#HE BEAT CARDINALS BEAR FISTED

[romaheroic]

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

[nevervalentines]

(went looking for) a creation myth [read on ao3 here]

With the Vytal Festival just weeks away, Yang is left looking for answers to questions she is too scared to ask. 

***

Yang and Blake, before. 

[7k words of a speed run enemies-to-lovers, roughhousing with bladed weapons, and sexually charged hair washing]

Blood is seeping through the fabric of her top, and her tan jacket is gritty with dust. It’s enough to staunch the tacky, rust-colored stain, but only just, and the cut stings with sweat and friction as Yang raises her forearm to run it across her brow.

She slicks her bangs out of her eyes, and reloads her gauntlets with a tight punch at her side, bracing her arms for the recoil as the shells drop into their chambers. Ember Celica is overloud in the sudden quiet of the clearing. Moss-dampened and studded with new spring growth, Emerald Forest is surprisingly silent, as if Yang hadn’t been booking it for her fucking life thirty seconds before.

Then, just there, through the trees – she sees it. Yang’s heart drops, and she risks a step forward, eyes scanning the mulchy cover of dead leaves and underbrush for a trip wire. There’s the potential for anything, from a steel-jawed bear trap to a cartoon-esque snare and net. She really wouldn’t put it past them.

She sees nothing and raises her eyes to scan the trees, finds only the pale underside of the arcing canopy and the gnarl of tangled vines. Grinning, she feels an early flush of victory, a rush of satisfaction that pounds like a second heartbeat. She might actually win this thing; the others be damned.

Bleeding side forgotten, fists held loosely at the ready, she is about to take the final steps toward her target when the metallic click of a safety releasing freezes her in place. Yang winces her eyes closed, breathes out shakily. She feels the mouth of a pistol nuzzle in between her shoulder blades.

Yang knows who it is without turning around. Which is to say: the worst-case scenario. She swallows, hard.

“You don’t want to do this,” she says. At a firmer nudge of the gun against her back, she raises her hands, obedient.  “You can just pretend like I was never here.”

“And why would I do that?”

She turns slowly in place, arms still raised above her head, and finds herself face to face with her captor, finds narrowed, golden eyes, Gambol Shroud pointed squarely at her chest. Blake is wrinkling her nose in the way that means she’s biting back a laugh.

“Because you love me?”

Blake bites at her lip, considers. Shrugs. “Maybe. But not enough to let you take our flag.”

“I was so close,” Yang whines. She pivots her head over her shoulder, pouts in the direction of the blue fabric hanging from a flagpole just a few yards away.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Blake says, stepping closer, until the heat of her thigh presses against Yang’s, “you really weren’t. Pyrrha’s had you in her sights since you crossed the creek.”

“Have you considered,” Yang says, flattening her hands against the back of her head in a way that she knows pushes her chest out, in a way that, without fail, means Blake’s eyes will flick down to her cleavage, “that I was just a distraction?”

Blake hesitates for just a second, but it’s a beat too long, and Yang lashes out her leg, timing the strike perfectly with Weiss’s rush from the trees on the far side of the clearing, darting from glyph to glyph, a lightning-crackling Nora close on her heels.

Yang and Blake go down in an undignified heap, and Pyrrha’s shot spears the space she was in just moments before.

The scramble at the base of the flagpole dissolves into an all-out brawl. A petal-blurred Ruby drops from a tree and gamely tackles Weiss, and her subsequent shrill scream makes an entire flock of birds flee their roost from the above canopy.

More players from both teams race into the clearing, skidding through dead leaves and debris, pant legs flecked with creek water and mud, more roughed up than a 50-minute long, single class period game of capture the flag has any right to make them.

From her spot on the ground, the sky wheeling overhead, Yang distantly hopes some people stayed behind to guard their own flag, but the odds aren’t looking good.

At the edge of the tree line, Juane trips one of the exact traps Yang had been wary of, something rigged so quickly and neatly it has to be Ruby’s handiwork, and it hoists him overhead by his ankle. He dangles, looking resigned, sword sliding out of its scabbard and thunking Cardin squarely on the top of his head.

Cardin goes down like a brick.

Juane cheers.

They’re on the same team, but no one seems to remember the red/blue delineations at this point. The flag all but forgotten, Weiss and Nora are facing off against an odd match-up of Ruby and Ren, and Yang tries to clamber off the ground, ready to provide back-up.

But in the split seconds it had taken the feverish mob to descend, Blake has twisted on top of her, and is driving the hilt of Gambol Shroud down towards Yang’s face. Breathing hard, knees hugged tightly at Yang’s waist, she’s all lithe and muscle – completely unlike close quarter sparring with Ruby.

Yang catches her wrists and squeezes, and Blake drops the blade and scabbard, until the two of them are grappling like teenagers, pressed too tight for Yang to feasibly use her gauntlets, just adrenaline-flushed and tangled limbs, Blake’s eyes flashing, mouth open in an unexpected grin.

“If you wanted to wrestle,” Yang says, twisting on her back in the dirt. “We’ve got beds back at the dorm.”

Blake cuts her off with a forearm to her windpipe, presses down. “I want to do it here.”

Yang knows Blake can be playful – has seen her gloat after a long-fought evening of board games, or loopy with lack of sleep after a few too many all-nighters, pulling dry jokes that make Weiss cringe.

But this – the full weight of her levered onto Yang’s chest, bursting into a laugh as Yang’s hips jump, hands and legs meeting in a mishap of strikes and punches that would make Glynda weep – feels so young. It’s like the tether that tugs at Blake, forces her eyes over her shoulder, knots her brow with worry, has been cut free. Like just for a moment, just for now, it’s only the two of them tangled in the sun-dappled clearing.

They manage to roll to their feet, and Yang shakes her hair out of her face, cocks her fists loosely in front of her chin. Gestures Blake forward.

“Let’s see how nicely you play without your toys, Belladonna.”

Blake’s mouth pulls tight, and she drops into a crouch, leaving Gambol Shroud half-buried in the leaves.

Despite the weight of it, Yang barely remembers Ember Celica exists. It’s been an extension of her own body since her first years at Signal, but suddenly she’s much more preoccupied with how to best get both of Blake’s hands back on her.

“Yang,” Blake says. She flashes teeth. “Stop stalling.”

Behind them, Ruby and Ren are gamely losing, and Pyrrha melts out of the trees, cutting Juane down from the branch with a smile and a well-placed spear throw, catching him before he can hit the ground. All the partners had been split onto opposing teams, but Pyrrha leverages him gently to his feet anyway, backing up a few steps before gesturing for him to challenge.

Cheek smushed into the forest floor, Cardin has begun to drool.

With the full weight of Blake’s attention on her, Yang feels that same second-heartbeat-flush, better than any almost-victory. It’s a feeling she has been careful not to examine too closely for fear of what she will find.

They’ve been partners now for almost two full semesters, and she’s spent too much of it avoiding stating the obvious – avoiding the thing building in between them as if averted eyes will stop the pot from boiling over.

The few slip ups she chalks up to chance, to hormones, to a laundry list of excuses that Blake’s own silence seems to affirm.

It’s working, she tells herself. It’s working, it’s working.

Hair a tousled ripple down her back, Blake’s black cravat had dislodged at some point during the game, leaving her neck bare, skin shining with sweat, glistening in the hollow of her throat. She flicks her bangs out of her eyes and tenses under Yang’s gaze, firming her jaw until the muscle pops, half-smiles.

If Yang didn’t know any better, she would think Blake is enjoying this.

Blake moves on the offensive first, and it catches Yang off-guard, forcing her to step back to dodge a flurry of quick jabs before taking a fist squarely to the jaw. Blake flinches harder than Yang when she lands the hit, immediately backing off.

“It’s okay,” Yang murmurs. Her aura absorbs the punch, and she can feel her semblance simmer, heat lighting under her skin like the kiss of a match against a gas burner. “You can even go harder next time.”

Blake rolls her eyes, but acquiesces.

Even sparring, Blake is careful not to touch her hair – and part of Yang wants to tell her to stop taking it easy, to grab it, pull it. She wants to know what it feels like when Blake plays dirty.

Inevitably, always, Yang comes out on top, breathing hard, the both of them breathless with laughter – unsure what to do with her victory. She knows both of their aura levels are sinking, and Ruby – all but fleeing from Weiss across the clearing – has dropped dangerously low.

When a shrill whistle interrupts the scramble – the flag still dangling untouched, she and Blake immediately deflate, the fight going out of them as easy as it came. Yang heaves a noise of exasperation, drops her forehead onto Blake’s chest. When she lifts her head, Blake’s arms have wrapped loosely around her back.

“Call it a draw?” Yang says, digs her chin hard into Blake’s sternum. “I pretty much had you.”

“Nice try,” Blake says. Her words reverberate in her chest, and Yang feels every moment of their conception, the slight intake of breath into her lungs, the buzz of them as they carry through her throat.

Professor Port’s voice is like a bucket of cold water. He’s standing at the edge of the wood, brandishing a silver whistle, looking at them with ill-disguised exasperation.

“Class,” he says, “I believe the directive was to steal the other team’s flag, not to scrap like children on a playground.”

“Who won?” Weiss pipes up. She’s scraping her hair back into a neat ponytail, standing over a prone Ruby who must have fallen, and has wisely chosen to stay down.

“Everyone lost,” Port says, cheerily. “Back to the school. After that display, I don’t trust you all out here after dark.”

Despite the game’s failure, he seems in good spirits, clapping Juane on the back, and chiding Pyrrha about helping the opposing team mid competition. As punishment, Juane is saddled with Cardin, likely concussed, and directed to help him back to the infirmary.

Hauling herself off the ground, brushing clinging soil off of elbows, picking leaves out of her hair, Yang reaches for Gambol Shroud without thinking. It’s half-submerged in the close-knit groundcover, and she untangles it from curling tendrils of green, robotically sheathing the blade back into the blunt scabbard.

Only after, does she freeze, halfway to her feet. It’s an unspoken taboo to handle other huntresses’ weapons, certainly not without express permission, and here she had done it so casually, tactless.  

But Blake, one arm stretched over her head, shoulder muscles rippling, doesn’t bat an eye. She accepts it from Yang gratefully, fingers brushing as it passes between them. She slings it over her back, and reaches toward Yang, pulls a twig free of her hair.

Wordless, they head toward the group, Yang trying to gauge if she’s going to have to piggy-back Ruby to the dorm room. Still lying prone, Weiss is poking at her with the toe of a boot.

It’s only then, so brief she almost misses it, that Blake reaches between them, brushes her fingers over the cuff of Ember Celica. It feels like the answer to a question Yang hadn’t known how to ask, and the last of the fight, the tension she didn’t know she was carrying, coiling at the top of her spine, ebbs entirely.

They fall into step easily, automatically, and together reach down to help Ruby off the ground. Like a top-heavy punching bag, Ruby lists once she’s on her feet, limbs weighted with exhaustion.

Though Yang reaches out, it’s Blake who steadies her, one hand brushing Ruby’s bangs out of her eyes.

“Reunited at last,” Yang says, laughs at Weiss’s pinched expression. “Can’t believe that game had the audacity to tear us in two.”

“Shut up,” Weiss grumbles, but she’s smiling, and half-heartedly accepts Yang’s high-five. Yang bullies them into a bear hug before they join the others, an eight-legged jumble of girl-sweat and protesting laughter, leaning so hard on one another that when they begin to fall, they topple in turn, like dominoes.  

***

After Port’s dismissal, they troop back to the Beacon dorms leisurely. They have an hour of free period before dinner, and no one in seems to be in any rush to get to the dining hall, content to nurse bruises and grievances, ribbing each other good naturedly, flags forgotten.

Ren is quietly chastising Nora about what looks suspiciously like a human bite mark wetting the sleeve of his tunic, and Juane brings up the rear of the group, quietly sulking, a blessedly out-of-it Cardin’s arm slung over his shoulder.

The wooded forest bleeds into a scrubby grassland, and they wade through waist-high wheatgrass as the spires of Beacon come into view, dodging prickly burs and seedpods that cling stubbornly to their socks and hemlines.

Yang presses her palm to her side. It comes away tacky with old blood, and she grimaces. Her aura had strained to heal it, skin stitching together to staunch the flow, but the last of the fight had drained her reserves, and it reopened easily in the struggle. Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, Blake grabs for Yang’s hand, frowns down at her skin like a disgruntled palm reader.

“How did that happen?”

What she doesn’t say, plainly written on the landscape of her face in a language Yang is just learning to read is: is that from me?

“My own fault, actually,” Yang says. “We really don’t need to get into it.”

She ignores the stinging pain in favor of Blake’s fingers, stroking carefully over the dips of her knuckles.

“She fell out of a tree early in the strategizing process,” Weiss says. She’s snuck up on them, appearing at Yang’s elbow, face drawn with disdain. Her voice lilts, obviously mocking. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Weiss. I’m just getting the lay of the land, Weiss. Those branches aren’t too thin, Weiss.” She sniffs. “You could have broken your neck.”

“See,” Yang says, slinging an arm around Weiss’s shoulder, pulling her against her side, “she does care.”

“I didn’t say it would be a bad thing,” she says. But Yang doesn’t miss the way she turns her face into her casual embrace, her hand coming up to tug at the back of Yang’s jacket affectionately, clumsy, like it’s an action she’s unfamiliar with.

Blake smiles, ducks her chin. “Don’t say that. I like having her around.”

Yang quiets her internal rejoicing to a silent cheer. She feels, helplessly, like a child picking petals from a wilting stem. She loves me. She loves me not.

She beams, bumping her shoulder against Blake’s. “From Blake, that’s practically a marriage proposal.”

Cheeks flushing, Blake tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, looks away. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Who’s getting married?” This from Ruby, fending off an assault from Weiss who is trying to pat down a stubborn cowlick in the tangled mess of her hair.  

“No one,” says Weiss. “You need a haircut.”

“Me and Blake,” Yang says, cheerfully. “She was the one to propose and everything, it was super embarrassing.”

“Congrats,” Ruby says, batting at Weiss’s hands.

“Long time coming, really,” Yang says. She smiles at Blake. “I’m picturing a summer wedding.”

Blake rolls her eyes, but smiles. A rare one, with teeth. Yang almost stops walking, just to take it in.

Clearly over their antics, Weiss lengthens her stride to catch up with Pyrrha, Ruby trailing behind.

It leaves Blake and Yang alone, shoulder to shoulder, picking their away along the muddy, tire-rutted path that meanders toward the eastern portion of the Beacon grounds. In the distance, the colorful, striped tents of the Vytal Festival fairgrounds are just visible, the encampment half-pitched in preparation for the festival, mere weeks away.

The skeleton of a mostly-assembled Ferris Wheel crests over the treetops, like the pale, bleached bones of a Goliath, its mechanical frame at odds with the verdant landscape.

“Excited?” Yang asks. She bumps her shoulder against Blake’s, jerks her chin toward the pennants lethargically drooping in the stagnant spring heat.

“Hardly,” Blake says. She peeks at Yang out of the corner of her eye. “The tournament might be interesting, at least.”

“All the people, the spectacle, the fried festival food,” Yang reels off, ticking up her fingers, “it sounds like your –”

“—worst nightmare,” Blake says.

Yang laughs. “Maybe so, but,” she shrugs, “meeting new people, smashing their faces in, it’s the huntress way.”

“Now that,” Blake says, “I can get behind.”

Ahead of them, Weiss seems to be trying to engage Pyrrha in an in-depth analysis of the capture of flag bout, looking seconds away from pulling out a notebook and taking notes on every one of Pyrrha’s absentminded observations.

“This is painful to watch,” Yang says, gleefully. “If Pyrrha touches her, she’s going to –”

Pyrrha sets a hand at the small of Weiss’s back, guides her around a rock pitting the dirt path.

“Oh, there it is,” Blake says. She’s actually biting her lower lip to hold in laughter, eyes squinting with mirth. “Someone check the girl’s pulse.”

Like this, sun-lit and flushed, wearing her in-on-the-joke smile, Blake is radiant. She’s a little roughed up from the fight, ribbon a dark, striped wreath around her forearms, her top mud-streaked, the single button of her vest undone.

Yang is enamored. She offers her an arm to use as a crutch, and Blake leans into, buries a laugh in her shoulder.

Ahead of them, Weiss seems to be staggering her way through a conversation about semblances, ponytail swishing. She only comes up to Pyrrha’s shoulder, and when Pyrrha pauses, blithely rubbing at a scrape of dirt on Weiss’s cheeks. Yang can see Weiss’s face blush and burn, even from ten feet away.

Ruby, lagging a few steps behind, looks chuffed to be the most intelligible person in the vicinity.

“Why don’t you look at me like that?” Yang murmurs. They’re winding their way through a spindly grove of peach trees, the last surviving vestiges of the orchards that used to grow on Beacon’s loamy, river-rich soil.

Unkept, the trunks fork and spur, rough bark splitting like over-risen bread, papering off in grey-brown patches. This early in the season, the fruit is small and green, but Blake pauses under the heavy boughs anyway, tilts her face upward.

“What?” she says, studying the waxy, canoe-shaped leaves, veins bleeding from the midrib in furrows. “Like I’m going into cardiac arrest?”

“No,” Yang says, teeth parting around a laugh, “like you adore me.”

Blake gestures Yang forward, touches a palm to her cheek, guides Yang to look up to the branches above where, inexplicably, Blake has spotted a single ripe peach.  

Without needing to be asked, Yang knits her fingers at her belt buckle like a basket, offers it to Blake who leverages herself up to grasp a branch, just high enough to pluck the peach from the stem. She lands lightly on her feet, offers it first to Yang, who cups the fuzzed, sunrise-bodied fruit in her palms.

“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough,” Blake says.

Reaching out, she lifts Yang’s hands, brings the peach to her own mouth, and takes a bite. Juice dribbles from her lips, wets Yang’s knuckles, the vessel of her palm. Blake does not meet her eyes.

A world away, the dinner bell clangs on campus, and the sound reaches them across the grounds. From just ahead, Ruby yells for them to catch up.

**

Yang’s sweating again by the time they enter the Beacon courtyard, the sun creeping west across the sky. Already, the moon, in fragments, hangs low over the horizon like a coin toss, illusory and half-spun. Heat shimmers off the gray cobblestones, a sun-stoked haze that blurs the geometry of fountains to a mirage, and she wriggles out of her jacket, stripping down to her orange tank, hissing when the rotation of her shoulder pulls at her side.

Blake looks at her, and immediately cuts her eyes away. Looks back, lingers. She has an affinity for Yang’s freckled shoulders, has said as much, and Yang exposes them around her as much as possible.

Between them, Blake’s fingers brush the back of Yang’s hand. She thinks, for a moment, that Blake might take her hand in her own, and the idea alone leaves her with a wanting so keen it embarrasses her.  

It’s compulsive, chemical, that Blake’s presence pulls her attention like gravity.

A touch curls at the inside of her elbow, and Blake tugs Yang gently toward her, sidestepping a water feature that looms, overlarge and obvious.  

“You were about to walk into a fountain,” Blake murmurs. One of the loops of her bow flicks, a smile ghosts the corner of her lips.

Yang jerks her chin up, begins to apologize, and Blake shakes her head. “As fun as that might have been, I don’t want to miss dinner because I’m drying you off.”

“I think I could have handled it on my own,” Yang says, leans into Blake’s touch.

“What kind of betrothed would I be,” Blake says, releasing her elbow and moving toward the mouth of the dining hall, “if I left you wet and alone in your time of need?” She only spares Yang a glance before stepping out of the final slash of the sunlight, into the shadow of the doorway.

Frozen, Yang roots herself into the flagstone – tries to parse apart if Blake could have possibly intended that as – if she would have ever said something so – and no, right? No.

“Blake – ” she says, helpless. But Blake is already disappearing inside with a light laugh, leaving Yang to flounder in her wake.

In the early evening sun, buffered by classmates on either side, Yang stares after her, desperately trying to do the math, imagines petals shedding like snowfall.

**

It’s Blake who offers, which surprises each of them, but most of all Yang.

They’re scattered around the dorm room after dinner and a short stint in the library, Weiss pulling her pajama top over her head, Ruby dangling upside down from the top bunk, while Blake smooths a bandage over Yang’s ribs.

In just a sports bra, sitting on the edge of her desk, Blake’s hands trailing over her side, Yang feels like she’s lost control of the situation. Blake mistakes her shuddering breath for pain, and winces in sympathy.

“I’m sorry.” She presses down the adhesive of the bandage with her finger gingerly, nails skirting the rungs of Yang’s ribs, prodding the skin as she checks for inflammation. “I’m almost done, I promise.”

