quaint cafe with a dedicated fan base of elderly couples, pretentious film critics, and a large group of teenagers.

She goes to none of these commodities, finding herself drawn to the second-hand shop run by a kind old man. An expensive habit it may be, but Sumire has always fallen back to shopping whenever she’s feeling frustrated at the world. She may not have a closet worthy of Vague, but it’s an enjoyable distraction at the very least.

And after that conversation with Akechi, she’ll take any distraction she can get.

Sumire takes a deep inhale. It would be laughably easy to let herself snap on the detective, with the stunt he pulled earlier. This mission is difficult enough as it is, especially without the mind games. It’s like playing tug-of-war with a brick wall; she’s lost the game before she even began. No, she refuses to lose. If there’s one thing she’s learned in gymnastics (except how to execute a flawless aerial cartwheel) is that half the competition is the mindset you have walking on to the mat. If you take a step with the slightest belief that you’re going to fail, the medal was doomed to fall in someone else’s hands.

Sumire begins to shop even harder.

She’s in the middle of inspecting a strangely charming glasses case that her father would absolutely love when she hears a surprised, “Yoshizawa?”

Nearly dropping the case, she turns to find a sweaty, grinning Ryuji, hand gripping one of his earphones that she can hear even from here. “Sakamoto-senpai!” Carefully placing it back down, she heads towards him, waving. “Do you run in this area?”

“Heck yeah! Life hack:” he looks around like someone who’s about to spill the beans on nuclear codes. “If you look tired enough, Boss’ll give you free drinks.” Sumire can’t help but laugh, and he goes on. “And y’know, I see ‘Kira here all the time, so that’s always a plus.

She fights not to let the smile drop from her face. “That must be nice.”

“Eh, it ain’t half-bad,” he says ruefully, but there was no hiding the clear fondness his voice possesses. “Hey, you got something goin’ on right now?”

“Um, not particularly.”

“Eff yeah! How about you and I walk around? There’s a real nice park down the street and, uh,” his expression turns sheepish. “In all honesty, you look like you could use a bit of a breather right now.”

Three things run through Sumire’s mind in the span of a breath: Ryuji’s definitely one of the nicest senpais she’s ever had, Akechi would probably warn her that hanging out with Ryuji might be stupid on her part, and that’s a huge part as to why she’s most definitely going to agree to spend time with him.

“I’d love to, as long as I’m not interrupting your workout in any way.”

“Nah, I’m on my cool down anyway.” Yanking out his other earphone and shoving them in his track pants (trademark Shujin red and white). “Let’s get this show on the road!”

“Yes, let’s!”

A fourth thought ran through her mind; a quiet, subdued, selfish thought that she herself is too wary to consciously think about. Her goal right now is an honest one. She just wants a window—the same window that Akira had looked out from. What does he see? What’s going through his mind when he sees Ryuji? All she wants is a little bit of perspective.

“What were you listening to?” Sumire asks. “During your run.”

“Oh, nothing crazy,” Ryuji shrugs. “Just some political podcasts.”

“Really?” She always assumed he listened more to punk songs that hurt her ears.

“Yeah, I mean there’s a lot of shit going on in the world, and there ain’t much I can do ‘bout it. I might as well get pissed off in, like, a smart way, so I know what I’m talking about.”

“That’s really impressive! I usually don’t listen to anything while I run since I have to actively focus on my form.”

Ryuji’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “You run? I mean, yeah, no duh you run, you’re like all gymnasticsy and stuff! And you don’t listen to music?”

“Not really.”

“That’s hardcore. That’s like what monks do on the mountains.”

“Oh, I’m nowhere near that level.”

“You’re closer than I am, at least. You need crazy good concentration when you do your…” Ryuji does a messy hop-and-spin move. “How long you been doing that by the way?”

“Gymnastics? Since I was really young.”

“No way. You gotta tell me about it!”

The two of them walk around the park with Sumire explaining her journey of experiencing the competitive world of gymnastics (carefully exempting the darker parts) and Ryuji oohs and ahhs at the appropriate times, eagerly asking her technical questions on her regimen with a crazy amount of detail. It’s clear that he’s passionate about athleticism and Sumire can’t help but be infected by his genuine enthusiasm, asking him for tips on how to avoid cramps while running long distance in return.

But one thing that Sumire can’t help but notice is how permanent Akira’s presence is in their conversation, despite not being here physically. Whether it’s Ryuji mentioning him in passing, or rolling his eyes at something he did, or just asking in a teasing tone if Akira’s actually a good senpai (“c’mon, he ain’t here, I’m no snitch I promise!”). Despite all that, it’s obvious it’s all done with a bucketful of tenderness; a clear and unbreaking thread that ties the two together that no blade in the world can cut apart.

And that’s the moment that Sumire realizes, only for a split second, she got what she wanted: perspective.

While she herself may not harbor those feelings, it’s easy to see how someone could—especially if they were a transfer student who had distressing rumors surrounding them since day one. Sumire can understand the impact that one person may have on you when it feels like you’re fighting all of Shibuya. She can comprehend the need to fight for that person’s happiness—after all, isn’t that what she’s doing?

A realization jolts her as she watches Ryuji speak, eyes bright and hands moving animatedly, that he’s probably still under the rose-tinted lenses of Akira’s wish.

He drops her off the station with a wave once they’re done. Sumire’s left to deal with sifting through which parts of their conversation was either byproduct of the wish or which was the real Sakamoto Ryuji.

—

AG: There’s also the matter of finding their locations. Some of them aren’t as straight forward in their hangouts, while others are as predictable as playing poker with Sakamoto. AG: Knowing Kitagawa, he would be loitering around the museum in Ueno. It would be easy to ambush him there.

They find Yusuke gazing at the portrait of Sayuri in Ueno the next day.

It was an odd sight, seeing Sayuri out in the open again. Sumire only knew about its history through public knowledge—a once internationally renowned artist named Madarame had been stealing his students’ art and abusing them under his care. While Yusuke’s name had initially been anonymous, it was impossible to completely leave him incognito with how massive the case had been; the painting of Sayuri, once praised to high heaven and appreciated by people who had never even picked up a paintbrush, forever bastardized and tainted by the greed of Madarame.

And now it’s on display once more.

“Let’s get this over with,” Akechi says as they close the gap between them and Yusuke.

“Be nice,” she reminds him, and clears her throat. “Kitagawa-san?”

Yusuke slowly peels his eyes away from the painting and lights up once he processes who was speaking. “Yoshizawa, Akechi, hello. Have you come here to look at my mother’s painting as well?”

“Yes,” says Sumire. “It’s truly beautiful and...a shock to see.”

He nods, his vision trailing back towards the portrait. “It’s all thanks to my sensei’s unyielding patronage that I’m lucky enough to view it from a museum,” Yusuke speaks with warmth, a tone contradicting the bluntness that Yoshizawa had associated him with. “Everyday I thank the hand of fate that dealt my cards; had I not had my sensei supporting me, I don’t know where I’d be today.”

Sumire swallows. “Do you mean Madarame?”

“Of course!” Yusuke claps his hands together, elated. “Speaking of, would you two like to join us for dinner tonight? I’d so dearly love for you both to meet him,” Yusuke smiles and she feels her chest tighten. “To spread the word of my sensei’s excellence as a thank you for what he’s done for my mother...nothing would make me happier.”

You don’t know them like I do. You don’t know how much it means for them to have their lives back.

Akira’s voice enters her mind, and she almost sympathizes with his words. Mostly though, all she can think about is the cruelty of letting Yusuke continue on like this.

“Kitagawa,” Akechi cuts in, unfazed. “Is that Sayuri you were looking at?”

Yusuke’s brow creases. “Sayuri...? That isn’t what it’s called….”

“Is Madarame-san a good sensei?” Sumire presses, and holds back a flinch when his resolve begins to crumble in front of her.

“Madarame,” he whispers. “Am I being fooled again?”

“Only if you let yourself be,” says Sumire.

“So focus,” says Akechi.

They wait with bated breath as they watch Yusuke struggle to reign in the whirlwind of thoughts flying through his brain, clenching his fists and shoulders tensing.

And then, slowly, he raises his head at them, defeated.

“Excuse me, but I must be going.”

Sumire winces, and stretches her hand out. “Kitagawa—” But he was already gone.

Beside her, Akechi lets out a hiss. “Useless. They’re all useless.”

“We still have four to go,” she reminds him. “And please try to understand his pain. He lost his mother and he has to find out that he was being used. That’s horrible.”

“Oh, boohoo. So did I, but you don’t see me having a breakdown in the middle of a museum.”

Her eyes widen and Akechi scoffs. “Save me the pity bullshit, we don’t have time for that. Besides,” he heads for the exit. “That hasn’t bothered me in a long, long time.”

—

YS: oh, i know where one of them may be! Takamaki-senpai frequents the underground mall, and i bet we can find her there :) AG: Understood. AG: (*❛‿❛)→ YS: sorry? AG: What? You were correct in that they’re useful for conveying expressions. AG: The arrow indicates that it’s pointing. I.e. you have a point that Takamaki is probably there. YS: ooh! I never thought about it like that. nice one!

Sumire didn’t know how she didn’t realize it sooner.

Rumors are a staple of Shujin Academy; if you weren’t the focus of one, you’d be the one spreading it—the gust of wind amidst a wildfire. In her first year, there were really only three hotspots in the rumour mill that were constantly being shoved in Sumire’s ears: the vulgar used-to-be ace of the track team who’s now a violent delinquent, the serial killer/arsonist/elephant trafficker criminal transfer student that came in early April, and the gorgeous foreigner that no one can take their eyes off, least of all the coach of the volleyball team.

Sumire isn’t a stranger to the cycle, having been the focus of one ever since she was made an honors student. While it had made her life unnecessarily difficult, it granted her a different outlook on those three. It has shown her an obvious truth that people seem to forget when they’re parroting false facts: most rumors aren’t true.

The delinquent isn’t actually a delinquent, but someone who refuses to stay quiet in the name of injustice. The transfer student is only a criminal in the eyes of the law, someone who had the opportunity to save someone and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, no matter the cost. The foreign student is just a girl who’s unfortunate enough to end up in the spotlight of an irredeemable scumbag of a teacher that never hesitated to hold his power over students.

But.

There was another rumor that followed Ann, one that didn’t get displayed on a billboard and screamed from the rooftops. It was passed around quietly, like a drug deal, and it was buried beneath the Kamoshida hearsay.

Most rumors aren’t true, but seeing Ann and Shiho interact with each other in the mall, Sumire didn’t know how she didn’t realize sooner that they’re head-over-heels in love with each other.

“Ugh, Shiho, I seriously can’t stop thinking about that spike you did in the last game!” Ann gushes as they shop for shoes. “It’s just like bam! Like some kind of cannon! I’m so glad it was taped.”

“Stop, you’re overreacting,” Shiho rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling wide enough that it wipes away any heat.

“No way, I’m gonna keep yelling about how incredible my girlfriend is until—Oh, hold on Shiho—Hey! Akechi! Yoshizawa! Over here!”

Ann enthusiastically waves them over. “Fancy seeing you two here. Doing some New Year’s shopping? Shiho and I are just celebrating the fact that she was the MVP in her last volleyball tournament,” she puffs out her chest. “But it really stinks that I couldn’t be there to watch in person with her, with her school being so far and all. She’s coming back this year, though! I’m so excited!”

Sumire nods, smiling, and tries not to stare at Shiho. Everyone’s seen a glimpse of what Shiho looked like after that day. No one thought that she’d be walking at all anytime soon, and even after intensive therapy it would be difficult to bring it back a hundred percent. But here she is now, speaking casually about playing in a volleyball tournament like she was born to do it.

“Oh my God, Ann, they don’t need to know that.” Shiho turns to Akechi, sheepish. “Sorry you hear all that, especially when I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Suzui Shiho. It’s good to meet you, detective.”

“Pleasure,” he replies, smiling politely. “It seems to me that you’re looking much better, Suzui-san.”

Sumire should really stop being surprised at the complete lack of reservation that Akechi possesses when it comes to reminding people of the true reality, no matter how heart-wrenching their past is.

“I’ve always been fine,” says Suzui, the comment flying over her head. “I hope you’re doing well, too.”

Akechi’s eye twitches and Sumire hurries to jump in. “It seems the two of you are happy,” she glances at Ann, and tries not to feel too bad when she says, “Especially considering what happened with Kamoshida.”

A beat passes before Ann’s gaze begins to cloud over with a now-familiar expression of disorientation and pain. Holding her breath, hoped that they could finally have their first ally amongst the Thieves.

Then Ann shakes her head aggressively and they knew it was a lost cause.

Chuckling nervously, Ann grabs Shiho’s hand. “Sorry, I just remembered we had plans to go somewhere. See you later!” Ann begins to drag Shiho—and herself—away.

Akechi clicks his tongue. “Four people in a group founded on justice and they’ve chosen to ignore their own. This is getting pathetic.”

“We still have three to go,” Sumire says. “There’s still time.”

Eyeing her with disdain, “How is that you don’t seem the least bit bothered about this?”

“There’s still three people to get to! And, not to mention, there’s a possibility that they’ll come to terms with their feelings in due time.” She tilts her head. “Have you forgotten the bonds that Kurusu-senpai has with his friends?”

“Of course not.”

“Then it’s fine,” she says. “We just have to believe that they’ll be there for him when he needs him most. Even if they aren’t here at this very moment, that’s okay.” Tucking one of her long, red locks behind her ear, she smiles. “Faith is an advantage in its own right.”

[thejollyroger-writer]

Mixed-Up Metaphors, Messed-Up Makeup

a/n: this is the post-revival Gilmore Girls AU that nobody asked me to write (except Devon), written specifically for her birthday. so, @shireness-says​, this is for you. happy birthday, friend. 

Summary: Rory is pregnant, lost, and looking for something deeper to tie her to Storybrooke. (surprise: it’s Jess Mariano)

Rated G // 7K // also on ao3

(Thanks to @hollyethecurious​ and @let-it-raines​ for helping me figure this out and giving me someone to chat with about writing it, since I obviously couldn’t go to Devon this time) 

WEEK TEN

Jess Mariano never asks anything of her. Some days, Rory can swear that he’s the only person who wants nothing from her. And it is simply for this reason that she invites him to sit with her in her office as many days as he’s allowed, after meeting him for breakfast at Luke’s. Because, unlike everyone else in Stars’ Hollow, Jess seems content sitting in the corner of her office, reading his next book or tapping away on his laptop, working on his own novel, or on something else. 

Sometimes, when she knows she is going to have a particularly boring day, she asks him to come with her. Usually, she does not, and it is just another unspoken agreement for him to show up a few hours after breakfast, toting a to-go bag and a cup of coffee.

Usually, they sit in almost-silence, one of them playing some music softly in the background, every once in a while asking a question about word choice or the order of a sentence, or Jess reading a sentence or a section from that day’s selection. 

And then, the morning sickness starts. Usually, she is able to control it before she leaves to meet him for breakfast, hoping that he doesn’t realize her change in appetite. 

(He does. He just doesn’t say anything.) 

It’s not like she doesn’t want to tell him. Hell, there is the slight possibility that the baby is his anyway, after one of the few nights they spent together when she came back to Stars’ Hollow, nights that they have wordlessly decided to completely ignore but that sometimes still happen when she finds herself in his arms late at night, sometimes even forgetting how she got there. 