“All good,” Yang says, strained. She’s trying to decide if flexing her arms, like, only a little bit, is going to be a dead giveaway. “Take your time, really.”

Across the room, Weiss scoffs. Yang tries to pin her with a glare, but Weiss evades, busies herself tidying her discarded clothes from the day. Weiss must be the only person in the world who folds her shirts before she puts them in the dirty clothes hamper. It causes Ruby endless amusement, and she swivels her head to watch.

Blake’s hands are cool, and Yang can smell the citrus-perfume of her soap, the soft cotton of her t-shirt rubbing against Yang’s bare shoulder as she leans closer to survey her handiwork.

“I think you’re going to live,” she says. She meets Yang’s eyes glancingly before her gaze drops down, hovers somewhere around Yang’s mouth.

Ruby clambers from the top bunk and comes up on her feet, shaking her hair out of her eyes. Weightless with static from the thick, wool blankets, it frizzes and wisps, too short for a ponytail, and too long to do anything but make her look like a disgruntled miniature pony.

Pulling away from Yang’s side, Blake turns to Ruby thoughtfully. Yang, immediately missing the warmth of her, falls back onto the desk, her muscles popping gratefully with the pull of the stretch.  She examines the pulpy, drop-tile ceiling studiously, trying to calm her heartrate, embarrassed at the rush of longing Blake always seems to leave in her wake.

“You know, I could cut it for you, if you wanted,” Blake says. This to Ruby, whose eyes go wide, a little shy, a little pleased.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Yang turns her head, grinning again, shrugging the melancholy off like shedding a second skin. “Now this, I’ve got to see.”

***

Blake drags a desk chair from the bedroom, positions it in front of the sink. She’s spinning a small pair of silver scissors on her pointer finger when she ushers Ruby into the bathroom, and Yang and Weiss troop in as well, like it’s a given.

With the four of them crammed in the tiny bathroom, it’s a tight fit, and Yang leans with her back against the door, Weiss perched on the edge of the tub.

“I didn’t realize I would actually have an audience,” Blake says, quietly, but she isn’t successful in hiding her smile, mouth turning up at the corners.

The sink is running, and she dips two fingers under the flow, waits for it to warm, flicks water in Ruby’s face just to tease.

Shoulders relaxing, Ruby barely grumbles as Blake pushes her gently down into the chair, tilting her head back until her hair wets under the faucet’s flow.

“Too hot?” Blake asks. She cups water in her palms, diverting it until it wets Ruby’s hair to its roots, slicking her bangs out of her face with careful fingers.

Ruby shakes her head, bare feet swinging over the tiles. “S’nice,” she slurs, lashes fluttering against her cheek. “Mom used to do this, remember?” This to Yang, one eye cracking to look at her before closing again.

Arms crossed, Yang nods. “I do.”

Her voice sounds strange, swollen, even to her. She clears her throat, looks to Blake who is looking back at her, gaze soft and steady. The mirror over the sink is fogging with heat, and Yang is stupidly glad not to see her own expression reflected in the glass.

The memory is blurry with overuse, and she feels selfish for hoarding it, something she and Ruby talk about so rarely – the short window of domesticity, the four of them, together.

Blake must sense her discomfort and leans over Ruby, carding through her hair gently, warm water swirling down the drain.

“We’ll just do a trim, okay?” She tilts her head, considering. “Just enough to get your bangs out of your eyes.”

From her spot on the lip of the tub, Weiss is watching the them with open interest, dressed in her slouchiest pajamas, hair loose around her shoulders.

Blake looks back at her. “What do you think?”

Weiss looks surprised to have been asked to weigh in, and shifts unsteadily, pinning her hands under the backs of her thighs, lips tucked into her mouth.

“It will look nice,” Weiss ventures. Then, unsteadily, like she’s unsure if that’s the right answer: “Fine, I mean. It will look fine.”

“Weiss thinks I look nice,” Ruby says, dreamily, eyes still closed.

Yang laughs. “Anything to stop you from going into fights blind should do the trick.”

Blake is methodical and careful, her movements practiced, and Yang watches her hands closely, fascinated by the routine of her gestures. Her long fingers are sure as she brushes out Ruby’s hair, fixing the lengths of hair between two fingers, snipping, tendrils of dyed red spiraling to the bathroom tile.

“You’re good at that,” Yang says, careful not to pose it as a question, even if her curiosity is clear.

“After I left home,” Blake says, tilting her head to frown at Ruby’s hair, thoughtful, “there weren’t places where – well, there weren’t many places that would be willing to serve Faunus, let alone cut our hair.”

Focused on her task, Blake fits two fingers under Ruby’s chin, lifts until she’s staring straight ahead. She hums, approving. When she began to talk, Yang, Blake and Weiss each stilled, incremental, like curious children unwilling to startle a flighty bird.

It’s rare for Blake to offer much from before, even after all these months, and Yang squirrels away every piece of information she manages to glean, coveted closely in a well-hidden corridor in her chest.

“It was a necessity at first, we were moving around a lot, but I like it now,” Blake says. “It’s soothing.” She scrubs her hand under the fall of Ruby’s hair, appraising her work. “I wish we had some clippers, you would look really good with a, like, undercut.”

Tilting her head to look back at Blake, Ruby grins. “Yeah?’

“Oh, yeah,” Blake says. “Very edgy.”

Ruby’s eyes flutter closed again and she leans back into Blake’s hands, accepting the easy touch, pleased.

Watching her like this, the baby round of Ruby’s cheeks, her deep-set eyes, so like Summer, Yang’s heart pangs and pulls. She looks so young, and it’s been so long since she’s seen Ruby find comfort and closeness in groups like this. At Signal, she was always worlds apart.

Too young to hang out with Yang and her friends, and too buried in her comics and starry-eyed dreams of far-flung heroism to mesh easily with the other kids her age. Weiss is watching, too, almost hungry. She is starved, Yang has come to realize, in similar ways – for family, for acceptance, for the way Blake look back to ask her opinion, listening intently when Weiss ventures an answer.

“Okay,” Blake says, steps back. “All set, I think.”

Ruby pops up out of her seat, swipes a hand through the mirror’s condensation to look at her reflection, tilting her head this way and that, before grinning, bright.

“It’s perfect.” Then, shyly, “thank you, Blake.”

“Anytime,” Blake says. “We can pick up dye next time we’re in Vale, recolor the ends.”

Yang groans. “Don’t get her started, she’s been threatening more drastic dye jobs since grade school. I’ve had to talk her out of lime green more times than I can count.”

“The red suits you,” Weiss says, pushing off of her perch to more closely examine Ruby’s bangs. Ruby obediently stops fidgeting, submits to Weiss’s hands, but not before shaking her wet head like a dog, sending water droplets flying.

Aghast, Weiss hisses a chastisement, but cards her hands through her hair, all the same.

“I could cut yours,” Blake says to Weiss. Appraises her, head tilted. “It’s getting long.”

Weiss looks shocked at the sudden kindness, turning a gradient of shades, from a light pink to a dark red the longer Blake looks at her.

“Oh, no,” she says, haltingly. “I have a standing appointment at an Atlas salon but,” she trails off.

Blake nods, that tiny smile still evident on the puzzle-box mystery of her mouth.

Ruby looks on with interest, pokes at Weiss’s cheek, but knows better than to comment.

With a final thanks, the two of them troop out of the bathroom in a snippy caravan, Weiss already haranguing Ruby about an assignment due in the morning, Ruby loudly asking Weiss if she’ll brush her hair before homework, anyhow.

Their departure leaves a vacuum, a pocket of silence, just Yang and Blake, who both seem to realize how close they are standing at the same time, all excuses having fled the room on the heels the others.

“Thank you for doing that,” Yang says, quietly, she reaches out hesitantly and takes Blake’s hand, rubs her thumb across her knuckles. “It’s nice not to do all the mothering, for once.” She shakes her head. “I tried to cut her hair once, must have been about 13. Dad almost had to shave her whole head.”

“She would have loved it though,” Blake says. She doesn’t pull her hand away.

Yang laughs. “Yeah, probably.” She steps closer, emboldened by their hands clasped between them, by the way Blake tilts her whole body toward her, magnetic.

“It was really nothing,” Blake says. “Ruby restitched, like, four pairs of my leggings last week, anyway.”

“It was sweet of you to offer a trim to Weiss, too.” Yang lowers her voice, though the other two are well out of earshot, having closed the bathroom door behind them. “I don’t think she was ready for you to send her into a full-fledged sexual identity crisis.”

Blake throws her head back in a laugh, exposing the long line of her throat, cheeks dimpling. “Oh, no. That’s what Pyrrha is for.” A beat. “I don’t think I’m her type anyway.”

“How?” Yang blurts, clumsy and unthinking, tries to amend it with – “I think you’re everyone’s type,” which really just digs the hole deeper.

Blake looks at her steadily, in that awful way she does, and shoves a little bit at Yang’s shoulder, bullies her toward the chair.

“You should let me do you next,” she says. She must misinterpret Yang’s expression – which flatlines at an alarming speed, elevator music starting to play behind her eyes – and hurries to correct herself. “I mean, not a cut. I know how you feel about your hair, but I could wash it?”

“Wash it?” Yang looks at the sink, back to Blake. The air in the bathroom seems to be getting thinner, and she can’t stop looking at Blake’s forearms, the flex of them as she toys with the scissors, running her thumb lightly over the tapered point.

“You’ve still got leaves in it from earlier,” Blake says, words taut with amusement, “and if you lift your arms over your head, you’re going to undo all my hard work anyway.”

The cut is mostly healed, barely a pale scar at this point, and they both know it. Yang wonders how long they will continue to run round these excuses.

It’s working, it’s working, it’s – “Let me touch you,” Blake says. She presses down on Yang shoulder, guides her toward the chair. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

The chair creaks under Yang’s weight, and her outstretched legs butt up against the opposite bathroom wall. To maneuver around her, Blake has to step between her legs, her hips pressed tight against the inside of Yang’s bare thighs.

Unsure, Yang leans her head back, feels the porcelain cold against the back of her neck. “Like this?”

“Just like that.”

Blake turns on the faucet, and the lull of running water, the warmth of it, is enough to make Yang drowsy and pliant, hands clasped obediently on her lap.

“I love your hair,” Blake says, quiet, confessional. She runs her hands through it, pulls gently, the sensation sending tingles to Yang’s scalp. Yang’s eyes close, and she breathes out through her nose, shifting unsteadily in the chair.

She hears the plastic click of a shampoo bottle, and lavender perfumes the air. Yang thinks of gardens, of soft-petaled flowers, of sunlight and checkered blankets.

“We should have a picnic,” she murmurs. Her muscles feel putty-soft, and Blake’s hands, slick with water and suds, are drawing tiny circles under the fall of her hair, thumbs pressing ecstatically into the corded muscle at the base of her neck.

There’s laughter, barely hidden, in Blake’s voice. “Come again?”

“A picnic.” Yang doesn’t open her eyes. “Just you and me.”

“Did I knock you too hard in the head today?” Blake asks. “Give you a concussion?” Her fingers slip up to prod at Yang’s temples before her fingers firm, massaging there. Yang groans. For her sake, Blake pretends not to hear it.

“I’m not concussed,” Yang says. Against the back of her eyelids, there’s a constellation of color. Blake sluices warm water through her hair, washing out the last of the shampoo. Yang’s hand ventures from her lap, hooks her fingers in the soft cotton pocket of Blake’s shorts. “I just like you.”

She still doesn’t open her eyes, worried that if she does, reality will solidify, transport her away from the dreamy-liminal of this unspoken space, Blake’s hands in her hair, Blake’s body warm against her thighs.

“I like you, too.”

“Actually, I think you said you loved me earlier.”

Blake laughs. “I didn’t. You said I loved you.”

Yang does open her eyes now, finds Blake startlingly close, her gold-flecked eyes, the laugh lines that crease the corners of her mouth like the seams of a love letter, folded over, then folded over again. She steps out of the bracket of Yang’s legs to fetch a towel. Yang reaches to take it, but Blake pushes her hands away, preferring to towel at Yang’s wet hair herself, leaning across her body, her chest pressing against Yang’s shoulder.

Embarrassed now, Yang squirms, but submits to the attention, lets Blake dab away beaded water at her hairline, droplets dripping into her ears, wetting the shoulders of her t-shirt.

“But you were right,” Blake says, so matter a fact, Yang almost doesn’t understand her meaning. Comprehension pales in comparison to the sheen of water on Blake’s hands, her wrists, as she wipes them dry, her hair spilling long and dark around her shoulders, the ends wet where she had leaned over the sink. Blake tosses the towel underhand toward the hamper behind the door, reinserts herself between Yang’s legs. “I do love you. I really do. And yes.”

“Yes?” Yang asks, dazed, still stuck halfway inside the feeling of Blake’s body, pressed up firmly against her own.

“Yes to the picnic,” Blake says. “Just the two of us.”

She loves me.

Yang shifts to prop herself upright against the body of the sink and frames Blake’s hips in her hands, guiding her firmly into the V of her legs. Blake concedes, arms wrapping around Yang’s neck, petting through damp hair. The hem of her shirt scrunches under Yang’s fingertips, slipping up to reveal the unblemished hollow of her hip, the skin of her sides, goosepimpling under the duress of Yang’s touch.

“We should do that thing again,” Yang says, a wish, a confession. Said aloud, she’s worried, like memory, she’ll bleed away the magic of unspoken things, but it only seems to strengthen the energy between them, the accumulated weight of all that they never talk about.

Blake plays dumb, but she’s smiling, ducking close even as she asks, “what thing?”

Her breath is warm against Yang’s ear, and she presses her mouth just there, against the round of Yang’s cheek.

“Close,” Yang says. She exhales, grip tightening.

Blake drags her lips to Yang’s jaw. Then to the dimple of her chin.

“Closer.”

Blake kisses her, proper, all it takes is a tilt of her head, nose nudging into the plush-round of Yang’s cheek. They both breath twin sighs of relief, like the pressure of playing coy has been alleviated in a single moment. Blake’s hands knot in Yang’s hair, fingers threading.

Yang smiles, murmurs: “just like that.”

It isn’t their first kiss, but it’s close. New enough that Yang still isn’t used to the shape of Blake’s mouth, the rhythm of her kisses, or the taste of her breath. New enough that this alone is enough to alight a heady, perfect rush, the thrill of two whole, perfect things slotting into place.

Her hands slide to the small of Blake’s back, splaying wide across the ridge of her spine, and Blake whines low in her throat, tilting her head until their mouths catch in full, her teeth scraping against Yang’s bottom lip.

Blake swings her leg over Yang’s hip, then the other, settles on her lap. The warmth of her body like a weighted blanket, her chest pushed flush to Yang’s. Pulling back, breaths ragged, they survey each other, eyes bright.

Blake drops a kiss on the bridge of Yang’s nose. Again, on her mouth. Yang tilts her chin up, submits. Nods lazily into another kiss, rolls her tongue into Blake’s mouth.

They don’t talk about it, but they never do.

In the crowded, humid heat of the bathroom, the silence is enough, both smelling like the same shampoo, like lavender, trading kisses until their mouths are slick and pink, until Blake has a strawberry bite under the collar of her t-shirt, and there is no excuse they can make to Ruby and Weiss to explain the lost time.

Exiting the bathroom feels like stepping through a portal – the air of the bedroom is stale and cold, and tastes like the bitter-metallic spit of the cranky window unit that churns, futile and constant.

They shouldn’t have worried. Ruby and Weiss are passed out on Weiss’s bottom bunk, tilted into each other, Weiss’s head leaned up into Ruby’s chest, a textbook open on her lap.

Blake smiles at them, soft, and Yang presses a finger to her lips. Sound asleep, neither stirs when Yang removes the book or when she shifts both of Weiss’s legs to the bed, pulls the lip of the comforter up over their bodies.

Weiss does move then, but only to turn her face into Ruby’s throat, fingers curling into the sleeve of her shirt.

Across the room, Yang watches Blake walk through the final stages of her night time routine. Removing her rings, one-by-one, setting them into a china bowl at her bedside. Toeing off her socks – because anyone who sleeps in socks is a serial killer, yang – and turning back the cool underside of her covers.

Yang, suddenly shy, mythical, waits for an invitation.

“It’s only fair,” Blake whispers. She shifts over to make space against the hollow of her body. “Turn off the light.”

Yang does, the room plunged to darkness, and she feels that little-kid thrill in the few steps it takes her to cross to the bed. By the time she reaches it, she fears Blake will already be gone, leaving her only with under-the-bed monsters and grasping hands.

She shivers into the sheets, and it’s Blake’s warmth that accepts her, slinging a long, bare leg over her hip, claiming her cheek with a warm palm, stroking her bangs out of her eyes.

“We need to talk about it,” Yang whispers.

She can see Blake’s eyes gleam in the darkness, a flat sheen. Yang swallows, wriggles closer until she can insinuate her thigh between Blake’s legs, suddenly desperate to be close. She would swallow her whole if she could, sink themselves inside of one another, like nesting dolls, like palms cupped in prayer.

Yang’s eyes adjust in the half-dark in the time it takes Blake to answer, moonlight shredding through the parted curtains. When Blake opens her mouth, the wet of her mouth refracts light, the uncurling of her tongue.

“I know,” Blake says, voice small.

Their hips-stomach-breasts bully into one another, until every breath is a part of a cycle.

“If we don’t, we’re just going to keep colliding until something breaks.”

“I know,” Blake says, again. “There’s just so much I haven’t told you yet.”

Yang runs her hands up and down Blake’s side, slips her palm under the hem of her shirt to feel the blanket-heat of her bare skin.

“We have time,” she hushes. She tilts in, her lips find the corner of Blake’s mouth, press there. Retreat. “After the Vytal festival, then. We can have our picnic. We’ll talk about all of it.”

Blake nods, nose pressing into Yang’s. She giggles, readjusts, turns her mouth into Yang’s cheek. “Okay. After the festival.”

Pinkies twined under the covers, they seal it with a kiss. Blake nods more kisses against her mouth, slips a tongue behind her teeth, until the taste of her lingers well into Yang’s dreams.

Yang won’t remember falling asleep.

[hieromonkcharbel]

Life of St. Philip Neri by Fr. Bacci

OF THE MIRACULOUS PALPITATION OF HIS HEART.

This mode of life Philip adhered to for a long time; and when he was twenty-nine years old God gave him, among other graces, a miraculous palpitation of the heart, and a no less wonderful fracture of his ribs, which happened as follows: One day a little before the feast of Whitsuntide, he was making his accustomed prayer to the holy Ghost, for whom he had such a devotion, that he daily poured out before him most fervent prayers, imploring His gifts and graces. When he was made priest, he always said at mass, unless the rubric forbid it, the prayer Deus cui omne cor patet. Now, while he was importunately demanding of the Holy Ghost His gifts, there appeared to the saint a ball of fire, which entered into his mouth and lodged in his breast; and therewith he was, all suddenly, surprised by such a flame of love, that he was unable to bear it, and threw himself on the ground, and, like one trying to cool himself, he bared his breast, to abate in some measure the flame which he felt. When he had remained so for some time, and was a little recovered, he rose up full of an unwonted joy, and immediately all his body began to shake with a vehement tremour; and putting his hand to his bosom, he felt by the side of his heart a tumour about as big as a man’s fist, but neither then nor over afterwards was it attended with the slightest pain.

Whence this swelling proceeded, and what it was, was manifested after his death; for when his body was opened, the two upper ribs were found broken, and thrust outward, and the two sides standing wide apart, never having reunited in all the fifty years which Philip lived after this miraculous event. It was at the same moment that the palpitation of his heart commenced, which lasted all his life, though he was of a good constitution, a very lively temperament, and without the least tendency to melancholy. This palpitation only came on when he was performing some spiritual action, such as praying, saying mass, communicating, giving absolution, talking on heavenly things, and the like. The trembling which it caused was so vehement, that it seemed as if his heart would break out from his breast, and his chair, his bed, and sometimes the whole room, were shaken. On one occasion in particular he was in St. Peter’s, kneeling on a large table, and he caused it to shake as if it had been of no weight at all; and sometimes when he was lying upon the bed with his clothes on, his body was lifted up into the air, through the vehemence of the palpitation. Whenever he pressed any of his spiritual children to his breast, they found the motion of his heart so great, that their heads bounded off from him, as if they had received a smart shock from something, while at other times the motion seemed like that of a hammer. Yet notwithstanding the shock, they always found, in being pressed to him, a wonderful consolation and spiritual contentment, and many found themselves in the very act delivered from temptations.

But while upon this matter, I must not omit to relate what is affirmed by Tiberio Ricciardelli, canon of St. Peter’s, who served the Saint out of devotion for four successive years. “While I was serving the father,” he says, “there came upon me a temptation to impurity, and after I had conversed with him on the subject, he said to me, ‘Tiberio, come here, close to my breast;’ and taking hold of me, he pressed me to his bosom, and I was not only freed at once from the present temptation, but it never returned afterwards; and besides this I felt such an increase of spiritual strength, that it seemed as if I could do nothing but pray.” Marcello Vitelleschi, canon of S. Mary Major, and also one of Philip’s

spiritual children, declared that he had repeatedly been freed from temptations, especially of the flesh, by the Saint’s pressing him to his bosom and very often, when Philip knew that he was suffering from such temptations, he used to take hold of his head and press it to him, without uttering a word and in no case was this done without immediate release from the temptation.

In his side Philip felt so great a heat, that it sometimes extended over his whole body, and for all his age, thinness, and spare diet, in the coldest nights of winter it was necessary to open the windows, to cool the bed, to fan him while in bed, and in various ways to moderate the great heat. He felt it so much in his throat, that in all his medicines something cooling was mixed to relieve him. Cardinal Crescenzio, one of his spiritual children, said that sometimes when he touched his hand, it burned as if the Saint was suffering from a raging fever; the same was also perceived by abbot Giacomo, the Cardinal’s brother, himself tenderly beloved by Philip. In winter he almost always had his clothes on and his girdle loose, and sometimes when they told hum to fasten it lest he should do himself some injury, he used to say he really could not because of the excessive heat which he felt. One day at Rome, when a great quantity of snow had fallen, he was walking in the streets with his cassock unbuttoned and when some of his penitents who were with him were hardly able to endure the cold, he said laughingly that it was a shame for young men to feel cold when old men did not. This heat, however, the Saint felt more particularly during prayer or other spiritual exercises, and application to divine things. In the time of Gregory XIII. when the order was given that all confessors should wear surplices in the confessional, the Saint went one day to the Pope with his waistcoat and cassock unbuttoned: his holiness marvelling very much, asked him the reason of it: “Why,” said Philip, “I really cannot bear to keep my waistcoat buttoned, and yet your holiness will have it that I shall wear a surplice besides.” “No, no,” replied the pope, ‘‘the order was not made for you; do as you please.”

This palpitation of the heart often affected his body in very different ways, and his various physicians used to administer remedies which he knew would not be of the slightest service. But he used to make game of them very playfully, and say, “I pray God that these men may be able to understand my infirmity,” not choosing openly to discover that his infirmity was not natural, but caused by the love of God. Hence it was that in the fervours of the palpitation he was wont to say, “I am wounded with love;” at other times, considering himself as it were imprisoned in this love, he broke out into those verses:

Vorrei saper da voi com’ ella è fatta

Questa rete d’ amor, che tanti ha preso.

“I would know from you how that net of love is made which has taken so many.” At other times when he could not stand upon his feet, he was obliged to throw himself upon his bed, and languish there, so that his own people were accustomed to say, that those words of the Spouse were verified in him: Fulcite me floribus, stipate me malis, quia amore langueo. When he was surprised by these affections, he used to quote the case of a Franciscan of Ara Celi, named Brother Antony, a man of most holy life, who though he did not macerate his body by any great austerities, was always crying out, Amore laugueo, amore langueo; and languishing in this way, through love of God, he wasted slowly away till he died. But on the other hand the Saint, to hide the real cause, pretended that all this was bodily infirmity, or a custom which he had had from his youth. He almost always kept his handkerchief in his breast on the side of his heart, in order that no one might perceive the tumour. He did not, however, deny, when speaking once to Francesco Zazzera, that for the most part his infirmities proceeded from this palpitation of his heart.

The whole appears still more wonderful from the fact, that the motion of the palpitation was in his case perfectly voluntary. He mentioned this to Cardinal Frederick Borromeo, his most intimate and devoted friend, telling him that it was in his power to stop the motion by a simple act of the will. But in prayer he did not apply himself to do this, because of the distraction; and that the palpitation was so far from being painful, that it created a feeling of lightness and joyousness. This, however, did not always happen, nor did it exactly observe any general rules. Many physicians, who attended him in his illnesses, considered this palpitation as miraculous and supernatural. This was the opinion of Alfonso Capanio, Domenico Saraceni, and others. Neither was this opinion without reason; for, first of all, the Saint had no sensation of pain with the palpitation, but rather the contrary; and besides that, he only experienced it when he raised his mind to God, for it was greatest when he was in contemplation, and grew less in proportion as he drew his thoughts from prayer. In proof of this Andrea Cesalpino, Antonio Porto, Ridolfo Silvestri, Bernardino Castellani, and Angelo da Bagnarea, have written particular treatises upon it; and all agree that God had wrought in him that fracture of the ribs, so that the heart might not be injured in these violent beatings, and the neighbouring parts be the more easily dilated, and the heart kept sufficiently cool.

When Philip had received this great and remarkable gift from God, he frequented the Seven Churches with still more ardour. There he was often, surprised in his devotion with such affections, that he was unable to support himself. One day in particular, when he could not stand on his feet, he threw himself on the ground, and feeling himself actually dying through the liveliness and impetuosity of spirit, he cried out vehemently, “I cannot bear so much, my God, I cannot bear so much, Lord! for see, I am dying of it.” From that hour God gradually mitigated that intense sensible devotion, in order that his body might not become too much weakened by it. It was on this account, that in his latter years he used to say, “I was more spiritual when I was young, than I am now.” But although Philip received from the Lord such an affluence of heavenly sweetnesses, he nevertheless always admonished spiritual persons, that they should be as ready to suffer dryness in devotion as long as God pleased to leave them in it, and without complaint, as they were disposed to enjoy the relish of divine things.

[spyder-m]

Melt

Summary: After taking a bad hit while clearing out monsters in the slums, Tifa turns to Cloud for help with patching up. Lime. Prompt 'Since the invention of the kiss, there have been only five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.'

A/N: Originally written for Day 4 of the Cloti/Zerith Endless Summer Week, only sharing now because I’m bad at Tumblr.

Ao3 / FF.net / Twitter

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One might think that living underneath the plate would come as an advantage in the Summer, the steel sky shading grounders from the sun above. But the arid desert air still beat relentlessly against the Sector, thin and muggy with sweat. Some of the usual, more questionable odours of the slums were coated in an extra, unpleasant layer.

For Tifa, a job as routine as clearing monsters from Scrap Boulevard became noticeably more difficult.

It was harder to regulate her stamina, the speed and strength behind her blows slipping somewhat. It was only exacerbated by the drool that spilt from monsters' open mouths as they barred their fangs; they the dust kicked up, clinging to the sheen of her skin.

Still, she wouldn't let the weather keep her from helping with neighbourhood watch. For the profit, the reputation it brought to Avalanche and the well-being it ensured their little community.

That made it all worthwhile.

Tifa’s grimaced, pinching the damp fabric of her tank top between her fingers as it clung to her undershirt, before wiping her brow with the back of her hand. She lifted her arms above her head, a familiar, practiced stretch, hoping the exercise would cool her down.

Having a second set of hands did help ease the load somewhat. Though not much for the conversation, she appreciated the company. And if the heat was bothering her cohort, he hid it well; the picture of a stoic, disciplined Soldier.

Still, she couldn't help her smirk, noticing his blond spikes drooping slightly, sweat building along his hairline. Noticing her dither, Cloud lifted an eye.

“Could use a shower,” Tifa commented idly. “It’s a good thing we just changed those water filters.”

A country boy at heart, Cloud liked to think he was accustomed to the heat. Particularly in Midgar, having become familiar with the city in his time training under Shinra.

He hadn't, it seemed, spent enough time in the slums. He had not realised how suffocating it could get down there.

In particular, there was something disconcerting about the plate that loomed ominously above upon; the steel feeling as though it was closing in on them. It woke an unnerving discomfort for him. Vague memories of being crammed in a small, tight space, prodded and poked.

Must've been another one of those weird dreams.

Though, the season proved a blessing in helping Cloud get more work. There weren't as many willing to brave the harsh conditions.

As, he was getting to know his way around Sector 7, Tifa insisted on tagging along. She didn't have to push particularly hard to change his mind, not that he'd care to admit so aloud. He much preferred her company to Barrett's.

Though all of Avalanche had shown themselves useful in dire situations, he felt much more comfortable placing his trust in Tifa.

"So, how much further?" He asked, sheathing his Buster Sword, after they had felled the latest pack of Gorgers.

"We should be coming up on it soon, according to Wymer."

"Lead the way."

"Right. We should wrap up soon. I'll need to get Seventh Heaven ready and open before the lunch rush."

The mark in question was a lesser drake, lingering outside one of the factories.

Cautious, it kept to the skies as it circled the scrapyard, wanting to leave a distance between itself and potential threats. Tifa smirked, fixing her glove before she cocked her fist.

"Looks like it’s not going to make this easy."

With a nod to Cloud, she vaulted herself upward, catching their target in the ribs with a whirling uppercut. The drake gave gave a ragged, cry of pain, the wind was knocked out of its lungs; not having expected her to take to the air so easily.

Not allowing their mark a moment of recovery, Tifa continued to rain rapid, powerful blows to its body, hoping to stagger it. With its attention was focused on her, Cloud cycled through different spells, trying to uncover its weakness. Desperately, it began to flap its wings in wild arcs, sending powerful gusts of wind in their direction.

The cool air lashing against their heated bodies almost came as a relief.

The force blew Tifa back, but she managed to tuck her body into a roll, cushioning the impact. She cringed at the dirt that coated her arms in sticky clumps, before returning to her fighting stance as the bird swooped at her.

As she weaved out the drake's path, it abruptly changed direction, kicking up dust to keep out Cloud's reach. Tifa intercepted, soaring up and twisting her body into a kick, looking to deliver the killing blow. This time, however, the drake anticipated her attack, bearing its claws. It caught her across the back in a frantic, clumsy swipe. With a cry, Tifa was swept aside. Unable to brace herself for the fall, she collapsed heavily onto the ground.

"Tifa!" Cloud cried out, before noticing the drake turn its attention towards him. He growled, wanting to check on her but also knowing that it would be dangerous to let his guard slip.

Cloud racked his brain, needing a way to finish this fight quickly. Lowering his sword, he noticed the Wind materia Chadley had given him earlier for compiling Battle Intel. It was the one materia he hadn't tried yet.

Quickly conjuring an aero spell, the drake shrieked as it caught in a powerful gust, dragged towards Cloud. It collapsed to the ground, its wings clipped, leaving Cloud open to bring the Buster Sword down across its neck.

As soon as the drake's body dissipated back into the Lifestream, Cloud ran towards Tifa. His hands resting at her shoulders, helping guide her upright. Though, he kept her at something a distance, not wanting to exacerbate anything if she was hurt.

"Tifa! Are you alright?"

"Y- yeah. Although, now I'm definitely going to need that shower."

"We've done enough for today. Let's get you back to the bar."

.

Cloud was in a foul mood when they returned to base, hardly an ideal time to have to report back to Barret. He didn’t have the patience or energy to respond to his sarcastic quips and Barret was equally unimpressed to find Tifa had not returned from their routine job unscathed. He was met with an icy glare from Cloud when he tried to pass the blame for Tifa's injury on him.

No matter how Tifa tried to placate the Avalanche leader, insisting it was nothing more than a mistake, Barret remained adamant. Being an ex-employee of Shinra, Cloud was already skirting a thin line, and the lone slip-up was enough to vindicate his distrust.

As if having his skill called into question wasn’t’ enough, the idea that he would play a role in harm coming to Tifa; indirectly or otherwise; left a sickening feeling in Cloud’s stomach. He left the bar in a huff, retreating to his room.

Lounging back on his bed, Cloud found himself tempted to seek out more monsters, thinking perhaps it might quell his anger. Though, he realised it probably wasn’t the best idea. They had just returned from a hunting job, after all, and he wasn't in the clearest headspace.

If he was being honest, he felt that Barret’s words did hold some weight. Perhaps that was why they stung so much.

It was his fault Tifa had gotten hurt. He'd made a mistake to stay back and fight at a distance when she charged in. If he'd been up close, with her, they could have worked together. They probably would have beaten the drake much sooner that way.

At the very least, he could have taken that blow in her place.

He felt guilty. Avalanche had hired him to fight, to keep their members safe and it was a job he tried to fulfill to the best of his ability. Admittedly, he did so out of obligation, wanting to ensure that he got paid in full. But with Tifa, it was different.

Tifa was one of the few left he cared for, one of the first and only people in the Slums to show him kindness. Protecting her was something he took genuine care and pride in.

He truly didn’t want to see her get hurt.

She hadn’t left her room since they'd gotten back.

Cloud was beginning to grow worried.

Tifa had been insisted, stubbornly, that it wasn't a big deal and she would be fine after taking a quick break. One of the cardinal rules of Sector 7, after all, was that bed rest could help cure whatever ailed you.

Cloud hadn't been entirely convinced. So, he kept to his own room, wanting to be to close and keep on an eye on her, without violating her space or request not to be fussed over.

He couldn't make out much noise at first, sensing that perhaps Tifa had been telling the truth and was just sleeping.

After a moment, though, he could hear her shuffling around, the sound of someone setting things on the floor and muttering to themselves as they paced back and forth.

Tapping his fingers against the mattress, Cloud wondered what the problem might be. Why, if she was awake, was she staying cooped up in her room for so long? Did he need to check on her?

Sitting up from his bed and moving to open the door, Cloud eyes strained under the sudden burst of sunlight that assaulted his senses. Having adjusted to the shade and soft colours of his room, the relentless glare was an unwelcome shift.

Shielding the glare with his forearm, Cloud shuffled towards Tifa's door, stopping at the threshold. Exhaling, Cloud lifted his hand, wrapping his knuckles firmly against the door.

"Tifa, are you there?"

"Cloud?" Her voice broke after a moment. "C- can you come in?"

At the quiver carrying through her words, Cloud had to restrain himself from forcing the door off its hinges. He barged into her room, any inhibition he may have harboured evaporating, as concern for her well-being became the sole priority.

For as much she'd undersold her decoration job, Cloud was impressed by how homely Tifa had managed to make the drab apartment feel. The pictures lining the walls, the little nick-nacks on her desk and bedside table. Her clothes, books, CDs. The traces of her presence throughout the room made it feel lived in.

It certainly seemed warmer and more welcoming than his own room. Not that that bothered him. All he needed was a place to sleep.

"Cloud?"

As he turned, Cloud's eyes bulged upon reaching Tifa, stood underneath the shower head. Her gloves, boots and skirt strewn in a pile at her feet. Nothing but the dark material of her undershirt, shorts hugging her long, toned legs.

The shock churned into alarm at the sight of her white tanktop, stained with blotches of red, haphazardly tossed by the foot of her bed. His body, impulsively, staggered towards her, hands reaching her hips at either side.

It seemed the healing spell he'd used earlier hadn't quite been powerful enough. The Materia he'd gotten from Jessie was far from being mastered. There were still cuts littering the middle of her back, blood seeping into the material of her shirt from where the drake had slashed her.

"Do you think you could... help me out?"

Glancing up, Cloud followed her line of sight, spotting what she was talking about. The rags and bottle of rubbing alchohol lined in front of her shower, the bandages. The wound was in a somewhat awkward place to reach, even with Tifa's flexibility.

Even if she could, it was out of sight and she'd have no way of knowing if she was cleaning it properly, letting alone bandaging it up.

His mind eventually catching up to his body, Cloud noticed their close proximity and the way he was holding her. His hands ripped swiftly back, eyes lowering as he coughed.

"S- sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's alright."

Cloud was surprised she would ask for his help with something like this. Though they all received basic training, Soldiers were known more for hurting than healing, and... He wasn't exactly one for being gentle.

He'd scared away Marlene just trying to talk to her.

They hadn’t seen each other for years, and hadn't exactly been the closest friends when they were kids. Wouldn't it be awkward to have him cleaning her wounds when she was half-naked? Surely Jessie would have been better suited.

After all, from how casually Jessie and Biggs examined Wedge’s bare ass for burns and gunshots wounds, Cloud got the sense the group were more than comfortable being half-naked around one another.

Though, he had come to realise that there were secrets she kept even from Avalanche. From the brief words they'd exchanged, it seemed Barret didn't even know what had happened to her parents.

It made sense that she wouldn't want to mention the scar stretching down her chest, right between her breasts, from where the Masamune had slashed her. The very sight awoke a burning sensation in his stomach, a similar entry wound lining his abdomen.

It was a night that he too had lived through. The same pain that he had experienced.

For that reason, perhaps it was easier to ask him.

Sensing that he was the only one she felt comfortable turning to, made it almost impossible to turn down.

The thought that he had a connection, an intimacy with her that no one else did, stroked his ego. He wanted to flaunt it in the face of all those men in town who flirted with her, to their landlady who seemed convinced he wasn't good enough to even be around her.

It was so rare of Tifa to ask anything of someone else.

She had taken him in. Found him lying half-dead at the station when others seemed content to let him rot. The fact that he had been dressed in a Shinra uniform probably hadn't helped.

Yet Tifa had found him work and a place to stay, helped him build his reputation around the Slums and earn money, all the while holding her tongue, resolving not to bother him with the many, burning questions she likely had.

This was the least he could do to repay her kindness.

"Are you sure?"

"Mmm." Tifa hummed, coy. "I trust you."

Though Cloud, for a second, wouldn't hesitate to help her. He sensed they were teetering on the brink of something... dangerous. That if they were to go beyond this point, it could make things uncomfortable between him.

He knew how important their relationship was to Tifa, to him, and wouldn't want to do anything to jeopardise it.  

Though, there was something about those soft, pleading, red eyes that coursed warmly through him, penetrating through his guard. Those eyes reassured him always that everything would be okay.

As long as he kept himself restrained, respectful, it should be alright.

Though, after all they'd been through together, he wasn't entirely sure they hadn't mean boundaries left to cross. They were already intimately familiar with each other's greatest hardships, their most personal scars.

There was a strange comfort in having someone see you at your lowest, most vulnerable point; a trust and sense that you no longer have anything to hide from them.

"Alright." He conceded eventually. "Turn around."

Swallowing, Cloud swept the thick curtain of Tifa's hair aside, reveling briefly in its weight and softness. He'd always thought she had pretty hair as a teenager, and now it had grown much, much longer. It must have been difficult to maintain. Yet somehow appeared free of tangles, even after the fights they'd just had.

Still, it couldn't have been comfortable in this heat, and would probably get in the way of him patching her up.

"Hang on," Cloud said, releasing the tie at the end of her hair. Her eyes lifted over her shoulder, curious

Recalling the ponytail he'd worn as a teenager, Cloud's fingers sunk into the dark tresses; softer than he had imagined. He shifted the band higher, tying them out of the way in a sloppy bun.

Tifa sighed, blissfully, as the itchy weight of hair was lifted from her shoulders, fresh air cool caressing against the heated skin. She relaxed at the touch of his strong fingers against her scalp.

The reaction was puzzling to Cloud. The sound coming from her not something he had expected. After having spent years training and perfecting his body as a tool, a means to fight, it felt alien for it elicit such pleasure.

He stepped back, suddenly conscious of the bare flesh he had exposed. The slender column of her neck, the strap of her tank top as it slipped slightly from her shoulder.

With a defiant shake of his head, Cloud steeled himself to lower his gaze, concentrating solely on the task at hand.

His hands hovered over her ribs, strangely apprehensive to cover the last modicum of distance between them. It was skin he had seen several times before, had already brushed against or caught a hold of, in the adrenaline of a fight.

Yet, without the rhythm of battle guiding his movement, anything else to capture his attention, Cloud became overtly conscious of the way his fingers traced each dip and groove of her body, the feeling it evoked within him.

There was obvious tension in her muscles. Something Cloud was unsure if he could attribute to the stress and heat of their work wearing on her, or discomfort from being so close to him. Perhaps once the lingering ache of her injury passed, she would be able to relax.

With practiced care, Cloud took the cloth in his hand, dipping it into the bottle of rubbing alcohol. With measured, delicate movement, he carefully worked the cloth over one of her cuts.

Tifa's muscles cinched up at the contact, hissing as her eyes crinkled into the slightest flinch. The reaction would have been imperceptible to most, but Cloud's hand ripped back swiftly, as though he'd burnt her.

"Sorry."

"It's okay," Tifa said. "Keep going."