She just… doesn’t know how to tell him. Because what if it’s not his, which is just as likely? It’s not like she needs anything from him, expects anything from him, even if it is his. Though, she knows deep down, that no matter what the case is, if she told him that she wanted him to be a part of this child’s life — which she does — he would do it. 

That’s part of the reason she lo —

She cares about him so much. 

These are the thoughts swirling through her already-chaotic mind when she feels her stomach begin to churn, a feeling that she can sometimes control. 

This does not seem to be one of those times. 

Jess, of course, notices the change in her almost immediately — the way she is breathing, the redness of her face, her straighter posture, the moments of fear that pass through her eyes when she fears she may not be able to control it. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, finally breaking the thick silence that has fallen around her. In her chest, her heart pounds wildly, hard enough for her to feel it in her stomach, and all she can do before pushing herself out of the office chair and crossing the room, hoping to at least make it into the bathroom, is shake her head, trying to combat the tears that always come with her failing gag reflex. 

Shit. 

“Do you want my help?” he calls, and though she did not hear the pounding of his boots against the fake hardwood, he sounds much closer to the cracked bathroom door than his usual perch. 

“No!” 

(Didn’t people always say that they loved being pregnant? How is that the case when she has been starting every morning by losing the contents of her stomach? When she has felt nauseous non-stop for the last eight weeks? She thought this was supposed to be fun.) 

Her bathroom stay is short-lived, at least. (On the bright side of getting sick all the time is her stomach’s — the baby’s — ability to pick and choose what it wants to keep and what it wants to get rid of, and this morning is only seems angry about the apple she ate on her way over here. 

Ironic.)

She gives herself another minute to calm down, to splash cold water on her hands and her face and try to get her heart rate back to a normal human’s number. She’s so overwhelmed by making herself feel better that she almost forgets that he’s waiting for her outside the door, silent and patient and — why does he have to be like that? 

Slowly — oh my god, so slowly — she opens the door to the bathroom, as if putting off the action will somehow stop the conversation she knows she is about to have. (Maybe if I spend enough time in the bathroom, he’ll just… leave, she tells herself, but even as she has the thought, she shakes her head with the ridiculousness of it.) 

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. She can’t even bring herself to look at him, putting all of her attention instead on her feet as they cross the worn-down floor back to her desk, left, right, left, right. 

And then… he still doesn’t say anything. He sits, silently, in his chair, and she can feel that his eyes never leave hers. But he says nothing, which manages to drive her absolutely insane, stuck with only her own thoughts and the pounding of her heart and that stupid rattling pipe in the corner, the cars on the street outside, the chattering of passerby, her blood rushing through her ears, that damn pipe — 

“I’m pregnant,” she says finally, the words practically exploding out of her. 

Silently, he nods, but she doesn’t miss the slight widening of his eyes, the gentle parting of his lips. 

She can swear that her heart actually stops beating. What if this is too much for him? What if I’ve just totally screwed up absolutely everything, and he’s going to pack up his things and leave, leave the office and leave Stars’ Hollow and never talk to me again— 

“Okay.” She almost doesn’t catch the word, barely more than a breath on his lips, but it is the brightness of his eyes that really catches her attention, suddenly, all at once. “Are you okay? What can I do to help?” 

She is useless against the way her jaw falls slack. “What?” 

He narrows his eyes at her, as if he doesn’t understand her confusion. 

“I mean, you’re sick, right? Is there anything I can do? Do you need some water, something to eat? Do you have a stash of Saltines somewhere?” 

She’s… 

Speechless. Shocked. In awe. Dumbstruck. Without words. 

Alright, so maybe with words. But certainly not the right ones. 

He’s… has he always been like this? Has he always cared so much? 

She knows the answer, though she also knows that she’s been trying to avoid the same knowledge for almost as long as she’s been back in Stars’ Hollow. Honestly, (though, really, she hates being honest with herself), it shouldn’t surprise her as much as it does, his heartwarming, caring demeanor, his immediate jump to help her, to be there for her. 

If there wasn’t a large wooden desk between them — if she even had the energy to jump up in the first place — she may have even found herself quickly crossing the room to kiss him. Maybe. 

For now, though, all she does is smile, reaching down to open the bottom drawer of her desk, where she pulls a water bottle and a pack of saltines from. 

He smiles back — warm, genuine, glad that she seems to be content at the moment. “Good,” he says, his attention moving back towards the book resting in his lap. “Let me know if you need my help.” 

It’s a loaded statement, and even as his eyes begin moving across the words on the page, Rory sits in her chair watching him, slowly eating a few saltines from the open pack. Does he know just how much that one question could mean? How many of those meanings did he actually mean? Is she overthinking this? 

Of course she’s overthinking this, and she knows that — and something about the shadow of a smirk that grows on his lips, his eyes still on the book as he turns the page, makes her pretty sure that he knows she’s overthinking it, too. 

WEEK 16

She’s been trying to ask Jess for help for two weeks now, since she decided this is something she wants to do. She just… doesn’t know how. Will he even want to do it? Will he be mad at her because she wants to do it? 

What will her mother think?

What will Logan think?

She’s taken to spending most nights with Jess in the apartment above Luke’s instead of back in her old bedroom, constantly under the watchful eyes of both Lorelai and Luke. Jess asking her if she’s eaten today is caring, done in a much less agitated tone, while all she gets at home is nagging and food shoved in her direction. 

“It’s almost as if your mother has forgotten what it’s like to be pregnant,” Jess tells her very helpfully one night after she came to the apartment with her laptop, her pajamas, and a brown paper bag full of vegetables that she knows her mother never ate while pregnant. 

“Well, I need her to remember,” Rory had huffed, falling backwards onto the couch, her hands on her stomach — a poise she’s found herself in more often lately, with the small human growing inside her just starting to make itself more obvious. 

At the moment, Jess has settled in at his spot at the counter, tossing together some sort of chicken stir-fry with ingredients that he found in the back of his freezer and the pantry. Rory never would have guessed just how much he liked to cook, especially wouldn’t have assumed that he’s so good at it — but she supposes it’s also something she’s never been able to take for granted, since everyone knows Lorelai is certainly no master chef. 

Can you help me with something? The words are on the tip of her tongue, begging to be released as she watches him expertly cut the chicken breasts into strips, a few strands of his now-longer hair falling away from his forehead. 

(She’s not sure how she feels about his hair, though she does appreciate the fact that he looks older, unsure of whether it’s because of the hair or the stubble or just his overall older-feeling aura. She hasn’t mentioned anything to him — it’s certainly not her place, as his… 

What are they, anyway? On the nights when her loneliness has been the strongest, she’s spent the night sharing his bed with him, not complaining when he rolled towards her in the middle of the night, wrapped his arm around her stomach, his breath on her back. But they haven’t discussed it, Rory not even sure that she wants to. Would it ruin the content feeling that washes over her when she walks into the apartment, when he smiles at her from across the room, when she secretly wakes when he does, much earlier than she needs to in order to help open the restaurant, and feels the hitching of his breath when he realizes that he has once again unconsciously wrapped himself around her?) 

“It’s hard to concentrate when you’re staring a hole through my head,” he says finally, not even raising his eyes from the cutting board as he breaks the almost-silence of the apartment. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, but he just smiles. 

“Obviously you’re thinking about something.” 

It’s not a question, she can tell that much. He’s not really asking her to divulge whatever she is obviously thinking about, but she takes it as an invitation nonetheless. 

“I think I need to tell Logan.” 

This makes him stop working, set the knife down on the cutting board, turn his eyes up to meet hers. “Yeah?” 

She just nods. 

“If that’s what you want to do, I’m not going to talk you out of it.” 

“He’s going to want to know if it’s his.” 

Just as the words pass through her lips, she realizes that this very subject is something they haven’t discussed yet. Jess takes a deep breath, stepping away from the counter. For a moment, Rory fears the worst, that he is going to leave her with her spiraling thoughts — but instead he washes his hands in the sink before walking to her, reaching out to take her hands. His are cold, a side effect from the chicken that the hot water didn’t manage to wash away entirely, but Rory doesn’t really care — just the feel of them in hers warms her from the inside out. 

“He has a right to know that,” he says, trying not to let his own disappointment reach his face, Rory can tell somehow. 

“Do you want to know?” The question falls from her lips without her permission, but once it’s out, she almost feels a sense of relief. 

He squeezes her hands. “For me, knowing changes nothing. I’m here for you, for this one, for as long as you’ll let me, but the genetic makeup means nothing in relation to how I feel about you. You have to know that.” 

“He’s going to make me find out.” 

Now, it’s not affection that passes across Jess’ face, but something much darker. “Rory, he can’t make you do anything. If his desire to have anything to do with this kid’s life is dependent upon a genetic test and not—” 

“I kind of want to know, though,” she admits to someone beside herself for the first time. 

Jess nods. “If that’s what you want, then I’m not going to stop you. Make the appointment, I’ll go with you.” 

WEEK 20

“Now what do we do?” Rory asks, holding the paper loosely between her fingers. 

“It’s up to you, you know that,” he says, his voice as gentle as the hand placed on her lower back. She knows that he said he won’t be upset either way, knows that it doesn’t change the way he feels, but she can tell that he’s at least a little let down. 

“We decided that if it confirmed Logan was the father, I would tell him.” 

“It’s your decision, Rory,” he says, his voice soft, caring — more than he has the right to be. “Seeing the results of the test don’t change the fact that it’s still completely up to you.” 

I love you, she almost says. The words tickle the tip of her tongue, which she quickly clamps between her teeth, almost hard enough to draw blood. It’s not the first time she’s had the thought, but it is the closest she has come to actually speaking the words. 

It doesn’t help that they’re still avoiding the subject of what exactly they want from each other. Okay, maybe avoiding isn’t the right word, because Rory is pretty sure that he’s not doing it on purpose. What she thinks he’s doing instead is giving her space, time to think, not pushing her by asking what she can only hope spends as much time on his mind as it does on hers — but it’s also, simultaneously, driving her absolutely insane. He wants to be with her, he’s made that obvious enough more times than she can count — has been doing so for almost as long as she’s known him — but has always let her take the lead, always made sure that she was the first one to make the move. 

She just… doesn’t know how to do it. She does know that this moment specifically is not the time for it. 

“He still deserves to know.” 

Jess just nods. Takes half a step back from her, his hand still ghosting against her back, so light that she would forget it was there if not for the intense heat that he is always letting off. 

“Then let’s call him.” 

The words set a weight on her shoulders that she doesn’t know what to do with, make her back hurt a little more than it already has been, somehow. 

“I need—” she says, her breath suddenly much harder to catch than moments before. “I need to sit down,” she manages, maneuvering through the kitchen and into the living room before plopping herself down on the couch. 

“Do you want some water?” 

She just nods, hoping that he is paying enough attention to catch it. Either he does, or he just gets her a glass anyway, appearing beside her what feels like moments later with it in his hand.

I love you, she almost says again, but what really comes out of her mouth is, “I can’t do this.” 

“Of course you can,” he responds, resting his hand on her knee — again, gently, with more care than he needs to, and, again, somehow radiating heat, even with her own body heating with her inability to catch her breath.

“No. No. What if he— what if he refuses to stay out of it? What if he insists on coming here, on leaving his pretty little princess fiance and his high class life and moves to Stars Hollow just to spite me, just because he insists he deserves to be around when it’s very literally the very last thing I want?” 

“Rory, listen to what you’re saying. This is Logan we’re talking about, a man who never compromised anything for anyone—” 

“But he’s changed since you last—”

“Changed enough to leave behind everything he knows, his entire holier-than-thou world, to move to this shitty little town?” 

“Jess!” 

“I’m serious! When was the last time he has ever sacrificed anything for anyone, done something for anyone other than himself?” 

She takes a breath, coming slightly easier now, and releases it slowly. Then another. 

“He has no right to be here with you in the first place, Rory,” Jess says finally. “He wouldn’t change his plans for you in college and wouldn’t leave his fiance for you now. He may fight to see this kid every once in a while, to at least not be barred completely from its life, but in every other sense of the word, it’s ours, okay?” 

This is the first time he’s said that. Said anything even remotely like that. Every other time it’s been hers — her baby, her decision, her comfort. It may not be the words she’s been wanting to say, the questions that have been keeping her up at night, even when she’s wrapped in his arms, but it’s something. And even that feels huge. 

Nodding, she takes another breath and pulls her cell phone out of her back pocket. She places her other hand on top of his, still resting on her knee. “Let’s do this.” 

He answers on the second ring, moments after Rory realizes both that time zones are a thing and that she has absolutely no idea which one he’s in. 

“Rory?” He has the audacity to almost sound excited to hear from her. 

“Hey.” For a moment, it’s all she can muster, thinking about just hanging up instead of going through with the rest of it. Her fear must be painted across her face, because when she turns to Jess, he just ticks one side of his lips up in a smile, squeezing her knee gently. 

“Is everything okay?” Logan asks, at the same moment Rory manages, “How are you? Did I wake you up?” 

“No, no,” he says, “I’m in New York right now, weirdly enough, and I was--I’m gonna be honest with you, I was just thinking about you.” 

“Oh.” 

“Are you okay?” he says again, after a beat passes. 

“Well, no. I mean, yeah, but— listen, Logan, can you—can you just let me talk for a minute? Please?” 

“Uh, yeah. O-okay, sure.” 

She sighs, loudly, through her teeth, which she’s sure Logan heard on the other end of the line. She doesn’t really care. 

“I’m pregnant. Five months. There’s a chance that it wasn’t yours, that it— happened after I got home, but we did all the tests and stuff and it — well, it is, it’s yours, and I just felt like you had the right to know, even though I don’t want or expect or— whatever — anything from you. I’m staying here, with—” somehow, her brain makes the snap decision not to mention Jess. “In Stars Hollow, at home with my family where I’m comfortable, and you don’t — there’s nothing you have to do, I don’t even — you don’t even have to come meet it when it’s born, but I just thought that you should know.” 

Silence. Long, devastating, heart-pounding silence. 

When he finally speaks, it’s quiet, though Rory has the feeling that it’s to hide the words from someone around him and not because he’s been rendered speechless: “And you don’t… want to be with me?” 

“God, Logan, seriously?” She half-wishes he could see the way she rolls her eyes at his question. Maybe he can even hear it in her voice. Jess lets out a breathy laugh. “You’ve spent years not choosing me, not even believing that I could be your first choice, you’ve hurt me more times than I could count, have chosen yourself and others over me since we were young, and you think this is suddenly going to erase all of that? Finally, I’m doing something that makes me happy, doing something for myself, I’m with someone who accepts my decisions and wants what’s best for me, for the baby, and not for himself — do you even know how to do that?” 

Silence. Again. 

“You’re with somebody else?” 

She sighs. That’s the part he’s caught up on? She wants to be surprised. But she can’t. “Yes.” 

“If you hadn’t done the tests, hadn’t decided to figure out if it was —  would you still have called me?” 

“No.” 

Silence. 

“How did you expect me to respond?” 

“I told you, Logan, I’ve learned not to expect anything from you. We just felt like you had the right to know.” 

“Mm-hmm,” he hums, enough anger behind the sound that Rory can feel it in her bloodstream. “And who is we? Do I have the right to know who will be raising my child?” 

She expected a few things from this phone call. She expected to be overwhelmed. She expected Logan to ask her a few questions. She even half-expected to get upset with him. But what she didn’t expect was anger. 

“You know what? No, I really don’t have to tell you that, do I? I really don’t have to tell you anything, actually. I’ll make sure someone contacts you when it’s born, because you have the right to know that, I guess, but until then? Goodbye, Logan.” 

It’s one of those moments that she wishes phones still had the ability to slam, because angrily pressing the little red “end call” button doesn’t adequately portray just how angry she is at him. Tossing the phone onto the couch next to her makes her feel a little better, though not quite enough. 

“See,” Jess says after a moment, taking his hand off her knee just to wrap his arm around her shoulder. “I knew you had it in you.” 

It’s as if the phone call has awakened some sense of fearlessness in her, and between the adrenaline rush and her new-found freedom, she feels unstoppable: 

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” 

Watching the collection of expressions that pass across his face manages to pull a smile to Rory’s face. 

The stuttering that follows, even moreso. 

“I just — I wanted you — to make sure — I didn’t want—” 

“Jess,” she says, turning her shoulders to face him more head-on, and his words stop when she places her hand against his cheek. “Please, just stop talking.” 

First, he smiles, stretching the arm he has laying across her shoulder to run his thumb across her cheek. And then, finally, he does it. Softly, sweetly, gently — everything he has proven himself to be over the past few months. Everything Rory needed him to be. Everything. 

WEEK 21

“So, I, uh, talked to Logan a few days ago,” Rory says, stirring the sugar into the cup of (decaf) coffee sitting on the table in front of her. 

Lorelai almost loses the sip that is in her mouth, covering her face with the back of her hand, eyes wide. “Rory! You can’t just drop a line like that on someone with a mouth full of coffee.” 

Rory lets out her own laugh, taking another bite from her plate of chocolate chip pancakes. “Sorry! But look, I— I just thought you should know. Man, what was the last thing I updated you on? Did I tell you that we decided to do the paternity test?” 

“Uh, no!” she says, her eyes growing wider still. “How did you not tell me this?”

She shrugs. “I mean, I probably decided to wait until we got the results to tell you, I guess, so now—”

“Wait, wait, let me guess,” she says, holding her hand up between them. Rory rolls her eyes, but gestures for her mother to continue. “If you had to call Logan, then I’m assuming that means Jess is not the father.”

Rory sighs, and, taking another bite of her pancakes, nods. “Bingo.” 

“And how does Jess feel about all of this?” 

Heat rushes to her cheeks, but even that doesn’t stop the smile from forming on her lips. 

Her suddenly-trembling lips. 

“He says it doesn’t change anything,” she says, trying to swallow the lump that’s risen up her throat. “That he still, you know, wants to be with me, wants to help raise the baby, but, I mean, it had to have at least brought his spirits down a little.” 

“It’s a true sign of his feelings, though,” she says, as if it’s not something Rory’s been obsessing over since… 

Since when? Since they got the test results in the mail? 

Since they decided to get the test done in the first place? 

Since she told him she was pregnant in the first place? 

She knows that all of these are wrong, though. She knows that she has been obsessing over Jess’ feelings since the first time she saw him when she came back to Stars’ Hollow. 

“Can we change the subject? Please?” she asks, just in time to hear the door at the back of the restaurant open. By now, it’s a sound that she would know anywhere, followed by the knowing pound of Jess’ boots against the hardwood floors. 

“Your grandmother wants to throw you a baby shower,” Lorelai says, trying her best to ignore the way Rory’s eyes follow Jess through the restaurant, but the way she smiles as he approaches the table, as he presses his lips against her forehead, still pulls a smile to her face. 

“Did you hear that, Jess?” Rory asks. “Mrs. Emily Gilmore is going to throw us a baby shower.” 

“When?” 

Lorelai finds herself surprised by his lack of a sarcastic comment — though, she supposes, maybe he has grown up a bit. 

“That’s what we were about to figure out, actually.” 

“Well, she wants to have it on a Sunday, she says it’s more proper that way.”

“Is she going to let us be in charge of the guest list, or is she going to want to invite her friends?” 

“She seemed to sound like she wanted you to make all the decisions, maybe let her feel like she’s in charge of a few things, and she’ll foot the bill.” 

“Good ol’ Emily Gilmore,” Rory mumbles, taking a sip of her coffee. “But yeah, that sounds — I can do that, I’ll give her a call later.” 

 Between Emily’s other proper Sunday events and the few that Jess has to spend in video calls with the publishing company — the agreement he was able to bring them to after the weekends on the road became too much for him (for Rory, really) — they decide on a Sunday two months down the road, Emily being surprisingly lenient with Rory’s wanting to have it at the Dragonfly Inn, and to have it catered by Sookie. 

(“Whatever you want, dear, it’s your baby shower,” she kept saying, though Rory could almost hear the passive-aggressive smile that she knows was spread across her face.) 

WEEK 24

“Would it be weird if I read to him?” Jess asks one night, Rory’s head in his lap as they both type away on their laptops, Jess’ current favorite indie British band softly playing from the speakers of his. 

Instead of answering the question, Rory asks one of her own: “What makes you so sure it’s a him?” 

He shrugs, pausing his work to place his hand on Rory’s ever-growing stomach. “I just have a feeling, you know?” he says, spreading his fingers wide. 

Rory can’t help but smile. 

“I mean, I don’t think it would be weird at all. I’m pretty sure that’s even one of those things that — I don’t know — that you’re supposed to do?” 

“But, I’m talking about, like, Ginsberg. Plath. Frost. Short stories from the New Yorker. Atwood.”

“You can’t just read, you know, normal baby things, huh?”

“All we’re going to be able to do once they understand what we’re reading is read nursery rhymes and Dr. Seuss. Let me enjoy something exciting while I still have the time.” 

“What, you’re not a big fan of Fox in Socks? What about Guess How Much I Love You? The Very Hungry Caterpillar?”

“Rory, come on, I’m serious.” 

“Yeah, me, too!”

For a moment, they just stare at each other. I love you, she thinks again, less surprising every time she tastes the words on the tip of her tongue, but she’s still biting them back. Jess has let her take the lead for everything else, she wants to give him this one. Instead, she decides on, “Oh, my god, you’re impossible.” He smiles first, though, and she is quick to return it. “But fine, yes, okay. If the thing you want the most is to start introducing this baby to American beat poets early, then I suppose I won’t stop you.” 

They start with Frost — “He still rhymes, you know,” Rory teases him as he pages through his worn copy of Mountain Interval to find what he’s looking for — but Jess has only made it through the first few lines of “Birches” before Rory finds herself nodding off, both exhausted and lulled by Jess’ reading voice: 

“When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy's been swinging them.

But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.”

But even with Rory’s eyes closing, with her quickly approaching unconsciousness, he doesn’t stop. He even goes back to his work for a while after the second poem, letting her sleep soundly next to him on the couch until he finds himself unable to keep his eyes open, and he rouses her only to move her to the bed. 

 After a week of Frost, next comes is Plath: “The Moon and the Yew Tree,” “Letter in November,” “The Munich Mannequins.” Unlike Frost, though, Plath does not put Rory to sleep. 

 For a few days, he reads pieces of a story from the New Yorker called “The Largesse of the Sea Maiden” — a piece that he was, ironically, supposed to write a review for but hadn’t yet found the time to focus on enough. Rory doesn’t particularly like it, but she does feel the little person inside her more often when Jess reads, though it’s not to a point where he can feel it yet, even with his and pressed against the taut skin of her stomach. 

 And then, finally, Rory lets him start Ginsberg. “A Supermarket in California” — “What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.” Somehow, it just works so beautifully with his voice, really makes her feel Ginsberg in a way she never had before. In a way she never really needed to, honestly, but one that she certainly isn’t upset about. 

“Cia Dope Calypso”: “In nineteen hundred forty-nine / China was won by Mao Tse-tung / Chiang Kai Shek's army ran away. / They were waiting there in Thailand yesterday. Supported by the CIA. Pushing junk down Thailand way.” 

“Cosmopolitan Greetings” — Rory’s favorite, if she ever needed to have one — “Stand up against governments, against God. Stay irresponsible. Say only what we know & imagine. Absolutes are Coercion. Change is absolute.” 

It’s a week before she lets him break out Howl — and she doesn’t tell him right away, but she can already feel the baby ready itself for their almost-nightly poetry slam, as if they already know what is about to happen. She made him agree that they would split Howl into three nights, three sections, the way it is supposed to be, but that doesn’t stop the hypnosis that takes over as soon as he cracks the book open. 

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, / dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, / angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, / who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,” he says, his voice picking up every syllable as if he wrote the words himself, and Rory is caught. 

There’s no going back now, either with Ginsberg or with Jess. 

“... who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull…”

“... who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo…”

“... who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago…” 

“... who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology…” 

“... who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles…” 

And then, it happened. 

One kick. Jess isn’t even sure that’s what he felt. 

“... who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove cross country seventy two hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,…” 

Another. Okay, he’s more sure now. Especially as it happens again.

“... who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes—” 

“I don’t know, Jess,” Rory says, stopping him from continuing, and though he isn’t sure why she stopped, he’s very sure that what he’s now feeling is the movement of the baby. “I think maybe they like Ginsberg as much as you do.” 

But his mind just keeps going back to that last line he read. Instead of responding, he reads it again: “who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,” — and, yes, the baby kicks again. 

An almost-violent movement, pushing some of the skin of Rory’s stomach around with the movement, but she doesn’t seem to care, her attention focused solely on the smile that continues to spread wider across his face. 

“Not only that,” he says, setting the book spine-up on the arm of the couch so he can run the fingers of his other hand through Rory’s hair, not daring to move his hand from the spot that the baby seems to be targeting, “But I think they may have just chosen their name, too.” 

“What? Allen? Certainly not Ginsberg, that’s how you destin a child for a life of torture—” 

“No, no, none of those,” he says, shaking his head. “Besides, I may have a feeling that it’s a boy, but that doesn’t mean the name choice needs to be so certain.” 

“Jess, just tell me what you’re thinking.” 

“Denver.” 

Surprisingly — really, he certainly didn’t expect it to happen again — he feels the push against his hand, the movement of the baby just as he says it. 

“Denver,” she repeats — and they do it again. 

She smiles. “Do you need to finish reading the poem, or can you just kiss me now?” 

WEEK 30 

“So, Rory, can you tell us about Denver?” She’s actually a little surprised that the question comes from Miss Patty and not from the prying mind of Emily Gilmore. “How did you guys come up with the name?” 

Of course, she had the thought a moment too soon, and this is when her grandmother decided to speak up: “How they picked a name without even knowing the gender is beyond me.” 

“Mom,” Lorelai says, turning towards Emily with her eyes wide. 

Jess rolls his eyes, doesn’t even try to hide it from the other guests at the shower. 

Lane laughs from her seat on the other side of Rory. 

“It’s from a poem,” Rory says, trying to ignore everything else going on around her, her hand on Jess’ knee. 

“Now there’s a surprise.” This time, it’s Paris with the sarcastic comment. 

“A famous poem?” Liz asks from across the room, where Jess was sure that she wasn’t actually paying attention, sitting on her cell phone. He’s surprised, but thankful that she actually seems to care. 

“Depends on who you ask,” Jess says truthfully. 

“You guys can’t just pick a normal name from a normal poem, can you?” Paris asks — and this time, Rory rolls her eyes. 

“Why, what’s the poem?” Luke asks, his patience cut short by the collection of women (plus Christopher, who everyone knows is far from his favorite person) around him. 

“It’s called Howl,” Jess answers. 

Paris scoffs. 

Jess rolls his eyes. 

“Seriously, Gilmore?” Paris asks, completely ignoring Jess’ pointed glare. 

“What?” Emily and Rory ask at the same time, but in very different tones. “Is there something wrong with that poem?” Emily asks, already judging Jess before she’s even given the answer. 

“No,” Rory and Jess say together. 

Paris rolls her eyes. “I wish I was surprised.” 

“Lorelai,” Emily scoffs, turning to her daughter as if there is something she can do in this situation. 

“What? What could I possibly do that would make you happy about this? They’ve already picked out the name.” 

“It’s just not the most appropriate for children, that’s all,” Paris adds, possibly seeing that argument that she almost started. 

“What, you expect me to start reading nursery rhymes before the kid can even understand what I’m saying? I would think you would be smart enough to know that’s wrong, Gellar.” 

“Maybe I’ll just start calling you Ginsberg.” 

“What does that mean?” Emily asks, either trying and failing to whisper to Lorelai, or knowing exactly how loud her voice is.

“It’s the poet, grandma,” Rory answers. 

"Maybe you should just read us the poem, honey," Liz suggests, rather unhelpfully. 

"Good idea," Like agrees. 

"That's a terrible idea," Paris (unhelpfully) argues. 

"Well, is it long?" Michel finally speaks up, simply enjoying the banter from the sidelines to this point. 

"It's published as a novel," Rory tells them all. 

Jess, of course, has to argue for Ginsberg. "Yeah, but not, like, a full-length novel." 

"That doesn't mean you need to read it at the baby shower," Lane agrees. 

"You're naming your child after this poem, the least you could do is share it with us," Emily argues.

And that's how Jess wound up reading all of Part One of Howl at the baby shower. 

When he's done, no one speaks for a moment. 

Emily is, of course, the first to speak. "Well, that was awful." 

"Mom!" "Grandma!" 

"I mean, she's not wrong," Luke — unhelpfully — agrees. 

"For once, I agree with the man," Michel — unhelpfully — adds. 

Thankfully (Rory supposes), that's the most chaotic part of the shower. 

 As people start leaving, Luke pulls Jess aside away from the crowd, stopping from loading the new gifts into the trucks parked by the side door to the Inn. 

"What are you doing?" He seems angry, which confuses Jess. 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Why haven't you asked her to move in with you yet?"

Jess is, to say the least, a little flabbergasted. "Is that what you want?" 

"Come on, Jess, you know this isn't about me. It's about you, it's about her, and it's about this baby." 

"I mean, she hasn't said anything about it." 

"Listen, I know you're letting her take the lead on everything, but sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith." 

Jess runs his hand through his hair — a little shorter than it's been recently, at Rory's request. He's only gotten compliments about it in the two weeks since it's happened, though, so he's assuming Rory isn't the only one who prefers it this way.

She's the only one that matters, though. She always has been. 

"What if she doesn't want to? If she thinks it's too much?" He almost doesn't ask the question — because it really is the main reason he hasn't asked her yet, despite all the times he's wanted to. The fear of denial. 

Luke almost laughs. "Then she'll continue to spend every night with you above the restaurant while still refusing to believe that she's not really living with us anymore." 

Jess contemplates this for a moment, silent. It's not that he doesn't want her to move in, doesn't want to raise the baby together, hopefully affording something more exciting than the apartment over the restaurant in the near future. 

Is it really what's best for the baby? 

"It would be easier to take everything there now than to have to move it all later," Luke comments, then slides his hat back over his slowly-greying hair. "I'll just leave you with that thought." 