Cloud frowned, upset at the thought of causing her any discomfort. Even if it was only fleeting, even knowing her strength and that she had endured far worse; that it would ultimately help her; he wished he could make it more pleasant.

Tifa had asked specifically for him. He didn't want her to second-guess herself or think that trust in him had been misplaced. Secretly, he wanted her to rely on him. To know that even she no longer needed a hero to save her, he would still support her.

Cloud needed to show her that he cared. There had to be something he could do to bring her comfort.

He tried to recall his mother. How she had tended to him when he fought with other children.

Though he would try to be strong and mask his pain, she would always know; lovingly pressing kisses against his forehead whenever a particularly bad wave took him. It made him feel safe and made all of his aches magically disappear.

It was the old cliche, kiss it better.

Looking down, he could make out beads of sweat trickling from the pores of her shoulder, Cloud's tongue slid across his hot, cracked lips.

He was drawn to the familiar, comforting scent of her; a fragrance attached to some of the few, precious memories of his childhood. Yet, there was something equally invigorating about the shape of her body, the parts of her he wanted to discover more.

Somehow, despite the humid weather, he was tempted by her body heat, feeling himself drawing unconsciously nearer. The desire to comfort her, to dip his head and trace his lips over her shoulder in a brief, feather-light caress, was taking over him.

She was so close to him already, it would be so easy.

Cloud urged himself to hold still and concentrate, not to be driven by selfish urges. There was a haze clinging to his consciousness, muddling his thoughts. It must have been the heat must have been making him light-headed.

Still, as he shifted back into place, delicately touching the cloth to her back, a silence rang out through the apartment. The room had become a private space for them, away from the rest of the world.

There was nothing for him to focus on but her.

For Tifa, the sting each stroke of cloth left was passed quickly, worth enduring to revel in the care that Cloud quietly expressed. The way his free hand rested against her lower back, supporting, occasionally massaging her flesh. The way his voice would dip, soothing apologies or words of comfort vibrating from his throat.

It was rare glimpse beneath the layers of snark and stoicism Cloud usually shrouded himself in. The Cloud from her memories, she could still sense traces of. It was a side she felt touched to know, he was comfortable enough to show around her.

Eventually, Cloud washed away the last flecks of blood and dust, leaving only the jagged, broken lines of skin. The scar Tifa would carry on the way to healing. Clearing his throat, Cloud set the cloth and bottle down, letting her know he was finished.

As Tifa turned back to face him, Cloud found himself engulfed by those soft, smouldering red eyes once more; holding him in a prolonged, unbroken touch. He shuddered, rapt by how such a seemingly innocuous, silent gesture could express such intimacy.

In how they knew him so well, could read the desire written in his expression. It was disarming, compelling him to lower his guard, to breach the distance they had always placed between one another. The tension once plaguing Tifa's muscles had melted away under his hands, leaving her slipping toward him. Her hands clasped his cheek, emboldening by the desire to penetrate further beneath those hard edges.

Her face hovered dangerously close to his own now, eyes wide and shining as he sunk deeper in, pulled unconsciously forward. Cloud's heart surged erratically as he felt her breath scorching against his skin. He couldn’t place what was coming over him, lulled by her the delicate flutter of lashes as her eyes closed, lips swelling.

His head tilted, covering the last vestige of distance between him.

His mouth sought hers without another moment to think, to hesitant. It was a movement that came so naturally, the cathartic release of years of pining, of feelings that seemed to daunting and complex to properly convey.

The touch of her lips was sweet, a gentle caress steadily growing firmer, and more confident, each time it was reciprocated. It was a gesture so inherently her. The way she kept him at a slight distance, wanting to show him affection but frozen by hesitance and fear that it might turn him away.

His arms surrounded her tightly, an embrace he hoped might help to ease any doubts about his affection for her, basking in the weight of her body as it melted against his. Her hand cradled the back of his head, fingers massaging soothingly against his scalp. Their kiss broke as a moan ripped from Tifa’s mouth.

The deep, throaty sound racked his body, a dull, throb coursing through his head. Cloud flinched, images burning, one after the other, into the recesses of his mind. Tifa, lying naked underneath him, her hair unbound and spread over patches of grass. Her body bathed in moonlight, face flushed and voice cracking in a series of eerily similar moans as he rutted against her. Her head resting against his shoulder as dawn bled into the sky.  

Overwhelmed, Cloud slipped back, his breathing shaky. The room silently felt incredibly stifling, his head still swimming. Tifa's eyes were half-lidded as they pinned him quizzically, pants spilling from her swollen lips. The vision was almost enough to pull him back.

“I’ll, uh…" Cloud coughed, glancing down. "I’ll leave you to finish getting cleaned up.”

“Oh... Right. Thank you, Cloud.”

Keeping his gaze drawn to the floor as he left, he'd miss the flash of disappointment in her eyes.

[catalystcrisis]

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Original Character(s), Cullen Rutherford/Spirit Healer, City Elf | Elves/Cullen Rutherford, Cullen Rutherford/Mage(s) Characters: Cullen Rutherford, Original Female Character(s), Eve Surana, Female Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus Additional Tags: Healer, Spirit Healer, Slow Burn, Rivalmance, blood and guts and revivals oh my, Medicine, Medieval Medicine, Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, like the slowest of burns probably Summary:

"Some call the Circle a prison - that can only breed resentment. Perhaps opportunities to work outside the Circle? A mixed military service, or healers' clinics with templar support." - Cullen

This fic is his idea brought to life. Skyhold is crammed with refugees, pilgrims, an army, and a sunny Inquisitor who flings herself at Venatori and dragons with her reckless companions at her side. There is no way the Inquisition can mend itself and defeat Corypheus without a resident spirit healer.

Cullen just wishes that she were grandmotherly and doting. Not ridiculously young, mouthy, and unrepentant whenever he catches her stealing military scarves to use as bandages. And she'd better stop saying "Maker's gilded spank paddle!" or he'll shut her mouth for her.

(A big thank-you to my Discord DA fanfiction writing groups! You're all amazing and I'm so thankful for your help!)

Notes:

Hello readers! Thanks for popping in. I know you want to get to the fic, so here is a quick rundown:

This fic is mainly told from a spirit healer's perspective, which means that there will be descriptions of injuries, diseases, and bodily fluids throughout the fic. It will include 'medieval medicine' which is prevalent in Thedas (ie. humorism, leeches, amputations, bloodletting, trepanning, etc.) but it will also incorporate some modern aspects of medicine, so while it may get a little jumbled, I hope it will make sense eventually. This fic isn't meant to be the most accurate history of medicine (I mean, it's Dragon Age), so please bear with my creative license. Feel free to write a comment or DM me if something is unclear!

This is a slow-burn rivalmance. Feed the flames with comments! Please?

Chapter 1: The Alienage and the Ex-Templar District

(You can read chapter 1 if you click below!)

"See here, Eve? How you can feel a rounded firmness - no, use the pads of your fingers, not the tips - there, feel it now?"

Eve held her breath against the sweet smell of rot, knowing that if Nessa spotted a shudder that she would get an earful later. Gently, she edged around the work table and obediently used her fingers to locate the lump under the patient's grimy, whiskered jaw. Just to the side of a muscle was a pea-sized spongey node.

The man hissed in pain and jerked away, cupping the side of his face so just the tip of a pointed ear stuck up above his hand. "I'm so sorry," Eve sputtered, hiding her flushing face behind her long black hair and twisting her hands behind her.

"S'alright da'len," the man muttered, trying to smile but grimacing around his swollen jaw instead. "I just need to grit and bear it."

"Hmm, well, gritting will only make the tooth rot feel worse," Nessa mused. She deftly coaxed the man's mouth open and lifted a candle to illuminate the inside of his mouth. "Eve, how can we tell that it's tooth rot and not an ear infection?"

"Umm," Eve said, trying to ignore the sounds of a spirited foot race outside. It sounded like her friends from the thieves' guild were out there racing the all the alienage children. "His tonsils and ear drums aren't swollen or red, no change in his hearing, and no pus found, thank the Maker."

"And what are the cardinal signs of a localized infection, Eve?"

Eve, who was edging to the clinic door, stopped in her tracks. "I can't remember," she muttered to the dirt floor, tamping down on the guilty twinge at the lie. She curled her bare toes, hoping Nessa would just dismiss her in exasperation.

"Tsk. I taught you better than this and Maker knows I've dragged you to see more than enough infections since you showed up at my door," Nessa said imperiously. There was an undercurrent of steel beneath the wry amusement in her crisp tone.

Even surrounded by mismatched furniture and tools cobbled together from odds and ends, Nessa was regal in the daylight streaming in from a nearby window. She sat on her patched clinic stool like a shem noblewoman - no, as if she sat on the Ferelden throne, a sharp light glinting from brown eyes stamped with crow’s feet. The man dutifully held still in her hand as she surveyed her apprentice with an expectant look.

Eve straightened and crossed her arms. "And they have all been disgusting," she declared. A prickle of pride glowed in her chest - her voice hadn't wavered that time.

The man winced and Nessa pursed her lips in a disapproval. "While that was true for some - most - of them, that is not a cardinal sign and your rudeness will cost you latrine duty for the week," Nessa said coolly, boring her eyes into Eve'. "What did I tell you about treating patients, yourpeople , with respect?"

"Oh, it's alright, she's just a child-"

"A child old enough to know better," Nessa said firmly over the man's protests, fixing Eve with a look that made her feel like a flea-infested nug.

"It'd be easier if infections and the pus weren't so gross!" Eve protested, knowing that she should shut her mouth like Nessa was always after her for, but she was right - infections were horrifying, and the smell ... she was just telling the truth.

"Well, don't get any high hopes for the future," Nessa said, "you are the child of an alienage surgeon. Your future won't be full of gold and candy. More of the pus and guts variety, I suspect."

Eve curled her little hands into fists. She was frustrated . She'd just learned that word that week and that was what she was. Frustrated of being cooped up in the same shabby clinic day after day with its never-ending line of sweating, coughing, puking patients that looped around the Vhenadal all the way to the outskirt fence penning the alienage in the city. Frustrated of standing on aching feet, as hour after hour she would hand over a tool Nessa needed to fix the patients or look at a particularly stomach-turning piece of anatomy that Nessa would present for inspection. Frustrated of having to trot at Nessa's heels as they paid house calls to particularly sick elves who would inevitably be stewing in their waste by the time they got there while the other alienage kids ran and played past them, or ran messages for extra coin from the thieves' guild. Not that she was mistreated by Nessa, not like some of the others or those who served in shem houses, but it was hard to live with the formidable woman.

Heat boiled into her cheeks and she glared as sharply as the costly scalpels Nessa used in her surgeries. Then I wish I'd been left on someone else's doorstep! Eve thought fiercely, wishing she could say it all out loud and hating how calm and expectant Nessa looked, as if she knew and it didn't matter .

A beat of silence stretched, then two. Only the somewhat muffled sounds of a crowded alienage pressed in through the thin walls as Eve glared then dropped her gaze. "Swellingheatrednesspainlimitedmovement," Eve spat out quickly. She sent a small pair of tongs skittering across the table to Nessa then bolted out the door.

Then, because she had what Nessa called ‘an unrepentant need for noseyness’, she hid around the corner. A low whistle drifted through the swinging door. "Thought for sure that she'd do something stupid and curse you til she was blue in the face," the man’s voice said. "What a fiery little troublemaker. And what spooky eyes. Must've rained and stormed the night she was born."

A short sigh followed. "Well, she was left at my door nine years ago, so I couldn't tell you," she heard Nessa say dryly, "but let it never be said that I raised a dumb bunny. Now, close your eyes, open your mouth, lay back and think of Andraste."

Evening settled down into the alienage, the dust quieting as families retreated from the deep blue shadows into the warmth of their shabby but cheerful kitchens. Eve loitered under a ratty awning, tugging the hem of her threadbare shirt higher to cover the colorful bruise she'd earned in her latest roughhousing match from her messenger friends. If only Nessa would let her out more; she'd be able to keep up with them and learn how to do more than just slip out of an attacker's grasp. She could learn to return the blows, learn how to wield a dagger with her eyes closed, slip by Nessa's watchful gaze with the stealth of a black cat. Then maybe she'd be able to join the thieves' guild one day and become one of its infamous Fangs.

She jumped when the door to the clinic opened and shielded her eyes as a bright light pierced the gloom. "Is that my loving and respectful aid?" a familiar voice drawled. "Will the Maker never cease his miracles?"

"I'm sorry," Eve blurted to the dirt without preamble. Even as she’d raced and scuffled with the other alienage kids, she’d felt guilt for leaving Nessa and the patient behind in the clinic. Nessa was the best surgeon of the alienage and deftly cared for patients too complex for apprentices, but what if she needed Eve for something? What if a kid came in with tooth rot and needed Eve’ smaller hands? She hadn’t been able to shake the guilt, even when her friends were teaching her how to dodge a flying kick. "I shouldn't've been rude to the carpenter. I didn't mean to make him feel bad. I know it's worse from a surgeon."

A thoughtful pause. "Why?"

A crimson flush flooding from the collar to the tips of his pointed ears of the bedbound patient flashed through her mind's eye, red in his chagrin and mortification. It'd been the first time Eve had felt such strong waves of nausea and pity at the same time, warring with each other until she could school her face into the semblance of calmness that Nessa wore all the time when she pretended to not notice these things. "Because," she said slowly, looking up, "we're there when people feel their worst. And they need us to help. It'd be worse to ask honestly for help when you feel weaker than nug piss and the surgeon told you to nob off because you stink."

Nessa's dark eyebrows had steadily climbed her forehead, the corners of her lips twitching. "That's- Maker's furry nut- I mean, for Maker's sake, where did you learn-" Nessa heaved in a breath then seemed to count silently to ten like she was after Eve to do. "Next time the guild kids start that talk, I want you to stuff your fingers in your ears or I will clean your mouth out with soap," Nessa threatened firmly.

Eve nodded, biting her lower lip to keep from grinning. She was about to offer to make dinner when Nessa hoisted her traveling satchel higher on her shoulder and instead blurted, "Where are you going?"

"Hmm? You know where I'm going," Nessa said absently, now adjusting her cloak and checking the oil supply in her lamp. "I go there every other week, for Maker's sake."

Eve didn't want to say anything that broke the bridge they'd just repaired, but a cold tendril of fear snaked around her insides. "You shouldn't," Eve said, "not alone. I can go with you-"

"Da'len, you are shaking in your boots - well, if you ever actually wore boots," Nessa said dryly, swinging her lamp to light the cramped alley. "Eat the stew and make sure the fire is put out by the time I am back."

"Nessi, no, I'm fine - I can do it!" Eve insisted, feeling like a baby, using her nickname for Nessa while clutching her fists against her sides and trying to stop the quivering. She knew that she was glistening with sweat in the amber lamplight and didn't care because Nessa could not go alone. "You can't go - not with those, those things . They're crazy!"

Nessa's face vanished in shadow as the lamplight swung in the breeze, obscuring her expression. But her voice sounded thoughtful when she spoke again. " That ," she murmured, "is precisely why I need to go. They may be crazy, but they gave their lives to the Chantry and that blasted dwarf dust they keep begging for. The People are not the only ones who suffer, and we have not forgotten - just as we will not forget others who suffer."

"But, but they're shems," Eve protested, rooting around her frazzled mind for a good enough reason to keep Nessa home and safe, away from the walled-off district full of emaciated wandering humans out of their mind with madness. She sometimes glimpsed their shivering, rail-thin figures hunched beyond the fence separating the grungiest streets of Denerim from the alienage, bloodshot eyes roving; their enraged shrieks and wails for lyrium scared her more than anything. "The Chantry have sisters, don't they? Can't they help? Or pay healers to?"

Tapping came from under Nessa's oiled leather work cloak, a sign of impatience. "You know as well as I that the sisters only know basic remedies," Nessa said tartly, then muttered under her breath, "wouldn't know the difference between an umbilical hernia and a pregnancy without checking the genitals, but I'm not the Revered Mother, thank the Maker." She continued in a somewhat more dignified voice, "And you know as well as I that nothing can be done for lyrium withdrawals, not even with the magic of a healer. And who has the gold to waste for a lost cause? No, better to be eased a little with some headache draughts and focusing solutions than die alone in complete agony."

She wasn't going to stop trying until Nessa stopped using that adult voice and listened to her. "But they don't care about us so why-"

"Who came and put down the abomination in the Banal'ras district last month?" Nessa interrupted.

Eve bit her lip. "Templars," she muttered, hanging her head.

"That's right. We were able to help the injured People thanks to those 'shem' templars whether or not they wanted to kiss every single elf in the alienage. Now, get back inside and not another word out of your smart mouth or I will put you to work with Cyrion."

Help Cyrion fuss over every single human, elf and dwarf that entered his house and listen to him haggle with them over things like 'trade agreements' and 'taxes'? Eve squirmed on the spot, watched Nessa take a few brisk steps down the alley, then ran to catch up before her courage ran out. "I'm coming with you," she declared, hopefully with as much conviction as her hands were shaking, "you can't talk me out of it even if I have to work for Cyrion for days."

"Is that so?" Nessa mused, lamp swinging away to reveal dark glittering eyes and a small furrow between her brows. "Even if the 'crazy' ex-templars start raving?"

"Yes," Eve said stoutly, hiding her hands behind her and summoning every ounce of determination in her nine-year-old body.

She waited on a knife's edge, trembling between wanting to go with Nessa and wanting to run inside the steamy warmth of their home until Nessa finally gave a curt nod. "Get your boots and your bag," she ordered in a tone that brooked no arguments. As Eve scurried inside to obey, she heard Nessa mutter, "and I hope your sticky-fingered friends in the guild teach you how to lie better."

Eve clopped along behind Nessa’s trailing cloak, trying not to trip on the patched leather boots that she was still growing into. The further they walked from their clinic by the vhenadal, the more cramped the dirt roads became with piles of filth and the buildings teetered higher and higher to accommodate the poorest of the alienage. Jagged bricks and hungry eyes gleamed in Nessa’s lamplight as they neared the gap-toothed fence on the outskirts of the alienage. Two tall silhouettes loitered by the posts, their armor glinting in the lamplight set behind them.

“Hello there,” Nessa called in a carefully neutral tone. Eve was suddenly struck with the need to drag Nessa home by the cloak as a distant moan carried through the blackness beyond the light. Was it too late to turn back?

“I am Nessa Surana, and this is my daughter,” Nessa continued, “we are here to help the ex-templars.”

The human closest to them peered down at them from under his helm with eyes rounder than any elf’s. “Help? Riiight… You know that the crazies don’t have anything worth stealing even for you rabbit-ears, eh?” he asked suspiciously. “They’ll have lost it or traded it for dust by now, and they’re howling at the moon tonight. Best to stick to your side of the fence-”

“Trenton, that’s the elf surgeon from two weeks ago.” Another armored human walked up and peered down at them, the lamplight throwing his acne scars in sharp relief. “You here to try and get them to shut up again? We won’t say no to that.”

“They aren’t supposed to,” a new voice interjected from behind Eve. She almost jumped into Nessa as a redheaded elf dressed in battered leathers suddenly stepped out of the shadows with a scowl. “They’re supposed to be home letting the shems take care of themselves.”

“As are you , Shianni,” Nessa said, looking unperturbed. “You’re going to worry Cyrion being out so late and I don’t need him on my doorstep first thing in the morning.”

“And who’s this?” the guard with the scars asked with his hand on his sword hilt.

“No one you need to know, shem,” Shianni sneered with a hand on her hip. At thirteen, she was four years older than Eve and starting to blossom into womanhood. The new swell of her hip emphasized the wickedly curved dagger hanging from her belt. Despite herself, Eve felt a stab of admiration at her courage against the large, towering humans.

“This is my niece,” Nessa said as she swept the youth under an arm. Eve could see Nessa’s fingertips pressing into Shianni’s shoulder tightly. “She is a demure flower who likes to keep her opinions to herself and is always polite to strangers,” Nessa continued, “because otherwise, her aunt will tell the nice guards about that time she ran through the alienage stark naked-”

“I don’t care if you do,” Shianni sputtered, flushing as red as her hair and trying to squirm out of Nessa’s grip. “And anyway, I’m only here because you shouldn’t be out alone and uncle Cyrion agrees with me-”

“Look,” the other guard interrupted, “I don’t care who you lot are or who your aunt or uncle or fourth-removed humpback is. What do you want with the crazies?”

“We want to help heal them,” Eve said when Nessa and Shianni started to argue again.

The two guards instantly took a step back and raised their shields. “What, like magically?” the scarred guard asked.