But there's nothing more for Jess to think about, looking across the room to where Rory is standing between her mother and Paris, a smile spread over her face and her hands over her growing stomach. 

In just a few large strides, he crosses the room, pausing for a moment to let Sookie snap a picture of them with Lorelai's cell phone. "Rory, can I ask you something?" he asks, gesturing for her to walk with him. 

Smiling, she nods. "Of course. What's up?" 

He just goes for it. Rips off the band-aid in one fell swoop, or something like that. 

"I think it would be easier if we just took all of Denver's stuff to the apartment." 

"But there's more room for it at the house." She doesn't pick up on what he's trying to say. (He's not really surprised.) 

"We can make room for it." 

"But why?" 

"It would be much easier to just have everything in one place, don't you think?" 

"Some of my stuff is at the house, though." 

"Then we move what you need to the apartment, too." 

Finally — finally — she seems to understand, a huge smile spread across her face once the realization gets to her. 

"Yeah, okay," she says cooly, trying to hold herself together.

[iceeckos12]

dont spare the horses

Summary: Jon and Martin get domestic. The next logical step is to adopt some cattle.

did i write jonmartin fluff of post-159? I did! spoilers for 159 and everything that happens after. canon divergence after 160. warnings for attempted selfharm.

title is taken from ‘home’ by bruno major.

“How much work is it,” Martin wonders, “To take care of cattle?”

Jon lowers the book he’s reading so he can study Martin’s face. Jon is sitting on one end of the couch, and Martin is leaning against the arm, his feet propped up on Jon’s lap. Jon knows and he Knows what Martin’s face looks like, but it doesn’t hurt to study it again, just in case he’s missed any important details. Like the freckle under Martin’s right eye.

Then Jon remembers that he’s just been asked a question, and his partner is probably expecting for him to take advantage of the remnants of his Beholding powers to answer. Jon closes his eyes and reaches for the embers of it, slowly smoldering away in his soul. It gets harder and harder to find it each time. He thinks that it’s a good thing.

(Sometimes he misses the constant flow of information, the high of all the knowledge in the world at his fingertips.)

He sifts for a couple of seconds through useless information—the Highland cattle breed is the oldest registered breed in the world, happy cows make more milk—before finding what he’s looking for. He sighs and looks up into Martin’s expectant, cow-brown eyes and says, “They’re relatively low maintenance, apparently. I think they require a bit more space than we currently own, though.”

Martin hums and lowers his head to his laptop, apparently satisfied with that answer. Jon watches him for another second, before leaning back into the couch and finding where he’d left off on the page.

It’s not long before Martin speaks again. “How much do you think this safehouse would fetch?”

Jon doesn’t have to be an avatar of omniscience to know where this conversation is going, and how it will end. He would be happy to live out the rest of his days in quiet contentment in their cozy little safehouse, reading his books while Martin publishes award-winning poetry (he feels a little bit like a trophy wife, if he’s being honest. He finds that he doesn’t mind it in the slightest). But if Martin wants to move to somewhere with wide open spaces so they can raise herds of adorable little cows, then Jon will do what he can to make it happen.

Jon closes the book and squeezes Martin’s ankle. “I don’t think we’re allowed to sell Daisy’s safehouse without her permission. Do you want to call her or should I?”

Martin beams at Jon, and Jon thinks that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to make Martin look at him like that again.

-0-

In the end, it’s Basira that saves them.

Three weeks into their stay at the safehouse, they’re woken by a phone call at two in the morning. Jon lets out a confused sound and makes to get out of bed, but Martin shushes him and tucks the blanket over his shoulders, and tells him to go back to sleep. The lack of statements has made Jon weak and tired, and sleep is more important than it ever has been.

Martin picks up the phone. The dirt in the floorboards is rubbing against his feet, and he’s still getting used to the way a chill seems to permeate the entire building in the middle of the night.

“Hello?” Martin murmurs, voice quieted by both his desire not to wake Jon and his proximity to sleep.

“Martin, is that you?” Basira asks, and there’s something in her voice that makes him stand straight up and pay attention. Something is wrong. “It’s Basira.”

“Uh, hi Basira,” Martin pushes his hair back from his face, flicking a gaze into their darkened bedroom. Should he wake Jon? “Something the matter?”

“I put together a bunch of statements for Jon, like I promised,” Basira begins, and there’s a soft rustle in the background. Paper? “I found something.”

Martin sits down slowly, finding and squeezing the edge of the small cardtable that they’ve been eating their meals at the past couple of weeks. “Okay…?”

“Elias—no,” Basira lets out a low, shuddering sigh. “Jonah was going to use Jon to start the apocalypse”

“What?” Martin gapes.

Basira’s voice is shaking slightly, cut through with horror. Martin has never heard her like this, not even when Daisy went missing. “He’s had everything planned right from the beginning—Prentiss, Sasha, whatever the fuck happened to his hand—he was planning on turning Jon into some—some sort of ritual to end the world—”

Martin thinks about the man lying in their bed, made small and terrified by repeated exposure to a world that made him very, constantly afraid. He thinks about the slow spiral, the hunger that ate at what was left of Jon’s humanity, piece by bloody piece. He squeezes the table, and imagines Jonah Magnus’ thrumming pulse beneath his fingertips. “Basira—”

“I wouldn’t have noticed,” she sounds tired, thready, “But there was a spider sitting in the middle of the page, and it drew my attention, and I read—”

“Did you burn it?” Martin demands, the world tilting on its axis like a top. If Basira didn’t burn it, then he will go to London himself.

“Of course I did,” Basira says, and Martin lets out his breath. “Of course I burned it. But Martin, you have to be careful.”

“We will,” he whispers. “You as well.”

“And tell Jon that I’m sorry,” she adds, and then hangs up the phone.

Martin lets the hand holding the phone fall to his thigh. His world is still spinning about him, thoughts jumbled and hazy and all he can think about is that stupid fucking birthday party, where Elias had sang ‘Archivist’ instead of Jon, and Martin hadn’t thought anything of it.

God. Jon.

Martin drops the phone and walks to the doorway of their bedroom, examining the small lump under the blankets. Jon’s long, black-and-grey hair is fanned out over the pillow, and his hands are curled into fists. His face is smooth, free of stress and fear, and for a moment Martin burns at the thought of Jonah Magnus, who’d looked at this nervous, bright man and thought, I will destroy the world with you.

If Jonah was here, Martin thinks, fingers twitching.

But then he sighs, because while Jonah Magnus is not here, Jon is. He comes around to his side of the bed and lifts the covers, sliding in beside Jon, who lets out a fuzzy, confused sound and rolls toward him.

“What was it?” he asks sleepily.

Martin takes Jon’s hand in his, rubbing his thumbs over the scarred knuckles, and says, “Nothing. Sleep. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

-0-

“What do you think about chickens?” Jon asks Martin.

Martin looks up from the flower he was admiring and blinks. It’s a perfect day for once, no clouds on the horizon, and the breeze has picked up just enough to be refreshing. The meadowgrass is soft and forgiving beneath their hesitant footsteps as they stroll arm-in-arm through the fields.

“Well, I mean…” Martin wrinkles his nose endearingly. “I’ve heard that chickens are kind of mean, actually.”

“Not quite as good as cows,” Jon agrees, “But it’d be nice not to have to buy eggs. And we have the space for it, now. We wouldn’t have to get too many.”

Martin studies him, as though searching for some ulterior motives. It’s different from the way people used to look at him at the archives, when that sort of suspicion is warranted. It’s almost playful, a warm smile teasing at one end of his lips. “Is there a particular reason why you want chickens?”

“Well…” Jon frowns, now trying to decide whether or not his reasoning for wanting chickens is embarrassing.

They have a real cottage now, rather than the rickety old safehouse. It’s warm and cozy, with clean white walls meant to be filled with photographs, and thick carpets that are wonderful to wiggle your toes on. More importantly, they are now the proud owners of a few acres of land, perfect for raising lazy herds of cattle.

“It’s just—when you’re raising farm animals,” Jon begins carefully, “I thought it was...standard to have chickens around as well.” It made sense, the way arithmetic made sense. One plus two equals three. People who raise farm animals have chickens, even if they’re not technically a chicken farm.

Martin lets out a light, surprised laugh, his hand finding Jon’s. “Jon do you—do you actually want chickens because you want chickens, or do you want chickens because you like the idea of having chickens?”

Jon feels a flush rise in his cheeks, but he stands his ground. “It’d be useful to have a bunch of chickens around.”

Martin shakes his head and presses a warm, fond kiss to Jon’s temple, like he simply can’t help himself. Jon tightens his hand around Martin’s. “Alright then,” Martin says, “We can get some chickens as well. On the condition that I don’t have to take care of them.”

“Come on,” Jon laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t be mean to my chickens.”

“These are still metaphorical chickens,” Martin corrects. “Who I will not defend you from if they decide to turn on you.”

“Liar,” Jon shakes his head again and smiles, and tucks his arm in Martin’s. They continue ambling onward, the scent of rain and fresh earth rising in the air around them.

-0-

Understandably, Jon does not take it well.

Martin is quiet as Jon falls apart, piece by piece, bit by painful bit. He is quiet as Jon grabs at his hair and makes muffled, heartbroken sounds into his knees, when he reasons out loud with himself, with Jonah. It’s only when Jon grabs a knife and almost gouges his own eyes out that Martin finally intervenes, wrestling the knife from Jon’s grip. Jon collapses into Martin’s lap, weeping, and Martin is crying too, just like he knew he would be if he spoke out loud.

Jon falls asleep against Martin. Martin doesn’t dare move, even when his whole body is screaming at the position.

Martin grimly screens all of their mail after that, every transcript that comes into their house. Jon is a skittish thing, hovering at the edges of the room as Martin scans page after page, starving but terrified of the idea of posing a danger to the world.

He tries to wean himself off the statements as best he’s able. At first he records once every couple of days, then once every four, going as long between each read as he can stand. Martin wishes that he knew how to soothe the worry, but Jon isn’t the only one recovering from the influence of a fear entity. The Lonely has made it hard for him to talk about things that need to be said.

They figure it out, though. Martin starts writing poetry again, figuring out how to put words to paper, figuring out how to put himself to paper. Jon stops beating himself up for choices he didn’t make and crimes that he didn’t commit. Because what else can they do? Sit still? They just didn’t end the world; it only makes sense that they try to at least enjoy it.

Slowly, they figure it out. 

-0-

And so, Martin and Jon get some cows.

Martin is in charge of naming the cows. The first one they get is an older cow, a sweet, shaggy brown one Martin quickly names Henrietta. Martin is quite taken with her, always rubbing at the white star on her nose. The second one is a bull, a bit younger than Henrietta but no less sweet. He is dubbed Jackson, and he has a particular fondness for butting his head against your shoulder when you’re not paying attention.

Jon is deeply amused by the way Martin fawns over their cows. He rises well before Jon to feed them, and is usually still gone by the time the rest of the world wakes up. Jon can usually find Martin in the field, prattling away to Henrietta and Jackson, who are a surprisingly attentive audience. Sometimes, Martin even reads them some of his poetry.

Jon is quite taken with the cows as well, if he’s being honest. When he sees Martin in the fields in the morning, dew just beginning to burn off the grass, he’ll climb the fence and pat Henrietta’s star, and Jackson will chew lazily on his sleeve. Martin will beam at him, face gently lit in the rising sun.

Jon is, under no uncertain circumstances, in charge of the chickens. He is in charge of figuring out how to put up the chicken coop, putting up the chicken coop, but most importantly, naming the chickens. Jon’s never been good at naming anything, so he secretly picks the names from old statements. Martin thinks it’s hilarious that there are chickens running around with names like ‘Susan’ and ‘Laura’. The big rooster that Jon buys, that runs around and shrieks menacingly at you until you give him a swift kick, is dubbed, ‘Jonah’, because Jon has always been a bit of a bastard.

They still get letters from the Institute. Jon knows that they do, because each time Martin finds one, his face scrunches up with an awful, alien anger. The letter is quickly reduced to ash in their fireplace, though. Basira tells them all they need to know about the Institute these days, and they have better things to do.

-0-

“So what now?” Jon whispers.

Martin looks down at Jon, who is curled as close against Martin’s side as he is physically able. His long, black-grey hair is pulled into a loose ponytail that spills over and down one shoulder, and his glasses are tucked in his collar. Time has done a good job at wearing down some of his hard edges.

Martin tucks Jon’s bangs behind his ear and lets his hand rest there, gently caressing. Jon sighs and covers it with his own, still watching Martin with those dark, expectant eyes. 

“I suppose now…” he trails off, thinking about the Institute, about the safehouse where they now live. Thinking about good cows, and the nightmares they can’t seem to shake, and meadowsweet, and the I love you’s, and the affection so kind that Martin had almost been in tears the first time he felt it.

“I suppose now,” he decides firmly, “we get to live.”

[creativetomato]

Platonia

Chapter 2

toska – n. a dull ache of the soul, a sick pining, a spiritual anguish

 Weronika Anastazja Kucharska was rather pleasent company he had to admit. She seemed submissive enough, listened to him, followed his advice like a lost puppy would, and when she didn’t know something and had questions she came to him. She was depended on him. Which only played right to his hands.

Tom saw her as a little toy, a pretty doll with big eyes and silky hair, he could use and play with. But he didn’t use her and kept from playing useless mind games with her. In all of her submissiveness, in all her politeness and calmness, there was barely any honesty in her. It was as if she had no real personality of her own. Not really. As if she was afraid of showing who she was. Was it fear? ...or rather, she was hiding her true self, her true intentions which made him more wary of her than he’d like to admit. She was a mystery to him, a girl full of contradictions, a person he wasn’t able to read, an enigma. And he hated that. When he had tried out his Occlumency skills on her there had been no reaction, no thoughts he could read or memories he could see. Just blank nothingness. By lack of her reaction he guessed she hadn’t even realized he had tried to read her mind, so, it was only natural he didn’t leave her out of his sight. Because something he didn’t know or couldn’t control was something that could stand in his way of reaching greatness. With these revelations Tom started to observere her every movement, like a hawk watching its clueless prey. Because Weronika Kucharska was not a normal teenage girl. There was something wrong with her, something he couldn’t grasp and when he reached with his magic he could feel her own sizzling like hot water dropping onto ice. Her magic was chaotic and restless, constantly in movement. Usually restless magic was seen in magical children, not in taught girls that had wands and used magic. There was something hidden in her magic, something far-off, and he fully intended to find out what it was. Because someone who had no control of their magic could be dangerous. Not only to his plans but to students and teacher, to Hogwarts, as well. With these thoughts he had started to keep her near him and when he had explained the classes to her, showed her homework she could start to work on as well during the holidyas, he was disappointed to realize there was no genius behind her, just average intellect at best. Yes, in some classes she was better than others. She excelled in Anicent Runes. Her knowledge on runes and languages was marvelous, but when it came to Herbiology she was just mundane. Everything they had to write down, theory and essays, she was simply average. She really only exceeded in Ancient Runes, and to his surprise in potions. At least that was what he could tell as lessons hadn’t even started yet. Students would return in the upcoming days though, as classes would start next week again.

„How do you know so much about runes?“, he asked her one day after New Years eve, after his birthday, sitting with her in the Slytherin common room and working on school work. At that she looked up from her essay, her bright eyes looking into his dark ones. He wasn’t used to people looking into his eyes so directly. She didn’t even flinch. She truly was an enigma.

„It… It was an important subject at my old school.“, she told him and dropped her gaze quickly. Too quickly. Tom had observed how she tried to avert topics that had to do with runes and he wondered why. His fingers twitched with burning curiosity, wanting to dissect her like a toad. Because she wasn’t telling him everything and it irked him to no end not being able to read her mind. So he had to ask her: „Your old school?“

Weronika didn‘t look up this time and simply nodded: „I went to Czocha College of Wizardry. It’s a rather small school. I should have gone to Durmstrang, but they don’t take muggleborns. And the one school in Russia… I can’t speak Russian. But I can speak German and Polish, so I was send to Czocha. It’s near the border to Germany.“

Tom started to get intruiged by that school he had never really heard anything about. She must have seen, or rather felt, his disbelief, as small as it was. She could also be used having to explain where she came from, probably having explained to teachers which school she had gone to.

„It’s really small. Only around two hundred students. Most of them muggleborn because of Durmstrang… over there I learned English too, just in case…“, she finally looked up at him and he obersved her face, every twitch and every emotion that crossed her features. Now he was even more curious: „Tell me more.“ He hated not knowing something and in his mind there was nothing more powerful than knowlegde. Surprised by the demand in his voice she looked up to him before she slowly nodded: „Alright… so… there are five houses. I was in Faust, the house of knowledge and power.“ She scratched her neck in thought and put down her quill she had written with on her paper: „Every house is based on one culture and Faust is based on German culture. We learn Alchemy, Runic Magic, Arithmancy, Herbology and… erm… let me think. Ritual magic…“ She started to count the number of lessons with her fingers. She really was a forgetful person, something he had been able to observe as well: „Beastology, Magical Defence and Theory, and… Mind Magic. Sorry, can’t remember the rest. It’s been a while since I left and so many things had happened.“ An apologetic smile graced her pale features and Tom smiled as well: „It’s quite alright. Still, the things you were thaught seem different than here at Hogwarts.“ At that Weronika nodded: „That’s true. But I’m fine. I mean… Alchemy and Potions is basically the same. Runic magic always fascinated me the most. Together with…. Well, really everything that has to do with magic. I’m only not that good at theory. I am more the type of person who just… does things. And I don’t like thinking too much about them, which also, you know… depends on the situation, and sometimtes I do think too much. But, still… I’d much rather just act.“

„How… un-Slytherin.“, he chuckled at her and that was something she had not expected. Not at all. His chuckle sounded deep, and a little breathless, but he was just a teenage boy and she knew his voice would change and mature, become deeper with age. She felt a blush creeping up her neck as emberrassment rushed through her: „Oh, stop it. There is much more to being ambitious or cunning… And I’m actually a pretty good liar.“

„A good liar? Do you think all the Slytherins are liars?“, he mocked her and her blush deepend: „I- I didn’t mean… stop putting words into my mouth.“ Again he chuckled amused: „I apologize. Although, with what you’ve told me… rather wanting to act… you would fit much better into Gryffindor than into Slytherin, I think.“

„No, not really.“, she shrugged her shoulders, „Because… I don’t just act. I… plan. I decide. Or I just… I think about decisions and try to find out what outcomes they have and… yeah, I’d rather act, that’s true, but not before planning it. And I am ambitious about the things I want. Buuut…“

„…but?“

„Sometimes I have reaaaally bad impulse control.“, at that she laughed for a moment and he smiled with a nod: „I see. But I am still not convinced if you really fit into the House of snakes, Weronika.“

„Niki.“

„What?“

„Why aren’t you calling me Niki?“

„Because Weronika is your name and I like it better. I barely use nicknames.“, he simply explained and resumed working. A few seconds later he felt her gaze leaving his form and she followed him, the only thing being heard the scraping of quill on parchment as she still felt the burn in her cheeks.

-

Somehow, without realzing it, he had started to feel comfortable around her. She was just there with him, spending time together. Him reading, and her doing the same or writing or sketching something into her notebook. It looked well-used and reminded him of his own diary. He didn’t like it; didn’t like how well she fit into his life, how she had just made herself comfortable around him, sitting with him at the table, eating and him helping chosing the right food to not over extert her stomach. She was never too loud but talkative, never overbearing but ever present. Sometimes she would leave, probably exploring the castle or talking to the teachers, and going to the Hospital Wing to get checked as she still hadn’t fully recovered from her escape to the British Isles. At one point she had taken her bag and wore thick clothing and told him she would go to Hogsmade. She had Albus Dumbledores permission.

„And what do you want there?“, he had asked her and she had just shrugged: „I want to take a walk on the fresh air. I rather enjoy the snow, you know? And see what I can find in Hogsmade. See what kind of stores there are…“

„Shall I accompany you, then?“, he had asked her after that, which had not only surprised her, but him as well. Because he truly wanted to go with her, spend time with her. Because he didn’t want her to go alone into the cold. She had a reather weak constitution and he would feel much better if he knew she would have someone with her. Yes, that was the reason why he didn’t want her to go alone; because she was his responsibilty, nothing more, nothing less. It didn’t matter how only a few days had passed since she had been here, with him, a calming presence beside him, always there. He didn’t like that. Not at all. He drew his eyebrows together but she was distracted by looking and rummaging through her worn out leather bag, smiling: „No, it’s fine, really. I want to go alone, think about things and… well.“ Weronika shrugged at her own words before shouldering her bag again when she was sure she had everything she needed. With that she looked up and smiled at him, her eyes twinkling: „See ya, later, Tom.“

So, she turned around and left the Slytherin common room, leaving him standing there, not liking how this new girl still intrigued him and somehow wasn’t what she seemed. She wasn’t normal. She was like him. Yes, Tom realized, she was just like him in the way he was special. Because she was special, uniqe. He just had to find out what made her so special.

A few hours passed and when she came back Tom was sitting in one of the couches, surrounded by books, one in his lap. As soon as she came in he closed the heavy book to turn his attention to her. Her cheeks were glowing, her nose even redder from the cold winter outside. There were snow flakes already melting on her thick clothing and her hat, melting on her glasses as the snow flakes turned into little water droplets. She pulled the hat down and her messy hair was electrified and simply put a mess.

„Whew, let me tell you, it’s pretty cold outside.“, she sniffeled a little and he slowly got up from his sitting position to make his way towards her. He noticed how there were no gloves on her hands and unhappy with this new revelation he clipped his tongue. At that she looked up at him before he took both of her hands. They were ice cold. He didn’t like that. She could get sick and she still needed some time until she was fully recovered. He knew that from experience.

„When you came here you were already in bad health. You really shouldn’t have left while it was snowing this hard outside.“, he chastised her with a scowl he hadn’t realised he was wearing. He didn’t even look at her face as all his attention was on the hands he was holding and rubbing inside his own, trying to warm the cold skin.

„Tom, it’s… it’s fine, really.“, there was awe in her voice and only then did he stop. What was he doing? What was he doing? Acting like a fool, caring about her and her stupid cold hands. Yes, she was mysterious and he wanted to know everything about her, wanted to know why he wasn’t able to read her mind, but it didn’t mean he wanted to be close or intimate with her. The relationship he was building with her was just a means to an end. However, as soon as she stepped into the room he had been concerned with her wellbeing, remembering what she had looked like that first day; broken and weary, twitching at every sound and restless in a way that was too farmiliar to him. It had been over a week since then, and again, did he think about how she had carved a place beside him. No, Tom didn’t like that. Not one bit.

He dropped her hands as if he had burned his skin on her own.

Quickly he straigthened his shoulders and there was a command in his tone he usually only used with his knights: „Go, take a shower or a bath, and warm yourself up. I’ll wait for you, so we can go to dinner together.“ After his order he turned briskly around and went book to the place where his books waited for him. The silence that followed was heavy and filled with uncertainty but he didn’t care. He did not care. He shouldn’t care about other people. He should only care about himself.

Tom didn’t look up when he heard her steps leaving the room to get to her dorm room. The only reason he should keep her so close was to find out her true intentions and why she was able to shield her mind so well.

-

When Weronika had left she had still been in awe. Back in the common room she had been surprised and even weirded out and somehow out of touch with reality. She could only stare at her now warmed hands he had held so lovingly. Because Tom had cared. He had cared about her and her well being, to the extent of even being worried. He had wanted to come with her, too. She looked down at her own hands and remembered the warmth of his skin. She never would have thought he would be this warm. And she should be mad too, with how he had ordered her to get warmed up, but she had been too awestruck. He had seemed like such a cold person from the beginning, and he just seemed like this unapproachable character; or maybe she just wasn’t used to such kindness anymore. And after spending this much time with him she had realized what a genius he was, how much he knew, and God, how good he was at teaching. Usually, when someone had tried to explain something to her she had not understood, people had grown impatiend, but not Tom. He stayed calm, answered all her questions as best as he could, was patient with her and wasn’t even angry when her mind started to wander again. And when he realised how restless she became, with her leg twitching uncontrollably, he would stop with homework or with whatever lesson they were doing, because before she knew it, he knew she needed a break. No one had ever been this patient with her. Not her friends, and not her family. She wasn’t used to someone caring about her like this.

Weronika took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her hands still in front of her as she had looked at them. Slowly her hands turned into soft fists. She shouldn’t get distracted by Tom. He was charming and good looking and his voice could do things she should hate. But she didn’t hate it. Far from it. Her body reacted in ways she had no control over and if there is one thing they had in common it was the love for control. Alright, she had to admit, she wasn’t that good at it, but still, she loved knowing everything about everybody, not because she wanted to blackmail or something, but because… just because. There was no real reason, really, only the traumatic experiences of her past that made her wary of others, and knowing everything about everyone made her feel safer. More prepared. Yes, it was all about being prepared in case someone had the ill intent of wanting to hurt her. Because she had been hurt enough in her life. By family, by friends, by enemies, by her own hands. And it was no surprise that she had no healthy coping mechanism when it came to her traumatic experiences and anxiety. To cope with her emotional anguish she liked to hurt herself, and she was good at hiding it. She opened her eyes and looked again at her hands. It wasn’t that she was cutting herself. Nothing like that. It was just that sometimes when things got too much, she couldn’t stop herself from harming herself until she bled in ways that wouldn’t leave scars.

Again she took a deep breath before going to her bed. Her thoughts returned to Tom and while she started to underss to get under the shower as he had instruced she wondered if he would still act the same when the other students returned from the holidays.

When she was finished with her shower she dressed into one of the uniforms she had gotten. Stockings and the green pleated skirt went to her knees, the design high waist as was appropriate for the decade she was in. She stuffed her blouse into the skirt and put on the beige soft cardigan that warmed her enough. Then came her brown leather boots she had came to Hogwarts in. They weren’t thick and not appropriate for snow, but good enough for Hogwarts halls. When she was finished she put her hair into a messy bun. She shouldered her bag that she had filled with schoolwork and her sketchbook before she decided to return to Tom. Dinner was waiting for them.

-

There were no words exchanged as they had gotten on the way to the Great Hall. They were pretty much the only students in all of Hogwarts, as all the students had left to their families to make sure they were safe from the raging war and danger that were both Hitler and Grindelwald. Tom had no family to return to and Weronika? Weronika had lost her family. With a gulp and a heavy heart she remembered her mother, her step father and her brothers, and how it gnawed at her heart that she didn’t miss them as much as a daugther and sister should. There were no friends to miss either; except the selected few.

When they arrived at the Great Hall they sat opposite of each other like they had the days before. She was still trying to eat slowly and to not over eat as he had warned her several times. At the memory on their first dinner together she looked up at him. Since she had returned from her short shower he hadn’t said a thing. He seemed to be colder than usual, withdrawn and she felt as if she had done something wrong. Nibbling on her lower lip she ignored the food before her as she thought of anything she might have done to anger him. But no. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Had she? Then why was she getting the silent treatment? The cold shoulder? Maybe she had overstepped her boundaries? She did that sometimes. Her mother had always warned her to not step out of line, to be the perfect church going daughter, so she always tried to be good, always tried to do nothing wrong. It didn’t always work; being good and sweet.

„…Tom?“, she saw the tensing of his shoulders and suddenly she felt her anxiety build up inside her chest into a tight knot. „Tom.“, she tried to sound more sure of herself, more secure, and was glad when she did a somewhat good job, „Are you alright? You… you seem different than usual… erm, have I done something… wrong?“

When he looked up from his meal he realized she hadn’t taken one bite and he also realized that she was worried. Worried that she had done something wrong. And her worry was honest. Through her glasses he could see the worry in her blue eyes. Tom had to admit he was angry. Not at her, although she was the reason for his anger. No, he was angry at himself, because he had gotten too attached to her. Yes, attached. To another person. In a matter of days. But it didn’t matter. Soon enough his knights would return and with that his attention would be drawn to things that had nothing to do with her. Simply put they probably had spend too much time with each other as she was the first person he had over concentrated on this much. Not even his knights enjoyed the amount of attention she received.

So, he smiled a reassuring smile: „No, don’t worry. I was just… thinking. In a matter of days the other students are going to return and with that my obligations. I won’t be able to spend as much time with you anymore. Also, in the next few days I’ll have to prepare myself, too, so… I hope you will be able to study on your own.“

„Oh…“, that… that was not what she had expected. Not at all. Because they had become somewhat friendly with each other, too, which was… strange for her, to say the least. Having some kind of companion was strange and she simply wasn’t used to befriending people. Never was.

At his look she quickly tried to find the words for a better answer: „Ah, yeah, it’s fine.“ She smiled nervously at him: „Really, I get it. I just thought… well, nevermind. But I do hope you won’t forget me in all your obligations.“ Her answer made him smile a disarming smile and she blushed at that. Dinner turned peaceful and so were the next few days. And true to his words Tom had less time to spare for her. Which was fine, really. He had been nice and charming and forthcoming and he was just acting like a gentleman. Which only angered her. Was she really so easily swayed? On the other hand she had been exhausted, emotionally and physically, and she had needed a few days to recover. In her weakened state her concsiousness had wanted to lean on to someone and with Tom being so forthcoming it was no wonder she had chosen him. Truth to be told she still needed time to recover, wanted even to depend on him, but time was limited, at least for now, so it was only good Tom had put some distance between them as it cleared her mind.

She was here to change things that should never be changed, nontheless she wanted to try it. It was too late to stop now and she had already lost a part of herself during the process. The things she had done to be safe in an unkown future could be called immoral, but she didn’t have the privilege to be morally good. A long time ago she had realized that being ethical was just a cage people liked to build around themselves. It condemend them to untruths and comfortabilty and only allowed change to a certain point. Morals were things people hid behind like a warm cloak during a storm and after realizing that she had put away her morals to do whatever she could to protect those she had learned to love. Slytherins were loyal to a fault and she was no exception. With shame and new determination she tried to ignore her hurt feelings because she had no time for friendships, no time nor energy for useless comardrie that would only drag her further into a pit of anguish and torture. She had to figure things out, had to get healthy and well again and before she could do anything about her life in Hogwarts she had to think about repaying her debt. Because without him she never would have made it to Hogwarts.