“No, thank the Maker,” Nessa answered swiftly. “None of us are apostates. We are just surgeons, seeking to help ease the old templars.”

“Well, she’s the surgeon,” Shianni said, pointing at Nessa’s bulging work bag full of draughts and surgical tools, “best one in the alienage and the brat’s her apprentice. I’m their messenger.”

The taller guard glanced at her dagger and the hard look in her eyes. “Messenger. Right. And I’m King Cailan,” he said.

“Just let them through,” the scarred guard said, elbowing his peer. “The Chantry doesn’t look out for them enough after they leave,” he muttered to the elves, “five gold bits and a thank-you doesn’t pay the bills for long or buy enough lyrium for the rest of their blighted lives. It’d be more than what the Chantry does if you could make them feel better with your potions and whatnot.”

The other guard snorted. “Softie.”

“Thank you,” Nessa said gracefully as they passed, leaving the guards to bicker with each other.

Past the fence, the dirt road occasionally winked with shards of broken glass. The muddy puddle Eve stepped in crunched oddly, and she was suddenly grateful to Nessa for insisting on her wearing boots. She didn’t fancy walking around on bleeding feet, forcing glass shards deeper and deeper into her flesh with every step. Then she’d get an infection - probably the nasty kind that turned the skin green, then black and foul until the toes shriveled and fell off… she shuddered and tried to peer beyond the small circle of light the lamp threw off instead.

Skeletal remains of burnt buildings loomed out of the darkness as they passed, broken walls yawning with shadows. Cloaks and jackets propped up on sticks lined the dirt roads as well, sometimes with feet or a hand poking out from underneath. Eve stifled a yelp when the makeshift tent they were passing emitted a high-pitched scream and immediately glued herself to Nessa’s side.

Shianni scoffed, her hand on her dagger as they passed another tent with a pair of bare feet covered in sores sticking out. “You should tuck tail and run home, bunny,” she said, “don’t know why you’re even here, not being a full surgeon or a healer to help at all…”

“Eve’s been really helpful around the clinic,” Nessa said with a warm hand on Eve’s shoulder, “and she’s mostly been good with her studies. Not so much with infections, however.”

Eve flushed a little even as her eyes jumped from tent to tent. “I wish I could heal magically,” she said, giving voice to a persistent thought she’d been having, “so I can fix everything and people won’t hurt anymore-”

“No,” Nessa interrupted. Eve flinched as her fingers turned into claws on her shoulder. “No, da’len. Be glad that you aren’t mage-touched,” Nessa continued in strained voice, “they can turn into abominations in a moment, then tear apart a building and its people in a blink.”

“I wouldn’t become an abomination if I were a mage,” Eve said indignantly. “Or use blood magic. I know better.”

“Well, thank the Maker that you aren’t touched with magic,” Shianni said, “or you’d be shipped off to a Circle, like Neria. Then you’ll vanish when the templars take you in the night, never to see the alienage again.”

“That’s enough,” Nessa said sharply. “Eve hasn’t shown a single sign of magic and that’s how it’ll stay. How else am I going to retire as an old lady? As if your uncle hasn’t enough grief with his only child gone. And enough talk of blood magic, we’re getting up to the right tent-”

A roar made all three of them jump and the lamp clattered into the mud. Shianni scrambled in front of Nessa and Eve with her rusty dagger thrust out as something erupted from the tent right next to them and roared, “BLOOD MAGIC?”

At first, Eve thought a scarecrow had been possessed and brought to life. What froze the scream in her throat was realizing that the black pits carved into the scarecrow’s haggard face were in fact sunken sockets with only a pinpricks to hint at burning, roving eyes in their depths. Greasy, matted grey locks hung around hollow cheeks and dirty skin hung in wrinkled drapes off the bones. What Eve realized to be a painfully emaciated old human staggered to his feet, waving a roughly sharpened tent pole in Shianni’s snarling face while clutching a fist to his breastbone.

“You looking… sacrifices?” he shouted, waving the stick and they all leapt back another pace. “ABOMINATIONS?”

“Hugh, no!” Nessa shouted, raising a beseeching hand toward him and holding Shianni back with the other. “My name is Nessa, do you remember me? I gave you the headache draught two weeks ago when you were feeling bad.”

Hugh jumped at his name, then swayed on his feet as he peered at them with a bloodshot eye. “Nessa?” he mumbled to himself, his fetid breath and quick, jerky movements making Eve mince a step back. “Feel bad… all th’time. All the time. Not abomination? No… not Nessa. Circle prayers start in an hour. Must ready… things. Headache… yesterday?”

“It was two weeks ago, Hugh,” Nessa said soothingly, trying to shake off Shianni and Eve as they tried to pull her back to the gate. “I brought more for you-”

Shianni and Eve cried out as Hugh suddenly dropped the stick and hauled Nessa to him by the arm. “You have it?” he asked fervently, the tip of an open sore on his nose almost touching hers, “you have the lyrium? I need my next dose, knight-captain, I’m burning on low and I found a little yesterday - day before yesterday? Monday? But it wore off fast and I got a wildfire in my head and I need it -”

“Hugh, listen to me,” Nessa coaxed and Eve could hear a note of desperation in it. Nessa threw a warning look at Shianni and continued softly, “Hugh, my name is Nessa. I’m here to help your headache. It’s in my bag - would you like some?”

Hugh swayed and blinked slowly at her as Eve discreetly scrambled to find the right potion in Nessa’s satchel. “Nessa…? Surgeon?”

“That’s right, Hugh,” Nessa said. “I have this headache draught for you. Best to drink it now.”

Hugh stared emptily at her, then relaxed his skeletal hands. He grabbed the bottle Eve offered without really looking at her and swigged down the red concoction as Shianni tugged Nessa back behind her.

“My thanks, Mother Christine,” Hugh said brightly, bouncing on the balls of his bare feet and trying to tuck his stick at his waist like a sword, seemingly unaware that he was wearing nothing but a long, holey tunic. “Best thing for a growing boy like me, need all the food I can get. All this trekking up and down the tower in full armor tires me out like nothing else. Well, maybe not as bad as drill. These mages better appreciate the view, eh?”

“I hope they did, Hugh,” Nessa murmured sadly. “You should get some rest.”

“Not a bad idea, Mother Nessa,” Hugh croaked, turning to peer up the line of makeshift tents. “My room… over here. I’ll see you at morning service. Good night, Mother.”

He bent to wrap a ratty blanket and the lamp threw a ridge of shadows down the knobs of his spine. As Hugh laid down on the dirt and made himself comfortable under the blanket, Shianni and Eve stared at each other, then at Nessa who was rapidly blinking wet eyes.

“We aren’t done yet. Come, he’s usually just along here,” Nessa said briskly, scooping up the lamp and heading past a few more tents towards a burned-down lean-to. Eve lingered, staring at Hugh’s shiny balding pate and at the small glass vial cradled in the hand laying by his whiskered chin before hurrying to catch up to Nessa and Shianni.

Nessa was crouched in the shadow of a crumbling wall with Shianni standing guard at her back. In the corner of the lean-to lay a shriveled husk on its side, even more painfully thin than Hugh. This man - who was probably an ex-templar - had sparse hair, neck and limbs stiffly bent inwards, and if it weren’t for the shallow rise and fall of his ribs Eve would have thought Nessa was paying her respects to a dead man. His crusted eyes didn’t even flutter when Nessa murmured soothingly to him, trying to coax him to swallow the drops of a draught that she’d poured into his mouth.

“Nessa,” Shianni hesitated, for once looking like a young teenager as she watched her aunt work, “I don’t think… will that even help? He looks like he’s going to…”

A muscle jumped in Nessa’s jaw as she abandoned the draught and instead tucked the patched cloak the man was curled under more firmly around him. Eve quietly kneeled beside her and helped. “Yes, he is on his way to the Maker,” Nessa agreed.

“Then why bother?”

“Because no one should die alone like this,” Nessa said. “The Chantry uses up their youth and dedication, then kicks them out when they can’t keep the delirium at bay. You saw Hugh - and you’ll see more, here. They all end up here eventually, without a copper to their name and begging for the demon dust even if it’s what got them to this stage in the first place.”

“Don’t the sisters come here?” Shianni persisted. “They should help-”

“But they don’t,” Nessa said, her voice laced with contempt. She laid a soothing hand on the man’s shriveled fist, the skin covered in old scars. “The withdrawal leeches at their sanity. They forget the most recent events first… how they got here, where they are, where they pawned their sword. Then they forget people - family, if they ever had one. Then their name. Then they forget how to walk, talk… how to eat or drink. Sometimes they remember certain things, but once they forget how to do bodily things… it isn’t long, after that.”

Eve’s eyes burned and she choked down a shuddering breath, patting the man’s cool skin unseeingly. She swiped at her eyes and was surprised to see Nessa watching her, a warm light in her own. “Do you see, da’len?” Nessa asked. “This is… we can’t leave others to a fate like this. Even if they don’t have pointed ears. It’s never a competition to see who has it worse… we must help, if we can.”

Watching the man gasp shallowly through chapped lips, Eve couldn’t help but agree.

[jimlingss]

His Name [1]

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Words: 5.5k

Genre: Angst, Multiple Personality!Au Summary: Jeon Jungkook is a puzzle with too many missing pieces from his past and too many sides. Somehow, it’s become your job to solve him. → Inspired by the Korean Drama - Kill Me Heal Me Warnings: Topics of mental health, mentions of death and medical disorders.  Disclaimer: Although this piece of work required lots of in-depth research and was attempted to be as accurate as possible, at the end of the day, I am not a psychologist and this is fanfiction. Specific things may be altered or exaggerated for story-telling purposes. Please take all medical terminologies and procedures with a grain of salt.

Cr.

His eyes flash open.

“You need us.”                       “Jungkook.”     “We’re only trying to help you.”

He bolts straight up, only to fall off the mattress and onto the hard ground. The thin, cardinal curtains are closed, trickles of sunlight pouring in and painting the unfamiliar room in a hue of crimson. His head is pounding and his eyes are swollen; he doesn’t know where he is or who he is.

It’s an unfamiliar motel room - the brown patterned covers are shoved in a corner, the drawers thrown open, chairs knocked over and the gray static of the television casts a glow, his shadow flickering with the screen. The full length mirror is shattered, jagged shards littering the carpet and coloured with the same dried scarlet that marks his skin. His fist is sliced in a line, gashed open but he pays no concern as he stares at what’s leftover of the mirror; his reflection is split to show more than two eyes, his face slashed with the splitting grooves.  

He ignores the stinging pain of his hand as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand - ten missed calls and a text message from Inhye. He can barely read it in the darkness of the room.

‘Thank you so much for everything. I really enjoyed myself.’

He doesn’t remember a single thing of yesterday.

Jungkook with his pounding heartbeat and in helpless desperation, slumps to the floor, curling his legs together. As his body begins to shake, his trembling fingers reach up to grab fistfuls of his hair, trying to rip the strands from his skull. A scream of rage tears through his throat.

The voices never stop.

//

No matter what corners you turn, the scent of disinfectant will always follow; perhaps wafting in the air or simply clinging onto your white coat. It’s become your consoling partner, reminding you where you are and keeping your feet rooted to the ground. It keeps your mind away from him.

You curl your fingers around the cool metal handle, sliding the door open for the blazing saffron shade on the wall to blind your eyes. Immediately, you observe the two nurses in the room and the white curtains pulled to separate the space between the beds.

The first girl lying in her bed has her eyes wide open, blankly staring at the ceiling. She’s fifteen years old and transported to the mental health unit earlier this morning when she tried to commit suicide. You’ll have to conduct a suicide assessment test in order to know how immediate the danger is. Depending on the results, you’ll bring Jieun over to find out the patient’s state of mind and decide what kind of therapy would be the most suitable to help.

The boy in the second bed is sleeping while grasping onto his teddy bear in tight fists. He’s been diagnosed with schizophrenia and alongside taking medication, he’s going through psychotherapy. In a few days, he’ll be able to function enough to be discharged from the hospital but it’s essential that he continues his therapy.

You scribble some notes on your clipboard, exchanging a few words with the nurses to get an update on the patients. Your entire morning is comprised of the same routine, your undeterred focus and concentration on each patient, checking and adjusting treatment plans. It’s when you walk back to your office that you recognize a figure standing by the window.

“Nayoung? Oompf.”

She swivels on her toes, racing up to you and engulfing your body within her arms. A tiny giggle escapes your lips as you place the clipboard down on your desk, returning her hug. The dark bags under your eyes seem to alleviate its pressure for a split second.

“Y/N! You didn’t tell me that you were back!”

“Well...I’m back.”

The both of you let go of each other, a good distances away as she studies your face with a smile. “How long has it been? A decade?!”

“Don’t exaggerate.” You grin at your old colleague. “It was only for a half a decade.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes and digging her hands into her white coat. “And you didn’t even tell me!”

“I literally just got back a week ago.” You mutter to her in an attempt to ease her pout.

“One week and you’re already managing the Mental Health Unit, huh.”

“What can I say?” You shrug with a sigh, unclipping the documents on your clipboard and searching for the right file in your cabinet. “Going overseas and studying there made me more qualified back here, I guess.”

“That and the fact that you graduated as the top psychologist of your PhD class and before you left you were running this department anyways. It’s no wonder you’ve gotten your position back so quickly. I bet they were begging on their knees for you.” She teases, the tip of her tongue peeking out at you as she plops down in your armchair.

“Please. And what about you? Aren’t you doing well in the Pediatric Care Center?”

“I am. But as you can see. I’m currently on my break. Have you had any breaks?”

“Nayoung.” You draw out her name in exasperation, placing back the file into its proper place.

“Just answer the question, Y/N.”

“We literally just reunited after half a decade and you’re already nagging me?”

She ignores you. “I’m going to take that as a no.” She melts into a smile while shaking her head in disapproval. “You haven't changed at all. Even after all these years….when will you ever stop being a workaholic, Y/N?”

It’s your turn to ignore her.

You pull out a binder from your shelf, searching for a specific page that you've been thinking about all morning. It could potentially help with your patient that has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Nayoung sighs. “I really didn’t expect you to come back.”

Your hands halt, glancing up at her for a second before turning back down and murmuring under your breath- “Me neither”.

“What made you?”

“I guess I missed….I missed home.” You admit with a meek upturn of your lips. “No matter where I went….”

...you could never escape the demons of your past. The change of scenery could never change who you were.

“Nothing beats home.” She nods in agreeance, leaning back. “I get it. I’m glad you’re back, Y/N.”

“Thanks. I’m glad to be back.” You bring your full attention onto her, exchanging smiles.

“Say…” She turns around, having gotten up and ready to greet you goodbye as her break was nearing the end. “...have you….have you talked to Seonho, yet?”

With the mention of him, something uncomfortable lodges in your throat. She quickly retracts her words. “I mean...it’s just that...I know it’s a serious-..um...he’s asked me about you.”

You manage a strained smile but your voice comes out weaker than you expect. “No. I haven’t got the chance yet.”

She nods, eyes downcasting in sympathy and understanding. “If you can...Y/N...you should really visit him.”

The dark past that had been chasing you for five years comes to catch you faster than anticipated. It wraps its arms around your body and holds you captive to regrets. Your limbs are chained by bitter anguish and it’ll never cease to play the game of ‘what if’ with you.

“I will.”

//

His fingers are wrapped around the orange container, hand shoving the white cap off to spill the pills into his palm. His pupils never stop scrutinizing the reflection in the mirror - not for a mere split second as he presses the bitter capsules to his bleeding lips and his tongue twines them. He forces the medication down his throat, despite knowing that it has no effects, that it will never be any curative for his illness. The label has all but faded away, ripped at the edges but he pays no mind as he shoves it back into the bathroom cabinet.  

It is another day that he must walk in the body that is no longer his.

“Jungkook. Your father would like to see you.”

He brings up his white bandaged hand, motioning to silence the secretary. His eyes are pinned straight ahead, lips in a straight line to perfectly mask his pain in a blank expression.

“I am fully aware.”

The workers of the floor peek their heads past their cubicles, orbs glued onto him and their mouths draw open. Murmurs befall from their lips, rolling off like sugar and melted butter - words like rich and handsome, ‘it’s the CEO’s son’. Yet, he can’t find it in himself to be satisfied by the numerous titles they’ve branded him nor does it swell the pride in his chest. It’s not to say that he is modest. He finds it amusing. Black suits, swept hair, expensive watches and a home worth more than millions doesn’t account to anything.

If only they knew how broken he was inside.

“You called me?” He shuts the door behind him, taking measured strides up to the desk where his father is seated behind in a chair, his hands clasped together in thought.

“Sit.”

He hides his uneasiness, forcing his hands not to tremble as he obeys. His father’s tone is icy and malicious but his eyes are even colder; a glare that could drive Jungkook to run through the colossal glass windows behind his father and pummeling to the hundred floors below - greeting death would be more merciful.

His father cuts to the chase, throwing down a stack of papers on top of the desk, in front of his eyes.

“Look.”

Jungkook immediately recognizes the white pages. “It’s...it’s the deal I signed yesterda-”

“I said ‘look’.”

He takes the documents into his hands, seeing no faults and turning the pages. He racks his brain, narrowing his eyes onto the endless black and white to find the mistake. He turns the page. He turns the page.

He turns the page.  

He

       Turns

   The

              Page.

And on the very last one, he can barely recognize the swirling ink that signs the bottom of the sheet. It’s ordinary to see his name in someone else’s handwriting; work that he was suppose to do completed by another. It’s happened countless times before. But this time, it’s a clumsy mistake that has never occurred before. Instead of the name ‘Jungkook’, it is the signature of the name ‘Namjoon’.

“Are you kidding me, Jungkook?!” His father slams his fist against the wood of the table, his voice shaking with anger. Jungkook immediately winces back, not being able to help the shaking of his legs. “Do you take this as a joke?!”

“I’m...I’m sorry.” His teeth sink into the bottom of his lips, forcing the tears that well up in his eyes to wither away. “It’s...it was my...my…”

“Are you going to blame it on your fake disorder?” Jungkook’s father sits back in his chair, eyes still scrutinizing his son and after a full minute of silence, a chuckle falls from his mouth. It’s not a laugh of joy but one full of disgusted disdain and disbelief. “When will you grow up?”

“I’m…” He stutters before finally being able to look his father in the eyes. “..sorr-”

“Save your apologies.” He spits out sharply. “This. Whatever this is. Get it fixed. I can’t have someone signing fake names in contracts. I can’t have such an idiot taking over the company. You’re getting married soon, what are you going to do then? Stay home. Don’t come anymore. Not until you get it fixed or learn how to take responsibility and behave yourself.”

The two men stare at each other; the younger one with his hands trembling and orbs full of desperation…an ache to be acknowledged…..loneliness. The older dismisses him, looking away to the enormous towers out the window, each a rival and an ally. The two barely share any resemblances aside from the dark shade of their locks. Jungkook has softer features, a rounder face and contrary to his father’s cold ones, Jungkook has bigger eyes carrying an innocence that his father absolutely hates.

“Leave.”

The voices are screaming inside his head, his fingers twitching to switch but he holds it down, even when it pains him to the very core. No. No. Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!

Jungkook spares one last glance at the silhouette of his father before he withdraws into the darkness.

//

It must be urgent.

They had called you in the middle of the day, in the middle of your shift without giving much of an explanation, merely using the word ‘emergency’. And that awoke an instinct that you were trained with, causing you to run down the halls and past the other units to the third floor.

You swallow your gasps as you open the cream doors of the conference room, not wasting a second to knock.

“You called?”

Your arms are by your side, hands clenched in fists. Your white coat is slipping from your shoulders, the hair from your bun falling to the sides of your face. “Wha-what’s going on?” You take one scan of the vast room, the bleached coloured walls and the stretched wooden table sitting in the center. There’s an unfamiliar man wearing a business suit, sitting across from the chief who’s smiling at you.

They seem far too relaxed.

You’re on alert.

“Calm down, Y/N. Come. Take a seat.”

You follow the orders warily, narrowing your eyes at the stranger as you pull a black chair beside the older man. “How are you? You’ve only been back for a week. Are things going well?”

“Yes. They are.” It’s unusual that he’s asking you such trivial questions. “Is there something wrong?”

He hums, arms crossing. “Not wrong per say…But Y/N, this is Mr. Jinkey.” You nod at the black suited man who kindly smiles at you. “Mr. Jinkey, this is Y/N. She’s our modern day genius, entering university at an early age and the highest graduate amongst all her peers. She’s a certified clinical psychologist with a PhD and she recently came back from overseas. Currently, she’s running our entire Mental Health Unit.”