Tom only distracted her and she had gotten too attached too fast to him. The reason for that were not unkown to her. She was a touch starved being – ironically hating to be touched by other people – and starved when it came to love and affection. Toms patience and gentleness, how fake it may be, was something she could fall into, a warmth she had missed her whole life, a carressing hand that should have been her mothers. She sighed; and ultimatly held Toms attention again. He seemed to misunderstand her sigh as he straightened himself before leaning forward towards her.

„Look, Weronika…“, he started quietly and she looked up at him, „I… enjoyed our time together. I really did.“ Why he told her that she wasn’t sure of, but every of his words could be a lie, even if they didn’t feel like lies. She lost her trust in people a long time ago.

„But I am Prefect and I tutor a few students. Also, I am part of the Quidditch team, and there are many other things I do in my free time.“, he explained to her and she wanted to tell him that it was fine, that he didn’t have to explain himself, and somehow she couldn’t. She just stared at him, touched at his attempt to make her feel better. Had she looked that saddened by the fact he would have less time for her?

„…it’s fine.“, she said and her quiet voice sounded uncertain and a little embarrassed, „You don’t have to explain yourself to me. We… We aren’t dating or anything like that… it was just… I think going through the things I went through… I think I just started to depend on you because I… I didn’t have anyone for a long time. It’s… It’s hard to explain but… gosh… Ich fühle mich so dumm… dumm, dumm…“ She shook her head, murmuring the last words to herself and he looked at her with a expression she couldn’t quite read. So, she smiled: „Sorry. It’s just…“ And before she knew it tears started to swell in her eyes. A break down? Now? Gosh, how pathethic.

Her fork fell onto her dinner as she started to wipe her tears from under the glasses. From out of nowhere he had conjured a handkerchief and held it out to her and she took it with mumbled thanks. As she started to wipe her tears away he took one of her hands in a comforting touch, his thumb stroking the soft warm skin of the limb. More tears started to wreck her body, accompanied by silent sobs that shook her into the depths of her soul. She wanted to explain herself to him, wanted to tell him it wasn’t because of him she was acting this way, but she couldn’t find the words, only holding on to his hand as if he was her lifeline. She didn’t know how much time had passed until she was somewhat calm, his handkerchief wet with her snot and her tears. She laughed then, a humourless sound: „Sorry. I just…“Then she shrugged and he nodded as if he understood. But Weronika knew he didn’t understand. No one understood. People may have went through traumas, but everyone was different, everyone percieved things differently, and no one would ever understand the pain she was going through. She was selfish in that regard and holding on to her pain and being afraid of losing all the other things she was still able to feel. Happiness had left her to die on a bed of tragedy a long time ago and now she had cloaked herself in the blood of her tears and forged a weapon with her pain, striking everyone who would dare to stop her from her goals, the only thing giving her the power to do so being hope.

„Ya‘ know…“, she started, sounding strange because of her stuffed nose, cheeks hot and eyes burning, „I used to dance ballet.“

At that a stunned look crossed his features but he kept silent and let her talk: „I started when I was really young. Maybe… four or something? Before I even knew magic existed. My family was poor but my mother wanted me to have a good life – a life she never had. So… so she send me to tutors for ballet and piano.“ She shrugged at that and tried not to look at him. Strangely he had not let go of her hand and had not stopped carressing her warm skin with his thumb. He had beautiful long fingers and big hands, a little rough from playing Quidditch. Hands worthy of a piano player. She liked the image of it.

„But at some point… only weeks before I got my letter for Czocha… we changed shoes.“, Weronika sniffeled and knew she needed to explain this, because she couldn’t imagine him knowing about the footwear of ballet, „At first I learned dancing in… in comfortable shoes. Made out of leather and silk, and… then… when I was good enough we changed to… to pointe shoes. They… They are very uncomfortable and… well, uncomfortable isn’t right.“ She laughed at that and wiped her nose with the handkerchief he had given her, the food now untouched and ignored by both of them, ignoring any curious glances thrown their way: „They are fucking painful. After training for the first time with them I wasn’t able to walk the next day. They… They are hard on the inside at the front, so-so that dancers may stand on their tip toes, and… and… God, it just hurt so much. So… So I stopped. My mother didn’t like that, of course, but then came the letter and… and it was blessing in disguise, really. And… And I hated pain, I still do, but... when I was still just eleven years old I thought that would be it. But by now I have went through so much pain, I just…“ Her breath hitched and she had somehow lost herself in her words, forgot what she had wanted to tell him with the little part of her life she just shared with him. So, she shook her head, before she tried to find the meaning behind her words: „What… What I want to say is… is… I… after all this pain I have went through… I guess I just sucked in the attention you have given me. So, it’s alright if you don’t want to be friends or anything like that. That... That’s all I wanted you to know, I guess. That I’m just this weird foreign girl sucking in any affection like a sponge.“ Her pointed look at his hand holding her made him realize what she meant, so he nodded. But he didn’t let go.

„I see… and I am sorry you have went through so much pain.“, he told her, his voice quiet but his gaze never leaving her, his eyes burning into her soul, „And I wouldn’t mind being friends with you.“ A slow smile twitched at the corners of his mouth and before she knew it she gave him a watery smile as well. Squeezing his hand thankfully for understanding her she finally pulled back her hand.

„And now I’m not hungry anymore.“, she laughed as if to say how silly of me when in reality she only wanted to change the topic. Tom humored her although he wanted to press her for more answer. Had she been anyone else he would have already used Legilimency on her; he would have unwrapped every single one of her secrets and read her like an open book. Instead he had to rely on her words and expressions, the way she cried and smiled and moved.

Hours later, when he was lying in his bed and thinking back to their conversation he mulled over her words; over and over again, analyzing them. From what she had shared with him pain had became a part of her life at some point. There was also a desire to be accepted and loved, to be held and embraced. When he had been a small child he had held the same desire, but now he scoffed at these romantic notions. He was a powerful wizard, he only needed himself. Affection wouldn’t help him achieve his goals, but girls like Weronika were dependend on them. With her tale she had shared the way he would be able to control and manipulate her. He smiply had to become the person she would confide in the most, the person she could lean to and trust. If she truly was as touch starved as she thought it would be easy, really, to get on her good side. He could whipser sweet meaningless nothings into her ear, make her blush, hug her and coddle her like a babe. It was a small price to pay if it meant he would be able to gather all her secrets like the collector he was.

A smile grew on his lips as he slowly drifted to sleep. Yes, it would be easy to turn her into his submissive little pet.

[jojuarez26]

If you only knew how truly Erudite Blue you actually are not

Divergent fanfiction: Eric/OC Mature content and strong language. I do not own any part of Divergent

Tarrin's POV

I haven't seen or spoken to Eric in almost two weeks now, although Four has and admittedly, I am jealous as hell. Eric finally submitted all his legal documents. So the proverbial cat is out of its fucking back and the psychotic bitch that rules Erudite with a damn machine gun has flipped her shit.

Jeanine went on a rampage the second she knew about Analisse and the fact Eric was able to not be made compliant with threats as we for once are actually the ones two steps ahead of the game.

First she turned Erudite upside down on it's head trying to locate my daughter and I. Then being the oh so logical thinker we needed her to be, Jeanine stormed Amity because that's where Jacob of is at. Apparently both Jacob and Johanna Reyes told Jeanine to go pleasure herself with a barbed wire stick and get the ever living fuck out of Amity. Well maybe what they said was slightly more Amity but still the same interpretation.

Next she tried, and I do stress tried, to go to Candor and strong arm Jack and my Aunt Kathy. I'm totally confident that it would be accurate to say Aunt Kathy literally told her to fuck off and get the hell out of Candor.

The funniest part of the way Jeanine thinks is that she did not, nor would she ever think to so much as email Abnegation. As far as she is concerned Eric would rather poke his eye out with a stick on fire than ever stoop so low as to ask Abnegation, the useless stiffs, to help him find a pencil.

Technically she would be right. Eric would not and did not. But, Four would and he did. Well not the Faction itself, but a specific member. A divergent sympathizer and one of the nicest people I have ever met, Natalie Prior.

Without a second thought, no questions asked and not a single ounce of hesitation because of who I am essentially married to Natalie snuck the three of us into an unused and pretty much abandoned house in the older unused section of Abnegation.

Her and her daughter Beatrice made sure to come check on us every day and bring us anything we needed that they were capable of procuring.

Natalie's husband Andrew is on the council. This allowed Natalie to be in communication with Eric without any suspicion yet not giving up any knowledge of the where abouts of Analisse and I.

Eric and Natalie where still extremely careful of the content of their contact and mostly used codes and key phrases to relay information to each other.

Although Jeanine for the most part has Dauntless in her back pocket, they would still never allow her to rand sack Dauntless or shake them down looking for Eric's missing fiance' and mystery child that ninety percent of all people question even exist. I did such a spectacular job at hiding my pregnancy, not to mention how Eric's parents snuggled us out of Erudite, most had no knowledge or proof Analisse did indeed exist.

However Max was completely ok with pretty much monitoring all of Eric's daily life in Dauntless. From planting bugs and surveillance equipment in both Eric's office and apartment to placing spy details that followed his every move.

This was the reason Analisse and I have had no kind of contact with Eric period. Needless to say we are both going threw withdrawal and driving poor Four bonkers.

"Good morning Tarrin." Four murmured pouring himself a cup of coffee just waking up.

"Good? Seriously Four what the hell is so good about it," I spat sarcastically.

"Ok. Well I'm just going to get dressed and run some parameter checks, like all day," Four replies cautiously. Now I feel bad.

"Four wait! I'm sorry. Please don't leave me alone today," I suddenly burst into tears.

My horomones and the severity of my situation have me a hot mess of fuckery. Seeing as how Four is the only adult I have interactions with and well, Analisse only cries, eats and fills her diapers, Four gets shat on. Alot. Everyday. By the grace of God he takes it with a grain of salt and rolls with the punches.

"You T, I really do like you even with your poor taste in men. However even though said man is an asshole, at least he is consistent. He is constantly an asshole. You my dear are as inconsistent as the bowel movements of the elderly. Quite frankly your mood swings give me whiplash," he says all this in a quiet yet serious tone.

"I very very loosely understand that just having a baby turns you into a lunatic because your horomones are in overdrive. I also get being stuck in seclusion with a newborn and a stranger are probably about as helpful as a full moon at a daycare or in a nursing home but, damn you and mini Eric are exhausting me," he dramatically threw his head back throwing an arm over his eyes.

This is what I love about Four. Although I know he hides alot of pain and demons behind his humourous approach to life, it is relaxing and breaks the tension.

"Oh admitted Four, you loves us. Seriously though, I am so sorry. I know you didn't choose this mission, Eric ordered you to take it. For what it's worth I'm grateful you did."I tried to hold back the tears as I spoke.

"T it's not-"

"Let me finish. Please." Four just nods for me to continue

"I'm not exactly sure to the full extent why you and Eric hate each other so much. What I do know is Eric trust you and respects you as a loyal Dauntless soldier. Considering we are born and bred Erudite regardless of our aptitudes and Eric very recently defection to Dauntless. We were raised to keep your acquaintances close and your competition closer," I pause to make sure he is still on the same page as me.

Reading his facial expressions and body language, he understands, he's just not sure where I'm going with this.

"The point I am trying to make is this. The short list of people that is logically acceptable to trust, especially with someone with Eric's nature, is already exceeding it's limits at best. So the fact that he trust you. Especially with it being with mine and Analisse's safety, actually speaks volumes." I'm once again trying to choke back tears to continue.

"Both myself AND ERIC, are and will be eternally grateful. I know Eric will probably never say or acknowledge that, but I will. Thank so much for being here when you don't have to be. You have also become someone I would consider a friend so..... Thanks," I sniffed and put my head in my hands.

I suddenly feel hands on my shoulders. Four is rubbing them soothingly. This truly suprises me especially with him being former Abnegation. Once he can tell I've calmed down, he moves to sit across the table from me.

"Complete honesty, when Eric recruited me for this," he waves his hand around the room," I was baffled. I was slightly shocked any female could tolerate him for more than a one night stand let alone long time girlfriend who just had his child." He has an amused look on his face but his tone of voice is still serious.

"Four if your just going to bash Eric, I really rather not at the moment if you-"

"Hey. I let you finish. Let me finish. Please." He asked and pauses to see if I will. I do.

"Ok. So I generally viewed Eric as a cruel person who's only emotions are bored, angry and sadism. Well except when he is intimating people into pissing their pants just by glaring at them, I think that actually gives him joy," Four smirks and I can't help but laugh.

"That is until he told me about the situation and about you and his mini-clone. I actually saw love, fear, sadness and frustration. And it wasn't fake, forced or sarcastic, it was genuine. To say I was shocked is putting mildly. No I was not thrilled or happy at all that I had to do a favor as I saw it, for Eric. But I was more curious and intrigued when I got a glimpse of an actual human with actual humanity. I had come to believe he was really a machine and possessed a switch that turned his humanity off most likely permanently." He sipped his coffee and I took the opportunity to ask a question.

"What where you actually curious about, what made you more accepting of the situation?" I was liking the distraction of my craziness by this conversation.

"I wanted to see what ridiculous, crazy, hooker looking, sluty nose had actually melted some ice off of the cold steel that was Eric the asshole heart," he grins ear to ear.

"Excuse you!! Did you truly think so disgustingly of me?" I ask half shocked half offended.

"Of YOU personally? No. Of the mystery woman Eric knocked up, absolutely. However the second I laid eyes on you I was actually shocked, possibly slightly in denial," he smiles.

"How? Why?" Now I'm curious.

"You looked nothing like a hooker. You're actually really pretty, and normal looking. You're also nice. I am actually a little envious that an asshole like Coulter managed to have a woman as smart, beautiful, caring, yet still sassy and classy as you." He blushed and looked away.

I knew that Four wasn't actually jealous Eric had me personally or that he harboured secret feelings for me or something crazy like that. He was just jealous Eric had a good person who loved him in general. Four is extremely lonely with a very low opinion of himself for reasons I can't fathom. What I do know is someone in his past damaged him, scared him deep emotionally. Who or why is what I don't know.

Just as I was about to start asking him about his self, my peanuts piercing banshee wails filled the air. I stood up letting out a deep sigh.

"Hold that thought mi amigo. I have to attended to my motherly duties. This conversation is far from over though. I am going to pick your brain some more. I want to know more about you."

His demeanor faulted ever so slightly to nervous, maybe worried. It was quick, but I still caught it.

"How very not true Erudite of you? Wanting to actually listen when someone else speaks and value their opinions," he almost sounded desperate to change the subject with his attitude change.

"Oh fuck dick. I got your number. We are most definitely going to talk about you too," I playful shot over my shoulder as I walked away.

@pathybo @tigpooh67 @lunaschild2016 @emmysrandomthoughts @jaihardy @beautifulramblingbrains @clublulu333 @iammarylastar @kenzieam @captstefanbrandt @badassbaker @badassdauntlessgirl @gotlokis @kgurew @that1girloverthere @girlslovestorys @onceinamillionlifetimes @sporadichologramblizzard-ed17414 @dani5102 @book-boys-are-my-guilty-pleasure @littlesouthernrebel @haliannej

[gumiguta]

Being a top student at university

This post is based on my (and my friends) experience (second year student; sophomore).

I haven’t double-checked it, so I suppose there would be some mistakes. I miss articles all the time, sorry.

1. First year is the most important

Show your professors your capabilities. Let professors get to know you, their opinion will be significant later. Slog your guts out, get the best marks, show them you really care and you are intrigued in what they say. Later on if the next year/term is tougher or you are be able to fully focus on your education, professors will look kindly on you, they won’t be so strict, so your marks won’t be much lower.

2. Luck

Believe me, we are not always fully prepared. Sometimes our knowledge is incomplete because we don’t had enough time to learn, the topic XYZ is so shitty that we simply don’t get part of it. It happens that we have to count on our luck. The final test is coming in a few hours and you still know nothing about ABC or XYZ. You don’t have enough time and you know you won’t get it in half of an hour. Fuck this, fuck that – you hope you will be able to answer a questions. You’ve got nothing to lose, joke that it would be nice, if you got a question about QWE. If the professor knows you, remembers you and is aware of your knowledge, there is a huge possibility you’ll get this question.

3. Talk to people before your final exams

It’s partly connected with “Luck”. Talk to people who already had their finals (not only to your peers but also to older students). It’s not about questions, because you won’t get the same ones, that’s for sure. It’s more about getting to know the professor’s way of thinking, asking questions, choosing topics. Ask people how much you need to write/say in order to get a good mark. Ask people what topics are professor’s favourite, what do you need to know, how to impress them. Mark down what questions did your friends/other students get – learn them if you know that this professor likes to ask the same thing, pay less attention if you know they like to change them. But never left them aside, you have to know at least part of the answer to be save.

4. Know your professors

The continuation of “Luck”. Knowing your professors helps you a lot during preparing for tests, exams, finals etc. Give yourself a term or two to find out information about professors – what topics are their beloved, what kind of questions are most common, what kind of answers are they expect, how much you need to know.

5. Don’t be afraid of professors

Treat them like normal people, not someone who will fail you at your first exam. You can talk to them not only about studies – some of them are really interested in your life outside the uni (even my biggest fear – my phonetics professor – used to ask people why they had been absent and he was genuinely interested in it). I’m probably going to a concert with my professor, sometimes we smoke cigarettes with them, they give us medical pieces of advice – they are not monsters. Of course some of them have sticks in their asses and you have to treat them with much bigger respect. But remember – you’re a student. Don’t be unrespectful even if your professor is a great guy. Tell something shitty and you’re fucked up for the rest of your student life (it means – till the end of the term, because they definitely won’t let you pass).

6. Panic

*3 A.M., Facebook* A: FUCK, I KNOW NOTHING B: ME TOO, WE’RE NOT GOING TO PASS A: We can commit a suicide, that’s the only option B: I find this red bridge quite appealing…

Yes, we panic. A lot. Sometimes we’re so stressed we have to phone someone and talk to them for a longer while in order to calm down and continue to learn. Why? Because we had no idea how much we need to study, because we thought that 2 days of non-stop learning is enough (ups, it’s not!), because it turned out you don’t have this one important thing in your notes. Shit, shit, shit! But, man, calm down, you know you’re not the worst student at uni, you have some knowledge so you say/write something during an exam. So get back to work! Take deep breath, call your friends, check Facebook, Tumblr or whatever if it helps you. Then try to take a look at your notes once again. Step by step and you’re going to know more and more.

7.“I give up”

It’s a common phrase during preparations to exam session. You look at your notes with watery eyes and you say “I give up, I won’t learn anything more”. Take a longer break then, if you feel like a shit – an hour or two. Go to sleep, eat something, play your favourite video game, message your friends. Then go back to your notes. If it really seems like you won’t make any progress, don’t force yourself, focus on sth else, maybe later on you’ll try to revise this “little shit” once more. If it’s still too demanding – leave it. You only get more stressed and panic is your biggest enemy. Remember you still remember sth, it’s not like you’re totally unprepared!

8. Help others…

If somebody asks you about notes (because they were absent or sth), don’t hesitate giving them. You don’t know when you will need their help. Groups of your uni on FB where you can share and find information are also helpful – notes, example questions, links to PDF books or scripts etc.

9. …But don’t be a saint!

Hearing for the 5th time “Hey, can I copy your notes?” makes me furious. I’m willing to help, give notes, talk about previous lectures if this person was absent, had difficulty in understanding the topic or what was the professor saying. But I just can’t stand people who are not attending any classes because it’s too early, because the topic is boring, because they prefer to scroll Instagram etc. Don’t let other people preying on you. They probably won’t help you as much as you did.

10. People you can count on

Sometimes it’s hard to make friends during your first year at uni but try to do a kind of research… After first tests find out who has quite good marks. If you’re absent, you have no idea what’s going on and this lecture is totally not your cup of tea, ask them for help. But don’t be a dick! Constantly borrowing notes and asking for help is annoying. And please, don’t pretend friendship with this person if you don’t like them that much. You don’t have to love each other, go for a beer every Friday, gossip about others – if you’re nice to this person (and vice versa), you talk to them for a while at uni and of course you’re also willing to help them, it’s a good relation. Borrowing notes depends on a subject – XYZ I take from my best friend, ABC from the girl to whom I talk only at lectures and RSQ.

11. Attend classes

Doesn’t matter how boring they are, doesn’t matter how much you hate this professor – please, attend classes. First of all sit always closer to the lecturer (but don’t be obtrusive), participate in it, say something related to the topic, do your best not to miss classes. Professors will remember you, they’re going to think you’re be the best student at whole uni and your finals will be a little bit easier. Sometimes professors, if they know you’re always prepared, you’re coming even at 8 A.M. lecture and this subject is rather facultative, can give you a mark without any exam.

12. “Start learning at least a month before your final exam…”

Yeah. I’ve never done that.

Of course it would be much better to start learning earlier but it’s often impossible to do. You’ve got so many homework, presentations, tests and essay so you simply don’t have enough time (and motivation) to think about finals. One term in two days is not something uncommon even (or maybe especially?) when it comes to top students. But our advantage are: attending classes, listening to professors, being genuinely interested in the subject.

13. Presentations, essays and long-term projects

Start doing them as soon as you can. Step by step, you don’t have to make them in one night, your deadline is far away… It’s a big comfort, doesn’t give a single fuck about deadlines. Of course, sometimes you don’t make it on time and you have to pull an all-nighter, but it rarely happens when you start do this earlier.

14. Motivation

You can talk about this whole self-development, showing people you’re worth something more, dreams coming true but at uni you do it just for…

Money.

My scholarship is the only reason for learning that much. If not for my scholarship I wouldn’t pay any attention to subjects which are completely useless outside the uni.

15. Sleepless nights

We pull an all-nighter before our exams, it’s nothing uncommon. Sometimes we get 3 hours of sleep, sometimes 30 minutes. But do it once, not every night, because you won’t learn anything. And if you do this just before your exam, try to get at least 2h of sleep – you’re going to organize your studying during sleep. I usually remember more then, I find connections between facts faster.

16. Naps

They are your friends, not enemies. Just a 30-60 minutes nap will make you more lively, you will get more energy to study. Before my exams I take 30 minutes naps, twice a day. You’ll learn more and faster. Not having a nap is awful to me, because I feel so tired, so exhausted that I don’t know what’s going on around me for 2-3 hours.

17. Balanced diet

Instant soups, energy drinks, coffee, sweets – it was my special diet during the exam session. And it worked – for 3 days. Then my body gave up and I had to go back to normal food. Try to eat homemade dinners, don’t skip breakfasts – that’s the most important one. You won’t get rid of coffee (or energy drinks in my case), because it helps you to stay alive. If you can, eat something sweet – sugar also resurrects you.

18. An exam next day? Alcohol!

Don’t ever look at your notes just before your finals. You’re going to panic, you’re going to get disorganized. It’s better to do something you like. Before every exam I would for instance go to the concert, for a beer with my friends, watch a movie or play stupid games. It’s your time and university has no right to disturb you. Forget for a while how much you need to learn.

19. Party?

Yes, top students party and drink a lot, believe me. Vodka and beer are your double-faced friends.

[theonewiththeeyebrows]

OMGCP!AU HeadCanon (Part 2)

(Part 1)

Continuation of my OMGCP!AU Headcanon for Jack!Derek and Bitty!Stiles (a little different from actual OMGCP -- obv. with Derek’s family being dead and all. Alive!Laura though. Peter isn’t related to Derek if he’s there at all. Stiles and Scott meet in college and become best bros (maybe?). also HumanAU? maybe? Could still be a werewolf story though. That would be interesting. Werewolves in Hockey.)

Warning/Disclaimer: I know nothing about Hockey FYI. I have never even seen a game. All my knowledge comes from OMGCP, wikipedia, the NCAA, NHL, and various other HL websites/resources. OMGCP belongs to ngoziu you can read it omgcheckplease it is a brilliant story (I love it so much!).

Derek hates that Stiles is so sarcastic and immature. I mean how did this little shit get onto his team? He is going to screw it all up! Then they get onto the ice and he’s fast. He’s super fast, and he makes all these moves that the other players could only dream of making. They don’t have the litheness or physicality for it. But then Boyd is charging towards Stiles and Stiles just drops, cowering on the ice like a scared puppy... WTF!? Derek is livid! He charges into Coach Deaton and Coach Finstock’s office demanding what they were thinking letting this scared wisp of a thing onto the team. He’s going to screw up their chances of getting to the NCAA finals -- it was going to be a long shot anyways. But Scott had shown promise -- Derek had been to a few of his games in the Juniors and he was a phenomenal player, it was a wonder he hadn’t picked a different school, a more reputed team; And Ally and Erica were their smoking guns, everyone always underestimated them just because they were women. He’s pretty sure that if Kira knew how to skate, she would give them a run for their money too -- he’s already the best at Beer Pong -- damn he missed her (She was doing a semester abroad in Kyoto studying Japanese Art History and Mythology). The coaches told him Stiles was fast, and limber, he was special. They has reviewed his tape and thought he would be a perfect fit for the BHMH team, even if he was a little scared to take a hit. They didn’t have a lot of people applying to the Hockey program at BHMH, yes the program churned out some amazing Hockey Players, but it had been years since the BHMH made it to the Frozen Four. His mother had been the last Hockey Player to make it into Professional Hockey to come out of the BH Hockey teams, and she had played for the now disbanded Women’s Hockey team and was recruited first to Europe and then she took up a better contract with the Oilers, before she met his dad at her Rookie game against the Bruins. When he got traded to the Oilers it was a bit of a scandal, but they didn’t hinder each other’s game (they made each other play better for some strange reason). But yeah, the coaches were adamant that Stiles would be a good things for the team and that Derek had to figure out how to make it work. 

For two weeks practice was hell. Every time someone came at Stiles, he would fall to the ice and quiver like a leaf in a storm. It was grating Derek’s nerve. His anxiety was ratcheting up. And it was putting a strain on the team. Off the ice, despite Stiles’ sarcasm and aloofness, he seemed to develop a camaraderie with the team. Ally and Erica had taken him under their wing like he was a lost chicken, and Boyd was often close by. Isaac and Stiles snarked at each other constantly, ribbing each other -- but it seemed to be good natured. Scott and Stiles were inseparable. It seemed being roommates had also made them best friends. As a child Scott had been bullied because he had been diagnosed (misdiagnosed as Asthmatic - when he had been rediagnosed and treated to recovery as a teenager he quickly got into sports, playing both soccer and ice-hockey with fervor) -- Scott and Stiles bonded over being oddballs they also apparently went to school 10 miles away from each other. Derek could see how easily Stiles was integrating within the team, and as the Captain it was his duty to make sure his team was cohesive and overcame their problems. At the end of next practice he asked Stiles to stay back. 

“Be ready at 5 am tomorrow.” 

“What?”

“Meet me here, at the rink, at 5 am tomorrow.” 

“What? Why?” Stiles’ eyes widened in fear.

“Checking practice.” Derek said, simply, as he turned as started to skate back towards the locker room. 

“What do you mean checking practice!”

“Derek... Derek!... WHAT DO YOU MEAN CHECKING PRACTICE!!!!” 

****

But Stiles is there at 5 am, waiting at the front entrance of The Fenris Rink, Hockey kit at his feet and coffee travel mug in his hand, glaring at Derek as he walks up to Stiles.

“Why the hell am I here, Derek?”

“You’re terrified whenever someone comes at you.” 

“So what! I can avoid them!”

“You can’t! Not when we’re playing other teams!”

“So what are you going to do, keep coming at me till I stop falling to the ground in fear?” 

Derek grins at Stiles, all teeth, and Stiles’ eyes widen.

“Oh no! No. No, no no. NO!” Stiles grabs the strap oh his bag and shoulders it roughly and starts walking away but Derek grabs his elbow. 

“Stiles, stop. Listen, it’s the best tactic we have! I can’t put you on the ice if you can’t take a check! I can’t put you on the ice if the other team knows you can’t take a hit, because they’ll be gunning for you. You’ll be our weakest link! And if I can’t put you in play, I can’t have you on my team. And if you aren’t on the team you lose your scholarship! So just try it! If it doesn’t work, we rethink the strategy! I’ll take it easy on you at first, I promise.” 

Stiles knows he needs to overcome his fear. He knows it. He knows it’s a fear he cannot have in a high-contact sport like Hockey. But... He closes his eyes. His scholarship. He thinks of his dad, and that proud look on his face. When he opens his eyes again there’s a determined set to his jaw, and Derek has a softness in his sad eyes, his ever sad eyes (Stiles has noticed that about Derek, how even when he smiles, his eyes are always sad). Stiles nods. “Okay.”

***

Checking practice is torture, but Stiles gets better about checks. He doesn’t like them, and he still does his best to avoid being anywhere close to the range of one, but he is no longer rendered useless at being subjected to checks. He starts opening up to the team more now that he doesn’t feel like a failure. There is a very distinct shift in his attitude. Derek can see how much more he smiles, even though there is still some slyness and bite to it. 

But the biggest shift is when the Haus starts accumulating pie tins and muffin pans, and cookie sheets. The oven, that they didn’t even know still worked, started producing sweet and savory pies and muffins. The fridge that used to be full of week old take out or caff food is full of fresh fruit, vegetables, butter and left-over pie. The cabinets are no longer full of bottles upon bottles of Sriracha, Ketchup, Mayo and Mustard. There are 10 different type of flour (he didn’t even know there were so many types of flour!), there are more fruits, vegetables, pies on countertops, cooling. Stiles apparently bakes. And feeds the people he cares about. And sells pies. WTF!? When does he get the time to play hockey, go to class, study, bake at the Haus, clean up, go back to his dorm to sleep and do it all over again? 

But the guys (and girls) love it. Greenburg ends up giving his dibs to Stiles (’He lives at the Haus more than I do, man! and he makes sure all of us eat better than just week old Chinese take out -- he deserves it more than anyone else! Even if he is a right asshole most of the time! I mean did you see the way he snarked at me when I ate the last piece of Peach and Coconut Crumble!? I mean, if you leave it in the communal fridge, it’s free for the taking!’). 