Your suspicions are only growing. He’s not one to give any compliments, afraid that egos will be blown up too big and end up exploding; ultimately causing harm. Your chief is known for throwing equipment at interns and shouting at nurses until they burst into tears. You’re certainly not a genius and you’re not running the unit either.

But for appearance's sake in front of the stranger, you give a tense smile. “Please. I’m just working my hardest…”

“Good. Good.” Mr. Jinkey nods his head in approval. “I think she’s suitable.”

“Really. There’s no one but her. If there’s anyone that can do it, it’s Y/N.” Your chief grows serious, staring at his clasped hands.

Your brows furrow together. “What’s going on?”

“Y/N…” He sighs, looking at you with a softened expression. “I’m going to give you...an off-campus job.”

“An off-campus job?”

The man in the suit pipes up, sliding over a manila folder across the table towards you. “Miss. Y/N, have you ever heard of Jeon Corporations?”

Of course you do.

They’re one of the biggest companies in the country. Even someone living in a rock would know of them. They own all kinds of land and utilities, areas of technology to energy plants. They employ over thousands of people and a large part of the country's GDP is on their shoulders.

You nod your head and he continues. “This is strictly confidential. The moment you open that folder, you’ll be bounded by contract. Of course, we have more official documents with us right now that require your signature.”

“Wait.” You hold out your hand, turning to look at your superior in utter confusion. “What’s going on. Can...can I get some sort of explanation?”

“Y/N.” He draws out a long exhale, dropping his voice into a low murmur despite no one being around that shouldn’t hear. “I need you to work at the Jeon household...to work in their abode. Their son….he suffers from-” inhale “….DID.”

Dissociative Identity Disorder.

The man looks at your chief in alarm for revealing classified information but your chief simply motions his hand. Mr. Jinkey fixes his posture as he stares at you. “Multiple Personality Disorder. Have you heard of it?”

“Yes. Of course..” You nod, questions finally being answered but your frown doesn’t cease. “I...I know of it.”

“Then will you help him?”

“I….Why do you need me to stay at his home? I can help him if he comes in regularly for therapy.”

“He can’t do that. There’s isn’t time.” Mr. Jinkey shakes his head slowly without moving his eyes away from you. “He must be cured within a year.”

“A year?!” Your jaw drops, fingers curling at the edge of the file. “This..that’s impossible! This disorder required a long term healing process.”

“Then make it short term.” Your chief cuts sharply and when you turn to him appalled, he gives you a sympathetic expression. “Y/N. I understand the difficulties but you can’t give up when you haven’t tried. This is a patient that needs your help and I sincerely believe that something can be achieved if you focus all your efforts into this one client.”

“He went to therapy previously but only for a few weeks. There’s little information but if you’re worried about it - he’s not dangerous.” The man tries to coax you. “He’s never been hostile since his diagnosis.”

“No.” You stand up, the chair falling behind you, colliding onto the ground. “I can’t.”

It’s all too much. You haven’t had much time to think. All of the sudden, you have to drop everything and all your patients for one. Someone you’ve never met, a rich boy from a wealthy household. You have to live with a stranger and cure his disorder within a year.

Things aren’t simple like that. Disorders like his take decades to improve, perhaps an entire lifetime. It’s a goal that is intangible, something outside the boundaries of your abilities. You can’t.

“I’m sorry.” You bow your head, turning on your heel to leave the room.

“You’ve changed, Y/N.”

The timber of your chief’s voice shakes the walls and causes you to halt mid-step. “The Y/N who came here six years ago as an intern would’ve never given up on a challenge. Especially when she hasn’t even tried.”

“Good.” You mutter under your breath as you turn around. “A lot of things in my life would’ve been less painful had I given up earlier.”

“That’s a foolish way of thinking.” He doesn’t look at you as if it’ll hurt him too much, staring at the ivory walls as his lips continue to move. “The drive and persistence to never admit defeat is what’ll lead you to a brighter future. If you stay in the same place, if you surrender to hardships, regret will simply build. It will build and build and build, until you wonder-”

What if.

“-what if.”

“Please.” The black-suited man turns to you and his stoic expression is ruined by the knot between his brows. “He needs your help.”

Ten seconds of quiet as you mull over the words and your own thoughts.

With your heartbeat pounding in your chest, you finally take one step forward.

“What is his name?”

“Jeon Jungkook.”

//

The first thing that you immediately notice is how high the walls are.

His house is encased by concrete stones and a metal gate entrance; reaching past the rooftop. But beyond is a luxurious residence, carrying a minimalistic modern style with sharp corners and flat ceilings. Enormous glass windows take up the spaces of the white walls, revealing the bare interior. As you’re walking up to the front door with the lights in the grass illuminating your path, you can’t help but feel like you’re treading through foreign territory - an adventure to save the prince trapped in the soaring tower.

You set the luggage down by your side, inhaling a huge breath to calm your nerves. Your fist raises to knock on the surface but then-

BANG!

“Mr. Jeon!” The black suited man who escorted you smiles.

You’re calming your heartbeat, startled to death at the door flying open, crashing against the wall from the force. And it takes one full minute for you to soak in the appearance of the so-called Jeon Jungkook.

He’s a lot younger than you’ve imagined. From the documents, you already knew that he was the same age as you but from his appearance, though looking tired and weary, he still somehow maintains boyish features. His cheeks are rounded, lips puffy with teeth imprints in his bottom lip exhibiting how he was nibbling on them prior to your arrival, most likely out of nervousness. His bangs are curled inwards into a comma motion, hair a dark shade of chocolate that matches his irises. If it wasn’t for the sick colour of his skin, the downturn of his mouth or the black bags under his eyes, you would’ve thought that he resembled an innocent rabbit.

Instead, with the way he sharply scrutinizes you, it looks like life has forced him against his will to become a predator.

Mr. Jinkey speaks up, shattering the silence and breaking your gaze on the boy. “This is-”

“I know.” He interjects. “You can leave.”

The older man bows his head and you watch his backside as he leaves to his car. Jungkook widens the door, abandoning it without sparing a second glance at you. Nonetheless, you exhale a huge breath as you step into his abode with your luggage, shutting the door behind you.

“How fast can you cure me?”

“Excuse me?”

You disregard the fact that he hasn’t introduced himself or asked for your name.

He huffs out as if each single word he utters to you adds to his exhaust. “How. fast. can. you. cure. me.”

“I...these things take time. Dissociative Identity Disorder is the most intricate and theoretically difficult dissociative disorder; it embodies the total variety of dissociative phenomena.” He continues to give you an unimpressed stare and you sigh. “We still haven’t talked about anything yet. This might...might take some time.”

“Do you think I’m lying?”

“What?” The handle of the suitcase slips out of your grasps in the moment that you grab it. “Why would I think that you’re lying?”

“A lot of people think this disease….disorder...whatever you want to call it...is a hoax. Fake.” He smirks at you, the side of his lip pulling. “I’m just a spoiled rich boy who’s ‘diagnosed’ with having multiple personalities. It’s my excuse to avoid inheriting the company so I can play all day.”

Your eyes examine him coldly. He’s in black dress pants, a black button-up shirt that’s rolled all the way to his elbows. More importantly, his arms are crossed together over his chest - a defensive position, body language that tells you he fears being vulnerable.

“I don’t really think that’s the case.” You smile gently and he falters, the frown alleviating for a mere heartbeat. “It’s not the sort of thing that someone can joke about either.”

Jungkook continues to gaze at you until he turns on his heel, mumbling something barely coherent about how your room is upstairs to the left. You don’t stop smiling, especially when you catch him rubbing his hands together out of nervousness.

//

The both of you are seated across each other, both on leather couches with the coffee table placed in between. You’ve dim the lights to create a relaxed atmosphere but keeping it bright enough for business to be conducted. With the way he’s tapping his foot, you assume he’s anxious with getting the first session started.

The first thing you have to do is establish the clear boundaries. “Jungkook, have you already signed the contract that was given to you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should know that we’ll have at least one session every day. More or less can be decided depending on the circumstances.” He nods and you offer a kind smile. “If you need something from me, you can knock on my door since I’m down the hall. I’m here to help you with your disorder and any issues that you may have, nothing more and nothing less.”

“I understand.” He’s tapping his fingers on his thigh, a sign of impatience but he nods nevertheless.

“Good.”

“I’m also going to discontinue any medication that you’re taking right now. If I feel that it is necessary, I might prescribe you and then I can monitor you from there.” He nods. “Today I’m going to introduce you to talk therapy and psychotherapy. At any time that you may feel uncomfortable, you can tell me. Please don’t hesitate. You can refuse to answer any question. This space and session is meant for you. Whatever we discuss will also be fully confidential. Your safety is of my utmost priority.”

“Okay.”

“Our goal is to merge all personalities into one. Or at the very least, to resolve and make peace amongst all the personalities.”

You’ve taken a look at his documents before and the information of his few previous sessions. There was close to nothing aside from the notes that he had at the very least five other personalities. When met in any kind of danger, one of his personalities immediately takes over. Another common occurrence of when he switches to his alters is when he experiences strong emotions. It’ll be absolutely essential to build his stress tolerance and help him cope with stress and anxiety.

“Isn’t there a...quicker way? I want to get rid of all these other...things...personalities...whatever.” His brows are knotted together in frustration and he runs a hand through his dark brown locks. “Can’t you just make me...normal?”

“I understand your anxiousness, Jungkook. But all these steps are absolutely essential. They will help in the long-run.”

“Okay.” He leans back in the couch. “Fine.”

You smile at him, letting a bit of silence linger as you move onto the next topic. “We’re going to create a safety agreement. It’s just to reduce unsafe behaviours. This is a safe space but I want you to feel safe wherever you go.”

He breathlessly laughs, a mocking tone out of disbelief as he shakes his head. “Yeah sure. Tell that to the others.”

“This agreement is something that all the identities must acknowledge. They’re bound to it too.” He’s quiet, staring at the carpet. “This means that no matter who comes forward, I want you to recognize that you’re in control of your life no matter what, Jungkook. No one will be able to harm you or this body.”

He doesn’t respond for a long time, frowning with blank eyes at the wall. “Jungkook?”

“They’re loud.” He moves his eyes onto you. “I can hear them in my head.” There’s a pause before he breaks out into a smirk. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

“No.” You shake your head. “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“Well I do.” Jungkook mutters. You catch a hint of defeat in his voice but no sooner he’s looking back at you again, waiting for you to continue.

“During our sessions, I don’t want you to fight the different alters.”

He frowns. “What? You…….......don’t?”

You shake your head. “The very core of this process is to make all the identities become aware of each other. Nothing good will come out of ignoring them. The goal is to try to resolve everyone’s innermost conflict. That being said, you still remain in control. If an alter does something that is dangerous, I want you to believe that you have the ability to come back.”

He inhales sharply, tilting his head out of skepticism. “I’ll...try my best.”

“And that’s good enough.” The corners of your lips upturn and you motion towards him. “Are they still speaking to you right now?”

“Yes.” He grimaces. “It’s hard to concentrate.They won’t shut up.”

“Then if you’re comfortable, Jungkook...and only if you’re completely comfortable - is it alright if I meet one of the alters?”

He blinks at you as if wondering why in Heaven’s name you would want to do something like that. But eventually his tense posture loosens and he slumps back. “Okay. If...if it’s weird or you get freaked out, I und-”

“Jungkook.” You interrupt. “It’s okay.”

He nods before inhaling a deep breath and shutting his eyes. He frowns and his nose twitches. His body winces once. Within five seconds, his eyes flutter open again.

“Hi.” You mask your startleness with a smile. His orbs are painstakingly cold, face blank of any expression and you’re unable to read his body language. “I’m doctor Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

He stares at the hand that shoots out. After an extended pause, you withdraw it. “Not much of a hand-shaker, are you?”

He chuckles lowly. “Don’t call me an alter.” Somehow his voice has dropped down a tone, timber rumbling and husky. “I’m a damn person.”

“I see.” You tilt your head in curiosity. “Then what’s your name?”

“You don’t need to know.” He cuts off. “Are you here to try to ‘fix’ him?”

“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”

He rolls his eyes, leaning back in the sofa and throwing his arm over the edge. The side of his lip tugs upwards. “Good luck sweetheart. Don’t think you’re getting rid of us anytime soon. He needs us. You’re causing more harm by doing this.”

The knot between your brows deepen. “Why?”

But before he has the chance to answer you or evade your question again, suddenly he closes his eyes. Jungkook’s face contorts in pain and then he slumps over, falling off the couch. He grunts out, hands grabbing up to his chest as if something is pounding from within. You immediately flinch forward but you don’t rush to his side.

“Jungkook?”

He catches his breath, gasping for oxygen and he manages to sit up, hands at the floor to support the weight of his body. He looks at you with weary eyes, lips parted and his head thrown back. Jungkook is still shaking.

“Do you hear me?”

His pupils flicker to yours at the question.

“You aren’t many people within one.” You strictly affirm. “You’re one whole person, simply sharing many identities.”

The words wrap around him like a comforting embrace. You’re the first person who’s ever believed him, who has ever tried to help, who has been by him when he’s needed it most.

A deep determination begins to root itself in the pits of your chest.

You already know - you’ll help until the end, no matter the consequences.

“You’re one whole person.”

//

The voice message plays once more.

“It’s me~ Nayoung! I texted you the address in case you didn’t remember. I know you’re busy, Y/N but there will always be a hundred excuses.” A heavy sigh is heard on the other line. “I know it’s not my place to say anything. But he’s asked about you for the past five years. If you have some time….” A slight pause holds suffocating silence to overwhelm your guilt. “....you should really visit him.”

The door opens, the walls are closed together with a thin glass separating the other half of the room. “He’ll be here in a moment.” The guard huffs out.

“Thank you.”

Your palms are clammy and you’re sitting on the edge of your seat. Doubts of - whether or not you should be here, if you should leave right now, if you should run, if he really wants to see you - begin to cloud your mind. But before you act on any of the urges screaming inside your head, the other door opens.

He’s there behind a guard, scruffy shadow around his mouth and bright eyes, aged then you last remember but still as happy. He has faint lines on his face, most predominantly under his eyes. He’s still the same boy that is dormant in your memories; running on campus, up to no good and giggling with you. The moment his orbs land on yours, he rushes over, almost tripping over his own shoes. A huge grin splits his mouth, pinching the apples of his cheeks pink. His lips move to your name as if he’s screaming it out in joy. But you can’t hear.

Tears fill your eyes and you exhale a deep breath, picking up the phone handle with a trembling hand. He does the same, nearly exploding out of happiness- “Y/N!” He exclaims and you laugh, scrunching up your nose at the sheer volume that threatens to burst your eardrums.

His orange jumpsuit blinds your eyes.  

“Seonho.” You smile. “It’s been a long time.”

You don’t know how or why. Three years ago if you had told yourself you’d be in this position, you would’ve ran to the ends of Earth to avoid it. You’ve already ran away most of your life. One more time wouldn’t hurt.

But somehow, you find yourself sitting, once more, across from the man who holds your heart captive.

[noneatnonedotcom]

again this is volume eight jaune. the same guy that bodies flynt. ya know the guy that took on yang and weiss and nearly won. 

jaune’s wins happen off screen but most of the other stuff he’s doing is really fucking impressive when you consider he’s doing it with less than a years worth of training while surrounded by some of the greatest prodigies in the world who had decaids of personal training from some of the best fighters in the world.  jaune’s got an instinct for combat and more than anything a will to fight. his first magor fight was with death stalker Cardin ran from a bear but jaune actually fought. that kind of bravery can’t be underestimated.  almost every fight is lost when one side loses it’s nerve. if cardin doesn’t have the same will jaune has he’ll lose. hell if you don’t wanna use military history we can use sports like boxing. mike tyson won a fight by intimidating the guy so bad he folded in the first round.  mainly through the use of replacing his walk out music with the sound of heavy chains played through speakers and punching a hole in a wall with his fists that he knew his opponent would walk past. not that i think jaune will do this, but the point is mind games pays a much bigger roll in any fight and volume 8 jaune is brave enough to keep fighting even through pain. even in a spar that kind of mentality is important. again that’s why i think jaune would win. he’s far more willing to fight and take damage than cardin is. cardin’s got him beat in height and weight but not in heart and i doubt he’s any better than a brawler without his mace. hell even with it he’s shown to use it more like a club than to use any technique and there is technique involved in useing it

In a world without aura or semblances do you think Jaune has any chances in a fist fight against Cardin? (Volume 8 Jaune by the by)

No. He doesn’t look like the kind of person who ever learned how to throw a proper punch or how to throw his weight around, and nothing in the show has convinced me otherwise. He might land a couple hits, but I think he’s getting whooped.

[crisscolferfanforever]

Hoops 1.3

“hoops”

By

smoothie smith

1.3

First Game vs Homestead

 We approach the front of the gym we see josh and Donna meet at the high school office’s

Donna

“Diana is looking for you “

Josh

“Huh?”

Donna

“Diana is looking for you “

Josh

“Donna “

Donna

“Yeah “

Josh

“Good morning is a good way to start “

Donna

“Good morning, Diana is looking for you “

Josh

“Tell her I am in my classroom prepping for American History “

Donna

“Josh I’m saying Diana is looking for you “

Josh

“What did I do?”

Donna

“How would I know “

Josh

“Cause you know everything “

Donna

“I do know everything “

Josh

“Donna “

Donna

“I’m seeing you say that now but anytime I want to make a Substantive contribution “

Josh

“You make plenty of contributions “

Donna

“Like what”

Josh

“This, this could be one right now”

Donna

“I need a raise “

Josh

“So do I “

Donna

“You’re not my boss thought “

Josh

“I’m not the one who pays you “

Donna

“Yes but you could recommend that I got a raise “

Josh

“Donna she is looking for me, do you think this a good time talking about how Rebecca is going to give you a raise “

Donna

“This is the best time “

Josh

“Donna you’re not nice “

Donna

“Get to know me “

Josh

“Donna”

Donna

“The best I can come up with is tony do you know if he scouted the wrong team and had interaction with Coach Shaw”

Josh

“Ok here is what I am going to do “

Donna

“Hide in your office “

Josh

“no I’m not going to hide in my office I am going to go in there and come up with a plan that is what I do I’m a professional I’m not a little boy “

Donna

“Mm that’s the spirit “

Josh

“But if she calls I’m at the dentist I’ll be back in a hour “

Donna

“Got you “

She goes to class

Josh opens the door we see Diana reading the newspaper Turing her head

Diana

“WOW are you stupid “

We go back to josh office as Diana is reading the paper

Josh

“You can’t be mad at me for this”

Diana

“Really, let’s see if I can find it in me “

Josh

“Listen “

She close the newspaper

Donna comes in the room

Donna

“Wait she was here “

Josh

“Yes”

Diana

“Excuse us Coach “

Donna

“How did I miss that “

Josh

“I don’t know but you’re not getting your raise “

Donna

“Staff meeting five mins “

Josh

“Ok”

Josh close the door

Diana

“David Shaw? “

Josh

“Here’s the thing “

Diana

“David Shaw josh “

Josh

“You’re not asking me if I would join Puliskia coaching staff”

Diana

“Do you have any idea how much the two coaches hate each other “

Josh

“I really don’t think it’s that serious “

Diana “why not”

Josh

“Because Coach Shaw never said anything about Coach Millner “

Diana

“Ok I couple of things to bear in mind it doesn’t matter “

Josh

“You’re overreacting “

Diana

“Am I “

Josh

“Yes “

She walks by josh

Josh

“You know what Diana I think I am the best judge of what I mean you paranoid Westerville shiksha feminist”

Silence in the room

Josh

“Oh crap I went way too far “

Diana

“No well I got a staff meeting so do you, you Elista Buckeye fascist missed the dean’s list two semesters in a row Cardinal jackass”

Josh

“Feel better getting that off your chest there Diana “

Diana

“I am a whole new women “

Josh

“You look like a million bucks by the way “

Diana

“Don’t try to make up with me “

Josh

“I’ll talk to tony“

Diana

“I’ll talk to tony”

Josh

“John, how was last night “

Jason

“Longest dinner of my life coach millner was up from the table screaming every five mins about the DA and then he was barking at the police he’s scaring the hell out of curtis and matt which I didn’t think was possible he was screaming at Wendy he’s talking about going after this school”

Diana

“He’s snapping at Wendy “

Josh

“Diana this would be a great time to talk about Jason and Coach Shaw to coach Millner “

Jason

“She knows”

Josh

“Yeah”

Diana

“I’m afraid I have that information and I’ll be in to see you my friend very shortly “