[mystech-master]

Zaun Q&A Tidbits

Piltover one here

Piltover got a reddit Q&A, now it’s Zaun’s turn.

link here

question asked by fan

answer from rioter

Q: What made you decide to join Zaun and Piltover into one super-city and what inspired this direction? 

A. This had been in the works for a long while. I know early discussions on the two cities idea were meant to emphasize the differences and similarities of the two cities, while ramping up that connection and conflict through being so close together. They have no choice but be aware of each other every day, and it allows us to delve into ideas about what a symbiotic relationship looks like when not everyone is happy about it. It felt different to all of our other regions, it heightened possibilities for conflict (and therefore drama), and meant we could play very different Champs off each other pretty easily. Regions need to have natural hooks for storytelling and provide opportunities that other places don't. After all, if your new city just does the same as another on the other side of the world, why does the story world need it?

Q. Is Twitch still a resident/champion of Zaun? 

A. Yes!  He will eventually be getting some bio and story love too

Q. I recall some concerns about Zac's parents being deceased in the new lore; what made the team decide to "Uncle Ben" them?

I feel really bad about it; they were cool people who did the right thing, and raised Zac responsibly and lovingly. Those teasers with their scribbled notes on them were really sweet; there's one where they call him cute that makes me smile. Them getting killed in the lore update really guts me, honestly.

At the least I wish one of Zac's parents lived, to be his Aunt May rooting for him. Does Zac really have to be Batman, and not Spiderman?

I do like Ekko's lore, where he explicitly isn't an orphan, so I can't complain that everyone has dead or missing parents, but still, I feel so bad about Zac's plight.

A. Hi, the thinking behind that was that with them still alive, teaching Zac right from wrong, he didn't really have anywhere to go as a character. Was him being good a product of their guidance or something coming from him and what he'd learned? Now he has to embody the goodness he wants for himself by himself, and that's a much more interesting story space... 

Q. Any pre-existing characters served as inspiration for Viktor? Parallels with Doctor Doom are plenty in my mind.

How far has he progressed in terms of his evolution? Does he still need to breathe/eat, has he augmented his cognitive abilities?

It's strongly hinted that he does still have shreds of humanity about him. Is there any part of him that holds any regrets on where he is and how he got there? Or is he completely satisfied with his current existence?

How do you think he feels about Zaun? Characters like Ekko/Blitz/Zac/WW seem almost inseparable from the city, what does Viktor think about it?

Edit: Can he remove his mask? There are mentions of smiles in his story but all we see in the game is his mask. Is it removeable or grafted into his skin?

A. I was inspired by the real-life scientists who worked on developing local anesthesia. Some of them experimented on their own bodies to see if the anesthesia worked before trying their techniques on patients during operations. That mentality felt very much true for Viktor, who wants to make humanity better and would never intentionally hurt someone - he would absolutely test a new method on himself if he thought it might be dangerous or hurtful.

Viktor has performed many modifications to his own mind and body, but neither his body nor mind are entirely machine - right now he is a hybrid, though he is constantly upgrading and tweaking his mechanical parts.

I don't think he feels regret - what would be the point? I'm sure like anyone he has made decisions that he would have changed in hindsight, but he doesn't dwell on these. He uses the knowledge he gains from each experience to move forward and do better in the future. I do think Viktor is happy with his current levels of mechanical modifications, and has eliminated many problems from his life through his experimentation.

Like many of the characters from Zaun, Viktor is very much a product of his society. He has been able to use the ingenuity, freedom, and boundless resources of the city in order to create progress and experiment in ways beyond what anyone had yet accomplished. He is not limited to the rules and regulations that held him back in Piltover - here in Zaun, he can do what no one thought possible.

I've always seen the mask as something he can remove and put back on as needed (i.e., to take a sip of sweetmilk).

Q. I love what you did for Viktor. He's oddly enough "human" and despite augmenting himself with cold steel he's surprisingly warm. He's very sympathetic despite his methods being rather questionable at times. 

A. Glad you liked the Viktor story! :D I had fun trying to imagine what it's like to have have such a strange, logical distance from emotions. And yeah, I definitely don't see him as cold - he can still empathize with others, but he isn't swayed by what he sees as unnecessary emotions like fear. 

Q. Can i ask do you think Viktor is a scientist before a machine herald because he shows signs of sympathy 

A. Interesting question. I would say he is both; they are not mutually exclusive. Viktor very much values science and the scientific method - he teaches Naph to ask questions that dig deeper into a rumor, and to value primary sources as evidence above hearsay. Viktor also believes humans have certain weaknesses of spirit that machines do not have, so he's still very much a "machine herald". Through augmentations, Viktor has done his best to rid himself of what he sees as useless and harmful emotions, but he still has empathy for others (as is hopefully evident in this story). 

Q. Is Zaun's design and style based off of any real cities? 

A. Not wholesale, but all of our work is derived from a lot of real-life references mixed in a particular combination (that will feel like Zaun if you get a sort of rough formula down). There's plenty of Victoriana and Art Deco references, but we don't tend to reference the entire art movement, because that can be too broad. For Zaun's case, we specifically looked at the industrial design in that era and took design cues from it and translated that to architecture instead.

We also kinda think of things like symbolism and how shapes 'feel' to people. For instance, Zaun has a lot of struts and vertical elements. Narratively, we can explain that by saying it's bare metal, it's rough, unpolished, it's the Zaunites' way of building sturdy platforms out from rock. But visually, having struts and vertical elements brings us to a specific industrial era and sets the visual tone of the place as well. So we try and capitalize on these feelings and associations to create the mood of the faction as well.

Response to ^: So Zaun is 1930s New Jersey but in a big canyon?

Response to ^: That's a really good description. We'll go with that. :) It also has strange mechanically augmented people and mutant rats

Q. Would Warwick ever attempt to hunt down Dr.Mundo? How would it go?

So, since Viktor is a misunderstood "Villain", would you say Jayce is a misunderstood hero? It seems like he's really arrogant and only cares about the glory.

A: Ooh. That's an interesting idea.

I'd like to think that Jayce has legitimate heroism within him, but he just needs to stop thinking he's better than everyone else and start focusing on how to work with people.

Q. I have to know, in Viktor's colour story, did he choose to assist Naph solely out of a desire to test and see the results of his fear-suppressing chip mixed with an expectation of a future evolution; or was it derived as well from his lingering human impulses to uplift and grant agency to the downtrodden?

I'm honestly not sure what to, or even what I want to believe of him. The candid nature of Viktor both in his bio and Emberflit Alley really caught me off guard.

A. This isn't the first time Viktor has used the fear-suppressor - he's certainly not using Naph as a test subject. I think Viktor witnessed an inequity when he saw Naph bullied outside his door, knew exactly how that he could help, and fixed the problem. The whole reason Viktor developed all his mechanical augmentations is not just science for science's sake - he genuinely wants to help people and make the world a better place. 

Q. to the artist: how did you make sure that each others style matches and do you guys have a end picture in mind or start and see where it takes you? 

A. Great question! The team has a central idea of what each faction feels like and we try to boil it down to key phrases and also key shapes. We used words like "Industrial", "Claustrophobic", "Pipework", among others, for Zaun. We spend a lot of time gathering reference and trying out different shapes until we hit upon a palette that represents Zaun. Circles, curves, repetitive struts, holes punched in metal. This way, any artist who works on Zaun has a body of research and a database of sorts to work from.Generally, I don't think we have an end picture in mind that's very clear. We have this general idea of how it should feel like, but we don't really know what it'll end up looking like until we go through an iterative process and finally land an image that 'clicks' and excites everyone. 

A2. In addition to what u/riotwhren said about structures, In term of style itself you can compare Piltover and Zaun : in the case of Piltover, a lot of the architecture and shapes tend to be geometrical and symmetrical , a bit like American Art Deco style, Whereas in Zaun, their ability and craft of metal enables them to do a lot of round shapes, tubes, and intricate flowing shapes quite reminiscent of the Art Nouveau metro gates in Paris.:)

Q. What were your inspirations for Zaun?  What was the in-house sorta guidelines for what made Zaun?  Also, incredible work on the stories - Zaun feels like a living, breathing place and it makes me feel a lot more connected to the champions and proud of Ekko for fighting for it. 

A. Hmmmm, I think the key thing we kept repeating over and over again in meetings, both narratively and visually, was... "We need to make it livable. It can't be too dire with no hope whatsoever, it's gotta feel like someone might actually want to visit it".

And of course, the color green. Before we really delved into exploring the visuals, all the green in Zaun was conceptually all from goo and toxic poisons. But we wanted to make it more livable, so eventually the idea emerged that we could represent the green with the cultivairs, and also moss on bricks and stuff instead of neon goo. That way we kept the green but also made Zaun feel more livable.

Q. will  you keep making lore in perspectives of citizens/people who aren't the actual champions?

A. Most certainly, yeah. It's fun for us (and hopefully for you) to see the world of Runeterra through the eyes of people who aren't mega-badasses. Like how reading Tales of the Mos Eisley Cantina made the Star Wars trilogy feel much bigger and deeper. 

Stories about characters who aren't champions allows us to delve into the world in ways the champions can't (or don't often). It broadens the world and keeps it from feeling 'small' by virtue of so many champs all being involved in the everyday lives of people. 

Q. Hello! I am a lore aficionado, and have read and loved every champion's lore, and would like to know more about Warwick, and why you decided to remove Soraka from his lore when she was a very prominent part of his two previous lores. His new lore is still excellent, but it hurts to see such a major player in his lore tragically torn from her spot in his story and character. :(Sincerely, A Warwick main.

A. Partly it was so we can make Soraka her own woman/celestial, partly to give Singed and Warwick's relationship a bit more focus and dynamism. Though we like to include relationships in the origins of our Champs, it's best to do so when those relationships amplify the core of who the Champ is. Personally, I think it was a good move for all three Champs.

Q. Why are u trying to blur some champions identities if u don't have an exact idea of what they are? I'm talking about Janna (also happened to Amumu and Rammus in the past) I mean we are supposed to know exactly what they are, what s up with this ambiguity? 

A. Personally, I don't find Janna's identity all that ambiguous -- she's got some mystery, sure (as magical things should in order to feel properly magical, in my opinion), but she's assuredly a physical manifestation of faith and hope from sailors who prayed for fair winds. Which is why her superpowers are summoning wind and hugging sad gay boys.

Q.--- If you'll indulge me a little further, Noxus's "Conquer and patriate" seems very similar to the Roman Empire's way of running things. Would you say that Noxus's control over Valoran is roughly equivalent to the Roman Empire's control over Europe? And furthermore, does Demacia actually pose much of a threat to Noxus, or do they function more as a "stubbornly unconquerable defender" rather than a political rival?

A. Yep!  Noxus is similar to an ancient Rome or ancient Persia.  And "stubbornly unconquerable defender" is an accurate assessment for Demacia!

Q. A question to help better visualize the city: what sort of fashion do Zaunites wear? What are the differences between each societal class in their dress (i.e. what do the rich vs. poor wear?) And lastly, is there any sort of 'people of Zaun' type concepts anywhere? As I recall, there was at least one concept image for Piltover's people! Thanks! 

A. We do have people concepts, but I'm not sure when we're getting them on Universe. In terms of fashion, there are definitely differences between the classes -- among the lower and middle classes, lots of rolled-up sleeves, layers, and various mechanisms to keep the toxins out and your feet dry. Among the upper classes, brighter, vibrant colors (because $$$), and there's less need to have protective elements in your clothes, so more refined patterns and cuts. In fact, I'd say the rich chem barons would pride themselves on looking nicely presented when riding one of the lush elevators up and down the city.

Q. Does Blitzcrank have any hextech going on in him, or is he entirely steam powered? 

A. Blitzcrank does not have any hextech within his core - he's made from a bunch of discarded golem parts originally powered by steam, but Blitz reconfigured his own mechanics in order to help others. So you might say that he's fueled by the power of LOVE. <removes tinfoil hat>

Q. Has Ryze, in his travels throughout the years, ever been involved with Zaun in some way? 

A. I'm sure he's passed through at some point...

Q. Is there any form of police or anything of the sort in Zaun? half of these guys hunt people at night just for the lulz 

A. The Chem-barons are the kind of unofficial law down there, keeping their patches secure and keeping things - more or less - safe. It's not good for business when things get too out of hand, but it can. And when it does, the retribution is swift and brutal. Also, if things get too out of hand down there, the Pilties might come down... 

(Also if you look on the reddit page there is a huge discussion, too huge for this post, where the Rioters actually ask why people liked the Journal of Justice so much and why they got rid of it. Go check it out if you’re one of those butt hurt people who hate the new lore).

Q. Why the change for Mundo? Why change him from being a scientist who became twisted from his own experiments to being 'lol idk he's purple'?

A. Because his original lore had a massive amount of crossover with Singed both in terms of narrative detail and tonal space. It also just didn't really mesh with his personality ingame, which is much more jovial and darkly comic.

Q. So Blitzcrank is a self-learning AI, but do computers exist in Valoran? if not, is hextech magic enough to this kind of processing?

A. Piltover and Zaun does not have mass production or the factory system - everything they create is made by a talented craftsperson who has studied for years. So all creations are unique, one-of-a-kind bespoke creations, meaning no computers. Blitzcrank doesn't have hextech within his core, he's a steam-powered golem who modified his own mechanics and became sentient in order to make a greater difference in Zaun.

Q. why zaun is full of criminals ? was it a good place in another time ?

A. Not everyone is a criminal, there's a lot of awesome people in Zaun, but harsh times can lead to harsh responses from some.

Q. What exactly is the relationship between Jinx and Ekko?

A. It's complicated.

Q. And what's the relationship between Taliyah and Ekko?

A. I'm not aware there is one...? Though the kid from Shurima might have passed through Zaun in her travels and I suspect they'd have found kindred spirits in one another.

Q. Is Mundo's tongue purple or blue?

A. The blue in the splash is from the potion he drank. 

Q. What kind of relationship do Zaun and Noxus have? Does Zaun regularly supply weapons to Noxus, or does it try to refrain from getting involved in that age-old Demacia/Noxus conflict?

A. Zaun/Piltover trade with Noxus and it's an amicable (as far as any relation with Noxus goes) but the empire is now beginning to see that maybe, just maybe, there's something to this new-fangled technology that's coming out of these two cities.

Q. Does Viktor know about Orianna and if so, what does he think of her?

A. I'd be surprised if he didn't know about her, and he likely thinks of her as some inventor's folly, not yet realizing that there's more to her than a simple clockwork automaton. 

Q. How did Zaun become so toxic and poisoned, it was a normal City like Demacia before anything, wasn't it? :D

A. There was a catastrophe in Zaun's past that sank it into canyons and cliffs that ripped through the landscape, which together with the chem-tech researches that have happened since...well, that's not a good mix.

Q. Any chance of Zaun being completely free from all the gas and poisonous filth? :D

A. I suspect their are chem-alchemists working on that very thing right now.

Q. Were there any inspirations you guys drew upon in the making of Janna's new backstory? I've always wanted a Miss Peregrine-type character in League, so I couldn't be more happy with her new lore, personally <3

A. Kiiiiiind of? We mainly just beat our heads against a wall for a couple weeks until we came up with something that we all liked. We sort of realized after the fact that she's slightly Neil Gaiman-y -- a god who was forgotten and then came back as more people started believing in her again.