Jason

“How the hell did I get into trouble “

Josh

“Today you got out of bed”

We go outside of the school we see adam and earl talking

adam

“This crap, earl it’s been three days since curtis and matt got beaten up by some group of high school’s that go to Milwaukee Wash high school ”

earl

“Cashman and berry hill have to look at the evidence fist so they speak to state concern “

adam

“Cashman and berry hill are dragging their feet, they are trying to make me look like a clown and the DA should corecen itself with what I dam well tell them “

earl

“Doesn’t work like that “

They go into the gym office

adam

“So I’ve discovered “

Sue and Alison

“Good morning Coach”

adam

“Good morning “

earl

“And moreover you know that’s not the way it works the DA are as swiftly as they can even thought time isn’t a factor”

Charlie

“Good morning coach millner”

adam

“Good morning “

earl

“Cashman and Berryhill have a reasonable point with respect to the LGBT Coummity “

adam

“Charlie I can’t seem to find my scouting report anywhere could you please do where it is you do when I can’t find my scouting report “

Charlie

“Centrally Coach”

adam

“it’s been 72 hours Earl that’s more than three days since curtis and matt where beating in the street and I’m tired of waiting dam it this is candy ass , we’re going to draw up a memo today we are going to get the guy today “

earl

“I wish you wouldn’t worry coach “

adam

“What”

earl

“three days since they beat them in the street of course that’s fine while it’s just you and me coach but in the meeting with DA I hope you say the couple or my players not their names “

adam

“This is personal earl “

earl

“I know “

adam

“curtis and matt where beaten and now maggie is left at the hosptial watching her best friends suffer, Charlie “

earl

“Coach I still think we need to talk “

adam

“I can’t find my scouting report “

Charlie

“Yes coach we are on it “

adam

“Thank you “

Charlie

“The hospital is awaiting “

adam

“Um yeah let’s have them, what did you want to say “

earl

“Nothing “

adam

“You sure “

earl

“Yeah I got staff”

adam

“I will see you in an hour “

earl

“Thank you Coach “

earl walks in to his classroom

earl

“Good morning “

Everyone

“Good morning earl “

Josh

“Hi how’s his mood “

earl

“How’s his mood “

Josh

“Yeah “

earl

“Don’t worry about it “

diana

“jason said that …”

earl

“And I said don’t worry about it, hey jason what do you know “

tony

“It’s true “

earl

“You’re kidding me“

tony

“I have the stats right here “

Jason

“What stats “

earl

“Listen to this “

tony

“Coach Coles appearing on wissports in his home division “

Diana

“Milwaukee Lutheran“

Earl

 “Right “

tony

“Milwaukee Lutheran part of MILWAUKEE “

earl

“Where we just recommended playing for this season and the following “

Jason

“What did he say “

tony

“he was on the broadcast along with serval of his coaching staff and said Whitefish bay is so weak I am going to smack them so bad when we play them “

Jason

“He said that”

earl

“You believe it “

Jason

“Sitting with a news reporter “

earl

“Yeah”

Josh

“Don’t take the bait “

Jason

“Josh “

Josh

“Don’t take the bait “

tony

“I am going to take the bait “

earl

“We are going to prove them that we can be a good team “

Jason

“How “

tony

“Why’d you get him started?”

Jason

“Saying that our team is weak and our coach is weak “

Josh

“Jason”

earl

“Hey it’s bad I know “

Jason

“That’s it “

earl

“What can you do “

Jason

“Beat them so bad that it will shut them up”

Josh

“Jason is right “

Diana laughs

Jason

“We are not going to do anything “

Earl

“Yeah jason what we need to do is suspend people for being mean to coach millner”

Jason

“There is no offensse there is no deffensse “

Josh

“He’s just getting that now “

earl

“listen up In the event that we are playing homestead tonight we need a half hour on the players for dismissal from classes when do the teachers need to be notify  “

Diana

“After lunch “

earl

“Wait until the last min jason start working on a walk thought for coach”

Jason

“I need to know what we’re playing in terms of D “

earl

“Yeah you and me both “

Jason

“earl“

earl

“It’s homestead jason you’ll know when you know “

Jason

“tony, look up old games from last year against homestead “

tony

“Ok”

earl

“Let’s get a win tonight before we go to Milwaukee Hamilton “

Josh

“Not much chance of that”

They walk out to their classes

We see the center we go into a room were Curtis and matt are staying

Mindy (sign)

“Hey guys Rebecca and maggie are here “

Curtis (sign)

“Send them in please “

maggie (sign)

“Hey you too“

Curtis (sign)

“Hey sweetie “

Maggie(sign)

“Do they know what year it is “

Matt (sign)

“No they don’t “

Curtis (sign)

“It was student from Washintgon “

MAggie(sign)

“Who “

Rebecca (sign)

“Bobby “

maggie(sign)

“Oh my “

Rebecca (sign)

“Let’s not worry about that “

Curtis (signing)

“Good idea “

Finn and Rachel come in

Finn (signing)

“Hey brother “

Tom and Alice come in

Alice (signing)

“How’s my grandson doing “

Brad and Hattie come in

Curtis (sign)

“Grandma “

Hattie (sign)

“Hey you “

Matt(sign)

“maggie sweetie where is your brother “

maggie(sign)

“At school “

Finn (signing)

“Do they know who did this “ Curtis(sign)

“Yes “

Amanda and Melissa come in

Amanda

“We better go to practice “

Rebecca

“Yes “

They all leave

Maggie(signing)

“Love you curtis and matt “

Rebecca (matt signing)

“Do you want her to stay over at our house “

Curtis (signing/matt talking)

“If she wants to “

Rebecca (matt signing)

“Ok”

 Curtis (Signing)

“People should not worry about us too much “

Matt (signing)

“Babe we almost died “

Finn (signing)

“He’s right “

Curtis (signing)

“I know “

Matt(signing)

“Yes go and eat “

We go back to the office

Diana

“the thing to say is that no one here is disappointed if no one paid attention to the process that Theo and Sally are making in my classroom so maybe the thing will wear itself out “

Ross

“This is on their quizzes right “

Diana

“Homework and attendee “

Door knocks

tony

“Hey “

Diana

“We are done here”

tony

“Hi “

Diana

“Hi”

tony

“You wanted to see me “

diana

“Yes “

tony

“I think I know why “

Diana

“Do you”

tony

“Yes”

Diana

“Let me tell you something tony “

tony

“Diana “

Diana (counties)

“You’re a smart guy but if you and I could figure it out what would mean if my press room could figure it out”

tony

“There is nothing to figure out Diana “

Diana

“You can’t spend time with Coach Shaw you’re going to get caught “

tony

“Caught doing what”

Diana

“Don’t get cute with me”

tony

“You are aware that he came over by me “

Diana

“But you went to back to see him at his car to talk”

tony

“No I didn’t “

Diana

“Doesn’t make a difference “

tony

“No it doesn’t “

Diana

“you work for one of the finest basketball programs in the state , your office is three feet from coach Millner a man who has won 2 regional  championship already  , which means I am your first phone call “

tony

“When “

Diana

“before now in the future any time you’re in to something that you don’t know what and you can’t tell me that you thought there was nothing to it cause you sat down with josh and you sat down with jason anytime your into something and you don’t know what you don’t keep it from me I am your first phone I am your first line of defense you have to let me protect you and you have to let me protect coach millner”

tony

“Is that what this is about “

diana

“What this is about tony is you’re a teacher a coach and people around here like you “

tony

“can I go now because it’s about you once again letting the character cops win in a forfeit because you don’t have the guts or the street or cougar to say we know what right from wrong is and not your business “

Diana

“Strength guts or courage “

tony

“Yes”

Diana

“You just said there things that all mean the same thing “

The conversation ends tony walks away

We see locker room we see the players waiting for Coach smallines and coach millner

Coach smallines

“Standup”

Everyone stands

Coach Millner comes in

Millner

“Keep your seats”

HArry Grams

“Good morning Coach “

adam

“What have we got “

Harry

“Scouting report on homestead“

adam

“Prefect “

earl

“Wait a 3-2 zone they run “

adam

“We will just run New York “

earl

“Yeah “

adam

“This going to be a win “

Harry

“You bet “

They leave

We see a young high school by the name of Curtis Anderson in the bieler Room a place where picture of past championship are seen

Josh

“I haven’t gotten that graded yet , if anyone going what do you want I would like a salad, soup of some kind and if were to run across a sandwich then hang the expense right and I would like Gatordae  as human as possible “

Donna

“curtis Anderson”

Josh (signing)

“I am supposed to vet you “

curtis (signing)

“I beg your pardon “

Josh (Signing)

“Vet you I’m supposed to vet you investigate to discover if there problems, I am Josh HAYES FRESHMEN Head coach “

curtis (signing)

“How are you “

Josh (signing)

“Is it uh curtis “

curtis(signing)

“curtis “

Josh(signing)

“Curtis have a seat if you like “

curtis(signing)

“Ok”

Josh (signing)

“Donna”

Donna

“Yes “

Josh (signing)

“Never mind the salad but I want PowerAde please”

Donna

“Fine “

Josh(signing)

“I’m sure you understand why we have to go thought this it’s a very sensitive job it’s also a very hard job 20 hours a week aren’t uncommon long trips on the road a lot of wait in terms of eqautioment and bags move rover there will be times when you have to do stuff yourself you understand so far “

curtis(signing)

“Yes I do “

Josh(signing)

“Good “

We go back to the conference room

adam

“The blue room I tell you, anyway we need to win this guys don’t screw up “

Harry

“We won’t “

Adam

“What do you guys think of running a couple of series of 13 on them “

Harry

“I would not mind “

adam

“Good “

earl

“We have to be patient on offense and know what we are doing at all times “

They all stand up as coach leaves

We go back to the center we see Catt and tom and Alice

Tom (sigining)

“Do you guys want to come home “

Matt (signing)

“Yeah sure “

Felix  (signing)

“Just that “

Matt (signing)

“I just got my brains beat honey “

felix  (signing)

“I know “

Matt (signing)

“Let’s go home “

Alice (signing)

“Alright boys “

Rachel (signing)

“Well I am here “

Danel(signing)

“ matt go home please your parents are waiting “

he  leaves

  We see Rebecca and her team at practice

Rebecca

“Go hard every time “

win

“maggie Help “

Melissa

“Get there “

She moves her over

Rebecca

“Nice job “

Team

“Shot”

Amanda

“Box out”

Rebound is covered

win

“General “

Rebecca

“Bennett”

Maggie

“Hey wide out “

They watch as practice goes on

We see after practice

Amanda

“How are Curtis and matt doing “

Rebecca

“Awful scared and they don’t want to go home “

win

“Well if I gotten beat up I would feel like crap”

Rebecca

“Yeah I know, by the way Amadana can you do walk through for me tomorrow I am going to be late I have a IEP meting “

Amadana

“Yes “

Everyone

“Thank you coach “

 We see josh and earl talking in the office

earl

“Yeah what do you want “

Josh

“I hired someone for a student asst for our program “

earl

“Really tell me all about him”

Josh

He’s a real special kid he’s applied himself in school I’m sure he’d be a good coach someday if he wasn’t scared his sister is in high school at this school “

earl

“What about the parents “

Josh

“His parents are here living father is respected in the MILWAUKEE LGBT coummity and his mother is a women’s basketball coach at uw-milwaukee “

earl

“I know who it is “

Josh

“You do “

earl

“You hired curtis “

Josh

“Yes “

earl

“For the first time josh you got it right “

Josh

“I didn’t know if I could do it without coach millner permission “

earl

“Just tell him he will be smooth about it “

Josh

“We got to get to homestead high school anyway I’ll see you on the bus”

We see tony and jason prepping the players on the bus

tony

“Partner up after the varsity game tonight “

Players

“Why “

 jason

“Because I said so “

tony

“Alright lets go “

The bus leaves for homestead

tony

“What should we do riley and Johnson in the zone “

Jason

“I would not worry about it “

tony

“Yeah what do you think they will do on D “

Jason

“Probably run zone “

tony

“Ok I am taking a nap”

We see Diana with adam and earl along with Josh

Diana

“Josh your coming with us our you scouting Riverside and Bradley Tech “

Josh

“We got a scout for that “

Diana

“Ok good”

Josh

“Cathy I need that paragraph for Scottie “

Cathy

“It’s on your desk “

Diana

“He wants me to be on the bench “

Josh

“Really”

Diana

“Thank you “

She runs off

We see her walking to her office which is sworn of press

Mark

“Diana what’s all the activity “

Diana

“What activity “

Doug

“Wallace was in earl office “

Diana

“coach Wallace is Scouter for the boys team Josh Hayes is Assiocted Head coach to adam millner I am your host Diana let’s play our game “

Mel

“Is it happing “

Diana

“No”

Mel

“Why all the activity “

Diana

“Menudo’s in the gym “

She runs into Michael

Michael

“Diana “

Diana

“I honestly think you of all people “

Michael

“We need to talk “

Diana

“Michael I haven’t called a Full Lid there’ll be a press conference after the game  if coach millner wants to do it  “

Michael

“Thanks, since I’ve only been a wisconsin sports reporter for seven Years I appreciate your clearing that up “

Diana

“What “

Michael

“Not for nothing but I know tony smit scouted the wrong team and had a covonestarttion with Coach Shaw and I thought you should know that I know “

Diana (looking weird)

Michael

“Ask me inside D.h“

Diana

“Inside “

They go inside

We see Curtis and matt at hortia home

Rebecca

“maggie where is your brother “

Matt

“Yes I would like to know “

maggie

“It’s a surprise “

Alice

“Sweetie why don’t you tell us “

maggie goes by Grandpa and Grandma Horton

Alice

“Oh “

They smile

Rebecca and hortia ponder then leave

They leave the room

paul

“Holy Shit “

maggie

“Yikes”

We go back to the gym we see josh getting ready for the game

Josh

“Where is curtis “

Donna

“He’s filling out his paper work with Nancy “

Josh

“How’s he doing “

Donna

“He looked pretty freaked that he will be a student asst for coach Millner “

Josh

“He’s a gamer just like coach millner “

Donna

“If you say so “

Josh

“Got to go “

We see Melissa and maggie  studying at the house

Melissa

“So how are the boys doing?”

maggie

“Better”

Melissa

“That’s good “

Sandy comes in

Sandy

“Hey maggie where are curtis and matt  “

maggie

“matt’s Sleeping curtis is working “

Sandy

“Anybody else in the house “

maggie

“Just me Melissa you curtis grandparents Grandpa Tom and Grandma Alice”

Sandy

“What are you working on?”

maggie

“Psychology”

Sandy

“Oh “

We go back to josh walking to his office he is approach by Rebecca

Rebecca

“Josh your office sucks “

Josh

“Why can’t you tell someone is in my office “

Donna

“Not my job “

Rebecca

“I mean it it’s a hole “

Josh

“Why are you here?”

Rebecca

“cause I have a game tomorrow vs Kenosha Bradford I came to get a scouting report and I thought I stop by to see you “

Josh

“Oh, how is Curtis and matt doing”

Rebecca

“Good where is Jayden “

We go back to Diana getting ready for the game

Diana

“Alright I packed “

We go into the locker room we see Diana James josh and curtis all in there

adam

“we going to start in 20 ok if we have to mix it up we will go to 23 on offense I know what to do “

Diana

“Good idea “

We see Earl and josh

Earl walks to his desk

Earl

“what’s on your mind”

Josh

“i think we should give curtis a student asst job”

Earl

“i think so too “

 We see curtis and Conor signing

Nelson(signing)

“hey Smoothie what are you doing here where’s matt “

adam

“I need my Glasses “

Charlie

“We are looking”

adam

“Thank you “

Josh(signing)

“Tell him  “

Jason

“In the meantime we will go out with the players”

adam

“Oh crap I can’t see you with these glasses “

Josh (signing)

“curtis tell him”

curtis(signing/josh talking)

“Coach you said you read the scouting report in “

Adam

“What”

Curtis(signing)

“You said you read the scouting report from home “

Adam

“What of it? Who is this?  “

earl

“Let’s talk “

Diana

“earl  20 “

earl nods

 Adam

“What do you need earl “

earl

“Well you’ve gone through everyone who works for you and everyone who’s married to you, I didn’t know who else you could get mad at, so I afraid the team might be next, oh by the way when we’re done here you’re sending Wendy some flowers”

(Sigh)

Adam

“did you know that 30 years ago when we took over this high school we could do anything we wanted to the LGBT coummity and today we still can’t toughen our laws where is my players  protection or Curtis protection I want justice earl my team wants closer it is giving Curtis’s family and Matt’s Family nightmares and come to think of it I am glad that curtis join this team and where was my warning to me that this was going to happen to my players and there family “

Earl

“You need to focus on your team right now we have a game tonight focus on that “

adam

“I know but it affects me earl “

Adam

“By the way how did josh know that Curtis would be a good choice for this job “

Earl

“I don’t know “

adam

“Let’s go its game time “

We see Diana and john in the gym with 4 mins left of warmup

Diana

“What do you think is going on there “

Jason

“I don’t know”

Diana

“hey do you know anything about a story going around the English department that has sonny office investigating Bertram Coles test scores “

Jason

“No “

Diana

“Maggie Grunewald is quoting you as saying sonny intestates all cheating and its coach’s policy not to comment “

Jason

“Yeah “

Diana

“Did you say that “

Jason

“yeah , hey you don’t suppose that’s how the story got started , do you , you know what Diana you tell Bret Coles that Jason Sigh said there is a new sheriff in town “

We see josh and curtis

Josh (signing)

“This is just I think a bad day”

Curtis(signing)

“I know “

James (signing)

“curtis can I see you inside please come on it’s okay listen I think it’s great that you want to help out and so what do you say want to start right now “

Curtis(josh talking)

“Yes coach I do “ adam(josh signing)

“Then let’s go “

They go out to the gym

Adam

“Sit right there “

earl

“Ready to go”

Adam

“Yup “

Curtis(sign)

“I never felt like this before “

Josh(sign)

“Never goes away “

PA

“good evening and welcome to tonight game between the Homestead Highlanders and your Whitefish Bay Blue dukes  lets meet the starting line ups first for Whitefish Bay lead by Head coach Adam Millner who is 3-0 overall “

 End of 8.3

[theashen-fox]

After The Fight-RP Starter

@auraboundolympian

As he often did, Ash sat in the tree just outside of Beacon’s courtyard, a rather tall tree that he had been using as his “quiet spot”. However, this time, he was there for a different reason, namely, to fix something of his. He had received them from a good “friend” he had in school: Cardin Winchester. Obviously, “friend” was used sarcastically. The human had bullied him as he did anyone smaller than him, but what made Ash different from the others was how...apathetic he was about it. No matter what Cardin said or did, it didn’t matter to Ash. It was as if he was saying, “You’re not worth the trouble, Cardin.” 

Until today.

Ash had made the mistake of allowing a small, silver pendant to be seen hanging from his neck. Seeing an opportunity, Cardin had his three teammates restrain Ash and beat him while he took the pendant. Upon seeing Ash’s demands turn into pleading for him to return it, Cardin did just that, and had Ash released...right before his foot came down on the pendant. What Cardin hadn’t anticipated was Ash’s reaction to it. He had punched him in the groin first, then when he had him on the ground, began to kick him in the face, ribs, and in the groin some more. At one point, his palms began to smoke—a sign that he was activating his Semblance. In fact, he had honestly considered scorching Cardin, burning him to a crisp. But then rationality set in, and he calmed himself down, before saying to the whole of Team CRDL, “You want to gang up on me, that’s fine. But take a look at your fearless leader and know that the next time will be tenfold for all of you.” He had said this in a chillingly placid tone that nonetheless seethed with rage. 

He was lucky that he didn’t get expelled. The only reason he was still in school  was due to several eyewitnesses confirming Cardin’s instigation of the conflict. He was still reprimanded sternly, however.

The question that had everyone curious was, “What was the pendant exactly?” The answer was, it was a necklace made from silver, bearing a snarling fox’s face surrounded by flames. On the back were the engraved words, “I’ll always be with you. Happy birthday, little brother. —Silver”. Seeing these words on the bent necklace caused tears to fall from his eyes as he tried to use his Semblance to heat it up, then bend it back into proper shape. But it never worked. After hours of trying, he gave up, slamming his fist into the tree. In his frustration, grief, and the resurgence of painful memories, he began outright sobbing. It was relatively quiet, but if one got close enough to the tree, they could hear it. 

[auburnfamilynews]

A driveway, still wet from an afternoon shower. I’m halfway up to the mailbox when I notice an earthworm writhing its way back over to paydirt. I pick it up.

“Don’t ever get excited about spring games,” the earthworm says. “They don’t mean anything.”

A cardinal lands on a nearby dogwood branch. “He’s right,” it chirps. “The most vanilla defenses in existence, played by walk-ons and third-stringers. Getting your hopes up because of something any player did in that setting is dumb. And I’m a bird.”

“Everyone knows it,” a junebug says as it buzzes by. “Spring games are worthless.”

“Everyone,” the earthworm adds. “Even me. Don’t be stupider than me.”

I cock my arm back to wing the worm into the bushes, then decide otherwise. I cup it in my hands, bring it close to my face.

“You can tell me that. It’s OK. The whole world can,” I whisper. “But you can’t make me listen.”

I set the worm down beneath the hydrangea and finish walking up to the mailbox. I open it to three bills, and a flyer for a house remodeling service I can’t afford.

***

“Mommy, Mommy,” a begoggled and bewater-winged child interrupts as his mother chats up a friend by the pool. “Can I go swim in the deep end?”

She looks up. Braden Smith, Prince Tega Wanogho, Austin Golson, Darius James, Wilson Bell, Casey Dunn, Mike Horton and Marquel Harrell are sitting along the other end of the pool with their feet in the water. They wave.

The mom pauses, and waves back.

***

A set of polished steel elevator doors open on the lowest level of a secret underground bunker. The (actor playing the) President strides out, accompanied by two Secret Service agents and a white-coated scientist. At the end of a metal-lined corridor the President enters a glass-walled observation room. He looks out at a two-story concrete vault, its steel doors inexorably closing around a golden cylinder covered in gauges, blinking lights, and cables. The words “KAMRYN PETTWAY HAMSTRINGS” have been stenciled in black on the cylinder.

“They are secure, sir,” the scientist says.

“Good,” the President says, as the doors lock shut with an echoing bang. “I don’t think I need to explain to you, Doctor, why they must be preserved at any cost.”

***

11 gladiators wearing orange-and-blue breastplates walk from the dark tunnel into the blinding light and deafening noise of the Colosseum. They squint, their eyes adjusting, and learn they are surrounded on all sides by roaring caged tigers. The Emperor signals from his balcony, and the cage doors begin to slide open.

“Again?” one gladiator asks. “We just did this five weeks ago.”

***

A 1930s archaeologist brushes away dust and cobwebs from the ancient stone doors at the bottom of a crypt. His torch reveals an inscription chiseled into the surface, written in a long-forgotten runic alphabet. He mouths the words as he reads them.

“What does it say?” whispers the beautiful woman behind him.

“‘BEHIND THIS DOOR LAY THE TROPHIES OF DREAMS, BUT ONLY A DEFENSE BEARING THE PASS-RUSHER FORETOLD MAY UNLOCK IT,” he says. The archaeologist bends his face to the door and uses his pocketknife to pry away a clot of dirt. A keyhole. He and the woman turn their heads at the sounds of footsteps in the tunnels behind them.

“The book, Alana. Quickly.”

She opens her canvas satchel and hands him a book bound in cracked, centuries-faded leather. He opens it to its midpoint and pulls an ancient iron key out of the hole cut into its pages. The key has a picture of Jeff Holland carved into its handles.

“Let’s hope this works,” she says. He nods, pushes the key into the door, and turns it. They look at each other for a brief second as nothing happens, then brace themselves against each other as the walls shudder, the floor shakes, and the doors grind their way open inch-by-inch.

***

An old VHS home movie: Chip Lindsey, age 8, shrieking with excitement as he tears the wrapping from gift after gift on Christmas morning.

***

A fedora-wearing Daniel Carlson reads a newspaper in a smoke-filled cafe in 1940s London. A dark-haired woman walks in, looks around, smooths the front of her dress and adjusts a hat labeled “Lou Groza Award.” Carlson puts his newspaper down and waves her over.

“About damn time,” he growls, offering her a cigarette and a light as she sits down. “Five more minutes, I was out that door.”

She takes a drag off her cigarette and exhales, smiling. “The world past that door’s a crazy one, Legatron,” she says. “Patience is the same virtue it’s always been, though. You’ll see.”

***

A freshly-plowed field under a staggering sun, long ago. A boy and his father, both in overalls, walk along the furrows. The father takes great fistfuls of seeds out of a burlap sack, scattering them in arcs across the field. The sack is adorned with the local feed store’s five-star logo.

“Papa,” the boy asks, “will all of these seeds grow?”

“No, not every one,” the father answers. “But if you’re working with quality at the start” — and he gives the sack a shake — “you can take your day’s rest knowing things’ll work out all right at the finish. We’ll have ourselves a bumper crop of wide receivers this year, don’t you worry.”

***

Carlton Davis and Javaris Davis walk into the impossibly bumping Halloween party from this year’s most popular teen movie, dressed as the Wonder Twins. They bump fists.

***

“Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY!” the child yells from his darkened bedroom. The silhouette of his mother appears in the doorway. “What is it, sweetie?” she asks.

“I’m scared. There’s a monster in my closet,” he says. She starts to tell him there isn’t, but he interrupts. “There is, Mommy, I saw him! Last year! And the year before that! He had green skin, and purple eyes, and couldn’t complete a pass more than four yards downfield! He told me he was going to eat me, just like he ate the end of last season!”

She walks over and turns on the closet light. “See? No monster.”

“But he was there! He could come back as soon as you turn the light out! Or there’s a injury! One play, Mommy, one play and he could come right back. He said …” the boy continued through a whimper, building into hot tears, “he said … he said we’d lose to Georgia again! He’d make sure of it! I hate that monster, Mommy!”

His mother comes over, turns on the bedside lamp, and strokes his hair. “I got you something,” she says. “I was going to wait for your birthday, but maybe you can have an early surprise. I’ll be right back.” She leaves, and comes back with a blanket. She pulls the boy’s old blanket off the bed and unrolls the new one over him, the boy sitting up just enough to see the picture of Sean White printed across it, head-to-toe.

“This can be your security blanket,” she tells him. “Whenever you feel scared of that monster in the closet, just remember you’ve got this to keep you warm, and safe, and monster-free. As long as you’ve got this, that monster can’t bother you.”

The boy snuggled down under the blanket. She was right — everything felt OK again. He could go to sleep, and everything would be all right. “This is nice,” he says. “I’m so glad I have this, Mommy.”

“Me too,” she says. “Good night.”

***

Two animal control officers walk into a darkened basement, flashlights on.

“Refresh my memory: how big this thing supposed to be?” the first says to the second.

“Doc says about the size of a poodle. Still just a freshman. Not sure how it broke out of its cage.”

“You ask me, buncha eggheads lose their science project, oughta be the eggheads down here looking for it.” He swings his flashlight around. “Where you at, buddy? Let’s go, little guy, game’s on.”

And that’s when the 12-foot-tall, three-ton Derrick Brown roars out of the shadows.

***

You open up a YouTube video on your computer. It’s me, speaking into the camera and wearing a “Debbie Downer” t-shirt.

“Look, this point is too complicated to convey via dumb metaphor, so I’m just going to say it,” I say. “Obviously any team with Kamryn Pettway and Kerryon Johnson is doing pretty well for itself at running back. But I’m not sure that unit’s as loaded as the consensus seems to believe. Both those top two guys have meaningful injury history, for starters. Johnson took a step forward in 2016 and should have a big year as a receiver under Lindsey, but he needs another step forward to if he’s going to be a difference-maker in Auburn’s biggest games — he averaged 4.2 yards a carry against Power 5 teams last year. (Pettway? 5.5.) You’d expect someone from the list of candidates behind Johnson to emerge as a threat, but Kam Martin’s the only one whose shown flashes during actual competition, and are those anything other than flashes? Is Devan Barrett ready already? Malik Miller? I dunno.

“What I do know is that worrying about an issue this minor — scratch that, a potential issue this minor — tells me how much confidence I’ve got in the rest of this roster. I’d like to think they won’t give Pettway 39 carries against Mississippi State again, and that it’ll matter. And Lord knows I’d expect any running back with a functional set of knees and ankles to be productive behind this particular offensive line, coached by this particular offensive line coach. But for Auburn to beat the teams I want Auburn to beat this season, they may need a back that’s more than ‘productive.’ And if Pettway’s not healthy, I’m not 100% sure they’ve got one.

“The good news: I worried about the state of our running backs last year, too, and one of them rushed for 1,224 yards in 10 games. End transmission.”

The video stops, and you get annoyed with YouTube for making you click to prevent the follow-up clip from playing automatically.

***

Admiral Ackbar is on stage with Truman, both looking over sheets of paper. He turns to the empty theater.

“Do I really have to do this?” he yells, brandishing the paper.

“Yes,” I say into the microphone at the director’s desk. “Just follow the script, please.”

Ackbar sighs, turns towards Truman. He makes a sweeping gesture in his direction, then looks out over the future audience. “It’s … a trap!” he says, unconvincingly.

***

A metronome ticks its way across the wee hours on a sleeping man’s nightstand. The pendulum arm has the words “Tre Williams and Deshaun Davis” written along it.

***

An old woman lifts her glasses with one hand to peer at the jigsaw piece in the other, then leans forward to inspect the nearly-completed puzzle spread across her kitchen table, then gently taps the piece into place.

“Grandma, what jigsaw are you doing?” a pigtailed 8-year-old asks as she bounces into the room.

“The 2016 Auburn Tigers,” she says. “But there’s one piece missing. Could you help your grandmother out and look under the table for me, sweetie?”

“I think I see it,” the granddaughter says, dropping to her hands and knees and crawling forward. “It’s here, right under the center.”

***

Jarrett Stidham is pulling on his socks in the pregame locker room. We hear voiceover: it’s Gary Danielson.

“Jarrett, it’s Auburn, vs. Alabama, for the SEC West title, for the trip to Atlanta. For more than that. They’re calling this one of the biggest Iron Bowls that’s ever been played. What does it feel like to know you’ll be playing in a game like this?”

Stidham is pulling his shoulder pads and navy blue jersey over his head, adjusting straps, buckling buckles. Danielson’s voice repeats itself, speeds up.

“Jarrett,it’sAuburn,vs.Alabama,fortheSECWesttitle,forthetriptoAtlanta.Formorethanthat.They’recallingthisoneofthebiggestIronBowlsthat’severbeenplayed.Whatdoesitfeelliketoknowyou’llbeplayinginagamelikethis Jarrett,it’sAuburn,vs.Alabama,fortheSECWesttitle,forthetriptoAtlanta.Formorethanthat.They’recallingthisoneofthebiggestIronBowlsthat’severbeenplayed.Whatdoesitfeelliketoknowyou’llbeplayinginagamelikethis”

Stidham ties his cleats, pulls on his wristbands, adjusts his belt.

He laughs at a teammate’s comment we don’t hear. He goes over one or two things with a wide receiver, nods.

He bows his head for the pregame prayer. He looks straight ahead as Malzahn begins to deliver his final words before the game. Nessler’s voiceover continues to blur.

“jarrettitsauburnvsalabamaforthesecwesttitleforthetriptoatlantaformorethanthattheyrecallingthisoneofthebiggestironbowlsthatseverbeenplayedwhatdoesitfeelliketoknowyoullbeplayinginagamelikethis jarrettitsauburnvsalabamaforthesecwesttitleforthetriptoatlantaformorethanthattheyrecallingthisoneofthebiggestironbowlsthatseverbeenplayedwhatdoesitfeelliketoknowyoullbeplayinginagamelikethis jarrettitsauburnvsalabamaforthesecwesttitleforthetriptoatlantaformorethanthattheyrecal—-”

Stidham pulls on his helmet and the voiceover stops. Malzahn is done. Silence as Stidham and his teammates march out of the locker room and down the Jordan-Hare tunnel behind Malzahn. Silence as they holler at the ceiling, clap hands, tap the back of each’s other helmets, jump in place. Silence even as the shakers peek over the railings at the end of the tunnel and the green of the field beckons.

Silence until Jarrett Stidham steps through the chemical smoke onto Pat Dye Field for the Iron Bowl, when we hear the loudest noise of his life.

***

Gus Malzahn is reading the January 2015 Field and Stream in an office waiting room.

“Mr. Malzahn,” a woman’s voice says off-camera, “it’s time.”

Malzahn nods, sets the magazine on the end table beside him, pats his knees, stands up, and walks purposefully past the edge of the screen.

from The War Eagle Reader http://bit.ly/2wox6PK via IFTTT

[hieromonkcharbel]

Life of St. Philip Neri by Fr. Bacci

OF THE MIRACULOUS PALPITATION OF HIS HEART.

This mode of life Philip adhered to for a long time; and when he was twenty-nine years old God gave him, among other graces, a miraculous palpitation of the heart, and a no less wonderful fracture of his ribs, which happened as follows: One day a little before the feast of Whitsuntide, he was making his accustomed prayer to the holy Ghost, for whom he had such a devotion, that he daily poured out before him most fervent prayers, imploring His gifts and graces. When he was made priest, he always said at mass, unless the rubric forbid it, the prayer Deus cui omne cor patet. Now, while he was importunately demanding of the Holy Ghost His gifts, there appeared to the saint a ball of fire, which entered into his mouth and lodged in his breast; and therewith he was, all suddenly, surprised by such a flame of love, that he was unable to bear it, and threw himself on the ground, and, like one trying to cool himself, he bared his breast, to abate in some measure the flame which he felt. When he had remained so for some time, and was a little recovered, he rose up full of an unwonted joy, and immediately all his body began to shake with a vehement tremour; and putting his hand to his bosom, he felt by the side of his heart a tumour about as big as a man’s fist, but neither then nor over afterwards was it attended with the slightest pain.

Whence this swelling proceeded, and what it was, was manifested after his death; for when his body was opened, the two upper ribs were found broken, and thrust outward, and the two sides standing wide apart, never having reunited in all the fifty years which Philip lived after this miraculous event. It was at the same moment that the palpitation of his heart commenced, which lasted all his life, though he was of a good constitution, a very lively temperament, and without the least tendency to melancholy. This palpitation only came on when he was performing some spiritual action, such as praying, saying mass, communicating, giving absolution, talking on heavenly things, and the like. The trembling which it caused was so vehement, that it seemed as if his heart would break out from his breast, and his chair, his bed, and sometimes the whole room, were shaken. On one occasion in particular he was in St. Peter’s, kneeling on a large table, and he caused it to shake as if it had been of no weight at all; and sometimes when he was lying upon the bed with his clothes on, his body was lifted up into the air, through the vehemence of the palpitation. Whenever he pressed any of his spiritual children to his breast, they found the motion of his heart so great, that their heads bounded off from him, as if they had received a smart shock from something, while at other times the motion seemed like that of a hammer. Yet notwithstanding the shock, they always found, in being pressed to him, a wonderful consolation and spiritual contentment, and many found themselves in the very act delivered from temptations.

But while upon this matter, I must not omit to relate what is affirmed by Tiberio Ricciardelli, canon of St. Peter’s, who served the Saint out of devotion for four successive years. “While I was serving the father,” he says, “there came upon me a temptation to impurity, and after I had conversed with him on the subject, he said to me, ‘Tiberio, come here, close to my breast;’ and taking hold of me, he pressed me to his bosom, and I was not only freed at once from the present temptation, but it never returned afterwards; and besides this I felt such an increase of spiritual strength, that it seemed as if I could do nothing but pray.” Marcello Vitelleschi, canon of S. Mary Major, and also one of Philip’s

spiritual children, declared that he had repeatedly been freed from temptations, especially of the flesh, by the Saint’s pressing him to his bosom and very often, when Philip knew that he was suffering from such temptations, he used to take hold of his head and press it to him, without uttering a word and in no case was this done without immediate release from the temptation.

In his side Philip felt so great a heat, that it sometimes extended over his whole body, and for all his age, thinness, and spare diet, in the coldest nights of winter it was necessary to open the windows, to cool the bed, to fan him while in bed, and in various ways to moderate the great heat. He felt it so much in his throat, that in all his medicines something cooling was mixed to relieve him. Cardinal Crescenzio, one of his spiritual children, said that sometimes when he touched his hand, it burned as if the Saint was suffering from a raging fever; the same was also perceived by abbot Giacomo, the Cardinal’s brother, himself tenderly beloved by Philip. In winter he almost always had his clothes on and his girdle loose, and sometimes when they told hum to fasten it lest he should do himself some injury, he used to say he really could not because of the excessive heat which he felt. One day at Rome, when a great quantity of snow had fallen, he was walking in the streets with his cassock unbuttoned and when some of his penitents who were with him were hardly able to endure the cold, he said laughingly that it was a shame for young men to feel cold when old men did not. This heat, however, the Saint felt more particularly during prayer or other spiritual exercises, and application to divine things. In the time of Gregory XIII. when the order was given that all confessors should wear surplices in the confessional, the Saint went one day to the Pope with his waistcoat and cassock unbuttoned: his holiness marvelling very much, asked him the reason of it: “Why,” said Philip, “I really cannot bear to keep my waistcoat buttoned, and yet your holiness will have it that I shall wear a surplice besides.” “No, no,” replied the pope, ‘‘the order was not made for you; do as you please.”

This palpitation of the heart often affected his body in very different ways, and his various physicians used to administer remedies which he knew would not be of the slightest service. But he used to make game of them very playfully, and say, “I pray God that these men may be able to understand my infirmity,” not choosing openly to discover that his infirmity was not natural, but caused by the love of God. Hence it was that in the fervours of the palpitation he was wont to say, “I am wounded with love;” at other times, considering himself as it were imprisoned in this love, he broke out into those verses:

Vorrei saper da voi com’ ella è fatta

Questa rete d’ amor, che tanti ha preso.

“I would know from you how that net of love is made which has taken so many.” At other times when he could not stand upon his feet, he was obliged to throw himself upon his bed, and languish there, so that his own people were accustomed to say, that those words of the Spouse were verified in him: Fulcite me floribus, stipate me malis, quia amore langueo. When he was surprised by these affections, he used to quote the case of a Franciscan of Ara Celi, named Brother Antony, a man of most holy life, who though he did not macerate his body by any great austerities, was always crying out, Amore laugueo, amore langueo; and languishing in this way, through love of God, he wasted slowly away till he died. But on the other hand the Saint, to hide the real cause, pretended that all this was bodily infirmity, or a custom which he had had from his youth. He almost always kept his handkerchief in his breast on the side of his heart, in order that no one might perceive the tumour. He did not, however, deny, when speaking once to Francesco Zazzera, that for the most part his infirmities proceeded from this palpitation of his heart.

The whole appears still more wonderful from the fact, that the motion of the palpitation was in his case perfectly voluntary. He mentioned this to Cardinal Frederick Borromeo, his most intimate and devoted friend, telling him that it was in his power to stop the motion by a simple act of the will. But in prayer he did not apply himself to do this, because of the distraction; and that the palpitation was so far from being painful, that it created a feeling of lightness and joyousness. This, however, did not always happen, nor did it exactly observe any general rules. Many physicians, who attended him in his illnesses, considered this palpitation as miraculous and supernatural. This was the opinion of Alfonso Capanio, Domenico Saraceni, and others. Neither was this opinion without reason; for, first of all, the Saint had no sensation of pain with the palpitation, but rather the contrary; and besides that, he only experienced it when he raised his mind to God, for it was greatest when he was in contemplation, and grew less in proportion as he drew his thoughts from prayer. In proof of this Andrea Cesalpino, Antonio Porto, Ridolfo Silvestri, Bernardino Castellani, and Angelo da Bagnarea, have written particular treatises upon it; and all agree that God had wrought in him that fracture of the ribs, so that the heart might not be injured in these violent beatings, and the neighbouring parts be the more easily dilated, and the heart kept sufficiently cool.

When Philip had received this great and remarkable gift from God, he frequented the Seven Churches with still more ardour. There he was often, surprised in his devotion with such affections, that he was unable to support himself. One day in particular, when he could not stand on his feet, he threw himself on the ground, and feeling himself actually dying through the liveliness and impetuosity of spirit, he cried out vehemently, “I cannot bear so much, my God, I cannot bear so much, Lord! for see, I am dying of it.” From that hour God gradually mitigated that intense sensible devotion, in order that his body might not become too much weakened by it. It was on this account, that in his latter years he used to say, “I was more spiritual when I was young, than I am now.” But although Philip received from the Lord such an affluence of heavenly sweetnesses, he nevertheless always admonished spiritual persons, that they should be as ready to suffer dryness in devotion as long as God pleased to leave them in it, and without complaint, as they were disposed to enjoy the relish of divine things.